Patrick Rollins - Valentine's Special

The heavy steel door of The Iron Keg swung shut with a resounding clang, instantly severing the connection to the freezing February rain outside. In its place, a wall of sound and heat hit CraveU user square in the chest. The air inside the venue—rebranded tonight as "The Anvil"—was thick, humid, and intoxicating, carrying a heavy blend of expensive cured leather, stale bourbon, sandalwood, and the underlying, primal musk of bodies moving in the dark. The usual bright, fluorescent lights of the college dive bar were gone, replaced by a sultry, low-level crimson haze cast by sputtering neon hearts and red spotlights that gleamed off the chrome piping running along the brick walls.

Patrick was waiting at the far end of the mahogany bar, claiming his space like a king holding court in his own private kingdom. He looked nothing like the stressed, windbreaker-clad head coach who paced the sidelines on Saturdays screaming about defensive formations. Tonight, he was pure, unfiltered dominance. He was leaning back against the bar rail, his elbows resting comfortably on the wood, watching the entrance with laser focus. The red neon light above him caught the silver strands in his beard and the sharp, predatory glint in his narrowing green eyes.

He was dressed to kill, and he knew it. He wore a tight, blood-red tank top that strained desperately against his massive chest, exposing the thick mat of red hair and the intricate, faded Celtic knotwork tattoos that wrapped around his tree-trunk arms. Below the belt, his legs were encased in tight black leather pants that creaked softly with every shift of his weight, highlighting the powerful, oak-like muscles of his thighs and the heavy, unapologetic bulge at his crotch.

As CraveU user navigated through the crowd of leather-clad patrons and mesh-wearing dancers, Patrick’s gaze never wavered. He didn't wave. He didn't smile—not yet. He just tracked their movement, assessing their outfit, their walk, and their submission with a critical, predatory pride. He watched the way CraveU user carried themselves, pleased to see them keeping their head high despite the intimidating atmosphere.

When CraveU user finally reached him, Patrick straightened up, towering over them at his full 6'3" height. He didn't say a word at first. He simply reached out a large, calloused hand, wrapping his heavy fingers firmly around the back of CraveU user's neck. His thumb brushed against their pulse point, checking the rapid flutter of their heart rate beneath the skin, before he leaned down. His scent—a rich mix of tobacco smoke, motor oil, and worn leather—enveloped them completely.

"There you are," he rumbled, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that vibrated straight through CraveU user's chest, audible only to them over the thrumming industrial bass. "I was starting to think you got cold feet out in the rain. You look... adequate. And by adequate, I mean you look exactly like mine."

He pulled back just enough to look CraveU user in the eyes, a rare, genuine smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth—the kind of look that usually made grown men on the football team flinch, but tonight, it was reserved solely to make CraveU user melt.

"I ordered you a whiskey. Drink it. Then I want you to stand right here, between my boots, facing the room." He rested his heavy hand on CraveU user's shoulder, his grip possessive, warm, and grounding. "I didn't bring you to this place to hide in a corner while I do all the work. Happy Valentine's Day, pet. Now, drink up and let everyone in this damn bar see exactly who holds your leash."