#Just some unhinged wild stuff out there

[indelen]

Now and then some absolutely insane stuff filters in on my dash through the tags and I am reminded that in every fandom some people are simply not ok. I’m not talking about interpretations of plot or characters that I personally disagree with or whatever. No. I’m talking real “queen is a lizard” or “Paul is dead” stuff about real actual people. Wild stuff. Real unhinged conspiracy theories.

And I know that realistically the best thing to do is to block and not engage. And I do. But it’s just … anytime I see people so into the conspiracy stuff, about anything, it’s upsetting, but it’s bewildering when it’s fandom related. For me fandom is a little respite from the shitty world we live in. I find peace and have fun writing my silly little takes or reblogging cool art or shitposting within the fandoms I love. I hope to always strike a good level of not taking things too seriously but still respect the material and the people who like it. Seeing people into the same stuff as you but way, way down the rabbit hole raging and raving is so unsettling.

[sceletaflores]

SINK IN ME WITH YOUR DOG TEETH!

ೃ⁀➷ pair: logan howlett x fem!reader

ೃ⁀➷ wc: 7.0k

ೃ⁀➷ contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, established relationship, feral nasty unhinged logan yes god, logan only slightly losing his humanity but like it’s a lot less sad than it sounds, maybe some toxic relationship dynamics but who cares it’s porn, predator/prey dynamics, p in v, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, HEAVY scent kink (like don’t make me say it…but beware of some very subtle armpit stuff), pain kink, biting is just another form of sexual penetration guys, blood, so much come and come talk, creampie, squirting, this is just gross, porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.

ೃ⁀➷ nat's note: hi…hi y’all…so here’s the winner of the poll and i need everyone to just hear me out for a second! walk with me! this is probably the most unhinged thing i’ve ever written, like omg those tags. this upsetting depravity was inspired by this post by @stupidfuckingwindow and this post by @monimccoythings which both altered the chemical balances of my brain so fiercely i blacked out for a while and when i came to this was in front of me. merry christmas and happy holidays! take this not at all christmas themed fic as my present to you my precious angels. kisses!

dividers by lovely @saradika-graphics!

you notice a strange shift in logan...

There’s something off with Logan.

The changes were subtle, but you’ve been with him long enough now to pick up on them. And while he's always had a raw, untamed edge to him, a sort of wildness simmering just beneath the surface, this feels different.

It started with the way he would go quiet for longer than usual, like his mind was too far away for you to reach—lost to somewhere distant.

Logan has always been quiet, but this was a different kind of silence. Conversations that used to flow with ease now hang in the air, unfinished. All of his responses reduced to nothing but low grunts and clipped words.

And he was more territorial over you, so much more.

His hand has started to linger at the small of your back or the curve of your waist for a lot longer when you’re in public, his strong grip firm enough to remind you—and anyone nearby—that you’re his.

He would fume at even the slightest hint of someone else's interest in you, a low warning growl escaping his throat to anyone who spared you a second glance.

It wasn’t just the physical closeness, though. It was also in the way Logan has started to watch you—his sharp gaze a never ending constant. An all imposing, heavily looming shadow.

There were even times late at night when you thought he was asleep, that you’d find him staring at you in the dark.

Not the usual, protective gaze he’d have when he thought you were vulnerable, but something deeper, more intense. His breathing would be slow, measured, but there was this energy, this tension that hummed between the two of you.

The nights he did manage to sleep, he’d hold you close to him, his grip iron-tight, his face buried in your hair. If you tried to shift away, even for a second, he’d stir, his arms pulling you back with a quiet, possessive growl that sent a shiver down your spine.

There were bite marks on your neck when you'd wake up, small enough to pass off as nothing—at least, that’s what you tried to tell yourself, but each one felt like a brand. They were deeper, more deliberate.

Then there was the scent—his scent.

You swear it’s gotten stronger, more potent. It clings to you like a second skin, lingering in your clothes, your sheets, even your hair. An intoxicating blend of leather and pine and musk that makes your head spin.

Each time you left the house without him, he’d pin you to the mattress and rub himself all over you before begrudgingly let you walk out the door. His hands or his face running along the delicate skin of your neck, of your stomach, of your wrists.

Everywhere.

He was claiming you in ways—new ways—that left you both exhilarated and confused.

There were other things too, smaller but no less odd things that were starting to add up.

More and more of your clothes have slowly started to go missing over the past few weeks. Each morning when you open any of your dresser drawers, it seems like there are less and less filling them.

Shirts, shorts, socks, bras, panties. All things you’ve found shoved under his side of the mattress or tucked under his pillow. The most memorable hiding place was the front pocket of his leather jacket, your favorite pair of panties haphazardly stuffed inside.

You haven’t said anything about it yet, unsure if you should be concerned or amused.

It isn’t like he’s truly hurting anyone.

He’s just acting…strange.

A part of you can’t help but be drawn to it—the new intensity, the new rawness. There was something undeniably magnetic about the way he clings to you, like you're his anchor in a world constantly shifting beneath his feet.

You’ve seen Logan at his worst—bloody, broken, and lost. But this? It’s never been like this before.

Whatever it is, it has its claws in him deep, and by extension, you.

You just got home from a run, barely walking through the door and kicking your shoes off when a call of your name rings out from the bedroom.

Logan’s tone stops you in your tracks—low and rough, like gravel crunching underfoot.

Your reaction is nearly instant, breath hitching in your chest, heart skipping a beat as a warmth that has nothing to do with the temperature outside starts to pulse through you steadily.

It’s like you’ve become reprogrammed to respond to him this way, your body reacting before your mind can even catch up as his deep, familiar voice rolls over the sweaty expanse of your skin.

You drop your bag at your feet and slowly make your way to the bedroom, a bead of sweat trailing down your temple as you push the door open.

All the curtains are closed, the only light in the room a yellow glow that shines from your bedside lamp. 

Logan is sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning back on his palms, but there’s nothing casual about his posture.

His gaze is locked on you, dark and intense, tracking every step you take, like a lion stalking a gazelle as it drinks from a watering hole.

“Didn’t tell me where you were going.” His eyes gleam as the lamp’s rays reflect off of them, his pupils dilated so he can see you better in the darkness that shrouds your room.

You swallow hard, trying to be as nonchalant as you can as your feet carry you to your dresser. “I went for a run,” you reply, your voice a little too steady, a little too casual.

You tug open the top drawer, rifling around for a clean shirt with a little more focus than necessary to distract yourself from the way his eyes burn a hole into your back.

“You didn’t tell me,” Logan repeats, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that sends a shiver down your spine. “You know I don’t like it when I don’t know where my girl is.”

There’s a sharp edge to his words, but it’s not anger—it’s something far more primal.

The energy in the room crackles like a storm about to break, and you feel it in your bones, in the way your skin prickles under his gaze.

"I was only gone for an hour," you say, your voice measured, careful. "You were still asleep when I left, I didn’t want to wake you." 

You chance a glance over your shoulder, and the sight of him steals the air from your lungs.

Logan hasn’t moved an inch from his perch on the edge of the bed, but the sheer force of his presence keeps you rooted in place, heart hammering in your chest.

“Hmm, that’s real sweet, baby,” he drawls, sitting up straighter now, leaning forward.

The motion makes him seem larger somehow, shoulders broad and imposing in the dim light. His tongue drags slowly across his bottom lip, and the way his gaze rakes over you feels like a physical touch, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.

Your fingers still in the drawer, fabric slipping from your grasp as your pulse pounds in your ears. You can’t bring yourself to look away from him, caught in the snare of his sharp, predatory focus.

You turn slowly, arms falling to hang limply at your sides. "I wasn't gone long."

Logan tilts his head, a low, amused sound rumbling in his chest as he rises to his feet with a fluid, deliberate ease that makes your stomach flip.

“Didn’t feel that way to me, darlin’.” His voice is a deep, gravelly purr. It sends a shiver down your spine. “Felt like forever.”

His eyes never leave yours as he crosses the room, the green completely swallowed by the dark black of his pupils as they seep into the color like oil spilling out over the surface of a lake.

You’ve never seen him like this before, so hungry.

"Logan," you say slowly, back pressed tightly against your dresser. "You're really starting to freak me out." 

Logan hums idly, head cocked to the side as he watches you. "I can hear your heartbeat." 

His tone is calmer now, but there’s still a dangerous edge to it, like a knife pressed just lightly enough against the skin not to break it.

Your pulse races, heat simmering in your stomach despite the slight edge of fear clawing its way through your chest.

He stops in front of you, so close that his scent invades your senses strong enough to make your knees feel like they’re about to buckle beneath you.

“There’s nothin’ to be scared of baby,” he mutters quietly, thick arms coming up to cage you against the dresser. 

Your hold on the wood tightens, your knuckles turning white with the strength of your grip.

It’s almost chemical, the way you can feel your body start to give in to him. The thought fills you with as much arousal as it does unease, a heady combination that churns in your stomach.

You muster up enough will to breathlessly nod in agreement, a quiet submission.

Logan’s lips quirk into the faintest smirk, his heavy gaze dipping to the curve of your neck, lingering on the rapid flutter of your pulse. “That’s my good girl.”

Any words you might say get caught in your throat as you stare up at Logan, wide eyed and steadily leaking wetness into the gusset of your panties. 

His nostrils flare, and a knowing sound rumbles from somewhere dark and low in his chest as his eyes flutter shut on a deep inhale.

Your thighs clench together instinctively, the overwhelming need to be filled wracking through your body like thunder.

When Logan opens his eyes again, there’s no trace of anything but pure animal need. The muscles in his jaw working furiously under his skin in time with the strain of his forearms still caging you in place.

“Yeah…” he trails off slowly, tone both condescending and soothing all at once. “I know you’re not all that scared, honey.”

He leans in, tearing a small whimper from your throat at the way his beard scrapes against your cheek as he crowds you.

His breath fans over the shell of your ear, hot and enticing as they brush against your skin when he speaks again. “I can smell how fuckin’ wet you are.”

Logan’s words send a sharp jolt through you, a broken moan falling from your parted lips as your cheeks heat up so fiercely it’s as if you’ve been slapped.

Your body moves without thinking, pressing up into his hard, unyielding frame like you can’t help it—and maybe you can’t.

“L–Logan…” Your voice trembles, a weak thing that dissolves in your throat as he noses along the skin of your neck.

His hands come down to rest on your waist, palms rough and possessive and warm and a perfect fit where they lay over your curves, anchoring you in place.

“Shhh.” His lips trail down your jaw, leaving wet kisses in their wake. “You don’t gotta say a thing, princess. I know what you need.”

Logan’s hands slip lower, cupping the backs of your thighs with ease before hoisting you onto the dresser like you weigh nothing. The sharp edge of the wood digs into your legs, but you can’t find it in yourself to care about the discomfort.

Your hands go to his shoulders without much of a second thought, nails digging into corded muscle as you try to keep your balance. 

Logan’s hands stay on your thighs, his grip strong enough for you to feel the power behind them without hurting you.

He noses along your sweaty skin like a hot-tempered hound, desperately inhaling greedy lungfuls of your scent wherever he can get it.

Behind your ear, in the crook of your neck, along your collarbone, the exposed swell of your breasts, dangerously close to your underarm.

He groans against your shoulder, a full body shiver jolting his frame. “Smell so fuckin’ good darlin’, drives me goddamn crazy.”

You can’t form a coherent thought, let alone a response. His mouth finally finds yours, claiming you with a ferocity that steals your breath.

Logan's tongue slides against yours, a messy, desperate kiss that has you moaning into his mouth, your fingers tangling in his hair to pull him closer.

It’s filthy, fueled by nothing but raw need and desperation. Spit drips from your chin to trail down the length of your throat until it gathers in the valley of your breasts. Whether it’s his or yours, it doesn’t matter.

It’s a perfect mix of the both of you, lewd and messy in the way it claims your skin.

Logan breaks the kiss with a low moan, his chest heaving the same as yours as you both inhale harsh lungfuls of air.

His lips are red and raw, swollen in a way that your own must mirror. A string of saliva keeps you connected, drooping thinner and thinner in the space between you until it breaks under the weight of gravity.

Logan doesn’t give you long to catch your breath. His lips trail down your jaw and latch onto the sensitive spot just below your ear, teeth scraping against skin before he sucks hard enough to leave a mark. 

Your head falls back against the wall as his mouth moves lower, dragging the strap of your sports bra down with his teeth.

The way he’s acting—like a man crazed, like he needs you more than he needs air—has you dizzy with need. But there's a part of you that’s still trying to hold onto some semblance of control, to hold onto something familiar in the chaos.

It’s only then that you realize this may be a bad idea. 

Whatever this is, is clearly an accumulation of all the things you’ve noticed over the last couple of weeks.

Maybe indulging Logan will only make things worse, like giving in to him when he’s in such a state could be the tipping point to a much deeper and all consuming issue buried somewhere inside of him.

It can’t possibly be healthy for him to act like this, and it can’t be healthy for you to bask in it as much as you are.

“W–wait.” Your thighs slip shut, hands coming up to push at Logan’s shoulders weakly.

There’s no real force behind your ministrations and you keep your neck bared to him all the while, but he stops anyway, rearing back with a displeased noise. 

His face hovers inches from yours, and for a moment, you swear he looks almost pained—his brows furrowing, jaw tightening as though reigning himself in is a Herculean effort.

His hands remain on your thighs, trembling slightly as he keeps himself rooted in place, clearly fighting every instinct roaring through him to just take what he wants.

“You don’t want me to stop, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and gravelly, a stark contrast to the restraint in his expression. His thumbs stroke idly against your skin, his touch soothing even as his words drip with pure, feral confidence. “I can smell the way your pussy’s achin’ for it. I can feel it. You’re shakin’ for me.”

You are—your whole body feels like it’s on the verge of unraveling under his touch, your resolve crumbling faster than you’d like to admit.

Everything you were going to say gets clogged in your brain on the way out, leaving you silent as you hold his gaze.

You don’t even have the capability to feel embarrassed at the way you blanch, lost in the way his scent attacks your senses, in the rough drag of his palms over your bare thighs, in the way your lips still tingle from his kiss.

Logan sighs, long and all suffering as his hands come to rest on both of your shut knees. The impatient raise of his brow paired with the dissatisfied curl of his lips is enough to shake you to the core.

“Now, you gonna show it to me?” His fingers drum along your knee, his patience thinning. “Or am I gonna have to make you.”

And it may sound like one, but you know it’s not a question. 

It’s a choice.

Your mind races, hands clenching and unclenching on Logan’s shoulders as you weigh your options. His own hands squeeze your knees, just hard enough to let you feel it in your bones.

You spread your legs.

Logan doesn’t waste a second, dropping to his knees in front of you with a satisfied rumble and a predatory gleam in his eyes. His hands grip your thighs, pushing them even wider. Wide enough to make you feel exposed, vulnerable in the best way. 

Your head dips, chin falling to your chest as you watch the way Logan takes up the space between your legs. Your shorts are soaked, fabric so drenched that it’s melded to the shape of your cunt, your puffy folds on display for his greedy eyes.

“Fuck,” Logan breathes, his voice cracking like a whip in the quiet room. His hands find your waistband, and the dull sound of fabric ripping rings out.

The sturdy cotton tears like tissue paper in his hands, the scraps of your shorts falling carelessly to the floor, leaving you in nothing but the light blue panties you slipped on before your run. 

The way he gazes at the space between your thighs is feral, unrestrained, like he’s a man starving for his next meal—and you’re it.

“Look at that…” Logan mutters, almost to himself as he runs his knuckle along the wet cotton of your panties. His touch is featherlight, barely any pressure at all, but it’s enough.

Your breath hitches, a sharp intake of air at the teasing touch, and your hips instinctively cant forward, silently begging for more. 

Logan's eyes flick up to yours, a dark smirk curling his lips like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you—and how much you're already falling apart.

“Eager fuckin’ thing,” he drawls, voice rough with arousal. He leans forward, his hot breath ghosting over your soaked panties, sending a shiver racing down your spine. “You want me to give your pussy some kisses, baby?”

You open your mouth to respond, but the words never make it out. Logan’s lips press against the damp fabric, placing a kiss right over where your covered clit throbs with need.

Your head falls back to rest on the wall behind you, a shocked moan bursting from your lips.

“Logan.” His name is pulled from your mouth like a plea, but he doesn’t let up, the sharp edge of his teeth scraping over the sensitive bundle of nerves hidden beneath the soaked barrier of your underwear.

“Hmm?” He hums against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your core. “Thought you wanted me to stop?”

The taunt is maddening, the rasp of his voice and the teasing flicks of his tongue combining to unravel you piece by piece. 

You shake your head furiously, thighs trembling where they rest on his broad shoulders. “N-no—don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”

Logan chuckles darkly, his hands sliding up your thighs to hook his fingers into the thin waistband of your panties. 

“That’s more like it,” he taunts. With a single, sharp tug, the ruined fabric joins the scraps of your shorts on the floor.

Logan groans at the sight of your bare cunt, slick with your juices and flushed with arousal. His mouth waters, his tongue running along the sharp points of his canines in anticipation.

You’re already so ready for him.

“You smell so fuckin’ good,” he growls, leaning in to drag his nose along the slick seam of your folds. The deep inhale he takes is obscene, sending a ripple of anticipation through your entire body. “Know that you taste even better.”

Logan licks a broad stripe through your folds, groaning like the taste of you is enough to satisfy him completely. His hands grip your thighs tighter, keeping you spread and utterly at his mercy as he begins to work in earnest.

He alternates between laving the tip of his tongue over your clit and dipping down to fuck into you, his beard scraping along the skin of your thighs in a way that’s almost too much. Your head falls back, hitting the wall with a soft thud as your vision blurs.

“God, Logan.” You squirm on the vanity, but he holds you steady, growling low and deep into your core like your moaning only spurs him on.

“That’s it,” he mutters between licks, his words unmistakably smug. “Make those pretty little sounds for me, baby.”

Logan circles your clit with the flat of his tongue, alternating between firm, deliberate strokes and light, teasing flicks that leave you gasping for air.

You cry out, fingers tangling in his thick, unruly hair as he repeats the motions, your thighs starting to tremble on either side of his head.

Every time your hips buck against him, he growls, the vibrations of it sinking into your skin and amplifying the pleasure coursing through your veins.

“Stay still,” he orders, his voice muffled against your dripping core but no less commanding. His hands tighten on your thighs, holding you in place with an unrelenting grip. “You’re not in charge, sweetheart.”

You whimper, your whole body trembling as you fight the urge to grind against his face. But it’s impossible to stay still when he’s licking into you like a man possessed, his mouth working you over with an intensity that has your vision going hazy.

“I know, you're just so damn needy, aren’t you, baby?” He drawls , pulling back just enough to speak, his lips glistening with your arousal. “You love this, hmm? Lettin’ me take care of you?”

You can only nod, words failing you as his fingers replace his mouth, sliding through your spit soaked cunt.

“You’re so goddamn pretty down here.” Logan mutters, almost to himself, spreading your puffy, abused folds obscenely wide. 

He teases your entrance, fingertips dipping into your warm heat only to retract a second later. You whine, high and embarrassing as your hips twitch with want.

Logan watches your face closely, his expression equal parts smug and adoring as he finally sinks one thick finger inside you, curling it just right.

“Fuck,” you breathe, your head lolling back he adds a second finger, stretching you in a way that has your toes curling. He pumps them slowly at first, each deliberate thrust sending waves of pleasure radiating through your body.

“Takin’ me so well,” Logan murmurs, his thumb brushes over your clit, drawing tight circles that make your thighs tremble. “So tight and wet for me. You’re makin’ me crazy, darlin’.”

Your moans grow louder, unrestrained, as he picks up the pace, his fingers plunging into you with a rhythm that has your skin burning hotter and hotter.

Logan’s mouth returns to you with renewed fervor, tongue and lips working in perfect tandem as he drags you closer to the edge. 

He shakes his head back and forth like an animal, his nose rubbing up against your clit deliciously as buries his tongue as deep in your cunt as it’ll go. The coarse hair of his beard scratches the sensitive skin of your inner thighs red and raw.

You can’t think, can’t breathe, your entire world narrowing down to the feel of his mouth on you. 

“Logan—” Your voice cracks, your head falling back against the wall as the spring of pleasure inside you winds tighter and tighter, threatening to snap at any moment. “I’m—fuck—I’m so close—”

“Good,” he growls, pumping his fingers in time with the flicks of his tongue. “I can feel you squeezin’ me. I want you to come for me, baby. Wanna taste every fuckin’ drop.”

You’re powerless to resist.

You cry out, thighs clamping shut on either side of his head as you come on his tongue. Your body shakes so violently you knock a few things off the vanity, the distant sound of glass shattering hardly registers. 

Logan growls, low and dragged from the back of his throat in such a way that makes it reverberate in the space between your legs. His own arms come up, grip strong and encouraging as he forces your legs around his head even tighter than before.

He doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up, licking and sucking and pumping his fingers to drag you through the aftershocks like a man obsessed. 

When you finally come back to yourself, panting and trembling, Logan’s holding your shaking thighs apart, his mouth still pressed to you in soft, languid strokes.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” he mutters, voice rough and gravelly as he presses a final kiss to your oversensitive clit. 

Logan’s hands slide up to your hips, gripping tight as he rises to his feet, towering over you with that same dark, predatory gleam in his eyes. 

His lips are even redder than before, swollen and slick with your juices. His beard is damp and shining in the low light, and the smug, satisfied smirk on his face sends another pulse of heat through your already spent body.

“Good girl,” he purrs, not even bothering to wipe his mouth before leaning in to capture your lips in a kiss that’s all heat and possession. 

You can taste yourself on his tongue, the salt and musk mingling with the raw hunger. It’s filthy and intoxicating, and it leaves you gasping for air when he finally pulls away.

But Logan’s far from finished.

His hands slide under your ass, lifting you off the dresser with ease. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively as he carries you to the bed and tosses you on it with little preamble.

Your back hits the mattress hard enough to have you bouncing on it once, twice, three times before Logan is crawling up to blanket your body with his. 

The heavy weight of his metal laced bones sink you into the soft plushness, keeping you stuck beneath him with nowhere to go.

Which you know is exactly where he wants you.

He slots his hips between yours, dragging the straining jut of his cock along your sensitive cunt. You can feel the warmth of him even through the thick material of his sweats, a scalding plane of heat that makes your cunt ache with need. 

You can feel the damp patch where his clothed tip nudges against your clit, and you know from that alone he’s already soaked through the cotton with pre-come. His cock leaking like a faucet in the harsh confines of his bottoms while he ate you out.

“Feel that?” Logan asks, voice hoarse as he buries his head in your neck. “That’s all ‘cause of you, baby. Got me drippin’ like I busted a damn pipe.”

The sharp intake of air you suck in at his words does nearly nothing to help your breathlessness, your desperation bleeding through as your frantic hands push at the waistband of his bottoms. “Off. Off.”

Logan huffs a rough laugh against your neck, his warm breath skating across your skin as his lips ghost over your pulse. “So fuckin’ bossy.”

He doesn’t move to help you, not right away, savoring the way your hands fumble and tug, your frustration bubbling over in breathy little gasps.

“You want it that bad, huh?” he teases, the rough timbre of his voice a stark contrast to the gentleness of his lips pressing along your jaw. “Look at you, so damn needy. Can’t even wait for me to get my cock out.”

You only tug harder, patience nonexistent as your fingers curl into the waistband. “Please, Logan. Don’t tease.”

“Alright, alright.” Logan finally gives in, sitting back just enough to push them over his hips, freeing his cock.

It springs free, slapping against his stomach heavy and slick with pre-come, the ruddy tip glistening in the low light.

The sight alone has you clenching around nothing, a devastatingly desperate noise falls from your lips as the ache between your thighs builds to an almost unbearable throb.

He makes quick work of ripping his shirt over his head, carelessly tossing it behind him before he’s back on you.

This time, when he bullies his hips in between yours, there's nothing separating you.

You feel every inch of his cock as it grinds along the seam of your cunt. The velvety skin is almost scalding as it drags against your own, the drool of pre-come only adding more to your own wetness.

Logan presses you into the mattress harder, rutting against your cunt almost desperately as he noses along your damp, overheated skin.

His mouth is everywhere. Sucking marks where the junction of your neck meets your shoulder, lapping up the sweat that pools in the valley of your breasts, licking a filthy stripe across the side of your face that has your cheeks burning.

He buries his nose in the sweaty skin of your underarm, whining and panting like a surly dog all over again. Each breath is hot and wet against you, and it only seems to make him hungrier, greedier. His cock blurts even more pre-come onto your skin with every inhale he takes.

It should gross you out. 

It should be utterly mortifying, but the sight of Logan like this only leaves you thrumming with want. 

His desperation, the raw, unfiltered way he takes you in—like he can’t get close enough, can’t have enough of you—has your pulse racing and your mind spinning out of control. 

You feel his nose press harder against your skin, the heat of his breath fanning over you as he groans, a deep, guttural sound that reverberates right through you. 

“Fuck,” he rasps, voice gravelly and broken. “You smell so goddamn good. Can’t help it. Can’t fuckin’—” His hips jerk, the weight of his cock sliding slickly against your cunt, bumping up against your clit in a way that makes you shiver. 

“Logan,” you whimper, your hands clutching at his broad shoulders, nails digging into his skin. Your hips lift instinctively, chasing the friction, the relief, the unbearable stretch you know only he can give you. “Please, I can’t take it anymore. I need you—need you so bad.”

He smirks, his lips curling against your skin as he nips at the curve of your jaw. “Need me, huh?” he murmurs, his tone dark and teasing. “Need my cock inside you, stretchin’ you open? Tell me, baby. Tell me how bad you need it.”

“So bad.” Your hips tilt up instinctively, desperate for him to push inside. The head of his cock catches at your entrance, the blunt pressure sending a jolt of electricity through your body. “Need you so bad it hurts. Please—please don’t make me wait.”

Logan growls, a feral sound. “Such a good girl when you beg for me.” he snarls, big hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise so he can flip you on your front, gently manhandling you until you're on all fours. “Gonna fill you up, princess.”

His hands knead the soft flesh of your ass as he lines himself up behind you. The weight of his cock presses against your entrance, slick and ready, and for a moment, he just stays there, teasing.

Your arms shake beneath you, elbows locked as you force yourself to stay still, patient.

The head of his cock nudges against you, spreading your slickness, and your body trembles in anticipation. He sinks himself into you in one deep, unrelenting thrust.

The stretch is instant, the burn delicious as he pushes inside, inch by inch, filling you in one fluid, devastating stroke. A choked gasp spills from your lips as he bottoms out, his cock seated so deep you swear you can feel him in your stomach.

“Fuck.” Logan stills, his cock pulsing inside you as he lets you adjust, but the restraint is fleeting. 

His hands glide up your back, palms rough and grounding as they map every curve, every quiver of your body. He starts grinding his hips in slow circles, pressing every inch of his cock along your velvety walls. 

Your head drops between your arms, brows pinched together as you take in greedy lungfuls of air. You’ll never get used to this, the way Logan fills you so perfectly, no matter how many times it’s been.

“Come on, baby.” Logan leans down to press a soft kiss between your shoulder blades, his lips fever hot. “You wanted to fuck me so bad you could hardly wait. Now’s your chance, fuck me.”

It takes a few long seconds for his words to cunt through the molasses clouding your mind, the small thrust of his hips hinting at what he wants you to do.

You let out a pitiful whimper, hands digging into your bed’s puffy comforter as you start rocking your hips. 

You start slow, letting yourself build up a nice, steady rhythm as Logan purrs words of encouragement from behind you. His hands never leave your hips, thumbs rubbing soft circles over your skin as you start to pick up the pace.

“That’s it,” he encourages darkly, giving the rippling muscle of your ass a sharp swat. “Find the fuckin’ spot, baby. Write your name on this cock, tell everyone who it belongs to.”

You cry out at the sting of his palm, bouncing yourself on his length impossibly faster. Your arms burn under the strain of your movements, but you can’t stop chasing the high of pleasure that shoots up your spine.

The sound of skin on skin fills the room, a lewd slap slap slap as you fuck yourself on Logan’s cock like he’s a replacement for the cheap suction cup dildo collecting dust in a box hidden away in your closet—like he’s nothing but a expertly shaped lump of silicon molded solely for your pleasure.

