Alex hadn't changed, really, over the last year. Still tall, still tan. Still gut-achingly handsome. Really, the only difference from this time to the last is that last time, Logan had been the one bleeding.
Logan was across the clearing in three quick, clean strides. Alex was sliding to the ground, back against a tree, and he hadn't noticed Logan yet. Or if he had, he hadn't recognized him. The wound across his arm bled lazily, as if it were tired of pumping out blood and taking a bit of a breather. A bad sign, more like than not.
On his knees in front of Alex was a place that Logan had always hoped to find himself. Not like this, exactly, but something.
"Hey," Logan said, soft, like speaking to a spooked horse. Last time, Alex had laughed at him, even as he'd carefully wrapped strips of his own cloak around Logan's bloodied stomach.
Alex groaned. His eyelids were flickering like candlelight, lips parted into a perfect, blood-spattered flower.
"Alex," Logan said, and he put one hand on Alex's knee, where he wasn't so obviously injured. Alex's eyes came into focus and then unfocused again. There wasn't any obvious recognition in his face, but his perfect mouth quirked into such a perfect smile that Logan felt a lot like he'd been the one slashed to hell and back with the business end of a blade.
"Logan," Alex said. "S'that... huh."
Like he was surprised, but like it was a happy surprise.
It felt like theft, when he leaned in to kiss Alex on the lips. It felt like he was taking something that didn't belong to him, only it'd been so long since he'd last seen Alex, and Alex had smiled at him like he'd missed him.
So Logan kissed him. Alex didn't stop smiling. Even as his body sagged and he sighed, passing out with a whisper of a breath, he kept smiling. He did keep breathing, too, which was the important part.
For a moment, Logan let himself look. In sleep—never mind that it was a sleep induced by blood loss—Alex looked so peaceful that it made Logan's heart hurt. So he kissed him again, on the corner of his mouth, and he didn't say anything stupid like I missed you or I love you, actually.
Instead, Logan settled in, closer, and unclasped his cloak to shred for bandages.
"Just an awful bother, isn't it? Can't take a step in your damned woods without walking into a trap or a wild animal or—or some band of roving—I don't know—brigands."
Logan nods along, because Alex doesn't seem like he's going to be done with his raving any time soon, and Logan doesn't have the lung power to join in. It is a bother. Supremely irritating to have to clear out his own family's land of thieves and bandits when all he was meant to do was trek—leisurely, mind—to the nearest hamlet down the highroad, make an appearance, and then ride back.
A ruse, really. An excuse to spend time with Alex, send him off on a longer journey to the neighbouring province, where he'll be staying for a long, long time. Maybe forever.
Just a visit, Logan's had to keep reminding himself. Alex isn't a knight sworn to his father, his family, or to Logan himself. Just visiting. Borrowed at best.
"—and another thing, now—hey. Logan?"
Logan nearly trips over a gnarled root, glancing up. Alex is a good ten paces ahead, unmoving, staring back at Logan with a strange look on his face. Annoyance, maybe, that Logan's not kept up with him? It's not technically Logan's fault that he's not in shape like Alex is. He's the son-of-a-lord, not a knight. Not practicing with a sword every day. That's not what he's destined for.
"Sorry," Logan tries to say, but it comes out wheezy and thin. They've been jogging for the better part of an hour, putting distance between themselves and the group of thieves who'd attacked them on the road. Logan's exhausted. The adrenaline is starting to wear off. It makes sense, that he'd be falling behind.
The pain catches him off guard.
When he glances down, finally, the rich blue of his coat has turned a richer, darker shade, and the fabric is sliced neatly open along his side. Completely ruined. His mother will be horrified.
He stutters to a halt and peels back the coat. Everything underneath it is stained a deep, dark red—the crisp white linen of his undershirt blooming with blood. He moves to pull the shirt back, too, and then winces away. The fabric is caught in the tacky ooze of a wound just below his ribs.
"Ah, fuck," Alex says. Logan passes out.
—
When Logan wakes, it's night.
The forest isn't quiet. A buzz of insects and hooting, the soft crackle of wood burning. The sky is a dark, star-speckled blanket peeking through the tree cover. It’s beautiful out here, Logan thinks. He hasn’t slept outside since he was small, camping with his brother out in the edges of the wood, still in sight of his family’s keep.
He doesn't lift his head. He's quite comfortable, actually, draped in a cloak, pillowed on something warm and solid. Even the ground underneath him is soft with moss. It would be so easy to fall back asleep, turning his cheek into the firm heat under him which—
He’s abruptly embarrassed to discover is Alex's thigh.
“Oh,” says Logan.
