Multi fandom One-Shots

by Ix_Moon

Summary:

In this collection, you'll find diverse one-shots that explore the intricate dynamics of beloved characters as they navigate their unique worlds and face challenges that test their limits. From high-stakes battles and emotional revelations to lighthearted adventures and bizarre encounters, each story offers a fresh perspective and a new twist on familiar tales.
Experience the thrill of crossover events where heroes and villains collide, friendships are forged, and alliances are tested.
Prepare for the unexpected as characters interact in ways you never thought possible.
With a mix of action, romance, humor, and drama, these one-shots are perfect for fans looking for a quick escape into the multiverse. Whether you're seeking an epic showdown or a heartwarming reunion, there's something for everyone in this collection.
Join me on this wild ride through alternate realities, and let your imagination soar as we explore the endless possibilities of our favorite fandoms!

Chapter 1: Back to December - Elijah Mikaelson

The streets of New Orleans were alive with the sounds of laughter and music, but Evelyn Sinclair felt as though she were walking through a fog. The vibrant colors of the evening masquerade blurred together as she navigated the crowded ballroom, her heart heavy with fear and shame. She was a daughter of wealth and privilege, yet here she was, hiding the truth of her situation beneath layers of silk and lace.
Just weeks earlier, her life had been shattered by an unspeakable act—a violent assault that left her pregnant and alone. Her father’s response was cold and calculated; he had sought to protect his name rather than his daughter. Forced to marry a stranger to cover her disgrace, she felt like a pawn in a game she didn’t want to play.
It was in this state of despair that she first met Elijah Mikaelson. The moment their eyes locked across the ballroom, a flicker of something unfamiliar stirred within her. He was tall and striking, with an elegance that drew the gaze of everyone in the room. But it was not his appearance that caught her attention; it was the kindness in his eyes.
“Evelyn,” he approached her, his voice soft yet commanding. “May I have this dance?”
She hesitated, the knot in her stomach tightening. But there was something reassuring about his presence, and despite her fears, she nodded. As they danced, he spoke to her in gentle tones, asking about her interests, her life—anything but the dark shadow that loomed over her. It was a brief respite from her reality, and for a moment, she allowed herself to forget.
But the moment was fleeting. As the night wore on and the laughter echoed around her, the truth crashed back down like a tidal wave. She felt the weight of her secret pressing down, suffocating her. When she fled the ballroom, Elijah followed her, concern etched on his handsome features.
“Evelyn! Wait!” he called, catching up to her in the dimly lit hallway. “What troubles you?”
She turned to him, tears brimming in her eyes. “I cannot do this,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I cannot pretend to be happy when I am so... broken.”
Elijah’s expression softened, and he stepped closer, his gaze searching hers. “You are not broken. You are strong, and you deserve to be treated with kindness, not scorn. Let me help you.”
The sincerity in his voice made her heartache. And at that moment she realized that perhaps he was the only one who truly understood her pain. Without thinking, she reached for his hand, finding solace in his warm grip.
The days that followed their whirlwind marriage were filled with uncertainty. Evelyn found herself in a grand yet unfamiliar home, surrounded by lavish décor and reminders of her new life. Elijah was patient, offering her a sense of security she had long since lost. He tended to her needs, ensuring she was comfortable and cared for, but the weight of their circumstances hung heavily between them.
Evelyn struggled with her feelings—both toward him and the child growing within her. Her emotions swung like a pendulum, from gratitude to despair, and she often found herself withdrawing from him, fearing she would never be the wife he deserved.
One evening, as they sat together in their drawing room, Elijah spoke gently. “Evelyn, I know this is overwhelming. But we can face this together.”
She met his gaze, tears filling her eyes. “I don’t know how to be a mother. I never wanted this life.”
Elijah reached for her hand, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. “You don’t have to know everything right now. Just take it one day at a time. I’m here for you, and I promise to help you every step of the way.”
That night, the weight of her uncertainties settled over her as they prepared for bed. The room was dimly lit by candlelight, shadows dancing on the walls. Evelyn lay on the bed, her heart racing as she felt the impending weight of their wedding night.
Elijah entered the room, his presence both comforting and intimidating. She knew this was a part of their union, but the thought of intimacy filled her with dread. It was a night meant to symbolize their love, yet her mind swirled with reminders of her past trauma.
Elijah approached her slowly as if sensing her anxiety. He sat beside her, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Evelyn, you’re safe with me,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. “We don’t have to rush into anything you’re not ready for.”
As he spoke, she felt the tension in her body start to ease, but fear still gripped her. The intimacy she once craved now felt suffocating. When he leaned in to kiss her, she allowed it, but her mind was far away, trapped in memories she couldn’t escape.
When he moved to lay beside her, she stiffened, her breath hitching in her throat. She could feel him hovering, sensing her hesitation. But he didn’t push her; he waited.
“Evelyn,” he whispered, his forehead resting against hers. “If you’re not comfortable, please tell me.”
She fought against her instincts, wanting to give him what he desired. “I’m fine,” she said, forcing a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
But as he moved closer, as he pressed his lips against hers, she felt herself retreating into her mind. She lay there, still and silent, as Elijah took his time, guiding her gently. She wanted to feel something—anything—but all she could manage was to lay there, letting it happen.
As Elijah continued, he noticed her discomfort. “Evelyn?” he said softly, pausing his movements. “Are you okay?”
His voice pulled her back, and she realized she was trembling, tears slipping from her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she gasped, her voice breaking. “I can’t—I don’t want to disappoint you.”
Elijah immediately halted, concern flooding his features. He pulled back, brushing the tears from her cheeks. “You could never disappoint me. I don’t want you to feel this way. You’re my wife, and I care for you deeply.”
Evelyn turned away, feeling exposed and vulnerable. She lay in silence, the weight of her shame pressing down on her.
Days turned into weeks, and while the initial struggles of their marriage were overwhelming, Elijah remained steadfast by her side. He continued to support her, encouraging her to open up about her feelings.
One night, as they sat together in the garden, Evelyn felt the tension begin to ease. The stars sparkled overhead, and for the first time since their marriage, she found herself smiling at the warmth of Elijah's presence.
“Evelyn,” he said, taking her hand in his, “we will navigate this together. You are stronger than you know.”
Her heart swelled with gratitude as she looked into his eyes. She felt a flicker of hope ignite within her. Maybe, just maybe, she could find her way through the darkness with him by her side.
And in that moment, Evelyn realized that she didn’t have to be alone. She had a partner—one who believed in her, one who would fight for her, and one who could help her rediscover the woman she thought she had lost forever.

 

Present day - mystic falls

 

Mikael is not a man who speaks with kindness, but he is observant. He has always been able to smell weakness and use it against others. When he approaches Evelyn, he does so with the air of a predator cornering fragile prey.
"You do not belong in this family," he tells her, his voice measured, sharp. "You know that as well as I do. My son treats you like a ghost, and my daughter treats you like a nuisance. Even Elijah—he pities you, does he not?"
His words cut deep, but Evelyn remains silent, her hands clasped together, trembling.
"You are wasting your loyalty on a family that does not care for you," Mikael continues. "Klaus took your husband from you. I can give him back. Help me, and you will be free of the bastard who has stolen everything from you."
Evelyn wants to refuse. She wants to say that Elijah will wake and that she will wait for him. But Mikael sees the flicker of hesitation in her eyes. He sees something else too—fear not just of him, but of something deeper.
Evelyn is terrified of him. But not in the way others fear Mikael for his power. She does not flinch when he raises his voice or threatens Klaus. No—she freezes when he stands too close. When his voice drops to a certain tone. When he moves too suddenly.
Mikael has seen this fear before.
It reminds him of Freya.
The realization is slow, but it clicks into place when Evelyn, overwhelmed by his presence, stumbles back, her breathing uneven. He watches as her hands shake, her eyes darting wildly as if she is trapped. It is not the fear of battle or pain. It is the fear of being powerless.
Mikael is a monster, but he is not blind.
"Who?" he demands, his voice low and dangerous. "Who did this to you?"
Evelyn gasps, her breath caught in her throat, shaking her head violently.
Mikael is not a gentle man. He is a cruel father, a terrible husband, and a vengeful hunter. But the idea of someone violating what is his—of taking from a woman fills him with a cold, bitter rage.
Evelyn does not answer. She does not have to.
Mikael is disgusted. Not at Evelyn, but at what was done to her.
And then, he sees it—how Klaus and Rebekah treat her. How they sneer, dismiss her, speak down to her without care or thought. They do not know. They have not paid attention.
That disgusts Mikael even more.
Despite everything, she refuses.
She is afraid of Klaus, but she will not betray Elijah.
When she gathers the strength to speak, her voice is small but firm. "I will not help you."
Mikael narrows his eyes, angered. But he does not lash out at her as he would at Klaus or Rebekah.
"Then you are a fool," he says coldly. "And you will suffer for it."
With that, he leaves.
Evelyn is left shaken, her heart pounding, but she does not regret her choice.
She will wait for Elijah.
She always does.

Chapter 2: The Fine Print - Elijah Mikaelson

New York City – Laurent & Calloway LLC

 

