[Desus] Immortal

Part II of When There Were Me & You

*Crossover with The Physician / Der Medicus (2013)

Photos not mine, but the edit is
He was, to put it simple, an immortal man.

He was immortal not in the sense of going on for century after century without going old and dying – that was vampirism, and a vampire was the last thing he would use to draw an analogy. As a matter of fact, he similar to a mortal man in that he was born, he grew up and grew old, wrinkled and ailed, until he ultimately died. And then, the cycle repeated: his undying soul regained a newborn flesh and began anew. No matter how many lifetimes he’d gone through, his appearance, as well as his core personality, remained unchanging, and he was in full awareness of his past lives. That was what drew a clear distinction between his immortality and reincarnation, a notion proposed by many religions and faiths. He didn’t commit himself to any religions though – it was difficult to be preached and convinced about the greatness of the Almighty, about Heaven and Hell, about sins and the Judgment when an existence as abnormal as his was permitted. Still, godless as he was, and would remain to be, he believed in the omnipotent, all-knowing yet unseen force that governed everything – from the smallest grain of sand in the dessert to the constellations in the black velvet sky. He believed it had created what he was, and lodged him into this life for a reason as unfathomable as its being, but there was a reason alright, there had to be. Nothing happened without a reason and believing so had kept his sanity intact and kept him going. He refused to think that his existence was meant solely to exemplify a natural loophole.

He had gone through many lifetimes under many names, so many that he could never remember them all.

Some were more memorable than others.

In that life time he was christened Rob Cole and given an uncanny gift to ‘see’ death approaching a person. But he hadn’t realized he possessed such talent until he witnessed his mother succumb to the side sickness while being utterly helpless to do the smallest thing to help her. In hindsight, it was the exact moment that had outlined his destiny as Rob Cole – to become the one to try and hinder the cold, clammy hand of death brushing over a person’s eyes. But of course, he hadn’t had a slightest idea this lifetime’s purpose either until well later in his life; back then he was but a nine-year-old brat who had just lost his entire family in one day – his mum gone and his younger siblings taken away – and was desperately trying to find a new one in the vagabond barber.

It took the barber’s going blind for Rob Cole to see being a barber was simply never good enough to help the people in need of treatment; had it been, he wouldn’t have witnessed a plethora of deaths on his way across the country, and just about as many lives handicapped.

From the Jews he heard about Ibn Sina, the greatest healer the world had ever seen and his palaces residing amongst the ocean of golden sand, where he healed as well as passing the sacred art of healing onto his students. That was where he would go, Rob decided on the spot, with an unwavering resolution that surprised even himself, much less his aging barber. There was no way he could explain it to the old man, same as he couldn’t give a plausible explanation for his gift to see death approaching; he just knew it was embossed in his fate as Robert Cole and he had to fulfill it.

So, to the east he went. He landed on foreign land and was greeted with both hostility and hospitality. He arrived at Isfahan with nothing but the tattered and besmirched clothes on his sunburnt back and pleas ready on his chapped, cracked lips. He met the great Ibn Sina and got admitted to his madrassa in a favorable twist of fate. There he learned, he loved, and he lost. Tears were shed and wiped, heart broken and mended, wounds opened and sewn, and years later, he found his way home, to England.

His wise teacher, the great Ibn Sina, had once said that he was to live a long life so that he could save as many people as possible. Long did he live and many a life had he saved, but also as many he had failed. Death saddened him a great deal when it took someone from him – his next-door neighbor, his trusted friend, even his beautiful, devoted wife – but it no longer devastated him; Hakim Robert Cole had come to make peace with death and consider it an old friend.

There was one death that stayed with him till his own. There was a war going on, and his hospital, situated somewhere on the border, was filled with casualties. He did not discriminate between ally and foe and treated every man brought in with equal dedication. Some he had succeeded in snatching from Death’s hand whilst some he had not. The blank space behind his hospital quickly became a makeshift graveyard where unmarked graves kept sprouting up like mushrooms after a rain.

He couldn’t tell at first if the man that had just been carried in was an ally or enemy – his outfit was covered in blood, both his own and not. The only thing he was able to tell was the man was probably an archer, judging by how his hand was tightly clutching his bow even when it was already broken. Rob examined the man and as he did, a grim sense washed over him. With the excessive amount of blood he had lost and the fatal wound that ran from his left shoulder to his chest, almost splitting him in half, one should wonder how he was even breathing. Time stood completely still for a second, and the veil of reality dispersed so that Rob could glimpse into the truth of existence. It was his gift, no longer seen as a curse, telling him that death was near. He heaved a sign and took the dying man’s hand in his, trying to offer him as much comfort as he could.

When he looked into the man’s eyes, he felt a spark that shot through his entire body, making him shudder, his hairs standing on end. Centuries later he would have described it as a jolt of high-voltage electricity. It was brief but it was shocking, and he had never felt something like this before, not in this lifetime or previous others. His eyes were fixed on the dying man’s face, which, although distorted in agony, gave off a sense of peace. He felt the blood-slicked fingers weakly squeezing back. No words were exchanged as Rob held his gaze, staying absolutely still until the archer’s last breath died out.

Another unmarked mound in the graveyard. Rob buried his bow with him and visited him every day for the rest of his life.

He hadn’t known the archer’s name.

He had lived long enough to know a spark like that didn’t come once in a while; in fact it was so rare that one needed to go through several lifetimes before it happened. Therefore he decided to keep this little, precious trinket in his consciousness, where he had constructed as a chamber to store the experiences he wanted to take to his next life. For an immortal man, his mind capacity was not indefinite, and there was a limit to what his chamber could hold before it burst, blowing his mind to smithereens. There was no telling what would become of him if that happened, and he dreaded imagining the possibilities. Thus he had to choose carefully, and laid the rest of his memories down the dark, boundless basement beneath. And this spark, as well as the brief memory of the archer, definitely deserved a spot.

In this life he was named Paul Rovia, but all who knew him called him ‘Jesus’. He found that quite an irony because he was pretty sure he had met the real Savior in one of his lifetimes. Couldn’t remember the details though; two millennia was a long time. He had even lost count of his lifetimes.

This could be his last, he mused absent-mindedly on a slow, lazy and rare afternoon he had claimed for himself, because one day you woke up from your sweet dream and the apocalypse had stomped your doors.

The dead walked the earth like the living, hunting them, devouring them, adding them to the ever-growing army of dead. He had witnessed myriads of bizarrities over the centuries but never something like this. The people whom he had known, who had addressed him by the Jesus moniker, fell one by one before his eyes, rose and had to be put down by the edge of his knives. In this life, death was not an old friend but a constant threat, a scythe dangling above their heads, eager to strike.

This could be the end of the world, as well as the end of him. He was strangely peaceful about that; if this fallen-apart world was the one to greet him the next time he opened his newborn eyes, then he’d rather not be born at all.

Sometimes he entertained the thought about how it would be if he had Rob Cole’s medical skills integrated into this lifetime. Outdated by roughly a thousand years but still be useful due to the shortage of doctors. Nevertheless, even without the skills he could have had, he was still a valuable asset to the new community he had short of settled in. Short of because despite how much he tried, he didn’t feel belonged here. Not sure if he would ever. It was ironic to think about since Rob Cole, in spite of his stark differences in religion and practices, had fitted in with Jewish lifestyle during his years at Isfahan in a way Paul Rovia couldn’t with his community of similar beliefs – always feeing like an outsider hovering at the periphery. Still he managed his task well, venturing outside the gate, sometimes for days, endangering himself to scavenge for whatever supplies his people needed. He went on his own, partly because running without having to look after anyone was faster and partly because he saw himself as expendable. If he were lost out there, while his community would be one scout short, no-one would bear the baggage of grief.

At least he hoped so. Grief could be a crippling hindrance to survival, which should be anyone’s number-one priority in this crapsack world.

Whenever he thought about his inability to form a connection to anyone, he was reminded of the spark he had felt a millennium ago, happened only once. It had warmed his heart in those lonely nights where the ailing campfire had failed. It always astounded him how something that had lasted for only a briefest moment could withstand the mercilessness of time and still felt so fresh, so new, like a thousand years was only a couple of hours ago. Sometimes he thought he could feel the texture of the archer’s skin, callous and slicked with blood. It was a shame he had never gotten to know his name.

“… This is Daryl Dixon.”

He had already turned on his heels but when he heard that name, some mysterious force had him whip his body around to do a double take. Curious perhaps? His gaze landed on the quieter man of the pair, the one who was standing nearer to him with a gun trained at his face.

For the first time in a thousand years he had felt the spark again, running along his spine like electric current. He shivered despite his thick trench coat, gloves and boots.

Daryl Dixon was a perfect stranger to Paul Rovia, a man Paul had met only today. Yet he had seen this face on a man centuries ago, in an English hospital situated on the border. He had buried that same man under an unmarked grave that only he could discern from numerous others as he paid it a visit every day till the last day of his life.

What was originally a spark had become wildfire. It was consuming him and he had not felt so alive for so long.

Nothing happened without a reason, he believed.

Daryl Dixon. In this life his name was Daryl Dixon. He made sure to remember that name.

He spread his arms, flashing the pair – but mostly Daryl – his smile.

“Paul Rovia, but my friends used to call me Jesus. Your pick.”


Inspired to write this after watching The Physician, a movie starring Tom Payne as Rob Cole, a Christian young man who crosses the ocean and faces numerous adversities in order to study the art of healing. It’s an inspiring movie which I’d recommend to anyone. Plus, Tom is extremely adorable as Rob Cole.

[Desus] Of Moonshine, Shaving Foam and Razor

Disclaimer: Characters belong to their respectful owners

Fandoms: The Walking Dead

Rating: K

Pairing: Desus – Daryl Dixon x Paul “Jesus” Rovia

Genre: fanfiction

Characters: Rick Grimes, Carol Peletier, Paul “Jesus” Rovia, Daryl Dixon

Summary: Rick and Jesus had a bet concerning Daryl.

“Here, drink it,” Carol said, placing one of the uglier brown mugs in front of Rick’s face. “Hair of the dog, homemade and blended with love.”

Despite her light mocking tone, Rick cast her a look of appreciation, or something as close to it as possible with his bleary eyes, nodded and reached for the mug. Its contents – some viscous concoction of indistinguishable color with shapeless chunks of unidentified materials – already chased away half of his inebriation. He stared at the sight, his lips quivering ever slightly. While Rick did not for a second doubt Carol’s nurturing nature, he found himself a little (much) hesitant in putting his faith into her knowledge of mixology. He chanced a brief glance at her face, glowing as it was basked in the early morning beam – sort of like an angel’s visage were he in a more literary and less hungover mood, and didn’t find it in his heart to venture into asshole territory by declining her kindness. So Rick braced himself for whatever nightmare would assault his tastebud and downed half the mug in one gulp.

It wasn’t so bad, he thought once the liquid had run down his gullet and settled in his stomach, leaving a funny aftertaste in his mouth. It wasn’t so bad, he unnecessarily repeated in his head, if you squeezed your eyes shut, held your breath and tried to swallow it as fast as you could without choking yourself. With that tactic in mind, he consumed the remaining of the concoction till the last drop in one go. Apart from feeling his eyes bulging out of his skull, Rick was fine and thankfully more sober than he had been a couple minutes past. Guess it did work. Fighting a grimace from showing on his face and losing, he quickly grasped the jug of water and poured himself a generous amount, never minding it was the very same mug from which he had just drunk. He let out a breath through his mouth after the taste had been relatively washed away.

“You sure it’s hair of the dog and not its shit?”

“You sure you’re thanking me and not insulting my family remedy?” Carol asked, hands on her hip.

Rick held up his hands in defeat. “Sorry,” he muttered.

“Who were you drinking with? Bet it wasn’t Michonne, as I just saw her hop on a truck and go out hunting while you were here, slumping on the table like a sad potato sack, emphasis on ‘sad’.”

Rick rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. “Jesus, believe it or not, and I mean our long-haired flower-power dude, not an exclamation.”

Carol raised an incredulous eyebrow. “Since when you two got so close?”

“Not so long ago, I guess. Last night the guy knocked on my door, bringing with him some moonshine he had ‘dug out of a bar’s cellar’. We had a chat, just casual, nothing too serious. About scavenging, supplies, food stock, winter coming, Alexandria, Hilltop… many different things really. Never realized that guy was a smooth talker till last night. At some point I think our conversation turned to Daryl.”

Carol’s left eyebrow raised a little higher as her tone took on a more genuinely surprised note.

“Daryl? What about Daryl?”

“He said something about the guy’s hair getting a bit shaggy and why none of us suggested a haircut.”

“As if we haven’t tried,” Carol chuckled, shaking her head. “We fail to get him to shower sometimes. But his hair? Please.”

Then, as something came into her notice, Carol’s eyes lit up and her head stilled. “Speaking of which, he’s been looking rather clean lately. Changes his clothes often too, which is positive but… weird.”

“And showers at least once every other day,” said Rick with a hint of amusement.

With an intrigued look Carol grabbed a chair and sat down, loosely hugging its back. “Why the sudden change?”

Rick shrugged. “Jesus once made a passing comment about Daryl giving off smell like dead squirrels. Daryl seemed pretty fuming but stayed quiet as usual… and rebuffed any attempts of conversation from Jesus for a week straight. Yeah, around that time he started the change.”

“Are you somehow suggesting Jesus was the reason?”

“I’m suggesting nothing.” Another shrug and Rick extended his arm toward the cookie box close to Carol’s side. The tin box skidded across the smooth wooden surface. Ignoring the dubious look Carol shot him, he popped open the lid and picked an oatmeal cookie. Just as Rick was about to munch on the treat, they both heard footsteps approaching them. They were light and even, so they weren’t Daryl’s; besides, Daryl had probably gone out early to catch some games for lunch. As Carol had said, Michonne had also left. Carl’s were neither light nor even and Judith couldn’t walk yet, and that left the last resident in this compound.

“Speaking of the Devil,” Rick chuckled but quickly corrected himself, “or Son of God.”

Though Paul wasn’t a permanent Alexandrian, for the last year he had been spending two third of his time at Alexandria, helping around with various big and small tasks and blending in far better than Rick had thought he could. Thus the leader of Alexandria had felt justified to grant him a room in this compound that Paul could call his own, accidentally in the same hall and only a few short steps away from a certain redneck’s. Things had been fine so far and Rick had yet to receive any complaints about his arrangement.

But, having just returned recently, Carol hadn’t known it. “He stays here?” she asked.

