[Trilijah Drabble] The Devil Inside


Every single one of us, the Devil inside

The Devil Inside

Elijah’s eyes were gluing on Hayley’s form as it faded and faded until in front of him was a glaring empty white space. A part of him, a huge part, had wanted to cross a few inches separating them, catch her hand, pull her into an embrace and whisper apology after apology to her, begging for her forgiveness until she gave it. Another part, a bigger, more rational part, a part that made up Elijah Mikaelson had screamed no at him. Give her space. Give her time. She needed it all to recover from the horror he had inflicted on her today. That Hayley and him were separated by a firm line dividing the living and the dead, Elijah thought it would help. Then another part, a smaller but profound part where all his guilt and self-loathing resided, had chuckled at him. It had mocked him with a truth he himself had already been aware: that even if Hayley might eventually forgive him, she would never look at him the same as she had done prior this incident. There was just no fixing for something that had been shattered, something like trust. So, as a deep, sharp sense of resignation planted in his heart, he had planted his feet firmly on the pristine white marble floor, watching the woman he loved vanish from his mental world.

A creaking of a door shook Elijah out of his train of thought. Alarmed, he whipped his head to where it had come from, one of the doors perfectly distanced from each other along the endless corridor. It sounded old, like the sound you expected a heavy oaken door in an old castle, ravaged by years and rotten by the mites making their nest inside, would make. Light, even footsteps came next, which simultaneously piqued his curiosity and flooded him with wariness. Had his memories overflown, burst the doors and were now roaming the corridor of his mind unrestrained? Had him, after centuries of postponement, finally gone mad?

“It seems the little mutt isn’t able to handle your ‘naughtier’ side,” mocked a voice. “Look how she was scared witless, scurrying back with her tail between her legs.”

The languid footsteps halted. Elijah stared at the figure in front of him with narrow eyes, his expression a blend of suspicion and disbelief.

The newcomer was clad in the same attire as his own, every little detail down to the pattern on the dark-colored tie identical. But the visage was not his; it belonged to someone Elijah hadn’t seen for five years long. Someone he had tried to erase from his mind but had always managed to sneak back in. Someone who should have been dead by now because he himself had died for a while.

“What are you?” he asked, straight to the point, no need to beat around the bush now there were just the two of them in this closed-off world.

However, the man had different idea. He chuckled dryly, leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets whereas Elijah stood with his back straight as a pole, his hands by his sides and curling into fists. “I’m quite certain you know the answer better than anyone else. After all, it was you who made me what I am. Or was.”

“It’s precisely because I know what you were that I have to ask. By now you should have been–”

“Dead,” the man cut him, “and buried a thousand feet beneath the cold blue tides, courtesy of your hand. I’m no more alive than you are in this chambre de chaise. Such pristine white! I have to say it is very aesthetically pleasing to the eye, although not quite a match to your soul, isn’t it?”

“Tristan,” Elijah said, stalking closer until they were close enough that Elijah could smell the cologne on him. Same as he remembered. Same as his.

“Yes and no,” Tristan replied, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. “The real Tristan died with you – his five-year torment came to an end at last. I am the Tristan on your mind, the one you cannot sink to the bottom of the ocean and seek to forget.”


We made each other, didn’t we? Your mind created me, same as it had created the Beast you tried to hide behind the Red Door. You cannot delete me, no more than you could stop the Beast from going after your mutt.”

“You came out to taunt me,” said Elijah with a sneer. He crossed the few last steps, his shadow looming over the ghost of his first sired. Crimson dyed the whites of his eyes and dark veins were slithering underneath his skin. He heard the Beast’s low growls behind the Red Door.

“No,” Tristan answered, startling him by placing a hand over his breast pocket, “I came out to appease your Beast…” His hand moved and tugged at Elijah’s tie. “… as I have done so for the the last millennium, with or without your knowledge.”

The Beast’s growls became louder. They sent a rumble through the bleach-white corridor.

“Is that so?” Elijah asked. His hand grabbed the back of Tristan’s neck, pausing or a while to savor the warmth seeping into his skin. Without so much as a sign, he pulled Tristan in, and crashed their lips together.

[Trilijah] Visit from the Other Side

Disclaimer: Characters belong to their respectful owners

Fandom: The Originals

Rating: T

Pairings: very, very slight Trilijah – Elijah Mikaelson x Tristan de Martel

Genre: fanfiction

Characters:  Freya Mikaelson, Elijah Mikaelson, Kol Mikaelson, Rebekah Mikaelson, Tristan de Martel

Warning: none

Summary: The very last thing the Mikaelson siblings, taking refuge from death in Freya’s dream world as they were, expected was a knocking on their door.


On the threshold was casually standing a man whose face none of them had expected or desired to see in this world. 

Tristan de Martel, Elijah’s first sired vampire, who should be drowning in a magically sealed container lying somewhere in the depth of an ocean none of them cared which. 

Aware or not, all the Mikaelson siblings sported a ubiquitous look of surprise. 

The bad kind of surprise. Like, really bad.

The very last thing the Mikaelson siblings, taking refuge from death in Freya’s dream world as they were, expected was a knocking on their door.

It happened not terribly long after they had settled in this darling family home, still figuring out what to do to kill the indefinite time they might have to spend here until Hayley found the cure. Tending to the imaginary, ever perfectly groomed garden? Reading the limited number of books Freya had in the library, most of which being fairy tales of various cultures they had read far too many times to be appropriate? Playing board games?

The knocking was soft, indicating a level of politeness, but every one of them felt it as if it was knocking on their mind.

The rest of them gave Freya a dubious look, and the eldest Mikaelson shook her head lightly as a means of refuting this was her doing.

… which could only be translated as an intruder!

All of them tensed up.

The knocking didn’t cease even when it received no answer from the other side of the door; the knocker, whatever their identity was, was persistent.

Being the most composed amongst them, Elijah stepped forward to answer the door.

On the threshold was casually standing a man whose face none of them had expected or desired to see in this world.

Tristan de Martel, Elijah’s first sired vampire, who should be drowning in a magically sealed container lying somewhere in the depth of an ocean none of them cared which.

Aware or not, all the Mikaelson siblings sported a ubiquitous look of surprise.

The bad kind of surprise. Like, really bad.

“Hello, Elijah, Freya,” he greeted them with a cordial smile far too fake for those who had learnt of his many menageries. “It’s been a while, Kol. And Rebekah dear, your beauty is even more ravishing than the last time we met. How many centuries was it?”

“What the bloody hell is he doing here?” Rebekah asked, giving the unexpected and unwelcome ‘guest’ her darkest glare possible.

“What’s your intention?” Freya hissed, joining her little sister in the intense competition to find who could glare Tristan to obliteration first. “Spill it quick before I send you screaming back to your salted rotting flesh!”

Tristan appeared little affected by the raging Original sisters, too accustomed to their combined wrath. Mikael’s blood, both of them. “I have absolutely no doubt of your varied talents, Freya, put in slumber as you are currently. But I’m quite certain you do not want to send your brother Elijah along with me when you expel me from your little ‘nursery school’.”

“What do you mean by that, Tristan?” Elijah asked in his cool, authoritative voice, one he would use with his sirelings to remind them of their position, plus a sharp menacing edge reserved only for his eldest, most stubborn and petulant ‘child’.

“A spell, courtesy of my witches whom you sucked them dry,” Tristan explained, “to make certain that should the Chambre de Chasse be demolished, which it had, sorrily, I would not suffer at the bottom of the ocean-”

“A parasitus honestum,” Kol made a derisive sound.

“Yes, a parasite spell,” Tristan said, unapologetically, “and it is most fitting that the host be my sire, who is an indestructible, omnipotent being.” His eyes scanned their faces, “Though I’m now less confident about the description, seeing all of you taking refugee here from whom? A three-hundred-year-old Marcel Gerald!”

“You’ve been clinging to my brother like a vile disease,” said Rebekah with no intention of masking the disdain in her tone, “and what do you demand now? A place under our roof as well?”

“That would be the best case scenario but I will not stretch the extent of your generosity as I am perfectly content taking resident in the alcove, amongst your lovely rose bushes. However, I come not with malice but with a deal.”

“What kind of deal?” asked Freya.

“A mutually befitting one, for whose details I dare request my sire’s private audience.”

Kol’s and Rebekah’s eyes directed towards Elijah, anticipating his decision. He, in turn, exchanged a brief glance with his elder sister and received her nod.

“Come in,” Elijah said, gesturing his first sired to follow, which he did.

Kol sported a murderous look as he eyed Tristan’s disappearing back while Rebekah and Freya folded their arms, both contemplating what the wicked vampire’s deal was, their brother’s reaction and how they should dispose the annoying little twit some time later. There was no way they would gladly have him sharing their place!

Elijah and Tristan walked a short, muted walk along the corridor and reached a room at the end.

Tristan didn’t have a second to admire Freya’s artistic eye in her selection of furniture because as soon as the door was secured, he found himself pressed flat against the wall by a serenely furious Elijah – there was a smile on his lips and fire in his eyes.

To be completely honest, Tristan did lament the lack of such rough treatment during his ‘non-Elijah’ period, discomfort aside.

He managed to not grimace despite the ache clawing its hooks along his backbone. In this dream world nothing was real and yet every sensation felt so genuine, so true. The power of the mind was indeed a force to be reckoned with.

“You do realize you cannot truly hurt me, don’t you?”

A hand in Tristan’s ribcage was his reply.

Tristan inhaled a sharp breath, his lips slightly quivering as an expected result of a hand’s taking hold of his heart. Elijah arched a mocking eyebrow.

“It’s true you can still hurt me,” he bleated, “… to a certain degree.”

Tristan wouldn’t say he did not miss this exquisite pain either. A masochist through and through, he was aware, in spite of his torture pastime, whose peculiar needs only the brutality of a certain Original could satisfy.

“And if I try a little harder,” said Elijah, his head titling and his eyes piercing darkly into Tristan’s impossibly blue orbs, “I might succeed in uprooting you from this realm and flinging you back to where you belong.”

He punctuated his sentence with a squeeze of his fingers.

“I hate to disappoint you, Elijah, but it requires a much longer, complicated procedure than a heart ripped or a head chopped to legitimately put an ocean between us. The link that binds your spirit and mine was The Sisters’ peak and it is annulled only if my suffering is.”


“When Aya put you and Niklaus in comatose, she had the witches make you the anchor for my soul as secure measures, just in case their crafted world collapsed. Thanks to her thoughtfulness, wherever you are, I am,” he chuckled. “I’ve been lurking in your mind since, seeing through your eyes how the prophecy unfolded. My sincerest apologies for being privy.”

“Now you decided to blow your cover to say ‘hi’?”

“As we’re all here, it’s futile to keep myself hidden… Would you mind retracting your hand? I’m not bothered by our closeness but a palm squeezing my incorporeal heart is very distracting.”

Elijah snorted but pulled his hand out from Tristan’s chest nonetheless. The gaping hole closed on itself just as how vampirism worked, only there was no tear on Tristan’s immaculate shirt and no blood on Elijah’s hand.

“Thank you,” he breathed, adjusting his jacket out of habit. “I imagine Freya wouldn’t be too pleased to spot bloodstains on her rugs. The overall style of this cozy family house is worth appraising; for someone who spent the better years of her long lifetime asleep, she did acquire such refined taste…”

“Do me a favor and cut the wild goose chase, my darling Tristan,” Elijah reminded him. His hand had departed from Tristan’s chest to rest on this throat, his fingernails digging faint crescent imprints on the skin of his Adam’s apple, restraining him in a manner he knew Tristan would fancy rather than abhor.

