'why do you think you withheld speech?'

Divine Intervention

Words: 3211

Summary: After returning to Mystic Falls following the death of your parents, you’ve spent years unknowingly living amongst the supernatural secrets carefully hidden from you by Elena, Jeremy and their friends. But when you come home early and interrupt their plan to kill Kol Mikaelson, everything changes.

Tags: (no smut) holding hands, carrying, straddling, crying, angst, soft dominance, intimate touching, Stockholm syndrome (fun fact, it’s not an official mental health diagnosis)

A/N: despite writing in second person singular, I still gave the character a name (Aria) because I dislike writing Y/N, I hope it’s no problem! (also it’s a bit rushed sorry)

Kol Mikaelson x Fem!Reader

“All cruelty springs from weakness”

Klaus Mikaelson x Fem!OC

Word count: 3528

Summary: It’s the 1700s, Klaus and Countess Julia Stewart meet properly at a festival after her father had mysteriously died.

warnings: non-con elements, loss of virginity, animalistic pounding, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, rough sex, semi-public sex, dryhumping

Read on AO3

“But then the sun came up and reality set in.” - E

“Trust me, Elena. Some things are best left buried.” - K

Kol Mikaelson x Elena Gilbert

Word count: 3451

Summary: Elena plans to awaken a family member of Klaus after he had killed her aunt, Jenna Sommers, in the hybrid sacrifice. Despite knowing that neither Stefan nor Damon would approve of such, she independently makes herself on the way to find Kol Mikaelson and seek revenge.

Read on AO3

Klaus was not a beast meant to be tamed.

The night Aunt Jenna had died confirmed that and every other belief Elena had cultivated over the years. Creatures of the night were trouble that followed your footsteps the moment they smelled weakness, or leverage.

She usually tended to be leverage.

They took, then reveled in your ruin perpetuated by their very own hands.

Elena was so tired. Tired beyond words.

But most of all, she was tired of playing Mary Sue, like she would not even allow herself to enter grey zone. Sick of getting reduced to a pathetic, crying mortal who still believed in good.

When she placed a single rose on her aunt’s grave, her fingers started tracing the engraving with feather-light touch as if she feared it would fall apart like everything else did. Her life. Her family. Her future.

All gone.

And so, she gave up on her last shred of hope. Hope that all could be good with a mere olive branch. It couldn’t.

She had to fight back. Unethically, immorally, in the grey zone— she did not care. What now mattered, after all, was her. Self-preservation kicked in last moment, but she was thankful it kicked in at all before her foolish suicide mission had succeeded.

It took longer than expected. Finding someone on Klaus’ level. Old entries from witches and other supernatural creatures were scattered around her room, piling up like questions whether this was a good idea or not. She ignored her doubts, having long since come up with an excuse— it was the angel on her shoulder playing tricks on her, whispering sweet promises that if she ceased this change of heart, peace would reign on its own. The angel who used to conquer all other senses, now using the last of its strength to stay seated where it once belonged.

It all came down to one name; Kol Mikaelson

This must be it. It had to be.

She read an entry from an unknown person, presumably a witch from his time, with brain-racking scrutiny. Once the Gilbert had decoded the overly cursive handwriting on the crumpled piece of paper, the story became clear.

It circled back to 1914. A weapon strong enough to put Klaus down. Required witches. And the emissaries were instructed by someone called, as mentioned before, Kol Mikaelson.

She jotted down the notes quickly, underlining the name twice.

Truth be told, she was petrified of what she would be met with. The only person she had told about this reckless scheme of hers was her best-friend, Bonnie. Bonnie, the one who had helped her with the entries and with finding the coffins, thanks to her location spell, Elena still refused any help when it came to the expedition. Partly because she wanted to prove she could be independent. That Lewis could have done it without Clark.

It was an underground facility when she entered the unfamiliar territory. The lights dimmed a heavy warm tone, some brighter than the others. She reached into her pocket to take one last look at the picture of what seemed to be a family gathering of the dysfunctional family that is the Mikaelsons back in the 20th century.

One might think his face would've been plastered in her mind with the amount of times she tucked her head behind the paper with torn edges, eyes zeroing in on the youngest brother. But her mind continuously replaced his face with Elijah’s, the shared features on their faces misleading her.

Her eyes seemed to burn through the soulless, thick sheet, like they were glued onto it as the thought of everything bad that would come crashing onto her passed like a warning.

She ignored it.

The click of her boots echoed through the hollow place, taking in the scene before realizing she stood before a coffin. Breathe, Elena. Breathe. With the last output of air, she reached the edge with trembling hand, hovering there for a moment. To her fortune —or misfortune — it was the right one. On the first try as well, as though fate had already sealed itself with no chances to backtrack.

