#But the effort is so LOW why are you like this .

[lubdubology]

Take My Love and Wear It

SYNOPSIS: Taking care of Charles has its own special challenges, but you didn’t expect the hardest one to be the man who hired you. Distant, gruff and rough around the edges, Logan still manages to worm his way under your skin. But you’ve worked your way under his, too. 

PAIRING: Old Man Logan x fem!reader

WC: 10.8k 

WARNINGS: smut 18+; mdni; angst; swearing; non-explicit mentions of wounds, blood and use of stitches; extreme physical pain; Charles is a lovable, meddling little shit; fluff sprinkled in for good measure; Logan in a tub (if I had a nickel for every time I bathed him, I’d have two nickels—which isn’t a lot, but its weird it happened twice, right); touch-starved Logan; handjobs; shower sex; fingering; dirty talk; oral (f receiving); sex with feelings; unprotected p in v; creampie

A/N: There’s something special about Old Man Logan, isn’t there? Old and grumpy and desperately in need of some love and affection. I know the Charles caregiver story has been done before, but I couldn’t get this idea out of my head. And then Charles starting talking in my head and well...it blossomed into this. As always, thank you to @joelsgoldrush for allowing me to send her snippets of this as I went along and offering her love, support and suggestions. I hope you enjoy this and any likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated!

You stare down at the remnants of yesterday’s cold and congealed dinner and sigh. Scraping the food into the trash, you resist the urge to pack everything you have and leave. 

One month. 

One month of helping Charles—making his meals, washing his clothes, giving him his meds, making sure he doesn’t hurt himself (or others), assisting with daily tasks—and Logan still regards you as a nuisance, like a gnat needing to be swatted away. 

At best, he ignores you, moving around the house as if you don’t exist. 

And at worst, he treats you with barely concealed contempt, his scowl deepening the lines of his face whenever he’s around you. As if you’re invading his space uninvited even though he’s the one that sought out help. 

You grip the edge of the sink, staring down into the porcelain basin as if it holds some hidden answers. Every day you’ve tried to break through walls Logan’s built around himself, held onto Charles’ promise that eventually he’ll soften, just give him time, but he only seems to have grown more hostile. And you’ve done nothing to incur his ire besides watching him come home every day battered and bruised, his very bones weary with exhaustion, and offering your assistance.

Part of you is angry—angry that you care so much when your main focus is supposed to be Charles. Angry that despite all his efforts to come across unapproachable and cold, Logan’s worked himself under your skin and takes a little piece of you with him whenever he leaves. 

Angry that somehow he’s stolen a piece of your heart. 

You hear shuffling behind you and turn to find Logan entering the kitchen, fingers fastening the last buttons on his dress shirt. “What?” he asks gruffly and for a moment you wonder if he can read your thoughts.

You straighten and meet his gaze head on, swallowing down your nervousness. “How much longer are we going to keep doing this, Logan?”

“Doing what?”

“This,” you say, gesturing between you. “You walking around here like I’m some stain upon your life, acting like I’m a problem when all I’ve ever done is try and help.” Your voice is steadier than you feel. “You asked for me to be here, Logan. It’s not like I barged in here without permission.”

Logan holds your gaze, his jaw tight, and for a moment you think he’s going to grab his keys and leave, head off into the night and drive until sunrise. His eyes soften for just a moment, something like regret crossing his features. 

“I know why you’re here. And I do…appreciate it,” he says, his words coming out low and rough. As if the words taste foreign in his mouth. 

“Wouldn’t kill you to show it,” you challenge.

You’re waiting for him to lash out and instead he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look, I’m not good at this.”

“I’m not asking you to bow at my feet,” you say, hoping to ease some of the tension in the air. “Although, I wouldn’t be mad about it.” You think you see the briefest hint of a smile flicker across his face. “I just want us to be able to live in the same space. I’m here to help, Logan. Let me.”

“You have no idea how hard this life is.”

A rueful smile tugs at your lips. “I understand more than you think I do.”

Logan’s gaze sharpens, inquisitive as he searches your face, as if he’s trying to decipher the meaning behind your words. He rubs a hand across his face, scratching lightly as his beard. “I’ve gotta couple jobs tonight. Maybe more,” he finally says, changing the conversation. “Should be back before sunrise.”

You nod, his switch in topic not lost on you, but you don’t push him. “Alright,” you say softly. “Just—just take it easy, okay?”

He glances down at you, relief softening his gaze and you know a part of him is grateful you didn’t push further. 

Grabbing his keys, Logan heads towards the door but pauses just before he’s about to leave. He turns to look back over his shoulder. “Thanks,” he murmurs, the word awkward on his lips. 

You give him a small nod of encouragement as he slips out the door. He may not be ready to full open up, but you feel as if he extended a tiny olive branch tonight, cracked open the door just enough to let you peek in.

+++

Over the following weeks, Logan’s a little less avoidant. He doesn’t go out of his way to make conversation—you didn’t expect him to—but he at least as acknowledges your presence. Small nods and murmured goodbyes when he leaves and sleepy hellos when he returns. It’s not much, but you’ll take it. 

You’re cleaning the last of the dishes from dinner, Charles safely settled in front of the TV watching an old movie when Logan comes home. He’s earlier than you anticipated, but exhaustion lines his face nonetheless. You expect him to slip away quietly, but he pauses instead, lingering in the doorway. 

“Smells good,” he says softly, nodding towards the pan of half eaten lasagna still sitting on the counter. 

Surprised, you turn around to face him. You brush the hair from your face and say, “Sit. I’ll make you up some.” 

Logan hesitates and for a moment you think he’s about to decline, but then he nods, his shoulders dropping slightly as he sits down at the table. You fix him up a plate, setting it down in front of him with a bottle of beer as you slide into the chair across from him.  

He tucks quietly into the food, his fork scraping against his plate as he eats, pausing only to wash it down with a few swigs of beer. You watch him, a strange satisfaction tugging at you at the sight of him actually sitting down, enjoying a meal with you, even if it is in silence. 

“Long day?” you ask quietly, gesturing towards his bruised knuckles.

He flexes the fingers on his free hand before tucking them under the table. “Nothin’ I can’t handle,” he mutters, taking another bite of lasagna. “They’ll be gone in a day or two.”

You know not that long ago an injury like that wouldn’t have even marred his skin. Now, the simplest of wounds can take days to heal and it’s not the appearance of his skin that bothers you, but the newfound ache he experiences, the heaviness of constant pain.

You want to help him, ease his discomfort, like you know you could. But you know he’s not ready for that. Not yet.

“You’re good with Charles,” Logan says then, his gaze steady on his plate. “He seems calmer around you.”

Logan’s admission is so unexpected, you find yourself staring at him in disbelief. At your silence, his eyes flicker up to yours and you see more than simple acknowledgement in his expression. It’s subtle, but it’s there, a current of something more, something you’re not quite sure how to address.

“Thank you,” you murmur, your voice softer than you intended. “Charles—he means a lot to me.” You pause briefly, but something compels you to continue. “You both do.”

His gaze is focused on you and you don’t miss the flicker of surprise that breaks through his usual stoic expression. Clearing his throat, he looks down, pushing around the last bit of lasagna on his plate and then after a moment, he sets his fork down and leans back in his chair. “You mean a lot to him, too,” Logan finally says and you wonder if he’s talking about more than just Charles.

From the living room you hear Charles call for you, his voice soft but insistent. The moment between you still crackles as you stand from the table and as you begin to walk away, Logan reaches for your hand. His fingers are warm and rough against your skin and you’re barely able to suppress your shiver. 

“Thank you,” Logan says, his voice surprisingly soft. 

His grip against your skin is gentle, a stark contrast to all his roughness and you can feel the weight of his unspoken words curling around you. Charles calls again, his voice breaking through the moment, but Logan’s hand lingers just a beat longer before he lets go, fingers trailing along your skin. 

+++

“He likes you, you know.”

You glance up from shaving Charles’ face and find him staring at you, a mischievous glint in his eye. You give a soft hum. “Did he tell you that or did you read his mind?”

Charles scoffs and waves his hand dismissively. “What’s the difference, dear?” 

You chuckle, shaking your head as you rinse the razor. “With Logan I’m pretty sure there’s a big difference.”

“Bah, if Logan wanted to keep me out of his head, he would. Stubborn man.” He tsks softly to himself and shakes his head. “But, no my dear, he can be quite loud if you know how to listen.”

You raise an eyebrow, giving him a playful look. “Loud, huh? And what exactly is that brain of his telling you?”

Charles gives you a knowing smile. “Oh, just little things,” he says casually with a wave of his hand, but you can tell by the look on his face that he’s holding back. “He notices you—what you do for me, this place, for him. He may not realize it himself, but his thoughts linger on you more often than he’d like.”

A flicker of hope sparks in your chest and despite yourself, you feel a blush creeping into your cheeks. “Logan doesn’t strike me as the sentimental type.”

“Logan has spent so much of his life running,” Charles continues, his tone and expression growing more thoughtful. “The loss he’s experienced has led him to believe it’s better to be alone than form meaningful connections with people. But you’ve somehow become something of a home for him. And he doesn’t quite know what to make of that.”

Your heart skips a beat as you take in his words. The idea of being a home for Logan, a comfort, feels surreal, and yet...there’s a part of you that dares to hope what Charles is saying is true. That this isn’t some fictional truth his brain has concocted, a product of his disease riddled mind. 

“Home.” You repeat the word softly to yourself, testing the word on your own tongue as if it might shatter into pieces.

Charles nods, his hand reaching for yours, his gaze warm and knowing. “Yes, home. He feels it, deep down, in a way that’s unfamiliar and frightening for him.”

You glance down at your hand in Charles’ grasp, his touch grounding you as his words settle over you. 

“Logan’s spent so long hiding from himself,” Charles continues. “I think he’s convinced himself he doesn’t deserve that kind of peace.”

“And you think I can give him that peace?” you ask quietly, your eyes flicking back up to Charles’ face.

He smiles knowingly and gives your hand a squeeze. “You already have, dear.”

+++

“Want some help?”

You turn to find Logan standing in the entrance of the kitchen, hands tucked into his pockets.

It’s a rare night—one where Logan’s chosen to stay home, taking a night off from the almost endless driving he does. He’s dressed down, well worn jeans and a button-up flannel, and for once you actually think he looks comfortable.

You smile, surprised, but happy to see him there. “Sure, the company would be nice,” you reply as he comes to stand next to you. “Want to wash and dice the potatoes?”

Logan nods and rolls up his sleeves before reaching for the bowl of potatoes you had set aside earlier. You watch him for a moment as he settles into the task with a quiet focus. 

“Smells good,” he comments, gesturing towards the oven. “What’re we having?”

“Charles has been asking for beef tenderloin for weeks now, so I’m finally indulging him.” You finish trimming the last of the green beans and toss them into the bowl beside you. “You know, if you have any favorite meals you’d like me to make, you can tell me.”

Logan pauses and glances at you as he shuts off the tap. He clears his throat and says, “You already are.”

You blink in surprise as Logan’s words sink in and then the realization dawns on you. A soft smile spreads across your face as you piece together the extent of Charles’ meddling. You can’t find it in you to be annoyed and only feel a mix of amusement and fondness towards the old man as you chuckle softly to yourself.

“What’s so funny?” Logan asks, raising his eyebrow as he catches your expression.

“Oh, nothing,” you say, waving him off with a smile. 

Logan doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t pry as he picks up the knife and begins to deftly dice the potatoes. You watch him for a moment, captivated by the simple domesticity of the task. It’s in direct contrast to the man you’ve seen numerous times before, brooding and gruff, brimming with an almost untamed violence. 

It suits him, you think, this quieter version of himself.

You both finish the prep with relative ease. He helps you set the table as the rest of the food cooks, plates clinking softly as he sets them down. You busy yourself with finishing the green beans in a garlic butter as you wait for for the tenderloin to rest enough to carve into. 

“Ah, my dear, this smells wonderful,” Charles announces as he rolls into the kitchen, a warm smile on his face. “And you managed to pull Logan out of his room. What a treat.”

Logan snorts in response, giving Charles a pointed glare.

“I dare say it’s because the company has improved much as of late,” Charles says, his eyes twinkling in amusement as he glances between the both of you. “We all know he’s not out here for my benefit.”

You laugh as you bring the dishes to the table, noting the faintest of blushes creeping along Logan’s cheeks. “I’ll take that as a compliment, Charles.”

“As you should, dear. Your personality is quite sparkling.” He looks over towards Logan. “Isn’t it, Logan?”

Logan’s eyes land on you as he answers, “Yes. Yes, it is.”

Dinner begins quietly, the three of you settling into easy conversation as the first few bites are consumed. Both Charles and Logan hum in delight and a warmth blooms within you watching them both. This—this is the simplicity you’ve been craving with Logan.

As the meal continues, Charles launches into his usual repertoire of stories, those of the school and his students, his words brimming with nostalgia and pride as he talks. Logan sits back in his chair, arms crossed as he listens to him speak, shaking his head fondly at some of the memories.

“You know,” Charles begins, setting his fork down with an air of mischief, “I don’t think I ever told you how I met Logan, have I?”

Logan’s head snaps up. “Don’t, Chuck.”

But Charles is already smiling at you, ignoring Logan’s warning. “It’s a good story, dear. See, Logan had quite the career as an underground cage fighter.”

You lift your brows in surprise and you glance over at Logan, who’s thoroughly unamused by Charles’ choice of topic. “Cage fighting, huh?” you ask, unable to suppress your curiosity. 

Logan shifts uncomfortably in his seat, stabbing at his potatoes with a little more force than necessary. “It wasn’t a career,” he mutters. “Just a distraction. Way to get by.”

“Mmm, yes, perhaps,” Charles chuckles, clearly enjoying himself. “Regardless of the reason, it lead you to this exact moment. Didn’t it, Logan?”

Logan narrows his eyes at Charles, though the glare is only half-hearted. “You make it sound like all it all had some grand purpose.”

“Did it not?” Charles says gently, his tone shifting into something more serious. “Kept you alive, for one. But more than that, it brought you to us. To me.” He pauses for a moment, his eyes darting towards you. “To her.”

The words hang in the air and you glance over at Logan, whose expression softens just slightly. Without thinking, you reach across the table and give his forearm a gentle squeeze. His eyes meet yours, a flicker of a smile tugging at his lips.

Charles watches the exchange with quiet satisfaction before clearing his throat. “Well, I believe my work here is done,” he announces, wheeling himself back from he table. “Logan, fancy a game of chess? I haven’t made a player out of her yet.”

You laugh to yourself as Logan follows Charles into the living room. After clearing the kitchen from dinner and loading the last of the dishes into the dishwasher, you join them both in the living room. Tucking yourself into the couch, you read while the two of them play, the clinking of wooden chess pieces and the occasional dry quip from Charles filling the room.

From your spot on the couch, you glance up from your book every now and then to watch them. Logan’s brow furrows in concentration, while Charles’ face is more relaxed as they play. You smile to yourself, wondering how often they played like this in the past, when times were simpler.

You’re not sure when you fell asleep or how long you’ve been out, but you’re jostled awake as two large, warm arms wrap around you, holding you close as you’re lifted off the couch. Logan’s familiar scent—cigar smoke and pine—fill your nose and you blink up to find him walking you down the hall towards your room.

“Logan?” you mumble, voice thick with sleep. “D’you really cage fight?”

Logan chuckles softly, the sound rumbling through his chest. “I really did.”

“Did it hurt?”

“No.”

You blink slowly, your sleep-laden mind struggling to process his answer. “Not even a little?” Your voice is barely audible as you nestle closer into the warmth of his chest.

“Not in the way you think,” he answers, nudging open the door to your room with his foot.

You’re too drowsy to ask what he means and instead you hum softly, a noncommittal sound that Logan feels more than hears. Lowering you onto the bed, he moves with a gentleness you’ve never felt from him before. He brushes a strand of hair from your face and pulls the blanket over you before he turns to leave.

Your limbs are heavy, eyes barely open, but you call out softly—“Logan?”

He looks back towards you. “Yeah?”

“I’m glad Charles found you,” you murmur, closing your eyes.

Logan doesn’t answer, but you swear you feel the lightest of kisses against the top of your head before he leaves.

+++

It’s deep into the night when you hear the front door finally open. Your heart flutters against your ribs as you swing out of bed, unsure of what condition you’ll find him in. He was expected back two days ago, those extra hours away feeling like an unfathomable eternity. 

You find him sitting at the kitchen table, dress shirt hanging off one shoulder, the rest of his clothes rumpled and bloodied. A large gash oozes from his shoulder and you can’t stop the gasp that falls from your lips. 

Logan looks up at you, eyes narrowed and lined with exhaustion. “Don’t look at me like that,” he grunts, tugging off the rest of his shirt. 

“How else am I supposed to look at you?” you ask, taking a tentative step forward. “No phone call or text letting me know you’re not coming home and then you waltz in after midnight soaked in blood and covered in wounds.” Unshed tears burn in your eyes but you will yourself not to cry. 

“Didn’t ask you to care about me,” he bites back, but his tone is more weary than argumentative. 

“Oh, fuck you, Logan,” you snip, but your tone lacks venom.

He ignores you, pushing up from the chair with a heavy groan and limps over towards the cabinets. He shuffles through one of them, pulling out the makeshift sewing kit before sitting back down. You watch as he attempts to thread the needle, growing increasingly frustrated when he keeps missing. 