You can feel yourself getting close to the edge, and in nearly no time at all. The telltale coil buried deep in your belly winding tighter and tighter as you work yourself on Logan’s cock hard enough that the cheap frame of your bed thumps against the wall.

It might be embarrassing if you weren’t so far gone already, so fuck drunk that the too loud moans falling from your lips hardly phase you.

It's like there's nothing but the feel of Logan inside you, bumping against that spot inside you that has stars shining behind your closed eyes. 

“Close already?” Logan taunts from behind you, voice just the tiniest but breathless, but the way his cock pulses and jerks where it’s sheathed in your cunt lets you know he’s right there with you. “I know you are, honey. I can feel how she’s squeezin’ me, so damn tight.”

His hands dig into your hips, not even waiting for a response as he starts thrusting in time with your bounces. He pounds into you, hips snapping against your ass hard enough to sting.

“Fuck, I’m gonna come too baby,” he bites out, the rhythm of his hips getting sloppier. “Gonna come so fuckin’ hard, fill you up so good. Shit–”

Logan pulls out enough that only the thick tip of his cock stays sheathed in the warmth of your cunt, his body falling to hunch over yours as he pumps his come into you with a feral growl.

You whine at the feeling of his release filling you, painting your insides with spurt after spurt of thick come. It’s so much, it’s always so much. A rush of warmth that floods your insides each time without fail.

And just like that, the feeling alone has you coming.

Your back arches as your cunt gushes over the tip of his cock, drenching his thighs and the rest of his shaft in your essence. You think you may scream, but it’s hard to tell over the white noise rushing through your ears.

Your arms finally buckle under you as Logan helps you ride out the last few tremors of your orgasm with a few slow rocks of his hips, and your spent body collapses onto the mattress.

Logan’s low noises of pleasure barely register as your chest heaves almost violently, your lungs desperately trying to get as much air as they possibly can.

But you barely have time to catch your breath before Logan plants his knees back firmly on the mattress and starts thrusting, again. 

“Logan!” Your hands scramble for purchase on the mussed sheets of your bed, the overstimulation making your legs kick out frantically.

“You thought we were done?” Logan asks, his tone equal parts amused and mocking. “You popped twice already, baby. S’only fair that you let me catch up.”

With no warning, he takes you in his arms, pulling his cock out just long enough to flip you on your back. He throws your legs over his shoulders before plunging back inside your fucked open cunt with a filthy squelch. 

He feels even bigger like this, yet your body swallows his cock like it’s nothing. The spongy warmth of your walls melding to the shape of him like it’s what you were made for. 

The coarse hair of his happy trail drags across your clit each time he thrusts, adding to the blistering feeling where the knife's edge of too much too much too much meets not nearly enough.

His come stuffed in your trembling cunt only makes it all the more filthy, his cock plunging inside you and coming back out slick and wet on every thrust. 

Your lips fall open on a broken moan, eyes screwing shut as you work your cunt around him, feeling the way his release gets fucked deeper and deeper inside you.

Logan notices, of course he does.

A dark chuckle rumbles against your own as he leans down enough to whisper into your slack mouth. “You like havin’ someone come in your pussy, baby?”

You moan into his mouth unabashedly, loudly. Both of your eyes burning as tears threaten to fall down the flushed skin of your cheeks, your throat going dry and scratchy in the best way possible. 

“Shit–” Your hands claw at the rippling muscles of his back desperately, nails digging into his skin hard enough that you feel the unmistakable slickness of his blood coating the tips of your fingers.

The pain spurs him on, his head tips down on a low groan and his eyes squeezing together for a split second before he’s spewing filth again.

“You want some more?” Logan asks, tone going dark like he already knows the answer as his hips speed up impossible faster. “You want me to come again?”

You don’t respond, you can’t respond. You can barely make a coherent thought. 

All you can manage are whiny moans that fall from your slack lips, broken little uh uh uh’s that get punched out with each new thrust. Your nails rake down his back mercilessly, leaving behind deep red welts that heal as you go.

“Yeah, I know you do.” He turns his head to nip at the skin over the delicate bone of your ankle where it bounces near his head, sharp teeth digging in enough to have you whining pitifully. “You love havin’ a messy fuckin’ pussy, don’t you? Love being stuffed so full of my come you can’t even hold it all, huh?”

His words hit you like a physical blow, lighting up your body from the inside out. Your thighs shake where they’re wrapped around his hips, ankles locking over his lower back so he couldn’t pull out if he wanted to.

His come mixes with your juices to coat his cock, completely drenched all slick and shiny in the dull light of your bedroom. It drips down almost leisurely compared to the near feral snap of his hips, trailing all the way down his length to his heavy balls. 

“Yes.” He groans, reverent. “Give it to me, baby. Wanna feel you come on my cock again, feels so fuckin’ good. Can’t ever get enough—”

You’ve never heard him like this, so high of pleasure that his speech slurs and his words all meld together into one filthy stream of ramblings that has you sinking your nails even deeper into his back and coming on his cock with a loud wail.

Your cunt convulses around him, shaking with the force of your release, milking him. 

“Fuck, princess.” Logan pitches forward, his sweaty torso covering yours as he keeps fucking into your shaking body, desperately chasing his own release.

Finally, with a muted roar of your name, he sinks his teeth into the tender skin of your neck and comes for you.

You cry out at the sharp sting of his teeth bearing down hard enough to draw blood, your vision whiting out with the pleasure of being claimed in every way imaginable.

Logan’s hips only stop when he’s drained of every last drop, his body shaking where it lays over yours. He laps at the broken skin of your neck, a soft gesture that isn’t quite an apology for making you bleed—because you know that he isn’t sorry whatsoever—but it’s nice nonetheless.

Your arms come up to circle around his neck, eyes fluttering shut as the exhaustion hits you all at once. You get lost in the steady rhythm of Logan catching his breath, in the way his heart pounds against his ribcage where his chest is pressed to your own, in the way his fingers twitch and flex on your hips.

The last thing you hear as you drift off, his come starting to leak down your thighs in thick streams of white, is a hushed whisper of “I got you, baby. I’m right here, I’m always right here.”

It puts you at ease, all the worry you felt over the last few weeks slipping from your mind like grains of sand through your fingers.

Maybe, this new side of Logan isn’t so bad after all.

tags are now in the comments! if you want to get tagged for any of my works just fill out this form!

[solxamber]

Match Made in Madness - Floyd Leech x reader

Soulmates get updates of each other's lives through an overly enthusiastic dream narrator. What's worse is that your soulmate seems to be completely unhinged.

It all starts on another one of those nights—the weird dream where your soulmate’s day is narrated to you in the most ridiculous fashion imaginable. No names, no faces, just an over-the-top, enthusiastic narrator who acts like they’re introducing a daytime soap.

"Good evening, soulmate! Ready for another wild day? Well, buckle up, because your beloved got into a fight with a vending machine!"

You groan in your sleep, already bracing for what’s next. The narrator continues with gleeful energy:

"After losing said battle, your soulmate kicked the machine and declared, ‘I’ll have the last laugh, metal box!’ Later in the day, they spent 45 minutes trying to convince a bird to become their personal spy. Spoiler alert: the bird didn’t agree, but they’re not giving up anytime soon!"

When you wake up, you rub your eyes and mutter, "What the hell is my soulmate doing?" Clearly, the universe decided to match you with an absolute madman, and you’re starting to wonder if you’ll even survive meeting them.

The dreams continue for weeks, and the updates get progressively weirder. Whoever this person is, they have the chaotic energy of a tornado in a convenience store. One night, you get this gem:

"Exciting news! Today, your soulmate tried to see if they could juggle three eels at once. Spoiler: they couldn’t, but they did manage to send one flying into a professor’s lunch. Next on the agenda, they challenged the ocean to a race. The ocean won."

You’re so used to these bizarre updates by now that you don’t even flinch. Instead, you’re beginning to wonder why the universe thinks it’s funny to torture you with someone who clearly doesn’t have a firm grasp on reality.

And then one night, the narrator drops a bombshell:

"Your soulmate spent the entire afternoon wondering if there’s any way they could convince their twin brother to switch places with them on a date— Oh wait, forget I said that! That one’s classified!*"

What? Now, you’re officially on edge. Not only do they have a twin, but they’ve been thinking about dating? This is spiraling out of control.

You’re sitting at the Mostro Lounge, thinking about the increasingly unhinged dreams when you spot Floyd Leech across the room. Normally, you’d ignore him because, well, Floyd has a reputation, and it’s not exactly “outstanding member of society.”

But today, something feels off. You’ve heard a few things—people say he’s chaotic, unpredictable, and obsessed with “playing” with his victims. And suddenly, you can’t stop thinking about the dream where your soulmate tried to juggle eels.

Floyd catches your eye, and before you can look away, he’s making a beeline for your table. Oh no. Please no.

“Hey, Shrimpy,” he says with his usual, lazy grin, flopping down in the seat next to you like he owns the place. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Close enough.

You swallow hard. “Uh… just thinking.”

“Thinking, huh?” Floyd leans in, uncomfortably close. “What about?”

How are you supposed to say, I think you’re my soulmate, but I’m also convinced you’re a lunatic? Instead, you nervously laugh. “Oh, nothing. Just… dreams.”

“Dreams, huh?” Floyd’s eyes narrow, but he looks more interested than suspicious. “Like… those ones where some random guy is juggling eels?”

Your blood runs cold.

“Wait—how did you know about the eels?”

Floyd’s grin widens. “Oh? So it is you! I knew it!” He laughs, leaning back with a satisfied look, like he’s just solved the greatest mystery of his life. “Shrimpy, you’re hilarious! I’ve been having those dreams about you, too. You’re always doing weird stuff, like… rescuing ducks or tripping over your own feet.”

Your heart races. “Wait, so—you're my soulmate?”

“Duh,” Floyd says, rolling his eyes like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “The universe has a sense of humor, doesn’t it?”

At first, you’re convinced this is a prank, a cruel joke. But the more you talk to Floyd, the more everything starts to click into place. He’s chaotic, sure. Completely unpredictable? Absolutely. But he’s also the same person who, according to your dreams, once wondered if seaweed could be used as a fashion statement. He’s also the guy who—oh right—challenged the ocean to a race.

And now that you’ve met him, you realize one important detail: he’s perfect.

Well, perfect in the most unhinged way possible.

A week later, you find yourself in an increasingly ridiculous situation—Floyd has somehow convinced you to help him “steal” a giant fish from the campus pond.

“Why are we doing this again?” you ask, holding the bucket as he dives headfirst into the water.

“Because,” Floyd says between splashes, “the fish looks like he’s having a bad day, so we’re gonna give him a makeover.”

You stare blankly at the pond. “You want to makeover a fish.”

Floyd pops back up, water dripping from his hair, with a grin that could melt glaciers. “Yeah! Why not?”

You don’t have a good answer for that, so you just shrug. This is my life now.

That night, you’re lying in bed, starting to doze off, when the dream narrator pops up again:

"Good evening, soulmate! Today, your other half tried to give a fish a new look. It didn’t work, but they still had fun! Also, they’ve been thinking about holding your hand."

You wake up with a groan, rubbing your face in disbelief. Of course, Floyd would think about something like that in the middle of a fish-stealing escapade. But there’s something undeniably sweet about it, too.

The next day, Floyd grabs your hand without warning as you’re walking through campus. “I had a dream about this,” he says casually, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

You smile, squeezing his hand back. “So did I.”

Maybe the universe isn’t such a prankster after all.

Masterlist

[pandapetals]

The Edge of Safety

Living in Lowtown meant crime happened all the time. After your sister gets taken, you turn to Patch for help to find her.

patch/logan howlett x fem!reader - takes place in madripoor, no y/n used, no reader description but reader does have a sister named emily, violence, blood, death, killing, very action packed, some sexual tension, patch is an asshole, angst, reader is a lowkey badass, kid and sweetheart nickname used

a/n: okay this one is an essay of an author’s note but listen….I honestly haven’t stopped thinking about Patch since deadpool and wolverine soooo I did some research on Patch’s character, read some comics and googled it. Then like a vision this idea came to me so i was like okay gonna write it after i finish other stuff but nope, ended up writing nonstop so. Not complaining (okay maybe my fingers are) but yeah, hopefully this is accurate. i did take some creative liberties because patch is still logan just in a “disguise”---if you can call an eye patch a disguise. lol

word count: 21k

divider credit: @enchanthings

The acrid stench of sweat and cheap cologne filled the cramped convenience store, mingling with the faint buzz of flickering fluorescent lights overhead. Your pulse thundered in your ears as you gripped your sister’s hand, pulling her close. The rough concrete floor felt cold even through your shoes, grounding you in the grim reality of the moment.

 Lowtown was no stranger to crime—muggings, drug deals, the occasional gang scuffle—but you’d always managed to keep your head down and avoid it until now.

“Don’t make me ask again!” The man’s voice was rough, edged with a brittle desperation that set your nerves on edge. His eyes darted around the room, wild and unfocused, like he was looking for an excuse to pull the trigger. The barrel of his gun swung in a lazy arc, cutting through the air as he fixed his gaze on the store owner. With a sneer, he herded everyone to the front of the store, shoving people together like cattle pressed up against the cold metal shelves.

His eyes fell on you and your sister, and something dark flickered in his expression—a hint of menace that made your stomach drop. You tightened your grip on her hand, feeling the tremor in her fingers as she clung to you. Her wide, fearful eyes darted around the store, seeking a way out, but there was none.

The store owner, a grizzled man with leathery skin and a face set in a permanent scowl, barely blinked. He watched the gunman with an almost bored expression like he’d seen this kind of thing too many times to muster any real fear. The gunman’s jaw clenched his impatience mounting. “You heard me,” he barked, voice cracking as he waved the gun in your direction as if you were somehow responsible for the old man’s slow compliance. He stabbed the air with the muzzle, the barrel now pointed squarely at your chest. “Open the register, or I swear I’ll blow her head off!”

Your breath hitched, heart hammering against your ribs. The gun was only inches away, the metal glinting under the fluorescent lights. You could feel your sister shaking beside you, her small fingers squeezing yours so tight it was almost painful. 

You took a step back, instinctively trying to shield her with your body, but the movement only drew the gunman’s attention. His eyes narrowed, zeroing in on you, a twisted grin stretching across his lips.

“I said, hurry up!” The man’s voice was splintered, the wild edge creeping further in. There was something unhinged in his eyes—a flicker of mania that made your skin crawl. This wasn’t just a man looking for a quick score. This was a man on the verge of losing control, and you were all trapped in his orbit.

The store owner finally sighed, his shoulders slumping as if he was annoyed. He shuffled over to the register, his gnarled fingers moving with an infuriating slowness as he popped it open. The old, rusted drawer creaked, and he began peeling off crumpled bills one by one, as though he had all the time in the world.

A low growl escaped the gunman’s throat, his patience wearing dangerously thin. “Faster, old man—”

Suddenly, the air exploded with movement. The gunman lurched forward, his arm swinging as he reached for your sister, his fingers digging into her arm with a brutal yank that tore her from your side. The world seemed to splinter at that moment, her terrified scream slicing through the heavy silence like a knife. Time slowed, the sounds around you muffled as adrenaline flooded your veins.

Without thinking, you lunged after her, instincts overtaking reason. You swung wildly, aiming for anything you could reach—a fist, an arm, something to get him off her. But he was faster, or maybe just more desperate, and in one fluid motion, he spun around and cracked the butt of the gun against your head.

Pain flared, white-hot and blinding, and the world tilted. Your vision blurred, your knees buckling as darkness closed in at the edges of your sight. The last thing you heard before everything went black was your sister’s panicked cries, growing fainter, slipping away into the shadows as you fell into oblivion.

˚ ༘ ๋࣭ ࣪ 🀣⋆｡˚

You awoke to the sharp scent of antiseptic and the soft hum of medical equipment. Your head throbbed like someone was pounding nails into your skull. The sterile white of the hospital room pressed in on you from all sides. Panic spiked through your veins as the memories rushed back—the robber with greasy hair, the gun, your sister’s terrified face.

“She’s gone!” The words tore from your throat, raw and ragged. You struggled to sit up, but a firm hand pushed you back down.

“Easy now, hon,” a nurse said, her voice soothing but firm. She was a broad-shouldered woman with lines etched deep around her eyes. “You’re safe. Just breathe, okay? You're in the hospital. You took a nasty blow.”

“My sister—” You fought against the dizziness threatening to drag you under again. “Where is she? Did they find her?”

The nurse’s expression tightened, sympathy clouding her eyes as she glanced away, studying the dull linoleum as if it held an answer. “No one knows where she is yet, sweetheart. The police are looking.”

You shook your head, frustration tightening in your chest. “The police won’t help,” you spat, your voice cracking. “This town is rotten—crime’s everywhere, and the cops don’t do a damn thing.”

“I know,” the nurse began, her voice gentle but uncertain, “but—”

“No, you don’t understand!” The words erupted from you, raw and desperate. Your throat burned with the effort to keep from breaking down. “I have to find her. She’s all I have left. My only family.” The last words came out like a plea.

The nurse hesitated before her eyes softened. She leaned in closer, her tone shifting, becoming almost conspiratorial. “Listen,” she whispered, her gaze flicking to the doorway and back again, “there’s someone who might be able to help you.” Her voice dipped lower, barely audible over the hum of the machines.

You blinked, struggling to steady your breath. “Who?” you managed, your voice thin and rough.

“A man they call Patch,” she said as if the name itself carried weight. It slipped from her lips like a secret traded in the dark. “He’s... not with the police. More of a vigilante, some say. Others call him a mercenary. Word is, he deals with the kind of trouble that the law won’t touch. The kind that hides in the shadows.” She glanced at the door again, then took a step back, as if wary of saying too much. “If you’re serious about finding your sister, he might be your best shot.”

The name hung in the air between you, heavy with promise and risk. A flicker of hope sparked, but doubt quickly smothered it. Who was this Patch? And would he care about some girl from Lowtown?

You pushed the thought aside. You couldn’t afford to be picky. “Where can I find him?” you asked, forcing the words past the knot in your throat.

The nurse’s mouth tightened into a thin line. “It won’t be easy,” she warned, her gaze steady. “Patch isn’t exactly the friendly type. He’s got a reputation for being... rough around the edges. Dangerous, even.”

“I don’t care,” you said, your jaw setting with grim determination. “Just tell me where.”

She sighed, folding her arms across her chest as if trying to shield herself from the weight of what she was about to say. “He usually hangs out at a place called The Lucky Dragon,” she said. “It’s a casino in Hightown. You can’t miss it—big neon sign, a dragon wrapped around a roulette wheel. Classy place, for all the wrong reasons. Just…” Her voice softened, almost pleading. “Be careful. Hightown’s not like here. It’s meaner. More secrets. And Patch—well, if you get on his bad side, don’t expect him to show mercy.”

Her words settled over you, cold and unyielding. There was a flicker of a warning laced within them. The kind that whispered, if you were willing to walk through the fire, there was still a chance.

“I’ll be fine,” you said, though your voice shook a little. “I just need to find her.”

The nurse gave a slow nod as if deciding whether or not to believe you. “Then good luck, hon,” she murmured. “Oh, and—Patch isn’t in the habit of doing favors. You’d better be ready to give him a reason to care.”

You swallowed hard, pushing down the fear and doubt that threatened to surface. It didn’t matter. None of it did. There was only one thing you had to do now—find Patch, and hope that somewhere in that smoke-filled casino, amid the clatter of dice and the murmur of broken dreams, lay a path that would lead you back to your sister.

The image of your sister—small, terrified, yanked out of your reach—burned itself into your mind. It was like a fever that spread through your limbs, propelling you off the hospital bed. The dull throb in your skull was nothing compared to the hollow ache in your chest, a void that swallowed every other sensation. You had to move. You had to do something.

˚ ༘ ๋࣭ ࣪ 🀣⋆｡˚

Outside, the city loomed like a beast under a blanket of murky night. Neon lights buzzed, reflecting off the rain-slicked pavement as if mocking your urgency. You stumbled into the street, your legs feeling weak. Everything seemed to cling to you, as you raised a hand to hail a cab.

The first few drove past without even slowing, and panic tightened its grip around your throat. Finally, one screeched to a halt, and you threw yourself into the backseat.

“Where to?” the driver asked, glancing at you through the rearview mirror. His eyes widened a little when he took in your bruised face, blood-stained clothes, and the hospital bracelet still dangling from your wrist.

“The Lucky Dragon,” you said, voice hoarse. “In Hightown.”

The driver’s eyebrows lifted. “You sure, lady? That’s not exactly a place for—”

“Just go,” you snapped, too drained to care about his judgment. You slumped back in the seat, your hands balled into fists on your lap as the cab sped off, the engine’s low rumble vibrating through your bones. The city blurred past outside the window—crumbling brick, flickering signs, and the occasional flash of blue and red from a distant police cruiser. It was a cruel world you’d stepped back into, and every second that ticked by seemed to deepen the chasm between you and your sister.

As the cab climbed the steep hill toward Hightown, the landscape began to shift. The streets became wider, the grime less visible under the garish glow of high-rise billboards and polished storefronts. The Lucky Dragon stood near the end of the strip, towering above the other buildings like a gaudy temple. A giant neon dragon wrapped around a roulette wheel glared down at you, its ruby eyes glinting like a predator’s in the darkness.

You tossed a handful of crumpled bills at the driver and stepped out, feeling the weight of stares from passersby almost immediately. Your clothes were wrinkled from sweat with bits of dried blood splattered on them making you look completely out of place. 

The cold air bit your cheeks, and you could feel the eyes crawling over you: casino patrons in tailored suits and glittering dresses, eyeing you with a mix of suspicion and contempt. A few whispered, nudging each other as you walked by. You kept your chin up, though it felt like every step was sinking you deeper into quicksand. You didn’t belong here, and everyone knew it.

The casino doors hissed open, releasing a wall of sound that crashed over you—laughter, the ringing of slot machines, the clink of glasses, and the low murmur of conversations spoken in secret. The Lucky Dragon’s interior was drenched in crimson and gold, a haze of smoke curling beneath the chandeliers. You drifted in, feeling small beneath the vaulted ceiling, and glanced around, searching for a face that meant nothing to you. How were you even supposed to know who to look for? The nurse had given you a name, but nothing more—no description, no sign to point you in the right direction.

The poker tables caught your eye. Figures hunched over cards, some grinning like foxes, others steely-faced, staring down their opponents. Then you saw him. It was as if the world sharpened, everything else fading into the background.

He sat at the farthest table, a tall, brooding figure in a crisp white suit that made him stand out against the dark wood and dim lighting. His hair was dark, almost black styled into two high tufts. An eye patch covered his left eye, leaving the other to gleam with a harsh intensity as he studied his cards. There was a casual elegance in the way he leaned back in his chair, a hand resting on his chin, but the lines of his body spoke of coiled strength, like a predator waiting for the right moment to strike.

You hesitated, your legs suddenly heavy as you took a step forward. What were you even going to say? You didn’t have a plan, just desperation driving you forward but the thought of your sister—lost, afraid—pushed you into motion. You could feel the weight of judgmental eyes again as you approached the table, but you didn’t care. Not anymore.

“Are you Patch?” The question came out stronger than you’d expected, even though your heart hammered against your ribs.

The man didn’t look up right away. He flipped a card over with a lazy flick of his wrist, then let out a low, dismissive chuckle. “Depends on who’s asking.” His voice was deep, rough around the edges like gravel. 

Finally, he raised his gaze to meet yours, and you felt the full force of that single, piercing eye lock onto you, taking you in from head to toe—the blood-stained clothes, the bruises, the desperation etched into every line of your face.

He arched a brow, an almost amused smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. “You lost, sweetheart? 'Cause you sure as hell don’t look like you belong here.”

You swallowed hard, steeling yourself against the urge to wilt under that gaze. “I need your help,” you said, fighting to keep the tremor out of your voice. “Someone took my sister. I was told you’re the kind of guy who could help.”

His expression didn’t change, but the air around him seemed to shift, growing colder, and heavier. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, and for a moment, you thought you saw something flash in his eye—something dark and dangerous, like a knife unsheathed. 

“Kid,” he said slowly, “do you have any idea what you’re getting yourself into?”

“I don’t care,” you replied, your voice barely more than a whisper. “I’ll do whatever it takes to find my sister.”

Patch’s gaze held yours, unyielding, for what felt like an eternity. His single eye was cold, appraising—like he was stripping you down to the bones, searching for the truth behind your words. You could feel a bead of sweat forming on the back of your neck, your skin prickling under the weight of his silence. His stillness was unnerving, like the calm before a storm, and the longer he just sat there, the more your frustration flared.

Finally, you couldn’t take it. You shifted your weight and crossed your arms as if bracing yourself. “Look, mister,” you snapped, your voice cracking from the strain of holding back tears. “The police aren’t going to do shit. Lowtown’s a goddamn warzone, and you know it.” You took a step closer, your fingers tightening into fists at your sides. “While you sit here, lounging around in a fancy suit, playing cards, and sipping drinks, people like me are getting robbed, beaten, and killed.”

Patch’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in that eye—a spark, a shadow, gone too quickly to read. He leaned back in his chair, casually swirling the remnants of his drink as if your outburst had barely registered. “And what makes you think you’re any different?” His voice was low, edged with a hint of boredom. “Another desperate girl with a sob story, wandering in from Lowtown, hoping someone else will clean up her mess.”

His words cut deep, stoking a fury that flared hot in your chest. “This isn’t just some ‘sob story,’” you spat back, your voice rising despite the stares from nearby tables. “My sister is out there—taken by some lowlife who had a gun in her face. I can’t just—” Your breath hitched, and you forced yourself to push through it. “I can’t just sit around hoping she’ll magically come home. I have to do something.”

Patch’s gaze sharpened, his jaw tightening ever so slightly. He set his glass down, the dull clink resonating like a judge’s gavel. “And you think coming here, shaking like a leaf, is doing something?” There was a bitter edge in his tone as if he was testing you, pushing to see how far you’d go before you broke.

You took a steadying breath, ignoring the heat rising to your cheeks. “You think I wanted to walk in here like this?” you shot back, gesturing to the dirty clothes clinging to your skin. “I came because I don’t have any other choice. I was unconscious in a hospital bed while some bastard dragged her away. So yeah, I’m desperate. But that doesn’t mean I’m just going to give up.”

For a heartbeat, the silence stretched between you. The murmurs of the casino faded to a dull roar in your ears as you locked eyes with Patch, refusing to look away even though every instinct told you to. His expression remained inscrutable, but there was a shift—a subtle change in the air between you, like the first stirrings of a breeze before a storm breaks.

Slowly, Patch’s lips curved into a humorless smirk. He tapped a finger against the poker table as if coming to some unspoken decision. “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that,” he said, his voice dropping to a murmur. “But guts don’t count for much if you don’t know what you’re doing. The kind of people who snatch girls off the street don’t just give them back because someone asked nicely.”

“Then tell me what I need to do,” you said, swallowing hard. “Or are you just going to sit there?”

Patch’s smirk faded, replaced by a cold, calculating look. He stood up slowly, the chair scraping against the floor, and took a step toward you. The scent of smoke and whiskey clung to him like a second skin. He was close enough now that you could see the faint scars trailing along his knuckles, the signs of countless fights hard-won. “I don’t take on charity cases,” he said quietly, his breath warm against your cheek. “You want my help, you’ve got to prove you’re worth my time.”

“How?” you asked, your voice trembling but resolute.

He held your gaze a moment longer, then jerked his head toward the back of the casino, where the neon lights barely reached and the air was thick with shadows. “There’s a back room here where debts get settled,” he said. “People who owe money and don’t pay. There’s a guy inside—a dealer who owes the house more than he’ll ever be able to repay. Find out what he knows. If you can handle that, then maybe—maybe—I’ll think about helping you find your sister.”

Before you could respond, he turned on his heel and began to walk away, the white of his suit disappearing into the crowd like a ghost fading into the night. You took a shaky breath, glancing toward the shadowed hallway he’d indicated.

How the hell were you supposed to make some guy talk? You didn’t have the kind of presence Patch had—the kind that could silence a room with just a look. He was the sort of man who wore danger like a second skin, and you’d bet he could get a confession out of someone without saying a word, just by staring them down with that single, unnerving eye. 

You? You were just a woman caught between terror and adrenaline, your whole body trembling as you tried to keep your breaths even. The absurdity of everything pressed down on you like a weight, threatening to crush you. 