He looked desiccated, no sugarcoating that. Lack of saturation and his dry, statue-like skin confirmed her prejudice. He looked the same as he did in the picture.

Same suit. Same perfectly styled hair, glued back like a traditional man. Like a younger version of Elijah.

A soft smile tugged on her lips at the similarity before her gaze drifted to the dagger, plunged right in the young man’s chest. She had undaggered the noble Original before, odds put aside, so why was she scared now? Her heart thumped against her ribs like a bird begging to be set free from a cage and the angel whispered in her ear again, the coo woven with honey and faux benevolence. Come on, Elena. We both know this is anything but a good idea. Let's go home.

Her palm closed in around the dagger, the sound sharp and resonating across the entire room as she drew it out. Then, she put it aside hastily as the strip of her backpack slipped from her one shoulder, supported by her thigh. Her nerves were all over the place, yet it didn’t stop her from managing to take out a blood bag and remove the cover.

She jumped when his eyes snapped open.

Focus on the mission, Elena.

Her right hand cupped his face aside from the fact it shook violently against his stone-hard cheek, feeding him blood with the other hand firmly squeezing the bag.

The blood painted color to his face, trailing deeper his body just the way an artist would bring unfinished art to life. With a grip as tight as a vice, he grabbed her wrist, pulling her closer until he was certain she is what he hoped for — fresh blood, foolish girl.

“Wait.” She breathed out, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m here to help.”

The scene changed abruptly, the Gilbert now pressed against a wall while Kol held her around the throat. Not enough to cut off all air, but to bruise. “If it isn’t Katherine Pierce.” He growled, his anger simmering beneath those ancient irises.

“No—No, I’m Elena Gilbert.” She choked out, her plea scraping against her throat. “A descendant. Doppelgänger.”

Kol, the paranoid vampire he had a proclivity to be, wasn’t so easily convinced by her half-assed explanation. Until instincts flared when the sweet smell of human blood dominated his senses, his eyes darkening with hunger. He parted his lips enough so Elena would catch a glimpse of his elongated fangs. Then—

“Interesting.” He muttered quietly before reclaiming his usual arrogant tone. “I personally have never given in to the doppelgänger allure, but this is bloody interesting.”

A relieved sigh evaded Elena’s lips when he loosened his grip, his tall frame still looming over her shivering body. “Are you Kol Mikaelson?”

“In the flesh. Now why, pray tell, have I been undaggered by an uncanny resemblance of the infamous Petrova line?”

“I… I need your help.”

He hummed non-committally, stepping closer to budge her to a more precise elaboration.

Warily, she reproached. “Do… do you mind telling me what you last remember? Anything to do with Klaus?“

“My bastard of a brother plunging a dagger in my chest with active aid of another one.” He smirked devilishly, a tender sin. His mirth cold from afar but the quiet rage boiling inside with a promise that if you leaned in close enough, it would burn you.

“Right. Yes— I’ve read the entries. 1914, was it? Wow, I… it’s been a century. Almost.”

“Cut to the chase, love.” He demanded softly.

“I need your help putting Klaus down. I know you had a weapon potent enough.” She breathed heavily, her imploring eyes searching for his as if they would provide the answers she needed.

“A century, you say?”

“It’s 2011.”

“Bloody hell.” He snapped his head sideways and hissed, keeping his teeth gritted. Slowly, he averted his gaze to her. Unreadable. His eyes narrowed, too suspicious to be mere amusement. “And why do you think I would help you, darling?”

“Please.” She breathed out, tears threatening to fall. She shook her head, stammering. “It will end his tyranny once and for all.”

He looked at her with a derisive gaze. “You want to be reprieved of his incessant torment, is what you are implying?”

“Reprieved— yes.” She sniffed.

“That’s naive of you.”

“Optimistic and naive are not synonymous.” She swallowed the witty comment instantly with a regrettable expression, waiting for his reaction. Even the air seemed to lean towards them, eager to witness his response.

He smiled at that, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Lead the way, mortal.”

The walk back home wasn’t how she’d expected it at all. Neither did it correspond to his expectations. It was the usual, for Kol, consisting of terms of endearment, flirty remarks and a mutual vengeance for Niklaus. Kol listened intently when Elena, the initially shaking-in-her-boots human now softening to his presence, told him about her incentive to her Modus operandi, though judging by first glance, wasn’t a very characteristic MO of her. He had gathered the essence of it, which was her reaching her absolute limit with vampires sneaking into her life and sashaying away after bringing it agonizingly slow to its ruin.

“Well, I suppose that makes me an exception.” He concluded, still in step beside her.

