#theoriginalssmut

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.

The chains are cold iron. Forged in witch-fire, they’re bolted deep into the stone wall of the old slaughterhouse turned Mikaelson lair. They rattle violently when you struggle, wrists rubbed raw from earlier attempts at freedom. Your ankles are forced wide by the spreader bar he snapped into place with a wolfish grin that never quite reached his eyes. The old bloodstains on the stones beneath your knees tell stories—none of them yours. Yet.

Klaus circles you in hybrid form—not fully wolf, not fully man, but something monstrous and ancient. His eyes glow molten gold, fangs glint beneath curled lips, claws clicking steadily on the stone as he paces. With every breath, he radiates barely restrained violence. His sweat-slick chest glistens under the moonlight, muscles taut and coiled, and the bulge in his trousers is shameless—throbbing, swollen, promising ruin.

“Look at you,” he growls, voice made of gravel and old smoke. “Chained like livestock. So fucking perfect I could tear you in half.”

You meet his gaze and spit at his feet. “Fuck you, Klaus.”

He laughs—a deep, guttural thing, like thunder rumbling low across the sky. His hand flashes up, claws glinting, and he backhands the spit aside, just missing your face.

“Oh, you will,” he promises darkly. “Over and over until you’re dripping with me, until your cunt is too sore to close, until your pretty little belly swells with my heir.”

He drops to his knees between your spread thighs, hands tearing the last scrap of your skirt clean off with ease. No panties, of course. He'd forbidden them the second he dragged you here, claiming bare made it easier to scent you. The night air kisses your cunt, soaked and shining. Shame prickles hotter than the full moon overhead.

“Pathetic,” he murmurs, dragging a single claw up the slickness between your folds. “Dripping for the monster who stole you. My little breeder. You want it. You’re aching for it.”

He leans in, fangs grazing the inside of your thigh, brushing your femoral artery. Then he bites—not deep, not enough to maim, but just enough to taste. You scream, high and involuntary, and he groans like it's the sweetest wine. His tongue laps the wound clean with rough strokes, sealing it with a flick and a snarl of satisfaction.

“Gonna fill you so full,” he rasps, voice thick with lust as he shoves his trousers down. His cock springs free—thick, flushed dark, the knot already beginning to swell at the base, pulsing like a second heartbeat. “Gonna knot you right here, up against these filthy stones. Breed you until your womb forgets anyone else.”

He strokes himself lazily, precum dribbling onto his knuckles. He uses it to smear your clit in messy circles. You flinch, chains clattering, but the spreader bar keeps your thighs wide and vulnerable. Your muscles tremble, caught between fear and desperate need.

“Beg,” he commands, voice snapping like a whip.

You bare your teeth. “Make me.”

His smile is pure predator. No more patience. You have just enough time to draw one breath—sharp, uncertain—before he lunges. He slams into you.

One savage thrust, no warning, spearing deep enough to steal your breath. The stretch is brutal. He’s too thick, too hard, and yet your cunt grips him greedily, slick walls tightening like you’ve been waiting for this. Like your body already belongs to him.

“There’s my good little whore,” he growls, pace unrelenting, hips snapping with vicious force. “Taking my cock like the needy little bitch you are. Born to be filled by a hybrid. Born to carry my pups.”

He pounds into you like he wants to leave bruises on your soul. Each thrust slams your back against the wall, chains scraping against stone, metal groaning with the force. His claws dig into your hips, forcing you to angle just right so he can grind that swollen knot against your cunt, stretching you wider with each punishing stroke.

“Say it,” he demands, voice low and dangerous. “Say you’re mine. Say you’re my breeding bitch.”

You sob, head lolling back, pleasure a razor-edge tearing through your spine. “I’m—fuck—I’m your breeding bitch—”

His roar shakes the courtyard.

He fucks you harder, faster, until your world dissolves into nothing but his cock, his voice, the smell of blood and musk. His thumb finds your clit and rubs mercilessly until your body breaks—cunt clenching around him in spasms, milking him, your cry ragged as it rips from your throat.

The knot slams in.

He shoves deep and locks in place, sealing your bodies together. Then he comes—loud, growling, hips twitching as thick, hot spurts flood your womb. You feel every one. He grinds through it, knot tugging and swelling even more, ensuring not a drop escapes.

He stays there, panting against your neck, his cock throbbing inside you.

Then he begins to move again, slowly at first—deep, grinding rolls of his hips that churn the cum inside you, as though breeding you wasn’t enough unless he could feel it take.

You gasp, overstimulated, but he doesn't stop. His hand rises to your throat, holding—not choking, just anchoring.

“You thought one knot would be enough?” he breathes. “No, sweetheart. We’re going to stay here until I’m sure it took. Until you can feel me dripping from your cunt every time you move.”

He licks the bite mark again, then the tears on your cheeks, reverent in his filth.

“Mine,” he says, again and again, almost tender. “Mine. My filthy little vessel. My perfect fucktoy. My breeder.”

The chains stay on all night. He knots you three more times before dawn.

By morning, the moon has dipped below the bloodstreaked skyline, its pull retreating but not released. The scent of iron and jasmine lingers thick in the air, clinging to your skin like sweat. The chains bite into your wrists, still locked, the iron cold and unyielding. Your legs quake, sticky with his claim, hips bruised where claws held tight.

The flickering light of the fire painted Klaus in molten gold and shadow, a predator lounging in velvet darkness, his glass of bourbon balanced effortlessly between his fingers. You had faced him before in battle, sharp words, sharper blades—but here in this room, the only weapon he needed was his voice.

“Look at me, love,” he said, tone as smooth as the liquor he sipped. “Eyes on mine. That’s it.”

You tried to resist, tried to keep your focus anywhere else, but his voice threaded through your skull like silk wound around a throat, pulling tighter with every syllable. His blue eyes gleamed, ancient and merciless, and you felt your muscles slacken as the compulsion sank deep.

“Good girl.” His smile was slow, dangerous. “Now, undress. Slowly. Let me watch.”

Your hands trembled as you obeyed, each button unfastened more torturous than the last, every inch of skin bared under his gaze making heat pool low in your belly. Klaus leaned back in his chair, one ankle crossed casually over his knee, drinking in every shiver, every flicker of hesitation with unholy satisfaction.

“Do you hear yourself?” he murmured when a whimper escaped your lips. “Even your body begs while your mind pretends it resists. You can’t fight me, sweetheart. Not when you like being seen.”

His command slid deeper, compulsion blooming through your nerves until you were stroking yourself under his gaze, your fingers slick, your thighs trembling as you squirmed, moaning his name. He didn’t move, didn’t touch, only watched with a wolf’s hunger, every sound you made feeding the fire in his eyes.

“Nnnnh—Klaus, please—” you gasped, trying to find friction, trying to climax under the weight of his stare.

“Not yet.” The order hit like iron shackles. Your body seized, your orgasm denied at the very edge, and you whimpered helplessly as the pleasure was stolen from you. He chuckled darkly, rising finally from his chair, moving behind you with inhuman swiftness. His breath grazed your ear, his hand ghosting over your hip without granting you the touch you craved.

“Your climax belongs to me. You’ll come when I say you may. And not before.”

The thrill of it—his control, his voyeuristic delight, the burn of denial—left you quaking, tears pricking your eyes, body desperate to give in.

“Say it,” Klaus whispered, his voice velvet steel wrapping your mind in chains. “Say you belong to me. Say you’ll come only for me.”

Your voice broke on the words, sobbed out in surrender. His smile curved against your throat, fangs grazing your skin as he finally whispered: “Come.”