#fandomsmut

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.

Elastica hovered before you, emerald skin gleaming faintly in the dim light, her long black hair drifting like tendrils of smoke around her shoulders. Her lips curved into a smirk, lipstick a sinful slash of red against green, and she rolled her neck until vertebrae crackled, only to let it lengthen, stretch, elongate like rubber. She didn’t walk toward you—her body flowed forward like living latex, hips swaying as her neck craned impossibly, her mouth closing in on your cock before the rest of her was even close.

“Mmnnn,” her tongue coiled around you, ghostly and cool at first, then warming with each slick lap, saliva (or ectoplasm, who knew?) dripping down your shaft. She was still several feet away, body arched like a serpent, her long throat swallowing you inch by inch while she watched with hooded eyes.

Your hand twitched to touch her but she smirked, her torso suddenly unspooling like taffy, her arms extending to wrap around your waist. Her elastic body slithered over you, chest flattening against your back, legs winding around your thighs until you were cocooned in red jumpsuit and glowing skin. The studded collar brushed your cheek as her lips slurped down your length with obscene, wet suction.

“Glrrk—hhhuuuhhnnn—fhhhuuuck,” you gasped, hips jerking, but she only giggled around your cock, throat rippling as she deliberately squeezed herself tighter, a sheath of contracting flesh and ghostly muscle.

Her body pressed close now, torso re-forming, but she kept her neck stretched, her head bobbing between your thighs while her chest molded to your back. She wasn’t content with oral alone—her lower half shifted, tailing off into a ghostly tendril that wrapped around your legs, spreading you wider, immobilizing you with strength disguised as softness.

When she finally pulled off with a wet pop, saliva connecting her lips to your tip, she snapped her neck back into place with a whipcrack. Then she turned, back arching until her spine bent nearly in half, ass presented high while her torso twisted unnaturally to watch you. “You want inside, don’t you, baby?” she purred, voice low and mocking. “Let’s see if you can handle me when I’m… tighter.”

Her body shifted, cunt appearing wet and dripping between ghostly thighs, and when you thrust into her she molded around you like hot putty, walls compressing and squeezing tighter and tighter, adjusting every time you pushed deeper. She wrapped herself fully around you again, legs, torso, even hair spiraling around your body like a constrictor, forcing you in deeper, harder.

Every thrust dragged guttural moans from her, “Nnnhhh—hahhh—fuuuckk—yes, yes stretch me, fill me—mmhhhhh!” Her pussy reshaped itself with every clench, milking your cock like a fist, her elasticity allowing her to squeeze tighter than any human could withstand.

Her nails raked across your chest as she twisted, literally turning her torso 180 degrees so she could kiss you while you railed her from behind, lips smeared with lipstick, tongue forcing its way into your mouth. Her whole body shivered around you, contracting, pulling you deeper until her cunt was a vacuum sealing your shaft inside.

The climax hit like a possession—her body spasming, walls rippling in waves that milked every drop from you while she screamed, “Hhhhaaaaahhhhnnnnn—mmmmm, give it to me, fill me, nghhh—!”

Your cum pumped into her and she shifted again, tightening so hard it hurt, refusing to let go until she had drained you completely. Only then did her coils loosen, her body melting into liquid softness around you, hair falling like ink across your chest as she purred, “Mmmm, such a good toy… let’s see how many times I can make you cum before dawn.”

And with that, her form shifted again—mouth stretching wide, body wrapping tighter, the night far from over.

Her smirk told you she wasn’t done—not even close. You’d just emptied yourself inside her and already her skin was pulsing faintly with ectoplasmic light, her body humming as though charged by your orgasm. She pulled back with a languid stretch, her torso elongating unnaturally until she rose above you like a serpent poised to strike, lips curling around sharp little white teeth as she whispered, “One round? Oh, sweetheart, I’ve barely begun to show you what I can do.”

Her body split—not in a grotesque tearing, but in an elegant doubling, her form stretching and bifurcating until two Elasticas slinked around you. They weren’t illusions; both sets of hands stroked your chest, both pairs of lips kissed and nibbled your neck, while one ghostly cunt ground down on your thigh and the other sank slowly onto your cock again. You were buried deep in her, but at the same time her twin-self kissed you hungrily, tongue thrusting into your mouth while her hands pinched your nipples.

The Elastica riding you moaned gutturally, “Nnnnghh, ffffuck, so thick—hhhuuuuhhh—,” while the other smirked against your lips, whispering, “He loves it. Look at him squirm for us.” Their voices overlapped like an echo in your skull, wrapping your senses in ghostly static.

They moved in tandem—one clenching her cunt around you like a vice, walls rippling in unnatural suction, while the other arched back, ghostly tail flicking, body melting against yours until her torso was intangible. Her breasts phased through your chest, her heart flickering against yours like static, the sensation so alien you cried out. She laughed breathlessly, half inside you, half outside, teasing you with the sense of her weightless body merging with yours before she solidified again with a jolt.

You grabbed her hips, thrusting hard, but she only giggled, both versions of her pressing tighter. Then they rejoined, folding into one form again, her body shuddering and melting until she was one solid woman grinding on your cock, her eyes glowing faintly red with lust. “Mmmmmmhhhhh, round two, baby—let’s see if you can survive this.”

Her pussy shifted as you thrust, the texture changing—at first a slick velvet heat, then suddenly ribbed, undulating in waves like a sleeve stroking you with mechanical precision. You groaned so loud it made her laugh, “Hhhhnnnnghh oh yes, you like that? Should I make it tighter? Harder?” The ridges inside her squeezed and rolled, milking you so intensely you nearly came right there.

She wouldn’t let you finish yet—she pulled off with a wet pop, your cock twitching and dripping, and shoved you down onto the floor. Then she mounted you reverse cowgirl, her hair flaring like black flame as her pussy reshaped again, now smooth and silken but clenching with pulsating waves that traveled down your shaft. She rode you mercilessly, her ass slapping against your thighs, every bounce punctuated with her guttural moans, “Fffhhhuuuuuck, nghhh yessss, give it to me, stretch me—hahhh, hahhh—!”

When you finally erupted inside her again, she didn’t slow. Her walls sucked at you greedily, swallowing every drop, and she leaned back with a banshee-like cry, “Mmmmmmhhhnnnnngghh I’m not stopping—round three, darling.”

Before you could breathe, her body liquefied, reforming around your cock, wrapping you in a cocoon of slick, tight ectoplasmic flesh. It wasn’t just her pussy anymore—her entire body molded around your shaft, massaging, milking, squeezing until you were writhing helplessly. She whispered in your ear, voice vibrating through the cocoon she’d made of herself, “I can keep you hard forever if I want. You’ll never escape me.”

She proved it by phasing her body intangible, letting you slip almost out of her, then snapping solid again around your tip, swallowing you whole in one pulse. Again and again she phased, tormenting you with the stop-start sensation, your orgasm building to unbearable heights until you screamed through clenched teeth, cumming violently for a third time into her.

She didn’t let go. She never would. Her smirk widened, lipstick smeared across her cheek, eyes glowing, as she whispered, “Let’s see how many times I can break you before dawn. Five? Ten? Maybe more…”

Her body shuddered and split again, two pairs of hands stroking you back to hardness, two pairs of lips kissing and biting. The night stretched on, each round stranger, hotter, more overwhelming than the last—her elastic cunt reshaping, her limbs doubling, her body fusing with yours, every ghostly power pressed into the service of your mutual pleasure.