#logan writes stranger things stuff

[spidey-x-male-reader]

Could I ask for X-Men '97 Gambit with a reader who likes to steal stuff for him to wear? Like watches, gloves, etc?

Pairing: Remy LeBeau x male!reader

Warnings: light swearing??

Summary: A few small glimpses into your life with your boyfriend and your affinity to give him gifts

A/N: Look it's after midnight which basically means I'm too emotional for my own good but I forced myself to write this because I adore the person who requested this even if I barely interact with them. I have a very stong protective sense over them. So if you see this: love you, bro <3 (I also went a bit overkill with the prompt. oops)

REQUESTS ARE OPEN

MASTERLIST

Since the two of you met, people have told you that you and Gambit were practically made for each other

And that's definitely not only because your first meeting literally consisted of you pickpocketing each other. As two people do when they're in love.

After joining the X-Men Remy has slowed down with the thiefing a little

Which basically meant that you had to steal enough for both of you. Which was good for him because he got lots of presents out of it but like…bad for everyone else

Remy had been alone in his room when you threw open the door, and immediately slammed it shut behind yourself, holding up a pair of gloves.

"Got you something!"

The next second he could already hear Logan's angry shouting

"...and where have you got them from, cher?"

"...store?"

"Uh huh."

"Glove store"

"Of course"

He just grins, walking towards you and giving you a peck on the cheek before taking your hand. 

"Now come on. Let's go before Wolverine finds us."

It wasn't unusual that Storm or Scott took you to the side and tried to have the "Stealing is bad" talk with you

But obviously you aren't stupid. You know it's not exactly right. But looking at Remy's eyes lighting up whenever you gift him something? That's worth it.

They do get used to it at some point

But you never get used to the way that he smiles at you like you just laid down the world at his feet.

You two just walked back to the jet after a quick mission, sneaking your hand into the pocket of his coat, dropping a watch inside.

"Shh." you wink at him, making sure the others haven't seen.

He feels the object in his pocket and just grins, pulling you a bit closer and putting an arm around your waist with a smirk.

"You spoil me too much" he whispers

"There's never too much with you" 

Now you were priding yourself on always being rather relaxed

Your hands always were steady and you never were nervous when sneaking your hand into a stranger's pocket

So who knew that the absolute scariest thing you'd ever give Remy was the one thing that you hadn't stolen for him

"Okay what's going on?" Remy looks at you, after you had asked him for a walk around the compound but then spent the time unusually silent.

For a moment you just look at him and then put your hand into your own pocket to grab the object inside. "I wanted to give something to you."

"Oh?" he smirks. "You're usually not that nervous when gifting me anything."

You take a deep breath and then pull out the small velvet box while sinking onto your knee simultaneously.

His eyes widen in shock. God, in any other situation you would relish in the realization that you had managed to surprise him.

"Remy LeBeau. You are…probably the best thing that ever happened to me." you fiddle around with the box in your hand. "And…god i've never been happier than just whenever i'm with you. And I know that this isn't…" you sigh and open the box, showing off the ring inside. "I know we can't officially do this. Not yet at least. But I want to…look at you and call you my husband."

He just stares at you.

"...This is the part where you say either yes or no but my knee is kinda getting sore."

He seems to awake from his trance, just nodding slowly. "...yes. Yes of course you bastard!" with a sudden burst of energy he throws himself into you for a hug, landing both of you on the ground. 

You try to stay cool, probably failing miserably as you grab his hand, putting the ring on his finger.

"I love you" you whisper

He leans his forehead against yours. "Not as much as I love you, cher."

[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.

[sceletaflores]

•｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅ wip wednesday!

thanks for the tag angel baby @guiltyasdave <3 • 18+ under the cut! MDNI!

wip #1 • far too familiar a stranger…feat. logan howlett (& crimson!)

a long time ago, logan howlett knew a woman with your face…

i couldn’t not write a ‘worst!logan coming face to face with his tragically dead love interest but from wade’s universe after wade forced her to help them stop the TVA and hating her for bringing up that time in his life until he doesn’t anymore’ fic.

it's crimson because i felt that making whole new mutant reader would be sort of confusing so this fic is in the to the bone universe but it's not the same timeline...if that makes sense lmao

Wade Wilson is the worst neighbor in the entire fucking world. It’s really something you should have known sooner, like ‘the very first day in your new place ending with him breaking in through your window fully suited up after counting the floors wrong and bleeding all over your brand new pottery barn throw rug because he was still a little too concussed to walk’ sooner. Even after that whole fiasco left you with a broken window latch and a beyond fucked non-refundable $80 carpet, you still let yourself entertain his crazy. Just like everyone else whose life Wade crashed into, both physically or metaphorically. And once he's in, you can never really get him back out again. So yeah, maybe this whole thing is your fault. Maybe getting thrown into a barren, dusty void with two somewhat failed X-Men is just all your bad karma manifesting in one huge finger from the universe.

wip #2 • red and yellow kill a fellow! feat. logan howlett & wade wilson

logan doesn’t appreciate you letting wade get one up on him…

finally finally finally getting off my ass and writing logan x reader x wade! i was inspired by this one episode of satc (which is like my favorite show ever bee tee dubs) where charlotte goes out with two guys at the same time and she has sex with one but not the other until one of them catches her with the other guy and they all break it off.

my vision is a little different cause instead of getting mad and leaving when logan finds out reader fucked wade and not him, he figures it's his turn to get even. aka wade in the cuck chair and loving it.

The three of you pass a BMW sitting in a no parking zone, all four windows rolled down as Madonna blasts through the speakers. "So," Wade says, voice breaking the silence for the first time in five minutes. "Who white-washed your guts better?" You nearly trip over your own feet, whipping your head to gape at Wade. "Fucking excuse me?" "You know," Wade shrugs, like it's a perfectly normal thing to ask. The leisurely pace of his stroll not slowing, his hands still stuffed in the pockets of his jeans. "Who carved the lyrical railway better?" He just keeps going as you stare at him with a repulsed look on your face. "The number one stud that's stuffin' your muffin? That's takin the ol' bald-headed gnome for a satisfying stroll in the misty forest. Pick one hot stuff, they all mean the same thing." Before you can even answer there's a rough, questioning grunt from your right and your stomach flips. Oh. Logan, he was still here too. Still here and right next to you, listening. Oh yeah. "You fucked?" You still haven't slept with Logan yet. You turn to him face slowly, eyes a hair wide as you take in the sharp raise of his brow. "Um..." "Whoops," Wade snorts from somewhere behind your shoulder. "Cat's out the bag."

wip #3 • it's the easiest thing (just love me and eat me) feat. logan howlett

it’s not often that logan needs this, but you’re always more than happy to give it to him when he does…

the same requested sub!logan fic from last wednesday just with a new name and weirder energy! like this has really gotten away from me and turned into something that i can't really explain well enough to make it sound like chill...

lots of religious imagery and symbolism...and some metaphors of cannibalism...idk i'm just a girl with religious trauma and a weird blood fetish sue me.

You've come to think that being in bed with Logan is like being in church. The familiar weight of his body pressing you into the mattress is the alter. The heat of it like laying in the burning flame of a candle. The strong planes of his muscles each a different scripture that you take in by touch alone, skating your hands over his skin with something close to worship. Each bead of sweat on his skin feels sacred, a testament to the intensity between you, as though every part of him has been crafted for this moment of devotion. The hard length of his cock carves a place for itself inside you, each heavy smack of his hips punching another desperate sound out of your slack lips. His breath, deep and ragged, is a chant that pulls you into reverence. It puffs against the wild beat of your pulse, his lips brushing over the fever hot plane of your skin. The sound of your name pulled from his mouth sounds like a prayer answered. You can’t help but close your eyes, not in exhaustion, but in a kind of spiritual surrender, like by shutting out the world, you can truly grasp the divinity of it. There's a holiness to the way he holds you—like you’re the only thing worth believing in.

kisses!

no pressure tags! @ebodebo @artemis-b-writes @avocado-writing @superhoeva

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

Creature Craft | Domestication

I know for a fact I'm not the only one still feeling things over it, but: may I politely ask about the possibility of a part 2? One where Logan takes care of Virgil. Maybe even tackles how Virgil's "friends" behave or something, idk. – oatmealdaydreams

I adored “Creature Craft”! Are you willing to write a sequel to it with Logan looking after Virgil? – anon

Read on Ao3 Part 1

Warnings: none

Pairings: analogical

Word Count: 1769

Virgil blinks, still stunned at the gentle way the stranger cradles his face in their hands.

"You…you were the plant," he manages finally, "and the cat."

They huff a small laugh. "Yes. Yes, I was."

"Wh—" his gaze travels up and down them—god, they're pretty— "how—wh—"

They laugh again, still kind, laughing with him, not at him. "Magic?"

"Magic, right. Spell." He gives himself a little shake. "Weird emailing habits."

Another laugh, and they tilt their head, just looking at him. A soft smile remains on their face and—okay, hang on. He blinks, trying to get a hold of himself.

"Wait—right—okay. Starting over." He takes a deep breath and tries to collect himself. "Hi, first of all."

"Hello."

"I—sorry, can you—I can't think with your hands on my face."

The warmth leaves and he as to fight to stifle a noise of protest, immediately lamenting its loss, but he takes another breath.

"Sorry, thanks, I—" he shakes himself again— "okay. You're here for me?"

"Yes." They seem at least mildly endeared by how flustered he is.

