#elijahmikaelson

Darkness hummed before dawn in Mystic Falls, where monsters and hunters bled in equal measure, and trust was rarer than mercy.

It begins with a scream.

You’d heard plenty of them before—they were part of your work. But this one was different. This one came from someone you thought untouchable.

The alley behind the Grill was slick with rain and blood when you found him. Elijah Mikaelson, the ever-composed Original, was slumped against the wall, his once-perfect suit torn and darkened with crimson. His eyes flicked up to you, even as he clutched his side where a white oak dagger had nearly found its mark.

“Y/N,” he rasped, voice steady despite the pain. “You shouldn’t be here.”

You knelt, pressing a hand to his wound before you could think better of it. “And let you bleed out? Tempting, but I still need answers.”

He gave a faint smirk. “How delightfully human of you.”

“And how typically arrogant of you to think I’m helping you out of kindness.”

You hated how close you were. How his breath ghosted against your cheek. How even now, bruised and bloodied, he carried that same damnable composure that made your heart tighten with something dangerously close to respect.

You tore a strip of fabric from your jacket and pressed it to his wound. He winced, and you whispered, almost mockingly, “Who did this to you, Mikaelson?”

His eyes darkened, something old and furious flashing there. “Someone who will regret it.”

Thunder cracked through the night, as if the heavens themselves answered his rage. For a brief moment, you both just stayed there—your hand against his chest, feeling the unnatural heartbeat of a man who had lived a thousand years. You should have walked away. But you didn’t.

The next few days blurred into a strange alliance—filled with sharp arguments and quieter moments where suspicion gave way to uneasy trust. One night, while patching a map together, you teased, “You’re not as insufferable when you’re quiet,” earning a rare smirk from him. The truce began to feel less like tolerance and more like reluctant respect.

You told yourself it was temporary—that you only worked with him to uncover whoever had dared attack an Original. But the more time you spent around him, the less you believed that. Elijah moved like poetry written in blood—controlled, deliberate, and impossible to ignore.

You watched him handle ancient texts in the dim light of his study, each gesture precise. His jaw tensed whenever you ran into danger; his voice softened when he spoke your name. And yet, he was infuriating—lecturing on morality and honor, even as he slaughtered without hesitation when provoked.

Another night, while studying the map together, your fingers brushed his. The contact was fleeting, accidental, yet the way his gaze locked with yours made the air electric.

“You should rest,” he said quietly.

“I’ll rest when the bastard who came after you is ash,” you replied.

“Your loyalty is… unexpected.” His tone carried a weight you couldn’t name.

“Don’t mistake it for loyalty. I just want this over with.”

He smiled faintly. “Of course you do.”

By the end of the week, you often caught yourself reflecting on how strange the partnership had become—two enemies moving in rhythm. Between clashes, there were lingering glances, words unspoken, and a dawning sense that something irreversible was happening.

You had saved each other’s lives twice. Once, when a witch ambushed you in the woods—Elijah took the hit meant for you, his hand closing around your wrist as he muttered, “Run.” The second time, you returned the favor, driving a stake into a vampire’s heart before it could pierce his.

He stared afterward, something unspoken burning in his eyes. “You could have let it hurt me.”

“I could have,” you said simply. “But I didn’t.”

A quiet tension grew between you after that—charged, dangerous. You’d catch him looking at you from across the room, expression unreadable. When you finally confronted him, he only said, “I’m trying to decide if you’re my salvation or my ruin.”

“You’re assuming I can’t be both,” you shot back.

The night you finally snapped, the tension between you had stretched thin as a blade. Every glance, every argument, every unspoken word crackled in the air like lightning before a storm. You could feel your pulse in your throat—anger tangled with something dangerously close to longing. The rain outside mirrored the chaos inside the Mikaelson mansion.

“You think you’re better than everyone else,” you hissed, stepping close enough that your breath brushed his collar. “That you’re untouchable. But you’re just a monster dressed in manners.”

He moved faster than you could blink, pinning you against the wall. His breath was warm against your ear. “And you,” he whispered, voice low and dangerous, “are a liar. Because if you truly hated me, you wouldn’t look at me the way you do.”

