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wandaslovey · 19 hours ago

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𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓇’𝓈 𝓆𝓊𝒶𝓇𝓇𝑒𝓁

➺ pastor’s!wife!wanda x fem!reader

wc ~ 3.4k

a/n: i just finished watching love & death for the 4th time and it made me go absolutely feral for lizzie with a southern accent. i’m debating whether or not i want to make this a short series—especially writing a second part where i better establish the background of these two characters. let me know if you guys would like a part 2!

*not proofread*

cw: brief mentions of religious background, infidelity/cheating, forbidden relationship, legal age gap, established relationship, reader almost smokes a cigarette but doesn’t, punishment, [wo]man-handling, spanking, humiliation, inspection, finger licking/sucking, praise, mommy kink, reader is kind of a whiny brat in this fic (she’s really just overstimulated), and some fluff at the end

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ୨♡୧ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

you pace back and forth along the side of a red and white striped tent, kicking up some dirt and rocks as your feet drag. your skin feels like it’s tingling and your ears cringing at the sheer amount of sounds coming from the carnival you were currently at. you reach into your bra, retrieving one of the two cigarettes you had secretly stashed there unbeknownst to wanda. it was very unlike you—the smoking—but it was a nasty habit you picked up during your rebellious teen years. wanda had been trying to break you of it for months now. she’d gone as far as taking it upon herself to search through your things every time you two escaped to a town over to be together. any time she found a pack or a lone cigarette, she would throw it away claiming that her “sweet baby” shouldn’t be doing such a thing as “harming her own lungs.”

you hadn’t actually smoked one in awhile, but knowing you were coming here today, you stashed a couple in case you became overstimulated, which you now were. it didn’t help that you were already in a sour mood upon arriving here. wanda was all smiles and encouragement, happy and chipper to spend time with you. you weren’t sure why you were in such a poor mood, especially since you got to be with her, but at the moment you couldn’t care less about the series of events that may have drove you into this corner.

you pat your other breast, seeking the lighter but it wasn’t there. shit, you must’ve left it in your overnight bag or maybe in wanda’s car. with the cigarette hanging limply from your lips, you stupidly look around you as if there would be something around you to light it.

as you step out from behind the circus-like tent, you scan the small herds of people surrounding the area. there were so many families here along with couples and groups of young teens out with their friends. you hated being in places that were overly crowded. stepping out into this scene only made you feel worse and just when you were about to step back to your makeshift hiding place, you spot wanda walking rather briskly over to you. she was clutching onto the straps of her purse with two hands, her eyes intent on you as she made her way seamlessly through the crowds to get to you. normally, the look on her face would make you cower instantly, but you were in no mood to give into her dominating presence.

the cigarette that had been dangling from your lips was now stuffed back into your bra, your hands shoving themselves into the pockets of your t-shirt dress.

“now just where the hell did you think you were going? i’ve been looking all over for you, (y/n).” her southern accent bled into her words, which under different circumstances you loved, but right now that fact didn’t matter.

you cross your arms over your chest, taking a step around her as you attempt to walk away to blend in with the other crowds of people. she easily falls into step next to you, looking at you expectantly.

“i just needed a minute,” you say in a monotone voice, looking straight forward as you walk. clearly, she’s not sufficed with your answer. you count three, four, five steps before you feel her arm wrap around your bicep, her fingers curling tightly but not painfully as she pulls you back to the side, ducking around the corner of a carnival game tent.

“what is going on with you? you’ve been nothing but a fuss pot ever since i picked you up.” she uses her thumb and forefinger to hold your chin in place as you look up at her, her other hand still holding onto your arm. you feel your tough facade begin to crack, fissures seeping into your mind that made you want to cave and pout like the little girl you felt like right now.

“mm’fine wanda,” you mumble, looking at her pretty blonde cropped hair instead of her eyes. when you were in a mood like this, her eyes were the most dangerous place to look. those green orbs wielded more power than any god you’d ever been told to believe in.

“(y/n). look at me.” she commands, her fingers gripping more firmly onto your chin. she gently shakes your head back and forth until she gets the desired reaction and your eyes meet hers. you immediately feel a little more wobbly where you stand, her eyes all but piercing into your soul. “do not lie to me. ever. do you hear me little miss? i know something is going on with you.”

your bottom lip quivers slightly, jutting out into a pout and wanda watches your eyes widen and go soft around the edges, mimicking that of a guilty puppy. you hold eye contact with her for another second and all of a sudden the invisible cracks in your mind remold themselves. you harshly turn your head to the side, freeing your chin from her grasp. you didn’t want to give into her just yet.

“don’t wanna talk about it. let’s just go have some fun or whatever the fuck it is you’re supposed to do in this godforsaken shit show.”

you turn from her, already out in the midst of groups of other people before wanda can think about grabbing you again. from her place at the side of the tent, she watches you walk away, exhaling slowly to maintain her nerve before she catches up to you.

for the next hour or so, you go from tent to tent, playing the rigged games and forcing yourself to “have fun.” after being unkind to a couple of the attendants and giving her attitude for the last while, wanda was at her wits end. she had no idea what was going on with you and no matter how gently or forcibly she probed, you refused to tell her what was wrong.

it wasn’t until your final throw at a bean bag toss that she decided enough was enough. after hearing your “this was never my idea to be here” comment under your breath, she grabs your arm again, all but dragging you out of the carnival. there was a group of teenagers who stopped to watch you as you huffed, kicked and dragged your feet along as wanda pulled you wordlessly to the parking lot, but neither you nor she could care about that now.

she rummages through her purse with her free hand, angrily retrieving her keys at last as she unlocks the car. she opens the passenger back seat door, all but shoving you inside of it before shutting the door firmly behind you. she hurries to the other side, coming into the backseat with you.

a thick silence falls over the car, her eyes burning holes into the side of your face as you had yet to look at her. wanda wasn’t sure what to say—which approach would best get through to you in this moment.

“i’m going to give you one more opportunity to explain yourself before you’re in even bigger trouble than you already are.” her voice was artificially calm. anyone else would perceive her now as perfectly composed, but you knew better. you picked up on all the subtleties—the slight shake in her voice at the end of her sentence and her hands twitching ever so slightly. you had really pushed her today and you knew a punishment was inevitable. as you sat there in the silence of the car, you realized that subconsciously you were making today enormously difficult on purpose to earn her harsher hand. you were normally such a good girl for her, but today was about pushing buttons—and you really were overstimulated from everything at the carnival.

you glance at her from your peripheral vision, inhaling slowly as you begin to fidget with your hands in your lap. wanda’s normally impeccable patience had gone thin though, and when another beat of silence passed over the two of you, she was done waiting. she reaches over the middle seat, pulling your body till it was flush with hers. she lifts your legs over her lap, bending them in a slight awkward angle from being pressed against the side of the door. a gentle hand lifts your face, her fingers smoothing some of the frizz from your hair before she tucks the strands behind your ear.

