#patch wolverine x reader

[nanivinsmoke]

❥ DADDY’S DEALINGS

patch!wolverine (logan) x fem!reader

summary ❥ dont fuck with him while he’s working. you knew that, but what happens when you try to fuck on him during work?

warnings: telekinetic reader & code name is diamond, mentions of blood, semi-public sex (in an empty casino), multiple orgasms, creampies, hair pulling, choking, spanking, teasing, rough sex

note: round two, enjoy! wc: 2.7k, m.list here

men in suits sat at the round poker table. laughing, smoking and having a grand ole time. it seemed like a regular poker night with friends, however it was not. all these men were successful businessmen, but one of them was tonight’s target.

and the two of you were here to uncover who that was. patch sat at the table, keeping a blank face while playing the game. however, he was really reading the room. trying to find one slip up so he could take whomever out.

and he couldn’t do it alone, that’s why you were here. you were the distraction, a man’s weakness was a beautiful woman and that you were. the ruby red spaghetti strapped dress clung to you like another set of skin, catching the eyes of the men in there when you walked in. the gleam of your jewelry blinded them, but the scent of your perfume as you passed by only made them want you even more.

you sat at the bar, ordering something light, not wanting anything to get you drunk, but enough to give you a little buzz. you turned in your and watched the game of poker progress, while glancing at patch.

he looked so good sitting there. muscles flexing each time he moved a chip, thick fingers covered in rings—which you wished were deep inside of you, splitting you open—and the eyepatch that was slapped across his face and covered one of his beautiful hazel eyes; still made him even more sexier than ever.

you couldn’t help but to press your thighs together, mind starting to cloud with lewd thoughts of him bottoming out inside of you. until you were snapped out of your daze by the bartender handing you your drink.

you sighed, sipping on the fruity drink you ordered and taking in your surroundings, hoping the target for tonight’s mission would fuck up and show themselves; so you could finally go home and have hot sweaty sex with patch.

however, as time passed, you realized you were going to be here for a while. the game still went on and nobody moved an inch, boring you to death. but, as you sipped on your third drink for the night, you were hornier than ever. you were dripping, aching for some attention and you were going to get it.

the mission was far from your mind as you got up from the bar and sashayed over to the table, standing between patch and another gentleman , before bending over—your cleavage catching the attention of the other man, while your presence gained the attention of your partner. “mind if i join in?” you asked and the stranger got up from his seat in a hurry.

“you can take my spot miss. im losing anyways,” you smiled and sat down, taking his spot and looking down at your cards. you could feel patch boring holes into your face, but you paid him no mind. you knew you weren’t supposed to interfere with his mission unless he wanted you to, but you didn’t care. you had your own mission to worry about.

“you look a little empty there, can i buy you a refill?” you asked him, leaning over to get in his personal space, so you could whisper in his ear. “ ‘m horny. take me home?”

he glared at you before throwing out one of his cards, “no. busy, working.” you whined and sat back in your chair, following suit and throwing out cards as well. you flagged down a waiter and ordered a margarita, telling him to keep it coming before trying to focus on the game in front of you.

however, the more you sat next to him the more aroused you became. it didn’t help that his cologne turned you on, you wanted to pounce on him right then and there. you slid your heeled foot next to his, teasing him by rubbing it against him—only for him to pull his away. he grunted in response, but never turning to look at you.

you weren’t going to give up either. using your powers, you made the waiter bringing your drink, trip causing him to crash into another waiter, making a big commotion; which distracted the other players. using this as an opportunity to speak to him again, you whispered in his ear—voice soft and sexy.

“please, fuck me. need you so bad” he could smell how bad you wanted him, the moment you sat down, but he didn’t have time for that right now. a new scent took over his nose and he glanced around the room, spotting an older man walking in the room; with two girls on each of his arms and two guards behind him. “they’re here. focus.”

by now the waiter had cleaned up his mess and came back with a fresh drink, handing it to you and apologizing for the first one. you sent him a smile before dismissing him, sipping on the cold drink—watching the new player join the game. he sat across from you and you flashed him a smile, immediately gaining his attention.

the male whispered to his guards, before one of them came over to you. “the gentleman over there wants to know if you could sit next to you and could he buy you another drink?” you glanced at him and he winked. smiling at him, you nodded your head and the guy made his way over; dismissing the women.

he sat next to you and you smiled, taking a look at every detail of his face. he was attractive and you couldn’t help smirk to yourself. you knew exactly how to get patch to pay attention towards you.

“what can I get you to drink?” he asked and you slightly turned towards him, putting out the last of your cards, losing the game. “scotch, on the rocks.”

he smiled in amusement, not many of the girls he came across liked dark liquors. “not good at poker?” you shook your head and he smiled, motioning for the dealer to bet him in. “i’ll teach a pretty lil thing like you how to play. name's richard, but you can call me, dick.”

“diamond,” you moved your chair closer to his, glancing over at patch an evil glint in your eyes. you were playing a dangerous game and you were ready for the consequences. as he taught you how to play, patch watched with a clench jaw. he wanted to rip the guys head off for even talking to you, but he knew what was at stake. all he needed was the guy to touch you and he’d take him out right then and there.

“got a boyfriend diamond?”

“complicated,” that slipped off your tongue too fast for patch’s liking, making him grunt loudly, gaining the attention of dick. “is there a problem?”

“focus on the game, bub.” dick chuckled and stared at patch, wondering who the hell he was. and before he could fix his mouth to say something, your drinks came; gaining his attention. you thanked the waiter and held up your glass, lipstick spreading when you smiled.

“you gonna teach me or what?” you got up from your seat, the frame of your body being outlined by your dress, made his breath get caught in his throat—eyes glued to every curve, watching as you sat down on his lap. the way you sat gave you full view of patch, who was seething. and when dick placed his hand on your hip, he had enough. he jumped up, claws unsheathing, sticking them into richard’s guards—their blood splattering against his white suit.

the people in the private casino scurried away in a hurry, trying to make sure they’re not next to get taking out. more of dick’s guards came running in, guns in their hands, ready to attack—until you appeared in front of them. “sorry boys, you’re not getting through.” you sent them flying into the other room, crashing against the slot machines; knocking them out cold. and for good measure, you picked one up and dropped it on them.

one’s that slipped past were slice up by patch, their bodies dropping at dick’s patent shoes. patch huffed, eyes glued onto richard’s.

“you fucking b—.” his head was sliced clean off, dropping next to the pile of bodies. the rugged man didn’t have time for monologues, he was pissed. pissed at you. the people that were still hiding in the room, peeked their heads out; hoping that it was safe, yet there were proven wrong by the feral looking man in front of them.

“GET THE FUCK OUT!” his claws retracted and they all ran out, not trying to be the next person to piss him off. you tried sneaking out with them, only for him to grab you, slinking you over his shoulder. “baby! wait—fuck!” he said nothing and sent a hard smack to your ass, the vibration from it made the stinging sensation linger a little longer. oh you were in for it.

he slapped everything off of the poker table before propping you up on there, your hands and knees pressing into the plush green surface. he hiked your dress up to the middle of your back, grunting when he seen the wet spot in the middle of your black panties. with another powerful smack to your ass, you yelped out, only for him to grip your hair—pulling you towards his chest.

“like having that jerk feel up on you. he makes you wet?” his hand massaged your cheeks, easing the stinging sensation he caused. you whimpered and shook your head, “no baby—only you.”

he slapped both of your cheeks, the wet spot on your panties growing by the second as he took his frustrations out on you. it was one thing to try and sabotage the mission, he’d deal with that later, but to sit on another man’s lap in front of him? oh you deserved this punishment.

you were practically drooling, from both sets of lips, while he continued the torment on your ass—his hand prints now molded on your cheeks. he moved his hand from your hair and slid it down to your cunt, pressing two of his fingers against your clit; your slick immediately seeping through the fabric and onto his fingers.

he grunted and massaged his finger on your clit, eliciting whines from you. you backed your ass up in his palm, trying to add some more friction to your cunt, but he stopped you.

“ ‘m in charge here, doll.” you could hear the clinking of his belt buckle and it excited you. from the way he manhandle you and forced your back down, deepening your arch, you knew he was going to fuck you so good.

your panties were pulled down, exposing your bare—slick coated cunt to him and he let out a low groan. he took your panties and brought it up to his nose, smelling your arousal; his cock becoming stiff behind his boxers—before he reached around and placed them into your mouth.

your moans were muffled as you turned your head slightly to see him pull his underwear down, revealing his fat beer can shaped cock. he fisted his cock for a bit, globs of his precum coating his hand, before he pushed through your entrance; your juices coating his dick immediately.

he didn’t even need to prep you to take him, you were beyond soaked, making it easier for him to slide ride in—rubbing right against your spot. “fuck. gotta keep this pussy to myself.”

you moaned into your panties, while he gripped the side of your hips and began to pound your pussy, splitting you open with each stroke. your ass rippled against him and you struggled to throw it back on him, causing him to smack one of your plump cheeks.

“f-fuck me back…..atta girl,” you started to bounce back on him, the poker table shaking with each thrust. your eyes rolled back into your head, the pleasure so unspeakably intense. he knew exactly how to hit your spot with each thrust, which made your legs shake uncontrollably and an orgasm course through you prematurely.

he felt you clench around him and he stopped his movements, pulling out of you slowly; your bottom lip trembling as you turned to look at him. “did you just fucking cum?” you nodded and his eyes darkened. before you could even process what was happening, you were on your back with ankles pointing up to the ceiling.

the red dress that was hiked up was now on the bar not too far away from you both, and your soiled panties were finally removed from your mouth, allowing you to finally moan freely, as he plunged back into your sopping wet cunt.

he was abusing your cunt each time his cock pistoned in and out of you, cock bullying your walls, sending bolts of electricity towards your clit. you reached down and tried to rub the sensitive bud, but he slapped your hands away causing you to cry out. “nope. you wanted this dick, so that’s what you’re gonna get. got it?” you nodded your pretty little head, earning a powerful smack to your cunt—making you gush around him.

“words. i wanna hear it.”

“yes! yes! fuck—daddy. you’re so deep!” rough calloused hand found its way around your throat, turning you on even more. the look on his face, the way his cock filled you up and how he treated you like his fuck toy, had you wanting more.

the squelching sound that followed when he was balls deep inside of you, made that knot in your stomach become tighter. you were so close and with him twitching inside of you, you knew he was too.

with the help of your powers, you brought him closer to you. his white, blood stained blazer pressed against your breasts, adding some stimulation to your tender nipples; which helped speed up your orgasm. you whimpered, staring into his uncovered eye, cumming for the second time; without him.

specks of white blurred your vision as you came undone. the grip around his shaft, tightening with each thrust that hit your spot over and over again.

he was pissed. first you tried to ruin the mission and had some guy all over you, but now you came twice? oh he was more than pissed.

his grip around your neck loosened and he moved his hand up to your cheeks, gripping them; causing them to puff up in his hands. his stroke was faster and deeper, practically kissing your cervix—making you whine out.

“ ‘s too much! please daddy, can’t take it.” you were able to huff out, but he ignored your pleas, still treating you like a common slut.

“gonna breed this pussy. have you dripping cum for days when im done with you—let everyone know who owns this pussy.” he pounded deeper, his vision getting blurry and his stroke becoming sloppier; before he let go—emptying himself deep inside of you.

he let out a primal growl, sporadically twitching inside of you, before pulling out, globs of his cum slowly starting to pool out; until he plugged it back in with his fingers. you squirmed, but he held you down, making you take the extra pleasure—leading to squirting against his palm.

the wet gushy mess, combined with the previous fluids, stained the plush green fabric underneath you and the bottom of his blazer. patch removed his fingers and sucked your juices off, before he pulled his pants up and snapped his belt on. he pulled your panties back on and walked over to the bar to retrieve your dress, tossing it at you.

“get dressed. you’re punishment isn't over yet.”

[mcrdvcks]

had a little thought about this variant in particular :)

warnings/tags: no use of y/n, gn!reader, though reader wears a dress and heels, light blood

---

"Patch!" Wade called out from behind, his voice cutting through the murmur of the dimly lit casino room.

Logan’s one good eye flicked up from the poker table, an eyebrow raising just a bit. "Do I know you?"

Wade grinned under his red mask, hands up like he was just there for a friendly chat. "Not yet, but you're about to." He glanced around, feigning awe at the luxury. "Nice place you've got here. Fancy suits, eye patches—very debonair."

Logan didn’t smile. "You got five seconds to get to the point."

Wade stepped closer, ignoring the glares from the other players. "Alright, here’s the pitch. I need you, big guy. Got a universe that’s falling apart, and I’m in desperate need of a certain… je ne sais quoi that only you can bring. You, Patch, could be the anchor this whole reality needs.”

Logan didn’t even blink. “You’re either insane or just plain stupid. I don’t know you, and I don’t care about your problems.”

Wade let out an exaggerated sigh. “Okay, okay, playing hard to get. Look, I didn’t want to do this in front of your… uh—” Wade gestured towards everyone at the table. “Lovely friends here. But time’s running short.”

Wade, who was crouched down to the right of Logan didn’t get to continue his rambling as he unsheathed his claws straight in his skull. Logan’s claws went back into his hand as Wade fell to the floor.

You, who had gone briefly to get a glass of champagne, stopped at the body who had just flopped onto the ground. You glanced at your dress, a nice mauve color, now with a few small spots of red at the hem.

“Honey!” You dragged out, “he got blood on my dress.”

Logan turned to look at you, finally tearing away his gaze from being front facing to you, standing holding a half-full champagne flute looking as beautiful as ever and yes, you now had blood on your dress.

Wade, who was shaking his head, clearing the fog from his mind, looked up from the floor, “hey! He got my blood on your dress. All I did was very kindly introduce myself- ”

You stepped forward, your heel digging into Wade’s arm with a squelch. Wade let out a small screech as you took another step toward Logan, one foot bare, the other still sporting your special heel with a concealed blade.

Wade groaned, twisting on the floor to look up at you. “Really? Really? First the claws, now the stiletto treatment? I thought this was a classy establishment!”

“You got blood on my dress,” you said coolly, taking another sip of your champagne as you met Logan’s gaze.

Logan’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “Should’ve aimed better, bub.”