Vivienne Laurent had built her empire on two things—winning and never losing control. The air in her office was crisp and sharp, tinged with the faint scent of expensive leather and the faintest hint of jasmine from her desk plant, a small reminder of the outside world she often locked herself away from. She wasn’t just any corporate attorney. She was the one billionaires called when their backs were against the wall. Ruthless in negotiations, a nightmare in court. A woman who didn’t take cases—she took scalps.
Opposing attorneys called her The Wolf of Fifth Avenue. Clients swore she had ice in her veins. She had never lost a case, and she had never—not once—let someone intimidate her. Until Elijah Mikaelson.
He sat across from her desk, the very picture of composed arrogance. His presence filled the room, radiating an aura of quiet, dangerous power without ever raising his voice. The dim light from the desk lamp cast shadows across his chiseled features, emphasizing the sharpness of his jaw and the intensity in his dark eyes. Vivienne remained unreadable, tapping her manicured nails against a thick contract, the rhythmic sound echoing in the silence like a heartbeat.
“Twelve properties, six months, paid in cash through offshore accounts.” She met his gaze, the flicker of challenge igniting a fire in her chest. “Either you’re laundering money, or you’re planning world domination. Which is it?”
A slow, amused smile spread across his lips, sending a shiver down her spine. “Neither.”
Vivienne tilted her head, curiosity piqued, but she masked it with skepticism. “Then why the secrecy?”
“I prefer discretion in my affairs.”
She let out a dry chuckle, the sound bitter on her tongue. “People who say that are usually hiding something.”
Elijah didn’t blink, his calmness infuriating yet compelling. “And yet, here you are. Taking me on as a client.”
Viv hated that he had a point. Because she had taken him on. Because she was intrigued. Vivienne Laurent did not get rattled. And yet, an hour after their meeting, she was still in her office, staring at the file. The problem wasn’t Elijah’s real estate acquisitions. The problem was him.
Something about the way he watched her made her pulse quicken. He moved like a predator, every step measured and deliberate, his presence suffocatingly magnetic. The air between them crackled with unspoken tension, and her instincts screamed at her to move—to run. But that was impossible. Wasn’t it?
The door to her office clicked shut.
Vivienne looked up sharply, her heart racing, only to find Elijah Mikaelson standing inside. Again. The scent of his cologne—a rich, woody aroma laced with something dark and alluring—wrapped around her, drawing her in. She arched a brow. “I didn’t hear you knock.”
His lips twitched in a half-smile, and the warmth of it made her skin prickle. “I didn’t.”
Viv leaned back, arms folded, but her defenses felt fragile. “Do all my clients think they can just walk in whenever they feel like it?”
“Only the interesting ones.”
She narrowed her eyes, determination flaring within her. “What do you want, Mr. Mikaelson?”
His gaze flickered to the contract on her desk, his voice low and velvety. “You don’t trust me.”
Viv scoffed, the sound more defensive than she intended. “I don’t trust anyone.”
Elijah stepped closer. Slow. Measured. Each step was a deliberate brush against her carefully constructed walls, and suddenly, Vivienne Laurent—the undefeated, unshakable Wolf of Fifth Avenue—felt her body scream at her to move. To escape. As if something primal within her recognized something in him.
But that was impossible.
The first time she lost control, it was in court. She was cross-examining a hostile witness when the smell hit her—fear, deceit, something wrong—and suddenly, she knew. The man was lying. She could feel it, a tight coil of unease in her stomach. She could smell the sweat under his cologne, hear the slight stutter in his heartbeat, an erratic rhythm that drummed against the charged atmosphere. Her fingers curled against the podium, the wood splintering beneath her grip. Something in her chest tightened like a vice.
And then—she growled.
The courtroom went dead silent. The witness recoiled, eyes wide with terror. The judge gaped, and opposing counsel looked horrified. Viv stumbled back, breath shallow, heart pounding like a war drum in her ears. She barely made it to her office before slamming the door shut, hands shaking, the taste of panic sour on her tongue.
And when she turned—
Elijah Mikaelson was waiting inside.
“You knew,” she whispered, the tremor in her voice betraying her.
His expression was unreadable, but something simmered beneath the surface. “I suspected.”
“Suspected?” Her voice was sharp, brittle. “And you just let me make a fool of myself?”
He tilted his head, a flicker of understanding passing through his gaze. “You needed to see it for yourself.”
She laughed—harsh and humorless, the sound echoing in the small room. “I am not—” She swallowed hard, her throat dry. “I am not some rabid animal.”
“No,” Elijah agreed, his voice smooth as silk. “You are not.”
Something in his voice made her chest tighten, a confusing mix of fear and attraction coursing through her veins.
“You are more.”
Viv clenched her jaw, fighting the urge to recoil from the truth in his words. “I don’t want to be more.”
Elijah stepped closer, his presence overwhelming. “Denial will not change the truth.”
She shook her head, disbelief clawing at her. “This is not my life.”
“Then whose life is it?”
Viv went silent, her heart racing, because she didn’t have an answer. The walls she had built around her crumbled slightly, and the vulnerability terrified her.
For days, Viv buried herself in work, drowning in the chaos of contracts and negotiations, ignoring Elijah’s calls like they were a siren’s song. She pretended nothing had changed, but she felt it—a subtle shift in the air. Every time she walked past a mirror, every time she caught a scent she shouldn’t recognize, every time she heard a heartbeat from across a room, her world shifted, tilting on an axis she couldn’t control.
And then, one night—
She woke up in her office. The desk lamp still cast a warm glow, illuminating the chaos around her. No blood. No violence. No memories missing. But she felt it, a heavy weight in her chest that screamed something inside her wasn’t the same.
And then she saw him.
Elijah. Standing in the doorway, a dark silhouette against the light, watching.
“You knew,” she accused, voice quieter this time, trembling with a mix of anger and desperation.
“I did.”
Viv let out a bitter laugh, a hollow sound that echoed her fear. “What do you want from me, Elijah?”
His gaze softened, just a fraction, revealing a glimpse of the man beneath the carefully crafted exterior. “Nothing.” A pause. “But what do you want?”
Viv opened her mouth, ready to snap, ready to fight, but she had nothing. For the first time in her life, she had nothing. And it terrified her.
That night, Elijah made her a choice.
“I can teach you,” he said, his voice low and compelling. “Control. Discipline. How to be yourself without being afraid of it.”
Viv swallowed, the words heavy in the air between them. “And if I say no?”
His eyes darkened, a storm brewing beneath the surface. “Then one day, you will break. And when you do, it won’t be on your terms.”
Her breath hitched, a knot of fear and desire twisting in her gut. She had spent her entire life fighting for control—winning, dominating, ensuring no one dictated her future. And yet—
Elijah Mikaelson was offering her a choice.
Viv met his gaze, the intensity of it pulling her in. And for the first time, she let herself listen. “I want to help you,” he said, his voice unwavering.
And against every instinct she had—
She believed him.

Chapter 3: Part Two: The Fine Print - Elijah Mikaelson

Vivienne Laurent arrived late.
Elijah had been waiting — as he always did. Time moved differently for him, as it always did, and it had never been a true concern.
The estate, with its stone walls worn by centuries of history, lay still beneath the gathering twilight. Pine-scented wind brushed through the tall trees, a hint of rain on the horizon. The quiet was absolute, save for the sound of Vivienne’s steps.
Sharp. Measured. But beneath the rhythm, there was a tremor — not unlike the flutter of prey sensing danger. A feeling Elijah knew all too well.
When she finally appeared, stepping through the heavy iron gates, Vivienne's figure was a sharp contrast to the natural world around her: pristine, unbothered by the wet air, with her red lips stark against her flawless complexion and her tailored black suit clinging to her like a second skin.
"You’re late," Elijah said, his tone a soft reprimand, but devoid of irritation.
Vivienne lifted her chin, the pride in her movement something he had noted the first time they met. "Traffic," she said, her voice smooth, measured. But the flicker of hesitation in her eyes was unmistakable.
"You lie," he said quietly, eyes fixed on hers. He had learned long ago how to read the smallest tells in others. "Or perhaps it is your fear that made you late."
She stiffened. "I don’t have time for games, Mikaelson."
Elijah allowed a small smile to ghost his lips as he turned away. "Then you are in the wrong place, Ms. Laurent."
She followed him across the estate grounds, the manicured lawn shifting underfoot as they moved toward the back of the property — toward the place where he trained, where he pushed his limits, and where he would push hers.
The air was thick with unspoken tension. She had no idea what she had signed up for.
Elijah stood in the center of the training grounds, a vast expanse of grass bordered by high hedges that blocked out the distant city lights, plunging the area into a cool, thick darkness. The torches surrounding them cast long shadows, their flames flickering in the damp air.
He turned to Vivienne, his face unreadable.
"Close your eyes," he instructed, his voice calm and commanding, like a siren call meant only for her.
Vivienne raised an eyebrow. "I don’t take orders."
He stepped forward, his movements fluid, predatory. "You will. If you wish to survive."
With a huff, Vivienne closed her eyes, the sense of vulnerability immediately unsettling her. The world went dark — and in the absence of sight, her other senses took over. She heard the distant sound of water lapping against stone, the quiet stir of the leaves in the trees, the soft rustle of Elijah's clothing as he moved behind her. But there was more.
A hawk overhead shifted in mid-flight, its wings cutting through the air with a precision that made her breath catch. The cool earth beneath her feet, the faint, almost imperceptible scent of metal on the wind, the rise, and fall of the nearby servant’s breath — every detail, every sound, was amplified to the point of overwhelming her.
"Focus," Elijah said, his voice cutting through the noise. "Do you hear it? The heartbeat of the deer three miles away? Can you smell the tension in the air?"
Her mind reeled. It was too much. Too much.
Vivienne shook her head, trying to block it all out, but the world only grew sharper, louder. Each sensation gripped her, tearing through her control.
She felt it then — the primal, deep-rooted instinct to fight, to flee. The power beneath her skin, pulsing, demanding to be released. The anger, the frustration, the fear — all of it fed her, coaxed her, pushed her toward something darker.
Elijah’s voice cut through the storm of her senses. "You are a weapon, Vivienne. But weapons must be controlled. Otherwise, they are only destruction."
Suddenly, he was behind her, his presence a ghost of cool air that swept against her neck. His breath was calm. Unhurried.
"You are angry," he said, almost like a whisper. "And that anger fuels you. But you cannot let it own you. You are the one who must control it."
Her nails began to extend — long, sharp, her fangs brushing against her lips. She turned on instinct, a feral growl slipping past her throat, her body moving faster than her mind could react. Her arm arced toward his throat — but then she stopped.
Her body was right there — ready — but she held herself back. Her fangs still ached, her claws still burned, but she did not strike.
Elijah stood perfectly still, watching her, his expression unreadable.
"Good," he said, his voice low with quiet approval. "You stopped yourself. That is control."
Vivienne stepped back, her breath coming in harsh gasps as she struggled to regain her composure. She clenched her fists at her sides, grounding herself as the world began to slow, the overwhelming sensations dulling back to something manageable.
"First victory," Elijah murmured, watching her with a cool gaze that barely flickered with recognition of her achievement. "But it is only the first."
Before she could gather herself, the sound of heavy footsteps broke the moment.
The gates of the estate creaked open, a sharp metal sound that ripped through the stillness. Vivienne whipped around, heart still pounding, but already slipping into the defensive stance she had just learned.
Klaus stormed into the courtyard, his face twisted with desperation. His eyes were wild, his movements sharp, as though he were ready to rip through the world to get what he wanted.
"Where is he?!" Klaus roared, his voice a jagged edge. "Elijah!"
Elijah didn’t flinch. Of course, he didn’t. He was used to Klaus’ outbursts — the rage that ran like fire through his brother’s veins.
"Here I am, Niklaus," Elijah replied smoothly, his tone calm, though there was a sharpness beneath it that told Klaus exactly who was in control now.
Klaus’ gaze snapped to him, furious, pleading. "Hayley wants to take Hope! She’s threatening to disappear with her, Elijah, and I need you to stop her — now!"
Vivienne took a step forward, still pulsing with the remnants of adrenaline from her training. Her eyes flicked between the two brothers, reading the tension that thrummed between them.
Klaus’ desperation was palpable, his usually imposing presence faltering just enough to show that, for all his power, he was a man on the verge of losing what he cherished most.
"I can help," Vivienne interjected, her voice cutting through the chaos. "But I need a deal."
Klaus looked at her, his gaze dismissive. "And who the hell are you to—"
"Vivienne Laurent," she answered, her voice calm but carrying the weight of finality. "Attorney. And if you hire me, I can win full custody of Hope. You can keep her."
Klaus sneered. "You? A lawyer? Do you think I need a lawyer to handle my family’s mess?"
Elijah, for the first time that evening, allowed a faint, approving smile to curl at the corner of his lips.
"You would be wise to listen to Ms. Laurent, Niklaus," he said, his voice dark with the quiet authority of someone who knew the cost of underestimating a force. "She is more than capable of handling... your delicate situation."
Klaus glared, his temper flaring again, but the realization of necessity dawned on him. The war between them would have to wait.
"Fine," he snapped, fury still burning in his eyes. "We’ll talk terms later. But know this, Vivienne — I don’t trust anyone who isn’t a Mikaelson."
Vivienne met his gaze unflinchingly. "That’s your problem, then. Not mine."
With a final glance at Elijah, Klaus turned and stormed out, leaving the two of them standing in the quiet aftermath.
Elijah turned to Vivienne, his gaze appraising.
"That," he said, "was a smart move."
Vivienne felt her heart still racing. She had stepped into their world — into something far larger than herself — and she had done it without breaking. She wasn’t sure whether that made her foolish or incredibly brave. Perhaps both.
"Remember," Elijah continued, his eyes locking onto hers with the weight of someone who had seen far too much blood and betrayal, "one victory is never enough. You must remain vigilant. In this world, weakness will be exploited."
Her lips parted, ready to challenge him, but something stopped her. Maybe it was the calm, almost comforting weight of his words. Or maybe, deep down, she understood he was right.
"Let’s see if I can handle more than one," she said instead.
And for the first time, the uncertainty in her voice wasn’t fear. It was the first step toward becoming something far more dangerous.