“what happened to my sweet girl, hmm?” this time her voice was genuine and warm, her facial expression softening. she knew that paired with her sugary sweet sweetness and being wrapped up in her arms, you would melt. you could never deny the fact that regardless of your mood, you always wanted to be her good girl and to please her.

your pout from earlier came back full force as you began to feel a pang of guilt growing in your tummy. you had been unfair to her today, giving her attitude for no reason and denying her comfort at every turn. she deserved better.

your nimble fingers find the collar of her blouse and you fidget with the material absentmindedly. your brows pull together like you’re thinking hard about something as you stare at a random spot on her chest.

“i’m sorry, wanda,” you mumble, the edge of a whine in your tone. she strokes the back of your head, beginning to gently coax you into that fuzzy headspace you both love so much.

“well i sure do appreciate that, but an apology’s not what i asked for, is it?” you shake your head at her question, curling further into yourself to feel smaller in her lap. she easily adjusted her arm to support the new distribution of your weight while the hand on her other arm continued to caress the side of your cheek.

it was almost pathetic how easily you gave in to her touch. it had barely been a couple of minutes and you were already feeling much more compliant.

“i…it was just loud and bright,” you state simply in a small voice, offering no further explanation. you hoped she didn’t need clarification since you didn’t feel much like talking at the moment.

“the carnival? was my darling girl feeling a little overstimulated?” she asks sympathetically, tapping her finger against your cheek so you know to look up at her. your eyes slowly drag up her neck and her face until you’re looking in her eyes again. you nod once, your pout becoming impossibly deeper. she hums, a hand at the back of your head as she presses her lips against your forehead, planting a kiss there.

“i’m sorry sugar, mommy didn’t know. you have to tell me these things, honey. as much as i’d like to, i can’t read your mind.” she kisses your temple, watching your shoulders shrug in response to her comment. you wished she could read your mind. there were so many things you knew you needed to communicate to her that your stubborn refusal prohibited you from sharing.

“i really am sorry you were uncomfortable today sweetheart, that was never my intention. now i know for next time, right?” she pauses for a moment, noticing your line of sight was on your fingers that were still fiddling with her top.

“however, you did fail to communicate your needs with me despite the fact that i tried to get you to talk to me. on top of that, you were snotty and rude to not only me, but a few of the workers at the fair. you understand that is unacceptable, right?” she watches your head nod a few times, your eyes glazing over and she knows that right now, you’re her compliant little girl and you’ve already accepted your consequences.

“mommy’s gonna have to punish you. you understand why now, don’t you baby?” you nod once, but still clutch onto the collar of her shirt, your thighs pressing together as the word “punishment” passes through her lips. it doesn’t go unnoticed by wanda, but she chooses not to acknowledge it for now.

wanda gently pries your fingers from her shirt, maneuvering the both of you until you were face down across her lap. she had one of her legs crossed over the other so your lower back had a nice arch, your ass sitting higher in the air. she lifts your dress up over your rear, bunching the material at the middle of your back.

she hums to herself, her mouth watering slightly at the sight of your cute ass framed by your cheeky baby blue lace underwear.

“oh baby doll, you have the cutest, spankable cheeks, you know that?” the first teasing smack lands on your right cheek, already warming the skin. you groan at her question, feeling your panties dampen and the urge to press your thighs more firmly together.

“i’m going to spank you 40 times. i want you to count and say ‘i’m sorry mommy,’ for each spank. understood?” her hand caresses over the skin she just smacked, soothing the slight sting.

“yes mommy,” you reply, your voice muffled as your face was half pressed into the car seat. wanda purrs at your obedience, giving your ass cheek a squeeze. “good girl,” she murmurs, still rubbing your backside.

the first real smack lands on your left cheek, your body jerking slightly from the force. “one, i’m sorry mommy.” you breath out. you weren’t expecting her to start out so strong.

another blow. “two, i’m sorry mommy.” she measured the hit, ensuring she hit the same spot twice.

smack. “three, i’m sorry mommy.” you bite your lip, your core beginning to tingle.

smack. “four, i’m sorry mommy.” you feel your arousal continuing to wet your panties.

smack. “ffive—i’m sorry mommy!” you press your thighs together, only relieving a bit of the ache that was rapidly growing between your legs.

you hadn’t taken an inordinate amount of spankings, but you experienced enough that you knew that on average, the pain just surpassed the pleasure after about 18 hits. by the sixteenth one, your small pitiful whimpers turned to whines, and by the twenty-fifth the first low sob tore through your throat. tears were beginning to prick your eyes, threatening to roll down your pink tinged cheeks.

wanda pauses after the thirtieth spank, unable to ignore your increasingly squirmy little body. she could see your legs pressed firmly together, your body desperately trying to grind down onto her thighs. she tuts, tapping the back of your thigh in a silent command to open your legs. you feel a singular finger trace down your slit through your panties, the sticky feeling causing you to groan.

“oh sweetheart, look at you—all wet and sticky..” she trails off, her finger purposely rubbing up against your clit before she swipes back down to your opening. “you like it when mommy hurts you, don’t you?” it was mostly a rhetorical question, your arousal being evidence enough.

she brings her arousal coated finger up to your lips, which you eagerly suck into your mouth. you hum around the digit, swirling your tongue around it as any last rational thoughts you had turn to static.

“such a naughty baby. good little girls aren’t supposed to get so aroused by a punishment.” she pulls her finger from your mouth, a small popping noise emitting from the action.

“mommy,” you whimper pathetically, not quite sure exactly what you were begging for. you were past thinking clearly.

“shhh, i know honey. just 10 more spanks and then i’ll be done,” she runs a soothing hand down your back and then presses it down in the middle of your lower back. her last 10 smacks are just as harsh if not more than the other 30. by the end, the tears that been building in your eyes were spilling down your cheeks and you begin sniffling as your nose starts to run.

her hand carefully rubs across your now red, inflamed skin. she marvels at the sight. it was a bit sadistic, but she loved seeing the aftermath of a good spanking.

“mmm, i love it when you cry for me, baby.” her other hand finds its way into your hair, her fingernails gently scratching against your scalp. you melt into her affection, your body laying limply across her lap.

“let’s see how much more sticky sweetness is between these legs now, hmm?” she readjusts her hold on you, her leg propping you upright so your back is nice and arched again. her finger returns to your panties, finding them completely soaked through and ruined. you hear her chuckle amusedly before she presses the soiled material up against your opening, her fingertip just barely pushing into your hole. you let out shrill whine, your hips backing up into her touch. she shushes you, sliding your panties to the side and you all but jump as her finger grazes up against your unclothed pussy. she gathers the wetness there, drawing a line up and down your slit, taunting you. you bite down hard on your bottom lip, your hips wriggling under her touch.