“Yeah, while he’s in Alexandria.”


At the hoarse greeting accompanied by a long yawn, both Rick and Carol looked to the entrance. Their eyes widened almost simultaneously.

Standing before them was a man in a state of half-dressed. His jeans were zipped but unbuttoned and hanging a bit lower than considered appropriate, his narrow waist and protruding hipbone on shameless display. His long brown hair was messy and as he was leaning against the wall, his left hand was alternating between rubbing his eyes and messaging his temple.

Despite the new comer’s seemingly harmless stance, Rick and Carol instantly reached for their respective weapon, Rick to his gun strapped to his belt and Carol to the fruit knife on the table. Rick pointed his gun at the stranger’s pale chest and Carol was one step from plunging at him and decorating his skin with fifty shades of red.

“Whoa…” exclaimed the young man, holding his hands up. The morning drowsiness had drained from his face, replaced with alert, his big eyes made huge as he stared dumbfoundedly at the lethal weapons.

“Who the heck are you?” Rick growled, his forefinger curling around the trigger.

Carol’s eyes, cold and calculating, raked the man’s lithe form. It was clear her quiet gaze wasn’t appreciating the sight but rather scanning for stabby spots. The firm lines of her lips indicated that she had found a few.

“It’s me—”

“The fuck is ‘me’?”

“OK, it’s Paul, Jesus, from Hilltop!” The young man’s voice went up a notch. “Same old Jesus with the ninja tricks you love to laugh. I’ve been here for a year and one morning you guys suddenly treat me like an intruder!”

To the young man’s claim Rick and Carol had opposite reactions, him to widen his eyes and her to narrow hers. They exchanged a quick look to confirm they were on the same page – confusion, doubt and a growing belief as the resemblance between this baby-faced stranger and the man they knew started to sink in. The hair’s length and color, the bridge of the nose and the expressive blue eyes that always spoke more than Paul’s quick tongue ever could. Yes, this could be their ally and friend from Hilltop.

“Don’t tell me you don’t recognize me, Rick, we got hammered on moonshine together last night,” Paul said, bringing his hand to cover his nose and mouth. “Surely you should recognize these eyes. First time we met I was like this.”

Rick shifted his gaze from Paul to Carol and then back to Paul. A few seconds later, he lowered the gun, cocked the safety lock and strap it to his belt. Carol wordlessly put away the knife, her eyes softening.

“Thanks,” muttered Paul, scratching the crow nest that was his hair.

“What happened to your beard?” Rick asked. “You look a totally different man without it.”

And if Rick was honest to himself, beardless Paul looked ten times more feminine, but of course he wouldn’t say it out loud. Still, it wouldn’t stop Rick from thinking, albeit briefly, that Paul could masquerade as a (very fine) lady with little effort. But what use was for masquerading as a lady in this apocalyptic world Rick hadn’t figure out because his train of thought braked right when he began applying makeup on Paul’s face. That was so wrong on so many levels. Rick felt entirely justified to blame his hangover.

Paul padded to the kitchen counter and poured himself a glass of water. “Shaving foam and razor happened,” he answered at last.

“Because you were drunk?” Carol inquired, trying to stifle a laugh.

Leaning against the counter, Paul didn’t answered right away since he was quenching his thirst by drinking the whole glass. Once he was finished, he gingerly set the empty glass on the wooden surface but didn’t release it from his grip, nursing it in his hands as he spoke, “No, I’m not a bad drunk, at least not so bad that I’d do crazy stuff like shaving my beard for kicks and cry over it later. This…” he trailed off, fingering his smooth chin as if reminiscing the gone beard. “This is… a compromise of sort.”

“Huh?” Rick shot him a confused look.

“Anyway, I believe our bet still holds? I trust Sheriff Grimes wouldn’t stoop so low as to deny it as a drunken foolery.”

Something in Rick’s brain clicked due to the mischievous glint in Paul’s eyes. He couldn’t decide if he was lucky or unlucky that said bet was the most vivid memory of last night in his head. “Yeah, I remember that. So?”

“What bet?” asked Carol.

Paul was beaming with the brightest smile he could manage with the hangover headache pounding inside his skull. “Fantastic. I suppose we’ll see the result soon enough, that is when Daryl returns from his hunting escapade.”

“Color me curious,” said Carol.

“Now please excuse me as I’m gonna make some hair of the dog to fight back my hangover.”

“Think I can help with that.”

She pushed herself up from her seat and eagerly made to the fridge, where they were storing about a month’s worth of food supply.

Paul’s smile was small but warm and genuine. “You’re most kind, Carol.”

A crappy (no pun intended) feeling had nestled into Rick’s stomach after Paul’s “fantastic” left his lips. When he felt this way ninety-five percent of the time it should be translated as something pretty crappy was about to occur. Years of wearing a badge had taught him to trust his guts and as he watched Carol and Paul bond over creating funny concoctions, the feeling was only growing stronger and stronger.

Around noon, Rick’s intuition was once again proven right when the sound of Daryl’s chopper revving penetrated the whole compound. His slanted, sharp eyes swept over the ‘welcoming party’ in the front yard as he switched off the engine and parked his chopper. “Rabbit stew,” Daryl said curtly to none of them in particular, holding his games in one hand and brandishing his knife from his belt with the other. Then he proceeded to head to the backyard to skin the poor creatures, sparing a glance at Paul on the way.

“Need a hand?”

Paul’s offer stopped him momentarily. “Nah, ya shit at skinnin’,” he grunted, unmaliciously.

Paul smiled endearingly because that was Daryl’s version of “don’t wanna get your hands dirty with blood and guts and probably shit”. He turned his head and gave Rick, who was looking extremely uncomfortable and sweating despite the cooler autumn weather, a meaningful wink before following the hunter.

“Wow, can’t say I’m not surprised seeing Daryl with neat short hair,” Carol commented, inching closer to Rick, her arms crossing. “To be honest, that look is kind of reminiscent. Reminds me of the time when we first met and were significantly less screwed up than we are now. Hey, you alright, Rick?”

Seeing his expression, she expressed some concern.

“I just lost a bet to Jesus,” he admitted.

“I figure it has a lot to do with Daryl’s haircut, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, we were betting on whether Jesus could convince Daryl to get a haircut. Apparently Daryl did have an ‘emergency’ haircut overnight, so apparently Jesus won.”

Carol’s eyebrows knitted. “Since when Daryl was convincible? He’s the most adamant man I’ve had the fortunate to meet.”

Rick huffed. “Jesus definitely put his pretty mouth to good use.”

A comical look was plastered on Carol’s face. Craning her neck to look at the direction they had disappeared to, she asked, “Why does that sound dangerously like a double entendre?”

“Interpret it as you see fit. Aren’t you gonna ask what the loser will have to do?”

Carol chuckled. “You’ll tell me soon enough.”

Carol was wrong. Rick didn’t. Rather, he showed her.

That afternoon, when they all gathered around the table for lunch, while only a couple of Alexandrians were surprised to see a beardless Jesus, everyone but Carol and Jesus were utterly shocked to see a baby-faced Rick Grimes sitting at the top of the table. If anyone but Carol and Jesus asked, out of sheer concern for their leader who might be going through mid-life crisis, his default reply was “Moonshine, shaving foam and razor happened.”

Yup, definitely mid-life crisis.



Rick knew Daryl and Jesus were in a relationship. He approved. Period.

I imagine during the night, Daryl shaved Jesus’s beard and Jesus gave him a haircut in return.

[Cảm nhận] Vice Versa (fanfiction)

Warnings: spoilers, ngôn ngữ không đứng đắn, xen lẫn tiếng Anh và tiếng Việt

Nguồn: pixiv.net (Hình chỉ có tính chất minh họa, bạn đem vào vì thấy hợp với fic)
Tên: Vice Versa (tạm dịch là Ngược Lại)

Tác giả: drunkenCharm

Link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/347153/chapters/564083

Thể loại: slash fanfiction, alternate universe, supernatural, angst

Độ dài: 10 chương/78,347 từ

Ngôn ngữ: tiếng Anh

Fandom: Blade

Pairing: Deacon Frost/Scud (Joshua Frohmeyer)

Rating: M (dành cho người trưởng thành – mature)

Tóm tắt: Scud never chose to be a pet, but somehow he ended up as one. Here comes the misery.

(Scud chưa bao giờ chọn làm pet nhưng bằng cách nào đó, gã lại trở thành pet. Đau khổ bắt đầu từ đây.)

Cảnh báo: có tình tiết rape và tra tấn

*Ghi chú: tuy là fanfiction nhưng bạn có thể xem đây là một câu chuyện hoàn toàn độc lập.

Khá lâu rồi bạn Joel không viết review cho fanfic. Không phải bạn ngừng đọc mà trái lại, bạn đọc nhiều là đằng khác. Tuy nhiên, bạn thuộc kiểu kén ăn nên số lượng fanfic khiến bạn hài lòng ít hơn rất nhiều so với số bạn đọc. Khi đánh giá mức độ hài lòng với một fanfic, điều đầu tiên bạn để ý là cách viết. Fanfic tiếng Trung không bàn đến vì bạn không biết tiếng Trung nên tác giả viết sai hay đúng ngữ pháp, câu cú lủng củng hay không thì qua bộ lọc thần thánh của Quách Tĩnh ca ca (tức QT – phần mềm Quick Translation), truyện nào cũng na ná nhau, ngôn tình giông giống đam mỹ còn kiếm hiệp với tiên hiệp là anh em một nhà (hay mỗi bạn thấy thế nhỉ?). Với fanfic tiếng Anh thì khác; do bệnh nghề nghiệp mà bạn cực khó chịu khi tác giả ẩu tả trong dấu câu, ngắt câu, ngữ pháp, trình bày… – giống như ăn cơm mà mỗi miếng lại nhai phải sạn vậy. Dẫu biết tác giả fanfic phần lớn là amateur nhưng bạn nghĩ cẩn thận luôn là một đức tính và chăm chút cho những gì mình viết ra, đứa con tinh thần của mình, không bao giờ là thừa. Vì vậy, cách viết là điểm đầu tiên bạn ‘soi’ khi đánh giá một fanfic, tiếp theo mới tính đến nội dung có ‘máu cún’ không, nhân vật có OOC một cách vô lý không, tình tiết và tính cách phát triển có hợp lý không, tác giả có quăng lôi cho mình đạp hay không, vân vân và vân vân. Cũng do kén chọn quá mà số fanfic bạn Joel cảm thấy hài lòng đã ít, số bạn muốn viết review còn ít hơn (điều này một phần còn vì bạn đọc nhiều oneshot hơn long fic mà oneshot dù hay đến mấy nhưng ngắn quá nên bạn không biết viết bài tán nhảm thế nào). Vice Versa của tác giả có bút danh drunkenCharm là một fanfic đáp ứng đầy đủ những yếu tố trên: cách viết tốt, nội dung hay, phát triển tính cách nhân vật và tình tiết ổn, không quăng lôi cho bạn đạp, và quan trọng hơn là fanfic đã hoàn thành với kết cục HE. Đọc xong một fanfic như vậy mà không có mấy dòng bày tỏ quả hơi phí, cho nên sau đây là cảm nhận của bạn Joel về nó (nãy giờ là lan man *icon packman*).

Ở đầu bài là tóm tắt truyện do chính tác giả viết, và do đây là fanfiction nên có lẽ tác giả cho rằng tóm tắt ngắn gọn như thế với người đọc – phần lớn đã quen thuộc với fandom Blade – là đủ. Nhưng với người đọc chưa biết gì về fandom thì tóm tắt này có phần sơ sài và chưa đủ lôi cuốn. Joel xin mạn phép viết lại một tóm tắt mới:

Thế giới trong Vice Versa là thế giới nơi sinh vật hút máu đặc biệt nguy hiểm – còn gọi là ma cà rồng – sống lẫn với con người. Phần lớn con người không hề hay biết sự tồn tại của ma cà rồng, chỉ một phần nhỏ được biết và phần nhỏ này chính là familiar và pet của chúng. Nếu như familiar thường lo những việc từ lớn – như đâm thuê chém mướn – đến nhỏ – như dọn dẹp nhà cửa, vườn tược – cho ma cà rồng thì pet phục vụ những nhu cầu ‘riêng tư’ hơn như ăn uống hay giường chiếu, ờ bạn hiểu ý mình rồi đấy. Nhân vật Scud của chúng ta là minh chứng của câu ‘Không có nhọ nhất, chỉ có nhọ hơn’: không những bị bắt cóc và ép trở thành pet mà gã còn gặp phải chủ nhân là một ma cà rồng biến thái lấy việc ngược đãi, tra tấn pet làm niềm vui, mặc dù việc đó bị cộng đồng ma cà rồng lên án (giống như bạn là người và bạn ngược đãi chó, mèo nuôi trong nhà ấy mà). Trong lúc bị hành hạ thừa sống thiếu chết, Scud được Deacon Frost, một ma cà rồng đối thủ của chủ nhân mình, cứu và đưa về nhà hắn. Tuy nhiên, cuộc đời lần nữa chứng minh ‘Ánh sáng cuối đường hầm là ánh sáng của đoàn tàu xe lửa’ khi Scud nhận ra Deacon tuy không hành hạ Scud nhưng dường như hắn còn nguy hiểm hơn cả chủ nhân cũ của gã. Và Deacon tuyên bố Scud là pet của hắn. Quá tuyệt luôn.

Đó là tóm tắt/giới thiệu câu chuyện về cuộc sống chung (bất đắc dĩ) giữa một con người vốn không muốn trở thành pet nhưng đã quen làm pet và một ma cà rồng chưa từng nghĩ đến việc có pet nhưng khi không lại rước pet về nhà.