Your pulse betrayed you. You should have shoved him away. You didn’t.

“Elijah—”

He leaned in, lips almost brushing yours. “Tell me you don’t want this, and I will stop.”

But you couldn’t. The words died on your tongue. You closed the distance instead.

The kiss was fire meeting storm—violent, inevitable. His hand slid to the back of your neck, holding you there as though afraid you’d vanish. You tasted blood and rain and centuries of restrained hunger. When he pulled back, his eyes searched yours for regret. There was none.

“Don’t make me regret this,” you breathed.

“Then don’t give me a reason to,” he murmured.

The battle erupted without warning, chaos tearing through the night like shattering glass. Heat, smoke, and the metallic scent of blood filled the air, every sound sharp and disorienting. The coven responsible for the attacks had surfaced, and the fight was brutal. Spells cracked, fire licked through the trees, and exhaustion clawed at your bones.

When one of them got the jump on you, Elijah tore through the chaos, ripping the witch away before she could finish her curse.

He caught you as you fell, blood staining his hands again. “Stay with me,” Elijah commanded, voice breaking as he pressed a hand over your wound. “You do not get to die on me, do you hear?”

You smiled weakly. “And here I thought you didn’t care.”

His eyes burned red for a moment before softening into something heartbreakingly human. “I have never cared for anyone more.”

You reached up, brushing his cheek with trembling fingers. “You’re supposed to be the noble one, remember?”

He gave a strangled laugh that wasn’t quite humor. “Then let me be selfish this once.”

Your vision blurred, but you reached for him anyway. The same man you swore you’d never trust. The same monster who had somehow become your home.

“Then don’t let go,” you whispered.

He didn’t.

Later, when the dust settled, he stood at your bedside, his hands still trembling though he’d deny it. “You risked your life for me again,” he said softly.

“I guess I’m a slow learner.”

He smiled, faint and fleeting. “Or perhaps you’ve learned faster than you think.”

“Meaning?”

“That hatred, when tested long enough, becomes something far more binding.”

You looked up at him, exhaustion fading under the weight of what lingered between you. “Then what are we now, Elijah?”

You wore the crimson lace as a dare—Klaus’ gift, Elijah’s undoing. For a man built on centuries of restraint, jealousy becomes a quiet apocalypse. He says nothing when he sees you, only circles like a predator in fine silk. Every glance is an accusation, every touch a punishment, and beneath each subtle movement, you feel the ache of something deeper—like a piano wire pulled taut between your ribs, vibrating with tension you’re too afraid to name, and every breath between you is a rope wound tighter with tension.

He watches you move through the parlor like a relic he hasn’t decided to claim—yet. The lace clings to you, barely concealing skin he’s committed to memory in quieter times. It’s not just the lingerie. It’s the implication: Klaus gave it to you. You wore it in Elijah’s house. You stood, back arched, glass in hand, and smiled.

Elijah says nothing. He doesn’t need to.

When he speaks, it’s later. Alone. In the quiet room where the music doesn’t reach and the fireplace crackles low. You don’t hear his footsteps—you feel them, like thunder beneath marble floors.

He closes the door behind you both.

“Do you understand what you’ve done?” he asks, voice low, patient, precise. A blade sheathed in velvet.

You open your mouth, but nothing comes.

His eyes rake over your body, not hungrily—meticulously. As if each thread of lace is another offense to catalog. “My brother gave you that?” he asks, finally stepping close enough that your perfume warps beneath the weight of his.

You nod. “It was a joke. He thought—”

Elijah’s hand lifts. A single finger pressed to your lips.

“I’m not interested in what Klaus thought.”

He steps back. You think he’s going to leave.

Instead, he opens a narrow door behind the bookshelf and gestures for you to follow.

What lies behind the bookshelf isn’t a closet—it’s a chamber, narrow and suffocating in its intimacy. The walls are smooth stone, the air thick with warmth and wax. Shadows flicker with the pulse of dozens of low candles, their flames casting the illusion of movement even when you’re standing still.