“You might be the first vampire I ushered into my life instead of sneaking inside yourself.” She agreed, a small smile tugging on her lips. “You know, you look a lot like your brother, Elijah.”

“He and I never really had much in common besides our dashing good looks. He’d much rather make a false pretense of being virtuous, only to assist the beast of our family to put me in a slumber.”

“For a century.” She murmured, sinking her gaze. He noticed the way she tensed. And she knew he noticed. If she were to be honest, she felt a little guilty she saw the most good in Elijah out of all the others, so much so that she’d always trusted him enough to be the first Original undaggered by her. Another procedure she’d gone through without the Salvatores’ permission. Another treason she committed for an Original. She was now a self-proclaimed connoisseur in this invented domain of hers.

“For a century.” He reaffirmed, watching her closely for any advances she would dare make. Not that she would succeed in them, but a guy had to be careful. Or paranoid, as others would describe it. He opened his hand suddenly.

“What?” She looked at his open hand, then back to his face.

“Can’t figure it out on your own, love? I’ve been daggered for a century, surely you have another blood bag in there.”

She sighed, stopping in her tracks and sliding the straps down her shoulders. “No offense, but this is your seventh bag.” She looked at him while zipping the backpack open.

“I’m an insatiable creature. Rest assured you’ll get used to it.” He grabbed the blood bag from her, bringing it to his lips. As they fell into steps again, she observed—

“You’re saying that as if we’re going to work together.”

“Aren’t we?” He threw the empty plastic bag away in the woods, evoking an exasperated sigh from the human girl. His almost-smirk made a scandalous comeback when she bent over to pick it up.

“Not long enough to get used to a vampire’s tendencies, I hope.” She held his gaze, steady and with a warning. Keep your eyes to yourself. “Eyes on the path, Mikaelson.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And there is this thing called recycling.”

“I’ll adapt to this century later. For now, we’re Lewis and Clark.”

She let out a mirthful sound, something between a scoff and a chuckle. How ironic, the comparison.

Days bled into weeks, and yet no trace of a particularly psychotic Original and the it-girl of Mystic Falls roaming the night together lingered. Not because they were careful not to awaken the night with their hushed, planned-out approach to impale his brother with a perfectly fabricated and potent dagger, but mainly because no one suspected such treachery. Neither from Elena nor from someone who is supposed to be dead— well, asleep.

Elena had told Bonnie the operation was a dead end and made her believe the usually dedicated doppelgänger had long given up. In the meantime, Elena’s friends used the last of their blood, sweat and tears to find a weapon against the hybrid, unaware that she was already two steps ahead.

The two hovered over a table in Kol's shady hotel room he had rented for a few days, only to eventually compel the scrawny man at the register to extend his stay with no further questions or complaints. Of course, a creature like him with abilities like mind control could have compelled himself a mansion built in the span of three days, but Kol was not a moron.

Currently, he had resided, even if temporarily, in a small, backwater town where his brother, who believed Kol was locked in a coffin, could visit anytime. Klaus outperformed his younger brother in the domain that is paranoia, and Kol could not afford risking another dagger in his heart when Klaus' intuition stirred an uneasy feeling that the newest doppelgänger stupidly awakened the wily Mikaelson.

"You look like you're in dire need of sleep, darling." The Mikaelson assumed with the usual swagger that is entirely his.

Elena nodded clinically and bit her lower lip, the kind of manners, as Kol had observed, she displayed whenever something has been bothering her. "It's not like my ex boyfriend is running about somewhere with your psycho of a brother and Damon has practically given up on saving Stefan." She listed the problems that had been gnawing at the very core of her being for some time now. "And it's not like I have to sneak out of my house every second night just to plan a futile assasination." She added with hesitation.

He sighed softly at that, eyes darting the New Orleans map. "Don't be pessimistic now, love. I have found a witch that can help us. And as for the place," He paused, stepping beside her. "I'm being careful, as you wished."

"A witch? A Clarice witch?" She asked and tilted her head to lock eyes with his, her brows furrowed with a dumbfounded manner. The transformation from desperation to hope flickering through her eyes made something stir in him.

"Claire," he corrected "and yes. I have found a Claire witch, capable of putting down a common enemy." His smirk broadened like it always did— lazily, drawling.

"Way to rekindle the flame." She smiled, soft and grounded, though her heart danced excitedly at the promise of payback.

"Are you the flame?" He cocked an eyebrow, eyes glinting with mischief.

"I'm not falling for your trap, you have a tendency to twist my words and use them as a cue to flirt without shame."