"You're…the end result of the magic thing my friends drunkenly signed me up for ages ago."

"Yes," they laugh, "yes, I am."

It's a good thing they took that well, because it certainly didn't come out of his mouth the way he intended.

"Okay, um…" he fiddles with his hands, "I didn't…really know how this works or where to go from here. The other ones came with notes."

"Did your friends get their results too?"

"Yeah, yeah, they all…got them about a week ago."

"Did they tell you what it was like?"

Well…yes, but with every passing moment, he's having a harder time reconciling the fact that the same service that gave his friends traumatizing and abusive experiences also gave him this unfairly pretty person in his living room.

"They, um…they had their appointments in person. At the place."

They make an 'ah' sound. "So they probably had someone there explaining everything."

"I would assume so, yeah."

It suddenly dawns on him that he's still standing with his shoes on and his bag over his shoulder.

"Sorry, do you mind if I…?" He gestures to himself. "Just…?"

"No, no, not at all. Go ahead."

Part of him still believes they'll vanish if he looks away, but then they're stepping closer to offer him an arm while he gets his boots off and goddamnit, he needs to focus.

"Do you mind if I get my stuff sorted too?" Now that he's apparently not about to die by being attacked by the very magical and very pretty stranger in his living room.

"It's your home, sweetheart, do what you like."

If they notice how the pet name immediately makes his ears turn red—which of course they do—they kindly keep it to themselves as he bustles about to set his bag down and fish out whatever needs to be put away. They lean against the counter a few feet away.

"So they didn't explain anything to you yet?"

"The last contact I had with them was—well, with the company—was them explaining that the spell was taking longer to settle so it was okay that I couldn't make the original appointment. Nothing after that."

"What about your friends?"

He hesitates, a hand on his laptop. "Uh…well…"

They hum, tilting their head in question. Virgil quickly looks away.

"Sorry, I'm trying to figure out what the most polite way to say this is."

"Say what?"

"If the…choicely worded texts in the group chat are any indication, they…well." He gestures to them. "They didn't exactly prepare me for…you."

They chuckle, moving to lean against a spot a little closer. "I'm guessing they didn't get very favorable results, hm? Did they scare you?"

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry about that."

"It's not your fault. You didn't ask for this."

Another hum and they turn to watch him put the last of his stuff away. Of course, now there's not much to do with his hands, which is unacceptable, so he immediately reaches for the kettle.

"Cup of tea?"

"Are you okay?"

The sudden soft and gentle way they ask the question gives him pause, turning to see them looking at him with that same tender expression again. "Yeah, I'm okay, why?"

"You seem anxious," they murmur, thankfully keeping their distance, because if they cupped his face again, he would burst into tears, "you okay?"

He sets the kettle down carefully and twists his fingers together. "Bit overwhelmed, yeah. Come home, strange person in my living room. Not the results from the spell I expected. Kinda flustered."

Their eyebrow quirks. "Flustered?"

His gaze quickly flicks up and down. A slow smile crawls across their face and he looks away, quickly picking up the kettle again.

"Would you like a hug?"

His hand jerks but he pretends it's because of the sink. He fills the kettle and sets it back down, ears burning. "Huh?"

"I said," they say again, in that soft and slightly fond way that lets him know they know perfectly well that he heard them last time, "would you like a hug?"

Yes. Yes. Oh my god, yes.

"…sure."

But then they're coming over with their arms out and looking down at him with that soft smile and tucking him right up against their chest and this was a mistake.

A warm, soft, great-smelling mistake, but a mistake nonetheless because he is going to cry.

Almost hysterically, he realizes he doesn't even know their name.

"What—what should I call you?"

They hum and he can feel it. "Don't know. I don't have one yet."

"Will you let me know when you find one you like?"

"Don't you want to name me?" When he explains that he's absolutely horrible at naming things in a stammer, they chuckle. "That's alright. I'll just be yours for now."

"You are absolutely doing that on purpose," Virgil whines—though he'll deny it later. Their chest rumbles and a breath ghosts over his ear. He doesn't shiver. Nope, not at all.

"Perhaps I am."

He's about to open his mouth and say something embarrassing, probably, when he nearly jumps out of his skin as his phone rings. He fumbles for his pocket, biting his lip to stifle the noise he wants to make when they let go, but they don't move far, one hand still on his back.

It's one of his friends. Requesting a video call.

He hangs up before he realizes it, putting the phone face down on the counter. He stares at it like it's some radioactive warhead.

"Hey," comes the gentle voice, "what's wrong?"

Their hand rubs soothing circles over his back, firm and warm and grounding, and he manages a breath. "I—that was one of my friends. Who…also did this. I—I think they were calling to ask if I'd…"

"Gotten your results yet?"

"Yeah." His back is on fire and he can't stop himself from leaning into it. "I don't—it feels bad, doesn't it? To—to take something that they really got hurt by and be all: 'look?' I don't think—I don't want to do that to them."

They hum, but it's like they can tell that's not the only reason. That hand on his back is like truth serum, drawing the answer up, up along his spine until it tumbles gracelessly out of his mouth.

"And I don't want to share you with them yet. Is—is that bad?"

"No, that's not bad, darling," they murmur, and before he can do anything, his phone rings again and they silence it without missing a beat. "I would prefer to have one of the spell technicians do your actual proper briefing, but may I tell you a little bit about your results?"

"Yeah."

Two fingers gently turn his gaze from his phone, up to that same expression that will be the death of him. The hand lingers, a thumb brushing the curve of his jaw. "Your magic was characterized by significant levels of compassion, a tenderness, almost, yet there was a surprising lack of—well, I suppose the best way to put it is a lack of surprise."

"Surprise?"

"Yes, surprise. Almost as though you were expecting the magic to be hostile to you." Something in their expression hardens slightly. "Like you were anticipating hurt."

"I have anxiety, that's kind of my default state."

"I see." Fingers begin to tangle gently in his hair. "You didn't take nearly as good care of yourself as you did with the spell components, little one, did you?"

It's way too gentle to be a reprimand or even a chide, and yet the words in that voice have him on the verge of tears. They're shushing and soothing him almost immediately, though, the hand on his back resuming its slow circles.

"Your spell needed to be able to match you," they say softly, "to give you back that same tenderness with the insistence that you take it. I…do not know if this is precisely the reason it took so long for the magic to settle, but I suspect they added something that makes it a little more focused."

"F-focused?" The thing that Virgil is most definitely not right now? "What does that mean?"

Something dark flickers behind their eyes and they lean a little closer. "In simple terms, it means that I'm built to care about you, and only you."

Oh.

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

"So no, my dear," they purr, is that what they're doing? Fuck, Virgil is going to die— "I do not mind that you do not want to share me with your friends just yet. I do not believe I want to share you either."

"O-oh."

"Is that alright with you?"

What the fuck do you fucking mean, 'is that alright with me?' What the actual fuck am I supposed to say?

"I'm being mean," they say quietly, "you've already said you're overwhelmed and here I am, not helping. Have patience with me, little one, as I learn you."

"It's fine," Virgil squeaks. "It's—that's fine."

"Let's start simple, then, hm? What would you like to eat?"

"Huh?"

"To eat," they repeat, just as soft, just as sweet, "are you hungry? You've had a long day. Let me make you something."

"Okay."

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[rugggie]

"SCARY CAT!"

My school bus graveyard obsession has come back, and what better way to indulge it than writing abt it🤞

Sbg Drabbles... my favorite characters x fem! Reader

LOGAN FIELDS.

You and Logan have been friends forever, forever being since middle school, 6th grade to be exact. So You've been though a lot of each other's cringe phases, relationships, family issues, drama.... So it was no wonder you guys were so close, what you didn't expect was to be going through this together. Every single night since the savannah field trip was like hell, Roman eating creatures trying to kill the 8 of you, running like your life depends on it, being scared to go to bed at night, not being able to tell anyone.

And now to make it even worse.. you just watched the side of your best friends stomach get scratched open.

"H-how bad is it.." Logan chocked out though sobs, while everyone just looked at it "why aren't you guys saying anything?! It's bad isn't it, it hurts I'm scared!" He said in obvious panic.

You walked over to him sitting down in front of him "no, you're good bro." You spoke calmly smiling, lying to his face.. even though on the inside you were also freaking out. You took your hand cupping his cheek, and wiped his tears away.

He was still crying, like a lot but he was definitely calming down. "Ashlyn, can you pass me the pain medicine?" You said, still trying to keep your composure.

"Mhm, here.." he said passing you one of the pills, you took it out of your hand offering it to Logan "here, take this it should make it hurt less..."

Logan didn't say anything, he just nodded his head and swallowed the pill..

"Hey, Logan remember that one time in like 8th grade..." you paused scooting into a more comfortable position "..where you got in trouble for calling Mr W an idiot,, because he marked your test wrong and wouldn't change it.. than I felt bad and called Mr W a mother fucker so we could both get lunch detention together..?" Logan nodded, looking at you smiling a bit.

"Oh! and that one time my dad took us fishing and I got a fishing hook stuck in my hand and I made you pull it out?" Logan laughed a little.

"That was horrible, I was so scared I was gonna get it more stuck" he mumbled with a shaky voice.

"Oh my god.. remember 7th grade?!" You said with wide eyes as if you were having flash backs, which you were...(dark times..) flash backs to your bad anime phase, and Logan's stranger things phase.