Feeling the organ bobbing as response to Tristan’s smallest reaction brought Elijah a euphoric sense of dominance. It was even better when the younger vampire was more than willing to submit himself.

Elijah almost felt sorry for the absence of their strange dynamic which he had established with no partner save the one in front of him.

“I would like to trade some information in exchange for Rory’s freedom and mine. I trust the she-wolf packed her up along with her few belongings on the way out of New Orleans? If I can have your words on that, we shall advance to the rest of the deal.”

“She did,” Elijah chuckled. “An asset is still an asset, no matter how low its price has dipped. Provided that we can set dear old demented Aurora on the loose again, how about you? The best we can do is scourge you up from the seabed, no more. As far as I’m concerned, the seal on your genie lamp is marked ‘everlasting’.”

“One thing we’ve learnt from our tangled history with witches is every magic has a loophole. That’s how the mighty Mikaelsons narrowly escaped The Beast’s death sentence, isn’t it? The Serratura is no different.”

Elijah’s dark eyes narrowed, half-suspicion, half-intrigued. “You originally intended to use it to trap us for all of eternity, and now you claim it has a loophole?”

“Loopholes exist despite our will, Elijah,” Tristan said, shrugging. “As a matter of fact, Aya had been working on discovering the key to unlock the Seraturra. Her research, though incomplete, was not without merit.”

“What did she find?”

“I haven’t had your words, Elijah. Rory’s freedom and mine for your cures, including Rebekah’s hex.”

“Should I place my trust in you, huhm?” Elijah asked, leaning in so that his breath ghosted over the shell of Tristan’s left ear.

Once again the vampire had to admire the power of the mind – if the body had experienced a sensation, gotten used to it, the mind would replicate it to ghastly detail.

“After all it was you who co-starred Lucien in this farce.”

“We were allies once but our allegiance was fragile as our mutual trust. In fact, the whole ‘Beast’ affair was the peasant’s brainchild. Besides-”

In a bold move that was outside his usual submissive spectrum, Tristan reached up and fixed Elijah’s perfectly knotted tie, not-so-absent-mindedly pressing his thumb to his sire’s throat in the same manner Elijah’s fingernails were marking his neck. Unexpected yet unsurprised, Elijah allowed his rebellious act.

“If I am to pick a side, yours seems to have the brightest prospect of winning.”

A laugh.

“Considering your dire state, we are the only ones with whom you can bargain.”

“True,” Tristan admitted, “but as a wise man said, ‘make peace with your enemies, not your friends’, and an ally is better than none. I believe we have a common enemy: Marcel Gerard.”

“How is it so? Wasn’t he a prominent candidate that you hand-picked?”

Tristan’s voice was edged with chill. “He took the Strix oath and he murdered his brothers and sisters. You may not bat an eye for those who perished for you, but I do, and I intend to do right by them.”

Elijah’s eyes bore into Tristan’s blue irises, now seemingly ablaze by his rare display of emotions, as if trying to extract his true intention from them. He said, after a silent while, “You have my words. You and Aurora shall both be free, and you may seek justice or vengeance as you please.”

“Thank you. As such I shall fulfill my end of the bargain. For years the Strix had been searching high and low for a particular rare subspecies of witches who all originated from a coven…”

Kol and Rebekah were still giving Tristan the murder eyes when Elijah and Tristan joined them in the living room.

“Don’t tell me the twit is going to breathe the same air as the rest of us,” Rebekah was the first to voice her displease.

“He is going to stay here with us,” Elijah replied. “At least he’s going to provide some entertainment to while away our time here.”

“Hah, you mean by experimenting the various methods of dismemberment on him, then putting him back only to do it again?” Kol chuckled darkly, pointing to said subject of his future ‘experiments’.

“Typical Kol Mikaelson,” Tristan said, shaking his head. “And yet I heard you were softened by the ultimate power of love.”

“Don’t ruin our furniture,” reminded Elijah as he left the three of them to squabble and took Freya to a quieter room.

(By the time the two eldest Mikaelsons came back from their discussion, their younger siblings and Tristan were already engulfed in a fierce battle of who could build a hotel first.

“I’ll be the bank,” announced Freya as she hopped in and claimed her post.)

“The Siphoners… Yes, I heard of them during my sporadic conscious episodes throughout the centuries. They are a strange, dangerous and rare kind of witches who could siphon magic from other witches and dark objects. From what I know, the few of them were shunned by their own people, hunted and eventually trapped in a prison world.”

“And became vampires, or Heretics, according to the Strix’s research. Tristan theorized that their siphoning ability may be the cures to us, even Rebekah’s curse.”

There was a sharp glint in Freya’s light-colored eyes. “He may have a point,” she said, stroking her chin. “Marcel’s bites, Rebekah’s mark and the Seraturra are all sources of magical energy which can be siphoned and rendered devoid of magic.”

“If only we could communicate with Hayley and give her a headstart.”

“Worry not, brother,” she assured him. “With three Original vampires and an ancient vampire here, I’m sure we can come up with a little spell…”


I just really really miss Tristan~~.


[Trilijah] Forbidden–Part II

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

Warning: none

Summary: Took place after Tristan tortured Lucien in The Originals 3×03 – I See You in Hell or New Orleans


Until the end of his life, Tristan could never forget how it felt to have his neck punctured by something sharper than iron and copper.

Until the end of his life, Tristan could never forget how it felt to have his neck punctured by something sharper than iron and copper.

Perhaps if he had never ventured into that shady passage in the corner of the west garden, none of this nonsense would have happened, and he would have remained ignorant of the walking, talking peril so close to his family and himself − there was bliss in ignorance after all. Nevertheless, how many ‘ifs’ would not suffice to alter the reality that Tristan had done the shouldn’ts out of his own arrogance. This castle had been home to the de Martels for generation after generation; why should the future head of the family deter his steps due to fright of a dark spot in his own garden? It was not only absurd but cowardly as well, and cowardice in any form or shape never bode well with his proud lord father.

Tristan spotted a shadow at the dead end of the passage and his right hand immediately went to the dagger lodged in his belt. It would be too cumbersome to carry a sword around in time of peace, so he opted for a smaller, more portable weapon and a well-whetted dagger was perfect. His father had had the exotic blacksmiths from the far East crafted the blade for his eighteenth name day and it had been Tristan’s favorite item ever since.

His ears picked up a whooshing sound and a whiff of crisp air brushed his cheek, seeping into his skin through the pores to raise a layer of goosebumps on his arms. The atmosphere seemed off somehow − unusual, condensed and ominous. It should have alarmed him into retreat, yet he ignored his visceral feeling and did the opposite: brandishing his dagger and bracing himself for an attack. He should have shouted for the guards right at the moment he saw a suspicious figure, later he would reflect on this particular incident, and when he decided to do so, it was a tad too late. Something clamped over his mouth − perhaps a large hand − and any attempted sound never made it out alive. At the same time his left wrist was caught in a vice-like grip. An assassin! His mind deduced. Strong enough to suspend the use of his left arm while cunning enough to bypass the myriad of guards to enter this central area. Someone of this caliber didn’t come this far for a simple sack of gold or jewel; he was determined for blood. The thought of his Aurora, alone and vulnerable in her boudoir flashed. A helpless girl made an easy prey; this scum would no doubt go for her first. He would burn in hell before he allowed it! His free hand that was holding the dagger raised, and all its strength was poured into a single thrust. He was certain the fine blade had lived up to his expectations, and the penetrating wound would be fatal even for a strong, robust man. However, not one to exult over a small triumph, he prized the dagger out of its fleshy grasp for another strike, this time aiming for the assaulter’s chest. Its tip had barely pierced the fabric when his wrist was seized with a pressure so sharp and intense he thought his bone might have already snapped. Were it not for the hand still covering his mouth, he would cry out. His strength fled, his hold was relinquished with sudden and acute introduction of pain and the weapon slipped from his tremulous fingers, clanging as it hit the cobbled ground. His back hit the wall due to a violent shove, the impact of which made his teeth clatter.

“Don’t move!” a voice inhumanly growled. Tristan couldn’t despite all of him was screaming to, pinned to the walls as he was now. The hand had never left his mouth, its long fingers imbued with virility digging into his cheeks as though penetrating the muscles to crush the bones. The vein on his neck was pulsating to the suffocating pressure on his jaws, protestant of such violation of which he had never been at the receiving end.

They were relatively imperceptible, the twin pinpricks on the side of his neck, as compared to surge after surge of pain on his jawline, yet he felt it so keenly as if it had dimmed out all other sensations to overwhelm his sensory system. Tristan hadn’t an idea what they were at first, until the warm, tingling dampness of soft lips in contrastive with scratches of stubbles gave him hints of what was happening. Truth be told, those were not new to him as the lord’s son had experienced on countable, sporadic occasions where he sneaked out of the castle at odd hours in the night to squalid taverns providing makeshift bed rest at the curtained back and only came back when the moon almost retired. Now and then he would get, encourage even, a scraping of teeth against his erroneous skin, but it never went beyond the definite borderline of playful tease and certainly it was never meant to hurt. What he was subjected to at the moment was the exact opposite: while it was, he admitted with a touch of shame, stimulating in a masochistic sense, to invoke pleasure was not its aim but something more sinister and perhaps impossible to conceive with the conventional logic. Though chance a noble son had bled was low but Tristan had had his blood spilled a number of times as per carelessness or overexertion during combat training; bleeding from the neck, however, was a never-before. He felt it leaving his body in gentle and steady current via the opening of his vein. How marvelous it was for so much blood to be contain in such small vessel, barely noticeable by the naked vision, and for it to be drained so quick. Yet blood wasn’t the only that left; together with it were the ache in his wrist and the biting pressure on his jaws. It was hard to tell whether they had truly drowned or he simply did not retained enough of his mind to be affected by them. The latter appeared to be the likelier case, for he hardly felt the cold, horny surface of the wall on which he was pinned against. In front of his eyes were a spot of black which was growing like a drop of ink in a bowl of water, but instead of thinning out as it spread, it gathered the water and stained it with the same essence. His sight was swallowed up by blackness, and his consciousness followed suit…

Tristan woke up to the sunlight scathing his close eyelids. He made no attempt to depart his old bed yet, having just returned to the land of reality from a peculiar dream, and while he was unsure what to make of it, its after-effect was the cause of his heart’s pounding against his chest. If it had a solid fist, his heart, it would no doubt punch through his ribs. The remnants of the dream in his memory bank was dominated by an obscure figure possessing bestial strength, the kind of which had nearly smashed his wrist bone, and teeth which were akin to man-eaters’. Or ‘fangs’ should be more fitting, considering how the dream had unfolded, further cementing his belief that the malevolent assaulter had been less than human.

Strangely enough, the beast in the dream had carried a sense of familiarity.

Tristan touched his neck, where he had received the pointed ends of the predator’s canine. A jolt ran through him as the tips of his fingers found unsmooth skin, marred by some sort of injury. He put his legs on the ground, intending to search for any reflective surface, when he realized how wobbly his knees were. As a matter of fact, his heart seemed to be the only part of him which was over-rigorous while the rest was beyond fatigue. His breathing was uneven, his temples and palms perspired, and he was plagued with sickening vertigo in a stubborn attempt to force his feeble knees to stand up. He covered his mouth to prevent himself from vomiting, though he doubted there was hardly anything in his stomach. He was frail and very sick, which struck him more than a simple surprise because he had been illness-free for a long time. He did not doubt there was a solid connection between his weakened state and the stinging sensation on his neck he was determined to figure out just what caused it.

