#patch logan

[pitifulwolves]

The boys as that one Harley and Joker comic cover because I needed another excuse to draw Wade in a dress

[ianto-j0nes]

ok that’s hot

[freak-accident419]

‘the patch stays on’

Logan Howlett x Reader

(18+ SMUT PATCH!LOGAN HOWLETT x GN!READER)

Summary: Ever since you saw Logan, your boyfriend, in disguise for his mission in Madripoor, you couldn’t stop thinking about him fucking your brains out. Luckily, when you finally get the chance in your hotel room, you have but one special request for him.

Word Count: 2.1k

Content: 18+ SMUT, MDNI, gender-neutral reader, no pronouns for reader, no specific genitals assigned to reader, no use of Y/n, swearing, oral (r!receiving), unprotected penetration, creampie, missionary, riding

(A/n: me when i come back to write a wolverine oneshot… dedicated to @silverskyeline + @stop-talking, my fellow wolverine enjoyers ❤️ to everyone, I hope you enjoy, patch is one of my most favorite wolverine variants. based on/is a combo of both comics and movies. happy reading!)

-

The X-Men were presumed dead by the public. Gone from the face of the earth without a trace. And just for now, the uncanny team of mutants would continue to stay low and hidden, planning to keep it that way.

Naturally, of course, this also included the Wolverine. James Howlett. Logan. Weapon X. Kuzuri. Your lover. Despite having several aliases, in which one of the many would be a hostile sputter of ‘freak’, they would all seem to dissolve by the time he arrived in Madripoor. No, for there was only one name he would go by in this crime-ridden, neon city for the sake of lying low. And it was Patch.

Considering his unique X-Men uniform that incorporated the use of a mask, his full face would be barely recognizable to any of the inhabitants of this foreign island. All he had to do was to wear a classy suit and put on an eyepatch to create a new identity while fitting in with the locals.

In your case, you’d never been on the news or the front cover of a paper, despite your mutant status and affiliation with the X-Men. For quite some time, you worked as a scientist alongside Dr. Hank McCoy at the X-Mansion, while also working as an academics teacher for the mutant students at the school. You were reserved and intelligent, preferring to focus on your studies rather than fight as an X-Man amongst your friends.

Therefore, not being a famous X-Man meant that nobody would recognize you in Madripoor, so you didn’t need a disguise and only needed to wear elegant clothing to blend in. You were still precautioned to lay low and make your presence discreet, however.

Additionally, the trip there was long and even a bit tense, considering Logan’s crumbling fear of flying, which you attempted to soothe. For the most part, you were able to calm his nerves and himself down.

He wasn’t very fond of the idea of you tagging along either, taking into account the ubiquitous danger of the island, but you insisted. You could handle yourself, and even help him scope out the several crime operations he sought to terminate in the first place. That had been the main reason behind this mission anyways.

Not to mention, you’d been crudely compelled to come with Logan on this mission, especially after seeing him put on that ‘disguise’. Watching him step out in an all-white, three-piece suit, paired with a contrasting black bowtie and eyepatch, gave you some sort of awakening. In retrospect, it was almost comical, if you weren’t so severely blinded by your own lust at the time.

Frankly, you could even say that you jumped his adamantium bones the second you got settled into the hotel. With heavy breaths and desperate touches, your lips moved with his passionately in a deep kiss. Your fingers tangled in his brown, now-messy hair as your bodies sunk down into the plush mattress.

“What’s gotten into you, bub?” He nearly chuckles, almost teasingly as you nipped at his neck quickly.

“I just—“ you pant, cutting yourself off with a breathy laugh as you feel the embarrassment of your hastiness kick in. “I don’t know if it’s the suit or the eyepatch—hell, maybe both—but fuck, it’s making me go crazy.” You felt your body heat up the more you thought about it; his dapper, white suit, the smooth cuffs concealing his wrists, the emphasis on his veiny hands.

Shit. You wanted him to take you with all of it on.

Well… Maybe with just the eyepatch on, at least.

“Mm, yeah?” Logan hums lowly as you two continued to make out, resulting in your voices turning hesitant and shaky. “You’re actually turned on by this, baby?” And before you could even reply, he flipped your bodies over so that your back was now pressed against the bed with Logan hovering over you. His eyes looked both sensual and predatory, eager to feel your skin on his, just like the many times he had in the past.

Logan’s hands ran down your clothed body in a firm, yet worshipping manner, soon removing all of your clothing until you were half naked. You hummed softly in pleasure as you felt his slow hands palm your heat through your underwear, his lips nipping teasingly at your thighs. His hot caresses continued for a while, him adding more pressure with his hand until you let out a quiet, impatient whine, hips slightly flexing upwards.

Affectionately, he kissed at the center of your underwear before slipping his fingers under the elastic waistband, pulling them down your bare legs, past your ankles, and off of your body completely, discarding the futile cloth onto the ground. The cold air met with your naked crotch, which would soon be replaced by Logan’s close, hot breaths.

You shivered with arousal, feeling his arms hook under your legs, hands gripping your thighs as you saw his head positioned between them. The sight of him fully clothed in his white suit and eyepatch while you were completely nude in front of him made you feel so lustful and needy.

“Mmm…” Logan hummed simply as his tongue poked out to give kitten licks against your flesh. A quiet gasp left your mouth in awe as the little action caused you to feel so much already. Then, your breath hitched as his tongue worked stronger, taking you into his mouth as he tasted you and your arousal.

