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, mention of Niklaus Mikaelson and Aya
Warnings: smut, blood drinking, shades of S&M
Summary: The smutty continuation of Something Never Changed, where Tristan paid “proper homage” to his sire
They entered the hotel quietly, separately. Men in designer suit from whom the pretty receptionist only required a nod and a small smile to show them to their suite.
Reserved and the finest the hotel could provide, nothing less than best.
Tonight. 9:30. Windsor Court Hotel.
They entered the room separately, quietly, to find the other almost at the same time.
Both took the concept of punctuality to what others would deem a freaking degree, and both were more than pleased to see the other not a minute late.
That was something they had instilled in each other a millennium past, among other things.
When the door closed, all barriers collapsed, shattered to debris. The gentleman facade came off, their costly fabric shredded, and the monsters inside, the true ‘them’, demolished the finely constructed cage.
First, it was their lips, always lips, crashing down upon each other like ravenous beasts earning their first meal after months, if not years. Far from a passionate kiss this encounter was, for it involved zero loving tenderness and all agonizing brutality. Their canines elongated in response to their sanguinary lust, and they ripped each other’s flesh until their lips were rendered a bloody mess. Their wounds closed almost instantly, the ancient vampire blood too vigorous in their veins for any lasting damage, only to be torn open again and again. Pain was no stranger to them, rather a dear old accompaniment they welcomed from time to time so that their bloodthirsty side was satiated.
And only when the inhuman was satisfied could they maintain their humanity.
Their lips were completely healed when they lowered the curtain to the first act of foreplay, with only traces of leftover blood to be evidence of their savagery. Tristan licked his blood clean before he sought to swipe his tongue against Elijah’s lips. His sire held an unhealthy obsession for cleanliness and he would love to service him, if that meant he could taste some more of Elijah’s blood. His sire rarely allowed him to feed from him outside stringent drops produced from violent intercourse between lips and tongues, as he found pleasure in preserving them as a treat if Tristan behaved according to his preference. Yet Tristan, being the arrogant little lord Elijah sometimes mocked him, found himself too recalcitrant to stay long in the nice behavior department and when he didn’t, there was another kind of treat he anticipated with no less enthusiasm.
Elijah eyed the object Tristan retrieved from the drawer with no more curiosity than he watched Tristan perform every other task. It was a sleek crop attached to a decorated golden handle that his sired handed him before he knelt between the Original’s long limbs. Knees folded in a classic submissive stance in contrast with hands straying nearer and nearer to Elijah’s growing desire, the Tristan at present was reenacting their intimate circumstance in the afternoon, the only difference being the sore lack of any factors to hold them in restraint.
“Please don’t tell me you have forgotten how to utilize this item,” Tristan laughed, soft and wry. “None of your lovely paramours has embraced such a kink? Because their flesh is too soft and skin too thin that you haven’t the heart?”
Tristan’s last words barely left his lips when the crop licked a smooth line across his left cheek. He sucked in a sharp breath and his smirk widened into a Cheshire cat grin.
His sire hadn’t forgotten the game, it seemed. Played it well even.
The second flew over his right cheek, symmetrical and as beautiful and perfect as his left. The twin burns ate into his flesh and Tristan hissed, his fingers clawing at the inside of Elijah’s third, his knuckles white with exertion. He felt tiny beads of blood fill the cracks of his nails at the same time with the third strike, a broad line that spanned majestically across his pale chest. Then he simply lost count of the following to be lost in the exquisite aching that ran over his body like his veins. Blood coated the slim body of the crop and gathered at the tip, from which it dripped onto Elijah’s skin. Eager to please the Original, Tristan lowered his head to lap at the blood.
The gentle stroke on his scalp was a wordless approbation to proceed. An encouragement. Closer and closer he advanced until he reached the pulsating source of Elijah’s desire. Without a word of warning, Tristan took him into his mouth.
The warm breath hovering over his head, the pleasant weight of fingers in his hair and the sweet, strong scent of musk in his nostrils, he wondered how he had gone through the dreariness plaguing his existence in their absence.
He ran his tongue along the impressive length from the root to the head, eyes closed shut to better enjoy the flavor that spelt uniquely of Elijah to him. He dare use a little of teeth, not fangs though, nibbling the thin layer of oversensitive skin around the head with a swelled confidence that the Original had enough trust to allow him this vulnerable intimacy. And, having a millennium of practical experience, he sought to offer his beloved progenitor nothing but the best of service.
Tristan might have forgotten himself in the job but for Elijah’s hand firmly on the back of his neck. This meant stop, and since Tristan was in obedient mood, he halted instantly and raised his head to meet Elijah with his reflective blue eyes. He was pleased to notice the pink tinge and a fine sheen of sweat on his sire’s forehead. He yearned to taste it too, but he planned to be nice, not naughty, at least for now. So he tried to plead with his eyes, which he knew Elijah adored yet would never say, and hoped for approval.
Still, the Original had another idea in his mind. His thumb pressed into one of the myriad cuts on Tristan’s chest, eliciting a suppressed moan from him. Eyes squinted, he contemplated the crimson smear catching light on the tip of his thumb.