"It appears we have worked long enough together for you to grow used to my tendencies." The edge of his curved lips softened just a tiny sliver, and yet it caused a humiliating flip in Elena Gilbert's stomach that had nothing to do with elation for revenge. "I promise you, darling, we'll plot our next moves in your room. Spare you the danger of walking alone at night."

She let out a soft chuckle, shaking her head. "Too intimate." But there was no real bite to the rejection. “Damon will catch us.”

"Then let us be damned."

The night the sky painted beautiful hues of midnight blue and the stars were as clear as diamonds, the female Gilbert stepped out of the bathroom in nothing but a lilac tank top and shorts.

Without looking clearly, she let out a weary huff. “I’m tired, Damon.” She iterated while picking up discarded socks from the day before.

A British accent suddenly dominated the small room, her heart rate picking up at the melody. “You wound me, darling.”

She stood upright, put the socks in the basket and stepped closer to the window. “Kol— it’s you. I’m sorry. I’ve been so busy lately.” Her hands slid the window door open, the cold breeze taking over the atmosphere.

“Not to worry, love. I have learned to contribute more when it comes to putting Klaus down. May I come inside?”

“Right, yeah. Come in.” She nodded, stepping aside as he entered in the manner that belonged to him only. Elegant, but not too pretentious. Effortless. “What’s in your hand?”

“Patience, love.” He stepped forward, their chests almost touching. “Close your eyes.”

“Right.” She crossed her arms, nodding incredulously. “And how do I know you’re not gonna put a dagger inside me?”

“Because there are better things I can put inside you.” He smirked like the devil he is. “But for now, close your eyes. I want to be a gentleman.”

“Bold. Really bold.” She blushed a deep crimson, letting out a scoff full with ridicule. When she closed her eyes, her heart rate turned steady, almost comfortable. Naturally, the unknown tended to agitate her. What would come next was always a question of life or death. But here? With Kol? As inane as the admission was, she felt safe. Safe that had very little to do with the fact he was weapon against Klaus, and very much with the fact he was now enveloping something cold and metallic around her neck.

His hands lingered on her back, his rough hands turning into soft caresses. An oxymoron. When he leaned in close enough to whisper in her ear, Elena shuddered at the warm air assaulting her neck. “Open your eyes, Elena.”

Lights seemed to have altered to an intimate glow when her eyelids fluttered open. She touched the necklace with the ancient patterned pendant, a hot, mahogany color, the liquid moving in waves. “It’s beautiful.”

“Happy birthday.” He cooed just above her shoulder, watching her reaction intently and smiling triumphantly when her heartbeat sounded like gunshots. “The outer shell is vervained. Inside is my blood.”

“Your blood?”

“Keeps you safer than a fragile vervain necklace, darling.”

The silence stretched, a self-deprecating smile reached her lips as her soft hand engulfed the gift that is now hers. “Thank you.” She sniffed.

“Hey,” his boyish grin faltered at the sight of her tears. She had pursed her lips in an attempt to withhold them, but ostensibly without success. Without further explanation, her head burrowed in the crook of his neck, warm tears clinging to his skin. “Shh. I’ve got you.”

“It hurts, Kol. It will never be over. Stefan leaving a trail of dead bodies. Damon… hiding it from me.”

He kissed the top of her head, cradling her head into his chest. “I will take care of it, love. I will make my brother rot if you wish.”

“I just want it to be over.” She breathed out, pressing impossibly closer to him.

Kol stayed with her. What was initially supposed to be a quick visit turned into a long night with the Gilbert girl by his side, both figuratively and literally. He didn’t sleep much. For the last few centuries at least, he had discovered that sleep evaded him more often than not.

When the birds welcomed their glorious sun with chirpy notes, the wily Mikaelson considered leaving. It would have been a bit cold of him, he judged, but wasn’t that his whole persona? Spend a night with a girl, whispering sweet nothings only to brush her off the next day as if all was casual.

But they weren’t sweet nothings, what he whispered. It was more of a heart-to-heart, a conversation concerning both their past and future. The two had a mutual connection with the latter. An understanding that neither believed they would get their happy ending, that it was a mirage always slipping through their grasp whenever they dared to reach for it.

Trust, Kol pondered, could be a gift. If only you had someone to share its vulnerability with. He marveled at the thing he had never dared to dream of— not the Juliet to his Romeo, no, that was too cliché for his liking and too shallow for their bond he now realized they had scratched the surface of. Lewis and Clark was too platonic, which should have scared him. Bonnie and Clyde too gruesome for someone as benign as her.

Perhaps, and just perhaps, nothing could really compare to the bond they shared.

Perhaps when all this was over, they could become their own notorious duo.

Elena and Kol.