You began to moan softly, hearing his lewd, wet kisses and suctions as his hand moved to spread your thighs wider. “Ahh—Logan—!” You cry in pleasure, hand moving down to grip his hair in your hand. Your lover groaned in satisfaction, your addictive taste leaving his thoughts and vision hazy, sending vibrations to your core. To Logan, your moans were some pure form of aphrodisiac, and he only ever wanted to hear more.

He continued for a while, using his mouth expertly on you as he has for years, his single eye now looking up at you through his eyelashes as he pulls away slowly. Logan, the passionate lover he was, wanted to take as much time as you both needed, to extend this moment of bliss and sexual pleasure. Therefore, he couldn’t let you cum yet.

As he smirked from hearing your playful, desperate whine, he sat up on the bed and took off his blazer, working to undo his bowtie. His hand then reached for his eyepatch until you immediately stopped him with your assertion:

“Wait,” you firmly interject, “the patch stays on.”

A wide grin appeared on Logan’s lips with amusement, now averting his attention down to his button up and pants, taking off every single article of clothing and covering. Except for the eyepatch you requested for him to neglect, of course.

“You do know I can’t see shit with this thing on, right?” He exaggerates with a chuckle, almost mocking your decision for him to keep the accessory. You didn’t know what it was that made it so appealing to you. Perhaps it was the sexy mysteriousness to it that made your boyfriend seem even more badass than he was. Either way—

“I don’t fucking care,” you retort, grabbing the back of his neck to pull him down towards yourself, crashing his lips against yours. You could argue absolutely nothing could interfere with how astonishingly he could fuck you.

As Logan hesitantly broke the kiss, he lined up his body with yours, your legs remaining spread out on each side of his body while he made sure you were prepped. His hands were flat on the pillows beside your head, looking down at you with lust. Finally, and slowly, he pushed his cock through your entrance, gradually stretching your inner walls.

“Mmm… Ahh…” You would moan softly, looking up at him with hooded eyes and a flustered expression as he then pushed in completely, hips meeting with yours. He moaned almost simultaneously, feeling your satisfying tightness around him. Logan pecked your lips once, letting you adjust to his size before he started moving in and out.

“Oh—Ah—!” You whimper as his pace grows faster, hearing him grunt as his cock began to thrust fluidly inside of you, letting his firm pelvis grind against your sensitive flesh at the same time. The combined sensations felt extraordinary.

“Fuck, you’re so tight, baby,” he mutters swiftly, rocking his hips at a steady rate against yours, letting his slick length massage and caress your walls. He made sure to move in as deep as he could, desperate to hit every spot that makes you feel good. His hands moved off the pillows to grip your hips tightly, holding you down, “you’re so fuckin’ perfect, sweetheart. Feels amazin’…”

Logan’s arms now hooked under yours, meeting your lips to kiss you passionately as he fucked you sensually. You moaned against his mouth as you felt him become faster, sensing his animalistic instinct to become rougher with you. “Oh! M—Logan!” You whined as his cock continued to ram in and out of your entrance, the contact eliciting wet, lewd sounds of flesh slapping rapidly against flesh.

Feeling your walls begin to pulse and tighten, indicating your closeness, Logan pulled out, making you complain once more.

“Need you to ride me. Can you do that for me, sweetness?” He asks roughly, pressing soft kisses to your neck as if an apology for the abrupt stop. You felt a physical reaction in your body at his lustful words, watching his uncovered eye stare you down with both love and sin. Then you nodded.

The two of you changed positions on the bed, hearing the soft sound of sheets shifting as you climbed onto Logan’s lap. Your hands touched his shoulders, but then moved to cup his face in your palms, stroking his cheeks gently. Pressing a deep kiss to his lips, you moved one hand down to grip his cock, lining it up with your hole. Both of your breaths faltered as you sank down on him, feeling the same sensation as before. The angle change, however, somehow made everything feel so much more pleasant.

“Fuck…” you groan, hands on his shoulders as you began to rock your hips against his. Logan’s hands explored and traveled across your body to feel the warmth of your skin under his palms. His fingers moved with such purpose, akin to playing an elegant harp. You two panted heavily as you started off slow for a while, until you gradually sped up once you practically began bouncing on his thick cock.

“Ah! Ahh! Oh!” You cry, hearing Logan let out small grunts and moans as well, while you fucked yourself on his lap. His hands moved to grip your hips, fingernails digging deep into the your skin to assist your movements. His hands pushed you up and down his dick, letting you feel him stroke your insides.

“Mm—” he grunts as he mutters your name in admiration, thrusting his hips up to increase the sensitivity and speed. “Fuck!” Logan groans, looking up at you with arousal as you kept moving.

You felt your body begin to squirm and tense up, knowing that you were getting closer and closer to your well-anticipated climax. Based on Logan’s panting, grunts, and stuttered hip movements, you could tell he was close as well.

“Mmm—Mm—I—I’m gonna cum,” you whine, holding him close to your body with your arms as your hips kept moving to pursue the final, euphoric sensation.

“Ngh—Me too. Me too, baby. C’mon… Cum for me,” he gently orders under his breath before you felt your muscles clench, walls tightening as you reached your powerful orgasm.

“Mmm—Ahh!” You whine in deep pleasure, feeling the knot in your stomach untangle with euphoria. Your fingernails dug deep into his back, nearly scratching down his skin as your entire body quivered. Logan releases immediately right after, groaning your name as he cums deep inside of you, letting his warm, white seed shoot through and paint your fleshy walls. Your hips moved slowly onto his cock as you two rode out your sensitive, shared orgasm.