Bạn Joel biết đến Scud dù bạn chưa bao giờ xem bất kỳ phần nào của Blade trilogy và cũng không có ý định xem. Bạn biết đến Scud do gã là một trong những nhân vật do Norman Reedus thể hiện và được khán giả yêu thích, bằng chứng là gã xuất hiện khá nhiều trong fanart về Norm trên pixiv.net. Dưới con mắt của họa sĩ fanart, Scud… lầy lội theo một cách rất đáng yêu: nếu không phải bu bám Daryl (và gọi thợ săn zombie siêu badass này là ‘Daryl-chan’) thì là giành giật Connor với Murphy (bằng donut mới buồn cười) hoặc cư xử như bạn trai/pet nham nhở của Blade (kiểu như thanh niên nghiêm túc Blade số nhọ vớ phải gã bf đầu óc tưng tưng). Kể cả khi đứng một mình trong fanart, Scud trông vẫn cực hài hước với mái tóc dài bờm xờm, vẻ mặt ngáo đá, thường trực bên miệng là chiếc bánh donut gần như trở thành trademark và thỉnh thoảng còn thêm ba Powerpuff Girls bên cạnh. Những fanart đó đã cho bạn Joel ấn tượng Scud là một tên cà lơ phất phơ, vào phim với mục đích gây cười là chính – một trong số ít những vai hài hước của Norm, giờ mới để ý – và những việc khác là phụ. Tất cả những điều trên đều không xuất hiện trong Scud của Vice Versa. Nếu chỉ dùng một từ để miêu tả Scud trong fanfic này thì bạn sẽ chọn từ ‘broken’, từ trên xuống dưới và từ trong ra ngoài. Số phận thử thách Scud ngay từ lúc gã còn nhỏ bằng việc bắt gã chứng kiến mẹ mình bị ma cà rồng sát hại dã man. Gã bị đưa vào viện mồ côi, gặp phải những người một là vô cảm trước bi kịch của đứa trẻ mất mẹ hai là muốn lạm dụng gã. Gã trưởng thành, thoát ly viện mồ côi và sống trong những góc tối của thành phố Los Angeles hoa lệ cho đến ngày bị bắt cóc và ‘chào đón’ đến một thế giới còn tối tăm và nguy hiểm hơn cuộc sống vốn không mấy sáng sủa của gã: thế giới của những ma cà rồng giàu có, quyền lực. Có lẽ cuộc đời cảm thấy gã chưa ăn đủ khổ nên quyết định ném gã vào bàn tay một ma cà rồng bệnh hoạn chỉ coi pet là những món đồ chơi tức thời, chơi một lúc rồi bỏ, và dĩ nhiên ‘bỏ’ đồng nghĩa với chết, hơn nữa còn chết rất đau đớn. Như một con gián, Scud lê lết qua những đày đọa đó, dù là sống hèn, sống nhục nhưng vẫn là sống, cho đến ngày gã được Deacon cứu và cuộc đời gã sang trang mới. Về một mặt nào đó, Scud rất ‘cường’ bởi trải qua bao nhiêu chuyện như thế, gã vẫn chọn sống tiếp thay vì tự chấm dứt đau khổ của mình. Tuy nhiên, vượt qua được không có nghĩa là gã còn nguyên vẹn, lành lặn. Những vết sẹo rải trên người gã, trong tâm hồn gã, khiến gã ‘broken’. Từ ‘broken’ ngụ ý rằng thứ gì đó vẫn còn thể sửa chữa được,” bạn Joel từng nghe Elijah Mikaelson (The Originals) nói; thế nhưng đã broken đến mức độ của Scud thì liệu còn sửa chữa được không, và ai nguyện gánh vác trách nhiệm đó khi người duy nhất chi phối, tác động lên cuộc sống hiện tại của Scud chỉ có Deacon Frost.

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Deacon Frost là ai?

Là một ma cà rồng không thuần huyết (ma cà rồng thuần huyết sinh ra đã là ma cà rồng, chưa từng là người) những ma cà rồng khác chỉ nể hoặc ghét chứ chẳng yêu thương gì. Là một ma cà rồng vốn từng là người nhưng lại căm ghét và khinh thường con người, xem con người là đáy của chuỗi thức ăn, thái độ với pet thì không cần phải nói. Trước khi đọc fanfic này, bạn Joel chẳng có tý ấn tượng gì với nhân vật Deacon Frost; nếu như fanart Scud khá nhiều (vì Norm khá nổi) thì bạn tìm đỏ mắt may ra chắc được vài tấm fanart của Deacon. Bạn bắt đầu chú ý đến Deacon khi thấy trên AO3, số fanfic ship Deacon/Scud nhiều ngang ngửa số Blade/Scud, dù xét theo canon thì Blade và Scud mới là cặp dây dưa ân oán tình thù. Tò mò, bạn google và (không bất ngờ), Deacon hơi bị đẹp trai (khuôn mặt gần giống Wes Bentley bên American Horror Story và bạn rất thích Wes Bentley). Với máu ship trai đẹp với nhau bất chấp không gian, thời gian và logic, bạn Joel ‘duyệt’ ngay cp Deacon x Scud. Bạn cũng biết được Deacon là boss cuối của Blade phần 1, và, qua những oneshot đã đọc trước Vice Versa, bạn hình dung Deacon là một tên khốn bị điên (hay tên điên bị khốn), máu nóng (hơi lạ với ma cà rồng nhỉ), tức dễ nổi cáu, nhưng ngụy trang dưới vẻ mặt lạnh lùng cho hợp với cái tên ‘Frost’, có khuynh hướng bạo lực và thích chơi SM (tất nhiên hắn là S),… – hay ít ra thì các tác giả khác đã hình dung hắn như vậy. Cũng hợp lý thôi vì Deacon là boss cuối mà, hắn hiền lành nhân từ tốt bụng ấm áp vân vân và vân vân thì hoá ra Blade, hero của phim, thành kẻ xấu à?! Trong Vice Versa, Deacon vừa giống canon cũng như phiên bản của nhân vật này ở các fanfic khác vừa khác biệt. Giống ở chỗ hắn vẫn nóng tính – một núi lửa chực phun trào ‘cosplay’ seme băng lãnh, vẫn tàn nhẫn trong cả lời nói lẫn hành động, vẫn ưa dùng bạo lực và giết người không ghê tay, tóm lại là cách chuẩn ‘người tốt’ vài năm ánh sáng thôi, không nhiều. Hắn kéo Scud lên khỏi bờ vực cái chết không hẳn vì lòng nhân từ hay cái gì tương tự trỗi dậy mà vì mục đích cá nhân, và trong suốt chiều dài truyện, hắn không dưới một lần tổn thương Scud, tinh thần lẫn thể chất. Thế nhưng, Deacon trong đây khác biệt ở chỗ hắn vẫn còn một ‘soft spot’ dành cho gã pet hắn nhặt về (cả nghĩa đen lẫn nghĩa bóng) và tuy đúng là hắn có mục đích cá nhân với Scud – nói trắng ra là lợi dụng – hắn thật sự không muốn gã con người đã trải qua quá nhiều đau khổ này chết hay chịu (thêm) tổn thương. Đây là điểm vớt vát thiện cảm của bạn Joel với Deacon vì bạn không tiêu hoá nổi thể loại quan hệ mà một đứa bạo hành đứa còn lại, cho dù đứa bị bạo hành chấp nhận bị bạo hành.

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Nếu là trong thực tế, hai kẻ kỳ lạ như vậy khó mà sống dưới một mái nhà chứ đừng nói đến phát triển tình cảm. Tuy nhiên, đây là truyện và tình tiết truyện buộc cả hai phải chung sống và phát triển tình cảm, nếu không thì lấy gì cho độc giả đọc giải trí. Cả Scud lẫn Deacon đều là những cá nhân tràn đầy mâu thuẫn và chính điều này tạo nên sự thú vị khi người đọc được quan sát hai nhân vật tương tác, ảnh hưởng lẫn nhau. Một mặt, Scud rất ham sống, gã chịu đủ mọi tủi nhục trút lên mình chỉ với mục đích là không bị vứt xuống một cái hố nào đó chồng chất những kẻ như gã, tàn tạ, rữa nát và bị lãng quên như chưa từng tồn tại. Ý chí sống còn nơi gã đủ mạnh để gã cầm cự đến thời điểm gặp Deacon thay vì cắn lưỡi ngay sau lần đầu bị lạm dụng. Thế nhưng trong đầu gã thỉnh thoảng lởn vởn những suy nghĩ mang khuynh hướng tự sát và có nhiều lúc, gã rơi vào trạng thái ‘đếch quan tâm’ – muốn đánh muốn giết ra sao cũng được. Gã sợ bị tổn thương, bị tra tấn và cố gắng hết sức để làm vừa lòng ‘chủ nhân’, cả chủ nhân cũ và chủ nhân hiện tại, Deacon; cũng chính gã lại có suy nghĩ chuyển hoá thành hành động khiêu khích Deacon để xem tên suckhead (từ Scud dùng để chỉ ma cà rồng với ý khinh miệt) ngoài lạnh trong nóng này khi nào sẽ bùng phát và dung nham sẽ tràn xuống, thiêu chết gã. Scud thèm khát sự quan tâm, chăm sóc, gã cảm động với mỗi cử chỉ lịch sự, chưa nói đến tử tế, nhỏ nhất, vậy mà bản thân gã cảm thấy mình không xứng đáng nhận được sự tử tế và tệ hơn, tất cả những gì thối tha cuộc đời quăng vào mặt gã đều do gã đáng bị như thế. Suy nghĩ thường thấy ở nạn nhân bị rape và bạo hành đây mà. Cuối cùng, Scud một mặt ghét ma cà rồng, hiển nhiên rồi, Deacon không phải ngoại lệ, mặt khác gã vô thức để mình bị Deacon thu hút; well, sao trách Scud được khi bỏ qua tính khí không mấy dễ chịu, Deacon vẫn là kẻ hấp dẫn và thực tế là hắn đã trải qua vô số (bed)partners trong cuộc đời bất tử của mình (nghe đồn trong canon Deacon là bi). Chuyện phải đến (tác giả bảo) sẽ đến: từ bị thu hút Scud dần chuyển sang có tình cảm với Deacon; tình cảm đó phát triển như thế nào và đến mức nào cũng như kết cục ra sao, Joel để bạn tự mình đọc và khám phá.

Giống như Scud, Deacon cũng đầy mâu thuẫn. Đầu tiên là việc hắn cố tỏ ra mình là kẻ lạnh lùng, tàn nhẫn. Có lẽ bao nhiêu thế kỷ lăn lộn, tranh giành quyền lực, lãnh địa trong thế giới ma cà rồng đã tạo ra một Deacon như thế bởi nếu không, hắn chẳng tồn tại quá một năm, nhất là khi hắn không phải ‘thuần huyết’. Như đã nói trên, hắn có một soft spot dành cho Scud: không chỉ lo cho Scud nơi ăn, chốn ở tử tế, hắn còn nghiêm túc thực hiện cam kết bảo vệ pet của mình khỏi mọi nguy hại trong khi chính hắn lại chán ghét việc ma cà rồng nuôi pet người. Bất tri bất giác, hắn quan tâm Scud và sự quan tâm đó thể hiện qua những hành động nho nhỏ nhưng đủ để Scud cảm kích, thậm chí có lúc hắn còn cảm thông với gã con người số khổ này. Chỉ là những lúc như thế lại có một giọng nói trong đầu Deacon nhắc nhở rằng hắn là ma cà rồng, hắn nổi tiếng vì sự căm ghét con người (lý do vì sao thì Joel sẽ không spoil để bạn đọc tự cảm nhận), để rồi hắn quay ngoắt 180 độ và tổn thương Scud bằng lời nói độc địa hay hành động. Sau mỗi lần như thế, hắn hối hận và tìm cách ‘bù đắp’ cho Scud – tất nhiên là theo cách không tổn thương đến ego của hắn, và vòng tròn lặp lại. Nói theo suy nghĩ của Scud thì cuộc sống của gã ở căn hộ sang trọng của Deacon sẽ dễ dàng hơn nhiều nếu ‘chủ nhân’ ngưng làm gã bối rối và nhất quán trong cách đối xử với gã: mặc xác gã tự sinh tự diệt hoặc dứt khoát giết quách gã cho xong. Vấn đề là ở chỗ đến chính Deacon còn không xác định được hắn nên đối xử với Scud thế nào thì làm sao Scud đòi hắn nhất quán được. Mất một lượng chữ không nhiều, không ít để hắn chạy vạy tìm lời khuyên từ những người mình tin tưởng rồi não hắn mới ‘thông’ và tìm ra giải pháp cho mối quan hệ giữa hắn với Scud.


Nếu gọi tình cảm giữa Deacon và Scud là ‘tình yêu’ thì e rằng hơi miễn cưỡng bởi vì từ đầu đến cuối cả hai chưa từng nói yêu nhau (may mà không nói vì nếu nói thì bạn Joel thấy… sến). Tuy nhiên, tình cảm giữa Scud và Deacon là chân thật và dù nó không đẹp đẽ, không hoàn hảo thì nó vẫn tồn tại đủ mạnh để gắn kết hai kẻ lạ kỳ này với nhau đến cuối truyện và có thể là sau đó. Bạn Joel nói rằng tình cảm này không đẹp đẽ do nó không tạo nên một mối quan hệ lành mạnh. Ngay từ ban đầu nó đã mang màu sắc chiếm hữu: Deacon cứu mạng Scud nhưng hắn không hề cho Scud tự do – quyền cơ bản nhất của con người. Scud sống trong căn hộ sang trọng của Deacon đúng nghĩa từ ‘pet’: cả ngày gã quanh quẩn bên chiếc ghế xôpha và mấy mét vuông quanh nó bởi vì ngay đến ban công Deacon cũng cấm gã bước ra; cánh cửa chỉ mở khi trợ lý của Deacon mang thức ăn đến và sau đó lần nữa khoá lại. Scud cam chịu cách đối xử của Deacon giống như gã cam chịu nhiều điều tệ hại đã xảy đến với gã; dần dần, gã có tình cảm với Deacon và tình cảm sinh ra trong cảnh ‘cá chậu chim lồng’ mang hơi hướm Stockholm syndrome. Cả Scud lẫn Deacon đều không đả động đến vấn đề này, hệt như cả hai không đả động đến nhiều vấn đề khác trong mối quan hệ của họ, tỷ như Deacon chưa từng hỏi tên thật của Scud hay muốn tìm hiểu quá khứ của gã trước khi trở thành ‘Scud’, và Scud cũng không có ý định chia sẻ với Deacon, và chúng ta, người đọc, chỉ biết được quá khứ của Scud qua những đoạn flashback rời rạc. Hay như khi tình cảm đã xác định rồi thì Scud trở nên phụ thuộc vào Deacon: gã tiếp tục sống chỉ khi Deacon còn tồn tại, nếu Deacon chết, gã có thể không tự sát nhưng ý chí sống còn nơi gã đều bay biến. Điều này khá lãng mạn, nếu ta bỏ qua chuyện nó ‘độc hại’ đến việc xây dựng một mối quan hệ tình cảm lành mạnh và bình đẳng. Có lẽ tác giả ý thức được điều này nên giữa Deacon và Scud không phải love mà là “this is as close as they will ever come to love”, và về mặt nào đó, nó rất hợp với Scud và Deacon trong fanfic này. Và thay vì khẳng định một tương lai bên nhau vĩnh cửu như nhiều câu chuyện tình người–ma cà rồng khác, cái kết chỉ đưa ra một hy vọng, hay một hint về tương lai như thế. Với tư cách người đọc đã dành ra khá nhiều cảm xúc cho fanfic này, bạn Joel hài lòng với điều đó.