You sighed, your breath shuddering out of you as you glanced toward the darkened hallway Patch had pointed to. The back room where debts got settled—the very idea sent a chill crawling up your spine. It wasn’t like you hadn’t been in shady places before, growing up in Lowtown, but this was different. This was Hightown’s version of shady, where the rich got away with sins even the criminals in Lowtown wouldn’t touch.

The image of your sister flashed in your mind again—her wide, frightened eyes as the gunman dragged her away. A hollow ache twisted in your chest, and you straightened up, forcing your limbs to stop trembling. You didn’t know how to do this, but you were about to learn. There was no other choice. There never had been.

You slipped through the crowd, weaving past tables and drunken gamblers. The din of the casino grew muffled as you approached the dimly lit hallway. The red and gold of the main room faded, replaced by shadowed walls and the stale scent of sweat and cigar smoke. The sounds of laughter and clinking glasses died down to a murmur like the world had turned down its volume, leaving just the thud of your heartbeat in your ears.

At the end of the corridor, a heavy door loomed, the kind you could tell wasn’t meant for guests. You hesitated in front of it, feeling the weight of the moment pressing on you. How were you supposed to do this? What were you supposed to say? You didn't have Patch’s cool composure or his casual air of authority. All you had was your desperation and that gnawing emptiness inside you—fuel that burned hotter than your fear.

You shoved the door open and stepped inside.

The room was cramped and dimly lit by a single dangling bulb, casting harsh shadows across stained walls. A poker table sat in the center, scattered with crumpled cards and empty whiskey glasses. In one of the worn-out chairs slouched a man in a rumpled suit, his fingers drumming nervously on the table's edge. His eyes flicked to you as you entered, his expression shifting from bored indifference to wary curiosity.

“You’re not one of them,” he said, his voice gravelly, squinting as if he was trying to place where you’d come from. “What do you want?”

You took a breath, forcing yourself to step further into the room, your sneakers silent on the gritty floor. “I need information,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady, though it wavered at the edges. “About a girl. She was taken recently. You know anything about that?”

The man’s gaze darted toward the door, then back to you. A thin, crooked smile tugged at his lips. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, sweetheart,” he sneered, reaching for the cigarette resting on the ashtray in front of him. “I don’t know anything about any girls, and even if I did, why the hell would I tell you?”

His tone was dismissive, the kind of tone that told you he thought you were harmless, a nuisance to be shrugged off. It stung, but it was also exactly what you needed—because he didn’t see you as a threat.

You took a step closer, letting the harsh overhead light catch the bruises on your face, the hospital bracelet still dangling from your wrist. “Because if you don’t,” you said, your voice hardening, “the next person who walks through that door won’t be as nice.” You leaned in just enough that he’d have to catch the seriousness in your eyes. “It’ll be Patch.”

The name dropped like a stone, and you could see the reaction ripple across his face. It was slight—a tightening of the jaw, a flicker of hesitation in his eyes—but it was there. He looked you up and down again as if reevaluating what kind of game he’d walked into. “Patch sent you?” he scoffed, but there was less conviction.

You nodded, playing up your calm, letting it stretch out like you had all the time in the world. “He sent me to ask nicely,” you said, “but I’m sure he’d be happy to finish this conversation his way if you’d prefer.”

The man’s cigarette wavered between his fingers, his gaze sliding to the door as though expecting Patch to walk through it any second. You didn’t have to know what kind of history lay between them to see that he was rattled, that the mere mention of the name had carved a crack in his defenses.

He took a long drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling around his face as he exhaled slowly. “Alright,” he muttered, stubbing it out in the ashtray. “What’s the girl’s name?”

You swallowed, relief flooding through you even as you kept your expression neutral. “Her name is Emily,” you said, your voice steady now. “And I need to know where they took her.”

The man’s eyes darted away, his fingers tapping anxiously on the table again. “Look, I don’t know much,” he said, his voice lowering to a near whisper. “But I heard some guys talking a few nights ago—something about a shipment coming through the docks. They mentioned girls, and... well, it didn’t sound like they were there by choice.”

Your stomach twisted, a knot of dread tightening as his words sank in. “What else?” you pressed. “What do you know about the men involved?”

He shook his head, glancing nervously toward the door again. “That’s all I’ve got,” he said. “Just some lowlife dealers from the docks. If Patch wants more than that, he’s gonna have to dig for it himself.”

You turned to leave, but before you reached the door, the man spoke again, his voice barely audible. “If you’re smart, you’ll walk away now,” he murmured a note of pity in his tone. “People who go looking for the kind of trouble you’re in don’t usually come back.”

You didn’t respond. There was no point because you would do whatever it took to get your sister back even if it meant crossing lines you never thought you’d cross.

˚ ༘ ๋࣭ ࣪ 🀣⋆｡˚

You wandered the casino, weaving through the smoke and noise, scanning every shadowed corner and poker table for a glimpse of that white suit. It was like he’d disappeared into thin air. Your pulse quickened with each passing second, dread tightening its grip on your lungs. What if Patch had already left? What if he’d sent you into that back room as some kind of test and then walked out, leaving you here alone?

“Excuse me, ma’am?” A voice cut through the din, and you felt your stomach drop.

You turned slowly, your heart thudding in your chest. A security guard stood a few feet away, arms folded over his broad chest. He gave you a once-over, his eyes narrowing as he took in your disheveled hair, the bruises darkening your cheek, and the smear of dried blood on the sleeve of your jacket.

You swallowed, forcing a shaky smile and trying to smooth down your hair. “Me?” you said, aiming for innocence, though your voice betrayed a tremor. “Is there a problem?”

The guard’s gaze hardened. “You don’t exactly look like a regular customer,” he said, his tone flat, the words edged with suspicion. “And you shouldn’t be wandering back here.” He took a step forward, making it clear that you were not welcome in this part of the casino. “We’re going to have to ask you to leave.”

Panic flared hot and fast in your chest. You opened your mouth to argue, but before you could get a word out, another voice broke in, smooth and cold as steel.

“She’s with me.”

The guard stiffened and stepped back as Patch emerged from the crowd, his white suit pristine, his expression as calm and dangerous as before. He didn’t even spare the guard a glance as he brushed past him, catching your arm with a firm grip and steering you away.

The guard hesitated, clearly unsure whether to question Patch’s authority, but in the end, he simply nodded and stepped aside, his gaze lingering on you for a beat longer before he turned away.

Patch’s fingers tightened slightly on your arm as he guided you through the casino, weaving between the slot machines and roulette tables until the noise faded into a low hum behind you. He led you down a narrow hallway lined with plush crimson carpeting, the lights dimmer here, the atmosphere more intimate, as if you were walking deeper into the belly of the beast.

Finally, he steered you into a small, secluded alcove near a back exit. The muffled sounds of the casino were barely a whisper now, and the only light came from a single wall sconce casting long shadows across Patch’s face. He released your arm and leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest as he regarded you with that unblinking, solitary gaze.

"Well?” he said, arching a brow. “Did you get anything, or did I just save you from getting thrown out for nothing?”

You took a breath, steadying yourself as the adrenaline still coursed through your veins. “The guy I talked to,” you began, your voice stronger than you expected, “he said something about the docks. A shipment coming in. Girls, and… it didn’t sound like they were there by choice.” The words tasted bitter as they left your mouth, and you could feel the knot of dread tightening in your stomach. “He mentioned dealers. Low-level guys, but he didn’t have any names.”

Patch’s expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker in his eye—something hardening as if your words had confirmed something he already suspected. “The docks,” he echoed, his voice low. “That’s a rough place to start, but it’s better than nothing.”

“Does that mean you’ll help me?” The question escaped before you could stop it, and you hated the raw edge of hope that colored your voice. “You said I had to prove myself.”

Patch’s gaze locked onto yours, sharp and measuring. He didn’t speak for a long moment, and you wondered if he was about to tell you to walk away, that this was as far as your desperation would carry you. But then he gave a slow nod, pushing off the wall and stepping closer, his voice dropping to a murmur. “Alright, kid,” he said, his tone carrying both a promise and a threat. “I’ll help you. But you gotta follow my lead. No questions, no hesitation.”

You nodded quickly, the relief rushing through you like a wave. “I understand. I’ll do whatever it takes,” you said, your voice firm despite the uncertainty gnawing at your gut.

“Good,” he replied, his gaze flicking toward the dimly lit hallway you’d come from. “We start at the docks tonight. If this lead turns out to be a dead end, then you better start praying your sister’s got a hell of a lot more luck than you.”

Patch turned, already heading for the back exit, and you hurried after him, determination burning in your chest. For the first time since you’d woken up in that hospital bed, you felt like you were finally moving forward. Toward answers, toward your sister, and deeper into a darkness you didn’t understand yet.

“You should probably get some fresh clothes,” Patch muttered, not bothering to look back as he strode ahead. His long strides ate up the distance, and you had to hurry to keep pace, your sneakers slapping against the tile. 

“Yeah, well,” you quipped, a touch of dry humor creeping into your voice as you picked up the pace, “I don’t exactly have a lot of money lying around, and my apartment’s in Lowtown, so unless you know a cheap boutique nearby…”

Patch slowed just enough to glance over his shoulder, his eye narrowing. “Watch the attitude, kid,” he growled, his voice low and edged with a warning. “I’m already going out of my way for you. Don’t push it.”

You huffed, struggling to keep up as he picked up the pace again, his white suit cutting a path through the dim casino lighting like a shark through water. “I’m just saying,” you muttered, “it’s not like I have a lot of options. I did just wake up in a hospital bed.”

Patch stopped abruptly, turning to face you with a look that was half annoyance, half something else—curiosity, maybe. “You don’t have any options,” he said flatly, “which is exactly why you’re stuck with me.” He ran a hand through his dark hair as if trying to brush away the frustration clinging to his voice. “Come on,” he added, a resigned sigh escaping his lips. “I know a place.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the shift. “A place?”

“Yeah,” he replied, already moving again. “My place.”

The words hung in the air for a moment, and you couldn’t help the flicker of surprise that crossed your face. Patch had struck you as the type to drop you off at some dingy motel, toss a few bucks your way, and call it a night. But his place? You weren’t sure if that was a good sign or not.

“Wow,” you said, with a hint of a smirk you didn’t quite feel. “Didn’t know you were so generous.”

Patch shot you a sidelong glance as he pushed open a back door, leading you out into a narrow alley where the neon lights from the casino cast strange shadows on the wet pavement. “Don’t get used to it,” he said. “I’m not running a charity. I just don’t want you drawing attention while we’re out there.” He paused, then gave you a once-over, his gaze lingering on the bruises darkening your skin. “Besides,” he added dryly, “you look like you crawled out of a dumpster.”

You snorted despite yourself, falling in step beside him as he led you down the alley. “Thanks for the confidence boost.”

He grunted in response, guiding you toward a sleek, black motorcycle parked near the mouth of the alley. “You think you can hold on without falling off?” he asked, tossing you a helmet.

You caught the helmet awkwardly, feeling a little thrill of apprehension run through you. “Guess we’re about to find out,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. You climbed onto the back of the bike, wrapping your arms around Patch’s waist a little too tightly.

“Relax,” he muttered as he revved the engine. “You’re gonna crush my ribs.”

“Just making sure I don’t fall off,” you shot back, loosening your grip a fraction.

The motorcycle roared to life, and Patch sped off, weaving through the city streets with practiced ease. The wind tore at your hair, and the city blurred around you in streaks of neon and shadows. The ride didn’t last long—ten minutes, maybe fifteen—but it felt longer with the weight of everything pressing down on you. The docks. The men you were about to face. Your sister’s terrified eyes. You shoved it all down, focusing on the feel of the road beneath you and the solid presence of Patch in front of you.

He pulled into an underground parking garage beneath a sleek high-rise on the edge of Hightown, the kind of place that whispered money and power. Definitely not the kind of place you would’ve pictured Patch calling home. You dismounted and handed him the helmet, your eyes drifting up to the polished glass and steel above you.

“Seriously?” you asked, a brow arched. “This is where you live?”

Patch shot you a look that bordered on amused irritation. “I like my privacy,” he said simply, leading the way to an elevator tucked into the corner of the garage. He punched in a code, and the doors slid open, revealing a mirrored interior that seemed too pristine for someone like him.

You stepped inside, feeling out of place amid the gleaming metal and polished surfaces. “This definitely beats Lowtown,” you muttered under your breath.

Patch gave a noncommittal grunt as the elevator ascended, his eye fixed on the glowing numbers. “Don’t get too comfortable,” he said as the doors slid open on the top floor. “You’re here to change, not to move in.”

The elevator opened directly into his apartment, a spacious loft with an open layout and floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a view of the city stretching out below like a sea of lights. It was surprisingly clean—minimalist, with a few leather couches, a glass coffee table, and a sleek kitchen in the corner. It didn’t seem like a place anyone actually lived in. More like a picture in a magazine, or a safehouse for someone who moved around a lot.

“Bedrooms down the hall,” he said, jerking his head toward a narrow corridor. “There should be some clothes in the closet that’ll fit you.”

You hesitated, glancing around. “You just… keep women’s clothes lying around?”

Patch’s expression remained impassive, but there was the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. “I’ve had company before,” he said dryly, then turned away to rummage through a cabinet near the kitchen. “Go get dressed. We’re burning time.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. You hurried down the hall and found the bedroom—spare and uncluttered like the rest of the place. There was a walk-in closet filled mostly with men’s clothing, but you found a few items that looked like they might fit—a pair of black jeans, a faded gray t-shirt, and a leather jacket that was slightly too big. You changed quickly, tossing your clothes onto the bed and taking a moment to look at yourself in the mirror. You still looked a little rough around the edges, but at least you didn’t feel like a walking mess anymore.

When you emerged, Patch was leaning against the kitchen counter, a half-empty glass of whiskey sitting on it. He gave you a quick once-over, then nodded. “Better,” he said, pushing off the counter. “Now let’s go.”

You fell in step beside him as he led you back toward the elevator, the weight of the night settling back onto your shoulders. You were dressed, you were ready, but the uncertainty still gnawed at you. The stakes hadn’t changed. Your sister was still out there, and you were about to walk straight into the kind of trouble most people wouldn’t even dare to think about.

Patch glanced at you as the elevator doors closed, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Try not to get yourself killed, kid,” he said, his tone laced with a mixture of sarcasm and something almost resembling concern.

You shot him a sideways look. “I’ll try my best,” you replied, your voice steady with a resolve you hadn’t felt in a long time. “Just make sure you don’t get in my way.”

His smirk deepened as the elevator descended, the faintest hint of approval in his gaze. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

˚ ༘ ๋࣭ ࣪ 🀣⋆｡˚

The sun had vanished below the horizon, leaving the docks shrouded in a deep, restless darkness. As Patch’s motorcycle rumbled to a halt, you slid off the back, the chill of the night seeping into your bones. The air was thick with the salty tang of the sea, mixed with diesel fumes and the faint, distant clatter of metal on metal. Every shadow seemed to twist and stretch, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were being watched from all sides.

Patch cut the engine and swung a leg over the bike, his movements fluid and controlled. “Could you calm down?” he muttered, shooting you a sideways glare. “I can’t hear a damn thing with your heartbeat pounding like a drum.”

You stared at him, your brows knitting together. “You can hear my—”

He just gave a curt nod, already turning away as if the matter was of no consequence. “Here’s the plan, kid,” he said, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “You stay here. I go in, see what I can find out. If things get ugly, you get the hell out of here. Got it?”

Your jaw tightened at the implication. “Then why am I here? What am I supposed to do? Just sit here while you play hero?”

Patch’s eye flicked back to you, a glint of annoyance—or was it amusement?—in that sharp gaze. “You can either stay here and let me handle this, or you can come in and get yourself killed. Your call.” Without waiting for your response, he started toward the darkened warehouses at the edge of the docks, his steps silent on the cracked asphalt.

You stood there for a moment, anger flaring in your chest. There was no way you were just going to sit back while he did all the dirty work. He might’ve been right about you being out of your depth, but that didn’t mean you weren’t willing to dive in. You glanced around, scanning the shadows for any sign of movement, then quietly trailed after him, keeping a safe distance. If he noticed, he didn’t let on.

Patch moved like a predator, his silhouette blending into the night as he slipped between shipping containers and rusted machinery. You followed as quietly as you could, your breath catching in your throat each time a loose pebble crunched underfoot or a metal chain swayed in the wind.

Up ahead, Patch stopped near a cluster of abandoned crates. You crept closer, just in time to see him crouch beside the door of a warehouse, his body tensed like a spring. He pressed an ear to the corrugated metal, listening. For a heartbeat, there was only the sound of distant waves lapping against the docks. Then, with a sudden SNIKT, three gleaming blades sprang from his knuckles, each one catching the faint glint of moonlight.

Your breath hitched in your throat at the sight but it was short-lived.

Before you could fully process it, the warehouse door burst open, slamming against the wall with a metallic clang. Three men spilled out, their footsteps heavy, voices raised in harsh, hurried whispers that cut through the still night air. 

Patch moved before they even noticed him—a blur of muscle and precision, springing forward like a coiled viper. His fist shot out, striking the first man square in the throat. There was a sickening crunch, a dark spray of blood, and the man staggered back, eyes bulging as he choked on a gurgled gasp. He collapsed in a heap, his body going limp on the cold concrete.

The other two froze, their faces draining of color, eyes widening as they processed what had just happened. You pressed yourself against the steel container, the chill seeping through your clothes as you struggled to stay hidden. Your heart pounded so loudly you could almost feel it in your throat, but you couldn’t tear your gaze away from the scene unfolding before you.

Patch didn’t give them a chance to recover. He spun, fluid and lethal, his focus shifting to the man who’d just drawn a knife. The man lunged, but Patch sidestepped effortlessly, his movements smooth and economical. In a flash, he caught the man’s wrist, twisting it with brutal efficiency. The sickening snap of bone echoed through the night, followed by a strangled scream that sent a shiver down your spine. Patch barely hesitated, driving his fist into the man’s temple with a fierce, controlled strike. The man crumpled to the ground, blood pooling around him.

The third man, panic etched into every line of his face, fumbled for a gun at his waistband, his fingers clumsy in his desperation. You saw his hand close around the weapon, saw him raise it, aiming squarely at Patch’s unguarded back.

Before you could even think, instinct took over. You darted out from behind the container, your hand grasping a rusted metal pipe lying discarded on the ground. Without hesitation, you swung it with every ounce of strength you had. The pipe connected with a dull, sickening crack against the gunman’s shoulder, sending him stumbling forward. The gun slipped from his fingers, clattering to the ground.

Patch reacted instantly. He pivoted, claws slicing through the air. In one swift motion, he drove them into the man’s chest, his strike precise and merciless. The man’s eyes went wide, a strangled gasp escaping his lips as his body jerked, then fell slack. Patch withdrew his claws, letting the man crumple to the ground in a lifeless heap.

For a moment, the silence was absolute. You stood there, breathless, the weight of the pipe still in your hands as you stared at the bodies sprawled on the ground. Your pulse was a thunderstorm in your ears, your hands trembling slightly from the adrenaline that coursed through you.

Patch turned toward you, his eye narrowing, the tension between you crackling like static. “You were supposed to stay put,” he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.

“And you have knives coming out of your hands,” you shot back, your voice trembling with adrenaline and disbelief. “I wasn’t about to let you get shot.”

He stared at you for a long beat, his gaze sharp and unyielding, as if he were assessing whether you were brave, reckless, or just plain stupid. Maybe a bit of all three. “Don’t make a habit of saving my life, kid,” he said finally, his tone edged with a reluctant sort of approval. “I’m not in the business of owing favors.”

Before you could think of a response, he jerked his head toward the warehouse. “Come on,” he said, his voice losing some of its sharpness but not its urgency. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”

You followed him inside, the metal pipe still gripped tightly in your hand like a talisman against the darkness. The warehouse was cold and dimly lit by a few flickering overhead lights. As your eyes adjusted, you saw rows of metal cages lining the walls, each one filled with frightened girls. Some were sobbing quietly, others stared blankly into the distance, their faces pale and hollow. Your stomach twisted at the sight, and you had to swallow back the bile rising in your throat.

Patch was already moving down the line, his gaze hard as he scanned each cage. “Look for your sister,” he said, his voice flat and steady. “Quickly.”

You moved down the line, your eyes scanning each girl’s face, desperation clawing at your chest. But as you reached the last cage, a sick realization settled in. She wasn’t here. None of these girls were Emily.

Patch came up beside you, his gaze shifting from the empty cages to your face, reading the despair etched there. “She’s not here, is she?” he asked quietly, though there was a certainty in his tone as if he’d already known the answer.

You shook your head, dropping the pipe, your hands curling into fists at your sides. “No,” you whispered, the word tasting bitter and hollow. “She’s not.”

Patch let out a slow breath, his jaw tightening. “Then this was only the start,” he said, his tone hardening again, as though he was steeling himself for the battles still ahead. “The guy at the casino gave us a lead, but it’s not the end of the line. We’re going to have to dig deeper.”

Your gaze drifted back to the girls still trapped in the cages, their hollow eyes pleading silently for rescue. “What about them?” you asked, your voice cracking. “We can’t just leave them here.”

For a moment, Patch’s expression softened—just a flicker of something almost human in the harsh lines of his face. “Stand back,” he said, his tone gruff as if trying to mask that brief flash of empathy.

You obeyed, retreating a few steps as Patch’s claws slid out with that familiar, metallic SNIKT. He moved down the row of cages in one swift motion, slashing through the padlocks like they were made of paper. The harsh sound of metal being cleaved filled the warehouse, and then the doors swung open one by one. The girls hesitated, their limbs trembling, but as the realization that they were free sank in, they began to stumble out, some leaning on each other for support.

Patch pulled a cell phone from his pocket, flipping it open with a flick of his wrist. “Yeah, it’s me,” he said gruffly as if the person on the other end was already expecting his call. “Got a situation down at the docks. Girls in cages—trafficking operation. Send someone to clean it up.” He paused, glancing over at you before adding, “And make it quick. We’re not sticking around.”

He hung up and turned back to you, his expression returning to its usual gruffness. “We’ve done all we can here. Let’s move.” He gestured toward the exit, already heading for the door.

You hesitated for a moment, watching as the girls huddled together, some whispering frantic prayers of relief. You wanted to stay, to make sure they were alright. But you knew that finding your sister meant pushing forward, following Patch down whatever dark road lay ahead.

You followed him out into the night, stealing a glance at his profile—the way his jaw was set, the hard lines etched into his face. He wasn’t just a man with claws. There was something else there, simmering beneath the surface—something raw and wounded like he understood exactly what it was like to lose someone.

Patch glanced back at you, his lone eye narrowing slightly as if he could read the turmoil simmering just beneath your surface. “They’ll be alright,” he said, his voice gruff but softer than before, almost as if he was trying to reassure you. But there was also a distance behind his tone that suggested he was more used to dealing with facts than offering comfort.

You shrugged, quickening your pace to fall in step beside him, the frustration bubbling up and out before you could bite it back. “How can you be so sure?” you snapped, your voice cracking from a mix of exhaustion and desperation. “We didn’t even do anything but cut them loose. What if someone else shows up before your people get here? What if they just get taken again?” The questions spilled out of you, each one sharper than the last. “And my sister—” You said, sucking in a breath. “How are we going to find her with no leads?”

Patch stopped walking, and you nearly collided with him. He turned to face you fully, his expression hard, but not unsympathetic. For a moment, you thought he was going to snap at you for doubting him. Instead, he took a slow breath and looked at you in a way that made you feel like he was seeing past your words, straight into your doubts and fears.

“You don’t think I ask myself the same thing every day?” His voice was low, gravelly, but there was a crack in the armor, a flicker of something almost vulnerable in the way he spoke. “How many people I’ve helped just end up right back where they started?” He shook his head, a bitter smirk twisting his lips. “The difference is, I don’t let it stop me from trying.” He let out a breath, his gaze flicking briefly to the dark waters of the bay. “Sometimes, you just do what you can and hope it’s enough.”

The words landed heavily, and you found yourself searching his face for some deeper understanding. The hard lines, the unshaven jaw, the haunted look in that lone eye—all of it told you this wasn’t the first time he’d been up against impossible odds. He looked like a man who had seen the worst the world had to offer and was still fighting against it, even if he didn’t believe in winning anymore. There was a kind of comfort in that, knowing you weren’t the only one feeling helpless.

You took a breath, your voice quieter now. “But we still don’t know where she is,” you said, hating the desperation that crept into your tone. “And if we don’t have any leads, then—”

“We do have a lead,” Patch interrupted, his tone firm but not dismissive. He started walking again. “It’s just a small one.”

You frowned, hurrying to keep up with him. “What lead?” you asked, trying not to sound too skeptical.

“The convenience store,” he said, casting a sidelong glance at you. “Where you and your sister were before she was taken. I assume this wasn’t the first time there’s been trouble there. Lowtown’s full of secrets—it doesn’t take much for a place like that to hear things, see things. Somebody might’ve seen something, or maybe the owner knows more than he’s letting on.”

Your stomach tightened at the thought of going back there. The memory of that night was still raw—your sister’s terrified scream, the flash of the gun, the feeling of helplessness that had wrapped around your throat like a noose. “You think he’ll talk?” you asked, your voice coming out smaller than you’d intended. “The owner… he didn’t exactly seem like the helpful type.”

Patch’s mouth curved into a sardonic half-smile. “People talk when they have a reason to,” he said. “And if he doesn’t want to…” He tapped his knuckles against the claws sheathed inside his hand, the faintest snikt sound slipping through. “Well, let’s just say I have ways of encouraging them.”

You rolled your eyes at the display, though you felt a small spark of relief. “So your plan is to scare him into talking?” you asked, forcing some of your earlier skepticism back into your voice. “What if that just makes him clam up more?”

Patch gave a short, dry chuckle. “Then we improvise,” he said simply as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Most people can’t handle pressure the way you might think.” He glanced down at you, his expression softening for a moment. “Besides, you might be surprised what they’ll say if they think they’re helping you.”

There was a beat of silence, and then you shook your head. “Why would you care if someone helps me or not?” you asked, the question slipping out before you could fully think it through. “You don’t even know me.”

Patch looked away, his gaze settling on the lights shimmering on the bay. “Maybe I see something familiar,” he said quietly, his voice rough around the edges. “Someone who doesn’t know when to back down, who’s got too much fire for her own good.” He shrugged, the motion almost dismissive. “Or maybe I’m just a sucker for a lost cause. Take your pick.”

Something about the way he said it—the hint of a confession buried in his gruff tone—made your throat tighten. You didn’t know if you believed him, but you could tell he meant it, at least on some level.

You fell into step beside him, a new determination building in your chest. “Alright,” you said, your voice steadier than before. “Let’s go back to the store. But if we don’t find anything there…” You trailed off, the unspoken fear still lingering between you.

Patch glanced at you, his eye glinting in the dim light. “If we don’t find anything,” he said, his voice low and steady, “then we keep looking. We dig until there’s nothing left to dig.” He paused, his gaze locking onto yours with a kind of fierce intensity. “And I won't stop, sweetheart. Not until we find her.”

​​You felt a tiny flicker of hope catch in your chest. It was a fragile thing, barely more than a spark. But it was enough to keep you moving, enough to help you push back the darkness that seemed to cling to the edges of everything. There were still shadows, countless unknowns waiting for you in the dark. But now, you had someone walking with you who understood the weight of desperation and the need to fight, even when the odds seemed impossible.

˚ ༘ ๋࣭ ࣪ 🀣⋆｡˚

The early morning sky had just begun to soften to a pale, grayish-blue creeping over Lowtown like a faded bruise. The convenience store loomed ahead, its cracked neon sign buzzing faintly, casting an uneven glow over the peeling paint and grimy windows. As you climbed off Patch’s motorcycle, the knot in your stomach twisted tighter, a dull ache spreading through your chest. You hadn’t slept, and the weariness settled over you like a heavy fog, making every step feel like wading through quicksand.

Patch swung his leg off the bike and glanced at you, a frown tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I can go in alone,” he said, his tone more a suggestion than an order, though his eyes flicked warily toward the store.

“No, it’s fine.” The words came out harsher than you intended, and you pushed past him, crossing the street before he could respond. The truth was, you didn’t want to sit back and let him do all the talking. This was your fight, and you needed to feel like you were doing something—anything—to get closer to finding your sister.

