#fics .

[hemlock-dreams]

once again, i am giving into the demons. T_T

[only-on-ao3]

is it ethical to give yourself an allergic reaction? by yoursleepdeprivedauthor

[endursent]

- God Shattering Star

【 content; morax | rex lapis x reader , slow burn , mutual pining , multi-chapter , archon war period , afab!reader 】

【 note sorry this is also late i had to redo this chapter like 3 times cause i wasn't happy with it, i should stop re-reading a song of ice and fire while writing this 'cause i keep comparing my dialogue skills with fucking george rr martin and feel sad ｡ﾟ(*´□`)ﾟ｡ | read on ao3 】

【 word count; 6.016 | previous chapter - next chapter | masterlist 】

- Chapter 8 - Consumption

You barely recognise life anymore—or anything for that matter. You feel sick, sticky and heavy, as if your body is full of liquids in every crevice. The world around you feels lighter than you yourself do, like you’re sinking below it and perpetually struggling to reach upwards to grasp at the people staring down at you from around the cot. 

  Ming Hui sets her hand on your stomach, and a pain so consuming you thrash and scream overrides any thought or consciousness. Hands hold you down to prevent you from hurting yourself or anyone else as the smaller girl tears (at least that’s what it feels like to you) blackened liquids and blood from the lacerations on your belly. 

  You throw up every day, most of the time several times a day, nights are filled with shivers and huddling under blankets when you try to close your eyes to sleep—and wake in the middle of the night, soaked with sweat and fever. 

  One night, you had a terrible dream—you’ve been having many bad dreams, terrible, suffocating dreams. Nightmares. You woke up to two pairs of hands shaking your shoulders, clapping your cheeks lightly in hopes of waking you before you hurt yourself. 

  Another night, you couldn’t sleep, you kept seeing dark snakes slither between beds—you told yourself that they aren’t real, there are no snakes so high in the mountain of Liyue… they are far more common between the mountains, in thick forests with plenty of opportunities for food for their size. 

  They never approach your bed, one circles around it before disappearing behind a shelf of ointments. Later the same morning, exhausted and dozing from a sleepless night, you thought you saw a white snake under the bandage around your left arm looking at you, you reached out to pet it, but it slid back inside. Into your bandages. Into your skin.

  The week drags on for what feels like several of them. Every morning, Ming Hui would perform a cleanse and try to purify parts of your body to keep the miasma from spreading into it, but you weren’t sure how much it was helping, at least, you didn’t start feeling better until a week and a half after the seven days of cleansing. 

  With a groan, you prop yourself up and get into a sitting position, fumbling to grab one of the seven or so books on the table next to the cot, you let it fall open onto your lap. Staring at the ceiling is impossibly boring, and you hope your body is giving you some energy to use your brain at least a little. The book doesn’t have a name on the cover, nor does it look like a printed book—it’s full of handwriting and for a moment you thought Guizhong might have accidentally lent you a diary… but as you squint and read further, you see that it’s something of a logbook. 

  Documentation of a crew’s trip on the sea, the management of resources and the direction of the winds… it’s a surprisingly soothing read, you craft the ship in your mind and imagine the soothing brush of waves against the wood, sun beating down and warming the skin.

  You open your eyes again as a healer touches your shoulder and asks to see your left arm again, you didn’t even realise you fell asleep. The prickly sensation of their fingers prodding at your arm is strange, like it’s felt through a few layers of clothing… you can feel it, but just kind of. You feel like you used to be able to tell what texture was touching you—a finger or a glove, the grass or floor. But now it all feels like the same kind of poking.

  You feel a fragment of dread every time Ming Hui comes up to your bed, but thankfully the last few times, she’s just been bringing you things. Doughy snacks from the capital, some sesame balls from the kitchens, papers and ink to draw on, anything. Unfortunately none of the foods or snacks stick in your belly for long… but it’s nice to taste them, if only a small nibble with the front of your teeth and a poke of your tongue. 

  It has been a long morning, you had woken up early due to your back starting to hurt because you’ve been laying down for so long—you really wish you could start to walk around, but even just sitting up feels like you’re leaving half your organs behind on your mattress… you look up as you hear footsteps approach and see a familiar face, though not one you expected.

  Cloud Retainer—rather roughly—takes your arm and lifts it up vertically, you make a strange startled, as well as surprised sound and try to tug it back, but she holds it firmly. Ground Mender follows behind and sighs. “Be gentle,” she scolds. 

  “Hmph, a sound of pain merely shows there’s still feeling in the limb,” she moves it horizontally and squeezes the sides of your elbow, you have no idea what she’s doing. “Squeeze into a fist for me.” 

  You do as she asks, curling your fingers as much as you can—it’s not a very good squeeze, if any, but you manage to curl them into a fist with trembling fingers, your fist twitches from the effort. “Like this?”

  “Hm, good enough,” she nods and begins to undo the bandage. You look at Ground Mender, but she doesn’t seem to stop the other adeptus, so surely it’s okay… the bandages have been changed many times, but you’ve always been either been half-asleep or too out of it to pay attention to it. The white cloth falls away from your skin and reveals a rather uncomfortable sight—your arm looks like it’s been through the ringer. The skin is uneven and looks more like crumpled parchment stretched over bone than the arm you’re more familiar with, the deep wounds were beginning to close but you could still clearly see the raised edges where it separated, having been knit together twice. 

  It’s a mangled, uncomfortable thing, your fingers twitch and a dull tug pulls at your senses where you think your joints should be—as if the entire arm was misaligned, off-kilter.

  Cloud Retainer turns your arm wrist up and then wrist down, looks at it with a scrutinising eye behind those red-rimmed glasses. You wonder if adepti need glasses or if it’s just fashion. 

  “What are you searching for?” you ask, your arm is tired, being raised like that for so long. You want to let it lay down and rest. 

  The adeptus pokes your palm with a sharp nail and your fingers twitch again, your eyebrows furrow in mild annoyance… you can only tolerate being prodded at without explanation for so long. Finally, she graces you with an answer. “The miasma is concentrated heavily in your arm, most of what was in your stomach has been pulled out… but there is little to do with this part here.”

  You look down at your arm… it doesn’t look as rotted as you recall others’ bodies would become after as long as it has stayed in your arm. A bit discoloured, maybe… just, different. “Little to do? Extraction has never failed… can’t we just dig in and drag it out…?” you don’t have the energy or capacity to recount a lengthy process, but cleansing has never failed you—you have yet to find an object or person who was too far gone.

  And surely, you are not…?

  Cloud Retainer wraps your arm again carefully, you see the golden eyes of a snake staring at you from between the bandages.

  “Then… what do we do?” you ask as if there was something for you to do. You can barely hold your arm at chest-height for too long.