And in the center: a mannequin. Draped in crimson lace. Your exact size. Your shape. The lingerie on it is identical to what you wear.

And it smells like you.

“Elijah—” you whisper, heart fluttering with something that isn’t quite fear.

“I had it commissioned,” he says simply. “After the first time you wore it.”

You stare at him. “That was months ago.”

“I remember,” he says, and for a moment, something in him fractures—just behind the eyes.

He steps forward again. Reaches for the mannequin. Runs his hands down its sides. “She’s never spoken back to me. But I’ve said so many things to her. Things I could never say to you.”

You feel breathless. Powerless. But you step toward him anyway. He doesn’t stop you. Just watches.

“You’ve been using—”

He turns then. Sharp. Predatory. “Don’t finish that sentence unless you’re prepared for the answer.”

Your heart hammers.

Then he’s in front of you. The mannequin to your side. His fingers hook the edge of your panties and snap them against your skin—not roughly. Deliberately.

“You want me to lose control,” he murmurs. “You want me to hurt.”

His voice dips lower, and his fingers tighten at your hip, grounding you, making sure you can’t step away. A flicker of heat pulses through you, sharp and instant, clashing with the defiance rising in your chest.

“I want you to feel,” you snap back, and your hand finds his chest, pushing—not to escape, but to challenge. The air between you shifts, heavy, electric. A single breath and everything changes.

That breaks him.

Elijah pushes you back against the mannequin. The lace scratches your spine as his hands lift you. He pins you there, eye to eye with your own ghost in silk. He doesn’t kiss you. Not yet.

He turns your head to face it.

“This is who I touched when I couldn’t have you.”

Then he kisses your neck. Bites. The pain is soft, meant to linger. You cry out, but he only pushes harder. His hand slides up your ribcage, thumb brushing under the swell of your breast, teasing but never kind. The lace scrapes with every movement, taut and tingling.

When he finally takes you—right there, standing, pinned—it’s punishing. Slow. Intimate. His mouth never leaves your throat, lips dragging over your skin with every thrust like a benediction and a curse. His hand stays locked on the small of your back, pressing you against her—you—the whole time, forcing you to feel the lace imprint into your spine, a mirror to the one straining and damp against your skin.

The way he moves is deliberate, devastating. His cock stretches you full and aching, each grind of his hips a controlled burn, a sermon in dominance. He withdraws nearly to the tip before slamming back in, each movement laced with withheld fury, with years of restraint unraveling.

The room smells of wax, silk, and sex—his scent woven into the air like a vice. The heat is stifling, clinging to your skin in waves, every breath heavy as if the atmosphere itself is saturated with his presence. scent overtaking everything. You moan and writhe but the grip on your hip holds you still, grounded, trembling beneath his control. He hisses when your pussy clenches around him, voice rasping into your skin.

“You were mine before you even knew it.”

He says nothing else. Just breathes harder. Faster. Until you’re clawing at his back, nails raking over his shirt, voice broken into gasps that barely form his name. You choke on it—on the worship, the punishment, the unbearable want.

You break before he does.

Your orgasm hits like confession—tears spilling, voice choking as your walls clamp around him, desperate and spent. He doesn't let up. Not until you’re limp, shuddering, begging in fractured syllables. He fucks you through it, relentless, murmuring low against your ear—not comfort, but possession.

Only then, only then, does he still inside you. And it’s not softness—it’s reverence. A kiss against your temple. Possessive. Eternal. As if to mark you.

He doesn’t pull out immediately. He lingers, rooted deep inside you like a warning, like a vow not yet spoken aloud. Each breath he takes drags across your neck, and you can feel the tension still humming beneath his skin, not sated—just postponed. Possession pulses in the silence between your bodies, and you know: this isn’t the end. It’s only the pause before the next lesson.. Keeps you impaled on his cock, lets you feel every throb of him pulsing inside you while the mannequin’s lace digs into your back.

“You wore it for him,” Elijah whispers finally, “but you’ll never forget who made you feel it.”

Jealousy isn’t beneath Elijah Mikaelson.