“hush now… let me see.. ohhh, my listen to that.” you moan, her index finger sliding tantalizingly slow inside of you. you can hear your pussy squelching as she does so, your walls desperately clamping down around her digit. she wiggles it as far as it’ll go, her knuckles brushing against your clit. she does an experimental bend of her finger, your body jerking in response as she stimulates your g-spot.

just when you start to finally feel some relief, she slowly withdraws her finger. as she pulls it away, a string of arousal clings to her finger, connecting your went cunt to her before she pulls it far enough away that it disappears. she was going to have you clean it off, but the sight was too delicious to resist. she sucks her own finger into her mouth, cleaning off the evidence of your wetness. you swear you hear a small purr of pleasure coming from her, but you couldn’t be sure with your heart pounding in your ears.

she smooths your dress back over your ass, grabbing onto your waist and twisting you so you were now sitting facing her upright on her lap. she reaches up and holds the side of your face, a twinge of a smile on her lips as she notices your dismayed expression. she pouts sympathetically, stroking your cheek with her thumb.

“what did we learn today, (y/n)?” you don’t stop pouting as you answer. “to not be mean and to communicate my feelings..” you mumble, your expression solemn and wounded as if you had just been told the saddest thing. it turned out one of the most tragic things was having wanda tease you and then leave you high and dry.

“that’s right, sweetness. good job.” she smiles warmly, kissing your nose affectionately.

“you did so good for me, sugar. mommy’s very proud of you.” she smiles encouragingly, and despite how mopey you felt about being denied an orgasm, you glow under her praise and affection. you purse your lips together as you try to smother a smile threatening to cross your lips. wanda chuckles at this, playfully tapping her finger against your nose.

“i see that smile, little girl. you can’t fool me.” she attacks the side of your face with kisses, a wide smile now erupting across your face as you giggle gleefully.

“you’re gonna make my face all soggy—quit it!” you protest lightly, half heartedly pushing against her chest to put some space between your faces. wanda makes a mock gasp.

“i beg your pardon, missy? i can give you all the kisses i want!” she growls playfully through gritted teeth before she plants more sloppy kisses all over your face. you squeal and giggle, finding that moving your face around did nothing but give her new places to kiss.

you were so happy and content in your little wanda bubble. you never wanted it to pop.

#wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda x reader #wanda x you #mommy wanda #wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff x smut #wanda maximoff x fluff

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mcrdvcks · 3 days ago

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i love you, in every time ࿐‧₊ 1943 - wounds and whispers

chapter summary: After an attack on the battlefield, Logan wakes up to you as his nurse in Italy during World War 2.

word count: 8.8k+

pairing: Logan Howlett x fem!reader

notes: this one is short, and the ending is a bit abrupt, but i kind of wanted it to be that way- war is unpredictable. also, the ending is a tad bit different from the other endings, you'll see when you read! anyways, next chapter is when things get a little bit more interesting...

warnings/tags: mentions of injuries, fluff, angst, war, character death(s)

series masterlist - chapter 3 → chapter 5

A mere 43 years later and Logan was already in his second war since you died that last time. Part of him almost wished that he could die, maybe then he’d see you and get to hold you forever. But that just wasn’t in the cards for him; not when he had this healing, not when he was already 111 years old.

Logan's mind was swimming in a fog of pain as consciousness crept back in. The last thing he remembered was the deafening blast of gunfire and the sharp, searing pain that tore through his side as he charged forward in the midst of the chaos. War was hell, and he’d been through more than enough of them to know that. But this—this felt different.

His eyes fluttered open, the bright lights overhead blinding him for a moment as he groaned, trying to push himself up. His muscles screamed in protest, his entire body feeling like it had been torn apart and put back together again.

“Easy there, soldier.”

The voice was soft but firm, and it froze him in place. Logan’s heart skipped a beat, recognition flooding through him even though he knew it wasn’t possible. His vision focused, and then he saw you. Standing right over him, your face illuminated by the dim lights of the field hospital.

It was you.

Logan’s breath hitched, his mind spinning. He’d seen you die—he’d held you in his arms not long before everything faded. The memory of that night, the pain in your eyes, the blood pooling beneath you—it was burned into him. He’d lost you again. But now here you were, alive, standing in front of him like nothing had ever happened.

His throat tightened, but he forced himself to speak. “Y/N?” You probably didn’t hear him, given the quiet tone of his voice.

You smiled softly, stepping closer to him, your hands working with practiced care to check his wounds. “You’re lucky, you know,” you said, ignoring the way he looked at you, as if he'd seen a ghost. “The shrapnel didn’t hit anything vital. You’ll live.”

Logan swallowed hard, his eyes never leaving yours. He felt a pull, the same pull he’d felt every time he met you in a different life. But this time, it hurt even more. Because this was the first time he’d seen you since the last time you died, and now, here you were, again, as if the universe had decided to toy with him once more.

“Y/N…” he whispered again, his voice rough with emotion.

You glanced at him, your brows knitting together in confusion. “How do you know my name?”

Logan hesitated, his heart pounding. He couldn’t tell you—not yet. Not about the lives you’d lived before, not about the times he’d watched you die. He had to keep it together. You didn’t remember him, and that was both a blessing and a curse.

He cleared his throat, managing a tight smile. “Lucky guess,” he said, his voice strained, trying to mask the tidal wave of emotion crashing through him.

You gave him a curious look but didn’t press further. “Well, lucky or not, you should be more careful out there,” you said, turning your attention back to bandaging him up. “You’re not invincible, even if you act like it.”

Logan nearly chuckled at that. If only you knew. But instead, he gritted his teeth as you finished patching him up. The pain from the wound was nothing compared to the ache in his chest. He’d spent so many lifetimes with you, always losing you too soon. Always feeling like there wasn’t enough time.

And now, here you were again, standing so close to him, your hands gentle as you worked. He clenched his jaw, his mind racing with memories of you—of your smile, your laugh, the way you’d always found him, no matter the time or place.

But this wasn’t the past. This was 1943, and you didn’t know him. He had to play it cool, keep his distance, even though every instinct in him was screaming to reach out and hold you, to make sure you didn’t slip away again.

“Thanks,” he muttered, trying to keep his voice steady.

You gave him a small nod, satisfied with your work. “Well, you’re still not cleared to leave yet, so you’re not gonna get away from me that easily.” You grabbed a small flashlight from your pocket and leaned in a little closer, shining it into his eyes to check his pupils.

Logan grunted, feeling the warmth of your proximity. It was almost unbearable how familiar you felt, even though you didn’t know him—at least not in this lifetime. His eyes followed your movements, the way you focused on him like he was just another soldier you had to patch up. But to him, you were everything.

“You know,” you started, your voice calm but a little teasing, “you really shouldn’t be throwing yourself into the line of fire like that. Kinda hard for us to patch you up if you don’t have any parts left.”