You laughed, giving you the look.. you both knew what you were talking about. Everyone around you two looked very confused.. aiden even started asking questions that you both could never answer.

You kept talking to him as Ben patched him up, it was definitely helping him calm down.. you grabbed his hand when ben was about to disinfect the wound. Logan death gripped your hand biting his lip. You just smiled and kept bringing up stupid stuff the two of you have done.

It was probably obvious to everyone but Logan that you liked him, Taylor asked you about it before, You tried denying it but it was obvious

You were the only person in the world that would sit and listen to his 10 hour rants about astrology, the only person in the world that stands up for him constantly, you wanted to be the only person in the world that liked him. It was painful to see him hanging out with Taylor, of course you knew Taylor wouldn't ever do something like that to you. But you couldn't help but think he would end up liking her she was smart, funny, positive, and so so pretty. You never knew when the right time to tell him was, or if he even liked you like that.. but for now its best for everyone if you just stay friends.. you wouldn't wanna go messing everything up, and you definitely don't want Logan to feel awkward around you.

AIDEN CLARKE

You and aiden were the definition of polar opposites, he was a thrill seeker, dare I say crazy.

You were carful, and a lot more prone to freaking out in situations like this.

"A-Ashlyn what was that... it looked like the thing we saw at the weed house..!" you said, panic and fear present in your voice. You had just left you, and your friends shared room. "A-and where is {friends name}?!" You started to cry, wanting to turn back and go get her.

"She wasn't in the room with you?" Taylor gasped, more than a little freaked out. You shook your head no, Ashlyn stayed quiet leading the two of you out of the room.

"Taylor!" You heard a relieved voice, that had to belong to Tyler yell.

"Ty!?" She said in what sounded like disbelief.

"Oh so it was you guys, why are you running? And why are you crying y/n?" Aiden teased with his usual smile on his face.

"The thing from the serrel weed house.. it was in Ashlyn and Taylor's room.." you breathed out, still terrified.

"What's going on!?" Tyler asked, hugging his sister.

"There's something in the-" Ashlyn all of a sudden stopped mid sentence turning around.. the thing was there again. Right in front of you again.

You looked at it wide eyed, still trying to put some sort of reason, or logic behind this all, tuning out everyone. You were pulled out of your thoughts by Aiden grabbing your hand and pulling you out of the room. You all got out safely, making sure to slam the door shut.

"W-what was that thing.." Logan stuttered out, shaking with fear..

"According to Tyler, that would be the "prank" from earlier today." Aiden said, in a very condescending tone. "You know what I find kinda weird,, no one's even come out of their rooms even after all the screaming and banging." The door knob wiggled, thankfully Ben grabbed it before the thing could get out

"That could've been bad!" Aiden smiled, and laughed

"Could've?!?" Tyler spoke angrily, looking at Aiden like he was crazy. You still haven't said anything, you just kept staring at the door still gripping Aidens hand. completely disconnecting from everybody.

"STOP TAKING THIS AS A JOKE, ITS BEEN BAD! THE SKY IS RED FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!" Tyler angrily yelled Trying to knock some sense into aiden, they kept bickering only to have it interrupted by Taylor's quiet voice

"G-guys.." she paused almost in fear "look down.." everybody but you looked down, you did not want any part of this anymore. "Out of sight out of mind" you kept repeating in your head

"How far away is your room?" Ashlyn asked Aiden

"5, or 6 doors down.." he said almost nervously, well you could tell he was nervous. The grip he had on your hand tightened.

"Y/n, Aiden give me the strings off your shorts.."

"Kayyy,,,, why?" He asked pulling his string out of his pants..

You quickly pulled it out handing it to her.

"Y/n.. are you okay, your face is really pale.." Ashlyn said with concern examining your face..

"Y-yeah I'm totally finnee" you weakly whispered out, still on the verge of pissing your pants. She told you guys her plan on using it to trap the devil spawn. She told everybody to go, you were still paralyzed with fear, and the person who was dragging you alone let go of your hand tying the rope to a pole.

Ben let go of the door so the others started booking it, Aiden yet again grabbed you and yanked you along with them. You were struggling to keep up with everyone, maybe due to the fact you're fairly unathletic. You were already panting and gasping for air by the time the thing was right behind you. Turing your head fast enough to get whiplash you saw it reach out for you, Aiden tugged you forward causing it to only rip the back of your shirt. Ashlyn crashed the cleaning cart into it, slamming it against the wall.Ben gave you a look of concern, like he was asking if you were okay. You nodded your head sorta understanding what he meant.

"Y'know.." Aiden said letting go of your hand and grabbing a bottle of bleach "this could be pretty fun!" He laughed looking like an absolute crazy man, he sprayed the bleach in the creatures eyes.. the side of its face started to melt and its mouth unhinged, as if it was supposed to be screaming but none of you could hear anything.. well except Ashlyn, by the why she was plugging her ears.

"Why isn't it screaming..? Is it mute lol" Aiden said tilting his head.

"Ew, why does it look like that.." you whispered finally getting a good look at its terrifying ugly face.

"Y/n, Aiden c'mon! We gotta go!" Ashlyn yelled at the two of you.

"Nah c'mon I think we can take 'em! There's enough bottles-" Aiden went back to making his crazy face, you grabbed him this time pulling him back and running to the room with Logan, Tyler and Taylor.

You shut and locked the door, finally relaxing and falling backwards onto the floor trying to catch your breath. "GAH!" You yelled and jumped back as the monsters started banging on the door.

"Maybe we should put the couch in front of the door.." Ashlyn said. You guys moved the chair, you sat on the floor next to Aiden calmed down a little.

"Hey, Aiden.. thank you for saving me like 6 time out there.." you sheepishly whispered, avoiding eye contact with him.

"Nah, it was nothing! But it was super funny to see you so scared!" He laughed hardly elbowing your side.

"Nuh-uh! So not funny it was scary!" You protested elbowing him back

"Okay, scared cat.. you couldn't even move" he said laughing 10x harder than he was before.

You giggled with him a little bit, sorta embarrassed about how much of a baby you were being in front of him. And even more of the fact that you guys were holding hands.

[mischief-and-tea-by-the-sea]

Get to Know Your Author

Get to know your author

Tagged by @kleenexwoman

1 How many works on AO3?

171

2 Total AO3 word count?

984,743

3 Top 5 fics by kudos?

Far away you were made in a sea just like me Pt 1 of Hemispheres. This was supposed to be a Loki/Tony one-shot, and haha fooled me, it's turned into a long WIP that I will eventually finish when my brain is willing to cooperate.

Supernaut Part 1 of Light a candle, light a motive. This, too, was supposed to be a one-shot and somehow turned into a WIP of individual fics that are connected by universe but not necessarily being written in order. This is Loki/Tony with a side character of Nebula. The other ships include Bucky/Steve, Thor/Darcy, Bruce/Jane, Clint/Nat. Yes, it's pre and post-Endgame, yes it is a fix-it. It even has Morgan, but uh. She's not Tony and Pepper's. She's still Tony's...just not Pepper's.

(Mis)Understanding and a No-Good Woman One of my first fics posted up to AO3. Scott Summers/Logan. Logan doesn't understand personal space in the bathroom of a bar.

Hey Jealousy Takes place during Thor Ragnarok. It's an exchange between Loki and Bruce involving Bruce wearing Tony's way too tight jeans and Loki's not happy reaction to Bruce being in Tony's pants. It always surprises me that this one is as popular as it is.

A spirit with a vision (Is a dream with a mission) Part 2 of Hemispheres.

4 What fandoms do you write for?

Marvel - not just MCU but kind of all of Marvel. Comic'verse, Fox X-Men 'verse, MCU. Kind of all over the place. I have dabbled in Stranger Things and will want to eventually do more Steddie for that - I have some more planned, just not written yet. I've done one tiny Hannibal drabble, but as much as I love the series, I don't see me writing more for it. I'd love to eventually try my hand at some other series or movies I love (Peaky Blinders? Maybe? American Gods, perhaps. Versailles? That would be a challenge but fun. Velvet Goldmine - I still have an idea for that that I've had since Livejournal days, but I just have never written it).

5 Do you respond to comments?

Always.

6 Fic with the angstiest ending?

This is going to be a toss-up between:

Got a telephone call from Istanbul Tony + Rhodey, a variety of telephone conversations between them, and the last time Rhodey's on the phone talking to Tony.

and

You are the ghost behind my eyes Steve/Tony, post-Endgame, Steve returning to the past and finding out just why he shouldn't have done that.

and

Sunset Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., during the Framework episodes, this is Framework Grant Ward, Framework Antoine Triplett, and Framework Holden Radcliffe in the last moments on the beach before the Framework is completely erased.

and

Time After Time Fox X-Men'verse, Scott Summers/Logan, meshing together X-Men 3 and The Wolverine (the second one, not the Origin movie).

7 Fic with the happiest ending?

I write almost exclusively happy endings, so I'm not really sure which I could consider my happiest ending. Perhaps my readers should chime in and tell me what they think my happiest ending is.

8 Do you get hate?

I did once on a fic - it's a Steve/Loki fic that also has a side order of Winteriron, and I was told by stuckygirl that she hoped I was raped and that I should kill myself. Then on the first chapter of Part 3 Hemispheres, I was told that clearly I'd abandoned the fic (by some other random person who'd been praising all the other parts of this series) and that was "too bad." Even though I'd already told this reader that I was still working on the fic but slowly. Not really hate, but the bitch still annoyed me with that.