Wade managed to sit up, rubbing his head where Logan had left his mark. “This—” he gestured vaguely around, “—is exactly why I need you. That unrelenting charm, the claws, the scrappy partner who, might I say, has a very sharp sense of fashion.”

Once beside Logan’s chair, his hand went around your waist, pulling you down into his lap with a casual possessiveness. He looked up at you, a flicker of amusement in his eye. “Didn’t expect company tonight,” he murmured, his hand resting comfortably at your hip.

You raised an eyebrow, giving him a slight smirk. “Didn’t expect blood on my dress tonight either,” you replied, tilting the glass toward him. “This is on you.”

Wade, still on the floor, held up a hand like he was back in school. “If I may interject, it’s technically on me. All over me, really. And your heel…which is still in my arm, by the way.”

Logan didn’t even look down. “Didn’t I tell you to scram, bub?”

Wade let out an exaggerated groan, dramatically flopping back on the floor. “Alright, fine! Just thought maybe you’d like a little…adventure through the multiverse, something different. I’ll even throw in a couple of perks—health benefits, access to all the chimichangas you can eat. You know, the important stuff.”

You laughed, settling back against Logan. “Sounds like a tempting offer, doesn’t it, hun?”

Logan’s grip on your waist tightened. “Tempting? This guy can’t keep his mouth shut long enough to get through a meal, let alone a job.”

Wade scrambled to his feet, brushing off his suit—now slightly stained with his own blood. “Hey, everyone needs a wildcard. Keeps things spicy! But fine, fine. I can take a hint. You’ve got your classy, poker-playing life here with…well,” he gestured towards you with a nod. “Guess I’ll just have to move on.”

You leaned down, giving Wade a sweet but pointed smile. “Good luck with that.”

Wade looked back and forth between the two of you, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Oh, I get it. Lovebirds, bound by fate and poker chips. Don’t mind me, I’ll just let myself out.”

With a dramatic flourish, Wade turned around, pulling a strange, glowing device from his belt. He tapped a button, and a swirling golden doorway appeared in front of him. He looked over his shoulder one last time, winking at you. “If you change your mind, Patch, you know where to find me.”

Logan rolled his eyes. “Not a chance.”

As Wade stepped through the doorway, disappearing into the glowing portal, you took another sip of champagne, shaking your head. “Was he for real?”

Logan scoffed, watching the portal close with a quiet hum. “I have no idea. Don’t care to find out, either.”

The room settled, the quiet returning along with the glares of the other players, who clearly wanted nothing more than to get back to their poker game.

You gave him a look. “If you think you’re getting out of replacing this, you’ve got another thing coming.”

Logan chuckled, leaning in to kiss the corner of your mouth. “Wouldn’t dream of it, darlin’.”

[justevelynnnn]

I’ll always love you.

Pairing: Logan howlett x reader

Summary: Logan has a nightmare and hurts you in his sleep. This is a short story of that and the aftermath.

Warnings: Angst, Mentions of blood, Logan stabbed you in your sleep, Profanity, Cigar smoking, mention of the scene where wolverine gets his adamantium skeleton. (Written with fem!reader in mind but no she/her pronouns are used or feminine features are mentioned)

A/N: this started off as a drabble but tbh it got a bit longer than i expected so 😭 but anyway, i love this plot so of coursee, my turn!

He was in the tank again.

It was the same nightmare every other week. Or, one of them. But this was the worst one of them all.

Suffocating. Confused. Scared?

He felt it all again.

He could never, ever describe what metal covering your skeleton feels like but it’s a horrible, disgusting feeling.

As he rose and roared angrily from the water, tubes fell out his body. He gets hit with a bullet to the head and he fiercely turns to the source, growling animalistically. There are more gun shots as he jumped out, screaming. Oh, and of course…Fucking Stryker.

Stryker. Stryker. Stryker.

Of course, the nightmare version of this event is more intense feeling. His heart was racing. His mind. His feet. Adrenaline is pumping through his veins. Everything is on fire.

Then suddenly, he’s in a dark room.

Still yelling and thrashing, he doesn’t stop until he comes to finally seconds later. Oh, it was a nightmare. Not real. Though, the screams still echo in his head.

And then he hears a soft, “Logan….”

He looks down.

You’re laying there, under him. There are tears in your eyes as you held his…wrists with..his claws…in…your….sides..

His heart drops. Blood runs cold. He feels like he’s gonna be sick.

Shit. Shit shit shit shit fuck fuck fuck-

He mouths, “No…no no no…”

“Logan, it’s okay. It’s okay, you’re…” A pained groan from you interrupted yourself. “…okay. I’m here.”

He frantically pulls his claws out and sits there, looking at you in pure horror. Heart pounding still as guilt washed over him. Consuming his entire soul.

Luckily, for the both of you, you also had a healing factor..just not as good as his…it took twice as long for you to heal.

But you were prepared for this moment anyways. You knew one day…he’d wake up like this. That you’d wake up like this. You practiced what you would say and do. Remain calm and ground him. Remind him he’s okay and that you two are far from any enemies.

Logan looked at the blood covering his hands once he unsheathed his claws. Looked at you once more and then back at his own hands.

“I’m already healing, Logan. It’s gonna be okay. It was an accident.” You sit up in bed, even though it was horribly painful still, and rub his shoulders trying to relax him.

“..i…i..hurt you.” He softly said looking into your eyes.

“It was an accident.”

“I hurt you. I fucking hurt you.”

“You didn’t mean to, Lo.”

He bit his lip, holding back a sob. Still, a tear escaped his eye.

You hugged him solfty, not minding the sweat covering his skin and clothes, and rubbed his back.

“I’m sorry…i’m sorry baby i-“

You hear him finally break down a bit as his voice hitched. You rub his back more telling him it’s okay. You’re okay.

“I know, you’d never do it on purpose Logan…i forgive you. Look, I’m already halfway healed…it won’t even scar..” You pull back and gently held his face and kiss his forehead.

He sighed.

“Wanna stay up with me? Wash the sheets and sit outside a bit?” You smiled.

He nods. “I’m so sorry.”

You don’t respond as you get out of bed, pain on your sides quickly fading. You pull him with you and you both start pulling off the blood soaked sheets quietly.

Once everything is in the washer you sit with him on the couch in the dark, cuddled next to him as he smoked a cigar to calm his nerves.

“That was my worst nightmare.” He said softly as he took a long drag.

“I know..but i know you didnt mean too. You’ve been through a lot it was bound to happen at some point… and plus, i’m better now..”

“I…I dunno why you put up with me.”

“Because I love you. ‘Cause i know deep down you have a good soul.”

He huffed at this and smiled as he said, “Love, huh?”

“Yes, love. All of it. Your scars, your personality, just…you.”

Silence filled the room once more. He put the cigar out and laid it on the table then looked away.

“I’m just..scared. Of losing you. Are you sure? About us? This? I don’t want to hurt you anymore…i-“

“Logan, look at me.”

He turned to face you. Face unreadable as usual but you knew he felt worry.

“I’ll never leave you. And i’m so sure about us. 100%. You don’t have to be scared of anything considering that anymore. Okay? I’ll always love you.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment but then he closed the distance. Hugging you tightly. A soft thank you came from him moments later.

That night you two fell asleep on the couch in each others arms.

[darylsfavoritegirl]

ᥫ᭡ date nights with logan

⭑pictures are from pinterest

[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.

[freak-accident419]

hrnggg what if i wrote for patch then what…

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

[multi-fandom-imagine]

I'm tempted to write something for Patch since he's the one I haven't written for yet lol

[dragon-kazansky]

Patch

[pickledpascal]

Be My James Bond?

Pairing: Patch!Logan x Native American OC!Maya Imik

Warnings: sexual tension, violence, claws are OUT, smoking.

A/N: i love you patch logan and your .5 seconds of screen time in d&w. for context, maya is a mutant who can manipulate water/liquids.

Word Count: 1.8k

Hugh Jackman Masterlist

It was another one of those missions, the kind where Maya and Logan had to go undercover in some fancy casino that seemed way too good to be true. Which it was. These kinds of missions were somewhat trivial, at least in Maya’s eyes, but they always impacted mutant lives somehow. So of course she went on them.

Seeing Logan dressed up didn’t hurt either. And she knew Logan didn’t mind seeing her in a dress.

This time, she wore a strapless dress in a deep blue color that pooled onto the floor, a slit that went all the way to her mid-thigh. Her light sepia skin was on display for everyone to see. The scars never threw anyone off, they seemed to draw them in. She found it was a conversation starter which is what she needed on a mission like this. It also helped that she was usually the only Native in any room she walked into and people could tell.

She walked around the casino, keeping an eye on Logan as he played at a poker table. He wore a white blazer with a nicely fitting waistcoat and black bowtie. Classy. In all the right ways. And his eyepatch, which he wore no matter what seemed to tie the whole look together.

She went up to the bar to order a drink and get some information. This part of the casino was exclusive, meant for the high-rollers only.

Her presence had men flocking to the bar so she plastered a smile on her red-painted lips, sipping at a martini as she chatted with the men, pulling out bits and pieces of information from them as she lightly and expertly flirted with them.

Soon, Maya could feel a familiar presence make his way to the bar. She excused herself from the man she was talking with and moved further down the bar.

“Having any luck, River?” Logan asked, a hand around a crystal glass filled with whiskey. The color was similar to her left eye. He had also lit up a cigar which he had currently hanging from his lips.

Maya smirked, their shoulders brushing up against each other. She breathed in the smoke of his cigar as it swirled around them. “The best. How ‘bout you, Patch?”

Logan huffed under his breath, plucking the cigar from his lips between two fingers. “I’m working on that.” Maya was about to say something else when a man she previously talked to went up to her.

He was a little shorter, younger, and handsome man who was certainly way in over his head. “Hey, pretty girl.” He crooned as he stood between her and Logan. He slid a hand up her arm. “You wanna get out of here? This old guy must be bothering you.”

Mistake number one when talking to Maya in front of Logan: Never assume she is yours. She’s not. And Logan will make you not so nicely understand.

A light laugh escaped her lips while Logan seethed as he looked at the man. He was resisting the urge to slam his face into the bar top. It would be a shame to stain it with his blood.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” She tried to let him down gently, as a mercy. She hoped he would be smart and turn the other way. “I’m not the kind of girl who goes back to a hotel room with someone after a few drinks. I’m sure you understand.” She smiled politely.

The man huffed and turned around. “Bitch.” He mumbled under his breath.

Mistake number two: Never insult Maya.

Logan pulled the other man by his hair and slammed his head against the bar top, hard enough for his nose to break and bleed. His other hand extended his claws slowly. “Wanna try that again, bub? That’s my wife you’re talking to.” He ground out, eyes narrowed like he wanted to kill him.

All the activity around them seemed to stop, but no one made any move to try and help the man who was unfortunately at the mercy of an angry Wolverine.

The man tried to shake his head but it was hard to since he was held against the counter. Logan roughly let him go, pushing him away. “Get the fuck outta here.” His claws retracted back into his knuckles.

Maya couldn’t contain the sly smile on her face as she watched the young man fall into a heap on the floor before he got up and scrambled away.

“Was that really needed, Patch?” She asked, tilting her head as the smile on her lips widened.

Logan went back to smoking his cigar, the tension in his shoulders dissipating. “Wasn’t it, River?” His lips quirked up into a lop-sided smirk. “Can’t have someone thinking they can have you, can I?”

Maya was glad they got the information they needed so they didn’t have to stay in the casino any longer. With the way Logan’s eyes roamed over her body and how he broke someone’s face, it was best they got out of there.

She pushed their hotel room open, toeing off her heels so she sat at her normal height. With them on, she was taller than Logan rather than being almost exactly his height. Logan pushed the door closed behind him and locked it before he wrapped his arms around her waist and pressed soft kisses to her neck.

“Always so goddamn tempting when you dress like this.” He murmured against her skin. “Almost like you want to torture me.”

Maya turned in his arms and cupped his face, kissing him softly. It wasn’t her fault the revealing dresses made more men want to talk to her. And it wasn’t her fault she could be easy to talk to when she wanted to be.

Logan’s shoulders slumped as she kissed him. She relaxed him like no other person could, rendering him limp at times from just a simple touch.

She pushed Logan onto the couch and let out a soft breath as she looked down at him. And he looked up at her, pulling her close by her hand so she stood between his legs. He pressed the back of her hand to his lips, thumb rubbing against the wedding rings that sat on her fingers.

Her other hand lifted to push his eyepatch off his face, revealing the milky white eye underneath. He wasn’t completely blind in that eye but he was self-conscious about how it looked. Maya didn’t mind. She liked seeing his face in its full glory. Her thumb traced underneath his left eye, causing him to let out a breath of contentment.

The deformed eye was a result of getting shot, but it never quite healed right. He wasn’t sure what was wrong with his healing factor, it was fine with everything else. Just that one eye. However, he counted himself lucky that it didn’t look worse.

Logan huffed softly and leaned forward, burying his face in her solid but still plush stomach. He wrapped his arms around her hips as he nuzzled his face against her. He could feel her body rumble underneath him as she laughed. Her hands cradled the back of his head as he kept rubbing his face against her torso. A low purr escaped his chest.

He tugged her onto his lap, hands on her hips as he pushed his face into her neck to breathe in her scent properly. Now, it was mixed with a perfume which he had complained about many times before. It made it harder for him to pick up her smell.

Maya pressed a kiss to the side of his head, a light and easy smile on her face. One that she only had when she was with Logan and he was being affectionate like this.

“I love you.” Logan pulled away from her neck to look her in the eye when he said it. He was loyal to a fault for Maya. He’d kill for her, easily. If he could die, he would give up his life in an instant.

Maya’s eyes roamed over his face, her smile widening. “I love you too.” She pressed a kiss to his left eyebrow. His eyes fluttered closed for a moment.

They sat in silence for a while, drinking in each other's presence like they did most nights they were together. It was routine Logan wasn’t used to but he found that he loved it, even during missions like these.

He grabbed a cigar from his blazer and lit it. The light cast a harsh shadow over his face and illuminated him with a warm light, if only for a few seconds. Maybe less. Maya always thought he looked pretty when smoking a cigar and, sometimes, Logan would use that to his advantage.