Chapter 4: Bad Blood - Steve Rogers

Location: A dimly lit warehouse on the outskirts of Washington, D.C.
Time: 2005

 

The metallic clank of chains echoed through the dimly lit warehouse as Cassandra Ashford tightened her grip on the cold steel of the torture device. She stood in stark contrast to the grim surroundings—her tailored black suit and polished heels exuding a sense of authority that belied the brutality of the scene. The dim light flickered, casting eerie shadows on the walls, mirroring the darkness that lurked within her.
Across the room, a man hung from the ceiling by his wrists, his body trembling from pain and fear. His shirt was torn, revealing bruises that marred his skin. The unmistakable scent of sweat and blood filled the air, mingling with the stale odor of the warehouse. Cassandra stepped closer, her heels clicking against the concrete floor, each sound deliberate and ominous.
“Do you know why you’re here?” she asked, her voice low and measured. She leaned in, locking eyes with the man who struggled to meet her gaze. “You’ve been a thorn in our side for far too long, and it’s time to remove you.”
The man’s breathing quickened, his fear palpable. “I—I don’t know anything! Please, just let me go!”
Cassandra straightened, her expression unyielding. “You see, that’s where you’re mistaken. You do know something. You’ve been feeding information to our enemies, and that makes you a liability.” She paused, letting her words sink in. “I could make this quick, but I think a more creative approach is in order.”
Rumlow stood nearby, arms crossed, skepticism etched across his face. “Cassandra, you’re supposed to observe,” he said, his voice dripping with condescension. “We don’t need you here if you’re just going to hesitate. You don’t have the stomach for this.”
Ignoring him, she retrieved a small device from her pocket, a sleek gadget designed for pain and manipulation. She pressed a button, and the device hummed to life, casting an ominous glow in the darkness. She turned her attention back to the man, who was now trembling in fear.
“Tell me what I want to know,” she demanded, her voice steady. “Or I will make sure your family pays the price for your silence.”
Panic washed over the man’s face as she spoke, and he began to tremble. “No, please! Don’t hurt them! They have nothing to do with this!”
Cassandra stepped closer, her expression cold. “That’s precisely the point. I have no qualms about hurting those you love. Your father’s business could collapse, your sister could end up in a very unfortunate situation… the possibilities are endless.” She leaned in closer, her tone dropping to a whisper. “You can stop all of this by simply telling me what I need to know.”
Rumlow raised an eyebrow, surprised by her sudden assertiveness. The tension in the room shifted as the other STRIKE team members exchanged glances, some impressed and others taken aback.
“Now that’s what I’m talking about,” one of the agents murmured, a hint of admiration in his voice.
With a reluctant nod, the man finally spoke, revealing what he knew. Each word that fell from his lips felt like a victory, a reminder of her ability to manipulate and control those around her. She listened intently, masking her satisfaction behind a veneer of professionalism.
After extracting the information she needed, Cassandra stepped back, her demeanor shifting from ruthless interrogator to cold strategist. “Let’s wrap this up,” she ordered her team, feeling a rush of accomplishment. She had secured valuable intel, and in the process, she had proven her worth to STRIKE.
Rumlow watched her with a newfound respect, his previous doubts fading. “Looks like you do have what it takes after all,” he admitted, a grudging approval in his tone.
As they prepared to leave, Cassandra cast one last glance at the trembling man. His despair mirrored the turmoil she often felt within herself—an unrelenting battle between her ambition and the darkness of her choices. But for now, she buried those thoughts deep, choosing instead to revel in her success.
“Remember this moment, Rumlow,” she said, her voice firm as she faced him. “This is how we get results. Sometimes, you have to embrace the shadows to find the light.”
With that, Cassandra walked away from the warehouse, feeling both empowered and haunted. She was a force to be reckoned with, hidden in the shadows of a life that would soon intertwine with heroes and villains alike.

 

2014, Washington, D.C.

 

The Lemurian Star mission wasn’t supposed to feel like a test.
Cassandra stood beside Brock Rumlow, her expression unreadable beneath her tactical gear as they received orders. STRIKE had been sent in to retrieve the hostages from Algerian pirates, but she knew this wasn’t just about saving lives.
HYDRA had other plans.
Steve Rogers had joined them on the mission, standing tall in his Captain America uniform, his presence a stark reminder of a world Cassandra had once admired. A world she had abandoned for something colder, sharper, and more efficient.
She watched as Steve moved with precision, his shield colliding with enemies in rapid succession. He was a soldier, but not like them. He fought for something bigger than orders.
Something she had lost a long time ago.
As the mission progressed, Cassandra’s orders were clear—secure the hostages, eliminate threats, and most importantly, ensure HYDRA’s classified objectives remained hidden.
But then Steve found Natasha Romanoff extracting files from the ship’s servers, and everything began to unravel.
“What are you doing?” Steve demanded.
Cassandra exchanged a glance with Rumlow. This was it—the moment HYDRA had planned for.
Steve wasn’t just a soldier following orders. He asked questions. He pushed back. And that made him a threat.
The mission ended, but Cassandra knew things were only beginning.
HYDRA was watching.
She had spilled blood for them.
But now, she wondered if she would soon be drowning in it.

Chapter 5: Part 2: Bad Blood - Steve Rogers

Setting: Cassandra’s Apartment, Washington, D.C.
Time: Late night, the day after the events of Lemurian Star

 

The apartment was quiet except for the soft hiss of a record player spinning something bluesy and slow. Dim lighting danced off whiskey glasses and an open window letting in the humid D.C. night air. Cassandra Ashford, shirtless but wrapped in a silk robe, sat sideways on the couch with her injured ribs propped up by pillows, a cigarette burning between her fingers, and a half-empty bottle of bourbon resting on the table beside her.
The knock on her door was tentative.
“It’s open, Cap.” Her voice was hoarse, but it held that sharp edge that never quite dulled—even injured.
Steve Rogers stepped in, looking around the dark, cozy chaos of her space. She didn’t glance at him.
“You’re early. I figured you’d show up tomorrow with some Boy Scout lecture about teamwork and follow-through.”
“You’ve got three broken ribs and a bruised lung, Cassandra,” he said, closing the door behind him. “You’re lucky Natasha stitched you up before you bled out.”
“She has a gentle touch,” she murmured, raising her glass in a lazy salute before taking a slow sip. “Unlike Rumlow. He stitches like a gorilla.”
Steve sat on the arm of the couch and looked her over. “You should be resting.”
She waved a hand. “I am resting. I’m also bored. And pissed. So unless you’re here to scold me, make yourself useful.” She flicked her cigarette into the tray, then nodded toward a bottle of black nail polish on the coffee table.
“Help me paint my toes. My ribs don’t bend that way right now.”
Steve blinked. “You’re joking.”
“Do I look like I’m joking?”
He sighed, but the corners of his mouth twitched like he was holding back a smirk. He picked up the bottle and knelt in front of her.
“Try not to get it on my skin, Rogers. I don’t want to look like I dipped my feet in tar.”
“I fought Nazis. I think I can handle this,” he muttered.
As he started painting—clumsily at first—Cassandra lit another cigarette, letting the silence stretch for a moment.
“Why’d you join SHIELD?” Steve asked quietly, still focused on her toes.
She didn’t answer right away. Smoke curled in the air, her eyes on the ceiling.
“Because my father didn’t want me to.”
Steve paused, glancing up. “You don’t strike me as someone who rebels just for fun.”
“No. Not for fun,” she said. “For survival.”
He sat back, brows furrowing. “You’re not talking about a metaphor, are you?”
She shook her head, taking another drink.
“You ever wonder why Fury trusted me, even when everyone else had doubts?”
Steve nodded once.
She stared at him, unblinking. “Because he knew who my father was. Knew what I survived.”
“Wait…” he hesitated. “Are you saying… the Vice President?”
Cassandra laughed. It was sharp and bitter. “Bingo. The honorable Vice President Richard Ashford. Proud patriot. War hero. Family man.” She raised her glass mockingly. “We haven’t spoken in over a decade. Not since I told him I was joining SHIELD and not selling my soul to his political empire.”
Steve leaned back slightly, thoughtful. “That’s a hell of a thing to carry.”
“It’s just weight,” she said. “Eventually you stop feeling it. Or you convince yourself you have.”
A beat passed.
“I didn’t know,” Steve said gently.
“Now you do.” She looked at him, more tired than anything else. “Still want to paint the other foot?”
He chuckled under his breath, picking up the polish again.
“You’re a strange woman, Cassandra.”
“Better strange than forgettable.”
As Steve started on the other foot, she leaned back, closing her eyes as the record player whispered through the dark.
They sat in silence, the smoke curling like old ghosts between them.
Steve blew gently on her freshly painted toes as Cassandra took another sip of bourbon, the clink of ice the only sound between them for a beat. The record had switched to something smooth and moody—Etta James, maybe. He hadn’t paid much attention since walking in.
He glanced up at her. “Can I ask you something?”
She raised a brow, cigarette poised between two fingers. “You’re already here, painting my damn toes. I feel like we’ve passed the point of secrets.”
“Why don’t people like you?” he asked bluntly. “Most of the agents… they talk. And not kindly.”
She smirked, not offended—just tired. “Because I didn’t play nice when I started.” She pulled the silk robe tighter around her bruised body. “They saw the surname Ashford and assumed I got in through daddy’s name. Laughed behind my back. Called me spoiled. Soft.”
She paused. The look in her eyes sharpened.
“Until I made STRIKE.”
Steve’s eyes flicked up. “Rumlow?”
“Yeah.” A slow nod. “He saw something. Not sure what—but he didn’t treat me like glass. Broke a few ribs the first week. I broke his nose the second.” A bitter grin touched her lips. “That earned me some grudging respect. And a permanent spot on his team.”
Steve tilted his head, studying her. “You’re loyal to him.”
She tapped her ash into the tray. “STRIKE was the first place I didn’t feel like a fucking disappointment.”
There was something hollow in her voice now. Something Steve couldn’t quite name. But it clawed at his instincts.
“Cassandra…” he said carefully, “is there something I should know about STRIKE?”
She looked at him then. Really looked. And for a second, her cold mask faltered.
Then she smiled, slow and sly. “You ask a lot of questions, Captain.”
“It’s my job,” he said, matching her tone.
She leaned forward, wincing as the motion pulled at her ribs, and flicked his chest with her finger.
“And mine is knowing when to keep my mouth shut.”
Another beat passed. She sat back again and lit a new cigarette.
“Let me give you some advice, Steve.” Her voice was low, almost gentle. “Don’t trust anyone who doesn’t bleed for what they believe in. Or bleed when it all goes to hell.”
He stared at her for a long moment, searching for something in her expression.
But Cassandra just stared back with her bloodshot eyes and smoky smile, toe nails perfectly black, ribs aching, and secrets buried so deep not even fire could reach them.
And outside, the record spun on.