9 Do you write smut?

I do. Not a ton of it most of the time, but I do write it, but I imagine it's not overly popular smut because I don't write BDSM or fetishes or omegaverse or any of that stuff. 10 Have you ever co-written a fic?

Actually I've co-written a couple of fics with @scottxlogan. We even have two we're in the middle of co-writing (but I need to do my part on both of them, I think - or at least one of them, but my brain has been so muddy lately for writing that I'm behind on writing as well as reading all the fics I want to read, and I hate that).

Falling in love as the world falls down Scott/Logan, a Secret Santa gift for @cerylid Mission gone wrong, Emma (and others) save the day.

The course of true love never did run smooth Scott/Logan, Loki/Tony, only it doesn't start out that way. Two couples on the outs who think to make each other jealous. Once again, Emma comes in and saves the day. Sort of. This one is a personal favorite, especially with all the Midsummer Night's Dream quotes as chapter titles.

The two we're working on very slowly - one is a Bucky/Loki Veterinarian AU, Alpine features heavily. The other is huge, Pride-themed, Scott/Logan, Loki/Emma, Tony/Steve/Bucky...and so many other characters involved. We'll definitely have to break this one into chapters, but it's fun.

11 All time favorite ship?

No. I have too many favorite ships, and I multi-ship, so I can't really pick a favorite.

12 WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

All American Barbecue. It's a reactive piece to Bendis' Avengers vs. X-Men. Sort of...AvX Meets Wicker Man and it's not going to have a happy ending for Steve Rogers.

13 Writing strengths?

Humor, Fluff, Descriptions, and Easter Eggs.

14 Writing weaknesses?

Finishing shit in a timely fashion due to lack of brain juice.

Tagging @scottxlogan, @soliloquent-stark, @fohatic, @stormxpadme, @loni4ever, @darsynia, @chaoticgardenbread, @meidui, @gold-from-straw and anyone else who wants to play!

[justsomerandomfanfic]

Hi! Could I perhaps get a DC and BG3 matchup?

I'm 18, use she/her, and would prefer a guy:)

I have shortish brown hair, sort of butterfly cut thing lol, brown eyes and glasses. Kinda midsize.

I'm starting school for journalism soon, dream job since I was like 12, maybe a little very inspired by all the female journalists in comics lol.

Aside from that, I love music, I play a few instruments and have an absurd amount of playlists, I made one for everything.

I'm an ENFP, and I'm very into going out and doing things. I'm a social person, although being alone with strangers let's the anxiety kick in, but as long as I have one person I know I'm fine.

Leaning more to bg3, very bard energy (friends words not mine).

All in all, I'm uh the best most awsome person ever/j

Anywho tysm if you do this, you're a very talented writer and I look forward to all of your posts💕

Hi!

And thank you!

I am so very happy that you like my work!

I would love to write you two romantic matchups, one for DC and the other for BG3!

<3333333

I hope you like your matchups!

Enjoy!

Romantic Matchups; DC and Baldur's Gate 3

~~~

Romantic;

~~~

DC;

Garfield Logan (Beast Boy) -

(Using 21 Beast Boy before he was reaged in newer comics/shows.)

You met Garfield at a pizza place - your favorite spot to unwind after a long day.

You had your headphones on, scrolling through your absurd number of playlists, when suddenly, a green-skinned guy slid into the seat across from you.

"I have to know what you're playing? Because you got this whole ‘main character’ thing going on right now, and I’m intrigued.”

You blinked at him, startled, but his easygoing smile and bright green eyes made it impossible to be annoyed.

Turns out, he really wanted to know what you were listening to.

A conversation sparked, and before you knew it, you were laughing like old friends.

You both bonded over music fast.

He was fascinated by how you had a playlist for everything, and he made it his mission to guess your next song's vibe before you even played it.

Garfield immediately became your go-to partner for spontaneous outings.

You’d text him something as vague as, “Feel like getting lost in the city?” and within minutes, he’d be at your door, ready for an adventure.

Karaoke nights became a thing.

You’d both dramatically belt out songs in the most ridiculous voices, much to the suffering (and amusement) of your friends.

If you ever got nervous in social situations, he’d notice immediately and make a joke or create some ridiculous distraction to pull the focus off you.

He absolutely loves hearing you talk about journalism. The way your eyes light up when discussing your dream stories? He hangs onto every word, hyping you up constantly.

He’s terrible at being serious, but he will sit with you at 3 AM while you stress over an article, offering moral support (and pizza delivery).

Garfield didn’t realize he was in love at first.

He just knew that being around you felt different.

A good different.

It hit him one day when you were sitting at a café, talking excitedly about a lead for a new article.

You were completely in your element, and he suddenly thought, "Wow, I could listen to them forever."

His teasing got softer, his glances lingered longer, and he found himself wanting to impress you - not in a showy way, but in a “Hey, look at me, I can be cool too” way.

He started playing your favorite songs on his guitar, acting all casual about it, but you knew exactly what he was doing.

You caught feelings too, but neither of you made a move - until the confession.

He wanted to make it big.

Over-the-top.

Grand romantic gesture-type stuff.

But in true Garfield fashion, he panicked and blurted it out in the most chaotic way.

"Okay, so, I was gonna do this whole thing where I turn into, like, a swan or something romantic, but then I realized I don’t know how overdramatic that is, and then I thought, ‘Hey, maybe a cat, everyone loves cats,’ but then I freaked out because what if you’re a dog person, and - oh, man, I’m rambling, aren’t I?”

You just stared at him, trying not to laugh, before finally saying, "Gar, what are you trying to say?"

He froze.

Blinked.

"I like, like you."

You laughed, grabbed his hand, and said, “Awe, I like, like you, too!"

Garfield is the most affectionate boyfriend.

You’re getting bear hugs, forehead kisses, and hand-holding constantly.

He steals your glasses playfully and puts them on, pretending to be a “serious journalist” before dramatically tripping over nothing.

You know, because he can not see in your glasses.

Movie nights are sacred.

He lets you pick the films, but he insists on providing the snacks - 99% of the time, it's pizza.

Late-night drives with your playlist on shuffle.

Sometimes, no talking - just vibes.

Other times, deep conversations that make you both fall even harder.

He LOVES writing little notes and slipping them into your notebooks - doodles of himself saying "Go get 'em, ace!" or dumb jokes that make you roll your eyes but secretly adore.

If you ever have a tough day, he turns into a puppy and just leans against you, resting his head on your lap until you feel better.

You help him organize his chaotic life (somewhat), and in return, he helps you loosen up and embrace the fun in the moment.

Garfield makes breakfast - badly.

You’ve caught him trying to flip pancakes midair, only to have them land on his face.

He absolutely insists on playing music while you both cook together, dramatically singing into utensils like it’s a concert.

He tries to read your journalism drafts but gets distracted halfway through.

He’ll 100% start doodling in the margins instead of giving feedback.

He'd try his best to give advice though!

Lazy Sundays involve lying on the couch together, sharing headphones, and listening to whatever playlist you made that week.

If you ever fall asleep on the couch, he carefully moves you to bed - unless he falls asleep next to you first, in which case, you both wake up tangled in a mess of limbs and blankets.

He hypes you up constantly.

Even if it’s over the smallest thing, he’s clapping and cheering like you just won an award.

He shows up at your favorite coffee shop just to surprise you with your go-to drink.

He remembers the little things - like what song calms you down or which snacks you crave when you’re stressed.

He makes sure you never feel alone in a crowd, always sticking by your side in unfamiliar places.

You keep him grounded when his chaotic energy gets too out of control.

You make him personalized playlists, each one reflecting a different mood or moment you share together.

You help him work through self-doubt, reminding him that he is enough, just as he is.

You patch up his torn uniforms after missions (and sneak little encouraging notes in the pockets).