He took a puff from the cigar and smirked as he blew the smoke in her face. She stared at him with an amused look in her eyes, largely unphased. She sat up a little straighter on his lap and raised an eyebrow with interest.

“Logan—” Maya breathed.

He cupped her chin with his free hand, thumb tracing her bottom lip. “C’mon, pretty girl,” He called her the one thing he knew would make her melt. “Open up.”

Maya’s eyes darkened, pupils blown wide that the color was only a thin ring. Her jaw clenched before she finally did comply, her lips parting.

Logan grinned as he took another drag from his cigar, sharp canines barely made an appearance between his lips. Maya noticed. He blew the smoke into her mouth like he had done it a hundred times before. He has. It never got old. She sucked in the smoke and blew it right back at him.

He pulled her chin close so he could kiss her, to taste the cigar on her lips. He would light up a cigar just to taste it on her lips a lot. He found it was more addicting than the tobacco they were made of.

“Can never get enough, can you?” A sly smile appeared on Maya’s lips as Logan pulled away, putting the cigar between his lips.

“Of you? Never.” He tilted his head, an eyebrow raised as he looked at her. His hands dropped to cradle her hips. “I married you, isn’t that proof?”

Her heart beat louder, harder in her chest when he mentioned they were married. She could never get used to it—his ring on her finger and her ring on his finger. How he stared at her with such love and adoration that she felt like her chest was an overflowing waterfall.

“If I recall, I proposed first.”

“True, but you beat me only by a week.”

“Mm, sure.”

Logan might have claws but he also had the ability to bend that waterfall to his will, subconsciously or not.

[heart--of--gold]

Imagine meeting Logan for the first time while he's undercover as his alias, Patch. Imagine him sitting there in that white suit, an eyepatch over his eye, not giving a single fuck as he drinks and gambles with the other men there at his table. Imagine being his target, the one who has all the answers he's seeking for his mission. Imagine Patch being the one to cozy with you to get the information he needs until all the affection and love has for you are real. Imagine being Patch's partner, his everything, until he has to go.

[milexa2000]

imagine a fanfic with the reader with all the Wolverine variants from DP&W in one room… I WOULD LOVE FOR THAT TO HAPPEN

Got this idea from this fanart: https://x.com/umikochannart/status/1826360185381961736

[monimccoythings]

Shine Bright like a Diamond

How come nobody told me there was a Patch!Logan and Emma Frost fusion called Diamond Patch. My God he gives the vibes of refined upper class businessman who under that smooth and sweet persona hides a very vicious and sadistic beast that comes out when he gets pissed off.

tags: gender neutral reader; yandereish logan?; implied murder(s); possessive behavior

Diamond Patch likes many things. He likes expensive cars, fancy suits, cocktail parties, and you. You. You. You.

The first time he saw you he got this primal and very unrefined need to possess you, to consume you, to claim you for himself. You just had to be his one way or another.

You had to admit that Diamond Patch was not only extremely handsome, but also terribly charming. A dangerous combination.

As attracted as you were to him, you knew how men like him worked. You knew how horrible, spoiled and vain they could be towards others. Always seeing people as conquests, trophies to be earned. A night in paradise and then completely dismiss you when they got bored.

You refused to become another notch on his bedpost. You wouldn't allow yourself to become his plaything only for him to tear you apart with no regards for your feelings. So you refuted any kind of move or advances he made towards you.

Diamond Patch is baffled with your behavior. Nothing seems to work with you: expensive gifts, elegant dates, and sweet compliments that would have turned the most up-tight of secretaries into a puddle .

Diamond Patch has tried to impress you with everything in his arsenal: his mighty physique, his charm, his money and his power, and yet you won't give him the time of the day.

Diamond Patch is not used to NOT getting what he wants. So your rejection only fuels his desire to have you even more.

Diamond Patch is not above playing dirty. He is not above taking out the competition for your affections. You suddenly start having fewer and fewer suitors.

Diamond Patch hates getting his pristine white suit dirty, but is willing to sink to the lowest of lows just to be the one to have you.

And once you finally give in, just to get him off your back, you just thought it would be enough for him. No feelings, no love, just him getting his way as always. You were ready to learn to live with that. However, you just inadvertently confirmed what he already knew.

No other man could ever have you.

[znerac]

Ughhh I love patch. I need more patch ficss

Smeared Lipstick

Still on my Logan nonsense (thank god) and had a round of Patch!Logan feels. I know nothing about him other than what I saw in Deadpool and Wolverine, so sorry if I messed him up somehow.

This is for @likedovesinthewnd because she's the one who told me I should write it lol

Also shout out to @bpmiranda for posting the best/nastiest smut fics that inspired me to go ham and not hold back for once. If you need some more Logan, read mine first but she's got a lot more!

Warnings: Casino, basically pure smut with only a sprinkle of plot, oral (male receiving), some light conartistry, mutant reader, bathroom smut, fingering (both receiving because I'm a feminist lol), sugar daddy but only kinda, Patch!Logan, a touch of 'getting caught', and probably some other stuff. Let me know if I missed anything important.

Word Count: 3473 (don't look at me)

[More Logan]

[Main Master List]

“Hit me,” 

The dealer passed Logan another card and he concealed his joy easily. He’d hit 20 for the third time at this table. Lady Luck always on his side.

“You win again, sir,” The dealer said, pushing the new stack chips across the table to him.

“I’m afraid it’s time we close this table, sir,” Your voice always soothed something in him. You’d been working at this particular casino for a few months, and so, Logan always found himself at your tables. No one suspected the truth of why you both were there.

“Pity, I was doing so well,” Logan looked up at you with his one good eye, drinking in the way your glittery red dress hugged every single one of your edges just right. How your hair was done up with sparkly bits to match the shine on your dress. How your lipstick was the exact shade of red as your dress.

You looked good enough to eat, if he were being honest.

“I’m sure I can find you somewhere else to play,” You smile, half customer service, half something naughty.  Logan put the cigar he’d been chewing on away into his pocket. He had a feeling he’d find himself with something better to put in his mouth shortly.

“Lead the way, sweetheart,” Logan stood, leaving his chips all on the table. “Cash those into my account,” This was directed at the dealer who was just cleaning up his station.

“Please, Mr. Locken,” You urged the dealer. He was a clever young man, one of your best dealers. He’d caught three different cheaters in his time at the casino, and you were impressed that he was so good at catching them. Even the team upstairs, who’s entire job it was to catch cheating, had missed one of the three Locken had spotted.

“Of course, Miss Y/N,” Locken replied, gathering Logan’s chips.

“Thank you,” You said, taking Logan’s arm and leading him away. 

Logan had been staring at the skin exposed that showed over the slinky material of your dress. You knew poor Locken likely knew exactly what you and Mr. Logan were about to get up to. Locken didn’t really want to know, but it wasn’t exactly a secret that you and Mr. Logan, the high roller with an eye patch, were an item. Most of the staff knew, and the rest likely suspected.

But Mr. Logan, being a high roller, got away with all kinds of things. Fucking the floor manager was hardly a big deal or a surprise at that point.

“And where are you taking me, Miss Y/N,” Logan mocked Locken’s tone and you smacked his chest with one hand. “As I recall, there aren’t any tables this way, and the hotel is the other direction too,” 

“I was thinking you needed a little more luck,” You told him. “I heard that another big fish was headed in to drop some cash, and he’s luckier than most who walk through the door.” There was something about you that no one in the building, other than Logan, knew about you… and that was that you were a mutant who could control a person’s luck. You could also see how lucky someone was, just by touching them. It came in all kinds of handy working in a casino, and extra handy where Logan was involved. The two of you having a sort of arrangement in regards to luck.

“What did you have in mind for me?” Logan mused as you led him down another hallway and into a single stall bathroom. It was one of the large single stall bathrooms, where several people could use the two sinks and spacious counter during a wedding or other event, usually to get ready. This particular bathroom was out of the way of the main space though, less likely to get interrupted.

“Lock the door,” You told him with a saucy smirk. 

You and Logan had met originally in a different casino, and he’d figured out that his string of bad luck had been tied to you. He thought, originally, that it was because he’d gotten so distracted by you that he’d lost his edge. You knew it was because you’d turned all his luck to bad and all your own luck to good, hoping to clean house well enough to eat for the next month.

“Yes, ma’am,” Logan turned to lock the door and when he turned back, you were sitting on the counter, skirt hiked up to your knees. Logan took a deep breath through his nose that quickly dissolved into a growl of pleasure as he smelled your arousal. “Never will get over how good you smell, honey,” He stepped between your thighs and tipped your chin up so that you were looking at him.

“Only for you baby,” You purred back, leaning up so your breath brushed his lips sensually.

“No kissing,” Logan reminded you, and you pouted, but you knew the deal. After he’d found you out as a mutant, you’d both struck a deal. You would give him better luck, and he'd take good care of you, effectively becoming your sugar daddy. Only, if you called him ‘daddy’ he’d bend you over his knee, so you saved that for special occasions. 

“Please?” You begged, knowing that was the only line left in the sand between you. You’d done everything else, had sex in every direction you could think of. But no kissing. Never kissing.

You didn’t like it, but it was easy enough to complain around.

“You know the rules,” Logan growled softly. He ran his tongue along the exposed skin at your throat and you moaned. He chuckled, feeling your vibrations against his tongue.

“Rules are made to be broken, I thought?” You pressed as he stepped forward to bump the hardness in his pants against you. Your hips moved against him as if there was ever any question to what was going on between you.

“I can walk away,” Logan warned and you whined, but nodded to tell him you’d stop asking. “Good girl,” 

“Wait,” You said, suddenly having a sordid idea. Logan rocked backwards on his heel far enough to peer questioningly into your face. “Let me take care of you this time,” 

“You wanna take care of me?” Logan asked skeptically. You reached down to palm him through his slacks. His eye fluttered closed at the contact and he had to brace himself on the counter on either side of you.

“Please, baby? Since you won’t let me kiss you, at least let me taste you?” You batted your eyelashes at him and he knew he was a sucker for giving in to you anytime you did that. Hell, he’d kill a man no questions asked, if you batted your lashes at him.

“Get to it then,” He moved back only far enough to let you slide off the counter and to your knees. You made short work of undoing his belt and pants. You pulled his slacks and boxers down just far enough to allow his cock to spring free. He was already rock hard and leaking for you when you cooed happily and kitten licked the warm tip of him.

He had to grip the counter again to remain in control of himself. You smirked as you did it again, tasting the salty tang of his precum before you wrapped your lips around just the head of his cock.

“Fuck,” Logan grunted, trying his best not to slam his dick straight down your throat. He knew you could take it, but he wanted to let you get there on your own.

“Want me to stop?” You pause only long enough to ask before you licked a long stripe up the underside of him, tracing the thick vein there from balls to tip.

“Don’t you dare,” Logan pants, cursing again when you go back to the small licks along the very tip of his cock. You always seemed to know exactly how to drive him out of his mind. Maybe that was why he’d give you anything you wanted. Diamonds, jewelry, gold, silver, hotel rooms, a car if you asked for it… He’d give you anything his money could buy. 

Anything but the heart he was pretty sure you weren’t even aware you’d already stolen.

You pressed a small kiss to his angry red tip before sticking out your tongue and sliding him into the warmth of your mouth.

Logan cursed again, his hips bucking once before he could stop himself. You adjusted your knees on the hard tile floor, loosened your jaw, and slid your hands lovingly around his thighs.

With your eyes fluttering softly and the end of his dick in your mouth, Logan was surprised he didn’t cum right there on your tongue.

You looked up at him and gave a slight nod, telling him you were ready for him to take control if he wanted it. Logan felt his heart rate spike as the animal in him begged to claim you. If he wasn’t careful he’d bury his fist in your hair and throat fuck you until you couldn’t speak. But he’d promised to be careful when you were at work, because you needed to look nice for the casino.

When Logan didn’t immediately take over, you leaned forward, taking more and more of him into your mouth, slowly, until he just barely touched the back of your throat. Your throat constricted on a gag and the feeling of your throat closing was all it took for the animal inside him to break free.

Logan’s strong hand cradled the back of your head, trying to avoid pulling out the glittery baubles you’d put there this morning before he’d driven you to work. You leaned back into his palm, trying to ease the sensation in your throat, and you got relief for about two beats before that same careful hand pulled you back along him until your nose was pressed flush with the rough hair at his base.

You knew it was his turn to have his fun now, and you couldn’t help but grin for a moment before you remembered how hard it was to breathe around the girth of his cock.

Your nails dug into the meat of his thighs as you focused on breathing while he jerked his hips. The drag of his cock along your tongue made heat pool in your stomach as he abused your throat over and over again.

Meanwhile, Logan was making the most guttural noises while he used your throat. His grunting and groaning echoing in the empty bathroom, occasionally punctuated by a soft curse or two when your throat squeezed him just right. All paired with the wet sound of his cock sliding in and out of your throat.

But as much as you’d love to let him stay there in your mouth until he came, you needed a break. You reached up and tapped on his stomach, your agreed sign that you needed air. 

Instantly, Logan pulled back and caught your eyes with his one good one.

“You alright?” He asked and you nodded with a slight cough.

“Just needed to catch my breath,” You admitted. “I’m out of practice,” 

“I know one way to fix that,” Logan said with a cheeky grin.

“Give me five more seconds,” You said, adjusting on your knees again. You took a second to pull his slacks down to his knees. You lean in and give some attention to each of his beefy thighs, kissing the strong muscles and nibbling the soft flesh.

“Don’t tease me,” Logan grumbled, his hand coming back to your head. “Finish what you started,” 

“Yes, sir,” You batted your lashes up at him and his cock twitched next to your face. You took another moment to lick the side of him, rubbing his length against your face, showcasing just how long he was compared to your head. It was a wonder you could fit him all down your throat.

You kissed the side of his dick a few times, preparing you both for another round, and with one last kitten lick to his slit, his dick slid back into your throat.

The second time was always easier for you, and you’re always happy to help when it means he would let out those grunting noises you love so much.

And you knew exactly what would make him whine for you too.

You slid your hands up and around the back of his thighs until you could grip both of his taught buttcheeks in your hand. This distracted him enough from his movements that you were able to swallow around his tip and make him groan again. You bobbed your head as you kneaded his flesh and he got lost in the sensation the exact same way you did when he was face down between your legs. And just like he always did, you carefully slid a finger into his waiting hole.

