Can we get something where Elias is infatuated with you, and your hair that’s a shade of moody plum. He finds out you’re in a neglectful relationship where you’re emotionally unsatisfied and he decides to “fix it”. Also a sneek peak into their lives a few years down the lane?
Pairing: Elias Voit X Fem Reader
Warnings/Notes: Abduction, Possessiveness, Obsessiveness, Abuse (Mentioned)…
A/N: I was so excited about this request! I had a lot of fun writing it! Hopefully, you guys love it too! 🖤
Elias sees you before you see him.
Not in the way most men do—quick glances, a lingering stare. No. Elias catalogues you. From the sharp curve of your jaw to the color of your headphones cord. He watches you when you don't know you're being watched. You should be watched. You're too soft to be alone in the world like this.
He first notices you in the back corner of the bookstore where no one ever goes. The lighting there is soft and golden. He wonders if it flatters everyone or just you. You sit cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by titles no one bothers to dust anymore, a sweater far too big for you slipping off one shoulder.
He doesn't even know what to call it at first. Not purple. Not violet. It's darker, richer. Like wine gone bitter. Or bruises that never healed. It makes his teeth ache just to look at it.
He stands in the next aisle for twenty-eight minutes, unmoving, just to listen to the sound of you flipping pages.
He doesn't know your name yet.
You come to the bookstore often. Every Thursday around 6:15 p.m. Always alone. Always with that exhausted kind of sadness clinging to your expression. Elias learns your patterns like breathing.
And eventually, he learns the source of the sadness.
He hears you on the phone once, voice hushed but sharp with bitterness.
"I said I don't care what you do tonight. I didn't ask you to change plans. I was just telling you I had a shitty day and needed to talk. But if that's too much for you, fine. Just—whatever. I'll figure it out myself. Like always."
No tears. Just silence. Your fingers clench the book you're holding a little tighter, nails leaving crescent moons in the paper.
Elias presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek.
So that's what kind of man he is.
The kind who forgets what he has until someone takes it away.
He casually walks to the next aisle, the one you sat in, and acted as if he was browsing the books in this aisle. You look up startled as no one ever comes back here.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you." He says, a soft and genuine smile on his lips.
"You're okay...sorry, I'm just not use to anyone coming back here." You admit with a soft laugh.
He watches as you tuck a strand of that moody plum hair behind your ear, your cheeks flushing a light shade of pink.
"I've been...trying to expand the genres I read. Someone told me to try out a few classic romances. They told me it'd be worth it." He says.
"Do you have any books in mind?" You ask curiously.
"You know...they didn't give me titles so I thought I wing it...unless you know of any good titles." He laughs before suggesting softly.
"You know, I may be able to help you." You say, giving him a soft smile as you stand.
You bite your lip, looking through the different titles, unaware of his eyes on you. His eyes were locked on your lips before he took a breath and looked at the shelves as if he knew what he was looking for.
You pluck Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen off the shelf along with The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne.
"Start with these two. You'll have to let me know what you think." You say, handing them to him.
His fingers brush yours and he watches as you shiver, your cheeks flushing a shade darker.
"I will...I'm Elias." He says, holding a hand out.
"I'm Y/n." You say, shaking his hand gently.
"Well, I'll definitely let you know what I think of them. Thank you for your help, Y/n. It was nice meeting you!" He says, giving you a smile that stirred a heat in you.
"It was nice meeting you too, Elias." You say softly, unaware of what that did to him.
You always sit by the same café window on rainy evenings, sketching idly in the margins of your notebook. Elias finds it poetic—how you're always creating, even in misery.
You trust too easily. That's what he likes about you. Your guard is made of tissue paper, and the world is full of razors.
He waits until you're distracted by the thunder. He knows you flinch at loud sounds. He likes that about you too. Fragility makes him feel important. Needed.
The rag over your mouth smells faintly of bleach and lavender.
He's gentle, as promised.
He always keeps his promises.
You wake in a bed that's too soft. The sheets smell clean, crisp. The room is dim, lit only by flickering candlelight and the blue hum of a single lamp across the room.
You sit up. Head throbbing. Mouth dry.
A chair in the corner. A shadow that breathes.
His eyes are endless. Not warm. Not cold. Just... consuming.
"You're safe," he says calmly, like he's offering you a cup of tea. "I had to bring you here. You were cracking in that old life. I couldn't let you keep breaking."
Your throat tightens. "Where—what is this? Elias...what is this? Why are you doing this?"
"Our new life, little storm," he says. "I'm the one who noticed. The one who cared. The one who saw you."
You scramble out of bed. Your knees buckle. He catches you, arms strong but not forceful.
You look up at him, your eyes fearful and teary. Yet, a part of you knew he wouldn't hurt you.
"You're not a prisoner," he whispers, brushing a strand of plum hair behind your ear. "You're rescued."
