Bloodlines and Bloodshed
The old cabin was dead quiet, save for the whisper of pages turning as Stiles pored over the ancient book, its leather cover worn smooth by countless hands before his.
Damon sprawled across the bed on the other side of the tiny room, shirtless and impossibly perfect, his chest moving in that slow, mesmerizing way that only immortals seemed to manage.
Those eyes of his never left Stiles - intense, hungry, and taking in every little move like a wolf sizing up its next meal.
"For crying out loud, Stiles - you've been glued to that dusty old thing forever," Damon said with a smirk, his rich voice tinged with playful mockery. "What's got you so wrapped up in there?"
Stiles stayed quiet, running his fingers along the weathered corners of an old photo. In it, a stunning redhead stared back at him with eyes so green they seemed to pierce right through him.
The name beneath caught his eye - Wanda Maximoff - written in fancy, sweeping letters. His heart started racing as everything clicked into place. "Damon..." he managed to get out, his voice hardly more than a breath, "this is my sister."
The cocky grin Damon always wore slipped away for a split second, and something real - actual interest - flashed across his face. He practically glided off the bed and moved behind Stiles, those ridiculous muscled arms of his settling onto Stiles' shoulders like anchors in a storm. "Hold up - you're telling me your sister is THE Scarlet Witch? Like, world-bending, reality-warping, Avengers-level Scarlet Witch?"
Stiles could barely manage a shaky nod, his mind still trying to process the bombshell that had just been dropped on him. "All these years..." he whispered, his voice wobbling between disbelief and awe, "my parents kept this from me. God, this isn't just some small family secret - this completely flips my whole world upside down."
Seeing this, a soft, angel loke grin curled Damon's lips as he processed this bombshell. "Well then, little brother. Let's go meet your long-lost sister, shall we?"
---
As they prepared to leave the relative safety of the cabin, the tension between them was palpable, crackling in the air like electricity. Damon's hands lingered on Stiles' waist, his hot breath ghosting over the younger man's neck, sending delicious shivers down his spine.
"You're tense," Damon murmured, his voice low and teasing. "Need me to help you relax before we go?"
Stiles turned to face him, his eyes dark with a heady mix of desire and frustration. "You're insufferable," he gritted out, even as his body betrayed him, leaning into Damon's touch.
Damon's grin only widened at Stiles' retort, his eyes flashing with heat. In one swift motion, he closed the remaining distance between them, his lips capturing Stiles' in a searing, punishing kiss. It was all teeth and desperation, a vicious clash of lips and tongues that left them both breathless and panting.
Stiles groaned deep in his throat, his hands tangling in Damon's dark hair, pulling him impossibly closer. Their bodies were pressed together so tightly, so completely, that there was no space left between them, not even a whisper.
Damon's hands roamed restlessly over every inch of Stiles' body, leaving trails of fire in their wake. He gripped Stiles' hips hard enough to bruise, lifting him effortlessly off the ground and pinning him against the rough wooden wall.
Stiles wrapped his legs around Damon's waist, his back scraping against the splintered surface, but he didn't care. The sharp bite of pain only added to the intensity of the moment, a delicious contrast to the pleasure coursing through his veins.
"You're mine," Damon growled against Stiles' swollen lips, his voice dripping with dark possessiveness.
Stiles shuddered violently, his nails digging crescent moons into the flesh of Damon's shoulders as he clung to him. "Prove it," he taunted breathlessly.
Damon didn't need to be told twice. He kissed his way down Stiles' neck, biting and sucking with abandon, leaving a trail of angry purple marks that would linger for days.
Stiles threw his head back, a wanton moan escaping his kiss-swollen lips as Damon's hands worked to rid him of his clothes.
The cool night air hit his flushed skin like a slap, but it did nothing to quell the inferno building inside him.
Damon's hot mouth found Stiles' collarbone, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there as his hands explored every dip and curve of Stiles' trembling body.
Stiles gasped sharply, his hips bucking wildly against Damon's, the friction sending sparks of searing pleasure through him. "Damon," he breathed, his voice trembling with need.
