I've seen this tweet from @heatedrivalryai on X sharing how to add Claude/AI detector notification when you click on a fic that's been generated by Claude AI. So i made my own version where you can have the AI Detector as a parent skin for your custom site skins. A fic that's has been detected using Claude AI will have little red "You got a call from “Claude”!" notification on it. Please excuse my low quality screenshot.
Here's the code and click here for testing if it's working or not.
How to add parent skin :
Create a new site skin and give it a unique title.
Copy this code to the CSS.
Go to "Advanced" and click "Show↓".
✓ Parent Only option.
Now go to your custom site skin, and go to "Advanced" scroll until you see "Parent Skins".
"Add Parent Skin" and type your AI detector title to the area text below the "Parent #whatevernumber" and chose the little pop up of your title.
"Submit" and you're done!
Edit : Why did i say "all ai-generated" i'm such a chud sorry everybody
The lights of the Ryogoku Kokugikan were blinding, hot, and smelled like sweat, copper, and thousands of screaming fans. In the center of the ring stood Ryomen Sukuna.
He didn't look like a athlete so much as an apex predator trapped in a pair of heavy red Everlast gloves. Eighteen-inch biceps, pinkish-maroon hair slicked back, and dark, intricate tattoos creeping up his neck and jawline like dark ink stains on marble. He was the reigning, undefeated heavy-world champion, sitting on a 38-0 record with 38 knockouts.
He didn't do pre-fight trash talk; he just stared at his opponents during weigh-ins until they looked down, then went into the ring and shattered their orbital bones in under three rounds.
The media hated him because he was a PR nightmare. He gave one-word answers to reporters, flipped off press cameras, and actively snarled at anyone who got within a three-foot radius. The general public consensus was unanimous: Sukuna was a terrifying, feral animal. Sports tabloids routinely ran articles titled
“The Loneliest King: Why Sukuna’s Violent Streak Guarantees He’ll Die Alone” or “10 Reasons No Woman in Her Right Mind Would Ever Pass a Second Date with Ryomen Sukuna.”
People genuinely believed he went home to a dark, windowless cave, ate raw meat, and slept hanging upside down like a giant bat.
Then came the rainy Tuesday evening in Roppongi.
It was two in the morning outside a high-end, quiet sushi bar. A low-tier paparazzi photographer was huddled in his car, hoping to catch a drunk idol or an actor cheating on his spouse. Instead, he saw the heavy glass door of the restaurant swing open, and out stepped Sukuna.
The photographer nearly dropped his lens in horror, preparing to pull out of the parking spot before the boxer spotted him and caved his roof in. But then he froze.
Sukuna wasn't alone.
Stepping out into the light rain right behind him was a small, soft-looking woman wearing a cream-colored knit sweater that engulfed her hands. Sukuna—a man known for ripping through the division like a natural disaster—immediately stepped sideways, blocking the chilly Tokyo wind with his massive, towering frame.
He didn't just walk next to her. He reached out, his massive, scarred hand cupping the side of her neck with absolute, agonizing gentleness. He drew her in close, ducking his head down until his forehead rested against hers. The photographer’s shutter clicked frantically in the dark as Sukuna pulled her in by the waist, tilting her chin up, and kissed her.
It wasn't a rough kiss. It was deep, slow, and devastatingly passionate. His thumbs stroked her cheek like she was made of delicate glass, his eyes completely closed, his whole terrifying demeanor melting into pure, unadulterated devotion right there on the wet pavement.
The photos hit X (formerly Twitter) at 3:15 AM.
By 6:00 AM, the internet had completely exploded.
By noon, it was the number one trending topic globally. The photos were HD, crisp, and unmistakable. There was Sukuna—the man who had broken a man’s jaw with a left hook three weeks prior—looking like he was starring in an Oscar-winning romantic drama.
“WHO IS SHE??”
“IS THIS AI? PLEASE TELL ME THIS IS AI HE IS A LITERALLY DEMON”
“Bro kisses like he’s about to go to war for her life wtf”
“Look at his hand on her waist I am CRYING who is this mystery woman?!”
For three straight months, the media went into a absolute frenzy. Morning talk shows hired body language experts to analyze the lean of Sukuna's shoulders in the photograph. Tabloids offered fifty million yen for the identity of the mysterious "Mystery Siren" who had tamed the beast. Speculation ran wild: Was she a hostage? A high-society heiress? An international spy?
Meanwhile, at Jujutsu Boxing Gym in downtown Tokyo, the atmosphere was thick with absolute terror.
Every single fighter, trainer, and staff member had seen the photos. Everyone knew the entire world was losing its mind over Sukuna’s love life.
And not a single soul dared to bring it up.
Inside the gym, Sukuna was throwing heavy leather into a 150-pound bag, each impact sounding like a shotgun going off in an enclosed room. BANG. BANG. BANG. Sweat dripped from his brow, his teeth bared in a familiar, terrifying grimace.
Near the water cooler, Uraume, his chief corner-man and head trainer, stood silently holding a towel. Off to the side, two junior contenders, Yuji and Megumi, were whispering in mortal agony.
"You ask him," Yuji hissed, adjusting his hand wraps. "You're closer to his weight class!"
"Are you insane?" Megumi muttered back, keeping his eyes glued to the floor. "He threw a guy through a drywall panel last month because the guy breathed too loud during his cool-down. If I ask him who he was kissing in Roppongi, he’ll take my head off."
"It's been three months, Megumi! The news is literally outside the gym right now with telephoto lenses! I just want to know if she's okay!"
"She looked fine in the picture, Yuji! She looked very comfortable!"
Sukuna stopped hitting the bag. The heavy leather swung wildly on its chain. The entire gym fell into a dead, suffocating silence. You could hear a pin drop on the rubber mats.
Sukuna wiped his forehead with the back of his forearm, his four crimson-tinted eyes—a rare genetic mutation that gave him his signature terrifying look—glaring around the room.
"Something funny, brat?" Sukuna rumbled, his voice like grinding tectonic plates, directed right at Yuji.
Yuji went pale as a sheet. "No, sir! Great form, sir! Really... pushing the bag!"
Sukuna grunted, grabbing his water bottle, completely unaware—or completely unbothered—that the entire planet was currently obsessed with his private life.
Later that evening, in a lavish, warm penthouse overlooking the Tokyo skyline, the heavy front door unlocked.
Sukuna stepped inside, kicking off his massive athletic shoes. The terrifying, soul-crushing aura he carried in the ring was completely absent the moment he crossed the threshold. He tossed his gym bag into the corner and padded softly down the hallway in a pair of dark gray sweatpants and a loose black t-shirt.
In the kitchen, a woman was standing by the stove, stirring a simmering pot of nabe. Her hair was up in a messy clip, and she was wearing one of Sukuna’s oversized hoodies that dragged down past her knees.
As soon as she heard his heavy footsteps, she turned around, placing a hand on her hip.
"You're late," she said, her tone light but carrying an effortless authority that would have made any heavy-weight contender faint on the spot.
Sukuna didn't say a word. He just walked up to her, wrapped his giant arms around her waist, buried his face straight into the crook of her neck, and let out a long, heavy sigh. He breathed in the scent of lavender and home-cooked broth, instantly deflating like a giant, dangerous balloon.
"Traffic was hell," he grumbled into her skin, his voice soft, almost cat-like. "Uraume ran me through eight rounds of sparring."
She laughed, leaning back into his massive chest and running her fingers through his short hair, scratching his scalp gently. "Poor baby. You look like you're about to fall asleep standing up."
"Might," he muttered, kissing her collarbone through the collar of the hoodie.
"Before you pass out, we need to talk," she said, turning around in his arms to face him. She pulled out her phone and tapped the screen, holding it up to his face.
It was a screenshot of a trending news article: “Is Sukuna’s Secret Lover Being Kept Against Her Will? An In-Depth Investigation.”
Sukuna blinked, his eyes narrowing slightly. "What is this trash?"
"It's the third article this week, Ryomen," she sighed, exasperated but amused. "My sister called me crying yesterday asking if I was safe because she saw a TikTok theory that you kidnapped me. The media is driving itself crazy. People are camped outside your old apartment!"
"Let them camp. I'll break their cameras if they touch the gate."
"No, you won't," she snapped gently, bopping him on the nose with her index finger. Sukuna didn't even flinch; he just blinked slowly, accepting the small strike. "You are going to clear this up. You keep ignoring it, and it's making them crazier. You need to manage your public image for once in your life."
"I don't give a damn about my public image," Sukuna growled softly, resting his chin on top of her head. "I beat people up for millions of dollars. They don't need to know who I go home to."
"They're calling me your 'Mystery Siren', Sukuna. It's ridiculous." She poked his chest hard. "Post something. Tell them to back off. Put an end to it so I can go to the grocery store without feeling like a fugitive."
Sukuna grumbled deeply, a sound that vibrated straight through her chest. He hated dealing with the internet. He hated phones. He hated people in general. But he loved his wife, and if she was getting annoyed by the circus, the circus had to be shut down.
"Fine," he grunted.
He reached into his sweatpants pocket, pulled out his phone, and opened Instagram. Sukuna’s Instagram account was a wasteland. It had eleven million followers, zero followed accounts, and exactly four posts—all of them low-quality, blurry pictures of his boxing gloves or official fight posters posted by his manager.
He didn't take a new picture. He didn't write a thoughtful, PR-approved statement drafted by a sports agent.
He took a screenshot of the Roppongi picture—the one where he was kissing her so fiercely under the streetlights—and uploaded it directly to his feed.
For the caption, he typed one single line:
the woman is my wife. stop fucking around her.
He hit post, tossed the phone onto the kitchen counter without waiting for a single comment to load, and wrapped his arms back around his wife's waist, lifting her off her feet effortlessly.
"Hey! The food—"
"It can wait," Sukuna growled, carrying her out of the kitchen toward the master bedroom. "I've been punched in the head all day. I want to go to sleep."
If the internet was on fire before, Sukuna’s post was a nuclear strike.
Within ten minutes, the post had two million likes. Within an hour, it hit ten million. The comment section was an unhinged, chaotic mess:
“WIFE??? SINCE WHEN IS HE MARRIED???”
“'STOP FUCKING AROUND HER' I AM SCREAMING HE IS SO PROTECTIVE”
“Wait so he’s not a lonely demon? He goes home to a WHOLE WIFE??”
“The caption is so aggressively Sukuna I’m crying”
“WE NEED NAMES! WE NEED A FACE! WHO MARRIED THE KING OF CURSES??”
It answered one question and created ten thousand more. Who was she? How long had they been married? How did a human woman manage to live with a man who looked like he fought bears for fun?
The next morning at Jujutsu Boxing Gym, the atmosphere had shifted from standard terror to absolute, paralyzed awe.
The reporters outside the building were practically breaking down the glass doors. Phone lines were ringing off the hook. Promoters were losing their minds.
Inside, Sukuna walked through the double doors at 8:00 AM sharp. He was wearing black athletic tape around his knuckles, his gym bag slung over one massive shoulder.
The entire gym went dead silent.
Yuji stared at him with wide, disbelieving eyes. Megumi looked like he was contemplating quitting boxing entirely to avoid the splash zone. Uraume stood by the ring, holding a clipboard, looking like they wanted to offer congratulations but knew better than to risk their life.
Sukuna walked past them all, totally unfazed, and unceremoniously threw his gym bag onto a bench.
He wrapped his hands, stepped into the ring, and rested his arms on the top ropes, looking down at Uraume.
"Well?" Sukuna barked, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. "Are we training today, or are you all going to stand there looking like idiots?"
Uraume cleared their throat instantly. "Right away, Champ. Yuji, get in the ring."
Yuji looked like he had just been handed a death sentence, but he slowly climbed through the ropes, putting in his mouthguard. "Uh... morning, Sukuna-san."
Sukuna didn't answer. He just brought his gloves up to his face, his eyes sharp, dark, and utterly terrifying.
Back at the penthouse, miles away from the noise, the chaos, and the endless viral tweets, the bedroom was completely dark. The thick blackout curtains blocked out the morning Tokyo sun.
Sukuna’s wife turned over in the massive king-sized bed, pulling the heavy duvet up around her shoulders. Her phone, sitting on the nightstand, was buzzing continuously with hundreds of texts from friends, family, and news alerts, muted completely on 'Do Not Disturb'.
She smiled softly into the pillow, drifting right back to sleep, surrounded by the faint, lingering scent of leather, rain, and the fierce, absolute devotion of the scariest boxer on the planet.
clan leader!Gojo Satoru x reader
the 'elders' lay their hands on you.
...
everytime you look at his footwear, you remember the first time you ever tried cleaning them.
“Sweetheart” Gojo Satoru’s voice rolled like summer thunder, low and indulgent. “What did I say about touching those?”
You looked up, after two months of marriage, the sight of him stole your breath. his eyes, glowing softly in the daylight. The haori of the clan head rested over his broad shoulders, the fabric whispering as he crouched before you.
“I was only going to wipe the dust” you murmured, cheeks warming. “You have the elders’ meeting after breakfast, and—”
“And nothing.” His large hands, hands that had ended curses with casual flicks, gently took the cloth from you. He lifted your chin with two fingers, thumb brushing your lower lip.
“The only thing these hands should be doing is resting on my chest while I kiss you senseless.”
Before you could protest, he rose, pulling you up with him as if you weighed nothing. In one smooth motion he swept you into his arms, carrying you back inside the main house. The servants bowed and vanished around corners. they had long grown used to their lord’s open affection.
...
the elders were already gathered. You moved to serve tea, old habit, but Satoru’s hand caught yours.
“Sit” he said simply, guiding you to the cushion beside his own.
The elders’ eyes widened when he asked them to pour thier own tea. One elder, an old man with a face like weathered stone, cleared his throat.
“You should not be idle, daughter” Elder Haruto intoned, sipping his tea while his gaze flicked disapprovingly to the way Satoru lounged nearby, one hand resting possessively on your knee. “The floors must be polished. The lord’s footwear cleaned and set properly. A wife’s hands are never still, child or no.”
“Her hands will rest when I say they rest.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “If the floors need polishing, the servants will handle it. As for my geta—” He glanced at the wooden sandals by the door, the ones you had never been allowed to touch, even before you were pregnant, “—I never let her near them. Why would I start now?”
“My lord… the lady is perfectly capable of light duties, tradi—”
“Tradition? now observing education for higher students is enough work for her.” Satoru cut in, voice pleasant yet edged with Infinity’s chill, “She worked herself to exhaustion at home before I wed her. I will not allow it now.” He glanced at you, eyes warm. “Besides… I like doing things for her.”
You stared at him again, long, unblinking.
The elder looked displeased, but said nothing more.
...
It happened on the third afternoon of his absence. The sky hung heavy with late spring clouds, and the air inside the main hall smelled of aged wood and incense. You were kneeling by the low table, arranging fresh white camellias and pine branches, when elder Haruto and two others entered without announcement.
“Daughter in law of the Gojo house” Haruto began, his voice like dry leaves scraping stone. His gaze flicked to your middle with clear disdain.
“Carrying the heir does not exempt you from your duties. It is a wife’s role to maintain the household’s dignity. Do not think your condition makes you special.”
Tradition bound you, as a non sorcerer brought into the clan through marriage, your place was one of service and quiet strength. Defiance against the elders could ripple through the entire household.
“But… my husband said—”
“His indulgence is temporary,” another elder cut in sharply. “The child is not yet born. Clean them, thoroughly.”
A servant boy hovered anxiously nearby, eyes wide with worry, but he dared not intervene.
...
The sliding shoji screens of the estate did not merely open, they rattled on their wooden tracks, vibrating with the sheer force of the cursed energy bleeding off Satoru as he stepped into the main pavilion.
The air in the compound always grew heavier when the clan head returned, but tonight, it felt suffocating. It tasted of ozone and impending lightning.
You were already asleep in the main room, exhausted from a day that had fractured your spirit far more than your body. Beneath the heavy, silk futon, your hand rested protectively over the slight swell of your belly, a few months along, still delicate, a fragile miracle you and Satoru had wept over in the privacy of your quarters.
Satoru shed his haori, his six eyes instantly cataloging the state of the house. He had been gone for three days on an emergency deployment in the north. Three days too long.
"Gojo sama."
A small, breathless voice broke the silence of the corridor. It was a servant boy whose family had served Satoru’s personal branch for generations. The boy was with some information.
Satoru paused.
"Tatsuya" he murmured, his voice deceptively low. "Why are you still up? And why does the courtyard smell like damp earth?"
Tatsuya swallowed hard, looking toward the closed doors of your bedroom before continuing. "While you were away... the council of elders called upon the lady."
Satoru’s posture didn't change, but the ambient temperature seemed to drop. "Did they?"
"They... they claimed she was becoming arrogant. They said a housewife of the Gojo clan must know her place, less she 'grow into her mind' and believe herself above the bloodline." Tatsuya’s voice hitched. "They dragged her to the northern wash-basin. They forced her to clean the clan’s formal geta and zori. With the well water."
The silence that followed was absolute. Not even the crickets in the garden dared to make a sound.
"They forced her?" Satoru repeated. The words were quiet, but they carried the weight of a collapsing star.
"She refused at first, reminding them of her condition," Tatsuya whispered, tears leaking onto the floorboards. "But Elder Ogi... he grabbed her arm. He forced her down to her knees on the stone path. She tripped. Her knee... her knee was scraped. She spent three hours in the cold, scrubbing their filth. She asked them to let her rest, but they told her she needed to be 'disciplined'."
Satoru didn't say another word, nor did he storm off. He simply vanished from the hallway, leaving behind a draft of freezing air.
In the dimly lit inner sanctuary of the estate, three of the clan’s oldest elders sat around a low table, sipping roasted green tea. They were discussing the upcoming seasonal rituals, completely self assured in their ancient, stagnant authority.
The heavy oak doors of the sanctuary didn't just open, they shattered inward, exploding into wooden splinters that embedded themselves into the priceless hanging scrolls on the walls.
The elders scrambled backward, but before they could even draw a breath to protest, Satoru was there.
He didn't use Limitless to crush them from afar. This required the brutal, visceral reality of his bare hands.
"What" he begins, voice deceptively soft, "in the name of all the ancestors, possessed you to order my pregnant wife to wash filth?"
"Satoru! What is the meaning of—"
Ogi, the eldest among them, didn't get to finish his sentence. Satoru lunged forward, his movement a blur of lethal grace. He grabbed Ogi’s right wrist and twisted.
A sickening, wet pop echoed through the room as the bones in Ogi's wrist shattered under Satoru's grip. The old man screamed, a high, reedy sound of pure agony, as Satoru slammed him face first onto the tatami mats.
"You touched her" Satoru whispered. The sound of his voice was worse than any shout. It was dead. Completely devoid of the playful sorcerer they thought they could manage.
Satoru brought his heavy, geta down directly onto Ogi’s outstretched hand, grinding his heel into the old man's knuckles. The sound of fracturing finger bones filled the room. Ogi choked on his own vomit, pinning himself to the floor under the immense, crushing weight of Satoru’s physical strength.
"Satoru! Step back! This is a violation of clan law! She is a woman! She must be disciplined to understand the weight of the Gojo name!" another elder shrieked, his hands shaking as he tried to form a cursed technique sign.
Satoru turned his head, his brilliant blue eyes glowing with a terrifying, unhinged light in the shadows. He had never been this angry in his entire life.
"Disciplined?" Satoru's voice rose, vibrating with a rage that made the very foundations of the estate groan. "You dynamic pieces of garbage. You dare talk about discipline to me? About my wife?"
He stepped off Ogi, leaving the old man weeping into the ruined tatami, and advanced on the second elder.
"I don't let her touch a single piece of anything when she is perfectly healthy" Satoru snarled, the raw emotion finally breaking through his terrifying calm.
"the servants wash my damn boots. I carry her across the courtyard when the gravel is too sharp. And you... you useless, disgusting, vile, rotting fossils... you dragged my pregnant woman out into the cold? To scrub your filth? Her knee bleeds because of your exclusive skill of not using a brain"
He grabbed the second elder by the front of his expensive silk kimono, lifting the grown man entirely off the ground with one hand.
"She is the future of this entire fucking world, and you risked her safety—you risked my child—because your fragile, pathetic egos were threatened by her existence?!" Satoru roared, his voice shaking the roof tiles.
"She will think she's the best of all? She is the best of all! She is mine! Which makes her untouchable to the likes of you!"
He threw the elder across the room, smashing him into a heavy wooden cabinet that collapsed under the impact.
"Satoru... the--the hierarchy... her place-" the third elder stammered, backing into the corner, clutching his prayer beads as if they could save him from a god.
“Her place?” The air crackled. “Her place is to be cherished. To be protected. I have torn apart special grade curses with less effort than it takes me to tolerate your outdated nonsense. You dare speak to my wife as if she is a common servant? As if the life she nurtures is insignificant?”
Satoru stood in the center of the ruined room, his breathing heavy, his chest heaving under his clothes. The sheer pressure of his cursed energy was cracking the plaster on the walls. He looked down at them with a disgust so profound it was sickening.
"Listen to me very carefully" Satoru said, his voice dropping back to a lethal, quiet hiss. "Tradition dies when it threatens what is mine."
"I have never asked her to perform such tasks. Not once. Not before she carried my child, and certainly not now. Do you have any idea what pregnancy entails? The strain? The risk? My wife is not a servant. She is the heart of this clan. She carries the future."
His voice rises, never before this uncontrolled. "You forced her to kneel by a basin while I was away securing this clan's power? While she should be resting, being cared for? If any of you so much as suggest she lift a finger for menial labor again, I will personally ensure your retirement is... permanent. and I will remind you exactly why I am the clan head. Not because of bloodlines or dusty customs. Because I am the strongest. And I will not hesitate to make examples.”
He stepped closer, his shadow engulfing the final elder, deciding it was enough.
"Get out. All of you. Pack your robes, your tea sets, and your useless books, and fuck yourselves out of my estate before the sun rises. If I see a single one of your faces within the clan boundaries tomorrow morning, I won't just break your hands. I will erase your entire branches from the registry. Try me. See if the jujutsu authorities can stop me."
None of them doubted him. The strongest sorcerer in the world was standing before them, completely unhinged. They nodded frantically, Ogi clutching his ruined arm as they dragged themselves out of the room, terrified for their very lives, knowing the strongest's word was law, and his wrath absolute.
The slide of the shoji screen was a mere sigh in the quiet night, a soft friction of wood on wood. The moment Satoru crossed the threshold into the master bedroom, the terrifying, static heavy aura of his rage dissolved entirely, locked away behind the absolute precision of his control. He didn't want even a stray spark of his cursed energy to disrupt your sleep.
The room smelled of sweet tatami, dried lavender, and the faint, bitter tang of the medicinal salve Tatsuya had helped you apply.
Satoru shed his socks, his bare feet sinking into the woven mats as he approached the futon with agonizing care. He knelt beside you, the sheer size of his frame casting a protective shadow over your sleeping form. Without his blindfold, his six eyes tracked every rhythm of your breathing, noting the slight, tense line between your brows even in slumber.
You stirred, your senses waking up before your eyes did. The air in the room suddenly grew warmer, sweeter, thick with the distinct, dizzying scent of him.
"Satoru...?" you mumbled, your voice heavy and thick with sleep. You began to shift, your palms pressing into the futon to push yourself up, but a large, impossibly warm hand slid over your shoulder, gently anchoring you down.
"Shh... stay down, hime" he whispered, his voice a low, gravelly rasp against the quiet of the room. "Don't get up for me. Never get up for me."
He slid under the heavy silk duvet, but he didn't pull you into his arms just yet. Instead, he worked his way down to the foot of the futon. His touch was feather light as he peeled back the edge of the blanket, exposing your bare legs to the cool night air.
Your heart pinched, a sudden flush of anxiety warming your cheeks. You remembered the heavy, frozen stone of the northern wash basin, the harsh, disapproving glares of the elders, the way the coarse bristles of the brush had scraped against your skin. You had desperately wanted to hide it from him, to spare him the headache of clan politics when he already carried the weight of the entire world on his shoulders.
But Satoru was already staring at your right knee. The neat, white bandage Tatsuya had carefully wrapped was stark against your skin.
A tiny, involuntary tremor ran through Satoru’s hands. The very fingers that had just shattered bones and ground old men's knuckles into dust were now trembling with a terrifying fragility as he slid his palms beneath your calf, lifting your leg just an inch to cradle it against his chest.
He leaned down, his silver hair spilling over your skin like silk. He didn't just look, he pressed his lips gently against the side of your knee, just beside the gauze, kissing the uninjured skin with a soft, lingering reverence. Then, his lips tracked a slow, agonizingly tender path up your thigh, his breath hot against your skin.
"I'm sorry" he murmured, his forehead resting against your thigh as his voice cracked, raw and bleeding with a guilt he couldn't hide. "I'm so sorry I left you alone. I'm so sorry I wasn't here, sweetness."
The sheer vulnerability in his tone made your throat tight. You reached down, your fingers weaving into the thick, ridiculously soft tufts of his white hair, gently tugging until he shifted upward. He crawled back up the length of your body, sliding his frame beneath the covers until he was flush against you.
"It's okay" you whispered, your thumb catching a stray tear that threatened to spill from the corner of his brilliant, crystalline eyes. "It's just a little scrape, Satoru. Truly. They... they just wanted me to learn the household duties. They said it was tradition for the women of the house. I just didn't want to cause trouble for you."
Satoru let out a ragged, shaky breath that stuttered against your collarbone. He nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck, his nose scenting your skin, inhaling you as if he were a starving man. His lips pressed a frantic, hot sequence of kisses along your jaw, up to your cheek, and finally against your lips, a soft, bruising, desperate kiss that tasted of a possessiveness so deep it bordered on worship.
His large hands slid down your back, molding your spine to his chest, before one palm found its permanent home, flat and warm against the slight, delicate swell of your belly. His fingers splayed wide over your abdomen, a protective shield of flesh and boundless power.
"You don't have duties to anyone but yourself" Satoru swore against your lips, his chest heaving as his heart thudded rapidly, a frantic, wild rhythm against your own ribs. He pulled you so close you could barely tell where your body ended and his began. "You are the lady of this house. My lady. You don't bow to anyone, you don't clean for anyone, and you don't break yourself for their rotting ideas of tradition."
He kissed the crown of your head, his hand on your stomach gently rubbing in tiny, soothing circles, his thumb caressing the soft fabric of your sleepwear.
"Let them talk. Let them rot" he whispered, his voice turning dark for a fraction of a second before softening as he pressed another kiss to your eyelid. "You just stay safe. Stay soft and warm right here. Let me handle the rest. Please, hime... just stay safe for me."
You smiled softly in the dark, your senses clouded by his immense, radiating warmth and the intoxicating rhythm of his breathing. You let your eyes close, completely melting into him, entirely unaware of the bloodied, broken elders currently packing their things in the dead of night, fleeing the estate in absolute terror.
You didn't need to know. As Satoru tightened his arms around you, pulling the duvet up to your chins and burying his face back into your hair, he held you like you were the only piece of reality that mattered in the universe.
And as his thumb continued to trace slow, adoring lines over your belly, you knew that to him, you absolutely were.
Jason grace, born too human to be god and too godly to be human. Jason's entire life was tragedy upon tragedy, raised into his role as the perfect soldier, the perfect praeter, he had no childhood, no parents and the only relative that loved him lost him far before she could impact his life for the better, Jason lived and died being only what he was groomed into being, a soldier. Even by his own peers nobody saw Jason as human, he was "cold" and he was a "legend" but never once was Jason grace seen as human.
When he lost his memories (mind you, at 15) Jason grace had no anchor like Percy was given all he had was fake memories and his training, Percy was allowed that privilege the privilege of love and the love Percy was given guided him into keeping himself intact. No matter what happened he was allowed to remember, he had his empathy link to grover and he had his memories of Annabeth, his family, his dreams, he had memories.
Jason had no guidance, no family, few friends and even with the fates stacked against him he was still expected to succeed, Jason grace was set up to die miserably or become a shell of a human,
In the end Jason grace was his status, his training, his scars and marks but never once was Jason grace a teenager
Everyone has to be careful with what they say around Jason cause he WILL do it.
He grew up living his entire life for others and that's not something that's so easy to unlearn.
One time sparring with Percy, Percy had to leave and said he would be back soon if Jason wanted to wait. Whatever Percy had got up to took longer than expected but Jason had sat there, waiting.
Waiting, waiting... And even more waiting. He didn't know how long it had been and he didn't care. Percy said he would be back, so Jason waited.
When Percy walks into the training room the next day he wasn't expecting to see Jason who hasn't slept, hadn't eaten, hadn't showered or even moved since yesterday, he figured he would've left by now? but all Jason says is "finally, you're back. Ready for another round?"
Even when his mother had told him, that day in the forest, "just wait here, darling, mommy will come back for you.", he had waited. When the pack of wolves grew near he was scared, he wanted to run. But his mother had said she would be back, so he waited, until the wolf pack dragged him away all kicks and screams and tears.
Basically, gojo and reader are best friends, except they screw each other. I remember gojo got them an apartment off their college campus so they wouldn’t be separated, whenever she’s sad he would cuddle up with her on the couch and finger her, she dressed up in a bunny costume while he jerked off to her, and there was a scene of them in the shower. He sets this up under the excuse that he’s her “practice boyfriend” or smth like that, but at the end she reveals she isn’t as gullible as he thinks she is.
a song of past romance a royal / greek au gojo fic
pairing ⸺ suitor/king!gojo x princess!reader
summary ⸺ king gojo satoru of ithaca travels to sparta, seeking to win over who they say is the most beautiful mortal woman's heart. so when he sees you upon his arrival weaving under an olive tree, looking goddess-sent, he immediately loses the plot and concludes that it must be you that the tales and legends must talk about. it is not, but gojo has chosen who his queen will be. as gojo continues to break down your walls with his endless devotion and silver tongue, you must decide: will you let duty and your loved ones's expectations decide your fate, or will you choose the man who would defy even the heavens to claim you as his queen ?
warnings ⸺ smut, p i v sex, oral f recieving, whimpering gojo agenda <3, fluff, a big of angst if you squint, some insecurity, pining, banterTM, gojo is really whipped for reader, odypen inspired (this one's for my epic/pjo baddies), extensive greek mythology knowledge not needed, athena is tired of gojo lol, jealousy, helen is a sassy diva, not totally accurate to the lore of the illiad bc i just use the premise, mentions of children/pregnancy at the end if you squint, semi edited, art by @/yunonoaii
a/n my hyperfixation made me write this lol. you dont need to know anything about greek mythology to read this fic it's more of a period piece / royal au :3
general masterlist
You had registered the young man’s presence for quite some time now.
Ever since your beloved cousin Helen—the most beautiful woman in the world, the kallikomos, kalliparēios Helen—had come of age, your palace had been plagued by an unceasing tide of suitors. Even a respite alone in the garden, in peace, was not guaranteed to you; just as the ivory haired suitor (who thought himself furitive) that had been sneaking and skirting around you for a while now, there were countless of men on the palace grounds desperate to even get a glimpse of what the countless legends and tales about Helen had described.
Though, you weren’t jealous of your lovely cousin—you loved her to death. But it was getting on your nerves, because you had hoped for a quiet evening relaxing under the olive tree you were sitting in. This mn, however, was different.
For some time now, the ivory-haired suitor had been skirting the edges of your sanctuary, moving as though he thought himself invisible. You could feel his gaze, sharp and intent, as you alternated between weaving and reading. His persistence should have irritated you. And yet, there was something amusing about his poor attempt at stealth.
The telltale rustle of grass betrayed him once again. You sighed, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear before reaching up to gather it all, baring the curve of your neck to the evening breeze.
The stalker suitor tripped with a loud thud.
You blinked. Then, sighing once more, you set down your spindle and turned. "I know you’re there," you called, unimpressed.
Silence, then a low chuckle.
When he finally stepped into the open, your disinterested gaze lifted—and promptly widened.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. The build of a warrior, yet the face of a prince. A mischievous, almost boyish charm softened the sharp lines of his features, but his striking blue eyes gleamed with something untamed.
Helen would have a field day with him. Like that one thing she said about how she looovedd versatile men, the ones that could manhandle you but also whimper. Or whatever.
Then, to your utter shock, he dropped to one knee, extending his hand toward you in a bold gesture of devotion. His demeanor was confident, but you saw him sporting a hue of pink on his cheeks. It was rather cute, but any feelings of fondness disappeared at his next words.