 

Location: SHIELD Headquarters, Washington, D.C.

The corridors of SHIELD buzzed with the aftermath of the Lemurian Star operation—debriefs, coded alerts, whispers passing between agents. But Cassandra Ashford moved through the chaos like a ghost—unnoticed by most, unbothered by all. Until Rumlow stepped into her path.
He looked irritated. That wasn’t new.
“Secretary Pierce wants to see you.” His voice was gruff, arms crossed. “It’s about the Vice President.”
Cassandra stopped cold.
“Richard Ashford?” she asked flatly, not even bothering to pretend she cared about formal titles.
Rumlow gave her a sharp nod. “He’s here. Meeting with Fury. Saw the mission reports—your name was on them.”
Her expression didn’t change, but her spine straightened, jaw tightening. She hated that man’s name in her mouth. Hated that it still had weight in places like this.
“You alright?” Rumlow asked, quieter this time.
She didn’t answer.
Cassandra didn’t knock. She didn’t need to. The moment the double doors opened and she stepped into the hallway, she saw him—Richard Ashford, Vice President of the United States. Her father.
He looked older. Colder, if that was even possible. Steel-grey suit, eyes like knives. He hadn’t changed at all.
And he paused when he saw her.
“Cassandra.” A single word. Dismissive. As if she were a stray thought, not his daughter.
She didn’t respond. Just met his gaze with the same ice.
Behind her, Steve Rogers had just turned the corner with Natasha Romanoff, headed toward Fury’s office. Steve slowed, picking up on the quiet hostility. He watched as Cassandra’s back stiffened.
“It’s been over ten years, and you still haven’t learned how to walk like a professional.” Richard’s voice was soft but cruel. “You look like a child playing dress-up in that uniform.”
“And you look like a man who’s mistaken power for purpose,” she snapped, voice even. Not a flicker of emotion. “I’m where I want to be.”
“With them?” He gestured around the SHIELD corridor. “You could have been anything. Harvard Law. State Department. I groomed you for more than this.”
“You tried to own me.” She tilted her head. “And when I left, you acted like I died. Maybe I did.”
Steve’s brow furrowed.
“You’re still bitter,” Richard said, brushing a speck of lint from his sleeve. “Don’t be naive. You’ll always be an Ashford. Eventually, you’ll come crawling back to what that name means.”
“I made that name mean something else the day I joined STRIKE,” she said.
Steve stepped forward before Natasha could stop him.
“Is everything alright?”
Cassandra didn’t look at him. She didn’t need to.
Richard did. His eyes appraised Steve. “Captain Rogers. You’re just the kind of man she’d latch onto. Noble. Predictable.” A smirk. “The kind of man who doesn’t ask the right questions.”
Steve’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t respond.
Rumors spread quickly in SHIELD, especially when STRIKE was involved.
Steve stood in the doorway of the armory, watching Cassandra methodically load her gear. Natasha’s words echoed in his mind from earlier.
“You trust her too easily.”
And then the others:
“STRIKE protects its own. No matter what they do.”
“Cassandra? Heard she slept her way into the unit.”
“Ashford’s dangerous. Not because she’s sloppy—because she isn’t.”
“There are rumors… illegal operations. Black site hits. Things even Fury wouldn’t sign off on.”
Steve couldn’t shake it. The way she’d stared down her father like she’d done it her whole life. The way Rumlow hovered, always a few feet behind her like a handler. The way STRIKE agents went silent when she entered a room—out of respect… or fear?
“You alright?” he asked her again.
She didn’t look up from her rifle. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Your father—”
“Is a bastard.” Click. Chamber loaded. “And you’re starting to look at me the same way he did.”
Steve’s throat tightened. “I just want to know the truth.”
Cassandra smiled, finally meeting his eyes.
“That’s the problem with men like you, Steve. You think truth comes in neat little boxes. Good or bad. Right or wrong.” She leaned in, voice low and sharp. “But in STRIKE? The truth has a body count.”
She turned away, grabbing her gear and walking out.
Steve stood alone in the armory, his shield at his back, and a gut feeling he couldn’t shake:
Cassandra Ashford was in deep.
And STRIKE might not be what it claimed to be.

Chapter 6: Burn - Mikaelson brothers

Pairing: Elijah Mikaelson x Emmaline Scofield
Fandoms: Prison break x The Vampire Diaries/The Originals

 

Chicago, Illinois — Five Years Ago (2005)

The golden glow of the city skyline spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows of their penthouse, casting soft light over the living room. Emmaline Scofield sat cross-legged on the couch, sketchbook in her lap, her pencil gliding across the page. Elijah stood near the fireplace, watching her with quiet admiration, a glass of bourbon resting in his hand.
He stepped closer, his voice smooth, teasing. “Are you going to keep me in suspense, or will you finally show me what you’re drawing?”
Emmaline smirked but didn’t look up. “You’ll see when it’s done.”
Elijah chuckled, settling beside her. “You always say that.” He reached for the sketchbook, but she pulled it away, laughing as he tried to peek.
“Patience, fiancé,” she teased, tapping his nose with the end of her pencil.
He caught her wrist gently, pressing a kiss to her palm. “You test me, love.”
She smiled, tilting her head, studying him like he was another unfinished sketch. Her whole life had been built on sharp edges, impossible escapes, and plans layered beneath plans. But Elijah… he was steady. Constant. The one thing she allowed herself to believe in.
That night, she fell asleep in his arms, her sketchbook still open on the coffee table.
By morning, she was gone.
All she left behind was her engagement ring, a paper crane with a location written inside—one Elijah never unfolded—his car missing from the garage, and a trail of questions she never answered.

Present Day (2010) — Mystic Falls

 

The Aston Martin’s tires crunched against the gravel driveway as Elijah pulled up in front of the Mikaelson mansion. The grand estate loomed over them, its presence as imposing as the family waiting inside.
In the passenger seat, Emmaline sat stiffly, arms crossed, jaw clenched. She hadn’t wanted to come. But Klaus had insisted. Kol had pushed. Even Finn had expressed interest. And Elijah… Elijah had simply told her she was coming home.
She scoffed at the thought. Home?
Elijah killed the engine, turning to her. “Emmaline—”
She was already unbuckling her seatbelt. “No.”
His brows furrowed. “No?”
She turned to face him, eyes flashing with something sharp—anger, regret, maybe even fear. “No, we are not doing this. You are not acting like everything is fine.”
Elijah sighed, his fingers tightening around the steering wheel. “I never said everything was fine.”
She huffed a bitter laugh, looking away. “Good. Because I need answers. And I know you do too.”
Her fingers twitched against her thighs. She exhaled through her nose, trying to shake the static beneath her skin. It had always been there, flickering like electricity whenever she was overwhelmed. As a child, it had terrified her—her hands glowing with a strange red hue whenever she was angry or scared.
She thought she’d imagined it. Just another quirk in a life that had been anything but normal.
But now, sitting beside a man she once loved, outside a house filled with people claiming to be her mates, Emmaline wasn’t sure of anything anymore.
She opened the car door, stepping out onto the gravel.
Elijah followed, watching her carefully. “They won’t harm you.”
“Yeah?” She arched a brow, folding her arms. “Tell that to my face when Klaus inevitably tries to bite me just to see if I bleed different.”
Elijah smirked, but there was something unreadable in his expression. “I’ll handle Niklaus.”
Before she could respond, the front doors swung open. Klaus stood at the top of the stairs, arms crossed, a knowing smirk on his lips.
“Well, well,” he drawled, “look who finally came home.”
From behind him, Kol grinned like he’d just won a bet. Finn lingered in the background, watching with quiet intrigue.
Emmaline let out a slow breath, her heart pounding in her chest.
What the hell had she just walked into?
Elijah’s hands tightened on the chair’s arms, his knuckles going white. The tension between them was suffocating, thick with unsaid words and five years of unanswered questions. Emmaline refused to look away, even as she felt her pulse race.
“You should have known better.” His voice was barely above a whisper, but it struck like a command, vibrating through her.
I did know better, she wanted to say. But fear had won back then.
“I left you a message,” she murmured instead, her voice softer now. “A place to meet me. A chance for answers.”
Elijah’s brows furrowed. “What?”
She exhaled shakily, trying to steady herself. “The paper crane.”
His entire body went rigid.
Kol, for once, looked intrigued. “What paper crane?”
Emmaline’s fingers curled into fists in her lap. “The one I left with my ring.” Her voice broke slightly as she added, “I waited, Elijah. For hours. But you never came.”
Elijah straightened abruptly, stepping back as if struck.
Klaus narrowed his eyes, tilting his head. “You mean to tell us that you did reach out?”
“Of course, I did,” she snapped. “I wasn’t going to disappear forever, I just—” She shook her head, swallowing the lump in her throat. “I was just trying to protect him before dragging him into something I didn’t understand because I thought Elijah was human.”
Kol gave an exaggerated sigh. “Well, that changes things.”
Finn, who had been watching quietly, finally spoke. “Elijah, you never found the message?”
Elijah’s face was unreadable, but Emmaline could see the storm brewing beneath the surface.
He never opened it.
The realization struck like a dagger to her chest.
He never unfolded the crane.
Her throat tightened. “You didn’t even try.”
“Emmaline—”
“No.” She shot up from her chair, jabbing a finger into his chest. “You stood here, demanding answers, furious that I left, and you never even bothered to read the only thing I left behind?”
Elijah’s jaw ticked, his eyes dark with something she couldn’t place. “I couldn’t.”
Her breath caught. “What?”
“I couldn’t open it,” he admitted, voice rough. “Because if I did, it would mean accepting that you were truly gone.”
The room went silent.
Klaus let out a low whistle. “That’s… tragic.”
Kol hummed. “Dramatic, if you ask me.”
Finn sighed heavily. “Both of you are idiots.”
Emmaline shook her head, stepping back. “I waited for you, Elijah. I thought you chose not to come.”
Elijah stared at her, his normally controlled expression cracking, just slightly. “I thought you didn’t want me to.”
Something inside her splintered at his words.
Before she could reply, Klaus clapped his hands together. “Well, this has been delightful, but I believe we have a more pressing matter.” His smirk widened. “Our mate is home, after all.”
Kol grinned. “And we’d like to get to know her properly.”
Emmaline blinked, momentarily thrown off by the reminder that this wasn’t just about Elijah anymore. Her stomach twisted. One Mikaelson was already enough of a problem. Now there were four.
Elijah turned sharply to his brothers, his entire body tense. “This is not the time—”
“Oh, but it is,” Klaus cut in, his smirk unwavering. “She’s ours just as much as she is yours, brother.”
Elijah’s hand twitched at his side, and Emmaline swore she could feel the possessiveness rolling off him in waves.
Kol leaned against the couch, grinning. “Careful, Elijah. I think you’re forgetting that we can be just as stubborn as you.”
Emmaline exhaled sharply, rubbing her temples. “I am right here.”
Klaus turned back to her, eyes gleaming. “And that, love, is exactly the problem.”
Because now that she was here, none of them were planning on letting her go.