Bầu không khí truyện nhuốm màu ảm đạm từ những đoạn flashback và suy tư của Scud cũng như suy tư của Deacon, vì vậy bạn Joel ‘tự ý’ thêm tag angst vào thể loại. Truyện cũng rải rác một số chi tiết hài, ví dụ như khi Scud va đầu vào nắp chiếc ‘quan tài’ kiêm giường ngủ của Deacon (bạn trẻ này có chiếc giường thiết kế kiểu quan tài với nắp đóng–mở), Deacon đã rất thông cảm đưa cho gã một……. bịch máu trong tủ lạnh để áp lên vết thương giảm đau; tuy nhiên sự hài hước khá lép vế trước sự angst bao trùm suốt mười chương. Truyện có tiết tấu khá chậm, không nhiều tình tiết gay cấn vì tác giả dành khá nhiều câu chữ để đi sâu vào nội tâm của hai nhân vật chính. Chương 10 kết truyện, theo cảm nhận của bạn Joel thì hơi vội vã và anti-climatic, đặc biệt là sau cliffhanger lớn tướng cuối chương 9 “Deacon chết rồi!” Bạn đã trông chờ một cuộc showdown giữa Deacon và chủ nhân cũ của Scud sau tất cả những khiêu khích, đe doạ, dằn mặt nhau ở các chương trước, thế nhưng điều đó không xảy ra (có phải bạn đã spoil?!), và bạn có chút thất vọng, nhưng xét lại truyện này nhấn mạnh vào tâm tư, tình cảm của nhân vật mà, đòi đánh đấm, hành động, cái kết hoành tá tràng thì có vẻ làm khó nhau quá *icon packman*, vậy nên bạn hài lòng với những gì tác giả viết, dù chưa thật sự thỏa mãn.

Tóm lại, Vice Versa là một fanfic đáng đọc, và càng tuyệt vời hơn khi bạn không cần xem Blade, cũng chả cần biết Scud là ai (biết gã do Norm thể hiện thì tốt^^), Deacon đến từ vì sao nào hay chuyện gì đã xảy ra ở canon là phim mà vẫn có thể thưởng thức trọn vẹn cái hay của truyện. Với những bạn thường đọc Đam Mỹ, sao không thử đọc fanfic này nhỉ, vừa đổi gió vừa rèn luyện tiếng Anh một chút (yên tâm là tác giả không đánh đố người đọc bằng từ ngữ quá cao siêu đâu).

Chút chuyện bên lề trước khi kết thúc bài:

Chuyện bên lề 1: Đây không biết là lần thứ bao nhiêu bạn Joel gặp fanfic mà nhân vật của Norm ‘nằm dưới’ (hint: Vice Versa có cảnh ‘xôi thịt’). Không rõ anh chú ăn ở thế nào mà fan gái khi viết fanfic rất hay ‘ưu tiên’ để anh chú ‘được’ áp thôi, bất kể đối phương là ai. Ngay đến men-lì như Daryl còn không thoát nữa là các bạn còn lại.

Chuyện bên lề 2: Thú thật là bạn Joel đến giờ vẫn không hiểu fan gái dùng cơ sở gì để ship Deacon x Scud. Đồng ý là hai bạn chung series nhưng người ở phần 1 kẻ phần 2, không có tương tác gì mà sao fan gái ship như đúng rồi thế nhỉ?! Mà 1, 2 fanfic, 1, 2 fanart còn hiểu được vì đa số crack cp đều vậy (chỉ 1, 2 người ship nên hàng ít), đằng này số fanfic và fanart từ Mỹ sang Nhật ngang ngửa số Blade x Scud rồi.

(Không lẽ nên xem phim để tìm hiểu?!)

Chuyện bên lề 3: Nhà bạn Deacon bộ có cái hồ bơi lộ thiên thả một đàn vịt cao su (?!) hay sao mà sao fanfic nào cũng nhắc đến vậy??? Nếu thật thì quan ngại cho tâm sinh lý và gu thẩm mỹ của bạn suckhead này quá.

Chuyện bên lề 4: Bạn muốn viết một fanfic ship Deacon với một trong những nhân vật của anh chú Norm, nhưng đang phân vân không biết nên chọn Scud theo truyền thống hay Travis (Gossip) hoặc Young Man (Dark Harbor) cho mới lạ?

Chuyện bên lề 5: (cập nhật 28/03/17) Bạn Joel rốt cuộc đã hiểu vì sao cp Deacon Frost x Scud ra đời. Số là ngày xửa ngày xưa có một bộ phim tên là Deuces Wild nói về hai băng đảng – Deuces và Vipers – ở Brooklyn vào thập niên 50. Số là ân oán tình thù giữa thủ lĩnh băng Deuces, Leon Anthony (Stephen Dorff – Deacon Frost), và thủ lĩnh băng Vipers, Marco Vendetti (Norman Reedus – Scud) là mâu thuẫn chính của phim. Đến đây là bạn đoán được rồi nhỉ?

[BBC’s Class] A Question Asked


Disclaimer: Characters belong to their respectful owners

Fandom: BBC’s Class

Rating: PG

Pairing: Charlie Smith x Matteusz Andrzejewski

Genre: fanfiction

Characters:  Charlie Smith, Matteusz Andrzejewski, Miss Quill – Andrea Quill/Andra’ath

Warning: none

Summary: Charlie failed to grasp the meaning of a swear word.

“Matteusz, what does ‘motherfucker’ mean?”

Matteusz was diligently dicing the carrots and potatoes for the beef stew when Charlie’s out-of-the-blue question had him almost cut off a piece of his own finger, spicing their dinner tonight with just a dash of blood. Miss Quill wouldn’t like it when you contaminated her food with human DNA. “Matteusz, be extra-aware not to contaminate my food with your human DNA,” she had said word-for-word. He guessed that was her very Quill-like version of “Matteusz, be careful not to hurt yourself over dinner.” Either that or she truly detested humans, him specifically.

“Where did you get such a word, Charlie?” Matteusz asked once he had fully recovered from the whole ‘Charlie-just-said-an-offensive-word-in-his-posh-accent’.

From where he was sitting, Charlie raised his blonde head and gave Matteusz that innocently baffled look he often sported when coming across something confusing in the human culture. Which often made Matteusz melt a little inside. His cute little alien boyfriend. “They were having this discussion on a Facebook post,” Charlie said, turning his IPad, which he ‘borrowed’ from Miss Quill as she was busy grading the students’ papers, his and Matteusz’s included, towards Matteusz’s direction. “One user wrote something and it was inaccurate so I corrected him – I think he is male – in my reply. Very politely. But then he called me a ‘motherfucker’. I didn’t understand it so I asked him its meaning, and then his reply was a litany of ‘motherfucker’s and nothing else. Some humans are really strange.”

Hearing Charlie say that word twice in a row proved to be a little too much for Matteusz.

“Don’t say that word, Charlie,” Matteusz said. “In fact don’t even think about it in your head.”

“Why is that?”

“It-It’s a swear word, meaning it’s bad an-and people using it are not usually nice.” He struggled a little to find the right words.

“Oh,” Charlie let out a small surprised sound. He sort of grasped the reason why the Facebook user had replied him with it – he had meant to insult Charlie as he had pointed out his (rather silly) fault in argument earlier. Some humans really hated it when their mistakes were pointed to them; from his short period on earth Charlie had come to understanding as much. But why was a swear word ‘bad’? That was what he failed to get. Back in his planet, ‘swear’ had involved putting one’s right hand on one’s heart and swearing life-time allegiance to the newly ascended king or queen, with nothing but utmost respect for the new crown. Even the Quill people had sworn loyalty to their cause. No-one had associated the word ‘swear’ with bad connotation; in fact, only those with honor would have sworn.

He considered asking Google and asking Matteusz and decided he wanted to hear his boyfriend’s Polish accent. “I don’t understand why a swear word is ‘bad’. To Rhodians, it was associated with solemnity and honour.”

“And Quills,” Miss Quill chimed in, never allowing a chance to remind Charlie they’d come from the same planet to slip.

“And Quills,” Charlie grudgingly repeated after her.

“Here it also means to be offensive because when you use it, you want to insult somebody. Do you have insults in your language?”

Charlie knitted his eyebrows, shaking his head. “No,” he said, a touch of exasperation, “we didn’t have insults in our culture. It would be uncivilised to say bad things about people.”

Matteusz’s smile froze a little while his hand’s chopping pace faltered. A culture with no insults. Weren’t the Rhodians even for real?

Well, Charlie was for real and he was a Rhodian, having been brought up in the apex of that culture. “Then what did you say to someone who got you, like, really pissed off? Like you wanted to vent your anger somehow but not by hitting them.”

“There was no hitting, for sure…” Charlie trailed off, a look of contemplation plastered on his countenance. “If we were displeased with someone, we gave them ‘the code of silence’.”

“The code of silence?” Matteusz echoed, sounding half confused, half intrigued.

“Yeah, it means absolute silence: no talking with or about them however long it took for them to apologise. Until then we generally treated them as non-existent.”

Silence was the best insult, Matteusz thought he had read it somewhere, probably some free self-help magazine he’d grabbed and read to pass the time on the tube. One aspect the Rhodians definitely had shared with humans. Maybe aliens weren’t so alien after all.

Still, Matteusz personally could not yet wrap his mind around Charlie’s Rhodian no-insult culture. Probably one the weirdest thing he’d heard about this month.

Miss Quill laughed, startling both Charlie and Matteusz. “I’ve heard about this ‘code of silence’ before,” she said, air-quoting, a gesture she’d no doubt learnt from watching a large number of sitcoms on YouTube, “but to hear it from you makes it sound even more absurd.”

“It’s civil,” Charlie rebuked, “and cultured.”

“The Quills had one word for insult…”

“Just one?” Matteusz asked.

And then she pronounced a word Matteusz found to be stranger than Chinese, which he was also unable to transcribe.

It must be a word from the language they’d spoken back on their planet since immediately after he’d heard it, Charlie sported his rare ‘I’m insulted’ (but still rather cute) look. Whatever Miss Quill had said must have offended him; Matteusz just didn’t know why.

So he asked, “What does that mean?”

A question directed to both Charlie and Miss Quill.

“It means ‘a Rhodian’,” Miss Quill answered. “If a Quill meets another Quill who is annoyingly stuck up, she will call that Quill ‘a Rhodian’. Best insult there is.”

Okay, Matteusz saw why Charlie was offended. Now that they were living under the same roof, sometimes it was easy for Matteusz to forget that Miss Quill and Charlie used to be enemies.

Oh, wait, maybe they still were as here and then they would wage a mini-war right in this flat, whose aftermath was a very tense atmosphere in the physics class where Miss Quill was using (more like abusing – Charlie’s word) her authority as a teacher to try to give Charlie a hard time and Charlie was giving every other student a hard time by challenging her. And yes, Miss Quill had just fired a cannon ball at Charlie’s front, to which Charlie would retaliate. Matteusz believed he understood as much to guess.

“I sincerely regret we hadn’t invented something similar in our language,” Charlie said, trying his best for a smirk.

“Too civil and cultured for that, weren’t you?” Miss Quill replied, effortlessly besting Charlie in the smirking contest. “Perhaps not so much when you released that arn into my head.”

“It was punishment,” Charlie insisted, for approximately the five hundred and fifteenth times since Matteusz came to live with him and Miss Quill. “Just and merciful.”

“Anything but.”

There, the war started again and Matteusz knew better than to interfere lest he himself become collateral damage. So he kept silent and focused on his beef stew as Charlie and Miss Quill were gradually and unconsciously slipping from English to their mother tongue. They had that habit whenever they fought.

Briefly, Matteusz wondered why Charlie had never invoked the ‘code of silence’ on Miss Quill.

The war had subsided precisely on time for the steaming beef stew to be served and then they all enjoyed their meal in comfortable silence.

Until some unknown sinister source urged Charlie to pick up on his seemingly forgotten earlier matter.

“I still haven’t gotten what ‘motherfucker’ means and why it is offensive.”

Knowing it was inevitable, Matteusz heaved an unvocalised sigh. “It’s a compound word,” he explained, “of mother and fucker. You know what mother means—”

“I do,” Charlie said, “unless it has another, rare and unknown-to-many meaning.”

“It doesn’t,” Miss Quill said. “I checked the dict.”

Charlie paid her no mind, perhaps finally having applied the ‘code of silence’.

“Yeah, it doesn’t. As for the rest…” A short pause, before he continued, “it’s like ‘shag’ and the Americans tend to use it more often. It has many other meanings though.”

Charlie sported an expression that conveyed a far greater disgust than the time he had had his first experience of spoilt foods on Earth (and yes, his first experience of spoilt foods on Earth had involved Matteusz). Even Miss Quill’s face was spelling “You humans actually do what?!”.

“I would never in a thousand lifetimes!”

“It’s an offensive word.” Matteusz quickly took a defensive stance. “We don’t take offensive words literally.”

Or else it would be totally messed up.

“Argh,” Charlie groaned. “I shouldn’t have asked during dinner.”

Of that Matteusz agreed.


[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.


One Tiny Problem – Extra 5

Disclaimer : Characters belong to their respectful owners

Fandom : The Originals

Rating : K+

Pairing : Kolijah – Elijah Mikaelson x Kol Mikaelson (sort of)

Genres : fanfiction, alternate universe, humor, fluff

Characters: Freya Mikaelson, Elijah Mikaelson, Klaus Mikaelson, Rebekah Mikaelson, Kol Mikaelson, Hope Mikaelson and many others

Summary: An AU in which Kol is resurrected by Freya, in the form of… a baby.

Inspired by whatevenkol’s idea and given permission to write this story



“Hey, I was wondering if you’d like to be my date for the Homecoming?”

Nathan’s heart was tattooing against his rib cage with every word from those lips. Those perfect-shaped lips that belonged to the perfect beauty standing in front of him. Seriously? Did she just ask him to be her company? She who was the hottest girl in the school, the Princess of the Quarter as they called, Hope Mikaelson. Was his luck that good or fate was jesting with him?