The noise Logan makes is something you wished you could bottle up for a rainy day. It’s somewhere near a whine and too gravelly to be a whimper. You withdraw only long enough to add some moisture to your digits before working yourself back into him, stroking at that spot deep inside that makes his thighs tense and his knees shake.

Having discovered how stroking him like this made him feel, you understood why he liked to finger-fuck you so much. Making him experience such pleasure, pleasure that only you have brought him? Heaven. Heaven on earth, about to cum down your throat.

Logan never lasted long with your fingers in his ass.

You hold your breath while he comes undone in your mouth, bucking his hips against the swirling of your tongue. You try to swallow it all, but it’s difficult when he’s moving still, so you just hold on until he’s pumped every last drop into your mouth.

Before he can be overstimulated too much, he pulls your hand away from him and slides himself from your soft mouth.

“Fuck, baby, thought you were going to suck me dry for a second there,” 

“I would if you’d let me,” You smiled up at him. He reached down and gently rubbed his thumb under your bottom lip, catching a drip of his cum that you hadn’t managed to swallow. At first you thought he’d press it into your mouth, but instead he brought it to his own and you felt your face flame with unexpected heat.

“Maybe next time sweetheart,” Logan helped you to your feet before adjusting himself and pulling up his slacks.

“Wait, you’ve got lipstick all over,” You tried to stop him from tucking himself away hoping you could clean him up properly, but he just chuckled and did up his pants.

“Something to remember you by,” He teased and you rolled your eyes before turning to the mirror to see the state of your own face. It was about what you’d figured but also you didn’t mind in the slightest.

Your red lipstick was smeared all across your cheek, your eyes were wet so your eyeshadow had mostly rubbed off, but luckily your eyeliner had stayed put. You wore super waterproof eyeliner for that reason after all. There was still some of the sticky release of Logan’s painted on your lips and tongue from where you’d failed to swallow it all.

“Look at that,” You mused. “You smeared my lipstick,” Logan chuckled at that, turning you around so that he could see.

“Seems so,” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a silk handkerchief. He gently took your chin and held you steady while he soiled the white silk with your red lipstick and the remains of his cum. After fucking your throat like that, you almost forgot he could be gentle too.

You liked it when he was gentle.

When Logan was satisfied with his work, he put his handkerchief back in his pocket and leaned down to kiss your cheek, you froze when you felt his lips at the edge of yours. Almost a kiss. 

But he knew better than that. 

You both did.

You whined softly for him, wanting more, but you also needed to get back to work.

“Turn around for me,” Logan said. You raised an eyebrow at him but did as he asked, gasping when he pressed himself against your ass.

“Logan,” You chided. “I need to head back,” 

“Just give me a minute to return the favor,” Logan was smirking at you over your shoulder as you watched him in the mirror. “I promise I won’t smear your lipstick this time,” You bit your lip at the thought of him getting you off here too.

“I really should be getting back,” You tried to say, but it was half hearted at best. He smacked your ass and you whimpered at him, terribly needy and terribly turned on.

“Spread your legs for me and lift your skirt,” He commanded against the shell of your ear. “Now,” You jumped at the authority in his voice and moved to do as he asked. You hoisted your skirt up to your hips and let your legs shift apart so that he had room to slide his knee between your thighs.

You gasped as he bounced his leg into your sensitive folds.

“I’ll repay you properly when we get home tonight, but until then,” He pressed a soft kiss to the side of your neck. “Let me make my baby feel good,” You could only nod as he reached down and slid his hand into your already soaked panties.

“Logan,” You moaned as his finger traced circles around your bud. “That feels so good,” 

“Good,” He nibbled on your earlobe. “Just relax,” 

You were about to give in entirely when the handle to the bathroom jiggled and it reminded you all at once that you were still at work.

“Fuck… Logan…” You tried to stop him, but he just dipped his fingers deeper and you mewled instead.

“Don’t worry about that, focus on me and what I’m doing,” Logan purred. The handle rattled again and this time you heard someone curse about the bathroom being occupied too long.

You jumped when the person outside banged on the door.

“Find another bathroom, bub!” Logan growled loudly as he kicked the door angrily in return. Another curse from outside the door and Logan slowed his movements until he couldn’t hear the person outside anymore. “Now where were we?”

You were gripping his arm, which was wrapped around your waist to keep you in place.

“I don’t even remember,” You admitted with a laugh, which shifted into a moan as he moved his fingers against you again and all at once you remembered. “Fuck,” You moaned.

“That’s it,” He sped up his fingers, watching your face in the mirror as your closed your eyes in pleasure. “Come on, baby, give it to me,” He grunted against your shoulder, his teeth teasing your skin.

It didn’t take much more for you to cum around his fingers, fluttering and shaking in his arms as he held you up.

“That’s it pretty girl, that’s it,” Logan purrs against your ear, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder. “That’s my pretty girl,” 

You turned, wanting to kiss him, to thank him for this, but you remembered his rule, so instead you pressed your forehead into his jaw and whined at him.

“I really do need to get back to work,” You whisper. “And you need to go make enough money for that trip we’ve been talking about,” 

“Yes ma’am,” Logan chuckled in your ear as he finally pulled his fingers out of the tight embrace of your cunt. You groaned at the loss of him, but hummed in pleasure when you watched him lick his fingers clean. “Need me to carry you to your desk?” He teased.

“Oh shush,” You stood and adjusted yourself. “I was just enjoying the moment for a little longer,” 

“Could always play hooky and use your key to get us into a room upstairs,” Logan said, like he was nothing but serious. You shove him playfully.

“Yeah, and then I’ll get fired again,” You chided. “We’re going to run out of good casinos if we keep doing that,” 

“So?” He pressed his lips to your temple. “Maybe when we run out of casinos, I’ll make an honest woman out of you,” This makes you pause. Could he be serious? 

“Only once we’ve run out?” You asked, trying not to sound too hopeful. 

“And if we get married, I’ll have to kiss you, won’t I?” It sounded almost like a tease, but there was nothing but joy and mirth in his eye.

And maybe, just maybe, love was sparkling in there too.

[More Logan]

[Main Master List]

[lubdubology]

When Things Turn Green Again

SYNOPSIS: Hoping to mend the pain of your broken heart and bury the memory of your failed marriage, you turn towards the woods. A cabin was left in your name and it’s the exact distraction you were looking for. What you didn’t anticipate is meeting a quiet, ruggedly handsome man along the way who helps you heal.

PAIRING: Logan x fem!reader

WC: 11k

WARNINGS: smut 18+; mdni; angst; mentions of cheating/divorce; emotional trauma; fluff; sexual innuendos; brief mentions of drinking; dirty talk; slight dom!Logan; oral (f receiving); fingering; doggy style; cock warming; sex with feelings; unprotected p in v

A/N: I pictured either Origins!Logan or Wolverine!Logan, but I think you can envision any Logan you’d prefer. And again thanks to @joelsgoldrush for the support through writing this ❤️ I really do love this piece I wrote and I hope you do too. Feedback is always welcome and appreciated! And thank you to everyone who has read, commented, liked and reblogged both Soft Edges and Til The Sun Turns Black—I never imagined either of those stories reaching over 1k notes.

The gravel crunches under your tires as you roll down the long driveway. Memories bloom deep in your chest as you near the cabin, of times simpler than this, unburdened by trappings of real life. You spent your formative years out here in the woods with your grandfather. Summers spent learning how to fish on the lake; how to recognize the poisonous berries from the nonpoisonous ones; and making fires, roasting marshmallows long after the sun had gone down. 

Your grandfather had helped build this cabin. He’d always preferred the outdoors and solitude from people—with the obvious exception of your grandmother and mother—and he’d often come here to escape. Especially after he lost them both. 

The cabin comes into view through the trees just starting to unfurl their spring foliage. Patches of snow still dot the landscape but the wet brown of winter is losing to spring’s verdant hues. The structure has seen better days, last having been lived in over ten years ago. 

A stab of regret pierces your chest. The cabin was willed to you when your grandfather died, but this was your first trip up here since the funeral. You planned to, of course, but as the old saying goes, life happened. Now, you’re hoping the old place can give you something to sink your energy into besides thinking about your failed marriage. 

You park the truck and step out, surveying the property. The shrubs and flower beds are overgrown and choked with old growth and weeds. Years worth of leaves rest upon the roof and clog the gutters. The front porch has several loose or missing spindles and you’re almost afraid to step up onto the old boards. Proving yourself right, the wood groans and creaks beneath your feet, certain spots threatening to give way.

“That’s going to be a fun project,” you mutter to yourself.

Opening the front door, you’re met with the damp mustiness of a long closed up space. A layer of dust seems to coat nearly every surface and cobwebs linger in the corners. You’re hoping the repairs needed inside the cabin are more cosmetic than costly.

You open up the old blinds, letting the early morning light filter in the room. It’s not a large space, an open kitchen, living room and dinning area with separate bedroom and attached bathroom. A small set of steps leads up to a loft, which also doubles as a sleeping space or bonus area.

You unload your belongings from the truck, tucking them away inside the bedroom, before opening all the windows to let in the fresh air. Thankfully, the glass and protective screens are in relatively good repair—a few need replacing, but an easy enough job. You feel a sense of purpose flourish within you, something you haven’t felt for months and you wonder if this is just the reprieve you need to find yourself again.

+++

You spend the morning taking inventory of the repairs needed around the cabin to make it immediately livable. Jotting down a list of supplies, you hop in your truck and head into town to hit up the hardware store. 

The owner, George, recognizes you from previous trips with your grandfather when you were younger. He greets you warmly and helps you find everything you need. As you’re checking out, he asks, “Run into Logan yet?”

“Logan?”

He nods his head. “Shares a property line with you. Has a cabin of his own just about a quarter mile north of yours. Asked him to keep his eye out on the place.”

“Oh, well, that was nice of him,” you comment, stuffing your receipt in your purse. 

George shrugs. “Figured it would give him something different to do. Doesn’t interact much with people.”

“Guess I’ll just have to introduce myself then,” you say, lifting your bags up off the checkout counter. 

“Good luck with that,” George responds with a huffed laugh. “He’s not one for small talk.” 

You give George a polite smile and leave the store, bags in hand. But the conversation sparks your curiosity and you find yourself thinking of the man who shares the woods with you. You promised yourself once you were settled, you’d make the short hike towards his place and introduce yourself.

Arriving back at the cabin, you park the truck and hop out, stopping short when you spot a lone figure walking around from the back of your property. You can’t stop the prickle of anxiety that zips up your spine as the figure comes closer, but he doesn’t see you yet, his eyes on the ground as he walks.

You shut the truck door with more force than necessary, the sound echoing off the trees. He looks up then and you suck in a short breath as his rugged features come into view—well trimmed but scruffy beard, wild dark hair and a fit muscular frame you can see even under the flannel of his shirt.

Butterflies flutter in your stomach and you can’t remember the last time you’ve felt like this. You can feel a blush creep across your face and you grip the bags in your hands tighter just to feel something other than the hammering of your heart in your chest.

He stops short of where you’re standing and jerks a thumb behind him. “Turned your electrical breaker on,” he says without introduction and you can only stare at him.

“Oh,” you say dumbly. “I, uh—thanks.”

He tilts his head and looks at you and you feel like you’re on fire under his glare. It’s an inquisitive one, like he can’t quite figure out what you’re doing in a place like this and you shift uncomfortably under his gaze. And yet, you don’t want him to stop looking at you. 

“Right,” he says, reaching into the pocket of his jeans for something. He fishes out a key and holds it in your direction. “This is yours.”

You shift the bags, so you’re holding them all in one hand and reach for the key. Your fingertips brush against his just briefly, but it’s enough to set sparks along your skin and you can feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. As he steps back from you, you blurt out your name and then immediately wish for a swift death at your awkwardness. 

God, this was embarrassing. 

It’s like you’ve never interacted with humans before.

He gives the barest hint of a smile. “Logan.”

“Nice to meet you, Logan,” you say, just so you can taste his name in your mouth.

Logan nods and turns to head down the path that leads away from your cabin and deeper into the woods. You watch him go, his figure fading further into the distance and you can’t help but think, I’m in trouble. 

+++

You spend the rest of the day keeping busy around the cabin—wiping down dusty surfaces, sweeping up cobwebs, replacing broken light bulbs—but your mind never strays far from Logan and the inexplicable pull you have towards him. 

You’ve dated. You were married. You weren’t a stranger to the opposite sex and physical attraction, but this felt like more. Like an unavoidable pull between you and him and you’ve just been spun into his orbit. 

And that attraction terrifies you. 

Over the next few days, you try and shove him from your mind. It helps that you haven’t seen him again, but your eyes inevitably dart towards the path leading away from your cabin as if you’re expecting him to come walking through. 

Then, the idea comes to you late one night as you’re sitting in front of the fire, watching the flames lick higher. No matter how hard you had tried, Logan remained firmly planted in your mind, his roots stubborn and unyielding. 

Your grandfather always said your grandmother’s cooking was always something that warmed his heart. 

But as you walk the small path towards Logan’s property you briefly wonder if you’ve lost your mind. You carry the small pie dish in your hands and as his cabin grows closer you’re actually contemplating turning back and forgetting the whole thing.

Who the hell bakes pies for people any more?

His cabin is smaller than yours, a little more rustic and worn, which seems fitting based on the little you know about him. Several piles of firewood line the roofed porch and at the opposite end, a single chair and table sit in front of the window. With one last shaky inhale, you climb the steps and rap your knuckles against the door. From inside you hear heavy footfalls and then the door opens.

Logan looks down at you and then towards the dish in your hands, an odd expression crossing his handsome features.

“I made you a pie,” you blurt unceremoniously and you instantly wish for the ground to open up and swallow you whole.

Logan just continues to stare at you and you think you see the slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth. But maybe not.

“I, uh, my grandfather lived in the cabin next to yours and it’s mine now. I’m fixing it up, because…well, just because and he taught me to pick berries as a kid? So, I did that and I made you this,” you finish in a ramble, flames of embarrassment licking across your skin.

Jesus fucking Christ.

His eyes flick down at the dish in your hands again and you hold it up a bit higher, nudging it closer towards him. As he reaches out to take it, his fingers brush against yours and you again feel electricity tingle down your fingertips. If he notices it too, he says nothing, not that he’s said anything since you showed up on his porch. 