A/N: I have gotten a few requests I still need to work on, but here’s a short kolena, aka my fav rare pair, fic. I hope you enjoyed it.

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐

⋆. 𐙚˚࿔ koleffy 𝜗𝜚˚⋆.

“Another thing I love about the modern age is music.” 𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋

“Careful there, love. Too much alcohol makes girls fall for me.”

“Where Fire meets Resistance”

⌗ :: Kol Mikaelson x Fem!Reader (Gilbert)

Summary: There was only one way to lure your foolish siblings back in to town after their attempt to stake the youngest original brother had failed. As overlooked as you already were, them not fleeing with you had crossed a new line— and was a big mistake, for that matter. Enjoy being held captive by the least merciful Mikaelson, ‘darling’.

Drawing in ragged breaths, your eyes slowly fluttered open like a beaming sunlight on a spring morning. But nothing here felt close to that time of the year — an oxymoron, to be precise, seeing as to how your skin had already prickled with goosebumps given the frigid atmosphere. Something was painfully pulling your arms above your head and simultaneously supporting your slumped body, holding your wrists so tightly they could’ve fallen off any passing moment now. With a weary, small sweep of your right foot, you managed to stabilise yourself on your one heel, then finally upholded your entire body with both your heels. The strained pain in your arms subsided only ever so slightly before a small, breathy moan escaped your lips.

“Fuck.” You hissed, registering the throbbing ache on your head that followed up with a warm liquid. A ringing sound lingered in your ears, making you squeeze your eyes shut.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Is that your temple pulsating, or the sound of footsteps? You couldn't tell.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

- - - -

You let out an irritated sigh, finally pressing the phone to your ear. Not even after the first ring had buzzed, Elena’s panicked voice already vibrated through your ear.

“Verena?” Your name on her tongue made her breath hitch. “Verena, you need to tell me where you are right now!”

Rolling your eyes, you answer calmly with a hint of vexation. “I was just training again, Elena. I’m on my way home—“

“Do not go home, do you hear me?”

You immediately stop in your tracks, the sense of urgency in her voice repelling you from moving your body towards the house that was already within close range. You watched the swing on your porch oscillate eerily, only a block away. The Gilbert house was silent. Too silent for your liking.

“What happened.” It was rather a demand for an answer than a question. You never had a knack for saccharine manners, nor did you ever care to sound adequately courteous, yet one could still hear the fear that lay under your feigned stoicism.

“It’s Kol—” Not long before your older sister finalized her sentence, someone clasped your throat without wasting a second to throw you on the coarse ground. Not carefully, not strategically— just with pure rage. You could feel it even after the dizziness that came from the impact of the strike.

Something cracked. Could it have been your skull?

An original vampire — your head grasped the gravity of the situation. Death be upon you, but you wouldn’t let one win; and you never have.

The void gradually swallowed you into unconsciousness, until it didn't. Until you resisted the pressure that kept you down to climb out of the unfathomable abyss. To your misfortune, your resilience was futile with a Mikaelson. They revel in that fact.

One kick, one guttural cry. Two kicks, two guttural cries. He loved this. Although your life isn’t known for standing a chance against kismet, the kicks didn’t happen to be rough enough to fracture your ribs. Or perhaps he was doing it deliberately.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Your heartbeat quickened by the second. No— you felt the pulsating sensation on the left side of your head, right where your forehead met your hair. Only then did the warm liquid trickle into your orb, making you squeeze your eyes shut.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

- - - -

Your eyes snapped open and a sharp intake of breath filled in your lungs, like a trap springing shut as the adrenal glands released the last bits of its hormones directly into your bloodstream. An adrenaline rush. Despite being in a fight-or-flight mode, you could barely move with the chains holding your arms above your head. Looking around, the concrete walls appeared to be caging in on you almost with a mocking quietness, along with the sunlight beaming through the window like an imitation of unreachable hope.

But then you heard it, and this time you knew it wasn’t your hammering head.

It was echoes of footsteps — slow and deliberate as if the darkness would kneel before him.

Thanks to the release of adrenaline, your pupils were dilated, giving you a clearer vision. His smirk didn't quite reach his eyes this time as he narrowed them, watching your vulnerable state with an obvious incentive and something else; appreciation, perhaps?

He wasn’t looking at your face, no, his gaze was lowered until it met your bare midriff. ‘Shit’ you thought to yourself. Did you just have to be ambushed at that exact moment, after training?

“What a sight for sore eyes,” his signature grin only widened as a reaction to your hostility— It was palpable. You didn’t enough care to hide it. “the women in my time were much more modest.” He adds.

“Spare me the history lesson, Mikaelson.” You manage to spit out, your tone laced with venom. “What do you want from me.”