"O’ Helen—" the suitor began, his voice rich with reverence, "fairest of all women, whose beauty outshines even the dawn—"
You exhaled sharply through your nose. Of course.
"—permit me but a moment to bask in your radiance, for no mortal man could gaze upon you and remain unchanged—"
Your fingers curled tightly around the threads of your spindle.
"—grant me the honor of—"
"Try again," you cut in, your voice deceptively sweet.
The suitor paused mid-sentence, blinking up at you.
"Pardon?"
You raised an unimpressed brow, tilting your head. "If you’re going to wax poetic, you might at least direct it toward the right woman."
His lips parted, then pressed into a puzzled frown. He tilted his head, sharp blue eyes scanning your face as if trying to decipher a riddle. "But… you are Helen," he said slowly, as if testing the words.
You let out a short laugh, shaking your head. "Afraid not."
A pause.
His gaze flickered over you again, as if he could will you into being Helen just by staring hard enough. "Are you sure?"
You gave him a look. "I would hope I know my own name."
His brows drew together, clearly struggling to process this revelation. "But you’re—you’re sitting under an olive tree, looking vaguely divine. Your hair caught the light just now in a way that seemed very… goddess-sent. You have the whole tragic air of someone who is probably devastatingly beautiful and sought after by hundreds."
You blinked, trying to fight the heat creeping up your neck. You shouldn’t be affected by his bromides, for his words must be a ploy to gain back his image after offending you. "Is that supposed to be an apology?"
He squinted. "More like a logical assessment of my mistake."
You sighed. "Well, your 'logical assessment' is incorrect."
He sat back on his heels, regarding you with blatant skepticism. "I don’t know," he said slowly. "I came here for Helen. You’re here. And you're lovely. Seems like a very Helen thing to do."
You gave him a flat stare in return. "What, exist?"
"Exactly."
You rolled your eyes. "I see why they make you fight instead of think."
At that, the suitor huffed a short laugh, his earlier embarrassment giving way to something more amused, more interested. "Alright," he conceded, crossing his arms over his knee. "If you aren’t Helen, then who are you?"
You leaned back against the tree, allowing yourself a small, satisfied smirk. "The woman you just proposed to by accident."
He blinked. Then groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "The gods are laughing at me."
"As they should," you replied smoothly.
To your surprise, he grinned. "That makes two of us, then," he mused, tilting his head at you. "I get the feeling you enjoy seeing men suffer."
A non committal hum from you. “Maybe, maybe not.” With that, you began weaving once more, giving him the signal that his presence and platitudes were no longer needed.
Yet, he remained.
You could feel his gaze lingering, heavy with an amusement that refused to wane. He had the look of someone thoroughly entertained, and that irritated you more than anything. Having conversed with him, you knew he was sharper than the average suitor—quick-witted, quicker still to recover from his blunders. Though he had not done anything to overtly suggest it, there was something about him that set him apart. It was a feeling—an air around him, something god-graced.
You paid it no mind.
He had not meant for you to be the one on the receiving end of his affection, and it would do you no good to cling to a man who had come here seeking another. He was meant to lose his mind over Helen, not take interest in you.
"Tell me your name," he said suddenly, breaking the silence.
You didn't pause in your weaving. "Why?"
A short huff of laughter. "I figure if I’m already embarrassing myself in front of a woman, I should at least know which one."
You shot him a sidelong glance, unimpressed. "Bold of you to assume you’ll be staying long enough for it to matter."
His grin deepened. "Well, now I have to stay, just to prove you wrong."
You sighed, shaking your head. "You’re insufferable."
"I’ve been told worse," he admitted. Then, leaning forward just slightly, he added, "Though never by a woman whose name I don’t know."
You lifted a brow at him, unimpressed. "And do you have a name, then, mysterious suitor?"
His expression shifted, something proud yet teasing gleaming in those striking blue eyes.
"Gojo Satoru," he declared, as if it should mean something to you. "Of Ithaca."
You hummed, as if considering. "Never heard of it."
He blinked, then scoffed. "Never heard of Ithaca?" He placed a hand over his chest in mock offense. "A land of brilliant minds, fierce warriors, and some say the most handsome men to ever walk the earth—"
"Ah," you interjected, dry. "That explains it."
He smirked. "Explains what?"
"Why I’ve never heard of it."
A beat of silence. Then, to your dismay, he laughed—fully, unabashedly, as if you’d just handed him the greatest gift in the world.
You huffed, returning your attention to your weaving. "Now that you have a name to be proud of, surely you can be on your way."
"Not yet," he said, far too easily.
You didn’t look up. "Why?"
"Because you haven’t given me yours."
You didn’t miss the way his voice dipped, taking on something smoother, something more coaxing. He was trying to charm it out of you, as if your name was a prize worth winning.
"Perhaps I simply don’t wish to give it," you mused, feigning disinterest.
"Perhaps you’re afraid," he countered.
You did look up at that, leveling him with an unimpressed stare. "Afraid?"
He shrugged, utterly unbothered. "That if I know your name, I’ll never forget it." His gaze flickered to your hands, to the weaving that had slowed ever so slightly. "And maybe… neither will you."
You forced yourself to resume your work, your fingers steady despite the odd flutter in your chest. "You think too highly of yourself, Gojo Satoru of Ithaca."
"I’m told it’s my greatest flaw," he admitted, smirking. "Well—one of many."
You ignored him, the rhythmic motion of your weaving serving as a convenient distraction.
Gojo exhaled, as if relenting—though something told you he was nowhere near finished with you. He rocked back on his heels, eyeing you with unconcealed interest. "Alright, mystery woman," he drawled. "If you won’t give me your name, I suppose I’ll have to keep guessing."
You didn't dignify that with a response.
But somehow, you knew—this would not be the last time Gojo Satoru of Ithaca sought you out.
He had yet to claim your name.
No matter how cunningly he pried, no matter how sweetly he coaxed, you remained steadfast, denying him that small but significant victory.
Satoru had undoubtedly set sail for Sparta in search of a worthy challenge and a faithful bride—but he had not expected to find both in one woman. You were a puzzle, divine and elusive, a riddle spun by the Fates themselves. And for a man who relished the thrill of unraveling mysteries, you were the most captivating enigma he had ever encountered.
Not since the day he bested the enchanted boar—a feat that had drawn Athena’s keen eye and earned him her favor—had he felt such a rush.
He’d dare say you were the first one he’s felt an affinity for, despite the countless of women and candidates he had faced ever since becoming the king of Ithaca.
But before he could ponder more on the thought, he sensed a presence, tensing immediately. Heavy-set footsteps, trying to be quiet in the hallway they were both in.
Satoru crossed his arms, halted where he was. “I know you’re there.”
A laugh barked out in a deep voice. “Perceptive like they say, Gojo Satoru of Ithaca.”
Satoru watched as Toji Fushiguro sauntered toward him, his movements unhurried, yet carrying the unmistakable confidence of a seasoned warrior. The man was broad-shouldered, his presence commanding, the kind of brute who could cleave a man in half with a single swing of his blade. Yet his grin—sharp, knowing—held more calculation than recklessness.
Toji came to a stop before him, arms crossed, weight shifted onto one foot like he had all the time in the world, smirking. "No wonder Athena’s got her eye on you."
Satoru tilted his head, feigning nonchalance. "I do have a way of impressing gods and mortals alike," he mused. "Though I imagine you didn’t come all this way just to admire me."
“Just assessing the competition,” Toji hums in response, eyes still assessing Satoru. He was trying to plan three steps ahead; unfortunately for him, Satoru was ten steps ahead.
“There is no competition,” comes Satoru’s cool response.
Toji studied Satoru for a moment, his sharp green eyes narrowing slightly. Then, with an amused scoff, he asked, "You’re not here to fight for Helen’s hand? Are you crazy?”
Satoru let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as if the very thought was amusing. "Helen?" he echoed, letting the name roll from his tongue with deliberate care. He lifted a hand, absently brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve. "No, I’m afraid I have no interest in her."
Toji studied him, eyes narrowing. "She’s the most beautiful woman in the world."
Satoru did not deny it. "So they say."
"And yet," Toji pressed, his tone skeptical, "you aren’t here for her?"
Satoru finally looked at him properly, his head tilting, his gaze alight with something teasing, something unreadable. "Not in the way you are." He let the words settle between them before continuing, his tone almost indulgent. "You’re welcome to her."
Toji’s mouth pressed into a thin line. His instincts told him Satoru was not lying, yet something about the Ithacan’s expression, the way he carried himself, the glint in those striking blue eyes—it all made him wary. He had met many warriors in his time, but this was no brute with a sword, no hotheaded prince desperate to claim a prize.
Satoru Gojo was something else entirely.
"So what is it, then?" Toji asked, crossing his arms tighter, his voice edged with suspicion. "You sailed all this way, and for what? A festival?"
Satoru’s smirk deepened, his expression inscrutable. "Let’s just say Sparta has given me a rather interesting puzzle."
Toji scoffed but let it drop, running a hand through his dark hair. "Whatever," he muttered. "If you're really not here for Helen, then maybe you can help me."
Satoru hummed in vague interest. "Oh?"
"I intend to win her," Toji stated plainly. "But I could use an extra hand in ensuring things go my way."
Satoru did not answer immediately. Instead, he turned his gaze upward, as though admiring the vaulted ceilings of the hall, as though considering some grander design that only he could see. Then, with the ease of a man wholly unbothered by the concerns of others, he exhaled through his nose, the beginnings of a smile playing at the corners of his lips.
"Don't worry about it," he said at last, his voice rich with something almost too smooth, too assured. "Everything is already falling into place."
Toji stiffened slightly at the words, his war-honed instincts bristling at their implication. He did not like things he could not predict, and Gojo Satoru of Ithaca was proving to be as unreadable as the gods themselves.
His brows lowered. "And what the hell does that mean?"
But Satoru only laughed, turning on his heel, the faintest shimmer of torchlight catching in his silver-white hair.
"Guess you’ll just have to wait and see."
And with that, he strode off, his footsteps unhurried, leaving Toji standing in the flickering shadows, frowning after him.
The great hall of Sparta was alive with the clash of bronze and the roars of men. The suitors, assembled from all corners of Greece, fought with a desperation that could only belong to those who sought glory and the hand of Helen. Blades flashed, spears thrust, and the resounding clamor of shields meeting shields filled the air like the din of battle.
Satoru Gojo of Ithaca stood at the edge of the fray, watching with a detached amusement. He had not drawn his blade, nor did he so much as feign interest in the chaos unfolding before him. Instead, his arms were loosely crossed, his posture relaxed, his sharp blue gaze studying each warrior as though they were mere pieces on a game board.
Meanwhile, you and Helen watched from the shade of a marble colonnade, seated atop a cushioned bench where servants had arranged fruits and wine for the both of you. But neither of you reached for the offerings; your gazes remained transfixed on the chaos below.
You shook your head at the ridiculous display. "It must be nice to be fought for by so many men," you murmured, resting your chin in your palm.
Helen sighed daintily—in a way that was so typically Helen it made you smile fondly—her hair catching the afternoon light like threads spun from the sun itself. “I will admit that it has its advantages.”
You cast her a dry look before gesturing at the men below. “Helen,” you shook your head, sighing exasperatedly, “they’re savages. They’re beating each other senselessly. Does this not disgust you?”
Instead, your cousin’s beautiful lips curled up in a knowing smile, teasing you, “Jealous, my dear cousin?”
“No.” But the answer came a little too quickly, a little too defensively. The yells and violence was a display of brutishness—but you would not be truthful to yourself if you didn’t admit that you were a bit envious of the attention your cousin was getting.
However, one would be a fool to confuse your sentiments for bitterness—as a princess yourself, there were no shortage of men who would be here to get you as a prize, if they did not get Helen. No shortage of men wondering who is he? Who is the man who’ll have the princess as his wife?
But unfortunately, it seemed that your father, the Spartan king Icarius, had other plans, for he would not let any man be your husband so easily. In fact, he did not wish you to marry and be taken away from him.
It was safe to say that not much male attention was on you due to this obstacle.
Helen showed no reaction to your response, but only hummed. “This fighting—sooner or later, you’re going to be in my shoes. You’re going to have to choose at one point, too, my dear.”
“Says who?” You scoffed, turning your eyes back to the courtyard. “Do not forget Helen, these men want power. Power so they can tower above each other, place themselves above all others.”
Helen shrugged. “So what?”
You shook your head. “Silly Helen. Wouldn’t you prefer some intellectual prowess over some…savage?”
Before Helen could reply, a shift in the air drew both of your attention back to the courtyard.
The chaos had stilled, if only for a moment. A singular figure stood at the center of it all, his ivory hair catching the wind, his stance languid yet poised.
That suitor.
The gathered nobles whispered among themselves, exchanging glances as Satoru approached the high table where the King of Sparta, Tyndareus, sat watching. The aged king stroked his beard, his expression unreadable as the Ithacan prince stopped before him, offering a bow that barely concealed the glint of mischief in his eyes.
"Your Majesty," Satoru began smoothly, "it seems we have our victor. But before we move forward, I believe there is an agreement that must be made."
The murmurs in the hall grew louder. Tyndareus narrowed his eyes slightly. "Speak, Gojo of Ithaca."
Satoru straightened, clasping his hands behind his back. "These men have come from every kingdom in Greece, each seeking the honor of marrying your daughter. Such a prize, however, comes with its dangers. Whoever wins Helen’s hand will earn not just her love but the envy and ire of the rest." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the hall. "If left unchecked, this jealousy could lead to war."
Tyndareus’s jaw tightened. It was a concern he himself had harbored, though few had dared to speak it outright.
Satoru’s lips curled at the edges, his voice turning smooth, persuasive. "I propose an oath. Let every suitor here, whether victorious or defeated, swear allegiance to Helen’s chosen husband. Let them vow, upon the gods, to uphold this union and defend it should any outside force seek to undo it. In doing so, Sparta ensures peace among the great kingdoms, rather than sows the seeds of discord."
Silence fell over the hall. The assembled nobles exchanged glances, the weight of the proposal heavy in the air. Even Toji, ever the warrior, raised a brow in consideration.
Tyndareus studied Satoru for a long moment, his fingers tapping against the armrest of his throne. Then, slowly, he nodded. "You are wise beyond your years, Gojo of Ithaca. Your proposal is sound. Let it be done."
A herald stepped forward, calling for the gathered suitors to kneel. One by one, they bent the knee, placing their hands over their hearts, swearing their loyalty to Helen’s future husband, binding themselves to an oath that would shape the course of history.
As the final echoes of the vow rang through the hall, Satoru turned his gaze to Toji, his smirk deepening ever so slightly. The pieces were falling into place, just as he had foreseen.
Meanwhile, in your place—where you and Helen were spectating the whole event away from common sight—Helen nudged you slightly, voice hushed in interest you hadn’t seen her display for any suitor yet. “Did you see that—the way he sweet talked my father?” Her gentle eyes widened in a way that could kill a man. “Who is he?”
You had no answer. Because, truthfully, you were wondering the same thing.
The palace gardens were quiet at this hour, bathed in the golden glow of the late afternoon sun. The scent of myrrh and olive trees lingered in the air, mixing with the faint salt of the distant sea. You sat with Helen beneath the shade of a vine-laden pergola, her back pressed against your legs as you wove your fingers through her silken strands, carefully braiding them into an intricate plait.
Helen, ever the restless one, sighed dramatically. “Do you suppose I should be flattered or terrified?”
You didn’t have to ask what she meant. The courtyard had been in an uproar for hours after the suitors’ oath had been sworn. Servants gossiped in hushed tones, and noblewomen tittered behind their veils. The future queen of Sparta had just gained the loyalty of every warrior present—whether she wanted it or not.
“Why not both?” you mused, separating another section of her hair.
Helen laughed, tossing her head slightly. “It is one thing to be the object of admiration. It is quite another to be the cause of bloodshed.”
You hummed in acknowledgment, though your fingers stilled when she spoke again, voice full of mischief.
“Did you see him?”
You resumed braiding. “Who?”
Helen turned just enough to throw you an incredulous look. “Who?” she repeated, mockingly. “As if you do not know exactly who I speak of. Gojo Satoru of Ithaca.”
You clicked your tongue. “Oh, him.”
“Oh, him?” Helen scoffed. “Do not play coy, cousin. He commanded that entire courtyard without lifting a blade.”
You smiled, but she could not see you. “That only proves he is cunning,” you pointed out, keeping your voice neutral.
“That proves he is powerful,” Helen countered, shifting as you tugged lightly at her braid. “He held those men in the palm of his hand.”
Barking out a laugh, you continued your work. “Or perhaps he simply enjoys hearing himself speak.”
Helen laughed, tilting her head back against your lap. “You wound me with your dullness. Do you not see? There was something about him. He has the air of a man accustomed to winning.”
You tried not to scowl. Of course he did.
And if Helen had her eye on him, there was no chance for you.
The thought settled in your chest like a stone.
It was not as though you had entertained any hopes—but you were not blind. The way he had looked at you in the hallways, the way he had tried to coax your name from you, the way he had seemed amused by your defiance. It had sparked something treacherous inside of you, something unspoken and foolish.
Because no man, no matter how powerful or wise, would ever choose you over Helen.
You forced your thoughts aside and tightened the braid. “And what of Toji Fushiguro?” you asked lightly, forcing the subject to change. “I noticed you watching him as well.”
Helen hummed, pleased with the shift in conversation. “A brute, but a striking one. I imagine he fights as well as he looks.”
You snorted. “I imagine he thinks with his fists.”
“All the better,” Helen teased. “I should not mind a warrior who throws me over his shoulder and carries me off.”
You rolled your eyes, but you giggled regardless. “You are insufferable.”
Helen twisted, kneeling so that you were now face to face. She reached for your hair, her fingers beginning to weave it into a braid of your own.
“You say I am insufferable, but you have yet to deny that Gojo Satoru is worth admiring,” she murmured.
You sighed exasperatedly, looking anywhere except for your cousin’s eyes. “Must we discuss this?”
Helen’s fingers worked deftly, her expression smug. “It is only natural to discuss the most intriguing men.”
“And yet I am sure you are doing it to torment me.”
“Perhaps a little.” Helen’s grin softened as she studied you. “You would not be so opposed to him if you did not find him interesting.”
You swallowed, looking away. “That is not—”
“You braid my hair with such care,” she interrupted, looping another section of yours. “And yet, you guard your own thoughts as if I am the enemy.”
You closed your eyes briefly, inhaling the scent of lavender and sun-warmed stone. Helen had always been perceptive when she wished to be.
“There is nothing to guard,” you murmured.
Helen merely smiled, finishing your braid with a satisfied tug.
But the knowing look in her eyes unsettled you more than any battle in the courtyard ever could.
Despite coming for Helen, Satoru continuously seeks your presence.
Your presence is intoxicating, even the smallest of glimpses of you enough to induce a feeling, one he’d liken to eating the gods’ ambrosia or drinking the finest nectar. Every time he saw you, it was passing moments in the hallways of the palace or sneaked glances while you were in the garden—your chin up, posture proud. Your eyes downcast as if you had no interest in the countless of men among you. The light only returned when you were weaving, or discussing with your cousin.
But Satoru had not been able to see you more than just those miniscule, fleeting moments—it was your accursed father that kept an eye on you during dinners, his withered glare threatening all suitors, as if to remind them: You’re here for Helen, and keep my daughter out of this, for she is not a prize you can easily win.
Little did he know Satoru loved challenges.
So he thanks the gods that an annual Spartan festival is thoroughly celebrated in the palace today.
The hall is the spitting image of revelry. Men adorn their finest tunics while women have braids of flowers and cloths, wine, fresh fruits, and meat are plentiful on all tables. There’s singing, there’s dancing, and, best of all, there’s you.
Satoru’s been observing you for quite some time now. It wouldn’t be fair to call it something akin to a predator stalking his prey; no, you far from being bested by Satoru. More like a bird waiting for all the weaker mates to filter themselves out.
They were like peacocks, the men that came up to you, with the way they flared their artificial grandeur. Each time a young man sat next to you, you remained aloof, giving them nothing but a bunch of polite glances and nods. But it was clear that what ever your responses or questions were, they were nonplussed. Satoru almost felt bad for the fools if it weren’t for how they were encroaching on his time to finally talk to you.
It was the opening that a particularly witless and brutish man had given him—the guy basically leaves the seat next to you, almost in tears from whatever you had said to him, but you only blinked as Satoru approached.
Satoru slid into the recently vacated seat beside you with the grace of a man who had never been denied anything in his life. He draped an arm over the back of his chair, all effortless ease, as if he had been waiting for this moment all night.
"Whatever you said to him, I’d like to hear it," he mused, his lips quirking in amusement. "Though I do hope you go a little easier on me—I’m rather sensitive, you see."
Your gaze flickered to him, unimpressed, though there was something almost imperceptible in your eyes—mild intrigue, perhaps.
"If you are so easily wounded, Your Majesty, then I fear you are not prepared for a Spartan woman’s words."
His grin widened. "Oh, but I live for danger."
You hummed, noncommittal, before returning your attention to the food before you. Satoru, however, found himself transfixed by the way you reached for a slice of fruit, your fingers delicate yet decisive as you brought it to your lips. You took a slow, deliberate bite, and for the first time in his life, Satoru forgot how to speak.
It was absurd, really. He had seen beautiful women eat before—Helen herself had a practiced elegance to it—but there was something about you. Something about the unthinking ease with which you did it, how your lips parted just slightly before closing around the fruit, how you chewed with quiet, effortless grace, unbothered by the weight of hungry gazes that lingered on you.
For a man who had always been surrounded by beauty, who had spent his life sated and indulged, it was utterly unfair that something so simple could leave him spellbound.
Perhaps the gods were toying with him.
"You’ve been staring for quite some time," you remarked, snapping him out of his reverie.
Satoru exhaled a laugh, recovering with impressive speed. "Can you blame me? I’m simply trying to unravel the mystery of how you managed to make that poor soul flee in tears. I’d rather not suffer the same fate."
"Then I suggest you leave now, Your Majesty."
"Not a chance."
You sighed, though there was the ghost of amusement at the corner of your lips. "Persistent, aren’t you?"
Satoru grinned. "And yet, here you are, still talking to me."
He watched as you reached for another piece of fruit, this time slower, as if testing him, watching to see if he would stare again. He nearly laughed—because, of course, he did.
"You truly are hopeless," you muttered, shaking your head.
"Ah, but at least I am entertaining," he countered. "And I do believe I’ve managed what those other poor fools could not—I’ve kept your attention."
You opened your mouth to retort, but he was faster. "Go on, you can admit it," he teased. "I make for much better company than them, don’t I?"
For a moment, you merely regarded him, expression unreadable. Then, to his absolute delight, a soft laugh escaped your lips.
It was small, barely more than an exhale, but it was real.
And gods, it was beautiful.
Satoru leaned in slightly, drinking in the sight of you as if committing it to memory.
"See?" he murmured, triumphant. "I told you I’m quite good at this."
Your amusement lingered, but you shook your head as if in exasperation. "If you say so."
He did not say so. He knew so.
Because despite all the reasons he had come to Sparta, despite all the men who had gathered to win Helen’s hand, Satoru had found himself drawn to you instead.
And he had no intention of stopping now.
But before he could get another word in, a horn sounds, and you nod to him, somewhat apologetically. “That is my call.”
Before he can ask, you head, skirts fluttering behind you as you move to join a growing group of young ladies in the middle. It’s clear the gathering has captured the interest of most of the men that were previously dining.
You make your way down to the middle, where you arrive at your position—it’s the one you’ve occupied every year. This dance is a show of grace and lineage, a chance for the noblemen to watch and admire, to see which girl carries herself with the most poise, the most elegance, the most effortless charm.
In Gojo’s eyes, it’s easy to determine who that is.
You take your place among your cousins, hands joining as the musicians begin their melody. It is a lighthearted dance, nothing too intricate, nothing that demands much more than the ability to move in time with the others. Your skirts flutter with each step, the long strands of your braid swaying as you turn.
It’s a girlish, lighthearted dance you’ve done since you were little. You and your younger cousins giggle as you go through the motions, reveling in the attentions of the spectators that witness the lovely display with amusement and pure, wholesome adoration.
That is, until you register a special set of eyes on you.
In a specific turn along to the strum of the lyre, you turn gracefully—a move that orients you towards Gojo’s direction. When you finally see his face and notice his presence, it’s like you’re kicked in the chest in a spar with Helen, with the way your breath leaves you.
His eyes are dark, enraptured on you, and only you. Heat creeps up your neck as you move your hands as you’re oddly flustered. His gaze is admiring and is respectful, but the intensity of it—like longing that is toeing the line between lust and pure yearning—makes your heart quicken in a way that you rue your accursed organ, for it to beat so traitorously. When he notices that you’re staring back at him, his jaw—which was clenched—loosens in a smile, but the smile isn’t innocent. It spells out a promise—one unspoken, one that curls at the edges of his lips like a secret meant for you alone. It is the kind of smile that men wear when they know something you don’t, when they have already decided on something long before you’ve even had the chance to argue.
It is sharp. Focused.
It traces the curve of your waist, the sway of your hips, the way your arms extend with each graceful movement.
It darkens.
Heat spreads up your neck before you can help it. The flickering torches of the hall must be to blame, or perhaps the wine in your belly, but you feel warm, too warm, and it is absurd.
Why should you care where Gojo of Ithaca’s eyes linger?
His smirk grows, and it is cocky. Infuriating, even. You snap your head away before he can see how your face burns, resuming your dance with the others, willing yourself to shake off the foolishness that has settled in your bones.
But even as you turn, even as the skirts of your dress flare and the room around you continues its celebration, you feel it—
His eyes.
Still watching.
“Athena, I swear to you that I need her. She is my future wife!” Gojo insists, stomping his feet as he trails the goddess as if he were a child. It reminded the goddess of wisdom of when she first met him—when he had taken down the magic boar she had let loose, showing him of having intellect worthy of being mentored by her.
But Athena had meant to be a mentor to a warrior of the mind—not this lovesick, pathetic fool in front of her, like a dog whining for food. Athena sighed exasperatedly as another animal she was hunting runs away from Gojo’s sheer loudness. “Enough!” she snaps, but not unkindly. “Who is this princess you speak of, and what kind of spell has she cast on you to become this much of a fool?”
Gojo ignores any insults directed towards him, and instead adorns a bright smile at the mention of you. “She is the cousin of Helen of Sparta, and the daughter of Icarius—”
Gojo is interrupted by a snort. “The same one that swore to never marry his daughter off?”
This gives Gojo a reason to pause. He had not known this fact. “So, how do you propose I—”
Much to his chagrin, the w goddess is already a few steps ahead. “To waste my time on strategy to secure a woman, Gojo, is quite preposterous.
But if you must insist on my counsel, then you shall earn it," Athena declares, turning on her heel to face him fully. Her gaze, sharp as a well-honed blade, sweeps over him, as if assessing whether he is truly worth the effort. "Icarius is a man of reason before all else. He values intellect, discipline, and above all, loyalty. If you wish to stand a chance, you must prove to me two things: one, that she is a wise woman worth of being sought after, and, two, you must prove that you are not merely another suitor blinded by beauty."
Gojo grins, clearly pushing his luck. "So you will help me?"
Athena exhales, the very picture of divine suffering. "I will not gift you the answer, but I will grant you the means to find it yourself."
"Which is just a long-winded way of saying you will help me." He nods sagely, as if he has unraveled the mysteries of Olympus itself.
Athena rubs her temple. "I should have let the boar trample you."
Gojo only laughs, stepping in line beside her as they weave through the woods. His mind is already turning, piecing together what little he knows of Icarius, of you, and of what he must do to win. Because one thing is certain—he will win.
Icarius may have sworn never to wed you off, but Gojo Satoru has never been one to abide by the rules.
You do not want to be here.
All you simply wanted was time in your sanctuary, your olive tree. It remained hidden in the royal gardens, so it’s a wonder that Gojo of Ithaca had found you. Of course, you would have to be a fool to not admit that these suitors’ wit paled in comparison to that white-haired young king. Such as this one, for example.
“My lady, I could not help but notice your fair disposition when I looked upon you,” the suitor grins, his teeth bared like a dog catching scent of a meal. It is not a pleasant expression. You do not react, save for clutching your weaving tighter to your chest. He steps closer, and you take measured care not to recoil, though the instinct is strong. “May you grant me your name—”
“I would have to apologize,” you cut him, already turning away. “My father does not—”
You’re stopped by a harsh grip on your wrist, and you wrench your gaze back to the suitor in shock.
"You wound me, my lady," the man says, still smiling as if this was amusing. As if he had power over you. Physical power, you suppose, but clearly this man was lacking in intellect, to not have noticed his presence. "You have been so cold to me, and I—"
He does not notice the shadow behind him.
“Ah,” a voice interjects, smooth, easy. “That’s no way to hold a lady’s hand, is it?”
The grip on your wrist slackens, but another takes its place—light, barely a touch.
Gojo.
The suitor’s face twists in confusion, but it quickly shifts to pain as Gojo applies the smallest pressure to his wrist.
“You—”
“She said no,” Gojo interrupts breezily. “And I’d hate to make a scene, so do us all a favor and leave before I decide to break something, yeah?”
With an effortless flick of his hand, the suitor stumbles back, shaking out his wrist as if burned.
Gojo does not spare him another glance. His attention is on you.
“Are you alright?” His voice is softer now, no teasing lilt, no easy arrogance.
You hesitate, unsettled.
“I was handling it,” you say, though it does not come out as firm as you would like.
Gojo only hums, something that sounds like, I know you could, but you’re distracted by his eyes drifting down to your wrist, where a faint mark has already begun to bloom.
His gaze darkens, but you hurry to assure him. “I’ll bandage this, it’s not a big wound—”
He interrupts you. “No need,” gently holds your shoulder, as if imploring you to follow him into the direction he’s started to walk, “I’ll do it myself.”
“That’s not—”
“Look.” He shoots you a look, but it is not unkind nor patronizing. You realize belatedly that it has set your heart aflutter. “I trust that you know how to bandage your wound. But I have had countless like it, so you are with a skilled master in healing. And who knows which suitors may find you on your journey to the physician?
You purse your lips, biting back a retort but failing. “And aren’t you one of the said suitors?”
His lips pull back in an amused smile, and you notice his hand is still resting lightly on your shoulder. “I think we both know I’m different.” You bite back a smile.
“Oh, really?” you remark dryly, but the look in your eyes is anything but. “And how did Your Majesty acquire the title of being different?”
His thumb brushes, just barely, against the fabric of your sleeve before he withdraws his hand entirely, as if sensing that he’s lingered too long. But his smirk remains, insufferable as ever.
“For one, I don’t make a habit of forcing myself upon unwilling women,” Gojo remarks, a pointed edge to his otherwise careless tone. “And for another…” He tilts his head, considering you. “I daresay I might be infatuated in a way they—or you—couldn’t comprehend.”
Your breath catches, but you recover quickly, huffing as you turn away. “All these sweet nothings. Helen will love you.”
Gojo chuckles, stepping ahead of you as he leads the way. “Yet she is not the one I am after.”
You pause. Soak in his words. Outwardly, you roll your eyes and follow him for you were at a lack of words, but inside Poseidon’s storm rages inside you at his words, creating a ferocious whirlpool of conflicting feelings.
His strides are long and easy, as if he belongs wherever he walks, and yet, he slows his pace just enough for you to keep up. The gesture is not lost on you.
The physician’s chamber is quiet when you arrive, save for the distant chatter of servants outside. Gojo does not call for assistance. He merely gestures for you to sit, pulling out a small cloth and a bowl of water, his movements easy and practiced.
“You’ve done this before,” you murmur as he kneels before you, pressing the damp cloth against your wrist.
His smile is unreadable. “I am a warrior, am I not?”
The cold seeps into your skin, making you shiver. Gojo notices. His touch, for all his bravado, is unbearably gentle. You do not know what to make of it.
“You’ll bruise,” he says softly, fingers skimming over the faint marks. “Does it hurt?”
You swallow. “No.”
A lie.
Gojo’s gaze flickers up to yours, and for the first time, there is no teasing in his expression—only something quiet and knowing, something that makes your heart betray you in its weakness.
For a moment, you both fall into a silence, and, to avoid his gaze, you go back to clutching at your hand and staring at it, as if there’s something really intriguing about it. Then, he speaks up. “Want to play?”
You bring your gaze back to him, caught off guard. “What?”
He cocks his head in a direction to which you face, and there you see it: a game board. One to play petteia.