Your nails unknowingly dig into his arm that you were gripping onto for dear life. You swallow hard as you sway slightly. He pulls you closer to him, stroking your hair, which shouldn't have calmed you like it did.
He never locks the door to your room. But every window is barred. Every hallway leads only deeper into the house.
He brings you food. Hot, well-seasoned. You haven't eaten this well in months.
He brushes your hair at night. Every stroke slow, methodical. Reverent.
He tells you about himself in pieces. His childhood. His theories. The way most people are insects pretending to be lions. He speaks of your ex like he's already dead.
"I don't want you afraid," he says, one evening, kneeling by the bathtub as you sit in the water, knees hugged to your chest. "I just want you to see the truth. You were wasting away out there. He was letting you starve. I just fed you."
You glare at him, but your voice cracks when you say, "You kidnapped me."
He just smiles. "Did I? Or did I take you somewhere you were always meant to be?"
Your heart stops as your throat tightens. You turn away as something in you twists. You should be more scared. You should be putting up more of a fight.
Yet, you were bantering with your abductor.
You were willingly sitting in the bathtub as he washed you with a gentleness you never thought could've existed.
You stop fighting on day seven.
Not because you've forgiven him. Not because you've made peace with the room, the routine, the man who abducted you and insists it was salvation.
You stop because... you're tired.
And maybe—maybe part of you likes the way he looks at you.
No one ever looked at you like that before.
Like you were both the altar and the offering.
Elias notices the change instantly.
He doesn't say anything. Doesn't gloat. Just brings you your tea with a softness that feels unearned.
You don't meet his eyes. But when he brushes your hair that night, you don't flinch.
When his fingers linger at your neck a little longer than usual—just long enough for the pad of his thumb to ghost over your pulse—you don't move away.
And that's what makes you dangerous, he thinks. That quiet shift. That half-second where you start wondering what it would be like to stop resisting.
The argument starts over nothing.
You ask him a question about your old life. Something simple. "Did you take my phone?" A piece of the before-world you shouldn't even miss, but still—you ask.
His expression goes blank.
"I gave you peace," he says, low. "And you're still looking for a leash?"
"No," you snap, suddenly furious. "I'm looking for choice. You took everything from me, Elias. My life, my freedom. I don't even know what day it is anymore."
"You needed someone to take the weight off your chest before it collapsed your lungs. You needed someone to see you drowning and pull you out. And I did."
It's weak, more symbolic than anything.
But it feels like slicing through ice with your bare hands.
Elias stares down at you. Not angry.
"You've got fire under that sadness," he murmurs, brushing his thumb across your bottom lip. "That's why I love you. You just forgot how to burn."
"I don't love you," you whisper.
He doesn't blink. Doesn't even seem disappointed.
"You will," he says, dragging his knuckles down your collarbone. "You just need time. And I'll give it to you. I have forever, little storm."
The silence hangs between you like a storm.
And then you do the one thing neither of you expected.
Teeth. Desperation. Clutching his shirt like it's a lifeline.
His hands cage your hips, pulling you close, like he's terrified you'll vanish if he doesn't hold on tight enough. His mouth is brutal. Worshipful. Unhinged.
He kisses like he's claiming territory. Like he's digging into the parts of you no one else ever touched properly.
"You're mine," he growls against your lips, his breath warm, voice splintered at the edges. "You've always been mine. They just borrowed you."
Your nails scrape across his scalp, tangling in his hair as he presses you to the wall. He tastes like cinnamon and something darker—obsession, maybe.
The moody plum strands of your hair fall over your shoulder, brushing his cheek. He buries his face there like it's the only home he's ever known.
"You don't get to break me," you breathe, even as you arch into him, trailing a hand down his back.
"I don't want to break you," he rasps, kissing the hollow of your throat. "I want to build you. Into something that doesn't beg for crumbs. Into something that devours."
"Then start by devouring me," you whisper, your breath hitching as your hands move to the front of his shirt where you fist the material of it. "Show me what it's like to be wanted like that—completely."
The sound that he makes next—inhuman. It was low and guttural, something feral that rumbled deep in his chest. He nips the skin on your neck where he had his face buried before pulling back and kissing you hotly.
It was like a starved man—no patience, no hesitation—just his heat and hunger for you.
His hands are everywhere at once—gripping your hips, sliding up your back, groping your ass as he pushes you closer to him, and threading a hand in your moody plum hair where he holds onto a fist full of it with a possessive kind of desperation.
The sting across your scalp was everything, but painful. It sent a vibrating wave of heat through you as you arched into him.
He presses you against the nearest wall roughly, a soft moan eliciting from you as you instinctively part your legs, allowing him to press a knee between them.
"You have no idea what you invited in," he mutters, biting down softly on the skin at the nape of your neck before kissing it softly, "I've been starving for you. Watching. Waiting. And now..."
His hand curls around your thigh, dragging it up around his waist as you tighten that leg around him, desperately trying to have him as close as possible.