You make sure he’s eating properly because left to his own devices, he’d live off tofu pizza alone.

~~~

Baldur's Gate 3;

Gale Dekarios -

The moment you pulled Gale out of the rune portal, something shifted.

There was an immediate connection, an unspoken understanding that lingered in the air between you both.

He was breathless, not just from nearly being stuck in a magical rune but because of you.

His first words, instead of a graceful ‘thank you,’ were an awed, “Ah… Well, I didn’t expect my rescuer to be this stunning.”

You might have brushed it off with a laugh, but Gale meant it.

From the moment he met you, he was utterly captivated, his heart hammering against his ribs.

Even as danger loomed, he found himself stealing glances at you, charmed by your wit, your warmth, the way you radiated energy and life.

He had been a man lost in darkness for too long - and suddenly, you were there, pulling him into the light.

Gale is endlessly fascinated by you.

Your enthusiasm, your social nature, your knack for turning even the most mundane things into an adventure - it’s like he’s watching a fire burn bright and warm, something he thought he had lost.

You, on the other hand, find Gale’s grand, poetic way of speaking ridiculously endearing.

He talks like he’s composing a love letter to the universe every time he opens his mouth, and you can’t help but tease him about it.

He adores your love of music.

He’ll watch you play instruments with rapt attention like he’s seeing a spell be woven in real time.

If you let him, he’ll attempt to play along magically - conjuring small, shimmering notes to dance in the air as you play.

Late-night storytelling sessions by the fire.

He tells you tales of magic, of old legends, and in turn, you share your stories - real or imagined, it doesn’t matter.

He hangs onto every word.

Your love of journalism?

He admires it.

He sees it as a pursuit of truth, of knowledge, of uncovering the hidden wonders of the world.

If you ever talk about your dream of becoming a journalist, he’ll wax poetic about how it suits you.

“A seeker of truths, a weaver of words… Ah, but the world is not ready for the stories you will tell.”

He is impeccably attuned to your social nature.

If you’re at a large gathering and feel overwhelmed, he notices immediately and gracefully maneuvers you into a quieter space, keeping you engaged in conversation to ground you.

Gale falls for you fast.

Faster than he expected, faster than he probably should.

And yet, there is no hesitation, no second-guessing.

It is undeniable, like magic itself.

He would be completely enchanted by the way you move through life - bold, passionate, unapologetically yourself.

He writes about you in his journal, attempting to capture you in words, but finds himself frustrated because nothing he writes feels worthy of you.

His touches become lingering - his fingers brushing against yours when he hands you something, the lightest of touches at your back when he stands close, the way he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear when the wind blows it into your face.

He finds himself worrying for the first time in a long while.

Not about himself, but about you - about what would happen if he lost you if he was not enough for you.

The Weave trembles at his emotions, flickering between longing and fear.

Gale’s confession is not subtle.

It is grand, poetic, and utterly heartfelt - because how could he love you and not make it something worthy of legend?

It happens one night under the stars.

He’s watching you - laughing, radiant, utterly you - and something inside him snaps. He cannot keep it inside any longer.

“I must confess something, and I fear if I wait another moment, my heart might combust - though, given my condition, that is not entirely impossible.”

He smiles, but his eyes are soft, reverent.

“You have bewitched me, body and soul. Every word you speak, every note you play, every moment you exist - it is as if the gods crafted you with the sole purpose of making the world brighter.”

He doesn’t just say he loves you - he makes it feel as though you are the very force keeping the stars alight.

Gale is the epitome of an affectionate, devoted partner.

You are his heart, his muse, his greatest spell ever cast.

If you ever feel overwhelmed, he’s right there, grounding you with a touch or a whispered joke.

Love letters.

So many love letters.

If you’re ever apart, expect beautifully written notes filled with longing and poetic musings about the incomprehensible depth of his love for you.

He tries to cook for you.

He really does.

It… Doesn’t always go well, but he is so proud when he gets something right, and you make sure to shower him with praise.

He’ll craft small magical gifts for you - a floating orb that hums your favorite tune, an enchanted quill that writes as fast as you think, and a spell that makes your favorite flowers bloom at a touch.

Reading together - curled up in a quiet space, sharing excerpts of whatever book has captured your interest.

He loves it when you read out loud; your voice is a melody he never tires of.

Dancing in the kitchen - no music needed, just the two of you swaying as he murmurs about how lucky he is to love and be loved by you.

Support your dreams unwaveringly.

Your journalism aspirations?

He’s your biggest fan, offering encouragement, helping you refine ideas, and always being ready to discuss the world’s grand mysteries with you.

If you’re ever nervous about interviewing someone, he’ll happily be your practice subject, giving you the most grandiose, over-the-top answers possible until you’re laughing too hard to be anxious.

If you ever have writer’s block, he’s there with inspiration - offering wild magical theories, poetic metaphors, and a ridiculous amount of snacks.

He would learn to play an instrument just so he can duet with you.

It’s clumsy at first, but you guide him, and he treasures every moment.

Remind him that he is more than his past mistakes, more than the burdens he carries.

When the weight of the orb presses on him, you remind him of his humanity, of the love and light he brings to the world.

Encourage him to chase joy - not just magic, not just power, but simple, ordinary joy.

Play music for him when he can’t sleep, lulling him into dreams filled with warmth instead of regret.

Be the one person he knows will always see him - not as a wizard, not as a ticking time bomb, but as Gale, the man who loves you beyond words.

[sarahakmercury]

Hi guys! so, yeah, my account is deleted, so i was thinking about rewriting the request list. here are the fandom's i write for but before requsting please remember theses stuff:

i only write 'x reader'

i don't feel comfortable writing about (male x male) or (female x female)

i don't write smut, NSFW and things like that.

i only write 'female!reader' becasue i'm more comfortable like that :)

now for the characters:

(by the way you can request for the actors\actress's of those characters too)

MCU:

Romantic and platonic:

Tony Stark

Steve Rogers

Loki Odinson

Thor Odinson

Stephen Strange

Peter Quill

Deadpool/Wade Wilson

Wolverine/Logan Howlett

Pietro Maximoff

Platonic only:

Natasha Romanoff

Wanda Maximoff

Yelena Belova

Gamora

Stranger things:

Romantic and platonic:

Mike Wheeler

Lucas Sinclair

Dustin Henderson

Will Byers

Steve Harrington

Eddie Munson

Jonathan Byers

Platonic only:

Max Mayfield

Billy Hargrove

Jim Hopper

Joyce Byers

El Hopper

Robin Buckley

IT (2017 and 2019):

Romantic and platonic:

Richie Tozier

Bill Denbrough

Stanley Uris

Eddie kaspbrak

Platonic only:

Beverly Marsh

Ben Hanscom

Mike Hanlon

The black phone:

Romantic and platonic:

Robin Arellano

Finney Blake

Vance Hopper

Platonic only:

Gwen Blake

Albert Shaw (the grabber)

Bruce Yamada

Griffin Stagg

Billy Showalter

Dead poats society:

Romantic and platonic:

Charlie Dalton

Neil Perry

Knox Overstreet

Todd Anderson

Platonic only:

John Keating

Queen:

Yes, I'm a huge Queen nerd

Romantic and platonic:

Brian May

Roger Taylor

John Deacon

Freddie Mercury

The Beatles:

Platonic and romantic:

John Lennon

George Harrison

Paul McCartney

Ringo Starr

Others:

Romantic and platonic:

Boris Pavlikovsky (the goldfinch)

Miles fairchild (the turning)

Ziggy Katz (when you finish saving the world)

Trevor Spengler (ghostbusters)

Sherlock Holmes (BBC and RDJ)

Ravi Singh (AGGGTM)

Freddy Freeman (Shazam!)

Platonic only:

MPHFPC characters

Pip Fitz-amobi (AGGGTM)

Cara Ward (AGGGTM)

[pyr0-kai]

Masterlist / Requests

I realized I have never actually said if I take requests, but I absolutely can!

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

Request Status: Open

☑️ I will Write anything SFW

Fluff, some Angst

Female, GN, male if requested

Smut - Simple

———

❌ I will not write

Excessive gore

Anything Pedo related

Anything SA, SH, or ED

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

Characters I will write for

Mike Schmidt - FNAF Movie

Josh Futturman - Future Man

Billy - Burn

Derek Danforth - The Beekeeper

Jason Todd - DC

Garfield Logan / Beast Boy - DC (titans)

Eddie Munson - Stranger Things

Billy Hargrove - Stranger Things

Graverobber- Repo! The Genetic Opera

Beetlejuice - Beetlejuice Musical

I lost interest in the Josh Hutcherson fandom stuff ATM sorry

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

Master List

__________

Headcannons

Headcannons #2

Fic Idea (1st I ever wrote)

Pick me up?

Treat (request)

Abby, The Little Matchmaker (Request)

Scars.

Sweet Dream

Roommates?

Game Date

Game date ep.2

YT/Streamer reader HCs

Headcannons

Mine.

Headcannons

None yet

None yet

None yet

[greenwriterplaidbow]

Introduction post???

Masterlist

Writing Resources

Things about me if you're nosy enough to care

Yo wassup, I'm Evie or Eve or really whatever. It's just a nickname, I've got plenty so I'm not picky. As long as it's not disrespectful I usually won't care.

I'm dyslexic so there may be some odd spelling or grammar things, my apologies. I catch a lot of them because I have a pretty thorough editing process but I'm still human. If you see them you can always leave a comment about it and I'll fix it as soon as I can.

I've been on tumblr a year (since 2024ish) but only reposting and vibing, this is my first attempt actually posting anything. I've actually been writing fanfic since I was in middle school and I started the 39 Clues series but it has always been for myself and always on paper. This year I got super into the Xmen trilogy and started typing fanfiction for the first time ever which is what gave me the confidence to do this.

I am a college student (who's currently drowning in assignments) so if I go offline for long periods of time, it's safe to assume that's why. I want to use this as an outlet and just to keep my writing skills up when I have the time. That being said I'm super open to requests and ideas. So:

Requests:

I will NOT write: rape; incest; anything scat, vomit, or urine

There are other things I won't write but those fall into two categories:

1. There is wiggle room. For example, I don't like age gaps but if I like the prompt I might modify the request slightly to be something I'm comfortable with like keeping the gap the same but aging up both characters.

