[Trilijah] When We Really Play

Disclaimer: Characters belong to their respectful owners

Fandom: The Originals

Rating: M

Pairing: Trilijah – Elijah Mikaelson x Tristan de Martel

Genres: fanfiction, slash

Characters: Elijah Mikaelson, Tristan de Martel, mention of Freya Mikaelson and Hayley Marshall-Kenner

Warnings: smut, possibly non-con, PWP

Summary: What could happen off-screen in The Originals 3×08 – The Other Girl in New Orleans

Preview:

Elijah hooked a finger into the small gap between Tristan’s first survived button and its next brother and undid it to reveal more of Tristan’s chest. Pale as it always was and Elijah envisaged how it would be much flattered with a few slashes of scarlet. Tristan’s eyes closely followed Elijah’s hand as it coaxed another button into surrender. Although it was readable in the black depth of his pupils, he opted to neither protest Elijah’s gesture nor voice his confusion, solemnly adhering to his vow of silence.

 

 

When We Really Play

When you walk away, it’s when we really play

DollhouseMelanie Martinez

“You’ve done more than enough,” Elijah told her, a shadow of a plea in his deep masculine tone. “Go to your family, please.”

With one last glance at the tied up and half-dead vampire trash in the room, Hayley descended the stairs and headed to her house across the street.

“Leaving so soon?” Tristan asked, cracking open his eyes and lifting up his chin to look at his sire. His blue eyes, though tired and red-rimmed, were twinkling with a gleam of defiance. “I hope she would stay a little longer. The fun has barely begun after all.”

Elijah dragged a chair from nearby and sat down at the perimeter of the salt circle. “You have to bear with me, I’m afraid.”

The skin was sweaty and feverish to his touch as he flexed his fingers under Tristan’s chin. The annoying effect of wolf’s venom. Didn’t he know it too well, having spent a day wallowing in diabolical heat and blasphemously uncontrollable hallucinations? “Now I suggest you give me what I want, otherwise it’ll become much less fun.”

Tristan’s laughter was too soft to be audible, even with vampiric hearing – only the shift of his facial muscles was any indication. “No offense to your special hybrid lady, but her playful nibbles were not convincing enough. My apologies, Elijah. I think I will hold on to my previous commitment to keep silent until The Strix’s arrival.”

The look on Elijah’s face said he had anticipated no less.

“You are very certain they will come to your aid, aren’t you, even though it may cost them their lives?”

Tristan gave a small nod. “No matter how low your opinion of us was when you took leave, we were and have remained a unity. I call them my brothers and sisters and have every faith in them.”

Elijah sniggered. “The mad stick together as one, I see.”

“And their founder madder still,” replied Tristan.

“My goodness, what am I supposed to do with you, dear Tristan?”

His index finger idly traced the line of Tristan’s jaw, feeling the tiny movement of the muscles and bones underneath. His face appeared calm, fearless even in the threat of torture and death, but Elijah knew him well enough to read between infinitesimal cracks on his finely constructed mask of indifference to unravel his genuine feelings – the relentless undercurrent of molten lava beneath hard layers of volcano rock as Elijah liked to put them: the slight hardening of his jaw for instance, the small twitch of his lips or the barely noticed jump of his pulse when Elijah’s finger drew a tortuous path from the tip of his left ear down the underside of his jawline to his collarbones. His nail scraped bluntly against the fragile skin here before dipping into the hollow between Tristan’s clavicles hard enough to form a crescent imprint. Not so stoic, are we? Elijah thought with a smirk as he saw Tristan’s Adam’s apple bobbing. Inside his chest, his heart was struggling to break its rib cage. Its cry, though dead to human ears, wasn’t missed on Elijah’s hearing either. Throughout the years he had been with Tristan, he knew the younger vampire’s will to be iron-hard. Nonetheless, not even an iron will could fully and thoroughly command the body’s reactions to external stimulations. The body had a mind of its own, and when it happened to be enhanced with vampire blood, its voice was much more boisterous.