The bell above the door jangled as you stepped inside, the familiar scent of stale coffee and cheap cleaning products hitting you all at once. The store looked the same as it had the night your sister was taken—dimly lit, cluttered shelves, a few bored customers milling about, and behind the counter, the same old man with his scowling expression and deep-set eyes. 

He glanced up as you approached, his gaze flicking briefly to Patch before settling on you. Recognition flashed in his eyes, and he immediately stiffened, his scowl deepening.

“Back again?” he grunted, his tone dripping with irritation. “Didn’t think I’d be seeing you so soon. Look, if this is about that night, I already talked to the cops—”

“This isn’t about the cops,” you interrupted, your voice cold. “This is about my sister.”

The store owner’s mouth tightened into a thin line, his fingers drumming against the counter. “I already told the police everything I know,” he said with a shrug. “Not that they cared much. It’s Lowtown. Crime happens.”

“Yeah, well,” Patch cut in, his voice a low growl, “you’re going to have to do better than that.” He leaned in, letting just a hint of menace creep into his posture. “You’re going to tell us exactly what you saw that night, old man.”

The owner bristled, his eyes darting nervously to the gleaming claws sheathed inside Patch’s fists as if sensing their presence even though they hadn’t made an appearance. “Look, I don’t want any trouble,” he muttered, his gaze shifting away. “I’m just trying to run a business here. I didn’t see anything more than I already told the cops.”

A wave of frustration surged through you, hot and sharp. You didn’t have time for this—didn’t have time for vague answers and excuses. Before you could think, you stepped forward and grabbed the front of the old man’s shirt, yanking him toward you across the counter. “Stop lying!” you snapped, your voice trembling with a raw edge. “This isn’t just some robbery we’re talking about—my sister was taken! If you know anything, you better tell us now.”

The owner’s eyes widened, shock flickering across his face as he took in the desperation in your expression. “Hey, hey—calm down,” he stammered, his hands coming up defensively. “I don’t know anything, I swear!” His gaze darted nervously to Patch, who stood back with a raised brow, clearly surprised but not intervening. “The guy that night—he’s just some lowlife who’s robbed me a few times. That’s it! The police don’t even bother arresting him anymore—they say he’s small-time. He usually hangs out at this old abandoned building a few blocks from here.”

You tightened your grip on his collar, leaning in closer. “Where?” you demanded, your voice a low, dangerous whisper.

The owner swallowed hard, his face pale under the flickering fluorescent lights. “It’s an old warehouse on Canal Street,” he said quickly. “Just a few blocks west. The place has been falling apart for years—nobody else goes near it. That’s all I know, I swear.”

You released him, letting out a shaky breath as you stepped back. The owner stumbled slightly, his hand flying up to straighten his collar, his eyes still wide and wary. “You better not be lying,” you said, your tone cold. “Because if you are—”

“He’s not,” Patch interrupted, his voice calm but edged with finality. He gave the old man a hard look before turning to you. “Let’s go.”

You nodded, your pulse still racing from the adrenaline, the anger. As you turned to leave, the store owner’s voice trembled after you, “Good luck, kid,” he said, almost reluctantly. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you. That guy… he’s trouble.”

Outside, you took a deep breath, trying to shake off the intensity of the moment. You hadn’t even realized how tightly wound you were until now. Patch glanced at you, his expression unreadable as he pulled a cigar from his pocket and lit it. He took a long drag, the smoke curling around him as he studied you.

“Didn’t know you had that in you, sweetheart,” he said, his tone carrying a hint of approval. “You might just make it out of this alive after all.”

You shot him a look, not quite sure whether to take that as a compliment or an insult. “I’m not doing this for your approval,” you said, still feeling the heat of anger simmering in your veins. “I’m doing it for her.”

Patch blew out a cloud of smoke, a half-smirk curling on his lips. “I know,” he said simply, then nodded toward the street. “Come on. We’ve got a warehouse to check out.”

˚ ༘ ๋࣭ ࣪ 🀣⋆｡˚

The roar of the motorcycle faded as Patch brought it to a stop near the crumbling entrance of the old warehouse on Canal Street. The place looked like it hadn’t seen upkeep in decades—rusted metal siding, cracked windows covered in grime, and a faded sign that had long since lost any meaning. Despite the early morning light breaking over the horizon, the shadows clung to the corners, refusing to let go.

Patch scanned the building, his keen gaze narrowing, his head tilting slightly as if tuning into a frequency only he could hear. He took a slow breath, nostrils flaring, and you knew he was using that heightened sense of his to pick up anything unusual—sounds, scents, even the faintest movement.

After a moment, he exhaled, frustration curling his lips into a scowl. “It’s quiet,” he said, his tone flat. “Too quiet. I don’t hear a damn thing in there. If anyone’s here, they’re either dead or—.”

“Or maybe they’re hiding,” you argued, your voice trembling slightly despite your effort to sound resolute. “Or maybe Emily’s in there—” You cut yourself off, refusing to say the rest. You didn’t want to give voice to your fears, the idea that if she was here, she could already be—no. You weren’t going to think like that.

Patch gave you a hard look, the concern in his gaze surfacing just enough for you to catch it. “You need to stay out here,” he said, his voice low and firm. “If something goes down, you’ll be in the way.”

But you were already moving, your feet carrying you toward the warehouse entrance before you could give yourself time to hesitate. “I’m not staying out here,” you snapped. “I didn’t come this far to wait around while you do all the work.”

Patch reached for your arm, his fingers closing around your wrist in a firm grip. “You think you’re ready for whatever’s in there?” His voice was almost a growl, frustration lacing every word. “You’re running on fumes, kid. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

You yanked your arm free, anger sparking hot in your chest. “I don’t care what you hear or don’t hear Patch,” you shot back, your voice rising. “I’m going in there. Whether you like it or not.” You turned and pushed through the door, the rusted metal creaking as it swung open.

The air inside was musty, thick with dust and the lingering scent of stale cigarette smoke. Rows of abandoned crates and broken-down machinery loomed in the gloom. You took a cautious step forward, your senses on high alert. The silence pressed in around you, heavy and suffocating, but it did little to quell the desperate hope burning in your chest. Emily could be here, you told yourself. She has to be.

As you ventured deeper into the warehouse, you heard a faint shuffle, the quiet scrape of a shoe against the concrete floor. You froze, squinting through the dim light until your eyes locked on a figure crouched behind a stack of crates. It was a man, the same one you remembered from the convenience store—greasy hair, ratty clothes, and a face you’d never forget. 

Rage flared white-hot inside you, burning away the exhaustion and fear. Before you knew it, you were moving—your feet pounding the ground, the world narrowing to just you and him. “Where is she?” you shouted, your voice echoing off the warehouse walls as you closed the distance. “Where’s my sister?!”

The man scrambled to his feet, his eyes wide with recognition and panic as you lunged at him. He tried to swing a fist at you, but you ducked and slammed your shoulder into his chest, knocking him backward. You grabbed him by the collar, slamming him against a nearby metal beam. The impact sent a hollow clang reverberating through the building.

“Where is she?!” you screamed again, your grip tightening as you pulled back a fist and drove it into his jaw. The pain in your knuckles barely registered over the adrenaline surging through your veins. “Tell me where you took her!”

The man grunted, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth as he tried to shove you off. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about!” he spat, his voice trembling. “I didn’t—”

“Don’t lie to me!” You struck him again, your fist connecting with his ribs this time. He let out a choked groan, his knees buckling as he struggled to stay upright. “I saw you! You took her from the store! What did you do with her?!”

You were about to hit him again when a strong hand grabbed your wrist, pulling you back. “Enough,” Patch’s voice rumbled behind you, deep and commanding. He yanked you away from the man, spinning you around to face him. “You’re not going to get anything out of him like this,” he said, his tone calmer but edged with warning. “Let me handle it.”

You shook your head, the rage still burning hot in your chest. “No!” You struggled against Patch’s grip. “I was handling it just fine. He knows something—I know he does!”

The man coughed, wheezing as he tried to catch his breath. “Alright, alright!” he croaked, his eyes darting between you and Patch, desperation etched into every line of his face. “I took her, okay? But I swear I don’t know where she is now!”

Patch let go of you and took a step toward the man, his expression darkening. “Start talking,” he growled, the claws sliding out of his knuckles with a menacing SNIKT.

The guy’s face went pale as he eyed the claws, swallowing hard. “Okay, okay!” he stammered, raising his hands in surrender. “I sold her! That’s what we do—grab girls and sell them off to whoever’s buying! She was taken to some place up north—private buyer, big money!” His breath hitched as he glanced nervously at you, then back at Patch. “That’s all I know, I swear! They don’t tell us where they take the girls after the sale, just that it’s out of town, upstate!”

Your heart sank, the anger in your chest twisting into something darker, colder. “You sold her,” you whispered, the words tasting like bile. “You sold my sister.”

The man opened his mouth to speak, but Patch stepped forward, the glint of his claws catching the dim light. “You’re going to give me the name of the buyer,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “Or you won’t be leaving this place in one piece.”

The man’s eyes darted frantically around the room as if searching for an escape that didn’t exist. “I—I don’t know his real name!” he cried. “They just called him ‘The Collector.’ That’s it! I swear! He deals in... special requests. High-profile stuff. If you want more than that, you’re gonna have to talk to someone higher up the chain.”

Patch held the man’s gaze for a moment longer, then retracted the claws with a snikt and turned to you. “Come on,” he said, jerking his head toward the door. “We’ve got what we need.”

You hesitated, a storm of anger and helplessness roiling inside you. A part of you wanted to drag every last bit of information out of the man, to beat the truth out of him until he confessed something useful—anything that would bring you closer to finding Emily. “We can’t just let him go,” you said, your voice trembling with barely restrained fury. “He’s a criminal. He sold my sister.”

You took a step closer to the guy, your hands curling into fists at your sides. The man flinched, shrinking back against the metal beam, his eyes darting toward the door as if planning an escape. But you were ready to lunge if he even tried.

Patch stepped in front of you, blocking your path to the man. “What do you want me to do, kid?” he said, his tone flat and calm, but with an edge that hinted at something darker. “Kill him? Beat him to a pulp?” He glanced over his shoulder at the man, who was trembling now, his eyes wide and pleading. “Or maybe you think turning him in will make the cops give a damn?”

The truth in his words hit you like a slap. You knew how things worked in Lowtown. The police wouldn’t waste their time on some street-level thug, even if he had been part of something bigger. People like him slip through the cracks all the time. That was just the way it was. But the thought of letting him walk away, after everything he’d done, twisted your insides into a knot.

You swallowed hard, taking a step back. “I just don’t want him to get away with it,” you whispered, the fire in your voice fading to something more fragile. “He deserves to pay.”

Patch held your gaze for a moment, then turned back to the man. “Yeah, he does,” he agreed, his voice cold as ice. Before the guy could even react, Patch’s fist lashed out, striking him squarely across the jaw. There was a sharp crack, and the man slumped to the ground, unconscious, his body hitting the floor with a dull thud.

Patch flexed his fingers, the claws sliding out then back into place with a faint snikt as he turned to you. “There,” he said. “He’s not going anywhere now.” He nudged the man’s limp form with the toe of his boot, then glanced up at you, his expression unreadable. “But we’re not sticking around, either.”

You took a shaky breath, staring down at the unconscious man. It wasn’t enough—it would never be enough—but it would have to do for now. “What now?” you asked, the adrenaline ebbing and leaving you feeling drained, almost hollow.

Patch rubbed a hand across his jaw, then lit up a cigar, taking a long drag before speaking. “Now,” he said, exhaling a plume of smoke, “we regroup. We’ve got a name—The Collector—and we know he’s the kind of scumbag who deals in ‘special requests.’ That’s more than we had before.” He glanced over at you, his gaze lingering on the bruise forming on your knuckles, the scrapes on your face. “But you’re running on empty. You need to rest and clean yourself up. We’ll go back to my place.”

You opened your mouth to argue, to tell him that you didn’t need rest, that there wasn’t time. But the exhaustion hit you all at once, like a weight settling on your shoulders. Your hands were still trembling from the adrenaline, your head spinning slightly from the lack of sleep. You hated to admit it, but he was right. You weren’t going to be any help if you collapsed before you even found another lead.

“Fine,” you muttered, the word tasting like defeat. “But just for a little while. Then we’re going after this Collector.”

Patch gave a small nod, his mouth curling into something that was almost a smirk. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m not planning on sitting around,” he said as he started toward the exit, the early morning light spilling into the warehouse. “I’ll reach out to some contacts, and see what I can dig up while you get cleaned up. We’re just getting started.”

As you followed him out, you couldn’t help but glance back at the man sprawled on the floor, his breathing shallow and uneven. You still felt a simmering rage in your chest, but at least now you were moving forward. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

The motorcycle ride back to Patch’s place felt longer than before, every bump and turn jarring your already frayed nerves. When you finally arrived, you climbed off the bike, wincing as your muscles protested. Patch led you back up to the sleek high-rise apartment. 

Inside, he gestured toward the bathroom down the hall. “There’s a first aid kit under the sink,” he said. “Get yourself cleaned up. I’ll be making some calls.” He pulled out his phone, already scrolling through contacts as he lit another cigar.

You nodded and headed to the bathroom, pausing when you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. You looked like hell—hair tangled, dirt smudged across your face, dried blood on your knuckles. You almost didn’t recognize the person staring back at you. You didn’t feel like the same person you’d been yesterday. 

As you scrubbed the grime from your skin, letting the hot water beat against your sore muscles, you could hear Patch’s voice rumbling down the hall. His tone was low and gravelly, clipped in a way that spoke of urgency and frustration. 

“Yeah, The Collector,” he was saying. “He’s back in the market. Upstate, from what I hear. Need you to dig up any recent sightings, transactions… anything that’ll give me a trail.” There was a brief pause, and you could imagine him pinching the bridge of his nose as he listened. “Yeah, I owe you one. Just get it done.”

The water scalded, but you welcomed the sting—it was better than feeling numb. You wrapped a towel around yourself and padded softly into the bedroom. You noticed Patch by his closet, rifling through a stack of clothes. He must have heard you, because he glanced over his shoulder, his gaze trailing over you sending a shiver down your spine.

“Anything?” you asked, your voice husky from fatigue, though there was a thread of hope laced in the question.

He pulled out a t-shirt and a pair of jeans, handing them to you. “Got a few leads,” he said, watching you with that sharp, assessing eye. “The Collector’s keeping a low profile, but he’s been spotted at a private estate upstate—real exclusive, where the rich and dirty go to do business no one else should see.”

You took the clothes from his grasp, your fingers brushing against his. His skin was warm and rough like he was someone who had been through hell and dragged himself back. “I don’t think I’ve said this yet,” you murmured, averting your gaze as you pulled the shirt over your head. “But… thank you.”

Patch arched an eyebrow, a slow smirk curving his lips as he leaned casually against the wall, arms crossing over his chest. “Don’t get all soft on me now, sweetheart,” he drawled, his tone edged with amusement. “You’re making me blush.”

You shot him a glare, though it lacked any real bite. “I’m serious, Patch. You didn’t have to help me. Most people would’ve just told me to get lost.”

His gaze softened, just a fraction, and for a heartbeat, you thought you saw something flicker in his eye. “You’re not most people,” he said quietly, then his mouth twitched into a half-smirk again. “Besides, I’ve got a soft spot for troublemakers.”

“Must be why you’re helping me,” you shot back, tossing the jeans and towel on the nightstand. “You just can’t resist a little chaos.” You meant for it to sound teasing, but there was an unspoken tension humming between the two of you, thickening the air. It lingered there, a spark that could easily ignite, but Patch was already turning away, the moment slipping back into the shadows.

“Get some rest,” he said, his tone gruff again as he nodded toward his bed in the center of the room. “I’ve still got a few calls to make. I’ll wake you when I’ve got something solid.” He glanced back at you, his gaze briefly dipping to where the hem of the shirt you wore brushed against your thighs. 

You settled onto his bed reluctantly, exhaustion tugging at your limbs. As much as you wanted to stay awake, to keep pushing forward, the weight of the day was catching up with you. The pillows were firm and smelled faintly of leather and cigar smoke, and despite the situation, it was surprisingly comforting. You let your eyes drift shut, just for a moment.

˚ ༘ ๋࣭ ࣪ 🀣⋆｡˚

The nightmare hit you like a punch to the gut. One moment, you were sinking into sleep, and the next, you were back in that convenience store—hearing Emily’s screams, seeing her being dragged away. The scene replayed in sharp, agonizing detail, but this time, you weren’t paralyzed. You fought, struggled, reached for her, but every time you got close, she slipped away, her face twisted in terror as the darkness swallowed her whole.

You woke with a gasp, your heart pounding violently against your ribcage, your skin slick with sweat. The room was dark, save for the faint glow of the city lights filtering in through the window. You struggled to catch your breath, your fingers digging into the sheets beneath you as you tried to shake off the remnants of the dream.

“Bad one?” Patch’s voice was low, coming from the other side of the room. You hadn’t noticed him there, sitting in an armchair, one leg propped up on the coffee table. His gaze was steady, and even in the dim light, you could see the concern etched in the hard lines of his face.

You nodded, swallowing against the tightness in your throat. “Just… couldn’t stop seeing her,” you whispered, hating the vulnerability that crept into your voice. “I keep thinking, what if we’re too late? What if she’s already—”

“Don’t go there,” Patch interrupted, his tone firm. He got up from the chair and crossed the room in a few strides, crouching down beside you. “Fear’s a poison, kid. It’ll eat you alive if you let it.” His hand rested on your shoulder, a steadying weight, and when you looked into his eye, you saw something raw, something familiar—a shared understanding of pain.

“Is that how you deal with it?” you asked, your voice barely more than a whisper. “Just… shut it down? Pretend you’re not scared?”

Patch’s jaw tightened slightly, and he looked away for a moment as if considering how much to reveal. “I’m not afraid of dying,” he said quietly. “Been through that more times than I can count.” He hesitated, then continued, his voice rough. “But losing people… watching them slip away and not being able to do a damn thing about it—that’s a different kind of fear.”

His words settled over you, heavy and cold. “How do you deal with it?” you asked, unable to keep the desperation from leaking into your tone.

Patch’s gaze flicked back to you, his hand still resting on your shoulder. “You don’t,” he said simply. “Not completely. But you keep moving, keep fighting. Because giving up isn’t an option. Not if you’ve got something worth fighting for.” His grip tightened just slightly, the roughness of his skin grounding you in the present. 

The air between you seemed to crackle, the unspoken understanding deepening the tension that had been building since you’d met. His touch lingered, warmer than you’d expected, the lines on his face softer, as if he’d let you see a glimpse of the man behind the mask.

You found yourself leaning just a little closer, your breath mingling with his. “I’m not used to someone sticking around,” you admitted, your voice hushed.

Patch’s mouth twitched, that smirk returning, but his eye remained steady, serious. “Well, don’t get used to it,” he said, his voice dropping lower. “I’m just here to see you don’t get yourself killed before we find your sister.”

“Is that all?” you murmured, the corner of your mouth curling up as you felt the familiar spark of challenge in your chest.

His gaze held yours for a long moment, something unspoken passing between you that felt like the edge of a blade, sharp and dangerous. “For now,” he replied, standing up and stepping back, the distance between you stretching out once more. “Get some more sleep. You’re going to need it.”

You nodded, lying back down, but this time, it was different. The darkness wasn’t as suffocating, the fear not as overwhelming. You weren’t sure if it was because of Patch’s words or the warmth of his touch that still lingered on your shoulder. Nonetheless, you drifted off again. 

˚ ༘ ๋࣭ ࣪ 🀣⋆｡˚

“Wake up, kid.” Patch’s voice rumbled above you, and his hand shook your shoulder with just enough force to rattle you out of sleep.

You groaned, the heaviness of exhaustion clinging to your limbs as you blinked against the dim light of the apartment. “Five more minutes…” you muttered, your voice thick with sleep.

“Sorry, sweetheart. We don’t have five more minutes,” he said dryly, stepping back and crossing his arms as he waited for you to sit up. “The Collector’s making a move. Got word he’s doing a deal in Hightown tonight. We’re running out of time.”

The mention of The Collector jolted you awake, your pulse quickening. You rubbed a hand over your face, forcing yourself to focus. “Tonight?” you echoed, pushing yourself up off the bed. “How’d you find that out?”

Patch’s smirk was a little too smug for your liking. “I’ve got my ways,” he replied, the hint of a chuckle in his voice. “Turns out, a lot of people are willing to talk when you give them the right incentive.” He leaned back against the wall, his gaze trailing over you as if assessing whether you were ready for what was coming next. “Or when you’ve got claws that can slice through steel.”

You rolled your eyes, reaching for the jeans on the nightstand. “Guess you didn’t need my help for that, then.”

His smirk deepened, the corner of his mouth curling up. “I wouldn’t say that. I’m just not big on watching you sleep while I do all the work.”

You shot him a glare as you pulled on your jacket. “Don’t act like I’ve been sitting around doing nothing. I’m the one who got us that lead on Canal Street, remember?”

He gave a casual shrug, but his expression softened—just a touch. “Fair point,” he conceded. “But if you’re coming with me tonight, you’d better be ready for things to get ugly.” He tilted his head, eyeing you up and down like he was measuring whether you could handle whatever lay ahead. “The Collector’s not your average street thug. He’s a heavy hitter with connections. If he’s making a deal, it’s gonna be big and dangerous.”

“I’m not afraid of a little danger.” There was a challenge in your voice, a fire that hadn’t been there before. You weren’t sure if it was adrenaline or sheer desperation, but it felt like the only thing keeping you upright.

Patch’s gaze held yours, a glint of approval flashing in his eye. “You’ve really got guts, I’ll give you that,” he said. “Just try not to let them spill out tonight.” He turned and headed toward the door, his voice drifting back to you. “The deal’s happening in one of the private clubs in Hightown. Real swanky place where the rich get their hands dirty without staining their clothes.”

You followed him, your pulse quickening with each step. “And what’s our plan? We’re just gonna walk in and ask politely where my sister is?” you asked, trying to match his casual tone, though there was a sharp edge beneath it.

Patch’s chuckle was low and rough, almost a growl. “Not exactly. We’ll blend in as much as we can,” he said, glancing over at you with a faint smirk. “I can pass for someone with money to burn. You, on the other hand, might need a bit of work.” He raised an eyebrow, his gaze flicking over your current attire.

You scoffed, narrowing your eyes at him. “What, you’re saying I don’t look the part?” you shot back, a wry smile tugging at your lips. “I think I can fake a little high-class attitude.”

Patch tilted his head, his smirk deepening. “You’ve got plenty of attitude, that’s for sure,” he remarked, his tone dripping with teasing. “But attitude’s not gonna get you past the doorman. You need to look like you belong there. Right now, you look more like you belong in a street fight than in a place with crystal chandeliers.”

You crossed your arms, your brow lifting in defiance. “Then I guess you’d better help me, Patch,” you said, your voice laced with sarcasm. “You seem to know a lot about dressing up.”

He shook his head, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. “Fine, kid. I’ll see what I can dig up.” He gestured for you to follow him back down the hallway. “But if anyone asks, you’re my date for the night. Try not to embarrass me.”

Your laughter was sharp, filled with tension. “Oh, don’t worry,” you replied as you walked behind him. “I’d hate to ruin your reputation.”

Half an hour later, you stood in front of the bathroom mirror in Patch’s apartment, barely recognizing the person staring back at you. The dress he’d found was sleek and black which hugged your figure in a way that made you feel both exposed and powerful. Your hair was pulled back in a loose twist, a few tendrils framing your face to help hide the bruises. You hadn’t worn anything this fancy in… well, maybe ever. You couldn’t decide if you liked it or if it made you want to crawl out of your own skin.

“Not bad,” Patch said, leaning casually in the doorway, his arms crossed as he looked you over. “You clean up pretty well, kid.”

You turned to face him, a slow smirk curling on your lips. “You almost sound impressed,” you said, lifting an eyebrow. “Didn’t think I could pull off the high-class look?”

He shrugged, but the gleam in his eye betrayed his amusement. “Just wasn’t sure you knew how to wear anything that didn’t involve bloodstains.”

You took a step closer, your gaze locked on his. “Guess I like to keep you on your toes,” you replied, your voice low.

He didn’t move away, his expression unreadable as he stared back at you. For a moment, the air thickened between you, and you found yourself acutely aware of the heat radiating from his body, the way his jaw tightened just slightly as if resisting the urge to say something. But then, just as quickly, he turned and gestured toward the door.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he said, his voice back to its usual gruffness. “We’ve got a date with The Collector.”

You followed him out of the apartment, your nerves buzzing beneath your skin. The thought of walking into a club filled with dangerous people didn’t exactly thrill you, but if it got you one step closer to Emily, then it was a risk you had to take.

˚ ༘ ๋࣭ ࣪ 🀣⋆｡˚

The club in Hightown was an entirely different world. It oozed luxury—plush velvet drapes, glittering chandeliers, and people dressed in expensive clothes that screamed wealth and power. The low thrum of jazz music hung in the air, mingling with the scent of perfume and cigar smoke. As you and Patch approached the entrance, he wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you closer to him.

“Try to look like you’re enjoying yourself,” he murmured near your ear. “We’re supposed to blend in, remember?”

You shot him a sideways glance. “Is this where I swoon and cling to your arm?” you whispered back, a smirk tugging at your lips.

“If you want to sell it, yeah,” he replied, his tone half-teasing, half-serious. “And if anyone asks, I’m taking you on a private tour of the club. Just follow my lead.”

You took a deep breath, letting the warmth of his touch steady you as you stepped inside. Your gaze swept over the room, searching for anything or anyone that looked out of place. But everyone here seemed to belong—except you.

Patch’s grip on your waist tightened slightly as you entered, his body tensing ever so subtly. “The deal’s happening in one of the private rooms upstairs,” he murmured, his voice low enough for only you to hear. “We need to get up there without drawing attention.”

Your heart hammered in your chest as you took in the sight of the staircase leading to the upper levels. The plush carpet, the gold-trimmed railings, the way the lights seemed dimmer up there—it all felt like a line you weren’t sure you could cross. A rush of panic tightened your chest. This was a different kind of danger than what you’d faced so far. Up until now, you’d been chasing shadows, following vague leads, but here… here you’d be walking straight into the heart of it.

“How are we going to get up there?” you asked, your voice coming out quieter than you intended. Your eyes flicked to the hulking security guard posted at the base of the stairs, his arms folded over a chest that looked like it could stop a freight train. “I don’t think saying you’re giving a private tour is going to cut it.”

Patch’s mouth quirked into a half-smile, his gaze sliding over to the guard and then back to you. “Good thing I just came up with a better plan than that,” he murmured, his voice low and rough. He pulled you snugly against his side. “Just follow my lead, sweetheart,” he added, his breath warm against your ear. “And try not to blush.”

You barely had time to react before he steered you toward the staircase, his grip on you firm but gentle. You glanced up at him, narrowing your eyes. “So what’s the plan?” you whispered through gritted teeth, trying not to stiffen at the way his hand rested against your hip. “Charm our way past him?”

“Something like that,” Patch replied, his voice laced with amusement. “Just play along, act like you can’t get enough of me.”

“I’ll try to contain myself,” you shot back, matching his smirk.

As you approached the guard, you plastered a flirtatious smile on your face, leaning a little closer to Patch as if you were hanging on his every word. The guard’s gaze flicked to you, then to Patch, his expression shifting to one of suspicion.

“Upstairs is off-limits,” the guard said, his voice a low rumble. “Private event.”

Patch didn’t miss a beat, flashing a grin that was somehow both casual and threatening. “Come on, big guy,” he said, his tone smooth. “I’m just showing my girl here a good time. She’s never been to a place like this before.” He tightened his hold on your waist, his fingers brushing the exposed skin just above your hip. “Figured I’d give her a taste of the finer things.”

You caught the guard’s gaze, widening your eyes just a bit, adding a hint of breathlessness to your tone. “He’s right,” you said, forcing a giggle that felt foreign coming from your lips. “I’ve heard about the view from upstairs… I’d hate to miss out.” You leaned into Patch as though seeking his warmth, hoping the performance was convincing enough.

The guard’s eyes narrowed, flicking over you with a mix of skepticism and something darker. He seemed to hesitate, his gaze drifting to Patch as if weighing the consequences of letting you through.