  Cloud Retainer holds her hand out to Ground Mender, who hands her the familiar wooden board someone is always holding when standing by your bed. “Observe for now, the miasma is contained below your elbow—” you look at the ink on your arm, locked. “—and it doesn't seem to be rotting the skin, it’s stagnant.”

  You were better for a while, and got worse again. 

  You could imagine the ship, high tides and low, rocking among the waving ocean—a peek of sunlight. Two suns, warmth and stability. A calm sea surrounded by raging waters. 

  The perpetual taste of bile stings the back of your throat, it’s a wonder if you aren’t in danger of malnourishment—you’re unsure you’ve kept down a meal in three weeks. Your head swims and you get nauseous if you lie down, you’re nauseous if you sit up. The world spins when you try to stand, even with attendants insisting you move your legs and body to prevent clotting from forming in your feet. You are practically hauled onto a cart of some sort that holds only your upper body, when strength slips between your fingers and you slide off—only just barely caught by the attendants and brought back to bed, they decide to just assign someone to apply pressure to your feet instead to promote blood flow.

  It’s strange… it’s all treatment and techniques you’ve familiarised yourself with over the last months you’ve been working for the capital. But it feels so foreign to be on the receiving end. 

  Like a rocking ship, you managed to down some foods one morning—and kept them down over lunch time, for the first time in… how long has it been? You feed some of the congee to a smaller snake by your bedside. 

  Everyone around you seemed very excited, but you didn’t have the energy to return it—you know in your heart and gut that it could change at any moment… your day moves slowly as you flip the page of a rather difficult book Cloud Retainer gave to you, it’s only about half writing and the rest is just numbers. Your eyes rise when you see Morax approaching your bed, and you straighten instinctively—he has something in his hand, a bamboo food basket with a long handle. “Good afternoon,” he greets evenly and takes a foldable table that’s used to prop on the bed to allow patients to eat there. He sets the basket on the table over your lap—over your book—and steps away again… Morax has been very quiet recently, and you’re unsure why. You would never say you know him well, you are just barely on greeting or chatting terms, but you still feel a sense that something weighs on his mind. 

  He returns again with a spoon. “Zhou’s son recently made travels to the west, and on my walk through the streets, the old man demanded I try some cuisine his son had studied there. This is supposed to be easily digestible,” Morax takes your right hand, despite it being very much healthy and mobile. His slender fingers slide below your wrist and lift your hand where he lays the spoon against your upturned palm, your fingers instinctively curl around the cutlery despite the fact that your eyes aren’t watching it. His expression is firm, stiff and stony. 

  “It’s not dinner time yet,” you’re not sure why you said it, perhaps the silence was uncomfortable, or you want his gaze to leave your torso and rise to meet yours. 

  He blinks, there are so many things on his mind that it gets pulled away even in the respite he’s taking in bringing you food. “Yes, my apologies. Master Zhou was rather insistent that I stop by and taste his son’s food no matter the time of day, he said finding me during meal hours is too complicated,” Morax lets go of your arm and his hand goes to the basket, he takes the top off and the dish out.

  While the congee you ate this morning was nice and light on your stomach—this dish was a pale yellow as opposed to the white of the congee. It smelled warm and comforting but mild, like a stone left under the midday sun, a hot spring on a cold winter’s day in the mountains where the flakes melt against your cheeks, but your body and shoulders are enveloped in a warmed watery blanket. 

  You stop staring at the dish and stick your spoon into it, it’s soft and moist, the rice separate easily as you scoop a small bite past your lips, careful not to have too much at a time—your stomach has traumatised you over the week by acting up over the smallest thing.

  “Ground Mender and Cloud Retainer surmised that though initially we thought enough of the miasma had been cleared from around your organs, your body is still too weak to push out the rest by itself,” Morax finds a stool to sit on next to your bed, not wanting to intrude on the mattress itself. In your convinced state, the bed is your only privacy space that only feels more confined when the curtains are closed around it. 

  The bite of food fills your mouth—and though your taste buds are extra sensitive now with not eating a lot of foods for so long… licking a sesame ball doesn’t count for much, it tastes very much like the warm embrace the smell and temperature brings. The rice is soft and nearly dissolves on your tongue, the creamy texture of the bite spreading in your mouth and down your throat—it’s five times more warming and powerful than a sip of warm water to smooth out your scrunchy stomach. It gets to work and you instantly feel a sense of ease. 

  Morax watches you as you lick your lips, dipping the spoon again. “What is it? It’s very nice,” you ask as you take another—now a fuller spoon—of the surprising dish.

  “Khichdi,” Morax says the word carefully, as if he were trying to mimic a pronunciation. “After master Zhou’s son returned, a lot of the dishes he learned to make have become very popular in the neighbourhood.”

  You hum, you can see why—the flavour is very unique, even if it’s not very strong, it’s likely made with ingredients not found in the Guili Assembly. “Some vegetables could add to it,” you muse to yourself, but quickly try and correct yourself. “I-I mean, it’s very good like this, thank you—”

  Morax, however, seemed sheepish for a moment. “Ah… there are vegetables in it… but master Zhou asked for your preference and I couldn’t answer, I deemed it safer to ask them to chop a chosen few of them into… miniscule pieces, in case chewing would be discomforting, or you didn’t like the taste.”

 You look down at the bowl, sure enough, there are specs of green and red—how small can you even chop a vegetable?! This looks like a crumb of salt, you think as you squint at a tiny flake of red on your spoon between two grains of rice… your taste buds are in shambles, even just the flavours of this was making it difficult to tell the ingredients, though there are some you have never tasted before. “Ah, thank you for your consideration,” you say before setting another—now spoonful—in your mouth. You almost wish you had bread now, when even two days ago you couldn’t even think about food without your stomach curling up. 

  Another silence lingers, but it’s not uncomfortable—not waiting or hesitant. You slowly eat while Morax sits, he looks around the calm ward, it’s usually only used in dire circumstances—when the usual infirmary tucked on the first floor on his side between the palaces is full, you’re the only patient being tended to now. “Perhaps you will soon be ready to go above ground,” Morax says absently, not turning his head to you yet.

  “Hm? Someone could surely carry me there now, I can try walking again,” you say after a swallow, realising you were eating a bit too fast, you slowed down; your grandmother wouldn’t have you consuming a meal made in kindness at breakneck speed without appreciating the flavour and effort. 

  “Though I’m glad you feel confident, I would rather avoid you hurting yourself,” Morax shakes his head slowly. “We will see what Ground Mender says in the morning, if you keep this down.”

  You better, you tell yourself. 

  Morax stuck around until you finished, and he helped put away the wooden board as well as placed the bowl back into the basket which had been set aside. You expected him to leave, but he walks around the bed to the side of your injured arm and extends his own right hand. “May I?”