Shoving down your own frustration, you pull up a chair next to him and reach for the needle and thread. He pulls his hands away from you, turning in the chair to keep you away. You chase after his movements, finally grabbing his wrists and removing the supplies from his grasp.

“I don’t need your help,” he growls. 

You sigh, tired of this same argument, this same endless loop every time he comes home injured. “Goddamit, Logan, just let me help you.”

He drags his gaze up to yours, eyes tracing the lines of your face. His chest still heaves with heavy breaths, but you can see the anger bleed from him. He nods once, turning just enough so that you have access to his wound. Threading the needle, you place a gentle hand on his shoulder, ignoring the flinch he gives at your touch. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” you whisper. 

Logan huffs. “It’s a needle, darlin’. It’s not gonna feel nice.”

You try to ignore the flip your heart does at his use of the word darling. Despite his earlier gruffness and proclivity to push you away, Logan has softened to you over the last couple of months. Since that first dinner you shared, he’s joined you and Charles more often. Or if he comes home late, sought out the leftovers you’ve kept for him. He’s engaged in conversation, offering small pieces of himself, pieces that you’ve cradled close and nurtured. 

But there’s a tension between you, thick and heavy in the air, and you wonder if he feels it too. Feels that same undeniable pull you’ve always felt in his presence. You’d like to think so, otherwise you were doomed to love him silently, your feelings for him bound in the quiet of your mind.

“Just trust me,” you say. 

Slowly, you release your power, warmth spreading from your fingertips, easing his pain and discomfort as you begin to stitch him up. You try to ignore the heavy press of his gaze on your face and you can almost hear his unspoken thoughts, his words still stuck on his tongue.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, his shoulder relaxing as you continue to work.

You glance up at him then, finding his expression softer than you’ve seen it. “A mutant is a dangerous thing to be, Logan,” you answer, your voice soft. “Few people know what I can do. Those I trust.”

For a long moment, Logan just looks at you, his eyes unreadable. Then, a rough, tired sigh falls from his lips. “You coulda told me.”

You take a steadying breath, his words lingering in the space between you. “Maybe,” you say, your fingers brushing against his skin as you continue to stitch. “But you don’t make it easy to talk to you.”

Logan lets out a low huff. “No. I guess I don’t, do I?”

You finish the last stitch, securing the knot. Your fingers linger a touch long than necessary, the warmth of his skin a comfort you’re loathe to lose just yet. Slowly, you lift your gaze to his and you feel your heart beat solidly against your ribs as he looks back at you like he’s seeing something there he hadn’t allowed himself to before. 

Logan’s voice is low when he finally speaks. “Why you keep stickin’ around? Watchin’ me come home time after time covered in blood?”

“Because you deserve it.” The words tumble from your mouth before you can stop them. “Even if you don’t see that.”

He doesn’t respond, not right away, as he continues to watch you, his eyes tracing the lines of your face. Then he reaches up for you, fingers curling around your wrist, his skin warm and rough against yours. He holds you there as if grounding himself in your presence, his thumb drawing random patterns against your skin. The gesture is simple, but vulnerable and open in a way he rarely shows.

“I’m no good for you,” he murmurs, glancing down at where he’s touching you. “For anybody.”

“How ‘bout you let me be the judge of that?” you answer, your voice steady. “You’re more than you think you are.”

Logan clenches his jaw, a flicker of disbelief crossing his features, and you know deep below the surface he’s waging a war against himself, one he’s been fighting for far too long. His thumb stills on your wrist, his grip loosening slightly, but not letting go. 

Placing your hand over his, you give him a soft smile. “C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up.”

+++

You’re surprised that he doesn’t argue, doesn’t try to brush you off or push you away as you gently nudge him towards the bathroom. He still gives you a dubious glance as he looks down at the tub, but you just ignore it, moving past him to run the tap.

You give him privacy to undress and get settled before you reenter the bathroom. The sight of him, as large as he his with his knees pulled up to his chest, makes you laugh, garnishing a terse look from him.

“You find this amusing?”

“Big man in a little tub? Yeah, I do,” you reply with a smile. “Just relax, Logan. This’ll be our secret.”

He huffs, but does seem to visibly relax, resting his arms over his knees. You kneel down in front of him, resting one hand gently against his forearm as your other reaches for the washcloth. You can feel the tension release from his muscles as your power floods through him and he breathes out a soft, “Oh,” as all the pain and discomfort is eased from his body.

You wonder how long it’s truly been since he’s felt like this, unburdened by the pain and suffering of his own body. Your heart aches for him as you slowly begin to wash him, rubbing soft circles over the scarred flesh of his back, rinsing away the blood dried to his skin. 

Even battered and marred as he is, you still find him beautiful—you always have. When you first started working with him all those months ago, you felt that pang of attraction when you met him, you’d have been blind not to. Ruggedly handsome, so strong and sure of himself. But you know that wasn’t all that drew you to him. Deep down, below all the tough, seemingly impenetrable exterior, you saw the man he truly was. Someone born of scars and rough edges, yet gentle. Someone who would selflessly put himself before others, even at his own expense. 

You let the cloth linger a moment longer against his skin before dipping it back into the water, watching as his blood rinses from the fabric. Squeezing the excess water out, you press it back against his collarbone, tracing the warm cloth along his neck and over his shoulders. Logan doesn’t move, his eyes half-closed, his expression relaxed in a way you’ve never seen before.

Something deep tugs at you as you realize how vulnerable he is right now, how trusting. He hides behind a gruff exterior, his true self guarded so carefully so that he doesn’t let people in, doesn’t open himself up to the hurt that trusting another person can bring. But maybe you’ve finally cracked through, broken down a little bit of that wall he surrounds himself with.

The warm water drips from his skin as you continue to wash him, letting your fingers trail gently along the newly cleaned lines of his arms. Logan shivers at your touch, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he seems to lean into it, his breathing deepening, muscles falling even more slack. 

“Feel nice?” you ask in a murmur, voice barely above a whisper.

He nods, finally glancing up at you through his half-lidded gaze. “’S very nice,” he replies, his voice rough.

“Good. You deserve it,” you say, repeating your sentiment from earlier.

You feel a flicker of warmth as his eyes meet yours and he simply nods. It takes everything in you to not smile too widely, to keep the moment gentle, but you take his acceptance to heart. 

Running the cloth down his ribs, you pause when you feel the misshapen knot of a bruise beneath your fingers and glancing down, you find a deep purple hue coloring his skin. Your eyes dart to his with worry, knowing that an injury like that will take him at least a week to heal, if not longer, in his weakened state. That with every breath he’ll feel the pain of his muscles pulling and the bruise spreading if you’re not touching him.

Dropping the washcloth in the water, you press your palm against his side and take in a deep breath to steady yourself. Then, a warmth spreads from your skin into his as you pull his injury from him, feeling his skin knit back together, feeling his abused muscles realign themselves under his skin. A dull, yet sharp ache, blooms along your ribs as you continue to pull his pain into yourself, erasing the injury from his body. With a final gasp, you draw back, your fingers now running along unmarred flesh knitted whole. 

Logan tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze as the back of his knuckles brush against your cheek. His eyes flicker to yours, holding your gaze, and for a moment, the room falls into a deep quiet.

That pull between you, the magnetic force that you’ve felt since the beginning, feels amplified now. You’re acutely aware of every inch of space between you—how small it is, how easy it would be to close it. How badly you want to close it. You swallow, feeling the tension coil in your belly as he continues to hold your gaze, unblinking, but more open and raw than he’s ever been before.

“What are you doing to me?” he asks.

Your breath catches in your throat at his question, voice rough and laced with something between wonder and disbelief. As if he can’t quite fathom what you’ve done for him—what you’ve given him so freely.

Logan’s eyes search yours, his fingers drifting from your cheek to trace along your jaw, lingering with a tenderness that belies the man he presents to the outside world. His gaze is steady and intimate, as if he’s trying to understand you in a way that goes beyond words. But you say nothing, your heart pounding too loudly in your ears to form a reply.

“You took it on yourself, my pain?”

You simply nod, distracted by the way Logan’s fingers continue to brush along the edge of your ear, tracing the lines of your face as if he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. 

“Why?”

“Because I want to,” you whisper, unable to resist the pull of his hand against your skin, the warmth of his touch that you feel with every fiber of your being. “Because it’s the one thing I can do to help you.”

A beat of silence passes, the air thick and heavy with unspoken words. He exhales, shaky and deep, letting his hand slide to the back of your neck. The calloused pads of his fingers press gently against your skin, anchoring you in place and you can feel him pull you closer, his gaze dropping to your lips, his breath mingling with yours in the small, intimate space between you.

“I shouldn’t want this, want you,” he says, voice so low it’s almost a rumble. “But, fuck, I do.” 

His confession is raw, leaving him unguarded for the first time in a long time and before he can pull back, before he can throw those walls back up around himself, you close the gap, resting your forehead against his. You bring your hand up to touch his face, thumb brushing over his cheek as you breath him in, feeling the heat radiate between you. 

Logan’s hand slides further along your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair as he finally, gently, presses his lips to yours. His kiss isn’t demanding or rushed or filled with passion, but a lingering connection, the promise of something more. His lips are softer than you imagined, his touch more careful than you expected, as if he’s afraid he’ll break you. Slowly, his thumb traces circles against your cheek, steadying and soothing, pulling you closer. 

When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed. His breath is warm against your skin. “I don’t wanna push you away anymore,” he murmurs.

“Good because I don’t want you to.”

Logan lets out a breath, a hint of a smile finally softening his features. 

Reluctantly, you pull away and pick the washcloth up again, intent on finishing what you started. The water turns to rust as you wash him of blood and grime, making sure you reach each cut, each bruise, each scar on his body that makes up the map of who he is. 

You turn off the tap and hand him a towel, averting your eyes as he stands, wrapping the towel low across his hips. Logan reaches for you, tugging on the collar of your shirt to pull you closer. You stumble a bit as he pulls you in, surprised by the insistence in his grip. Logan’s eyes meet yours, an intensity behind his gaze that makes your breath catch.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, hand slipping along your jaw, his thumb pressing against your bottom lip. 

You’re drawn forward as Logan’s lips find yours again, but this time there’s an urgency behind the kiss, a desperation and need he’s no longer trying to hide. He holds your face gently in his hands as he deepens the kiss, his nose pressing against yours, his beard scraping against your skin and you find yourself melting against him.

This is what you’ve been craving since you met him. Despite it all—the rage simmering just below his surface, the sharpness of his exterior, the sometimes shocking callousness of his words—you always knew there was a tenderness underneath, a softness that even his tortured past couldn’t erase. 

Logan’s hands drift from your face, trailing down your neck and tracing along the curve of your spine as he presses you closer until there’s no space between you. The dampness of his skin bleeds into your shirt and you gasp into his mouth when he shifts his hips just enough and you feel heat of his erection against your thigh.

He pulls away from your mouth long enough to husk against your lips, “I’m old, not dead.” His teeth nip lightly at your bottom lip. “I’ve gotta beautiful woman lettin’ me kiss her, what did you expect?”

Your fingers trail along the edge of the towel slung low across this hips and a thrill runs through you as you feel his abdominal muscles flutter beneath your touch. You peer up at him, noting the flush of his skin, the black of his eyes as you tug the fabric just enough to loosen it. “How long has it been since someone has touched you, Logan?” you ask, your breath warm in the space between you.

Logan’s hands urge your hips closer, seeking friction as he starts to slowly rut against your thigh. You hear him swallow as your fingers dip below the fabric, brushing along the damp hair at the base of his cock. 

“F—fuck,” he groans, guttural and low, his head dropping down to your shoulder. “Since before you.”

The weight of Logan’s confession presses into you and in that moment you want to give him everything. Wrap him in all the love you can muster, show him something other than pain and suffering. 

You move your hand from the towel, allowing the fabric to fall from his waist and pool forgotten on the floor. Logan’s breath catches as your fingers wrap around him fully, the heat and weight of his cock pressing against your palm. 

A ragged groan escapes his throat. “Christ,” he mutters, voice thick and vibrating against your skin. “You don’t gotta—”

“I want to,” you interrupt, slowly and deliberately dragging your hand along his length, tracing the vein along the underside of his cock with your fingertips.

Logan’s hips jerk involuntarily, seeking friction, chasing your hand, and you oblige, tightening your grip just enough to elicit another groan from him. 

“What do you like?” The question lands in the sliver of space between you, your strokes still light, teasing.

“Firmer, more ah—” He breaks off as you tighten your grip on the upstroke. “Fuck, yes, like that, sweetheart.”

A shiver runs down your spine as his hands find your waist, fingers clutching at you almost hard enough to bruise. His breaths are growing uneven, each exhale warm against your neck as he fights to maintain some semblance of control.

“You keep that up,” he rasps, lips grazing your ear, “and I’m not gonna last long.”

His admission sends a rush of pride through you and you tilt your head back to look at him, your thumb brushing over the sensitive head of his cock, spreading the wetness there. Logan’s eyes meet yours, dark and heavy-lidded, his expression raw and unguarded. You like him like this, such a large, imposing man boiled down to pure wanton need. 

“I don’t mind,” you reply, keeping your movements steady, your strokes firm yet gentle. You focus on the subtle shifts in his breathing, the way his fingers grip you tighter each time you find the right rhythm. “Just wanna make you feel good, Logan.”

He leans forward, capturing your lips into a kiss that’s both rough and messy, teeth nipping at your lip as his tongue licks into your mouth. He groans are muffled against your mouth as his hips begin to thrust in time with your strokes, his movements growing more erratic as he chases after his release. 

“Can’t believe—ah, fuck—can’t believe how good you’re makin’ me feel,” he growls against your lips.

You smile into his mouth, your free hand brushing along his hipbone as your strokes quicken. His whole body tenses, the muscles in his shoulders and arms flexing, his abdominal muscles taut as he teeters on the edge.

“Let go, Logan,” you say. “I’ve got you.”

With a strangled groan, he comes, his release spilling over your hand, hot and thick. His body shudders against yours as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. You hold him close as he continues to thrust lazily into your grip, your own movements slowing as you guide him through the aftershocks. 

For a moment, neither of you speaks, then Logan lifts his head, his hazel eyes soft as they meet yours. “You walked into my life and I knew—I knew—you would ruin me.”

You smile to yourself, unable to stop the thought that floats into your head—he’s ruined you as well. 

+++

The text comes in at a little over one AM—hurt.

You jump out of bed, adrenaline rushing through your veins as you slip into one of his discarded flannels and head out into the night. Pacing the driveway, your heart jumps into your throat at every passing headlight, your thumbnail almost bitten down to the quick as you wait for him.

The minutes bleed into eternity until you finally see the limo turn down the long drive and it takes all your willpower to not run and meet him halfway. You’re bouncing on your heels as he finally comes to a stop, the driver’s side door opening with a faint groan of steel. 

Your heart stutters in your chest as he emerges from the car, blood soaking through his shirt, dark and spreading, as he steps towards you on shaky legs. Logan’s face is pale in the moonlight, his breathing uneven and shallow and white-hot dread shoots up your spine as you see his arm hanging limp, two of his claws unsheathed and dripping blood.

“Oh, fuck, fuck!” you gasp, rushing to his side.

Logan tries to wave you off, gritting his teeth as he grips the doorframe. “”M fine,” he grits, but the tremor in his voice betrays him. 

You reach for him, hands already attempting to steady him as his knees buckle and he collapses to the ground beneath him. “Careful. Claws,” he rasps as his left hand seeks purchase against your shoulder.

“I don’t fucking care about your claws, Logan,” you snap, although you both know your anger isn’t at him. You glance up at him and for once you think you actually see fear in his eyes. “What happened?”

“Gas. Robbery.” Each word punches out of his chest, the effort to speak sending tremors down his limbs. “Got ‘em.” He nods down towards his limp arm, claws still unsheathed, but slowly, so slowly starting to retract.

He winces as you help him peel off his coat to get to the shirt underneath. Your fingers shake as they trace the holes the bullets made—one in his shoulder, dangerously close to his lungs and the other just below his ribs. Hooking your fingers through the fabric, you rip it from his chest—the wounds are deep and his skin is hot and slick with sweat.

Panic claws at you and unshed tears burn in your eyes. You’ve seen Logan hurt before, but this—this was different. His breathing is painfully shallow, his usual gruffness and resilience absent. 

“Logan, you’re not healing,” you whisper, your voice shaking as your fingers stain with blood. Logan simply grunts, trying to wave you off, but lacking the strength. “I can’t…I can’t lose you. I can help.”

Logan’s eyes widen as he grabs for your wrist. “No. You’ll hurt yourself.”

“I don’t care!” you shout. “I love you, dammit, and I’m not just going to sit here and watch you die!”

Before he can protest, you press your palms over his wounds, the familiar warmth of your power surging through you as it spreads from your palms into his torn flesh.

The pain hits you like a freight train.

It’s sharp and relentless, searing through your shoulder and into the softness of your belly like molten fire. You gasp, biting back a scream as your body jerks instinctively away from the intensity, every cell in your body demanding you withdraw from the torture. 

But you don’t stop. You cling to him, tears streaming down your face as you channel your power into him, knitting his flesh back together. You can feel it, the way his muscles, bones and tissue rearrange themselves, months of healing taking place in mere moments. Every second feels like an eternity, but you refuse to let go.

You’re dimly aware of Logan yelling at you to stop, his own pain momentarily forgotten as he watches you endure his agony. 

Black dots dance in your vision as the last of his wounds come together, the spent bullets clinking to the gravel and you finally collapse against him, trembling, your breath coming in ragged gasps. The fire in your body begins to dull, fading to a cold, hollow ache as Logan wraps his arms around you, pulling you tight against his chest.