You turn back at him, blinking. “You play petteia?”
Gojo grins, stretching out with a lazy ease that only makes you more suspicious. As if he has ulterior motives to this. “What, surprised? Strategy games are a warrior’s pastime.”
You squint him. That line of reasoning was rather true, you suppose. Something told you—something being the way he convinced Helen’s father so easily, how he always seemed three, no, six steps ahead—that he was no normal warrior, no normal brute. Huffing, you remark offhandedly, “I suppose a true warrior does sharpen his mind as well as his sword. It’s a pity that you’ll be losing today. To me.”
His smile deepens, and it makes you notice small indents in his cheeks as a result, and the way there’s a rosy pink hue on his cheeks, as if he’s excited to see what you can do. “Then by all means, put me to shame.”
You settle onto the floor, determined, as he arranges the pieces between you. The rules are simple enough—capture your opponent’s pieces by flanking them on either side—but the way Gojo moves is anything but. He plays with an insufferable sort of confidence, shifting his pieces with flicks of his fingers, as if the game is already his to win.
Until it isn’t, obviously.
He frowns when the click of stone dropped onto the board sounds. You’ve cut off his advancing soldier, trapping it neatly between two of your own.
“Huh,” he muses, tapping his chin. He stares at the board, mind no doubt going at a speed unfathomable to most. His eyes flick rapidly, as if assessing the position of all the stone and calculating all the possible moves and permutations that can salvage him out of the situation you’ve created for him. You maintain your poker face, but inside, you want to smile. You had calculated those said combinations a few steps ago, and it’d be really hard to get out of this. Then, comes out a “That was… unexpected.”
You smile sweetly. “What’s wrong? Did the great King of Ithaca not anticipate that?”
Gojo exhales, dragging a hand through his hair while huffing out a laught. “You’re quite ruthless, aren’t you?”
“I’m practical,” you correct, claiming another of his pieces. “And good at this game.”
Gojo squints at the board, as if trying to decipher where exactly he went wrong. “You do know you’re supposed to let me win, right? My pride is fragile.”
“I wasn’t aware kings had fragile pride.”
“You wound me, my lady.” He presses a hand to his chest, but his movements are distracted as he moves another piece—only for you to immediately trap it.
His head snaps up. “Wait—”
You make your final move, effortlessly cornering his last few soldiers.
Silence.
Gojo blinks at the board.
You clear your throat. “Do you need a moment to process this?”
Slowly, he leans back, shaking his head with something close to awe. “You know, I was planning to go easy on you, but I don’t think that would have helped.”
You grin, triumphant. “I’ll take that as an admission of defeat.”
Gojo exhales through his nose, then tilts his head at you, a glint of something unreadable in his eyes.
“You’re dangerous,” he says, and you’re not quite sure if it’s a compliment or a warning.
“Maybe to an overconfident king who underestimates his opponent.”
That urges out a laugh from him, and he shakes his head. “Trust me, I was not underestimating you. It seemed that I had overestimated myself.”
Before you can respond, Gojo leans forward, propping his chin on his hand as he watches you with something unsettlingly thoughtful.
You don’t trust that look.
“What?” you ask warily.
He hums. “Just thinking.”
“That’s a dangerous pastime for you.”
Gojo presses a hand over his chest, as if wounded. “Cruel. After I iced your wrist and let you absolutely demolish me at petteia, this is the thanks I get?”
“You act as if I owe you something.”
His smirk returns, slow and smug. “Well, since you mention it…”
You narrow your eyes. “No.”
“You didn’t even hear me out.”
“I know you well enough to predict whatever absurd request you’re about to make.”
Gojo lets out a dramatic sigh, tilting his head back. “And here I was, about to propose something completely reasonable. A fair exchange.”
You arch a brow. “Fair?”
He nods, all feigned seriousness. “See, I let you win.”
“You most certainly did not.”
“And I helped with your wrist.”
Your lips press into a line. “Which you did of your own volition.”
Gojo ignores this. “So, as a completely justified request, I think you should let me meet you in the royal gardens.”
You blink. His words hang in the air between you, a casual proposition that somehow carries more weight than it should.
“The gardens?”
He nods. “By the olive tree at sunset. The one where we met.”
“Why?”
Groaning, he lounges back, pushing his feet out while doing the motion. It makes his long legs come closer to where yours are opposite from him, so much that you can feel their heat. Not direct contact, but there. “Have I not made my advances clear by now?” He moves to a sitting position, a more serious look in his eyes as he earnestly looks at you, but you find it hard—despite your usual dry disposition towards suitors—to maintain eye contact, so you opt to look at your hands instead as his next words strike blows to your treacherous heart.
“Your Highness, I am here for you. You are far wittier than me—I have things to learn from you. You have bewitched me, for I did not know it was possible for a lady to consume my every waking thoughts in such a violent way as you have. You may think me a stranger, and you may think me one of the many foolish suitors here for Miss Helen’s hand, but I will make you fall in love with me. I will show you that despite my pride, I will be a kind and gentle husband.” He exhales, as if steadying himself, but his eyes remain fixed on you. There is no jest in them, no trace of the arrogance he so often wears like armor. Only something raw.
“And I will absolutely not leave this city until you come back to me in my kingdom as the Queen of Ithaca. It may require god-like skill to convince your father to marry me—but I am nothing if not persistent.”
Before you can even begin to form a response—before you can push past the breath lodged in your throat, the furious pounding in your chest—there’s a voice.
"There you are!"
Helen.
You turn just as she strides toward you, golden as ever, a vision of effortless beauty. She doesn’t seem to have heard a word of what was just spoken, too preoccupied with her own delight at having found you.
"I’ve been looking everywhere," she sighs, linking her arm through yours before glancing at Gojo, who, for once, remains uncharacteristically silent. Her eyes flick between the two of you, and then she hums. "I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything?"
Gojo recovers faster than you do. "Not at all, Your Highness," he says smoothly, a practiced smile slipping into place. "I was simply getting to know your cousin better."
Helen gives him a flirtatious smile, but nevertheless turns to you, frowning. “And why are you at the physician’s?”
You feel Gojo’s eyes follow your movements as you shake your head and rise, walking towards Helen. “An unruly suitor. It was a light bruise, it is not a great matter–”
“A bruise?!”
“Come with me,” you hissed, waving her along so she did not question further. It seemed that the room was very warm, for you felt a heat creep up your neck the longer Gojo’s eyes unequivocally stayed on you.
Helen blinked, at a loss for words, no doubt pondering why you both were leaving Gojo’s presence so readily. “But His Majesty—”
“Cousin,” you snapped, “did you not have a reason to be looking for me?”
Helen blinks, momentarily distracted. Then, as if something suddenly occurs to her, she brightens.
“Oh! Yes, Father wanted to see you.”
You exhale, relieved—only for it to be short-lived, because she doesn’t move.
She remains rooted in place, glancing back at Gojo with a look that is far too amused for your liking. The flirtatious smile returns, softer now, more intrigued.
“But surely,” she muses, tilting her head, “you wouldn’t mind if I stayed a moment longer? It’s not often one meets a man as charming as His Majesty of Ithaca.”
You narrow your eyes. “Helen.”
“What?” she says, all innocence. “We’re simply talking.”
You glance at Gojo, expecting him to look insufferably pleased, but instead, he’s watching you. Not Helen. You tear your gaze away.
It’s only once the two of you are walking through the halls, out of earshot, that Helen sighs, linking your arms again.
“He’s quite something, isn’t he?” she murmurs.
You keep your eyes ahead. “Perhaps. A bit arrogant, though.”
“He’s clever,” she corrects, then gives you a knowing look. “And you like him.”
You scoff, though the heat on your skin betrays you. “I do not.”
Helen only laughs, shaking her head. “Dearest cousin,” she sighs, “I have seen you endure the most persistent suitors with all the warmth of an ice-cold river. And yet, here you are, playing petteia with him, letting him tend to your wounds.”
You do not have an answer to that.
And Helen does not press further. She only smiles wistfully to herself, as if she already knows how this story will end.
…
The halls are silent at this hour, save for the whisper of your steps against the cool stone. You keep to the shadows, careful, quiet. If anyone were to see you like this—wrapped in a cloak, a weaver in hand, slipping through the corridors like a thief in the night—there would be whispers by morning.
But then again, what whispers have ever concerned you?
The thought does not comfort you as much as it should.
Your grip tightens around the weaver, its familiar weight grounding. You brought it with you on the off chance that Gojo, like most men, proves unreliable. You have no reason to believe he will come; his feelings for you could be temporary lust, a second option in case his primary one—Helen—fails. No reason to have entertained his invitation at all. And yet, you go.
You cannot say why.
A foolish impulse, perhaps. Or simple curiosity. Or maybe—
You push the thought away, focusing instead on the memory that surfaces unbidden.
A conversation with your father, just today while you dined.
You had spoken of Helen’s upcoming wedding of the foreign princes and warriors who sought her hand, of the future that awaited her.
Your father had frowned, the lines of his face deepening. “It is dangerous,” he had said, quiet but firm. “To entrust my daughter to a man who cannot ensure her well-being.”
You had smiled then, easy and unbothered, as if his words did not touch something in you. “It is not you he must convince.”
He had looked at you for a long moment, something unreadable in his gaze, but ended up remarking offhandedly, as if reminding you. “I do not want you to go far from me.”
And you, still smiling, had said nothing at all.
Now, in the solitude of the night, you are no longer smiling.
You know your father’s concern is not unfounded. It is not simply Helen’s future that weighs on him—it is yours.
But it is a strange thing, the way his words linger, how they press against you, heavy and quiet. Not as a warning. Not as a burden. But as something else. Something you cannot yet name.
You reach the courtyard, the olive tree standing tall against the night sky behind a series of trees. You exhale, slow and steady, before walking to reach it, weaver in hand.
If he comes, he comes.
And if not—
Well. You were never the kind to wait idly for a man.
But before you could go on your endless mental tirade of how despicable the male species were, you heard a voice. Gojo’s voice in particular.
Walking closer and closer—to where your olive tree was but not where you were visible, trees providing coverage—you noticed him talking to someone in a hushed, yet excited tone. You use the window of sight allowed by the gap between the trees’ leaves to see him, standing with an owl on his forearm. It’s turned to him, as if paying attention, although exasperatedly, to him while he stands tall as ever, his foot tapping impatiently against the grass.
You hesitate, watching as the owl blinks at him, as if listening, considering his words.
And then it notices you. Its, well, owlish eyes are wide as they lock in on your figure.
With a quiet rustle of feathers, it takes flight, disappearing into the night.
Gojo turns, following its path before his gaze lands on you.
“You scared my friend away,” he says, as if this is the most natural thing in the world.
You blink at him. “You were talking to an owl.”
He shrugs, as if this too is perfectly reasonable. “She’s a good listener. A little judgmental, though.”
You give him a look, unimpressed. “I see you’ve finally found an audience that suits you.”
His lips curve into a slow smile. “And yet, here you are.”
You huff, settling onto one of the smooth stones beneath the tree. “I didn’t come for your company.” You hold up the weaver in your hands, as if that alone is proof of your intentions. “I came to pass the time.”
“Ah,” he drawls, stepping closer, hands slipping into the folds of his cloak. “And yet, you’re talking to me instead.”
You narrow your eyes at him, but he only grins, triumphant.
“Tell me,” he muses, dropping down beside you. “Were you hoping—or predicting, with that fast mind of yours—I wouldn’t come?”
You don’t answer right away, fingers idly threading the weaver. The night air is cool, the scent of olives and earth thick around you.
“Would it have mattered?” you ask at last, voice light, careless.
Gojo watches you, and for a moment, he does not answer either.
Then, quietly, as if confessing something neither of you are ready to name, he says, “Yes.”
You inhale slowly, fingers stilling on the weaver as his answer settles between you.
Yes.
It wasn’t spoken in jest, nor with the easy arrogance he so often wielded. Instead, it was quieter, more certain—like an unshakable truth, unburdened by expectation.
You don’t know what to make of it.
You cast him a glance from the corner of your eye. He’s sitting close but not too close, his long legs stretched out before him, arms resting lazily over his knees. His usual grin is absent, replaced by something unreadable, something you cannot name.
The weight of his gaze is different now. Not teasing, not searching for amusement—but waiting.
You look away first.
Your fingers resume their slow, practiced work, weaving delicate patterns into the fabric, though your thoughts are anything but orderly.
“Why are you here?” you ask, voice softer than you intend.
A beat passes before he answers.
“Because you are.”
You swallow.
He leans back onto his hands, tilting his head toward the night sky, moonlight catching in the pale strands of his hair. It makes him look otherworldly, like a figure carved from myth—too beautiful, too untouchable.
“I’m not Helen,” you say after a moment, unsure why the words leave your lips. “You have nothing to gain from this.”
Gojo exhales, a quiet sound, but when he looks at you again, there is something almost amused in his expression—touched with something softer, something more patient.
“Do you think I speak to owls for political gain?”
You huff, trying to ignore the warmth threatening to creep up your neck. “I think you do most things for your own amusement.”
He hums, as if considering that. “You wound me.”
“I doubt that,” you mutter, eyes fixed on your work.
And yet—his fingers twitch where they rest against the stone. It’s small, barely noticeable, but your eyes catch it, and you wonder.
Does he want to reach for you?
The thought unsettles you more than it should.
He exhales again, then shifts, leaning forward to rest his arms on his knees, expression thoughtful. “You know,” he muses, “I had a whole speech planned.”
You raise a brow. “Oh?”
“Something about how I was drawn to you the way sailors are drawn to sirens. That you, unlike any other, have made me question things I thought I knew.” He looks down at his knees, lips pulling in a mischievous smile. “But with you, I doubt a night of spilling sweet nothings or perhaps…other things would have swayed you.”
Your fingers still.
“But I think I’ve changed my mind,” he continues, tilting his head. “I think I’d rather just talk to you.”
You stare at him, caught somewhere between wariness and something dangerously close to wonder.
And then, before you can stop yourself, you ask, “What would you have said next?”
His lips twitch, and for the first time tonight, there is mischief in his gaze again. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
You roll your eyes, but the moment has shifted, lighter now, though something unnamed still lingers beneath it.
“Keep your secrets, then,” you mutter, returning to your weaving.
“You wound me,” Gojo says again, pressing a hand to his chest as if truly affronted. “Here I am, spilling my heart, and you deny me even a scrap of sentiment.”
You let out a quiet scoff, keeping your focus on your weaving. “Perhaps if your words weren’t so dramatic, I’d be inclined to believe them.”
Gojo gasps. “Dramatic?” He leans closer, an almost boyish grin tugging at his lips. “My lady, I am nothing if not a man of sincerity.”
“Oh? So that speech about sirens wasn’t an embellishment?”
“Not at all.” He sighs, as if suffering under some great burden. “I wake in the morning thinking of you, I lay my head at night wondering if you’ve thought of me at all. It’s agony, truly.”
You roll your eyes, but your lips betray you, twitching into something dangerously close to a smile. “That sounds more like a malady than love.”
“Ah, but love is a sickness, is it not?” He exhales dramatically. “And you, my lady, have made a very ill man of me.”
Despite yourself, a laugh escapes—light, unguarded, like something slipping past your defenses before you can catch it.
And then—silence.
You glance at him, and find him already watching you.
His usual mischief is gone, replaced by something softer, something wholly unprepared. His breath is caught somewhere between his ribs, his lips slightly parted as if the sight of your laughter has stolen the air from him.
And then—
A blush, unmistakable even in the moonlight.
Your heart stutters.
Oh.
For the first time, you allow yourself to study him properly. The sharp angles of his jaw, the elegant bridge of his nose, the vivid eyes that hold yours so intently.
He is very handsome.
The thought settles somewhere unexpected, like an admission you’ve been avoiding.
Before you can dwell on it, something light catches against your shoulder—a drifting leaf, caught in the folds of your garment.
Gojo moves before you can react.
His fingers brush against the fabric near your collarbone, and then linger, featherlight and warm, as he pulls the leaf free. The moment stretches—longer than it should, charged with something unspeakable.
You feel his breath before you see him move, close enough now that the space between you is barely a whisper.
His hand, now free of its task, hesitates—before it trails downward, catching yours in his grasp.
He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t try to fill the moment with jest. His thumb traces the back of your hand, slow and absentminded, as if memorizing the shape of you.
Your own breath falters.
His breath is warm in the cool night air, his proximity setting something taut beneath your ribs. You are no stranger to flirtation, nor to men who think they can win you with pretty words, but Gojo—Gojo is different.
Perhaps it’s the way he looks at you now, his usual mischief tempered by something quieter. Or perhaps it’s the fact that, despite his arrogance, despite his clever tongue and tireless persistence, he does not presume to take.
He waits.
A dangerous thing, because it gives you time to notice the way his fingers twitch slightly against the fabric of your sleeve, the way his lips part as if tasting the words before speaking them.
“You’re staring,” he murmurs, tilting his head.
You arch a brow, feigning indifference despite the heat pooling low in your stomach. “Am I?”
His lips curve. “Should I be flattered?”
You hum, as if considering it. “I’m only making observations.”
“Oh?” He steps just a fraction closer, his voice dipping. “And what have you observed, my lady?”
“That you blush quite easily,” you say smoothly, pleased when the faint flush creeps further up his neck. “That despite your grand declarations, you are, in fact, a little shy.”
Gojo lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Shy? My lady, you wound me.”
“Do I?” You tilt your chin up slightly, your voice softer now, your hand still in his.
His gaze flickers to your lips.
Your breath catches, just for a moment.
And then—
His hand moves, fingers brushing along the curve of your jaw before settling at the nape of your neck, his touch deliberate, careful. A question, waiting for an answer.
You don’t grant him words—only the tilt of your head, the briefest lean forward.
It is all the invitation he needs.
He kisses you like a secret, like something to be savored—slow at first, testing, before he grows bolder. His other hand finds your waist, pulling you just a little closer, and warmth floods through you, seeping into your bones.
The world is silent save for the soft hitch of breath, the faint rustle of fabric as he deepens the kiss, as you allow yourself to press into him, fingers curling into the front of his tunic.
For a man who never stops talking, he is utterly wordless now.
When you wake up next in the morning, it is grumpy and tired. Not only were you up late into the night, talking to and…kissing Gojo of Ithaca, or rather, Satoru (while you were drunk on each other, he had convinced you to call him Satoru), but the sound of Helen’s squealing made your head ring, putting an unbearable pressure onto them.
“Helen!” you scold her, throwing a spare pillow at her. She easily dodges while you sit up in the bed, half-heartedly rubbing your eyes to wipe the sleep from them. As she throws herself onto the foot of the bed, you notice and hear the pitter patter of rain, casting a somber gray light in your bedroom that is occasionally interrupted by Zeus’s thunder, as if the god was angered or sharing a premonition.
Shaking off the thought, you scowl at your cousin, who’s excitedly prattling about things you still have yet to comprehend. “Slow down! Tell me, without spewing all your words at once.”
“Father gave me permission to marry!” she squealed, jumping on you and hugging you closely. She seemed happy, and you loved your cousin very much, even if you did not show it much. Pure affection permeates your countenance, as she continues. “You know I’ve always wanted to marry him, with his big arms and all. He could totally manhandle me, but you knoooww I love the ones that can whimper—”
“Oh my god,” you groan, covering your ears as if scandalized (you’ve said much worse to her), but you grin regardless. “Who is the man that you have chosen?”
“Well,” she laughs, flipping her hair off her shoulder, “Gojo of Ithaca is to be my husband, of course.”
Your heart drops to your stomach.
What she says next seems to blur together, not registering because you are shocked, your world almost tilted.
Gojo of Ithaca is to be my husband, of course.
It is then you realize belatedly that Helen seems to be calling out to you, and what you notice the most out of anything on her face is the soft smile she has on her face. One that shows that she is fond of Satoru Gojo, that she has affection for him. And who are you—the girl whose father doesn’t wish for her to marry, one that isn’t to be promised—take that away from Helen, from him?
Gojo has made it clear that he is not here for Helen—but wouldn’t it be better for him and his kingdom (which you discovered last night that he cares so dearly for) for him to marry Helen? A beautiful queen and a wise king.
What a match.
You swallow, throat suddenly dry, but you manage a smile—strained, weak, but a smile nonetheless.
“Helen,” you begin, voice steady despite the storm brewing inside you, “are you certain?”
“Of course!” she beams, oblivious to the way your fingers tighten in the fabric of your bedding. “Father said Gojo has yet to ask officially, but he will, I know it. And why wouldn’t he? A match like this—it’s fate.”
Fate.
What cruel irony.
You remember last night—Gojo’s hands warm against your skin, his laughter pressed against your lips, the way he had murmured your name like a vow.
And yet—
You look at Helen, golden and radiant even in the gray morning light, her eyes alight with genuine happiness. You love her, truly, and have since childhood. She has always had her pick of men, but there was something softer in the way she spoke of Satoru just now.
The soft smile, the dreamy lilt to her voice.
She wants this.
And what of you?
Your chest aches, but you laugh, the sound lighter than it should be. “You sound quite taken with him.”
“I am,” she beams, watching you. “He’s gorgeous! Charming, too. He told me last night that he thinks my eyes are like the sea at sunrise.”
Your stomach twists and it seems that the panic overwhelms you because all you can manage to do is swallow and nod. “Well,” you look at her with a tight smile, “I congratulate you. Let us discuss this matter further over breakfast.” She smiles and squeezes your upper arm in a goodbye, and the touch of it burns.
You don’t ever make it to breakfast that day.
It continues raining that day, and it’s quite appropriate for how you’re feeling. The feeling of melancholy permeates the air around you as you lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Usually, you occupy your time by reading or, more likely, weaving, but you couldn’t muster the energy to find interest in that either.
Over a man. What a shame.
You were not one to lie idle—you were constantly praised as a princess wise beyond her years, and it would be wise, in this situation, to move on. Because the man you had grown feelings for is now engaged to your cousin, or, at least, your cousin intends to be engaged with him. And it would be wiser to let it happen, for Helen’s happiness was your happiness.
Sighing, you stuff your face into your pillow and groan, muffled by the linen fabric of your seats. You then decide grudgingly that if you’re not going to leave your room at all, it may be best to shed yourself of your clothing and lay comfortably in your loincloth and mamillare.
But right as you put your hand on your clothing to strip yourself, you hear a noise.
The sound comes again—a sharp, rhythmic tap-tap-tap, just barely audible over the rain. You freeze, fingers still curled around the fabric of your chiton, half-peeled from your shoulder. At first, you think it might be a stray branch scraping against the stone, wind-tossed by the storm. But then it happens again—more deliberate this time, insistent.
Then, looking at the new objects strewn across your balcony, you realize it’s not branches—it’s pebbles.
You scowl, tying your garments hastily before moving toward the balcony. The rain is gentler now, more mist than storm, clinging to the stone and silvering the world beyond. You grip the railing and peer down—
And there he is.
Satoru.
Drenched from head to toe, hair plastered to his forehead, a frown curving his lips as he concentrates on where he’s going to throw his pebble next. His stance seems urgent, but you’re so caught up on the fact that he’s here, as if he isn’t supposed to be engaged to Helen or be subjected to whatever congratulatory round of alcohol men bestowed upon each other after securing the most beautiful woman alive.
Your heart stutters.
You pull back immediately, breath catching in your throat. You shouldn’t have come to the balcony. You shouldn’t be looking at him, shouldn’t be thinking about this morning when Helen’s voice still lingers in your ears—Gojo of Ithaca is to be my husband, of course.
The pebble strikes the stone beside you.
“I know you’re up there,” Gojo calls, tone indecipherable. “Are you really going to ignore me? After all we’ve been through?”
You swallow and your voice trembles when you say, “Go away.”
His resulting laughter sounds betrayed, hurt. “You don’t mean that.”
“Satoru,” and you don’t know if it’s a plea or a warning. His head tilts, an anguished look on his face as he closes his eyes and sighs.
“You wound me,” he huffs out a pained laugh, “After all, I run the risk of sickness just to see you and tell you that you believe wrong.”
Something is created in you, then. Something dangerous like hope. “What?”
But instead of answering, Gojo crouches, then, in one smooth motion, leaps up, catching the edge of the balcony with ease. You barely have time to react before he’s pulling himself over the railing, stepping onto solid ground with practiced grace.
You stumble back, eyes wide. “I told you not to come up.”
“And when have I ever listened?”
There’s something in the way he looks at you then—an intensity you aren’t prepared for. The air between you is charged, thick with something unspoken, something far too dangerous to name.
He takes a step forward. “I thought you were smarter than this.”
You blink, startled. “Excuse me?”
Gojo exhales, running a hand through his damp hair. “Why would you ever think it would be Helen?”
Your stomach lurches. “She said—”
“She assumed,” he corrects, cutting you off. “But I did not accept her. And you let her do that.” His voice drops lower, softer, a stark contrast to the teasing lilt he so often wields. “Do you truly think so little of me?”
You don’t answer. You can’t. Because if you do, it will come spilling out—the hope you tried to bury, the ache that settled in your chest the moment Helen uttered those words.
He moves closer, and you don’t stop him.
“Princess,” you can see his ivory lashes with how close he is, his face covered in raindrops, “for how wise you are, you seem to not have caught on. What animal is the emblem of Athena?”
Blinking, you’re taken aback by the sudden quizzing. “Owl, what about it—”
Oh.
He sees the realization dawn over your face, and now his tense expression melts into a bittersweet smile. “The goddess of wisdom has been my companion ever since I was a child, helping me attain whatever I needed the most. Whether it be to gain the knowledge one must have to be worthy of being king, or,” he inhales sharply, vibrant eyes scanning over your face vulnerably, “to gain the power to be able to make the wisest, wittiest, funniest, and most beautiful girl I’ve ever known my queen.
“After all, I have my wit—add a little of godlike power, and even I could defeat your father. Respectfully,” he adds quickly. He looks anxious you realize, as if he is about to make a risky move, a big ask. Something he’s been anxious to ask, but scared to. His eyes are still scanning you and his hands twitch at his side as he says, “I hesitate to make this decision, to ask you still after knowing the true nature of my desire for you—”
“Ask me what?”
His eyes are fixed on you, and you think that both of your hearts are beating very, very fast at the moment. “What do you think, princess?”
The silence that falls is loaded, heavy, and laden with hesitation. It’s as if a vice has caged its way through your heart, squeezing and squeezing until all the things you’ve left unsaid threaten to spill out. Things like I don’t want you to marry my cousin. Or yet, even worse, I want you to marry me. “I would not want to throw out my guesses, Satoru,” you instead opt to say, voice soft. “Things like this must be said directly, to not leave any confusion or misunderstandings.”
His jaw tightens, his breath coming harder as he stares at you, something raw and dangerous flickering in his eyes. “I agree. These things should never be left unsaid.” His voice is low, almost seething, but not with anger—no, this is something else entirely, something desperate. “I love you.” The words are unshakable, like a vow. “And I refuse to sit here and pretend my thoughts of you are anything less than ruinous. I dream of you in ways no other man is allowed to, ways that would send me to Hades with a smile on my lips. You have bewitched my soul, stolen the breath from my body, and most dangerously—you have claimed my mind.” His voice drops, softer now, but no less intense. “I do not know how to make you believe me, only that I would sooner challenge the gods themselves than let you slip through my fingers. The world could promise me tens of Helen, but there is only one woman I would ever choose.” His hand finds yours, fingers tightening, as his next words fall like an oath.
“You.”
Your breath stutters, throat tightening as his fingers tighten over yours. His touch is searing, as if the gods themselves have set him aflame, and yet you cannot pull away—you do not want to pull away.
“Satoru—” His name slips from your lips like a prayer, and he swears under his breath, his free hand coming up to cradle your jaw, thumb pressing just below your lips, as if he is fighting the urge to kiss you.
“I would tear down Olympus itself if it meant keeping you,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your cheek. “I would make war with the gods, call upon Athena to guide my spear, and spill the blood of any man foolish enough to think they could take you from me.” His voice is rough, almost a growl, and you swear your knees would give way if not for the way he holds you now, as though letting go would be his ruin.
It is reckless, to let yourself lean into him, to let your fingers curl into the fabric of his damp chiton as though you could anchor yourself to him. But he is an anchor—pulling you into something deep, something dangerous, something you know you will not escape from unscathed.
His nose brushes yours, his lips so close that you feel his every breath, his every hesitation. But you see the war in his eyes, the battle between restraint and desire, and for once, you decide to let yourself be selfish.
So you whisper, “Then prove it.”
And that is all it takes for him to break.
His lips crash against yours, urgent and claiming, as if to kiss you any softer would be to deny himself the air he breathes. He groans as your hands tangle in his hair, your body pressing flush against his, his own hands no longer gentle but gripping, desperate, possessive. His teeth graze your bottom lip before he deepens the kiss, one hand trailing lower, pressing against the curve of your waist, then lower still—
Thunder crackles, as you gasp out his name. He pulls you both apart, looking anguished as if he’s fighting the urge to keep touching you, to make you moan out his name. Realizing this, you grab his hands and put them on yourself. “My love,” you say, tenderly, and you see how his pupils dilate in response, “you may touch me—”
“Are you sure? For if you say that, I may not be able to stop myself from indulging. Because I will take and take, until you can give me no more.” The way he says it, uncharacteristically serious and brows furrowed, makes you heat up even more, dizzy with lust and your pent up longing for the man.
But your response stays the same, paired with a firm nod. “I am sur—mmmph.”
He smothers you with his lips before you can finish, cupping your jaw until his hands start to move downwards. They move, tracing the planes of your body, and they are relentless in their exploration—they grab you possessively, pushing you closer and closer to him until his hands are below your thighs. Satoru maneuvers you until your legs are straddling his waist so that he can pick you up and carry you to your bed.
After he throws you down like carrying you poses to him as much of a challenge as carrying a light potato sack, he admires you—-thighs clenched, hair splayed around your head like a halo. The skirt of your clothes has inched its way up, exposing your thighs. “Gods, you don’t know what you do to me.”
But instead of playing the innocent maiden, you look at him through your lashes, laughing. “Satoru, time is of the essence. Flattery will get you nowhere—you must show it through your actions.”
You didn’t know what saying his name—and prompting him like that—does to him. He meets your lips in a furious kiss once again, this time hand sneaking up your skirt. He meets the fabric of your loincloth, hooking at its sides and pulling them downwards and downwards, until it is hooked off your ankle (not before Satoru leaves it a trailing kiss there, of course. It is only until Satoru’s eyes hone in what’s in the middle of legs that you realize that you are bare to him. “Satoru, I—”
“I must do something,” he instead responds, and you look at him in confusion. He’s moving down your body as you ask him what he means and if something’s wrong.
You’re interrupted by your gasp as his mouth descends on you, leaving hot, openmouthed kisses directly on your core. His tongue delves inside your lower lips, pleasing the nerves and leaving them singing. He undoes you, leaving your legs feeling like jelly, and the fervor he does it with is nauseating—as if your nectar is ambrosia itself.
Soon enough, with his reverent worship—and a finger or two added to stretch you out and make you emit embarrassing noises that only encourage him further—you come with a cry of his name. As you roll your hips, riding out your climax, his mouth and head follow and trail your hips, unrelenting in pleasuring you even though you’re overstimulated and left quivering.
“I—” you blurted, trying to fill the silence after he had just made you taste colors. “I hate you.”
Satoru faux pouts, biting back a grin. “Rude thing to say when I just made you—”
“Don’t finish that!” you shriek, swatting his head lightly as he laughs, kissing his way back up your body. In a tone more shy than you’d like, you say in a small voice, “But I hope we’re not done yet?”
Satoru’s made his way up to your clothed breasts, kissing them tenderly. However, when he hears the question, he stills, looks at you with wide eyes, and he groans, as if surprised by your forwardness. “Princess, the things you do to me.”
He kneads your ass while he stands up, orienting himself into a position to do—that. A voice in the back of your head reminds you that you’re not supposed to be doing this before you get married, but your lust is too strong. And, after all, you trust that there’s no way Satoru wouldn’t marry you.
You feel a slight pressure in your nether regions, and you realize that it is Satoru’s cock. His eyes are on you, blown out with lust, as he continues to stroke the length of it while observing your every reaction. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Yes.”
With your confirmation, his eyes next left your face as he pushed in, moving slowly and gently. He gauged your features for any signs of discomfort or pain as he moved in shallow thrusts, gradually increasing their length. You gasped, his murmurs and sweet nothings coaxing out your whimpers and whines as he bumped a spot inside of you. As he did, fireworks erupted in the back of your mind, leaving you boneless as he got you closer and closer to your climax once again.