Chapter 7: I Did Something Bad - Elijah Mikaelson, Lloyd Hansen

Pairing: Elijah Mikaelson x Evangeline Cross x Lloyd Hansen
Warnings: Violence, Dark Themes, Betrayal, Explicit Language
Fandoms: The Gray Man | The Vampire Diaries / The Originals

 

Once Upon a Time…
There was a time when Evangeline Cross was sweet, loving, and full of dreams. That girl was dead now.
People always wanted a villain—someone to blame. And when the truth became too ugly, a lie was easier to believe.
The lie? That she had betrayed the people she once loved.
Maybe it was because she cheated on her back-then boyfriend. Maybe it was because she stole money that wasn’t hers. Maybe it was because she set fire to her entire life and left nothing behind but ashes.
It didn’t matter anymore. The damage was done.
Her friends turned their backs on her.
Her family disowned her.
Her sister—the one person who was supposed to know her best—looked her in the eyes and called her a monster.
So, she became the villain they thought she was.
And she disappeared.
Evangeline didn’t run. Running was for people who felt guilty. For people who had something to be ashamed of.
She simply walked away.
First, it was Paris. The city of lights, love, and stolen money. She spent a few months there, drifting between penthouses and underground poker games, making enough to keep herself in silk and expensive wine.
Then, it was Moscow. A job went wrong. A body hit the floor. She disappeared again.
Istanbul. Buenos Aires. Tokyo.
No place was home.
She was a ghost, a whispered name in rooms full of people who thought they were powerful—until they met her.
And then, one day, she found herself in a city she swore she’d never return to.
New York.
That’s where she met him.
The bar was upscale but quiet. Dimly lit. The kind of place where men in tailored suits made deals over bourbon and secrets.
Evangeline was playing a game. A high-stakes one. The man across from her thought he was winning. He wasn’t.
Then, she felt it.
A presence. A gaze that burned into her skin, assessing, measuring, waiting.
When she glanced up, she saw him.
Elijah Mikaelson sat in the corner, wine glass in hand, the very picture of elegance and control. He wasn’t watching her the way most men did—like she was something pretty they could possess.
No, Elijah was studying her. Like he already knew what she was.
A wolf in silk.
When the game ended (and she won, of course), she took her drink and slid into the seat across from him.
"Do I know you?" she asked, tilting her head.
Elijah set his glass down, his fingers tapping against the stem. "Not yet."
"And yet, you’re watching me."
He smiled, slow and knowing. "I find you... fascinating."
It was the beginning of something inevitable.
Vienna.
The job was supposed to be simple—get in, get the information, and get out. Except someone else had the same plan.
Lloyd Hansen was a storm in a silk suit, all cocky arrogance and danger wrapped in a smirk. He had been waiting for her at the meeting point, gun in hand, but instead of shooting, he just laughed.
"Well, well, well. Who the hell are you?"
Evangeline had simply smiled, unfazed. "Someone who gets paid to do this better than you."
Lloyd had loved that.
The fight that followed was electric. A dance of knives and close calls, of taunts and near misses. And when it was over, they were both bloody, bruised, and grinning like idiots.
"Shit," Lloyd had panted, wiping blood from his lip. "I think I like you."
And just like that, she had two men in her life.
One, a calculated storm she never saw coming.
The other, chaos she walked into willingly.
Present Day:
The party was filled with the elite—politicians, CEOs, and criminals in designer suits pretending they were better than the monsters hiding in the dark.
Evangeline arrived with her boyfriends. Yes, both of them.
Elijah Mikaelson, the refined, sophisticated nobleman with blood on his hands and centuries of regret in his eyes. A man who wore his composure like armor, never giving away too much, yet always holding all the power in the room.
Lloyd Hansen, the reckless, psychotic wildcard with a penchant for chaos and an obsession with her. His smile was all sharp teeth and arrogance, a man who thrived in destruction and danced in the fire of his own making.
They were contrasts in every way, but they both belonged to her.
As she stepped into the ballroom, draped in black silk, heads turned. Whispers followed. But nothing compared to the moment she locked eyes with her past.
Her ex-boyfriend.
Her so-called friends.
Her parents.
Her sister.
Their eyes widened in shock, unable to process what they were seeing.
Because the Evangeline they had known—the kind, warm girl who once sought their approval—was gone.
This woman?
She killed for fun.
She had no remorse.
And she wasn’t alone.
Lloyd’s grip on her waist tightened, his smirk dripping with amusement. "Damn, sweetheart. I thought you said your past was boring."
Elijah, always composed, simply took a sip of his drink, his dark eyes watching her reaction. "This is an interesting turn of events," he mused.
But Evangeline? She just smiled.
Let them stare.
Her ex finally found his voice, anger creeping into his expression. "You have got to be fucking kidding me."
A chuckle escaped her lips. "I see you still have a habit of stating the obvious."
Her sister stepped forward, disbelief and hurt warring on her face. "Evangeline... how could you?"
Ah. There it was. The disappointment. The judgment.
"How could I what, exactly?" Evangeline asked, her tone light, almost amused.
"You ruined everything," her sister hissed.
Evangeline’s smile didn’t falter. "No, darling. I simply stopped pretending to be the person you wanted me to be."
Her mother’s voice was soft, pleading. "Evangeline, please. We can fix this—"
Lloyd laughed, low and mocking. "Fix her? Lady, there’s nothing broken. You just don’t like the way she turned out."
Elijah remained silent, his gaze flickering with unspoken thoughts, but his presence was a force of its own. He didn’t need to say a word for the weight of his power to be felt.
Evangeline took one last glance at the faces of the people who once meant everything to her. There was a time when their opinions could shatter her. A time when she would have begged for their forgiveness, for their love.
That time was gone.
She turned to Elijah and Lloyd, a slow smirk playing on her lips. "Shall we?"
Elijah extended his hand, the perfect gentleman even in the face of destruction. Lloyd grinned, draping an arm around her shoulders like he had won some grand prize.
And together, the three of them walked away, leaving the past behind.
Because Evangeline Cross didn’t need redemption.
She had already picked her side.

Chapter 8: Would've, Could've, Should've - Elijah Mikaelson

Pairing: Elijah Mikaelson x Alessandra Reddington
Warnings: Supernatural violence, family drama, morally grey themes, power struggles
Fandoms: The Blacklist x The Vampire Diaries/The Originals

 