You both panted softly and you whined gently as you moved up, feeling Logan’s cock slowly slide out of you, now sitting on his lap normally. You could feel his cum begin to drip out of you already. Your hands caressed his face before you lift his eyepatch up against his forehead, finally seeing both of his loving, intimate eyes. Your lips moved against his in a gentle, passionate kiss that marked the end of your lovemaking.

You were usually clingy at the end of sex, as you would frequently hold onto him like a koala. So there you were, with your arms embracing him tightly, as if he would disappear the very second you let go. Logan stroked your skin affectionately, basking in the afterglow of the beautiful moment.

“So, don’t get me wrong,” you mumble, still merely exhausted, “I love your eyes, but… the eyepatch is just… so fuckin’ sexy. Especially with the white suit, just—everything…”

Logan chuckled humorously at your confession, pressing several gentle kisses on your shoulder.

“Mm? Well, get used to it, bub. We’re gonna be here for a while,” he smirks as he positioned the two of you to lay down beside each other on the bed.

“Oh, I know I will,” you giggle softly, burying your face in his sweat-stained neck.

[themareverine]

Bond Girl, part 1 | patch!Logan x fem!reader | themareverine + bpmiranda

synopsis: the first adjective that leapt to mind the second she’d seen such a thing—obscene. like bait from the possession of man everyone here knew to more vile than any beautiful thing could be. because, if Logan is anything, it’s beautiful. and his taste in jewelry? immaculate.

warnings: patch!Logan, flirting, suggestive themes, part 1 of a co-written little thing with @bpmiranda (surprise!), casino atmosphere, booze, gambling, language, nameless!fem!reader but mentions of curls and blue eyes, ⚠︎.

a/n: save me, Patch!Logan, save me! I can't get away from this idea and my absolutely insatiable lust for this man, ROFL. this idea hit me the other day and after conversing with @bpmiranda, I knew we had to write this. big thanks for her for 1) being phenomenal, 2) listening to my ramblings, 3) jumping on my Patch train, and 4) deciding to collab! ahhhh! my part is done, but hers is coming and will, most likely, be NSFW and probably SO FAR AND AWAY BETTER. and yes i got carried away with context what else is new ROFL get on our taglists for updates!

➜ bpmiranda’s part 2 ⋆｡˚ ੈ✩‧₊˚ ✧.*

She isn’t usually one to go for something so—obscene. 

Not that the idea of fine jewelry, really, should be considered obscene. It’s honestly an insult, something so beautiful tethered to a negative connotation. It was the farthest thing from obscene. Just simply the first adjective that leapt to mind the second she’d seen it, dangling elegantly like bait from the possession of man everyone in here  knew to be more vile than any beautiful thing could be. 

Because, if Logan is anything, it’s beautiful—and his taste in accessories? Immaculate. 

“It’s too expensive,” the absolute glint that passed through his eyes sparkled almost as clearly as the stone, catching light like starlight coupled, somehow, with sun, “you really shouldn’t have, Logan.” Cool against the flaming embarrassed scarlet chasing up her neck, he was deliberately slow. Rough hands skipping along her décolletage sent shivers down the length of her spine, numb beneath the wolfish gaze staring back at her in the mirror. Fingers reaching to brush along the face of the stone, it felt heavy. 

“I didn’t,” he sounded so pleased with him, chuckling in that low way that sent her brain pulsing, “poor bastard’s wife is probably pissed, huh?” His hands are more caring than she ever thought possible, clasping the necklace into place. Watching her swallow her own breath, her eyes only skip up to his when his hands find the back of her chair, leaning forward to brush his mouth along the shell of her ear. 

“Can’t imagine it lookin’ as good on anyone else as it does you, sugar.” 

At least two carats, it’s basically a small nucleus of sunlight, sparkling against her pale décolletage, its radiance only challenged by the offset of what she can only assume is a platinum bezel. Gently rubbing the stone between her fingers, she releases a slow breath that shakes more than she would’ve liked, but comes from her core. His hand brushing along the strap of an equally breathtaking gown only exaggerates her inability to breathe evenly, and she swears to God the color racing up her neck deepens. 

“You won this?” turning in her seat, she gently pushes him back with a hand to his chest. “In cards? You always play for cash,” without flinching, she probes for an answer—Logan never bets collateral. He always plays for money, or, on occasion, information. It was how she’d come to know Patch—the man of Madripoor. In all her months of watching him play, she’d only ever seen him accept collateral one other time, and she protected the Van Cleef bracelet on her arm nearly with her life. “It has to be worth a small fortune,” quietly she turned back to the mirror, slightly entranced by its brilliance.

He chuckled, “Not small enough,” his finger brushes a tendril of curl hanging from the simple pins at the base of her neck, “Wasn’t thinkin’ about how much it cost, sweetheart. Too busy imaginin’ you wearin’ it to bed,” His hands skim down the neckline of the dress, an elegant yellow satin slip cut dangerously up the thigh, thin and leaving mostly nothing to imagination, “but I guess this’ll do for now, hm?” 

Willpower of the gods had somehow propelled her out the chair, hand in his as he’d tugged her against his chest. Arms fortressing around her softness, holding her closer than sin. She finds herself lost under the heavy of his gaze, even as her fingers trail up the sleeves of his suit jacket. Crisp as snow, it cuts him perfectly, as if designed for him and him alone. He’s warm, chasing away the slightly chill that pebbles the skin of her arms, the A/C of the hotel suite more tangible than ever. 