For someone who didn’t experience carnal desires often, you wonder how you’ve gone without this kind of pleasure for so long. Satoru made you feel worshipped, tracing kisses with a love that was almost pious. It doesn’t take you long after that to come once more, thrashing in his grip.
Your climax sheathed on his cock unlocks something in him, for he begins to thrust harder and faster, becoming sloppier and sloppier. His voice is by your ear, whining your name continuously. When he finally feels himself climb over and finally orgasm, he breathes out an “Ah,” and thrusts himself to completely bottom out while his come fills you up, pooling inside of you.
You both stay interlocked for gods know how long. Until Satoru pipes up, voice still unstable and panting, “By the way, it went unsaid, but I’m going to marry you. And you can’t say no.”
Your resulting giggle makes him break out in a big smile before he hugs you, wrestling you both to lie side by side in bed.
It goes without saying, but it all goes smoothly according to plan.
When Satoru had played with petteia with you, he had aimed to show Athena your wit. It is no small claim to defeat him, a king associated with Athena, in the game. The following events further made Athena approve of you and give her blessing.
So Gojo was already ten steps ahead when he asked your father for your blessing. Your father was furious, of course—he did not want to let you go. After much cajoling and agreement to beat your father, a champion runner, in a race to attain your hand, Satoru wiped his brow. The way your father loved you would be scary to him if he didn’t love you as intensely as he did now.
And of course Satoru won. Athena got her fellow Olympian, Hermes, to rent out his infamous speed. When he wins, Sparta is in an uproar, including your cousin.
“So, how is he?” Helen asks mischievously. You later found out that day that Helen’s words of marrying Gojo had a purpose—to push you both towards each other, once and for all.
“I don’t know what you mean,” you turn away, with a hmph. Crossing your arms, you pretend to roll your eyes at the knowing look she had.
“I don’t know, cousin,” she giggles, “I heard a couple of voices in your room when I tried to visit you a few nights back. Tell me, does he whimper—-”
“Helen!”
The day you marry, donning beautiful and regal clothes, Gojo sneaks you away multiple times to kiss you under your veil when no one is looking.
His wedding gift is built by him—on the voyage back to Ithaca, he not only takes you away from Sparta, but the olive tree that you both had met at. He builds the shared marital bed out of the olive tree for his queen with his blood and sweat. It is a symbol of your love, everlasting, and you would daresay that it is the most precious gift anyone has ever given you.
What you give him in return is one fat and giggly baby. Your father grumbles that the child looks too much like his father, but the way he holds the babe—so carefully, so gently—betrays his affection. Helen coos at her little nephew, amused at how utterly soft Satoru has become, how the once-cocky king now spends his days doting on both you and your child, as if he has won the world itself.
And perhaps he has.
After all, Satoru has always been a man of ambition. A man who would scheme, fight, and even defy the gods for what he desires. And yet, as he holds your child in one arm and you in the other, murmuring teasing words against your ear before stealing another kiss, you realize something—
He had never needed Athena’s wisdom, Hermes’ speed, or any other divine favor to win you.
Because you had already been his, just as he had always been yours.
general masterlist
a/n thank u to my very supportive bestie @purplegemadventures i love all ur ideas ml <3 anyways like always all my beta readers are the goats thank you for reading my incomprehensible ideas. it's 5am and there's a mosquito that's hovering near me and im not totally happy w how this turned out but it was fun writing it kjenkjne. i may write more greek mythology aus but i need to lock in on my series....
ppl who asked to be tagged: @heh123321 @melotter
thank you for reading! reblog and comment to let me know ur thots <3
Summary: When helping Elijah when Klaus is cursed leads to more...
Word Count: 3.2K
The fire crackled in the hearth, its light casting long, flickering shadows across the walls of your cabin. You sat at your workbench, carving a protective rune into a piece of yew wood. The forest outside was alive with its usual nocturnal whispers—branches creaking, owls hooting, the faint rustle of unseen creatures.
You hadn’t had visitors in months. That was how you preferred it. The reputation you’d carefully cultivated kept the curious and the desperate at bay. But that night, the energy shifted.
A knock, firm and deliberate, cut through the stillness. You froze, your knife poised over the wood. Whoever it was, they didn’t belong. No one traveled this deep into the woods without reason.
Setting your tools aside, you moved to the door, your senses sharp and your magic coiled, ready to strike. When you opened it, the man who stood before you looked like he belonged in a city, not the wilderness. He was tall, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, his dark hair slicked back with precision. His face was calm, composed, but his eyes—deep, dark, and sharp as a blade—betrayed a quiet urgency.
“Elijah Mikaelson,” he said, his voice smooth and formal. He inclined his head slightly, as if greeting an equal.
The name was a jolt to your system. You’d heard of him, of course. Everyone had. The eldest of the Original family, a man with centuries of blood on his hands and loyalty as unshakable as stone.
Your fingers tightened on the doorframe. “What do you want?”
“To seek your aid,” he replied, his tone as steady as his gaze. “My brother, Niklaus, is dying. A curse has taken hold of him. I need your help to break it.”
The mention of Klaus Mikaelson sent a chill down your spine. His name was synonymous with chaos, a hybrid of unimaginable power who left ruin in his wake. You took a breath, steadying yourself.
“You want me to help Klaus?” you said, disbelief lacing your words. “Why would I do that? If he’s cursed, it’s probably deserved.”
Elijah’s expression didn’t falter, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—pain, perhaps, or resolve. “Niklaus has his sins, as do we all. But he is my brother. Whatever his faults, I will not stand by and watch him succumb to this.”
“And you think I’m the solution to your problem?”
“I do.”
His confidence was unnerving, but you couldn’t deny the curiosity tugging at you. Few witches had the courage—or the recklessness—to involve themselves with the Mikaelsons. And fewer still lived to tell the tale.
“What’s wrong with him?” you asked, stepping back to let him in.
Elijah entered with the grace of a predator, his movements measured and deliberate. His eyes swept the room, taking in the shelves lined with jars of herbs and powders, the candles burning low on your altar, the faint hum of protective wards woven into the air.
“A witch placed a hex upon him,” Elijah said. “It is insidious, corrupting both his mind and his body. He is unable to heal, unable to feed. Each day, he grows weaker.”
Your brows furrowed. “What kind of witch? And what kind of curse?”
“Her name is Celeste,” Elijah said, his voice tightening. “An old foe with an old grudge. The curse was designed to strip him of everything—his strength, his immortality, his sanity.”
The name Celeste sent a ripple through your magic. You’d heard of her. A powerful witch with a vendetta against the Mikaelsons, her spells were as cruel as they were effective.
“This isn’t going to be easy,” you said, moving to your shelves and gathering ingredients. “Curses of that magnitude require more than a simple counterspell. And if it’s tied to Klaus’s hybrid nature, it’ll fight back.”
Elijah stepped closer, his presence a steadying force. “I wouldn’t be here if I thought it was easy.”
You turned to him, your arms full of supplies. “I’ll need to see him. Bring him here.”
“That won’t be possible,” Elijah said. “The curse has left him too weak to travel. If you agree to help, I’ll take you to him.”
You hesitated, the weight of the decision pressing down on you. Helping Klaus Mikaelson meant stepping into a web of danger and deceit. But the look in Elijah’s eyes—a mix of desperation and determination—swayed you.
“Fine,” you said, slinging your satchel over your shoulder. “But know this: once I start, there’s no turning back. If I break this curse, you’ll owe me.”
Elijah nodded, his expression grave. “I wouldn’t expect otherwise.”
The journey to Klaus was swift, Elijah’s supernatural speed rendering the forest a blur around you. He carried you effortlessly, his hold firm but respectful, until you reached a secluded manor hidden deep within the woods.
Inside, the air was thick with tension. Elijah led you to a dimly lit room where Klaus lay sprawled on a grand bed, his skin pale and ashen. His chest rose and fell in shallow, labored breaths, and his usually sharp blue eyes were dulled with pain.
You approached cautiously, the weight of his presence palpable even in his weakened state.
“Another witch,” Klaus rasped, his voice rough and bitter. “Come to finish the job?”
“No,” you said firmly, setting your satchel down. “I’m here to save you. Whether you deserve it or not.”
Klaus let out a weak, humorless laugh. “Charming.”
You ignored him, focusing on the task at hand. Drawing symbols on his skin with a mixture of ash and herbs, you began to chant. The room filled with the hum of your magic, the air growing heavy as the curse began to fight back.
Klaus growled, his body convulsing as your spell took hold. Elijah was at his side in an instant, his hand steadying his brother’s shoulder.
“Hold on, Niklaus,” Elijah said, his voice low and calm. “You’re stronger than this.”
The curse pushed back, its dark magic clawing at your own. Sweat dripped down your brow as you poured more energy into the spell, weaving threads of light into the dark void that sought to consume Klaus.
Finally, with a burst of energy that sent you stumbling back, the curse broke. Klaus let out a roar, his body shuddering as the remnants of the hex dissolved into the air.
You slumped against the wall, your chest heaving. Elijah turned to you, his expression one of quiet gratitude.
“You’ve done what no other could,” he said. “My family is in your debt.”
You met his gaze, exhaustion heavy in your limbs. “Be careful with debts, Elijah Mikaelson. They have a way of binding us all.”
-------------
The evening was unnervingly quiet, a fragile stillness that made you restless. You sat by your hearth, grinding dried valerian root into powder, its earthy aroma mixing with the faint scent of lavender from the bundles hanging above. The quiet was deceptive, you knew. Wards didn’t hum without reason, and tonight, they had buzzed faintly all evening, as if sensing an approaching storm.
When the sharp flare of your boundary wards rippled through the air, you paused mid-motion. Someone had crossed into your protection ring. Someone powerful.
You wiped your hands on your apron and rose, already reaching for the dagger on the nearby table. Then, as the presence settled, familiar and unmistakable, you sighed and set the blade down.
The knock came a moment later. You opened the door to find Elijah Mikaelson standing there, his face a perfect mask of calm, though the tightness in his jaw betrayed urgency. His suit was immaculate despite the late hour, but what struck you most was the figure cradled in his arms.
“Elijah,” you said, stepping back instinctively. Your eyes dropped to the pale, unconscious woman in his grasp, and recognition hit you like a jolt. “Rebekah.”
“She needs help,” he said simply.
You stepped aside, allowing him to enter. He moved quickly but carefully, laying his sister on the sturdy oak table at the center of your cabin. In the glow of the firelight, you could see the severity of her condition. Her normally flawless skin was ashen, her lips cracked and dry. A gash on her shoulder oozed a faint, silvery liquid.
“What happened?” you asked, already moving to gather supplies.
“Hunters,” Elijah replied, his voice tight with restrained anger. “They ambushed us with weapons laced in wolfsbane and tipped with white oak. Klaus dealt with most of them, but their attack was coordinated. Rebekah bore the brunt of it.”
Your stomach sank at the mention of white oak. You knew what that could do to an Original, even one as resilient as Rebekah.
“She’s lucky to be alive,” you muttered, bringing over a basin of water, clean cloths, and a small jar of ointment. “But if hunters attacked you, they’ll have drawn attention. I assume that’s why you’re here.”
Elijah nodded. “Rebekah’s injuries have made her a beacon. Others will come. We need your help to cloak her—at least until she heals.”
You frowned, glancing down at her. Her aura was wild and frayed, flickering with the chaotic energy of her injuries. Cloaking a Mikaelson, especially in this state, was no small feat.
“You’re asking for a lot,” you said, meeting his gaze. “This kind of spell takes power—time. And even then, I can only mask her for so long.”
“Do what you can,” Elijah said. “I will ensure no harm comes to you in the process.”
You held his gaze for a long moment, then sighed. “Fine. But don’t hover. I need space to work.”
You started with the immediate problem: the wolfsbane. Rebekah’s breathing was shallow, her pulse faint and irregular. The toxin was still coursing through her veins, burning through her strength.
Elijah watched silently as you crushed herbs into a poultice, mixing them with a few drops of an antidote you’d brewed weeks ago. As you applied the mixture to her wounds, the faint hissing of flesh meeting the concoction filled the room, and Rebekah’s body jerked weakly.
“She’ll be in pain,” you warned, not looking up. “The wolfsbane will fight back before it leaves her system.”
Elijah nodded, his expression unreadable. “She has endured worse.”
You worked quickly, cleaning her wounds and binding them with strips of enchanted cloth to draw out the remaining toxin. As you finished, Rebekah let out a soft, pained sound, her eyelids fluttering but not opening.
“She’s strong,” you said, stepping back to examine your work. “She’ll pull through, but we need to move on to the cloaking spell before her aura flares again.”
Elijah stood silently in the corner as you prepared for the spell, his presence steady but not intrusive. You gathered your materials: powdered obsidian to ground the magic, lavender to calm the chaos of her aura, and a strand of moon-thread to anchor the spell. The silver bowl you placed by the fire reflected the flickering flames, casting shifting shadows across the room.
As you began the incantation, the air in the cabin grew heavier, charged with magic. The fire dimmed, its light consumed by the threads of power you wove. The ingredients in the bowl sparked to life, a faint blue flame licking at the edges.
Rebekah’s body glowed faintly, her aura pulsing in protest as you wrapped the spell around her. Her nature made the magic difficult to bind—her sheer existence fought against being concealed.
The strain was immediate. Sweat beaded on your forehead as you chanted, the words of the spell weaving together like a tapestry. The shadows in the room seemed to move with a life of their own, curling around Rebekah and dimming the brightness of her presence.
Elijah stepped closer, his calm voice cutting through the tension. “You’re doing well. Steady your breathing.”
You nodded, his words grounding you. With a final surge of energy, you forced the spell into place, the threads snapping together like a net. The glow around Rebekah dimmed, her aura fading to something faint and unremarkable.
You slumped back, exhaustion pulling at your limbs. “It’s done,” you said hoarsely. “She’s cloaked, but you’ll need to keep her away from strong magic or other supernatural hotspots. The spell won’t hold if it’s strained.”
Elijah moved to his sister’s side, his hand brushing gently over her forehead. Her breathing had steadied, her color slowly returning.
“She will recover,” he said, his voice low but steady. He turned to you, his dark eyes meeting yours. “Once again, you have saved my family. I owe you more than words can express.”
You waved a hand, too tired to argue. “Just... don’t make a habit of getting hunted, Elijah. My cabin isn’t a hospital.”
A faint smile touched his lips. “Noted.”
As he gathered Rebekah into his arms, you followed him to the door. The night outside was still and dark, the forest silent save for the faint rustle of leaves in the wind.
Elijah paused on the threshold, his gaze softening as he looked at you. “If you ever have need of me or my family, do not hesitate to call. You have earned more than just our gratitude.”
You met his gaze, the weight of his words settling over you. “Be careful with promises, Elijah. You Mikaelsons have a way of making things more complicated than they need to be.”
His faint smile lingered. “Perhaps. But in this, I am sincere.”
And with that, he disappeared into the shadows of the forest, his figure blending seamlessly into the night.
The quiet returned, but it was a fragile thing, laced with the knowledge that the Mikaelsons would always bring more chaos. You sighed, closing the door behind you and leaning against it.
“This is far from over,” you muttered to yourself, already sensing that the Mikaelsons would darken your doorstep again soon enough.
------------
The days that followed Elijah’s departure felt strangely empty. The forest around your cabin had returned to its usual quiet rhythm, yet you couldn’t ignore the tension that lingered in the air. There had been something between you and Elijah—a bond formed in urgency but slowly evolving into something deeper, something more. You couldn't place it, not yet, but you felt it. And now, that connection seemed to stretch across the days that followed, pulling at your thoughts more often than you cared to admit.
The knock came late one evening, just as the last light of day was fading into twilight. You had been absorbed in your work, carefully inscribing symbols into a parchment, the scratch of your quill the only sound in the stillness. The sharp rap at the door made you freeze. Your wards were quiet, so this visitor didn’t come with the usual prelude of energy you’d grown accustomed to.
When you opened the door, you weren’t entirely surprised to find Elijah standing there, the cold air swirling around him, carrying the sharp scent of the forest. But what did surprise you was the way he looked at you—not as a means to an end or a temporary ally, but with something more. There was a softness in his gaze, a subtle warmth that hadn’t been there the first time.
“Elijah,” you said, the surprise in your voice barely concealed, though your heart gave a small, unbidden flutter.
He was silent for a moment, taking in the sight of you in the low light of your cabin, your face framed by the soft glow of the fire. He seemed to hesitate, as if weighing his next words. His usual composure, the one you had come to know so well, was still present, but it was tempered by something else.
"I hope I’m not disturbing you," Elijah said, his voice measured, but beneath it, there was an undercurrent of something more—something uncertain.
You stepped back instinctively, allowing him inside. "Of course not. You’re always welcome here." The words felt almost too casual, as though the truth they carried was something deeper than simple hospitality.
He entered, the familiar weight of his presence settling around you. The quiet of the room seemed to grow heavier as Elijah made his way to the center of the space. He glanced around, his eyes lingering on the shelves of herbs and ancient tomes, the soft glow of candles illuminating the intricate sigils drawn in the corners of the room.
"You’ve made this place... quite your own," he remarked, his voice softer now, his eyes lingering on the symbols you had so carefully etched into the walls. It was a genuine compliment, not a passing remark. It made your heart stir with something unfamiliar—something you couldn’t quite name.
"Thank you," you replied, your tone more thoughtful than you intended. You quickly shook off the feeling. "What brings you here, Elijah? Is Rebekah well?"
Elijah gave a slight nod, his expression clouding over with concern as his gaze drifted to the shadows. "She’s recovering, thanks to you. But that’s not why I’ve come." He paused, drawing in a deep breath before continuing, as if gathering his thoughts. "I’ve been thinking about our last encounter."
You tilted your head, studying him more closely. "I see."
A brief silence stretched between you, the weight of unspoken words pressing heavily in the space. Elijah’s gaze shifted to the floor, as though the admission was difficult for him. When he looked back at you, there was something raw in his eyes—an openness you hadn’t seen before.
"I’m not used to owing people," he said, his voice low, a hint of something like vulnerability creeping into his tone. "But I owe you. Twice, actually. Once for helping my sister, and once for helping Niklaus."
You hadn’t expected him to be so candid, and it caught you off guard. You crossed your arms, leaning against the doorframe, eyes narrowing slightly as you studied him.
"You’re right, you do owe me," you said, a playful smile tugging at the corner of your lips. "But I’m not one to hold people to their debts." The words sounded flippant, but there was something deeper beneath them, a challenge, maybe. Or an invitation. You weren’t sure.
Elijah looked at you then, his gaze sharpening, the tension in his posture dissipating. He took a step closer, the air between you crackling with an intensity you couldn’t ignore. His next words came slowly, deliberately.
"I know it’s unconventional, but I want to thank you properly. Not as someone who needs my family’s help, but as a man who simply wants to know the woman who has done so much for us."
The way he said it made you pause, his words wrapping around you like a spell you couldn’t quite break free from. There was no pretense, no ulterior motive in his voice—just a quiet sincerity that seemed to reach deeper than anything else he had said to you before.
His eyes held yours, steady and unyielding, as if he were waiting for you to make the next move.
"What are you asking, Elijah?" You took a small step toward him, your voice betraying the hint of uncertainty you felt. You knew he was powerful, old, and accustomed to getting what he wanted—but something told you this was different.
His smile softened, and there was a warmth in it that surprised you, like the faintest flicker of light in the midst of shadow. "I’d like to take you to dinner," he said simply. "No obligations. Just us. I’ve never had the chance to simply... talk with you. Without the weight of everything else on our shoulders."
You stood there for a long moment, your heart racing as you processed his words. There was something compelling about him in this moment—something far more real than you’d anticipated. You had spent enough time with Elijah to understand the complexities behind his stoic demeanor, the layers of centuries of pain, duty, and loyalty that shaped him. But in this moment, he seemed to be offering you something simpler: a chance to be seen for who you were, not just for the magic you wielded or the alliances you kept.
"I..." You swallowed, trying to steady yourself. The idea of spending time with him outside the usual chaos of life and magic was a temptation you didn’t want to deny. "Dinner sounds... nice."
The smile that spread across his face was almost unrecognizable. It was a small, genuine smile, one that made you realize just how rarely you’d seen him show anything close to warmth. For a moment, he looked less like the centuries-old vampire and more like a man in the present, standing in front of you, trying to offer something real.
"I’m glad," he said, his voice low and full of promise. "I’ll make arrangements, of course. Somewhere private. But I’ll be sure to choose a place worthy of your time."
You watched him for a moment, unsure of what you were feeling. But something about him felt... right, in a way you couldn’t explain.
As he turned to leave, you found yourself following him to the door, the sudden quiet of the room settling over you again.
"Elijah," you said, your voice softer now. "Thank you. For this."
He paused, his back to you, and turned slightly, his gaze steady as he looked at you one last time before he stepped into the cool evening.
"You’re welcome," he replied, his voice softer than before. And then, with a final, lingering look, he disappeared into the night.
The door closed behind him, and for a long time, you stood there, staring at the empty space where he had been, feeling the weight of the unspoken connection between you both. You had no idea what would happen next—but you knew one thing: nothing would be the same.
Request from @sweetieseven: Lissaa, I have something in mind right now I've been thinking about Elijah in 1400s (his long hair and sweet smile! The way he kissed Katherine's hand!) I would love to read a story about a lady that's very smitten of him! And that she's married (so, it's kinda controversial) And my favourite author is you, so I hope you can make this happen! Luvv
{Elijah Mikaelson x f!Reader}
Hired by Rebekah to paint her family’s portrait, you find yourself irresistibly drawn to her eldest brother, Elijah. But with a husband bound by ambition and society’s stifling expectations, surrendering to forbidden desire could change your life forever...
♡♡ Thank you for the request darling!!! Medieval Elijah is such a dreamm ♡♡
9k words {I can't be contained} - Warnings: smutttt, oral sex {f!receiving}, riding, public sex, outdoor sex, forbidden romance, Rebekah wants to eat you... but then becomes your friend, medieval court intrigue, Elijah being devastatingly intense and charming, lots of sexual tension, marital discord, possessive Elijah, protective Elijah, manipulative dynamics, cheating, mild violence, betrayal, secrets, gardens, power imbalances && a family portrait..
Your husband, the son of a wealthy trader, was as calculating as he was relentless. He lived for the approval of the court, bowing and scraping before the nobles in hopes of securing a title. You’d never felt much for him, even in the early days of your marriage, when your father had insisted this union would secure your family's future. But his recent desperation to curry favor with the visiting Mikaelson family had made his flaws all the more glaring. Every word from his mouth was flattery, every gesture self-serving. You knew he would sell his own soul if it meant earning the smallest amount of praise from one of his betters.
And yet, you could not entirely blame him. The Mikaelsons had a reputation that preceded them. They were a family steeped in power and mystery, their arrival casting a shadow over the court. The noblewomen gossiped in hushed whispers about their strange allure, their almost otherworldly beauty.
"Have you seen the younger one? Ser Kol," one woman had whispered during the last banquet. "He’s often in the lower streets... no doubt consorting with common girls."
Another had leaned in closer, voice dripping with scandal. "And the middle brother? Niklaus. I heard he shares his bed with whomever pleases him, man or woman."
"And the sister, Rebekah," a third chimed in, "has every lord at court vying for her hand. A face like hers could launch kingdoms."
But it was the eldest brother who had caught your attention. Unlike his siblings, he carried himself with quiet restraint, his presence commanding without needing to demand. You’d only seen him in passing.. a fleeting glance in the library, the sweep of his long hair as he walked the castle corridors, or the faintest trace of a smile during a royal symphony. The whispers about him were fewer, but they lingered in your mind.
Elijah Mikaelson. The name alone made your pulse quicken.
You knew better than to seek his attention. And yet, you couldn't stop yourself from wondering. What was he like beneath his noble composure? What thoughts occupied his mind as he listened to the symphonies, or perused the stacks of the castle library? Was his heart truly as cold and hard as the rumors suggested?
A royal feast had been organized in honor of the Mikaelson family, a grand display of wealth and power that you suspected was meant to impress the siblings. The entire court had been invited, including yourself and your husband, whose eyes were constantly darting between the different noblemen, as though seeking an opening for conversation. You knew he had plans to corner Lord Elijah and attempt to curry his favor.
You were already growing weary of his scheming.
The music drifted throughout the great hall, a delicate blend of lutes and drums that you could barely hear over the din of chatter. Your husband had left your side, and you watched as he approached a group of young lords, joining their conversation with the usual charm and flattery.
You sighed. How you despised these affairs. Nothing of substance ever came from the empty conversations, the meaningless platitudes, the frivolous displays. All around you, people were dancing and laughing and drinking, while you stood in the shadows, a hollow ache settling in your chest..
It was in this moment of despair, when you felt most alone, that you noticed him. Lord Elijah was standing beside the great oak doors, his long hair pulled back from his face, the faintest hint of stubble shading his sharp jaw. He was dressed in a black doublet and pants, the silver embroidery catching the light as he moved. His expression was placid, almost unreadable, his dark eyes focused on something across the hall.
When you followed his gaze, you saw he was watching his brother, Niklaus, as the blond lord conversed with a young lady. There was a strange tension in the air, one that was almost palpable. You couldn't be sure, but you sensed Lord Elijah's disapproval of his brother's behavior.
As if sensing your attention, Elijah's eyes shifted, and he turned his gaze to you. His expression was difficult to read, his eyes dark and deep, and for a moment, you thought you saw something there, a glimpse of the man behind the facade.
A flush rose to your cheeks, and you quickly averted your gaze, looking away, heart racing. You had not expected to be caught staring. You cursed yourself for your foolishness.
When you dared a glance back at Elijah, he was gone. You scanned the hall, searching for him, but there was no sign of him among the throng of people. He had disappeared as quickly and as quietly as he'd arrived.
You let out a breath, feeling strangely disappointed, and then headed towards the table, where the wine was flowing freely. If you were going to survive this night, you would need to numb yourself with drink.
You poured yourself a cup of wine, the dark liquid sloshing over the rim, and took a sip. The sweet taste washed over your tongue, and you closed your eyes, savoring the sensation. You had a feeling it would be a long night.
"It's not that good," a sweet voice teased from behind you.
You spun around, nearly spilling your drink, and came face-to-face with Lady Rebekah. She looked lovely in a soft blue gown, her fair skin glowing in the candlelight, her golden hair cascading down her shoulders and her eyes sparking with mischief.
"Forgive me," you said, trying not to sound as flustered as you felt.
She took the cup out of your hand and tasted the wine, her lips twisting with disgust. “Just dreadful.”
You smiled despite yourself, charmed by her candor. "What are you doing here?"
"I was looking for you." Her words were bold and direct, and you had the sense she was used to getting her way.
"Me?"
She nodded. "Your husband told me you're an artist. I wanted to see your work."
"You have an interest in art?" You were surprised. Most ladies of the court had no such inclinations.
"Of course," she said. "Everyone else is obsessed with the latest fashions and gossip, but I prefer to occupy my mind with more meaningful things."
You couldn't help but feel a sense of kinship with her, and your heart warmed towards her. It was lonely being a woman at court, and it was refreshing to have someone understand the need for more than just the petty concerns of the nobility.
"I'd be happy to show you my paintings," you said, and the smile she gave you made your stomach do a little flip.
"Excellent." She tucked her arm into yours, pulling you close, and began to lead you out of the great hall. "Let's go, before anyone else decides they need our attention."
You laughed, feeling light and free, as she pulled you down the corridor, the two of you giggling like girls at their first festival.
"Rebekah," a stern voice cut through the laughter.
You froze, heart pounding. The voice belonged to none other than Lord Elijah.
Rebekah's smile fell, and she turned, pulling you along with her. "Yes, brother?"
Elijah's eyes landed on you, and you felt your heart skip a beat. He was even more handsome up close, his features strong and striking. "Where are you off to?"
"To look at some paintings that my lovely companion has made," Rebekah said, her arm still looped around yours.
"That sounds delightful," he said, his tone even. "I'd like to join you."
Rebekah pouted, a silent conversation passing between the siblings.
"Please," he added, softening his words.
You weren't sure what was happening, but it seemed the two of them were having a private discussion, and you were only getting fragments of it.
Rebekah let out a dramatic sigh. "Very well, brother."
She led you down the corridor, Elijah following behind. You tried to ignore his presence, but the sound of his footsteps was like a drumbeat in your mind, a constant reminder that he was near.
You stored your work in a small chamber adjacent to your rooms. There was a single chair and a narrow window that looked out onto the courtyard.
"I come here to sketch," you said, by way of explanation. "It's peaceful."
Rebekah glanced around the room, taking in the canvases and the brushes, the jars of paint and the wooden easel. She seemed bored by it, which disappointed you, but Elijah looked curious, his gaze sweeping over the room.
"You are quite talented, a true artist," he said.
"It's a hobby," you replied, shrugging.
"No," he said, his eyes finding yours. "An artist is an artist, whether it's their sole occupation or simply a pastime. It doesn't diminish the passion and dedication."
"Such a flatterer," Rebekah quipped, a touch of sarcasm in her voice.
Elijah ignored her, his gaze still fixed on you. "May I see more of your work?"
You nodded, unable to find your voice. There was something about his attention that made your stomach flutter, and you had the sudden urge to please him.
You pulled out a sketchbook and handed it to him. He opened it and began to leaf through the pages, his eyes scanning the drawings. You tried not to watch his reaction, but it was impossible not to notice the small smile that tugged at his lips.
"These are lovely," he said, and the sincerity in his voice made you blush. "You capture nature in such a unique way."
"Thank you," you said, and he closed the book, handing it back to you.
"Perhaps you'll paint a portrait of me," Rebekah suggested.
You shook your head, the suggestion startling you. "I'm not very good with portraits. People are difficult to capture."
"Nonsense," she replied. "If my brother can see the beauty in your work, then surely you can capture my own."
"Rebekah..." Elijah's voice was a warning, and you had the sense there was more to this conversation than you realized.
She turned to him, a defiant look on her face. "What? I wish for a portrait. Is that so wrong?"
"Not at all," he replied, his tone measured. "But perhaps now is not the best time."
She crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing. "Are you really going to spoil this for me? While Kol and Niklaus drink from every-"
"Enough," he cut her off.
She let out a frustrated sigh and stormed out of the room.
You stood there awkwardly, not sure what had just happened.
"My apologies," Elijah said. "Rebekah can be... a bit much at times."
"It's fine," you said, but the tension in the air was palpable.
He turned to leave, but then stopped, his hand resting on the door frame. "Be careful with her," he said, his voice softening. "Rebekah can be very charming, and she doesn't always think about the consequences of her actions."
"I'll keep that in mind," you said, not entirely sure what he meant.
He paused for a moment, and then met your gaze, his eyes dark and intense. "I look forward to seeing more of your work."
With that, he left, the door closing behind him, leaving you alone with your thoughts.
What a strange family.
Rebekah returned the next day, her demeanor much calmer. She came to visit you in the morning, before the court was abuzz with activity. You were seated in the main room of your chambers, sketching as your husband droned on about something unimportant. You could barely hear his words over the scratching of your quill on the parchment.
As soon as Rebekah entered the room, her presence commanded attention, and your husband immediately stopped speaking.
“Lady Rebekah,” he said, quickly rising to his feet.
“Forgive me,” she said, her words dripping with insincerity. “I did not mean to interrupt.”
“Nonsense,” he replied, smiling. “You are always welcome here.”
“Thank you,” she said, returning his smile before turning her attention to you. “I was hoping we might continue our conversation from last night.”
Your husband looked from you to her, clearly puzzled. He had been desperate to gain favor with any of the Mikaelsons, and the fact that she had sought you out was both unexpected and unnerving to him.
“Of course,” you said, rising from your chair. “You wished for a portrait.”
Your husband scoffed. He had never approved of your artistic pursuits and often complained about how much time they occupied.
“Actually, I was thinking a family portrait,” she said, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Wouldn’t that be splendid?”
“Absolutely,” your husband replied, eager to seize any opportunity to curry favor. “She would be honored.”
“Wonderful,” she said, her smile broadening. “I shall send someone to fetch you later.”
With that, she turned and left, leaving the two of you alone once more. Your husband was practically giddy, his excitement over the prospect of gaining favor with the Mikaelsons clearly evident. You couldn’t help but feel a pang of irritation, as though your work was only valued for its potential to impress the nobility.