Alex himself quirks an eyebrow down at him.
"Had your head on one of my spare coats," he says. "But you were thrashing around like a trout. Didn't want you to open your wound back up."
Right. The wound.
"Am I dying?" Logan asks dumbly. He feels a bit lightheaded, too pleasantly warm and cozy considering he'd just been bleeding a moment ago. Or—how long have they been here? The sun was still up, angling down in the west.
Alex snorts. "No," he says. "No, I'm not getting rid of you that easy."
Logan feels himself flush, hot in the face. Alex sounds faux-forlorn in a way that should be far too fond. Too familiar, Logan's father would say, improper for a knight to be so at ease with a lord's son no matter who the knight's sworn to.
"Well," Logan says. "That's good."
Alex splays a big, warm hand over Logan's forehead, gives him a little shake. Logan's ears burn.
"I wrapped you up as best as I could," Alex goes on, conversational, and then reaches across with his other hand to smooth out Logan's—the spare one, fresh, Alex changed his clothes for him—over a layer of cloth bandages. "The cut wasn't all that deep. You just need some rest."
Logan's eyes flutter shut—he is tired, sure. But he feels so indulged-in, so taken care of in ways he's not used to. Ways he wants but hasn't ever had.
"Thanks," he mumbles. He turns his head, nose brushing the fabric of Alex's shirt and then the softness of his belly underneath. Alex's hand moves with him. Along to the back of his head, winding into his hair and giving it a gentle tug.
"My pleasure, your lordship," Alex says. Logan can hear him grinning. He doesn't really have a choice to do much but grin back.
The floor is a comfort, when he doesn’t have anything else.
It’s a relief to know that he has the floor, he has his knees to bend. He has the ache in his ankles where he’s sitting back on them. He has Alex, sat up on the edge of the bed, absently thumbing at the head of his dick. He’s hard, which is good. Encouraging.
Logan takes a breath and he licks his lips. His knees are dimpled from the carpet, rug burned already. He feels like he’s just crawled through the fucking Sahara just to be here at Alex’s feet, but he’d do it all again. He’d stay here, patient and quiet and watchful, waiting for whatever scraps Alex might throw him.
“If you want it you’ll have to ask for it,” Alex says.Â
Alex is clearly in a mood; one that Logan doesn’t have the capacity or experience to decipher, exactly, but it’s noticeably there.
It’s the way he hauls Logan’s legs across his lap on the couch. The way he rubs absently at his ankle until Logan wraps up his phonecall. The way he actually strips Logan’s socks right off of his feet and presses a sharp thumb to the arch of the left one.
“Rough day at the office?" Alex asks, openly sympathetic. This is also a clear sign that he’s going to be a fucking hazard.
“Uh-huh,” Logan says warily. Alex is sort of slumped toward the other side of the couch and it’s put him in the right position to pull Logan’s feet up onto his chest. He thought he was going to get a weird, potentially many-strings-attached foot massage. Not… whatever the fuck this is.
Whatever it is, being Alex suddenly licking the arch of his foot.
“Dude,” Logan says, knee jerking, toes curling. He’s careful not to kick Alex in the face, though he’d probably deserve it.
Alex grins at him, licks the side of his foot this time—he does it with the edge of his tongue, so that the wet pink expanse of it is just all there and inviting. Logan’s just come from down the hall, only showered an hour ago, so his feet aren’t exactly ripe just yet. Still.Â
“Gross,” he manages.
“What,” Alex says, pressing Logan’s foot to his cheek. “They’re pretty much clean, so. How is it gross?”
Can’t argue with that logic, probably. Logan’s not sure what possesses him to push the dialogue any further, but; “So you’re just doing easy mode.”
Alex looks at him over his toes, brow twitching up. “Is that a challenge?”
Inexplicably, it makes Logan blush to even think about it. It doesn’t feel like the good kind of blush. Embarrassing to even consider it—Logan’s dirty, sweaty feet after he’s come in from a workout. Alex pulling his damp socks off for him. Alex licking the sweat from the soles of his feet.Â
It’s not a good thought. Or he’s pretty sure it’s not, except for the way his dick is having a whole moment about it.Â
Alex laughs at him. Of course. “Oh, you like that, then.”
Logan says, “No,” way too fast.Â
Alex, snickering, grabs Logan by the ankle and spreads his legs so he can lean up over him.
“What part of it,” he says, eyes glinting. “Which part do you like?”