Logan tucks the dish closer to his body and gives you a slight nod. You take that as a good sign and step back to leave. “Okay, cool, cool. Well, um, enjoy. I made sure all he berries were the edible ones so you don’t end up throwing up everywhere.”

At that he actually huffs a chuckle. “Good to know,” he finally says, his voice warm and rich and just a bit gruff.

“Right, well, enjoy!” You turn to leave and can feel his stare against your back and it takes all your remaining functioning brain cells to walk normally.

You spend the next few days trying to forget all about your ill-fated attempt to play neighbor, figuring if he didn’t want to know you before, he definitely didn’t after that. 

You’re coming back from a hike when you spot Logan through the trees walking away from your place, hands tucked deep within his pockets. Your heart quickens in your chest as you walk up to the front door and find the baking dish sitting on the old welcome mat. It’s freshly washed with a folded up piece of paper sitting inside—Thank you.

You’re certain your smile could rival the light from the sun.

+++

It becomes a routine over the next few weeks—you bringing him food and him returning the dish, all without exchanging any words. You’re thankful he’s not much of a talker because you can’t seem to stop making a fool of yourself around him. 

And you don’t know why. 

He’s a handsome man, that anyone can see, but you’ve never been so flustered around a beautiful man before.

There’s something else about Logan you can’t pinpoint that sets your heart fluttering behind your ribs. He seems lonely in the same way you are, and you wonder if he’s out here to lick and heal old wounds just like you. You have an inexplicable want to help him, even if that means sharing your food leftovers with him and trying to chip away at the wall that surrounds him. 

A part of you is hoping he can help break down your walls, too. 

You’re waist deep under the kitchen sink when a knock on the door drags you from fixing the leaking drain. 

“Ah, fuck,” you curse, trying to maneuver out of the space while also not spilling the stagnant water left in the sink trap. As you set the old drain down you call out, “Just a second!”

You wipe your hands against your thighs and swing the door open to find Logan standing there, your glass baking dish from yesterday in his hands. For a second you blink silently at him, unable to think of anything but the fact that you’re wearing grease stained overalls and probably smell like a swamp. 

“Logan, hi,” you finally say, brushing your hair out of your face. 

He gives you a strange look as he hands the dish back to you. You open your mouth to speak when he interrupts you, “Why do you feed me?”

His question hangs in the air and you freeze. Of all the things he could have asked, you weren’t sure why you didn’t expect that one. His voice is a little gruff, but underneath there’s something that makes your heart race. Something vulnerable. 

You swallow and grip the edge of the glass dish. Logan stares at you, his gaze intense, and you feel exposed. Like he’s trying to dissect you with just a look. 

“Oh, well, I don’t know,” you finally admit. “You just…seem like you could use some kindness.”

He raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything else. The silence stretches between you, heavy and charged, and you can feel your pulse quicken. “I can stop if—if you want.”

“No,” he says, his voice rough, but with an undercurrent of tenderness. “No, you don’t have to stop. Just not used to people doin’ things like that for me.”

His admission catches you off guard being the first real piece of personal information he’s shared with you. You’ve gleaned certain things from George—he’s told you about Logan being a mutant and a few pieces of his past—but you know there’s still a world of history hiding behind his loner facade that he keeps hidden. You’re hoping eventually he lets you take a peak inside.

“Everyone deserves kindness, Logan,” you say. 

His gaze flickers, a shadow of something crossing his features that makes your heart ache. He shifts on his feet and stares down at the dish in your hands. “I’m not so sure of that,” he replies. 

“Well, I am.”

Logan’s eyes drag back up to yours and you try to calm the nervous energy that bubbles under your skin as his stare presses into you. He gives you a small nod then before turning to leave. 

He pauses as he hits your driveway and looks back at you, cursing lowly to himself. Scratching at the back of his head, he walks back up the steps and pulls something out of the pocket of his jacket. “I, uh, here,” he says uncertainly as he hands you the small cloth bag. 

You can only stare as you take the bag from him, the gift surprisingly light in your hand, but the gesture heavy with unspoken emotion. Your mind races as you think of what could be inside and your heart hammers loudly in your chest. 

Logan stands there, eyes not quite meeting yours as he waits for you to open it. Your fingers tremble slightly as you undo the drawstrings and peer inside, finding a mixture of different seeds. You can’t help but trail your fingers through them, feeling the faint warmth they hold from where they were nestled against Logan’s body. 

“Oh, Logan,” you murmur, your voice thick with emotion. 

You glance up at him and he’s looking at you, scratching at his beard, the faintest hint of blush staining his cheeks. “They’re wildflowers. Don’t know what kind. But, I dunno. I thought you could use them for your garden.” 

Your chest tightens as you pull the strings close and tuck the bag in your pocket. “I love them, Logan,” you say, offering him a smile. “Thank you.”

For a moment, you see the tension in his shoulders relax just a bit as he exhales. “Just seemed like something you’d appreciate,” he mumbles, more to himself than to you. 

Something has shifted between you and you find yourself itching to touch him, but you don’t. Not yet. The thread holding you two together is there, but thin, and you don’t want it to fray. “I really do appreciate it,” you say softly, stepping just the tiniest bit closer. 

Logan nods and his mouth tugs into something that’s not quite a smile, but close. He looks at you for a long moment, the weight of his gaze pressing into you. “Okay. Good.” Shoving his hands in his pockets, he turns and jogs down the steps. 

“Guess I’ll see you around then,” you call after him, a smile spreading across your face. 

He glances back over his shoulder. “Yeah. I guess you will.”

And maybe, just maybe, the walls around him are beginning to crumble. 

+++

Sweat beads across your brow as you work, but you pay it no heed. Your attention keeps slipping to Logan as you pry another nail loose from the rotted board. You’ve fallen into an odd relationship with the elusive man whose property line you share, yet you still barely know anything about him.

It’s been a week since he stopped by and gave you those wildflower seeds. A warmth still spreads in your chest when you think about it. And true to his promise, you do see him around, albeit not as much as you’d like. He seems wary, as if his gift opened up a part of himself he wasn’t ready for you to see.

But at least he doesn’t drop off your clean dishes and run anymore. 

As you pry the last nail free, the rotten board comes free and you toss it down onto the grass along with the others. Thankfully, the porch isn’t terribly large and you figure another hour or so to remove the remaining boards before you can start laying down fresh lumber. 

The crunch of gravel pulls you from your work and you look up to find Logan walking down the path, a large leather bag in his hand. You look up at him, wiping the sweat off your brow and lean back onto your heels, trying your best not to stare at his forearms.

“Oh, hey, Logan,” you say, wiping your hands against your jeans as you stand. “What brings you to my side of the woods?”

He actually smiles at you and nods towards the porch. “Need help?”

You hate the little flutter you feel pressing against your ribs. “I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

“Well, it’s good thing you’re not asking. I’m offering.”

You blink, caught off guard by his directness. “Oh, well, if you insist,” you say, trying to calm your nerves. “It would be nice to have a second set of hands.”

He sets the leather bag down on the porch with a thud and you catch a glimpse of the tools nestled inside. Logan notices you looking and comments, “I know a few things.” His smirk makes your legs feel like jello. 

“Oh, I bet you know a lot of things,” you blurt, and your eyes widen at the double entendre of your words, heat flushing across your face. 

Logan laughs, a real laugh, his eyes crinkling. “Well, it’s always good to be well educated,” he says with a wink.

Fuck, you feel like you’re going to spontaneously combust. 

Shoving down your raging embarrassment, you lay out your plan to fix the porch and Logan gives a small nod. He starts at the opposite end, prying loose the first board with ease. You try not to stare at the way his muscles move and how his skin begins to slick with the first beads of sweat. You work in silence for a while, the only sounds those of the forest around you. 

“So, what actually brought you out here?” Logan finally asks. 

You glance over at him and watch as he tosses another board onto the grass. He looks at you expectantly and you sigh. “I got divorced,” you answer honestly. “And I needed something pour my energy into other than wondering where the fuck I went wrong.”

You can’t bring yourself to look at him, your openness leaving you feeling raw, and instead focus on the board in front of you. Anger begins to simmer in your veins at the thought of the last couple of years and you grab the next plank with just enough force to wedge a splinter deep into your palm. A loud curse falls from your lips as you drop the board. 

You feel Logan next to you and you suck in a deep breath as he reaches for your hand, his fingers curling around yours. “Lemme see,” he says, pulling you close and you can smell the earthiness of him, like damp soil and campfire smoke. You find yourself staring at him, his proximity intoxicating, as you drink in his long lashes and the slope of his nose. 

He tilts your palm towards himself, his fingers pressing gently yet with firm enough pressure to push the splinter out of your skin. Pulling it out the rest of the way, his eyes flick up to yours. “Somehow I don’t think you’re the one that fucked up, sweetheart.” His voice is warm and you want to melt into him. 

“Well,” you start, clearing your throat, “I certainly wasn’t fucking his mistresses.” 

Something in his eyes darkens and a shiver runs down your spine. “He’s a fool for losin’ you,” he growls, and his words hit you with more force than you’d care to admit. 

His hand still lingers on yours, steady and reassuring and warm and for a moment you think he might lean closer. You desperately want him to. To press his mouth against yours, to feel his breath against your skin, to have his taste against your tongue. But he pulls back, his expression one of thin control, but you can see the storm behind his gaze. 

“A damn fool,” he mutters under his breath and you can’t help but wonder if he’s talking about himself or your ex. 

Logan lets your hand go, turning back towards the porch and you mourn the loss, your skin still tingling from the contact. You swallow hard, trying to shake off the intensity of the moment. It’s Logan—quiet, gruff Logan, who never really sticks around for a real conversation and yet here he is, offering help and showing that maybe he’s not entirely as unaffected by you as you thought. 

Your heartbeat drums in your ears as you watch him go back to work, prying up the next board, his muscles flexing beneath his worn shirt. His jaw clenches and there’s a focused determination in his movements and you can’t tell if he’s working out some anger or trying to keep himself in check.

You work in silence for several more minutes, the only sounds being the prying of loose boards and creaking lumber. There’s a tension between you now, more so than there was before, something palpable. 

It’s enough to drive you mad.

“What about you?” you finally ask, your voice somewhat hesitant. “You don’t talk about yourself much.”

Logan glances at you from the corner of his eye and his brow furrows, as if he’s weighing whether or not to answer. “Not much to tell,” he grunts, pulling up another board with more force than necessary.

“Somehow, I doubt that. You don’t just wake up one day alone in the woods with forearms like that.” 

Logan looks over at you and smirks. “Maybe I’m just really good with my hands.” His voice dips low and you can’t help the warmth that pools low in your belly at his words.

You swallow, your throat suddenly dry. “Yeah, no…yep. I’m starting to figure that out.”

He’s silent for a few moments as he goes back to work and the air between you hums with something charged. “You really want to know?” he asks, his voice rough. “I’ve been around for too long, longer than anyone should. Done things I’m not proud of.” He tosses another plank aside and all you can do it watch him. “I’ve…I’ve hurt people I care about. People I’ve cared about have hurt me. I’m not really sure I belong anywhere, so I just…drift.”

There’s something raw in his voice, something broken and vulnerable, and it catches you off guard. For all his outward strength, there’s man deep down inside who’s lost, and your heart aches for him.

“You belong here,” you say softly. 

He doesn’t look at you, but you can feel the tension shift as the weight of your words settle between you. Another board gets tossed aside. “Yeah, maybe.”

He finally raises his gaze to yours and for a moment the world quiets—the forest, the porch, all of it—as his eyes lock onto yours and his expression softens. You offer him a warm smile and then return back to the porch, hesitant to push him any further. 

You work comfortably together after that. The old boards removed, Logan helps you place and nail down the new ones. Your conversation is limited to the project, but you don’t mind. 

As Logan packs up his tools, you glance over at him. “Thank you.”

A half smile plays at the corner of his mouth. “You’re welcome,” comes his reply as he steps off the porch and heads down the path back towards his cabin. 

“Logan!” you call, lightly jogging after him before he slips out of view. He pauses and turns back towards you. “Can I make you dinner?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Haven’t you already been doin’ that?”

“No,” you say shaking your head, “I mean, yes, I have, but like a proper dinner? Fresh from kitchen to table. I can come by you, if you’d like.”

Logan studies you for a moment, his gaze intense and you can feel your heart beating against your ribs. He’s silent for so long you wonder if you’ve overstepped and you open your mouth to speak when he says, “Alright. Come by tomorrow, six o’clock.”

You can’t stop the smile that spreads across your face. “Tomorrow it is.”

+++

You’re up before the sun, your nerves a tangle of raw edges. You lay there, staring at the ceiling  and wondering what the fuck you’ve gotten yourself into. 

You weren’t expecting to meet someone out here in the woods. You were hoping for tranquility, a distraction to quiet the voice in your head that kept nagging you for how your life veered off course. That maybe if you worked more, did more, loved more you wouldn’t be a thirty year old divorcee. 

Instead, you find a mysterious man who sparks within you a flame you long thought extinguished. A ruggedly handsome man who’s somehow wormed his way into your life and has you wondering if maybe he can’t help mend the pieces of your broken heart. 

Except you don’t know if that same spark is ignited within him and if his gesture of dinner is simple kindness. A response to the kindness you’ve shown him over the last two months or if he’s feeling that same attraction you do. 

God, you hope he does. 

You spend the morning cleaning, trying to pour your nervous energy into something productive other than worrying about what the evening may bring. Driving into town, you agonize over what to make even though he’s been eating what you’ve made without complaint for weeks now. You opt to keep it simple—pasta with homemade meat sauce, a nice loaf of bread and a couple bottles of wine. 

While the sauce is simmering on the stove you get ready. You dress for comfort, a simple pair of leggings and a flowy top that hangs slightly off your shoulders.  You catch your reflection in the mirror and give yourself a silent nod of encouragement. Despite this just being dinner, the night brims with the possibility of maybe something more. 

Once the food is prepared, you carefully pack everything in a large basket and begin the walk to Logan’s cabin. The night is cool, but still holds the warmth of day and the promise of summer to come. You feel your anticipation heighten the closer you get to his place and your stomach drops when you see it appear up ahead. 

It’s just Logan, you remind yourself. 