A few top buttons of Tristan’s shirt had been missing, courtesy of Elijah’s not-so-gentle removing of his tie. It had been finest silk, that tie, and it was a real grief to see its shredded pieces scatter amongst Elijah’s own, which he had condemned to the same fate thereafter. He had been livid back then, the thought of his beloved Rebekah buried beneath a vast body of murky water coursing his veins with baneful ire. He would have vented his spleen out on this insolent child, stolen one of his limb or his pretty eyes perhaps, had he not convinced himself that he wasn’t a man strung by raw emotions.

Was he?

He was calm now, or at least managed to appear calm after spending hours repeating the truth of this statement, and his blazing rage had subsided to shimmering. Fury would not benefit his intention, a cool head would, and right now it was conducting a rather peculiar plan. A plan he would carry out in spite of his own reluctance towards its deviant attributes. His own code and pride warned him against it in their collective voice, only to be ignored and pushed in the farthest corner of his mind. They couldn’t save Rebekah and if something else could, then so be it.

Elijah hooked a finger into the small gap between Tristan’s first survived button and its next brother and undid it to reveal more of Tristan’s chest. Pale as it always was and Elijah envisaged how it would be much flattered with a few slashes of scarlet. Tristan’s eyes closely followed Elijah’s hand as it coaxed another button into surrender. Although it was readable in the black depth of his pupils, he opted to neither protest Elijah’s gesture nor voice his confusion, solemnly adhering to his vow of silence.

As Tristan’s shirt was unbuttoned down to his abdomen, his chest was mostly bared, serving better Elijah’s purpose. He flattened his palm on the area where Tristan’s heart lay underneath and felt its rhythm softly reverberating through his skin. A tad erratic, going quickly to frantic, as expected from a vampire with wolf’s venom eating into and tearing down his system.

“If I were to pluck your black little heart from its cage…” Elijah left the sentence hanging, his fingers bowing to form a mock claw.

“…Your precious Rebekah would be lost forever,” Tristan filled in for him. “I’m certain my Aurora would rather die a thousand deaths than give you…”

His speech fell short with a sudden moan. The mock claw at his chest had dug into his flesh, from where five rivulets of warm red oozed out, mingling with his excessive cold sweat in a pinkish watercolor failure, or masterpiece, depending on your artistic eye. Tristan braced himself for the slow agony of bone shattering − knowing too well the kind of monster Elijah could be when crossed, he didn’t see why Elijah should make it quick for him. It would be a delaying hell to go through before he reached the actual hell.

Pain seeped in as the pressure increased, providing more material to expand the pretentious artwork on his chest, and yet he hadn’t heard the distinct sound of breaking. Elijah hadn’t performed the cruel trick Tristan was dead-set on believing he would. He stared at his sire with his large baffled eyes, which was the very first emotion he had allowed to surface throughout the entire process.

“Call me a fool,” Elijah said, low-voiced and sultry, “but I cling to the concept of hope with a hopeless desperation.”

With that, the impaling pressure on Tristan’s heart vanished. Tristan let out a sharp exhale despite himself.

“Still, I believe I can try a different approach of persuasion.”

Elijah wedged one knee in between Tristan’s legs, gently forcing them apart. Next, he ran his blood-smeared palm down the flat plane of Tristan’s abdomen and parked at the waistband of his trousers.

“Tell me, Tristan, have you ever had wolf’s venom in your veins before?” Elijah asked, doing a few experimental tugs at the button.

“I haven’t, otherwise I wouldn’t be here,” Tristan breathed an answer while trying not to squirm with the warmth of Elijah’s body temperature straying dangerously close to his neither region. “Still, I hardly see how my previous experience is pertinent to the current situation.”