Tristan found a basin of water and brought it under the light. His reflection appeared on the surface once the water was free of turbulence; he wasn’t too shocked when it shown two puncture wounds on his vein.

The tips of his fingers were smeared with brown-colored dust after he examined them, this time more carefully. It gave off a faint metallic tang and its rusty taste as he licked his finger confirmed his assumption that it was dried blood.

No wonder he was feeling so exhausted even though he hadn’t performed any laborious task, Tristan thought. His mind was beginning to collect scattered pieces here and there to put them together and form the whole picture. The weighing fatigue, the bloodied wounds, the fact that he wasn’t wearing his nightclothes and the absence of his favorite weapon on his belt all pointed to a conclusion that his memory of venturing into the dark corner in the garden was as real as his crusted blood on his hand. So were the rumors of savage beasts preying in the nights he had heard from a handful of frightened peasants. Being an innate skeptic carrying a relatively atheistic attitude, much to his father and the priests’ dismay, Tristan hadn’t been much bothered by the church’s teachings of evils lurking about. Yet it seemed whoever above had decided to make him see the error of his thinking by providing solid evidence of the darker truth beyond his ignorance.

Even so…

He could have been dead − deprived of his blood and left out in the fields for the ravenous vultures like the victims rumored to be killed by the bloodthirsty creatures − but for better or worse, he was alive despite being burdened with fatigue and vertigo only God knew when would cease. That aside, what troubled him was a burning question: Why wasn’t him dead now? Was it simple carelessness that had made the beast overlook the state of his victim? Unlikely. If rumors turned out to be truth, which they were, then no-one had lived to tell the tale, all rigid cadavers dead for hours before they were found. Those monsters were ruthless as they were conscientious, which had no doubt played the key in their discretion until now. A swift, effortless twist of those steely hands or a simple choke and the Count’s son wouldn’t be on this earth to contemplate his survivor, so why the beast had not only spared Tristan’s life, despite logic, but also carried him back to his room? He couldn’t imagined the castle servants having discovered their injured and left-for-dead young lord without a ruckus to alert his lord father.

Although Tristan never thought himself a foolish man, quite the contrary in fact, he couldn’t fathom the motive yet.

There was another that added to his confusion. As his mind regained more of the missing fragments, the sense of familiarity also grew stronger while it had been vague before. The arms that had eradicated any shred of his resistance, Tristan believed he had tasted a fraction of their might in countless parrying matches. He had suspected their owner holding back the whole time, minding not to crush his ego perhaps, and now his suspicion was confirmed. If it was swordsmanship, Tristan was confident that he wasn’t inferior to anyone, yet in terms of raw strength and endurance, he was clearly no match. Last night had proven it.

Arms aside, it was the voice that gave him a true daunting sensation. True it was hoarse, bordering on inhuman, but the timbre, the thick, sort of outlandish accent, those weren’t easily masked by the rawness in the voice. To the ears hearing it almost on daily basis, it was even harder to conceal the identity of the speaker.

Not to mention the hearer was especially keen on voice recognition.

To learn that the monsters were living and breathing right under his roof, being wined and dined at his table every day… such notion gave him a bone-chilling thrill. They may have spared him so as not to cause a ruckus and get themselves exposed; still, if push came to shove, who dared guarantee they would not lash out and massacre the whole castle? With their superior in strength, even numbers weren’t in the humans’ favor.

As the holder of this secret, he had to tread very carefully.

There were knockings on his door, followed by Aurora’s sweet voice. “Oh Tristan, wake up you lazy bones. Don’t you want to be late and upset Father?”

All the jumbled thoughts and blood-loss-induced sickness had diverted Tristan from today’s schedule − a hawk-hunting with his lord father, which, Tristan admitted, was the last thing he wanted at the moment.

He pulled the collar high and tight, checked whether it safely covered the marks before going to open the door.

Seeing her vibrant with energy hit him with a pang of guilt. For all the time he had wasted pondering his attacker’s intention after awaken, he should have sprung out of this room and checked for her well-being first thing.

“I might have overslept a little,” Tristan explained.

“For goodness’s sake, brother,” Aurora gasped. “You look ghastly pale. Are you feeling unwell?” She laid the back of her hand against his forehead, the same gesture her brother often used to check her temperature. “And you’re really cold, too. You must be ill.”

“I probably caught a cold during the night,” he lied through his teeth. “Careless me. You go down first. I’ll change and be there shortly.”

“No!” Aurora protested, pushing him back with the strength of her petit body until they reached the bed. Amused by her, Tristan allowed himself to be forced to sit down.

To tell the truth, standing made he feel dizzy. He didn’t want to throw up in front of his little sister.

“You will stay in bed and rest,” she ordered with her hands on her hip, her trademark pushy little lady’s stance. “I cannot have you riding all day long in this condition. You’ll fall off the horse in any minute.”

That might very well be true, Tristan thought.

“Father and his ceaseless boring hunting. He won’t chastise you for missing one of those due to illness. Besides the Count du Guise’s sons will have all his attention occupied.”

The monster siblings. Tristan’s heart sank upon their mention. Could he trust them not to harm his father in broad daylight and the presence of many?

“Rest, dear brother,” Aurora said, gently pulling the blanket to his chest. “I’ll come back with breakfast. Your favorite.”

He nodded and closed his eyes in a pretense of sleep.

Thus Tristan spent the day in his bed resting for an illness he didn’t contract, with Aurora within arm’s reach to aid him with every big and small task he could otherwise perform on his own. The sight of Aurora busying herself like a fussy mother hen was his only source of amusement. She seemed excited being able to take care of him for the first time, her brother who was usually the one to care for her when she got sick. She even canceled Rebekah’s date for a picnic by the lake to be at his side.

He would tell her to go and have fun with her new friend if it wasn’t Rebekah du Guise. He had better not allow Aurora to come too close to them.

To Tristan’s confusion, at the end of the day, he received a surprise from Elijah du Guise, who had heard of the Count’s son’s illness and sent his best catch in his sincerest wish for his quick recovery. It turned out to be a full-grown stag that was sent to the chef to be processed into sumptuous dishes.

Looking at the pair of impressive antlers mounted on the wall of his room, Tristan honestly didn’t know what to make of Elijah’s intention.

To be continued

[Trilijah] Within Arm’s Reach

Disclaimer: Characters belong to their respectful owners

Fandom: The Originals

Rating: K

Pairing: Trilijah – Elijah Mikaelson x Tristan de Martel (short of)

Genres: fanfiction, slash (short of)

Characters:  Elijah Mikaelson, Tristan de Martel

Warning: none

Summary: A ‘deleted’ scene in The Originals 3×10 – A Ghost Along the Mississippi


“So,” Marcel said, pouring two tumblers of whiskey, one for himself and the other for his late-night expected guest, “what did you do to Tristan?”

“I persuaded some rather dedicated longshoremen…”


“How does it feel?”


Elijah’s hand pulling the rusty metal door halted as he heard a voice from inside.

There was but only one source for that voice within the bowel of the shipping container, and it just spoke to him, asked him a question to be precise, while it had remained utterly silent since every other soul but Elijah left the auto shop: Klaus to run after an in-transition Camille, Hayley to retrieve her late husband’s body, and Marcel to join his fellow Strix who had just overthrown and abandoned their leader to rot in a metal cage. Resigned to its doomed fate, Elijah thought it had.

He was halfway from sealing the container when the voice was raised.

“How does it feel,” the voice repeated, “to know that the breathing nuisance in your epic romance with the hybrid has, to use the vernacular, bit the dust, which I suspect he did often in a literal sense?”

“You waited them to all go to start blabbing, huhm? It’s been mere minutes since your confinement and your mind has already shown signs of deterioration? I’m a little disappointed.”

Elijah swung the door fully open, causing a ‘clang’. There he found his damnable first sired sitting with his back against the wall and his legs stretching out on the floor. For an immortal prisoner condemned to an eternity inside a flooded box, his posture and facial expression were far too relaxed.

There were hints of queer amusement in his tone and an odd glint in his blue eyes so bright that it made questioning his sanity a horrible offense.

“I am being gnawed by the curiosity of how you are feeling at the moment as the redundant hyphenated part in Hayley’s surname is now officially deleted.”

“Murderous, you can imagine,” Elijah replied. “Were it not for this impenetrable barrier, you would find yourself short of a small organ fitting snuggly in my fist. For now I have to content myself with a life sentence rather than capital punishment.”

As if hearing not a fraction of Elijah’s malice, Tristan seamlessly picked up his previous speech, “I believe you’re quite mad at me, understandably so, as I have stolen your chance to gorge that heart out yourself. Feeling its last valiant struggle through the skin of your palm would have been divine. Or… all this time you shied from the deed in fear of incurring that mongrel’s wrath and waited patiently for someone else to do it?”

“Are you quite done?” said Elijah with a small smile. His left hand was fiddling with the daylight ring on his right. “I consider myself overly generous to allow you your last words on this earth, but you seem to prefer wasting your chance instead. Well, you cannot begrudge me for my lack of interest in your gibberish once you’re drowning in the deepest, darkest depth of I-don’t-give-a-damn.”

Tristan laughed a wry laugh, which, Elijah admitted, was unexpected from him. “Oh certainly you do give a damn, Elijah. And you won’t drop me. Swear on my life and Rory’s, you won’t.”

“What makes you think that I will not have this fine shipping container sunk in the Mariana Trench for good? I heard down there it is quite a fabulous sight, if you could see, that is.”

“Every reason,” he replied. “Before I share with you one such reason, allow me to ask: How is Rebekah now? Is she enjoying her slumber? A knife in her heart wouldn’t cause her much discomfort, would it?”

A loud, short noise echoed in the mostly empty auto shop. On the ground laid a hefty chunk of metal from the door.

“How?” Elijah growled in a deep baritone, his eyes changing color. “She was supposed to be—”

“On the run,” Tristan cut him. “That was also the Strix’s report. Yet I always knew the only way to hinder the stake’s curse was to jam a mystical silver knife in its place, which meant either going on a rampage or sleeping, and the former was unheard of.”

“And you know how to break the curse as well, I guess.”

“Tragically I’m one of the only two in possession of the knowledge.”

“Your psycho of a sister or Aya?”

Unbeknownst to himself, Tristan was mimicking his sire’s earlier gestures with his daylight ring. He twisted the ring off his ring finger, smoothly slid it back in and then repeated as he spoke, “Neither, Elijah. The other was the witch who crafted the stakes. Dark-hearted and bright-minded she was, a true femme fatale. I saw to it that from then she was only spoken of in past tense…”

“…thus making you the sole ingredient in my sister’s release. I taught you too well, didn’t I, Tristan?”

“I suggest you keep me within your arm’s reach in case you need me as ‘Prince Charming’ to dearest Rebekah’s ‘Sleeping Beauty’.”

“It appears you’re adamant,” Elijah said, “uncompromisable. Perhaps your resolution would soften in front of the sight of Aurora’s tremendous suffering.”

“Your threats are becoming rather uncreative, Elijah. If Rory were captured, she’d make sure Niklaus learn of Rebekah’s fate first thing. I wager the Original hybrid wouldn’t handle it too gracefully.”

Tristan stood up, approached the entrance in leisure strides and stopped just where the barrier was erected as though he could see it with his eyes. “You were wrong, Elijah. This is not going to be my end. My end lies in my own hand,” he said, placing his right hand upon his heart.

Elijah advanced forward until he and Tristan were separated only by a few short, uncrossable inches. “I suppose I should heed my advice and keep you within my arm’s reach so as not to jeopardize Rebekah’s release. But I can’t guarantee it will be an improvement from the bottom of the sea.”

“I will certainly not complain.”

