#kolinn

[sharkboy305]

Little Brother and Big Brother

[icarusofathousanddays]

You should think about Kol seeing Finn while he's covered in blood, Finn telling him he's always been a messy eater as he walks up to him and proceeds to use his thumb to wipe away some of the blood

I have not known peace since you sent me this ask.... evil...... cruel........... a peddler of filth..... sinful..... anyway here's Wonderwall.

...

The library smells like calfskin and smoke and old ink—pressed leaves and dried glue, a faint sourness where parchment has been handled too many times by hands that once belonged to men who thought they would live forever.

Now it is Finn and his siblings who live forever, and Finn has decided—quietly, stubbornly—that he will spend it learning how mortals arranged their thoughts.

He sits at the long table with a book propped open before him, the candlelight catching in the careful lines of his face.

He has an apple in his hand and he eats it slowly, bite by bite.

It is not hunger that drives him to it. Hunger is a brute thing now, a constant pressure under the ribs, a voice that does not negotiate. The apple is something else.

On the far end of the table, Kol is perched like a question that refuses to be ignored.

He sits on the wood as if the world is made for his comfort, as if rules are something other people invent for the sole purpose of watching him break them. There is a woman in his arms—her back arched, her fingers digging into his shoulders with the frantic, pointless strength of the living—and Kol’s mouth is at her throat.

Finn does not look up at first.

He keeps his eyes on the line of script and lets the knowledge settle into him slowly, the way he has learned to let everything settle: without reaction, without indulgence. The monk who penned these words believed his thoughts might outlast him. He could not have imagined Finn reading them like this—apple in hand, monsters in the corner of the room.

The wet sound reaches him anyway.

It is not loud. Kol does not need to be loud. Kol is, by nature, an interruption. His feeding has a rhythm to it—open-mouthed, shameless—blood drawn in greedy pulls and swallowed as if it is simply wine at supper. The woman makes a small sound, and Finn’s fingers tighten around his apple without him meaning to.

He takes another bite, forces the crunch.

He thinks, briefly, of Eden in the way his mother spoke of it once—paradise, innocence, the fall. He thinks of a fruit held in a hand, of a mouth that does not yet know what it is to hunger.

He thinks: I am eating my apple and pretending this is still a garden.

Kol laughs against the woman’s skin, a soft breath of delight, and Finn’s attempt at a garden collapses in on itself like paper in water.

He turns the page.

“Are you truly going to sit there and read while I do all the work?” Kol says, voice bright with blood.

Finn keeps his gaze on the text. “You are doing nothing that resembles work.”

“Oh, Finn.” Kol’s tone turns syrupy, amused. “Always so severe. Always so—”

The woman’s knees buckle.

Finn’s eyes flick, once, toward her as she slips down Kol’s body and collapses in a heap on the ground.

Dead.

It is obvious in a way Finn has learned to recognize without thinking—how quickly the slackness arrives, how the throat does not swallow anymore, how the warmth is already beginning to drain from the skin. A life ended with the same careless efficiency Kol ends most things, as if the world is full of bodies and therefore none of them can ever truly matter.

Finn looks back to his book before the shape of her death can become a thought. He keeps chewing. He keeps swallowing.

Apple and corpse. Bite and blood. Eating and being eaten.

This is what his life is now, no matter how slowly he eats, no matter how clean he keeps his hands.

“You’re eating like a dying man, brother.”

Finn’s eyes lift before he can stop them. They land on Kol’s mouth.

Kol’s lips are red. Not stained prettily, not the tasteful smear of a man who wiped his mouth—red in the way a butcher’s hands are red. Blood caught at the corner. Blood in the fine dark of his lashes. Blood smeared across his cheeks, his neck, his laugh lines.

Finn looks away too quickly, furious with himself for looking at all.

“Leave,” Finn says again, and hears the edge in his voice, hears the way it betrays him.

Kol’s grin turns sharp. “Or what?”

Finn draws in a slow breath through his nose. He tastes apple. He tastes the faint tang of ink. He tastes, under it all, the copper in the air from the woman’s throat.

He hates how clearly his body registers it.

He hates how his mouth waters.

He hates most of all that his siblings do not seem to hate themselves for it—

Hates most of all how he desperately, viciously wishes that he could be unincumbered by his morality, that he could join them in the muck, in the horrific sticky red.

Finn’s fingers flex around the apple. His thumb finds the indentation where his teeth have bitten. A small bruise in the fruit’s flesh. Proof that he has made his mark on something that cannot heal.

He looks down at it and thinks, absurdly: Eve must have felt like this. Not sinful, not wicked—simply aware. Simply awake. Simply unable to return to innocence once the bite has been taken.

He takes another bite of his apple.

Kol’s movement is sudden, the way Kol always is when he decides he wants something. A flash of motion at the corner of Finn’s vision. A shift of air. The scrape of a boot against wood.

Before Finn can look back up, Kol’s hand shoots out and knocks the apple clean from Finn’s grasp.

It hits the floor and rolls—red skin flashing in the candlelight, a bright, stupid thing.