Alessandra Reddington was born into luxury and secrets.
While other children played outside with scraped knees and stolen moments of freedom, she learned about offshore accounts, financial loopholes, and how to disappear without a trace. She could balance a multi-million-dollar ledger before she could legally drink, all while navigating the dangerous politics of her father’s empire.
But there was one unspoken rule in her world:
"Do not ask questions you don’t want answers to."
Her father, Raymond Reddington, was the most wanted man in the world, and she was his greatest secret. Hidden from enemies, protected by shadows, Alessandra’s life was one of wealth without attachment, power without agency.
There were no social media accounts. No digital footprint. No online shopping sprees or reckless texting. Technology was a liability, a vulnerability, and Red had erased her from the digital world before she even understood what that meant.
"A ghost cannot be caught, my dear," he had told her once.
So, while the world moved forward, she remained untouched by it.
Her friends were criminals in business suits, men who owed her father favors, and high-ranking officials who never spoke her name in public.
Her enemies? She never knew them. Because Red never let them get close enough.
She was his most valuable possession, even if he never said the words.
But even the most well-guarded prisoners dream of escape.
She met Elijah Mikaelson on a night that should have been like any other.
A deal, a briefcase full of laundered money, a room full of dangerous men who thought their power made them untouchable. Alessandra had seen it all before.
And yet, the moment Elijah stepped into the room, she knew something was different.
He moved with an old-world elegance, his midnight-blue suit perfectly tailored, his posture effortlessly commanding. There was something unsettling about him—something beyond human—but it wasn’t until she caught his gaze that she felt it.
Power. Ancient and patient. The kind that does not ask for attention but demands it nonetheless.
He didn’t belong in her father’s world, and yet he stood among criminals and killers as if they were beneath him.
For the first time in her life, she felt small.
"You have a sharp mind," he said after the meeting, his voice smooth like aged bourbon. "And yet, you confine it to these… lesser pursuits."
Her breath hitched. No one had ever challenged her like that before.
"You don’t know anything about me."
Elijah tilted his head, amusement flickering in his dark eyes. "Don’t I?"
And just like that, the first crack appeared in the perfect, controlled life she had built.
At first, she resisted.
Supernatural creatures? Vampires? Witches? It sounded like a bedtime story for foolish children.
But Elijah was patient. He didn’t force her to believe—he simply let the truth reveal itself.
The first time she saw a vampire rip a man apart, she felt nothing but cold, detached horror. Not because of the blood, but because she realized her father already knew.
The second time, she learned that some of Red’s most trusted allies weren’t human at all.
The third time? She helped cover it up.
And with every revelation, every whispered truth, she found herself torn between two worlds.
Her father was a master manipulator, a man who thrived in a world of deception and control. He had spent years shaping her into the perfect asset, keeping her obedient, calculating, untouchable.
But Elijah?
Elijah saw something beyond numbers, beyond crime. He saw her.
"You are capable of so much more than being your father’s shadow," he told her one evening, standing on a New Orleans balcony as the city pulsed below them. "But you have to choose it."
And that was the problem, wasn’t it?
Because she didn’t know if she could.
Her father knew. Of course, he knew.
Raymond Reddington didn’t miss things. He saw everything. Knew everything. And he wasn’t pleased.
"You think he’s different, don’t you?" Red asked one evening, swirling a glass of wine in his hand, his voice deceptively light. "You think this noble, ancient vampire has your best interests at heart?"
Alessandra refused to answer.
Red sighed, setting his drink down with a soft clink. When he spoke again, there was no humor in his voice.
"I have spent your entire life keeping you safe, keeping you hidden. And you would throw that away… for what? A love story?"
"This isn’t about love."
"No," he agreed, eyes darkening. "It’s about power. And my dear, sweet Alessandra—what makes you think you won’t be devoured in the end?"
A warning. A plea. A threat.
But the damage was done.
Because she had already stepped too far into Elijah’s world.
And her father’s reach, no matter how powerful, couldn’t pull her back.
There would come a moment when Alessandra had to choose.
Between the family that had raised her in the shadows of crime and deception…
And the man who offered her something more—power, knowledge, a future beyond the chains of her father’s making.
Between safety and freedom.
Between loyalty and the unknown.
Would she regret it? Would she wonder, in the darkest hours of the night, if she had made a mistake?
Would’ve. Could’ve. Should’ve.
But once a choice is made, there is no going back.
And Alessandra Reddington?
She was done playing by the rules.
Three Months Later
The dim glow of candlelight flickered across the bedroom walls, casting soft golden hues over the sheets as Alessandra tangled her fingers in Elijah’s dark hair. His hands gripped her waist, steady yet firm, as she pressed against him, their breaths mingling in the heated space between them.
It had taken months of stolen glances, whispered conversations, and quiet defiance to reach this moment. And now, here she was—above him, lips brushing over his in slow, deliberate teasing, her body molded to his like she had always belonged there.
Elijah Mikaelson, always composed, always in control, looked anything but restrained beneath her.
His hands slid up the smooth expanse of her back, fingers tracing the delicate curve of her spine. She shivered, exhaling a breathless laugh against his lips.
“You’re teasing me, elskan,” Elijah murmured against her mouth, the old Norse endearment slipping out like a secret.
Alessandra smirked. “And you love it.”
He exhaled sharply, his grip tightening on her hips as he rolled them over, his weight pressing her into the mattress. She barely had time to catch her breath before he kissed her again, slow and intoxicating, like he had all the time in the world to unravel her.
Then—
A loud knock at the door.
Alessandra froze, her pulse spiking. Elijah, ever the strategist, didn’t so much as flinch.
“Elijah?” The voice—soft, hesitant—was unmistakable.
Hayley.
Alessandra’s heart lurched, and she suddenly became hyperaware of the situation: the tangled sheets, Elijah’s body over hers, the unmistakable scent of their intimacy lingering in the air.
Hayley knocked again, more insistent this time. “I know you’re in there. Can we talk?”
Elijah exhaled slowly, closing his eyes as if summoning patience. Alessandra clenched her jaw, shifting beneath him.
“You have got to be kidding me,” she whispered.
A flicker of amusement crossed Elijah’s expression before he reluctantly pulled away. Alessandra rolled onto her side, gripping the sheets to cover herself as he straightened his dress shirt—the very one she had been in the process of unbuttoning moments ago.
With a resigned sigh, Elijah ran a hand through his tousled hair before moving toward the door. Just as he reached for the handle—
The door burst open.
Niklaus Mikaelson stood in the doorway, arms crossed, a smug grin spreading across his face. “Well, well, well.”
Alessandra barely had time to register Klaus’s expression before she caught Hayley behind him, her face unreadable, her gaze flickering between Elijah and the disheveled state of the bed.
Silence hung thick in the air.
Klaus let out a low whistle, rocking back on his heels. “And here I thought you were preoccupied with… other matters, brother.”
Elijah’s jaw ticked. “Niklaus, unless you wish to be promptly thrown out, I suggest you find amusement elsewhere.”
Klaus only grinned wider, glancing at Alessandra with knowing mischief. “Oh, I’m highly amused.”
Hayley, on the other hand, looked anything but entertained. Her eyes darkened, lips pressing into a thin line.
“So, this is what you’ve been so busy with,” she muttered.
Alessandra sat up, barely restraining an eye roll. “Oh, don’t act surprised,” she said smoothly, arching a brow. “Surely you didn’t think Elijah spent all his time brooding in a corner?”
Hayley’s gaze sharpened. “Funny. I thought we had an understanding.”
Elijah’s expression remained unreadable, but Alessandra caught the flicker of something behind his gaze—something unreadable, but distant.
Hayley looked at him expectantly, waiting for an answer.
Niklaus, enjoying every second of the tension, clapped his hands together. “Well, I certainly wasn’t expecting this much entertainment today.”
Elijah pinched the bridge of his nose. “Niklaus, leave.”
Klaus smirked but stepped back. “Oh, don’t mind me. I’ll just be informing dear Rebekah of this latest development.”
With that, he strolled out of the room, far too amused for anyone’s comfort.
Hayley lingered, her gaze locking with Elijah’s for a long moment. Something unspoken passed between them, something Alessandra wasn’t entirely sure she liked.
Then, with a quiet sigh, Hayley shook her head and walked away, leaving behind the weight of her unfinished words.
Alessandra exhaled, throwing herself back onto the pillows. “Well, that was not how I pictured this night going.”
Elijah sat beside her, smoothing a hand over hers. “Nor I.”
She turned her head toward him, a slow smirk forming. “Should we just expect them to barge in every time we get close?”
Elijah sighed dramatically. “Regrettably, it appears so.”
Alessandra hummed, reaching up to trace the sharp line of his jaw. “Then I suppose we’ll just have to be more… discreet.”
Elijah’s lips twitched into a small, knowing smile. “A challenge I am more than willing to accept.”
And just like that, the moment was no longer ruined.

Chapter 9: Part II – Would’ve, Could’ve, Should’ve – Elijah Mikaelson

📍 Flashback — New Orleans, 2012
Location: Rousseau’s | Time: 10:47 AM

 

The sunlight poured through Rousseau’s windows with a deceptively warm glow. It was a quiet morning at the bar. Too quiet.
Alessandra Reddington sat across from Elijah Mikaelson, her fingers swirling a glass of untouched whiskey, her expression unreadable as he spoke about a new financial operation that would extend his influence across the East Coast.
But Alessandra wasn’t fully listening. Not since she felt the shift in the air. Not since she saw the same buzzcut man cross the same corner twice.
She knew what was coming.
And there was no stopping it now.
Elijah paused mid-sentence, noticing the tension in her shoulders.
—“Is everything alright, my dear?”—he asked in that soft tone he reserved only for her.
Alessandra looked up, giving him a faint, sad smile. A farewell smile.
—“Remember what I told you about the escape plan…”—she murmured.
Before Elijah could ask what she meant, the roar of engines echoed outside. Three black FBI vans skidded to a halt in front of the bar. Doors opened. Boots hit pavement. Armed agents began surrounding the entrance.
Among them: Donald Ressler. Dark suit. Badge on display. Expression hardened by years of disappointment. But when he saw Alessandra through the glass, something flickered. Something personal. Maybe even regret.
—“Alessandra Reddington! Stand up with your hands where I can see them!”—one of the agents shouted from the doorway.
The bar went completely silent. The few patrons shrank back into their seats. Elijah rose at once, stepping in front of her.
—“What is this?”—he asked coldly, his voice dropping an octave.
Alessandra stood up with grace, carefully placing her glass on the table. Then, deliberately, she pulled a folded envelope from her purse and slid it across to Elijah.
—“This is what comes next. Read it when they take me.”
—“Alessandra—” Elijah stepped toward her, but she stopped him with a look.
—“You can’t interfere. If you do, you’ll lose everything.” Her voice was firm. No fear. Only resignation. “This had to happen.”
Ressler entered with two agents at his side. The tension in his shoulders betrayed him.
—“It’s over, Reddington.”
She raised her hands slowly and turned toward him, surrendering without a fight. The metallic snap of the FBI handcuffs echoed louder than any words.
—“You knew this was going to happen?” Ressler asked quietly.
—“Since the day I was born,” Alessandra replied, calm as ever.
Elijah remained stone-faced, but his eyes had darkened. Locked on Ressler. Locked on her. A silent storm brewing.
—“Don’t touch her,” Elijah said, his voice glacial—a veiled threat that made the agents hesitate, if only for a second.
Ressler escorted her out of the bar. Alessandra didn’t look back. She wouldn’t allow herself to hesitate.
But just before climbing into the SUV, her eyes met Elijah’s one last time.
One second.
It was enough.

 

📍 Location: FBI Headquarters, Washington D.C. — Interrogation Room 4B
Time: 1:36 PM

 

The room was cold. Deliberately so.
Gray walls. No windows. No stimulus. A single camera hung from the ceiling like a silent sentence. But Alessandra Reddington didn’t flinch. Not from the cold. Not from the silence. Not even from the cuff still hanging from her right wrist.
She sat straight-backed, eyes fixed on the two-way mirror. As if she knew exactly who was on the other side.
Harold Cooper entered without a word, a thick folder in hand. He placed it carefully on the table, sat across from her, and observed her with the calm of a man who’s seen too much—and still wasn’t ready to believe what he suspected.
—“Miss Reddington,” he began, voice firm. “Do you know what today is?”
Alessandra narrowed her eyes, as if the question was beneath her.
—“The day hell froze over, apparently,” she replied flatly.
Cooper didn’t smile.
—“Your father, Raymond Reddington, the world’s most wanted criminal, surrendered to our office this morning. Here. In Washington D.C.”
A beat of silence.
She didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Only her eyes—precise, calculating—lifted to meet his directly.
—“I know.”
—“How?”
—“Because that was part of the plan.”
Cooper leaned forward, elbows on the table.
—“What plan?”
Alessandra crossed her legs with elegance.
—“Yours. Ours. Perhaps both. Which would you like me to explain first?”
Cooper exhaled slowly. This wasn’t going to be easy.
—“What’s your connection to Elizabeth Keen?”
That did elicit a reaction. Small, but there. A flicker. A crack in the mask.
—“Ah…” she murmured. “Agent Keen.”
—“You know her?”
—“I remember her,” she said, her eyes drifting to the wall, like she was replaying an invisible image. “Exactly six feet tall. Light brown hair. Blue braided bracelet on her left wrist. Inverted holster. Collar of her shirt was misbuttoned that day.”
Cooper frowned.
—“When did you see her?”
—“Once,” she answered, gaze still locked on the wall. “Three years ago. In Langley. Seven minutes and forty-two seconds. I was watching from a side corridor. No one saw me. But I saw her.”
Cooper studied her in silence. Clinical recall. Photographic memory. He’d read it in her file—confirmed by a Mossad psychologist.
—“Then tell me—what does Elizabeth Keen have to do with Reddington?”
Alessandra finally turned to him—and for the first time, smiled. But it wasn’t a warm smile. It was the kind that comes from knowing too much.
—“That, Director Cooper, is a question you should ask him.”
Then, after a pause:
—“Or maybe… ask her.”
Cooper closed the folder.
—“What made you untouchable for so long, Alessandra?”
—“I never said I was.”
—“You faked it well.”
She tilted her head.
—“Want to hear a secret?”
—“Surprise me.”
She shrugged off the blazer she still wore from Rousseau’s and pushed up her sleeve. Slowly.
Her forearm was covered in scars. Some fresh. Others healed. Clean cuts. Deliberate. Self-inflicted. Cooper frowned.
—“What is this?”
—“Proof,” she said, completely emotionless. “That I’m different.”
Then she looked him straight in the eye.
—“I don’t feel pain, Director. Literally. I have a rare genetic disorder. Congenital Insensitivity to Pain. You can stab me, break my bones, burn me alive… and I’ll just tell you that won’t work.”
The weight of her words hung in the air.
—“And why are you telling me this?”
—“Because they’ll try,” she said calmly. “The prosecutor. The analysts. The old-school types. They’ll try to break me. Beat me. Hurt me. Like they do with men. Like they do with monsters. But it won’t work.”
—“Then what will?”
—“Not having me on your side,” she said simply. “Because I can see ten moves ahead. Because if I decide to cooperate… you’ll know everything. The accounts. The names. Even the ones Reddington never gave up.”
Cooper didn’t interrupt.
She leaned in slightly, her voice never rising.
—“So the real question is—are you ready to hear the truth? Because once I start talking… you won’t be able to stop what’s coming.”
Silence.
Then Cooper stood, gathered the folder, and walked toward the door. But before stepping out, he looked back over his shoulder.
—“You know exactly what you are, don’t you?”
—“Yes,” she answered without hesitation. “A bomb without a detonator. Yet.”
And Cooper shut the door.