His smirk was eclipsed by the shadow of the door’s being closed.

“So,” Marcel said, pouring two tumblers of whiskey, one for himself and the other for his late-night expected guest, “what did you do to Tristan?”

“I persuaded some rather dedicated longshoremen…”


[Trilijah] Mine to Give, Yours to Choose

Disclaimer: Characters belong to their respectful owners

Fandom: The Originals

Rating: T

Pairing: Trilijah – Elijah Mikaelson x Tristan de Martel

Genres: fanfiction, slash

Characters:  Elijah Mikaelson, Tristan de Martel

Warning: some angst stuff at first, maybe


“If you draw from me as I am now, Elijah,” he said, “I’m afraid you’ll have to find yourself another source.”

“Don’t be too rash to assume I always come for what is flowing in your veins, clogged with poppy at the moment, no doubt.”

A sarcastic remark had already formed on Tristan’s tongue when he decided to swallow it down his raw throat. He opted to survey Elijah, who was standing by his dead limbs, instead.

It happened all too fast.

He was in pursuit of a particular cunning fox which had been evading his grasp for the better part of the hour. What a fine creature it was, with its sinewy body covered by a fiery lustrous coat that stood out amongst the green bushes like a precious ruby. Its fur would make a splendid pair of gloves for his little sister on her upcoming birthday. Aurora was always tearful during the week of her birth, for it was also the annual mourning period of their lady mother when everyone in the castle was plunged in the hassle of preparation while their lord father was too busy resenting the cause of his wife’s untimely death to pay proper attention to his only daughter. It mostly fell on Tristan, the only one to acknowledge her existence during this time, year after year to figure out a way to cheer her up and hopefully, a thoughtful present from her beloved brother would be able to lighten up Aurora’s mood. Imagine how the gloves would compliment her hair.

Such was the instant thought hitting Tristan’s mind upon spotting the canine. With a scarce reckless disregard for everything else manifesting in his heart, he immediately kicked his horse after it, leaving behind his servants. That was the first and most grievous mistake he had ever made in his twenty-five years of life. The fox proved to be as fast and clever as it was beautiful, and while it managed to dodge every of Tristan’s well aimed arrow and the sharp jaws of his hounds by the skin of its teeth, it led its pursuers deeper and deeper into the forest. Eager to capture his game, Tristan had not noticed such, and when he finally did, it was a tad too late.

The fox vanished behind one of the larger bush and out of it sprung, a black lump moving too fast for Tristan to determine just what sort of beast it was at first. His strayed arrows must have missed the elusive fox and lodged themselves into the creature’s flesh instead, rousing it from a peaceful slumber into a soaring rage. Frightened by the sudden introduction of a ferocious threat, the horse took several steps back, maneuvering around the beast’s assault, and neighed loudly. Tristan squeezed his thighs and pulled the reins with all his arms’ strength, fighting his horse’s panic and barely winning. He was able to see it now: a furious black boar with its nostrils flaring white puffs of fog, its tusks protruding from its mouth like a pair of crescent-shaped knives, and its stout legs impatiently plowing the soil beneath. The end of the arrow stuck out from its left socket, from which blood continued to water the withered grass. His hounds were growling, the kind of low, ominous sounds they made to alarm their master of imminent danger. Never before had they encountered boars and thus, at the moment, they appeared unsure of the next move, their eyes zooming into the target and their jaws hanging open in anticipation for their next order. Truth be told, Tristan himself was not any certain than his hounds since it was the first time he’d been met with a raging boar − boars, said to be more fearsome than wolves, were almost nonexistent in this area. His hand went to the hilt of his sword. He had to think and act fast…

His concentration was ruptured with a blood-curling cry from his horse and the sudden shift in balance. It was as though for a split second the sky and the earth had swapped places.

Later, as he recalled that disastrous turn of event, Tristan would swear he had heard the sound of his bones snap like a dry wig when his body hit the ground, thrown off his mount’s back in a violent response to the beast’s attack. Nonetheless, at that crucial moment, he lost all his other senses beside his ability to feel tremendous agony. Pain spiked through his spine straight into his brain and in an evil stroke of luck, his right leg had been impaled on a sucker that grew vertically like a javelin. His brief cry was lost in the cacophony of the horse’s neighs and his hounds’ raucous barks as they divided and circled the boar, fully baring their dripping fangs.

He wished he had felt the pain, for pain denoted that the level of damage was not yet lethal and that his injuries were still curable, but not so long after that heart-jabbing ache he began to feel nothing from his waist down. Not even his calf, bleeding profusely from where it was fixed on the sucker, gave the slightest sensation. Despite a part of him’s knowing that he could not, as he had heard so many dreadful tales about this devastating condition, he tried to do something with his legs, anything at all; nevertheless, his desperate efforts were in vain because he could not feel his toes, let alone produced any sort of movement with his limbs. Total paralysis. Terror and absolute despair were the last things he remembered with clarity before the damp, cold hand of darkness clamped over his eyes.

Tristan had no way to tell how much time had passed with his consciousness’s flickering like a moribund yet persistent fire on a mostly burnt out wicker. Refusing to be extinguished, it hungrily devoured each and every sporadic wind to flare up, albeit momentarily, allowing Tristan a few blotches of image, sound or sensation, before withering down once again. He heard his hounds’ howling and the boar’s screams but there was no way for him to decide for himself what had and was happening. And even when they were very near, in his ears they sounded distant like echoes carried by the winds. He felt something warm and sticky plastering his face which he vaguely guessed to be blood − the boar’s? His hounds’? Perhaps both. He knew his hounds as loyal and fierce, sometimes to the point of being bloodthirsty − had personally and diligently trained them to be so; and despite their initial apprehension, they would not flee with their tails between their hind legs and abandon their injured master, not once blood had been spilled, theirs or their designated target.

Tristan woke not with pain but with the sore absence of it; truth be told, there was a dead numbness that blanketed him from his waist down while his torso wasn’t much more active. Poisoned with deadly lethargy his arms and shoulders were, so much so that moving their stone-weight muscles seemed a herculean task. His own flesh felt alien to him as though he was a mere specter dead-locked inside a host body; although the gracious host tolerated his parasitic existence’s latching onto it’s true master’s, it granted him zero access to the use of its flesh. He tried fighting for control, even a tiny fraction of it, yet the foreign shell was beyond adamant and he himself too feeble to make any change, however insignificant.

How he wanted to blame this depressing condition on the effect of copious amount of poppy flooding his veins in place of the blood he had spilled, if the nauseously sweet smell pervading the air he breathed in with exertion was any indication. How he wanted to believe it would only be temporary, and once the medicine wore off − it would soon, he would be screaming his heart out for the soothing embrace of insensitivity again. Or perhaps all the poppy in his system was still not enough, for he was much aware of his surroundings and situation: bedridden and paralyzed. Perhaps it would be better if he would just succumb to the poppy’s gentle hand and cast himself adrift in the dreamless current, all the while holding onto an unwavering optimism that once he woke up, his condition would greatly improve. No. His mind remained staggeringly clear despite the body’s relentless effort to keep it muddled, and he knew rather than be aware that his state would never discontinue as long as he remained breathing. Any chance of recovery had already been splintered with his spine.

It would weigh a little less heavy on his heart if he could cry out. There was heat pricking under his eyelids and his eyesight became a tad blurry as the result; nevertheless, his eyes were painfully dry.

The only silver lining in this bleakness, Tristan mused, was that he was lying on his dear old bed, in his dear old room − far better than lying in a bed of scorched leaves with the starry sky above for proof. In the opposite corner of the room was his dearest Aurora, draping over the table in a very unladylike manner that normally would be the subject of her brother’s endless tease. Of course Tristan was in no bloody mood to make fun of her; in fact, her posture caused a single tear to roll down his cheek while everything else could not have. Even in her sleep, weariness was visible on her countenance, etched in the tiny crease between her eyebrows and the glittering tear stains around her closed eyes. Sobbed herself to sleep she must have. He remembered vaguely her crying his name over and over like chanting a broken mantra. He wouldn’t dare the thought of what would become of Aurora if fate had dictated that the human known as Tristan de Martel should perish tonight.

In spite of his body’s protest, Tristan extended his right arm towards the small table by his bed. Slowly and shakily, as if it was wrapped in a bulky cloth made of lead. Swear to god he couldn’t feel the nightly chill raising goosebumps on his skin. His throat was so parched that a sip of the cold water in the jug would feel heavenly. Should he raise his voice loud enough − he supposed he could do that much, Aurora would wake and instantly come to his aid, and that was precisely what he didn’t want to. Let the poor girl have her exhausted sleep. Besides, if he was unable to perform this nothing-task, he might just bite off his tongue right now. He couldn’t bear leaving Aurora behind, but death would be a thousand times more preferable than a useless, lingering existence, a boulder blocking her life road ahead.

Sweat dampening his forehead, Tristan uttered a silent curse. His fingertips had already reached the grip; if only he had had a little more strength in his quivering hand. He ground his teeth, trying once again. This time his effort was fruitful: he could pull the jug towards him. Just a little more. His joy was stillborn however, because when the jug was at the edge, its bottom hit a chink on the wooden surface. That, coupled with Tristan’s effort, produced an unfavorable outcome of the jug’s tumbling down.

He squeezed his eyes in heartfelt anticipation of an avoidable shattering noise. Seconds passes and nothing happened; in his chamber it was quiet as ever. When he opened his eyes, he found a tall figure looming over him. The jug was held steady in the man’s hand, hence its narrow escape from its death.

The man’s was a familiar face, too familiar and the last one Tristan wished to see. Not in this pathetic state.

“Elijah,” he breathed the name.

The bloodsucker gave a light nod in acknowledgment of Tristan’s default ‘greeting’ for their nocturnal rendezvous. He reached for a bowl on the table and filled it half-full.

His touch as he laid a hand under Tristan’s neck and lifted his head up with unexpected but otherwise much appreciated tenderness was cold like an iron blade dipped in frost. And that wasn’t because Tristan was suffering from a rampant fever.

“I waited for Aurora to fall asleep,” explained Elijah in soft voice, as if he felt the need of an explanation for his unusual low body temperature. His voice was even and steady, suggesting the hours basking in the late autumnal winds had had little effect on his person, as expected from a supernatural being. He stirred the bowl gently to damp Tristan’s chapped lips first, before helping the human consume the entire content.

The water was bland, yet it brought a cool relief to his thirst.

Elijah’s thumb swiped his thumb across the corner of Tristan’s lips, collecting a strayed drop.

“Some more?”

“No…. Thank you.”

He settled the bowl and the jug on their former place, making not the smallest sound.

“A boar, wasn’t it? I heard from the servants that followed you. Pursuing a beast in its own territory without your human company wasn’t a wise move, I must say.”

“It was originally a fox,” said Tristan with a smile that wasn’t very much a smile. “The boar was a lousiest twist.”

“It may not make you feel any better, but the ‘lousiest twist’ was found eradicated by your fierce and loyal hounds. Not without a dire price, of course. One of them managed to lead the servants to your site, where both his alive and fallen friends were guarding.”

Having known even before Elijah’s tale didn’t prevent a sigh from Tristan.

“If you draw from me as I am now, Elijah,” he said, “I’m afraid you’ll have to find yourself another source.”

“Don’t be too rash to assume I always come for what is flowing in your veins, clogged with poppy at the moment, no doubt.”

A sarcastic remark had already formed on Tristan’s tongue when he decided to swallow it down his raw throat. He opted to survey Elijah, who was standing by his dead limbs, instead.