“Perhaps I should’ve noted what a spitfire I’d encounter. But then again,” His eyes stayed fixed on you as he stepped closer; so close you could feel his breath fanning on your face. “it makes the breaking point so much more satisfying.” Both the rasp and the low octave in his voice were meant to send shivers down your spine, instead it made you angrier. Your knee met with his groin, meant to be unexpected because you knew otherwise you wouldn’t have stood a chance against him.

It didn't do much — he hardly doubled over, a low growl escaping his throat. When his eyes met yours again, they were blazing with fury but to your surprise, his rage seemed to diminish gradually. Or maybe he was just masking it for a greater doom predestined for you.

"For someone so eager to prove her strength, you sure are foolish. But let me make one thing clear, darling." His fingers tenderly traced your light abs as if he were trying to memorize them, that is what sent shivers down your spine. You were helpless. Completely and utterly helpless with the only Mikaelson lacking more leniency than his bastard of a brother, Klaus.

"I have watched empires fall and rise, massacred villages for less than your impropriety and I am currently standing before a phony warrior, on the brink of ripping your throat out. Sweetheart." He adds the name of endearment merely for great measure. "Look before you leap."

Overcoming the pathetic emotion named fear was a skill you had cultivated a long time ago when you first killed a vampire, a stake right in their callous heart. Now the infamous Kol Mikaelson managed to wash that pathetic emotion all over your face without strenuous efforts, and the worst thing? He knew his power. He loved his power. "Don't fret." He tapped your nose playfully.

"Why am I here." You asked monotonously with a hint of strain hiding behind your question. He tilted his head, all playfulness leaving his face, now replaced with a cold gaze.

"Your lovely siblings attempted to kill me. You're leverage." He simply stated.

He saw it. The way your expression faltered, exposing a flicker of nudity underneath that tough exterior. The way your eyes betrayed your innate hatred towards the creatures of the night that were never deserving of such sympathy. But it disappeared, a talent of yours you were thankful for. "I don't believe you."

He narrowed his eyes, rather frustrated than bemused. His fingers stopped their dance on your abdomen, staying there just to remind — he didn't even feel like responding. His eyes expected something more than an elaboration.

You surrendered by giving him exactly that.

"Impulse is your biggest weakness." You started "if you truly wanted revenge, you'd kill them. Maybe me. But somehow we're all standing. Strange."

The silence stretched for what felt like eons. For a second, you thought you were deluding that sadistic gleam in his eyes when he realized how uneasy the dead calm made you, no matter how impenetrable you passed your walls off as. You either weren't trying hard enough, or you couldn't — no inbetween.

"You sound so much like her." He tapped your abdomen. "You look so much like her. It's quite uncanny." His British accent vibrated along the edge of his lips and his gaze metamorphosed into a thoughtful one, as if he were hopscotching down memory lane.

“What?”

“You want the truth, little minx? You’re not the only doppelgänger running about. Ask my dear Elizabeth, not quite sure she has plenty to say anymore, though.”

“And who the hell might she be.”

“My woman.”

You blink, trying to process this new information. An original vampire, capable of loving someone? A doppelgänger that doesn't resemble your sister, but you? All this time you thought your siblings and their squad always had a way of trapping you in their beacon of supernatural mishaps, turns out it was your fate all along— they just sped up the process. No, you call his bluff. Lies stacking upon lies. Contradictions contradicting themselves.

“Woman.” You repeat incredulously. “Your woman.” A humorless laugh burst out your mouth. He didn’t react.

“Past tense.” He mirrored your previous monotone voice. “She used to be my woman.”

Your laugh dies down. “Semantics. I call bluff.”

With a tilt of his head, he stepped impossibly closer until he was certain you could grasp the gravity of his savage climate radiating off of him, daring you to defy the force that was to be reckoned with. “Bluff?” His hand found the path to your neck, fingers tangling in your hair before he roughly yanked your head back. You hissed, forced to look him in the eyes that lacked mischief — once in a blue moon occurrence for someone like him.

He was about to say something, but his lips found themselves clamming up again in an uncertain manner. The eye contact was held much more intensely than you could find yourself capable of reciprocating, his other hand reaching into his pocket to draw something out. Glinting keys dangled in his hand provocatively, reminding you of the imitation of hope yet again. The sun, its light rays beautifully changing the placement on the surface of the keys.

“How old?” He asked. A breath you didn't know you were holding in evaded the moment his grip on your hair loosened, but found itself swallowed back into your lungs when his tender fingers maneuvered your back with clinical precision. He tugged at the edge of your bra and snapped the elastic band, thwacking against your back. You flinched.

"How. Old. Are. You." He reiterated firmly.