Logan gave a low chuckle, though his heart wasn’t in it. “I’ll heal,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. His voice was rougher than usual, like the words were struggling to get past the weight of seeing you again, alive and breathing.

You raised an eyebrow at him. “Heal, huh? Well, you’re not invincible, soldier. Trust me, I’ve seen men think they’re untouchable, and they don’t last long in a place like this.”

Logan looked away, trying to focus on anything other than the sound of your voice. He didn’t want to make this harder on himself than it already was. “Guess I’ll just have to be more careful, then.”

You chuckled softly, finishing your check-up and tucking the flashlight back into your pocket. “Yeah, you do that.�� There was a hint of amusement in your tone, but you were still clearly all business. “Now,” you looked at a clipboard in your hands, “James, you have a different name you’d like to go by?”

Logan grunted, his gaze fixed on you. The name ‘James’ felt foreign now, like a remnant of a past he didn't quite belong to anymore. His eyes flickered to the clipboard, then back to your face. The memories of every life you'd lived flashed through his mind, each one ending the same way, with you slipping away from him.

“Logan,” he said, his voice a bit rougher than he intended.

You looked up, scribbling something down. “Logan, huh?” You nodded, writing it down. “Suits you better than James… I think.”

Logan gave a small grunt, a mix of acknowledgment and the emotions he was keeping buried. He couldn’t tell you how much it hurt hearing you say his name, knowing you didn’t remember him at all. Every time he heard your voice, it was like a punch to the gut—a reminder that no matter how many times you came back, he was always starting over, and you… you were always slipping away.

“Glad you approve,” Logan muttered, his eyes drifting away from you. He was trying hard not to stare, trying not to let the overwhelming rush of memories take over. You looked the same, almost exactly as you had the last time—before George pulled that damn trigger.

You didn’t seem to notice the tension radiating from him, too focused on the task at hand. “Well, Logan,” you said, setting the clipboard aside. “You’ll need to stay here for observation, at least for the night. Make sure your body’s handling the recovery properly. We’ve seen some soldiers who think they’re fine, and then—” You made a gesture, mimicking someone fainting, a half-smile tugging at your lips.

Logan’s eyes flicked to the floor, suppressing the mix of emotions threatening to boil over. That small smile—the one you always had, no matter how many lives you lived—was painfully familiar. Each time, the same softness, the same warmth. But this time, it cut deeper because he knew how this would end. You’d be gone. Again.

“You’re real good at this, aren’t ya?” Logan said, his voice low, trying to sound casual despite the weight of everything between you two, or at least, everything he carried alone.

You shrugged, your smile widening just a little. “I’ve had a lot of practice lately. War isn’t exactly kind to anyone.” Your eyes softened for a moment, like you were remembering someone, but you shook it off, standing straighter. “But, yeah. It’s what I do.”

Logan’s jaw tightened as he fought the urge to tell you everything, to scream at the universe for pulling you into his life only to tear you away. But he couldn’t. Not this time. He had to play along, had to act like this was the first time he’d ever met you.

He nodded, letting out a deep breath. “Guess we’re both used to it, then. War and all.”

You glanced at him, curiosity flickering in your eyes. “Yeah?” There was a pause as you sat down on the edge of the bed next to him. “You seem… different from the other soldiers I’ve patched up. Seen a lot, huh?”

Logan leaned back slightly, his hand brushing against the place where the ring still rested in his pocket. He hadn’t taken it out in years. “More than you’d believe.”

There was a quiet moment between you, your gaze lingering on him as if trying to figure him out. “Well,” you said, breaking the silence, “let’s hope you don’t add anything else to that list while you’re here.”

Logan couldn’t help the bitter chuckle that escaped his throat. If only you knew what was on that list already. If only he could tell you how many times he’d seen you die, how many times he’d watched your life slip through his fingers. But instead, he just nodded again.

“I’ll try,” he muttered, though the words felt hollow.

As you stood up, preparing to check on the next patient, you paused, glancing back at him. There was something in your eyes, something almost familiar. But then, you smiled again—kind, unaware of the history Logan held with you—and walked away, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

Logan exhaled slowly, the ache in his chest growing heavier. He had to stay strong, had to keep his distance. But deep down, he knew he was already caught, already tangled in the same painful cycle.

He slipped his hand into his pocket, fingers brushing against the smooth surface of the engagement ring he’d never had the chance to give you.

Maybe this time, he thought. Maybe this time, you’d survive.

But Logan knew better than to hope.

---

You checked in with one of the doctors when Sandra, your friend and fellow nurse, put a hand on your shoulder and turned you to face her.

“Does he have a nice voice?”

You snorted, shaking your head at Sandra. "A nice voice? That’s what you want to ask?”

Sandra grinned, unbothered by your sarcasm. “Well, I saw the way you were looking at him. Thought maybe he had some mysterious, deep, soldier-thing going on.”

Rolling your eyes, you grabbed a clipboard from the nearby desk. “He’s just a patient, Sandra.”

“Uh-huh, sure.” Sandra leaned in, lowering her voice. “You didn’t exactly hurry out of that room.”

You shot her a look. “I was doing my job.”

“Mmhmm,” she hummed, clearly not buying it. “So... does he?”

You sighed, unable to stop a small smile from creeping onto your face. “Yeah, okay. Maybe a little. He’s got that gruff, low thing going on.”

“I knew it!” Sandra nudged your shoulder, her expression smug. “You’re into the mysterious types.”

“Oh, come on,” you muttered, flipping through the papers on your clipboard, though none of it really held your focus. Your mind drifted back to Logan’s face—his eyes, the way he carried himself like the weight of the world rested on his shoulders. There was something about him, something that felt... familiar. But you brushed it off. That wasn’t possible.

“I’m not into anyone,” you said quickly, snapping back to reality. “Especially not a guy I’ve known for like five minutes.”

Sandra raised her hands in surrender, smirking. “Alright, alright. I’ll drop it.” But the teasing gleam in her eyes suggested she wasn’t done with the subject.

You gave her a half-hearted glare before heading off to check on another patient. But as much as you tried to focus, your thoughts kept drifting back to Logan. The way his voice had this gravelly edge to it, how it felt like he was holding something back every time he spoke. And then there was the way he looked at you—like he recognized you, like you were someone important.

But that couldn’t be right.

---

You came to check on Logan later that night before you’d head back to your quarters for some rest. The makeshift hospital was quieter now, just a few murmurs from patients in the distance. Your shift had been long, draining, but something about checking on Logan felt... different.

You pushed the door open, stepping into the dimly lit room. Logan was sitting up on the bed, his expression unreadable as he stared at the floor. His posture was tense, like he was carrying the weight of more than just a few injuries.

“How’re you feeling?” you asked softly, keeping your tone professional despite the strange pull you felt toward him.