  Raising your arm slowly, it stutters and jerks slightly, as if you were fighting against your own muscles for them to listen to your commands.Morax takes your arm kindly, treats it with a gentle touch you would expect from a seasoned healer… a soft glow emits from his hands and you feel their warmth seep into your skin, for a moment it is comforting, a taste of the khichdi from his hands to your skin.

  But suddenly, it’s too hot—it burns.

  You yank your arm back instinctively, as if you had laid it on a raging fire and not realised until the flames licked your skin. “Ah—” your right hand fingers dig into the bandage of your left arm, trying to squeeze away the pain, to inflict it differently and drain it out.

  Morax tenses at the sudden reaction, his eyes flashing with a strange emotion you didn’t see long enough to discern. “What is it?” he asks with urgency, but he doesn’t touch you again. Not if it was his touch that was the cause of your startling. “Did I hurt you?”

  “N-No,” you say quickly, but you’re not sure—it only happened because his fingers rested on your arm, but they were gentle, like leaves brushing against cobblestone in a drifting breeze. “What were you doing?”

  You don’t mean for your question to sound accusing, you hope Morax doesn’t take it as such. He looks from your eyes down to your clutched arm, eyebrows pinched in thought. “Does it still hurt?”

  “A little…” you mumble. Your arm tingles and your fingers tremble slightly, it has felt strangely cold—as opposed to the warmth that always emanated from corrupt skin, the miasma displaying symptoms of infections, because one corrupted is being infected. 

  “I was merely examining your energies, but as soon as I touched them…” he looked at his own hand. Your body had rejected his energies before—but they had not simply evaporated now, he was pushed back. 

  He does not like it. 

  You rub at your arm gently, nails scratching at the bandage now that you had the excuse. The bandage is wrapped so densely, your skin is moist and itchy. “Don’t scratch it,” Morax scolds as you do, and with a defeated sigh you look up at him again and tense. 

  There is an unmoving silence before you quickly look away again, but Morax saw the surprise and—fear? Concern?—on your face before you turned back to your arm. He says your name firmly, firmer than you’re sure you’ve heard before. “What is wrong?”

  “Nothing,” you say quickly. There was a snake around his shoulders. Writhing and wrapping around his throat. 

  They’re not real. You must just be malnourished, sick. Hallucinating. 

  Morax doesn’t react when the snake squeezes his neck.

  It’s not real.

  You pant, heart racing and pounding against your chest—you feel it so vividly you’re sure you could lay your fingers over your chest and pinch it when it presses between your ribs. You feel dizzy, and disoriented, eyes looking down to your left arm, it’s there—all fingers attached as usual. 

  Just seconds ago it had been red, open, you could reach out and touch the bone, you could wrap your fingers around it while your skin and muscles slipped off your arm and landed with a wet squelching sound on the floor.

  You’ve been having nightmares again. 

  It doesn’t have any comprehensive or predictable patterns, one night your head is in the maws of a beast, another you’re drowning under a tidal wave of iron-tasting water, unable to breathe or see as it stings your eyes and burns your lungs. You squeeze your eyes shut, running your right hand over your face tightly, squishing your nose slightly with your palm. 

  It’s exhausting. The day is tiring enough already, and you find no solace in sleep. You don’t even have the luxury of turning from one side or the other, any position other than flat on your back feels like your intestines are going to spill out through your belly button. 

  You glance at the breakfast laid out for you, sitting on the bedside table as it cools. Congee and some bread… but you don’t feel hungry. Not for what feels like the hundredth bowl of congee, you haven’t returned your meals in a few days, but yet Ground Mender denied you when you asked if you could be brought above ground.

  “We don’t have much space in the palace infirmary.”

  “Did something happen?” you had asked, you hadn’t heard of anything, but you haven’t heard much of the outside world in a while.

  Ground Mender changed the subject without telling you, and you were starting to feel that you were being kept alone in this massive hall for… what? You’re getting better, slowly, you managed to walk around your bed with some support, but you would never make it up the endless staircase leading to the sun-touched hallways. 

  It’s been a month and a half, according to an attendant that brought your breakfast. Your muscles have atrophied terribly and even just standing so someone can help you bathe is exhausting. 

  A hand touches your breakfast tray and you look up to see Moon Carver. It feels like every person you’ve met in the last months has been coming around to check on you… it’s strange. You’ve never stayed in one place for long enough for anyone to notice absent days of sickness, to inquire why you close your home off for cleansing for a week.

  You had returned to a small village that specialised in silk weaving and no one had remembered your face, despite the fact you had discovered the foul energies poisoning a part of the nearby forest, which caused a devastating number of lost silkworms over the span of three years. 

  You had seen your reflection recently and didn’t recognise yourself either. 

  “Time to stretch your legs, come on,” the adeptus tilts his head for you to get up. “The more you skimp out, the longer it will take to build those muscles up again.”

  If you don’t move, he’ll continue to pester you… you move the blanket off your lap and Moon Carver takes under your right elbow to help you stand. You’re steadier on your feet than you were before, but you always feel like your legs’ sense of balance is different from your mind’s. 

  “Starting to think you ask for babysitting duty,” you mumble, a poor attempt at humour as you take careful steps. You feel exhausted, but not like you would after running—there’s no burn, there’s no ache or cramp. You just feel like you’re going to slink down onto the floor like a dropped paper, swaying back and forth before gliding under a cabinet. 

  Moon Carver huffs, his grip is strong. “It’s not easy to say no to this one’s Lord.”

  “Would you if it were?” you wonder why Morax would ask Moon Carver to check on you, surely he has more important things to do. 

  He doesn’t answer, changing the subject. You’ve started to notice that when an adeptus doesn’t want to tell you something, they will just become quiet or dodge your question. “Let us go towards the stairs and back.”

  You frown. “All the way? It’s far…”

  It’s barely thirty steps, sixty in total there and back. You’ve walked this distance without a thought several times, so many you can’t begin to imagine how often. Light on your feet, walking briskly with tools, trays or heavy baskets you are sure you couldn’t try to lift up now. 

  It seems so far, yet you know it’s not. You just have to put one foot in front of the other, not think, not look at the distance, look at your feet, the floor. 

  You’ve had different nightmares. 

  Strange, different.

  Sinking below the claustrophobic, choking earth. Deeper into the iron water. Sinking. Watching the surface of the world like a reflection of sunlight from above the sea, blinding. 

  They’re vivid, but not scary.

  Just strange. Different. 

  Not nightmares.

  You wake and feel the warmth of the sun on your cheeks, it filters through oiled paper and you shift to your side. You don’t feel pain laying on your side anymore, but it’s not comfortable either… but you want to sleep, and the sun—though filtered—is in your eyes. You prefer to lay on your right side when you rarely roll, it’s easier if you have to sit up. 