“For now,” she’d echoed with a small smile, amusement passing through her tone. “Maybe if you’re good, I’ll ask you about that active imagination of yours later.” Hand finding his cheek, she guided him into a slow, unhurried kiss. “You feel lucky tonight, Lo?” Words murmuring against his lips, his head angled to deepen the kiss, slanting his mouth over hers.

His chuckle was light, entertained as his fingers traced along the straps at the back of her dress, “Ain’t about feelin’ lucky, sugar,” tipping her chin up, he smiled at her darkly. “But if it makes you feel better, you bet.” 

Absolutely obscene. 

He’s still as perfect now as he had been hours before, draping a once-in-a-lifetime diamond around her neck, sitting in the low haze hovering in a smothering, thin veil about their casino’s air. Their casino—the gambling house they’d called home for the entirety of her sojournings at his side. Walls and floors that knew their secrets, hallways that saw parts of them no human, probably, ever would. 

Madripoor was beautiful, a stunning land with its own cultures rich with wonder and charms untouchable to nearly sunlight—it was not a difficult place to land, to count off the fingers of time. Especially for a man burying secrets in shallow graves of earth and unknowns. Abundant with vibrant color, pulsing atmosphere and the adrenaline of living, its wellspring of anonymity was wanting, attractive in a way any other nowheresville wasn’t. Logan had established himself as a man of countenance in these streets, specifically this house—a man of power, strength. Gall, courage. Unkillable, untouchable, wholly wondrous. 

Countenance. His reputation preceded him—whether as a badge of honor, a curse of death, or a last-nail coffin truly, honestly, depended on whom one would ask. Bodies jumped under tables beneath the steel of his gaze, the earth opened up to consume lesser beings. Flurry of opinion wasn’t uncommon, if you asked around the shadows and dripping neon of the city— bodies in this quarter of the city produced a cocktail of options for poison. Akin to asking which band champions in NOLA at the height of Mardis Gra, the hair of the dog hours—good thoughts weren’t anorexic around here, weren’t starving for air to give them life.  

All had an opinion. Scant few actually held water. 

Madripoor trembled with the respect wise men hold for phantom’s when he strode into a room. People knew, just from him cutting the doorway of the casino floor, that “Patch” was not an easy dance. Garnered a respect she’d never seen so freely offered to anyone else, dignitaries were not so often well noticed. Logan half expected the room to whip around to eyeball him he was so aware of his own presence, but not in the way one would think—not in the sense of ego or pedestal, high-horses. Never.

“Same feelin’ you get shiverin’ down your back when you think you're bein’ watched, sugar—just the way it goes when guys like me make an entrance.” 

Logan rarely made an entrance—Patch, even less so. Exits were more his thing, honestly. 

But far and away, Madripoor had signed and delivered its standing opinion on the man with an patch, the man from the north—the man nobody could touch, whose face shadows didn’t find. For four decades he’s been frequentlying this place, blowing in and out like the steam over bayous and still water, never aging a day. Always stalking, always collected. In blood it screamed, up and down the streets, this province’s opinion—You bet on Patch, and you have your man.  

And tonight is no different. While Logan may not be an easy man to dissect with discernments, he is an easy bet. Easier, yet, to watch. Even at the bar, across the floor—where light is golden and soft, the air is thick with smoke. Music that has been hastened for generations spins through the air like dreams, summoning atmosphere and charm into the room like a sweeping arch of divinity.

It had become some kind of twisted religion, almost worship. Watching him rake fools over hot coals at this same casino table, when starlight strikes and the sun drips from the sky like slow poison. It’s like a killing hour, almost—the scent of blood and money hang in the air like calling cards, tantalizing sirens. It is the same dance, similar songs each night they grace this room—Logan seats himself at the card table. He orders whiskey, a cosmopolitan for her. Lights a cigar, asks the floor manager for a tab. Taps the corner of his mouth with a thick finger for her kiss, kisses her harder than she would expect from him—takes cash he slips into the neckline of her dress, “You keep here, darlin’, and also like always, he’ll take her chin between calloused fingertips, “gotta keep my lucky little thing closeby—’ma jealous fuck, sugar. Don’t go runnin’ off.”  And the answer is always the same—

“Where else would I be?” 

Certainly nowhere else could hook, line, sink her soul like that little quicksilver of a smile he throws at her—the way his gaze rakes over her frame, dissecting every bend and curve like a creature worth studying. Like he hasn’t known every part of her, explored each plane and territory of her skin, her soul. Logan has known her up until the half of her soul, possesses parts of her she’ll never return to—he takes more than money, on nights when he looks at her like this. More than information or courage or a man’s dignity—he takes her. Everything she possesses, balances it between his fingers, bleeding and raw, like it is a plaything and circus.

And really, she thinks, there could be no better thing under the sun.  

 At some point in all of this, she’d wondered, early on, if it would be like this, always. Running with him. Stalking lines, scouting out survival and nexts—spidering in gigs only to feast on the blood of the innocent unsuspecting. Vampires of opportunity, of fortune. She’d learned in short shit that, while the game is always the same, the wonder was in the stakes—it’s never about the game. 

Balance of power is always found in what one is willing to lose in the chance to gain.

“Something new, mi encanto?” 