Stepping up onto his porch, you give a hesitant knock at the door. He greets you almost instantly and you suck in a deep breath. Logan looks good and your heart does a flip as you take him in—well fitting jeans, a clean white shirt underneath a soft red flannel button down, his hair is still slightly damp from a shower. 

“You’re early,” he comments, standing aside to let you in. You catch the slight frown tug at his mouth as he notices the basket. “You coulda cooked here, you know.”

“Oh, well, I didn’t know if you’d want me invading your space,” you reply, following him deeper into the cabin and setting the basket down on the counter. 

Logan turns back towards you, bracing his hands against the counter. “I don’t mind you in my space.”

His words hang in the air between you and you can feel your pulse quicken. You glance up at him, and the way he’s looking at you—steady and unflinching—sends a thrill down your spine. 

You clear your throat, trying to settle the nerves in your chest. “Next time then,” you say lightly, hoping he can’t hear the slight waver in your voice. 

Logan’s lips quirk into a half smile. “Next time,” he agrees. 

He reaches into a cabinet above him, pulling down a couple of plates and glasses, setting a small table in the corner of the small kitchen. You keep yourself busy unpacking the food, arranging the bread, pasta and sauce on the table, working around him as he uncorks the wine and pours both of you a glass. 

Logan joins you then, raising his glass and clinking it gently against yours. He nods in a silent cheers and tips his head back as he drinks, his eyes never leaving yours. You can’t suppress the shiver that shoots down your spine.

Setting down his glass, he serves you and then himself, commenting, “This smells amazing.”

“Family recipe,” you reply, taking another sip wine. “Remind me to make it for you when I have fresh tomatoes. It’s even better then.”

“I’ll have to do that,” he says with a smile.

Conversation starts off slow, but not awkward, as you both test the limits of what you’re wiling to share. Logan’s answers are often short, reserved, but what he does reveal helps bring into focus the outline of the man before you. An outline you’re hoping he’ll let you fill in.

“George says you’re a mutant,” you start slowly and you don’t miss the way his posture stiffens, his fork scraping harshly against the plate. 

He goes still and you wonder if you fucked up. Crossed a boundary he wasn’t willing to cross.

Eventually, Logan’s eyes flick up to yours and he lets out a small hum. “He did, did he?”

You nod, chewing. “It doesn’t bother me.”

He’s quiet for a beat. “It bothers most people.”

“I’m not most people,” you reply, your voice soft. 

Something in his face softens then, the furrow of his brow a little less pronounced. A slight smile plays at his lips. “No. No you’re not.”

You feel a warmth bloom in your chest and your face flushes. Taking another bite, you ask, “Can I see?”

Logan studies you for a moment and you can see him deciding whether or not to show you that part of him he’d rather keep hidden. He sets the silverware down and he flexes his fingers before resting his palms back on the table. Then, he unsheathes his claws and you can’t stop the gasp that falls from your lips. 

You see him flinch at your reaction and he goes to retract his claws and you reach for him. “Don’t,” you say, your fingers hovering just above the blades. 

As he relaxes, you gently rest your fingertips against the metal, finding it surprisingly cool but still holding a faint warmth from his body. His eyes drop to where you’re touching him as you slowly begin to trace each blade with your fingers, following the slight curve down to where they emerge from his skin. You look up at him, finding his gaze fixed on you and you shiver under the intensity. 

“They’re beautiful,” you whisper. You feel him shudder beneath you as he retracts his claws, leaving your fingertips nestled against the skin between his knuckles. 

You pull your hand away from his, mourning the loss of his skin against yours. Logan clears his throat and pulls his hands into his lap, glancing down at them as if they’re foreign, something he’s never taken the time to notice before. He flexes his fingers once more before dragging his gaze back to your face.

“Do they hurt?” you ask quietly.

He shakes his head. “No. Not anymore.”

“Thank you,” you say quietly. “Thank you for showing me.”

Logan studies you for a long moment, searching your face like he’s trying to figure you out. You know he’s probably not used to this, someone seeing him as something other than a mutant, an aberration, someone who should be hidden away. Then, his face softens.

“People don’t usually ask,” he says quietly.

You smile gently, feeling that flame inside you burn just a bit brighter. “I just want to know you.”

He leans back in his chair, his gaze still steady, but more open, as if some of those invisible walls he surrounds himself with have started to come down. If only just enough to let the light shine through. 

An unspoken tension simmers, thickening the air, and you know he can feel it too, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s heavy with promise. You turn your attention back to your plate and for a few moments, neither of you speak.

“So,” you say after a beat, “Do you ever use them as forks?”

Logan huffs out a laugh, the sound surprising you and his eyes crinkle in genuine amusement. “I can’t say that I have,” he replies with a smile.

You grin. “You should give it a try.”

“If I do, you’ll be the first to know.”

The rest of dinner passes with easy conversation and you feel your nerves begin to settle, just a bit. Logan seems less guarded too, more at ease than you’ve ever seen him.

You help him clear the table, ignoring his request that you just sit and relax. As you stand next to him, emptying the leftovers into a container, you feel his eyes on you. When you hand him the container, your fingers brush again, but this time he doesn’t immediately pull away. His fingers linger just a bit longer than necessary and your breath catches in your throat.

“Thanks for dinner, he says quietly, voice low. “And for…understanding.”

You nod, feeling that unmistakable pull between you, the tug that’s kept you orbiting closer and closer to him. “Anytime, Logan,” you answer softly. “You don’t have to hide from me.”

There’s a flicker of hesitation in his eyes, like he’s been burned before and is still figuring out if he can trust what you’re offering him. And you understand his turmoil, trust having shattered your heart into pieces, pieces you’re still trying to pick up and reshape. 

Logan steps a little bit closer then and before you can say anything else, his hand gently reaches out and tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture is simple but intimate and it sends a shiver down your spine, heat pooling lowly in your belly.

“C’mon,” he says. “Let me walk you home.”

He grabs your basket before you can protest and you follow him out into the night. There’s a full moon hanging heavy in the sky, illuminating the path in front of you, yet you remain close to Logan. You curse to yourself as you trip over an exposed root and then you feel Logan reach out for you, his fingers wrapping securely around your own. The heat of his palm against yours is almost overwhelming.

Your cabin comes into view and Logan slows, his fingers slipping from your grasp as he sets the basket down on the porch.

“Good night, Logan,” you say softly as you walk up the steps. 

As you turn from him, he reaches for your wrist, his fingers curling and pressing hotly against your skin. Your breath hitches as he climbs the steps to join you on the porch, and your gasps dies in your throat as he tilts your chin up and forces you to meet his gaze. 

“Do I make you nervous?” His voice is low, breath hot and damp against your skin. 

“Yes,” you breathe, somehow inching closer to him, your fingers reaching for the hem of his flannel and twisting into the fabric. 

“Why?” He brushes his nose against yours and you chase after the touch. 

Swallowing hard, you look up at him from under your lashes. You tilt further into him, your mouth hovering just over his. “Because I haven’t felt like this in a very long time and I don’t want it to go away.” Don’t want you to go away. 

Logan nods and whispers, “I’m not goin’ anywhere.” And then he presses his mouth to yours. 

It’s soft, barely a hint of skin against skin, but when you whisper, “Please,” against his lips, Logan growls and then he’s everywhere. His kiss claims you, his tongue licking in your mouth and you whimper as his fingers curl along the nape of your neck somehow pulling you impossibly closer. 

You wind your arms around his shoulders, your fingers tangling in the short strands at the back of his head. Your entire world is focused down to the feel of his lips on yours and the press of his fingers against your jaw as he pulls you towards his hungry mouth. 

Logan’s grip on you tightens, one hand splayed across your lower back and the other pressed firmly between your shoulder blades, anchoring you to him. The heat between you is palpable, each movement of his lips setting you further aflame. You lose track of time, lost in the sensation of his beard scraping against your skin, leaving a tingling trail in its wake.

When he finally pulls back, you’re both breathless and his forehead rests against yours, your shared breaths mingling in the space between you. His eyes are dark and intense as they search your face and you feel untethered, Logan being the only thing keeping you grounded.

“You okay?” he asks, voice rough, but surprisingly tender as his thumb traces along the line of your jaw.

You nod, swallowing the lump that’s formed in your throat. You don’t trust yourself to speak.

His lips quirk into a small smile. “Good.” He brushes a stray strand of hair away from your cheek, his hand lingering at the side of your face. He presses one last soft kiss to the corner of your mouth before he steps back and walks down the path back home.

+++

You can’t stop thinking about the kiss—Logan’s lips against yours, the taste of his tongue, the press of his hands against your skin, hot and heavy, yet gentle. 

You want to live in that moment forever. Want to know only his kisses for the rest of your life, for him to be the first person you kiss good morning and the last person you kiss goodnight. For him to kiss you just because he can, because he misses you, because he can’t get the feel of your mouth out of his mind and he needs to feel you again pressing against him. 

You also want to run away, hide yourself from these emotions that are overwhelming you and leaving you feeling raw and exposed and absolutely terrified. You haven’t kissed another man in two years and he broke your heart, leaving nothing but shattered pieces and dust in his wake. Dust that still clings to you despite your best efforts to sweep it up. Those pieces of your heart are still sharp, jagged where they should be smooth. 

You’ve always been trusting, choosing to see the light in others as opposed the darkness. Believing deep down that everyone deserves kindness, deserves a second chance, that one bad deed does not a bad person make. But he stole a part of that from you and you hate him for it. Hate that even now, after all this time, he’s able to worm his way into your brain and make you question the motives of the man who’s made you feel more alive than you have in months. 

Last night you felt unshackled, unbound by the fear that had chained you for so long. You felt as if Logan’s very touch, his presence, had set your soul on fire and instead of fearing the burn, you were ready to embrace the warmth. 

But now, raw contempt begins to simmer in your veins and you need something to pour your frustration into before it threatens to consume you whole. 

Throwing your hair up into a messy bun and throwing on a paint-stained shirt and ripped jeans, you head outside looking for a project to sink fingers into. In the small shed behind the cabin, you find a few gardening supplies—a small shovel, trowel, bow rake—and you drag them out and to the overgrown flower beds.

You don’t even bother with the tools at first, ripping at the dead growth with your bare hands, pulling it from the earth in great clumps and tossing it aside. Your pulse beats loudly in your ears as you move from bed to bed, clawing away the old growth, your breathing growing ragged and your palms staining with dirt.

Grabbing the rake, you dig at the remaining plants, tearing at the roots, destroying the new growth. Tears run hotly down your face, blurring your vision and your throat aches from force of your breathing and screams you’ve been holding back.

From behind you, you hear the sound of your name and you whip around so quickly, the rake goes flying from your hands. You can hear the snikt of Logan’s claws as they unsheathe and the splintering of wood as he deflects the rake flying at him. It clatters to the ground between you as he retracts his claws and looks at you, his brow furrowed in concern.

You wonder, then, exactly what you look like in that moment. Dirt caked on your hands and under your fingernails, cheeks flushed with exertion, hair a halo of disarray. The pure adrenaline you’d been running on wanes and your limbs suddenly feel heavy and you sink to the ground in front of him. You can’t bring yourself to look at him, because you’re afraid of what you’ll see.

Logan approaches you slowly, kneeling down in front of you and gently raising your chin to look up at him. The stark worry etched on his face makes you ache and fresh tears burn in your eyes. You wipe at your eyes, which only serves to smear dirt across your face.

“I’m terrified, Logan,” you whisper, wanting to reach for him, but afraid to touch him. “I terrified of how much I like you.”

“You scare me too,” he confesses softly and your heart breaks.

He leans closer, fingers resting hesitantly against your knees. You reach for him too, grabbing on to the open sides of his jacket and pulling him to you. Logan doesn’t flinch, doesn’t push back and instead envelopes you into his arms, your head resting against the solid warmth of his chest. 

Safe in his arms, you cry. Harsh, broken sobs as he rubs your back, the soft caress of his fingers along your spine anchoring you to him as he holds you. He murmurs into your hair that he’s got you, to let it all out, and you do.

Eventually, you calm and sigh, pressing your forehead against his chest, loathe to move just yet. “I’m broken, Logan,” you mumble into his shirt. You look up at him then, the softness and concern on his face making you physically ache. “I still have broken pieces where I should be whole.”

Slowly, tentatively, he brings his hands up to your face, cupping your cheeks in his hands. His thumbs brush at the dirt and tears under your eyes and he smoothes the hair away from your forehead. “Maybe some of my pieces fit,” he says, voice low, but steady. 

His words send a flood of emotion through you, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at him. Then the gravity of what he’s saying hits you—he’s offering you himself, all his jagged and scarred pieces, the pieces no one else sees.

The pieces he wants you to see.

You lean forward, pressing the lightest of kisses against the corner of his mouth. His sigh is hot against your cheek, but he doesn’t press further. 

“Thank you,” you whisper into his skin and somehow it feels like the most important thing you’ve ever said.

“C’mon,” he says, “Let me help you get this cleaned up.”

You nod, wiping your nose with the back of your hand.  Logan stands, offering you his hand. You take it, your fingers slipping into his and his grip is steady, yet gentle as he helps you up. 

Without a word, Logan grabs the broken rake and begins removing the debris from the beds you laid waste to. You watch him work for a moment before joining in, pulling the weeds from the beds you hadn’t gotten to yet. Every now and then your eyes meet, but you don’t say anything. You don’t feel the need to fill the space with words, his presence beside you speaking volumes more than he could ever say. 

After a while, Logan pauses and looks over at you, wiping the dirt from his hands into his jeans. “You still got those seeds I gave you?”

“Of course I do.”

“Go get ‘em,” he says nodding towards the cabin. “We’ll plant something new.”

You retrieve the small pouch where you’ve kept it safe and come out to find Logan kneeling in the dirt, his fingers making small pockets of earth to house the new flowers. He looks up at you, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. You join him on the ground, dropping a few seeds in each well as he moves to create the next one. 

“I’m not very good at this,” Logan starts, covering the last well with dirt, “but I promise I won’t break you. You don’t gotta be scared of me.”

He looks at you then, his hazel eyes meeting yours and you reach for his hand, your thumb brushing across his dirt stained knuckles. 

“No,” you reply with a smile, “I don’t think I do.”