“Ar—Are you serious about this?” he stammered, unable to steady his voice, excitement rushing through his bloodstream like drug.

“Is your name not Nathan Marlowe?”

“I—of course I’m Nathan Marlowe!”

“Then one hundred percent,” she replied with zero hesitance, just like everything else she did. Hope Mikaelson was not famous by her gorgeous looks alone; she inspired affection in the guys and envy in the girls with her famed absolute confidence. To be fair, she had every reason to be confident: beauty, brain and strength also – nature had truly blessed the Mikaelson princess from head to toe. The fact that she was the sole heiress of that notoriously wealthy and powerful family – the shadowed throne-less kings and queens of New Orleans – only boosted her celebrity status in the school.

“O—of course I will absolutely—”

Of course he would absolutely agree. This was a once-in-a-lifetime chance after all; how could he let it pass?

“Not,” a third voice cut in, perfectly in sync with a baseball bat that wedged its way in between Nathan and Hope Mikaelson.

Urg. Nathan knew that voice so well he could paint the speaker blindfolded. The baseball bat was only an unnecessary fortification to his belief.

Kol Mikaelson. The Prince of the Quarter to Hope’s Princess. The bad boy that other bad boys didn’t want to hang out with because of three major reasons: one, wherever he was, girls would flock to him and the existence of other male species within the immediate vicinity would be sorely forgotten. Two, see that baseball bat? That was Kol’s mate for life, together with a temper that was wild and unpredictable as the dark creatures lurking in the bayou – they said there were still wolves there, no, not huskies, wolves, big as bulls and twice as aggressive. Anyway, back to the topic. The number of times Kol’s guardian, his older brother, had been summoned in regard with his disagreeable behaviors had exceeded even the years of the heaviest life sentence possible. It was without a shadow of a doubt that Kol had not been expelled yet was entirely the Mikaelsons’ influence.

And the third reason, also the most loathed, was times like this, when he just barged in, his bat in hand, to pronounce his ‘seniorship’ and drive away any boy that came near Hope Mikaelson.

“I don’t approve,” Kol said baldly, punctuating his sentence with a tap of the bat and his trademark ‘bad boy’ smirk, “as Hope’s uncle.”

Uncle. Nathan snorted. Didn’t buy that one bit. Though everyone had been informed on day one that Kol Mikaelson and Hope Mikaelson were uncle and niece, Nathan only thought of Kol as Hope’s cousin, and a very annoying one at that.

On the other hand, if Kol’s parents had had him as such late age, no wonder he ended up this twisted bizarre creature.

“Get lost, Kol,” Hope hissed.

Kol cluck his tongue. “Such language to your uncle, darling. Mom and Dad would expect more from you.”

Wearing a feral grin, Kol stepped up and invaded Nathan’s personal space. Invaded his territory. Nathan clenched his fists and hardened his jaws, refusing to be intimidated. “It’s you who should get lost, mate.”

“Try me,” Nathan challenged, his audacity boosted by his not-so-subtle desire to impress the girl.

“Alright,” Kol said gleefully, “let me inform you that in order to be Hope’s date, you have to ask for her family’s permission first, and that doesn’t include mine, because I’ve make myself crystal-clear that you won’t have it.”

“Fine,” Nathan agreed, taking small victory in Kol’s admittance that he had less to say about Hope’s dating who then the rest of the family. “I’ll ask her parents.”

“No, you won’t,” Hope objected. She glared at Kol with her fiery hazel eyes, made all the more iridescent by her anger. “If you meet my family, there won’t be even a chance of us going to Café du Monde, let alone Homecoming.”

“Relax. I think I’ll do fine.”

“She’s right, mate. Do rethink before you’ll come to them.”

“If you’re trying to chicken me out dude, that’s not gonna happen.”

Kol shook his head with spurious ruefulness. “Look, mate, I’m not even trying. Let me tell you about the procedure. First, you’ll meet Hope’s brothers. One owns a corporation – the Kingmaker Corp in case you don’t know – so impress him with your CV and you might get a desk job. That’s the easy one. Then, there’s the other who just loves to see how you fare in the physical department.”

“You’re so not going to bring Lucien and Marcel against me!” Hope seethed, grabbing Nathan’s arm. “Go. Forget his blabbing.”

But Nathan wasn’t known to back down from a nuisance. Plus, Kol had dashed in front of them and efficiently blocked their way. How come he could move so fast, Nathan had to seriously wonder. They said Kol was the best in the tracking team but he never quite bought it.

“On the contrary, love, they told me they’d love to have a look at your dashing Romeo.”

“Oh, I hope they aren’t so insufferable as you,” Nathan sneered.

“So wrong, mate, I happen to be the most fun-loving and pleasant in the family. Wait until you meet my siblings.”

“No, he won’t,” Hope rebuked. “And I don’t have to ask for your permission for whom I’m going with on Homecoming.”

Ignoring Hope’s protest, Kol glided past her to put an arm around Nathan’s taut shoulder. “There’s her parents, Papa-wolf and Mama-bear in literal sense, supernaturally protective of their cub here. They’ll tear you to pieces if you so much as touch her hair. Then there’re my other siblings, together with their children. I’m sure they would be over the moon to hear of you…”

Kol lowered his voice as though to confide a lethal secret. “…especially about your doing the hockey-pokey thing with more than half the girls in this school, occasionally more than one at a time.”

Nathan’s face turned beet-red.

“Huhm? Am I wrong?”

He glanced at Hope to find her raising a sharp eyebrow. She didn’t seem too surprised as he was afraid she would be, yet that slight arch spoke volume of disdain.

“You were spying on me, you stalking asshole?” Nathan growled.

Kol grinned. “That means I’m not wrong, am I?”

That was it. That obnoxious baring of teeth like he took pride in nosing into others’ business just pushed the berserk button inside Nathan. He pushed Kol with the strength of his torso and an attempt to hurt the boy. Hope’s uncle or not, no one could embarrass him in front of his girl and leave bruise-less.

Kol didn’t move an inch and Nathan felt like he had just bumped right into a brick wall. He was taller than Kol and considerably more muscle-built, so he was shocked to learn that with his strength of a football player he couldn’t knock Kol down.

“No need for things to get ugly, mate,” Kol said, grabbing Nathan by his collar, lifting him up with unusual ease. “Now you will go and you will forget you ever wanted to date Hope Mikaelson, as well as this happening.”

Kol’s pupils seemed to be dilated and for some reason Nathan couldn’t look away. Heck, he couldn’t find the will to fight back despite knowing Kol’s command was just so wrong as this incident and Kol’s strength. Then in an instance all questions simply vanished, and Nathan felt compelled to do what Kol said as though his words became the Ten Commandments themselves.

Then Kol let him go. Without so much a glance at Hope Mikaelson, Nathan left.

Crossing her arms, Hope watched her potential date flee from her like she was a plague. When she turned her eyes to her uncle, she had to actually suppress the urge to rip him apart.

Calm down. Count to three. Do what Aunt Cami said and it’ll be fine.

Granted, everyone in their family had to quench their need to rip Kol apart at one point or another, and that included even Uncle Elijah, who was renowned for his teeth-rotten sweet love for Kol.

“Not funny at all, Kol.”

“On the contrary, love, I think it was extremely funny how quickly he reverted to his violent-prone self.” Tapping the bat on the concrete ground to create some sort of beat, Kol added, “Did you know he bullied the hell out of poor Jimmy in class F?”

Hope raised one eyebrow, one thing she duplicated to perfection after having watched Mommy do it a thousand times with Daddy whenever Daddy said or did something eyebrow-raising. And that happened a lot too. According to Autie Bex, Daddy had actually improved tremendously as compared to the last century.

“All paled in comparison to what your ‘training’ did to him afterwards, Kol.”

“It’s called ‘tough love’, darling.”

Hope shrugged with a smirk, not buying it one bit.

“Like what I just did, protecting my lovely and vulnerable niece from that despicable parasite.”

“That ‘vulnerable’ niece of yours can rip out a man’s heart faster than you can blink,” Hope rebuked. “Admit it, dearest uncle, you scared away my potential date to get even with my shooing yours away.”

Kol’s grin turned feral as he leaned in closer. From an outsider’s perspective, it looked as if he was about to pull her into a passionate kiss. “Now you said it. I did have a thing for Angela and you made her think as though I ruined her Christmas ball gown and her nails.”

“You started it first. You know she’s my nemesis and yet you want to date her!”

“Since elementary school, darling. Aren’t you a little too old for that childish rivalry? Secondly, I didn’t intend to date her. I wanted a bite of her.”

“And I the same with Nathan. Now thanks to you, I’ll have neither a date nor a treat.”

“Even steven, little niece. Second, steroid-filled blood isn’t tasty, trust me.”

“Fine,” Hope huffed  “game on, uncle. Let’s see which of us will get a suitable date and which will go without one.”

“So,” Rebekah drawled, “you two spent the whole day ruining each other’s potential dates for Homecoming?”

Beside her on the couch, Klaus couldn’t contain his laughter… for the last fifteen minutes.

They were binge-watching the whole series of Game of Thrones when their brother and niece/ daughter stormed in, looking as if a volcano was about to erupt right under the compound.

Well, no drama was better than teen drama. Deanerys and her dragons had to wait.

“She/ He started it first!”

Their unison in speech was simply astounding.

Klaus and Rebekah exchanged a knowing look. Teenagers.

“Who started it first doesn’t really matter,” Rebekah said, “What does is neither of you has a date. Why not focus on that?”

“You know, sweetheart, I can be your escort to the party.”

Hope wrinkled her nose. “Dad, eww. Seriously.”

Klaus insisted, “I may not wear a suit 24/7 like your uncle Elijah and his breathen but that doesn’t mean I don’t rock in one, just saying.”

“Still eww. Plus, you will definitely murder any guy that comes in one-meter perimeter.”

Klaus couldn’t disagree.

“I can be your date, Kol. I haven’t had a high school party for years and I’m feeling kind of reminiscent.”

“Your last time was in Mystic Falls, I reckon, when you epically blew Elijah’s trial for being human?”

Rebekah elbowed him hard enough to send him off the couch. “No thanks for reminding me.”

“Thanks but no thanks, Bekah,” Kol said.

“Well, Freya’s coming with Finn.”

Kol and Hope looked at each other as though they’d heard a UFO landing on their roof.

“I haven’t a chance to know what a Homecoming party is like,” Klaus added, air-quoting. “And your aunt was resolute in her belief that she could pass as a teenager.”

“I’m going with Marcel,” Hope decided.

Rebekah looked as if she was about to object but Klaus was one-step ahead of her.

“Marcel’s going to The Strix’s annual party on that night, dear. Compulsory. Full stop.”

“What about Lucien?”

“Going to gate-crash it like every other year. Unless you want Uncle Elijah to accompany you…”

Hope made a face at that.

“Oh wait, he’s attending The Strix’s party, too. So dear old Daddy’s your only available arm candy left.” Klaus concluded with his trademark crooked smile.

“No way. I’d rather go with Kol!”

“Yes.” Rebekah’s exclamation was loud enough to veer everyone’s attention to her. She was beaming with a proud smile at her ingenious idea. “Perhaps you two should pair up. What’s better than the Homecoming King and Queen going together?”

Kol and Hope traded a prolonged look at each other. A spark of sort. Perhaps a realization. After a while, they both resigned to the same acceptance.

“Well, since we can’t just compel a random person to be our date,” Kol admitted, scratching the back of his head, “I guess we just have to make do with each other.”

“Good, problem solved,” Rebekah said in gleeful tone, not-so-subtly pushing her brother and niece to the entrance. “Now go buy some matching outfits. Got to look stunning if you want the crown, right?”

Once Kol and Hope was out of the scene, Klaus asked Rebekah, “Are you certain they’ll win ?”

“I want to return to our show, all right?” Rebekah answered with a shrug. “Teen dramas are just good at the beginning. It gets boring after a few minutes. But they’re the most popular at their school, aren’t they not? If not them, then who?”

With Rebekah’s assurance, Klaus pushed the tiny matter aside to enjoy Daenerys and her dragons.

The party was pretty mundane until Lucien arrived uninvited with a flock of obnoxious drunken exotic dancers (this year he actually compelled genuine strippers) and stirred things up. Returning home in an upbeat mood, Elijah didn’t foresee finding his little brother and niece, gorgeous in their Homecoming outfits by the way, sulking in the kitchen. They had been quite excited about the event, so he expected them to go home radiating with the aftermath buzz, not being two cluster of heavily focused glum energy. Did they just hit the angsty teen phase? Elijah was no expert on the field but he had had plenty first-hand experience during his short time as a temp history teacher and thus knowing this was the worst stage before their transition to adulthood.

Okay, he decided, if the next minute they started crying or going emo, he was going to call for help, scratch it, shout for help, whether it was as far as the bayou or just on the upper floor and buried in thick blankets after three days of binge-watching a toxic number of TV series.

“What happened?”

The question was formed in his mouth, chewed a few times to make sure there was nothing wrong before making its way to his lips, when it was halted by Kol’s statement: “We didn’t get the crown.”

And then Hope seamlessly followed: “Aunt Freya and Uncle Finn became the King and Queen.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Kol cried. “How could Finn beat me in the popular department? Come on, he hangs out mostly with geeks and have you ever heard they attend any party other than Comic Con?”

It would upset his little brother even more if he were to tell the truth, so Elijah kept silent about the tiny fact that their older brother, despite common belief, used to be very popular with the village girls back in their human days.

“Aunt Freya isn’t even a student. I mean, why did they vote for her when her name wasn’t on the list?”

Ah, that must have been Finn, Elijah thought. Also, he didn’t want to point out that had the two of them not spent the day committing their petty vengeance, perhaps they wouldn’t have lost their votes. Yes, he had been thoughtfully updated by Rebekah and Niklaus.

Salting the wound wasn’t Elijah’s habit so he gave his brother and niece a pat on the head. “Quite an eventful night, wasn’t it? Who wants ice cream and the juicy details of how Lucien wrecked Tristan’s party?”

End (Maybe?)

[Trilijah] Proper Homage

Disclaimer: Characters belong to their respectful owners

Fandom: The Originals

Rating: M

Pairing: Trilijah – Elijah Mikaelson x Tristan de Martel

Genres: fanfiction, canon divergence, slash

Characters: Elijah Mikaelson, Tristan de Martel, mention of Niklaus Mikaelson and Aya

Warnings: smut, blood drinking, shades of S&M

Summary: The smutty continuation of Something Never Changed, where Tristan paid “proper homage” to his sire

They entered the hotel quietly, separately. Men in designer suit from whom the pretty receptionist only required a nod and a small smile to show them to their suite.