A smile that wasn’t quite a smile graced Elijah’s lips. “I have once not too long ago, courtesy of Niklaus’s throwing his usual unexpected tantrum…” The button was popped open, causing Tristan’s breathing to hitch. Turning his head sideway, he battled with himself to ignore what Elijah clearly wanted him to feel. “Amongst its various effects, the most hazardous is…”

The zipper was spared as Elijah’s hand left Tristan’s groin to catch his chin and turn his head so that the younger vampire was facing him again. Tristan didn’t fight the steely grip burning into his jaw, too relieved to have his final barrier intact. His relief was short-lived however, because soon after that, the feeling of a large hand directly covering his crotch sent an electric jolt through his being, which resulted in his nearly biting off his tongue.

“… heightening our sensation in a way beyond our vampire blood. A feather’s touch would weigh a mountain…”

He cupped Tristan fully in his palm as he talked at easy pace, fondling him through the fabric. Light and gentle at first, to rouse Tristan’s lust from its flaccid slumber, before pressure was gradually applied to nurture it from its budding stage to full growth. In coping with the assault of sensations, Tristan clenched his teeth hard, refusing Elijah the immediate pleasure of hearing his voice.

“… and every smallest titillation an agony…”

He had every idea of what the Original was having in his mind, chaotic and twisted as his own. Though Elijah had never had to resort to this particular trick before, when the situation called for, he wouldn’t shy from it. Tristan understood his motive because that was exactly what he would do were their roles reversed. Nevertheless, while his mind was prepared for what was to come, his body was nowhere was. In its best state, it wasn’t; now with the hybrid’s toxin exacerbating its defense system, Tristan could imagine an entirely different torment than having his heart slowly extracted.

The hand’s motion came to an ominous halt as Elijah spoke up, his gaze locking with Tristan’s, “I ask you once again, give me the coordinates to find Rebekah… please.”

“With all due respect, Elijah, I’m afraid I cannot oblige.”

“Must you put me in this quandary, Tristan? Huhm? Or…”

A feather’s touch landed on the protuberant burden in his loin. Aware, Tristan instinctually retreated, yet in his current position, both hands spell-bound to either arm of the chair, his attempt only put one or two pitiable inches between himself and the Original’s claw. His right hand not leaving its designated post between Tristan’s legs, Elijah placed the other on Tristan’s thighs and effortlessly subdued the younger vampire’s movement as though restraining an unruly child, all the while deepening the crease at the corner of his lips. Tristan’s cheeks burnt not with the toxic-induced fever but his mortification for exposing his weakness to Elijah’s exploit.

“Is it my imagination or you are indeed anticipating it, with a sense of élan even? The pain-pleasure game we play together when the light is out and our clothes are shed?”

The zipper gave in to Elijah’s deft fingers without protest, the amplified sound of its metal teeth grinding against one another and grinding in Tristan’s ears like the painful shriek of a violin in incompetent hand. His heart sank in the blood rushing to his head.

It was supposed to be a humid day like any other humid day in New Orleans, and yet the air felt cool in his denuded flesh. Not the sort of comfort to tone down the heat in a summer day, this coolness pricking into his skin like a needle was a reminder of his state of shame. Still, it was nowhere compared to the first skin-to-skin contact with Elijah’s hand. His palm was dry and cold as his intention, and when it enveloped Tristan’s member, it brought along a frigid flame to sear through his entire body.

“Something tells me you derive much pleasure from this despicable act,” Tristan hissed through his teeth. “Who ever thought the noble Elijah could have sunk so low?” He would bare his fangs if his strength wasn’t sapped to the point where his teeth were unable to grow tenth of an inch.

Not one to be pessimistic when it was yet the end of the day, however, Tristan could already see the shadow of death’s scythe hovering above his head.

“I suggest you save your breath should you have anything to confess instead of wasting it on your sallies, my dear Tristan. Today isn’t their appreciation day,” Elijah replied calmly.

If he were mortal, he would have to strain his ears very hard to grasp the gist of Tristan’s words since his speech had been reduced to mere whispers.