Her chair sings a little as she adjusts to swivel back around to the bar, smile soft as she considers the surprise glass of something slipping her direction across an elegant, seen-everything bar. Warm eyes consider her, Dominic’s expression soft and entertained as he stereotypically slaps his rag over his shoulder, driving home a subliminal point. 

Canting her head softly to the side, she dips her finger into the crystalline booze, allowing it to gently float around the cool zing of alcohol and promise of a buzz that will warm her spine. Her finger gently traces the rim of the fine glassware, gaze tracking to the clock above the bar. It’s been two hours—two hours parked at the bar in a dress the color of sunlight, watching. Drawing the attention of every dick and eye this place produces. A pretty sentinel over the reputation and suppositions of a man rumored more to be a god than mortal, she’s little more than a trophy in this room—Logan’s trophy. Patch’s pretty little thing. 

Hardly more than eye candy, little less than pornographic imagery—she’d quelled a few looks of new faces unaccustomed to the goings-on of this house, of its finer workings. Didn’t take much more than a sharp lift of her leg over the other, a nod of her chin towards the table—rare cases demanded she actually leave her perch at the bar and make an effort to fill in the program gaps. Coming up along his chair, lingering touches on his chest and shoulder—the occasional slow, sloppy kiss between hands of poker, blackjack. Little else drove the point home so deeply, coffins and nails.

 She’d only ever been broached by the brave who had never returned—most were warned. If not by circumstance, then by Magnolia y Pecado staff—she was off the table. A no-go. Off limits. Hands off, don’t touch the pretty thing who parts her legs for the man everyone in Madripoor knows as Patch. If they only knew of him what she does, they’d think so differently. 

‘All bets off when you’re mine, sugar.”

“Gracias, Dominic.” 

She doesn’t ask what it is, Dominic understands her taste. Quite the working relationship they’d developed over the months of her making this bar her second home. Always thrilled to see her but rarely surprised, Dominic worked twelve hour days. Five daughters, his adorable, busy-bee and as-sweet-as-honey wife expecting a hopeful son—the only friends she had in the city. Inés was responsible for half of her wardrobe decisions, much of her makeup. Often her rambunctious gaggle of ribbons-and-curls girls ran about this casino during business hours, passing time in the pool, in the gardens.

 Glass chilled between her fingers, she takes a light sip of the cocktail, brow lifting as the tropical kick spins around her tongue in a lovely zing that makes her smile. Lifting it, she takes a bolder sip, “That’s brilliant, Dominic,” her smile grows, and she wrinkles her nose, “what is it?” 

He chuckled, “Jungle bird,” beginning to vigorously rub at a stain in the grains of the wood, “clarificada—clear. Mi amor’s only drink,” winking at her, his smile is bright but quickly fades as his eye moves over her shoulder, tracking movement. 

All too suddenly, Dominic’s spine towers tall. Heart skipping for only a second, his movements become cut, slow. When he nods across the floor, chin lifting as his hands begin flying beneath the bar—effortlessly, she knows he prepares the familiar short glass. A distraction, certainly, but calculated.  She’d never understand his practiced anticipation of needs, but forever appreciate them, “Problema, mi Cariño,” his eyes cut over to her sharply, long pouring a multiple-seconds finger of Redbreast, “looks as if there’s trouble, Miss Patch.”

Miss Patch. Common amongst the staff, it carried a responsibility she wrestled with more than she’d be willing to admit—belonging to someone was a place she’d never imagined for herself, much less Logan, but the irony isn’t lost on her, either. Everything she’d never thought for herself, everything she’d ever fantasized in high fantasy and dreams—all one ball of wax, a bed of roses. 

Name not lost, her stomach flares with a pinprick of alarm, heat spreading through her blood despite the pebbles of chill racing across her skin. Glancing over her shoulder, she tucks her chin. Tracking, eyes skirting the game currently underway at the long, gorgeous felt table. Remnant’s of Dominic’s Jungle Bird sings on her tongue, punching low in her stomach a sort of sweet that almost stings, watching Logan at the head of the table begin slipping out of his expensive suit jacket. 

The slightest glance over his shoulder is all the greenlight she needs, dark hair glinting almost sapphire under the right lights, the trembling wire of tension in the air. Nearly misses his hand at the side of the chair, fingers snapping for her to come hither. 

Taking the Redbreast between her fingers, her own drink in hand, her little sigh is amused. Follows a light chuckle, there’s a breathlessness she can’t quite put a finger on. The idea of being summoned isn’t all that distasteful—it’s wicked, what it does to the depths of her womb. 

“And there’s my cue.” The smile she cuts to Dominic is wry, words dismissive, almost airy—something is off at the table. She can see it in the shifting eyes of the men across the felt, the way Logan rolls a shoulder. 

Steely tension snaps at the air like a rabid wolf, hungry and slavering as it devours any sense of control she feels, usually, with the man she knows as Wolverine so near to heart. Usually he keeps a good handle on things—and he maybe does, maybe this is deliberate. But the precipice feels shaky, being on the outside looking in— like balancing on a livewire above swirling oceans. 

Slipping from her stool, her hand smooths over the satin of the gown, bending slightly to straighten material teasing the floor around her feet in a tastefully cocktail,  elegant train. Foot over foot she minds the height of her heels, floorspace between the bar and table vanishing beneath her approach. 