“Such a splendid instrument,” Elijah purred, lifting Tristan’s chin with the crop. “Outstanding material, neither too light nor too heavy, and these elaborate carvings. Handmade in Turkey?”
“One of its kind,” Tristan replied. “A quaint souvenir I hoped you would appreciate.”
“Hardly,” Elijah laughed, licking the blood on his thumb. “I suppose the exotic spice soaking this crop was Aya’s lovely contribution. Slowing the heal… only the lord Tristan de Martel would take advantage of it to appease his depravity.”
“Not slowing it, I’m afraid, but completely blocking the process.”
Elijah snickered. “Quite a trump card against other sire lines, I wager.”
“Oh no, Elijah, much as I would like to have Aya mass-produce it, this drug just cannot be made a weapon.”
“Why is that?”
“Firstly, the herb used is difficult to cultivate and the amount won’t suffice. Secondly, its antidote is as easy to acquire as a sip of human blood. And lastly…” Tristan paused mid-sentence and suddenly relinquished his submissive stance, to Elijah’s mild surprise. He supposed he had the right to discipline Tristan for acting outside his permission; still, the curiosity as to what trick the younger vampire had up his sleeve appeared more relevant and so he opted to wait, relishing in the knowledge that patience was exiguous in Tristan’s resources, especially when all his fancy silk and lace was stripped off and the glimmer in his blue irises was conveying a mute imploration despite his composed mask.
Even that mask would soon crumpled, if the rigid appendage between his legs was anything to tell.
Tristan’s hands placed on either of Elijah’s thighs as he positioned himself so that Elijah was able to feel how aroused he already was when their heated cores brushed against each other (as if the sight of it wasn’t enough). “Lastly, this drug has a side effect,” he said, almost a whisper, “a rather strong aphrodisiacal one I might add. You’re probably feeling its effect right now, like lava injected into your bloodstream.”
“I can assure you the effect isn’t lost on me,” replied Elijah with a crooked smile as his hand got a hold of Tristan.
“Right now I’m internally torn between the urge to bend you over until you snap like a dry twig and the temptation to drill a hole through your fragile ribcage and gorge out your fleshy heart…”
Elijah’s hand began to move, quicker by the second. The younger vampire shuddered and went very still.
“Yet I will do neither. Do you have anything to say, my darling Tristan?”
His fingers gliding up and down the length knew rapidity and force rather than gentleness and there was no doubt what they inflicted on Tristan was pleasure diluted in pain.
“Quite troublesome, isn’t it?”
Tristan’s hands on Elijah’s thighs began shaking, his mouth slight agape and his knees buckled, threatening to give out under him.
“Please, Elijah,” he moaned between short, heavy pants.
“Please stop or please continue? Do clarify what you want, Tristan, since I have no time to play guessing game.”
The abrupt pressure at the root caused Tristan to jerk and cry out.
“If you want me to beg, right now I’m begging you,” Tristan hissed through clenched teeth. “I’m begging you to undo me, inside and out.”
“Perhaps it is too much for the lord Tristan to utter lewd words, even when he’s moments from breaking by his bodily exigency.”
Elijah’s torture ceased as he brought the same hand to Tristan’s mouth. If Tristan wasn’t too far undone to give a damn, he would remind his sire that he had had the necessary lubrication prepared and that they didn’t need to improvise with medieval method. However, since he wasn’t in any shape to care for triviality, he kept silent and followed Elijah’s instructions: baring his fangs and biting the Original’s palm.
The sloppy sound reverberating in his eardrums and the fullness where it used to be empty were more than he could stand. If Elijah wasn’t already supporting most of his weight, Tristan was afraid would surrender to the gravity.
“Please, Elijah,” he entreated, louder yet still afraid the volume of his voice was insufficient in spite of his lips being mere inches from Elijah’s ear.
Elijah’s reply contained more honesty than he would care to admit. Truth be told, while he was tormenting Tristan, he himself wasn’t spared from torment. This drug was more virile than he had given it credit for and while outside he managed to hold the illusion of serenity, inside it was kicking like a mad horse for release.
That was why Elijah had his sired bent over the mahogany table although there was a king-sized bed right in the middle of the suite. The denial of the bed’s comfort would be his punishment for Tristan’s mischief, he had decided the moment the drug’s effect started kicking in.
Tristan’s telltale non-protest to such treatment told Elijah’s that he had at least foreseen it.
Well, all the more reason to give him what he was waiting for.
In contrast to the discomfort one would expect when being pressed to a table, the rigid hard wood somewhat cooled down the heat flaring on Tristan’s forehead and cheeks. Inhaling large gulp of chilled air, he tried to relax his taut muscles while Elijah added the second and third digits, lubricated only by the continuous flow of fresh blood from the bite wound, to hastily loosen Tristan’s tight inner wall for what was to come.
All Tristan’s effort to maintain his regular inhalation went to waste as Elijah withdrew his fingers and penetrated Tristan almost simultaneously. His breathing halted as his brain struggled to accommodate the onslaught of pleasure – even the smallest stimulation was over-amplified when you were a thousand-year-old vampire with the oldest blood heightening your every sense. Above him, Elijah was deadly silent, which pronounced a satisfying truth that he was no less overwhelmed than Tristan due to his Original body at the peak of vampirism: for every sensation Tristan felt he would be affected twofold, meaning a doubled risk of losing himself in his own desires.