“I don’t know how you managed it, dear wife, but you’ve secured us a place at their table,” he said, practically beaming.
You sighed, knowing there was no way out of this. The prospect of painting the family was daunting, but it would make your husband happy, and perhaps bring him one step closer to his dream of earning a title.
"Of course," you said, forcing a smile.
You didn't share his enthusiasm. In truth, the thought of spending any amount of time with the Mikaelsons made you uneasy, but you really couldn't say why. There was just something about them that told you to run far away.
Elijah had secured a large chamber with ample light, the morning sun streaming in through the tall, arched windows. The Mikaelson family was gathered around a heavy oaken table, their expressions ranging from bored to mildly irritated. Rebekah was the only one who appeared genuinely enthusiastic, her radiant smile lighting her face as she posed for the portrait.
"Is this really necessary?" Kol complained.
"Yes," Elijah replied, his tone leaving no room for argument.
"Kol, go sit next to Niklaus, and stop complaining," Rebekah chided.
Kol grumbled, but did as he was told, taking his place beside his brother.
You felt a nervous tremor in your hands as you adjusted your easel and arranged your pigments, your hands shaking slightly. You could feel their eyes on you, the weight of their attention making the task feel impossible.
Niklaus was particularly unsettling, his eyes tracking your movements, a slight smile playing on his lips. You couldn't read his expression, but something about it made you uneasy.
“I hear you paint landscapes,” he remarked, his tone laced with condescension.
“I do,” you replied, doing your best to sound composed.
“Interesting,” he mused, his words slow and deliberate. “What makes you think you are qualified to paint my family’s portrait?”
“I suppose I’m not,” you admitted, unable to hide the tremor in your voice.
“Ignore him,” Rebekah interjected sharply, shooting her brother a withering look. “He only grows competitive when the subject of art is raised. He acts as though he has some divine monopoly over the matter.”
“That is not true,” Niklaus retorted, though his tone lacked conviction.
“So you are a painter as well?” you asked Niklaus, striving to keep the conversation light.
“Among other things,” he replied, the faintest trace of a smile playing on his lips.
“Like what?” you asked, curiosity getting the better of you.
“Many things,” he said, his eyes meeting yours. “But mostly, I enjoy capturing the human form.”
The innuendo was not lost on you, and you felt your cheeks flush. Kol chuckled softly, clearly amused by his brother’s remarks.
“Enough, Niklaus,” Elijah interjected, his tone sharp and unyielding.
“Yes, yes,” Niklaus replied, his tone bored but his expression still mischievous.
You turned your focus back to the painting and began sketching the outline, but the arrangement of the siblings felt awkward. The positioning of their bodies only seemed to emphasize the tension in the room.
“How is this?” Rebekah asked, adjusting her posture gracefully.
“I’m not sure,” you admitted, struggling to find the right words.
“You could paint me nude,” Niklaus offered, a wicked gleam in his eyes. “That would certainly liven things up a bit.”
Elijah smacked the back of Niklaus’s head with a swift hand, and the room erupted in laughter.
“Enough,” Elijah commanded again, though the faintest hint of a smile tugged at his lips.
Despite your unease, you couldn’t help but feel drawn in by the Mikaelsons’ strange energy. There was something magnetic about their banter, even if it was overwhelming.
You stood and began repositioning Kol and Niklaus, each of them watching your efforts with mild amusement.
“Must I hold still?” Kol teased, feigning irritation.
“Yes,” you replied, your patience already wearing thin with his antics.
“How long will this take?” he complained, shifting in his seat.
“I’ll make sure to paint you first,” you promised, trying to keep your composure despite his constant interruptions.
“Excellent,” he said, grinning as though you had done him a great favor.
Rebekah was easy to pose, her natural grace evident in the way she carried herself. When you approached Elijah, however, your heart quickened, the thought of touching him sending a rush of heat through your body.
“Could you turn towards the light?” you asked, striving to keep your voice steady.
“Certainly,” he replied, shifting his position with an elegance that matched his demeanor.
You reached out to adjust his arm, your fingertips brushing against the firm muscle beneath his finely tailored doublet. You swallowed hard, determined to ignore the way his presence unsettled you.
“Is this acceptable?” he asked, his voice low and smooth.
“Yes,” you said quickly, stepping back to regain your composure.
He gave you a knowing smile, as though he could read the thoughts you were struggling to suppress.
As the session wore on, you found yourself more at ease among the siblings. They were an odd bunch, much like the other ridiculously wealthy nobles you had encountered, but with a surprising playfulness that set them apart. Their teasing and laughter filled the chamber, and by the time the sun began to dip in the sky, you realized you were enjoying their company.
“How many more sessions will there be?” Kol asked, stretching his arms above his head like a restless squire.
“As many as it takes,” Elijah replied, his tone leaving no room for debate.
“Only one more for Kol and Niklaus,” you said, carefully packing away your supplies.
“Thank goodness,” Kol quipped, his grin as mischievous as ever.
You smiled, charmed by his lightheartedness. Despite their eccentricities, the Mikaelsons were not as imposing as you had first feared. Perhaps, given time, you might even consider them friends.
“Shall we continue tomorrow?” Elijah asked, his tone both calm and assured.
You nodded, a strange thrill coursing through you at the thought of another day in their company.
With that, the siblings departed, leaving you alone with your thoughts. Your emotions were conflicted, and the sensation was foreign to you. You were used to feeling numb, resigned to your fate as a lonely wife, but the Mikaelsons had sparked a flame within you, a spark of curiosity and interest that you hadn't felt in years.
You let out a sigh and began tidying up the chamber. Your life was full of rules and obligations, but there was something about the Mikaelsons that made you feel like a bird longing for the sky. You couldn't explain it, and perhaps you never would, but the pull was undeniable.
You took a long walk before returning to your chambers and your husband greeted you, brimming with excitement.
“Lord Elijah has invited us to a private supper next week,” he announced, his voice filled with pride.
“A private supper?” You were surprised. Elijah had been polite but distant, and you hadn’t expected him to show such a level of interest.
“Yes,” he replied, practically giddy. “He is apparently eager to hear my thoughts on the kingdom’s trade agreements.”
You weren’t entirely shocked. Your husband had managed to carve out a name for himself among merchants and lesser nobility, though his opinions were rarely sought after by those of Elijah’s rank.
“That is wonderful,” you said, forcing a smile.
“Indeed,” he replied with a flourish. “We shall need to procure new attire.”
You frowned, knowing this would cost dearly. Your husband’s ambitions had already drained much of the household’s coffers, and yet another expense seemed likely to drive you further into debt.
“Whatever you think best,” you said, unwilling to provoke an argument.
He leaned down and kissed your cheek, his mustache brushing against your skin and making you suppress a cringe.
“It’s going to be a good year,” he declared, patting your arm with confidence. “I can feel it.”
You smiled and nodded, trying to match his enthusiasm, though the truth was, you longed for something of your own.
One thing that didn't have to be tainted by his aspirations.
The next few days were a blur as you worked to complete the portrait before the supper. The siblings had grown accustomed to sitting for the painting, and you managed to finish Kol and Niklaus without much difficulty.
Rebekah was particular, but you understood her desire to present herself at her best. You took care to subtly enhance her already striking features, ensuring she seemed alive on the canvas.
“You are all done, Rebekah,” you said, feeling a surge of satisfaction at the finished product.
She rose gracefully from the chair and approached the painting to inspect it. She looked radiant, her golden hair cascading over her shoulders, her blue eyes glinting with vitality.
“It’s perfect,” she declared, turning to smile at you. “All that remains now is dear Elijah.”
A flush rose to your cheeks at the mention of his name. Elijah was the last to be painted, and the thought of being alone with him was both thrilling and nerve-wracking.
He smiled then, his gaze locking with yours, and for a moment, it felt as if he could see straight into your soul, discerning every unspoken emotion swirling within you.
Rebekah kissed your cheek in farewell, her touch light and affectionate, before sweeping out of the room.
Now, only Elijah remained.
You had already sketched his outline, and all that was left was to refine the details. As you studied his face, your nerves fluttered anew. The faint creases of his smile, the dark stubble along his sharp jaw. He was so handsome that it almost hurt to look at him.
Picking up a brush, you dipped it into the paint and began the final stage of the portrait. His eyes followed your movements, though he remained silent, the quiet stretching between you.
“Have you always enjoyed art?” he asked suddenly, his deep voice breaking the stillness.
You startled slightly but recovered quickly. “I suppose so,” you replied, keeping your focus on the canvas. “Since I was a child, I’ve always been fascinated by color and light.”
“An admirable quality,” he said warmly.
“Thank you,” you murmured, your cheeks warming under his praise.
His eyes lingered on you, and you felt your pulse quicken beneath his steady gaze.
“Your husband has been quite vocal about his ambitions,” he remarked, and your heart sank.
You had hoped the task at hand would steer the conversation elsewhere, but it seemed your husband’s reputation for greed had preceded him.
“Yes,” you replied softly, unsure how best to answer.
“He seeks a title,” Elijah said, his tone calm and matter-of-fact.
“I’m aware,” you replied, unable to mask the bitterness that crept into your voice.
“You don’t seem enthused by the prospect,” he observed, his sharp eyes studying you.
“His ambitions are his own,” you said, deflecting as you focused your attention on the canvas.
“And what of your ambitions?” he asked, his words soft but pointed. You felt the air between you shift, heavy with unspoken meaning.
“What do you mean?” you asked cautiously, glancing at him.
“I mean, what would make you happy? Is a title something you desire?”
You paused, his question taking root in your mind. The truth was, you hadn’t often considered what might make you happy. Your happiness had never been a priority, least of all to your husband.
“Are you married, Lord Mikaelson?” you asked, changing the subject as you carefully added the dark wisps of his eyelashes to the portrait.
“It’s Elijah,” he corrected gently, his eyes meeting yours. “And no, I am not married.”
“Well… marriage is about compromise,” you said, your tone measured. “My duty is to support my husband and help him achieve his goals.”
“But what of your own needs and desires?” he pressed, his gaze unwavering. The question caught you off guard.
“I am fortunate enough to have a hobby that satisfies some of those,” you replied, though the words felt inadequate, leaving you feeling unexpectedly exposed.
He was silent for a moment, and you thought the conversation had ended, but then he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper.
“You deserve far more than that.”
Your breath caught, and your gaze lifted to meet his. His words struck deeply, piercing through the layers of propriety and obligation that had shaped your life.
“I’m sure your future wife will be a fortunate woman,” you said, the words slipping out before you could stop them.
He chuckled softly, his eyes sparkling with quiet amusement. “I doubt that very much.”
You didn’t know how to respond. The sudden intimacy between you was overwhelming, and you quickly turned your attention back to the canvas, focusing intently on the portrait to steady yourself.
But Elijah continued to ask you questions... questions no one had ever bothered to ask. He seemed genuinely interested in your thoughts and feelings, and you found yourself opening up to him in ways you hadn’t expected. You spoke of your childhood, your dreams, your fears, and he listened, his attention unwavering.
“And what of you?” you asked, hoping to shift the focus away from yourself. “It must be difficult, being the eldest brother.”
“It can be,” he admitted, his smile fading into something more introspective. “My brothers can be… boisterous at times.”
“Rebekah mentioned that,” you said lightly, hoping to ease the mood.
“She’s the wildest of us all,” he replied with a soft chuckle. “But she has a good heart.”
“I can see that,” you said, smiling.
He paused, his expression thoughtful, as though weighing his next words. “It’s rare for my family to enjoy the company of someone outside our circle,” he said, his gaze meeting yours. “Your friendship is a gift.”
A flutter stirred in your chest at his words, which touched something deep within you. You hadn’t realized how lonely you had been until you spent time with the Mikaelsons, who had brought a warmth into your life that had long been absent.
“I am honored to be considered a friend,” you said sincerely, and his smile softened in response.
“May I see?” he asked, gesturing toward the portrait.
“Of course,” you said, stepping aside.
He moved closer to the painting, his gaze traveling across the canvas. His eyes widened slightly, and you caught the glimmer of admiration in his expression.
“You have captured us all so perfectly,” he said, the sincerity in his tone sending a rush of warmth through you.
“Thank you,” you replied, unable to hide the pride in your voice.
“Rebekah was right,” he said, turning back to you. “You are an artist.”
You smiled, and he stepped closer, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that made your breath catch.
“I shall treasure this painting,” he said, his voice low and earnest. “And, of course, ensure you are handsomely rewarded for it.”
“It’s a gift,” you said softly, wanting him to understand just how much this meant to you.
“Nonsense. I cannot accept a gift of such value,” he replied, though the faintest hint of a smile tugged at his lips. “Perhaps we could reach a compromise.”
“What did you have in mind?” you asked, curiosity stirring within you.
“I will grant the title your husband so desperately seeks,” he said, his voice low, almost a whisper.
You could only stare at him, his offer leaving you stunned. It was the last thing you had expected, and for a moment, you wondered if he was jesting.
“But in return, I would ask for one more thing,” he continued, his eyes holding yours with unwavering intensity.
“And what is that?” you asked, your breath catching.
He reached for your hand, his touch warm and startlingly intimate. “A truth.”
“A truth?” you repeated, your confusion evident.
“Yes,” he said, his tone as soft as the flicker of a candle’s flame. “Tell me... do you feel the same way about me as I do about you?”
Your eyes locked with his, and your heart raced as if caught in a dream. The answer came easily, as if it had always been waiting to be spoken.
“Yes.”
His lips curved into a smile as he brought your hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of your palm.
“You are beautiful, like one of your paintings,” he murmured, his gaze never leaving yours. “I find myself quite envious of your husband, who shares your bed each night.”
You had been drawn to him from the start, and now, as he stood before you, you felt an undeniable connection. He was kind, charming, and devastatingly handsome, and for a moment, you wondered if perhaps you had found someone who could understand you, someone who could see past the walls you had built around your heart.
He leaned in, capturing your lips in a soft, lingering kiss. A spark of heat coursed through your body, and for a moment, the world around you seemed to dissolve into nothingness.
The proper thing would have been to pull away, to remind him of your vows and the sanctity of your marriage. But instead, you returned the kiss, the passion igniting within you like a forbidden flame.
His hands found your waist, pulling you closer, and as the kiss deepened, you knew you were lost. Your heart was his for the taking, and nothing else seemed to matter.
Gently, he guided you back until you felt the sturdy surface of the table against your hips. Your fingers threaded through his hair, drawing him closer, and he let out a low moan that sent a fiery thrill through your veins.
Breaking the kiss, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your skin. “Tell me to stop,” he murmured, his hands stilling on your hips, though his voice carried a tremor of restraint.
"No," you breathed, the word barely audible.
He grinned and lifted you onto the table, his mouth crashing back against yours. He lifted your skirts, his fingers brushing against your bare thighs, and you felt a thrill of pleasure run through you.
Your hands sought the laces of his doublet, fumbling as you tried to feel the warmth of his skin beneath the fabric. You couldn't get enough of him, his taste, his scent, the feel of his body pressed against yours.
"So lovely," he whispered, his hands moving up your thighs, his fingers finding their mark.
A gasp escaped your lips as your body responded to his touch, heat building within you. His grin was both knowing and triumphant as he began a slow, torturous rhythm that left you breathless, each stroke teasing and coaxing you closer to the edge.
He pressed kisses along your jawline, his lips trailing a molten path down the curve of your neck. Your body arched against him instinctively, your hips moving in time with his hand.
Then he knelt before you, his head dipping beneath your skirts, and you gripped the edge of the table, your breath coming in ragged gasps.
“Elijah, what are you-” The question died on your lips as his tongue found a place of exquisite sensitivity, drawing a low moan from you.
His hands gripped your hips, pulling you closer, and your toes curled as waves of pleasure rippled through you. You had never imagined that a man could kiss you there, and the feel of his hot, wet tongue was utterly exquisite.
His tongue danced across your most sensitive core, the sensation unlike anything you had ever known. The pleasure built steadily, a white-hot heat coiling low in your belly, threatening to consume you.
Your husband had never touched you like this, had never made you feel this alive. Closing your eyes, you surrendered to the moment, your moans growing louder as the ecstasy surged within you.
Your fingers wove into his hair, tugging him closer, and he groaned against you, the vibration sending a shudder through your body. The release was powerful, leaving you trembling in its wake.
He emerged from beneath your skirts, his lips glistening with evidence of his devotion, a satisfied grin lighting his face. Your cheeks burned, feeling exposed, and yet, utterly content.
He kissed you again, his lips warm and insistent, and you tasted yourself there. Instead of repulsion, it only stoked the fire within you, the desire flaring anew.
“If you were my wife, I would cherish you,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.
You froze, his words washing over you, leaving your mind spinning. Was he serious? Could this truly be happening?
“I would love you,” he continued, his gaze unwavering. “Every day.”
“Elijah,” you whispered, his name catching in your throat. Your hand rose to cup his cheek, and he leaned into your touch, his eyes locked on yours with an intensity that made your heart ache.
He was offering you everything you had ever dreamed of. It was all too much, too fast. You knew the cost of this moment. The ruin it would bring to your marriage, your reputation, and the life you had known. But as you looked into Elijah’s eyes, you saw the glimmer of something more, something wonderful. It was terrifying to believe in.
“We cannot,” you said at last, your voice trembling.
His smile faltered, and a shadow passed over his expression, leaving it guarded.
“I understand,” he said quietly, though the disappointment in his eyes was unmistakable.
“It’s not what I want,” you added quickly, desperate for him to know the truth.
“But it is what must be,” he replied, his tone heavy with resignation.
You kissed him once more, the touch lingering as if to hold onto the moment just a little longer, before pulling away.
He helped you down from the table, his hands steady as your skirts fell back into place. You straightened the fabric with trembling fingers, the weight of what had transpired pressing upon you.
He sighed, the sound heavy with resignation. “I will see you at the supper,” he said, his voice carrying a sadness that pierced your heart.
“Until then,” you replied softly, fighting the desperate urge to stay.
He took your hand, pressing one last kiss to the back of it, the gesture tender and filled with unspoken meaning. Then he bid you farewell and turned to go, leaving the chamber.
You watched him leave, your chest tight with conflicting emotions. You knew you had made a mistake, one that could ruin you both, and yet, as you recalled the way he had held you, you could not bring yourself to regret it.
The night of the supper arrived, and you felt a flutter of nerves. It would be the first time you had seen Elijah since your encounter in the studio, and you knew that your feelings would be impossible to hide.
As your carriage pulled up to the Mikaelson manor, its grand stone façade illuminated by the glow of torches, you could barely contain your racing thoughts.
Stepping out, you gazed up at the magnificent hall, its imposing architecture a testament to the wealth and influence of the Mikaelson family. Your husband, beside you, was brimming with excitement, his greatest ambition on the verge of realization. You, however, felt only apprehension.
He spoke animatedly with some of the other guests, his arm draped loosely around your waist, using you as an ornament to enhance his image.
“Ah, Lord Elijah!” your husband called out, his voice cheerful. “Just the man I wished to see.”
Elijah approached, dressed in a formal white doublet, composed and handsome as ever. His dark eyes flicked over you, lingering for a moment, and you felt a blush creep up your neck.
“What a splendid home,” your husband remarked, oblivious to the tension in the air. “It must require great effort to maintain a residence of this size.”
Elijah smirked, though his gaze was still drawn to you. “It does,” he replied smoothly, his words laced with an undertone only you could catch, “but I find the cost well worth the investment.”
Your husband launched into a lengthy discourse on his vision for the kingdom’s agricultural policies, extolling the opportunities for a new golden age and hinting at Elijah’s potential involvement. Elijah nodded politely, offering measured responses, but his focus never truly left you, his dark eyes drinking you in.
“Your wife is an astounding artist; the portrait she painted of my family was truly breathtaking,” Elijah said, his dark eyes meeting yours and holding them.
“Oh yes, she has many talents,” your husband replied dismissively, his tone devoid of the admiration Elijah's carried.
“We shall present it to the court this evening after the final course,” Elijah announced smoothly.
“We shall?” you blurted out, unable to hide your surprise.
“Of course,” Elijah said with a grin, his expression full of delight. “It is far too beautiful not to share.”
You blushed, the compliment sending a rush of heat through you. Your husband didn't value your work, not the way Elijah did. It was a heady sensation, knowing that someone thought so highly of you.
"Well, isn't it out darling artist," Kol said as he approached you. "My sister is absolutely mad about the portrait."
Your husband’s posture stiffened as he noticed how at ease the Mikaelsons were with you.
“Yes, well, my wife is skilled in her pursuits,” he said, his smile tight and uncomfortable.
Elijah continued speaking with you, his eyes sparkling with amusement as he encouraged you to share your thoughts. The conversation flowed easily, and you found yourself opening up in a way that felt both liberating and dangerous. Elijah seemed genuinely engaged, his attention unwavering, which only made your husband’s irritation more apparent.
Thankfully, Elijah soon excused himself, moving to greet other lords and ladies.
“I did not realize you were such a popular figure among the court,” your husband said sharply, his displeasure evident in his clipped tone.
You didn't know what to say, the question caught you off-guard. Your husband hated being upstaged, and by his own wife? Such a thing could not be borne.
“They seem to enjoy my work,” you replied cautiously.
“Are you blushing?” he accused, his voice low and edged with anger.
You avoided his gaze, fiddling with the clasp of your necklace instead.
“You cannot expect me to believe they are so enamored with you simply because of your art,” he pressed, his mustache twitching as his frustration grew.
"What should they be taken with? Your endless monologues about the economy?" You asked, losing patience with his jealousy.
He let out a humorless chuckle, shaking his head. "Do not let it go to your head. I'm the one who gives you that platform, without me, you'd be nothing," he spat.
“Nothing?” you scoffed, your voice sharper than you intended. “I could say the same about you. How many times have your dealings fallen through? How many empty promises have you made and broken?”
Your husband’s face turned an alarming shade of red, his knuckles tightening until they turned white. He leaned in, his eyes blazing with anger.
“You are my wife,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “Never forget your place.”
He stormed off, his fury radiating in every step. You felt a pang of guilt, but it was overshadowed by an unexpected surge of relief. For the first time in years, you had stood up for yourself, and it felt strangely wonderful.
Throughout the supper, the animosity from your husband was palpable. His simmering rage showed in his flushed cheeks and clenched jaw. The food was exquisite, but the atmosphere at your table was heavy with tension.
Elijah was seated beside you, and the placement only deepened your husband’s ire.
Kol, as ever, was holding court with his wild tales, Rebekah and Klaus laughing at his expense. Even Elijah allowed himself a rare smile, and you couldn’t help but giggle, his sister’s joy infectious.
Your husband straightened in his chair, preening like a peacock, desperate to reclaim attention. He launched into a self-aggrandizing tale about how he had single handedly financed the next great expansion of the local market. His gestures were large and theatrical, but his words fell flat. Rebekah’s eyes glazed over in boredom, and she stifled a yawn, twirling her fork idly between her fingers.
Kol, undeterred, followed with a ridiculous story of the time he had escaped an angry mob by rowing a boat down the river, only to be pursued by a flock of starlings. The table erupted into laughter, the sound spilling out into the hall.
You were enjoying yourself thoroughly when you felt a warm hand on your knee. Startled, you glanced at Elijah, whose gaze was steady and knowing. His smile was suggestive, and he leaned in, his breath warm against your ear.
“Once the painting is revealed, can you slip away...go outside?” he murmured, his voice low and intimate.
You nodded, your cheeks warm. Elijah sat back, his grin widening. You knew what was coming, the chance to be alone with him. It was forbidden, and yet, you couldn't deny how much you wanted it.
As the final course was cleared away, Elijah signaled for a footman to unveil your canvas. The gathered lords and ladies reacted with gasps of admiration and murmurs of approval.
Your husband’s displeasure was evident, his lips pressed into a thin line as he observed the attention your painting commanded. His frustration simmered beneath the surface, his irritation growing with each word of praise.
As the hall began to empty, you turned to your husband, murmuring that you needed fresh air. He barely acknowledged your words, too preoccupied with engaging another lord in animated conversation.
You stepped out into the cool night, the sky above alive with stars. The full moon cast a silvery glow over the gardens, illuminating the landscape in an otherworldly light. You paused, momentarily struck by the serene beauty around you.
Faint strains of music and laughter drifted from the ballroom, mingling with the gentle rustle of leaves. As you approached the rose garden, you felt the warmth of a hand resting lightly on your back.
“I love the scent of roses,” Elijah said quietly.
“They’re beautiful,” you replied, your gaze fixed on him, transfixed by his presence.
“They are,” he agreed, though his eyes never left yours.
“Are there any here you favor?” you asked, curious.
“This one,” he said softly, plucking a dark red rose from a nearby bush.
He presented the flower to you with a subtle flourish, its delicate fragrance drifting upward to greet you.
“It’s exquisite,” you breathed, running your fingers over the velvety petals.
Elijah stepped closer, his hands gently cradling your face as his dark eyes searched yours. Slowly, he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a tender kiss.
“You’re even more beautiful,” he murmured, his voice filled with quiet reverence. Your heart skipped, the words igniting a warmth deep within you.
His lips claimed yours once more, the kiss deepening as you surrendered to the moment. The rose slipped from your fingers, forgotten, as your hands found their way into his hair, drawing him closer.
His hands roamed over your curves, his touch igniting a fire that coursed through you. You could hardly believe this was real. That he was here, kissing you, holding you. It all felt like a dream, one you never wished to wake from.
He lifted you onto a stone bench, his hands unlacing the front of your dress. You knew this was forbidden, but you no longer cared. You wanted him, and in this moment, the risk felt worth taking.
Your gown slipped, pooling around your waist and revealing the soft lines of your bodice. Elijah leaned in, his lips trailing reverently across the exposed skin, eliciting a shiver of pleasure from you.
As he captured your lips in a kiss once more, his hands cupping your breasts, you moaned, a wave of desire flooding your core. You reached down to unfasten the laces of his breeches, your need growing with every passing moment.
He slipped a hand between your legs, finding that sensitive spot of pleasure, and you let out a gasp. Your fingers fumbled as you worked the laces loose, a flutter of nervous anticipation running through you.
"Is this what you want?" he asked, his voice thick with emotion. "If you're sure-"
"I want this," you cut him off. "I want you."
His fingers teased at your entrance, gently dipping into you, before withdrawing. He repeated this a few more times, before finally sliding a single finger inside of you. You let out a soft moan as he curled his finger inside you, before slowly withdrawing it again. He added a second finger, slowly pumping them in and out of you as you gripped his arm.
"I have a plan," he whispered to you, leaning closer to you as he continued to slowly move his fingers in and out of you. "When the sun rises, you are going to leave with me, and we are going to get as far away from this court as we can. Do you understand?"
You looked into his eyes, your breath catching at the intensity of his gaze. His words lingered between you, heavy with promise and risk. The court, your husband, the consequences. All of it seemed so distant compared to the man before you.
“Yes,” you whispered, your voice trembling with both fear and excitement. “I understand.”
Elijah’s lips found yours again, the kiss deeper this time, as though sealing the vow you had just made. His fingers continued their deliberate rhythm, drawing gasps from your lips as your body arched into his touch.
“You’re mine now,” he murmured against your lips, his voice filled with possessive tenderness. “And I’ll keep you safe.”
His words could have terrified you, but instead, they wrapped around your heart like armor, shielding you from the unknown future that awaited.
Your hands slipped into his breeches, wrapping around his length. His hips bucked instinctively against your palm, a low groan escaping his lips as his head tilted back in pleasure.
His reaction sent a thrill through you, your core throbbing with need. You began to stroke him, your fingers sliding along his length, feeling him grow harder beneath your touch. His grip on you tightened, his breath hot against your neck as he struggled to maintain his restraint.
You knew how dangerous it would be if someone caught you like this, but your desire to be with him, to have him in any way you could, outweighed any fear of discovery.
The risk only served to heighten the pleasure, your arousal pooling at the apex of your thighs. You sat up on your knees and he helped guide himself into your warmth, the two of you both gasping as your bodies joined at last.
The feel of his hardness inside of you was exquisite, filling you in a way you hadn't expected. His hands moved to your hips, holding you steady as he began a steady rhythm.
The sound of his labored breaths mixed with your own soft gasps and moans as the two of you found a familiar rhythm, moving as one. You clung to him, your arms wrapped around his neck, letting him guide your hips up and down in the most delicious of ways.
Your husband was always quick, in and out, and gone before you could catch your breath, but Elijah took his time, savoring the feeling of being buried deep inside you, drawing out every gasp and whimper, making sure you both reached the peak together.
As the two of you came together, his warm seed spilling inside of you, the sound of his name on your lips seemed to echo across the stillness of the night. He kissed you passionately, his lips swallowing every last whimper, before breaking the kiss to press soft kisses down your neck and along your collarbone, making sure to leave no part of your body untouched.
You rested your head on his chest, feeling his heart thundering against your ear, listening to the soothing sound of his breath as it began to even out.
The sound of distant voices coming towards you broke the spell of the moment, and you both began to hurriedly redress. He helped you fix the bodice of your dress and tuck your skirts in order to keep up appearances. The two of you shared a nervous glance, a flicker of uncertainty flashing between you, as the voices drew nearer.
Then he grabbed your hand and tugged you deeper into the garden, the two of you hiding among the trees and shrubbery, pressed tightly together in an effort not to be discovered.
As the sound of the voices passed by, your nerves seemed to settle and a playful giggle slipped out of your lips. The look in his eyes when they met yours again was intense, and before you knew what was happening he was kissing you once more, the warmth of his mouth moving over yours, slow and passionate.
It was in that moment that a shocked gasp broke through the stillness of the garden. The two of you sprang apart, whirling to face whoever had discovered you.
Your husband stood there, his face contorted in horror and fury. You opened your mouth to speak, to explain, but no words came out.
His hand flew to the hilt of his sword, but before he could draw it, Elijah stepped forward, his hand pressing firmly against your husband’s chest.
“Please, sir,” Elijah said, his voice a commanding force that could have made the devil himself tremble. “Do not act in haste.”
Your husband froze, his hand falling still as he stared at Elijah’s outstretched arm in disbelief.
“How dare you,” your husband hissed, his teeth clenched, his rage barely contained.
Elijah removed his hand and stood tall, his presence radiating a quiet menace. “I know what it is you truly desire,” he said, gesturing toward you with a slight tilt of his head. “And it is not her.”
Your husband’s expression twisted into one of offense, but it quickly faded into something darker as understanding dawned.
“How much?” he asked bitterly, his tone cold and calculating.
Elijah smiled, but it was not a kind smile. It was sharp, predatory, a smile that promised victory. “Your wife, in exchange for that title you’ve sought so desperately. It seems a fair trade.”
Your husband was many things. A selfish, ladder-climbing opportunist. But even he had a shred of pride. Elijah’s offer was too much for him to bear.
“My lord, this is a dishonorable proposal,” your husband said, his voice trembling with indignation.
“No more dishonorable than your ambition,” Elijah retorted smoothly, his gaze unwavering.
Elijah turned to you then, his eyes searching yours. In that moment, you gave him a small nod, your love for him shining through, along with your silent plea for the freedom he had promised.
“You are a despicable man,” your husband spat, his voice filled with venom. “The king shall hear of this. I swear, I will see you both hanged.”
Elijah chuckled softly, a sound that sent a chill down your spine. Stepping closer, he grasped your husband’s face, forcing him to meet his eyes. “Do not make threats you cannot keep,” he murmured, his voice a deadly caress.
Your husband’s fury faltered as Elijah’s dark gaze bore into him, his expression shifting to confusion, then calm. His breathing slowed, his body slackening as if under a spell.
“You no longer have a wife,” Elijah said, his voice low and hypnotic. “Any trace of her in your mind is like dust on the wind. You shall never seek her again.”
Your husband’s voice turned hollow, devoid of emotion. “I no longer have a wife. I shall never seek her.”
“And when you return to court, you shall speak of her as if she has passed on. Do you understand?” Elijah continued.
“I shall act as though my wife is no more,” your husband repeated in that strange monotone.
Satisfied, Elijah released him, watching as he stumbled away from the garden in a dazed, trance-like state. The shadows of the manor swallowed him whole, leaving the two of you alone once more.
Elijah turned back to you, his hands gentle as they cupped your face, brushing away a tear that had escaped down your cheek.
“How?” you whispered, your voice trembling. “How did you do that? It was as if you cast a spell over him.”
A sly grin spread across Elijah’s lips as he leaned in to kiss you softly. “Let us not waste another moment dwelling on such things,” he murmured. “Come away with me, my love.”