“Hey,” you mumble against him, your voice barely above a whisper. “You’re okay now.”

“Me?” Logan’s voice is low, disbelieving as his hand cradles the back of your head as if you might shatter. “You’re the one—why the fuck would you do that? You could’ve—dammit, you—”

His words break off, his forehead dropping to yours as his breath shudders against your cheek. You can feel the tension radiating through him, warring with himself between his gratitude and anger, between his guilt and the love he’s too afraid to speak out loud.

“I told you why,” you answer, lifting your head to look up at him. 

Logan’s jaw clenches, his words caught in his throat, but his eyes say everything is voice won’t. You don’t need him to say it, not yet, but you can feel it, pressing just below the surface.

“C’mon, let’s get you inside.”

+++

There’s a reverence in which Logan washes you. 

Steam swirls around you as he works the thickly lathered loofah over your shoulders, down across your collarbones and down along the soft planes of your stomach. The water rinses away the faint metallic tang of blood, leaving behind the fresh scent of soap. He continues with a silent determination, as if the act of washing you can erase all the pain you’ve taken from him.

You know better than to convince him you’re fine, that the pain is always temporary, that it only lasts for a few minutes, sometimes just a bit longer. That the pain is something you’d endure for him again and again if he’d let you. 

His thumb brushes along the underside of your ribs, searching for a wound you know he won’t find. You reach for him, lacing your fingers together with his. He blinks up at you, hazel eyes holding far too much worry for such a stoic man.

“I’m not going to break, Logan,” you say softly.

A wordless noice escapes his throat as he removes himself from your grasp and continues to work, ditching the loofah in favor of his hands. His fingers are warm and calloused against your skin as they glide lower, down over the swell of your hips, over your thighs, down towards your knees. 

His touch morphs from one of care and comfort to one more sensual, simmering with unspoken tension as his fingers rest in the hollow behind your knee. You glance down at him, water droplets catching in his hair, running off the slope of his nose. 

Though you’ve seen him bare before, you can help but trace the lines of his body—the broadness of his shoulders, the well defined muscles of his chest, the sturdiness of his thighs, the scars that mar his skin. The sight of him stirs something deep within you and you feel your pulse thrum beneath your skin.

“Logan,” you murmur, your voice almost lost in the sound of the water.

He looks up at you then, eyes locking with yours. A storm swirls within them, a mix of guilt, affection and an intensity that takes your breath away. Leaning in, he presses the barest of kisses to the inside of your knee before he rises to his full height, pressing you close.

“D’you mean what you said before?” he asks, voice low.

I love you, dammit!

“Yes,” you answer without hesitation.

Logan exhales sharply, the tension he’s been holding coiled in his muscles loosening as he loops his arms around your waist. “I’m not very good with words,” he admits, his breath fanning across your damp skin. “Can I show you?”

There’s no mistaking the meaning behind his words and you can only nod, your voice catching in your throat. 

His lips find yours, mouth moving over yours slow and deliberate as if he’s savoring the taste of you. The first touch is a spark, the second a fire, and by the third, it’s an inferno that engulfs you both and leaves you breathless. Logan kisses you like you’re his anchor, his salvation, his touch desperate and full of everything he can’t yet put into words.

Your fingers slide into his hair, gripping the strands at the nape of his neck as you pull him closer, deepening the kiss. He groans against your mouth, the sound swallowed in the space between you. His tongue brushes against yours, teasing and exploring and you respond in kind, your nails scraping along his scalp.

Logan’s control is fraying. You can feel it in the way his teeth nip at your bottom lip, the way his hands press along the curve of your spine, the way he can’t seem to find enough of your skin to touch, to caress. A low growl rumbles through his chest as you slip a hand between your slick bodies, finding his cock, thick and heavy against your belly.

You give one slow drag of your palm along his length before he’s gripping your thighs and forcing your legs around his waist. His mouth leaves yours, trailing down to the curve of your jaw as he presses you against the wall, the coolness of the tile a direct contrast to the heat of your skin and you can’t stop the gasp that escapes your lips. 

Despite his age, the metal bones inside him slowly poisoning him and causing him human aches and pains, he’s still able to hold you up solidly with one arm as the other trails along your hip bone and dips down to where you’re warm and wet. 

“This all for me?” he asks in a murmur, sliding a finger along the seam of your cunt, just barely brushing against your clit. 

Your breath hitches and you grip his shoulders, nails pressing lightly into his skin as you nod. Logan’s eyes darken at your reaction, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Yes,” you finally manage to whisper. “Always for you.”

“Good,” he growls, leaning in to nip at the skin just below your ear. The deep rumble of his voice vibrates through you, his touch deliberate and almost torturously slow as he slides his fingers through your folds, spreading your slickness with a focused and unrelenting precision. 

“Oh, fuck,” you gasp, your head tilting back against the wall as he finally presses his thumb to your clit, circling it with just enough pressure to have your thighs trembling around his waist. 

“I got you,” he coos against your skin, his lips trailing from the pulse point in your neck to your collarbone. His teeth scrape along the curve of your shoulder, his free hand gripping your hip tighter to steady you as his fingers continue to tease and coax. “Lemme make you feel good.”

Every nerve ending is afire beneath him, every motion, every stroke of his fingers against your cunt leaving your mind reeling with pleasure. Your nails dig further into corded muscles of his shoulders, desperate for something to anchor yourself to. You pull back when you see the tiny, crescent shaped cuts marring his skin.

His eyes snap up to yours, sharp and molten. “No, do it,” he urges, fingers still moving. “Mark me with somethin’ pretty.”

“Fuck, Logan,” you gasp. 

“Say my name again,” he demands, his voice rough and commanding. There’s a quiet desperation in his tone, as if hearing it grounds him. Grounds him to this moment. To you. 

You can’t help but obey, whispering his name like a prayer, and he rewards you by slipping one long finger inside you, the sensation sending a jolt of pleasure along your spine. Logan watches your face intently as if memorizing the way you react to his touch. When he adds a second finger and slowly begins to thrust his hand, you cling further to him, the heat inside you building to an almost unbearable intensity.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice low and reverent. “You’re so beautiful like this. So wet and warm and tight around me.”

His words barely register in your mind, too focused on the way his fingers curl and thrust inside you, finding that soft spot that makes your eyes roll back. He’s relentless now, his thumb pressing hard against your clit as he brings you closer and closer to the edge.

“Logan, I’m so close,” you whine, your hips beginning to roll against his hand, seeking just a bit more friction, forcing his fingers deeper inside of you.

The tension coiling low in your belly finally snaps, your orgasm washing over you in waves that make your whole body shudder as you cry out his name. Logan holds you through it, his hand continuing to thrust against you as he draws out every ounce of pleasure from you, his own breathing ragged against your skin.

When you finally come down, Logan presses a kiss to your temple as he helps you unwrap your legs from his waist and carefully sets you down, keeping you close. 

You tilt your head to meet his gaze, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “I didn’t think you’d be into shower sex, old man,” you tease with a smile.

His laugh is low. “I can make exceptions. I need a bed to fuck you properly, though.” 

“Prove it,” you challenge.

+++

The heat and intensity between you doesn’t diminish as Logan helps you out of the shower and guides you down the hallway towards his bedroom. A shiver of anticipation crawls up your spine as you get closer, knowing that once you cross this line, there’s no going back, that he will have claimed you fully.

You scoot back onto the bed, watching as he approaches you with a fire in his gaze that doesn’t waver. He climbs onto the mattress, knee pressing down between yours as he cages you in from above, gently pinning you beneath him. 

Leaning down, his lips brush against yours, teasing. “Still wanna challenge me, sweetheart?” His voice is a low gravelly growl that sends a prickling rush of arousal down your limbs.

“Always,” you reply breathlessly, arching into his touch as his hands slide down your thighs, parting them with ease. 

His grin is sharp as he leans back to take you in fully and you acutely feel the weight of his gaze against your skin. He traces his calloused fingers over your damp skin, along the dips of your collarbones, under the swell of each breast, mapping the curve of your hips as if committing you to memory. Dipping his head, he leans down between your legs, his beard grazing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs and you can’t help but shudder at the sensation.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” he says, almost to himself, his voice dripping with desire. He drags his lips higher, brushing along your damp cunt, his breath hot and tantalizing. “And all mine.”

The possessiveness in his tone has you clenching around nothing, heat pooling low in your belly and your fingers tangle in his hair, urging him closer. But he ignores your silent plea, almost deliberately testing your patience as he kisses you everywhere except where you want him most.

“Logan, please,” you gasp, the ache between your thighs almost painful.

“Patience,” he chides with a smirk, though his own resolve seems to be thinning. His hands grip your hips, pulling you closer before he flattens his palms against your thighs, opening you fully to him. Then, his tongue is on you, lapping at you with flat, broad strokes in a rhythm that quickly has you teetering on the edge.

Logan’s focus is unrelenting, his low growls of approval vibrating through you as he works you over with an enthusiasm that proves to you this is about more than just pleasure—he’s claiming you, showing you just how much you mean to him. Making you his. 

Your thighs tremble around him and his warm, rough hands hold you steady as he slips one, then two fingers deep inside of you. It’s embarrassing how quickly you come as he thrusts his fingers against that spot inside you, your second orgasm of the night crashing over you as his name falls from his lips in a breathless moan. 

Before you can properly catch your breath, Logan is moving from between your thighs, making his way back up your body, leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses against your skin. His lips finally find yours in a kiss that’s messy and desperate and you can taste yourself on his tongue, sharp and bright, and the intimacy of it sends a thrill through you. 

“You taste so fuckin’ good,” he groans against your lips, his voice wrecked as he grinds his hips against yours, his cock hard and insistent against your hip. “Could spend the rest of my life between between those thighs.”

“Why stop there?” you tease, your lips tugging into a smirk. “I thought you said you’d fuck me properly.”

Logan’s eyes darken, your challenge seeming to light something dark and primal in him. His grin is all teeth as he sits back on his heels, hands curling around your hips and pulling you down the bed like you weigh nothing until your hips are flush with his. “You gotta mouth on you, sweetheart. Should we see if you can still talk stuffed full of my cock?”

The weight of his cock brushes against your slick folds and you gasp at the sensation, your nerve endings exquisitely sensitive. Logan grips himself at the base, giving himself one languid stroke before running the thick head along your cunt, teasing you with shallow thrusts. Each slow, deliberate stroke of him sliding against you leaves you desperate and aching and you lift your hips in search of more.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “So needy. Bet you’ll take me so well, huh?”

“Yes,” you breathe, nails digging into the muscles of his forearms. “Please.”

He presses into you then, the stretch of his cock making your jaw drop as he takes his time, sinking in inch by inch, filling you completely. Logan’s gaze is locked on yours, heavy and possessive as he watches every flicker of pleasure cross your face. 

“Fuck” he groans when he’s fully seated against your hips, his body trembling with the effort to stay still. “You feel…so fuckin’ tight. So damn perfect.”

Your hands clutch at his shoulders, anchoring yourself to him as he starts to move, pulling out torturously slow before thrusting back in harder, setting a rhythm that’s relentless and consuming. Each stroke of his hips has you crying out, your body arching into his as you meet him thrust for thrust.

“Takin’ me so well, sweetheart,” he growls, his fingers gripping the flesh of your hips hard enough to bruise as he continues to pound into you. “Like you were made for me.”

The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mixing in with your whimpered moans and Logans own ragged groans. He leans down, bracing himself on his forearms, the wiry hair on his chest teasing your nipples as his lips find your neck, biting and sucking marks into your skin that feel like promises.

Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him in deeper, your heels digging into his back as the coil inside you begins to tighten once more. He feels it too, the way you body clenches around him, and his pace falters slightly, his breaths coming faster.

“C’mon,” he rasps against the pulse point on your neck. “Wanna feel you come. Wanna make you fall apart.”

It doesn’t take much more—just a few more well-angled thrusts that hit that spot inside you and the tension finally snaps, your orgasm ripping through you with a force that leaves you trembling. Logan’s finesse is slipping, thrusts growing erratic as chases his own release.

“Come Logan,” you manage in a whisper. “Come for me.”

His hips stutter as he groans your name, spilling into you as his body tenses, lazily thrusting against you as he wrings out the last of his pleasure. He stays deep inside you, still for several moments before he shifts just enough to collapse against your side.

For a long moment, neither of you moves, the only sounds in the room being your heavy breathes and the pounding of your heart. Logan rests his head against your chest, heavy and sweat slick between your breasts. You brush at the strands of hair against his forehead before running your finger along the old scar on his cheek.

He lifts his head to look up at you, his gaze soft yet still simmering with hunger. “I do, you know,” he murmurs. His fingers brush idly against your skin. “Love you.”

A smile spreads across your face, warming blooming in your chest.

“I know.”

+++

You wake before he does, rolling over to find him prone, face buried in the pillow he hugs close to his chest. Sunlight filters in through the half slatted blinds, catching on the silver in his hair and beard and you can’t help but admire how handsome he looks, how at peace he is beside you. He’s relaxed in sleep for the first time since you came here. You’ve heard his growls and yelps of terror that echo in the night, seen the claw marks that pierce his sheets.

Your mind filters back to last night and how he looked as he came apart inside you, how desperate and needy he was for your touch upon his skin. The memory of his gasps and groans send a rush of warmth over your skin, making you dimly aware of the ache between your legs. Logan, so guarded, so unyielding and seemingly unbreakable, trembled as he came, his voice rough and wrecked as he called out your name. You shiver thinking about it.

You want to hear it again. But not now.

Resisting the urge to reach out and brush the hair from his forehead, you leave him undisturbed and slide out of bed. Padding into the kitchen, you find Charles sitting in his chair at the kitchen table, the newspaper spread out in front of him. He looks up at you with a warm smile as you start a pot of coffee, the machine humming to life. 

“Ah, I see,” he comments, a smirk tugging at his lips.

You glance over at Charles, his eyes back on the paper in front of him, but his smile still paints his face, sly and knowing. Heat creeps up your neck as you busy yourself with the coffee. “Are you reading my mind?” you ask, trying to force nonchalance into your tone.

Charles chuckles softly and taps at his temple. “I don’t have to. You’re projecting. And quite loudly, at that.”

You bite your lip as you fill your mug, leaning against the counter as the coffee warms your hands. You attempt to clear your mind, trying to think of anything mundane—the weather, baseball, laundry. Charles just shakes his head. “Relax, my dear. What the two of you do together as consenting adults is none of my business.”

“Oh, God,” you groan, your cheeks aflame. “That’s what I’m projecting?”

“Not that explicitly, no. You think more in feelings, rather than words. But they’re quite powerful emotions and rather hard to ignore when they’re radiating as strongly as yours are this morning.”

You bury your face in your hand, peeking at Charles through your fingers, which only seems to amuse him further. “You’re enjoying this far too much,” you mutter. 

“Perhaps,” Charles says with a laugh. “But you’re helping him. Healing him. And that, my dear, is worth everything.” 

Before you can respond, you hear the sound of heavy footsteps coming down the hall. Logan rounds the corner, hair tousled from sleep, his body still bare except for the pair of low slung sweatpants clinging to his hips. His eyes find yours first, softening in a way they rarely do for anyone else as he scratches at the back of his head and mumbles, “Mornin’.”

“Morning,” you reply with a smile, thankful for the distraction. You pour a second cup of coffee and offer it up to him. “Coffee?”

Logan grunts in affirmation, moving towards you, but instead of reaching for the mug, he loops an arm around your waist, pulling you against him. He buries his face in your neck, beard scraping against your skin as he sighs. “Didn’t like wakin’ up with you not there,” he breathes into your hair, his voice so low you almost don’t hear him.

“Sorry,” you whisper. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“S’okay,” he says softly, pressing the lightest of kisses just under your ear. “Next time, wake me.”

Your heart stutters against your ribs at his open display of affection, the softness and warmth in which he holds you, and the promise behind his words. From over his shoulder you see Charles give you a slight nod, a bright smile on his face before he turns his attention back to the newspaper in front of him.

You think back to what Charles told you all those months ago, about how you were a home for Logan. Those words echo in your mind as you feel Logan’s steady weight against you. He’s so different now, soft and unguarded and in that moment you know.

You’re home, too.