Another small drink, eyes drifting over the table—her nail gently ting, ting, tings against his glass between loose fingers. Meeting the gaze of men whose attention lifts to her arriving at Logan’s side is easy, all she has to do is offer a teasing, flirtatious upturn of his lips. Of doe-eyed light and oh, hi. Easily she offers the cool Redbreast, gently nudging it against the back of his hand as her hip comes to rest against his chair—Logan’s attention doesn’t cut from the study of his cards, brow lifted, easily. 

Unmoving, chuckling across the table lifts her gaze over the rim of her glass as she teases her drink for a second time. “My my, Patch, my friend — pretty little thing you’ve got there, at your beck and call,” she sums him up quickly, falling back in his chair. Shifting his hips forward, like he’s got a twitch in his dick at the sight of her dipping backline, “You are one surprising sonuvabitch, I’ll give you that.” Wolf whistle off his words accompany the  shake of his head, eyes lingering over the curve of her hip longer than necessary. “Pretty things here, in Madripoor—where can I find one’a you, honey?” 

“Didn’t think there were any more like me,” she counters with a little giggle, winking at him. Her hand comes to rest on Logan’s shoulder, tracing the hard line of muscle beneath his milkwhite shirt. Teases along until her hand gently curves along his chest, between the unfastened buttons, “Thought I was limited edition.” Dropping low, her lipstick catches the bristle of Logan’s beard in a slow, heavy kiss to his jawline, sharp eyes holding the man fully entranced with her show across the felt of the table, “Gotta pay to play, huh, baby?”

 Bodies around the table shift uncomfortably, the man to Logan’s left practically on the verge of either an aneurysm or cardiac arrest, either is possible considering the size of his beer gut and the unhealthy sweat soaking into the band of his Stetson hat—Texas, mogul. Married, probably. Or at least feeling a level of guilt. The man to their right, complete in a look that’s so Miami it hurts—designer white pants, loafers. What appears to be a silk shirt tucked in, unbuttoned, in a flamingo pink that’s so ambitious it makes her smile. She couldn’t even determine his eye color, his eyes were still welded on the swell of her ass. 

They’re so easy, men. One look at a pretty thing, a little batting of the eyes — they were so painfully predictable, Logan had been right. He’d taught her everything about this game, this back-and-forth. How to make them drool, how to make them ache, to worship at her feet. The perfect equalizer, the best distraction—give them what they don’t know they want, “And all their walls come crumblin’ down, honey—that’s what you do.” If he weren’t a better man—if Logan weren’t hers, he’d be eating out her palm just as much as any of them. 

But she belonged to him, a tight leash she shortened seemingly by night. 

“All depends on the game,” he bites at his lower lip, “what’s my grand prize, mi amor?”  He butchers Spanish almost as badly as he butchers atmospheres, and it would make her chuckle, the way he masks his obvious desire behind a hand rubbing around his mouth. Instead it just makes her roll her eyes, tease her nails along Logan’s chest hair carefully beneath his shirt. Heat pummels off of him like a locomotive, even with his jacket shedded. “You like to play games, do ya, sweet thing?” 

Logan’s gaze snaps up from his cards, viciously. Beastially. 

“Easy, bub. Ain’t nice to fuck with another man’s property.”  

It rumbles low, wolfishly in his chest. Sharp chill launches down her spine like a needle, injecting poisons into her veins that begin to melt her self control. Logan rarely ever labeled her so basely in front of other men—it was not his routine. He had, in other times, when context demanded he whip out his dick for measure— she didn’t have details. Admittedly she’d been too distracted with Dominic and drink tasting throughout the night to pay attention to this game, to know if Logan had anything working over this gig. All she knew was from what little pillow talk he’d offered this morning, after burying his cock nearly to her ribs and rearranging her abdominal cavity.

Information. Information, baby—it’s all about connections. And oh—that’s right. It tracks around her brain in a sharp, white-hot loop. Information, Logan wants information. 

 A patch may well cover most of the animation of his eyes, but it is evident, the darkness—leers like a predator, hunting. Watching. The corner of his mouth ticks up, muscle in his jaw pulling as he eases back into his chair, loosens a shoulder. Logan may as well scent this man’s blood and call it a day, she thinks, but instead his quicksilver smile grows as the man puts down his cards in front of him, resting elbows on the table. 

“Ease up there, ace,” his hands open in a slow arc of easy, I’m-just-playing settle-down, “Only teasin’.” His accent is remarkably unbalanced, a little of something she doesn’t know, more of a part of the world she’d never heard. Logan takes his drink from her hand, tosses it back sharply, and the glass finds the table with a harder-than-necessary crack, “You payin’ to see my cards or what, old man?” 

“Keep your dick on, would ya?” Logan grabs her hand from between the buttons of his shirt, prompts her forward with a sharp tug, Jungle Bird in her hand upset like a child’s bathwater. And before she can think, Logan’s big hand grabs her chin tightly between thick fingers, “Kiss for luck, sugar?” His breath hot with whiskey sends her reeling, heat between her legs an inferno only ever matched at Vesuvius. 

God he was hot when he was pissed off and all possessive. 

A little nod of her head ticks up the corner of his mouth, his eye tracking down to the perfect curve of her mouth highlighted by lipstick the color of blood in her veins. A growling chuckle from the base of his ribs has him kissing her, deep and hard, tongue skipping along her bottom lip—in heartbeats he manages to make her breathless, every fiber burning as she shares his taste, allows him to rip a hungry little moan that knifes her right in the gut. 

“Tastes good,” he murmurs against her lips, “you’re doin’ so good.” 