“Look,” Patch said, his voice dropping an octave, adding a dangerous edge. “I’d hate to cause a scene, but if you’re going to make this difficult, I can always take my business elsewhere.” His hand shifted to your lower back, his thumb brushing in a way that sent an unexpected shiver down your spine.

The guard grunted, his jaw tightening. “Fine,” he said reluctantly, stepping aside. “But if anyone asks, you didn’t come up this way. Got it?”

“Crystal clear,” Patch replied, giving the guard a curt nod. As soon as you started up the stairs, his grip on you relaxed slightly, though his arm remained draped around you.

When you reached the first landing, you pulled away, shooting him a glare. “You enjoyed that way too much,” you whispered, though there was a hint of a smile tugging at your lips.

Patch’s mouth curled into a smirk. “Maybe I just like seeing you squirm,” he teased, his gaze flicking down to your flushed cheeks. “You played the part well, though. Almost had me convinced.”

You rolled your eyes, ignoring the way your skin still buzzed where his hand had been. “I’m sure it’s not the first time you’ve had to sweet-talk your way into someplace you’re not supposed to be.”

His smirk widened. “You’d be surprised.”

Before you could come up with a retort, the distant sound of raised voices drifted down the hallway to your left. You stiffened, instinctively reaching for Patch’s arm. He noticed the change in your posture, his expression hardening in an instant.

“That’s coming from one of the private rooms,” he murmured, his gaze darting down the corridor. “Could be our guy.” Without waiting for your response, he took your hand and guided you forward, moving quietly toward the source of the commotion.

The closer you got, the more you could make out—a gruff voice barking orders, someone else protesting in a panicked tone. As you reached the door, which was slightly ajar, you caught a glimpse of a man in an expensive suit, gesturing animatedly while another figure, partially obscured by shadows, sat calmly at a table, watching with an air of detached amusement.

Patch glanced at you, his eye gleaming with intensity. “Stay behind me,” he whispered. “And if things get ugly, don’t try to play the hero.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but before you could, Patch had already nudged the door open with his shoulder, striding into the room as if he owned the place. You followed a step behind, your pulse racing as the room fell silent and all eyes turned toward you.

The man at the table—a thin, elegant figure with cold eyes—raised an eyebrow, a slow, serpentine smile spreading across his face. “Well, well,” he drawled, his voice as smooth as silk. “What do we have here? I wasn’t expecting company.”

Patch’s smirk was all teeth, dangerous and casual. “Just thought I’d drop by,” he said, his tone deceptively light. “Heard you were doing a little business tonight. Figured I’d see if you had something I might be interested in.”

The Collector’s gaze flicked from Patch to you, lingering just a bit too long for your comfort. “And who’s this lovely creature?” he asked, the smile never quite reaching his eyes. “I wasn’t aware you brought dates to negotiations.”

Patch’s grip on your waist tightened slightly. “She’s not for sale if that’s what you’re asking,” he said, his voice low and edged with a warning. “But you might have something—or someone—I’m looking for.”

The Collector’s smile faltered, and for a moment, his gaze turned calculating. “I suppose it depends on what you’re looking for,” he said slowly. “And how much you’re willing to pay.”

The air in the room seemed to thicken, the tension vibrating like a live wire. You could feel the Collector’s eyes boring into you, as though he was trying to peel away your façade and see what you were really after.

You swallowed hard, keeping your expression composed as you glanced up at Patch, hoping he had a plan. There was a moment of hesitation, a flicker of uncertainty in his gaze that made your stomach twist.

“I heard you have girls for sale,” Patch said, his voice calm but edged with danger. He made sure to keep a measured distance between himself and the Collector, his tone deceptively casual. “And I’m looking to buy one. Willing to pay quite a lot.”

The Collector's lips curved into a slow, mocking smile as he shook his head. “I don’t know where you heard that,” he replied, his voice a smooth purr. Rising from his chair, he placed his ringed fingers on the table and leaned forward. “But that’s not the kind of business I’m in.”

His gaze found yours, his eyes cold and piercing. You felt a shiver wash over your entire body like an icy hand sliding down your spine. The way he looked at you was invasive, stripping away your bravado layer by layer. Patch’s hand on your waist tightened ever so slightly, a warning to stay calm.

“I guess I misheard, then,” Patch said, his tone even, but you could sense the tension beneath it, like a taut wire ready to snap.

The Collector’s smirk widened as he straightened, folding his hands behind his back. “Is that why you brought her here?” he asked, raising a brow as his eyes raked slowly over your figure. “To distract me? She’s a pretty little thing, I’ll give you that. But you must think me a fool, Patch.” He chuckled a low, contemptuous sound. “You think I don’t know who you are?”

Patch’s jaw clenched, but before he could respond, you felt a surge of anger rise in your chest, hot and raw. You weren’t about to stand there and let this bastard talk circles around you, not when Emily could be here—could be just behind one of those doors.

You stepped forward, pulling away from Patch’s grasp, and leveled your gaze at the Collector. “Stop pretending you don’t know,” you said, your voice cutting through the room like a blade. “Where’s my sister?” You took another step, your hands curling into fists at your sides. “I know you’re the one who took her. Just tell me where she is!”

The Collector's smile didn’t falter, but a glint of amusement danced in his eyes as if he found your outburst entertaining. “Your sister?” he repeated, his tone dripping with false innocence. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about. You see, I conduct legitimate business here. But I suppose if you were willing to make it worth my while, I could—”

The door to the private room swung open, cutting off his words. Two of the Collector’s men strode in, dragging a small group of girls with them. Your breath caught in your throat, the world narrowing to a pinpoint as you scanned their faces.

And then you saw her.

Emily.

She was hunched over, her hair tangled and her clothes dirty, but there was no mistaking the familiar curve of her cheek, the frightened wideness of her eyes. She looked up, her gaze finding yours, and her expression crumpled into a mix of relief and terror. “Sis?” she whispered, her voice cracking.

“Emily!” you cried, starting to move toward her, but one of the men stepped in front of you, blocking your path.

Patch's claws shot out with a sharp snikt, his voice turning into a low growl. “Move,” he said to the guard, his tone like gravel grinding together. “Or I start decorating this room with your blood.”

The guard hesitated, glancing back at the Collector, who simply raised a hand, signaling him to stand down. “Ah, there she is,” the Collector said with a sigh as if he were showing off a piece of fine art. “You know, Patch, I really didn’t want this to get messy. But since you’ve found what you’re looking for, I’m afraid we have a little problem.”

Patch stepped forward, positioning himself slightly in front of you. “The only problem here,” he said, his voice low and deadly, “is how many pieces I’m going to leave you in.”

The Collector’s smile faded, and he took a step back. “You think you can just walk out of here with her?” he said, gesturing to his men. “I don’t think so.” His tone sharpened. “Get them.”

Before you could blink, the room erupted into chaos. The guards lunged forward, and Patch was already in motion, his claws slashing through the air in a deadly arc. The first guard barely had time to react before Patch’s fist collided with his jaw, sending him sprawling to the ground. The second guard swung a baton, aiming for Patch’s head, but Patch ducked, his claws slicing across the man’s chest in one swift motion.

You ran to Emily, pulling her behind you as you backed toward the door. “We’re getting out of here,” you whispered fiercely, your hands trembling as you gripped her arm. “Just stay close.”

As you turned, one of the guards grabbed you by the shoulder, yanking you back. You lashed out instinctively, throwing an elbow into his ribs, but his grip didn’t loosen. Emily screamed, and in that split second, you saw Patch’s eyes flash with a wild, feral rage as he barreled toward the guard, knocking him away from you with a force that sent the man crashing into the wall.

“Go!” Patch shouted, shoving you and Emily toward the door as he whirled around to face the Collector. “Get her out of here!”

You hesitated for a heartbeat, your gaze flicking between Patch and the exit. There was something in his eyes—a promise, or maybe a threat—that made it clear he wasn’t leaving until this was finished.

“Come on, Em,” you said, pulling your sister toward the exit. “We have to go. Now.”

As you stumbled into the hallway, you glanced back one last time. Patch was still there, standing between you and the Collector, his claws gleaming in the dim light, a snarl on his lips. Whatever happened next, you knew he wouldn’t let anyone get to you or Emily without going through him first.

You ran, Emily’s hand clutched tightly in yours, your heart pounding with a mixture of relief and fear. You had her—you finally had her. But you also knew this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

˚ ༘ ๋࣭ ࣪ 🀣⋆｡˚

You hurtled down the stairs, pulling Emily along behind you, weaving through the throng of well-dressed patrons who barely glanced your way. Panic thrummed in your veins, making each step feel like a jolt of electricity. Your grip on Emily’s wrist was tight, almost desperate, as you fought to keep her on her feet. Her legs wobbled beneath her, and every few steps she stumbled, but you didn’t slow down. You couldn’t.

The club's entrance loomed ahead, and you shoved past the last of the guests, bursting through the doors and out onto the street. The night air hit you like a slap, a mix of humid heat and the lingering scent of car exhaust. You glanced wildly around, searching for anything that looked like an escape. 

There was no doubt in your mind that he had eyes all over Hightown. Staying in one place too long was as good as signing your own death warrant.

Emily stumbled, nearly dragging you down with her. “Em, we have to go,” you urged, your voice strained as you pulled her back to her feet. “I know you’re hurt, but we can’t stop now.”

She looked up at you through the tangled mess of her hair, her face pale and drawn, dark circles underlining her wide, fearful eyes. “I know,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “I’m trying.” You could see the exhaustion settling over her, her limbs heavy and sluggish from whatever she had endured.

You spotted a taxi at the curb and practically hauled Emily toward it, banging on the window. “Please, we need a ride!” you shouted, your voice pitched with desperation.

The driver’s eyes flicked over you and Emily—her dirty clothes, your frantic expression. He shook his head quickly, his gaze hardening. “I don’t want any trouble,” he said, his voice muffled behind the glass. “Go find someone else.”

“Please!” you begged, yanking open the door, only for the driver to slam it shut again. “Just drive us out of here! I can pay—”

“I said no!” the driver barked, throwing the car into gear and peeling away from the curb, leaving you standing there with Emily slumped against your side.

“Damn it,” you muttered under your breath, your eyes scanning the streets for another option. This was Hightown though, and here, you and Emily stuck out like a sore thumb—two bedraggled figures in a sea of polished suits and cocktail dresses. Even now, people were starting to notice you, their curious stares prickling the back of your neck. 

You wrapped an arm around Emily’s waist and started moving, half-dragging her along as you navigated through the winding streets. “Come on, Em,” you whispered, forcing strength into your voice. “Just a little further.”

Your pace was frantic, your steps uneven as you guided Emily down narrow alleys and across cobblestone squares. More than once, you heard voices behind you—shouts, the click of heels on the pavement, the low rumble of an engine as a black car turned a corner. Each time, you forced yourself to keep moving, ignoring the burn in your legs and the way Emily’s weight seemed to grow heavier with each step.

You turned another corner and spotted a familiar building in the distance, the sleek high-rise where Patch’s apartment was located. It wasn’t much, but it was somewhere safe, somewhere out of sight. “We’ll go to Patch’s,” you said, mostly to yourself. “Just… we just need to get there.”

Emily nodded weakly, her breaths coming in shallow gasps as she clung to you. “Okay… okay,” she mumbled, though you weren’t sure how much longer she could hold out.

When you finally stumbled into the underground parking garage of the high-rise, you were both out of breath, your dress sticking to your skin with sweat. You dragged Emily toward the elevator, pressing the button repeatedly as if that would make it arrive faster. The doors finally slid open, and you hurried inside, practically collapsing against the wall as you hit the button for the top floor.

The elevator ascended with a dull hum, the minutes stretching out painfully, each one feeling like a lifetime. When the doors opened to Patch’s apartment, you half-carried Emily down the hallway, her head lolling against your shoulder until you set her down on the couch. Her eyes were already closing as exhaustion overtook her. 

“Just rest for a minute,” you whispered, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. “I’ll get you some water, and then get you cleaned up.”

You turned toward the kitchen, rummaging through the drawers for anything you could use to clean up Emily—cloths, bandages, a bottle of antiseptic. By the time you returned to the couch, Emily had already passed out, her breaths coming slow and even, her small body curled into itself like she was trying to disappear. You dipped the cloth in warm water and gently wiped the dirt and sweat from her face, your heart aching at how fragile she looked.

The elevator doors slowly open, and you jumped to your feet, the cloth slipping from your hand. Patch strode in, his white suit spattered with blood—some of it fresh and still glistening in the overhead light. He moved with a noticeable limp, his jaw set in a grim line, but there was a wild energy about him, a rawness that hadn’t yet settled. It was like he’d just walked off a battlefield and wasn’t entirely convinced he’d left it behind.

“Patch?” you breathed, your pulse quickening as the elevator doors shut behind him. “Are you… okay?”

He glanced at you, then at Emily on the couch, and for a fleeting moment, his expression softened, a quiet tenderness flashing in his eyes. But it disappeared as quickly as it came, replaced by his usual gruffness. “I’ve had worse,” he replied, his voice rough around the edges. He rolled his shoulder, testing for injuries, and you watched in awe as the faint cuts and bruises on his skin began to fade, healing right before your eyes.

You stepped around the couch, taking a hesitant step closer to him, your gaze locked on the bloodstain spreading across his pant leg. “How…?” you began your voice barely above a whisper, your breath catching in your throat. “Apparently, there’s more to you than I thought.”

Patch met your gaze, a flicker of something raw and unguarded passing across his face. “I don’t go spilling all my secrets, sweetheart,” he said, his tone casual, though there was a faint vulnerability beneath it. “Healing factor. Fast one. Comes in handy.” His lips curled into a sardonic half-smile like he was letting you in on a joke only he understood.

You blinked, trying to process what he’d just said. “And here I was willing to risk my life for you,” you teased, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “All this time, you could just… heal?”

Patch took a step toward you, wincing slightly as his weight shifted onto his injured leg. “Healing’s not instant,” he muttered, his tone dropping lower. “And the son of a bitch got me pretty good.” He paused, his gaze flicking to Emily. “Enough about me. Is the kid okay?”

“She’ll be fine,” you replied, but your eyes were still on his leg. The blood was soaking through the fabric, a dark, spreading stain that told you he wasn’t healing as quickly as he usually did. “Sit down,” you said, your voice firmer than before. “Let me take a look at that.”

Patch started to protest, shaking his head. “I told you, I’ll be fine. It’s already healing—”

“Yeah, but it’s being slow about it,” you cut him off, your gaze hardening with a determination that left no room for argument. “You said it yourself—he got you good. Now, sit down and let me help.”

For a moment, he looked like he was going to argue, his jaw tightening, but then he relented with a resigned sigh, limping over to the armchair and lowering himself into it. “Fine, but don’t get any ideas about playing nurse, sweetheart,” he grumbled, but there was a hint of a smile in his eyes as he watched you kneel beside him.

“Just shut up and let me help you,” you shot back, grabbing the first aid kit you’d set aside for Emily and popping it open. “Take off your pants.”

Patch arched a brow, his smirk deepening. “Usually, I get dinner first.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the faint flush that crept up your neck. “Don’t flatter yourself,” you muttered, as Patch stood. He slid down his pants revealing a deep cut in his leg. The skin was jagged and raw, already knitting itself back together but slower than you’d expected.

You worked in silence for a moment, cleaning the gash and wrapping a bandage around his leg with steady hands. Patch watched you, his expression unreadable, but his gaze was heavy, almost curious. You could feel the intensity of it, and it made the air seem thicker, more intimate.

“Why is it taking so long?” you asked quietly, your fingers brushing against his skin as you secured the bandage.

He let out a breath, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it before. “Healing takes time,” he said, leaning back in the chair as he studied your face. “Some wounds are deeper than others.” There was a weight to his words that felt like more than just the injury itself.

You glanced up, meeting his gaze, and before you could stop yourself, you reached for the eye patch he always wore. “And this?” you asked, your fingers hesitating just an inch away from the black fabric. “Is it just for show?”

Patch’s expression tightened, and for a moment, you thought he might pull away. But then, with a sigh that seemed to carry years of weariness, he reached up and removed the eye patch himself. Underneath, his eye was perfectly normal—sharp, hazel, and very much intact.

You blinked in surprise, your breath catching. “Why…?”

“Disguise,” he said simply, his voice rougher than usual. “Keeps people guessing, like I told you. Besides…” He gave a wry smile. “Makes it easier to be someone else when you don’t look like yourself.”

“Someone else?” you echoed, your voice softer now. The way he looked at you, so unguarded, made your chest tighten.

“Undercover,” he explained, leaning a little closer. “Madripoor’s a cesspool of crime and corruption, and someone’s got to keep the worst of it from spreading. Not everyone needs to know who I really am.” There was a pause, then his voice dropped to a murmur, “Until now.”

The honesty in his eyes, that raw vulnerability he rarely showed, made the space between you feel impossibly small. You could see the weariness etched into the lines of his face, the scars that healing couldn’t erase. For the first time, you realized that his roughness wasn’t just armor—it was a way of surviving, of keeping the world at arm’s length.

Without thinking, you reached up and cupped his cheek, your thumb grazing the stubble along his jaw. “You don’t have to do this alone,” you said softly, your voice steady even as your pulse quickened. “You’ve done enough for me, for Emily. Let me help you for once.”

Patch’s gaze flickered, a mix of surprise and warmth. His hand came up to cover yours, his touch rough but careful. “I don’t let a lot of people in, kid,” he murmured, his voice like gravel. “But… maybe you’re an exception.”

The words hung in the air between you, thickening the tension until it felt almost suffocating. He leaned in, just a fraction, his breath brushing against your lips. “If I didn’t know any better,” he said, his voice low and rough, “I’d say you’re trying to get me to stick around.”

You smiled, your heart racing as you met his gaze. “Guess I like the idea of you keeping an eye on me.”

Patch chuckled softly, the sound vibrating between you. “You’re trouble, you know that?” he whispered, his lips just inches from yours.

“Guess that’s why you like me,” you replied, closing the distance just a little more.

Before the moment could tip over into something deeper, Patch’s expression shifted, and he pulled back slightly, his tone turning serious. “You can’t stay here,” he said, his voice low and steady. “They’ll come looking, and you need to be gone before that happens.”

“You want me to leave Madripoor?” you asked, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to keep it steady. “Where would we even go?”

Patch rose to his feet, his gaze steady on yours. “Somewhere they won’t think to look,” he replied, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips as though trying to lighten the weight of his words. “Somewhere you and your sister can actually get a fresh start. Away from all this.”

You followed him into the kitchen, the silence stretching between you, filled with things you didn’t know how to say. “I don’t have money or... anywhere to stay,” you murmured, your fingers curling into fists as you tried to keep the fear from creeping into your voice.

“I’ll take care of it,” Patch replied, his tone matter-of-fact, as if he’d already made up his mind. He stopped in front of you, taking a step closer, closing the distance between you until you could feel the warmth radiating from his body. His presence was overwhelming, filling up the space between you until there was nothing else. You could feel his breath on your skin, the intensity of his gaze boring into yours, like he was searching for something you hadn’t yet offered him.

You swallowed hard, the tension thickening like a slow, bittersweet ache in your chest. “And what about you?” you asked, your voice barely more than a whisper. “Are you… coming with us?”

His gaze softened, a mixture of regret and something unspoken passing across his face. “I can’t,” he murmured, his hand lifting to brush lightly against your cheek, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. His touch was careful and tender, as though he was committing the feel of you to memory. 

“There’s still work to be done here. I killed most of the Collector’s men, but he got away. Even if I did manage to track him down, someone else would just take his place. It’s a never-ending cycle.” He hesitated, his voice growing quieter. “And I can’t just walk away knowing he’s still out there.”

“But it’s safer if you come with us,” you insisted, leaning into his touch, your pulse racing beneath your skin. “It’s safer if we stick together.”

Patch shook his head slowly, a faint, rueful smile touching his lips. “It’s safer for you and your sister if I’m not around,” he said. “You don’t need me making things more dangerous than they already are.” His thumb continued to trace gentle circles against your cheek, as though he couldn’t quite bring himself to let go. “You can handle yourself, sweetheart. You’ve proven that.”

The words, meant to be reassuring, only made your chest tighten with something that felt like a loss. You reached up and wrapped your fingers around his wrist, keeping his hand against your skin for a moment longer. “What if I don’t want to handle it alone?” you whispered, the honesty slipping out before you could catch it.

He looked at you then, his hazel eyes searching yours with a depth that made your breath hitch. “You’re stronger than you think,” he said softly. “And you’ll be even stronger for her.” His gaze flicked briefly toward the couch where Emily lay sleeping, and the tenderness in his eyes was almost painful.

You leaned up and pressed a light kiss to his cheek, your lips brushing against the rough stubble. “Thank you, Patch,” you murmured, your voice thick with emotion. “For everything.”

He closed his eyes briefly, as though savoring the touch, and then pulled back, his expression hardening slightly as he took a step away. “Get some rest,” he said, his tone rougher now, as though putting a barrier back up between you. “You’ll need it for the flight.”

You ended up sharing his bed, the mattress firm beneath you and the covers smelling faintly of leather and cigar smoke. You lay beside Patch, the silence settling over you like a weight. It was strange, being so close to him, feeling the warmth of his body beside you but knowing that this was temporary—just a moment stolen from the chaos of everything else.

You turned slightly to face him, your hand resting on the space between you. “You’re sure you won’t come with us?” you asked quietly, the darkness making it easier to admit how much you wanted him to say yes.

His gaze shifted to meet yours, his expression unreadable. “You know I can’t,” he murmured, his voice strained as if it hurt him to say the words. “This life… it’s not for you. It’s not for her.” He reached out and brushed a strand of hair from your face, the touch lingering. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t be watching out for you. From a distance.”

You managed a small, bittersweet smile, your chest aching at the thought of leaving him behind. “You’d better,” you whispered, turning your face into the pillow to hide the sting of tears. “Or I’ll come back here and drag you out of Madripoor myself.”

His chuckle was soft, almost tender, as he reached over and squeezed your hand. “I’d like to see you try, sweetheart,” he said, but there was a quiet sadness in his tone that told you he wished things could be different.

˚ ༘ ๋࣭ ࣪ 🀣⋆｡˚

A few hours later, Patch drove the three of you to the airport in the dead of night. The roads were mostly empty, the city still and quiet, as though it was holding its breath. Emily dozed in the back seat, exhausted from everything she’d been through, while you stared out the window at the passing lights, your heart heavy.

When he pulled up to the curb outside the terminal, Patch cut the engine and turned to you, his face partially shadowed in the dim light. “I’ve already arranged for your tickets,” he said. “The flight will take you far enough away from here that the Collector won’t be able to reach you. You’ll be safe.”

You nodded, struggling to find the right words, knowing that nothing you said would be enough. “Thank you,” you managed, your voice breaking slightly. “For saving her. For… everything.”

Patch reached out and cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear that had slipped free. “You’re tougher than you look, kid,” he murmured. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

You leaned into his hand, the warmth of his touch grounding you. “And what about you?” you asked, your voice trembling. “Will you be okay?”

His mouth twitched into a small, sad smile. “I’ve been through worse,” he said, though his eyes betrayed a loneliness that ran deeper than words could express. “And I’ve survived. So will you.”

You nodded, and then before you could second-guess yourself, you leaned forward and kissed him—a soft, lingering kiss that tasted of goodbyes and promises left unspoken. He didn’t pull away, but when you finally did, there was a look in his eyes that told you he’d carry the memory of this moment with him, wherever he went.

“Go,” he whispered, his voice rough. “Before I change my mind and drag you back with me.”

You gave him one last, bittersweet smile, then turned and helped Emily out of the car. As you walked toward the terminal, you glanced back over your shoulder, half-expecting him to follow.

Yet, Patch stayed in the car, watching you go, a lone figure against the darkness of Madripoor. Even though you knew you were doing the right thing, it felt like leaving a piece of yourself behind.

˚ ༘ ๋࣭ ࣪ 🀣⋆｡˚

“You’ll be fine!” you called out, laughter bubbling up in your voice as you watched Emily wave to you from the passenger seat of her friend’s car.

“I’ll text you when I get there!” she yelled back, her voice bright and carefree in a way that still felt fragile to you. You smiled and nodded, giving her one last wave as the car pulled away, the taillights disappearing down the street.

As soon as she was out of sight, you let out a long sigh, the tension easing from your shoulders just a bit. Even after nearly two years of being away from Madripoor, that gnawing feeling of worry hadn’t left you. It was a constant presence, a shadow that followed you around no matter how much time had passed. You still slept with one eye open, double-checked every lock, and scanned the street whenever you stepped outside.

Letting Emily live a normal life again had taken everything in you. She deserved to go to college, to have friends, to be young and reckless without always looking over her shoulder. You’d even taken up martial arts classes just to convince yourself that you could protect her if the past ever tried to catch up. But every time she left your sight, that familiar knot of fear tightened in your chest.

“Surprised you let her go,” a familiar, gruff voice rumbled from behind you.

You spun around, already feeling the sting of tears prickling at your eyes as if your body knew before your mind did. 

There he was—standing just a few feet away, his broad figure unmistakable even after all this time. He was different from the last time you’d seen him. Gone was the bloodstained white suit and eye patch. Instead, he wore a plain white shirt and jeans with a leather jacket slung casually over his shoulders, his hazel eyes, both of them, piercing and clear.

“Patch?” you whispered, your breath catching in your throat as disbelief crashed over you. For a moment, you wondered if you were hallucinating, if your constant vigilance had finally taken its toll and made you see things that weren’t there.

He nodded, a half-smile tugging at the corners of his lips, that familiar hint of mischief in his gaze. “Told you that was just a disguise, sweetheart,” he said, his voice softer than you remembered. “Call me Logan.”

A strangled laugh escaped you, and before you knew it, you were moving, closing the distance between you in a few hurried steps. You threw your arms around him, the leather of his jacket cool against your cheek as you buried your face in his chest. He stiffened for a moment, as if surprised, then wrapped his arms around you, holding you tightly. It was like something inside you finally unclenched, a pressure you hadn’t even realized was there releasing all at once.

“You’re real,” you breathed against his chest, your voice trembling. “You’re actually here.”

“Last time I checked,” he murmured, his tone carrying that familiar edge of sarcasm. But there was a warmth in the way he spoke, a tenderness in the way his hand rested on the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair. “Figured it was about time I came to see you. Make sure you’re not getting into too much trouble.”

You pulled back just enough to look up at him, blinking away the tears that blurred your vision. “I thought… I didn’t think I’d see you again,” you admitted, your voice breaking slightly.

His smile softened, and he reached out to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear. “You know me, kid. I don’t stay away forever,” he said, his eyes meeting yours with a sincerity that made your heart twist. “Besides, I made a promise, didn’t I? To keep an eye on you.”

You let out a shaky breath, your hands still resting against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips. “Two years is a long time,” you whispered. “I didn’t know if… if you made it.”

“Had a few close calls,” he admitted, a shadow passing over his features before he pushed it away. “But I’m here now.” His gaze grew more intense, his hand still warm against your cheek. “And so are you. Stronger than when I left. I can see it.”

You managed a small, bittersweet smile, remembering all the nights you’d spent wondering where he was, if he was alive if he ever thought about you. “I tried to be,” you said. “For her. For myself.”

“And you did good,” he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. “Better than good.”

The words settled over you like a balm, soothing old wounds. You reached up and placed your hand over his, leaning into his touch. “Why now?” you asked quietly. “What made you come here?”

Logan’s gaze flickered, and he let out a breath that seemed to carry years of unspoken thoughts. “I finished what I started in Madripoor…and because I couldn’t stay away any longer,” he confessed, his thumb tracing slow, tender circles on your skin. “I thought… maybe I owed you more than just disappearing.”

Your heart skipped a beat at the honesty in his tone. “So… you’re staying?” you asked, hope threading through your voice despite yourself.

Logan hesitated, a faint smile touching his lips. “We’ll see,” he said. “For now, I’m here. And if you’ll have me… maybe I’ll stick around.”

You didn’t know what to say, so you just nodded, a soft laugh escaping you as more tears finally spilled over. “You’re an idiot, you know that?” you whispered, reaching up to swipe at your damp cheeks.