“And where shall we go, my lord?” you asked playfully, your heart lighter than it had been in years.
He shrugged his broad shoulders, his eyes sparkling with promise. “The world is ours, my sweet. Where shall we begin?”
Anonymous request: Hi!! Can you do Elijah loves Y/n Pierce but Katherine is jealous so she turns her you can choose the ending
Warnings: Emotional Trauma, Violence, Transformation,Manipulation and Jealousy, Abduction themes, and Substance use
Elijah had always been by your side. His unwavering loyalty, his gentle affection, and his fierce protectiveness were constants in your life, and over time, his presence had become as vital as the air you breathed. You saw the way he looked at you, with a softness that was rare for someone who’d endured centuries of heartbreak. The unspoken connection between you was unmistakable, and everyone around you could sense it, including your sister
Katherine’s obsession with Elijah had never wavered; she was possessive and manipulative, driven by jealousy whenever she saw the tender exchanges between you two. To her, Elijah had been the only constant, someone she believed should be hers alone. But now, his heart belonged to you, and Katherine’s envy had turned venomous.
One evening, you were alone in your room, feeling the soft evening breeze through the open window. A light knock on your door broke the silence, and you turned, expecting to see Elijah. But instead, Katherine stepped inside, her eyes dark with a mixture of rage and sorrow.
“Katherine? What are you doing here?” you asked, wary of her sudden appearance.
She smirked, her lips curling into a sinister smile. “Oh, don’t look so surprised. Did you really think you could steal Elijah from me? From someone he’s known for centuries?” Her voice dripped with bitterness.
“Katherine, this isn’t about you,” you replied, your voice calm but firm. “Elijah has chosen me because he sees something in me that he doesn’t see in you.”
That struck a nerve, and Katherine’s face twisted in anger. “Something in you?” she sneered. “You’re nothing special. Just another distraction that will eventually fade.”
Before you could respond, Katherine lunged forward, too quick for you to react. Her fingers dug into your shoulders, holding you in place as she whispered, “If I can’t have him, then neither can you.”
Panic surged through you as her fangs descended, and before you could scream, Katherine bit into your neck. Pain and darkness overtook you as the life was drained from your body.
When you awoke, disoriented and weak, the first face you saw was Elijah’s. His expression was a mixture of relief and profound sorrow as he held you close. His hand cupped your cheek, and his thumb gently traced your jawline, as if grounding himself in the reality that you were still there, still with him, but no longer human.
“Elijah…” you murmured, the taste of blood thick in your mouth. “What…what happened?”
His gaze softened, though his jaw was tense. “Katherine,” he said bitterly, anger flashing in his eyes. “She did this to you, out of jealousy and spite. She thought that by turning you, she’d keep me from loving you.” He shook his head, a small, sad smile forming on his lips. “She doesn’t understand that nothing could ever change the way I feel about you.”
You felt the weight of his words sink in as the reality of your transformation settled over you. You were no longer the person you had once been, but Elijah’s love remained constant, unwavering. You reached out, placing a hand over his heart, feeling its steady beat beneath your palm.
“Elijah…even like this? Even though I’m not who I was?” you asked, your voice breaking.
He took your hand, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles. “My love for you goes beyond what you are. You are still you. And I will stand by you, as I always have.”
In that moment, Katherine’s actions had done the opposite of what she’d intended. Instead of driving you apart, she had bound you to Elijah in a way that no one could break. The bond between you had been reforged, stronger and more enduring than ever.
As you struggled to come to terms with what your sister had done to you, a whirlwind of emotions surged through you, anger, confusion, sadness. The weight of what you had lost was crushing, but even in the turmoil, a part of you clung to the one person who had been your anchor: Elijah. You knew he’d find a way to help you through this, to make sense of your new reality. All you wanted was to see him, to feel his comforting presence.
But Katherine had other plans.
You barely had time to gather your strength when Katherine stormed back into the room, her face pale and frantic. “We need to go. Now,” she snapped, grabbing your wrist with an iron grip. You could see fear lurking in her eyes, something rare and unsettling.
“What are you talking about?” you asked, yanking your arm free. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
Katherine’s expression hardened, and her lips twisted into a scowl. “You don’t get it, do you? Klaus is looking for me. If he finds out I’m here, he’ll kill us both. I can’t let that happen.”
“Klaus?” you repeated, the name resonating with a chill. You had heard stories about him, enough to know he was no ordinary vampire. He was one of the Original vampires, with a reputation for ruthlessness and cruelty. Yet, in that moment, none of it mattered. “Fine. Run if you want, Katherine. But I need to stay. I need to talk to Elijah.”
“No,” she hissed, her eyes blazing with anger and a hint of desperation. “You’re coming with me, whether you like it or not. I won’t let you go back to him. You’re my sister. If Klaus finds me, I need someone he cares about as leverage.”
“You can’t use me like that!” you shouted, fury building inside you. “Elijah loves me! You’re just doing this out of jealousy and spite. You had no right to turn me, and you have no right to keep me from him!”
Katherine’s face darkened, her voice lowering to a dangerous whisper. “I did what I had to do. Your my sister, and I’m not about to let you mess everything up by running back to Elijah.”
Despite your protests, Katherine was relentless. With a vice-like grip on your wrist, she dragged you out of the room, barely giving you time to process what was happening. The world outside was a blur as she sped through dark alleys and hidden paths, putting as much distance as she could between herself and the danger she feared was closing in.
Hours passed, and the further you traveled, the heavier your heart became. You tried to hold onto the memory of Elijah’s face, the feel of his hands holding you, but it was like clutching at smoke. You ached with every step that took you farther from him, a longing building inside you that felt as insatiable as your new hunger.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Katherine slowed down and led you into an abandoned cabin, hidden deep within the woods. She shut the door and turned to you, looking worn but determined.
“We’ll be safe here for now,” she said coldly.
“Safe?” you echoed, your voice trembling with a mixture of grief and rage. “You call this safe? You’ve taken everything from me, Katherine. My humanity, my life, and now…Elijah.”
Katherine rolled her eyes, seemingly unmoved by your pain. “You don’t understand what it’s like to live with someone as relentless as Klaus chasing you. He will kill anyone who gets in his way.”
“You’ve dragged me into your mess,” you shot back, shaking with fury. “You didn’t give me a choice.”
“Oh, but you did have a choice,” Katherine sneered, her tone dripping with bitterness. “You chose to come between me and Elijah. This is the consequence.”
Your heart felt heavy, the pain of her words digging deep. Elijah had been your sanctuary, your only solace in this strange, eternal life you were now bound to, and yet you couldn’t even say goodbye. You sank into a chair, the exhaustion and grief overwhelming you.
As the days passed, you found yourself trapped in a cycle of anger and sorrow. You would close your eyes and imagine the life you could’ve had with Elijah, Katherine did her best to keep you hidden from the outside world, making sure you had no contact with anyone who could trace you back to Elijah or the life you once knew. She monitored your every move, her paranoia growing each day, and the constant tension gnawed at you. The one thing keeping you going was the hope that, somehow, Elijah would find you. You knew him,his devotion, his loyalty. He wouldn’t stop looking for you. Not until he held you in his arms again.
But even that hope was tempered with fear. What if he couldn’t find you? What if Klaus’s relentless pursuit of Katherine meant you’d be condemned to an eternity of running, of hiding, of never feeling Elijah’s touch again?
One night, as you sat alone in the dark, you whispered to the empty room, hoping somehow your words would reach him. “Elijah… if you can hear me, please… find me. I need you.”
The silence was your only response, but in the depths of your despair, you clung to that fragile hope. Because if Elijah had taught you anything, it was that love, true love, transcends everything, even the darkness of eternity.
Years passed, but for Elijah Mikaelson, the pain of losing you remained as fresh as the day you vanished. The memories of that final moment he held you haunted him, lingering in his mind like shadows that refused to fade. He had searched tirelessly, crossing continents, following every rumor, every whisper that hinted at where Katherine might have taken you. Yet every lead seemed to vanish like smoke, leaving him empty-handed and brokenhearted time and time again.
It was unlike Elijah to lose hope. He had always been a man of resilience and patience, known for his calm, measured strength. But the years without you had worn him down, leaving him a ghost of the man he once was. His usually immaculate suits were now rumpled, his eyes hollowed and dark from sleepless nights. The legendary nobleman of the Mikaelsons had become a hollow vessel, haunted by memories he couldn’t escape.
On this particular night, Elijah sat alone in a dimly lit room, a glass of aged bourbon clutched tightly in his hand. The room was quiet, save for the soft crackling of a nearby fire that bathed the space in a warm, flickering glow. Scattered across the table before him were photos he had painstakingly gathered over the years, memories of the fleeting, precious moments he had shared with you.
His fingers trembled as he picked up one of the pictures, a candid snapshot of you laughing, your eyes sparkling with joy as you looked at him. He could almost hear your laughter, feel the warmth of your hand in his, and for a brief second, he let himself imagine you were still by his side, that the empty space beside him hadn’t swallowed you up.
But reality crashed down once more, and a tear slipped down his face, trailing across his sharp features as he gazed at the image in his hand. “I should have protected you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “I should have kept you safe.”
He raised the glass to his lips, taking a long, desperate sip, hoping to drown out the ache in his chest. But the alcohol only dulled the edges of his grief, never fully erasing the hollowness that had settled in him. His family had tried to help him move on, but nothing seemed to fill the void you had left behind. Even Klaus, the brother who had rarely shown sympathy, had tried to pull him from the darkness more than once.
“Elijah, you can’t go on like this,” Klaus had said, his tone uncharacteristically gentle. “You’re my brother. You have a family who needs you. Drinking yourself into oblivion won’t bring her back.”
But Elijah couldn’t bring himself to listen. He couldn’t bear the thought of letting go, of moving on, as if doing so would mean he had truly lost you forever. How could he ever let go of the one person who had made him feel whole? How could he betray the love that had given him reason to believe in something beyond his centuries of blood and darkness?
He put the picture down and closed his eyes, resting his head in his hands as memories flooded his mind. He remembered how your face would light up when he entered the room, how you’d laugh at his dry humor, the way you’d trace patterns on his hand as if memorizing every detail of him. You had once told him he made you feel safe, that in his arms you felt like nothing could ever hurt you.
A fresh wave of guilt washed over him, and he choked back a sob. “I failed you,” he murmured, his voice breaking. “I should have been there…I should have saved you.”
Elijah had never allowed himself to cry openly. He’d been the steady one, the pillar that held his family together, the one who embodied strength and composure. But in the solitude of this room, with only memories to keep him company, he let the tears fall freely, each one carrying the weight of his love and regret.
He had tried everything to track you down, even going as far as to enlist the help of witches and seers. But every spell, every vision only led him to dead ends or painful reminders of what he had lost. He had poured centuries of knowledge and resources into his search, but it seemed as if Katherine had hidden you so well that not even he, Elijah Mikaelson, could find you. It was as if she had erased you from existence, leaving only a trail of heartache behind.
As he stared at the photos, he wondered if perhaps Katherine’s jealousy had driven her to keep you hidden out of sheer spite. She had always been possessive, manipulative, and cunning, willing to hurt anyone if it meant getting what she wanted. The thought that you were still out there, trapped in her cruel games, tore at him with an anguish he couldn’t bear.
In his darkest moments, he allowed himself to dream that you were somehow safe, living a life that brought you some semblance of happiness, even if it wasn’t with him. But the selfish part of him clung to the hope that he might one day hold you again, that he might press his lips to your forehead and promise you that he’d never let you go again.
Another tear fell, and he took a shaky breath, whispering your name like a prayer. “Y/n…wherever you are, please…remember me. Remember that I loved you.”
The clock struck midnight, and the silence in the room seemed to deepen, wrapping around him like a shroud. Elijah picked up one last photo, a cherished memory of the two of you, your hand in his, your smiles radiant with a love that had felt timeless. He traced your face with his thumb, his heart aching with a yearning that could never be soothed.
Though the years had passed, his love for you had only grown stronger, burning within him like an eternal flame. And as he sat alone, the embers of that love flickering against the shadows, he made a silent vow. He would continue his search, he would endure, no matter how many years or lifetimes it took. He would find you, and when he did, he would hold you close and let you know that his heart had never wavered, not for a single moment.
For Elijah Mikaelson, there was no true peace, no real solace, until he was with you again.
Years had passed since Katherine had vanished, taking you with her, and Elijah’s heart had never known peace since that day. The memories of your laughter, your touch, and the warmth of your presence were all that sustained him. He had dedicated himself entirely to searching for you, even as his family urged him to let go and move forward. But how could he move on when the only person who had ever truly touched his soul had been ripped away from him?
In his darker moments, when loneliness and grief twisted into something sharper, Elijah couldn’t shake a rising resentment toward his brother Klaus. It was Klaus’s relentless pursuit of Katherine that had driven her to such desperate measures. If he had just left her alone, if he hadn’t been so consumed by his own vendetta, Katherine might never have felt the need to run. You might still be here, by his side, instead of vanishing into the night.
One evening, as the Mikaelson family gathered in their grand home, Elijah sat in silence, his fingers wrapped around a glass of whiskey. The fire crackled nearby, its warmth doing little to ease the chill in his heart. Across the room, Klaus lounged with a casual, almost careless posture, a smug smile playing on his lips as he recounted his latest efforts to track down Katherine.
“I can feel it, brother. I’m closer than ever to finally catching that treacherous woman,” Klaus said, his voice laced with dark satisfaction. “She can’t hide from me forever.”
Elijah’s grip on his glass tightened, his jaw clenched as his frustration boiled over. The sound of Klaus’s words stirred a rage within him that he could no longer contain. He rose from his seat, crossing the room in a heartbeat to stand before his brother, his expression hard and unyielding.
“This obsession of yours with Katherine…can you not see the destruction it has caused?” Elijah’s voice was low, barely concealing the fury that simmered beneath the surface. “You were so consumed by your vendetta that you forced her hand. You drove her to take Y/n, to drag her away into hiding like a pawn in your twisted game.”
Klaus raised an eyebrow, clearly taken aback by the outburst, but he smirked, unbothered. “Oh, don’t be so melodramatic, Elijah. Katherine brought this upon herself with her betrayals. I’m merely giving her what she deserves.”
“Giving her what she deserves?” Elijah echoed, his voice growing louder. “In your pursuit of revenge, you’ve torn apart everything I cared about. Because of you, Katherine fled, taking the one person I’ve ever truly loved with her. All because you couldn’t let go of your pride and anger.”
Klaus’s face darkened, his eyes narrowing as he leaned forward, his voice laced with defiance. “You speak as if I intended for any of this to happen, Elijah. Katherine made her choice. Don’t place your sorrow at my feet.”
Elijah’s rage only intensified at Klaus’s indifference. His usually calm demeanor cracked, revealing the depth of his grief and anguish. “How dare you dismiss my pain so carelessly,” he hissed. “If it hadn’t been for you, Y/n would still be here. I would still have her by my side. Do you understand that, Niklaus?”
Klaus’s gaze softened momentarily, a hint of regret flickering in his eyes, though he quickly masked it with his usual arrogance. “And what would you have me do, brother? Let Katherine roam free after everything she’s done to us? The lies, the betrayals?”
“This isn’t about Katherine!” Elijah shouted, his voice echoing through the room. “This is about Y/n. Because of your vendetta, I lost her! She was taken from me because of you. You knew how much she meant to me, and still, you couldn’t stop yourself from going after Katherine, no matter the cost.”
The room fell silent, tension thickening the air as Elijah’s words hung heavily. For a brief moment, Klaus appeared genuinely affected, a shadow of remorse crossing his features. But, as always, his pride wouldn’t allow him to admit fault. He folded his arms, his jaw set in defiance as he regarded Elijah with a guarded expression.
“Perhaps you’re right,” Klaus murmured, barely audible. “But what’s done is done, Elijah. Blaming me won’t bring her back. Perhaps you should look forward instead of living in the past.”
Elijah’s fists clenched, every fiber of his being resisting the urge to lash out. He had loved Klaus through centuries of torment, betrayal, and heartbreak, but this, the loss of you, was a wound that no amount of loyalty could heal.
“Living in the past?” Elijah whispered, his tone filled with a bitter sadness. “She was my future, Niklaus. She was my hope, my peace, the one light in all the darkness. And now, because of your stubborn pride, I am condemned to an eternity without her.”
Klaus looked away, unable to meet Elijah’s gaze, his own guilt clawing at him. He had seen his brother broken before, but never like this. Elijah’s grief was raw, palpable, and for once, Klaus was left without his usual retorts or dismissive words. He could feel the weight of his brother’s pain, the depths of what his obsession had cost him, but he was too proud, too set in his ways to admit his part in it.
The silence stretched on, heavy and unforgiving, until finally, Elijah turned his back on Klaus, his shoulders sagging under the weight of his loss. He couldn’t bear to look at his brother, not when every glance reminded him of what had been stolen from him.
Leaving the room, Elijah returned to the sanctuary of his own quarters, where he kept every memento, every piece of your memory he could hold onto. His hand trembled as he reached for a small locket that held your picture, the only physical reminder he had of you. He clutched it tightly, pressing it to his chest as he leaned against the wall, his breathing shallow and ragged.
In the solitude of his room, he let the tears fall once more, a silent testament to the agony that consumed him. The man who had once been the noble, unbreakable Elijah Mikaelson had been reduced to a grieving shadow, a man who existed solely on the fragments of the love he had lost.
As he gazed down at the picture of you, a whisper escaped his lips, filled with longing and desperation. “Y/n…my love. Wherever you are…please…remember me. Know that I will never give up. I will find you.”
But even as he spoke the words, a part of him feared the truth: that he might never see you again. That his love, his hope, might remain forever lost in the shadows of his brother’s relentless vendetta.
The night was quiet after the heated argument between Elijah and Klaus, but the silence that settled afterward was thick with unspoken regret and lingering tension. Klaus paced the halls of the Mikaelson mansion, his usually confident footsteps hesitant, weighed down by an unfamiliar feeling of guilt. Elijah’s words echoed in his mind, dredging up emotions he had long buried. Klaus had always been relentless, always pursued his own goals without a second thought for how they affected those around him, but tonight, he had glimpsed the depth of his brother’s suffering, and it left a bitterness he couldn’t shake.
For years, Klaus had seen Elijah as unwavering, a rock in the tumultuous sea that was their family’s existence. Yet now, he had seen something in Elijah’s eyes that haunted him: a vulnerability, a sense of brokenness that even centuries of loyalty couldn’t mask. Elijah was suffering, and Klaus knew that he was partly to blame. He could brush off the accusations, dismiss them as the result of Elijah’s grief, but deep down, he knew there was truth in his brother’s pain-filled words.
Finally, Klaus couldn’t ignore it any longer. He made his way to Elijah’s room, where he found his brother standing by the window, gazing out into the night. Elijah’s shoulders were tense, and he held a small locket tightly in his hand, his face etched with sorrow that he couldn’t hide. Klaus felt an unfamiliar pang of guilt twist in his chest as he approached, hesitant for the first time in his life.
“Elijah,” he said softly, his voice lacking its usual arrogance. “We need to talk.”
Elijah didn’t turn around, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon. “There’s nothing left to say, Niklaus,” he replied coldly, his voice a sharp contrast to the brokenness in his eyes. “You’ve said your piece. And I’ve made it clear what your vendetta has cost me.”
Klaus exhaled, fighting the urge to retreat back into his usual defensiveness. This time, however, he pushed past his pride, his tone softening. “I know you blame me, and perhaps… perhaps you have every right to. But believe it or not, Elijah, I never intended for you to lose her. Y/n was innocent in all of this. My quarrel was with Katherine alone.”
Elijah’s jaw tightened, his grip on the locket white-knuckled as he fought to control his emotions. “Your intentions mean nothing, Niklaus. All that matters is that she is gone, lost to me because of you. Do you understand that? Because of your need to settle old scores, I have been condemned to a life without her.”
Klaus took a deep breath, forcing himself to face the pain in Elijah’s voice, to truly feel the weight of what he had done. He knew he had made mistakes, that his obsession with revenge had blinded him to the suffering it caused, even for those he loved. He had hurt his brother in a way he couldn’t easily mend, but for once, he felt the need to try.
“Then let me make it right,” Klaus said, his voice filled with a rare sincerity. “I may not be able to erase what I’ve done, but I can help you find her. I can help you bring her back. Y/n was never part of my vendetta. She was innocent in all of this, and if helping you find her can give you even a fraction of the peace you seek…then I’ll do it.”
Elijah finally turned to face Klaus, his eyes filled with a mixture of disbelief and cautious hope. He studied his brother’s face, searching for any sign of insincerity, but all he found was a raw, unexpected honesty. Klaus was being genuine, and the realization stirred something within him, a glimmer of hope he hadn’t felt in years.
“You would…help me?” Elijah asked, his voice barely above a whisper, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing.
“Yes, brother,” Klaus replied, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I would. I may have been the cause of your grief, but I refuse to be the reason you never find happiness again. I’ll do whatever it takes to help you find her, even if it means setting aside my own pursuits.”
For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Elijah’s hardened expression softened. He looked at Klaus, seeing not the ruthless hybrid who had so often brought destruction, but his brother, the same brother who, beneath all the darkness, was capable of loyalty and love. The thought of trusting Klaus again, of relying on him, felt risky, yet Elijah couldn’t ignore the sincerity in Klaus’s offer. It was a chance, however slim, to be reunited with the one person who had ever truly brought him peace.
“Klaus,” Elijah began, his voice unsteady, “if you are truly willing to help me…then I will accept it. But understand this: I will not stop until I find her. No matter what it takes, no matter how long it takes…I will bring Y/n back.”
Klaus nodded, meeting Elijah’s gaze with a steely resolve. “Then we will find her together, brother. I swear it.”
Over the next few weeks, Klaus threw himself into the search for you with a relentless energy that surprised even Elijah. He tapped into his vast network of allies, sending messages to every corner of the supernatural world, demanding information about Katherine’s whereabouts. Elijah worked alongside him, his focus sharp, his mind set only on finding you. For the first time in years, he felt a spark of purpose, a glimmer of hope that he might soon see your face again.
They traveled from town to town, chasing rumors and fragments of clues, following any lead that might bring them closer to you. Though the journey was grueling, Elijah felt a strange sense of solace in having Klaus by his side. They fought together, argued, and pushed each other to the limits, but their shared goal created an unspoken bond between them, a bond that even centuries of rivalry and betrayal couldn’t break.
One night, after a particularly exhausting search that had once again led to a dead end, Elijah and Klaus found themselves sitting by a campfire, the silence between them heavy with unspoken thoughts. Klaus glanced at his brother, his usual confidence tempered by a rare vulnerability.
“You know, Elijah,” he murmured, breaking the quiet, “I may not understand the kind of love you had with Y/n. But seeing what it has done to you…how deeply it has scarred you…I realize now that it must have been something truly remarkable.”
Elijah looked over at Klaus, surprised by the softness in his brother’s voice. “It was,” he replied quietly. “She was the only light I ever found in this life. She made me feel…human. Whole. And now, every day without her is a reminder of what I’ve lost.”
Klaus nodded, his gaze distant as he stared into the flames. For the first time, he understood the depth of Elijah’s sorrow, the intensity of a love he himself had rarely known. Though Klaus’s heart had been hardened by centuries of betrayal and survival, he couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of regret for the pain he had unknowingly caused his brother.
“I’m sorry, Elijah,” Klaus said softly, his voice carrying a weight he rarely allowed himself to show. “For everything. I know it doesn’t change what happened, but…for what it’s worth, I truly am sorry.”
Elijah looked at Klaus, the sincerity in his words piercing through the wall of resentment he had built. He reached over, placing a hand on Klaus’s shoulder, a silent acknowledgment of the brotherhood they shared despite everything.
“Thank you, Niklaus,” he replied, his voice barely a whisper. “For once…that means more than you know.”
They sat in silence, watching the fire crackle and fade as the night wore on. In that moment, they were not the infamous Mikaelson brothers, feared throughout the supernatural world. They were simply two brothers, bound by blood and love, searching for the one person who could finally bring Elijah peace.
As dawn approached, they rose, their resolve stronger than ever. Together, they would find you, no matter what it took. Elijah’s heart ached with the thought of seeing you again, of holding you close and whispering all the words he had never had the chance to say. And with Klaus by his side, he finally dared to believe that the reunion he had longed for was within reach.
For the first time in years, hope burned bright in his heart, a beacon that guided him forward through the darkness, leading him back to you.
It was a cold, fog-covered evening in a small village where Elijah had taken refuge, hiding from the chaos that seemed to follow the Mikaelson family wherever they went. He was in the middle of one of his routine patrols along the outskirts of town when he heard the muffled screams of a woman. Darting through the trees, Elijah arrived just in time to see her surrounded by a group of vampires, their fangs gleaming in the dim light.
Without hesitation, he sprang into action, tearing through her attackers with swift, calculated movements, his expression cold and detached. Within moments, the assailants lay lifeless, and the woman looked up at Elijah with wide, grateful eyes, a flicker of admiration immediately igniting in her gaze. She was young, with auburn hair that fell in gentle waves around her shoulders and a softness in her features that reminded him, painfully, of someone he had lost long ago.
“Are you alright?” Elijah asked, his voice as calm and collected as ever, though his gaze was distant, detached.
“Yes, thank you,” she replied, her voice trembling with both fear and gratitude. “I—I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t come.”
Elijah nodded curtly, offering her his hand to help her stand. She took it, and as their eyes met, a spark of interest flared in her expression. The woman introduced herself as Isabella, a newcomer to the village who had fled from a distant land seeking refuge. She looked up at him with admiration, her gaze lingering perhaps a bit too long, but Elijah’s eyes held only a polite indifference.
Over the next few weeks, Isabella made a habit of “coincidentally” running into Elijah around town, finding excuses to cross his path and to express her gratitude for saving her. She would bring him small gifts,a loaf of bread, a warm coat, even a handmade trinket, all under the guise of simple friendliness. But her true intentions were clear, even if unspoken.
Every time they met, she tried to make him smile, laughing at his dry remarks and attempting to peel back the layers of his stoic exterior. Isabella was drawn to Elijah’s calm, refined nature, his quiet strength, and the noble way he carried himself. She believed that she could win his heart, that perhaps she was the one who could fill whatever emptiness seemed to linger in his gaze.
One evening, she took her boldest step yet, inviting Elijah to join her for a quiet dinner at a quaint little cottage on the edge of town. Reluctantly, Elijah agreed, perhaps out of courtesy, or perhaps simply to avoid another evening of solitude. The dinner was warm and inviting, a stark contrast to the icy loneliness that had become his constant companion. But as Isabella shared stories of her past, laughing softly as she leaned toward him, Elijah’s mind drifted, the sight of her smile blurred by the memories of another face, yours.
As the evening drew to a close, Isabella moved closer, her eyes filled with unspoken longing. She brushed her hand against his, her touch lingering as she whispered, “You don’t have to be alone, Elijah. I know you’ve been hurt…but maybe I can be the one to bring you happiness again.”
Elijah’s gaze sharpened, and he gently pulled his hand away, his expression guarded. “Isabella,” he began, his voice steady but laced with a sadness that ran deep, “I’m grateful for your kindness, truly. But there is something you must understand.”
She looked at him, hope flickering in her eyes despite the hesitation in his voice. “What is it, Elijah?”
He exhaled slowly, searching for the right words, though he knew the truth he was about to share would likely wound her. “I don’t believe in love, not anymore,” he said, his tone somber, each word weighted with years of heartache. “Once, I knew what it was like to love…to care for someone so deeply that they became a part of me, a piece of my soul. But she was taken from me, ripped away before I could even say goodbye.”
Isabella’s face fell, but she forced a small, encouraging smile, reaching out as if to touch his hand again. “Elijah, sometimes the heart can heal. Maybe, in time, you could feel that way again…maybe with me?”
Elijah shook his head, his gaze distant as he continued, “No, Isabella. I appreciate what you’re offering, but it isn’t possible. I loved her more than words can express. She was my first love and my last, and there is no one or nothing, that could ever replace her.”
He looked away, his eyes clouded with memories, his mind replaying every precious moment he’d shared with you,the quiet conversations, the way your laughter filled the air, the warmth of your presence that had brought him a peace he’d never known before. You had been his light, his heart, his reason for fighting through the endless centuries. And though he had no idea where you were, or if he’d ever see you again, he knew that his love for you would never fade.
“I am waiting for her,” Elijah continued, his voice barely a whisper, as though speaking more to himself than to Isabella. “Wherever she may be, no matter how many years may pass…I will wait for her until the end of time.”
A tear slipped down Isabella’s cheek, and she quickly wiped it away, her voice choked as she replied, “But Elijah…what if she never returns? What if…what if you’re left waiting forever?”
Elijah looked down, the pain in his eyes deepening, but his resolve remained unshaken. “Then I will wait forever,” he said simply. “She was my love, my everything. And I would rather wait an eternity for even the faintest chance of her return than betray her memory by moving on.”
He turned to face Isabella, his expression softening with genuine regret. “I’m sorry, Isabella. You deserve someone who can give you their heart fully, without reservation. But mine…my heart belongs to her, and to her alone.”
Isabella’s shoulders sagged as the realization settled in, her hope fading into acceptance. She had tried, had given everything to capture his attention, but she saw now that his love was as immovable as stone, bound to a woman who haunted his every thought. With a bittersweet smile, she nodded, her voice barely a whisper as she replied, “Then I hope…wherever she is…that she knows how lucky she is to be loved by you.”
Elijah’s gaze softened, and he inclined his head in gratitude, though his thoughts were already drifting to the memories of you, the love he had lost and the endless ache that had become his constant companion. He left the cottage that night, the soft sound of Isabella’s weeping fading behind him as he stepped into the darkness, his heart as steadfast as ever in its silent vow to wait for you.
As he walked back through the quiet village streets, Elijah’s mind replayed every precious moment he had shared with you. He remembered the way you had smiled at him, the laughter that had once brightened his days, the warmth of your touch that had brought him a peace he had never known before. Every memory was a shard of both pain and comfort, a reminder of the love he had lost yet refused to let go.
Underneath the starlit sky, Elijah paused, looking up as if searching for a sign, something to tell him that you were out there somewhere, thinking of him too. His voice was barely a whisper as he murmured, “Wherever you are, my love…know that I am waiting. Always.”
And with that vow, he continued into the night, his heart forever bound to a love that time could neither tarnish nor erase.
The Mikaelson mansion was thick with tension as Klaus and Elijah conferred quietly in a corner, their voices urgent as they spoke to the witch who had just revealed your location. The witch, an enigmatic woman with deep-set, piercing eyes, had spent days poring over ancient spells and maps to track Katherine’s whereabouts. Now, she finally lifted her gaze, a small, knowing smile playing at her lips.
“They’re staying in an abandoned villa near the coast,” she said. “It’s protected by several layers of magic, but I can weaken the enchantments long enough for you to break through.”
Klaus’s eyes gleamed with a fierce determination, his jaw set as he thanked the witch with an uncharacteristic sincerity. He turned to Elijah, a rare softness in his expression. “Are you ready for this, brother?” he asked, though he already knew the answer. Elijah’s entire being radiated with urgency, a mixture of desperation and hope lighting his usually stoic face.
Elijah nodded firmly. “I’ve waited long enough, Klaus. I won’t waste another moment.”
As they prepared to leave, footsteps echoed through the corridor, and Rebekah appeared, her gaze sharp and resolute. She’d overheard enough of their conversation to understand what was happening, and the determination in her eyes was unmistakable.
“I’m coming with you,” Rebekah declared, crossing her arms defiantly. “I won’t let you two have all the fun without me. Y/n deserves to know her family has been fighting for her. Besides, she’s like a sister to me, and I want to be there when we finally bring her back.”
Klaus raised an eyebrow, half-amused, half-exasperated. “Oh, little sister, always so eager to throw yourself into danger,” he teased, though there was a note of pride in his voice. “But I suppose it wouldn’t feel right without you by our side.”
Elijah nodded, a small smile of gratitude tugging at his lips. “Thank you, Rebekah,” he said softly. “She will need all of us when we find her.”
With the plan set, the three siblings moved swiftly through the mansion, gathering what they needed for the journey ahead. They were a formidable trio, each filled with a fierce resolve. Elijah’s heart raced with a mix of anticipation and trepidation. He couldn’t help but imagine the moment he’d see you again, the chance to hold you close and finally tell you all the words he had kept locked away for so long.