Damon pulled back just enough to meet Stiles' darkened gaze, his eyes blazing with unrestrained desire. "Tell me what you want," he commanded, his voice rough and gravelly.
Stiles didn't hesitate for a single second. "You. Now," he replied, his voice sure and steady despite the chaos raging inside him.
Damon's smirk turned positively feral as he complied, his movements rough and demanding. There was no gentleness, no hesitation - just raw, unbridled passion and a desperate, aching need. Stiles clung to Damon like a lifeline, his moans and gasps filling the night air as they moved together, their bodies perfectly in sync.
The world around them faded away until there was nothing left but the two of them and the fire burning hotter than the sun between them. Every touch, every kiss, every thrust was a reminder of the unbreakable bond they shared - a bond forged in blood and chaos, stronger than anything else in the universe.
When they finally reached their shattering peak, it was with a shared cry that echoed through the empty cabin and out into the dark woods beyond. They clung to each other, their sweat-slicked bodies trembling as they came down from the high, their panting breaths mingling in the cool night air.
Damon pressed a tender kiss to Stiles' forehead, his voice soft and affectionate despite the roughness of their encounter. "You're mine, Stiles. Always," he murmured, his words a solemn vow.
Stiles smiled softly, his eyes heavy with exhaustion but filled with contentment. "And you're mine, Damon. Don't you ever forget it," he whispered back, his voice thick with emotion.
---
The next morning dawned bright and clear, the sun filtering through the trees and casting dappled shadows on the cabin floor. Stiles and Damon wasted no time, setting out for New York City as soon as they were packed and ready, the ancient book tucked safely in Stiles' worn leather bag.
The bustling streets and towering skyscrapers of the city were a stark contrast to the quiet, peaceful woods of Beacon Hills, but Stiles and Damon moved through the chaos with ease. They were on a mission, and nothing - not even the Avengers themselves - were going to stop them.
As they approached the gleaming spire of Avengers Tower, a group of SHIELD agents appeared as if from thin air, blocking their path. The leader, a stern-looking man with a military buzz cut and cold eyes, stepped forward. "Stiles Stilinski and Damon Salvatore," he barked, his voice hard and unyielding. "You're coming with us."
Stiles exchanged a quick, loaded glance with Damon, a slow, dangerous grin spreading across his face. "Yeah, that's not happening," he drawled, his voice dripping with mock regret.
The fight that followed was brutal and bloody, a vicious dance of violence and mayhem. Damon moved like a shadow, his supernatural speed and strength utterly overwhelming the hapless agents. He tore through them with a ferocity that left even Stiles impressed, his movements a lethal blur.
One agent lunged at Damon with a shout, only to have his throat ripped out in a spray of bright red blood. Another tried to shoot Stiles from a distance, but Damon intercepted the bullet without hesitation, his immortal body healing the wound almost instantly.
Stiles, meanwhile, was a whirlwind of chaos and destruction. He used his trusty crossbow to take down agents from a distance, his bolts finding their marks with deadly precision. When an agent got too close, Stiles didn't hesitate to use his fists, his movements fueled by a heady mix of rage and adrenaline.
In a matter of minutes, the ground was littered with broken, bleeding bodies, the air thick with the coppery scent of blood and the acrid stench of gunpowder. Stiles stood over the leader, his crossbow aimed steadily at the man's head. "Tell Nick Fury we're not to be messed with," he said coldly, his voice like ice, before pulling the trigger without an ounce of remorse.
Damon appeared at his side a moment later, holding two still-beating hearts in his bloodstained hands. "For Fury," he said with a savage grin, tossing them carelessly onto the growing pile of mangled corpses.
---
High above the city in his sleek office, Nick Fury stared at the gruesome delivery, his expression unreadable behind his trademark eyepatch. The severed head of the SHIELD agent and the two human hearts were a clear, unmistakable message: Stiles and Damon were not to be trifled with.