Reserved and the finest the hotel could provide, nothing less than best.

Tonight. 9:30. Windsor Court Hotel.

They entered the room separately, quietly, to find the other almost at the same time.

Both took the concept of punctuality to what others would deem a freaking degree, and both were more than pleased to see the other not a minute late.

That was something they had instilled in each other a millennium past, among other things.

When the door closed, all barriers collapsed, shattered to debris. The gentleman facade came off, their costly fabric shredded, and the monsters inside, the true ‘them’, demolished the finely constructed cage.

First, it was their lips, always lips, crashing down upon each other like ravenous beasts earning their first meal after months, if not years. Far from a passionate kiss this encounter was, for it involved zero loving tenderness and all agonizing brutality. Their canines elongated in response to their sanguinary lust, and they ripped each other’s flesh until their lips were rendered a bloody mess. Their wounds closed almost instantly, the ancient vampire blood too vigorous in their veins for any lasting damage, only to be torn open again and again. Pain was no stranger to them, rather a dear old accompaniment they welcomed from time to time so that their bloodthirsty side was satiated.

And only when the inhuman was satisfied could they maintain their humanity.

Their lips were completely healed when they lowered the curtain to the first act of foreplay, with only traces of leftover blood to be evidence of their savagery. Tristan licked his blood clean before he sought to swipe his tongue against Elijah’s lips. His sire held an unhealthy obsession for cleanliness and he would love to service him, if that meant he could taste some more of Elijah’s blood. His sire rarely allowed him to feed from him outside stringent drops produced from violent intercourse between lips and tongues, as he found pleasure in preserving them as a treat if Tristan behaved according to his preference. Yet Tristan, being the arrogant little lord Elijah sometimes mocked him, found himself too recalcitrant to stay long in the nice behavior department and when he didn’t, there was another kind of treat he anticipated with no less enthusiasm.

Elijah eyed the object Tristan retrieved from the drawer with no more curiosity than he watched Tristan perform every other task. It was a sleek crop attached to a decorated golden handle that his sired handed him before he knelt between the Original’s long limbs. Knees folded in a classic submissive stance in contrast with hands straying nearer and nearer to Elijah’s growing desire, the Tristan at present was reenacting their intimate circumstance in the afternoon, the only difference being the sore lack of any factors to hold them in restraint.

“Please don’t tell me you have forgotten how to utilize this item,” Tristan laughed, soft and wry. “None of your lovely paramours has embraced such a kink? Because their flesh is too soft and skin too thin that you haven’t the heart?”

Tristan’s last words barely left his lips when the crop licked a smooth line across his left cheek. He sucked in a sharp breath and his smirk widened into a Cheshire cat grin.

His sire hadn’t forgotten the game, it seemed. Played it well even.

The second flew over his right cheek, symmetrical and as beautiful and perfect as his left. The twin burns ate into his flesh and Tristan hissed, his fingers clawing at the inside of Elijah’s third, his knuckles white with exertion. He felt tiny beads of blood fill the cracks of his nails at the same time with the third strike, a broad line that spanned majestically across his pale chest. Then he simply lost count of the following to be lost in the exquisite aching that ran over his body like his veins. Blood coated the slim body of the crop and gathered at the tip, from which it dripped onto Elijah’s skin. Eager to please the Original, Tristan lowered his head to lap at the blood.

The gentle stroke on his scalp was a wordless approbation to proceed. An encouragement. Closer and closer he advanced until he reached the pulsating source of Elijah’s desire. Without a word of warning, Tristan took him into his mouth.

The warm breath hovering over his head, the pleasant weight of fingers in his hair and the sweet, strong scent of musk in his nostrils, he wondered how he had gone through the dreariness plaguing his existence in their absence.

He ran his tongue along the impressive length from the root to the head, eyes closed shut to better enjoy the flavor that spelt uniquely of Elijah to him. He dare use a little of teeth, not fangs though, nibbling the thin layer of oversensitive skin around the head with a swelled confidence that the Original had enough trust to allow him this vulnerable intimacy. And, having a millennium of practical experience, he sought to offer his beloved progenitor nothing but the best of service.

Tristan might have forgotten himself in the job but for Elijah’s hand firmly on the back of his neck. This meant stop, and since Tristan was in obedient mood, he halted instantly and raised his head to meet Elijah with his reflective blue eyes. He was pleased to notice the pink tinge and a fine sheen of sweat on his sire’s forehead. He yearned to taste it too, but he planned to be nice, not naughty, at least for now. So he tried to plead with his eyes, which he knew Elijah adored yet would never say, and hoped for approval.

Still, the Original had another idea in his mind. His thumb pressed into one of the myriad cuts on Tristan’s chest, eliciting a suppressed moan from him. Eyes squinted, he contemplated the crimson smear catching light on the tip of his thumb.

“Such a splendid instrument,” Elijah purred, lifting Tristan’s chin with the crop. “Outstanding material, neither too light nor too heavy, and these elaborate carvings. Handmade in Turkey?”

“One of its kind,” Tristan replied. “A quaint souvenir I hoped you would appreciate.”

“Hardly,” Elijah laughed, licking the blood on his thumb. “I suppose the exotic spice soaking this crop was Aya’s lovely contribution. Slowing the heal… only the lord Tristan de Martel would take advantage of it to appease his depravity.”

“Not slowing it, I’m afraid, but completely blocking the process.”

Elijah snickered. “Quite a trump card against other sire lines, I wager.”

“Oh no, Elijah, much as I would like to have Aya mass-produce it, this drug just cannot be made a weapon.”

“Why is that?”

“Firstly, the herb used is difficult to cultivate and the amount won’t suffice. Secondly, its antidote is as easy to acquire as a sip of human blood. And lastly…” Tristan paused mid-sentence and suddenly relinquished his submissive stance, to Elijah’s mild surprise. He supposed he had the right to discipline Tristan for acting outside his permission; still, the curiosity as to what trick the younger vampire had up his sleeve appeared more relevant and so he opted to wait, relishing in the knowledge that patience was exiguous in Tristan’s resources, especially when all his fancy silk and lace was stripped off and the glimmer in his blue irises was conveying a mute imploration despite his composed mask.

Even that mask would soon crumpled, if the rigid appendage between his legs was anything to tell.

Tristan’s hands placed on either of Elijah’s thighs as he positioned himself so that Elijah was able to feel how aroused he already was when their heated cores brushed against each other (as if the sight of it wasn’t enough). “Lastly, this drug has a side effect,” he said, almost a whisper, “a rather strong aphrodisiacal one I might add. You’re probably feeling its effect right now, like lava injected into your bloodstream.”

“I can assure you the effect isn’t lost on me,” replied Elijah with a crooked smile as his hand got a hold of Tristan.

Tristan gulped.

“Right now I’m internally torn between the urge to bend you over until you snap like a dry twig and the temptation to drill a hole through your fragile ribcage and gorge out your fleshy heart…”

Elijah’s hand began to move, quicker by the second. The younger vampire shuddered and went very still.

“Yet I will do neither. Do you have anything to say, my darling Tristan?”

His fingers gliding up and down the length knew rapidity and force rather than gentleness and there was no doubt what they inflicted on Tristan was pleasure diluted in pain.

“Quite troublesome, isn’t it?”

Tristan’s hands on Elijah’s thighs began shaking, his mouth slight agape and his knees buckled, threatening to give out under him.

“Please, Elijah,” he moaned between short, heavy pants.

“Please stop or please continue? Do clarify what you want, Tristan, since I have no time to play guessing game.”

The abrupt pressure at the root caused Tristan to jerk and cry out.

“If you want me to beg, right now I’m begging you,” Tristan hissed through clenched teeth. “I’m begging you to undo me, inside and out.”

“Perhaps it is too much for the lord Tristan to utter lewd words, even when he’s moments from breaking by his bodily exigency.”

Elijah’s torture ceased as he brought the same hand to Tristan’s mouth. If Tristan wasn’t too far undone to give a damn, he would remind his sire that he had had the necessary lubrication prepared and that they didn’t need to improvise with medieval method. However, since he wasn’t in any shape to care for triviality, he kept silent and followed Elijah’s instructions: baring his fangs and biting the Original’s palm.

The sloppy sound reverberating in his eardrums and the fullness where it used to be empty were more than he could stand. If Elijah wasn’t already supporting most of his weight, Tristan was afraid would surrender to the gravity.

“Please, Elijah,” he entreated, louder yet still afraid the volume of his voice was insufficient in spite of his lips being mere inches from Elijah’s ear.

“With pleasure.”

Elijah’s reply contained more honesty than he would care to admit. Truth be told, while he was tormenting Tristan, he himself wasn’t spared from torment. This drug was more virile than he had given it credit for and while outside he managed to hold the illusion of serenity, inside it was kicking like a mad horse for release.

Really troublesome.

That was why Elijah had his sired bent over the mahogany table although there was a king-sized bed right in the middle of the suite. The denial of the bed’s comfort would be his punishment for Tristan’s mischief, he had decided the moment the drug’s effect started kicking in.

Tristan’s telltale non-protest to such treatment told Elijah’s that he had at least foreseen it.

Well, all the more reason to give him what he was waiting for.

In contrast to the discomfort one would expect when being pressed to a table, the rigid hard wood somewhat cooled down the heat flaring on Tristan’s forehead and cheeks. Inhaling large gulp of chilled air, he tried to relax his taut muscles while Elijah added the second and third digits, lubricated only by the continuous flow of fresh blood from the bite wound, to hastily loosen Tristan’s tight inner wall for what was to come.

All Tristan’s effort to maintain his regular inhalation went to waste as Elijah withdrew his fingers and penetrated Tristan almost simultaneously. His breathing halted as his brain struggled to accommodate the onslaught of pleasure – even the smallest stimulation was over-amplified when you were a thousand-year-old vampire with the oldest blood heightening your every sense. Above him, Elijah was deadly silent, which pronounced a satisfying truth that he was no less overwhelmed than Tristan due to his Original body at the peak of vampirism: for every sensation Tristan felt he would be affected twofold, meaning a doubled risk of losing himself in his own desires.

When he began to move, the universe seemed to explode under Tristan’s shut eyelids. His arms stretched out, he clawed at the edge of the table with the force of a drowning man getting a hold of wooden plank. A few shallow thrusts at first, explorative in their nature, and then, as he regained his confidence in the territory he hadn’t visited for one fourth of a lifetime, both his strength and speed had a dramatic increase. He penetrated deeply, burying his length to the hilt in order to seek the hidden spot that was the true key to Tristan’s submission. The moment that spot was hit, a considerable chunk of mahogany succumbed to the vampire’s millennium’s worth of strength.

Elijah’s thrusts became almost preternatural in his speed and if Tristan wasn’t too busy gasping for air, he would laugh at the recent memory; whether he was conscious of it or not, his maker seemed serious in making his casual threat a reality – that he would bend Tristan over until he snapped in two. In his roughness Tristan reveled however, for he was certain this treatment was exclusively his. Elijah Mikaelson, ever the gentleman in every manner possible, bedding included; even during the high fever of sex he would retain enough self-restraint to avoid hurting his partner, going painfully against his instinct in the process. Only when being with an equally vicious monster could he be what he truly was.

Tristan intended to reach his orgasm face-down, thus he was caught off-guard when the Original turned him over. Enraptured by what he saw, Tristan decided to discard his obedience in favor of a rebellious act: his legs wrapping around Elijah’s hip for leverage, he lifted his torso up from the table to latch his mouth on Elijah’s artery. Sweet juice filled his mouth courtesy of his unhesitant fangs, while ecstasy was thoroughly pumped around his being. Elijah’s movement went erratic for a moment – surprised by the sneak attack, but he soon resumed his perfect, fast-paced rhythm. His sire was being tolerant, that Tristan believed, and a tolerant Elijah was a non-punishing Elijah, so he let his guard down to indulge himself in his gluttony. That didn’t mean he was utterly shocked as pair of similar canines worrying the jugular vein in his neck.

With no regard to the damage to their bodies, they fed from each other to complete an immaculate circle – draining and to be drained himself. The distinction blurred as there was no telling where Elijah’s blood stopped and Tristan’s flowed, and finally, the anticipated culmination was reached where all scattered pieces came into place.

After decades and countless lovers, they managed to have each other again, the one they deemed their equal.

They found use for the luxurious bed only after the table was ruined and the cream-colored carpet dotted with flecked come and blood. Tristan lied on top of his progenitor, leisurely lapping the blood that was congealed around the bite marks. Elijah allowed him while stroking Tristan’s soft hair with the hand the younger vampire had torn open earlier. Though it had stopped bleeding, the wound hadn’t healed and there was that dull, persistent ache to remind Elijah of the drug.

So strong it was that its effect had triumphed the great magic in an Original vampire.

The sky outside the floor-to-ceiling window was a purplish hue.

“Is it too much for me to ask if you happen to bring any blood bag?”

The rest of his siblings at the compound might not question why he came home in different clothes than when he left but they would be unlikely to miss the smell of blood from open wounds, especially Klaus with his damnable wolf sense. He might not have made it to the blood storage before he was caught in their flurry of questions.

“Why bother for cold instant food while we could have hot meal served to our bed?” answered Tristan, sitting up and reaching for the phone on the bedside table. “Room service,” he mouthed to Elijah and dictated his order into the speaker.

Less than five minutes, the door opened and entered a man of muscular built in waiter vest. He stalked to the bed in response to Tristan’s beckon. With no need for further instruction, he loosened his tie, unbuttoned his collar and rolled up his sleeves.

He looked young and healthy enough to be a delectable meal. The humming of blood inside him was tantalizing to Elijah’s hunger.

“Do inform me beforehand the next time a vampire corporation buys off a five-star hotel in my neighborhood,” Elijah said.

“Only recently,” Tristan answered with a small smile. He was tracing idle patterns on the bulging veins in the man’s wrist. “The view here is extraordinary and I happen to like things ready for my stay, however brief.”

“That certainly solves the issues of shredded closed, inexplicably broken furniture, bizarre item in the drawer, traces of blood all over the carpet and bed sheet…”

“… and perhaps a drained corpse on the floor as well,” Tristan finished for him. “Would you like to join me in this meal, Elijah, my sire?”

Eyes glancing at the man, undoubtedly compelled, then settling on the mischievous curve of Tristan’s lips, Elijah couldn’t find any reason to refuse.