  “Hmm, I would have thought you would be happy to see the sun?” Guizhong sets her hands on her hips, standing next to your bed suddenly—you didn’t hear her approach, but her preference to forgo shoes makes her footsteps very quiet. 

  You are happy to see it, Moon Carver helped Ground Mender carry you up the stairs last night. There’s less quiet in the palace infirmary, more patients coming and going and attendants rushing about… but as you don’t feel as sick as you did even just a week ago, it’s not as overwhelming to hear people wandering about, if anything, it’s comforting. 

  “I am,” you mumble, giving up on your prolonged rest to turn back on your back. “It’s warm.”

  “It won’t be for long, summer is coming to an end soon,” Guizhong approaches your bed and makes room for herself on the side of it next to you. “You should try and enjoy the warmth while it’s still here, do you want to go outside?”

  You do, you want to feel the warmth of the sun on your skin, to breathe in the fresh mountain air and feel the breeze ruffle your clothes. 

  But you don’t trust yourself to make it alone, even if you were to just stand by the walkway and hold onto the railing. “Will you help me?”

  “Of course,” Guizhong moves off the bed and straightens. “Let’s greet the fishes in the gardens.”

  You want to squat down and let the carps nibble on your finger, but you worry you might not be able to get back up easily, or you might pull on something. Instead, you merely stare longingly while Guizhong kneels down and feeds them from her hand.

  There’s not much wind today, barely the breeze you longed for—but even just the soft brush of air is more than you’ve had for weeks. You squint up towards the sky, a few clouds lazily drifting across the vast expanse as the sun hangs high above your heads.

  You hear the waters of the pond and small stream that cuts through the back gardens, a usually peaceful ambiance that makes you slightly uneasy now. You can’t imagine yourself stepping into a river anytime soon… you know that rationally, there is no danger in the small waters of the gardens, but the thought of touching the waters makes your skin crawl. 

  Footsteps approach the two of you and Cloud Retainer stops next to you—she has a floating bird crafted from bamboo and paper next to her, you hope it doesn’t shoot darts at the fish—with a flourish of her hair. “Your breakfast is waiting for you.”

  Ah. “I’m not hungry,” you turn your gaze away from the eccentric inventor, looking down to the Lord of Dust that pets every fish that comes to eat from her hand. 

  “You said the same thing last night,” she folds her arms over her chest. “You need energy.”

  She’s right, of course. “... okay, I’ll try.”

  You sit on the side of the road, a weary log under you and soft grass beneath your feet, the sun slowly sinks below the treeline as you stretch your legs and raise your gaze to the pink sky, your surroundings are peaceful and silent—a captured moment in time where you get to be alone with yourself. 

  Long, high trees line the road behind you and shield you from the rest of the world, the view before you is a comfort and home. Rolling hills, distant farms and fields of flowers spread over the land, coloured orange and pink with the reflective sky.

  A child runs past you, they trip on a rock and tumble to the floor—but no sounds of pain leave them, giggles and snickers as an older sibling runs past them, grabbing their shirt and hauling them up on their feet as they continue their sprint. 

  You don’t recognise them, but they feel familiar.

  You feel no wind nor the heat of the sinking sun, the sky is clear of clouds and birds, there is nothing but the wide scroll of the heavens furling across the air, opening up to reflect their blessings of fertile lands and fresh produce. You stretch your arms above your head and stand up, patting your clothes down to rid of any grass or dirt before continuing on your way. 

  You see him in the distance, and your pace increases. A flow of white robes and long brown hair, he turns off the gravel road and walks towards the thick treeline. Where is he going? You only see his back, the golden lines glowing in the darkening surroundings—as if beckoning you to follow, a guiding light. 

  But before you can leave the road and follow him into the forest, a hand grabs your elbow and stops you.

  You hear your name and blink—there’s no trees in front of you, there is a deep crater that is centred with a pool of water. Dry dirt crumbs fall down from below your foot and roll to the body of water, creating ripples in the still waters.

  Suddenly, you feel as if all the weight of the world is bearing down on your body, you’re cold, your feet hurt—you’re not wearing shoes. You stand at the edge of a crater, one step from tumbling down, and in the battered state you’re already in, it wouldn’t be a good tumble. You look back and see Morax staring at you, his hair is tousled and eyes strangely wide—you have never seen his face make such a vivid expression, one of surprise and concern. He tugs you backwards and you fall into him, your legs give out and tremble with strain. There’s a dull, agitating throb in your arm and stomach, a pulsing throb in tune with your heartbeat, in tune with the sway of the grass around you. Back-forth. Back-forth—

  You hear your name again, his arms hold you up and prevent you from sinking down to the ground. “Can you hear me?” 

  You can, but you find it difficult to voice your confirmations. You’re cold, it’s nighttime—how is it night already? The stars dot the sky with bright flickers and you try to stand, but your feet feel like heavy weights, a thrumming prick of needles rushes through them when you try to put pressure on them. 

  Why does it feel like he is always seeing you at your worst? 

  Sick. Injured. Hurting. 

  You would rather fall into the crater, he must think you a burden on—

  “You’re trembling,” his voice is louder than the brushing wind, louder in your ear than the sway of branches and rustling of leaves. “How have you found yourself here? In the darkness of night, alone and so far from the city?”

  He sounds different, urgent and more pointed—as if a front has been reached through, a hand through fog holding your arms as he steadies you against him. Morax’s body is warm. “You… it was you, I was following you,”you finally manage. But when did you start chasing him? You don’t remember starting a journey. 

  “Me?” he hesitates for only a beat of your erratic heart. “Are you certain?” Morax reins in his urgent tone, carefully choosing his words. “Word was sent to me that you had disappeared from your bed, it has been two days—do you know where you are?”

  “No,” it’s an easy question to answer, despite it being so difficult to think of what had just happened mere hours ago, days ago—a week ago. Your tense of time is ruffled, what had been the last thing you had been doing? Were you asleep before or after finishing the book Guizhong had left you?

  “The energies in your arm have spread again,” he moves—tugging your rather limp body along with him as he kneels on the soft ground. You feel the tickle of grass on your calves and realise you’re still wearing the short pants and shirt you were put in and made to use by the medical ward. Morax tilts you towards him as he unfurls the bandage on your arm, your side and right arm rest against his chest and torso, your head falling rather lamely against his shoulder—it’s a strangely intimate position that neither of you consider given the circumstance, it doesn’t feel intimate, it only serves the purpose of not having you fall over while his hands are occupied.

  The ink that had been sealing the miasma below your elbow was smudged—this type of ink doesn’t smudge for this specific reason. Blackened veins travel up your arm, so stark against your skin that they might as well be drawn on. They rise up your bicep and fade just below your neck. Morax’s eyes are focused and firm as he turns your throbbing arm palm up to examine it further. “The seal has been torn,” his fingers ghost over the blackened veins on your arm, you’ve only felt his gloved hands before, you wonder if his fingers are softer than the texture of his clothes. “You said you were following me.”