The journey to the villa was tense and silent, each sibling lost in their own thoughts. Klaus kept his gaze forward, his expression dark with the promise of retribution. His pursuit of Katherine had driven them all to the brink, but he was now equally determined to see you safely returned to their family. For once, Klaus felt the weight of his actions, the realization that his decisions had torn his family apart. He would make it right, no matter what.
Rebekah’s thoughts were a whirlwind of emotions. She had missed you dearly, missed the warmth and kindness you had brought into their lives. You had been more than just a friend; you had been family. She couldn’t wait to see you again, to wrap her arms around you and make sure you knew how much you meant to her. The thought filled her with a fierce protectiveness, and she was ready to face anything, or anyone, that stood in her way.
As they neared the villa, the witch’s spell slowly began to fade, revealing the crumbling grandeur of the abandoned estate. Ivy crawled up the stone walls, and the windows were dark, casting an eerie, silent shadow over the grounds. Klaus, Elijah, and Rebekah exchanged a look, each silently acknowledging the dangers that awaited within.
Klaus took the lead, his steps quiet but purposeful as they approached the front entrance. With a glance over his shoulder, he motioned for Elijah and Rebekah to follow. “Let’s get her back,” he whispered, a fierce resolve in his voice.
Rebekah placed a reassuring hand on Elijah’s shoulder. “We’ll bring her home, Elijah,” she murmured. “This time, we won’t let her slip away.”
Elijah’s heart swelled with gratitude. With his siblings beside him, he felt stronger, more prepared to face whatever lay ahead. Together, they moved forward, prepared to confront Katherine, retrieve you, and restore the family that had once been torn apart.
As the Mikaelsons arrived at the villa, an eerie silence settled over the scene. The once-grand estate was now abandoned, with vines crawling up the stone walls and leaves scattered across the floor. It was clear that no one had set foot here in some time. Elijah’s heart sank as he took in the emptiness, the lack of any sign of you or Katherine. Every step he took seemed heavier than the last, each empty room a bitter reminder of how close he’d come, only to be met with more questions.
Rebekah’s gaze swept over the deserted hallways, her face a mixture of frustration and disappointment. “They were here,” she murmured, her voice laced with frustration. “This place reeks of Katherine’s handiwork. But where could they have gone?”
Klaus clenched his fists, the familiar rage bubbling within him as he paced the room. “That wretched woman won’t escape me forever,” he growled. “But where is Y/n? Why would she leave without a trace?”
Just then, the sound of footsteps shuffling down the hallway made them turn. An old woman, hunched over and wrapped in a faded shawl, shuffled toward them with a wary look. Her eyes, though clouded with age, held a glimmer of recognition when she saw the intruders in the villa.
“Who are you?” she asked, her voice raspy but firm. “This place has been empty for some time now. No one comes here anymore.”
Elijah stepped forward, his voice gentle but urgent. “Please, we’re looking for two women who were staying here. One of them…one of them is my…she’s family. I need to know what happened to her.”
The old woman’s gaze softened, and she seemed to think back, her eyes distant as memories stirred. “Ah…yes, I remember them,” she said slowly. “Two young women. They stayed here a while. The dark-haired one, she was fierce, had a fire in her eyes. And the other…so sweet, so gentle. I used to see her walking the gardens in the mornings, looking out to the sea like she was waiting for something…or someone.”
Elijah’s chest tightened as the old woman’s words conjured the image of you, standing by the cliffs, gazing out with a longing he knew all too well. His hands clenched at his sides, a desperate hope filling his heart. “Please, tell me, where are they now? Where is she?”
The woman’s face fell, and she shook her head slowly, her eyes filled with a mixture of sympathy and sadness. “She left…nearly two years ago. She just disappeared one night, without a word to anyone. I saw her leave, her face filled with such sorrow…almost as if she was saying goodbye to the world. She didn’t take anything with her, just walked off into the night.”
Elijah felt the ground shift beneath him, his entire body going cold as the weight of her words settled over him. “She…left?” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “And no one has seen her…since?”
The old woman nodded, her gaze softening as she looked at the anguish on Elijah’s face. “No one knows where she went, or why. She left the other woman here, the one with the fierce spirit. I heard them arguing the night before…a heated exchange, as though they were parting ways. But after that, she was just…gone.”
Rebekah reached out, her hand resting gently on Elijah’s arm, her face filled with concern. “Elijah,” she murmured softly, seeing the devastation etched in his expression. “We’ll find her. We won’t stop until we do.”
But Elijah hardly seemed to hear her. His mind was racing, replaying the old woman’s words over and over. He could picture you in his mind, your silhouette disappearing into the night, leaving behind only questions and heartache. Why had you left? Had you believed he wouldn’t come for you? Or had Katherine convinced you of something more sinister?
Klaus, standing nearby, clenched his jaw, his own frustration and anger barely restrained. He turned to the old woman, his voice sharp and demanding. “And the other woman, the one with the fire in her eyes. Katherine. Where is she?”
The woman hesitated, a flicker of fear passing over her features as she took in Klaus’s intensity. “She stayed a while longer…but then she left too. I saw her leave in a hurry one evening, as if she were being chased. I don’t know where she went. No one has seen her either since.”
Klaus cursed under his breath, his fists clenching at his sides. “Typical Katherine, running like the coward she is,” he muttered. “But she’s left us a trail. And I’ll be damned if I let her slip through my grasp again.”
Elijah, however, was far from Klaus’s fury. His focus remained solely on you, the emptiness he felt growing with every passing moment. He had come all this way, had held onto hope for so long, only to find that he was still no closer to holding you in his arms. The ache in his chest was almost unbearable, and he felt a single tear slip down his cheek as he stared into the empty villa.
Rebekah squeezed his shoulder gently, her eyes filled with empathy. “We’ll find her, Elijah. She’s out there somewhere, and she’s waiting for you. I can feel it.”
Elijah looked at his sister, her words a faint comfort. “I just…don’t understand why she left,” he murmured. “Why would she disappear without a trace? What could possibly keep her away…after all this time?”
The old woman sighed, her voice gentle as she spoke. “Sometimes…people leave because they feel they must. She carried a heavy sorrow, that one. Maybe she thought it was best to bear it alone.”
Elijah nodded slowly, though her words only deepened his heartbreak. He had spent so long imagining the moment he would finally find you, the moment he would make up for the years you’d been apart. But now…now you were lost once more, a ghost slipping further and further from his grasp.
Klaus placed a hand on Elijah’s shoulder, a rare look of understanding in his eyes. “Don’t lose hope, brother,” he said firmly. “This isn’t the end. We’ve come too far to turn back now. We’ll find her, no matter where she is.”
Rebekah nodded, her gaze steely with determination. “We’ll scour every corner of this world if we have to, Elijah. She’s family, and we don’t abandon family.”
With a final nod to the old woman, the Mikaelsons turned and left the empty villa, their resolve stronger than ever. Elijah’s heart was heavy, but somewhere deep within, a glimmer of hope remained. He knew, with every fiber of his being, that he would find you. And when he did, he would never let you go again.
As they made their way down the path, the Mikaelsons’ frustration was palpable. Every step through the abandoned villa felt like a mockery, as though the walls themselves held secrets that refused to be revealed. They were so close yet still so far, and each moment that passed without answers weighed heavily on them. Elijah was silent, his jaw clenched, the anguish in his eyes replaced by an unyielding determination. He had sworn to bring you back, and he would stop at nothing to make that promise a reality.
Suddenly, Klaus paused mid-stride, his gaze narrowing as a figure emerged from the shadows just beyond the villa. As the figure stepped into the faint moonlight, Rebekah gasped, recognizing the familiar dark hair and piercing gaze of none other than Katherine Pierce. Katherine looked equally startled to see them, but her expression quickly shifted to a smirk as she held her ground.
“Katherine,” Elijah’s voice was low and dangerous as he crossed the distance between them in an instant. Before Katherine could react, he had her pinned against the cold stone wall, his hand around her throat, eyes blazing with anger. “Tell me where she is,” he demanded, his voice a deadly whisper. “What did you do to Y/n?”
Katherine’s smirk faltered as she registered the pure rage in Elijah’s expression, the fury in his eyes unlike anything she’d ever seen before. She lifted her chin defiantly, her own eyes flashing with defiance. “Are you insane?” she retorted, her voice dripping with scorn. “You think I’d hurt my own sister? I’m not like your brother, Elijah. I actually care about my family.”
Klaus’s face darkened at her words, his jaw tightening as he took a menacing step toward her. “Watch your tongue, Katherine,” he warned, his voice like a low growl. “You’ve caused enough damage. You should choose your next words very carefully.”
Rebekah, however, was less concerned with Katherine’s insults and more focused on the one question burning in all their minds. “If you didn’t do anything to her,” Rebekah snapped, her voice sharp with accusation, “then where is she? Where did she go?”
Katherine’s face twisted with frustration, her own anger now bubbling to the surface. “I swear, I don’t know!” she shouted, her eyes darting between the three of them, her desperation evident. “She left without a word, without telling me, or anyone, anything! She didn’t even leave a letter explaining where she was going. One night, she was there, and the next, she was gone.”
Elijah’s grip tightened as he searched her face, his gaze hard and unrelenting. He was beyond patience, beyond the limits of reason. Every word she spoke felt like a cruel game, and he was done playing. The agony of losing you was too much, and he had neither the will nor the strength to entertain Katherine’s manipulations any longer.
“You expect me to believe you?” Elijah growled, his voice barely a whisper, filled with venom. He shook his head, his expression hardening. “You lie as easily as you breathe, Katherine. And I won’t stand here and listen to another of your pathetic excuses.”
Katherine’s eyes widened in fear as she saw the fury in Elijah’s face, realizing too late that he was beyond reasoning. Before she could plead her innocence further, he tightened his grip, and in one swift, merciless motion, snapped her neck.
Her body slumped against the wall, and Rebekah let out a heavy sigh, a mixture of exasperation and relief. “Well, that was satisfying,” she muttered, folding her arms across her chest as she looked down at Katherine’s limp form.
Klaus raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “I can’t say I’ll miss her presence,” he said, his voice laced with dark amusement. “But I have to admit, she’s not the type to let Y/n vanish without a fight. If she truly doesn’t know where Y/n went…then our search may be more complicated than we thought.”
Elijah released a shaky breath, his expression softening with a flicker of vulnerability as he stared into the distance. The emptiness Katherine had left behind seemed to mirror the hollow ache in his chest. He had acted out of desperation, but the truth remained elusive. You were still out there somewhere, alone and out of reach. The thought tore at him, leaving him feeling more helpless than ever.
Rebekah stepped closer, placing a comforting hand on his arm. “We’ll find her, Elijah,” she said quietly, her tone filled with a gentle reassurance. “She’s strong. She’s survived this long on her own, and we’re not going to let her down now. Wherever she is, she’s waiting for us.”
Elijah looked at his sister, his resolve hardening once more. He would not rest until he found you, until he held you in his arms and proved that he would never abandon you again.
As Klaus and Rebekah headed off into the village to search for any clues or witnesses who might have seen you leave, Elijah remained behind, the weight of the search pressing heavily on him. The encounter with Katherine had left his emotions frayed, raw and open in a way he hadn’t felt in centuries. Feeling defeated, he made his way to the nearest bar, seeking solace in the only thing that seemed to dull the ache of losing you, whiskey.
The bar was dimly lit, filled with the low murmur of conversations and the clinking of glasses. Elijah took a seat at the far end, ordering a drink with a heavy sigh. As he lifted the glass to his lips, memories of you washed over him, unbidden and relentless. He could see your smile, feel the warmth of your laughter, and hear the soft, melodic sound of your voice calling his name. Each memory was like a dagger, a bittersweet reminder of what he’d lost, and his chest tightened with the familiar, hollow ache.
He closed his eyes, allowing himself to be swept away in the moments he cherished most. He could see the two of you walking through the gardens together, your laughter echoing in the night air as he stole kisses from you beneath the moonlight. He remembered how you’d look at him, those sparkling eyes filled with a love so pure it made him believe he was worthy of redemption. But then, as always, the memories faded, leaving him with nothing but the sting of loss and regret.
The sound of footsteps approached, but he paid them no mind, too lost in his sorrow. Then, a voice broke through his reverie, a voice so familiar, so achingly beautiful, that it sent a shiver down his spine.
“Elijah?”
The single word was like a lightning bolt, jolting him back to the present. He opened his eyes, and there you were, standing just a few feet away, looking as if you’d stepped out of his memories and into reality. His heart pounded, his breath catching in his throat as he stared at you, hardly daring to believe what he was seeing.
You looked just as he remembered, though there was a sadness in your eyes, a weight that hadn’t been there before. But it was you, alive, here, within reach. His hand trembled as he set down his glass, his voice breaking as he whispered, “Is it…really you? Or is this just another cruel trick, another phantom conjured by my own desperation?”
You took a tentative step closer, your eyes filling with tears as you took in his face, the anguish written there. “It’s me, Elijah,” you said softly, your voice quivering with emotion. “I’m here.”
The reality of your words hit him like a tidal wave, and before he knew it, he was out of his seat, crossing the distance between you in a heartbeat. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into a fierce embrace as though he was afraid you might vanish if he let go. He buried his face in your hair, breathing in your scent, the tears he’d held back for so long finally breaking free.
“Y/n…” he whispered, his voice choked with emotion. “I’ve been looking for you…like a madman, for so long. I thought I’d lost you forever.” His hands tightened around you, his whole body trembling as he held you close. “Where have you been? Why did you leave without a word? I was…lost without you.”
You closed your eyes, feeling the warmth of his embrace, the comfort you’d longed for during every lonely night you’d spent away. You felt the tremble in his shoulders, the weight of his sorrow, and it broke your heart. “I’m so sorry, Elijah,” you whispered, your own tears slipping down your cheeks. “I…I thought it was the only way to keep you safe. To keep everyone safe.”
He pulled back slightly, his gaze intense as he searched your face, confusion mingling with the pain in his eyes. “Safe from what? From whom?” He brushed a tear from your cheek, his fingers lingering on your skin as though grounding himself in the reality of your presence. “You were never in danger from me. I would have protected you with my life.”
You looked down, struggling to find the words. “Katherine and I…we were always running, always hiding. She made me believe that if I stayed, I’d only bring trouble to those I cared about. I didn’t want to put you in danger, Elijah. So I…left. I thought it was the right thing to do, but…I was wrong. Every day I missed you, and every night, I wondered if I’d made the biggest mistake of my life.”
Elijah closed his eyes, pain flashing across his face as he took in your words. “You were never a burden, Y/n,” he said softly. “Not to me, not to Rebekah, or even to Klaus. We wanted to protect you, to keep you safe. But you left without a word, and every day since has been…a torment. I’ve spent years wondering where you were, if you were safe, if you were happy…if you even thought of me.”
You reached up, cupping his face gently as your thumb brushed away a stray tear from his cheek. “There wasn’t a single day that I didn’t think of you, Elijah,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “I love you. I always have. And leaving you…it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But I thought it was the only way.”
He leaned into your touch, his hand covering yours as he let himself feel the warmth of your skin. “You don’t have to run anymore,” he said, his voice filled with a quiet determination. “Whatever fears drove you away, whatever threats you thought you faced, we’ll face them together now. You’re not alone, Y/n. Not anymore.”
You nodded, a new sense of peace washing over you as you met his gaze. “I’m tired of running, Elijah. All I want is to be with you, to have the life we dreamed of. No more hiding, no more fear. Just…us.”
A faint, hopeful smile broke through his sadness as he held you, the years of pain and longing finally beginning to ease. “Then let’s go home,” he whispered, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. “Together.”
As he held you close, the pain of the past slowly faded, replaced by the warmth of reunion.
As Klaus and Rebekah wandered through the dimly lit streets, the frustration of their fruitless search weighed heavily on them. They had questioned locals, scoured every corner of the village, and yet found no new leads on your whereabouts. Rebekah sighed, glancing around with a mixture of determination and exhaustion.
“Do you think Elijah’s even left that bar?” she asked, a hint of worry in her voice. “The way he was looking tonight… I’ve never seen him so devastated.”
Klaus let out a quiet sigh, nodding. “I know, sister. Losing Y/n has taken more of a toll on him than he’d ever admit. He won’t give up on her, no matter how hopeless it may seem.”
With a shared look, they began making their way back, the thought of finding Elijah and easing his sorrow propelling them forward. But as they neared the bar, they both froze, stopping in their tracks as they caught sight of a familiar figure outside.
There, in the faint glow of the bar’s lantern light, stood Elijah. And in his arms, held with a tenderness that neither Klaus nor Rebekah had seen in centuries, was you. Elijah leaned forward, his hand gently cupping your face as his lips met yours in a soft, heartfelt kiss that seemed to dissolve all the years of pain and separation.
Klaus and Rebekah exchanged a look, their eyes wide with a mixture of shock and disbelief. Rebekah’s mouth dropped open slightly, and for a moment, neither sibling could move or speak, too stunned to process the sight before them. It was you, alive, safe, and back in Elijah’s arms.
Rebekah’s face broke into a grin as tears sparkled in her eyes. “It’s really her,” she whispered, her voice choked with emotion. “After all these years… Elijah finally has her back.”
Klaus couldn’t hide the surprised smile tugging at his own lips. He felt an unexpected warmth in his chest, a rare moment of joy that softened his typically stoic expression. For all the times he’d teased Elijah about his hopeless romanticism, he couldn’t deny the happiness it brought him to see his brother reunited with the love he had so desperately longed for.
As they watched, Elijah pulled back from the kiss, his forehead resting against yours as he whispered words, but the emotion on his face said everything. It was as if all the walls he’d built, all the pain he’d carried, had melted away in that single moment. He looked…whole, and Klaus could see that whatever darkness had haunted Elijah’s heart was now replaced by a light they hadn’t seen in him for far too long.
Rebekah wiped a stray tear from her cheek, her heart swelling with relief and joy. She reached over, giving Klaus a playful nudge. “Who would’ve thought, Nik? Our dear brother finally found his happy ending.”
Klaus chuckled, his usual cynicism softened by the scene before them. “Seems even Elijah has his miracles,” he murmured. “Though if you tell him I’m happy for him, I’ll deny it.”
They shared a quiet laugh before, in an unspoken agreement, they raised their hands and high-fived each other in celebration. It was a small, joyful gesture that seemed to release the tension that had followed them on this search. They both knew how much Elijah deserved this moment, and neither of them wanted to interrupt.
“Come on, let’s leave them to their reunion,” Rebekah whispered, glancing back at you and Elijah, still lost in each other’s embrace.
Klaus nodded, and with one last look at his brother, he wrapped an arm around Rebekah’s shoulders, leading her away. As they walked, Klaus glanced over at her, his smile turning mischievous. “Think Elijah will finally stop brooding now?”
Rebekah rolled her eyes, but her smile was warm. “Oh, knowing Elijah, he’ll find a new reason to brood soon enough. But for tonight, let him have his happiness.”
They walked off into the night, a renewed sense of peace settling over them. For once, there was no fighting, no turmoil, no chase. Just the quiet knowledge that, against all odds, their family was a little closer to being whole again. And for Klaus and Rebekah, that was more than enough.
Hey,could you do a fic with elijah where she is riding him, but her legs kinda give out, and he needs to take over with daddy and praise kink and maybe a little overstimulation,please 🙏🏻🥺🥺
Pop Quiz - Part Two
18+ ---- {Masterlist} {Tag-List}
Its been a few weeks since you last saw your professor, and you are feeling insecure about the nature of your relationship. You decide to make a grand gesture to capture his attention. Hopefully it doesn't blow up in your face...
♡♡ Thanks for the request anon! I finally got around to putting out pop quiz 2, I hope you all enjoy ♡♡
9.5k words (whoops) - Warnings: smut, angst, blowjobs, riding, Klaus being an absolute menace, dom!elijah, daddy!kink, teacher!kink, tinsy bit of roleplay... I even threw in a bit of ancient Greek history...
{Part One}
You were late for class again, and you knew Professor Mikaelson would not be happy about it. You rushed down the hallway and snuck into the classroom, slipping into your seat next to the window.
You could feel his eyes on you, and when you glanced up at the front of the room, his gaze was burning into yours. You shifted in your seat, heat flooding your cheeks, and not just from the way he was looking at you.
The last time you had seen him, he had fucked you so hard you couldn't walk straight for hours afterward.
That was two weeks ago, and you couldn't stop thinking about it.
You couldn't stop thinking about him.
The way his lips felt on yours, the way his cock stretched you, the way his fingers dug into your skin, his low moans echoing in your ears.
"Miss Y/L/N." His deep voice snapped you back to reality.
"Hmm?"
"Perhaps you could answer the question I just posed?"
Shit. You hadn't been listening at all.
"Can you repeat the question, sir?"
"Why don't I just repeat the lesson plan from today instead? Since you clearly weren't paying attention." He raised an eyebrow, and you could feel the heat of the room rising.
"I'm sorry, sir," you murmured.
"See me after class, Miss Y/L/N," He said, his tone leaving no room for argument.
You nodded, and tried to focus on the lecture, but it was impossible. Your mind kept drifting back to that night, to the way his hands felt on your body, the way his lips trailed across your skin.
The class seemed to drag on forever, but eventually the other students were packing up their belongings and heading out.
You sat there, staring down at your notes, which were mostly just doodles, waiting for the rest of the class to clear out.
You were trying not to look at him, but you could feel his eyes on you, the intensity of his gaze sending a shiver down your spine.
When the room was finally empty, he stood and locked the door, closing the blinds on the window.
"Sit," he commanded, gesturing to the desk.
You walked over to it and hopped up, your legs dangling off the side.
He moved between them, his hands sliding up your thighs, his eyes locking with yours.
"What am I going to do with you, Miss Y/L/N?"
"I don't know, sir."
"Well, let's start with you answering my question. What significant event marked the end of the Viking Age in England?"
"The Norman Conquest in 1066."
"Good girl." He praised, his thumbs rubbing circles on the insides of your thighs, his voice making you clench around nothing.
"Tell me, how many times have you touched yourself since the last time I had you spread out on my desk, moaning and begging me for more?" He asked, his dark eyes fixed on yours.
"Too many to count." You breathed, your thighs tightening around his hips, trying to pull him closer.
"Show me," he growled, his hands moving to his belt, unbuckling it and letting it fall open.
You swallowed hard, heat pooling between your legs as you watched him pull his cock free from his pants, stroking himself. He pulled up his chair, sitting down in front of you.
"Sir?"
"Show me how you touch yourself when you're thinking about me, sweetheart."
You licked your lips, reaching up under your skirt and pushing your panties aside.
"Good girl," he said, his voice thick with lust.
You rubbed your clit, the pad of your finger pressing into it. You bit your lip, trying to keep quiet, but the way he was looking at you made that nearly impossible.
He continued to stroke his cock, his eyes never leaving yours. You teased yourself, your fingers dipping into your pussy, your wetness coating them. You could see the muscles in his jaw clenching as he watched you, his hand moving faster.
"You look so beautiful, sweetheart," he said, his eyes fixed on yours.
You gasped, slipping two fingers inside yourself.
"That's it, let me hear those pretty sounds."
You moaned, your hips rocking, your pussy clenching around your fingers. You were getting close, and he could tell.
"Come here," he said, his hand dropping to his side.
You removed your fingers and moved forward, dropping to your knees in front of him.
"Yes, sir." You breathed.
He brought the tip of his cock to your lips and you eagerly licked and sucked at the head, your eyes locking with his. You loved seeing the flush on his cheeks, his lips slightly parted, his dark eyes hooded.
He slid a hand into your hair, gripping it tightly, pulling you forward. You sucked harder, taking as much of him as you could. He hissed, his fingers pulling your hair.
"You're so good to me, sweetheart," he murmured, his hips thrusting slowly.
You relaxed your jaw and his thrusts became deeper and harder, but not too rough. You moaned around him, your hands resting on his thighs, gripping the fabric of his slacks. He was completely dominating you, and you loved it.
You'd never seen this side of him before, and you were drunk on him. He was filthy, dirty talk falling from his lips, his hand in your hair pulling your face closer to his crotch with each thrust of his hips.
He wasn't the stammering mess he was the first time. He was in control, and you were completely his.
You loved the feel of him in your mouth, the way his hips would jerk whenever he hit the back of your throat, the low growl that came from him as he did.
He pulled his cock out of your mouth and you took the opportunity to catch your breath. You looked up at him, his face flushed, his lips swollen, his cock glistening with your saliva. He looked almost feral and it was a sight to behold.
"Fuck, you are so beautiful," he growled, one of his hands gripping your chin as he dragged his cock across your lips. You stuck your tongue out, licking the underside, looking up at him through your lashes.
"Good girl," he praised, sliding his cock back into your mouth. You moaned around him as you moved your tongue along the underside of his cock. He thrust into your mouth over and over, not letting up. He was close and you could feel his legs beginning to tremble.
You met his gaze, letting him see how much you enjoyed doing this, how much it turned you on. That was all it took for him to come undone. He slammed into you, his grip tightening in your hair. You moaned around him, your mouth flooding with his cum.
He slowed his thrusts, his hand loosening in your hair, gently caressing your face as you gave little swallows. His hips stopped moving, but you weren't finished with him yet.
You kept your lips around the head of his cock, lapping at the sensitive tip until you'd licked every last trace of his release away. You released him with a small pop, and looked up at him, hoping you hadn't overstepped.
He was looking at you with nothing short of pure awe, his hand gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear.
"Where did you learn to do that?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Nowhere. Just doing what felt good." You blushed.
"Such a natural, such a good girl."
He stood, reaching out to help you up. He wrapped his arms around you and pulled you into him, kissing you. You melted into his kiss, your hands gripping his tie, as his slid down your back to cup your ass.
"I have another class," He sighed, pulling back. "You should get to class, too."
You smoothed your hair and sat back down on his desk, watching as he fastened his pants.
"I missed you," you admitted, a blush creeping across your cheeks. You probably shouldn't have said it, but it was the truth. "I feel like we haven't seen each other in so long."
He smiled, his dimples sending a pang of desire through you. He moved between your thighs, brushing his lips against yours.
"I had business to attend to in New Orleans," He explained, peppering soft kisses along your jaw. "I thought about you constantly."
You blushed, reaching out to tuck his tie back into his vest.
"Will you come by my dorm tonight? My roommates won't be home, and we can continue this."
He sighed, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth.
"I have a department head meeting tonight, but I'll swing by after."
"Okay," you smiled, then you leaned in and whispered in his ear, "I can't wait."
He growled softly, his lips capturing yours, pulling you close.
"Fuck, I have to go," he rasped, his cheeks flushed as he reluctantly pulled away.
You hopped off the desk, and moved over to the door. You opened it, but just before you could exit, he stopped you, pressing his lips against yours once more.
"Sir, someone could see us," you groaned, breaking the kiss, peeking down the hall.
"That is part of the fun, sweetheart." He smiled, giving you a wink before disappearing down the corridor.
You bit back a laugh, running a hand through your hair, trying to appear at least semi presentable before heading down the hallway towards your next class.
The rest of your day flew by in a blur, and by the time you were getting ready to meet your friends for dinner, the sun was starting to set.
You had all agreed to meet at a small pizza place, the one down the street from campus that always smelled like fresh baked bread.
You pulled on a jacket and started to walk over there, smiling and laughing as you spotted your friends standing in front of the building.
You jogged up to them, giving each of them a hug before you ducked into the restaurant.
The place was bustling and it took you a while to get your food, but you managed to find a table in the corner of the dining room.
The wine was flowing and everyone was chatting and laughing, sharing stories about their spring break and complaining about their classes.
"Do any of you have Mr. Mikaelson for Ancient History this semester?" Beth asked, pushing a curl away from her forehead.
"I do!" Caitlin chirped, waving her wine glass around animatedly. "He's kinda hot. I mean, I love you Soph’, don't get me wrong, but damn, that man."
"It's okay Cait, I'll allow it," Sophia snickered, wrapping her arm around her girlfriend's waist. "Maybe he's interested in joining us for a night? What do you think?"
"Hmm. Yeah, I'm in," Caitlin nodded in agreement, and they both looked at you.
"What?" You blinked, raising your brow.
"Don't you have his class? Isn't he single?" Beth asked.
"I do have his class," you laughed. "And I'm not sure, we don't exactly talk about that stuff."
You were suddenly feeling warm, the temperature in the room seemed to shoot up about 20 degrees. You pressed your thighs together, trying not to think about how you were on your knees for him that morning.
"Are you interested in him?" Caitlin teased.
"Uh... I'm not sure, he's..." you blushed, shaking your head, trying to rid yourself of the dirty thoughts swirling in your mind.
"Ooooh y/n has a crush," Beth chided, playfully hitting you with a napkin.
"Maybe," you squeaked, squirming uncomfortably in your seat, you took a long sip of wine, ignoring their giggles. "He is really hot," you admitted, hoping to shift the subject.
"Mhmmm," Caitlin nodded, sipping her wine.
Your phone buzzed on the table, and you snagged it, grinning to yourself. You excused yourself from the table, rushing off to the bathroom to answer the text.
Professor M:
I'm sorry sweetheart, but I won't be able to make it tonight.
You stared at the text, trying not to let your disappointment get to you. You were a little annoyed he gave no explanation, but maybe something came up, he was busy enough with school.
You wiped the tears threatening to spill down your cheeks and walked back to the table, clutching your cell phone in your hand. You threw on the best fake smile you could manage and tried to focus on your friends. But unfortunately they were still on the subject of Elijah, and they would not shut up about him.
"Y/n, seriously, he's gorgeous, why not go for it?" Caitlin teased, a smile stretching her lips.
"Nope. Not interested," you lied, biting into a piece of crust. "He's my teacher, it would be inappropriate."
You didn't want to admit that you were actually spending time with him. Well, apart from fucking each other senseless, you had only hung out once, so it wasn't exactly a relationship, right?
"It's only a little unethical, how old is he... Like, 26? You're 21, it's not like the age gap is insurmountable. Plus, teachers are just so sexy," Caitlin drunkenly rambled.
"Shut up, Cait," Sophia laughed, playfully nudging her girlfriend. "Do you want me to dress up as one of those naughty school girls? You seem awfully obsessed with this teacher thing."
"That's so hot, please do," Caitlin giggled, nibbling on Sophia's earlobe.
Beth narrowed her eyes at you, her expression morphing into one of concern. She had always been able to read you like a book, and you tried to steer the conversation towards anything other than Elijah.
"Are you okay?" Beth asked quietly, ignoring Caitlin and Sophia, who were practically tongue-fucking each other over the dinner table.
"Yeah, I'm fine, just a little stressed," you mumbled, tucking your phone into your pocket. "I've been talking to this guy and I don't think he's as invested as I am."
"Aww, what an asshole," she said, pouting.
"He's probably just not that into you," Sophia added, grabbing one of the chunky slices of pizza and waggling it in your direction. "Don't waste your time on men like that,"
"Maybe he's shy?" Beth countered. "What's his name?"
"It's fine, I'm just worried he is losing interest…maybe I should ... I don't know... make a grand gesture?" You stalled, reaching for your wine glass, taking a quick sip.
"Like what?" Beth asked, narrowing her eyes at you.
"I'm not sure yet... Our relationship is very sex heavy," you blushed.
Beth chuckled, refilling your wine glass.
"Why don't you take control then, do something he hasn't done, I'm sure he'd be down for it," she winked.
"Yeah, surprise him! Maybe you two could roleplay or something. That's hot." Sophia added.
The rest of your dinner was spent discussing their own romantic escapades, and you couldn't help but feel a little envious that none of them had to juggle a very complicated, at best, situation with a professor.
But they had sparked an idea in your mind, one that you didn't dare share with any of them, one that involved Elijah and yourself.
Once you got back to your room, you began rifling through a pile of clothes, looking for the perfect outfit for your idea. After tossing about twenty options on your bed, you decided on a white button down shirt and an extremely short plaid skirt, with knee-high socks and Mary Janes.
You took some scissors to the shirt, cutting off the sleeves and neckline, turning it into a sexy crop top with only a single button doing the job of keeping you decent.
You curled your hair into huge ringlets and even added a pencil to the side of your head in a very Breakfast Club-esque fashion.
You studied your reflection in the mirror, hoping it would work, looking like the perfect naughty school girl.
You grabbed a large trench coat from your closet, tying its sash tightly around you. Just as you were about to leave you decided to take off your panties. If everything worked out you wouldn't be needing them.