“What will Hayley think if she happens to come back and witness? Scandalous I imagine… Would she find it abhorrent that her knight’s shining armor has been rusty all along and its luster nothing but a coat of deception? … And let us not forget your lovely sister, who may walk through the door any moment…”

With his obvious taunts, he expected instant punishment from Elijah’s hand or at least some salty retorts, not a slight chuckle.

“Hayley is dealing with her in-laws and isn’t likely to return anytime soon. If you’re worrying about Freya, right now she’s downstairs pouring herself a cup of chamomile tea and enjoying her favourite TV show. She will be back with us, albeit not shortly.”

“A shame that she’d miss the real show upstairs.”

Elijah’s free hand cradled the back of Tristan’s head and if in other circumstances, this gesture could be interpreted as loving. “She was in my mind before,” said Elijah. “Do you think she was oblivious to our unholy affair?”

With that armor-piercing question, Tristan grudgingly heeded Elijah’s advice to save his breath for the prolonged torture.

When Elijah’s hand began moving languidly up and down Tristan’s length, Tristan closed his sweat-laden eyelids. His head pressed against the back of the chair, the muscles along his neck became taut like a bow reaching its maximum arch, and his damp eyebrows furrowed deeply with every acute sensation shooting up his spine. Each of Elijah’s words proved to be harrowing truth, that the wolf’s venom amplified everything to the extreme. Even worse, despite his best effort, grinding his teeth as though breaking them, Tristan was powerless against his body’s own reaction. As he had know Elijah for more than a thousand years, intimately if he might add, his body had been too acquainted to the Original’s touch and thus responded to it with a despaired eagerness. Too accustomed to this sort of molest before that his flesh refused to deny that the act was being carried out with the best intention to humiliate and hurt rather than pleasure. It was depraved, even to Tristan’s standard, just how a display of affection could be utilized as a means for disgrace.

It played into Tristan’s grievous disadvantage that Elijah mastered the exact method to wind him to the utmost − only an inch more and Tristan would shatter in countless pieces − and then unwind him in the wildest heaven-to-hell ride. The gradually speeding glides up and down Tristan’s length, smoothed by his first tears oozing at the tip. The heavy thumb pressing down the sensitive skin covering the swelled head. The strategic scraping of trimmed nails on the dedicate veins lining the body. If there was one thing that felt better than Elijah’s hand on him, it was Elijah’s mouth on him, although the latter happened only once in a blue moon. Whether it was because of his pride, no less enormous than his hybrid brother’s, or it was something else altogether, Elijah was rarely the giver, and in most of their lustful encounters, it was Tristan who would get on his knees and service. Nonetheless, it was Elijah’s hand, skilled in ripping hearts as much as in giving pleasure, that he often got and at this moment, the memories were surging in his brain to wreck havoc on what was left of his resistance and dignity.

Daubs of indistinguishable colors flashed behind his shut eyelids, and Tristan had a distinct feeling that his consciousness was drifting away in a swamp of past fragments. The summer heat scorching his sweaty skin. The acrid smell of grass and dead insects withering in the sun. The incessant cry of cicadas. The roughness of the barks gnawing his back as a certain Original vampire pushed him to an old, sturdy tree, foregoing the purpose of their hunting in yet another continuing episode of wanton desires. Back and forth his mind leapt between the past and present while vaguely aware of the point where they conjoined: Elijah’s hand on him. His memories must be floating around now, and Tristan derived a little satisfaction from the probability that at least some might be caught by the other resident in the compound. How much had Freya learnt of them as compared to these vivid projections, he wondered.

His faint smirk twisted in a grimace and Tristan cried out, his whole body convulsing. So lost in his hallucinations that he forgot the condition he was in, and that his climax was approaching fast. Elijah was quick to remind him with a cruel tightening of his grip around the root that he wasn’t soiling his precious hand for satiating Tristan’s desire. All of this was a means of torture, and what was a more excruciating pain than being denied of release when he was just one short step to it?