  You were… or, you thought so. “It looked like you,” you say it more so to yourself than him.

  “Did you see its face?” he asks as he wraps your arm again,  your skin is ice cold to the touch—the weather has cooled as summer is coming to an end, and with the Guili Assembly’s elevated land, it gets colder faster. 

  “No,” you mumble, shoulders raised as a cool breeze brushes past your neck, raising shivers on your skin. 

  Morax doesn’t ask further questions, but it doesn’t leave his mind either. He believes what you say, what you saw… real or not, it only serves to drive his concern for your well-being, physical and mental. 

  His hand raises, and you feel something touch your head. You squint your eyes open—you didn’t even realise you had closed them—and tilt your head to look at his face. Morax’s face is so close you can feel the warm brush of his breath on your cold chin, it blooms over the bottom half of your face. “What are you doing…?”

  His fingers halt and lift from your head, Morax blinks down at you. “I… heard it is a sign of comfort.”

  He was patting your head, trying to comfort you—it was… rather cute, that he tried even while struggling to grasp whether it would be appreciated or not. “Oh… thank you, it’s okay,” your torso doesn’t feel as cold anymore. Morax seems to take your waiting eyes as permission, and his palm rests on your head again, carefully. He doesn’t stroke or scratch like one would do with a pet or animal, his palm and fingers lift slightly and touch back down a few times. 

  You never thought you would be petted like this by a god, had you told yourself a few months ago, you would have found it funny—silly maybe. But… now that his warm hand touches your head gently, you find that it is comforting.

[inkandtension]

Perfect?

request: I'd like to request for younger brother's best friend who has a crush on female reader. Changbin as reader's brother and Hyunjin as his best friend who has a crush on reader. Something a little angsty, a lot fluffy and reader finally agreeing to give this a chance. Changbin as Hyunjin's wing man as well, perhaps? Thanks!

Request made by: @kayleefriedchicken

I hope you like this! I actually thought really hard about this… couldn’t decide how to do this, but I tried 🥲

A Hyunjin fanfic

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………

The first time Hyunjin saw you, he was seven years old, standing awkwardly on your doorstep with Changbin’s lunchbox in his hands. Your brother had forgotten it at school, and Hyunjin, being the dutiful friend he was, had tagged along to return it. The door swung open to reveal you, hairbrush tangled in your ponytail, one sock pulled higher than the other, and an expression of pure exasperation directed squarely at Changbin.

“What do you want now?” you’d snapped, barely giving Hyunjin a glance before grabbing the lunchbox out of his hands. The door shut with a firm thud before either of them could respond.

“She’s scary,” Hyunjin had whispered in horror to your brother as they walked away, his wide eyes darting back at the door as if you might burst through it at any moment.

Now, thirteen years later, not much had changed—or so it seemed. You were still as sharp-tongued, as blunt, and as intimidating as you’d been back then. But for Hyunjin, something had shifted. The fear he once felt had dissolved over time, replaced by something he couldn’t quite put into words. It wasn’t fear anymore—not even close.

It was awe, pure and simple. The kind of awe that made his chest tighten and his heart stumble whenever you walked into the room. The kind that left him speechless, even when your sharp gaze made it clear you expected a response. And though you still intimidated him in ways he wouldn’t admit, it wasn’t because you were scary—it was because, to him, you were extraordinary.

It started with small, stolen glances when you weren’t paying attention. Like the way Hyunjin’s eyes would flicker up from his sketchbook when you passed by the couch, your steps hurried, your attention focused elsewhere. He would catch the faintest sway of your hair or the wrinkle of your nose as you muttered something under your breath about the mess in the kitchen—his mess, though he wasn’t about to admit it.

You never lingered, and you rarely said more than a few clipped words to him, but Hyunjin couldn’t help but watch, stealing those fleeting moments like they were something precious. It became a habit he couldn’t shake. Whenever you were nearby, his gaze would wander, drawn to you like there was something magnetic about your presence. He wasn’t sure why it mattered so much—why you mattered so much—but it did.

“I think she hates me,” he admitted one day, sitting cross-legged on the floor of Changbin’s room, his hands tugging at the loose threads of a pillow. There was no other way to explain it. The way you barely acknowledged him. The annoyed little sighs when he asked you a question. The sharp looks you sent his way when you thought he wasn’t paying attention.

“She doesn’t hate you,” Changbin said without looking up from his phone, tossing a pillow halfheartedly in Hyunjin’s direction. “She hates everyone.”

Hyunjin caught the pillow and let out a frustrated groan, flopping onto his back. “Helpful,” he grumbled, burying his face in the fabric like it might somehow drown out his growing confusion. Changbin’s laugh only irritated him further.

“Relax,” Changbin said after a moment, leaning back against his bed. “She’s just like that. If she really hated you, she wouldn’t even bother complaining about the kitchen.”

Hyunjin peeked out from behind the pillow, his lips pressing into a thin line. “So, what? I’m special because she scolds me about dirty dishes?”

“Exactly,” Changbin replied, grinning. “Welcome to the club.”

Hyunjin huffed, rolling his eyes, but deep down, he couldn’t help but wonder if there was something in those small moments—something more than indifference hiding behind your sharp remarks and pointed glances. It was a thought that stayed with him far longer than he cared to admit.

…

“Why are you staring at her again?”

Hyunjin flinched so hard that his sketchbook nearly flew out of his lap. He fumbled to keep it steady, his pencil clattering to the floor. “I wasn’t staring,” he said quickly, the heat in his cheeks betraying him.

Changbin smirked from where he leaned casually against the kitchen counter, arms crossed as he watched his friend squirm. “You’re so obvious, it’s painful,” he teased, his grin widening.

“I’m not—” Hyunjin cut himself off, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment. “You’re imagining things,” he muttered, avoiding Changbin’s gaze.

“Am I?” Changbin tilted his head, clearly enjoying this far too much. “Because I distinctly remember catching you doodling hearts with her initials in your notebook last week. Real subtle, Romeo.”

Hyunjin groaned, slumping back against the couch. “Are you seriously bringing that up right now? I was bored! It didn’t mean anything.”

“Right,” Changbin drawled, pushing off the counter to grab a glass of water. “Totally explains why you’re blushing like a schoolgirl every time she walks into the room.”

“Are you going to help me or just keep making fun of me? Now that you know of my crush on her” Hyunjin snapped, his tone exasperated but still laced with desperation.

Changbin blinked once. Twice.

Then, before Hyunjin could process what was happening, he was yanked up by his collar.

“Say that again,” Changbin growled, his face inches away, eyes narrowing into dangerous slits.

Hyunjin’s arms flailed as he tried to regain balance, his toes barely brushing the floor. He kinda screamed, his voice high-pitched with panic.