"Why? You want to know if you still possess any shred of morality?" You replied, bravery wrapped around agitation.

"I believe I asked you a question."

You swallowed. It was a vulnerable, sheepish action, even more so when the both of you were aware he could hear it. Feel your fear, even.

"Sixteen." You submitted.

A low whistle made a beeline to your face— So. Fucking. Aggravating. If it weren't for the restraints, your fingernails would be digging into his eyeballs just to see his shit-eating grin morph into an agonizing scream. You knew you couldn't get your knickers in a twist yet. What you were known to be well at was regaining composure. Maintaining it, though? That's a different story.

"Sweet sixteen. Not to worry, love, I might just find a shred of morality if you wish." He reclaimed his infamous grin yet again, then took a deep breath. "Under one condition."

"No."

"Careful, I don't like being tested. I've murdered ladies younger than you."

A shiver ran down your spine at the casual mention of his reputation. You didn't get it. You knew what he had done, even this was just a simplified version of his barbaric procedures throughout centuries. "What's the condition."

His grimace widened lazily at the sweet sound of surrender.

"Patience, love. I'm still debating." He narrowed his eyes, feigning consideration. "How about this." His right arm closed around your waist, pulling you flush against him. Your heart hammered against your ribs, begging to be set free. "I will free you and in return you hand me over something that is very precious to you." He whispered against your hair, pulling back enough to look at your face.

Embarrassed, unwilling... a sliver of quandary. Anger aimed at something else entirely— something you could not control. "I want to know about her." You demand.

"No can do. Only tit for tat."

"You free me, I give you something and then you tell me about her."

"That's not how it works, sweetheart. Otherwise you're not getting unchained, ergo— severe swelling, nerve damage, difficulty breathing and last but not least, my favorite. Death."

A second passes. Then another. You thought about how tedious and torturous time has been here, the dried blood on your head, the numb ache that has long reached your fingertips. Perhaps self-preservation did include submission after all. You abhorred that conclusion.

"That's what I thought." With a swift move, he managed to unlock the chains with the key. Your small whimper of relief echoed through the hollow room as you fell into his large frame, your arms limp at your sides. Your eyes fluttered shut. Warmth washed over your entire body like silken sheets, his arms wrapped around you serving just the satiable amount of comfort you needed.

"Shh, easy now, little warrior." His voice vibrated against your hair, pressing soft kisses on your forehead. The coo was braided with condescension and comfort, opposites that somehow fit perfectly when it was dripping from his lips. You didn’t mean to burrow your head deeper into his chest, yet it still happened. It felt right. The nocuous thought suppressed itself out of pure instinct, killing anything that showed a sliver of affection with an abominable creature. He wasn’t supposed to be warm.

“Get off.” You breathed out, eyes still shut and cheek pressed against his collarbone. His deep rumble of a chuckle vibrated against you, reminding you of the proximity yet again.

“I’m comfortable right where I am, darling. Certain it’s a mutual feeling.” Taking a dramatic inhale of breath, he started speaking in a tone akin to conspiracy. “Now about that precious thing I need from you.” He taps your chin gently, tilting it upwards until you surrendered to his nonverbal insistence to look into his brown irises — the way they pooled with ancient mystery and darkness. Your half-lidded eyes did little to prove your fight, instead signaling your quiet defeat and the sound that hummed in the basement air when your profanity evolved into uneven breathing. “Tell me, how bad do you want to live?”

“I don’t want to die.” The unexpected softness in your voice, mingled with automatic fear, undid him. He knew it finally registered in your mind who he is— what he is. You could either die in his hands, or live with his hands on you. You chose the latter.

“What would you do to live, my dove?” He asked, brows knitting with faux sympathy.

“Anything.”

“Anything?” He repeated before his signature grin returned wickedly slow. “This darling, this is the breaking point I was waiting for.” He worked his hand into your damp hair clinging to your scalp, cradling your head to inch you closer until your breaths mingled. “Very well,” he said. “Kiss me.”

Kol expected your actions to rearrange around the sentence. That was how things usually worked when he spoke—expected the small, messy miracle of obedience to bloom at once.

Yet, the millisecond of your reluctance made his eye twitch. It was the momentary squinting of eyes he always did when things didn’t go his way. When girls resisted the irresistible. “I will not hesitate to rip your siblings’ hearts out.” The threat came out casually, his flat tone enough to make you shiver once more.

With burnt out energy, you set a clumsy palm on his chest and fisted his shirt. With both your hands now clinging onto him, you brought yourself higher until eye-to-nose level, your big, imploringly pathetic eyes fixed on his. Ironically enough, you waited for his initiative. He didn’t disappoint.