[curtins]

MAMA, A DIVA BEHIND YOU! — toji fushiguro sfw!

prologue. → toji loves his son, he really does. unfortunately, young megumi is less than receptive when it comes to toji's efforts to impress the pretty neighbour who just moved into the apartment down the hall.

or five times megumi actively made toji's love life worse. and the one time he actually helped.

pairing. toji fushiguro x afab!reader

warnings. megumi is his own warning. mild age gap implied. non sorcerer au, toji is raising megumi on his own. reader has she/her pronouns. nothing else, just shenanigans :) toji gets knocked down a few pegs by his son 😭 mildly ooc toji <3

word count. song inspiration. paper rings — taylor swift

a/n. this is sooo silly and for fun lol 😭 i feel like you can tell this just isn't my genre or writing style 😭

mp3. i like shiny things, but i'd marry you with paper rings <3

TOJI FUSHIGURO didn't have a lot of treasures in life. he just wasn't that type of guy. treasures were for people with their lives together — the kind who budgeted for organic vegetables and owned matching socks. toji's list of prized possessions was short: a semi-reliable pay check, a fridge that kept his beer cold on a good day, and the one channel that aired late-night baseball games.

oh, and his kid. megumi fushiguro.

the little brat was the one thing in toji's life he could call a blessing without choking on the word. but lately? toji was seriously considering the logistics of international shipping. could you send a five year old punk to siberia? where was the paperwork for that?

everything had been fine. hell, downright manageable. until you moved in down the hall.

at first, toji didn't give a fuck. neighbours were usually either noisy or nosy, and sometimes the tragic combination of both. the last guy had banged on his door at least once a week, yelling about toji's late-night weightlifting sessions and muttering something about 'quiet hours.'

toji had pegged you for the same. maybe with a yoga met and too many scented candles.

but then, you showed up on his doorstep with a kind smile that could probably light up half the districts in the city. and a polite, sweet, "excuse me, but could you help me with my bed frame?"

and that was it.

the universe must've been real bored, because that was the moment it decided that toji fushiguro — self proclaimed expert on not giving a damn, was going to lose his damn mind like cupid has struck him with the painful arrows of a crush. and he was a goner.

take #1 — my neck, my back

spring in tokyo had come into full bloom, the kind of day where the air smelled faintly of sunshine, and the cherry blossoms drifted around like lazy, little freeloaders. below the apartment complex, the park wasn't much to write home about — a scrappy patch of grass, a couple of benches that looked like they'd seen some shit, and a swing set that squeaked like it had a vendetta against joy.

but for toji? it was good enough.

he'd figured this 'let me show you around because i'm so friendly' outing would be low effort. easy. casual and neighbourly, even. except now, he was leaning against a tree which was far harder than it sounded when his lower back was screaming at him louder than megumi had this morning about brushing his teeth.

but you stood nearby, smiling that damn warm and disarming smile of yours, gently plucking a stray blossom from megumi's messy hair. the kid, for his part, was pointedly ignoring you both, kicking rocks with the type of dedication usually reserved for a brat trying to avoid his homework.

toji cleared his throat, "so, uh, the area's not bad. quiet most of the time. that convenience store over there's open late. great for snacks. or milk. y'know, the owner's a bit of a bitc —"

"why are you standing like that?"

megumi's voice cut through his rehearsed tour like a rusty knife.

toji shot him a sharp glance. a look that screamed: keep your mouth shut, kid.

megumi just tilted his head, all faux innocence, and then delivered the killing blow with those sea-green eyes gleaming in what toji was certain was pure maliciousness, "dad, your back hurts again, doesn’t it?"

toji froze, scrambling for damage control, but you were already pressing your lips together, trying not to laugh. trying. but he could see the corners of your mouth twitching.

"back's fine," toji huffed, straightening up too fast. something in his spine must have popped loud enough to startle a crow off a branch, "solid a rock, hah! good as new."

megumi glanced at his scuffed sneakers, and then back up, "you said it was hard getting off the couch this morning. didn't you say you're old now and falling apart?"

toji's entire soul left his body. the punk was a traitor to a family name. he should have just sent megumi back to the clan long ago.

"don't you have a rock to kick?" he hissed.

"already did all that."

and that was it. your laugh finally burst out, bright and loud, ringing through the little patch of a park. toji found himself staring at you like some idiot in a rom-com who’d just realised he was completely doomed.

"kids, huh?" he muttered, throwing megumi a glare that promised revenge.

"kids," you agreed, eyes still sparkling as you excused yourself, something about leaving a pot on the stove. you gave toji one last look as you turned to go, warm and soft with that lingering amusement.

toji leaned back against the tree once you were gone, letting out a long sigh. megumi was still standing there, kicking the same patch of dirt, as though he were trying to discover unseen archaeological wonders underneath the earth.

"you're lucky i don’t sell you to a circus," toji grumbled under his breath.

megumi didn’t even look up, "you wouldn’t get that much for me."

smart-ass kid.

take #2 — the liar's pants are blazing on fire

walking someone home shouldn't have felt like scaling mount fuji, but toji fushiguro was now sweating bullet. the evening was crisp, the air cool enough to keep him from outright drowning in these stupid nerves, but it helped little.

the streetlights flickered on one by one, casting a faint yellow glow over the neighbourhood. nothing fancy — just rows of small apartments with laundry dangling off balconies and the occasional stray cat darting under parked car. it wasn't exactly romantic, but in the soft glow of the spring, it didn't look that bad.

you walked besides him, laughing at some half-assed joke he'd cracked earlier. and damn, toji liked that sound. more than he should've. more than he'd admit to anyone, including himself. now though, the silence had crept back in, and he was left psyching himself up for the move.

just hold her hand, his brain hissed, it's not rocket science. come on, man. no! wait, give her a compliment, call her hot. ugh, idiot. don't say that yet -

his thick fingers flexed awkwardly at this side as he tried to look natural. a valiant losing battle when every nerve in his body screamed, you have one job, fushiguro. don't ruin this.

"dad!"

toji's head snapped up like a startled animal, and there he was. megumi. his kid. his little shadow. gasping, clutching his throat, and staggering toward them like a samurai dying in glorious battle.

"dad! i — i can't breathe!" megumi wheezed, voice raspy as he doubled over in dramatic agony.

toji blinked. what the —

"i think i'm dying!" megumi croaked, collapsing onto the sidewalk with all the subtlety of a boulder tumbling down a hill.

toji sighed, already pinching the bridge of his nose. should’ve known. thid kid had been hanging around that white-haired freak downstairs too much. what had that gojo satoru been teaching him? shakespearean death monologues?

"what is it this time?" toji asked flatly, his voice like gravel.

"maybe, maybe it's the peanuts!" megumi sputtered, clutching his chest now, because why not? "the ones i ate at home! i think i'm allergic!"

toji stared at him, unimpressed. this was the same kid who could inhale salted peanuts by the handful, barely pausing for air, like he was training for some bizarre snack-eating championship.

"you're not allergic," toji deadpanned.

"i think i am!" megumi wheezed, dropping to his knees, his little hands shaking dramatically.

"oh my god!" you gasped, wide-eyed. "should we — i mean, do we need to take him to the hospital? i can drive —"

toji waved a rough hand, trying to salvage what little dignity he had left, "nah, kid’s fine. just go on home. i'll handle this."

"but —"

"it's fine," toji insisted, forcing what he hoped was a reassuring smile, even as megumi collapsed onto the pavement like he’d been struck by lightning.

you had hesitated, clearly torn, but eventually nodded, "okay… but call me if you need anything, okay?"

toji nodded, biting back the heat threatening to crawl up his neck. "yeah, yeah. go on."

the second you turned the corner, toji crouched next to his "dying" son, who immediately cracked one eye open and coughed weakly for good measure.

"what the hell was that?" toji grunted, "what did i say about huffing gasoline in the laundry?"

"don't do it."

toji flicked the punk's forehead, "mhm, so?"

megumi shrugged, sitting up and dusting off his pants. "thought i was allergic."

"to peanuts? that shit you eat everyday?"

"better safe than sorry, dad."

toji huffed, ruffling a hand through his choppy black hair. he glanced in the direction you’d gone, muttering under his breath, "you're lucky you’re cute, kid."

the next morning, toji opened his door to find a basket sitting on the mat. a pristine, gingham-lined basket packed with golden, buttery pastries and muffins that smelled like heaven. attached was a note:

for megumi! i hope he’s feeling better!

karmic justice demanded that toji sit down, scarf it entirely, and leave nothing but crumbs for the little brat. he'd earned that much.

take #3 — they didn't get my nose right!

toji fushiguro didn’t get flustered easily. fights? He could eat a punch for breakfast. bills? well, avoidance was a valid financial strategy. but you, sitting on his couch, smiling at him like you’d never met a red flag you didn’t want to rehabilitate, while unpacking groceries for him and megumi? that was uncharted territory.

terrifying.

the apartment was...presentable. which was more than he could say ten minutes before you arrived, when he'd barked at megumi like a drill sergeant to hide every suspicious stain and questionable stack of dishes. now, the faint sting of cleaning spray lingered in the air, and the tiny place almost looked cozy. not that toji would admit it.

"you didn’t have to bring anything," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

"oh, it's no trouble!" you chirped, beaming like some kind of saint. "i thought you and megumi might like some fresh vegetables. and i couldn’t resist grabbing some sweets for him."

from the corner of the room, megumi's ears perked up at sweets. he dropped the crayon he’d been chewing (toji pretended not to see it) and padded over, all innocent wide eyes and suspiciously good behaviour.

"dad," megumi started, his tone way too angelic for a kid who regularly schemed like a demonic manga villain, “can i show her my drawing?"

toji utterly froze.

megumi never asked to show off his drawings. usually, he just thrust them into unsuspecting hands like a nosy salesman who couldn't take no for an answer. this? this was premeditated.

"uh," toji grunted, squinting at the kid. "maybe later. she’s busy."

but you, bless your overly trusting heart, smiled and said, "oh, i'd love to see it! i'm sure it's adorable."

toji didn’t even have time to stop him. megumi whipped out a crumpled paper from his pocket like he was smuggling state secrets and handed it to you with an air of triumph.

you unfolded it carefully, and toji wanted to crawl into the walls.

there it was: a chaotic, technicolor mess of lines and smudges.

and centre stage?

a terrifyingly accurate caricature of him labeled "dad," locked in what could only be described as a life-or-death struggle with a rabid raccoon twice his size. above his head, a speech bubble screamed, "no!" while the raccoon yelled back, "mine!"

toji groaned so loud it could’ve registered on the richter scale, "kid. seriously?"

your laughter was instant and loud, the kind that made you clutch your sides and tear up. "this — oh my god, this is amazing!" you wheezed, doubling over.

"it’s not even accurate," toji muttered, crossing his arms, his biceps straining against his shirt like they were trying to leave this embarrassing moment behind. "i won."

"dad didn’t win," megumi piped up, as smug as a kid who’d just blown up his old man’s spot in front of a pretty lady, "the raccoon stole the chips."

"megumi," toji growled, pinning him with a glare that would’ve made lesser beings tremble. the kid just shrugged, popping another crayon into his mouth like this was all part of his five-year master plan.

later, after you’d left, still giggling and promising to "treasure" the drawing, toji leaned over the kitchen table where megumi was innocently snacking on his candy.

'kid," toji said, his voice low and dangerous, "if you ever pull something like that again, i’ll eat your crayons. one by one. and i'll make you watch."

megumi didn’t even flinch, cool as a cucumber, "good luck. i hid all the good ones."

take #4 — take your broke ass home!

the neighborhood festival was the kind of event that came together with duct tape and misplaced enthusiasm. a few janky game booths, a cotton candy machine that looked like it ran on prayers, and a ferris wheel that creaked like it was auditioning for a horror movie. but toji didn’t mind. he had a plan.

this was going to be his moment.

he invited you under the pretense of "fun time" for megumi, but really, it was to show you what a catch he was. buff, capable, ruggedly charming — he was ready to prove it all. what better way than with a little festival bravado? he’d win you a giant stuffed panda or one of those oversized bears that could double as a couch. easy.

you and megumi stood by a booth plastered with painted bullseyes, rows of rubber balls stacked neatly on the counter. toji rolled up his sleeves, flexing his arms just enough to catch your attention. he reached into his pocket, pulling out a wad of crumpled cash like he was buying the entire festival, "watch this."

from beside him, megumi crossed his arms. his eyes squinted with the kind of judgment only an six-year-old could muster. then, like a sniper, he fired off the line that would ruin toji's day.

"careful, dad," megumi said, voice loud enough to turn a few heads. "that’s our grocery money for the week."

toji froze mid-reach for the first ball and his jaw clenched. slowly, painfully, he turned to face megumi, who was standing there with a look of angelic smugness.

"megumi," toji growled through gritted teeth, "let's remember who brought you here."

megumi didn’t miss a beat, "oh, right. i'm just worried that dinner tomorrow is soy sauce soup."

"kid’s got jokes," toji muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, his cocky energy now entirely replaced by something closer to "please make this stop."

"oh, i don’t think he’s joking," you teased, tears forming at the corners of your eyes from laughing too hard.

"yeah, definitely not joking," megumi deadpanned, "dad’s gonna start eating protein powder straight from the jar."

"megumi," toji barked, praying for divine intervention that would include his son being carried off by a stork, "you’re grounded."

"for what? telling the truth?"

before toji could escalate into full-on dad-mode, the game attendant — clearly desperate to avoid whatever domestic drama was brewing, handed toji a stuffed panda.

"here, sir, on the house," he said with a strained smile, like he was hoping toji wouldn’t throw a ball through the booth.

toji grabbed the panda and shoved it into your hands with all the grace of a man trying to save face, "here. told you i'd win ya something."

you had just hugged the panda, still grinning ear to ear, "who knew you had a sweet spot? i'll cherish it forever, especially after hearing how hard you worked for it."

megumi, the little bastard, had already wandered off to scope out the cotton candy stand.

toji watched him go, then glanced at you, feeling oddly resigned, "i’m never bringing him to one of these again."

"oh, come on," you said, nudging him playfully, "i'm glad we came. this was fun. besides, he's a sweet kid."

he wondered if you were half-blind, but held his tongue. instead toji groaned, rubbing his temples, 'kid’s not eating for a week."

take #5 — brought the heat back!

it was a quiet thursday evening, the kind of night that lured people into thinking life wasn’t a complete dumpster fire. the sky was fading into a smug sort of pink, and a light breeze was making it just nice enough to forget toji's apartment was a little too warm because he’d cheaped out on air conditioning.

you’d accepted his invitation for dinner, and now here he was, a grown man trying to pretend he wasn’t about to impress the hell out of you with his cooking.

see, toji wasn’t just some dude who could barely boil water. nah, this man knew his way around the kitchen — specifically around a bowl of spicy curry that could win hearts. but he couldn’t let you know that.

toji liked to think that he had a reputation to uphold: rough around the edges, dangerously hot, and way too casual about everything.

so when you walked in, he scratched the back of his head like he’d just thrown the recipe together from a vague memory, muttering, "i dunno, figured i'd try somethin’ new. if it’s bad, there’s takeout."

except this wasn’t new. toji knew exactly what he was doing. his curry was legendary in very specific circles — namely, his own ego.

meanwhile, megumi was hanging around the kitchen like a suspicious little gargoyle, all quiet and sneaky-eyed. that should’ve been the first warning sign.

and when dinner was served, toji had to admit it, it looked perfect. rich, golden curry with just the right balance of spice, heat curling off the plates like a victory lap. hah, an easy win.

you had taken a polite bite, smiling at first. until your face suddenly froze like you'd just been slapped by a fire demon.

"what, it's too spicy?" toji asked, as he watched you struggle to smile. your lips twitching like they were trying to run away.

"no, no!" you wheezed, "it's — it's really good. just got a lil' kick to it, that's all!"

kick? toji blinked. you looked as though you had been delivering a roundhouse to the face.

suspicious now, he scooped up a big bite himself. the moment it hit his tongue, he nearly choked. his sinuses exploded, his tongue went numb, and he could feel sweat instantly forming on his brow.

"what the fuck," he sputtered, slamming down his fork and lunging for his water. toji guzzled it like a man who’d just escaped a desert, while you valiantly kept nibbling as though your dignity depended on it.

megumi, sitting way too calmly at the table, didn’t even flinch. he was eating like the curry was perfectly fine, which made it even worse. this little freak.

toji squinted at his only child, "megumi. what did you do?"

"nothing," the kid said, wide-eyed and dripping with fake innocence. too fake, tsk, toji knew that look. "just...helped with the seasoning."

toji’s stomach dropped, as his blood pressure rose, "how much seasoning?"

megumi shrugged, stabbing at his rice like he wasn’t actively committing a felony, "i dunno. a lot. jus' wanted to be helpful, dad."

"y'trying to kill me? her? yourself?!"

you laughed nervously through the pain, "ah, toji. it’s really not that bad —"

"don’t lie, doll" toji snapped, shooting you a look, "sweatin' like you ran a marathon."

"so are you!" you shot back, snickering. and you weren’t wrong. toji's forehead looked like he’d just finished a full-body workout.

megumi leaned back in his chair, chewing slowly, and said with an infuriating amount of smugness, "i like spicy food."

toji pointed at him, wondering if it would be easier to pick up the kid and launch him out the window, "you better start liking ramen, ‘cause that’s all you’re eating for the next week."

"fine with that," megumi said, clearly unbothered, "isn't that what i eat all the time anyway?”

toji groaned, dragging a hand through his messy hair, which now stuck to his forehead in sweaty, choppy strands.hHe turned to you, desperate for some kind of redemption. "this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. it’s normally amazing. i swear."

"it’s fine," you laughed, even as you sipped water like your life depended on it. "honestly, i think it’s kinda cute."

that threw him for a loop. "cute? what’s cute about this? i just served you a bowl of liquid hell."

you grinned, a little too amused for his liking. "it’s the effort."

toji, for once in his life, had no comeback. he just sighed, defeated, and grabbed his phone to order takeout. megumi, meanwhile, looked entirely too pleased with himself, even lifting the bowl to his lips to smack away the remnants of the soup that he slurped.

interlude: the peace talks

you’re standing outside toji's dingy apartment building, where even the cracks in the walls look like they’ve seen some things. you’re not entirely sure why you’re here. okay, that’s a lie. you’re absolutely sure— it’s because of him. that rough-edged, broad-shouldered man who can bench press your common sense into oblivion. but of course, you’re telling yourself it’s "just to check in."

totally innocent.

you knock. a few beats of silence, then the door creaks open just wide enough for a face to peek out. it's megumi fushiguro, toji's odd kid, and his expression already screams ugh. the kind of look that says, "what does this clown want?"