Changbin’s grip tightened, his knuckles white. “I’ve seen how you treat your exes. All that flirting and charm, only to ghost them the second things get even a little complicated? My sister deserves a hell of a lot better than that.”

“I know!” Hyunjin spluttered, his voice cracking. “I know she deserves better, okay? That’s exactly why I’m serious about her. I wouldn’t hurt her. I swear.”

Changbin’s glare didn’t waver, his jaw set like stone. “You’d better not,” he said slowly, his tone dripping with warning. “Because if you even think about breaking her heart, I’ll break your legs. Both of them.”

Hyunjin swallowed so hard it was audible, nodding as much as the grip on his shirt allowed. “Got it. Loud and clear.”

Changbin stared him down for a moment longer, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Then, with an exasperated grunt, he finally released him, letting Hyunjin stumble and drop unceremoniously onto the floor.

Hyunjin coughed, adjusting the collar of his shirt as he tried to regain his composure. “So...does this mean I have your blessing?” he asked hesitantly, rubbing the back of his neck.

Changbin snorted, crossing his arms. “Not even close. You’ve got to earn it. Big time.”

Hyunjin groaned dramatically, flopping onto his back like the world had just ended. “Why are you like this?” he whined, throwing an arm over his eyes.

Changbin raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Because she’s my sister. And you’re my best friend. Which means I’ll help you, but if you screw this up even once, you’re done. No second chances.”

Hyunjin peeked up at him, a small smile tugging at his lips despite the threat hanging in the air. “Thanks, Binnie.”

Changbin rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath. “Don’t thank me yet. You’ve got a long way to go, Romeo.”

Hyunjin grinned, his heart pounding for reasons that had nothing to do with being manhandled. “Challenge accepted.”

…

After that, Hyunjin couldn’t pinpoint exactly when he’d started asking you out—it had become as natural as breathing. But he was sure he’d lost count somewhere after the twentieth attempt.

“Why not?” he’d ask, his voice swinging between exasperation and relentless hope.

And every time, you’d respond with a sigh, the kind that made him feel like he was chasing something just out of reach. “Because you and I are so different, Hyunjin. You’re chaotic and spontaneous, and I need things to be perfect.”

“But opposites attract,” he’d argue, grinning as if that could tilt the odds in his favor.

“Not always,” you’d reply, your tone soft but unwavering, leaving him staring after you with a mixture of longing and determination.

Giving up, however, wasn’t in Hyunjin’s nature. If anything, your refusals only made him more determined, more creative. He tried everything—from casually offering you coffee “as friends” to sketching silly portraits of you that he’d leave around the house for you to find. Yet, nothing worked.

One evening, as he sat sketching in Changbin’s room, inspiration finally struck. The room was its usual disaster zone—discarded clothes on the bed, empty soda cans threatening to tip over on the desk, and music playing softly in the background. Hyunjin wasn’t fazed; he’d grown used to the chaos by now, even thrived in it.

“You’re making that face again,” Changbin said, breaking the silence as he tossed a crumpled soda can toward the trash bin, missing entirely.

Hyunjin blinked, his pencil hovering mid-sketch. “What face?”

“The one where you’re plotting some romantic nonsense for my sister,” Changbin replied, flopping back onto his bed with a knowing smirk.

Hyunjin couldn’t help but smirk back, leaning into the armrest of the chair. “It’s not nonsense. It’s art.”

“Sure it is,” Changbin muttered, rolling his eyes, though there was a kind of amusement in his tone. He grabbed another can, aiming for the trash again, and missed. “But good luck convincing her it’s not nonsense.”

The next time he saw you, Hyunjin was unusually quiet. No playful banter, no teasing remarks—just him standing in your doorway, fiddling with a small piece of paper like it held all the secrets of the universe.

“What’s that?” you asked, narrowing your eyes at the small canvas he clutched.

Hyunjin hesitated, the usual confidence in his demeanor replaced with a hint of nervousness. Then, as if making a monumental decision, he stepped closer, extending it toward you. “It’s for you.”

You accepted it cautiously, turning the paper over in your hands. The drawing was simple yet striking—a red heart, colored almost entirely. Almost. A small section remained blank, stark white against the vibrant red.

“What’s this?” you asked, pointing accusingly at the empty part. Your brow furrowed, already annoyed at the imperfection.

Hyunjin’s fingers twitched at his sides. “It’s a heart,” he began, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it. “Mine. I colored most of it to show how full my life is—with art, with friends, with experiences. But there’s this small part that’s always been empty.” He paused, his dark eyes locking with yours. “Until you. With you, my heart feels full.”

You stared at him, blinking rapidly, but not for the reason he hoped. His words barely registered; your gaze was fixated on that glaring white patch. The emptiness. It made your eye twitch.

“It’s not full,” you said abruptly, your tone sharp with irritation. “You left this part empty!”

Hyunjin blinked, momentarily thrown off. “Well, yeah, but—”

Before he could explain, you marched over to the table, grabbed a black marker, and began furiously coloring in the blank space like your life depended on it.

“There,” you declared triumphantly, holding the paper back up to him with a satisfied huff. “Now it’s full.”

Hyunjin stared at the paper, now a completely filled-in red heart with a jagged black patch in the corner. Then he looked at you, standing there with your arms crossed, glaring like you’d just solved a global crisis. A grin twitched at the corners of his lips, quickly turning into a chuckle.

“You’re unbelievable,” he said, shaking his head.

“I just fixed it,” you shot back, refusing to back down. “Why would you give me something unfinished?”

Hyunjin took a step closer, his voice softer this time. “Because you’re the missing piece.”

For once, you didn’t have a sharp retort ready. The words hung in the air, settling over you like a blanket you didn’t know you needed. Your gaze dropped to the drawing, your grip on it loosening. Hyunjin reached out, gently taking the paper from your hands, his fingers brushing against yours.

Your heart raced, but you refused to let him see the effect his words had on you. “Well, you should’ve just said that,” you mumbled, stepping back awkwardly.

Hyunjin smiled, his confidence returning as he tucked the drawing carefully into his sketchbook. “I did. You were too busy fixing things.”

“Someone has to,” you muttered under your breath, guilty a bit, for not listening earlier.

…

Your room was like stepping into a gallery—a museum of meticulous intent and unnerving precision. It wasn’t just clean; it was curated. Everything had its place, and every place had a purpose.

“Why are there outlines for your slippers?” Hyunjin had asked the first time he stepped in, pointing at the faint white markings on the floor by your bed.

“So I know where to put them,” you replied matter-of-factly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Hyunjin crouched to examine the outlines closer, his eyebrows furrowed. “You mean you can’t just...put them down?”

You shot him a look that could have cut glass. “And risk them being out of alignment? I’d rather not.”