Unsure whether to thank or bite him, she manages a small smile against his mouth while her hand skips low, to the low heat  between his legs. Nursing a semi nobody would ever suspect from otherworldly levels of cool-as-a-cucumber, her nails gently bite into the meat of his thigh. For a second his hiss skips her pulse, suddenly  at a loss against his mouth. 

Collecting quickly, “Trust me, baby,” and she adds the bite she knows he loves to her touch, “I know.” 

If anyone heard his barely-there, punched out groan, hell would sooner freeze. Satisfied with himself, he breaks first, giving her cheeks a rough squeeze before lightly shoving her away. A little proud, mostly for show. He’s mean in the best way possible, in the way she’s come to lust for. Treating her like a brat, worshipping the ground beneath her feet—it’s a delicate tango they do on the blades of alias and fun, of future and fortune. She’d come to crave it, a high she’d never escape. Laces adrenaline through her like a freight train, feels safe and dangerous all in one big ball of inexplicable, never-want-to-leave way. 

Swiping at the lipstick a kiss on his cheek has left behind, she throws an easy glance across the table to the three men who stare, nearly agog, at her. “Best of luck, gentlemen,” bending to kiss Logan’s cheek with a mock sugar sweetness almost too saccharine to be true, she tosses back the rest of her Jungle Bird.

“May the odds be never in your favor.” 

@sidkneeeee

@thevoicefromanotherworld

@misscrissfemmefatale

@eternallyfrustratedwriter

@permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88

@laaadygisbooornex3

@itsafullmoon

@kmc1989

@bpmiranda

[danaclese]

Shades Malone, the son of Matches Malone.

Like father like son

They were trained by renowned Master of disguise, Patch Logan

[trenchcoathunnybee08]

Head canon: Logan actually knows how to dance and he’s really good. He knows a bunch of different types too. He doesn’t tell anyone, not because he’s embarrassed, (he’d happily show Scott up if given the chance) it’s just he’s never wanted to dance at the same time as being around the others.

Most of the time when there a party with music worth dancing to it’s some special occasion. The music is normally slow like waltz or something and it’s just not his style.

Once he’s comfortable wherever he’s at, that be Worst Wolverine once he’s in Wades timeline, Origins Logan with Kayla, or original trilogy Logan once he’s happy being at the mansion, he go out.

On those nights where he stays out late he isn’t always spending them drinking. He finds himself a good bar with good music and a pretty lady (or guy if he’s feeling up for it) and takes to the dance floor.

None of the X-Men find out till they’re throwing Storm a birthday party and she asks him for a dance herself. He happily accepts and everyone is absolutely flabbergasted when they see him actually doing well.

I think with Worst Logan Laura knew because she found out from someone else that her Logan used to dance a lot before the accident and he went into hiding. During one of Wades parties she gets ahold of the ox cord and starts playing bachata or something like that. (She learned with the other kids after they got out from Transagin) Somehow she convinces Logan to dance with her and Wade accidentally flips his shit when he notices. It’s so extreme that he won’t shut up about it and drags Logan to a bar down the street that he clames all his Mexican friends say is great. (His only Mexican friend is Laura and a couple of the kids on the block she’s made friends with.)

Origins Logan I almost think met Kayla at some bar. It’s like one of those movie moments where he sees her dancing and he just can’t look away. One thing leads to another and what started as them dancing together on the weekends turned to him head over heels for her.

Another idea (I don’t actually know much about this one) but Patch/ Logan in Madrapor would totally dance Salsa or super dramatic Ball room. Something attention grabbing. Nobody assumes The Wolverine, Weapon X would be able let alone willing to dance. Ever. When the others find out about that part of his cover he says it’s just to make it harder for people to spot him. In reality Madrapor has insanely good live music and it would be a crime to not dance to it.

Anyway that’s the end of my rant. I’d actually love to see someone write a fic for this.

[icarusredwings]

I love how you write call girl Wade and having her as gender fluid, honestly I live for a gender ambiguous take on him, it scratches the brain PERFECTLY

And Logan would be obsessed

Just constantly having Wade in his lap, not letting her get more than an arms reach away unless absolutely necessary for their little scams

Girl why you always in my inbox as anonymous.

Were friends. How am I supposed to tag you in cool posts if I dont know who you are.

I do like genderfluid wade and ive been messing around with them for a bit. Wade is literally the "I think im gender fluid but theres a gunfight going on 24/7 so idc about that rn"

So if logan were to genuinely ask, gently bring it up, Hed probably joke at first like wym haha im not a girl and logan would just blink and be like "Just be who you want to be" and suddenly- He's at a dress shop, sitting outside the dressing room awkwardly making eyecontact with the employees who walk by to see him holding 18 different dresses.

"Sir you cant smoke in here"

"You want me to put it out on your forehead?"

When wade comes out theyre in this really pretty kind of pinup dress. "What do you think!?"

Logan sighs, puts it out on his boot and smiles fondly. "Well arnt you gonna spin around?"

So he does and then giggles. "It has pockets!"

So he looks up to the clerk like "What other colours you have of that?"

Wanda has all sorts of dresses now but her signature for gamble nights is a short sparkly one almost similar to sabrina carpenters and a garter with prada heels.

Even pearls. Real pearls to match what ever colour suit logan is wearing. A small "dibs" on her at all times.

By definition Call girl means a sex worker who works by appointment only rather then standing the streets or working for a "any time" brothel.

Sometimes tables get suspicious.