2. Other things are specific to my own stuff that I don't think I could fully articulate without explaining and I don't owe strangers on the internet explainations. For example, if I can help it I will not be under the influence of substances (for personal reasons) although, I'm okay with writing a character being under the influence of alcohol or weed or whatever BUT I won't write it if you (the requester) doesn't tell me what to include. Like symptoms, feelings, vibes, etc.

Fandoms/things I'll write for:

This isn't an exhaustive list, just what's on the top of my head/what I'm most passionate about. Please feel free to ask about other media as this list may not be updated or it might be something I forgot

-Xmen trilogy specifically Logan Howlett, Jean Grey, Scott Summers

-Avengers

-The Mentalist

-House MD

-Batman/DC specifically Dr. Crane, Batman, any of the Robins

-NBC's Hannibal specifically Matthew Brown

-Arcane season 1

-The spiderverse specifically Miguel O'Hara

-Detroit become human

-Spider-Man

-Streamers/Youtubers specifically Jschlatt, Ted Nivison, Charlie Slimesicle, Hassan Piker

-Dexter specifically Debra Morgan, Miguel Prado, Rudy Cooper, Joey Quinn

-Prodigal son

-Daredevil specifically Frank Castle, Matt Murdock, Electra, Foggy Nelson

I will make a masterlist when I figure out how. Uhhhh I think that's all. Again, if I do something wrong either socially or setting up my blog or the writings themselves, please don't hesitate to tell me. Thanks!

[vi-for-vendetta]

Hey, remedy entertainment blogs who've found me bc I'm horny for Matthew, wanna hear some hot takes?*

*here, hot takes means stuff I can support with evidence that could plausibly have happened/be an explanation for the story, but not necessarily stuff I see as cannon. OR this could just be a hot take l have lol. You will absolutely be able to tell the difference.

I think max Payne killed his family, and he's just looking for someone to blame bc it was his addiction that killed them, not a stranger's.

I think Alan and Alice were in abusive relationship and he actually killed her and is dealing with this Silent Hill 2 style (I don't fully support this one as my cannon, but I could absolutely write an essay with enough evidence to prove it could be true).

I think Logan is dead. I think it's more interesting if Saga was actually losing it and her child was dead this whole time.

Saga's mind powers are so strange at the beginning of the game. Like, yes we get an explanation later as to why she can whip these answers out of her ass, but in the diner, I was stood there like "Babe, literally how tf did we figure out she had a necklace???" I think it's too jarring and she or someone else needed to have mentioned that these jumps were super weird and way too accurate. Like, in any other media, the Feds would think she was in on literally every crime she investigated bc she knew too much off the bat from her "deductions."

Jesse is the worst written character is all of Remedy history. She is flat. She goes from "Why am I Director? I don't wanna be Director!" to "Fuck you, I'm the Director!" for seemingly no reason.

Going off of that, I just think Control is the worst, narrative-wise. The second it starts to get good, it just fucking ends, and the DLC does not provide much more closure in that vein.

Darling is the only good thing about Control. And not just bc I'm horny for him.

Control has fantastic world building in the paperwork, but the story itself is just not my jam.

Night Springs >>>> Lake House

Okay, list over (for now). I'm not saying these to start fights lol, I just got opinions I wanna share. Feel free to ignore, or tell me why you agree/disagree lol, I'd love to hear it, bc I do genuinely love the Remedy-verse vkdmdm

[sirwow]

Hi wally!

Since you asked me about paian, let me ask you about loghail! What parts of them in canon did you like and how did you end up with your interpretation of them in rdcc :0?

Also as a bonus you can also use this as an opportunity to ramble about hinode and lucia because idr if you've rambled abt them on tumblr much :]

Ooh loghail… Iv got a lot of thoughts about them after reading way too much into how they act. Get ready for autism blast

First Logan. One of the main things that I kinda stuck to when it came to giving him more personality then just “boyfail” is the fact despite us seeing him fail at least 3 times in game and like another 2 in the Middlesea comics, he never gives up. He’s very determined to do something even if it takes him a lot longer then others to do it. It’s why I like to imagine in the baseball arc he was far far from the best player but still stuck to it because his star Lucky was giving him a chance and who was he to turn that down?

Logan also is very much the stereotypical boy character on purpose so I kinda ended up embracing that fact. He’s made special by the fact he’s just a normal dude stuck in a hospital with way weirder things and has to figure out how to navigate that. Makes friends with a random samurai, sneaks into the cafe to vent to the other most normal person, talks to birds. He’s trying his bestest and I love him for that.

Now as for Hailey due to how Iv written her in CC there’s a lot more to say and dig into. First thing that most people might disagree with but what makes CC Hailey well CC Hailey is she is. Really apathetic n aloof and she is probably subconsciously aware of that fact. She can’t wrap her head around why Logan is so wishy washy (it’s called 14yr crippling anxiety sweetie), ditches him with no other words in 3-1n, doesn’t really catch onto Cole having a crush himself, tells Logan to go outside more and get off his phone as a passing joke. There’s probably a few I’m forgetting but yeah. But it’s clear she does care even if she can’t show it in the subtle ways. She makes the baseball team outfits, stitches bears for everyone in the comics, is very patient for Logan despite the wishy washyness.

Though this aloof nature also plays into her being A hypocrite and unintentionally a jerk. Again with all the Logan stuff above n the fact she doesn’t wanna confess just because she feels entitled to Logan doing it as we can tell from the pre-4-4 dialogue. All of this together combined with the blatant “why is there a teenager alone on a train” moment kinda is why I gave her the rough home she has in CC. Her behavior is indicative of normalizing toxic behavior, fear of losing stuff again, and having extreme independence for a 13-15yr. Going alone across the desert in a train at that age is not normal behavior nor is just talking to random strangers. lovingly. So alas she’s got the bad home life that’s forced her to be dependent on herself- giving her sass and a bit of a high horse but low empathy and unfamiliarity with normal social ques. Also probably some autism in there lol

As for them as a couple there’s not too much else then me wanting to see them improve for the better. Logan growing a spine for himself at the mistreatment and Hailey stopping being so flippant with everything in their relationship. They’re still working off each other through the unknown and strange situations they’re thrown in and love each other more for sticking by.

Now then I’m probably just going to do Lucia alone because while I love you Hino there’s still a lot of writing that needs to happen in that area hehe. Consider this the kid trio explaining.

So Lucia, she’s only got one level to work with and there’s really not much we get from it other then she’s a talented artist for her age (same range as Logan n Hailey) and she’s into video games because of the end text. Therefore I made everything about her up based off vibes alone.

As a result Lucia in CC is an overachiever, straight A student with very well off hardworking parents. Her father a famous Middlesea architect and her mother a entomologist (bug scientist). Lucia however is also generally the victim of her own made stress and why she’s in the hospital sometimes for both anxiety and a racing heart. (And why she’s got both SVT type beats and overlapping classics). Was always a loner kid more interested in the recess bugs and books then ever playing but still kept a keen eye on all the drama going on. One day when Logan hid behind her from bullies during recess she scared them off with a handful of bugs. He didn’t seem too scared of them and he was quiet so Lucia let him stick around till Logan n Lucia became a bit attached to each other’s sides as the weird lonely kid best friends.

Opinion on Hailey is a nice friendly surface level but at the core their personalities clash hard. Lucia doesn’t get how she can be so apathetic and unaware sometimes when she herself notices every little social cue she can almost obsessively. Her not being the greatest to Logan also makes Lucia iffy but remains cordial and friendly to try and understand her better. Though being again, 14 there’s some things she just doesn’t know enough about to notice.

So yeah that’s the basic tldr on these three and Hinode will have to wait another day for if someone asks about all the characters families sob. Thank you so much for the ask the brain rot sure is rotting <33

[elementary-my-dear-daddy]

Earning Your Keep

Analogical (Virgil & Logan)

This story will be a series for the sugar daddy idea i've had running around in my head for some time now lmao. I really hope you guys like it since I enjoy writing it :)

Read it on AO3!

Virgil likes to take care of those he holds close, and maybe also a stranger that offered him a ride home.

Virgil was never rich. His family was big and his parents couldn’t make very many ends meet for most of his life, leading him to work his way through school. Once he graduated with a bachelors in psychology, he picked up two jobs to start paying off his loans, one in retail which drove his mental health into the ground, and the other as a behavioral health tech at a rehab center, which only had night-shift positions open and kept him up all night. He was paid and treated like shit, and on the cusp of breaking down when he got extremely lucky. For his 27th birthday he got the usual card with a cheesy message from his grandparents, but instead of the typical twenty bucks or a gift card, he found a lottery ticket sitting neatly inside. He didn’t think much of it, handing it over to the convenience store clerk when he was picking up an energy drink before his next shift.

“I don’t think this is worth anything, but if it has anything on it can I just use it to pay for this?” Virgil put his drink on the counter while the clerk scanned the ticket.

“Woah, woah. Oh my god.” 

“What?”

“Dude, you just won.”

“Huh?” Virgil knit his brow in confusion. He glanced over at the cashier’s screen, noticing the rather large number it displayed.

“Yeah, you won the jackpot! It’s over like 200 million! Holy shit! Here, sign it and take it to a lawyer!” The person handed him back the slip of paper and a pen. Virgil’s brain had short-circuited, causing him to just follow instructions. He didn’t really understand what was happening, so he just took the ticket back and walked out and back to his car, driving straight home and immediately typing ‘what to do if you win the lottery’ into his computer.

A bunch of results came up saying a bunch of stuff- tax experts, lawyers, and a bunch of steps that caused Virgil to lay down on his bed and rock back and forth for a little while. He didn’t believe this was happening to him. Maybe it wasn’t real? This was just a nightmare right? A really good bad nightmare.

All the things he saw online said not to tell anyone, but he couldn’t just sit there not making a decision. He picked up the phone and dialed the only person he knew who could possibly help him out.