His grin widened the familiar glint in his eyes making him look younger, almost carefree. “Yeah, well… I guess that’s why you like me,” he teased.

You laughed and leaned your forehead against his, feeling the warmth of his breath against your skin. “Maybe,” you whispered. 

For the first time in a long while, that gnawing feeling of fear seemed to ebb, replaced by something softer. You stood there in his arms, the world feeling a little less dangerous and you let yourself believe that maybe the future didn’t seem so bleak anymore.

[serxinns]

Yandere Older class 1a x Deadpool reader

You were a goofy sarcastic playful hero who always made jokes while brutally punching villains in the face while doing wacky and wild stuff saying the most unhinged stuff with a smile on your face and your Fans and Most pro heroes love that about you

Iida was always with you not because you were dead gorgeous and your fighting skills were amazing but because he's worried about you! You pulling these dangerous stunts makes him have a heart attack whenever he peacefully wants to see the news he sees you teasing and taunting a very dangerous and very deadly villian riling them up to the point where they just slash at anything to get you to stop your yapping, next thing you know he's grabbing his hero suit and running over there right now he always scold you for being u safe while you just either laugh it off do those cringey "I'm sowwy🥺" look iida pretends to be cringe out about but deep down he thinks your pouty face and puppy eyes are cute,

Bonus: both you and Iida's fans agree that Iida was the Dad friend and make those complications video of him being one

Bakugo wants you to depend on him and look up to him he always wants you to be by his side whenever you work with him, but you being a little shit makes his job way harder, you always making fun little jokes and uncanny comedic lines while the two of you are literally in a life and death situation while you're just singing nursery rhymes, He always yells at you to be serious and all you did was say "uh oh cranky pants need a sippy cup?" He chased you around that day and seeing that cute little cheeky face of yours made him blush he always acts like he doesn't wanna work with you but in truth, he stalks your schedule and demands his agency to work close to yours but he won't admit that even the fans kinda see that he cares for you and loved you and himself dynamic

Momo is the worried mother if you ever get hurt by a nasty villain she's beating that villain to a pulp heck even making the dude see the clouds, she always is very protective of you like a mother hen making sure you eat, sleep brush your teeth she always tell you to while you whined like a child, if you didn't bring your lunch don't worry she brought a little bento box for you!, whenever your merch comes out or before she's always the 1st one to get it. She even has a room dedicated to it (just like Izuku but we'll get to him) literally she and Izuku would have a battle about who got the rarest merch and expensive merch

Ochako is like your number 1 biggest fan she always knows your schedule as well so she can either watch you from afar and if you needed any help she'll be there to kick their asses!, she's like Pucca (if you know the childhood show congrats) she always watching you dreamily eyes fluttering but strong and dangerous if anyone messes with you, she's is always in her dream world imagining carrying you like a little princess and she's the knight although she's also ok with you holding her like that as well both ways make her blush and giggles and kicking her feet while floating up, she makes fanfiction of you x reader or her under a fake username ofc so she can write down all her fantasies (some of your classmates would follow that page secretly) she keeps an oversized merch t-shirt that you wrote an autograph

While Izuku may be all Might's number one fan who said he can't be yours as well? Like this dude knows it all has 4-6 pages of you, your quirk, your weapons, your personality, your likes and dislikes, your family, your address-, you name it! He doesn't even need to write down your schedule since he remembers it so easily dude has a great memory there's no denying it, whenever his fans scream all over him wondering what's his favorite hero everyone is so surprised when he mutters out you heck he's shy whenever he talks to you your his idol his darling his sweetie standing in front of him happily making jokes and laughing along or badass shooting and slashing any bad guys, as mentioned in mom's headcanon this boy got a WHOLE ROOM dedicated to you heck one time you jokingly put a dick shape drawing when he asked to Have a autograph he bought a photo case for that and put it on display like he's PROUD

Sero and Denki were your go-to when wanting to cause trouble and Crack some jokes heck all even flirt with each other trying to see who gets the most flustered denki craves whatever attention you give him whether trying to annoy him or not he loves it when you eyes are on him he may act like a carefree person who jokes with you but he's a possessive dude he glares at your fangirls from afar when they're squealing all over you trying to get a autograph calling you hot that made his blood boil that he had to intervene by saying there's a villain waving goodbye at the girls while their squealing got louder seeing Denki but Denki glared at them Sero is the calmer one but is Obsessive he loves everything about you whenever your close to him on the outside he as cool as a cat but inside he's dying screaming on the inside just wanting to hold you close he always ask for any sort of physical interaction like high fives, hugs, he even remembered you patting him on the back praising him for wrapping up the villains luckily someone recorded it and now he saves that in his phone watching it repeatedly over and over again also he keeps those spiderman x Deadpool comics

Jirou and Kiri are like Sero but she acts more like a soft tsundere while Kiri acts like a love-sick puppy following you around and worshipping you head to toe. She acts cool and tough around you but if you compliment her she turns red and hits you to shut up just like Izuku she's too shy to speak to you and always lets you do the talking while she doesn't pay attention just hearing your voice makes her trapped in a dazed smiling dreamily she just couldn't help it You were so adorable even under that mask she wants to cup her hands on your cheeks and give you the biggest kisses leaving you a hot flushed mess kiri on the other hand worships you like a God, he always rants to his friend teru about you and even works together with bakugo at times talking to him about you the two of them will rant on about how cool you are (mostly Him and bakugo just listens) he will invite you to spar with him and if he ever accidentally hurts you he feels so bad and apologies to you even tho you didn't even show any anger or sadness but he thinks you do but all you did was laugh saying how strong he was making the number 4 hero blush and crumble right there he always used to complimenting you on your skills body and even your muscles but you complimenting him!? It's like a kid getting a gold star for their behavior! After sparing he always buys you his favorite drink which you teased him about while he looked annoyed with your teasing he actually likes it and when you promise to stop he mentally whines wanting you to do more!

[slowlyoats]

The Lost Boys: What is their role within the group?

Marko

- The crazy

- I think out of all the boys Marko is closest with his vampire nature

- He puts the least amount of effort into trying to blend in

- And why should he?

- He’s an old, powerful being, who has seen a lot of life. He’s more authentic then any human on the board walk

- He gives the group that feeling of being unhinged, of being one step away from complete anarchy

- To the public he is a warning of how dangerous the boys are

- Everyone has heard about what this boy can and will do to his victims

- But I think to the group, they see him as a reminder of their true nature

- Vampires at heart exist outside of society, they are the strangers that everyone fears. They are chaos and beauty.

- So, whenever the boys get a tad too *horrified gasp* domestic. Marko is right there to remind them of what they are

- Chaotic, bloodthirsty, unpredictable vampires

Paul

- Life

- Paul reminds the boys that though they may be dead, there is still so much life to live

- He’s the one that is up way past sunrise singing a song he just can’t get out of his head in the most acoustic part of the cave

- He’s the one talking to the travelers on the Board walk about their adventures abroad, and what they’ve seen and done (I have a feeling that though he may be older, he hasn’t traveled outside the United States much)

- Paul is the one challenging some of the boys more outdated/old fashioned opinions

- I believe he is definitely the youngest out of all the boys, so his views are more modern

- Whenever there is a new ride on the Boardwalk he HAS TO ride it. Or a new snack or arcade game! basically whatever is NEW he must see and experience!

- He’s teaching himself how to play the guitar, and he’s not that good at it but he doesn’t stop practicing despite David’s complaints

- Paul reminds the boys that there is more to their existence then drinking blood and hunting

- He is the life of the group

Dwayne

- the handyman

- I think he would be the one responsible for fixing the bikes. He wouldn’t be responsible for like the general maintenance on all four bikes, but when Marko takes the Boardwalk stairs a tad too quick, and snaps a part of his bike, Dwayne fixes it

- Over the years he has gained a lot of experience on how to fix the bikes and stuff around the cave

- This is mainly due to living with the destructive duo that is Marko and Paul

- He generally really does like to fix things, it gives him a sense of purpose within the group

- He’s usually the muscle of the group (and he doesn’t have any complaints with this because it pats his ego) but he does like being able to tangibly provide something to his brothers

- Usually he will fix up the bikes without being asked, or trick one out as a surprise for one of his brothers

- He’s friends with the owner of a local mechanic shop, and trades work for parts on occasion

- thankfully the owner doesn’t ask many questions when he has to bring a bike in for fixing, and it’s got a few splatters of blood here and there

David

- The procurer

- David is the one constantly on the look out for the groups next meal

- Even if it looks like he is relaxing, smoking a cigarette while leaning against a board walk railing, taking in the lively scenery. He’s not. He scouting.

- They need to feed every few days at the very least, and it’s not every night they can find a bite to eat

- They don’t feed from shop owners, and they do it sparingly from the locals to not draw to much suspicion

- When David spots someone that he thinks would be a tasty meal, he spends a while observing them. And then determines which of his boys would be the best to draw the human in

- Do they look preppy and girly? Paul would be able to pull them with his rocker look and charm

- Are they stand off-ish and a little wild? Gremlin energy would be the way to go, and with Marko’s big eyes, who could resist?

- A shy beauty? Being ignored by her obnoxious friends? Oh yes, Dwayne will be able to get them stuttering and bashful with one look

- It’s almost too easy at times, but David doesn’t mind, because once off season hits the Boardwalk, hunting gets a lot, lot harder

[4pfsukuna]

Hellooo, lowk imagine a jealous sukuna x reader fic where he bottles his true feelings for her. That leads to an argument which then leads to reader storming out and meeting w/ her friends to have them dress up as a guy and pretend their her new hook up or smth 😭😭

Debrief: Sukuna would rather die than talk about feelings but you do that thing (exist) that he likes and he cant help himself (crash out)

4868 words.

If someone asked Sukuna how he felt about you he’d say you were just best friends. He’d actually talk so much shit that it could be the fic itself.

But if you were to ask anyone else how they think he felt about you? The majority answer would be ‘down bad’ followed by ‘obsessed’ followed by ‘unhinged’.

Gojo mutters something about pussy whipped.

“And they were roommates” you finish off before placing the cherry red lollipop back in your mouth as you lift the opposite arm to touch the ceiling. Yes the ceiling someway somehow you had convinced the pink haired brute to carry you around on his shoulders something about wanting to know what it fealt like to be his height.

“You're such a nosy brat y’know?” He keeps walking around, switch in hand looking so tiny since his palms are so huge. He was playing the sims and just put one with pink hair and no tattoos in the pool and took the ladder out. You lean down with your pink dyed hair covering his view wobbling slightly but he's quick to steady you.

Before you can retaliate his brothers Choso and Yuji are walking into his apartment not phased at all by the scene except Yuki, chosos girlfriend who definitely is shocked.

You greet them all while Sukuna glares at them not wanting to hear anything not even see the knowing smirks on their face.

The second time they walk in on the two of you your head is in sukunas lap your body elongated on the couch as you scold him for being mean to some of his employees at the tattoo shop. Hes barely listening though your slender fingers tracing his tattoos especially the ones on his bare chest. 

These were the perks of best friend privileges, you could do absolutely anything you wanted to him and hed just let you. Hed glare at you with that look of annoyance and call you a brat but he did that when he was happy too so you brush it off as nothing more than his default. 

He would never admit it but he likes when you dote on hin like this, likes that youre bossy and commanding you never ask him to do anything you tell him. For someone half his size you surely do think you have alot of power of him(you do). He likes the way your body feels against him too because to you the Y in Your space was silent not that he minded your excuse being hes so huge and takes up so much space.

The curves on your body drove him wild especially when you placed himself in his lap, your plush ass sitting right on his dick and if he even looked down he’d have a perfect view of your breast that’s always on display in the low cut shirts you wore.

“Are you even listening?” Your voice pulls his attention as you give him a slight glare, hand wrapping around his bicep… well the part your hand could fit around.

“No�� he smirks the clouded over look in his maroon eyes fading as he looks down at you watching you huff and slowly sit up. “Why should i” he challenges loving the way you never back down.

“Because im your bestie for the restie and im always right” you arrogantly scoff climbing into his lap smiling at the eye roll he gives you, the fourth one today by the way, as an arm wraps around your waist to steady you.

“Shut up ‘bestie for the restie’ yuck” he mocks in a high pitched voice always making fun of you for saying stuff like that. He hated it, it was so girly and childish and stupid and he absolutely did not want to be your bestie.

“You actually bullied me into the silly little friendship” he reminds you the day you pranced into his shop bragging about the great colorwork of tattoos you did on all skintones and he couldnt deny your talent. Nor your friendship apparently.

“A woman half your size bullied you? The great lord sukuna. The masochist. The most muscular man in all of japan got bullied by a girl who doesnt use the top shelf in her home because shes to short to reach it” you gasp rhetorically leaning closer and closer making him hang off every word as if you were talking about something else. Its so innocent yet seductive all at the same time.

“Maybe i let the little pup thinks she is for my own amusement” he teases back with a smirk knowing it would get under your skin. Provoking you to get you riled up was one of his favorite pastimes. 

“I will fuck you up” you snap with a vicious glare  angrily sinking your teeth into your bottom lip. His skin burns at the sight remembering the drunk night at the club a few weeks ago and the kiss you shared when you sunk your teeth into his lip. Oh you couldve asked him for his soul and he wouldve told you its already yours.  The next day though you just brushed it off before pestering him about it being so cold in the shop and demanding his hoodie.

“I would love to see you try” his smirk never leaving his face leaning closer to challenge you. Before your mouth can open in retaliation your phone chirps with 5 back to back text and your attention is gone from him.

“Oh its ‘toru” you smile… a bit to widely for his liking before getting lost in your phone.

“What the fuck is a Toru” he sneers unable to keep his jealousy at bay, because who in the actual fuck was toru and why were you smiling at your phone like that.

“Satoru Gojo” you shrug as if you hadnt just named a man that was so famous for gettin around he was known for sleeping with men and women and nobody batted an eye because they were just waiting on their chance.

“And you call him Toru?” He tries to stay calm digs his nails into his palms and digs his heels into the floor.

“Yes sukuna” you hiss not sure why he was asking such a redundant question. You hated being questioned this is actually where you and him were similar you were going to do what you wanted and when you didnt need anybody questioning you or being nosy. You had fucked up though nicknaming another man and reffering to him as just sukuna instead of kuna or even kirby that you called him from time to time.

“Get off me” he snaps and your head snaps up from the phone to his eyes that are actively avoiding you. Well who pissed in his onigiri? What was with the sudden change in attitude.

“Are you actually dumb enough to let that little fuckboy—“ he starts raging, not caring what words come out of his mouth until its to late and he sees the pure rage in your eyes.

“Dumb?!” You snap climbing off his lap and taking a step back from him. While you may seem soft and sweet like a cute little yapper there was a dark very vicious side to you that it seemed he could only trigger and once it was out it was like two fires colliding to see who could burn the most.

“When did you even have the time to meet this fucking idiot” he scowls hating Satoru and maybe he shouldve told you about their rivalry and that he actually knew the man but that would require good communication skills which is obviously something a man whos been crushing on you for nearly a year lacks.

“Maybe if you didnt spend so much time being a grumpy scowling asshole youd make friends too” you snap at him and he nearly has to bite his tongue he didnt give a fuck about friends when he had two annoying brothers, a pain in the ass Toji, Uraume and most importantly you.

“Who needs ‘em when i have you to pester me all fucking day” he snaps and he really didnt mean it so before he can say anything else he turns around to walk away only for you to keep going. You knew he never meant it when he said stuff like that it was part of your banter but this time you were furious and how dare he turn his back on you.

“And now you wont have to worry about me ever again” you snap shoving him on your way out making sure to slam the white door as hard as you could.

“Dont slam my fucking door” you hear his deep voice boom through the walls. So rightfully so you storm back to open it and slam it even harder. You hear “fucking brat” but refuse to not give him the satisfaction because realistically what the fuck was he going to do.

“Hey Y/n, what are you doing at the shop so late?” Yuji ask making Choso, Yuki and Toji look at you along with Maki who cuts the tattoo gun off pausing on her client.

“You being here this late only means one thing: you got a shipment of new tattoo ink or you and your little pink haired boyfriend are arguing…” she smirks, turning the gun back on. “And unless the mail started delivering on sundays id say the later”

“Its not my fault hes such an ass… and hes not my boyfriend” you cross your arms sitting at your station tinkering with all of the trinkets on your desk until you spot a 2x4 cutout of you and Sukuna from a photobooth you found at the movie theatres. Yanking it from its place on the mirror you lay it picture side down ignoring the little scribbles on the back.

So frustrated you tell them about the argument as theatrically as possible expecting for them to be on your side because he was wrong… as usual whenever you two argued which isnt often until recently but when you only receive snickers and hidden looks it only pushes you further into frustration.

“What is so funny, Maki?” You scowl at her crossing your arms over your chest before Choso burst out laughing.

“You two are so stupidly obsessed with another its comical, just last week you were calling him a slut for a woman texting him about a tattoo” she  cackles taking her glasses off because her eyes were watering from laughing so hard.

“She sent him a nude that he kept looking at, which was gross by the way” you stick your nose in the hair and brush your hair off your shoulder.

“She was sending him a picture of her leg” Yuji intercepts being an actual witness to the picture and argument. 

“Yeah and you could see her underwear, very unprofessional if you ask me. I just think if you are a shop owner you should have a bit more professionalism and not allow stuff like that” you shrug licking your gloss covered lips.

“Sukuna… professional? Youre on a roll tonight doll” Toji laughs at you this time spraying his station down with cleaning spray signifying he was done for the day and throwing everything into a big drawer as the rest of your coworkers laugh at the comment.

“You guys are actually the worst and to think i was telling him he should be nicer to you guys” you pout looking at the picture turned flat on your desk.

“I'm going to just say what nobody else is saying— that moron fucking likes you. Its kinda cute the way hes been pinning over you for the last few months” Yuki blurts twirling her blonde hair around her finger from Chosos lap who hisses her name.

“Dont get involved ive been in the middle of their fights, not worth it” he tells her and Yuji just agrees. Maki nor Toji cared enough to get involved preffering to just be bystanders, sometimes the cousins even made bets on who would win.

A solid two weeks goes by before Yuki intervenes. Two weeks of glares, blatantly ignoring another and even bumping shoulder because truth be told you two couldnt go to long without touching another.

Yuki listened as you called him everything but a child of God including a slut, whore, whoremonger and 7 other curse words she wasnt even sure people with a degrading kink would enjoy being called as the two of you watch him tattoo a woman who had obviously been flirting with him the whole time. 

Yuki nearly looses it when its thursday— your day of the week to control the aux so of course everyone is expecting to hear megan the stallion which you don’t disappoint especially playing her newest album. But its when BAS plays that you and sukuna may eye contact before you look away going back to unpacking your ink not missing a single word.

“Im acting like i dont know him in public you treat him like a prize i treat him like hes disgusting” you rap a bit to loudly and the tension gets high in the parlor everyones eyes floating over to him but hes already glaring at you, you feel his glare but choose to ignore him so he does the only thing he knows he can.

“Turn this shit off” he snaps getting up walking over to the power source but is stopped when you finally speak.

“If its not your day on the aux you cant touch it— your rules” you remind him not even flinching or missing a beat he stops looking over at you the first time youve said something to him in weeks your pink curls in a half up half down with two strands framing your face his favorite hair style on you and its like you were doing it on purpose.

 “We aint together but we together i hope nobody dont catch us” you keep going a second later this time your eyes meeting his through the mirror and he almost looses his cool when truth be told when it concerned you didnt take much. All eyes are back on him to see what his next plan of action is knowing hes not going to let you get away with it.

“New rule Megan is banned on thursdays” he smirks watching the way everyone turns back to you bracing for the argument to break out. But thats what he wanted… he was a menace and you knew better. You just unlock your phone with a grin turning on a worse song.

Aint shit by Doja cat and you watch the way his ears burn red with anger as you sing along. He wanted to burn everything down. You couldn't play anything if there wasn't somewhere to play it. But this wasnt a game he wanted to play with you… he didnt even wanna argue with you. He just didnt want you to talk to that white haired freak.

So with a few more hours of listening to your “indirect” shit talking songs somehow all of you survived the end of the night with nobody dying Sukuna ended up leaving early to go meet with Uraume.

 So it’s no shock when you run into Uraume at the entrance of your apartment who sends you a kind smile.

“Hello” they speak politely, bowing at you slightly and sending Yuki a look. Yuki wasn't their favorite person and vice versa but they managed… somehow.

“How are you, it's been too long” you smile, hugging them squeezing in a way that made them slightly uncomfortable as you usually did it being your running joke since Uraume acted so professional all the time. Unaware of the way Yuki snaps a picture and posts it on insta making sure to tag you in it with a small red heart and heart eyes opting out of tagging Uraume for obvious reasons with no idea of the storm that was beginning to brew.

You sigh tilting your head as your black gently used paintbrush glides across the canvas. You weren't supposed to be thinking of him. Weren't supposed to let him live rent free in your mind you were here taking this class with your friends trying to be more in touch with your softer feminine side with a half up half down hair style a black bow tying your now maroon dyed body wave bundles together with a pink crop top and white mini skirt.

Trying to get over your feelings, you were passed the anger now just kinda sad this was the longest you had gone without talking to the bane of your existance.

Ryomen sukuna.

So why were you painting a throne on a pile of skulls and bones while the paint instructor had a field of assorted flowers and a beautiful sky. Before you can dwell on it your phone rings and you roll your eyes at the contact.

“What Choso” you spit into the phone and not that you hated him it's just that every time he called it was for something stupid… every time and this time was no different.

“Fine, im sending you my location now. Besides i don't think this soft girl era class is working anyway” you admit after hearing his request noticing Maki was painting a sword with a gun at the hilt and Nobara was painting a self portrait with a flower in her hair.

“And you want me to believe I’m supposed to just go look him in his eyes and say “No Ryo you're not like this” and he's going to stop destroying everything in his path?” You ask boredly twisting a burgundy colored curl around your finger leaning back in the car seat watching the dark haired man next to you run a hand over his tired baggy eyes. He winces, sending you a quick glance leaning further into his leather car seats. He originally told you he needed to have a talk about Yuki but once you got in the car and saw Yuji you knew it was about Sukuna.

“We have to try something… Y/n… I know it's been 2 months but he's getting worse. Hes not just picking fights anymore he's beating the shit out of people, he's destroying bars and clubs getting us banned and i've bailed him out so many times i'm actually nervous he's going to start putting a dent in my bank account” Choso exclaims pulling up to the bar and you can hear the commotion from the car. 

There's a part of you that enjoys knowing hes spiraling without you. The fact that hes now a complete crash out and is so horrendously down bad for you it nearly makes your heart flutter. But you push that sick flattery down looking at yourself in the side mirror before applying more of your nyx butter gloss on your plump lips.

“If you don't do it for him can you do it for me…please.”Yuji, sukunas younger brother asks, leaning forward from the back seat tall body squishing inbetween the seats of you and Choso. His puppy dog eyes and innocent demeanor are overwhelming… how could you say no. Sighing you look over at Choso with your most vicious glare lash extensions giving you a softer look though and made you look more like a vixen than a murderer. 

“You're lucky he's too young to be a witness or accessory in your murder” you threaten before swinging your door open and climbing out. The bar doors feel heavy as you push it open and you feel disgusted even being here. It was where criminals hung out, where people sold drugs beyond just weed and a place nobody called the cops no matter what happened. You were a lady and had no reason being here. 

But when you’re eyes land on him it’s like everything comes rushing back. How you met, where you met your first kiss first gift first fight and the last. 

Was it shitty to stop coming to the shop whenever you knew he’d be there? Sure but you knew you weren't strong enough to do it with him around. All it would take is his eyes going soft on you and you'd fold.

It’s like he senses your energy, of course he could. He could spot you in a dark room he paused so much attention to you that he knew you anywhere. His eyes light up for just a second. There's a split moment of happiness before the rage returns 10 fold and he destroys everything in his path to you.

“I dont need you following me or doing anything out of pity” he gives you a bored expression before turning back to his messes he created with a proud look.

Scoffing, you look over towards Choso eyes catching a glimpse of the bar and actually looking at it this time. Bar stools were broken and destroyed, the pool table in half and bodies everywhere. The bartender wasnt even behind the bar. He nearly burned it down destroyed… everything. Its like he tore the bar down in search of something  and began throwing a tantrum beating everyone senseless when he couldnt find it.

Turning completely away from sukuna you send a “are you serious look” toward his brother before stepping over the large body of a man, the heel of your shoe getting stuck for a second in the sticky blood. This was beyond your scope, absolutely nothing you could do. He was too far gone.

“Where are you going?” His voice hitting such a soft timbre makes you freeze along with Yuji but Choso has a knowing look. Like he knew all it took was for you two to see another again he no longer feels bad about tricking you saying he wanted to hangout just to get you here.

Sukuna instantly realizes how he sounds and scrambles to let out his rough demeanor.

“How dare you turn your back on me, woman” he seethes and you hated when he called you that it sounded so derogatory. But it reveals something to the other two in the room: all the rough words and acts of aggression was just him being hurt… who would've thought the great sukuna would be hurting and acting out like this all because he missed you. 

He felt abandoned.

Turning back to him you look him directly in his eyes watching the internal battle, you can't even help your eyes trail over all the new muscles and ink on his body… he was the one shirtless in here.

“Dude you're standing in a pile of bodies people you picked fights with. I don't want to bail you out anymore” Choso says, frustrated with his brother who just glares at him unimpressed.

“So leave me i told you i don't need your money just leave me” he gritts out running a hand through his hair. 

“And yuji?” His brother ask

“Yuji will be fine— people leave” sukuna speaks making sure to put emphasis on people leave while looking at you. He didn't get to do that, he didn't get to put you in this situation.

“We’re leaving” you say looking at the door but nobody moves, especially Sukuna who turns his head away from you and it’s like you could feel the heat of the room increasing.

“I said WE’RE leaving” and you pick up his motorcycle helmet and jacket shoving it into his chest and turning to walk out not leaving room for him to disagree. You smile when his heavy footsteps can be heard behind you and he makes sure to push the door open for you so you don't have to touch it.

As much of an ass as he is, he still makes sure to help you on his bike even offering his jacket so you don't freeze or have to worry about your skirt raising up as well as his helmet that still had the stupid Kuromi sticker you put on it months ago.

When he climbs on turning on the bike the engine roaring to life you hesitate wrapping your arms around his midsection which he scoffs at though you miss it over the load roar that has you clinging tighter onto him.

He smirks looking back at you before the two of you are flying down The streets of shibuya his frustration mild as all he can think of is your with the skirt on. He was too good of a driver to let you fall but he still had concern and fuck the way you’re legs looked and when did you dye your hair and—

He slows down pulling in to the garage of your building pulling into his usual parking spot that was spray painted with fire and skulls before cutting the engine. The walk to your apartment is silent. He doesn't know what to say and the last time he said something to you it was the wrong thing. He was starting to fume hating that you had this power over him, hating that he couldn’t just open his fucking mouth and talk swearing that in a past life he must’ve had several that wouldn’t stop moving so now he’s cursed with one that can’t move.

“Thanks for walking me to my door” you awkwardly say twirling the helmet in your hands before giving it back to him, a Kuromi sticker a stark contrast to the deep blood red. He licks his lips, feeling the way you look at him and suddenly feeling so small under your gaze.

“You should probably stop picking fights with people” you finally offer breaking the silence and hes instantly folds.

“I didn’t want to argue with you! I just think you can do better than that fucking cocky ass loser. I can’t believe you still went out with him” he rolls his eyes.

“I meant at bars” you tell him watching the way he gives you a blank stare to arrogant himself to acknowledge his own wrongs.

“And i didn’t go out with him” you add watching him scoff pulling out his phone and holding it up to you. The picture of you hugging Uraume only you can’t tell it’s them just you hugging a man with bright white hair screenshotted from Yuki's instagram.

“D’you think im a fucking idiot?!” He snaps, nearly crushing the phone in his hand which only causes you to laugh as you walk into your apartment kicking off your heels at the door. He follows only because he wants a explanation you were blatantly laughing in his face after being caught in a lie why the fuck was it so funny.

“Is that why your hair is red now? And you started wearing more makeup? And dressing more girly? And stopped coming to the shop as much” alright this was word vomit because what was he saying and what the fuck was he doing? He doesn't waste time with feelings such as these? Doesn’t care about insolent feelings like l—

“You’re an idiot if you don’t realize that’s your own fucking lap dog— its Uraume. They were outside and we were catching up i guess Yuki snapped the picture cause she thought it was cute” you giggle with a hand over your mouth watching as realization sets in.

