Disclaimer: Characters belong to their respectful owners
Fandom: The Originals
Pairing: Trilijah – Elijah Mikaelson x Tristan de Martel
Genres: fanfiction, canon divergence, slash
Characters: Elijah Mikaelson, Tristan de Martel, Aya, Marcel Gerard, mention of Niklaus Mikaelson and Lucien Castle
Summary: A missing scene from The Originals 3×03 “I See You in Hell or New Orleans”, written through a fangirl’s perspective
“Mr. Mikaelson and I require the room,” Tristan said, more of an order than a request. “Please, leave us.”
The other vampires made their way out of the room one by one, silently as they had entered. Doubtful, Marcel glanced between the two suited men, who could be easily mistaken for each other if one didn’t look carefully, and couldn’t help the thought that all of Elijah Mikaelson’s ‘friends’ had been created after his own stuffy image. Just look at the lot of them and even the blind could tell! Aya nudged his arm, subtly reminding him that if he didn’t heed Tristan’s request and leave right away, she would love to carry him out herself, limb by limb if she had to.
“Marcellus, please,” Elijah reminded him. “And you would do well to be selective about the company you keep in future.”
“Maybe you should remember who your friends are,” Marcel rebuked, swallowing bile down his throat. “It looks like you’re gonna need them.”
Thus he exited, making damn sure his footsteps were loud enough to grate on a certain Original’s nerves.
The room seemed even larger as now it was only hosting two men.
Eyes flickering between his firstborn’s figure and the room’s fanciful ornaments, Elijah meticulously attended to the task of cleaning his hand with a half-smile hanging in his lips. The smell of Aya’s blood wasn’t particularly welcoming to his nose, unlike the scent of Versace Eros dabbed on the silk handkerchief. He wasn’t planning to return it to its owner.
Elijah merely missed a blink and Tristan had pushed him to the nearest wall. An element of surprise, no more. His lips moved, foreshadowing a smirk, before he traded their places with much less effort than he had garnered to clean his hand. Using his weight and the superiority in his strength, he pinned the other vampire fast against the surface beneath.
“Has time made you forgetful,” Elijah whispered, his lips merely inches from Tristan’s ears and his hand cradling Tristan’s head, “that no matter how long you’ve lived, I am always faster and stronger?”
The hand that was fidgeting Tristan’s breast pocket absent-mindedly dived into his chest. Tristan let out a soft whimper, feeling with painful accuracy each of Elijah’s fingers fondling his heart.
How he missed it, the peculiar eroticism of having his heart literally caught in another’s hand. And it wasn’t just any nameless, lowly green vampire that he looked down with disdain, it was his sire, the one and only in the world whose savage treatment he would welcome with open arms.
“I have not forgotten,” Tristan said, managing a weak smile despite the agony snaking through his nerves, “your grievous habit of ruining people’s attire. This shirt happens to be my favorite.”
“Ever the dandy, aren’t you, Tristan?”
Swift as he had slipped his hand into the other man’s heart, Elijah retracted it. He watched with mild fascination how Tristan’s flesh filled up the hole until there was no trace of the assault save a tear on his dark shirt. Instead of wiping his bloodied fingers using the handkerchief, he brought them to Tristan’s cheek, smearing the pale skin with his caress. When he touched the seam of Tristan’s lips, Tristan opened his mouth and took his index finger in.
“I don’t have time for your game, Tristan,” he said in low voice.
As though to prove the hollowness in Elijah’s warning, Tristan scraped his protruding fangs against the skin. His sire’s blood was thick like iron and strong as the finest wine. The last time he tasted it, when was it?
He savored every bead rolling on his tongue and intended for more.
Tristan let go of Elijah’s finger once he made sure it was blood-free, and then brought his hand to rest firmly against the nape of Elijah’s neck, mimicking his sire’s gesture. He wasted no second to crash their lips.
The touch of their lips on each other ignited a spark that soon evolved into a great fire to burn down whatever boundary erected by time and distance between the Original and his first sired. They moved in tandem, mouths and hands and every part of their immortal being, basking in their mutual pride that even after all the decades of absence, their body didn’t miss a beat in following the other’s rhythm.
Such was the privilege shared only by an Original and his first child, who inherited from him the pure, virgin blood that forged a physical and spiritual bond unlike any other.
Without breaking the contact, Tristan transferred them both to the nearest couch, and this time, Elijah allowed himself to be maneuvered. A perk of being powerful vampires was that they were able to land rather gracefully on the couch’s surface considering they invested only a third of their minds into the movement. Another perk was the ability to refrain breathing if the situation required.
This was one such situation.
Their lips glistened with blood when they broke the contact at last. Elijah reclined on the couch while Tristan sank down between his long limbs.
“The proud lord Tristan de Martel on his knees. Such a sight I sorely missed.”
One hand placed firmly on Elijah’s thigh while the other tracing patternless shapes up along the seam of his trousers, Tristan said, “Not as much as what I intended to give my sire, if I dare voice my mind.”
His wandering hand halted where it was a tad too close to Elijah’s desire, already excited by the kiss, the blood and the ministrations. “A shame,” Tristan lamented.
“What sort of trick are you having up your sleeve this time, Tristan?” asked Elijah, lifting Tristan’s chin. “Waltzing into my city unannounced with your flock of sycophants tailing behind and having your lapdog Aya fraternize with none other than Marcel Gerard?”
“In other circumstances I suppose I’d say that it was a fervent desire to see my sire that drove me here, those ‘sycophants’ merely for providing service,” Tristan replied, a smile that wasn’t quite a smile forming at his lips.
“I do wish to see you, yearn for your sight even, though I believe we have a more urgent matter at hand.” A brief pause, and then he said in a grim tone, “Your life is at stake, Elijah. As are mine, Aya’s and every single one’s that is linked to yours.”
Elijah’s respond was a small curve of his lips. “Now the lord Tristan has known fear.”
“You’ve no doubt heard about the war between the sire lines.”
“If you mean the one-thousand-year squabble between you and Lucien, rest assured that Niklaus is on his way to erase our collective misery out of the picture.”
Tristan’s stoic expression shifted and he stood up straight. “By all means, Elijah, please make your brother stay his hand.”
Elijah made it in time to preserve Lucien’s life. Niklaus looked pissed, as he always did when his brother asked him to stay his murderous hand, but Elijah knew him long enough to extract a huge relief from his scowls – destroying his firstborn was the last resort he didn’t wish to utilize.
Could the same be said about Elijah?
On the black card with an owl painting was Tristan’s neat script.
Tonight. 9:30. Windsor Court Hotel.
With a smirk, Elijah dipped the card into his pocket, hearing in his ears Tristan’s sultry whisper before he left the place. “Allow me a chance to pay proper homage to my sire.”
Sire line war or not, something never changed after all these years.
A little tribute to the awesomeness of the third episode as well as the launching of Trilijah ship.
My original idea was more smutty but I changed my mind – if they had done the smutty thing, Lucien’s death might have been a foregone conclusion. Better save the smut for later.
I unconsciously slipped in a bit of Klucien.
There’s a sequel: Proper Homage