“Well, I’ve never been one to turn down a healthy snack.”



I might have sprinkled a little S&M into this fic. Every time Elijah and Tristan share the screen, their interactions seem to ooze dom-sub vibes, with Elijah, undoubtedly, as the dom. As for Tristan, somehow I keep imagining him as the type who enjoys being dominated (by his superior, no less) and pain kink, which is quite a contradiction to the sadistic man we’ve seen so far. Probably because of his seemingly stoicism.

[Trilijah] Something Never Changed


Disclaimer: Characters belong to their respectful owners

Fandom: The Originals

Rating: T

Pairing: Trilijah – Elijah Mikaelson x Tristan de Martel

Genres: fanfiction, canon divergence, slash

Characters: Elijah Mikaelson, Tristan de Martel, Aya, Marcel Gerard, mention of Niklaus Mikaelson and Lucien Castle

Summary: A missing scene from The Originals 3×03 “I See You in Hell or New Orleans”, written through a fangirl’s perspective

“Mr. Mikaelson and I require the room,” Tristan said, more of an order than a request. “Please, leave us.”

The other vampires made their way out of the room one by one, silently as they had entered. Doubtful, Marcel glanced between the two suited men, who could be easily mistaken for each other if one didn’t look carefully, and couldn’t help the thought that all of Elijah Mikaelson’s ‘friends’ had been created after his own stuffy image. Just look at the lot of them and even the blind could tell! Aya nudged his arm, subtly reminding him that if he didn’t heed Tristan’s request and leave right away, she would love to carry him out herself, limb by limb if she had to.

“Marcellus, please,” Elijah reminded him. “And you would do well to be selective about the company you keep in future.”

“Maybe you should remember who your friends are,” Marcel rebuked, swallowing bile down his throat. “It looks like you’re gonna need them.”

Thus he exited, making damn sure his footsteps were loud enough to grate on a certain Original’s nerves.

The room seemed even larger as now it was only hosting two men.

Eyes flickering between his firstborn’s figure and the room’s fanciful ornaments, Elijah meticulously attended to the task of cleaning his hand with a half-smile hanging in his lips. The smell of Aya’s blood wasn’t particularly welcoming to his nose, unlike the scent of Versace Eros dabbed on the silk handkerchief. He wasn’t planning to return it to its owner.

Elijah merely missed a blink and Tristan had pushed him to the nearest wall. An element of surprise, no more. His lips moved, foreshadowing a smirk, before he traded their places with much less effort than he had garnered to clean his hand. Using his weight and the superiority in his strength, he pinned the other vampire fast against the surface beneath.

“Has time made you forgetful,” Elijah whispered, his lips merely inches from Tristan’s ears and his hand cradling Tristan’s head, “that no matter how long you’ve lived, I am always faster and stronger?”

The hand that was fidgeting Tristan’s breast pocket absent-mindedly dived into his chest. Tristan let out a soft whimper, feeling with painful accuracy each of Elijah’s fingers fondling his heart.

How he missed it, the peculiar eroticism of having his heart literally caught in another’s hand. And it wasn’t just any nameless, lowly green vampire that he looked down with disdain, it was his sire, the one and only in the world whose savage treatment he would welcome with open arms.

“I have not forgotten,” Tristan said, managing a weak smile despite the agony snaking through his nerves, “your grievous habit of ruining people’s attire. This shirt happens to be my favorite.”

“Ever the dandy, aren’t you, Tristan?”

Swift as he had slipped his hand into the other man’s heart, Elijah retracted it. He watched with mild fascination how Tristan’s flesh filled up the hole until there was no trace of the assault save a tear on his dark shirt. Instead of wiping his bloodied fingers using the handkerchief, he brought them to Tristan’s cheek, smearing the pale skin with his caress. When he touched the seam of Tristan’s lips, Tristan opened his mouth and took his index finger in.

“I don’t have time for your game, Tristan,” he said in low voice.

“Do you?”

As though to prove the hollowness in Elijah’s warning, Tristan scraped his protruding fangs against the skin. His sire’s blood was thick like iron and strong as the finest wine. The last time he tasted it, when was it?

He savored every bead rolling on his tongue and intended for more.

Tristan let go of Elijah’s finger once he made sure it was blood-free, and then brought his hand to rest firmly against the nape of Elijah’s neck, mimicking his sire’s gesture. He wasted no second to crash their lips.

The touch of their lips on each other ignited a spark that soon evolved into a great fire to burn down whatever boundary erected by time and distance between the Original and his first sired. They moved in tandem, mouths and hands and every part of their immortal being, basking in their mutual pride that even after all the decades of absence, their body didn’t miss a beat in following the other’s rhythm.

Such was the privilege shared only by an Original and his first child, who inherited from him the pure, virgin blood that forged a physical and spiritual bond unlike any other.

Without breaking the contact, Tristan transferred them both to the nearest couch, and this time, Elijah allowed himself to be maneuvered. A perk of being powerful vampires was that they were able to land rather gracefully on the couch’s surface considering they invested only a third of their minds into the movement. Another perk was the ability to refrain breathing if the situation required.

This was one such situation.

Their lips glistened with blood when they broke the contact at last. Elijah reclined on the couch while Tristan sank down between his long limbs.

“The proud lord Tristan de Martel on his knees. Such a sight I sorely missed.”

One hand placed firmly on Elijah’s thigh while the other tracing patternless shapes up along the seam of his trousers, Tristan said, “Not as much as what I intended to give my sire, if I dare voice my mind.”

His wandering hand halted where it was a tad too close to Elijah’s desire, already excited by the kiss, the blood and the ministrations. “A shame,” Tristan lamented.

“What sort of trick are you having up your sleeve this time, Tristan?” asked Elijah, lifting Tristan’s chin. “Waltzing into my city unannounced with your flock of sycophants tailing behind and having your lapdog Aya fraternize with none other than Marcel Gerard?”

“In other circumstances I suppose I’d say that it was a fervent desire to see my sire that drove me here, those ‘sycophants’ merely for providing service,” Tristan replied, a smile that wasn’t quite a smile forming at his lips.

“It wasn’t?”

“I do wish to see you, yearn for your sight even, though I believe we have a more urgent matter at hand.” A brief pause, and then he said in a grim tone, “Your life is at stake, Elijah. As are mine, Aya’s and every single one’s that is linked to yours.”

Elijah’s respond was a small curve of his lips. “Now the lord Tristan has known fear.”

“You’ve no doubt heard about the war between the sire lines.”

“If you mean the one-thousand-year squabble between you and Lucien, rest assured that Niklaus is on his way to erase our collective misery out of the picture.”

Tristan’s stoic expression shifted and he stood up straight. “By all means, Elijah, please make your brother stay his hand.”

Elijah made it in time to preserve Lucien’s life. Niklaus looked pissed, as he always did when his brother asked him to stay his murderous hand, but Elijah knew him long enough to extract a huge relief from his scowls – destroying his firstborn was the last resort he didn’t wish to utilize.

Could the same be said about Elijah?

On the black card with an owl painting was Tristan’s neat script.

Tonight. 9:30. Windsor Court Hotel.

With a smirk, Elijah dipped the card into his pocket, hearing in his ears Tristan’s sultry whisper before he left the place. “Allow me a chance to pay proper homage to my sire.”

Sire line war or not, something never changed after all these years.


A little tribute to the awesomeness of the third episode as well as the launching of Trilijah ship.

My original idea was more smutty but I changed my mind – if they had done the smutty thing, Lucien’s death might have been a foregone conclusion. Better save the smut for later.

I unconsciously slipped in a bit of Klucien.

There’s a sequel: Proper Homage

One Tiny Problem – Extra 4

Disclaimer : Characters belong to their respectful owners

Fandom : The Originals

Rating : K+

Pairing : Kolijah – Elijah Mikaelson x Kol Mikaelson (sort of)

Genres : fanfiction, alternate universe, humor, fluff

Characters: Freya Mikaelson, Elijah Mikaelson, Klaus Mikaelson, Rebekah Mikaelson, Kol Mikaelson, Hope Mikaelson and many others

Summary: An AU in which Kol is resurrected by Freya, in the form of… a baby.

Inspired by whatevenkol’s idea and given permission to write this story



Sometimes Elijah could not help but wonder, with a wary sense of apprehension, how much Kol remembered of his past life. Or lives, if you counted his brief days possessing the young witch Kaleb.

Freya told them that Kol’s mind had been blissfully adjusted to his physical form, meaning he would think, behave and most importantly, remember as a child and not as an ancient vampire, but even she, the caster of the spell, couldn’t be doubtless.

There were moments they caught her gazing at their brother, her eyes filled with unvoiced worry. The older Kol got – from a baby to a toddler and then a playful child that ran around the compound with preternatural speed – the more frequent and longer Freya’s mute gaze became.

It would be best if his mind had a total reboot – a pristine blank page eager to absorb the events of his reincarnated life – and matured according to his age, free and unperverted by the bloody phantoms of centuries past, but it was just too bright a scenario. One thing they knew for sure was nature had a way to mess with unnatural existences, and what was Kol’s but an unnatural existence?

Klaus, being Klaus, was the first to propose a memory-swipe as a safe measure: who knew when the old memories could surface and what havoc they would wreck on Kol’s mind. They could drive him mad – madder than his lunatic old self – and they could destroy him. Although practical and arguably what they had all thought at one point or another, his proposal was met with fiery objections from Elijah and Rebekah, at times their arguments culminating in violent blows – flesh cut open, blood spilled and countless pieces of furniture trashed, and still their issue remained. It fell on Freya to put an end to their dispute, claiming that there was no spell for such a wide and thorough memory wipeout, as the mind was sacrosanct and any small, careless act could lead to catastrophic consequences.

“We wait and see,” she concluded and so, they held their breath as each day passed and their baby brother grew bigger and bigger.

It was proven that the young Kol had much to surprise his siblings.

“Rebekah, tell me how handsome I am!”

They were scattering in the living room, one of the few quiet and peaceful moments of their tumultuous existence, doing whatever they desired or just simply passing the time when Kol rushed down the stairs with his peculiar demand.

The familiarity of the words as well as the gleeful tone gave them all a jolt.

Unaware of the tidal wave he had just brought down his siblings, Kol grinned from ear to ear as he showed them a black-and-white photograph.

The Christmas in 1914, they were throwing a party to celebrate, when Klaus and Elijah once again put Kol in a magic-induced sleep that had lasted to present day.

Their shared thought was that memory fragment had returned to Kol, and it invoked a chilling talon hooking to their spines.

“Bekah?” Kol asked, waving his hand in front of his dazed-eyed sister. “Nik? ‘Lijah? What’s with the sudden silence?”

“Where did you find it?” Elijah asked, glancing sideway at Klaus. He thought they had hidden it well; now he regretted that they hadn’t incinerated it, along with a few trinkets left behind by the old Kol. It was just photographs of their brother were so rare that he couldn’t bear to destroy any of them, especially one that had captured their scarce, precious moment as a family.

Kol looked perplexed for a second. “I found it at the bottom of the drawer. Who hid it so carefully and come to think about it, why didn’t you show it to me before?”

“Do you,” asked Rebekah with badly concealed hesitance, “remember anything that happened after this photo was taken?”

Scratching his head, Kol replied, “Not really. Am I supposed to remember anything important? I know this was I the moment I laid eyes on this figure but… that’s as far as I know. Anything else’s a big fat zero to me.”

The siblings exchanged a look that spoke volume of their relief. Were Kol not within sight, they might let out a lengthy exhale.

“Of course you looked handsome,” Rebekah said, gazing at the black-and-white Kol. “If I had to rake my brain I still couldn’t find a moment you didn’t. The dashing rouge as many said.”

“Strange, I kind of expected you would say something like you couldn’t be compelled. Say, will I look like this photo in ten years’ time?”

“Only if you had your veggies, Kol,” Klaus quipped. “And go to bed early. Otherwise your height will be stunted and you’ll end up a dwarf.”

“No way!” Kol yelped. “I looked at least the same height as you, Nik, maybe even taller!”

His rebuke elicited a few chuckles from Rebekah. “That’s because Nik refused to go to bed early, isn’t that right, Elijah?”

“How could you know that this was you?”

Kol fiddled with the photograph in his hands as he clearly struggled to answer Elijah’s out-of-the-blue question.

“I… have no idea, honestly. When I looked at it, it was some sort of nostalgia dabbled at my brain… like I definitely saw this scene before, and was in it. It’s hard to describe. I just know. Plus, I saw you, Nik and Bekah in there.”

Klaus and Rebekah didn’t even realize they subconsciously holding their breath as Elijah voiced their collective anxiety, “You don’t question why you used to be all grown up but now you’re a ten-year-old?”

“‘Lijah, you’re playing Sherlock with me or something?” Kol laughed. “I don’t remember any of this, true, but I do recall it was my choice, well, the old-me’s choice to be more exact.”

“The old-you?” Rebekah echoed.

“The old-me was a lunatic so I really can’t complain.”

Turning to Elijah, he asked, “But I’m good, right, ‘Lijah?”

“When aren’t you?”

“Except when you turned all his suits into T-shirts and jeans.”

Feigning ignorance to Nik’s comment, Kol beamed brightly. “You said if I’m good, you’ll take me to movies, don’t forget that. Now I’m going to show Hope this awesome photo.”

He ran off once he finished his sentence, leaving behind his bewildered siblings.

“Who invented this spell was a bloody genius,” Rebekah commented. “We’ve been worrying over nothing.”

While Klaus found himself nodding in agreement, muttering “Crisis averted,” Elijah had yet to let go off his frown.

Was it really nothing?

He knew it wasn’t; nevertheless, he kept that burden of a secret to himself.

This was not the first time Kol had alarmed him with fragments of resurfaced memory.

“‘Lijah, why father keeps making me practice sword? I don’t like sword.”

On the wall the grandfather clock ticked 3 o’clock when Kol appeared at the door of Elijah’s room. With snots running from his nose, Kol’s tear-stained face dealt a sharp blow to Elijah’s heart. He rushed to Kol, kneeling in front of the boy. “Tell me what’s wrong, Kol.”

“Father makes me practice sword. I don’t want to, but father’s so angry. Father will hit me. Father beats Nik so hard,” Kol cried.

A whole different kind of pain was lodged into Elijah’s chest. A déjà vu, no, a memory that was so cold it chilled him from the inside out. On some night a thousand year ago, Kol came to him and clung to his neck, muttering these same words with the same frightened expression on his young face.