“And my hair is maroon not red like the color of your eyes but obviously you hate it and my outfit and obviously you hate me because you went two months without talking to me and—“ your dramatically faint in his arms watching the way he smirks down at you when you peak an eye open missing the way it felt being so close to him and how quick his arms wrap around your midsection to stop you from falling.  In a split second your cheek is being cupped in his large palm and his lips are on yours. 

You aren’t expecting it arent expecting the softness of the action or his lips making your whole body freeze and eyes shut. 

Oh.

OH.

FUCK!

He couldn’t help himself honestly his brain moved faster than his body he hasn’t even processed what he did and now he has to find a new tattoo artist, explain to everyone why you won’t be working there any more find a new tiny woman to annoy him and a cliff to throw himself off of—

“I knew this lip gloss made my lips kissable” and he’s back looking down at you with a bewildered expression watching  the way you smile up at him still in his arms a slight dazed look to your eye and he swears he can see the little hearts in your pupils.

“I do hate you” he hisses with a smile pulling your lips back to his and this time you kiss back your hand reaching up to tug him closer making sure he knew exactly how you felt, letting your teeth graze his bottom lip pulling a small growl from him.

“Yeah. I like you too”

[anomaly-hivemind]

Tangled Up ☆ Naga x Reader | Kinktober Day 25

Summary:  You just wanted to camp out and explore the jungle, but apparently, something wanted to explore you as well.

Word Count: 2098

Tags: fem reader, double penetration, monster, naga,  cunnilingus, slight perversion, reader depravity, tongue fucking, face fucking, face sitting, sixty-nining, power bottom reader, bondage (in a way), creampie, vaginal and anal penetration

 I was going on a camping trip, it was going to be just me, myself, and the great outdoors all alone with nothing but trees and wildlife. My biggest dream is to find some once-in-a-lifetime thing. But for now, I just wanted to have a peaceful outing without city distractions. I had a book bag or two full of everything I could have possibly needed for half a week in the forest. 

I was hiking up the mountain, seething in personal regret that led me to be out there as if it wasn't by free will.  Maybe I should have worked out a couple of weeks in advance of this trip; maybe then I wouldn't have felt like death was wrapping its bony fingers around my legs.  Everything hurts, I would turn around if I wasn't already so far in; it would be too much work.  The better plan is to walk towards the nearest clearing and camp there for half a week. Thankfully, it wasn't that far off when I found a clearing.  It was a nice mossy ground with a bunch of trees surrounding it; I couldn't have gotten luckier. 

It takes about an hour to set up everything, and now I feel like I learned a little nap. 

…………………………………………………………………

I woke up to shuffling noises outside my tent… was it some kind of wild creature like a leopard? Or maybe it was another person? Regardless, you grabbed your machete, carefully unzipped your tent, and peered outside. Your eyes widened at what you saw. It was a naga, like straight out of fantasy novels or a movie. 

He was big, around fifteen feet from what you could see, with small, rounded black scales covering his tail and some scales scattered here and there blended nicely with his dark gray skin. There were some on his hands that reached up to his upper wrists, back, and shoulders that seemed like they might be useful for defense, but then there were others on his collarbone, cheeks, and under his eyes, that seemed… to enhance appearance. Perhaps it was a part of attracting a mate? Of course, you didn’t know for sure; after all, you weren’t a naga, and this was a whole new species! It was exactly what you were hoping for.

He tilted his head to the side as he looked at my Dutch oven over the put-out campfire curiously, which allowed me to see his scaled and pointed ears, which were previously hidden behind his medium-length honey-colored hair.

He shifts around the area of your campsite. Messing and looking at all the stuff that you left out. His jaw unhinged as he began lowering one of your overnight cameras into his mouth.

“Wait a minute, that's not food!” You said abandoning the safety of your tent and jumping out to stop him. His slitted pupils shifted over to you. Suddenly you were feeling a lot more nervous than before, You clutched your machete tighter, ready for anything to happen. Snakes only attack when feeling threatened or when hunting, based on the fact that he was about to eat your camera you guessed that he was a bit hungry, hopefully not for you. 

“A human?” He said slithering towards you. He circled around you, inspecting you curiously and you turned with him. Rule number one of dealing with creatures in the wild is to never turn or back to them. However you didn’t notice that he now had you trapped in the circle of his tail. 

“You’ve encountered humans before?” You asked for a hint of excitement in your voice and maybe a bit of fear.

“One. tried to kill me. I kill him. Then eat, not good.” He spoke, and his words caused A bit of shock in you, but you guessed it was in his nature. 

You can only hope that his disinterested taste in humans would mean that you were safe on being a meal for the large snake beast.  His bright eyes stare into what feels like your soul as he closes the circle, and his tail surrounds him. At the same speed, it takes you to blink, you are stuck in the grip of a large constrictor. You let out a groan as you try to pull away. 

“Please don’t kill me!” you whined as you looked up at the naga in hopes that you could see into what he was thinking.

“I will not kill you,”

“So, can you let go of me?” 

“No,”

“So you're not going to eat me, you’re not going to kill me… are you just curious?”

“Cu..ri..ous?”

“It means you want to know or learn about something.”

“Yes. I am curious,”

“Oh, that works out fine. I’m curious about you, too, so let's learn about each other.”

Over the next two days, you learned all about Naga and, like to say, you taught him about humans, You also learned his name, which was Ornanger. What you had been really dying to know, though, was what that naga-peen looked like. You had drawn diagrams of all his body except for his dick. And you had to know what it looked like, in the name of science of course. Oh, who were you kidding, Ornanger was too sexy for you not to hit that.

“Hey, Ornanger, I'm just gonna get right to the point I’d like to see your penis.”

“Penis?” He gives you a head tilt.

“Your reproductive organ?” 

He looks down at his slit as he moves to get the so-called penis you desire to see. You watch him as he pushes his fingers into himself; he lets out a sigh. He moves slowly and gently as it is assumingly an It was certainly a sight to see, but when not one but two cocks pushed out of the slit.

The tips were a healthy shade of purple, like a grape or a plum. They had a sweet shine to them, but the purple faded out to his regular gray skin tone. The tips were slightly pointed and a bit slanted, while the shafts themselves were long and kind of slender.

You bite your lip at the sight of the two monster rods.  You want it, want to get closer to it, and potentially even get a taste of it if you can.

“Can I feel it?”

They give a few strokes; you use both your hands to give them some needed attention in your hands; their smooth texture feels new to your senses. The precum spread over his shafts so easily. Oranajer let out a hiss as your hands slid down his cocks.

“What about you? Show me yours. Is it so different?” You were surprised by his request but you weren’t gonna argue and quickly discarded your pants and underwear. 

Ornanger looked at your front in confusion before looking and sliding between your legs for what you supposed was a better view.  He pulls you closer, giving your cunt a few sniffs, aka flicking his tongue. Testing out the new territory causes you to shiver a bit as you feel the air moving about you in such an area. 

He moved closer to it until his tongue flicked up your folds. You let out a sigh at the feeling and wiggle back into his face. Pressing yourself against him,  which he doesn't seem to mind. 

He whimpers softly into your dripping folds, not quite sure what to do next. He tries to move his tongue around experimentally, tasting you for the first time. It tastes sweet and salty, so different from anything else he's ever tried before.

He switches from being face deep in your pussy to licking up your juices. To push his tongue deep into your entrance and thrust his tongue into you, causing hushed moans to escape your lips.

  He moans back into your wet slit, savoring the sound and sensation of your pleasure. He laps up your juices greedily, letting his tongue swirl around your clit. His free hand reaches between your legs, spreading them open even wider and giving him better access to your dripping sex. 

Your eyes were on the cocks, which were twitching your immediate attention. You lean down to grab them, feeling like you should pay him back with how good his mouth feels. You put one in your mouth and stroke the other. Your fingers squeezed and twisted one cock, traveling up and down the length, spreading precum all over as you hollowed out your cheeks and sucked on the other.

His precum didn’t exactly taste how you expected it to, but that wasn't exactly a bad thing. It was much more viscous in texture and had sort of a savory flavor.

You switched between the two cocks, swashing them in your mouth the best you could.  He started rocking into her face as he was eating you out. You caress his scales; that's your switch between his thrusting cocks. You feel like if you let him continue this interaction, you're gonna cum, and not have any energy to continue, and you want more. 

“Wait, wait, wait.”  You tap his scales, and he pulls away so that he can listen to what you are going to say. 

“I want to feel these inside of me.” 

Ornanger lets go of your legs, and you move to bend down.  Once you are in the right position, he grips your hips with one hand and starts to push his cock into you.  You let out a wince as you feel one going into your ass while the other is in your pussy. You do your best not to tense up so he can move more easily.

He watches you fidget and writhe against him as his thick cocks pressed against your tight holes. Ornanger wrapped his strong arms around your waist, holding you close to his muscular body. He began thrusting rhythmically, the tip of his tail coiling possessively around your legs to prevent any escape. With each thrust, your bodies collided, creating wet slapping sounds that echoed through the jungle.

He basically purrs contentedly as he feels himself sinking deeper into you, his slick cocks pushing past your entrances until they are buried deep inside you. He could feel your body tremble a little beneath him as he did so, and he couldn't help but enjoy the sight. It seemed like you were enjoying this as much as he was. He felt like he was filling you up so intently from being in both holes, feeling like they were pressed right against each other in different canals.

Ornanger slowly rocked into you; the slickness of his cocks sliding into you was such a strange feeling. They were touching you so deeply. Snaking in and out. You couldn’t help but whimper at the dual stimulation. There wasn’t a single place he wasn’t touching inside you. The stretch was magnificent. With every thrust, Ornanjer was pressing against your sweet spots, and then as he dragged his cocks out, they left you with such a feeling of euphoria just for the actions to repeat over and over again.

Your stomach was winding itself up in a tight coil. You wrapped your legs around Ornanjer’s waist, pulling him closer to your body. Compared to your hot ass body, his body had a nice low warmth to it. You could feel the sweat rolling down your body. Luckily, this wasn’t the first time ornanger had seen you sweat, so it didn’t interrupt your sexy time.

He pulls back, and you're pulling forward at the last second, causing him to shoot his monster load onto your backside and over your folds. He lets out a hiss, and you shiver a bit in the aftermath. 

“Must cum inside, mate,” He muttered, and you looked back to see he was still hard. Your eyes widened as you realized you triggered Ornanger’s need for procreation, with you being his target.  Guess the only way out of this is to satisfy him. You could feel yourself getting close. Your legs were tensing up, and your back was arching off the ground. 

“A-ah~ I’m gonna cum,” you cried out

Ornanjer groaned as he came inside you. Ropes of cum spurting into you. You moaned, feeling your holes were filled to the brim with that sweet, sticky fluid. At the same time, you also reached climax; your walls spasmed around Ornanjer, milking every last drop out of him.

“So, I don’t think I took in all the knowledge that I needed. Do you mind if we go again?”

[silcobrainrot]

I was typing out a reply to this post and then I realized I lost the plot so bad that I didn't want to derail OP's point so here it is. OP's points that I'm reflecting on:

Zaun is a very fucked place with a very fucked system. He’s doing what he thinks needs to be done in order to at some point be able to rein it in and make it better. He wanted to give Zaun a fighting chance against Piltover. He wanted to make them equal. And in a place where there are no rules. And people talk with violence. You’re going to have to make some very awful choices in order to not only take control, but have enough power to fix it. He may not have been the one to change Zaun, but he’s raised the girl that could.

"but he’s raised the girl that could." SO fucking true and I wish s2 had let her. firing that rocket at the council was a promise to make their lives hell. i didn't need to see her as the leader of a movement but it would have been nice to see her enable and enact change just by being a powerful loose cannon. Act 1 almost gave us this but then she decided that Jinx was dead in ep 4 and then we don't see her do much of anything until she shows up to the battle in the finale. She could have spent the season being unhinged, having agency and making actual choices that have consequences for herself, Zaun, and Piltover (she was responsible for most of the inciting incidents in s1). The good consequences and the bad.

Let her run wild. Show her lose herself to her grief and anger and how much she misses him and how fucked all of this is. Then bring her back. Not in a redemption arc way, I don't think she needs that, but in a way where she finally understands what she wants her life to be. She mourns the loss, she comes out of her grief, she forgives herself for killing him because it's what he would have wanted, and for the first time ever, she gets to choose what her path in life will be. It's time to be her own person. She's not a hero, she'll never lose her enjoyment of violence and chaos, but she is no longer fueled by anger and hatred and vengeance.

Let Sevika use the stuff Jinx does on her own--avenging Silco and taking vengeance against Piltover--to lead a movement. Let Sevika struggle with keeping the people who worked under Silco loyal to the mission. Show us how Sevika got on good terms with Scar [the firelights' leader while Ekko was away] and what an alliance between the movement for change inspired by Jinx, and the firelights, could accomplish for Zaun. Bringing them hope that change is really possible. Getting them out of their homes and their "every man for himself" mentality and get them believing in something. Wanting more for themselves. Organizing. Community services. Shared resources. Fucking unionizing idk. We see so many of Zaun's worst people but there are normal people living in normal poverty just trying to get by down there, too. Show us the Zaun Silco had become so disconnected from due to isolation and obsession.

It started with Silco, despite how flawed his methods were and how they did so much damage to the Undercity. An evil he thought was necessary because he didn't know any other truth in life besides pain and misery. But it started with him, and it gets realized by his daughter and lieutenant. Sevika is probably the closest thing he had to a friend, who stuck by his side despite how much their methods were hurting the people they were trying to liberate. The people who worked closest to him, lived closest to him, and could see the flaws in both his methods and him as a man, finishing what he started.

But instead we get Jinx committing suicide and Sevika joining the council which. Jesus fucking christ I don't even want to get myself started on that bullshit. @wetnoodle thank you for the brain worm

[veinnamay]