His hand was on Tristan’s left thigh, and even without the voluminous covers, he knew he could not feel the touch. He supposed he could keep a straight face as he watched Elijah tear his calf from his knee with a fraction of his inhuman strength.

“Your father was beyond furious,” Elijah informed him. “And he almost had the doctor drawn and quartered for daring to reveal the dreadful truth about your injury.”

“That I was aware.”

Elijah’s gaze lingering on Tristan’s face evoked a vague sense of uneasiness in him; from Tristan’s perspective, the bloodsucker appeared to be scourging his expression for hints of other emotions than blankness. Would he delight in the mortal suffering, Tristan wondered, knowing that such a doomed fate would never befall him, a creature that continued to cheat death and time with each breath he drew?

A sort of unfounded anger rose in Tristan’s guts; he clenched his fists and refused to avert his eyes from Elijah’s gaze.

“The scent of your blood under the bandage was distracting,” Elijah said. “The pain should be too great for poppy to neutralize it.”

“Even if you tore my legs from me,” he voiced his earlier, macabre thought, “I wouldn’t feel any difference, from now on and always. The lord’s son, crippled for life.”

“It isn’t necessarily so.”

And with a saturnine look he did what Tristan least expected: his eyes shifted color to a shade darker than red and his fangs became visible from his parted lips. Using them, he pierced his own wrist.

His tone was eerily serene despite his haunting visage as he spoke, “Mine is a fiend’s blood — you yourself have said so, and it can do what only fiends can.”

The puncture wounds closed in front of Tristan’s widening eyes, and the skin was mended with the perfection that could invoke the best seamstress’s jealousy.

Tristan started to catch his implication.

“It may fix this disastrous turn of event. The question is, would you—”

“Give me your blood!”

Hesitation was free from his weak voice, reduced to mere whispers, only resolution.

The risk that he might be locked in an everlasting curse like Elijah and his siblings was well-perceived and Tristan was willing to take it, consequences be damned. Any kind of existence would be better than one of a cripple, dead from his waist down.

With no further ado, Elijah ripped open a gap on his wrist, considerably wider and deeper than his previous demonstrative one. His own blood colored his stubbly chin, dripping onto the front of his beige tunic. There, a piece of flesh bitten off should take a little more time for his demonic blood to heal than neat puncture wounds. With one hand supporting Tristan’s head, elevating him up so that he wouldn’t choke, Elijah brought the other to Tristan’s mouth. Rather than repulsed by the close-up view of mangled flesh drenched in blood, he was pulled in by a peculiar magnetism. Pressing his lips to the wound in a mockery of a chastest kiss, he sucked like a babe starving for its mother’s milk, and for the first time in his life the human had truly known what it felt to have the life essence of another in his mouth. Savory and strong, its was a unique flavor unlike beer or any kind of wine, and he had tried many kinds of wine as one privilege of a wealthy lord’s son. More than just taste, it was imbued with virulent power he could feel literally whirling on his tongue. He swallows it as fast as he could in an absurd fear of having it taken back by the generous giver.

Not long after Elijah had put a distance between them, Tristan sensed the life rushing back to his deceased muscles. Truly felt it by the marrow of his bones. He tossed away the many layers of covering, ripped the bandage with haste and found his legs as they were prior the incident.

Elijah’s thumb swiped across Tristan’s lips, doing away the telltale smudges. “You may want to contain your scream of joy or risk ruining Aurora’s sleep,” he reminded Tristan, a faint smile clinging on the seam of his lips.

“What am I now?” Tristan asked. “Something like you?”

“It’s rude to refer to your savior as ‘something’, the lord Tristan. I could use a little gratitude,” he replied. “You are not like me, not yet. However, in the following day if you managed to get attacked by a boar the second time, you might.”

“That was how Lucien showed up in front of me wound-free, wasn’t it?”

Elijah’s smirk never failed to churn his inside. “That smart head of yours had better be used to come up with an explanation for your miraculous recovery overnight.”

One foot on the windowsill, Elijah turned his head and said, “How about your heartfelt prayer was answered by merciful God and an angel descended?”

Then, he plunged into the depth of the night.


The title came from Bartholomew’s The Silent Comedy. 

 Tristan agreed to be Elijah’s personal human blood bag, hence their nocturnal rendezvous. 

[Trilijah] Forbidden–Part I

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

Warning: none

Summary: Took place after Tristan tortured Lucien in The Originals 3×03 – I See You in Hell or New Orleans


“Supposed that I had been lying to deter your brother from interfering, would you rather I’d told him the truth instead? About how I came to acquire the knowledge of your lot’s beastly nature, the lord Elijah?”


Only when he was one step within the safe vicinity of his chamber did Tristan allow himself to release a lengthy breath he had been desperately holding. As if picking a cue, his heart started trampling his ribs like a mad stallion screaming for release. Although he secured the door with a heavy iron lock, he knew it to be futile: there was nothing that could hinder them, those monsters in civil skin, if they truly wanted to demolish a citadel, let alone a well-worn barrier.

Tristan was quite certain he had just infuriated one of those monsters and upset another. Some nerve he had to have betted his life on unbacked threats and faked calmness. Not awfully bad for the very first theatrical act he had pulled. One of them, the murderous younger brother, could have snapped his neck as easily as squatting a fly, and had nearly done so had his elder sibling not intervened. His throat was much sore from the assault and he did not doubt its remnants would be visible for days to come. He should put his mind into inventing some believable reasons if his lord father questioned them − what would suffice for purplish finger-shaped bruises on his throat? He had been stretching his luck, he was painfully aware, and next time might not be so unfortunate. Still, given another chance, Tristan would do exactly as he had done mere hours ago. He wanted to protect his family, he had told them such, and there was every ounce of truth in his words. Lucien had led them into his home − that he was unable to change − so what Tristan could do was trying everything in his ability to keep his lord father and Aurora away from those bloodthirsty fangs.

… Even if that meant Tristan should put himself in them.

… And he had. Again and again.

He sank into the feather-stuffed mattress, not bothering to change out of his soiled clothes or wash his face. Lucien’s blood had turned dark, gotten cold and coagulated on his skin in ugly, shapeless blotches. The thought of that wretched servant clawing at the filth of the dungeon in immense agony somehow brought a sense of tranquil to his frantic heartbeats. He had been furious back then, each strike flying with all his body’s strength and his heart’s toxic ire. God knew how long he had waited for the opportunity to make Lucien pay for his many a crime. For daring to harbor vile desires for Aurora he deserved death, yet that was not the sole reason for Tristan’s long-brewed yearn to turn Lucien’s life into hell. His most grievous sin laid in leading a troupe of monsters through his family home’s gate, jeopardizing the lives of hundreds with little regard. To make matter worse, his sin went silent, unknown even by those who had been robbed of their chance of life in the mute of nights, and thus it scurried beneath public awareness like despicable vermin. And Tristan, despite being a lord’s son and conscious of what Lucien had committed, seethed in the frustration of his own impotence to give the servant his just dessert. Not until now…

The moon was high and Tristan felt he should have gone to sleep − preservation of his strength and stamina to accompany his lord father on his hunting expedition tomorrow was imperative. It would be a long, trying day and the least he wanted was to fall from his horse, making a joke for all the court to see if he didn’t make a cripple out of himself first. One to value mighty display, his lord father had no tolerance for any sight of weakness, especially if it came from his only son. Tristan had learnt it the hardest way at the tender age of seven.

Despite all of it, his eyes, red-rimmed and starting to hurt with fatigue, stared at the ceiling as though there was a magnificent mural worthy of admiration there instead of the monochromatically dull color of ancient stone. He appeared to be waiting from an outsider’s perspective and he might indeed be. He had had the door barred but left the window wide open − expecting something, or someone, to enter his chamber through it, no matter how ridiculous that notion might sound; his place, after all, resided at the peak of this wing, impossible to reach without the use of stairs or ladders. It would take a pair of wings or a lizard’s feet to climb the vertical and weather-worn, moss-covered surface outside to penetrate his room.

And then, as he had silently expected, from the only opening a shadow crept in. His footsteps lighter than the rustle of the foliage when a breeze passed through, the tall figure hastened to the center of the chamber, where the flickering light from the fireplace cast some shades on his visage, accentuating his chiseled features, which were made sharper and thus more intimidating than usual by his underlying menace.

The atmosphere had shifted at the moment of intrusion, heavier and condensed. Tristan’s barely soothed heartbeats picked up its pace once more. The tips of his fingers and toes felt chilling.

“You seem vexed,” Tristan commented without sitting up to have a proper look at the intruder’s countenance.

“Should I not be?” asked the intruder in monotonously even voice. Footsteps were heard and not soon after, Tristan felt the heat wave from another presence encroaching his personal zone. The old bed groaned with an additional weight − it always did whenever having to occupy one more person beside its master. A pair of toned arms were firmly placed on either side of Tristan’s head, supported a torso that was hovering above Tristan’s − barely touching.

Perfectly trapped. No way to escape.

Tristan lay very still.

“After your filthy lies hours earlier? Huhm?”

Breath ghosted warmly over his cool cheeks, and he shivered inside.

“I wasn’t lying,” he corrected. Not rebuked, just corrected. His voice had a slight quiver due to his racing heartbeat.

“Another lie. I could hear your telltale little organ even in the courtyard. Screaming as it is right now. ‘Lie!’“

One hand pressed against Tristan’s chest, the pressure further provoking his heart. It started to hurt.

“Pray tell, what did I lie about?”

“The maiden that survived Kol’s assault − it was a blatant lie! I see to it there’s never any survivor.”

Tristan breathed a laugh. “Always the diligent brother, aren’t you? Never miss a single one.” His tone was edged with sarcasm. “Supposedly I had been lying to deter your brother from interfering, would you rather I’d told him the truth instead? About how I came to acquire the knowledge of your lot’s beastly nature, the lord Elijah?”

The last word had a considerably weaker articulation than the rest because of the sudden constriction in his throat, the reason of which being the sight presented to his eyes: gray veins gathering around the sockets housing a pair of eyes as dark as thick blood. Gone was the mask of man: this was the core of his lie coming back to bite him.

“Perhaps I did miss one,” he growled, his fangs gleaming. “What shall I do to make amends for my fault?”

His hair stood on end at the hint of stubbles rubbing against the skin of his neck. There a major vein resided, pumping blood from his heart to his head. He once witnessed an unfortunate soldier get knifed in the neck and blood had gushed out like a broken dam. So much blood in so little vessel − what a miracle that was the human body. Since then he had held an obsession with that particular image and more or less, driven by it to venture down the abattoir to watch where his family’s lavish feasts originated from. Now he felt much like cattle himself, lying still to be preyed upon by a predator. His eyebrows knitted with the pricking sensation on his pulse.

To be continued

[Trilijah] The Mystery in the Dark Alleyway

Disclaimer: Characters belong to their respectful owners

Fandoms: The Originals, The Mystery of the Hansom Cab

Rating: T

Pairing: Trilijah – Elijah Mikaelson x Tristan de Martel, Madge x Brian

Genres: fanfiction, slash

Characters: Brian Fitzgerald, Madge Fitzgerald, Elijah Mikaelson, Tristan de Martel

Warning: crack

Summary: Madge happened to witness her husband, Brian, engaging in an intimate act with Mr. Mikaelson in a dark alleyway. But was it really her husband?

The tenth installment of the Trilijah Collection series


“And I assume Madge knows of this friend?”

“We had dinner twice so, yes, Madge knows Mr. Mikaelson. Said he was a truest gentleman.”

“And yet she accused you of having an affair with… him?”

As if touched a nerve, Brian raised his voice by an octave. “She saw him and me in a dark alleyway…”

“You and him what?”