Chapter 10: Blood and Soil — Elijah Mikaelson Cowboy AU

Location: A remote safehouse outside New Orleans, dusk light slipping through dusty windows.

 

The silence in the room was absolute.

Elijah sat on the edge of the bed, back straight, hands clasped tightly in his lap. He stared down at the floor as if trying to make sense of it, but nothing came. Not the names people said he should remember. Not the faces. Not the fire and blood they whispered about.

Only one thing remained.
One person.

“Sienna,” he said softly, like testing the sound of it.

She stood in the doorway, arms wrapped around herself, as if bracing against a storm only she could feel. Her eyes—warm hazel, rimmed with unshed tears—met his.

“I’m here,” she whispered, stepping into the room.

He looked up at her, something fragile and lost flickering in his eyes. “They said I chose this,” he murmured. “To forget. Everything.”

Sienna nodded. “You did.” Her voice trembled but never broke. “It was killing you… the weight, the guilt. You didn’t just lose people, Elijah. You carried them. All of them.”

“But I didn’t forget you,” he said. A hint of wonder touched his tone. “Why?”

She gave a broken smile. “Because I asked you not to.”

He studied her. “And you… You asked me to leave it all behind. To go with you.”

“I did,” she said, stepping closer. “And I’m asking again. Come with me. Montana. My family’s ranch. You said once you wanted peace. We can find it there.”

Elijah looked away, the name *Elijah Mikaelson* echoing like a distant bell in the back of his mind—a name that no longer fit.

She sat beside him, gently brushing her fingers against his hand. “And maybe we stop using the name that comes with so much pain.” She hesitated. “What if, just for now… you go by *Eli*?”

He looked at her. It was a simple suggestion, but it felt like a rebirth. Like he could actually breathe.

“Eli,” he repeated. “That’s… easier.”

She smiled softly, cupping the side of his face. “Then Eli you are.”

A long pause settled between them before he finally asked, “Will I be safe there? With you?”

Sienna nodded, eyes fierce. “I’ll protect you. From your past. From anyone who tries to drag you back into it.”

Eli let out a slow breath, the first real one in what felt like lifetimes. “Then let’s go.”

---

 

*Location: Bozeman, Montana – Downtown Western Outfitters Store*

 

The bell over the door jingled as Sienna stepped into the store, tugging Eli gently in behind her. The scent of leather, denim, and cedarwood hung thick in the air. Cowboy hats lined the wall like silent sentries.

Eli blinked at the rows of flannel, denim, and heavy-duty jackets, clearly out of his element. His usual attire—a tailored button-up and long coat—screamed city man. Or something older.

“You’re going to stick out like a sore thumb on the ranch looking like a European professor,” Sienna teased, pulling a Stetson off the shelf and placing it atop his head.

He arched an eyebrow at his reflection in the mirror. “This feels… unnecessary.”

“No, Eli,” she grinned, holding up a pair of fitted jeans and a thick flannel shirt. “*This* is survival. You want John Dutton to respect you? You better look like you can fix a fence, not read someone’s will.”

He sighed, taking the shirt. “If I must be a cowboy, I might as well look the part.”

Minutes later, he stepped out of the dressing room—dark denim, weathered boots, charcoal flannel with the sleeves rolled just enough to show the muscle in his forearms. The hat sat low, casting a shadow over his sharp features.

Sienna’s smile faltered for half a second. “Damn,” she whispered.

“What?”

“Nothing. You just… clean up *way* too well.”

 

*Location: Yellowstone Dutton Ranch – Late Afternoon*

 

The black truck kicked up dust as it wound up the gravel road, past split-rail fences and rolling hills that glowed gold under the Montana sun. The ranch loomed ahead—wide open, wild, and bristling with the kind of energy that only comes from land soaked in both blood and legacy.

Eli sat in the passenger seat, posture rigid, hat pulled low, trying to calm the unfamiliar flutter of nerves in his chest. He didn’t remember much—didn’t know *why* he felt this way—but something told him this place wasn’t just open fields and horses. There was power here. Old and territorial.

Sienna drove in silence, her hand resting lightly on the wheel. “You okay?” she asked.

Eli nodded once. “I think so. He’s expecting us?”

“Yeah. He knows you’re coming. He knows your name… well, the one you go by now.”

“*Eli*,” he said, rolling it over again. “Still strange.”

“You’ll grow into it.” She offered him a small, teasing smile. “Just like those boots.”

When they pulled up, two figures stood waiting: **John Dutton**, towering in his quiet authority, arms folded across his chest, and **Rip Wheeler**, sunglasses on even though the sun was fading, expression unreadable as ever.

Sienna hopped out of the truck first. “Daddy.”

John gave a tight nod. “You’re late.”

“You always say that,” she replied, grinning. “We stopped in town. Got Eli some clothes that don’t scream ‘I’ve never seen a cow before.’”

John’s eyes flicked to Eli, who stepped out slowly, tipping his hat in a gesture of respect.

“So you’re the boyfriend,” John said, voice like gravel. “Sienna’s talked about you.”

Eli glanced at Sienna, then back at her father. “I hope that’s a good thing, sir.”

John didn’t answer right away. He just looked. Not at the clothes or the hat, but at the posture. The way Eli’s eyes moved—calculating, still. A man trying to seem normal.

“You don’t look like a ranch hand,” John finally said.

“Not yet,” Eli replied calmly.

That made Rip let out a quiet, surprised snort. John didn’t smile, but his stare softened just a fraction.

“I’ve got enough mouths around here that can lift bales and mend fences. What I need is loyalty. And people who know how to keep their damn heads down.”

Eli nodded. “I’m not here to cause trouble.”

John gave him a long look. “Then you better prove it. Every day.”

Rip stepped forward, giving Eli a once-over. “We’ll see what you’re made of in the morning. Hope you like early.”

Sienna slipped her hand into Eli’s as they walked toward the bunkhouse. “Well,” she murmured, “that went better than I thought.”

“He seems like a man used to control,” Eli said quietly.

“Welcome to Yellowstone,” she replied. “Everyone here’s trying to hold onto something.”

---

*Location: Yellowstone Dutton Ranch – Just Before Sunrise*

 

The alarm didn’t wake Eli. He was already sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling on his boots in the dark. The stillness before dawn was familiar in a way he couldn’t explain. His body remembered rhythms his mind had forgotten.

Outside, the Montana sky was a tapestry of deep blues and cold stars. The chill in the air bit through his flannel, but Eli didn’t flinch. He walked toward the barnyard, boots crunching softly over frost-covered dirt, breath fogging in the predawn light.

Rip was already there—gloves on, coffee in hand, leaning against the side of a fence like he’d been up for hours.

“You’re early,” Rip said without looking at him.

“Figured that was better than late.”

Rip glanced at him now. “You keep talkin’ like that and you might actually make it here.”

A truck pulled up, and **John Dutton** stepped out. Dressed in a thick canvas jacket and worn jeans, he looked less like a land baron and more like a man who’d carved this world with his own hands.

“Eli,” John said. “Time to work.”

Eli gave a respectful nod. “What do you need?”

“We’ve got calves stuck past the north fence line. Cows are stressed. Wolves’ve been around lately. We’ll drive out, herd 'em back, and check the perimeter while we’re at it.”

Rip tossed Eli a pair of worn leather gloves. “You ever ride in deep frost?”

Eli pulled the gloves on, adjusting the fit. “Not that I can recall. But I’ll manage.”

They saddled up quickly. Eli moved like someone who didn’t know the *names* of things but *understood* them—the horse settled under his touch, and John caught it, narrowing his eyes slightly.

As they rode out into the breaking dawn, John kept watching him from the corner of his eye. Eli was too smooth in the saddle, too calm in the cold. The man said he couldn’t remember who he was… but he didn’t ride like a beginner.

Rip noticed too, though he said nothing. Not yet.

They reached the edge of the north pasture where the cows were gathered tight against the fence line, lowing anxiously.

John dismounted and pointed. “Something spooked them. See the tracks?”

Eli hopped off, crouched low, running gloved fingers across the ground. “Wolves. Big ones. But they didn’t come through.”

“Fence held,” Rip muttered. “Barely.”

“We’ll reinforce it this week,” John said. Then, to Eli, “Let’s move the herd. I want them away from the tree line.”

Eli didn’t question the command. He mounted smoothly, flanked Rip, and rode out in wide, slow loops with practiced ease—whistling low, guiding the cattle with gentle precision like he’d done it his whole life.

By the time the sun crested over the mountains, the herd was safe, the perimeter walked, and John was standing beside Rip watching Eli water his horse near the trough.

“Still think he’s just a pretty boy in flannel?” John asked.

Rip shook his head. “No, sir. He rides like a soldier. Calm under pressure. Eyes always scanning.”

John grunted. “Says he’s got no memory. But muscle memory doesn’t lie.”

Rip looked at him. “You think he’s dangerous?”

John’s gaze lingered on Eli. “I think he’s got a lot more buried under that calm than he’s telling us.”