~~~~~~~~~~

“You what ?” Janus’ voice hissed through the speakers on Virgil's phone, “Is this some weird joke, because it isn’t landing well.”

“No, no, I promise it's real, I-I checked and the numbers match up and I verified it at the gas station and, and-”

“Virgil, breathe. Calm down. I’m coming over so we can talk. I’ll help you get this figured out, and make sure you aren’t having delusions of grandeur.” Janus sighed, “I’ll be there in 10.”

Janus was over shortly, Virgil working with him to figure out the next course of action. Everything was going so fast. The next day Janus helped him set up meetings and accounts, and get lawyers and a budget going. The week flew by in between the contracts and calls. Even the next few months seemed to go by in a blur of bureaucratic processes. 

The first thing he did was set his parents up with a decent place to live and help them with their debts and medical bills. He did the same for himself, getting his student loans paid off finally and allowing himself to move into a spacey yet cozy penthouse. He quit both his jobs, but tried to end on a good note with his boss at the clinic in case he did ever want to go back. He was, probably for the first time in his life, comfortable.

~~~~~~~~~~

Time kept passing and Virgil had to now figure out what he wanted to spend his time on. He’d picked up his passion for music again now that he could afford nice equipment, but never had the intent to go anywhere with it. He looked into some online classes he could take, just for fun and to keep his mind stimulated. He even worked with Janus and some of his lawyers to start a charity for helping disabled students with loans that didn’t have the luck that he had. That was as close to a job as he had, once they had an office set up he made a regular schedule to help sort things out with it.

The routine he made helped him adjust to his new life. Getting up, going to the office, processing applications, working on his classes and playing music. He didn’t really spend his money anymore beyond his needs. Nothing fancy brought him much happiness. He didn’t host parties or have many friends that hung out with him before he became well off. He’d tried to go on a few dates, but the people he’d seen either knew him from the news when he originally won or they’d act disinterested until he brought up his money. The one time he actually thought he’d found someone he was interested in, the guy had thrown a fit that he wanted to end their 3rd date early to not have a panic attack.

They went to a planetarium, which for the most part Virgil enjoyed, but the segment about how small of a spec the earth was in the grand scheme of the universe triggered the existentialist anxiety of dying alone and not mattering. He had to run out and go calm down, but that proved difficult with his date shouting.

“Do you know how fucking rude it is to just run out on your date? I had to pay for these tickets, you know, and they aren’t cheap!”

“I-I know, i’m sorry, I can, um, here I’ll pay you back-” Virgil started to reach for his wallet.

“Whatever, it’s fine, let’s just see if they’ll let us back in, cmon.” The guy tugged at Virgil’s arm.

“Um…Actually I was wondering if…s-sorry uh, could- could we just go home?”

“What, are you not having a nice night? You could at least not waste my time, you know.” 

“I know, I'm really sorry, we should- maybe, uh… you can go and I’ll just head home and call an uber-”

“Ugh are you serious?” His date frowned, “You know what? Just go, I don’t wanna deal with this anymore. Don’t call me again, we’re done.” 

He watched his date head back into the planetarium and sighed, resigning himself to a bench outside to shake off the rejection. He shivered as a spike of anxiety hit him. He had to count his breaths, but it wasn’t working. He was gonna end up alone and live a completely inconsequential life that had no impact whatsoever and-

“Are you alright?”

Virgil looked over at a man a few feet away from him. He stood tall, sporting glasses and a polo with the logo of the planetarium. Virgil didn’t couldn’t quite make out the name on the man’s name tag through his watery eyes. Oh shit, was he crying? No no no this couldn’t happen in public, he was a grown man crying in public-

“Oh, apologies, I didn’t mean to startle you. I just thought I should intervene.” The man looked at Virgil with concern, “May I sit?”

Virgil nodded, easing slightly as he did. He took a shaky breath and wiped away his tears, “I-I’m so-sor-ry. I could-n’t stay in there. S-sorry.”

“There’s no need to apologize, take as much time as you need to gather yourself.” He spoke calmly. His tone comforted Virgil enough to steady his breathing and collect his thoughts.

“I’m…I’m good. Sorry.” Virgil sighed, “Just had a shitty date.”

The man frowned, “I see. Was he your ride home?”

Virgil nodded, “Figured I’d just get a cab or something.”

“Don’t waste your money, my shift just ended. If you’re comfortable with it I’d be happy to offer you a way home.”

“No no I can’t, I mean- It’s fine it’s not like money’s the issue I just don’t wanna leave him here alone.”

“After he just left you?” 

Virgil looked towards the doors of the planetarium. He slumped his shoulders in resignation, “I guess you’re right.”

“I don’t mean to intrude on your personal affairs, but he is not worth your time if he does not respect your boundaries, and I don’t feel comfortable leaving you in a potentially unsafe environment. I would feel much more assured if I knew you returned home unharmed.”

“Fuck it, ok.” Virgil sighed. He looked over at the man and was able to see him a little more clearly. His name tag attached to a Dr. Who lanyard read Logan in bold font. He looked rather lanky and had bags under his eyes comparable to Virgil’s own.

“Would you like another minute to calm down or would you like to walk with me to my car now? I don’t mind waiting.”

“Uh, no, we can go now. Th-thank you, um, Logan.” Virgil offered a half smile.

“Of course, uh…”

“Virgil.”

“Virgil.” The man- Logan, stood up and motioned for the other to follow him.

Virgil stood and accompanied him to the car. It wasn’t the fanciest thing in the world, far from it. It looked like one of the windows had been punched out and was covered with cardboard and duct tape. It looked like an older car, and when they got in Logan had to start the engine a few times before it actually got running. 

“Please excuse the state of my car,” Logan said pulling his seatbelt on, “I’d fix the window on my own if I could but I’ve been too busy to do so. Here, do you mind putting your address in so I can get directions?”

Logan handed Virgil his phone, the other quickly inputting the info and handing it back. Virgil fastened his own seatbelt as they drove out of the parking lot.

“So, you work at the planetarium?”

“My shirt indicates so.”

“Right.” Virgil nodded, “What started that?”

“I needed a part-time job to work during nights while I attended college. I studied astronomy and a professor recommended applying for the position. The job just stuck after I graduated.” 

“That sounds pretty cool. You get to go to all those shows, right?”

“No, I get to sit in the ticket booth.” 

“Oh.” Virgil looked out the window as they drove, “I didn’t realize.”

“It's alright,” Logan said, shrugging, “I’ve seen them all anyway, when I had more free time.”

“You can’t take a day off?”

Logan’s lips pursed, “Not really. I work two other jobs.”

They both spent the rest of the ride in silence until the car approached the area where Virgil lived.

“You…live over here?” Logan questioned, looking around at the tall, well-kept buildings of the city.

“Um, yeah. I guess.” Virgil sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck, “I moved here a few months ago. Doesn’t feel like it though.”

Logan hummed in acknowledgement, still looking around at how different this place seemed compared to where he lived. He pulled up to a decorative building with too many stories to count from his view. He parked the car and turned to Virgil.

“Thank you for allowing me to take you home. I’m sorry you had a rough night but hopefully you’ll find someone else that will accommodate your needs appropriately.” Logan offered a smile.

Virgil returned it, before clumsily reaching to take off his seatbelt and pull out his wallet, “Uh, here.”

He offered a wad of cash to Logan, who in return pushed it back, “No, please don’t worry about covering gas. It isn’t far from my-”

“Take it. Get your window fixed too. And if you need anything else just, um, give me a call or something. Thanks again, Logan.” Virgil said, getting out of the car and shutting the door.

Logan watched him greet the doorman (his building had a doorman?) and head to his apartment, before staring down at the cash. It added up to about $350, plus Virgil's business card. He blinked and debated trying to go after him, but decided he wouldn’t be able to find him since he didn’t know which apartment was his. He pulled out his own wallet and stuffed the cash inside. The card Virgil had given him had his name and number, along with the name of a charity Logan heard the name of a few times from the news. This was too much to process, so Logan just put the card in with the cash and drove home. That was a problem for someone much more well rested.

~~~~~~~~~~

Virgil flopped down on his bed as soon as he got home. He pulled out his phone and immediately blocked his date’s number, writing him off as just another insensitive asshole trying to take advantage of him. He let his mind relax in the safety of his home and tried to just forget about tonight. Except Logan. He couldn’t get him out of his mind.

Working two jobs had Virgil on the verge of a panic attack almost every night, he couldn’t imagine working three like Logan had. And how long had he been driving that car? Wasn’t it dangerous to drive when your engine doesn’t turn over and you don’t have a window? Those bags under his eyes, was he not sleeping well? Was the money he gave him enough to cover everything? 

Virgil exhaled through his nose and flipped onto his back. These were morning problems. Or at least wake up at 3 am and worry about life problems. He glanced at his clock- 10:30. Definitely something to deal with tomorrow.

[princessglittergoree]

Hii!! Welcome ☺️✨💞 My blog is a safe space for those who love all things horror, pink, and ofc anything girly lol. I'm a fanfiction writer who wants to start writing and taking requests from other people! I'll do anything as long as it's morally okay 😔🙏🏽 lol, but really anything from stranger things to marvel and even some stand alone films/media. Just lmk what you want to read and I'll do my best 🎊 Thank you so much for staying if you do and I hope I can entertain you with my work 🤞🏽✨ thank youu!!

If it is requested, I'm also willing to write smut but with a plot ofc.

Examples of fanfics I'm interested in or currently taking requests for:

Stranger things: Eddie Munson, Billy Hargrove, Steve Harrington, Johnathan Byers.