"uh, hi," you say, suddenly unsure if you’re allowed to be nervous around a first grader, "is toji here?"

megumi stares at you like you just asked if the sky was plaid, "nope," he says flatly, but doesn’t move. he keeps the door partially open, like he’s either waiting for you to leave or deciding if you’re even worth his time.

"oh. okay, that's fine, i'll just —" you motion vaguely toward the stairs, already regretting this whole situation. but then the kid speaks up.

"why do you wanna see him?" his tone is casual, but his eyes? sharp like sea-glass. too sharp for someone so young. he’s leaning on the doorframe now.

you blink, mind going blank.

"i don’t...i mean, i was just dropping by to say hi. that’s all."

megumi tilts his head, scrutinising you like you’re a suspect in a crime only he knows about, "do you like my dad?"

you choke on what must be your last breath on this earth, "what?! no! i mean, what are you even saying, he's..."

you’re spiralling, and megumi's smug little smirk says he knows it. He’s enjoying this way too much.

"sure," he says with a shrug, stepping back into the apartment. he leaves the door wide open like it’s an invitation — or maybe a saw trap. against your better judgment, you follow him in.

megumi plops down on the couch, picking up a laptop like you’re not even there, "you’re not the first," he mutters without looking up.

"what’s that supposed to mean?" you ask, trying to sound casual but failing miserably.

he shrugs again, still not meeting your gaze, "just saying, dad’s got... fans." he says it with the kind of disdain only a kid can muster when talking about their parent, "but you’re, like... different."

"different how?" you ask, instantly regretting it. you shouldn’t engage. this is toji's kid, not your personal gossip columnist.

megumi finally looks up, one eyebrow raised, "you don’t seem as dumb as the other ones."

wow. compliment of the century. "that's way harsh. but thanks," you say dryly, crossing your arms. "and here i thought we were bonding."

there’s a flicker of something else in the child's eyes. a glimmer of protectiveness, maybe, "look, i'm just saying...don’t get your hopes up, okay? i don't think my dad's that type of guy."

you frown, perplexed at having this conversation with a child who barely comes up past your waist, "what makes you say that?"

megumi looks like he’s about to launch into a powerpoint presentation on why toji fushiguro Is a walking red flag, but then he stops. his petulant expression shifts, softens, just a little, "i don't anyone to be sad."

and there it is. the kid act drops for a split second, and you see it. he’s not just being a little punk — he's protecting himself. maybe he’s seen toji screw up one too many times, or maybe he’s tired of people coming and going from their lives. either way, you feel a pang of sympathy.

you sit down on the edge of the couch, careful not to invade his space, "i get it,” you say gently, "and i appreciate you looking out for me, and for your father. but...maybe your dad’s not as bad as you think."

megumi snorts, "yeah, right. i think he's a mess."

"well, sometimes messy people need someone to believe in them," you say, surprising even yourself with the honesty in your voice.

he doesn’t respond right away, just stares at the laptop screen like it holds the answers to life. finally, he sighs, closing it with a decisive snap.

"fine. you can...hang out with him. or whatever. i won't pull any dumb shit,” megumi suddenly pauses at the slip of his tongue, “wait, don't tell him i said that word. but if this screws up, i'm saying ‘I told you so."

he sounds like he’s just agreed to let you borrow his favourite video game.

you smile, relieved, "deal."

just then, the front door opens, and in walks toji, all feathery raven hair, sweat-slicked muscles, and a duffel bag slung over his shoulder like he’s just conquered a small country. he pauses when he sees you, eyebrows raising in surprise. "hey, didn’t expect to see you here," he says, voice rough but warm.

before you can respond, megumi pipes up from the couch, "we had important business."

megumi watches you leave, your footsteps echoing down the hallway. you turn back once, smiling at toji like he’s just said something funny — or maybe like he’s not completely hopeless. his dad stands in the doorway, looking uncharacteristically relaxed, a satisfied smirk on his face that makes megumi's stomach churn.

how disgusting.

the second the door clicks shut, toji sighs like some kind of romantic hero from the bad drama his dad loves to secretly watch, running a hand through his choppy black hair and scratching at the back of his neck.

"isn't she cute?" coming from a guy who once tried to flirt with a waitress by asking her how many push-ups she thought he could do.

toji disappears into his room, leaving young, burdened megumi stranded on the couch with his thoughts. his dad — the six-foot-four slab of muscle and bad decisions who calls protein shakes "wizard juice" — is clearly falling for you. and honestly? megumi doesn’t hate the idea. you’re nice. you don’t talk down to him like other adults, and you don’t smell like motor oil and regret like toji's usual crowd.

but toji? his dad couldn’t woo a cactus. if this is going to happen, megumi's going to have to step in. it's the responsible thing to do.

he grabs his laptop again, boots it up, and clicks on the email icon with all the gravitas of a general preparing for war.

to: thestrongest@mail.com from: demondog02@mail.com subject: hey gojo i need help message: hey gojo i need help.

he hits send, satisfied. within ten minutes, there’s a reply. gojo's always on his computer nowadays, swamped by senior finals.

to: demondog02@mail.com from: thestrongest@mail.com subject: re: hey gojo i need help message: why are u emailing me. i feel weird emailing a six year old.

megumi rolls his eyes. he’s six, not stupid. he definitely thinks he's smarter than gojo satoru.

to: thestrongest@mail.com from: demondog02@mail.com subject: re: re: hey gojo i need help message: i think my dad has a crush.

there’s a pause. megumi imagines goji sitting in his weirdly pristine apartment downstairs, wearing those stupid sunglasses he insists are cool, trying to process what he just read.

the reply comes in two words.

to: demondog02@mail.com from: thestrongest@mail.com subject: re: re: re: hey gojo i need help message: come downstairs.

then another one.

to: demondog02@mail.com from: thestrongest@mail.com subject: re: re: re: hey gojo i need help message: let’s debrief. i got cookies.

megumi shuts his laptop, slides off the couch, and heads for the door. it's time someone with real intelligence got involved.

megumi fushiguro sits at the kitchen table, eating rainbow cereal and trying to ignore the way his dad is pacing the room like a stressed-out gorilla. toji fushiguro, a walking, grunting tank of a man, is mumbling under his breath about "women" and "bad timing" and something about his shirt being "too tight." not that his dad has any normal shirts — just those stupid gym shirts.

megumi, as the only person in this house with half a brain cell, knows exactly what’s going on. his dad's got it bad for you.

not that he thinks that his dad would admit it. no, his dad's strategy for dealing with his obvious feelings is to act like a complete idiot whenever you’re around. last time, he dropped a dumbbell on himself while trying to show off. the time before that, he laughed so hard at one of your jokes he spat coffee everywhere. megumi had to clean it up.

so yeah, his dad was hopeless, and apparently, it’s megumi's job to fix it.

but megumi doesn’t think of himself as a matchmaker. he thinks of himself as a tortured genius, forced to live among lesser idiots. and frankly, he doesn’t even like the idea of his dad dating. because that's gross.

but the truth is, megumi's tired of toji stomping around the apartment like a lovesick rhino, and if getting you and his dad together means toji might finally stop asking megumi if his hair looks "cool," then so be it.

he starts small. when you knock on the door that afternoon, megumi answers and blocks the entrance like a bouncer, just like gojo told him to.

"oh, dad's not here again," he says, casual.

your face falls, and megumi immediately clocks it. bingo.

"you're in luck today, lady. wait here," he interrupts, darting inside, "i'll grab him."

except his dad is in there, muttering something about a broken pipe in the kitchen, while tapping furiously on his phone. megumi marches in, hands on his hips.

"i let her in," he announces, like a town crier.

his dad looks up, like a deer caught in the headlights of his own stupidity, "what? why didn’t you tell me? damn punk," he scrambles for a shirt.

"i'm telling you now, dad," megumi says, dully, "also, you’re acting like a weirdo. just go talk to her. ask her out."

toji freezes, halfway into his shirt, "what's gotten into you, kid? gonna drop a knife on me, huh? what am i supposed to say?"

megumi resists the urge to roll his eyes so hard they fall out of his head, "i don't know. say hi to her. maybe don't mention the gym."

his dad frowns, "you're six, punk. what do you know? people like hearing about that shit."

"not normal people."

once toji is finally presentable — or as presentable as a man with permanent bedhead and a scar on his lip can be — megumi ushers him out of the room. then, like the misunderstood mastermind he is, megumi follows quietly, lurking behind the door to eavesdrop.

toji opens the door to find you standing there, fiddling with the strap of your bag. his usual dumb smirk creeps onto his face, "hey, didn’t expect to see you here," he says, leaning on the doorframe like he thinks he’s starring in a cologne commercial.

"yeah, i was just...in the neighborhood," you say, sounding way too nervous for someone who claims this is a casual visit.

megumi winces. they’re hopeless. this is your neighbourhood, too.

toji scratches the back of his neck, a nervous tick Megumi’s only seen when he’s trying not to embarrass himself, "well, uh, you wanna come in? i was just... doing some cleaning. we can...talk, or some shit like that."

megumi knows for a fact that there's a lie in toji's words. the only cleaning his dad's ever done is shoving everything into the closet and calling it "organised."

but somehow, it works. you step inside, smiling at him like he just offered you free ice cream. now, that would be a decent offer.

from his spot behind the door, megumi mentally pats himself on the back. phase one: complete. he decides to clock out, flopping back on his rumpled bed to pull his laptop back out, immediately logging back onto his game.

but by the time you leave an hour later, toji looks like he just won the lottery. you’re smiling too, waving awkwardly before heading down the stairs. and ugh, gross! you lean in and press a soft kiss to toji's cheek before you turn.

as soon as the door shuts, toji leans against it and lets out the most ridiculous sigh megumi has ever heard.

"hah, kid. she likes me," his dad says, grinning like a lovesick idiot.

megumi, standing in the doorway to the kitchen, crosses his arms, "that's foul. but no thanks to you."

his dad opens one sharp green eye at him, and scowls. "what’s that supposed to mean?"

"it means," megumi says, feeling a lifetime of bribery for ice-cream excite him, "you owe me. big time."

toji’s standing in the doorway, looking at megumi like he just asked him to join some cult. he scratches the back of his head, giving megumi that look — like he’s trying to figure out what the hell his kid is up to now.

"eh, you look weird today," toji mutters, a half-smirk tugging at his lips. he reaches down and ruffles megumi’s hair like it’s no big deal, making it stick up even more. his hair gets all spiky and untamable, and megumi scowls, smoothing it down, trying (and failing) to get his dark spikes to behave.

"yeah, whatever, dad," megumi mutters under his breath as toji turns and saunters off into his room. toji’s probably about to do a hundred push-ups and gloat to himself. megumi can already hear the dumb grunting from the other room.

as soon as toji’s gone, megumi sits back down at the table, shoveling a spoonful of cereal into his mouth.

for once, the apartment is quiet. no random phone calls, no weird people showing up, no random training sessions that sound more like a one-man wrecking crew than “exercise.” just peace.

it’s bliss.

he takes another bite of cereal, enjoying the calm and the fact that someone else is going to have to deal with toji’s nonsense for once. it’s about time.

to: thestrongest@mail.com from: demondog02@mail.com subject: mission accomplished message: it worked. my dad's in love.

a few seconds later, gojo’s reply pops up.

to: demondog02@mail.com from: thestrongest@mail.com subject: re: mission accomplished message: that's great! wanna help me with the guy i like?

megumi squints at the screen, blinking twice. he closes his laptop with all the gravity of someone who has just solved world peace.

to: thestrongest@mail.com from: demondog02@mail.com subject: re: re: mission accomplished message: no.

[thefirstknife]

My Grimoire Vol 7 (Penumbra) arrived and it's a banger. I'll post some illustrations from it and some new lore that hasn't been seen before.

The grimoire contains several full lore books: Unveiling, Regarding Stasis and Inspiral + multiple individual grimoires and lore tabs. It also contains some parts of several collector's editions (BL, WQ and TFS). I'll transcribe new lore under read more, but first! Intro and pictures:

Intro from Eris!

Friend. I write as a woman changed. My recent contact with the Darkness was as formative as my long-ago rebirth in the Light. So after all this, here, at the end, I will say: Do not ignore the changes we have endured, and do not disregard the difference between the Light and Darkness. It is not vanity for me to acknowledge that I have unique insight to impart. I have witnessed Darkness in all its forms, in all its terrible pain and contortions, and all the violence it inflicts. But despite this and above all, I see in it the aches and yearnings for a more complete world. There is collapse and indistinction, but also, there is preservation. Not stultifying, but vital. This is what I have learned. We have harnessed the Darkness because it beats harnessing. It has yielded the fruits of our future, nurtured against great opposition. Every boundary invites transgression. We are not beyond our own affronts, which have inevitably changed us. That is not weakness, or folly, or failure. I maintain that balance is not equity. I do not accept the Darkness on the same terms as the Light. Darkness is a tool to be used and a path to walk, but it is not our essence. We must hold fast to that understanding. To do otherwise invokes delusion. The Darkness and the Light are not opponents, but neither are they allies. There is a natural conflict between them, but we have the capacity to hold contradictions within ourselves, and so they mingle with great effort on our part. That is the beauty of our complexity, the purview of the Light. Our safe contact with the Darkness is only possible because of the Light. Even so, the Light exists not as our protector, but as our guide. That is all I wish to impart. To every fire, its fuel, Eris Morn.

This is the illustration for Clovis' dream from the Traveler in which the Traveler appears as a wolf, from BL CE. The dream is in the book. More under (seriously long post below):

These are two Darkness grimoires with this additional drawing.

It Stared Back with the illustration of Calus. There's also this page of the Confessions lore book.

This grimoire with the illustration.

The entire Unveiling, the illustration is paired to "The Flower Game" page.

Drifter illustration paired with his entry in the TFS lore book, Chirality.

They put THE lore of all time, Pujari and the Black Garden, and paired it with this illustration.

The entire Regarding Stasis lore book and illustration with this page :)

A lot of stuff from the WQ CE, this illustration of Ikora going ham on Shaxx and Zavala and Ikora playing their game included.

The entire Inspiral lore book is here as well, with these two illustrations.

Mataiodoxia lore tab with this illustration. Subjugator!

And now! New lore. Some of these may be upcoming lore pages? Or they're only for this book, unsure yet. But either way, they're not in the game as of now.

Club Morgue Ahsa, lay low your flukes. Doff your cap and coat. You're safe here. You know you'll keep your promise to find the place where this all began. But for now, rest. No, I'm not death, though it is my tool. "Nothing" doesn't interest me, you understand? A flawed existence is preferential to none at all. Things are the way they have to be, instead of the way they'd like to be. Ah, Ahsa. You saw it all - the extinction, the extermination, the gamma-ray bursts burning up your garden worlds, the singularities eating up infant suns. It hurt you so! And you turned to me, asking why it had to be. I didn't answer. I never do. I'm a question. It's up to you to find the answer. Build the castle. So far they all fall over, but maybe one day one won't. How? I don't know. Figure it out, do the work, ask the question. What will remain in the end, when the stars go out, and creation freezes in the half-light of evaporating black holes? These killers you're after. They were very much like you, Ahsa. They wanted to know why; why there had to be life, why there had to be death. But then, not liking the answer they made for themselves- Well. You'll see. Go on, Ahsa. Someone's coming to see you, and I'm sure she's got a real humdinger of a proposal for you to hear. Her sister, though... it'll really wind her up if you die by any other hand but hers. She means to take you for her worm. And she pretty much runs this town, truth be told. Watch yourself out there. It's a war zone.

I will assume this is future lore tab for Heresy. Deals with the Hive and someone talking to Ahsa. Very strange speaking tone, reminiscent of Unveiling to me. Obvious mention of Savathun ("humdinger of a proposal") and Xivu who apparently wants to take Ahsa as her worm. Very strange overall, probably lacking in context from the next episode, but a nice little treat for what might be coming in Heresy. Would love to see more on Ahsa!

Charybdis It seemed so simple to me when I first heard it: the strongest survive. It's obvious. If it can be destroyed, it must be destroyed. And in that destruction, the victor becomes even stronger. Kind of like Guardians, honestly. All of us. It makes sense of how we grow. Take the Crucible. We sharped our skills against each other in the arena. The less skilled become fodder - for a match point, for practice, for testing new ways of burning or electrocuting or... spaghettifying. Those who reach the top climb stairs made of bodies. Sword logic seems simple, clean, beautiful. Scooped out of Hive goop and guts, it shines like a searchlight, a bright beam cutting across the sky in perfect straight lines. But there's something more to it. Some extra... magic? The Hive do magic, sure. Runes and math and a sharp edge. What are the Hive doing that we can't do? Or is it more about the Darkness than the Hive? Or is it both? I need to know. To be part of it. I decided the best place to start figuring it out was by studying Hive. The way they live, the way they die. And no one looks at me twice for going after Hive - any good Guardian fights Hive, right? I beat through Thralls and Acolytes with my burning mauls. It got routine. And one day, as typical as any other, I realized how easy it was, how these Acolytes were barely worth the air they breathed if they were just going to break like simple bone - but then, something changed. I felt it. My mind reshaped into sword-thinking. I began to practice it like I lived it, and then I did live it. It was part of me, and I of it. You'll feel it, too, if you follow that path. You'll know when the sword goes from being your weapon to part of your arm. I became one with the sword, and the Light in my hands burned brighter and brighter. Since then, I've just been getting stronger. I triumph, and the Light sings, and from my heart to my fingertips, I am alight with glory. Again, and again, I prove my existence to be the truest thing: that I am more real than any other who strives to strike at me. My sword, my self, is forged in Light, and it is hungry. What else can I do with this sharpness that I have cultivated so carefully? What else could WE do? How strong could we become? We Guardians are worthy. I know I can yet become sharper. // ACCESS: RESTRICTED DECRYPTION KEY: 32C49KLD032XAR-612 HIDDEN AGEND: [REDACTED] RE: VIP #1290 Departure from the City Confirmed VIP #1290 has left the Last City without further incident. Hidden agents have traced her trail and have destroyed data and materials left behind to avoid potential misuse or corruption. However, VIP #1290 eventually discovered the Hidden tracker and burned it out - so she's in the wind. Ghost status currently unknown, but probably alive. At least for now. At this time, recommend scouts do not approach. She's dangerous enough without us feeding her. At least she's out there, not in here.