"Whos the girl?"

"Ahh nutin. Just a call girl."

"You pay'er to walk around witcha or smth?"

"Something like that. I play better if I have someone pretty to look at instead of ya ugly mugs."

Pretty much, anyone who makes an appointment dies. Mainly because thats her profession. To butter up her targets, take'em home and then takem out in body bags. Since call girls are "higher class" then regular prostitutes they often have protection with cartel or mafia, especially in this particular setting.

So yeah, sometimes Logan has to grit his teeth and play pimp. "Sell" Wanda off to a sorry sap but it makes him so happy to know she just comes back home and fucks him silly to soothe his jealousy. Its a rush lifestyle. Always on the go, always having the adrenaline of winning or the endorphins of flirting, leading them on, the relief that rushes down wandas back when she finally gets to kill them.

Its a great little scheme they have going on here but sometimes theres more trouble then they bargin for or sometimes one of the players will call wanda ugly and it sets Logan off and sends wade into a hysterical session of tears and refusing to let anyone see them for awhile without any make up on. It pisses patch off a lot actually because he works hard to make sure she feels pretty at all times, even telling her how pretty she is while holding her hair back and their head in the toilet. Cancer is not any kinder to them in this au but at the end of the day if Wanda can make everyone in this room want a piece of his ass while said ass is sitting on Patches lap? Theyre happy.

[carbonfiction]

Treated myself to the Deadpool and Wolverine artbook (my bank account is screaming) sooo i thought id share some of the Logan pieces making me absolutely feral rn..

Both Patch and Oldman Logan have me barking like a dog i want him sosososo bad

[anthussy]

*throws random patch doodle and leaves*

[jackassbroadcast]

Been alittlewhile but the homo grind never stops ‼️‼️

[pitifulwolves]

Wade Wilson the man that you are

[firsthandforgery]

Deadpool , Wolverine, Wolverine, Wolverine, Wolverine, & Wolverine ❤️💛

[mischievous-thunder]

Wade's life's so damn colourful

[themareverine]

Bond Girl, part 1 | patch!Logan x fem!reader | TEASER

synopsis: the first adjective that leapt to mind the second she’d seen such a thing—obscene. like bait from the possession of man everyone here knew to more vile than any beautiful thing could be. because, if Logan is anything, it’s beautiful. and his taste in jewelry? immaculate.

warnings: patch!Logan, flirting, suggestive themes, part 1 of a co-written little thing, casino atmosphere, booze, gambling, language, ⚠︎

a/n: welcome to my brain the past few days, lol. taking up allllll my headspace. and no I am not announcing the co-author, not yet, it’s a surprise.

: ̗̀➛ IT'S LIVE HERE ！！！

TEASER

“You won this?” turning in her seat, she gently pushes him back with a hand to his chest. “In cards? You always play for cash,” without flinching, she probes for an answer—Logan never bets collateral. He always plays for money, or, on occasion, information.

It was how she’d come to know “Patch”—Logan. The man of Madripoor. In all her months of watching him play, she’d only ever seen him accept collateral one other time—she protected the Van Cleef on her arm nearly with her life.

“It has to be worth a small fortune,” quietly she turned back to the mirror, slightly entranced by the diamond’s brilliance.

He chuckled, “Not small enough,” his finger brushes a tendril of curl hanging from the simple pins at the base of her neck. “Wasn’t thinkin’ about how much it cost, sweetheart. Too busy imaginin’ you wearin’ it to bed,” strong hands skim down the neckline of the dress, an elegant yellow satin slip cut dangerously up the thigh, thin and leaving mostly nothing to imagination.

“But I guess this’ll do for now, hm?”

Willpower of the gods had somehow propelled her out of the chair, hand in his as he’d tugged her against his chest. Arms fortressing around her softness, holding her closer than sin. She finds herself lost under the heavy of his gaze, even as her fingers trail up the sleeves of his suit jacket.

Crisp as snow, it cuts him perfectly, as if designed for him in pristine, laser focus. Sublime detail. He’s warm. Chases away the slight chill pebbling the skin of her arms, the A/C of the hotel suite more tangible than ever.

“For now,” she’d echoed with a small smile, amusement passing through her tone. Its tone is light with a breath, but low. Simmering. “Maybe if you’re good, I’ll ask about that active imagination of yours later.” Hand finding his cheek, she guided him into a slow, unhurried kiss. “Feel lucky tonight, Lo?” Words murmuring against his lips, his head angled to deepen the kiss, slanting his mouth over hers.

His chuckle was light, entertained as his fingers traced along the straps at the back of her dress. “Ain’t about feelin’ lucky,” tipping her chin up, he smiled at her darkly. With purpose, reverence. “But if it makes you feel better—you bet, sugar.”

Absolutely obscene.

taglist: @thevoicefromanotherworld @sidkneeeee @permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88 @eternallyfrustratedwriter @ayamenimthiriel @pandapetals @bpmiranda @Misscrissfemmefatale

[apendice-chileno]

bitches gay but suit up

[freak-accident419]

i’m doing so much more research than i probably should but i’m not getting the specific info i need 😖😖

if patch had been staying in madripoor for a while, where would he be staying? like a hotel orr…?

i could always make things up but if you know how i write, i strive for accuracy 😖

i know the rundown of patch but if anyone has more specific info on him from the comics that would be really helpful!! <33

hrnggg what if i wrote for patch then what…

hes so sexy i need him so bad i gotta write for him fuck