“Engaging in intimate acts!” cried Brian, his face turning beet-red. “Or so she believed!”

Felix squinted his eyes. “Did you?”


Even when the door to their bedroom was slammed against his face, missing his nose by a centimeter, Brian still had no bloody comprehension of what had just happened and why.

He had arrived home early in a jubilant mood, having just won a profitable contract, to find his newly wedded bride with her eyes all red and puffy and a soaked silk handkerchief in her hand. Before he could open his mouth and ask what was troubling her so, Madge had hurled a train of accusations at him, the gist of which being her catching Brian’s engagement in an adulterous affair with a friend of theirs, and it finally culminated in her shutting him out from their bedroom for an infinite time length.

He consulted with his trusted close friend Felix such a few hours later, when he was ‘hiding from the out-of-the-blue hurricane’ at Felix’s cordially provided shelter, namely his house. Being the good, helpful friend Felix was most of the times, he listened carefully to Brian’s story without his usual trademark gossip-monger status.

“A whiffy?” Felix said, offering his scented handkerchief.

“No, thanks.”

Felix shrugged and took a swift but deep inhale from his handkerchief. “So, Brian, who is this Mr. Mikaelson?”

“An expatriate I’ve gotten acquainted recently. He said he was living in New Orleans and came here for his love of traveling and some business.”

“Oh, an American. Love the Americans. Is he young or middle-aged?”

“Not a typical American we’ve gotten used to seeing here, definitely. He seems much European to me, with his eloquent speech and fastidious manners. Although I know not his true age, I wager he couldn’t be more than twenty-eight. We have attended a few exhibitions, hung out at the club a few times, but that’s all.”

“And I assume Madge knows of this friend?”

“We had dinner twice so, yes, Madge knows Mr. Mikaelson. Said he was a truest gentleman.”

“And yet she accused you of having an affair with… him?”

As if touched a nerve, Brian raised his voice by an octave. “She saw him and me in a dark alleyway…”

“You and him what?”

“Engaging in intimate acts!” cried Brian, his face turning beet-red. “Or so she believed!”

Felix squinted his eyes. “Did you?”

“As if I would have done such things to sabotage our young marriage! In broad daylight and with a man, no less!”

Felix’s look pronounced “Okay, if you insist” as he declined on the chaise lounge to better enjoy the drug’s effect deliciously nestled in his system. “So, where were you really at the time she claimed to see you and Mr. Mikaelson? At least you should have an alibi to prove your innocence.”

“I was entertaining an Irish client. We had lunch then a few drinks.”

“Then it’s easy. Arrange a home dinner and have that gentleman clear your name for you,” Felix said with a wide, condescending grin to his genius idea. Really, Brian could have thought of this and saved the both of them the trouble.

“Like I haven’t thought about it,” Brian sighed. “But he caught the ship back to Ireland right after we signed the contract and is not coming to Melbourne until next year.”

“How about telling her you were clubbing with me at that time and if she asked me, I’d play along. It’s just a harmless white lie between gentlemen.”

“You were with your wife at that time.”

“Oh, right,” Felix agreed, as if only did he remember what, where and with whom he had been at that particular time. “And Madge and she are very close, so…”

“They’re probably talking about it as we speak,” Brian added.

“In quite a quandary, are we?” Felix sighed, softly shaking his head. “Well, I once heard that women with child can be a little… temperamental… irrational even. But it’ll pass… eventually.”

“What if it won’t?”

Felix straightened his back to pat his friend’s shoulder. “It will, have a little faith. In the mean time, you’re welcome to stay here while we try to soothe dear Madge.”

Brian could return to his home a day later, with no small part thanks to Felix and his wife and beloved Sal, who thankfully didn’t fall in the stereotypical ‘sister-in-law who sides with the wife and condemns the husband no matter what happens’. He felt that he had owed Sal his life the second time.

But it was still too soon to rejoice on Brian’s part, for although Madge no longer shooed him from their home, she hadn’t put down the barrier (figuratively and physically) to their bedroom, allowing Brian only the cold, minimal comfort of the sofa. And so, the very next morning, Brian commuted to work with visible circles around his sockets and his usual bright eyes had somewhat become dull. He had to rake his brain for an excuse other than his wife’s warding him off from their bed every time a colleague displayed their concern (or curiosity) for his condition at the worst timing possible. Needless to say his mood remained low throughout the entire morning.

However, it had a major improvement when he ran into Mr. Mikaelson that afternoon and was invited to join him for lunch. Handsome and sharp-dressed as he was never not, Mr. Mikaelson was a ray of sunshine in these gloomy days of his. So gentlemanly were his manners that Brian felt infinitely terrible for harboring such uncomely thoughts about him − ever since Madge’s accusations, strange ideas had been sprouting in his head like wild mushrooms, resulting in his subconscious avoidance of eye contact with him in the first few minutes of their meeting. Certainly Mr. Mikaelson must have noticed the oddities in his mannerism, together with his sunken eyes, yet he said not a word about them. For his politeness alone Brian was grateful to him; for his invitation to a farewell dinner before his return to New Orleans he would be forever indebted to Mr. Mikaelson. Although he was more than just a little upset about their budding friendship being nipped, this farewell dinner was the timely patch he needed to mend the supposed tear in the marriage fabric before it became an unfixable hole.

Never did Brian imagine the huge surprise Mr. Mikaelson’s farewell dinner would bring.

But that was all after he had managed, pled actually, to get Madge to come with him. The invitation was for the both of them and there was no way he would, or should, show up by himself. Once again Sal proved herself to be an angel sent to earth to rescue him from this dire dilemma. On top of that, Brian’s banishment had received a lift and he was allowed his side on their bed. Not the complete mercy he hoped yet Brian was never a greedy man.

“I’m so glad you could come as my invitation came in such short notice,” Mr. Mikaelson greeted them on their entrance into his flat, shaking Brian’s hand and kissing Madge’s. Madge’s ire hadn’t exactly gone but she was taught to be a full-time proper lady despite everything and so she responded with pleasantries and a gentle smile. Plus, who could resist smiling to Mr. Mikaelson’s immense charms?

Once the attentive servants took care of their coats, gloves and hats, the husband and wife were shown the dining room. Mr. Mikaelson’s dwelling wasn’t huge, as he’d told Brian he had only planned a temporary stay, but what it lacked in size it was well compensated in style. Although this was Brian’s second time here, he still couldn’t help a sense of awe upon laying his eyes on the intricate ornaments placed at their befitting place to accentuate not only their values but also the room’s. In the center of the space, under a chandelier, was a marvelous table set for four.

“Are we expecting a guest?” asked Brian.

“Not exactly a guest but rather an old friend of mine who crossed the ocean to remind me that I have gone for too long.”

“… or to brutally cut short his much-enjoyed expedition, so he incessantly complained,” a voice seamlessly picked up where Mr. Mikaelson’s speech was left. The speaker showed himself immediately afterwards, stepping inside the room through a door opposite from the table. With even-paced and steady steps, he approached the couple, whose were staring at the new face with an appalled expression plastered on their faces.

Staring at a person with their eyes wide was never an acceptable gesture in their books, yet no amount of education on manners and etiquette could have prepared Madge and Brian to deal with the shock of seeing a stranger wearing Brian’s face in front of them. The word ‘doppelgänger’ came to their minds and it rang an ominous bell.

“There he is,” said Mr. Mikaelson with a hint of a sigh, “I was afraid you wouldn’t make it in time for dinner, Tristan.”

The man called Tristan arched an eyebrow. “That you took me for an ill-mannered man wounds me deeply, Elijah.”

He seemed to notice the strange expressions on Brian and Madge’s faces but like Mr. Mikaelson earlier, he feigned ignorance. “Ah, Mr. and Mrs. Fitzgerald, what great pleasure to meet you. My name’s Tristan de Martel.”

His hand was dry when he gave Brian a firm handshake. He then bowed to place a light kiss on the back of Madge’s hand. Typically French.

“If you don’t mind my asking, Mr. de Martel, are you from France? Your last name sounds French.”

“Not at all, my lady. I am indeed a Frenchman, though I feels as if I haven’t stepped foot on the Gaule land for centuries.”

“I have to admit we were more than a little surprised that you and my husband bear such a resemblance. Uncanny even.”

“I, too, have a confession to make,” Tristan replied, his eyes glancing between Brian and Mr. Mikaelson. “Part of the reason I came to Melbourne was because I heard that Elijah befriended a man who looked like my long-lost twin.” A brief pause. “The rumor turns out to be pleasant truth.”

Not being able to come up with a reply, Brian just smiled. Perhaps it was true, the saying nowadays, that the world was becoming smaller after all.

“Tristan, is it good-mannered to keep the guests standing like this?” Mr. Mikaelson chided him, not unkindly. “Please, have your seats, Mr. and Mrs. Fitzgerald.”

Soon as they were settled on a hansom cab to ride home, Madge pulled her husband into a tight hug and from her flowed a series of apologies. “I’m so sorry, Brian. I was such an idiot to doubt your fidelity.”

“There, there,” he cooed, patting her dark, fine hair that had gathered the chill of the night and became cool. “I can’t really blame you for mistaking him for me. When he walked in, I had to doubt my sight.”

“His voice even sounds like yours.”

“That it does,” Brian agreed.

“Is there any chance that you may have a long-lost twin?”

“One that is French and possibly blue-blooded? I think not. Speaking about it, I remember Mr. Mikaelson once said that I resembled an old friend of his. I never realized how massive that understatement was. Mr. de Martel looks like me so much there’s no telling between us, which is frightening.”

“Oh no, Brian. In terms of appearance he and you might be one person, but I always know who my husband is, even if you dress the same clothes,” Madge reassured him with a gentle touch on the side of his face.

Touched by her words and gesture but still curious, Brian asked, “How can you tell?”

“Woman’s instinct, silly dear. Mr. de Martel was very charming indeed, yet his charms seemed to have an icy edge, so unlike Mr. Mikaelson’s, which are warm and sort of alluring.”

Brian appeared hurt. “You speak as though I possess no charms at all! How on earth did I ever manage to ask for the hand of the famous Frettlby daughter in marriage?”

“Every wife wants her husband to be least charming as possible,” she whispered. “Lessens the trouble.”

Brian laughed. “That’s why Mr. Mikaelson remains a bachelor. So does Mr. de Martel, obviously… Wait, if it was him that you mistook as me in the alleyway, does it mean…”

Madge nodded in agreement.

“Oh… I never realized Mr. Mikaelson…” A prolonged pause between he resumed his speech. “Anyway, at least they seem a rather compatible pair. What did Mr. de Martel say to you before we left?”

“He spoke a strange thing,” Madge said, frowning. “It wasn’t offensive or anything, just strange. He congratulated me on my pregnancy…”

“He probably heard from Mr. Mikaelson.”

“That wasn’t the strange thing. The next thing he said, however… He said ‘all the best wishes to your twins’.”

The second time in the day Brian looked shocked. “Twins? How could he know?”

“Perhaps his career is fortune-telling. It’s still very soon and not even a certified doctor could tell.”

“Strange man that he is,” Brian concluded.

Brian almost forgot about that ‘twin’ incident until he was reminded of it on the day of Madge’s labor, a beautiful Saturday in spring. He had been pacing in anxiety outside the delivery room when a young nurse came out from the inside and announced, “Congratulations, Mr. Fitzgerald. Your wife gave birth to a pair of beautiful and healthy twins.”


Note: I’m fully aware that Tristan and Brian in the illustration are differentiated only by the their bowties (Tristan: black, Brian: white).