“Say it, Tristan,” Elijah whispered into Tristan’s ear. “Say it and I’ll allow you what you’re dying to get.”

With his last thread of his rationality left, Tristan bit into the inside of his cheeks. He barely felt the pain, let alone the tricking sensation down his chin and neck.

Abyss. Before Tristan’s eyes was abyss. Gone were the fragments of summer heat and withered grass; what took their place was endless, unfathomable darkness.

From that darkness sprouted an enticing scent which he followed without doubt or question. His eyes were blind and his mind shut down, yet his entire being could tell the only thing which could emit such a sweet scent was fresh blood.

Before he knew where that scent would lead, he felt it in his mouth, scathing hot fluid branding his tongue and flaring his every nerve. Like an infant he latched his mouth onto the source and sucked in greedily the sacred nectar that was the core of his existence.

The feeble light of the afternoon sun was blinding when Tristan opened his eyes. What came to his sight was Elijah’s wrist.

“Enough,” Elijah commanded and snatched his hand from a dazed-eyed Tristan. “That was enough for you to not die on me. We still have much to discuss about Rebekah’s whereabouts.”

Once he had had enough sense slapped back to his brain, Tristan was quick to notice his still exposed state as well as the pearly white mess on Elijah’s hand. A piercing light was reflected on the surface of his opaque irises while the seam of his lips curved up in the smallest degree. He licked his lips, savoring the exquisite taste of copper and spices. Of campfire in the death of winter nights. Of tender love in the aftermath of passionate copulation. All the finest wines in the world and none could come remotely close to what was flowing in his sire’s veins.

“You went soft at the last minute,” Tristan remarked.

“Yes, I did,” Elijah admitted while cleaning his fingers with excessive meticulousness. “You triumphed this time, Tristan.” He carefully wiped the traces of come on Tristan’s trousers with his handkerchief after he had finished cleaning his hand. He tucked him in, zipper and button done and even took care of his crumpled shirt. At this point, Tristan wouldn’t be too surprised if Elijah retrieved a comb and started fixing his hair.

Fortunately Elijah didn’t.

“Right, shouldn’t let your sister be shocked by the extent of your vileness.”

“I’d like to refer to it as ‘clean up after my own mess’. But you do have a point. Freya needn’t trouble her eyes and mind with your sight more than she already has. Now, when she comes join us again, I believe there is something else we could try and I guarantee it won’t be pleasant.”

Chest heaving, Tristan sank against the chair with a profound sense of fatigue invading his skeleton and muscles. With a weak smile he said, “Couldn’t be worse than the wolf’s venom and the fact that my life is counted by hours, I guess.”

Epilogue

In his chamber at his mansion, Tristan was standing in front of a full-length mirror. Though his clothes were dirtied by his own blood and sweat, he was finer than he had been a few hours ago. He supposed he owed Marcel Gerald this time for that small vial of Klaus’s blood.

That and his dramatic rescue from the Mikaelsons’ captivity.

Slowly and not lacking grace, Tristan began stripping off his clothes. His fingers undid each button with care instead of simply ripping the shirt in half and be done with it. His hand reached the waistband of his trousers and he lingered here for some seconds, reminiscing Elijah’s touch on the exact same place, before he popped open the button, zipped down his trousers and slid the material off his hips and legs. He stepped out of the bundle pooling around his ankles and bared his body to the non-judgmental gaze of the mirror.

His lust nestled peacefully between his thighs when he took it in his hand and gave it a few strokes. It was easy with his eyes sewn shut to fool himself into believing that it was the Original’s hand on him. Nowhere near as mind-blowing Elijah’s but he could make do. After all, imagination was the sharpest tool in situations like these.

He was certain he’d miss it as hell once the Mikaelson siblings were all sealed away.

He flopped down on the king-sized bed not quite satiated but content and soon was lulled into an exhausted dreamless sleep.

End

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