Logan looked up at you, his eyes locking onto yours for a moment that seemed to stretch longer than it should. “Better. You know, thanks to you.”

You gave a small smile, stepping closer to the bed. “I’m just doing my job.”

“Yeah,” he muttered, his gaze drifting back to the floor. “Still, you’re good at it.”

There was that same heaviness in his voice, like he was holding back more than just gratitude. You couldn’t put your finger on it, but something about him felt... familiar. It was strange, like you knew him somehow, but you brushed the thought away.

“You should get some rest,” you said, checking the bandage on his side. Your fingertips lingered on the spot where the bloody wound had been earlier, but there was nothing—just smooth skin, as if it had never been there at all. Your brow furrowed, lips parting slightly in disbelief. You’d seen the gash when they’d brought him in, deep and ugly, impossible to heal so quickly.

Logan’s muscles tensed under your touch, and when you glanced at him, his expression was guarded, like he was bracing for something.

"That’s... impossible," you murmured, more to yourself than to him. "It was bad earlier. There should at least be... a scar."

Logan shrugged, trying to act indifferent, but the movement was stiff. "Guess I got lucky."

You pulled your hand back slowly, still frowning. “Lucky doesn’t cover it. I’ve never seen anyone heal like that.” You tilted your head, curiosity edging into your voice. “How?”

His jaw tightened. "It happens."

“That’s not much of an answer.” Your arms crossed over your chest, and the edge in your tone softened just a bit. “You’ve got to admit it’s... weird.”

Logan gave you a look, one that made you feel like he was sizing you up, trying to figure out how much he could say. Or maybe how little. "Weird, yeah," he muttered, voice low. "Not much I can do about it, though."

You knew a deflection when you heard one, but you let it go—for now. You weren’t sure why you felt compelled to trust him, but there was something in his eyes, in the way he spoke, that made it impossible not to.

Sitting down on the edge of his bed, you shook your head with a faint smile. "Well, however it happened, you’re lucky I didn’t call the doctors in to see this miracle." You gave him a teasing look. “You’d be their new favorite science project.”

A ghost of a grin tugged at the corner of Logan’s mouth, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Yeah, I’d rather avoid that."

For a moment, the two of you sat in silence. It should have been awkward, but it wasn’t. There was something strangely easy about being near him, like you’d known each other for years. You glanced at his hands—rough, calloused, like they’d seen more battles than you could imagine—and wondered just how much he’d been through.

"Why do I feel like there’s more to you than you’re letting on?" you asked softly.

Logan’s gaze flicked to yours, something unreadable in his expression. "You ever meet someone and feel like you’ve known ’em before?"

His words struck a nerve, sending a chill down your spine. You swallowed, the strange familiarity between you two suddenly harder to ignore. "Yeah... I guess I have."

Logan nodded, his gaze dropping to his hands. He rubbed his thumb against the curve of his knuckle—a nervous habit, maybe. Or just old memories surfacing.

"You should get some rest," you said quietly, almost reluctantly. It felt wrong to leave, like there was more to say, even if you didn’t know what.

"I’m not good at rest," Logan admitted, voice low.

You gave a soft laugh. "No one is these days."

As you stood up, Logan’s hand moved slightly—just enough that the tips of his fingers brushed yours, barely a touch but enough to make your heart skip. You looked down at him, surprised by how natural it felt, like you’d been standing this close to him a thousand times before.

For a moment, it seemed like Logan might say something—something important. His hand hovered near his pocket, where a small, heavy object pressed against the fabric. But then he stopped himself, his jaw clenching as if he’d changed his mind at the last second.

"Goodnight," you whispered, your voice softer than before.

Logan gave you a short nod, but his eyes followed you as you stepped away, like he was memorizing the moment—like it might slip away from him if he looked away for even a second.

---

The next morning, when you went to check on Logan, he was sitting on the edge of his bed, buttoning up his shirt over his white beater.

“Hey—wait.” You stepped in front of Logan, your hands instinctively finding his forearm as he finished buttoning his shirt. “You’re not cleared to leave yet.”

Logan’s eyes flicked to yours, and for a moment, something passed between you—like the echo of a memory, distant but familiar. He gave you a half-smile, the kind that looked more like a grimace, and kept working on the last button.

“Gotta go,” he muttered. “Don’t do well sittin’ still.”

You crossed your arms, not budging. “Doesn’t mean you get to walk out of here half-healed.”

His gaze darkened, jaw clenching as if biting back words. You could tell he didn’t like being told what to do, but there was something more in his expression—something haunted, buried beneath that tough exterior.

“You think I can’t handle it?” he asked, voice low, gravelly.

“It’s not about what you can handle.” Your eyes softened, a hint of frustration slipping through. “It’s about what’s smart. I’ve patched up enough soldiers to know that leavin’ too soon isn’t.”

Logan’s lips twitched, like he might argue, but then he stilled, studying you with a strange intensity. The weight of his stare made your breath hitch for a second, but you refused to back down.

“Stay,” you insisted. “At least for another day. Let the wound close properly.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, like it was more trouble than it was worth to argue with you. “You always this stubborn?”

A smile tugged at your lips. “Yeah. Part of the charm.”

Logan huffed, a reluctant laugh buried somewhere in the sound. He leaned forward slightly, his knees brushing yours where you stood between his legs. The air felt heavier—charged with something neither of you could quite name.

“Y/N...” The way your name left his mouth was different. Familiar, almost reverent, like he was tasting the sound of it after a long time.

Your heart stuttered in your chest. “What?”

Logan’s hand drifted toward his pocket, hesitating just for a beat. He seemed to think better of it and instead leaned back, propping himself on his palms like he was trying to keep his distance.

“Nothing.” His tone was gruff, evasive, but you knew there was more he wasn’t saying.

You stayed where you were, close enough to feel the warmth of him. “You’re not really going to leave, are you?”

Logan’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Shouldn’t stick around too long.”

“Why not?”

He ran a hand through his dark hair, frustrated. “I just shouldn’t.”

The words hit you harder than you expected, like they carried the weight of something unsaid—something important. But before you could push further, Logan shifted on the bed, brushing past you as if putting space between you would make it easier.

“Look...” His voice softened just slightly, almost apologetic. “You shouldn’t worry about me. I’ve been through worse.”

You tilted your head, watching him carefully. “Maybe. But that doesn’t mean you have to go through this alone.”

Logan’s gaze flicked to yours, and for a moment, the walls he kept up seemed to crack, just a little. He looked at you like you were someone he wanted to hold onto, but couldn’t—like you’d slip through his fingers if he let himself get too close.

You leaned in just a bit, your voice barely above a whisper. “Let me help, Logan.”

The way his name fell from your lips sent a flicker of something through him—something dangerous, vulnerable, like it meant too much. His breath hitched, and for a second, you thought he might tell you whatever he was holding back.