It bumps once against the dead woman’s hip and comes to rest there, nestled absurdly against her slackened hand as if she might pick it up, as if she might sit up and take a bite.

Finn goes still.

Kol’s laugh is soft and delighted. “Messy eater,” he says, mockingly sweet. “Look at you.”

Finn’s gaze lifts.

Kol is looking at him like he has won something. Like he has proven a point. Like he has dragged Finn one inch closer to him and intends to drag him the rest of the way.

Finn stands.

He does not slam the book shut. He does not shout. His movements are controlled in the way he has trained them to be—because if he lets himself become loud, he might become Kol, and Finn has been fighting becoming Kol since the day they turned.

He walks around the table.

Kol stays perched on the edge, chin lifted, waiting. Brazen. Bloody. Beautiful in that awful way all of them are now, as if the curse has polished their faces into something made for worship.

Finn stops close enough that their knees nearly touch.

“You’re dripping,” Finn says, low.

Kol blinks slowly. “Am I?”

Finn lifts his hand.

His thumb presses beneath Kol’s eye and drags, firm and deliberate, wiping the blood away in one slow stroke. The red smears warm under his skin. Finn feels it more sharply than he should—feels the intimacy of touching Kol’s face, feels the sick satisfaction of correcting him.

Kol’s breath catches, small and traitorous, and Finn hates that too—hates how quickly Kol’s body answers touch, as if touch is the only language he trusts.

“You have made a mess of yourself,” Finn says again, quieter.

Finn’s thumb slides to the corner of Kol’s mouth and wipes there too. Kol’s lips part slightly—his eyes do not leave Finn’s.

Finn’s stomach twists.

He should pull his hand away.

He should step back.

He should pick up his book and return to his apple and to the lie of the garden.

Instead, he brings his thumb to his own mouth.

He licks.

The taste is immediate—iron and salt, hot and intimate, the bright copper of the woman’s blood carried into Finn by Kol’s face. Finn’s tongue curls around the pad of his thumb and Kol’s gaze goes, for half a heartbeat, strangely empty—like something in him has gone silent.

Finn swallows.

[klelijahotp]

Update: I'm working on the @thesapphicdiariesweek prompts i chose, making some changes here and there.

Sunday is finished! On to Monday

Also working on Chapter 2: Finn for If our love's insanity, why are you my clarity? For @krissybehind

Also, working on Chapter 2: Klaus for No one has to know (the things that make you lose your mind)

Elijah Forgets is on hold. I need my computer for that and I've been plugging away at my phone for convenience with all my other fics and got too used to the way my phone works so I have to work up the energy to dig out the comp and do all the steps, etc.

Snippets below the cut!

Sapphic diaries: Sunday

Ch2:Finn

Ch2:Klaus

No snippets for Elijah forgets, I haven't added to it.

[winterbonesthings]

FAVORITE TOXIC YAOI PAIRINGS!

Hi Flora!

I'll give you my current top five, with five being the highest.

Bucky Barnes/Brock Rumlow (Marvel)

Bucky Barnes/Helmut Zemo (Marvel)

Elijah Mikaelson/Finn Mikaelson

Klaus Mikaelson/Elijah Mikaelson

Kol Mikaelson/Finn Mikaelson

[icarusofathousanddays]

Flora's Fanfics ✴︎ Fandom - The Vampire Diaries ✴︎ Word Count - 1k ✴︎ I'm Too Busy Committing Sins

“A scorpion cannot be taught to sting less,” Kol murmurs. “If it were meant to be anything other than what it is, nature would have made it so.” Finn’s nostrils flare. His eyes flash—anger, yes, but also the barest shadow of something like hurt, as if Kol has said Finn cannot be anything other than what he is, either— “There is blood in your lashes,” Finn snaps suddenly. Kol blinks slowly. The blood makes his lashes stick together for a moment before the water loosens it, and he cannot resist making it worse—he flutters them once, exaggerated, as if he is a girl at court gazing up at a handsome knight. “Oh?” Kol says, smile widening. “And here I was thinking you simply enjoyed gazing into my eyes on purpose.” … Or: Kol and Finn, and a moment stolen in the sun.

[Read on AO3]

[klelijahotp]

@krissybehind

Enjoy on Ao3

[klelijahotp]

Read on AO3

[icarusofathousanddays]

Flora's Fanfics ✴︎ Fandom - The Vampire Diaries ✴︎ Word Count - 1.8k ✴︎ Your Violence, Your Silent Sedation

It is not a pure love—Kol is not built for that, he thinks—but it is still love or at least a strange shade of it. It is a love of edges. It is a love of hunger and sick relief, of recognizing your own wound in someone else’s. It is love that feels, in a way, like a betrayal of all the other loves he has allowed himself—small and half-killed, smothered like a hungry infant by a mother too young to be able to care for it. Finn lies there, a half-dead-half-alive thing, a half-brother-half-something-else thing. He lies there as Kol’s worst fears given form, his worst-case made flesh, the answer to a question Kol does not have the bravery to ask aloud: what happens if they tire of me? ... Kol did not know it was the last time until it was already gone.

[Read on AO3]