Contrary to him, the kiss was nothing but gentle. A soft brush against your lips, slow and reverent and nearly hypnotizing you. His heartbeat was steady against yours, fast and sharp that it hurt.

It was a kiss that confessed its treachery with involuntary wanting and sincere, yet long conquered, ire. You couldn’t even tell if it was the last resort to save yourself or a temptation you were eager to give in to, sins be forgiven.

Curious to know how your spunk tasted like when kissed to its ruin, you reciprocated despite your inexperience.

“My beautiful, little girl.” He broke the kiss, humming in satisfaction. “I could keep you like this forever. Soft. Ruined.” He murmured, voice sweet with ridicule.

Your eyes searched his, as if looking for virtue. Then, you remembered. “Elizabeth.” The name came out scraped against your throat. “Tit for tat. Your words.”

He feigned consideration, humming a sweet sound of an empty promise. “No.”

“No?”

“Love, reducing you to an adorable, pathetic mortal with a mere kiss was gratifying. But I’m an insatiable creature.”

You shook your head, trying to regain your previous resistance. “I’m not doing anything beyond kissing.”

“I believe you don’t have a choice.”

“You— You can’t do that. That’s coercion, you shit.”

“Do you reckon me as someone standing on a moral high ground?” His snort echoed in the space, full with derision. “You’re getting more adorable by the second.”

The sudden sound of glass breaking lingered in the air, coming from above the basement. Once you heard your name shouted by an annoying, yet familiar voice, a hopeful smile tugged on your lips.

Elena. Her Scooby Doo gang.

Kol, on the other hand, appeared rather vexed. He clicked his tongue against his teeth, shifting his gaze from the source of the sound, back to you. “A shame. Now I’ve got to kill your precious friends, too.”

“Wait— no.”

“Are you bargaining, love?”

Your grip on his shirt tightened in an attempt to stand on your own, his eyes tracking your every move made you flush with embarrassment. “You don’t have to do this, I can help you. I know about the cure,”

You nearly jumped when his eyes snapped to your face, all trace of mischief gone. “But this is a two way road. I want to know about her,” you continued, then, reluctantly— “please.”

“Verena?” The door flew against the opposite wall with full force, too loud against the heavy stillness, and when instincts flared, you held yourself closer to Kol as a protection shield.

Bad, bad idea.

Damon and Caroline stood there, the blonde’s mouth agape with an insinuating look. She was not the type to hold back when it came to judgement, and frankly, you couldn’t blame her.

At least not in this case.

“Kol.” Damon sneered, his eyes scrutinizing the scene with pure, unadulterated disgust. “Elena, we found her! Hand over the girl, Original Sin.”

The Original watched the scene unfold with amusement, his lips curled at Damon’s ineffective wit. “Ah, Damon. A pleasure to see you again. How’s Jeremy?” He taunted, reminiscing about the time he compelled the older Salvatore to murder him in cold blood not a few days ago.

“Verena, what did I tell you about vervain?” Caroline interjected, reprimand lying underneath her high pitched voice.

“I took the fucking vervain, Care.”

With a rough, merciless push inflicted by a large hand on your back, you fell in front of the two standing by the door, bruises already forming on your knees. “Shit, Verena!”

“I’m fine.” You push yourself upright, limping behind the two younger vampires. The walk upstairs alone felt like climbing Mount Everest. It took you every ounce of strength, and, in the end, some help from your sister.

"Easy, Verena..."

You ignored her, not deliberately, but as a background noise unsuccessfully ameliorating your mood. When the both of you reached the door, she put a hand on your wrist and blurted out— "I'm sorry."

"For what."

"For forgetting you."

Your heart clenched at that. For some reason unbeknownst to you, it hurt more when the admission was uttered out loud. Maybe because you finally stepped into the confrontation part— a zone that made your stomach churn and you usually retreat from.

"I can handle myself, 'Lena." The respond sounded almost too defensive for your liking.

"That's the problem. You've forged that belief in your head so hard, it's engraved there. And in mine and Jeremy's which shouldn't have—"

"Spare me your concern for someone who might actually care."

Elena flinched. A satiable amount of hurt which immediately signaled you to clam up.

You weren't sorry, though.

Rightfully so. This was a matter concerning life and death, which alone was an understatement when it came to the least virtuous Original.

With a dismissive shook of your arm, her hand fell from your wrist like the ends of a burnt cigarette, her gaze sunken with shame and guilt.

The sun finally shone on your face, the hope no longer an imitation— but real. Despite its blazing sensation, it confirmed one important thing. You were free of the shackles engineered by the bloody hands of Kol Mikaelson.

Or so you thought.

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