But instead, he gave you a tight smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You already have.”

It felt like the conversation was teetering on the edge of something, but neither of you were ready to tip it over just yet.

“You win,” he muttered finally, his tone rough but resigned. “I’ll stay... one more day.”

You grinned, victorious. “Good. I’ll hold you to that. Maybe I’ll even let ya accompany me to the mess tent for lunch.” You held up a finger, playful but firm. “But only if you’re good.”

Logan gave a soft huff, the closest thing to a laugh you’d gotten out of him all day. “You makin’ the rules now?”

“That’s right,” you said with a smirk. “I am the nurse, after all.”

He shook his head, amused despite himself. “Fair enough.”

You lingered a moment longer than necessary, and Logan didn’t move away. His hand twitched near his knee, like he was thinking about reaching for you. It wasn’t the kind of gesture that strangers made—it felt too familiar, too intimate, like muscle memory.

“See ya at lunch, then,” you murmured, trying to shake off the strange pull toward him.

Logan gave a small nod, but his gaze stayed on you as you turned toward the door. Just as you reached it, you glanced back over your shoulder.

“You better not sneak out while I’m gone,” you teased, though part of you wasn’t sure it was really a joke.

Logan’s lips quirked at the corner, but the look in his eyes was heavy, weighed down with something you couldn’t quite place. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

---

By the time lunch rolled around, you were half-expecting Logan to be gone—off on some stubborn mission to leave the hospital before you could stop him. But when you returned, there he was, sitting up on the bed and rolling the sleeves of his shirt to his forearms.

"Kept my end of the bargain," he said, giving you a crooked grin that was more shadow than smile.

“Guess that means you earned lunch.” You gestured toward the door, and Logan pushed himself off the bed with an ease that didn’t match the severity of the injury he'd arrived with. You gave him a skeptical glance but decided to let it slide—for now.

The two of you walked through the makeshift hospital in comfortable silence. You noticed how other soldiers gave him nods or muttered greetings in passing, even though none of them really knew him. Something about Logan just demanded respect—maybe it was the way he carried himself, or the way his eyes seemed to see right through you.

At the mess tent, you grabbed two metal trays, handing one to him. “Hope you’re not picky. The food’s... not exactly five-star.”

Logan smirked. “I’ve had worse.”

You sat together at a small table, away from the loudest group of soldiers. For a moment, it was almost peaceful, like the war outside didn’t exist. Logan picked at his food absently, and you couldn’t help but study him—how his hands moved, how his jaw clenched like he was always bracing for bad news.

“So... you’ve done this before?” you asked, breaking the quiet. “The soldier thing, I mean.”

Logan glanced at you, something flickering in his expression. “Yeah. A few times.”

A few times. The way he said it made it sound like more than just a couple of tours.

“Must’ve been rough,” you murmured, stirring your soup. “I can’t imagine coming back to it over and over.”

Logan’s gaze lingered on you, and for a second, you felt pinned under the weight of it. Like he knew something you didn’t. “You get used to it,” he muttered, but the sadness in his voice told a different story.

There was a beat of silence, and then you leaned forward slightly, your curiosity getting the better of you. “You ever... think about what you’d do, you know, if you weren’t here? If the war wasn’t happening?”

Logan stared at his tray, his jaw tightening like he was biting back something painful. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Once or twice.”

The way he said it made your chest ache, and before you could stop yourself, you asked, “What would you do?”

Logan’s thumb brushed along the edge of his tray—a nervous habit, like he was weighing whether to tell you the truth. “There’s someone,” he said slowly. “Someone I thought about settlin’ down with... a long time ago.”

You blinked, surprised by the sudden vulnerability in his voice. “What happened?”

Logan looked away, his expression hardening like a door slamming shut. “Didn’t work out.”

It wasn’t the whole story—you could tell that much. But you didn’t push. There was something in the way he said it, like the loss was still raw, even if it had happened years ago.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, unsure why you felt the need to say it.

Logan gave a small shrug, like it didn’t matter. But you knew better. It did matter. It mattered a lot.

---

After lunch, the two of you lingered outside the tent, neither of you in a rush to return to the chaos inside. The sun was warm on your face, a rare moment of peace in a world that had been anything but peaceful lately.

“You’re not what I expected,” you said suddenly, glancing at Logan.

He raised an eyebrow. “What’d you expect?”

You shrugged, smiling. “I don’t know. Maybe someone more... closed off. But you’re not as much of a mystery as you think.”

Logan chuckled, but there was no humor in it. “You’d be surprised.”

You bit your lip, studying him. “You feel... familiar,” you admitted, the words slipping out before you could stop them. “Like we’ve met before.”

Logan went still, his expression unreadable. For a moment, you thought he might brush it off with some sarcastic comment. But instead, he looked at you with that same haunted expression you’d seen earlier—the one that made your chest tighten.

“Maybe we have,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

The words sent a strange chill down your spine. You stared at him, trying to piece together what he meant. But Logan didn’t offer any more answers. He just stood there, watching you like he was waiting for something.

Before you could ask, Sandra’s voice called from the distance, snapping you both out of the moment. “Y/N! Doctor’s looking for you.”

You sighed, giving Logan a small, reluctant smile. “Duty calls.”

Logan nodded, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Yeah. Better get to it.”

You hesitated for just a second longer, something inside you screaming that there was more to this—more to him. But instead, you gave him one last smile before turning away.

---

When Logan was alone again, he pulled the ring from his pocket, turning it over in his fingers. The weight of it was familiar, comforting in a way that only hurt more now.

He’d carried it through battles, through lifetimes, always hoping—maybe this time. But hope had a way of slipping through his fingers, just like you always did.

Logan clenched the ring in his fist, his jaw tightening. He knew better than to hope. He always did. But still... here you were.

For now, at least.

---

The next day you begrudgingly cleared Logan and showed him to where he would be staying before he got called away for another fight. It was a small quarters, shared with some of the other guys, but it was better than the hospital bed.

You should know. Sometimes you’ve taken power naps on those beds—when the hospital got too busy or you needed a break but couldn’t leave. They were uncomfortable as hell, but after long hours, you didn’t have much choice.

Logan tossed his bag on the bunk, eyeing the cramped quarters. It wasn’t much—just a room with a few cots and a flimsy curtain dividing it from the rest of the barracks—but he didn’t seem to care.

“You’ll be all right here,” you said, crossing your arms and leaning against the doorframe.

Logan smirked, glancing at the bed like it was just another obstacle in his way. “I’ve had worse.”

You gave him a sideways glance, shaking your head slightly. “Yeah, I’m starting to see a pattern with you.”

He chuckled, low and gravelly, the sound doing strange things to your heart. His presence was so... solid. Like he’d been through hell and back, yet here he was, standing in front of you like nothing could break him.