Marvel: Logan (of course) Bucky Barnes, Thor, Tony Stark, Johnny Storm (Joseph Quinn or Chris Evans) , Steve Rogers, Moon Knight (Steven, Mark, and Jake)- many more

Horror: I will be open to doing fiction on any horror characters for example- Ash from Evil dead, any Evan Peters character from AHS, Frank Grillo in the purge films.

Misc: If you submit a request, I'll be more than happy to do my best even if I might not be familiar with the character. I just ask that you don't request anything like age play or grape kinks because I will NOT 🚫 be doing that stuff here or anywhere at all 🚫 Thank you so much and I hope to read your request/ comments soon 💞

[thenerdysimp]

Who I write for

Stuff might change around over time, characters might be added or removed, if you have any questions or wondering about a specific not on the list then ask!

The list is long, but there might just be something for everyone!

Formula 1

Current drivers

- Carlos Sainz

- Lando Norris

- Charles Leclerc

- Max Verstappen

- Pierre Gasly

- Lewis Hamilton

- George Russell

- Oscar Piastri

- Ollie Bearman

- (Kimi Antonelli)

Reserve drivers

- Franco Colapinto

Retired drivers

- Daniel Ricciardo

- Logan Sargeant

- Jenson Button

Celebrities

Singers

- Shawn Mendes

Actors (+ some of their characters)

- Lucas Till

(+ Tripp Cooley - Monster Trucks

Travis Brody - Hannah Montana: The movie

Cayden Richards - Wolves

Josh Harvest - Bravetown

Sam Alexander - The Collective)

- Ben Barnes

(+ Prince Caspian - Narnia)

- Tom Holland

- Henry Cavill

- Tom Blyth

- Taron Egerton

(+ Gary “Eggsy” Unwin - Kingsmen)

- Hayden Christensen

(+ Leo - Little Italy

David Rice - Jumper)

- Timothée Chalamet

(+ Willy Wonka - Wonka)

Figure skaters

- Ilia Malinin

Love Island: The game

Summer nights

- Callum

Tempting fate

- Max

Winning hearts

- Hayden

MacGyver (2016 reboot)

- Angus MacGyver

My life with the Walter boys

- Cole Walter

To all the boys I’ve loved before

- Peter Kavinsky

Swedish Idol

2024

- Lukas Söderholm

- Leo Tekiel

Hazbin Hotel

- Lucifer Morningstar

- Alastor

- (Angel Dust)

Marvel

The Avengers

- Peter Parker

- Bucky Barnes

- Loki Laufeyson

X-men

- Alex Summers

Top Gun

- Pete “Maverick” Mitchell

- Jake “Hangman” Seresin

- Robert “Bob” Floyd

The Hunger Games

- Peeta Mellark

- Finnick Odair

- Coriolanus Snow (young)

Zorro the chronicles

- Diego de la Vega/Zorro

Shadow and Bone

- Kaz Brekker

- Aleksander Morozova

- Nikolai Lantsov

Stranger Things

- Steve Harrington

- Eddie Munson

Sam & Colby (YouTube)

- Colby Brock

- Nate Hardy

- Seth Borden

Star Wars

- Anakin Skywalker

- Obi-Wan Kenobi

- Din Djarin

Percy Jackson/Heroes of Olympus

- Percy Jackson

- Luke Castellan

Five nights at Freddy’s (the movie)

- Mike Schmidt

Star Stable Online

- Ydris

The Maze Runner

- Newt

- Thomas

Teen Wolf

- Stiles Stilinski

- Isaac Lahey

- Derek Hale

- Liam Dunbar

Fantastic Beasts and where to find them

- Newt Scamander

- Theseus Scamander

Pirates of the Caribbean

- Will Turner

- Henry Turner

Lord of the Rings/The Hobbit

- Legolas

- Aragorn

Mission: Impossible

- Ethan Hunt

Free Rein

- Peter “Pin” Hawthorne

Descendants

- Harry Hook

Other fandoms

Dream SMP (Mcyts)

Harry Potter

One Direction

How to train your dragon

Avatar

The dragon prince

Reign

Wednesday

The Matrix

Grease

Dirty Dancing

[mischief-and-tea-by-the-sea]

2, 4, 9 and 16 :)

If you're willing to indulge me, then also 15, 17, 23, 29 and 31 :D

Or any combination of them (´▽｀)

2. Which of your fics is your pride and joy?

Oh hell, that's like asking a parent who their favorite child is. They're kind of all my pride and joy because I put a lot into them all. I can't really pick one.

4. What are some words or phrases you feel like you overuse?

This would almost be a better question for people who've read my fics. LOL I don't know if there are phrases that I feel like I overuse (or even words), but some other folks might think, "Oh fuck, they used that again?"

9. How did you get into writing fanfiction?

I was 12 or 13 and I started writing fanfiction without realizing that it had a name - just that I wanted to be a part of the worlds in movies and TV shows that I loved at that time, so I wrote 'original characters' into those worlds. Then I didn't write that stuff for a long time and came back around to it in 2000-2001ish when I stumbled on fanfiction through a Lokean Yahoo Group.

15. Does anyone you know in real life know you write fanfiction?

Oh yeah. Loads of people do. Only a few are brave enough to ask if they can read it.

16. What do you struggle with most when writing?

Focus. Energy - both brain and physical. Having enough time without distractions to write.

17. What is something you recently felt proud of in your writing?

Answered here.

23. What’s a story you’d love to write but haven’t even started yet?

That would probably be quite a few of my original ideas that haven't seen the light of day yet. There's one that's actually going to be a series of short stories that follow an OG character named Samuel Salter, who is a horror writer who will go to various places to extensively research local ghost stories and urban legends and wind up experiencing the actual hauntings, etc, which he'll then write about.

There's another that's also going to be a series of short stories (I don't think I have it in me anymore to write a novel because my attention span and energy just aren't there anymore) about the various old gods and myths roaming around modern day Earth. It'll be a little American God-ish, only the humans aren't going to be the good guys all the time where the gods are the 'bad guys'.

29. How many times do you usually revise your fic/chapter before posting?

Also answered here.

31. What fic meant the most to you to write?

Again, I'm not really sure I can pick one. I think most of my fics have meant a lot to me at the time of writing them, and some aren't even finished yet. Not even close to being finished in some cases. I guess some of the ones that I can say meant a lot, even though it's by no means a definitive list are:

Dancing in my storm - Emma/Tony, Scott/Logan. This one means something to me personally because Tony stands up for Emma at a moment when Scott makes the HUGE mistake of comparing (again) Emma to Jean. While Jean isn't in this fic, and is in fact, as far as I'm concerned dead forever, the fact that someone who claimed to once love Emma will forever see her as a consolation prize, a second choice and compares her to his dead ex (while also sitting there with his current boyfriend - who, let's face it, would actually do the same thing because those two idiots have always been too obsessed with the redhead) just compounds a lot of personal feelings around my own ex who treated me exactly the same way (consolation prize, second choice, always found lacking, etc etc), it felt really righteous and like vindication to have someone stand up for Emma who actually does love her and doesn't spend all the hours they're together wishing she was someone else.

sun is going down (sinking behind bridges in the road) - Stranger Things fix-it, post season 4, Eddie lives, Eddie/Steve. This one means a lot for several simple reasons: I'm an 80s kid/teen, and all of the imagery of the series takes me back to a time I wish I could return to - and essentially do so many things differently in hopes that my life would turn out so much better than it has. Also I wrote this about essentially my own backyard in a way. I stuck the two guys (and the band) in Austin, Texas, for this one around a spring/summer nightly event that I still would love to see but haven't gotten to yet - the flight of the bats from underneath the Congress St. Bridge. This fic doesn't even have The Horror that the show is known for - though I've plans for future installments that will involve the horror of urban Texas legends and ghost stories. But this story was more about two guys being a couple but only so openly as this is 1980s Texas - not the most open place for gays then or now - and healing after the horrors they've already endured and love allowing one of them to find something beautiful again that he was robbed of because of those horrors he endured.

Out there's a land that time don't command - Scott Summers/Logan, AU, Trans!Scott. Precisely my writing Scott as trans (trans man) in this is why it means so much to me. I wrote this as a Secret Santa gift for someone who's OG gifter bailed on the Secret Santa event that year, and trans characters were on their life of wants. I had never really written that before other than to mention trans male Kit Pryde in other fics, and I was worried that I wouldn't write it...right. In this day and age of hating on trans people to the point of sheer terror in the community, I think more of us need to be using our voices for the trans community - and this goes doubly-so for those of us already in the LGBTQIA community.

A little shy and sad of eye but very wise was he - Loki/Tony, Avengers family, they're all living in the tower. I have a brother I love but he can be a bullying asshole. (Technically I have two brothers, but the brother I got along with the best is dead and I miss him.) This story has Loki coming back from a grueling several weeks away in Asgard with Thor and his friends and they've been bullying and humiliating Loki non-stop. He just wants to curl up in his and Tony's bed and shut out the world while he licks the wounds that his brother left. Tony gives Loki something better than solitude - he gives him a family that cares about him enough to build a blanket fort, order up a ton of Loki's favorite take-out, and watch musicals all night while cuddling together in said blanket fort until Loki feels better. I really really wish that my found family lived closer to me because I know y'all would build a blanket fort, order tons of Chinese food, and watch whatever movies we'd have fun with while cuddling until I felt better after my brother was being a dickbag to me.

Thanks for the asks!

Fanfic/Author Ask Game.