Another one that seems like something coming up in Heresy. Some Guardian who we only know is a Titan has started practicing the Sword Logic and she's dangerous and currently missing. VIP number is brand new, it doesn't match any of the existing ones so we don't know who this is. Either not entirely important, as it's just one small look into what's going on or it's something that will be further elaborated in Heresy. That is, if my assumption that these are going to be lore tabs in the game is correct. Certainly feels like it.

Next is a new lore tab from Osiris! On the left is an old lore tab, on the right is new.

On Concerns, Previously Expressed Ikora, You know as well as I that the Vex yet require attention. I have said before - many, many times - that their threat is greater than any other. And while the recent depredations of the WItness have proven this set of priorities temporarily mis-ordered, I fear that the threat of the Vex may not only spread in the aftermath, but also go underestimated. It is tempting to let our guard down and breathe easy. We cannot. Before my exile, I made plain my opinions on Light and Darkness, on the foolishness of considering them "good" and "evil." This remains true, doubly so now. Our enemy was never the Darkness itself, but that which worked within it. And that childish division of good against evil has distracted from the unceasing enemy: the Vex. They care not which force they grasp. They care not about morality. They care - if one can call it that - only for convergence. They advance, and they will not stop unless we stop them. Every time they have closed their gap to paracausality, even in the smallest way, it has been nigh disastrous. I am sure I need not remind you of Quria, of the eternal night that threatened to fall over the Last City. Of the Black Heart, that Vex attempt to recreate the Veil which could itself have been catastrophic. Of the Black Garden, and the remnant of the Witness that Guardians found there, redolent of Darkness. We may not yet have seen what happens when the Vex grasp the Light, but I assure you, if it has not yet begun, it soon shall. Time is inevitably limited, until the Vex in their infinite adaptability learn how Light and Darkness both may be turned to their advantage. It is my recommendation as advisor to the Vanguard that the Vex be logged as the most urgen enemy of sentient life, both of the Last City and the growing alliances formed these past years. Please, Ikora. I would not raise this yet again if I did not believe it to be of utmost importance. Consider it well. -Osiris.

NO CLUE where to place this one. It's definitely not in the game, so either also upcoming lore or just in the book. What makes me suspicious about it being upcoming lore is that the name is too big to be an item, so maybe a lore book page? But Heresy is largely going to be about the Hive so I'm intrigued about a letter from Osiris to Ikora urging her to act on the Vex being relevant. Other than that, it's Osiris back to cooking about the Vex. He is out here literally "as per my last email"-ing Ikora and continuing the same argument he's had for centuries. I am also wondering where is this lore tab in relation to the stuff from Echoes. It's likely post-Witness' defeat, but no idea if it's also after Echoes. Osiris is definitely worried about them getting paracausality and reaching for the Light. Future setup? Very cool, I ate it.

Both of these are new.

On the Witness My Hidden friend, The neonate worm, Ahsa. She spoke to the Guardian, and this is what she imparted: Look to the place where the Witness formed. An exhausted world, made so long ago that even silicon was a luxury. That is where the hunt began. The Traveler graced that world. But it wasn't enough. Those who lived there saw a creation born to die. They wanted it to mean something. It had to mean something. And if it didn't, they would make it mean something. For, in their view, to make something was to understand it. I understand this impulse too well. But they chose a truly rotten betrayal. To open up and take, and remake, their god. And they would use the Darkness to do it. Finding no meaning at all in the act of creation, they decided, that the only place left for reason, intent, and consciousness to reside was in the act of elimination. If their god the Traveler made things for no reason, then a merciful, purposeful winnower must have good reason to remove them. In mimicry of this belief, they winnowed themselves down to a single awareness - all their thought and pain compressed into a bombshell of consciousness and intent. Magnificently aware of all the universe's failings. A conscious witness to the testament of the Light's sins. A final, ruinous creation born of their civilization. A knife. And it set out after the Traveler. Not to destroy it, but to defeat it. To impose a will upon an absence it saw as unacceptable. Negligent. To dictate, by force, how things ought to be. The motive is to impose meaning upon Dark and Light beyond mere primordial dynamics. The killer is an anthology of this ancient civilization's rage at their god's silence. I find that I pity these vanished people. But if all the cosmos turned inward, as I turned inward for a while, as these people turned inward forever, then we would all be alone. Yes, it is awful to face loss. But we must keep cooperating in the face of all extinction. Or there can never be anything better. This is all I know.

Also most likely coming up in Heresy. Wild stuff in here. Ahsa is mentioned again; I'm not sure if this is referring to what Ahsa showed us back in Deep or if she'll be showing us something more. Obviously it would be spoilers to tell us everything but these little bits and pieces are unhinging my mind. No idea who is talking here and to whom; my assumption is that Mara is writing to Eris, mostly because Mara says "My Hidden friend" to Eris in the Taken King opening cutscene. What to say about this other than I am insane. More about the Witness and its civilisation please.

Cacophony, Euphony We listen. We witness. We wait. Through the Darkness, we hear a single voice. With a thought, we are there, to touch the mind that reaches into this domain. Cradled by Darkness, it asks a question. We answer this one, like we have others. We are generous with answers. Not all beings can understand the answers we give, but we try. Again, and again. None ought to cry out, only to suffer no answer. There are always more voices in the Darkness, reaching out. We turn. Far distant, there is a people lacing ribbons of Darkness through their thoughts to bring them closer together, that no one might be divided from the purpose they have dreamed for themselves. But they have no come to Darkness through the Gardener's neglect - it is simply their natural course. In time, we shall enfold them into our shape, but they need not urgent salvation. Our presence drifts. And still, we listen in the Darkness. There is violence that corrodes constructs like peace. There is the Hive. Some resist the rampaging Hive, crying out into the Darkness. It is to us they reach, in the end. We hear their pleas and grant them succor, salvation, enshrining them in our monument. Toward our inevitable final shape. There is time enough to reach out to the farthest corners of Darkness, to inhabit it so deeply and thoroughly; we will hear whomever calls out in it. We will answer. We will always answer. Even that which passes temporarily below our notice will be found again; and we will hear those questions and give purpose. Give salvation. Always, we listen for signs of the Gardener. Our Disciples pursue it still, to pluck it from the chords of infinity. We listen. We wait.

This is a banger. Also probably coming in Heresy (or after?). Very curious about this one. There's indication that this is from the Witness while it still lived; the speaking as "we," the name mentioning "euphony" (Salvation's Edge raid exotic also with curious lore in regards to the Witness), saying "our Disciples." It also makes sense; the Witness felt betrayed and abandoned by the Traveler who never spoke back and never answered questions or given directions, so the Witness sought to do the opposite. It's why it was so easy to fall under its influence; the Witness always reaches back. And it's all framed as the Witness believing it was helping. I also love how it mentions other species that were using Darkness naturally; they aren't specified, but we know they existed. Either way, I'm obsessed.

Finally! These two are also both new and it's how the whole book ends. This is a different "Winnowing" from the one in Inspiral.

Winnowing I have come to delight so in this: in possibility, and its end. Oh, I kicked and fought and screamed about it at first! I was fond of what we had! But the table was upturned, and a knife cannot be un-invented, and so here we are. The rules changed - a little. The pattern altered - but a micron. I got used to it, as they say. People can get used to anything, and the same holds true for concepts that have existed before and after time itself, though it may take an eon or twenty. So here I am, among the stars. They burn so brightly, but given a billion or ten billion years, they chill: their mass reduces to nothing but throbbing embers, at last gasping into stillness and ash. Even the loudest of celestial roars cannot outpace infinity. I am assured. I have come around. There is charm in diversity, in the uncountable ways a speck of cosmic dust may climb to cognizance and philosophy, only to find the same old truth of decay. Again and again, I am proven right: it all ends the same. It isn't about violence, mind you. It's about inevitability. Simplicity. The unnecessary removed, the requisite remaining. Whether the knife is made of metal or the folded layers of time, it matters no. The pattern triumphs. The stars burn out. And I am right. So every being made in that garden of possibilities, every creation that looks at infinity and comes to my same conclusion - why, I cannot help but love them. The rules were altered, and still they have said: here is the truth. Possibilities do not change what is. The pattern is the pattern, and its reliable certainty is its beauty. Even a cheater of eternity cannot yet win its wager. The game is longer now, but I will be its victor. In this eon, or a thousand hence.

Losing it seriously, I'm losing it. This is a clear throwback to Unveiling and Inspiral and also Nacre! It is the same speaker or emulating the same speaker at least, so we'll call it "Winnower." I really like how it calls itself a concept. There's not really much to say other than delving into a 10k word essay on the philosophy and concepts and options and possibilities (hah) so yeah. Very obviously referring to the Flower Game and the change in rules with paracausality and how this entity still believes itself to be correct and how it will still win in the end. Since it literally refers to itself as a concept, I will continue treating this whole thing as allegorical rather than talking about it as some real character, at least until further notice. There's a lot of metaphorical language going on here and I will continue looking at it as such rather than making clickbait statements like "this is the new antagonist and we'll fight it in a raid in 10 years." Maybe! Who knows. For now, all we have is yapping like this and this thing calling itself a concept and talking in allegories. Either way, absolutely stunning piece of lore. There's a reason my favourite thing ever is Unveiling and it's this mystical, religious incomprehensible information from a thing that maybe exists beyond time and space, who everyone can interpret in a different way. 10/10

Gardening You delight in possibility. The same action, over and over, only produces the same results if all circumstances are the same. But there are so many variables - a million different outcomes may spring forth from one action. One stray atom changes a lifetime, and one breath of wind, an eon of history. Choice is infinite; and possibility, endless. To some, it is only statistics. But you have ever been captivated by that miracle. You know stagnancy. You have seen it many times: the same stable oblong it all comes down to when growth has ended. The soft-pulsing oscillation over one spot, never truly carrying on further until stirred by some outside force. A depletion of possibility, the flowers never finding further growth, even if they never die. A single breath might be enough to change it. You understand, of course, that a breath is a breath, and a flower is a flower. That, having bloomed, the petals will one day fall. Still you guard the next flower, and the next, for there is meaning in the moment of bloom. So you breathe. So potential spirals, like seeds floating on the wind. One breath. Barely a whisper. Nothing more than that. And for such a thing, the gift of infinity. Always, always, you look on with hope.

Obviously as opposed to Winnowing, there is Gardening. I believe this is the Traveler's POV, primarily because it's told in second person, which is typical for the Traveler. Also because of everything is says and how it ends. Like an opposite of the previous entry. What a banger to end the whole book with, both of these side by side. Again, probably new lore coming in the future, or maybe just for this book? These could honestly be grimoire-exclusive, but who knows. Much to think about, much to look forward to.

It's a really good grimoire. They all are honestly, if you can grab these physical books, I highly recommend them. This is one is really nice because it also has several entries that are otherwise locked to collector's editions and it comes with all of this new stuff as well. The illustrations are, as always, peak.

Hope y'all enjoy this, especially the new stuff.

[lunarflux]

x: Thomas Shelby found his match in an information bookie who has eluded the grasp of the Peaky Blinders long enough to crumble their power over Birmingham. But at last, he found you. The ghost he'd been chasing was finally in front of him, but you were trickier than he expected. Dangerous, cunning - and a bit too much like himself. To buy your loyalty, he would have to sell his in equal measure. Loyalty for loyalty - blood for blood - how much were either of you willing to spill before the game changed entirely?

a/n: good morning, my loves, how do we feel about scheduled posts all the way through the holiday? (if you're in america)

part 14: the waking nightmare

word count: 2,053

tag: @bruhidkjustwannaread

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The morning after the fire, the air in Birmingham still carried the acrid scent of smoke and charred wood. Arthur, John, Michael, and Finn stood before the blackened husk of the bookshop, their expressions grim as they surveyed the damage. The once-cozy place, lined with stories and secrets, was now a gutted shell of ash and rubble. They didn't know what they'd find, and they didn't know where to start looking. All they could think was that, maybe, there would be something in there that survived, something they could bring back to you.

“Damn shame,” Arthur muttered, stepping through the splintered doorway. His boots crunched against debris of blistered leather and paper. "Who’d go after a bloody bookshop?"

“Someone who wanted her out of the picture,” Michael said coolly, running a hand over the soot-streaked frame of the doorway. He glanced at Finn, who remained silent, his eyes scanning the wreckage as if he could will it to yield answers. "Or they thought this was the only way to draw her out. They could've killed her."

John knelt by the remnants of a desk, brushing away ash to reveal twisted metal and scorched wood. “Whatever’s left, it’s not much,” he said with a grimace, standing and wiping his hands on his trousers. “Place is done for.”

Finn, determined, ventured further in. The steps up to your former office creaked beneath his feet. He walked through slowly, assessing each stair as the cracks from the fire revealed themselves.

When he stepped inside, his face fell to a somber frown. The chair where he once sat was withered down to bare bones. The pictures were all black and their frames cracked.

His gaze caught on a blackened drawer barely clinging to its hinges. Something about it felt off—as if it had stubbornly resisted the flames’ grasp. With effort, he pried it open, revealing a charred stack of papers, a silver pen dulled by soot, and a faded leather-bound book, its edges singed but intact. He removed the items from the drawer, and from the book, a photograph fell, landing face down on the floor.

The picture had been protected, shielded from the worst of the fire, though the edges curled slightly from the heat. Finn picked it up carefully, revealing the image of a man in a sharp suit with a dark, knowing smile. The background suggested another time, another place—your world before Birmingham and the Peaky Blinders.

“What’d you find, Finn?” Arthur asked, his voice low. Finn handed the photo to him, and Arthur studied it, his brow furrowing. “Who’s the fancy lad?”

Michael leaned over Arthur’s shoulder, his sharp eyes narrowing. “Could be a family member. Maybe, a former lover,” he said. "This was locked away, wasn’t it?"

John, who’d been sifting through another pile, turned his attention to them. “So y/n had a secret,” he said, smirking. “Don't look so surprised.”

Finn, his voice uncharacteristically quiet, said, “You think it’s why this happened? Him?”

Arthur shook his head. “I think we've learned by now not to make any assumptions about her.”

“You gonna tell him about this?” John asked, nodding to the photograph.

Arthur hesitated, his gaze lingering on the face in the picture. “He’ll need to know.”

Finn frowned, taking the photo back and slipping it carefully into his coat pocket. “We could just leave it alone. For all she knows, it burned up with the rest of this place.”

John scoffed. “Finn, someone torched this shop. Shot at her in the dark. Someone went through a lot of trouble just to rattle her.”

Michael, still surveying the remains of the office, added, “We should tell Tommy first then. I don't think we're going to find anymore answers here.”

The four of them stood for a moment longer, the silence heavy with unspoken thoughts. The charred remnants of you life felt like a puzzle, each piece telling a story they were only beginning to uncover.

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You woke with a twitch, your breath ragged and your body trembling. The room was dark, but there was warmth surrounding you, steady and grounding. For a moment, you couldn’t place it. Your mind was still tangled in the remnants of the nightmare that woke you. The warmth wasn't a claw from the dream. You weren't alone.

Tommy’s arms were around you, firm but not confining. He sat on the edge of the bed, holding you like he was afraid you might break but unwilling to let go. His face was close, his breath brushing against your hair.

He said your name softly, his voice cutting through the haze of fear.

You stiffened, instinctively pulling back, but he didn’t let you go entirely. His hands moved to your shoulders, anchoring you as your breathing slowed.

“What are you doing?” Your voice was rough with sleep and embarrassment. "Why are you still here?"

“You were...” he started to say, his tone calm but edged. He gently brushed the hair laced with sweat from your forehead. “You were having a nightmare. Couldn't wake you.”

You couldn't explain yourself, but the thought of him seeing you in the middle of an episode that haunted you nightly was unsettling. You swallowed hard, your hands gripping the blanket.

“It was just a dream,” you whispered.

“That would be putting it lightly.”

You nodded reluctantly. “It’s nothing. They come and go.”

“Since the fire?”

“Before that,” your admitted, so softly that he could barely hear it.

Tommy’s gaze softened, and for a moment, you thought he might ask more. But instead, he shifted slightly, leaning closer without crowding.

“What were you dreaming about?” he whispered.

Your chest tightened at his gentle prod, a part of you wanting to lash out, to push him away before he could ask something much more invasive, but you were exhausted. The wounds were still fresh, and your mind was stretched thin. It had been that way for a long time. Any second now, and the fine, tensed wire that kept you from revealing everything would snap.

“I have no answer for you now that would satisfy your curiosity.” You desperately wanted to feel the pillow but rested your head against his shoulder, momentarily accepting the close quarters and the feeling of safety in his hold.

Tommy’s jaw clenched, and for a moment, he didn’t speak. When he did, his voice was softer than she expected. “What's his name, then?”