[Trilijah] Things I Hate About You

Disclaimer: Characters belong to their respectful owners

Fandom: The Originals

Rating: T

Pairing: Trilijah – Elijah Mikaelson x Tristan de Martel

Genres: fanfiction, slash

Characters: Aurora de Martel, Elijah Mikaelson, Tristan de Martel, Aya, mention of Lucien Castle and Klaus Mikaelson

Warnings: crack, implied sexual content

Summary: The multi reasons why Aurora hated Elijah


Honestly, if she was to make a list of things she hated about that Original vampire, the scroll’s length would expand from Tristan’s Daville Estate to Jackson Square and be continued. God, she hated Elijah so much that outsiders may interpret such an intense hatred as a twisted manifestation of crazy love.

As if. Duh.

If there was one thing you, mortal or immortal, should never do in your life, it was asking Aurora de Martel why she hated Elijah Mikaelson. She wouldn’t let you leave until tomorrow.

Honestly, if she was to make a list of things she hated about that Original vampire, the scroll’s length would expand from Tristan’s Daville Estate to Jackson Square and be continued. God, she hated Elijah so much that outsiders may interpret such an intense hatred as a twisted manifestation of crazy love.

As if. Duh.

As to why she hated him, first and foremost, it was the century-long mind rape Elijah had performed on the three of them, reducing them from nobles to homeless hobos running across the country. Aurora had longed to be freed from the four stone walls of her father’s castle and travel the world, yet that was definitely not the kind of travel she had wanted or imagined. Being brainwashed to think they were the Mikaelsons didn’t necessarily equip them with the basic skills required for survival in the wilderness and many a time she had been forced to watch her brother and Lucien, her ‘brother’ by compulsion, fail epically at trying to make a fire or catching a rabbit. Tristan was a terrific hunter when they were themselves and living in their castle, but there was a slight nuance in hunting with bows and arrows, horses, hounds and a dozen servants accompanying him and hunting with his bare hand plus some rocks. And don’t even mention Lucien. He excelled in catching dead rabbits, not living ones, and dead rabbits were just as useful to them as the filthy rags they were wearing. Why did they have to catch rabbits, you ask? For their blood, of course. Being newborn vampires, the three of them were plagued with an appetite so humongous that they had to feed constantly. Hunt for villagers they didn’t dare; in fact they reminded one another to never wander near any villages in fear they might get caught and very likely be burnt at the stake. They would consider themselves lucky if some humans strayed from their road, but such days were few and far between. Since big carcasses might attract hunters’ attention, they sought to hunt for smaller animals and rabbits happened to be abundant. Thank the Lord the three of them did get better at fundamental skills after a few years or so as well as discovered their vampiric abilities. Still, the residue was too persistent that even after all these centuries, they would look at any rabbits, big or small, with heated eyes and a fervent grudge raging in their hearts.

Maybe, just may be Aurora wouldn’t hate Elijah that much if he had mustered enough damn to teach them a few things about living refuge lifestyle before sending them on the long run.

Then, there was the issue with The Strix. Just when she thought the three of them were finally free of the dreadful ‘Mikaelson effect’, Elijah somehow managed to wedge into their lives again with an idea to create an elite society of “the brightest minds and most passionate hearts” to make the world a better place for… for whom she didn’t quite figure out. Vampires? Oh, please. The amount of concern he gave for his own bloodline was about the size of the dust he allowed on his clothes. Humans? Why that wretched Original had never run for presidency, Aurora wondered. Her bright, wonderful brother she adored with all her black little heart, yet sometimes the only thing she wanted was smack him in the face, like when he wholeheartedly supported of that idea and was too quick to her liking to join Elijah in turning his idealism into reality. The result? A bunch of stern-faced, formal wearing vampires that got absolutely no chill, all stuck-up like Elijah and Tristan on his most stuck-up days. Just when Aurora believed it couldn’t get any worse, it did, and she almost bit her tongue to say the only thing that was more terrible than Elijah’s entering their lives again was Elijah’s leaving their lives. Again. Poor, poor Tristan. If only he had foreseen that day when Elijah would divorce him and abandon their fast-growing lot of vampires like they were undesired items. Took long years for her pitiful brother to piece himself together and as an act of retribution to Elijah’s betrayal, he transformed their co-founded group into something which centuries later would inspire The Godfather and the likes.

So yes, Aurora hated the way Elijah kept checking in and out of their lives as if they were some sort of discount hotel. More infuriating was when she was convinced that incident had been the final straw and she had seen the last of him, that depraved Original had the face to appear in front of Tristan some dozens years later, haughty and impenitent as ever, and despite his previous bitterness, her brother didn’t want nothing to do him. Typical of Tristan − never turn his back from someone he deemed worthy, no matter how much trouble they had brought upon him, someone like Aurora, for instance. Their old, too predictable on-and-off cycle had been spinning till today, and Aurora had witnessed so many goddamned times that she didn’t bother to ask for his destination when he left her at the boring monastery.

If she was to cast aside some time to reflect on the matter and pinpoint the exact time her hatred for Elijah started taking root, Aurora would say it began on a summer night. She was having problem falling asleep again, and as usual, she was sneaking to Tristan’s chamber for completely innocent solace. As she approached the door, her sure footsteps faltered and halted in front of the threshold. She was hearing erratic sounds from behind the door − barred, to her surprise. Tristan normally never locked his chamber, knowing Aurora might abandon her own in favor of his any odd hour in the night. Out of curiosity, she pressed her ear against the rough oaken surface. She could hear them a little better now, soft moans as though someone was suffering and trying to muffle their cries. They sounded dauntingly like Tristan, and Aurora’s first panic thought was that her brother was in pain, which was a strange thing considering he had been fine a couple of hours ago. A louder noise entered her hearing, which she recognized to be the creaking of the old bed he refused to have replaced. She had spent too many nights on it to be a stranger to its senile voice. She squinted her eyes to look through a crack on the door and later wished a thousand times she hadn’t. Her heart made a huge leap and dived into fathomless depth with the sight of her Tristan bare and on all four with a familiar figure behind him − pounding into him to be more precise. Were she not already too shocked and traumatized she would worry about him being hurt by such barbarian treatment. She squeezed her eyes shut, covered her mouth and rushed down the stairs. Shrouded in a hazy mist, somehow she had made it back to her place without tripping and breaking her neck over the winding and slippery stairs. Once she was within the safe vicinity of her chamber, Aurora covered her head under her blanket, trying desperately to wash that obscenity from her mind. Needless to say, her sleep, when her eyelids were too heavy to open, wasn’t a peaceful one.

Even without all the brainwashing and The Strix issue, she would never in hell forgive Elijah for scarring her mind like that. More than anything, she loathed how effortlessly Elijah had robbed a sizable portion of Tristan’s affection, which should have been hers and hers alone. She was his darling little sister, the apple in his eyes after all, and she didn’t like the notion of sharing. God knew how she had tried and tried to be rid of Elijah for centuries, only to reach an unshakable truth: no matter what sort of ire Tristan had been brewing in his heart, he just couldn’t quit him. It made her cringe to think of Elijah as a terminal disease from which her brother couldn’t be cured − too similar to some cheesy pop song − but it was the closest comparison. As she heard Tristan and Lucien conspiring to seal all the Mikaelson siblings for good, she had a foreboding sense that at the crucial moment, Tristan would turn on Lucien to spare Elijah alone. In a perfect world, Tristan would keep Elijah daggered and drag a coffin with him wherever he traveled to rather than never seeing or touching him again. Poor, fortunate Lucien hadn’t been there to witness the zigzags in their relationship to comprehend Tristan’s complicated feelings for a certain Mikaelson. She wagered he wouldn’t want to, either.

Anyway, while Aurora could live with the knowledge that her beloved brother and her mortal enemy were shagging each other at every chance they got, there was one thing she could not absolutely accept.

“Aya, where’s my brother?” Aurora asked Tristan’s second-in-command once she set foot into the manor.

The short-haired, dark-skinned vampire lifted her head from the tablet screen she was reviewing to regard Aurora and took notice of her foul mood.

“He’s with—”

Aya was barely having two words out of her mouth when Aurora’s crimson figure had vanished in the long hallway. “…Nevermind,” she muttered, veering her attention back to the glimmering screen.

Knocking wasn’t her thing, especially when she entered her brother’s room. Although Tristan didn’t have any complaint about her unannounced intrusion, after today, Aurora might consider adjusting her die-hard habit.

The door swung open and Aurora stopped dead in her track. Her brother’s name froze on her lips as she went speechless with the sight presented to her wide eyes: on the couch were two male figures joined at the hip with their mouths locked in the rawest variation of a kiss. Articles of clothing were carelessly discarded around the space. A black tie lay right at Aurora’s feet and she had almost stepped on it in her entrance.

Thank God or whoever above that they had only managed to get rid of their jackets, ties, belts and shoes and were only half-way done with their shirts.

An unexpected third presence alerted them, causing them to come to their sense. With much reluctance, one of them disengaged his body from the other’s, putting a socially acceptable distance between them.

“Aurora,” Elijah pronounced her name in husky tone as he strode to the full-length mirror in the middle of the room to fix his mussed hair and the buttons of his shirt, “to what I owe your entirely unwelcome presence?”

“Elijah,” Aurora responded in kind, crossing her arms in front of her chest, “you seem too comfortable here to remember this is my house. It’s your presence that isn’t welcomed.”

“Oh? Your brother doesn’t seem to particularly mind an extra presence.”

“You returned early,” Tristan rose from the couch and cut in between them, verbally and physically, as soon as he sensed the tension was skyrocketing. “Is something the matter?”

Aurora tapped a lean finger on her chin.  “Aside from the sorry fact that my brother was pinned against the couch, nothing. Really, have you thought about calling the shot for a change, Tristan?”

“Aurora,” Tristan coughed. Stoic as he was, he couldn’t help a visible blush creeping up his neck, “could we discuss this perhaps at another, more appropriate time?”

Aurora glanced around and faked an innocent look. “I see no stranger here.”

“My dear Aurora, it’s as simple as a matter of preference. I see no reason to upset the status quo as it’s been perfect so far.”

Hell that it was perfect! Aurora cursed inside. This was one of the biggest reasons she had for detesting Elijah Mikaelson. Tristan had been a lord’s son and thus a future lord; it should have been he who was the Dom in this relationship. Full stop. No debate. Still, for centuries it had always been that brutish Viking who got to play the top. Where was the justice in that tyrannically imposed set roles? And don’t give her that “it’s impossible to top an Original” bullshit. Please. She topped Nik all the time.

Speaking of Nik…

A sharp smile formed at the corner of her coral lips. “Perfect? Don’t you agree, Tristan?”

Tristan remained silent while fidgeting with his daylight ring. Elijah appeared unfazed by whatever she was insinuating.

“Well, as much as it saddens me, I do notice that I’m not welcomed. I’ll leave you to attend to your unfinished ‘business’,” she said, turning on her stilettos. “In the mean time, I’ll pay Nik a surprise visit.”

Not waiting for either man’s reply, she flashed out of the manor.

A sibling for a sibling, thought Aurora with a cunning grin. With that she had made sure their unfinished business would remain unfinished.

For today, at least.