Fury pressed a button on his desk, summoning the Avengers with a sense of grim urgency. When they arrived, he wasted no time on pleasantries. "We have a problem," he said bluntly, his voice hard. "Two highly dangerous individuals are in the city, and they've already taken out a squad of SHIELD agents without breaking a sweat. I need you to bring them in, by any means necessary."
Wanda Maximoff frowned, her brows knitting together in confusion as she stepped forward. "Who are they?" she asked, her voice tinged with concern.
Fury handed her a thick file folder wordlessly, his jaw clenched tight. "Stiles Stilinski and Damon Salvatore," he replied after a long moment. "They're... unpredictable."
Wanda's breath hitched in her throat as she opened the folder and saw Stiles' photo staring back at her. There was something hauntingly familiar about him, something she couldn't quite put her finger on. But before she could say anything, Steve Rogers spoke up, his voice steady and sure. "We'll handle it, sir," he said firmly, his jaw set with determination.
---
Meanwhile, Stiles and Damon watched Avengers Tower from a nearby rooftop, their eyes hard and their expressions unreadable. "Think they'll come after us?" Stiles asked after a long moment, his voice calm despite the chaos they'd just caused.
Damon smirked, his eyes flashing with dark anticipation. "Oh, I'm counting on it," he replied, his voice dripping with barely contained glee.
Stiles glanced at him sideways, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. "You're enjoying this way too much," he said wryly, shaking his head in exasperation.
Damon shrugged, a careless, easy gesture. "What can I say? Chaos is my specialty," he drawled, his grin widening.
As the sun began to set over the city, painting the sky in vivid shades of orange and red, the tension between Stiles and Damon reached a fever pitch. They were alone on the rooftop, the world around them forgotten in the face of their all-consuming need for each other.
Damon crowded Stiles against the low wall at the edge of the roof, his eyes dark with desire. "I need you," he growled, his voice rough and gravelly. "Right here, right now."
Stiles shuddered, his breath catching in his throat as he felt the undeniable stirrings of his ghoul and siren sides rising to the surface. "Yes," he breathed, his voice trembling with want. "Take me."
In one swift motion, Damon spun Stiles around, bending him over the wall so that he was facing out towards the city below. Stiles gasped as his pants were roughly yanked down, the cool evening air a sharp contrast to the searing heat of his skin.
Damon didn't waste any time, thrusting into Stiles with a single, brutal motion that had them both crying out in pleasure and pain. Stiles' claws extended, his ghoul side surging to the forefront as he scrabbled for purchase against the rough concrete of the wall.
As Damon set a punishing pace, his hips snapping forward with enough force to rattle Stiles' bones, Stiles could feel his siren side rising up to twine with his ghoul. His teeth sharpened into wicked points, and before he could stop himself, he had sunk them deep into the nape of Damon's neck.
Damon roared in pain and ecstasy, his blood flooding Stiles' mouth as he marked him permanently, irrevocably. Stiles' claws raked down Damon's back, leaving deep, bloody furrows in their wake as they moved together in a primal, animalistic rhythm.
It was brutal and savage and utterly perfect, the two of them lost in a haze of blood and sex and desperate, aching need. When they finally came, it was together, their voices rising in a keening cry that echoed out over the city like a battle hymn.
For a long moment afterwards, they stayed as they were, trembling and panting against the wall. Stiles could feel the blood from Damon's wounds dripping down his back, hot and sticky, and he shivered with aftershocks.
Damon pulled out with a wet sound, his hands gentle as he turned Stiles to face him.
Stiles' eyes were wide and dark, his lips stained crimson with Damon's blood. "Mine," he rasped, his voice guttural and inhuman.
Damon smiled, his own eyes flashing with possessive pride. "Yours," he agreed, sealing the vow with a searing kiss that tasted of blood and copper.
As they prepared for the inevitable confrontation with the Avengers, Stiles couldn't shake the feeling that his life was about to change forever. He just hoped that Wanda would understand - and that she'd be willing to listen before the Avengers tried to take them down.