+++

It’s been three days since that moment with Logan in the garden and the air between you has been quiet. Logan hasn’t come by the cabin, but you hadn’t sought him out either. You weren’t avoiding him, exactly. More a need for space, a chance to process the feelings you felt for him, to test if you were truly ready to open yourself up to him.

Your mind never strays far from him, though. An almost constant loop plays in your brain of the way he held you, the way he spoke, the quiet promise he made not to break you. There’s a large part of you that believes him; your heart is screaming at you shed your lingering doubt and trust him, but your rational brain is grasping desperately to the kernel of truth that vows can be broken. 

So you turn to what you do best—pour your energy into other things. The cabin is spotless now, cleaned of disuse and age, turned into a cozy place of retreat, a simple shelter turned into a home. And yet…

You’re sitting on the porch, watching the sun dip lower in the sky, the book you’d been trying to read long forgotten. The forest is peaceful, alive with the sounds of early summer. But as calming as it is, you can’t ignore the ache in your chest—you miss him. More than you thought possible.

Just as you’re about to stand, the sound of boots against gravel catches your attention. You look up and there he is—Logan. His hands are shoved deep into the pockets of his worn jacket as he walks up the path. His look is cautious, as if he’s unsure whether or not you’ll accept his presence. 

Your heart skips a beat and you stand, wiping your palms against your jeans as he draws closer. His hazel eyes meet yours and there’s something softer about him, something open.

He stops a few feet away from you, gaze steady. “I wasn’t sure if I should come by.” His voice is still gruff, but quieter than usual. “If you needed space or not.”

“I did, need space. But not from you,” you clarify. You take a hesitant step towards him. “I missed you.”

Logan sighs then, his posture relaxing just slightly. “I wanted so badly to see you. I didn’t know if I should stay away.”

Before you can second guess yourself, you step down from the porch, closing the distance between you. You stand in front of him, noticing the faint lines of tension around his mouth, the way his jaw is clenched as if bracing himself for your rejection. 

“Don’t stay away,” you say softly, “I want you here.”

You reach for him, your fingers brushing against his hands as you pull them from his pockets. Logan doesn’t pull away and the warmth of his skin against yours feels like the most natural thing in the world. You feel it then, that familiar pull—the one that’s been there since the beginning, drawing you closer and closer into his orbit, his sun.

You brush your thumbs across his knuckles and look up at him. “You wanna come inside?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll make you something to eat?”

Logan nods, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that.”

As you lead him inside, something in the air between you shifts, something subtle. But you know one thing for certain—you’re not afraid anymore. Not of this.

+++

The sun has set, the food long gone and as Logan’s hand reaches for the front door, you slip in front of him. His scent overwhelms you, that earthy dampness you’ve come to associate with him flooding your senses. 

“What if you stayed?” you ask, the slight waver in your voice betraying your boldness. 

You watch as his eyes darken and he leans even further into your space. “Do you know what you’re asking, sweetheart?” he replies, eyes searching your face. 

Swallowing, you nod. “I do,” you whisper. 

Then you slide your arms around his waist, pulling him closer as you lean in and kiss the hollow of his throat. You can feel him swallow hard beneath your lips and you smirk into his skin as you drag your mouth higher, over the long column of his neck to nip at the corner of his jaw. 

“Stay,” you murmur in his ear.

Logan turns, his nose brushing against your cheek as he seeks your mouth and you inhale deeply as his lips find yours. His fingers wind themselves into your hair, resting against the nape of your neck as he pulls you closer. You whimper into his mouth when he pulls back, eyes blown black.

“Show me where,” he says, his voice low.

You lead him up the stairs, his hand warm in yours and you barely make it to the top before Logan’s spinning you around, mouth finding yours. His is kiss is demanding, so different from that first one all those nights ago. This is urgent and desperate, like he can’t possibly get you close enough to satisfy the need deep within him. And you feel it too, pouring yourself back equally into the kiss, moaning as his tongue finally slips alongside yours. 

Your fingers fumble along the top of his jeans, pulling his shirt from where it’s tucked and sliding your hands up along the sides of his ribs. He rewards you with a deep groan of his own, nipping slightly at your bottom lip.

“Christ, sweetheart,” he rumbles against your lips, kissing you once, twice, “I’ve been dyin’ to feel your hands on me.”

“Me, too,” you reply, gasping as his hands find the hem of your shirt, lifting it just enough to brush his fingers hotly along your skin. 

Logan pulls back just enough to look down at your face, his fingers still clutching the fabric of your shirt, but lifting it just a bit higher. His gaze is questioning, asking for silent permission to continue. You nod once and he slowly drags the shirt up, his fingers skimming along your sides, over the swells of your breasts as he pulls the shirt over your head. 

Despite the heat coursing through your veins, you shiver under the intensity of his stare. He kisses you again, inhaling deeply, before moving down, nipping over your chin, your throat, in between your breasts. 

Logan’s hands follow his mouth, running a trail from your shoulders, down long your spine, easily flicking open the clasp of your bra on the way. He glances up at you as he moves to pull the straps aside, dragging them down your arms. 

“Do you know how beautiful you are?” he asks, his hands coming up to cup your breasts, thumbs fanning out across your nipples.

A jolt of pleasure shoots down your spine and pools low in your belly. You feel like you might spontaneously catch on fire and he’s barely touched you. You can’t remember ever feeling like this when a man has touched you, so consumed by want and need.

His fingers trail lower, brushing along the top of your jeans, popping open the button. You grab for his hand, stopping him. You see the concern flicker across his face and you smile. “Your turn,” you say, sliding your palms up his chest and pushing the flannel from his shoulders, his shirt following suit.

You revel in his muscular physique, your fingers tracing along his collarbones, down over the broad planes of his chest, feeling the wiry hair beneath your fingertips. His muscles flutter beneath your touch as you follow the trail of hair lower, down to the vee between his hips. 

Logan’s arousal is evident by the tenting of his jeans, and your eyes locked on his, you dip lower, giving the faintest of caresses over the fabric.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he curses. “Take your pants off.”

It’s a command, not an ask, and one you’re more than willing to comply with. 

Nervous energy licks at your skin as your fingers tuck into the waistband of your jeans and pull them down. Logan follows your lead, unbuckling his belt and shoving his jeans over his hips, kicking them aside. His cock juts out proudly, thick and heavy, nestled in a bed of hair.

Logan’s on you before you can kick away the last leg, hoisting you up under your thighs and forcing you to wrap your legs around his hips. His palms are hot against your ass and you can feel his cock trapped between you. 

He moves you both to the bed, setting you down before crawling over you and slotting himself between your thighs. Leaning back on his heels, he stares down at you, skin flushed. He kisses you softly once, before dragging a single finger down the center of your chest, hooking it into the waistband of your panties. 

“What do you like?” he asks lowly, eyes boring into yours.

You stare at him, unable to comprehend his question as he slides his finger back and forth across your skin. Electric sparks of anticipation crawl up your spine and you can feel the rapid flutter of your heart against your ribs. 

“You want me to touch you with my fingers?” His voice is low, so low and you shiver. 

Your mouth has gone dry and you can only nod. 

“You want me to touch you with my mouth?” Logan leans down, skimming his lips across your collarbone, nipping lightly. 

Your fingers stutter across his shoulders and wind themselves into his hair. Logan’s smirk presses into the corner of your jaw. “Want me to touch you with both?”

“Please,” you whine into his neck, breath hot against his skin. 

Logan trails back down your body, kisses peppering over your neck, both breasts, your belly before he presses a kiss to the top of your clothed mound. He hooks his fingers into the waistband and looks up at you, asking for permission. At your nod, he pulls he material down, eyes never leaving yours as he trails his fingers down your legs and tosses the fabric aside.

You’re fully bare, exposed in a way you haven’t been in a long time and your nerves blush across your skin. Instinctively, you try to close your legs, but he stops you, his hot palms curling against your thighs.

“You don’t gotta hide from me,” Logan says, kissing your knee and spreading your legs further apart. “You’re so pretty like this. Flushed and wet and smelling so sweet for me.”

A jolt of desire zips down your spine. Nothing could have prepared you for the filthiness of words that would spill from his mouth. Or how much you’d enjoy hearing them.

“I don’t want to disappoint you,” you murmur.

“That’s not possible.”

“Other men have—“

Your words die in your throat as Logan grips your chin, forcing your gaze up to his face. His expression is soft, but his eyes flash with a glint of something dark. “When I fuck you, I’ll be the only man in your bed, understand?”

The roughness and edge in his voice makes you shiver and heat pools between your thighs. You swallow heavily and nod.

“I want this,” he says, his tone softer. “I want you. Whatever you’ll give me.”

Slowly, you reach for his hand and guide his fingers to where you’re wet and aching for him. At the first brush of his fingertips against your folds, you gasp and your fingers dig deeper into his skin. 

“Relax, sweetheart,” Logan coos. “I’m gonna make you feel good.”

And then he’s touching you, fingers dragging through your arousal before circling around your clit. He caresses you like he knows you and you’re molten beneath him. One finger, then two slip inside you, pressing against that spot that makes you squirm and grip at the sheets beneath you.

“Fuck,” you breathe, “You weren’t lying.” Logan quirks an eyebrow, fingers still curling within you, his rhythm picking up speed. “You are good with your hands.”

His chuckle rumbles through his chest as he continues to move, this thumb working over your clit. Your hips jolt off the bed when Logan replaces his thumb with his tongue, drawing the sensitive bud into his mouth. 

He continues to work your cunt, long, flat presses of his tongue against your clit punctuated by the short, sharp thrusts of his fingers. The dual sensation is enough to wind that tension in your core tighter, building you up higher and higher until you feel yourself reaching that inevitable peak.

“Logan, I—I’m so close,” you gasp, fisting your fingers into his hair.

His growl against your cunt is enough to send you over the edge, the vibrations rippling through your body as your orgasm washes over you. Through half lidded eyes, you meet his gaze from between your thighs, his eyes dark with desire and you shiver at the intensity of his stare.

Logan crawls over you, pressing a kiss to your lips. You can taste yourself on his lips, bright and sour, as he licks into your mouth. 

“Do you trust me?”

Logan’s fingers are still moving against you, wringing out the last of your orgasm and you can only nod. He withdraws his fingers and you whine, but he just smirks and taps your hip. 

“Turn over,” he commands lowly. 

A shudder ripples through you as you willingly comply, rolling onto your stomach as Logan’s palm trails from your hip over the swell of your ass. His fingers kneed into your flesh and you squeak as he curves them over your skin, pulling you up onto your knees, drawing your hips flush with his. The thick feel of his cock presses into your ass and you can’t help but push back, enjoying the strangled moan that falls from his lips. 

“I can’t wait to be nestled deep inside you,” he groans, slotting his cock between your thighs, running the length along your wet cunt. 

You peer over your shoulder and smirk at him. “Then what are you waiting for?”

Logan lines up then and the air punches out of your lungs as he slowly eases himself in to the hilt. He’s deep at this angle and you feel claimed, owned in the best way possible as he begins to move his hips. The drag of his cock against your walls is exquisite and you’re sure you’ve never experienced pleasure quite like this before. 

His fingers dig into the flesh at your hips, grabbing as much as he can to pull you back into him and you push back, meeting him thrust for thrust. His grip is enough to be bruising, teetering that line between pleasure and pain and yet you relish it. 

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he rasps. “Look so good stretched around my cock.”

Pleasure zips along your spine and curls along your limbs, each drag of his cock against you coiling that band in your belly tighter and tighter. Yet, you need more. You need to feel him, feel his arms around you, on you, feel his mouth hot and open against your skin.

“I need to feel you closer,” you whine. “Please, I—”

Logan’s arm slips underneath you, curling just under your breasts and pulling your back flush to his chest. He holds on, fingertips splaying across your ribcage as he fucks up into you, his breath hot and damp against your ear. 

You turn your head just enough to capture his lips, your mouth pressing against his in an open-mouthed kiss. He steals the moan from your throat as his other hand dips to where you’re joined, fingers beginning to circle around your clit. 

Slipping a hand into his hair, you hold him to you, your head falling back onto his shoulder. Logan groans when you rake your nails along his scalp and you do it again. Your mixed groans and the wet noises from where he’s thrusting into you fill the room and time seems to stop. There is nothing but the thick feel of him between your legs, the fervent press of his fingers against your clit and the tight grasp of his hand across your breast. 

A litany of praise falls from his mouth and his words burn through you, setting you aflame from the inside. It’s too early for thoughts of love and forever, but you can feel something real, something undeniable pulling you together, uniting you in a way more than just physical. You’re bound to him. 

Logan’s hand slides up your sternum, his fingers coming to cup your jaw, pulling your focus back to him. The pad of his thumb pulls at your lower lip. “Come for me, sweetheart,” he husks into your ear. “I wanna hear those pretty sounds you make.”

And you do, two more forceful thrusts sending you teetering over the edge, your orgasm ripping through you. Logan doesn’t stop, fucking you through wave after wave, his thrusts getting sloppier as he chases his own release. 

“Let me feel you, Logan,” you pant, your breath coming out in short gasps. “Please.”

With a deep groan into your shoulder he comes, his cock spasming deep within you, painting your womb with his seed. His arm around your hips holds you firmly in place as he uses your body to wring out the last of his pleasure, shallowly thrusting as your walls caress him. When he finally stills, breath hot against your skin, you can feel your combined come slick against your thighs. 

You don’t know how long he holds you like that, back to chest, keeping you in his arms simply because he can. 

Only later, when the sweat begins to cool on your skin and your flesh pebbles, does Logan lay you down, finally slipping from within you. He pulls you close and you rest your head against his chest, the comforting lull of his heartbeat echoing in your ear. 

You lightly trace your fingertips over the crest of his hipbone just to feel him beneath you. His breathing evens out, approaching that blissful edge of sleep when you glance up at him. Logan opens his eyes, gaze meeting yours and he smiles.

“Logan?”

His hum vibrates through his chest.

“I think we’re healing each other.”

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he answers, “I think we are.”

[tremendouscreationperson]

Logan x Reader pt.1

Again spoilers for Deadpool and Wolverine

Many of y'all liked my little DP/W idea so here is more, I tried to keep it GN so there isn't smut but it does sorta allude to it

Part 2 >> Masterlist

Wade has just woke up, he yet again sees Logan drinking and asks 'where they are and how they got here'. Logan vaguely points to the door and three people walk through. It's Elektra, Blade and Gambit. There are some not-so-pleasantries and eventually Laura makes herself known.