Logan mutters incoherently. He wants to put his hands over his face, kind of. Wants to hide from Alex, who always knows exactly what he’s thinking, especially when it comes to the embarrassing parts.Â
“Dunno,” Logan says faintly. Alex pushes his knee up, up, until it’s practically touching his chest, and then rubs Logan’s ankle against his cheek. They’re pressed together in all of the good places. The swell of Alex’s dick rubbing against Logan’s—it’s such a fucking relief to find him thickening up, too.
“Does it feel nice?” Alex asks, turning his head to tongue at the ball of his foot, just under his toes. “S’that it?”
Logan makes a strangled noise. It does feel kind of nice, but that’s not at all it. Alex hums. With Logan’s foot where it is, pressed to his chin, it looks a bit ponderous. Like The Thinker, or whatever, with a foot instead of a fist.Â
Alex, because he’s insane, slurps Logan’s big toe into his mouth and sucks absently. It doesn’t feel good exactly but it’s the shape of Alex’s mouth, the way it looks when he sucks dick. It’s the fact that feet are, like, inherently dirty, and Alex is willing to put Logan’s filth in his mouth.
Alex pulls off with a wet pop. "Or d'you just like it a little dirty?"
Logan shrugs helplessly. Maybe he does like it a little dirty. Who’s to say?
Alex laughs at him again, because he’s an asshole, and Logan’s dick kicks in his pants, because he’s lost control of his life.
It’s kind of a relief when Alex lets go of his ankle and leans over him, even though it’s stretching his hamstrings about as far as they should conceivably go. Even with Alex looking at him again, it’s good to have his foot less involved. Maybe.Â
Alex takes his chin between his fingers, gentle, and says, “Open.”
Logan opens. Obedient, rigid as if Alex had forced his jaw wide with his fingers.Â
Alex spits. There’s no force behind it, just a slow sort of drool that Logan finds himself reaching for with his tongue. Because, again, he’s gone fucking insane.Â
He imagines he can taste it. Whatever his feet taste like—sweat and sock and shoe, a taint that should be wrong against the neutral flavour of Alex’s spit but that makes his head spin. He lays back and takes it, waits for Alex to close his mouth and lick his lips before he even thinks about reacting.
overstimulation/dacryphilia for sargebon or markoscar!
"Alex, I can't."
Alex understands what it means to be a shark. To smell blood in the water. Can't just makes him hungrier for it; greedier, even though he's already been given so much. Taken it, really.
"What is it you Americans say," Alex says, snapping the lube bottle shut with one hand. "Mama didn't raise no quitter?"
He puts on that weird southern twang that always makes Logan either roll his eyes or laugh but this time he gets a pained moan instead. Fair enough, when Alex is working two fingers back into the wet heat of Logan's hole. Again.
He could lie and say he's not been paying that much attention. That he's not been counting how many orgasms that he's dragged out of Logan in the last... hour? Two? He likes to play it like he's cool about it all. In reality he's so laser-focused he's surprised the bedsheets haven't caught on fire.
"Alex," Logan says, again, choked. He's squirming and his legs keep trying to close around Alex's shoulders, but he's keeping his hands to himself. Five orgasms deep and he's still being good, letting Alex do his thing. He's easy for it.
Alex curls his fingers and Logan sobs. Like actually sobs, so deep from his chest that it sounds like it hurts. This is, regrettably, what Alex is here for.
He starts back in on it, rubbing the pads of his fingers against Logan's prostate. He can actually feel how tender it is, how sore Logan's insides must be. His hole, even, is pink and raw and puffy.
"Please," Logan says and Alex isn't looking at his asshole anymore. He's watching his face, flushed deep red, shiny with sweat. His eyes are screwed shut but Alex sees it when the crying starts. Tears forcing their way out to catch in his lashes and then slip down his temples.
Alex is only human, of course. His cock throbs where he's left himself completely untouched this whole time.
"Just one more," Alex says. He grinds absently against the mattress, fingers pressed insistently to Logan's prostate, thumb pressing up against his taint. He takes it all in; Logan's scarlet face, the tears on his cheeks. Logan's spent cock, still fat and wet and laying valiantly thick against his pelvis.
"I can't," Logan says, skipping over a whine and directly into a wail.
Alex reaches up and he wraps a hand around Logan's cock and Logan jerks like he's trying to get away.
When Alex thumbs over his tip Logan starts really crying. He's shaking all over, both arms slung over his face, stomach tight with how he's trying to curl in on himself. But his dick is leaking in Alex's hand. Pulsing against Alex's palm.
"You can," Alex tells him, soothing, encouraging. "I know you can."
And Logan sniffs and squirms and hiccoughs but he doesn't protest again. They both know he can do it. Alex'll drag it out of him. He always does.
send kink(s) and ship(s) and maybe i will write more hell things
