♱ Half King ♱

      It made his eyes flash dark. Perhaps more so than he might have normally allowed. Black now, and wild. For a passing moment he considered the thought. Imagined what it would be like to puncture such a long neck and draw from those wounds the very life of his own body. The enigma of blood so similar, yet aged so differently. Blood that was both very much dead, and blood so alive it spoke in volumes, written in crimson. Again, Elijah let his hips dip, grinding harshly on Kol’s, needing the friction to combat the need to give in. To supply his demanding, now mortal, brother his every whim. To bite. Elijah’s jaw ached.

      “Kol,” his voice was ragged, half broken for all the control he claimed. He hadn’t realized the younger tugging at the buttons of his shirt. The feeling, though direct, was so peripheral until the sting of warm hands slid down his ancient flesh. It was then that Elijah let out an audible moan, unable to stifle the surprise in it. He allowed himself to be touched, unused to the feeling of such familiar fingers ever playing gently. He supposed Kol had little choice in the matter. Mortal fingers were so much weaker than those of the millennia’s old vampire he had been before. Something in that thought was wildly amusing. As if Elijah could exact revenge for all the moments his brother had thought to be too hurried. There was very little he could do to protest now.

      With that thought in mind, he captured Kol’s wrist, holding it as rigidly as he dared between two fingers with an all too knowing smirk. There would be time to drink. Elijah would gorge himself on his brother. The boy who had grown into a handsome man, who had too many tricks to ever feign innocence. “You are such a filthy boy,” his voice betrayed his arousal. His incessant need to let his hips rock gently into Kol’s, a rocking motion that he had willed his body to stop more than once and had found it refusing compliance. With one more fervent push of his hips, Elijah set Kol’s wrist above his head, holding down an arm that could protest little of his advances, though he imagined it had very few protests to make.

      “Such a clever, filthy boy,” Elijah breathed, dipping his head to match and inhaling the scent of their mingled blood at the crux of neck and shoulder. It was a mistake, one that would drive him to madness, and did. He swallowed the taste of sweat. He swallowed any remaining fears, any regard for his life that Elijah might normally expand upon. It was an out of body experience, becoming as much Kol as he would allow. Becoming the antagonist to their games. His arms cradled either side of his brother’s head, locking the boy beneath his body. An anchor to him. “Where is it you learned to prey upon me, Brother?” It was teasing now, his bloodstained lips speaking hymns to the hollow of an open throat.