“Well, don’t get too comfortable,” you added with a smirk. “There’s always a chance you’ll end up back in the infirmary if you’re not careful.”

Logan raised an eyebrow, leaning back against the wall, his arms crossing over his chest in a way that made the muscles in his forearms flex under his rolled-up sleeves. “You worried about me, nurse?”

“Maybe I am,” you teased, keeping it light even though part of you was serious. “I don’t want to have to stitch you back up.”

He laughed again, softer this time, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than just casual. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll heal.”

The words hung between you, something unspoken settling in. There was always something deeper with Logan, like the surface of his words barely scratched at the things he carried underneath.

Before you could respond, a couple of soldiers passed by, giving Logan nods of acknowledgment as they went. You noticed the way they looked at him, like he was someone who’d earned their respect without even trying.

Logan pushed off the wall, moving past you toward the door. “Thanks for the room,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “But I could use a drink.”

You laughed. “Well, good luck with that. This isn’t exactly the Ritz.”

He stopped just outside the door, turning back to you. His eyes were sharp, but there was something softer underneath. “You wanna join me?”

You paused, surprised by the offer. “Are you askin’ me out, Logan?”

His lips twitched into a half-smile. “Just tryin’ to be friendly.”

You let out a small huff of laughter, shaking your head as you grabbed your cap and followed him. “Fine. But if you’re looking for whiskey, you’re gonna be disappointed.”

The two of you walked in comfortable silence for a while, the sound of your boots crunching on the gravel road filling the air. The base had quieted down a bit as the sun dipped lower, the day easing into a calm that didn’t come often in a warzone.

As you walked, you couldn’t help but sneak a glance at Logan from time to time, trying to figure him out. He was so... different. From anyone you’d met. From any soldier you’d treated. And yet, he felt so familiar.

You found a small spot near one of the mess tents where a few crates had been stacked up like makeshift seats. Logan grabbed a canteen from his jacket, unscrewing the cap before taking a long drink. You raised an eyebrow at him.

“That better be water,” you joked, taking a seat beside him.

Logan handed you the canteen, smirking. “Try it and find out.”

You took a cautious sip, then immediately coughed, the burn of the alcohol catching you off guard. “God—what is this?”

“Something I picked up,” Logan said, eyes gleaming with amusement as you wiped your mouth. “Figured it’d help take the edge off.”

You gave him a playful glare, handing the canteen back. “Next time, a little warning, maybe?”

Logan shrugged, grinning. “Where’s the fun in that?”

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself. “You’re trouble, Logan.”

He chuckled, leaning back against the crate. “Been called worse.”

The two of you sat there in comfortable silence for a few moments, passing the canteen back and forth. The alcohol burned, but it wasn’t the worst thing you’d ever tasted—not by a long shot. And it did what Logan said it would—it took the edge off.

You studied him for a moment, the way he seemed to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, even when he was sitting still. “You feel familiar,” you said quietly, your voice almost drowned out by the soft sounds of the base around you. “Like we’ve met before.”

Logan’s expression shifted—just for a second. His jaw tightened, his gaze flickering away from you and toward the horizon. “Maybe we have,” he murmured, his voice so low you almost didn’t catch it.

The words sent a strange, unexplainable shiver down your spine. You opened your mouth to ask him what he meant, but before you could, he stood up, stretching his arms over his head like he was shaking something off.

“C’mon,” he said, his voice lighter now, almost like he was forcing it. “You ready to head back?”

You blinked, still caught in the haze of the moment. But you nodded, standing up and brushing the dirt from your uniform. “Yeah, I guess so.”

The two of you walked back toward the barracks in silence, the air between you feeling heavier now. Something had shifted—something you couldn’t quite put your finger on. But you knew it wasn’t nothing.

When you reached the barracks, Logan stopped at the door, turning to look at you with an intensity that made your heart skip a beat.

“Y/N,” he started, his voice rougher than usual, like he was wrestling with something inside him. “If... if things ever get bad, you find me. Got it?”

You frowned, surprised by the seriousness in his tone. “Logan, what—”

“I’m serious,” he interrupted, his hazel eyes locking onto yours. “You find me. No matter what.”

You swallowed, nodding slowly. “Okay. I will.”

He held your gaze for a second longer, then nodded, like he was satisfied with your answer. “Good.”

Without another word, Logan turned and headed inside, leaving you standing there, the weight of his words settling over you like a heavy blanket.

What did he mean? Why did he look at you like he knew something you didn’t?

You lingered there for a moment before finally heading to your own quarters. But even as you lay in bed that night, staring up at the ceiling, Logan’s words echoed in your mind.

You find me. No matter what.

---

The next few days were a strange mix of routine and tension. Logan stayed around the base, mostly keeping to himself, but you found yourself crossing paths with him more often than you expected. Every time, there was that same intensity in his gaze, like he was watching you, waiting for something.

It wasn’t uncomfortable, exactly. But it did make your chest tighten every time you saw him.

One evening, as the sun began to set, you found yourself wandering toward the edge of the base, needing a moment to clear your head. The war, the patients, the constant pressure—it was all getting to you. And Logan... well, Logan wasn’t making things any easier.

You were so lost in your thoughts that you didn’t notice him until he spoke.

“Need some company?”

You jumped slightly, turning to find Logan leaning against a tree, arms crossed over his chest, a small smirk tugging at his lips.

“Jeez, you scared me,” you said, placing a hand over your heart.

“Didn’t mean to sneak up on you,” he said, pushing off the tree and walking over to stand beside you. “You looked like you could use some company.”

You sighed, glancing out at the fading sun. “Yeah, I guess I could.”

Logan didn’t say anything for a moment, just stood there beside you, his presence solid and reassuring. After a few beats of silence, he spoke.

“You doin’ all right?” he asked, his voice softer than usual.

You shrugged, trying to brush it off. “It’s just... a lot sometimes, you know?”

Logan nodded, his eyes never leaving your face. “Yeah. I get it.”

There was something in the way he said it—something that made you believe he really did get it. Like he knew exactly what it felt like to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders.

“Thanks for asking,” you said quietly, your gaze still focused on the horizon.

Logan was quiet for a long moment before he spoke again. “I meant what I said before,” he murmured. “You ever need anything... you come find me.”

You turned to look at him, the seriousness in his voice catching you off guard. “Logan... why are you doin’ this? Why are you looking out for me?”

Logan’s jaw tightened, and for a second, you thought he wasn’t going to answer. But then he spoke, his voice low and rough. “Because... you’re important. More than you know.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. Important? How? Why?

Before you could ask, Logan stepped closer, his eyes locked onto yours. “Just promise me,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Promise me you’ll come find me if you need to.”

You nodded, your heart pounding in your chest. “I promise.”

Logan held your gaze for a moment longer, then nodded, satisfied. Without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving you standing there, your head spinning with questions.

You’re important. More than you know.