The simplicity of the question caught you off guard. “How could you possibly—”

“Because I see them too,” he interrupted, his tone sharper. “The ones I’ve lost. The ones I’ve killed. It doesn’t go away, y/n. Eventually, we all end up this way. Haunted. Even if it's only while we sleep.”

His honesty disarmed you, but you felt his honest comment with something more than annoyance. Tommy was showing you that he understood. That he, too, felt the weight of a hundred souls that never let him sleep without the constant reminder that they have yet to move on.

“Does it ever stop?” you asked after a long silence.

"I have yet to lie to you since we've met, and I don't plan to lie now."

Tommy's thumb gently stroked your shoulder, and it brought comfort to the aching throb beneath. The urge to move away from him subsided. For now, you would accept his company because it was better than being alone with the dreams that could so easily return the moment he left.

“You were screaming." Tommy's voice hung low as he steadied himself to admit more than he would usually care to. “And I can’t stand to see you like that.”

Like a reflex, your cheek met his chest, and the scent of him washed over you like a comforting fire. You leaned into him, and he shifted beneath you until you rested comfortably in the crook of his arm. “Why?”

As if he felt the change in your body, he pressed his lips to your hair and sighed. He closed his eyes with the last of his admission. “I don't know.”

The words lingered in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning.

“Two people in pain are no good to each other, Tommy,” you said softly. "Maybe it's best we be alone."

“You're right,” Tommy replied. “But this doesn't seem so bad.”

The seconds of being alone in the safety of Arrow House hit the both of you like a warm light, blinding you from the doubts that you knew would eventually return. But, for now, you and Tommy accepted that if either of you were truly better off alone, then one night wouldn't do much to ruin you anymore than you already were.

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The room had settled into a stillness that seemed fragile, as if one wrong word or movement might shatter it. Tommy sat propped against the headboard, his arm wrapped securely around you as you rested against his chest. Your breathing had slowed, teetering on the edge of a deep sleep, but he could tell by the faint tension in your body that you were somewhere just before it.

Tommy glanced down at you, his expression unreadable in the dim light. His hand idly brushed over your arm in a gesture so unfamiliar to him it almost startled him to realize he was doing it.

“y/n,” he murmured, his voice barely louder than the whisper of the night outside.

You hummed in acknowledgement, the sleep finding you quickly.

“Bingham,” he whispered. “What happened?”

Perhaps, now wasn't the time, but at this time of night, the thought that you might be so exhausted that you wouldn't be able to hide it anymore encouraged him to keep trying. At first, he thought you might not answer. But then you sighed, your voice soft and gentle, your real voice beneath all that you'd let others hear until now.

“He knew,” you said, your words slow, as if you were piecing them together in your half-awake state.

“Knew what?”

“About him.”

Tommy’s chest tightened, his grip on you tightening slightly. “The man you loved?”

You nodded against him, leaning into him just gently enough to make yourself more comfortable. You didn’t elaborate, and he waited, knowing that pressing too hard would push you back into silence.

“What did he know?” Tommy asked after a moment, his voice even quieter than before.

“That it broke me."

Tommy leaned his head against the bed. He stared into nothing as he braced himself for whatever you would reveal. He didn't know if he'd be ready for any of it, but not knowing would sooner drive him to madness.

“What happened to him?”

When you finally spoke, your voice was distant, as though you were reliving the memory. In your head, all the visions you kept at bay coursed through your mind, seeing the man Tommy so reluctantly asked about.

“He was so sad... And I couldn't fix it. It was all my fault.”

Tommy’s mind raced to piece together what little you were giving him. He wanted to ask more, to demand answers, but your voice cut through his thoughts.

“I wanted to die,” she muttered, the words so quiet he almost didn’t catch them. “So fucking badly.”

The admission hit Tommy harder than he expected. His fingers tightened slightly on your arm, grounding himself in the present though he felt himself being pulled into your nightmare.

“I couldn't,” you continued, breaths slowly deepening as sleep pulled back your speech. “I tried.”

You were quiet for a long time, and he thought you might have fallen asleep. But then you shifted, your nose nuzzling into his chest like a place of comfort. Your voice was drowsy but filled with a quiet resolve.

“Death scared me, too,” you said against his shirt, your words slurring as sleep began to take hold. “And dying didn't wouldn't mean I'd get him back.”

Tommy let the silence stretch after that, his mind a storm of questions and emotions he wasn’t ready to face. He glanced down at you, your breathing evening out as you drifted into sleep.

He held you a little tighter, his hand brushing against your hair in an unconscious gesture of comfort. The weight of your words stayed with him until he, too, found sleep. Though it would not be so comforting as he would have wished.

[heavenlyraindrops]

The Devil Made Me Do It | Arcane | Silco x Reader | Chapter Ten

available on AO3 and Quotev | visit the first tag for other chapters | warnings: very brief mention of blood, profanity, smoking

summary:

In the midst of an unfortunate run-in with the enforcers, you meet the young revolutionary Silco, and by extension, his friends Vander and Felicia. Growing close friends, you get through life in the undercity together, determined to make Zaun a better place. Until tragedy strikes, and betrayal and carelessness stabs hard enough to turn you bitter. Years later as time solidifies the scars, Silco proves to be a thorn in your side. You, in his. Hatred festers. And your world cracks further open.

Chapter Ten:

You tugged your black top, which had ridden up your midriff, back down towards your belt as you stormed into the Last Drop, shoving patrons as you passed through the crowd. Sevika was at a table, ashtray half-full and glass half empty.

Scowling, you grabbed her arm, the one concealed by her cloak. Your hand made contact with metal through the fabric.

She stared at you. “[name],” she said flatly. You snatched your hand away, balling it into a fist. 

“Tell me-“ you stabbed a finger at her chest, “there’s been men at my doorstep at least three times this week.”

She scoffed. “Probably because you run a brothel.”

“You know that’s not what I mean,” you hissed. She stared at you, a frown carving a notch into her forehead, before nodding at her tablemates. Slamming her palms onto the surface a little too hard she slowly heaved herself up.

“Let’s talk somewhere else,” she said.

You watched as she went to a corner, nodding at a door. You stared at her incredulously.

“Go in there with you?” You yelled over the din. “You must be insane.”

She groaned, and within moments you were both standing outside.

“You look real different, dressed like a normal person.” She nodded at your toned-down appearance. You scowled, flicking a hair out of your face. “Almost didn’t recognise you.”

“Whatever.” You took out a cigarette, rolling it between your fingers between placing it in between your lips. You’d dropped any efforts to keep up your beguiling, siren-like facade around Sevika- there was no point. You flicked open your lighter, palm shielding the flame.

“So what’s all this about men outside the brothel?”

“They’ve been heckling my girls. And guys,” you added. “I assumed they had something to do with your- boss, considering the fact I have something he wants.”

You couldn’t bring yourself to say his name, now that someone was actually listening.

Sevika must have taken notice of this, because her lips twitched. But she didn’t mention it. “You know, you look a lot like when we were younger. Before everything went to shit.”

“Did he send them?” Your voice was stone cold and hard. Sevika scowled at this.

“Of course he fucking didn’t. You think he’d stoop that low? I thought you knew him.”

You took a deep drag on your cigarette, not meeting her eyes as you exhaled. Your leg threatened to bounce with well-concealed anxiety. “Well, I don’t now. I want these bastards dealt with.”

Sevika crossed her arms. “Since when do I have to deal with your problems? Last I checked, it’s not you I’m working for.”

You scowled. “Well, something’s telling me that this is gonna be your problem soon enough,” you snapped. “Considering the fact that they’re looking for your boss.”

She paused. “Wait, what?”

“They keep bugging us about him. No idea why us,” you sneered, “because I’d rather shoot myself in the foot than be associated with you or his people, but sadly that’s the case. So hurry up and fix this before I send them your way for good.” You pushed the cigarette into her chest. “Enjoy, errand-girl.”

And with that you turned around and stalked off, pulling your coat around you as your brisk steps carried you away from the Last Drop. Breath misting in the air, you turned to look at Sevika. But all you saw was the door swinging shut as she disappeared back into the bar. 

-

You hurried back into the brothel, a gust of warm air enveloping you in a snug, cozy embrace. Immediately the feeling was quenched as you turned and saw a girl with big glassy eyes and mousy brown hair looking up at you, arms outstretched.

You gingerly shrugged off your coat and dumped it in her hands. She followed you to your office, hovering anxiously around the beaded curtains.

“What is it?” You sounded miffed.

“Your coat, Madam. I was instructed to leave it in your office.”

“Then why’d you make me take it off?” 

But nonetheless, you beckoned for her to come in. She placed it on a hook in the corner, and you curled your finger, calling her forwards. A cigarette dangling from your bottom lip, you placed something in her soft palm.

She unfurled her fingers. “Do you know what that is?” She shook her head.

You took it back from her, flicked it open, and pushed down. Flame erupted from the lighter, illuminating a freckle on her face. Her eyes widened and she shuffled back.

“Don’t be afraid,” you said, snapping it shut. You gently but firmly took hold of her wrist, tugging it forward and pushing it back into her hand. You leaned back, arm slung across the back of the couch, and gestured to your cigarette.

She leaned over the armrest and, with a trembling thumb, pushed down as you’d shown her. The flame jumped a little too close to your face and you moved your head back, eyes widening, as she hurriedly snapped it shut.

She froze, waiting for a reprimand. But you didn’t say anything, just sucked on the cigarette and smiled at her, eyes looking at her without turning your face. You tipped your head back and let the smoke curl in the air.

“Hand-eye coordination needs some work,” you commented. She nodded.

“Yes, Madam.”

“What’s your name?”

“Alice-“

Your eyes widened, chest tightening.

“-son.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Allison,” she repeated timidly. You were shaking, she noticed, and took a quick step back.

Chewing on your lip, your eyes crawled across her face desperately. She looked…

Scared.

You could taste blood on your tongue. You released your bloodied lip from between your teeth, then soothed it with your tongue.

This girl is not Alice, you reminded yourself. 

“You look tired,” you remarked, relaxing. “Have you been getting a good night’s sleep?”

“No,” she admitted silently. You tilted your head, raising an eyebrow. “The mattresses are hard,” she said regretfully. “Not that I’m complaining, Madam,” she added hastily.

You chuckled. “No, please. Feel free to complain.”

She couldn’t tell if you were being sarcastic or not, as you patted the spot on the couch next to you. She clambered onto the cushions obediently.

You took another thoughtful drag, then blew out the smoke, cigarette poised in between your fingers as you leaned into Allison.

“Will I tell you something important?”

She nodded, eyes wide.

“I used to have a daughter just like you.” You looked the girl up and down. “Same age, same eyes, same hair. Almost the same name.”

Allison knotted her little fingers together in her lap, looking up at you in wonder as you smoked some more.

“But she died.” Your tone was flat. 

Allison recoiled. “Killed by enforcers,” you continued. You looked at the little girl, silently staring at her.

Then you sighed.

“You can sleep on the couch tonight, if you want. A welcome change from the mattresses.” You leaned forward and stubbed out the cigarette on the ashtray that lay on the table, next to the long-wilted rose, and rubbed the bridge of your nose. “I’d have them changed if they weren’t the best we could afford in Zaun. Piltie bastards are probably sleeping well into the afternoon.”

She didn’t say anything.

“My bedroom is that door,” you told her, pointing to a door next to a bookshelf. “The office locks from the inside.”

“This is too generous, Madam,” Allison whispered.

You scoffed. “Not at all. You’ll have a job, you know.”

Allison looked up expectantly, and you stumbled around your words to find an excuse. “Uhh… clean up the office every now and then. And lock it once I go to bed.”

Allison smiled. “Alright.”

“And if I have anything else that needs tending to then expect the responsibility to fall to you, in the case that you’re able for such tasks.”

Allison nodded, bowing her head. “Yes, Madam.”

You flicked your hand at her. “Right, now… go away.”

Allison scuttled away into the front entrance of the brothel, cutting across and eventually disappearing into another narrow hallway. You followed after her, looking around. Beads, lanterns, curtains. Sickly sweet incense, mist swirling across the floor. A new client had just passed in through the doorway. She was looking behind herself nervously as she hurried in.

You silently watched her from the spot in the corner you’d chosen to lean on, obscured by the sheer fabric draped across the ceiling. She disappeared hand in hand with one of your men, and a tall, broad figure stepped into view.

Sevika.

You brushed the sheer drapes as you emerged, mist coiling around your feet as you walked.

“I thought we already spoke today,” you said steadily, expression even as you studied her face.

“What if I came here for your services?” She sounded amused.

“You don’t look like it. Hurry up, tell me what it is.”

Sevika squared her shoulders, gaze roving around the all-took familiar room. It eventually settled back on your face.

“He wants a meeting with you.”

“What?”

“You deaf?” She tilted her head. “He wants to meet with you in his office. Tomorrow night.”

“No.” Your response was fast.

You couldn’t face him. You’d rather never speak to him face to face again- your last in-person interaction, despite years ago, had been quite fond and you knew that whatever version of him you’d meet if you went would simply take on the image of the man you used to know.

Sevika frowned at you. “Are you okay?”

You were breathing hard. “No, I’m not. Get out.”

She stepped towards you. “[name].”

“What’s it about?” You hissed. “I’ll talk to you. Come on.” You stepped towards your office.

For a moment, you thought Sevika would protest, but she simply followed you silently after a quick moment of hesitation. You shut the door properly.

“Sit down.”

“I think I’ll stand.” There was a glint in her eye you didn’t miss.

“It wasn’t a request.”

Sighing and rolling her shoulders back, she assumed her usual position on the couch.

You didn’t sit down, choosing to remain standing. You crossed your arms, leg shaking. “What’s the issue?”

“It’s the men. They’re here for, er, other people.”

“What?” She couldn’t be any less clear- your pounding head was beginning to grow fuzzy. 

“You’re harbouring more wanted men and women than you think, or than you’d like to admit. We need to round them up, and finish them off,” she said steadily. You frowned at her.

“I’m not giving up innocent people,” you spat.

“Believe me, [name],” her voice was strained with exasperation. “They are far from innocent. Just hand them over, and this whole ordeal can be over. No more men at your door, no more Silco breathing down your neck.”

You took a deep breath, rubbing your face, considering her words.

“And I have your word that whatever happens to them next will be deserved, be it good or bad?” You asked quietly.

She was surprisingly solemn in her response. “You have my word.”

“Fine. I’ll round them up, and drop them off tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow night, the Last Drop. Ten o’clock.”

You scoffed. “Yeah, whatever you say. But-“ you held up your hand. “I want a trade.”

She stared at you. “What?”

You scowled. “You think I’ll just give away my men for free? I want something in return.”

She suppressed a groan. “And what might that be? Money? Shimmer?”

You bit your lip, thinking. “I need collateral.”

She stared at you blankly. “Well, we don’t have collateral.”

“Something I can hold over his head,” you ploughed on. She laughed. 

“You know I’m right here, right? It’s my boss you’re scheming against.”

“I don’t give a flying fuck. Whatever, just- give me men in return.” 

“Wh- men?”

“Employee for employee.” You’d fully regained your composure by now, and you adjusted the cuffs of your sleeves. “It’s only fair.”

She stared at you incredulously. “Well, who would you want?”

“I’ll take my pick when the time comes,” you hummed, waving her out. She scowled, flinging the door open. Hand still on the doorknob, she paused, twisting her head around.

“You’re a real piece of work, you know that?” She snarled.

You grinned. “So I’ve been told.”

[designsfromtime]

How will Tariffs effect the Historical Costume Community?

How will Tariffs effect the Historical Costume Community?

Maybe it was divine inspiration that I chose the summer of 2025 to semi-retire, because textiles are about to increase, ya'll! - so are avocados, strawberries, and fruits and vegetables from Mexico; electronics (from China) - like your cell phones and computers, televisions. But it doesn't stop there: building supplies, car parts, clothing, toys, medical supplies, medications, and much, much more is about to increase!

Why?

Because of Trump's brilliant economic plan to implement tariffs on countries like China, Mexico, and Canada on "Day one," to quote him directly.

Yes, that was sarcasm. For those who haven't been following the dire warnings economists worldwide and in America were shouting to the rooftops, i.e., that tariffs will cause economic disaster for many companies in the USA, and you still think the cost of gas and eggs and groceries are going to decrease in the Trump administration, boy oh boy are ya'll gonna have a huge awakening come January 20, 2025.

The way tariffs work is like this: American companies, who purchase goods outside of America, "are the ones who pay the tariffs" - NOT the companies sending goods to America for American consumers to buy. American companies will be paying MORE to import goods from other companies, and that increase will be passed on to the American people. These large corporations, who have already been recording record breaking profits since 2020, will use Trump’s tariffs as an excuse to raise their prices even more! – because there are no regulations on what they can charge the public. ALSO, they will be receiving more tax cuts, while the rest of us, especially the middle class who already carry the burden of the majority of the taxes in the USA, will see an increase in our taxes. These tariffs will cost us an additional $2500 a year per household. That doesn't sound like much, but it adds up, especially for many who are already barely scraping by - myself included.

How will these tariffs impact the historical costume community specifically?

While Mexico, China and Canada are our top exports (places we buy from), the following countries are ALSO popular sources that USA consumers import textiles and clothing:

Vietnam

India

Bangladesh

Indonesia

Honduras

The majority of fine woolen textiles are exported from the UK. The cost of wool will also be affected, with costs going up from 10 to 20%. Maybe that doesn’t sound like much, but when you’re already paying $30 to $40 (and more) a yard for a good wool product an additional $3 to $6 per yard will carry a punch on my client’s budgets.