The walk to his loft didn't take long, you were in front of his door faster than you could process it. You quickly adjusted your curls and knocked, trying your best to be patient. It was only then did you realize how stupid this was, he might not even be home, he canceled on you, what if he didn't want to see you? What if you crossed a line? But it was too late to back out, someone was now opening the door.
You felt your cheeks heat up, as Elijah's tired brown eyes found yours. He was wearing just a pair of navy blue sweatpants, his hair messy. You noticed immediately that his glasses were a little askew, perched on the bridge of his nose, he looked like he was sleeping and you felt guilty for bothering him.
"Hi," he choked out. He looked you up and down, clearly taken by surprise. "What are you doing here?"
"I..." You bit your lip and gave him a meek smile. "I wanted to see you."
He looked over his shoulder and then stepped out onto the hallway, his hands went to your waist, moving you out of view of his doorway.
He seemed anxious and nervous, his eyes blown wide behind his glasses, and he quickly captured your lips, then pulled away just as quickly.
"I'm sorry, but you can't be here. You shouldn't have come," he said, letting out a sigh, pressing his forehead against yours.
"O..Okay." You huffed, feeling more stupid by the second. You took a deep breath, forcing the tears back. He was definitely seeing someone else, probably in his loft, someone better, less complicated. The thought of him touching another woman like he'd touched you made you sick.
"Elijah! Who are you hiding out here?" Said a man's voice from inside the loft, laughing.
You felt a swell of anxiety rising in your chest, and Elijah looked pained. He gave you a sympathetic look and then turned to face the man.
"Niklaus, this young lady is one of my students. She just had questions about an assignment," he said to the man, who appeared in the doorway.
He was beautiful, blonde curls and brilliant blue eyes, angular cheekbones and a sharp jawline. But he gave off an odd aura that you couldn't quite describe, there was something wild and untamed about him.
"Well come on in and have a drink with us, tell me all about how bad of a teacher my brother is," the man, Niklaus, teased, giving Elijah a playful shove.
"That's okay, I don't want to intrude. Thanks, though. I should probab-" you were in the middle of excusing yourself when you were cut off by Niklaus.
"Come now love, don't be shy. I never get to meet Elijah's students," Niklaus grinned, his eyes darting mischievously between you and Elijah. "And call me Klaus,"
You blushed and awkwardly shrugged, then turned and walked into the loft, Elijah behind you.
"Can I get you a drink, darling?" Klaus offered, pointing towards the well-stocked bar in the corner of the loft, his eyes focused on the pencil in your hair.
You nodded, panic rising in your chest. What the fuck were you doing? You were about to have a drink with his family and you were dressed like a slutty school girl under your coat. This was not going as planned.
"I'll take a scotch, thanks," you managed, glancing over at Elijah, who gave you a sweet, yet subtle wink.
You sat down awkwardly on the sofa, pulling on the edges of your coat, making sure it didn't expose your stockings.
Elijah sat down next to you, placing a warm hand on your thigh, giving it a gentle squeeze before moving it away. He was trying to be sweet and reassuring, he thought you were just nervous around his brother. Little did he know that the real source of your anxiety was what was underneath your coat.
You accepted the scotch from Klaus and took a large sip, the familiar burning sensation in your throat was calming. He sat down on a chair across from you, not so subtly checking you out.
You weren't sure what to do, Elijah was staring at you expectantly.
"So you're in my brother's class? How are his classes going?" Klaus asked, looking like he was trying to conceal a smile.
"Um. Yeah, it's going well," you answered, the heat in the room increasing.
"What's your major?" He questioned, leaning forward.
"Psychology," you replied, biting your lip.
He chuckled, shaking his head, a playful smirk on his lips.
"Cute. You want to study minds then?"
"Something like that, yes," you mumbled, staring at your scotch glass, tracing the rim with your index finger. Your other hand holding the front of your coat closed, afraid it might fall open.
"So you don't really need to learn much about ancient history for that, huh? Why even bother taking the class?" He prodded.
"It's a requirement to fulfill some general education credits and I'm in need of those, so," you offered, awkwardly tapping the toe of your shoe on the wooden floor, silently praying for a change in subject.
"Hmm... Well, Miss Psychology, tell me something about myself," he teased, eyes narrowed and alight with mischief.
"You want a diagnosis based on? What exactly?" You asked, glancing over at Elijah who was watching his brother curiously.
"What is your first impression of me," he grinned, looking at Elijah and wiggling his eyebrows.
"My first impression is that you're playing a game," you smiled coyly, relaxing a little, letting the alcohol calm you.
"What else?" He smirked, crossing his leg over the other.
"You enjoy teasing others, perhaps even humiliating them, you have a strong desire to stand out, even if it means tearing others down," you said confidently. You could've kept going, but you wanted to see what he would say.
He gave Elijah a wide smile, clapping his hands, seemingly impressed.
"That was spot on, love, you do know your shit," he laughed.
"Elijah, did you know your student was such a clever little thing," Niklaus taunted, his eyes raking up and down your exposed legs. "I bet your boyfriend goes crazy for that mouth."
You felt your cheeks turn crimson, blood rising to your face like flood waters rushing down a valley. Klaus was openly leering at you now, with no shame.
"I.. I'm not dating anyone," you muttered, beads of sweat forming on the back of your neck.
Elijah cleared his throat, a chuckle threatening to spill past his lips, he placed a possessive hand on your thigh, moving his thumb in soothing circles. Klaus' eyes flickered to where his hand had landed, his lips twitching into a satisfied smirk.
"How do you feel about older men? With accents?" He teased, cocking his head slightly.
"Niklaus, stop bothering her," Elijah scolded.
"Me? I'm not doing anything," he feigned innocence, holding up his hands in surrender, making a show of sprawling himself on the chair. "You know me, Elijah, when I see something beautiful I want it for myself,"
"Niklaus," Elijah repeated with a groan.
You were blushing and uncomfortable, but their sparring was cute, they clearly loved each other.
Klaus smiled at you and raised an eyebrow.
"Why aren't you seeing anyone?" he asked curiously.
You shrugged, sipping your scotch.
"I'm dating, but it's just casual. School's kind of a priority." You replied, avoiding Elijah's gaze, knowing damn well that you two were a contradiction to what you just said.
Klaus snorted, and your eyes landed on Elijah's, who was pouting slightly. You bit your lip to keep from smirking.
"Hm... Maybe you'll let me take you out sometime," Klaus suggested.
"Klaus... She's not interested," Elijah interrupted, his pout deepening.
You were beginning to sweat from the coat, you needed to change the subject, you were flustered and excited and terrified, all at once. Klaus noticed how red you had gotten.
"Why are you still wearing your coat? Aren't you warm? It's hot as hell in here," he observed, his blue eyes fixed on you, curious.
"Oh..." You blushed, taking a quick look over at Elijah, your anxiety multiplying tenfold. "I'm actually a little cold," you lied, your face burning hot.
Niklaus' eyes moved from the pencil in your hair downward, his gaze lingering on your legs for a moment, then his face broke out into a grin.
"How interesting," he sang, quickly switching his eyes back up to your face. "Would you like to borrow one of Elijah's sweaters?" He offered, clearly onto you.
You wanted to die on the spot. This was ridiculous, why were you here? What were you doing?
"No it's okay, truly." You mumbled, trying to think of an excuse to get the hell out of there.
"No please, allow me to fetch one," he nodded, but he didn't make a move to go find one, he was waiting for you to remove your coat.
"It's okay. I should go actually, it's late, I don't want to impose-"
"Don't be silly," he scoffed. "Here, let's trade," he offered, a cheeky gleam in his eyes. He removed his hoodie, leaving him just in a tight white henley.
"It's fine. I'm going." You stood up, but as you did the sash of your coat unfastened, causing it to gape open, exposing your entire outfit to him.
Klaus burst out laughing, looking from you to Elijah and then back to you, making no attempt to hide his obvious enjoyment.
"Very, very interesting," he sniggered, raising an eyebrow at you, his lips curled up in a way that bordered on sinister.
Elijah wasn't helping, just sitting there, open mouthed, gawking at you like a teenager.
You wanted to dissolve into thin air, the confidence you had walked here with completely gone. A rush of shame washing over you. You held the coat shut, trying desperately to keep yourself modest.
"Well brother, it looks like you finally took my advice and seduced a student. How's she in bed? I bet she loves learning from the professor, eh?"
Elijah was now giving his brother a scathing glare. You were utterly mortified and no words were coming out of your mouth, you wanted to say something to justify it, but nothing was coming to mind.
"Now, don't look so upset. I see nothing wrong with this," he grinned, winking at you, and then turning his attention back to his brother. "I always suspected you had the ability to have some fun, deep down,"
"You should go," Elijah said to you, his tone stern, his expression oddly disappointed. You didn't realize until that moment that he was pissed.
"Have you gone mad?" Klaus chuckled. "She is utterly sinful, I would spend hours between those thighs if I were you,”
Your cheeks were so hot now that it was painful, Elijah's intense stare not helping matters. You turned and practically ran to the door, hating yourself for this stupid idea.
"Don't leave so soon love," Klaus called out to you, laughing when he heard Elijah mumble 'fuck off' to him.
When you exited the loft you wanted to cry, hot tears welling up in your eyes, you were so stupid. What were you thinking? A mixture of desperation and lust had overcome you. You had completely humiliated yourself in front of not only Elijah, but his brother too.
"Y/n, wait."
You turned to see Elijah standing just outside the doorway, looking a little guilty, though the corner of his lips were threatening to rise into a smile.
"I'm so sorry," he apologized, rubbing the back of his neck, looking disheveled and impossibly sexy with his ruffled hair.
"It's fine. I have to go." You said, heading towards the elevator as fast as you could.
You tried pushing the down button, but he came up behind you, pressing himself against you, his head dipped into the curve of your neck, kissing gently.
"You look incredible. I want you right here, bent over, that skirt hitched up around your waist," he whispered.
"Maybe next time, Professor." You said, harsher than you meant. You felt disgusted with yourself and him. You shoved him off and got on the elevator, without a single glance back, not allowing his intense gaze to halt your departure.
You cried all the way home, cursing yourself for being so shamelessly naïve. The entire time you walked back to your dorm the only thing you could think about was the way Klaus looked at you. It made you feel sick and tainted, made you feel like everything Elijah had ever done to you was a charade, it was all purely transactional. You probably came off as desperate and pathetic. There was no way a guy like him was truly interested in you. You were just a twisted fantasy to him, and tonight you played into it. You didn't know how you were going to face him on Monday.
The weekend came and went faster than you hoped, dragging yourself to class on Monday was grueling. Seeing Elijah after your humiliation on Friday evening would be the most mortifying thing in the world.
You barely slept and left for class early, hoping the walk would help clear your head, but even the fresh spring air couldn't ease the pain of how stupid you'd been. Elijah had probably laughed about it with his brother over the weekend. You were a joke to them both.
What hurt the most was that you truly cared for him, you adored him. He was your dream man. He was smart and passionate, handsome, charismatic and insanely sexual. He made you feel wanted in a way that no one had ever made you feel before. He made you feel beautiful and he challenged you intellectually.
When you were with him, everything felt perfect. Until the consequences of your feelings for him began to outweigh the logical side of your brain.
The sound of a car horn pulled you from your thoughts, you looked around for the source, and saw a fancy sports car pull up next to you.
"Get in, love,"
It was Klaus, casually leaning across the passenger's side, his sharp features arranged into a maliciously charming smile.
"I have to get to class," you said, staring straight ahead, picking up your pace.
"No you don't. Class doesn't start for another 40 minutes," he noted. "I couldn't possibly allow my brothers star pupil to walk across campus when I have this fine automobile at my disposal. My mother, rest her soul, would turn over in her grave."
You sighed, biting back a smirk, and decided you didn't have any energy to argue. You let him open the passenger's side door and got in.
"Stunning," he whispered, his lips twitching upwards, winking at you before closing the door and then rushing over to the driver's side. "Did I tell you, you looked ravishing in that outfit?" He smiled, clicking on his seatbelt and then backing out of the parking lot.
"Thank you," you mumbled, holding onto your backpack tightly, hoping that this car ride wouldn't take long.
"You didn't strike me as the kind of girl who goes to other people's apartments wearing... a getup like that," he said conversationally, driving faster than necessary with one hand on the wheel, the other running through his hair.
"I didn't expect anyone else to be there, truthfully," you admitted, staring out the window.
"My apologies for ruining your evening," he stated dryly.
"You didn't ruin it. I did that on my own, quite spectacularly," you noted, chuckling bitterly.
"How so? Worried you won't pass his class now?" He teased, pulling over just outside of the building.
You sighed, averting your eyes. "No, I'm not worried about passing. Thank you." You muttered.
Klaus stared at you, his blue eyes narrowing in contemplation.
"My brother doesn't get out much, he's a workaholic dedicated to his students, usually more concerned about their future rather than his own. That being said, he hasn't had many relationships." He paused, glancing over at you with an amused smirk. "He's so very traditional and clean cut. Old fashioned, even. Though, he might not be so wholesome underneath that prim and proper persona," he grinned.
"Klaus-"
"He is a passionate person, and I don't want to see him get hurt," he said quietly, the lighthearted expression suddenly replaced by a warning. "I care for him, probably more than I should,"
You swallowed the lump that was rapidly growing in your throat.
"Why are you telling me all of this?" You asked curiously, anxiety coiling in your belly.
"Are you fucking him for the grades? Or are you fucking him because you like him?" He challenged.
"I like him," you admitted, your face burning with shame.
"You like him, or you like fucking him? Because if the latter is the case then I will be more than happy to take my brother's place," he smirked.
"I like him," you repeated, emphasizing the ‘him’ and narrowing your eyes.
"Do you sleep with any of your other professors for good grades?"
"Oh fuck off," you said, and opened the car door, grabbing your things before climbing out.
"Come on, we're practically family now," he laughed. "After last Friday,"
"Goodbye, Klaus." You told him firmly.
"One last thing, love, before I go..."
"What?" You spat, turning back to him, the last thing you wanted was this dude running his mouth. He seemed to love the sound of his own voice.
"I really meant what I said before. Elijah is a good man, and he doesn't need his heart broken,"
"Neither do I," you muttered, slamming the door shut and walking away as fast as you could.
You hid in the back of the classroom, burying your face in your notebook, listening to the class file in. Mr. Mikaelson was ten minutes late, which was very unlike him.
"My apologies class, I had to take a cab today. My car was borrowed without my permission,”
You looked up to see him adjusting his tie, his dark hair slightly disheveled, his glasses askew. He looked a little annoyed and stressed.
"Today we will be discussing the role of women in Greek society, specifically the Spartans and Athenians. Miss Y/L/N, I don't have a TA today, can you come help me with the presentation?" He asked, his eyes flickering over to yours.
"Of course," you replied, getting up and making your way to the front.
"Everyone, please get settled. This is very important information and should be used for your essays," he warned.
He motioned for you to sit at his desk, pointing to his laptop, opening the projector for the screen.
"Just click here when I tell you," he instructed, his face so close to yours that you could smell his cologne. You could sense that he was a little on edge, and that made you nervous.
You could feel him watching you intently, so much so that your hands were shaking as you moved the mouse. He moved away to begin the lecture, but his eyes were always fixed on you, even when he wasn't speaking directly to you.
The lecture passed agonizingly slow, it felt like hours instead of a few brief moments. You could barely concentrate, the only thing on your mind was Klaus' words echoing in your head.
"An important difference between the Spartans and the Athenians is the role that women played in society, specifically their role in politics. Now, the Spartan woman was not allowed to take part in politics, they were only permitted to raise the children, while the men served in the military..."
You followed along on screen, reading the sides, occasionally sneaking a look over at him. He was so captivating, so confident and knowledgeable. You had fallen hard for him, there was no denying it.
You noticed something else on his screen. An email notification from the dean titled: Request to Transfer.
Your heart dropped into your stomach, bile rising in your throat.
"Now, in contrast, Athenian women had the freedom to learn, they were given the right to divorce, and they were allowed to serve as priestesses, which was a very esteemed position. Women were respected, not treated like property. It's a very interesting contrast, and one that is often overlooked."
You opened the email, reading it over quickly.
To Mr. Mikaelson,
I've received your request to transfer to the University of Cambridge in England. This is an exciting opportunity, and I understand why you have chosen to accept. It is unfortunate, however, that we will be losing you. I will discuss this matter with the board, and be putting in my recommendation for a new instructor. I will also contact Cambridge as a reference for you. We are truly sorry to see you leave.
Sincerely,
Dean Williams.
You were frozen, unable to move. He was leaving.
"Thank you, miss Y/L/N, you can return to your seat,"
You blinked, looking up at him, his eyes were fixed on you, a look of concern and hesitation. But he didn't say anything, and continued his lecture.
It was a blur. The whole thing. You didn't remember packing up your things, or walking out of the room.
"Y/n, wait," his voice called out from behind you. But you just kept walking, the tears were threatening to fall, and the last thing you needed was him seeing you cry.
You skipped the rest of your classes, and walked to your dorm, ignoring the buzzing in your pocket, the phone vibrating incessantly. It was him. You knew it was him, but you couldn't speak to him.
Beth was hanging out in your room, laying on your bed, browsing her phone.
"Hey, babe, you're back early," she greeted you.
You nodded, sniffling, dropping your backpack on the ground and then going to lay down beside her.
"Are you okay?"
"No," you shook your head.
"Talk to me." She nudged you.
"I think I've fallen for a very unavailable man." You whispered, your voice breaking.
"How unavailable?"
"Like, leaving the country unavailable,"
"Oh," she said softly, reaching over and pulling you into her chest. "Is this the guy you were telling us about on Friday? The one you were going to do a grand gesture for?"
"Yeah, I went to his apartment, I was dressed in a way that would make a street hooker blush, and his brother was there. It was humiliating."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because I'm embarrassed, Beth. I'm humiliated. I was just a joke to him, I mean, how can a guy like him, who is older, and successful, and has his shit together, really want a girl like me?" The tears were really starting to flow now.
"Stop. Do not do that to yourself," she chastised.
"And on top of that, I'm a fucking cliché! Fucking a professor, thinking I'm special. Thinking I was more than just some stupid kid with a crush." You said, suddenly realizing you let slip the identity of the man in question.
"Wait, you're talking about... One of our professors?!" Beth asked, her mouth hanging open.
"No," you lied, getting up out of the bed, wiping away the tears.
"Who is it?"
"Doesn't matter. He's leaving, probably going to get tenure at some big university overseas. He's never coming back," you whispered, hating the way your voice sounded so small.
"Oh. My. God, who is it!!! Tell me!!" Beth was practically begging now, but you just shook your head.
"If this information gets out it could ruin his career, please, just forget I said anything,"
She nodded, but her eyes were narrowed, "Is it Mr. Salvatore? I've heard he sleeps around with the girls here. Some even say he likes it rough," she winked, and you had to laugh.
"Definitely not, I think his wife has enough of his dick," you joked, rolling your eyes.
"Does he know about your... Feelings? Why doesn't he like you back?" She pressed, brushing your hair back.
You considered lying, but after your night of embarrassment and idiocy, you decided you had nothing else to lose.
"I think he does, but this is complicated. It's highly inappropriate and he's leaving. Which is probably for the best. Our time together can only ever be temporary," you said sadly, getting up and going to the bathroom to freshen up.
"If you love him, you should tell him, whether he's staying or not. Sometimes temporary is what's necessary to feel deeply, and that feeling should be worth the pain of his inevitable goodbye," she stated knowingly.
You walked over to her and kissed her on the cheek. She was always the friend that gave you the best advice, even if you didn't want to hear it.
"You are right, I'm going to go talk to him," you said determinedly.
"Can you pleaaasseee tell me who?" She begged as you got dressed, pulling on a skirt and some thigh high socks.
"Fine, but you can't tell a soul, and I'm borrowing your boots," you muttered, bending down to grab them.
"Okay, Jesus, it's like pulling teeth!" She exclaimed.
"It's Mr. Mikaelson," you admitted, putting the boots on and blushing, straightening out the tiny skirt and fumbling with the buttons on your cardigan. "Elijah,"
Beth let out a squeal. "Elijaahhh," she said dreamily, mocking the sound of your voice when you said his name.
"Shut up!" You replied, blushing like an idiot.
"He's sooooo hot," Beth crooned, lifting her arm and pretending to fan herself. "How did it happen?!? Is he..." she looked around the room dramatically, before leaning over and whispering, "Is he a good lay?"
You smacked her with a pillow, making her burst into a fit of laughter. "You are the fucking worst, I knew I shouldn't have told you,"
"Ok, ok, I'm sorry, but please tell me!"
You chuckled and bit your lip, reminiscing on all the things he'd done to you. "The first time it happened was in his office and I... made the first move," you admitted, smiling when you saw the look of shock on her face.
"Professor Mikaelson?"
You nodded.
"Mildmannered, broody, sexy as fuck, Mikaelson?"
"The one and only," you agreed, hugging her. "Please don't tell anyone,"
"Wouldn't dream of it," she whispered, before shoving you out the door, which resulted in you tumbling onto the hallway floor. "Don't come back until you guys have made up and made a mess of his office!! Love you babes,"
You flipped her off, laughing and adjusting your stockings and shoes, the last thing you needed was running into another professor with your ass literally out.
You sent him a quick text, hoping he was still at school. He didn't reply, which made your stomach lurch uncomfortably. This felt almost like a replay of your disastrous encounter Friday night. But this time it was going to be different, this time you were determined to talk to him and clear the air.
The school was quiet, classes were long over and everyone had left, so when you rounded the corner to Elijah's office you sighed with relief, seeing that his door was ajar, a light flickering under the frame.
You stepped inside, closing the door behind you and leaning up against it, staring at him. He didn't say anything, so you spoke up.
"Did you mean it?" You asked softly, crossing your arms over your chest.
"Mean what?" He replied, leaning back in his chair.
"The email,"
He sat in silence, his eyes lingering on yours, and you quickly looked away. "I didn't want you to find out that way, I was going to tell you soon."
"That you're leaving?" You whispered, but somehow the words got lodged in your throat, your tongue refusing to cooperate.
He nodded, leaning back in his chair and pressing the palms of his hands against his eyes, sighing loudly, almost as though he was in pain.
"I didn't even know you applied," you said hoarsely.
"I didn't tell you because I didn't think I'd be accepted. But that job is a chance of a lifetime. I can't pass this up." His tone was even, but you could see the pain in his eyes. You felt nauseous. He was really leaving you, this was really happening.
"You must be excited," you said, cursing the way your voice shook. The lump in your throat threatening to burst.
"It's my dream job," he admitted quietly, not quite meeting your eyes.
"That's great," you felt like the world was collapsing around you, everything was crashing in on itself, suffocating you.
"Come here," he said softly.
You shook your head. "I'm fine right here."
He gave you a sad look, and you held back a sniffle, the emotion bubbling up in you, but you couldn't let it out. He wasn't yours to begin with.
"This was a mistake wasn't it?" You said sadly, remembering your conversation with Klaus, wanting to sob, bury your face in a pillow, and sleep for the rest of the year.
"Come here," he said again, this time more assertively, gesturing with his finger, beckoning you to come to him.
You bit your lip and walked over to him, your hands and knees weak, tears threatening to fall. You stood next to his desk and before you could sit down in the chair, he grabbed your wrist and pulled you into him, so that you were straddling him.
"I love you," he murmured, taking you by surprise, cradling the back of your neck, running his fingers through your hair.
"What?"
"You heard me," he insisted, kissing your forehead, pulling you closer so that you were flush against his chest, close enough to hear his heartbeat, the steady rhythm soothing you.
You sighed and shook your head, this wasn't real. You would wake up at any moment and find out this was all a horrible dream.
"I'm sorry for what happened on Friday. I... didn't handle it well," he admitted. "My brother humiliated you, and I let it happen. I am truly sorry."
"Doesn't matter," you murmured, curling into his shoulder, shutting your eyes, trying to hold onto him for as long as possible.
"It does matter, you were making an effort, putting yourself out there and the last thing I wanted was for you to get hurt. And when you left I could tell you were distraught," his voice was soothing, his hands gripping your thighs, tracing gentle circles on your skin.
"I was being a horny idiot, I kind of deserved it," you snarked.
He chuckled, his chest vibrating with amusement. "You were embarrassed. My brother likes to… push people."
"Remind me never to meet your parents then," you muttered, still refusing to open your eyes.
"The rest of my family is just as bad," he admitted, moving your legs so that they were wrapped around his waist, his large hands gripping your ass. "Are you going to open your eyes for me, my sweet girl?"
You opened them slowly, tentatively. His face was so close to yours, you could feel his warm breath, and see all the stubble on his jaw.
"Hi," you whispered shyly, biting your lip, meeting his molten brown stare, the pools of chocolate almost hypnotizing.
"I love you," he repeated, never breaking eye contact, pulling your hand up to his mouth, giving it a soft kiss.
"Y-You can't say things like that," you stammered, your heart melting at the sound of his declaration.
"Why not? It's true," he challenged you, a smirk playing at his lips, his dimples even more pronounced.
"Because you're leaving, and I... like you a lot," you said hesitantly, hating that you were being such a coward about it.
"So come with me," he murmured, his thumb tracing small circles on your thigh. "Let me take you with me."
"Cambridge is... It's your dream job, I couldn't possibly-"
"Please come with me," he said passionately, intertwining his fingers with yours. "There are lots of universities in England you can transfer to... just not Cambridge, please," he chuckled.
"I don't exactly have the money to move countries right now," you lamented, kissing his knuckles, studying the way your hands looked against his, hoping you could memorize every detail of his, in case it was the last time you'd be able to touch him.
"I'll take care of all that, love. Just please say yes," he pleaded, kissing your neck, and lifting up your cardigan, stroking the bare skin on your waist.
"O-Okay," you said timidly, gasping when you felt him lift up your tank top, his fingers skillfully removing it, tugging at your bra, making your nipples peak in excitement.
"I want an enthusiastic yes, or not at all," he ordered, kissing down your chest, hovering over your breasts, licking at the soft tissue, his warm mouth suckling the tip of your nipple, while his hand played with the other one, rolling and pinching.
You had no doubts that you would follow him to the ends of the Earth if he asked. "Yes, yes, Elijah, yes, I'll go with you," you gasped, as he nipped at your breast, his teeth pulling at the tender flesh, sending jolts of electricity through your body.
"Good girl," he praised, reaching down and unbuttoning your skirt, almost tearing it off in his rush to get you naked.
"I love these," he said softly, his fingers grazing along your thigh highs. "If Klaus didn't ruin our Friday, what exactly was your plan in that little outfit?" He wondered aloud, grinning, and you found yourself blushing despite the whole situation.
"I... wanted us to roleplay," you muttered, "B-But if you don't want to, it's fine! We don't have to. It was dumb,"
"Shh," he soothed, nuzzling your neck. "Tell me, what were you planning?"
You gulped, not expecting him to get on board so easily. "Well, I was going to pretend to be an innocent school girl and, um, you'd be my very strict professor," you admitted, completely ashamed. It sounded even worse out loud.
He let out a genuine laugh, his dimples more prominent and the twinkle in his eye entrancing. "So just a more extreme version of what we've already done in my classroom?"
You nodded and bit your lip.
"Very well, repeat after me, darling: Yes, Professor Mikaelson," he ordered, his voice dropping an octave lower, setting your soul on fire.
He looked so different right now. His demeanor changed from the sweet man who professed his love for you to someone powerful. Dominant. Hot.
"Yes, Professor Mikaelson," You almost squealed, letting out a yelp when he slapped your ass hard.
"Undress me," he instructed, sitting back against the chair, spreading his legs wider, making himself comfortable.
"Oh, okay, yeah, yessir," you mumbled, you were clumsy and uncoordinated, desperate to remove his clothes.
He was wearing suspenders today, and you playfully pulled on them, a smirk spreading across his face as you did so. You unbuttoned his shirt slowly, pulling it off, momentarily pausing when you saw how tense and wound up he was, how much he wanted you.
"You're beautiful," he murmured, running his hands through your hair, tugging slightly, and forcing you to meet his gaze. "Keep going, darling."
You nodded, and undid his pants, his erection springing up. You stroked him a few times, before sliding the pants off and straddling him once again, grinding against him, loving the way he hissed in response.
You positioned your legs, ready to sink down onto him, but he stopped you, his hand gripping your waist tightly.
"What's my name?" He growled, his jaw clenched.
"Elijah,"
"Not what I'm looking for," he tutted, spanking you again, the sting making you whimper.
"Daddy," you murmured, and he hummed in approval, gripping your waist and guiding you down onto his cock, his shaft stretching you open.
"Now ride my cock, sweetheart," he ordered, and you started moving, up and down, grinding into him, your hips bucking forward. Pressing yourself against him, feeling the delicious friction of his pelvis against your clit.
He let out a soft moan and buried his face in the crook of your neck, kissing and biting, leaving tiny bruises all over you, marking you as his.
"Good girl, use my cock, baby, come on," he groaned, his breath hot and ragged.
You whimpered and picked up the pace, riding him harder, faster, chasing the delicious pleasure. Your eyes locked with his, your eyebrows knitted together in concentration.
Your thighs burned and you could feel the sweat trickle down the back of your neck, and yet you never felt better, the feeling of him inside of you was heavenly.
You braced your hands on his shoulders, trying to find leverage, his fingers digging into your ass, and his tongue slipping into your mouth.
The kiss was hot, and messy, and desperate, a complete contradiction of the slow and sensual movements of his hips, the way his cock slid in and out of you, the lewd squelching sounds of your bodies colliding filling the air.
"Are you getting tired?" He teased, breaking the kiss, nipping at your bottom lip.
"No," you denied, panting heavily, but he noticed the slight tremble of your legs, and the beads of sweat rolling down your face.
He stopped moving his hips, letting you take control, smirking at you.
"Well, what are you waiting for?" He demanded, raising his eyebrow at you.
You blushed, and slowly started riding him, trying not to whine. Your thighs burned and you were exhausted, but you couldn't stop. He wouldn't let you.
You bounced up and down on his cock, and he smacked your ass, the stinging sensation making you hiss.
"Come on, my love, you're not doing a very good job, are you?" He chastised you, his voice low, and teasing, and taunting.
"S-Sorry, daddy," you mumbled, your legs started to shake, your muscles hitting the point of no return.
He didn't answer, and kept spanking you, watching you try to keep a rhythm. Your legs suddenly gave out and you fell onto his chest, burying your face in his shoulder.
He chuckled and moved his arms underneath your legs, lifting you up, and slamming into you. You cried out in surprise, and moaned, clinging onto his neck for support.
"Tired, are we?" He teased, his mouth next to your ear, his lips trailing down your neck, and biting hard, making you wince. "I've got you,"
He kept fucking into you, his hips snapping back and forth, pounding into you, the chair creaking beneath him. He began bouncing you up and down his shaft, your nails digging into his shoulders.
"Oh fuck," you moaned, burying your face in his neck, breathing him in.
"Language, Miss Y/L/N," he growled, and you let out a loud yelp when he smacked your ass.
"Sorry, Professor," you apologized, your climax creeping up on you.
Your eyes met his, and you saw a flash of desire, his jaw clenching, the vein in his forehead protruding.
"Elijah, Elijah," you whimpered, grinding into him, desperately chasing your orgasm,moaning and gasping when he kissed you again, his lips warm and soft against yours, his tongue slipping into your mouth, swallowing your whines and whimpers.
"Cum for me," he whispered, his voice low and gravelly, his hands cupping your ass, kneading the flesh.
You did just that, a few more thrusts and you came undone, screaming his name, clutching onto him. He groaned and buried his face in the crook of your neck, his body stiffening as he filled you with his cum.
You stayed seated on him, not wanting to be separated. Wanting to live in this moment forever, his glistening skin, warm and inviting, and yours pressed against his. Him inside of you, the warm connection between you two.
He grinned lazily at you and swept away the hair plastered against your forehead.
"Professor Mikaelson, that was..." You began in a teasing tone, but trailed off when you realized you didn't know what to say. It felt like it would be impossible to fully encapsulate the experience with words.
"I love you too," you said breathlessly, finally wrapping your head around his declaration.
"You don't have to say it back," he murmured, "I know it's all a bit sudden-"
You cut him off with a desperate kiss. "I love you," you repeated, the words becoming easier. "I love you, and I'll come to England with you, if you'll have me."
He smiled, resting his forehead against yours, cupping your face in his hands. "Sweet girl, I wouldn't have it any other way."