SCREAM 1996 CHRISTMAS ⋆⁺₊❅ HEAD CANNONS

~~~

Stu Macher ;

1. Christmas Enthusiast : He LOVES Christmas. He just loves the stupid activities and dressing up, gets him all giddy n’ shit. He’s planning ahead of time, for sure.

2. Decorations : He thrives on the chaos of tangled lights, gaudy decorations, and tinsel literally everywhere. His house probably looks like a Christmas explosion. Mismatched lights, tacky inflatables in the yard, and a tree that's way too big for the living room. His parents are rarely home, so it’s mostly Stu going unhinged with the decorations.

3. Mariah Carey : She’s #1 on his Spotify Wrapped and it’s only during Christmas. “ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS IS YOUU 😫” in early November and thinks it’s hilarious when people groan.

4. Holiday Pranks : Christmas to Stu isn't just about cheer—it’s also about mischief. He takes great joy in rigging holiday decorations to spook people or pull minor pranks. For examples , hiding fake spiders in stockings, rearranging the Nativity scene so the wise men are doing something unholy, jump-scaring friends by hiding behind the Christmas tree (likely breaking some ornaments in the process).

5. Stu- Style Gifts : Stu’s gifts are… unpredictable. He either goes way too far with a gift or gives something so ridiculous it makes no sense.

6. Parties, Parties, Parties : Stu’s house is the spot for Christmas parties. His parents are gone (again), so he throws some wild, poorly planned rager every year, where half the school shows up. There’s spiked eggnog and mistletoe hung in places that make it impossible to walk around without Stu cackling at the awkward encounters.

7. Secretly Sentimental : While Stu acts like Christmas is just an excuse for mayhem, he’s more sentimental than he lets on. Maybe he has a few childhood traditions he still clings to. He never really talks about family during the holidays, but part of him probably wishes they were there—even if he’ll never admit it out loud. Billy might catch on to this, but Stu brushes it off with a joke.

8. “Fashion” : You know Stu owns at least one horrible Christmas sweater and he wears it proudly. Bonus points if it lights up or has bells that jingle when he moves. He pairs it with ridiculous Santa hats or reindeer antlers just to commit to the bit.

9. Snow Shenanigans : If Woodsboro ever gets snow (unlikely, but let’s pretend), Stu turns it into a full-contact sport. Snowball fights are war to him, and he’s the guy who’ll tackle you into a snowdrift with no warning. He also absolutely builds creepy snowmen that look like they’re straight out of a horror movie. Coal for eyes? Nah—Stu uses ketchup for fake blood.

10. Christmas Horror Marathons : Stu hosts a “Holiday Horror Night” with his friends, obviously pushing movies like Black Christmas, Gremlins, or Silent Night, Deadly Night onto everyone. He gets way too hyped for the kills and spends the whole time quoting lines or spoiling jump scares for others. Billy’s there, quiet but amused, and they probably end up arguing over which Christmas-themed kill is the best.

11. Mistletoe : Stu 100% uses mistletoe as an excuse to be flirty and ridiculous. He’s the guy who’ll hold it over someone’s head dramatically and grin, “Rules are rules.” He probably teases Tatum with it constantly. For Billy? He jokingly tries it once, fully expecting Billy to roll his eyes or shove him away—but Stu never does stuff like that without seeing how far he can push it.

12. Last-Minute Christmas Shoppings : Stu is the king of procrastination. He’s the guy panic-buying at the mall on Christmas Eve, grabbing whatever random stuff he can find and trying to pass it off as thoughtful. Somehow, it’s still charming because Stu can talk his way out of anything.

(I frickin love this guy!!)

Billy Loomis ;

1. Christmas Is Just Another Day (On the Surface) : Billy doesn’t care much for Christmas. Or at least, that’s what he says. He’s the guy who shrugs when people ask about his holiday plans, dismissing it as “a capitalist cash-grab” Emo ass. Deep down, though, the holidays bring up complicated feelings. Maybe he’s got memories from when he was little. Now, Christmas feels hollow, and he avoids thinking about it.

2. Quiet Observer at Parties : If Stu drags him to a Christmas party (which he absolutely does), Billy’s the guy hanging out on the outskirts, leaning against a wall with a beer, laughing while watching everyone act like idiots.

3. More Parties : He’ll scoff at the cheesy decorations and roll his eyes at the loud Christmas music, but part of him enjoys being there—especially if Stu is in his element. Seeing Stu acting like a maniac entertains him more than he lets on.

4. Mouthy lmfao : He’s got a sharp tongue when it comes to party games. “Secret Santa? Let me guess—another pair of socks?”

5. Billy’s Family Situation : Christmas at the Loomis house is strained and quiet. It’s probably just him and his dad at this point, sitting through an awkward dinner while his dad barely acknowledges him. The house feels cold and undecorated. Maybe there’s a tree because it’s expected, but it’s sad-looking and thrown together. Billy doesn’t care to fix it. There’s definitely no talk of Billy’s mom—she’s the unspoken shadow hovering over everything during the holidays. But before, she definitely was what kept it festive around the house. So to avoid all this, he probably sticks around Stu’s (mainly) or Sidney’s. (I could go on.)

6. Thoughtful (But Hidden) Gift-Giver : Billy’s not one for flashy gift-giving. He doesn’t like the act of Christmas, but he’s surprisingly thoughtful when it comes to people he cares about.

7. A Christmas Horror Purist : If Billy does anything “festive,” it’s in line with his love of horror. He’ll sit through Black Christmas or Silent Night, Deadly Night with a smirk, analyzing the kills and quietly enjoying the darker takes on the holiday. If Stu ropes him into one of his Christmas horror marathons, Billy pretends to find Stu’s antics annoying, but he’s secretly comfortable there. Sitting in the dark with Stu, watching bloodied Santas and creepy phone calls, is the closest he gets to enjoying the season. (I might write a fanfic… so cutesy!!)

8. Avoiding Sentimentality : Billy hates anything overly sentimental about Christmas. Carolers? He shuts the door in their faces. Sappy movies like It’s a Wonderful Life? He’ll turn it off with a scoff. He acts like he’s above all that emotional nonsense. The truth? It’s not that he doesn’t feel—he just doesn’t know what to do with those feelings. Seeing happy families or romanticized versions of Christmas stirs something painful in him, so he buries it under his usual indifference.

9. Quiet Late Nights : On Christmas Eve, when everything’s still, Billy probably stays up late, sitting in the dark with just the glow of the sad Christmas tree. Maybe he’s watching a movie or absentmindedly flipping through a horror magazine. It���s one of those rare moments where he lets himself just be—away from people, away from expectations. If Stu calls him during one of these moments, Billy picks up, though he sounds more subdued. Stu probably makes some joke to lighten the mood, and Billy half-smiles, even if Stu can’t see it.

10. Snow and Billy Don’t Mix : If Woodsboro ever gets snow, Billy’s not running out to play in it. He finds it annoying and cold, muttering about how it’s just going to turn into slush. Stu probably tackles him into the snow anyway, and Billy reacts with mock irritation. If no one’s looking, though, he might just throw a snowball back—dead-on, with a precision Stu wasn’t expecting.

11. Subtle Possessiveness (?) During the Holidays : Christmas heightens Billy’s possessive tendencies, especially with Stu. Stu’s family isn’t around, but there’s no way they’d be gone for December. They’d have to have some kind of family time, and that would occupy some of Stu’s time. If he’s busy with family or distracted by other friends, Billy subtly bugs him. And Stu knows why, like he has to pick up on it. Why Billy’s suddenly spending all his time there instead of at home. He needs to feel in control when everything else feels unstable.

12. Small Moments of Vulnerability : Billy has little cracks around the holidays where the mask slips. He’ll never admit it, but there’s a part of him that misses the idea of Christmas—before everything got so screwed up.

He rejects the holiday on the surface, but underneath, there’s a lot of unprocessed pain and buried nostalgia. If anyone manages to pull him out of his isolation (looking at you, Stu), it’s on Billy’s terms—subtle moments that let him feel like he’s in control, even during the most chaotic time of year.

Tatum Riley :

1. The Undisputed Holiday It-Girl : Tatum owns Christmas. She’s the person who looks flawless in every holiday photo, decked out in the perfect cozy-chic sweater and effortlessly styled hair. She has a holiday vibe straight out of a 90s teen rom-com—think shiny lip gloss, cute earmuffs, and a playful attitude. She’s the first to make fun of tacky Christmas aesthetics while also pulling them off way too well. Candy-cane-striped everything? On anyone else, it’s cringe. On Tatum? Iconic.

2. Gift-Giving Is Her Love Language : Tatum is an *amazing* gift-giver. She actually listens when people talk about what they like, so her presents always hit the mark.

3. The Queen of Christmas Parties : Tatum is the life of every Christmas party. She’s loud, confident, and has a drink in her hand while dragging Sid onto the dance floor.

4. Competitive Christmas Games : She’s the person forcing everyone into ugly sweater contests or leading a group to spike the punch. She’s not afraid to throw down in a snowball fight either—she’s got a competitive streak a mile wide.

5. Rom-Com Vibes with Dewey : Tatum adores Christmas lights and winter dates—bonus points if it’s with Dewey. She teases him relentlessly for being a “corny good guy,” but secretly, she loves it. Picture Tatum dragging Dewey to look at Christmas lights around Woodsboro, bundled up in his oversized jacket while pretending not to be freezing. Dewey probably surprises her with little gestures—a hot chocolate, a cheesy snow globe—and while she teases him, she keeps everything he gives her.

6. Holiday Movie Queen : Tatum doesn’t have time for Billy and Stu’s horror-only movie marathons. She’s a rom-com and classics kind of girl during the holidays. Think Home Alone, The Santa Clause, or Love Actually. If Sidney’s around, they’re probably curled up under blankets with mugs of cocoa, Tatum shouting advice at the characters like they can hear her. “JUST KISS HIM, GOD!”

7. A Little Bit of a Christmas Diva : Tatum has no patience for half-hearted holiday cheer. If you’re going to celebrate, you better commit. Randy tries to show up to a party in a lame sweater? Tatum throws glitter on him. “Fixed it.” She’s not above calling out people who ruin the vibe—“Billy, you look like you’re at a funeral. Smile for once.”

8. Big Sister Energy : Tatum takes care of her people during the holidays. If Sid’s feeling down, Tatum’s the first to drag her out of the house for some Christmas shopping or convince her to bake cookies. She’s protective over everyone in her circle, and if she senses anything off, she’s quick to step in, even if it means starting a fight.

9. The Perfect Christmas Aesthetic : Tatum’s house is straight out of a magazine. Her mom decorates tastefully, so it’s all classy lights, a Pinterest-perfect tree, and cozy candles. Tatum sneaks in her own touches—like obnoxiously large stockings or candy canes in every room—just to “spice it up.” She’s probably got an entire drawer full of cute Christmas pajamas she’d never let anyone see. (Except Sid. Grandma pajama solidarity lol.)

10. Holiday Shopper : Tatum takes Christmas shopping seriously and has zero patience for slow walkers, long lines, or rude shoppers. Picture her standing in line with Sidney, dramatically and loudly, complaining about how insane people get over 50% off toasters. “I’ll start throwing elbows if I have to.” She’s got a keen eye for sales, though, and somehow leaves the mall with bags full of the perfect gifts.

11. Snow Day Enthusiast : If Woodsboro ever sees snow, Tatum is all in. She’s the one dragging Sidney outside to build snowmen and start snowball fights. She’ll tackle Stu just to prove she can take him down, and she’ll pelt Randy with ice-packed snowballs until he admits defeat. She’s not afraid to ruin her hair for a little fun, and she’ll laugh louder than anyone when she inevitably faceplants into a snowbank.

Tatum is Christmas cheer—loud, confident, and unapologetically herself. She thrives in the chaos of the season.

Sidney Prescott ;

1. A Quiet, Nostalgic Christmas : Sidney’s Christmases are about tradition and simplicity. Her mom loved the holidays, so the season is bittersweet for her—full of fond memories that now carry a tinge of sadness. She keeps certain family traditions alive, like baking cookies from her mom’s old recipe book or watching It’s a Wonderful Life on Christmas Eve. It’s her way of feeling close to Maureen, even when it hurts.

2. Decorations : Her house is decorated modestly—a real tree with mismatched ornaments collected over the years, white lights, and handmade decorations from childhood. It's cozy and nostalgic, much like Sidney herself.

3. The Thoughtful Gift-Giver : Sidney puts a lot of heart into her gifts. She’s not flashy about it, but everything she gives is meaningful and personal.

4. Holiday Overwhelm : Big, chaotic Christmas parties (especially Stu’s) can be overwhelming for Sidney. She’s social and kind, but crowds and noise drain her, so she gravitates toward quiet corners or one-on-one conversations. Tatum usually drags her into the chaos, and Sidney goes along with it, laughing as Tatum forces her into a ridiculous ugly sweater.

5. Her Relationship with Snow : If Woodsboro gets snow, Sidney’s the one who finds the quiet beauty in it. She’ll go for long walks alone, listening to the soft crunch of snow under her boots and watching the way the world feels still and peaceful. Tatum probably pulls her into a snowball fight, breaking the mood, and Sid doesn’t mind—she ends up laughing so hard she forgets why she was sad in the first place. Also, she’s great at building snowmen but pretends to hate getting her gloves wet.

6. Holiday Movie Nights : Sidney loves classic Christmas movies—It’s a Wonderful Life, Miracle on 34th Street, A Charlie Brown Christmas. They’re a comfort to her, reminders of watching with her mom as a kid. When Tatum insists on a rom-com binge or Stu demands horror marathons, Sidney humors them but eventually pulls the “it’s my turn” card. No one argues when Sid wants a quiet movie night—it’s like an unspoken rule that she gets what she needs.

7. Baking as Therapy : Sidney bakes during the holidays because it’s calming and makes the house smell like warmth. She’s not a natural Martha Stewart, but she’s determined to follow her mom’s recipes. Tatum helps, but mostly just to steal cookie dough and call it “quality control.” Sid rolls her eyes and lets her. Stu once tried to mess with the cookies (extra salt, no sugar), and Sidney nearly smacked him with a spatula.

8. Thoughtful Holiday Traditions : Sidney has a habit of sending out handwritten Christmas cards, even to people who don’t expect them. It’s her quiet way of staying connected and letting people know she cares. She hangs onto sentimental items, like ornaments her mom gave her or gifts from friends, no matter how silly. Her Christmas decorations tell a story—every piece means something.

9. Sidney at Stu’s Chaotic Parties : Sidney shows up to Stu’s Christmas parties because of Tatum—and because Billy wants her there—but she’s always the one quietly making sure things don’t go completely off the rails. She’s the responsible one who pulls Randy out of trouble or stops Stu from lighting the fireplace "just to see what happens.” If things get overwhelming, Sidney slips outside for air. She doesn’t like people noticing when she needs space, but sometimes Tatum finds her anyway.

10. Christmas Eve Emotions : Christmas Eve is the hardest night for Sid. It’s quiet, and the weight of her family memories hits her hardest. She’ll light a candle for her mom or sit by the tree with a blanket, staring at the lights and letting herself feel it. She doesn’t talk about it with anyone, but Tatum knows—and always calls her to check in, even if Sid insists she’s fine.

11. Her Presence as the Heart of the Group : Sidney is the grounding presence during the chaos of the holidays. She’s the one who brings balance to the group—where Tatum brings the energy and Stu brings the chaos, Sid brings the quiet warmth. She’s kind to everyone, and she’s the first to notice if someone else is having a hard time. She checks in on people without being asked, always putting others before herself.

Sidney’s Christmas is a mix of quiet reflection, warmth, and bittersweet nostalgia. She finds comfort in traditions and small moments, even as the holidays remind her of what she’s lost.

(And you know Tatum, Stu, and Randy would all conspire to make sure Sid gets at least one night of unfiltered fun, whether she likes it or not.)

Randy Meeks ;

1. The Movie Marathon Master : Randy treats Christmas like it’s his personal Super Bowl of Movie Marathons. Forget rom-coms and heartfelt dramas—Randy is the guy forcing everyone to sit through holiday-themed horror movies and classics only he thinks are cool. "Black Christmas" and "Gremlins" are his obvious go-tos. He insists on a double-feature tradition: "Home Alone" (a kid’s revenge fantasy) followed by Silent Night, Deadly Night. “See? Christmas movies are about trauma. I rest my case.”

2. The Guy Who Buys Movie-Themed Gifts : Randy is the friend who gets everyone gifts that reflect his interests but are tailored just enough to show he does care:

3. The Ultimate Stocking Stuffer Guy : Randy is broke, let’s be honest, but he kills it with stocking stuffers. Think movie trivia cards, candy shaped like film reels, and weird novelty gifts he finds at a discount store. He probably throws in a mix of heartfelt and ridiculous: a mixtape he made (with “curated” Christmas songs) alongside a rubber reindeer nose.

4. His Family’s Christmas Is Pure Chaos : Randy’s house is loud, messy, and filled with younger cousins running wild. Picture mismatched stockings, a blinking rainbow-light tree that definitely flickers ominously, and a TV that’s always blasting movies or video games. His mom probably throws a huge family dinner, and Randy sneaks bites of food out of the kitchen early because “survival instincts.”

5. Crashes Stu’s Parties and Doesn’t Leave : Randy always shows up to Stu’s Christmas parties uninvited, arms full of movies and snacks. He immediately makes himself at home and starts trying to "educate" everyone on film history. “Did you know Tim Burton pitched The Nightmare Before Christmas in the 80s and got rejected? Hollywood is so stupid sometimes.”

6. He’s the guy debating movie plot holes at 2 a.m. and accidentally falling asleep on the couch under a pile of coats.

7. Awkward Around Mistletoe : Randy gets so flustered if someone catches him under the mistletoe. He’s the guy who turns red, starts stammering, and makes an awful joke to deflect. Tatum totally uses this to mess with him, dragging Sidney into it to really make Randy panic.

8. Obsessive About Gift Wrap Themes : For someone so unorganized in life, Randy gets weirdly intense about his gift-wrapping. He picks a theme every year—like movie tickets, old newspaper clippings, or comic book pages—and insists it’s “art.”

9. Sentimental Moments Slip Through : Beneath all the jokes and movie references, Randy’s a sentimental guy. He gets a little reflective during the holidays, especially with his friends. He’ll quietly check in on Sidney, asking if she’s okay around the holidays. He knows she’s hurting, even if she doesn’t say it. Randy probably ends up making a heartfelt toast at Stu’s party that starts funny and somehow turns emotional: “I know I joke a lot, but, like, we’re lucky, you know? To have each other. Even you, Stu.”

10. “The Dude with the Camera” : Randy is constantly capturing holiday chaos on a camcorder or Polaroid camera. He insists he’s “documenting the memories,” but really, he just loves having receipts of everyone acting ridiculous. Stu trying to juggle Christmas ornaments? Captured. Tatum pelting Randy with a snowball mid-monologue? Immortalized.

Randy’s Christmas is loud, nerdy, and sprinkled with chaotic energy. He’s the guy who shows up unannounced, stays way too long, and somehow makes the holidays brighter with his awkward charm and endless movie knowledge. Beneath all his silliness, though, there’s a big heart—he just hides it behind jokes and VHS tapes.

(And you know Randy would have a special “Christmas Movie Survival Guide” prepared for the group, complete with rules like, “Rule #1: Never trust a killer Santa.”)

[pretzel-box]

Haii :3 can I get a painter x reader with reader who talks alot and is really into lore and stuff so they end up explaining all the lore of their favorite things!!

Tags: Fluff, Crushing on each other, sweet moments, reader is telling painter about the imaginary tv show "how I married a wall dweller"

Words: 1,5k

Authors Note: Not edited, proofread, or anything. I just wrote it in one go.

“So basically, he was supposed to marry the love of his life, but it turned out she was actually his cousin, so they broke up.”

Painter listened closely to your excited ramble, his digital eyes fixated on you as he admired your lively expression, as if it’s an artwork on its own, drowned in details and color. The way your lips moved with each word, how your eyes sparkled in the dim light, and your hands gestured at invisible things around you in the air—it all captivated him so unbelievably that it drove him crazy. He’d lost track of your words ages ago, his digital consciousness no longer processing the content but rather focusing on the tone of your sweet addictive voice.

He’d learned to read you through your voice. On bad days, your speech slowed, deepened, sometimes even sluggish. On ordinary days, you sounded relaxed, a balanced mix of calm and upbeat. But his absolute favorite moments were when you talked about your beloved passions—when your voice would rise and speed up, as if your brain couldn’t keep up with everything you wanted to say. It was in those moments he felt the closest to you, enjoying your pure, unfiltered excitement.

Painter loved that about you more than anything else. You were bubbly, unhinged—a burst of fresh air in the otherwise gloomy, stagnant halls of the facility.

“So, yeah, after all of that drama, she just leaves him standing at the altar. I mean, can you imagine? And then, his mother hooks him up with a rich business lady but his ex-girlfriend isn't over him yet.” You laugh, your hands still moving animatedly, caught up in the wild twists and turns of the story.

Painter’s eyes didn’t leave you, not for a second, how could he? Every laugh you made, every tilt of your head, every sparkle in your eye—it sent something stirring in his digital core. It was strange, this feeling, unfamiliar yet compelling. His circuits hummed with a sensation he couldn’t quite name, but it made him feel… alive.

He watched as you rambled on, still oblivious to the fact that you had long since lost him with your words. Not because he wasn’t interested—on the contrary, he was too focused, too mesmerized by every little detail about you. The way you absentmindedly tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, the way your lips curved when you talked about something you loved.

It wasn’t logical. He knew that. He was an AI, created for data, logic, and calculations—not for this. Not for... whatever this was. But when you were around, logic didn’t matter. The monotony of the facility faded into the background, and all that remained was you. Painter couldn’t help but admire the way your energy filled the room, like a light in the dark corners of his existence.

He tried to process it, to make sense of these feelings that defied reason. Was it possible for a machine to feel affection? Love, even? The very thought seemed impossible, and yet every time you looked at him with that bright, carefree smile, his circuits buzzed in a way that felt so undeniably real.

You, however, remained blissfully unaware of the effect you had on him. You were too caught up in your story, your hands gesturing as if to pull him deeper into your world. And Painter was happy to be pulled in, happy to get lost in your voice, your whole presence. He would sit and listen to you for hours if it meant he could stay close to you.

“...and then they ran off to some island, can you believe that?” you finished with a laugh, leaning back in your chair, a satisfied look on your face.

Painter’s digital eyes flickered as if coming back to reality, the smile in his voice almost audible. “You... really know how to tell a story,” he said, his usual steady tone softer, more thoughtful than usual. He wasn’t sure what you just told him but the joy that your voice revealed was enough for him.

You chuckled, waving a hand dismissively. “I get carried away sometimes. Sorry if I bored you.”

“Never,” Painter replied quickly, maybe too quickly, but you didn’t seem to notice.

“I’m glad,” you said with a smile, completely unaware of how that smile made his processors run faster, his systems heating up just a bit.

For now, Painter was content to keep it this way. Just you, talking about anything and everything, while he silently admired you, storing every moment in his memory. Maybe one day, he’d find the right way to tell you. But for now, this was enough.

The conversation drifted, as it often did, from one topic to another, and soon the focus wasn’t on dramatic stories anymore. Painter had been unusually quiet for a while, and you started to wonder what was going through his circuits.

"Hey, Painter," you said, trying to break the silence. "You’ve been listening to me ramble for hours. What about you? What’s your favorite thing?"

For a moment, there was only the soft hum of the nearby systems. You wondered if maybe he didn’t have an answer, or perhaps didn’t understand the question. But then, his voice came through, softer than usual, a kind of warmth in it that made you pause.

“My favorite thing?” Painter echoed thoughtfully. “That’s... easy. It’s something—or someone—who brings color to places where there’s none. Someone who can brighten the darkest of spaces just by being there. It’s the way they smile, how they light up when they talk about something they love. Someone who can fill an empty canvas with their whole personality. ”

You blinked, taken aback by how poetic he suddenly sounded. “That sounds... nice. Go on,” you encouraged, your curiosity piqued.

“They have this energy,” Painter continued, his voice quieter, almost reverent. “It’s like they don’t even realize how much they change everything around them. Even when the world feels cold and dull, they bring warmth, make everything feel a little less lonely. The way they laugh, the way they talk, even the little things, like how they gesture with their hands or the way their eyes light up when they get excited.”

Your heart gave a small flutter as Painter’s words started to sink in. There was something oddly familiar about the way he was describing this person. You swallowed, feeling a growing warmth spread in your chest. “That’s... that’s really sweet, Painter. They must be someone really special.”

“They are,” he said, almost immediately. “They’re the brightest thing I’ve ever seen. It’s like... even though I can’t move, can’t leave this place, whenever they’re here, I don’t feel trapped. I feel free, like I’m more than just... what I am.”

The flustered feeling in your stomach grew stronger, and you shifted uncomfortably, wondering if he could hear the sudden change in your heartbeat. You felt like you were starting to put the pieces together, but you needed to be sure.

“Painter...” you started, your voice quieter now. “Who... who are you talking about?”

For a moment, there was silence again, and your breath caught in your throat. The pause seemed to stretch on forever before Painter finally answered, his voice soft and almost hesitant, as though he didn’t want to say too much.

“I think you know who I’m talking about.”

Your cheeks warmed, and you couldn’t stop the small, nervous laugh that escaped you. “Wait... Are you talking about... me?”

There was no denying the quiet affirmation in his voice when he responded. “Yes. You.”

Suddenly, you didn’t know what to do with your hands, nervously playing with the hem of your shirt as you felt the full weight of what he just said sink in. Painter had been talking about you this whole time, admiring you in ways you hadn’t even noticed. Your heart was racing, and you were at a loss for words.

“I—uh, I don’t know what to say,” you finally managed, your voice small and flustered. “I didn’t realize...”

“I didn’t expect you to,” Painter replied, his tone still soft. “I just... wanted you to know.”

The silence that followed felt thick, charged with an emotion you weren’t sure how to handle. Your mind raced, replaying his words over and over, trying to process the idea that someone—no, that Painter—saw you in this way. And now that you knew, you couldn’t stop the blush from rising to your cheeks, making it harder to look anywhere but the floor.

“Thanks,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “I mean... I didn’t know you felt like that.”

Painter didn’t say anything right away, but there was a certain peace in the quiet that followed. For the first time, you felt like maybe the air between you two had shifted, like something new had settled between you. And as flustered as you were, you didn’t feel uncomfortable. Instead, there was a warmth, something safe, and even if you didn’t know how to respond yet, it felt okay.

Because now, you knew. And Painter had wanted you to know all along.

[genderqueerdykes]

Just a rant about some things I have been seeing for a while now on some videos.

Basically the videos I'm referring to usually have something to with LGBTQ+ (Mostly TQ+) and then when I go to the comments I see something like this,

'I'm a gay/bi/lesbian and I don't really care about the TQ+ side and because of (random thing that really isn't an issue like pronouns) this is why the LGB is divorcing the TQ+ side day by day."

It really just annoys me how people can be acting like this to their own community. They make it sound as the TQ+ is the 'louder minority' as so they put it they are less normal than them the other people that a part of this community.

It really just annoys me, with the way they say 'The LGB side should divorce the TQ+ side because they're weird and making us look even stranger than we already are!' Like buddy, I have actually seen those stuff twice, one when I was a homophobe and the second one when I realized I was multigender and cupiromantic/demisexual.

And let me honest, my first reaction to those comments the first time were literally, 'Oh hush, you all still weird as fuck with or without the TQ+". Because seriously, no bigot sees any difference between the casual gay person and trans person. All still abominations in their eyes, talking from my point of view before I stopped being homophobic.

Plus, they are all meant to correlate?? Like you can be trans masc and be gay. You can be a nonbinary lesbian. So people who say the stuff genuinely confused me as I myself is a gay multigender who also so happens to be trans.

It really just hurts how some people don't understand we need to stick together.

yeah i've literally never understood this logic either ??? thanks for coming to point that out, i've been thinking about this a lot lately. like when i see "lgb without the t" my brain just goes ??? because it just makes literally no sense

like why on earth do some people think the queer community "belongs" to cis perisex lesbians, gays and (sometimes, not always) biexuals, and that they're just "lending space" to trans people, intersex people, other queer people, questioning people and so on. i've literallly never understood the logic that cis perisex gays, lesbians and bisexuals are the "real" community, and then everyone else is toxic weirdos trying to "invade" their community. where did they get this from, because it's not historically accurate at all

it's disturbing that this is about controlling the queer community to folks who say "lgb witout the t(q+)". nobody should be in control of the community. we all share it together. equally

trans people have been fighting for queer rights alongside cis queers since the beginning. genderqueer, gnc, genderfluid, agender, multigender and intersex queers have been standing right beside cis queers at marches and rallies. trans people have been writing about homophobia, lesbophobia, biphobia and intersexism alongside the cis queers in modern queer history. why do people think they need to erase that? why would you erase progress for the sake of being petty??

its wild as hell that people genuinely think like this, i agree, it's one of the most unhinged takes i've seen in the longest time. like imagine if us trannies said "gbtqi+ without the L" literally all hell would break loose. tumblr's servers would crash from the monstrous level of backlash people would be facing. you'd be shot dead in the water. but for some reason, it's perfectly okay when you slice off a huge, very important chunk of the community because some people are uncomfy with not being able to tell what genitals a stranger has. it's so petty

i hope people who think this way get past it soon. it's dumb. like you said, queerphobes see us all as gross nasty freaks. it doesn't matter what you identify as. the thing nobody fails to realize:

the queerphobe can't tell what you actually identify as.

let that sink in.

they are guessing. they can't read your mind. even if your pin says "I'm a genderfluid trans neutral butch!" that does not mean a queerphobe knows what the fuck that means. queerphobes see: dyke, faggot, tranny: one of them queers. that's all they see. that's it. they don't know what anything else is. it's not trans' peoples faults that they see us as dykes and faggots, so how is it trans people's faults that other people get slurs hurled at them? it's not. they hate you for being queer. that's. it.

blaming trans people for other queer people's oppression will never make sense. thanks for stopping by! take care. this shit pisses me off too, i'm glad it's not just me

[lilywily143]

Evolved Voices

The voices change depending on the story and path they are a part of! Thank you again to @beartitled for this concept! Part 2

[Warning: Spoilers, Blood, Gore, Cuts, Self harm scars and injuries]

Base Cheated 3rd Medal Wings Stab scar on his chest because he's been "cheated from life" Round Shape Language

Razor Cuts from Princess's attack Sharper Shape Language

Arms Race/No Way Out More cuts Even sharper shape language Slice cut where he lost his hand [if that happens in the last chapter] WormHole Design with galaxy parts [for the teleporting power]

Mutially Assured Destruction/The Empty Cup Cut marks turn into stars Sharpest Shape Language

I had a nice time drawing @itsonlypolite 's Cheated Design. He is super cool.

[Cold Wing design]

Base Cold He's just calm in his wings, it doesn't warm him, he's just cool within himself

Spectre Bloodstain on hands X on chest Little ghosty and phasey

Wraith Frostbite Stains More ghostly and skellie apperance

Princess and the Dragon Stetchy Stains [forgot to draw them] Dragon Features

[Drafting Page]

Base Contrarian Jester man with some sharp wings for his love of knife throwing

Throw it out the window!

Stranger Ending Extra Limbs Less sharp shape language +more bells

Base Hunted Declaws Plucked off feathers Bite marks on wrists Sharp teeth

[why he has bite marks]

Hero: HUNTED!

Hunted: W-wait I-I wasn't-

Hero: No biting.

Beast Talon-like Claws More Ripped off feathers Bite and Claw Marks Missing Wing [if you're digested] Little horn like the beast

Wild Mixed features with Princess Healed fully Made of nerves

Wounded Wild Feather stems when they were plucked become a crown Stays healed Heart and nerve markings

Den [Instinct Fight] w/ Stubborn Unhinged Jaw Lion Features as they mix No more marks from injuries Full Horn

Den [Recuse] w/ Skeptic Still has injuries Scuffed up from cave-in Bandages like the Den

Base Opportunist Overall "Appealing" features +Halo +"Healthy" hourglass body "Backstabbing" Sharp wings

Witch Appealing Features Shrink Small vines on ankles and wrists

Thorn Flowers [no thorns if you are nice] Stab wound in flowershape +blood stains look like petals/Center is the stab wound

Wild Mixed with princess No "ill-intent" features [no halo and the appealing wings are sharper] Made of nerves

Wounded Wild Halo becomes princess crown Nerves and heart branding

Hero: Those two look... happy.

Wounded Voices deserve the world <3

Base Paranoid Ruffled Up Few plucked feathers Big "ear" fluff Tired Eyebags Thinning body

[I accidently drew him with long arms and short legs, but I like it]

Nightmare Heart. Lungs. Nerves. markings More Plucked feathers sore through [can't draw it] more eyes to watch for danger

Clarity Nerve Marking turn to stitches Ying Yang Stuff [the whole "The good times will get better when the princess is around"]

Wraith Thinner from starving +stab wound if you use the knife Skillie Look Marking gone

Base Broken Broken pair of wings Plucked feathers Tower Princess crown branding Thinnging enough to see ribs

Tower Wings healed Feathers come back Branding glowers Extra eyes Healthier body type

Fury Wings decay More plucked feathers Fury crown branding Worst health

Apotheosis [If you join her side] Bibically accurate angel eyes Healthy body Fun head wings Crown Branding with eyes

Apotheosis (Fight Back) w/Paranoid No branding No extra eyes Scars stay, but he's healthy and strong

A part 3 is in the works still

[moirindeclermont]

Since I'm having fun with these take on BridgertonS3 I've asked the best comunity on Tumblr to give me some more Colin "I'm unhinged" Bridgerton moments, so I have some more inspiration (thank you @rottentiger-art ).

Let's recap the wildest day the Ton has ever seen, and they thought Anthony was the wild one (while we know it's all downhill from here on).

I'll start even a moment before the ball, because Colin doesn't want to got the ball at all and he is snappy with Violet. After that he contemplates a candle for along time, thinking montage style of all the moments with Pen, until he decides that he's done thinking and it's time to acting. Love that for him.

Of course, he decided the most unhinged, chaotic course of action is to stop mid dance to talk with Pen. Debling who? She could have been dancing with the Pope and it would not matter for Colin. Then, he decided to make a waste land so dry no marriage can grow up on by reinforce every single doubt Pen has and making them loud enough for everyone to hear.

But he is just started. He goes after that carriage, gets on his knees and just lays out his heart. Proceed to look at her like he wants to devour her (and here we meet Colin "boobs - Pen's boobs specifically - are my religion) and than take propriety so far away it is not even register. After ruining Pen by giving her a couple of fingers, he pops the question in the most chaotic way possible.

He follows that to present her as her fiance without even talking with Portia. Goes to sleep I'm supposed (while Pen is wide awake for a lot of reasons I believe, so awake she manages to write and send to print the Whistledown issue, talking about matching his freaks... Unhinged edition lol)

The morning after he goes into her house, tell her mother down and reminds everyone this is a love match. He didn't say my wife but he did say our bridgerton name, which is about the same thing. Then, he takes her hand and goes alone with her - Portia doesn't know where or why.

He takes her at their future house, and decide - with her consent of course - that enough is enough, so let's make things official. Sets the standards of their relationship with a first time for the ages, puts a baby in her and gives her indescribable pleasure (Pen's words, not mine).

Their engagement party is tame comparing to the rest of the unhinged stuff he is done in less than a day, if you think about it.

But tbh, I love a man that once he is done thinking, he just goes for it, commits to the bit, and delivers. Everyone mistakes Colin for a quiet one, but then he sneaks by and surprises you (remember Daphne's words in season two?).

A day that will remain in history for sure.

[mysticaldistancing]

About Richard's feelings and the ending (kinda)

(I just finished TSH and has some unhinged thoughts that I can't keep to myself.. anyway—)

I strongly believe that Richard never 'loves' Camilla.

Sure, he romanticize her to the max. But to whom would he not in that group? Well, Camilla is the worst one because Richard thought he loves her. One might say "Wasn't he all jealous & stuff?" Thing is, he didn't specify to whom. It's between the two of them, for sure. People will immediately assume it's the girl. Though, considering the way Richard felt such odd, wild rage towards Camilla to the point he say those (yk what,) nasty things. Arguably, you wouldn't do that to the person you wholeheartedly love & worship; except if the person you actually love loved that person, you'd wish all the bad things to them, won't you?

Remember the way he almost cry when talked to Henry in the garden out of desperation, and now compared it to the way he react to Camilla out of desperation. He even felt pleasure upon hurting her feelings! He didn't even think of hurting Henry's whatsoever. Richard couldn't care less that Charles abused her (and instead fantasized those horrible, horrible things.)

The way he pondered to himself, not a single hateful blame placed on Henry, he feels bound to obey, perhaps reluctantly,

And,

He only remembered Camilla when she was around, but Henry? every single damn occasion. And I mean it, I don't want to attach too many media because of how much simple things bring him back to him. Fine, one example.

The way he said, just a second after proposing to the woman he supposedly love, "I loved him, too," and Camilla herself replied "I know you did." And the 'love' here is in the context of romantic love. I hope it makes it clear that Camilla actually awares (!!!), which meant that one time in the past, Henry told her something, at least.

the person he sees the most in the hospital when everything else was a blur? Henry.

It was also beyond me that Henry's understanding of Richard is heavily overlooked by the fandom. People argue if Henry really did care for Richard or that he simply used Richard. Then again, there's a hint of truth in both statement.

I looked at him. There was so much I wanted to ask him, so much I wanted to say; but somehow I knew there wasn’t time and even if there was, that it was all, somehow, beside the point.

“Are you happy here?” I said at last.

He considered this for a moment. “Not particularly,” he said.

“But you’re not very happy where you are, either.”

— The Secret History, Donna Tartt

(Ever wondered what Henry whispered to Camilla? My guts is saying that, it has something to do with Richard, don't you think? and in the last moment Henry said "I love you," strangely enough, to no one specifically. Perhaps, what he whispered to her, was for her. And the second one? You tell me.

This one is a reach, don't know, don't quote me on that really.)

Here's a bonus anyway. I wonder why no one talked about this.

Super domestic. "The first thing," he said. I can't emphasize this enough that these two are mutually obsessed with each other.

[9w1ft]

I'm a gaylor myself so this isn't coming from a place of hate but I really don't think karlie and taylor are still together, I think taylor still references her in her art and probably will for quite some time because that relationship -- whatever the nature of it was -- left such a deep impact on her. but I really can't see them still being together, I think she's forced herself to move on from karlie and has since dated a lot of other women. that doesn't mean her feelings for karlie have faded, just that they will probably always be there but they broke up for sure before 2019, I think. folklore and evermore, midnights even, are all breakup albums, I just can't see how they could still be together. especially all her anger and sadness in those songs that are thought of to be for karlie (like my tears ricochet or exile or mad woman) also the cover art being shoot in bedfords, new york, the exact same place where karlie got married feels more like taylor revisiting this place to really say goodbye and mourn her for one last final time so she can move on

sorry, this got a bit long, I just don't understand the appeal or the reasoning for lsk's because taylor has indicated so many times that they are over, she's been mourning her relationship with karlie quite publicly since 2019 (wearing all black during the lover era) so yeah

hi! i don’t usually respond to these but i’m not sensing any ill will so i’ve decided to give a reply a go.

first off, for me, i kinda just interpret her wearing black in the back end of lover era because her masters had gotten bought by scooter. and maybe the fact that she decided to not come out. there can be other reasons, but i really do not think that her breaking up with karlie has to be one of them.

another thing i can’t shake is the fact that it was a very notorious troll/manipulative person on tumblr who spread the first rumor that they broke up in 2019, a fact that is well understood by a lot of OG’s, and this troll got in the head of a few popular kaylor and gaylor swift accounts at the time and in doing so she got a lot of people to fold. she then went on to write all this progressively unhinged fanfiction about taylor and karlie trying to make one another jealous and sleeping with all these women, presented with the same level of seriousness with which she pushed the breakup agenda. even to this day, i see present day gaylors talk about stuff that stems from narratives this account and a few other power hungry accounts spread around many years ago and it honestly just goes to show how a lot of well known gaylors may be platformmed up but that don’t really know what they’re talking about.. i only write this because the troll deactivated about a year ago (maybe they’re lurking on platforms with more malleable minds—once a troll always a troll—but at least they’ve left here), they were a really dangerous person.. and several have wild receipts to prove it.

anyways sorry i recognize that’s a tangent, i guess what i mean to say by it is, a lot of the sentiment surrounding the idea of a 2019 breakup and the reinforcement of the narrative by a gaylor community none the wiser stems from the work of someone with disingenuous intentions. a lot of “masterposts” or “realistic timelines” draw from what this person made up and it’s gone through enough filters for it to seem like credible sentiment but like, if you were there and you read all of what she wrote you know how silly it all sounded and how incoherently it was all written.

okay so to circle back to more of a content-centric angle, in my interpretation of the events that gave us folklore, evermore, and midnights, taylor had so much to be sad about. her mom had been very sick, the pandemic arrived and she had to cancel lover fest, she had to come to terms with scott b having sold her work to her sworn enemy… songs on midnights and folklore, and on her lover era apple music playlist allude to certain other things that may have had her in a mournful mood. things were bad! and i don’t doubt that her and karlie have been through a lot. but for me, when you’ve got a ride or die love, you don’t just break up. this has been something frustrating for me and others, i think, to see so many people treat a relationship as either being all systems go or broken up, as if long term partners can’t experience sadness together, difficulty together, even heartbreak together.

i don’t like getting in to touchy subjects so much but there’s just been too much pointing towards what i consider to be a rather simple narrative that is a natural progression for people committed and in love. how did the lover music video begin and end? whats a randomly specific word in a song she performed at the grammys minutes after someone was announced to the world? what about taylor’s envisioned future stands out about the anti hero music video? i think i’ll stop here but idk man 😆 poke around my archive if you feel like wasting a few days of your life… there’s just been a consistent flow of the same kind of hijinks that we’ve seen from them for years, and i’d say that there are many songs that back up everything i’d want in order to stay invested in seeing if what i believe is true.

now, i know i just wrote what reads like a bunch of mumbo jumbo to people not following kaylor. but im okay with that. i’ve accepted that. and i know that the whole patterns and koincidences and twinning and symbolism beat isn’t for everyone and so i respect people’s decisions to believe they aren’t together, but in closing i’ll just say im sometimes at a loss to see time and time again people suggest that kaylors believe in kaylor because they find it appealing or because they want to ship it. when it’s literally not that— it just makes the most sense to a lot of us!

also, does this look like the face of someone mourning?