When he began to move, the universe seemed to explode under Tristan’s shut eyelids. His arms stretched out, he clawed at the edge of the table with the force of a drowning man getting a hold of wooden plank. A few shallow thrusts at first, explorative in their nature, and then, as he regained his confidence in the territory he hadn’t visited for one fourth of a lifetime, both his strength and speed had a dramatic increase. He penetrated deeply, burying his length to the hilt in order to seek the hidden spot that was the true key to Tristan’s submission. The moment that spot was hit, a considerable chunk of mahogany succumbed to the vampire’s millennium’s worth of strength.
Elijah’s thrusts became almost preternatural in his speed and if Tristan wasn’t too busy gasping for air, he would laugh at the recent memory; whether he was conscious of it or not, his maker seemed serious in making his casual threat a reality – that he would bend Tristan over until he snapped in two. In his roughness Tristan reveled however, for he was certain this treatment was exclusively his. Elijah Mikaelson, ever the gentleman in every manner possible, bedding included; even during the high fever of sex he would retain enough self-restraint to avoid hurting his partner, going painfully against his instinct in the process. Only when being with an equally vicious monster could he be what he truly was.
Tristan intended to reach his orgasm face-down, thus he was caught off-guard when the Original turned him over. Enraptured by what he saw, Tristan decided to discard his obedience in favor of a rebellious act: his legs wrapping around Elijah’s hip for leverage, he lifted his torso up from the table to latch his mouth on Elijah’s artery. Sweet juice filled his mouth courtesy of his unhesitant fangs, while ecstasy was thoroughly pumped around his being. Elijah’s movement went erratic for a moment – surprised by the sneak attack, but he soon resumed his perfect, fast-paced rhythm. His sire was being tolerant, that Tristan believed, and a tolerant Elijah was a non-punishing Elijah, so he let his guard down to indulge himself in his gluttony. That didn’t mean he was utterly shocked as pair of similar canines worrying the jugular vein in his neck.
With no regard to the damage to their bodies, they fed from each other to complete an immaculate circle – draining and to be drained himself. The distinction blurred as there was no telling where Elijah’s blood stopped and Tristan’s flowed, and finally, the anticipated culmination was reached where all scattered pieces came into place.
After decades and countless lovers, they managed to have each other again, the one they deemed their equal.
They found use for the luxurious bed only after the table was ruined and the cream-colored carpet dotted with flecked come and blood. Tristan lied on top of his progenitor, leisurely lapping the blood that was congealed around the bite marks. Elijah allowed him while stroking Tristan’s soft hair with the hand the younger vampire had torn open earlier. Though it had stopped bleeding, the wound hadn’t healed and there was that dull, persistent ache to remind Elijah of the drug.
So strong it was that its effect had triumphed the great magic in an Original vampire.
The sky outside the floor-to-ceiling window was a purplish hue.
“Is it too much for me to ask if you happen to bring any blood bag?”
The rest of his siblings at the compound might not question why he came home in different clothes than when he left but they would be unlikely to miss the smell of blood from open wounds, especially Klaus with his damnable wolf sense. He might not have made it to the blood storage before he was caught in their flurry of questions.
“Why bother for cold instant food while we could have hot meal served to our bed?” answered Tristan, sitting up and reaching for the phone on the bedside table. “Room service,” he mouthed to Elijah and dictated his order into the speaker.
Less than five minutes, the door opened and entered a man of muscular built in waiter vest. He stalked to the bed in response to Tristan’s beckon. With no need for further instruction, he loosened his tie, unbuttoned his collar and rolled up his sleeves.
He looked young and healthy enough to be a delectable meal. The humming of blood inside him was tantalizing to Elijah’s hunger.
“Do inform me beforehand the next time a vampire corporation buys off a five-star hotel in my neighborhood,” Elijah said.
“Only recently,” Tristan answered with a small smile. He was tracing idle patterns on the bulging veins in the man’s wrist. “The view here is extraordinary and I happen to like things ready for my stay, however brief.”
“That certainly solves the issues of shredded closed, inexplicably broken furniture, bizarre item in the drawer, traces of blood all over the carpet and bed sheet…”
“… and perhaps a drained corpse on the floor as well,” Tristan finished for him. “Would you like to join me in this meal, Elijah, my sire?”
Eyes glancing at the man, undoubtedly compelled, then settling on the mischievous curve of Tristan’s lips, Elijah couldn’t find any reason to refuse.
“Well, I’ve never been one to turn down a healthy snack.”
I might have sprinkled a little S&M into this fic. Every time Elijah and Tristan share the screen, their interactions seem to ooze dom-sub vibes, with Elijah, undoubtedly, as the dom. As for Tristan, somehow I keep imagining him as the type who enjoys being dominated (by his superior, no less) and pain kink, which is quite a contradiction to the sadistic man we’ve seen so far. Probably because of his seemingly stoicism.