Chapter 11: Part 2: Blood and Soil — Elijah Mikaelson Cowboy AU

It had been a few months since Elijah Mikaelson—now going by Eli—settled into life at the Yellowstone ranch with Sienna.
Things were far from peaceful.
Paradise Valley, the development company owned by Dan Jenkins, had been aggressively trying to buy the Yellowstone land. Then the Beck brothers’ aggression turned into threats… and finally into full-blown attacks. Livestock were shot. Fences were cut. And eventually, the Beck brothers paid someone to go after Sienna and Beth.
But Eli held his ground.
He worked the ranch with silent discipline, earning quiet nods from the wranglers, a rare approving grunt from Rip, and the cautious observation of John Dutton himself. Still, none of them could shake the feeling—something about him wasn’t normal.
Not just mysterious.
Something... off.
Eli stood in the bathroom, bare-chested, hair still damp from the shower. He looked into the mirror, his hand dragging slowly across the stubble darkening his face.
The beard gave him a rugged, worn-in edge—a cowboy look that fit the boots and flannel. But he wasn't sure it was him.
He was still figuring out who him even was.
Just as he picked up the razor, a soft voice came from the bathroom door.
"Leave it. You look good in it."
Sienna stood there in an oversized t-shirt of his—bare legs, tousled hair, a few bruises still fading on her face. Her smile was lazy from a long day. She walked in without waiting for an invitation, wrapping her arms around his waist from behind.
He glanced at her reflection, smirking slightly. “That’s not very objective, coming from my girlfriend.”
“You don’t need objectivity,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to the center of his spine. “You need to stop doubting yourself.”
Eli set the razor down. “Maybe you’re right.”
She turned him around, her fingers running along his jaw. “You’ve changed since we got here. Calmer. Still intense as hell, but... you breathe easier.”
He leaned in, pressing his forehead to hers. “You’re the only thing that’s ever made me want to breathe.”

Later that night...

 

The moonlight spilled across the bed as Sienna lay curled against him, one leg draped over his hip, her fingers drawing idle lines on his chest.
“You ever think about what comes next?” she murmured.
“I try not to,” Eli said, voice low. “But with you beside me, the future doesn’t scare me.”
She smiled sleepily, heart full—completely unaware that the peace she’d found was about to unravel.

The next day

 

Hayley walked a step behind Klaus, her eyes scanning the small row of shops—quaint, quiet, unassuming. A stark contrast to the fire and blood that usually marked their path.
“Are you sure this is the right town?” she asked under her breath.
Klaus didn’t respond. His gaze was fixed across the street, jaw slowly tensing.
Hayley followed his line of sight… and froze.
There he was.
Elijah.
But not the Elijah they knew.
This man had a beard, a worn leather jacket, dark jeans and boots. A flannel shirt rolled at the sleeves. He didn’t walk with the deliberate, regal stride they remembered—but something looser, more grounded. He wasn’t hiding.
He was living.
And he was stepping into a jewelry store.
Hayley’s breath caught. “Is that—?”
Klaus’s voice was tight. “Yes.”
They moved closer, across the street, just slow enough not to be seen.
Through the glass window, they saw Elijah standing by the counter, speaking with the elderly jeweler. The man placed a small velvet box on the glass.
A ring.
He opened it slowly. Gold. Simple. Timeless. With a single, pale diamond set in the center.
Hayley whispered, “He’s… proposing?”
Klaus’s silence was thunderous. He looked as if the ground had cracked beneath him.
Inside, Elijah picked up the ring, inspecting it. He smiled—smiled, like it meant something—and nodded.
The old man laughed. Elijah handed over cash and said something they couldn’t hear, but they saw it in his face.
Peace.
Joy.
Closure.
Hayley looked away first. “He doesn’t remember us.”
Klaus didn’t move. “That may be the first honest smile he’s worn in over a thousand years.”
Just then, Elijah stepped out of the store. A gust of cold wind caught his coat. He glanced both ways before walking down the sidewalk, slipping the ring box into his coat pocket.
He passed within six feet of them.
His eyes brushed across Klaus’s face—paused—
—but there was no recognition.
None.
Only polite disinterest. He nodded slightly and kept walking.
Hayley whispered, “What do we do?”
Klaus watched his brother disappear down the street. “We go to the ranch.”
“Why?”
“Because whoever she is…” His eyes narrowed. “She has his heart now. And I want to know what kind of woman replaces family.”

 

Flashback – New Orleans, Early Evening

 

A quiet bourbon bar just outside the French Quarter.
The jazz bleeding through the walls was low and haunting. A steady rhythm of melancholy, like the whole city was sighing in tune with the man at the end of the bar.
Elijah Mikaelson sat in silence, his bourbon untouched.
Impeccably dressed as always, but uncharacteristically still—like a painting. The tie loosened, the collar slightly rumpled. It wasn’t just heartbreak on his face; it was weariness. Centuries of it.
He barely noticed the woman who stepped up beside him—worn denim jeans, dusty boots, and a leather jacket that looked as old as the jukebox. She ordered a whiskey neat and glanced at him once. Then again.
“You look like you just buried someone,” she said, not unkindly.
Elijah blinked, turning to face her. “Something like that.”
“You lose her?”
A pause.
“Yes,” he answered softly, voice like velvet fraying at the edges.
“Well.” She took a sip, watching him over the rim of her glass. “She’s a fool.”
That caught his attention. “Pardon?”
“I said she’s a fool,” she repeated, setting her glass down gently. “To let go of a man who looks like he’s carried entire worlds on his back.”
Elijah gave a small, humorless smile. “You presume a great deal.”
She tilted her head. “You’ve got haunted eyes, a heartbeat that doesn’t match the rhythm of the room, and you haven’t touched your drink. That’s not a man nursing a breakup. That’s a man deciding whether to feel at all.”
His jaw clenched.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Sienna,” she said, offering her hand. “Sienna Dutton.”
He took it, his grip strong but controlled. “Elijah.”
“Pleasure,” she said, then added, “Though I know who you are.”
That pulled his brows up.
“You’re a Mikaelson. Word travels. Even to Montana.”
He gave her a long, thoughtful look. “And yet you sat down.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
She shrugged. “Because even monsters deserve kindness. And because you’re not nearly as monstrous as you think.”
The silence between them deepened.
Sienna leaned in just slightly. “Whoever she was… if she broke you, she never really knew you. Not like someone should. And you?” Her eyes locked on his. “You deserve better.”
Elijah looked away, pain briefly flashing across his face before he exhaled. “Do I?”
She smiled softly. “Yeah. You just don’t believe it yet.”

Chapter 12: I Love You, I’m Sorry - John Wick

She was born in silence.

No screaming mother, no overjoyed father pacing a hospital hallway. Just a cold back room in a Ruska Roma stronghold outside of Saint Petersburg. Her mother bled out before they even cut the cord. No one wept. No one smiled. They simply took the baby and cleaned her off like she was an old relic unearthed for a darker purpose.

Her name was Alina. No last name. Not yet. Just a pair of lungs and beautiful eyes that stared back without crying. 

A silent promise already etched onto her skin, though she wouldn't know its meaning for years: a small, faded Orthodox cross on her left shoulder, mirroring the mark of another legend she would one day meet. Later, a more elaborate piece would grace her back, an angel sprawled across a cross, intertwined with thorny vines, and on top of it, the Latin words Per Aspera Ad Astra – 'Through hardship to the stars.'

They would learn to fear that look.

Her first solo mission, was at 15 years old — young, precise, and already shaped into a weapon by the Ruska Roma.

 

Location: Casablanca – Neutral Grounds

 

The air smelled like dust, blood, and gun oil. The kind of scent that lingers behind every assassin’s collarbone and gets trapped in the folds of their clothes like smoke. Alina Morozova walked the rooftop perimeter of the old marketplace, her braid tight, boots silent on the ancient stone.

Her target was already dead. Knife in the neck. Clean. Quick. Silent.

She didn’t need to be here anymore, but she lingered.

Not because of carelessness. No. Alina Morozova was never careless.

She lingered because she was told he might be here.

John Wick.

She had seen pictures of him. Watched grainy surveillance tapes they studied like scripture back in the Ruska Roma. The Baba Yaga, her trainers whispered. Not the man you send to kill the boogeyman. He is the f**ing boogeyman.

She was seven the first time she heard the name. Thirteen when she started copying his footwork frame by frame. Sixteen when she asked if he was real, and her handler slapped her for thinking legends had names.

Now she was twenty. And she could feel it.

He was here.

She spotted him before he saw her — which, in itself, was almost enough to make her grin. Almost.

Black suit. Hands in his pockets like he wasn’t built to shatter men. He didn’t walk like an assassin. He walked like a ghost dragging chains.

Alina tracked him across the rooftop ledge, her own shadow slicing long across the wall. Her fingers danced over the hilt of her blade out of habit, not intention. She wasn’t stupid. She wouldn’t fight him. She just wanted to see if he noticed.

He did.

"Are you going to keep following me," his voice drifted up calmly, without looking, "or are you going to say something?"

Alina froze. And then, slowly, stepped into view, lit by the flickering orange of the dying sun.

"I just wanted to see if the legend cast a shadow," she replied in perfect English, her Russian accent barely a breath behind the syllables.

John turned. Slowly. Eyes catching hers — not like a man scanning a threat, but like someone reading a chapter in a familiar book.

"You’re Ruska Roma."

It wasn’t a question.

"Born into it," she said, shrugging one shoulder. "Trained for it. Bleed for it."

He glanced down at the alley below. "Then you know this ground is neutral."

"I wasn’t here for a contract."

His head tilted slightly. "Then what were you here for?"

She hesitated. That was the thing about John Wick. You didn’t lie to him. You didn’t have to. Something about the way he looked at you — not with suspicion, but with knowing — made it impossible to speak anything but the truth.

"...I wanted to meet you."

He blinked. Not surprised. Not angry. Just quiet.

"Why?"

Alina licked her bottom lip before answering. "Because they said you are the best. And when I watched your footage… I thought—"

"You thought you could be better."

"No." Her answer was fast. Honest. "I thought you were… beautiful."

John looked away for the first time.

"That’s dangerous."

Alina stepped closer, not daring to breathe too hard. "You’re not like them. The others. They kill to prove something. You don’t. You kill because it’s… necessary. Not for praise. Not for trophies."

"And what do you kill for?" he asked.

Her voice was quieter this time, but her words came without flinch or filter.

"I didn’t learn the alphabet until I was eleven. But I could slit a throat blindfolded by six. Guess you could say I got a specialized education."

John’s expression barely changed — but his silence was loud.

"And now?" he asked.

Alina’s eyes met his, unflinching. "I kill because I don’t know how to live without it."

Their eyes held. For a breath. Maybe two. The world moved around them, but they stayed still.

"How old are you?" he asked finally.

"Twenty."

"Too young to talk like that."

"And yet," she said, stepping forward again, her voice like silk sliding over a blade, "I’ve been killing longer than most men three times my age."

John exhaled through his nose. Not quite a laugh. Not quite approval.

"You shouldn’t want this life," he said, turning again to go.

She didn’t follow this time. Just stood there as the wind danced around her coat.

"I don’t want it," she whispered to his back. "I just want to be seen."

That night, she watched him disappear into the shadows of the alley. The dog trotted at his heels like a second shadow.

She didn’t dream often. Too dangerous. But that night she did.

John Wick’s eyes.

The way he said her name without needing to ask for it.

The weight of being seen, even for a second.

Alina didn’t fall in love easily. She didn’t even have a word for it. The Ruska Roma never taught her those.

But she remembered the feeling.

Like the safety off a gun.

Like a heartbeat at the edge of silence.

It stayed with her. A crush? Maybe.

Or maybe it was something worse.

Something like hope.