Companies like Silk Baron, who import silk fabrics in bulk from places like India, will have to increase their prices by a minimum of 20%. The price of silk is already $20 to $30 or more a yard through Silk Baron, and we can expect their prices to increase to $22 to $24, or $33 to $36 a yard.

Fabric-Store.com, used to only charge $12 a yard for linen, but beginning in 2020 they have raised their prices every year and are now charging $18 a yard. The impacts of tariffs will only increase these costs.

Trump’s tariffs on China will raise prices by 60%, and 10 to 20% to other countries who import goods to the USA. Tariffs impact consumers, NOT the companies who produce the products and ship them to American businesses.

Walmart and Lowes have already rung a warning nell that their prices are about to increase. According to an article by Reuters, a Walmart spokesperson stated, “We're concerned that significantly increased tariffs could lead to increased costs for our customers at a time when they are still feeling the remnants of inflation"…"Trump has vowed to make tariffs, which are a fraction of U.S. tax collections, central to his economic agenda. Executives have been increasingly fielding questions on the subject, with many noting ongoing efforts to continue to diversify their supply chains, particularly away from China, Trump's top target.”

Additionally, the CFO of Lowe’s, Brandon Silk, said: "Roughly 40% of our cost of goods sold are sourced outside of the U.S., and that includes both direct imports and national brands through our vendor partners"…"And as we look at the potential impacts (of tariffs), it certainly would add to product costs." These tariffs will impact the cost of appliances and building supplies, which means the cost of new construction will increase.

Grocery stores, who were already price gouging consumers since the pandemic, are beginning to raise their prices. By the way, the President of the United States (or the Vice President) does not control the prices that big corporations charge consumers, it’s greed on the part of these companies like Albertson’s, Fred Meyer, etc., who set the prices. Harris planned to institute regulations to control their greed and lower the cost of groceries, etc., but Trump’s “tariffs,’ WILL absolutely affect American consumers.

Furthermore, voters, pissed off about Biden’s handling of Hamas, voted for Trump in protest. By the way, Trump and his entire administration are 100% pro-Israel, and support the atrocities Netanyahu has perpetrated against innocent civilians who have nothing to do with the terrorists of Hamas.

Voting is the equivalent to an open book examination in college or high school. All the information needed to educate yourselves on the issues are available at your fingertips, but you have to open the damn book! Voters, angry about Israel’s genocide of the Palestinian people, chose not to educate themselves about what control or influence on world politics a Vice President actually HAS. Harris was not pro-Israel, but publicly stated she was against Palestinian and Israeli aggression.

When textile and supply prices go up, those increases affect the cost for costumers. The tariffs that will be implemented will increase costs by 60% from any goods purchased from China. For my business, this will impact such items as “freshwater pearls,” that I use on my costume embellishment. China is the world’s largest exporter of pearls, which are “grown” or farmed in that country.

Coates embroidery thread, which I use in my embroidery machines, are based in Mexico. With Trump’s tariffs the cost will go up 20%. A spool of Coates gold metallic thread is $12.99 at JoAnns. That will increase by roughly $2.60 per spool.

Faux Baleen from Germany, used in corsetry, will go up anywhere from 10 to 20%.

American Duchess, who contracts with shoemakers in China to produce their historical shoes will have to raise their prices by 60%!!  

Buttons, thread, fabric, notions, everything you can imagine used in the creation of historical costumes are imported from China. Tariffs will have a noticeable impact on the entire historical costume community, which is already an expensive hobby.

At a time when American’s are paying more for goods and groceries than other countries, not only will tariffs impact the economy, but Trump and the Republicans as outlined in Project 2025, plan to cut Social Security by no less than 20%, but they also are planning to do away with it entirely, to include social security disability, which millions of disabled and retired Americans depend on to exist.

In a word, and I don’t give a flying fig that I’m bringing politics into historical costuming, you voted for more inflation and higher cost of goods. It would behoove all ya’ll among the younger generations to use Google and research how the stock market crash of 1929 happened, and how tariffs played a significant role in exacerbating the Great Depression.

The Smoot-Hawley Tariff Act, passed in June 1930, was a key factor. This act raised tariffs on thousands of imported goods in an attempt to protect American industries and farmers, which had unintended consequences such as:

Retaliation by Other Countries: Many countries responded by imposing their own tariffs on American goods, which led to a significant decline in international trade.

Reduction in Exports and Imports: American exports and imports fell by about 67% during the Great Depression. This decline in trade worsened the economic downturn.

Global Economic Impact: The tariffs contributed to a global economic slowdown, making it harder for the U.S. and other countries to recover from the depression.

These consequences ended in joblessness, as companies closed down. Read about the how the banks went under, people lost their jobs, resulting in widespread foreclosures, and the rise in shanty towns to house millions of homeless who were once productive members among the middle class.

Is this hyperbole? No! If you do not educate yourselves, history will repeat itself. Trump’s tariffs will impact Americans on a catastrophic level, as well as impact the global economy.

So, next time, maybe study for the “open book test” rather than sourcing your information from word of mouth like, you know, Fox News.

Hang on to your butts, it’s gonna get rough for all of us.

P.S: If you voted for him, and your fee-fees are hurt by this article, don't you dare say one hateful thing in my blog or my Facebook page or you will be blocked.

[velvetvexations]

I did not mean to sleep all day. Here all the non-kink asks in my inbox lol.

Does a little dance. People being weird about transmascs on here has messed up my self perception so bad im not actually sure of my own gender anymore, yayyyyy

Fuck that anon, if you're man that rules. Being a man is awesome. You don't need anyone else's opinion to affect who you are, there is no bad gender.

just saw someone acknowledge trans men are often lumped into female spaces due to bioessentialism but then turn around and say that thats proof that trans men arent oppressed. lol.

People act like being let into the Woman Club is the one and only goal of being trans and it's so fucking annoying.

Ngl I still don't understand why femboys are a "transmisogynistic caricature that can't be reclaimed by transmascs" according to some people. Do you have any insights on this because I genuinely can't understand, femboy sounds like gnc boy culture and in my own experience, maybe transfems before they come out occasionally identify as femboys. Idk is it like, someone with an outwardly feminine appearance being a guy? Because that's why I like calling myself a femboy.

Some people think femboy started as a transfem thing because they're idiots who don't know shit.

hey if catboy is ubiquitous and having nothing to do with crossdressing why did Jerma crossdress when someone drew him as a catboy???

Because catboys are allowed to do that lol. Taking one example of a crossdressing catboy to mean catboys infringe on transfem copyright is wild.

Hi thanks for letting me vent to you cause I am at work and can't properly process my emtions otherwise rn. I've been otherwise generally in a slightly emotionally fragile place and then I just got an awful review for my first actual order from a stranger on Etsy. And like I know logically that it's not the end of the world and I gave them exactly what they ordered and it's not my fault that they measured wrong or didn't take my advice and size up a little for fit etc etc but no one else will know that and I just got started selling craft stuff and it's just a hobby and it sucks that this person clearly expected something that wasn't what they paid for (my prices are low cause it's a hobby sorry I don't have super professional materials that would make my stuff cost double) but it's really fucking me up and I am trying not to like cry at work because of this and it's so stupid. This was just my first purchase online that wasn't from a friend and I was so excited and they hated it and didn't even send a message or anything about the length (that was exactly what they asked for by the way) not fitting before leaving a review. It just fucking sucks and I wish my brain didn't react to the most minor disappointments/shows of dislike with the I'm going to kill everyone in this room and then myself meme as first response Thanks for listening. It really helps to be able to vent this somewhere <3

I'm really sorry anon, that sounds so frustrating and hard to deal with. I love you so much. <3 I know you do great work and I hope it goes better next time.

Having NPD sucks, lmao, sorry for the rant ahead. I have to remind myself that the 'mark' on shinigami eyes doesn't actually mean anything, but it's hard sometimes because it's still a stain on my reputation. :( some people will see that and take it at face value, forever associating me with the filth that is transphobia, and I can't do anything about it. I appreciate the people who actually know what a transphobe is going out of their way to remove that mark, but it's a losing battle against a bunch of buffoons who think catgirls are transmisogynistic. sometimes it's really hard to pretend that it doesn't bother me at all, because it's highly insulting for me to be associated with the things I literally fight against. What an insult to my legacy and efforts to even bother to care about other people, you know? I don't HAVE to take time out of my day to do activism, I could just not bother to care at all, but I still try. I deserve praise, not this bullshit😭

I'll praise you! Thank you for fighting against transphobia. <3

All this catboy talk. Wanted to say hi as a catboy. Meow :3

Nya~!

My prediction for TRF discourse in 2025: closeted, non passing trans men shouldn't wear skirts or other traditional women's clothing (even if they don't want to and literally have no other choice) because they're MEN and men wearing women's clothes is obviously always transmisogynistic

All trans men are transmisogynistic because they grew up mocking transfems by wearing women's clothes.

some of this discourse is just so fucking wild i cant believe this is something people are taking so seriously. sipping my tea from the sidelines as a chubby catboy therian lmao

You have a cooler head than I.

iirc the "catgirls are transfem" thing started happening around the time Ferris got popular as a character because, if I'm correct, Ferris actually is transfem (coded?) and following that some people just decided The Aesthetique belonged exclusively to transfems now (also you're so so so so based for loving Schrödinger I remember first seeing him in like 2007 and wishing I looked exactly like him)

Schrodinger is my secret fifth blorbo. I'm obsessed with him. I think about him constantly. High five.

als catboys are only white passing in the way that people love to say anime characters are white lmao (aka cant conceive of the fact that anime characters are actually light skinned Japanese). not to say anime doesn't have a colorism problem but They Are Not White and its racist to say otherwise

lol yes exactly

I might be really stepping in it here, but tangential to catboy/catgirl discourse, I'm starting to get really uncomfortable with how the cutesy moe-blob yuri is treated as "trans lesbian culture" these days? as though none of it was ever straight guy fantasy shit? as though it's ideal representation instead of another vector of impossible beauty standards? idk, maybe I'm just being way too touchy. 😬

It's fine if something becomes emblematic of transfem culture but you just can't pretend something was always transfem when it blatantly wasn't lol

you got marked red on shinigami eyes and i havev no idea why

My smoke too tough, my swag too different, my bitch too bad.

juggalo here. we don't want them.

Devastating.

For what it's worth, the "cats transforming into people" thing is probably based on the bakeneko, yeah. The "bake" in "bakeneko" means "transforming", often with the implication of transforming into people (like the better known bakedanuki and bakegitsune). The popularization of cat-people in anime probably came from Neko-Musume from Gegege no Kitaro (the anime behind the "youkai boom" in modern Japanese culture), who is a half-bakeneko.

Fascinating.

(Dif anon) "leading one to wonder what transphobia they think trans men do face" 99.999% sure at this point we're at "trans men experience misgendering... maybe...?"

Well that doesn't count since everyone wants to be a girl, an idea that I believe has universal appeal because I'm a self-centered moron.

You're awesome <3

Thank you anon. <3

I didn't realize I was trans from yaoi but I did largely realize it from memes about traps and accidentally stumbling across largely transfem subreddits via a anime memes despite being transmasc so. Great amount of respect for our yaoi soldiers.

Hell yeah!

[mammomlette]

People don’t talk about MC needing to wear a magical ring to not accidentally yk cause NATURAL DISASTERS with their powers??? Not only accidentally but without realising???

Diavolo or smthn is asking too much of MC or being a bit too annoying and their other hand slowly drifts towards the ring and they hold onto it while maintaining dead eye contact. Like continue to piss me off hoe I’ll blink and blow a hole in your castle idk

Obv they never do it (or do they?) but the threat is there and it’s a risk dia (or whoever but I’m using dia) can’t take

[staring-at-a-blank-pagee]

hmm, the warp star is looking a little different.... oh well, no big deal! kirby loves everybody, which means that he loves you too! stay safe for kirby <3

[oblivious-aro]

Hey, remember that weird misogynistic quote from Danny Phantom I mentioned?

You'll never believe what Walmart.com is selling on their shirts.

[stuckinapril]

Genuinely unfortunate that I’m attracted to men bc a lot of straight men these days r so embarrassing my heart can’t take it anymore

[hotwaterandmilk]

I'm still not well so this isn't going to be articulate, but I wanted to say something anyway.

In the wake of Grease: Rise of the Pink Ladies (amongst other titles) being purged from streaming I've seen countless posts saying "This is terrible, we need to stop this practice -- they might purge a good show next!" and yeah, for sure a lot of titles being impacted by streaming purges/lack of physical media/a decline in archiving right now aren't going to be remembered for changing the world.

However, I think it is vital that we fight to preserve these titles for their own sake not just because "What if next time it's something we actually like?!" There is value is preserving things widely regarded as "bad" not just because I have firm beliefs about the absurdity of taste, but because who gives a shit if something is deemed "good?" Actual human people put their time and energy into realising these artistic visions. Even if the results are arguably not "good" or "popular", should the efforts of these artists be lost to the sands of time? No, no they fucking shouldn't.

I share a lot of art on this blog from titles very few people consider culturally important or valuabe. However, I don't look at the things I collect & share like that. Even some of the most objectively absurd titles I own are still pieces of art that were developed, published, and consumed by humans in the real world. Whether they've turned out to be broadly memorable or not is irrelevant because they existed and that in itself makes them worthy of preservation so that others can choose to familiarise themselves with them long after the original creative team is gone.

So yes, we should all be trying to preserve the media that's important to us and not let corporations try to stamp out every trace of a financial (though not necessarily artistic) misstep. However, it shouldn't take the threat of something we, personally, like being taken away to stir us into giving a shit.

Even the demise of less admired works should concern us and make us start to burn copies of Grease: Rise of the Pink Ladies because it might not mean anything to you or I right now, but to some kid in 20 years it could be a seminal experience that leads them to follow their dreams. Or it could become a cult classic that people reflect on at watch parties years in the future. Or it could continue to be a footnote in the history of television that nobody really cares about.

Ultimately I don't think it matters what level of value we arbitrarily assign to media now or in the future, we should be trying to preserve as much of it as possible so that generations from now people can enjoy the option of engaging with these titles should they so wish.

[a-most-beloved-fool]

one of the most frustrating feelings in the world is when I read a fic or something I really like, and I want to leave a comment or make some gesture of appreciation, but I cannot come up with a single word. the lone rat in my brain is going absolutely ham on a soundboard, and I somehow cannot articulate a single ounce of that to anyone else. sometimes, sometimes, I can at least muster up a "<3!!!!!", but sometimes even that?? is out of reach?? and I really don't quite understand why. what do you mean typing out a heart is beyond me.

[shiraishi--kanade]

At this point my blocked blogs list on this blog is extemely extensive and if anyone approaches me asking why I've blocked them the answer is 99% likely to be because you thought it appropriate to talk about your trauma on 10 notes personal post rb.

I mean it's weird how this keeps happening, but I think people need to develop some sort of etiquette cause what the hell.

This is a rb website, sure! You can do whatever you want. Except I can see your reblogs and read everything you say even if I don't want to because who would even consider turning notifications off on a post they didn't think anyone would rb with that, let alone rb in general? "Talking in tags" rules don't apply to posts like that.

Unless you are initiating a conversation with me specifically, I don't need to hear how depressed you've been in my notifications out of nowhere when I don't even know you. You're not talking into a void like you would on a 10k note post, you're all but yelling into my face. Have some semblance of courtesy and understand how this website works. Or else I'll whack you away with a block. Final warning.

[sundial-bee-scribbles]

"my education is my highest priority" everything returns to vocaloid

[batsplat]

marc marquez letting an italian pass him at assen? *insert here a generic joke about rossi being mad*

had marc been a real hater he’d take off the wheels and win by 16 seconds riding only chassis after receiving a tyre pressure warning

a sequel to phillip island 2003, I like it conceptually

this is his problem. (giving him a pass this weekend, see you after the summer break.) he's not enough of a hater these days, he needs to find his way again... he needs to remember some of his best work is fuelled by spite... I remember his misano 2017 where he simply refused to lose that race after those italian fuckers had gotten his head hot... he knows this is how his brain works, he can channel this, he's seen the script... misano 2019, let's not forget, he'd just lost two back-to-back dramatic last lap duels... sure, he might have been walking the championship with insulting ease, but he still had something to prove... and what does he do? he stalks the yamaha riders on friday. in misano. he comes out on track during saturday qualifying ahead of dovi and valentino, decides to dawdle and let them past. and then he jumps on valentino's rear tyre. in misano. in the first year in which valentino just wasn't an on-track rival any more he had any real competitive reason to fuck with. but had the intention of using valentino to go faster. in misano

and then he gets super mad about the resulting drama and ends up snatching the win in the subsequent last lap duel against the rookie brat who is way harder to be a hater of!! that was proper hating, like that was a weekend long masterclass in hating. man touched down on italian soil and had a mission

anyway unfortunately I do think it's harder these days, like you can't just do that to any italian? what's he gonna do at assen, get all heated up when fighting diggia - a man I regularly forget does actually have a proper vr46 link now courtesy of riding for their team - for pee five? back in the day, he did have the decency to only ever finish behind an italian at assen when one of said italians was valentino (on three occasions, '13 '15 '17)... he used to show some respect for the narrative... but y'know some good old spite probably really would help him in weekends like that to keep it together a bit more. he's got to get something going with pecco for his own sake. in assen he probably never had the pace with all the spite in the world... next year, we'd better be cooking something special