"We're missing Johnny and Y/N." Gambit drawls.

Wade makes a joke and turns back to Logan who looks like he's shat himself. "Peanut?"

"You said Y/N?" Logan settles his drink onto the first available surface and runs a hand through his hair. "We saw Johnny but not Y/N."

~~

Later on he had slumped down and made a fire. He didn't want to be part of the heroics, he couldn't be. He wasn't worth it. Laura had tried to convince him in her unique way. He could see himself in her, see why he'd fight for her.

Logan took another swig and stared off into the treeline. It was unclear how long he just sat but eventually he noticed movement.

Wolverine stood, ready to protect the others. Why was he ready to protect the others?

Then he saw you.

You were wide eyed. Your suit was practically undamaged except for a little cut on your thigh. Not a hair out of place. There was dirt on your face and body but you were beautiful.

"Y/N." He involuntarily took a step towards you.

You stayed completely still. Wary. Why were you wary of him? “Logan.” Your voice was barely above a whisper but he heard it. Would always hear you. You were the main voice rattling around his adamantium skull.

“Y/N.” He took another step forward and tried to erase his frown, tried to ease his expression into something you wouldn't be wary of. “I'm not going to hurt you.”

Your eyes scanned him and the trees behind before you gave a nod and slowly approached, favouring your right leg.

“It's been a while.” The fire light bounced gloriously off your skin, illuminating your very being as though you were an angel. Well you were. You were perfect. Are perfect.

“For me as well.” He nodded too enthusiastically, too eager to be speaking to you. He didn't deserve this.

You lowered yourself onto a patch of grass, crossing your legs to the best of your ability, pupils glued to the flames. They danced along and lit up your eyes. Surely, you couldn't be more beautiful. Logan hadn't even realised but he had sat himself back down on his perch across from you. “I’m sorry.”

He couldn't help it, his frown was back in full force. What could you possibly have to apologise for? “I don-”

“You're not the first Wolverine to come sniffing me out.” You explained. “There's been others and they've- they've not all been friendly.”

What the fuck had he done? “I swear, I am not here to hurt you.” He placed a hand over his heart. “I promise.”

“I know. I just- it's not often you see your husband's-” Husband? “- face and he doesn't know you or is feral or-” You took a deep breath, finally meeting his gaze. “You at least recognise me.”

“Of course I do.”

“Okay, that's good.” You nod mostly to yourself before asking, “what happened in your world?”

“My world?”

You nod again.

“We're X-Men. I'm shitty. You're perfect. Scott nags me. Storm married a king and moved away, visits every so often. Jean was in the process of taking over from Charles…” If he didn't tell you they all died, maybe they didn't. Maybe they could live in your head. Maybe he wasn't a monster. “Yours?”

“Much the same really.” One shoulder lifted in a half shrug. “‘cept you weren't shitty. You were just you. Sabertooth was the shitty Howlett.”

Logan chuckled at that.

“Did you have a Laura? Or a Gabby?”

He shook his head. “Uh, no. But I've met Laura. She's nice. Fierce.”

“She's your DNA spliced with some poor unfortunate ladies. Essentially your offspring.” You informed. “Gabby is a clone of a clone. She's lovely though. Friends with Wa-Deadpool.”

“He's here.” Logan scratched his chin. “He's the reason I am.”

“Oh, you're friends as well?”

“God, no.” He shook his head. “Kinda just thrust together.”

“He always wanted to hang with you but usually just ended up with Spidey.”

Logan had heard of Spidey -Spiderman- but he hadn't met the guy, yet. If he hung out with Wade he was probably just as mad.

You both fell into a fairly comfortable silence but he didn't like that. You were here. He could actually talk to you. Actually be around you. “What happened to your leg?” He motioned to it as you carefully repositioned yourself.

“Angel.” You whispered darkly.

“Warren?”

“Yeah. Sometimes your friends aren't your friends. He had metal wings and weird tattoos. I called out to him and he just attacked. He was so quick I couldn't put up a forcefield in time.”

“I'm sorry.” It was a lame response but he had nothing else. You merely sat there, watching him, scanning his reactions. “I don't know how to convince you I am your friend. But I am. I won't harm you.”

You gave him a small lopsided smile. And he remembered.

“Wait. I do know how.” Logan rummaged around his very tiny suit pockets. He knew it was somewhere. He made sure it was always on him. Hidden away where no one would find it. Tucked into a sleeve that he kept safe by his ankle, usually people hit his torso, they don't always go for feet so he felt secure in it's position. Well, he did until he fought Wade in that fucking Honda.

Logan found it. It was scrappy and definitely worse for wear but the picture was clear. He stood and slowly walked around the fire to your side. You didn't back away but he caught your involuntary shoulder flinch.

“Here.”

You delicately took the piece of paper from his hands. It felt glossy, like magazine print. It was folded and on the visible side was a photo of you smiling wide, proud, in front of the X mansion. You unfolded it to see Logan standing next to you with a barely-there smirk. He looked almost bored but you knew him. Knew he was smiling, it was in his eyes, the softness in his face.

You were confused because he was smiling yet it was clear that he folded it to hide himself.

“Why have you folded it like that?”

Because I look awful. Because you are perfect and happy and brilliant and I pretended I didn't want the photo. Because it's the only faculty photo of me they ever took. Because they all knew I was sweet on you when you stopped me for a photo and I agreed. Because I had to take this from a yearbook after the school was raided. Because it's the only photo of us that I have and I hate that I'm in it. “Easier to fit the little pocket.”

“I have a similar one.” You confessed, knowing he was lying but that's okay. You all had secrets. “It's with my other bits, in the base.”

He felt his cheeks warm so looked away to the base. “Speaking of, it's late and you're hurt. They were planning on leaving at sun up, but I'm not sure that's still happening.”

“Why are we leaving?”

“We're storming Cassandra Nova’s lair.”

You let out a full body laugh. The noise was heavenly. “Fuck off, you come here and suddenly talk them into a full frontal assault? Brilliant.”

He rolled his eyes at you but extended a hand. “Come on, bub, let's get you updated and checked out.”

It wasn't much really, not to a bystander, but you actually accepting his hand meant the world to him and you. Both for similar and completely different reasons.

He definitely didn't need to but insisted on helping you to the base. It was hardly worth it but being back in his arms was lovely. It felt like home. He was maybe a few inches taller and definitely a little older looking than you recalled but he was your Logan. And a helpful one. He wasn't chasing you like a wild dog because you smelt nice. He was helping you limp back.

“Y/N.” Elektra spoke as soon as you entered the threshold.

“El.” You smiled widely.

She gave you a subtle look - raising her eyebrows a fraction and flickering her eyes at Logan - before taking your hand and leading you out of his arms. “We were worried.”

“You shouldn't have worried.” Rolling your eyes. “You know me.”

“That is why I was worried.”

She gave you a quick hug and assessed your leg. You had known her for five years. She had been here longer than you, travelling with Blade, and quickly intervened when she saw a Ghost Rider trying to lasso you. You three had met Johnny, who had been here a while too, and eventually met Laura. She was the only familiar face to you, it was a breath of fresh air to see her. It was a shame she didn't know you but you explained who you were and where she was and she slowly came around to trusting you. Gambit was the newest addition to your ragtag gang. He, bless him, tried to be as useful as possible and you're sure he was but there were times when you had no idea what went on in his mind. He was his own enigma.

The cut wasn't awful, a fact you had said multiple times, but Elektra still insisted on using alcohol to clean and one of the rags you recycled from an old duvet to wrap it, explaining the idiotic plan that you were all taking part of as she went.

“Oh!” Wade loudly exclaimed as Elektra tightened the makeshift bandage. “The self insert! I can't believe it, the movie’s been out like three days!”

You exchanged a glance with El and gave him an odd look as you greeted the man. “Hiya Wade.”

“Y/N.” He bowed. “I'm a little star struck.”

“Why?” Elektra stood to her full height and quickly made an exit, this wasn't the first Deadpool she had seen but this was one of the high energy ones.

“Well, you're Logan's thing.” The man behind perked up, his shoulders tense. He had been watching you the whole time and clearly wasn't a fan of DP rambling. “You're his reason to keep on. One of the reasons my Logan saved Laura. To keep his promise to you or something like that, I don't know the writing is a bit clunky.”

“Right.” You nodded, not quite understanding. But it was funny to see the mortified expression Logan was wearing. “So I'm Logan's ‘thing’.”

“Well, duh-”

“Will you shut the fuck up?” Logan ordered.

“Gosh, was he always this snappy?” Wade chirped.

“I dunno, Lo always had a soft spot for me so..”

“Awwwww.” He clasped his hands and held them at his heart. “Did you hear that she said ‘Lo’?” Wade had just turned to see the man in question but Wolverine was behind him and quickly dragging the Merc away, not quite whispering another ‘shut your fucking mouth’.

Blade, who was one to skulk hidden in corners before making himself known, had watched the interaction and gave you a fright as he stepped from the shadows. “So that's him, huh?”

“Jesus!” You whisper-yelled. “How many times have I asked you to not do that?”

“Daywalker, can't help it.” He shrugged and sat next to you on the sofa. It was old and ugly but so so comfortable.

You gave a sigh, holding your hammering heart. “Yes. He's Logan. A version of him. That actually doesn't wanna kill me.”

“Maybe you should let it play out.”

“And maybe I shouldn't.” You counter. “We'll all be dead tomorrow anyway.”

“All the more reason to."

He was correct of course. You had missed Logan so much and this one clearly had missed you. It would be folly to not spend the last night you may be alive together. In whatever way you were both comfortable with. But you didnt want to give him the satisfaction of being right, so merely huffed in response.

"Elektra told you the plan?”

“Well, Laura hardly speaks and I can't understand Gambit.”

Blade let out a low laugh. He was one of the coolest people you'd ever met, even his chuckle was cool. You were so envious.

Logan came back with red cheeks and quickly apologised. “I'm sorry, he talks so much and I don't think he actually hears himself.”

You waved him off. “It's fine.”

“No, he embarrassed you.” Logan sighed, his jaw set like he was biting the inside of his cheek.

“Logan, really. Don't worry.” You could see that he wasn't going to 'not worry' so decided to just remove yourself from the situation. Clapping Blade’s leg you stood. “Right, bed time. Big day tomorrow.”

“You aren't coming.” Logan replied immediately.

“Uhm. Pretty sure I am.”

“No, you're injured.” He stated as though that was obvious.

“This is literally the smallest injury I've had out here.”

“But you are hurt.”

“Logan.”

“Y/N.”

Blade watched the back and forth with a smirk, you were both clearly a married couple.

“I think you two should take this to Y/N’s room.” Your eyes widened dramatically. “You can argue all night when the door is shut and no one else can hear you.” The sly bastard.

“Okay.” Logan agreed. “I'll convince you to stay, where's your room?”

You let out a few noises, dying arguments, and then the biggest sigh. “Fuck my life. This way.”

The base was an old temple. You had wondered who it belonged to. The statues of her were beautiful. You had yet to see a variant of whoever this was, maybe that was a good thing. She might not take lightly to you guys using her sacred temple as a hotel. There were a few corridors you had to walk down to get to your room. You'd dragged an old mattress into it and made sure to keep the room dust free. There weren't a lot of luxuries in this world but you had an orb that when touched lit up delicately. There were a few sets of clothes you'd scavenged so you kept yourself clean and had a set of ‘pjs’. Your room was covered in marks where you had flung a knife or practised a forcefield. He assumed there weren't that many guns here, or if there were ammo was rare.

“You can't fight.” Logan started.

Oh. You were actually going to argue. “Logan, I could fight you right now.”

“Go on then.” He called your bluff.

You gave him a playful smirk. “You really wanna fight? It could be our last day alive and you wanna spend it fighting?”

“I know you can't fight with that leg.” He was so sure of himself. You couldn't wait to prove him wrong.

With a twitch of your hand you flung him towards you with a forcefield, side stepping out of his way. It took him by surprise how strong you had gotten and he had to catch himself before he hit the wall.

Logan twisted around to find you at his throat with a small blade in your hand. Your chest pressed into his, causing his back to hit the wall. “That was over pretty quick, Lo.”

Logan was in awe of your swift moves. You were tenfold who he knew. God could you get more attractive? He felt himself get warm and not from embarrassment. You were making him hot, you holding a knife to his throat was making him horny. What did that say about him?

Your eyebrows pinched minutely as you observed him swallow. “You like this, don't you?”

Was there a point in lying? “Maybe.”

“Well... Maybe I do, too.”

God he was ruined.

You were literally amazing.

How could he be so lucky? He really didn't deserve this.

Logan glanced down to your lips and you smirked. "Go on." He didn't need any other invitations. He captured your lips and kissed you with the full force of his years of loneliness.

He loved you, by god, he did.

Logan's left hand found your nape whilst his right landed on your ass. He growled as you pushed into him a fraction more.

Your leg moved by itself, wrapping around his waist as you took advantage of his growl. Kissing the exposed areas of his neck. You'd missed this. You'd missed him.

Logan hoisted you the rest of the way up and gazed into your eyes. You were looking down at him, lips plump and cheeks hot, you panted a little and fuck. He was going to fuck you. He wasn't sure he could actually pull himself away from you. You both should be sleeping, preparing for the fight tomorrow. No, you shouldn't be fighting. You should be safe. Somewhere safe and warm, waiting for him to return.

"Come with me." He begged.

"I'm sure I will." You winked.

"No, tomorrow, after the fight. Come with me, wherever I end up." He didn't want to go back but he would if you followed. If you came with him he could do it. Go anywhere. Be anyone.

"So you agree I'm fighting fit." You pecked his nose, playfully.

He huffed but found your lips again, leading you both to the mattress you called a bed.

He'd buy you a bed, a grand one. One worthy of you. He hated that you only had this. He needed to provide for you. Keep you warm, safe, loved, full. Keep you.

Logan was going to keep you and he didn't care how.

.

.

Part 2

[carbonfiction]

Thinking about adding a thigh (or possibly dress shoe) riding patch logan fic to the long ole WIP list.. Are we in.. Or out?

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