"...and now you've handed yourself over to me. Brave little storm."
You don't look away. You don't flinch. Instead, you whisper against his lips, defiant and aching for more:
"Then devour me, Elias. I'm not afraid of being ruined by you."
His mouth finds yours again, harder this time—claiming. Consuming. And somewhere between the slide of his tongue and the grind of his hips, you realize:
You never stood a chance.
His kiss grows deeper, messier, and more unhinged—like he's trying to pour something into you with every press of his mouth. Not just want. Need. Claim. Ownership.
He pulls backs just enough to look at you, his eyes wild and dark, like the ocean right before it swallows a ship whole.
"You think this is just hunger?" he asks, his voice low and dangerous, "This is worship. Obsession. I would burn down everything that ever touched you before me."
His hands frame your face tenderly, it almost breaks the intensity—but then his thumb drags across your bottom lip, slow and reverent, and his gaze flickers down with such intent that it's like he's undressing your soul.
"You just don't get it, do you, little storm?" He murmurs.
Your silence was his answer, so he continued, "You were never going to be untouched by me. Even if I hadn't said a word. Even if I had stayed in the shadows. You were already mine."
A shiver raced down your spine, but not from fear.
From knowing he was right.
There's been something in the way he looked at you long before this moment—something that saw straight through the shell you'd been surviving in. The hollow version of you that settled for scraps. He hated that version. Not because it was weak. But because it wasn't meant for you.
"You let someone make you feel small," he says, jaw tight, nose brushing yours. "But I'm not here to fit beside the broken pieces. I'm here to replace them."
He lifts your chin, tilting your gaze to his. There's no space left between you—only heat and the sound of your breath tangling with his.
"And you..." he whispers, lowering his mouth to your collarbone, "are going to learn how to crave like I do. How to take. How to need without shame."
His teeth graze your skin. Not biting. Claiming.
"You'll see," he says, voice like sin. "Soon you won't remember what it was like before me. You'll forget the taste of anything less than this."
He rolls his hips against yours—deliberate, slow, the promise of everything he hasn't done yet.
And you gasp, head falling back.
"Say it," he demands, voice almost broken with restraint. "Say you want to be devoured."
You meet his gaze, breathless, trembling—but not afraid.
"I want it," you whisper. "I want you. All of you. Every ruinous, obsessive piece."
He loses what little control he had left, lifting you as if you were the stars that hung from his sky, before he was pinning you to the bed and taking you like a starved man.
There are nights after that where the house feels smaller.
Not because you're trapped—but because you're wrapped around each other too tightly to care.
His mouth leaves bruises down your spine like his signature—inkless tattoos that say mine. You whisper his name like it's the only word left in your vocabulary.
And still, he gives you more.
More heat. More need. More madness.
He makes you feel—ruined, yes. But also wanted.
You sleep tangled in his arms, his hand splayed across your stomach like a warning to the world. He tells you stories until you fall asleep. Some of them are true. Some of them aren't.
He tells you, softly, one night:
"I used to think I couldn't love. That the way my mind works made me incapable of it. But then I saw you in that bookstore. And suddenly, I knew. I just hadn't met the right kind of broken yet."
The house is gone now. Burned. Forgotten.
You live in a cabin deep in the woods. No cell service. No nosy neighbors. Just silence and sky.
Your hair is longer now. Still moody plum. Still soft. Elias brushes it every morning, even if you don't ask him to.
He wakes you with coffee and bruises on your hips from the night before. You kiss the scar on his chest he never talks about.
There's a garden out back. He grows flowers you once mentioned in passing. You think it's sweet. You also think the shovel he keeps sharpened is not just for gardening.
People sometimes disappear around here.
He calls you his "little storm" still.
And when you curl into him at night, the world feels quiet. Like nothing outside your bedroom exists.
Maybe you're still a little lost.
But you're no longer starving.
And he still looks at you like you're everything he ever wanted in a world that never gave him anything.
You were never supposed to be his.
"Here is that cup of tea for you, little storm." He says, handing your mug before taking a seat next to you on the bench.
"Elias?" You question softly.
"Hm?" He hums, his fingers twirling a strand of your moody plum hair around his finger.
"I love you." You say softly, smiling softly at his stuttered breath.
While you've loved him silently for a while now, you realized you've never said it aloud to him. He's waited...and waited...and waited.
"Little storm, I love you so much." He mumbles, kissing your shoulder, careful not to cause you to shift too much because he didn't want you to spill your tea on you.
“You are trying so hard to stay calm over there, huh?” You laugh softly.
“Well, yes. My stubborn little storm finally told me she loved me. Littlest storm, you are my witness.” He says teasingly as he rests a hand on your belly.
“I’ve loved you for a while that I was so content with it that I guess I hadn’t said it. But, I do love you. So much, Elias. You saved me.” You say softly, leaning over to kiss him softly.