[Trilijah] Untitled 07



Continuing after Offer

Part 1     Part 2     Part 3     Part 4     Part 5

Christmas in general wasn’t an event which Darren would get too excited about. Maybe years and years ago he had had a true Christmas, complete with a decorated tree, glittering ornaments hanging around the house, big meals and the anticipation of Santa Claus’s arrival churning in his little tummy, but it was such a once-upon-a-time that the vague memories seemed like someone’s fairytale, not even Darren’s. His less-opaque experiences of Christmas were comprised of his father’s lack of presence and his mother’s sore absence until it was well over. Off to celebrate with somebody else other than her only son, obviously. He hadn’t had even a proper dinner, let alone decorations and presents. His last Christmas as a human had been spectacularly dismal. Being the swimming team’s captain and the school’s golden boy, Zack had the responsibility to uphold his status by throwing the biggest party in town… right under Darren’s room for two days straight. God knew Darren had had to bar the door to prevent his room from being mistaken as some makeshift fuck-space. The voracious noise guaranteed that he wouldn’t have any decent sleep without the blaring music penetrating his dreams. And don’t even mention the glorious mess afterwards.

It was funny how his first Christmas as a non-human was truer in both sense and spirit than his many dulled and meaningless ones. The Mikaelsons were many things, Original vampires, founding fathers and mother of New Orleans, ancient monsters with a millennium’s worth of blood and more often than not harbingers of misfortune and disasters, but none could say they didn’t possess a merry spirit. That spirit particularly flared when it came to celebrations. Celebrating in proper manners and style was just as deadly serious as any other business to them, those ancient beings whom young ones would think as having gone through too many lifetimes to even care for the differences between Christmas and Thanksgiving. Darren had had the exact same expression and was then proven very wrong when he woke up one morning to witness the biggest Christmas tree of his life so far erected in the middle of the yard. The holiday spirit hung thick in the air with the influx of servants rushing in and out of the compound to meet their wealthy employers’ many elaborate demands. His legs moved on their own why his mind was so entranced by the atmosphere that it got a temporary shutdown, and he blended right in with the human servants and offered his vampiric hand to the job. None questioned his sudden appearance nor his preternatural abilities on blatant display, wordlessly accepting him as another helper. Conveniently compelled, all of them.

“My my, aren’t you a helpful one?”

He heard Rebekah’s footsteps on the stairs and her voice rang in his vampire ears like clear silver bells amongst the sea of indistinct noises. She looked a little less than her best, having just returned from a foreign trip and in the middle of adjusting to the time zone by burying herself under her blankets. In fact, these were her very first words to Darren since she laid eyes on him upon her return. He had noticed the sharp edge in her tired eyes at once, being too accustomed to that mildly-surprised and doubtful look people often gave him thanks to a certain ancient doppelgänger.

“You’re Darren, aren’t you? The kid Elijah picked up during his ‘fun’ time as a history teacher? God, my brother actually thought being a teacher was fun,” Rebekah said, leaning against the wooden rail.

“Yeah, I guess so,” Darren replied. He was thankful that Rebekah didn’t refer to him as his former history teacher’s pet. If only he got a dollar every time he heard such…

“Didn’t you have a home? Were your parents OK with their son’s turning into a vampire?”

“Well, my dad fled from my mom and my mom fled from me,” said Darren with a shrug. Bringing her up hurt less these days, and it was surprising even to him how he could mention her in such a nonchalant tone. “I think she’s better off without a child anyway. She remarried after all, and suddenly I had a hotter and undeniably wealthier dad than my biological one.”

“You sound bloody like Flowers in the Attic, don’t you know that? Tell me, have you any siblings?”

“No, not really,” Darren sounded uncertain, “I was the only child, unless you count my ex-stepbrother. What’s Flowers in the Attic anyway?”

Rebekah waved her hand. “Nevermind. I heard you recently became one of The Strix.”

Darren nodded while hanging golden and silver tinsel on a branch. “I still had no idea whatsoever why I was qualified as ‘passed’.”

One blink ago Rebekah was leaning against the rails and in the next, she was standing by Darren’s side with one hand on her jean-clad hip, startling him.

“Did you know Tristan had me staked and cursed and then Aurora bloody dumped me at the bottom of the ocean? Those two bloody loons,” Rebekah asked, her blue eyes squinting.

Of course Darren knew all about it. One of the first things Tristan had drilled into him on day one was the significant events with the Mikaelsons from past to present. It was like going through History 101 all over again, except that his ‘teacher’ was extra-homicidal and would prefer to send him home with a neck snapped than a bad grade. The number of surprise tests being taken up to eleven was yet another spice added into the hellish stew.

In sum, yes, Darren knew all about the nasty things Tristan and Aurora had done to the Original sister, and how she had retaliated afterwards. What he didn’t understand was why Rebekah brought it up to him merely after some minutes of idle conversations. It caused anxiety to rise in the pit of his stomach.

“I did,” he replied, glancing warily at Rebekah and expecting a blow. He would consider himself extremely lucky to get away with only a broken neck.

Rebekah’s unexpected slap on his taut back caused him to lose his balance and tumbled down, only to get caught by her arms.

“Don’t give me that eye as if I were about to bloody bash your skull,” she chided him, not harshly. “I’m mean, true, but not that mean. Plus, even if I wanted to, I would never hear the end of it if I so much as lay a finger on Elijah’s boy.”

Just when he thought not being referred as ‘pet’ was an improvement…

“You’re having your arms around me, not your finger.”

Smiling, Rebekah released him from her grip. “You’re witty, aren’t you? I like that. The thing is, kid, you’d do better to stay far away from that bloody lot, especially Aurora and that stuck-up twit who might be your distant ‘relative’. I would have stuck that bloody cursed stake right up his arse if my brother hadn’t already done so for as long as I could remember.”

Darren’s face put on an expression that could only be classified as ‘comically horrified’. “I’m pretty sure I don’t want details.”

“About the stake-up-arse part or the other?”

Her feigned innocence couldn’t fool a kid, let alone a straight A teenager.

“Neither,” he said, trying not to sound like a huff. “Moreover, why are many people assuming I’m related to Tristan? It’s been more than a thousand years and right now most high school students know the gene pool is not limitless.”

There was that elder’s half disappointed and half amused look like Aya often gave him again. Well, at least Rebekah didn’t overact like Aurora.

“Have you ever heard the name Tatia? It must have popped up somewhere in your Strix’s supernatural Wikipedia, huhm?”

Darren nodded. “She was the reason why we are here and not six feet under?”

“Not bad for a high school student,” said Rebekah with a smile. “Tatia was but one link of a long chain of related people magically looking like carbon copy of one another. Want to hear more about that bloodline?”

“Something tells me that involves racing through basically every shop in New Orleans in a late Christmas shopping.”

He had learnt that Rebekah was Aurora’s sire, and if Aurora was a terminal shopaholic, he didn’t see why Rebekah was any different.

“I’m liking you more and more, kiddo. Now you wait a few minutes while I freshen up and you’ll help me get my niece a nice present.”

“Alright,” Darren replied, sounding a little defeat.

Nice kids got presents from Santa Claus while naughty ones got none, that was common knowledge. For years and years Darren had been convinced that his name was forever on Santa’s naughty list, for rarely had he received a present that wasn’t from the online game developers. To be fair, Zack did give him a present in their first Christmas, which was nice if you overlooked the tiny fact that he had gotten it from one of his many admirers at school. There was even a Merry-Christmas card directed to him inside the box.

Fortunately Darren had made good use of that hand-knit scarf.

This year was different though. Darren supposed somehow he had miraculously gotten off the naughty list and even made it to the other one. He had started the day by helping with decorating the house and then escorted Rebekah on her shopping escapade as she raided the shops in Nola − not yet an expert but he had acquired excessive experience from countless times playing Aurora’s bag-carrying boy. He spent the other half of the day babysitting Hope so that Hayley could do a late Christmas shopping for her in-laws, who happened to be plenty, while being involuntary accomplice in Freya’s arson. Moral of the story: never allow a witch and a baby vamp in the kitchen. Period. Compulsion and money existed for the sole purpose of preventing these incidents. The only good thing to come out of it was their providing quite an entertainment for the little hybrid girl.

So, Darren had been a “good, extra-helpful kid” as per Rebekah’s words and thus was entitled to receive a number of presents on Christmas night, much more than all the gifts he had been given in his entire human life. Hayley brought him some homemade desserts from her in-laws in the bayou and, unlike Freya’s failed attempt, they were edible and actually delectable. Point taken: Wolves cooked much better than vampires and (ancient) witches because they had to do it on a daily basis instead of staring into a chef’s eyes for some seconds or having absurdly wealthy vampire siblings. For helping Freya, whether in burning down the kitchen or cleaning up the mess afterwards, the Mikaelson witch had made it so that his daylight ring was firmly attached to his finger, thus no more worry about dropping or having it stolen by some elder vampire bullies. Aya sent him a black envelope containing a sleek black card that granted him access to The Strix’s exclusive bar and a whole year of free-drinking. Not keen on another hour-long lecture about underage drinking from his former history teacher slash sire slash unofficial guardian, he tucked the card in the depth of his jeans pocket with the intention to pay it some visits in the near future. The most unexpected gift was from Klaus, who had ordered a complete set of flat-screened TV, surrounding stereo system plus gaming arcade installed in his room. “You entertained my sisters well and since it’s Christmas, I can be charitable,” he nonchalantly declared, stunning Darren. Somehow the set had occupied most of his living space but being the self-entitled hikkomori who could stay inside for days to play a new video game that Darren was, he couldn’t really complain.

“You’ve got quite a huge Christmas stocking, haven’t you?”

A large hand on his shoulders woke Darren from his trance of contemplating the massive wardrobe Tristan and Aurora had delivered to the Mikaelson compound when the clock struck twelve. The elegant card that accompanied this extravagance read: “Dress well when you’re back to school. PS: The ties are entirely Aurora’s contributions.”

Yes, Darren was coming back to school in spring because according to Tristan, “A Strix without at least two degrees is no Strix at all.” If Darren wasn’t a nerdy kid who had spent most his life devoted to studying and playing games, he felt that he would revolt and run away − one didn’t simply become an undead in order to come back toiling at school.

“Can I just wear the hoodies and jeans Rebekah bought me?” Darren asked Elijah, who had just entered his room with a tumbler of bourbon in his hand. “Not these suits and funny ties?”

He finally understood why Tristan, who wore mostly grim and solid colors would opt for ties that appeared so out-of-character. They all came from Aurora, no wonder. Somehow Darren was convinced even if Aurora gave him jester’s outfits, Tristan would wear them with his head held high because they were his sister’s gifts imbued with love.

“You wear whatever makes you feel comfortable,” replied Elijah with a smile. “Take that little weasel’s words for reference, not commandment.”

“Aren’t you and him wearing suits 24/7?”

As far as Darren could observe, that style was strictly instilled in every member of The Strix. As (reluctant) one himself, he thought he was no exception.

“Out of choice, Darren, which I think should apply to you also. “Speaking of Christmas gift…”

A carefully wrapped box was laid next to Darren, startling the newbie vampire. “…mine is a bit humble being put next to these grandiose displays, so I thought I’d wait until deep in the night to give it to you personally.”


“Come one, Darren, open it,” he urged.

Darren’s eyes widened with every layer of the bordeaux-colored wrapping being peeled off. He was rendered speechless with what he was holding in his hands.

“Judging from your expressions, I can safely say I’ve chosen a decent gift. Being newly introduced to vampirism can be such an overwhelming experience that you’ve neglected what you loved. This fourth installment of the series is to be released a week later, but as I have some acquaintances in the company…”

Since his wording procession had come to a block, Darren sought to express his heart-swelling attitude in a tight hug. “It’s… perfect… Thank you, Elijah,” he murmured in the front of his sire’s jacket.

“What do you say we put Niklaus’s present to good use right now? The night is still much young,” said Elijah with gentle pat on Darren’s back. “But before that, would you kindly surrender Aya’s black card? I believe we’ve already discussed extensively about underage drinking.”



[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


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.”


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.