Hyunjin blinked at you, both impressed and mildly terrified. But his curiosity didn’t stop there. His gaze drifted to the small plant sitting primly on your desk. It wasn’t remarkable—just a simple pothos in a sleek white pot—but what caught his attention was the strange contraption attached to it. A slim silane drip system dangled above the soil, releasing a single drop of water at calculated intervals.

“What’s with the...plant IV?” he asked, tilting his head.

“It’s not an IV,” you said sharply, as if offended by his ignorance. “It’s a precision watering system. It keeps the soil perfectly hydrated without overwatering or making a mess.”

He leaned closer, watching a single bead of water hang delicately from the tube before falling to the soil below. “You mean to tell me you built this...so you wouldn’t have to water it yourself?”

“Exactly,” you said, your voice brisk. “It’s efficient. The plant thrives without unnecessary guesswork, and I don’t have to worry about forgetting.”

Hyunjin stood there for a moment, completely dumbfounded. You weren’t a science genius—far from it. Your math grades were decent at best, and you weren’t exactly winning any STEM competitions. And yet here you were, engineering a system so precise it would make a NASA engineer proud.

“It’s just a plant,” he finally said, half in awe and half in disbelief.

“It’s not just a plant,” you countered, crossing your arms. “It’s part of my environment. If it thrives, I thrive.”

And that was how it was with everything about you. Your bookshelves were alphabetized to perfection. Your desk was a masterpiece of organization, with compartments for different types of pens—ballpoints, gels, fountain pens, even highlighters sorted by color and thickness. Your wardrobe looked like it belonged in a high-end boutique, each item arranged by hue and sleeve length. Even the framed photographs on your walls were measured and leveled to exact angles and heights.

“You’re intense,” Hyunjin had said once, watching as you adjusted one of those frames for the third time in as many minutes.

“And you’re sloppy,” you’d retorted, not even sparing him a glance as you measured the frame with your fingers.

He couldn’t argue with that. His own room was a mess of half-finished sketches, scattered pencils, and the occasional stray sock. But while your intensity intimidated most people, Hyunjin couldn’t help but feel fascinated. You were a puzzle he wanted to figure out, a masterpiece of precision that he wanted to study up close.

And maybe—just maybe—he wanted to see what would happen if a little chaos found its way into your carefully knitted world.

His room? A living, breathing embodiment of entropy, where finding his phone often turned into a scavenger hunt.

But when it came to you, everything changed. He found himself trying to fit into your meticulously organized world, even if it went against his very nature. He made an effort to leave his shoes exactly in the outlines you had taped to the floor—a system he still found absurd—and resisted the primal urge to toss his hoodie onto your flawlessly made bed, even though it was practically begging for it.

What baffled him the most, though, was the contradiction that was you. You, with your symmetrical bookshelves and color-coded wardrobe, had an element of chaos he couldn’t quite wrap his head around. It was in the way you lived. You’d always have three books on rotation, switching between genres like you were competing in some kind of literary decathlon. A thriller, a romance, and a non-fiction book about fungi? All in the same week. And somehow, you kept them all straight.

Then there were the battles with Changbin—endless, dramatic, and often absurd. You’d argue over who got the last slice of pizza like it was a Supreme Court case or accuse him of ruining your towel arrangement when he’d only touched the couch for two seconds. The chaos spilled into the smallest things, but somehow, you made it work. It was like you thrived on order but secretly delighted in breaking the rules you’d set for yourself.

Hyunjin wasn’t sure what to make of it, but he was glad changbin told him one thing: you had a soft spot for books—and, he suspected, for him.

He’d seen it in the way you’d let your guard down when you got immersed in a story, losing track of the rules that normally governed your life.

How lucky of that fungus routine book to have that spot in your heart? Maybe, he thought, maybe I can get some space too….

Hyunjin could find a way to balance his own chaos in a way that fit within yours

…

Hyunjin’s heart raced as he watched you, his hands nervously clutching the edges of the book. When you finally spoke, his breath hitched.

“What’s this?” You eyed the book cautiously, as if expecting a trap.

“Open it,” he urged softly, his usual playful tone replaced with something quieter, more sincere.

You hesitated for a moment, before flipping it open. Your eyes scanned the page, and the air between you two seemed to hold its breath. On the page was a drawing—a sketch of the two of you sitting together, exactly as you were now. But in the drawing, the world felt softer. The lines of your faces, the way your gazes met, were tender. It wasn’t perfect—nothing in Hyunjin’s world ever was—but it felt real. It felt right.

“This is how I see us,” Hyunjin murmured, his voice low but clear. “Two people who are so different but still... fit.”

You swallowed, feeling a lump form in your throat. You were never one for sentiment, never one to indulge in these kinds of gestures, but something about this, about the way he looked at you, made you pause. For once, you didn’t have a clever comeback.

Your heart beat a little faster as you closed the book, the weight of his words hanging in the air. Your mind raced, turning over everything, and yet, you couldn’t find a way to resist the pull between you two.

“Why do you keep trying?” you finally asked, your voice barely above a whisper. The question felt heavier than you’d intended, as if you were asking for something more than just an answer. You were asking for honesty. For reassurance.

Hyunjin met your gaze without hesitation. His eyes were steady, unwavering, and for once, there was no playful mask to hide behind. “Because you’re worth it,” he said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

Your breath caught in your throat, and for the first time, you didn’t have to fight the emotions bubbling inside you. You looked at him, really looked at him. His messy hair, the way his lips twitched into a soft smile, the sincerity in his eyes. The realization came slowly, like a gentle wave breaking over you. What if?

What if you let go of your fears and doubts? What if you let him in?

The thought lingered in your chest, soft and warm.

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself. With a small smile, you closed the book, your fingers brushing against his as you handed it back. “Alright. Let’s give this a shot.”

Hyunjin’s eyes widened, the shock and hope flickering across his face. “Wait, really?”

You raised an eyebrow, a playful challenge in your tone. “Don’t make me change my mind.”

He laughed, the sound filling the space between you like music. It was light, carefree, and full of hope. He leaned back slightly, his chest rising and falling as he exhaled in relief.

Hyunjin’s heart felt fuller than it ever had before. And for the first time, it wasn’t about the art he created or the world he built around him. It was about you—and the possibility of something more, something beautiful. He finally had the answer he’d been waiting for.

—please inform me if there are any mistakes!—

I’ll add you to the tag list if you want!

tag list:

@kayleefriedchicken

[petterwass]

I think one of the reasons I love reading Abyssal Hunters fics is that if they're written correctly they come *very* close to being monsterfucking and hits many of the same notes for me

[chodzacaparodia]

It's frustrating that you can come up with the plot of an entire fic in just a few seconds, but writing it all down can take anywhere from never to forever.