“Why’s your hand so cold, ‘Lijah?”

“Where did you see Mikael? Did he come to you?”

There was no way Mikael could come back, wasn’t it? Klaus had seen to it when he drove the White Oak stake through their father’s heart years ago. The second time.

“Father’s in my dream. He’s so angry, ‘Lijah. I’m so scared.”

“It’s alright,” Elijah hushed. “He can’t hurt you now. He isn’t here anymore. I am.”

He wiped Kol’s face clean with his handkerchief and hugged him tight.

“But if I close my eyes, I’ll see him again. Can I stay with you, ‘Lijah?”

Another bout of shock hit Elijah, for this was the exact sentence the Kol of the past had said to him. Just how much memory Kol had regained, or he merely spoke them out, unaware that the structure, the words had been long imprinted in his mind which was not young as he thought.

And, like the fifteen-year-old human Elijah of the past, Elijah of today could not refuse his crying and afraid little brother. The words came out of his mouth were, he was acutely aware, the same words he had spoken millions nights past.

“Of course you can stay with me,” he assured Kol, picking the four-year-old boy up with ease. “Father will not come to you now that I’m here. I won’t allow to him to lay a hand on you.”

Tucked in and safe in his brother’s embrace, Kol was soon lulled into a peaceful sleep while Elijah wasn’t granted the same favor. He laid awake all night, listening to the rhythm of Kol’s heartbeats gradually coming to a serene pattern.

Those were music to his ears.

Since that night, Kol had made it a habit to sneak to Elijah’s room whenever to he felt the need to be enveloped in his brother’s warmth. Mikael rarely visited his dreams again, which was blissful news not only to Elijah but also to the rest of them, and taking his place was Boogeyman, Big Foot and a litany of monsters lurking under the bed that the young, imaginative minds of children were able to conjure to keep them from their sleeps. Klaus had laughed his ass off, Freya sniggered and Rebekah teased him mercilessly, yet still Kol held onto his childish fears, believing with a fervor that those monsters were far scarier than his hybrid, vampire and witch siblings. Elijah, being the big brother that cosseted Kol, said nothing of the matter as he allowed Kol to his room whenever the boy wanted.

Still, if only it was imaginative monsters that Kol feared.

There was yet another incident that Elijah didn’t dare to tell Niklaus and Rebekah.

It was a night unlike any other nights, when Kol, not bothering that his thundering footsteps might wake the entire household, ran to Elijah’s room. His eyes were red and puffy, and his face crumpled in a grimace that immediately jammed a stake in Elijah’s heart.

“Why was I on fire, ‘Lijah?” Kol sobbed. “Why did my chest hurt so?”

Later, Elijah would begrudge himself for not being able to grasp what Kol was trying to tell him that instance. He hadn’t been there the day the old Kol died. Hadn’t even been remotely near. And if he tried to pinpoint where exactly he had been, the answer came out a grievous shame. He, the supposed big brother, indulged in the carnal pleasures with the serpentine beauty Katerina for his own selfish desires while Kol had been gruesomely murdered. An alone, painful and meaningless death that could have been averted had he been there for his little brother.

He hugged the young Kol, squeezing the small body as if trying to apologize without words. “A scary dream, Kol, a nightmare,” he whispered, “don’t be afraid.”

“It’s not a dream, ‘Lijah! It felt so real.”

“But it wasn’t,” he said, picking Kol up and carrying him to the bed. “It is no more. Stay with me. You’ll be alright. You’ll be safe. I promise.”

Next he was singing, humming to be exact, a wordless lullaby their mother used to hum when a young one was awaken by nightmare. The magic was in the tune itself, not the singer, she said, and never before Elijah so wished it would work.

Some day I’ll tell you all, he promised the sleeping Kol. Everything that happened, every right and every wrong. Provided that you haven’t remembered them first.

The next morning Kol woke up without a sliver of memory of his nightmare.

(To be continued. Maybe.)



One Tiny Problem – Extra 3

Disclaimer : Characters belong to their respectful owners

Fandom : The Originals

Rating : K+

Pairing : Kolijah – Elijah Mikaelson x Kol Mikaelson (sort of)

Genres : fanfiction, alternate universe, humor, fluff

Characters: Freya Mikaelson, Elijah Mikaelson, Klaus Mikaelson, Rebekah Mikaelson, Kol Mikaelson, Hope Mikaelson and many others

Summary: An AU in which Kol is resurrected by Freya, in the form of… a baby.

Inspired by whatevenkol’s idea and given permission to write this story



“Hello,” Freya greeted the tall figure standing some feet away from her. “Long time no see, little brother.”

The thin veil of fog surrounding the two of them hindered her from truly seeing his face, but from her memory of their brief encounter, Freya knew it inch by inch. A boyishly handsome visage, adorned by dark eyes gleaming with much more than a hint of harmless mischief, and a devil-may-care smirk. How many young witches’ hearts had grown fonder with that particular curve of his lips, she wondered.

“Still handsome as I remember.”

He closed the distance between them until he was within her arm’s reach and she could touch him if she so desired.

“And you, still gorgeous as my memory of you,” he said, winking. “Freya, isn’t it? I saw the way you put Nik in his place. His hybrid arse needs a good kicking from time to time. If I weren’t dead nor were you my eldest sister, I would date you already.”

She laughed a gleeful laughter that rang like silver bell, and pinched his nose. He felt like water and silk to her fingertips, ethereal and unreal. “We almost dated back in 1914, remember?”

“Oh, what a shame,” he groaned. “You were the loveliest among the young witches and the one girl that gave me the coldest shoulder I had ever met. That made me want you all the more.”

“One, your wooing skills need honing and two, that’s because I knew you were my little brother.”

“Our family, though horrible, sure possess some excellent genes, is that how they say it in this era?”

“Ready to be returned to those sharing your ‘excellent genes’, little brother?”

Dying for it, big sis. You have no idea how boring it is here,” he quipped. “Where’s Bekah in all of this? Didn’t she promise to bring me back?”

“You have to excuse our sister, Kol,” said Freya. “She’s basically a baby witch while magic is much complicated. Now, take my hands. Think about the form you want to have.”

“Oh, wait, do I have a choice?”

“A teenage boy, a young man, a middle-aged, even a baby. Nevertheless, if you chose to be a child, I must warn you that your mentality might undergo a few… adjustments.”

“A baby with a thousand-year-old mind,” he laughed, “imagine the chaos. I think I have made up my mind, Freya, but first I beg you a favor.”

“I’m listening.”

“Whatever choice I’ll make, please keep it a secret from our siblings.”

She stared at him, then blinked. Cupping his face in her hands, she said, “Why do I have a hunch that I won’t be seeing this cute face for a while?”

His larger hands easily enveloped hers. The water-silk feeling again. “That shall be our clandestine affair. Pinky swear?”

“I promise you, but do keep in mind that once the spell’s done, it is absolutely irreversible,” she whispered, though there was a tiny knot forming in her left chest. She tried to shake it off, focusing instead on Kol’s fingers on her, and mumbled the final verse of the spell, reserved only for this phrase.

“Thank you, big sis.”

His lips on her cheek felt like the touch of a feather. Kol’s face disintegrated…

… and formed the beaming face of a child.

The sudden weight on her laps broke Freya out of her reverie. A small hand hovered before her eyes.

“Freya, are you snoozing?”

She caught the hand and gave the boy her best glare, which was endearingly nicknamed ‘the old witch glare’ by none other than the little devil. “I am not snoozing. I’m reminiscing.”

“That’s what Nik says when he’s snoozing,” the boy rebuked.

Freya pinched his nose. “Don’t talk back to your big sis, Kol, or this old witch will punish you.”

She took notice of huge blotches of mud on his tank tops, his reversed cap and the smudges across his cheeks. “What have you done all morning?”

Kol gestured to the baseball bat he had placed on the bench beside Freya. “Elijah and I played baseball. I won and he’s gone to me buy ice cream.”

Freya arched an eyebrow. “He must have gone easy on you, again?”

“Unfortunately, this time the little devil truly beat me.”

Elijah flashed to the bench where Freya and Kol were sitting, balancing three big ice cream cones in his hands. His signature dark suit was absent in favor of a loose T-shirt (blissfully much cleaner than Kol’s), washed jeans and a brightly colored baseball cap identical to Kol’s.

“Ice cream!” Kol cried and leapt out of Freya’s laps, attacking the chocolate chipped ice cream.

“Mint or strawberry?”

“Mint, please,” Freya answered and received her choice treat. “You bought one for me, too?”

Elijah sat next to his sister, while their little brother snuggled in between them. “Because I knew Kol would run to you first thing and brag about his triumph.”

“So this is tribute to the victor?”

“Elijah also promised me the Spiderman figure, too,” Kol reminded his brother, dripping ice cream from his mouth onto the front of his tank top.

“I haven’t forgotten.” Elijah ruffed his hair through the cap. “Mind your manners, Kol,” he chided. “Don’t talk with your mouth full. Where’re the others, Freya?”

“Hayley went to the bayou to check on her wolves, Finn, to Vincent’s river cottage and I, the barber’s,” a voice chimed in. They did not have to guess whose it was.

Klaus appeared next to a nearby tree, arms crossing and his hair significantly shorter than they remembered, which was mere few hours ago. “No ice cream for me?” he asked teasingly.

Seeing both Elijah and Kol giving Klaus’s new hairstyle a funny look, Freya breathed a laugh. “Hope gave him a hair makeover. With magic, a lot of tiny braids and beads. Nik didn’t like his daughter’s styling.”

Elijah and Kol both sniggered, earning an exasperated huff from Klaus. “That’s why she went to give Rebekah one instead.”

“We express sincerest condolences for your lost, Niklaus,” Kol said in his most Elijah-like tone, using Elijah-like vocabulary and holding out his half-finished ice cream cone.

“Now Kol here only needs a few dark suits to complete his transformation into a mini-Elijah.” Casting a swift glance to his older brother, Klaus added, “Or Elijah to discard his trademark suits, which I see he has already done.”

“Courtesy of the one and only Kol Mikaelson,” Elijah mock-sighed.

“I heard you defeated Elijah.”

Kol nodded while finishing the last bit of his cone.

“Well, you may have bested Elijah with his old, brittle bones, but do you dare to take the big bad wolf’s challenge? Win and I’ll buy you all the ice cream you want in New Orleans.”

Elijah was about to protest, saying something about too much ice cream being detrimental to their little brother’s teeth (hybrid’s or not) when said little brother had sprung to his feet with his bat in hand. “Game on,” he enthusiastically announced.

“Let’s race to the yard, shall we?”

And then, faster than a blink, the two had disappeared out of sight.

“Sometimes I have a feeling that we are spoiling Kol,” he sighed, half-heartedly disguising it as a complain in hope that his eldest sister was sharing his concern.

She wasn’t.

“I see both you and Niklaus are trying to make amends for the tumultuous time you had with the old Kol. Still, I believe it’s a designated part of an older sibling’s nature to spoil their younger ones. Had I grown up with you, I would have been the same.”

“I seriously doubt it was in Finn; still, I do remember mother telling me again and again how excited you were to have more brothers and sisters.”

“Were you the same?”

“I was afraid, to be honest,” Elijah chuckled. “I was still too young when Niklaus was born so I didn’t feel, or have to do much, but when Kol came, I was old enough to help around the house. I panicked every time mother told me to pick him up. So scared by the thought that I might drop him that I strained every muscle to keep him in my arms. He must have been uncomfortable.”

“Yet Niklaus said you were the only one that could pacify Kol when he was disturbed?”

Elijah smiled a sheepish smile. “Kol was a… difficult child, who could cry for hours for no definite reason; however, I got a lot of practice as father had to work while mother took care of the various chores and Finn helped her…”

“… and Kol bit Niklaus every time he touched him,” she finished the sentence for him.

“Or wailed loudly, invoking father’s wrath. So looking after the baby brother became my exclusive duty. By the time of Rebekah’s and Henrik’s arrivals, I had gotten better; nevertheless, it was with Kol that I learned to be a big brother. Now I get to relive that experience, thanks to that peculiar turn of event. Expandable diapers and formula helped a great deal.”

“They both look up to you, the old and the new Kol. Not Finn, not Niklaus but you.”

Elijah shook his head ruefully. “Many a time I had failed him, I’m afraid.”

“You have not failed this new Kol,” Freya said, putting her hand on his, “While all of us were confused about baby Kol, you were resolute to raise him.”

“It was either kill him or go with the situation, and the former was never an option. Perhaps it was also because of my selfish desire to have a child. My envy at Niklaus for having Hope.”

“Be it envy or desire, it makes you more than just Kol’s brother. Trust me, you have not failed Kol, and you will not.”

“Aside from reducing him to a hybrid baby?”

Freya could not help a laugh. “It wasn’t something he didn’t want.”

Elijah squinted his eyes.

“Is there something you have kept from us?”

“Don’t let Niklaus’s paranoia infect you,” Freya laughed. “I knew Kol back in 1914, remember? Kol sure loved having late-night rendezvous with witches and not knowing who I was, he chose me to be his confidant.”

“For a long time I believed Kol hated us all, those siblings that betrayed him again and again.”

“He was angry, at times furious, yet he never hated you. The only thing he kept complaining about was your ‘stuffy’ manners and your choice of attire.”

“That certainly explained why he turned my entire wardrobe into T-shirts, tank tops and washed jeans–”

“You don’t look so bad in them.”

“Your kind words are much appreciated, sister,” he said. “I still have a strong need to ravage the shops in New Orleans however. Do you care to join me?”

“To help you choose which shade of dark suits you should buy a dozen? That’s Gia’s profession. I would rather help Hope with Rebekah’s hair.”

“Promise me you will not let our sister’s hair suffer the same fate as Niklaus’s.”

Elijah spoke in his most solemn tone, using his most solemn express, which caused Freya to burst into laughter.

“All right,” she promised. “Perhaps when you return, our niece would love to give you a hair makeover also.”

When Freya left her cozy spot on the bench, having enough of her idle time with the warm sun, she stood and made her way to the yard. Klaus and Kol were still playing, the level of their attention rivaling that of professionals in a heated match. Both had made it their cause not to lose to their brother.

There were many a time when Freya questioned Kol’s decision and her promise made to him in that limbo state; nevertheless, every time she saw that big grin and those shining eyes, all her doubts were vanquished.

She winked at Kol when his gaze accidentally directed to her before continuing her way into the house. She had a sister to rescue from her niece.

(To be continued. Maybe.)