[all-eyes-no-dragon]

I will literally read multiple fics with the same premise but written by a hundred different people lol

I might've seen it before, but I never saw this person write it. Seeing people's execution and own personal spins on things are great!

ok, because i just saw a terrible take, i feel compelled to say that there is no "fic market" to "oversaturate" in fandom. good gravy.

[cupids-fiction]

god bless anyone who comments on ao3

[blueflipflops]

Have you ever read a really good fic then looked up the author's other works and lo and behold a treasure trove of fics that are exactly your kind of shit? Because god that is what euphoria feels like. I love you random fic writers i unexpectedly find

[evadingreallife]

(By trope-specific i mean for example all the slash fics hosting websites, or the nsfw-only ones, etc)

[ribbonsflyingoutthewindow]

Thank you for this last reply. Because it does discourage you when you love your art and you hope others will too, but you don’t get many reactions. Encouraging people to play in the sandbox with me would be so great because why would I want to play alone if I could play with friends? 💙🩵

someone I follow on the bird app just announced they’re starting a very exclusive private fic server because they and a bunch of other people want to talk about how much they love the fics they’re reading, and as an author can I just say that a really great place to talk about a fic you love is in the comments for that fic

I understand that people are trying to create safe spaces, but as the number of comments that I get on my fics dwindles with each passing year, knowing these spaces exist where my fics are being discussed, places that I am excluded from, makes me want to write fic LESS

I mean I guess who cares, right, because if I stop writing, there’s 10,000 other people that will continue…but if you participate in a fic “book club” server and you say nice things there about a fic you loved, maybe copy and paste that into a comment on AO3?

the only thing fanfic writers are asking for in return for hours of hard work is attention. please don’t rob us of the one thing that we hope for when we hit “post”

[pagesinmylife]

I don’t care if this comes off as cruel but you are not entitled to fanfiction. You are not entitled to podfics. You are not entitled to translated works.

Creators are not paid to make fanworks. People spend years of their lives writing fic and getting nothing in return except positive interactions. You can ask to make a translation. You can ask to make a pod fic. But you cannot demand it.

And because the only thing fanfic writers get in return for their work is positive feedback, taking away an authors ability to receive that is disgusting. Authors deserve to have full control and ownership of their works.

Fanfic isn’t a product to consume and then demand more of. Authors and creators deserve better.

[only-on-ao3]

that’s why his hair’s so big, it’s full of secrets by bonfirefly

[reidiot]

don't fucking interrupt me when i'm reading my x reader fics it's rude

[silversprings-mp3]

okay i need this right fucking NOW please and thank you

guys i need logan so bad, i cant stop thinking about him between my thighs— someone sedate me before i spend all night writing horny thoughts

18+ content below

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logan howlett is a man that loves eating you out. in fact, he craves it. the taste of you, the moans you try to stifle, the feel of your thighs threatening to enclose around his head as he tongue fucks you.

he already goes feral when fucking you, but once he gets that honey-sweet taste of you on his tongue, dancing around on his tastebuds? oh, he’s fucking animalistic.

if he had it his way, he’d be eating you out for breakfast, lunch, and dinner each day. obviously, that’s not possible but he tries his hardest to be between your thighs as much as possible.

each era of logan would be a different type of crazed for you. for example:

❥ early xmen logan getting back from a mission? logan would ignore everyone in his path and beeline to your shared room in the mansion. his nose would twitch at the scent of you. before he barges in, your mutant abilities would have you rushing out of bed (in one of his old t shirts that still smelt like him and white, frilly panties— a sight that always had logan panting) and throwing yourself in his arms. the sheer adoration present in the way you wrap your arms around his neck would have him lifting you up in his strong arms, smashing his lips to yours and cutting off whatever words fell from your pretty mouth. he wouldn’t be able to help it, the scent of you had him going dizzy with want. he’d throw you on the bed and immediately get to work, pressing scorching kisses to your clothed pussy. it wouldn’t be long before he’d had you bare for him, diving in and messily making out with your puffy clit, tongue dipping into the part of you that leaks messily with desire. when you’d wake up the next morning, you’d find your thighs littered with bruises in the shape of his mouth.

❥ old man logan would be needy in random moments. more often than not he’s working odd jobs or sleeping off the excruciating pain that plagues the entirety of him. so, there’s not a lot of time he gets to truly be where he wants to be; between your thighs, calves thrown around his shoulders as he licks at your weeping cunt.

there’s a night he comes into the makeshift home, limping in pain and maroon liquid seeping through his white dress shirt. his handsome face screams tired, but the second you try to comfort him and clean him up, he simply grips your hand and pulls you to the bed. he lays down first, not thinking to tend to his injuries, but instead beckoning you to him with a soft, sensual caress of your name.

when you’d sit beside him, still confused, he’d get frustrated and use all his strength to pull you up and onto his chest.

“wanna eat your pussy, baby” he’d say and oh, how you’d melt at the pure lust in his eyes, the hunger evident in his actions as he tugs you further until your cunt hovers over his mouth, the thin cloth of your underwear the only separation. he’d be too lazy to get them off properly, so he’d just pull the fabric to the side before absolutely ravishing you. his graying beard would sting your thighs deliciously as he licked your center desperately. he’d always say you tasted sweet, like honey mixed with something entirely you that had him crazed. he’d wrap his lips around your throbbing clit and suck, not letting up until you were humping his face with frantic whimpers, your release slicking him up. and since he rarely got to have you like this, he’d want to get a couple more orgasms out of you. he’d keep you on his face and wreck you entirely until you were both exhausted.

❥ 70’s logan would be a little different because instead of having his focus completely on you, he’d be a little selfish. meaning, he’d sit you right on his face but backwards, because not only is he 100% an ass man, he wants you to suck him off whilst he pleasures you. the feel of your pretty, puffy pussy on his mouth would have him hard, throbbing against his thigh and he wouldn’t be able to concentrate fully. so, his solution would be to have you on his mouth, where he’d lap up at your slick pooling on his tongue, while also having your spit-slicked lips wrapped around the entirety of him, gagging as he’d thrust deep into your throat. of course, you wouldn’t complain, you were just as needy for him as he was for you, so it made sense.

❥ lumberjack logan would be the filthiest for sure. being tucked away in your shared cabin, surrounded by the vast forests and mountains, would have him completely driven by lust more often then not. if he was coming home and found you prancing around mindlessly in one of his flannels and nothing else, he’d pick you up effortlessly and place you on the counter, knocking anything off in favor of spreading your thighs and licking fat stripes along your center, and dipping his tongue inside you.

if he was picking you up from your work, he wouldn’t be able to wait until you were home. he’d simply pull off to the side of the road, lead you to the backseat and fuck you senseless with his filthy mouth until you were reduced to a whining, mumbling mess.

and at home? he’d eat you out in every room, on every surface there was just because.

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