What did that mean? Why did Logan feel so... familiar?

As the sun dipped below the horizon, you stood there, your mind racing. Logan had secrets—secrets you weren’t sure you were ready to uncover. But one thing was clear: whatever was between the two of you, it wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

---

On another day, you spotted Logan on the outskirts of base, sitting against a truck’s wheel with a notebook in hand.

He looked almost peaceful, maybe the most peaceful you’d ever seen him since he got here. Judging by the way he was moving his pencil, you assumed he was drawing something. You hesitated, not wanting to disturb him, but your curiosity got the better of you.

"Didn’t peg you for an artist," you said, walking over and leaning against the truck beside him.

Logan didn’t look up right away, just kept sketching, but there was a small smirk on his lips. "You learn a lot when you’ve got time," he muttered.

You glanced at the notebook, catching glimpses of rough lines and shadows. “What’re you drawing?”

He paused, almost like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to show you, then turned the notebook just enough for you to see. It was a sketch of the base—a surprisingly detailed one, with the buildings and surrounding trees, even some of the soldiers milling about.

“Not bad,” you said, genuinely impressed. “Didn’t know you had this in you.”

Logan shrugged, as if it was no big deal. “Like I said, a lot of time.” He looked at you then, and for a brief moment, there was something more behind his eyes, something deeper. “Keeps me grounded.”

You studied him, wondering what that really meant. Logan had always been a bit of a mystery, but there were moments—like now—where it felt like there was so much more to him than he let on.

“You ever thought about doing something with it? You know, beyond just sketches?” you asked, half teasing, half curious.

Logan let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “I’m not the ‘show-off my art’ type. It’s just... for me.” He glanced back at the drawing, his expression softening in a way you didn’t often see. “Helps me forget.”

You nodded, feeling a tug at your chest. “Forget what?”

For a moment, he didn’t answer. Then he said, “Everything.”

The weight in his voice told you there was more to that statement—more than you could guess. You’d learned over the past few days that Logan was carrying his own kind of burden, just like you were. And yet, somehow, it felt like his was so much heavier.

“Must be a lot to forget,” you said softly.

Logan’s gaze flicked up to meet yours, and for a second, you thought he might actually open up. But instead, he just gave a noncommittal grunt and went back to his sketching.

You watched him for a while, feeling the comfortable silence settle between you. It was odd, but Logan’s presence had become... something you looked forward to. Even with all the unspoken tension, being around him made things feel a little less overwhelming.

“I never thanked you,” you said after a while, breaking the quiet. “For, you know... looking out for me.”

Logan’s pencil paused again, and he glanced up. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“I do,” you insisted, your eyes meeting his. “You didn’t have to. But you did.”

Logan shifted, looking slightly uncomfortable with the gratitude, but his eyes softened. “I told you. You’re important.”

That word again—important. You wanted to ask him why, wanted to press him on what he really meant by that, but something in his expression told you he wasn’t ready to answer. Not yet.

“Just… stay outta trouble,” Logan said, his voice dropping into something rougher, more serious. “I’d rather not have to pull you out of any more messes.”

You smiled, trying to keep things light. “I’ll do my best. But, you know, being a nurse in the middle of a war, trouble kinda finds me.”

Logan let out a soft huff of a laugh, though there wasn’t much humor in it. “Yeah, I guess it does.”

The sky was growing darker now, the last traces of sunlight fading. You knew you should probably head back to the barracks soon, but something kept you rooted to the spot, standing beside him. The air between you felt charged, like there was something unspoken hanging there, waiting to be acknowledged.

“Logan,” you began, your voice quiet but steady. “Why does it feel like you’ve been watching me? Not just looking out for me, but... like you’ve known me.”

Logan’s jaw tightened. His eyes shifted, as if he was deciding whether to answer that. You could feel your heart thudding in your chest, waiting for his response.

“I haven’t,” he said finally, though his voice lacked conviction. “Not in the way you’re thinking.”

The way he said it made you frown. “What does that mean?”

Logan’s gaze held yours, intense and searching. There was a flicker of something there—regret? Pain? Before you could figure it out, he looked away, his fingers tightening around the edges of the notebook.

“It means… I don’t want you to get hurt,” he said, his voice low, almost a growl. “Not again.”

Again. There it was—a crack in the wall he’d built around himself. But before you could push him on it, Logan stood abruptly, tucking the notebook under his arm.

“You should get some rest,” he muttered, not meeting your eyes. “Long day tomorrow.”

You blinked, caught off guard by his sudden shift. “Logan—”

But he was already walking away, his back stiff and his pace quick. You watched him go, your mind spinning with more questions than answers. Something was going on with Logan—something bigger than you’d realized.

And you had a feeling you weren’t going to let it go until you found out the truth.

---

The next morning you found out that Logan had already gone on some mission to Sicily. You weren’t sure why you felt sad, maybe a bit betrayed that he left without saying goodbye, but you did.

You had only known him for a few days, but somehow it seemed longer.

You couldn’t just stand around and dwell on Logan leaving without a goodbye. There was work to do. You made your way to the medical tent where a doctor had been prepping for a surgery. As you stepped inside, the familiar scent of antiseptic hit your nose, grounding you in the moment.

"Y/N, glad you’re here. We’ve got a soldier with a bullet wound to the abdomen," the doctor said, his tone brisk. "I need your hands steady and sharp today."

You nodded, pushing thoughts of Logan to the back of your mind. "Got it, Doctor."

The surgery went on for hours, the steady rhythm of your breathing matching the precise movements of your hands as you assisted. It was intense, but you had no time to be distracted. Life and death were real here, and your job was to fight for life.

When the surgery was finally over, the soldier stabilized, you stepped outside the tent to catch your breath. The sky was still overcast, and the damp air felt heavy. You leaned against a wooden post, your hands shaking slightly from the adrenaline.

Logan was gone, but the memory of him lingered. You couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d left something unsaid. There had been too many moments—too many heavy, unspoken words between you. You tried to brush it off. It had only been a few days since you’d met him, after all. But somehow, it felt like more.

"Y/N."

You looked up to see one of the other nurses approaching. "Yeah?"

"You’ve been requested to assist with another unit. They’re setting up a temporary hospital closer to the front lines. It’ll be rough, but they need experienced hands."

You hesitated. The front lines meant more danger, more chaos. But the soldier in you—the part that was here to help, to make a difference—knew you couldn’t say no.

"When do I leave?" you asked, straightening up.

"Tomorrow morning, first light."

You nodded, giving a small smile. "Thanks for the heads-up."

That night, you tried to sleep, but your mind kept wandering back to Logan. To his last words before he’d left—"I don’t want you to get hurt. Not again." What had he meant by ‘again’? It kept echoing in your mind, nagging at you.

---

The next morning came quickly, and before you knew it, you were being packed into a truck heading closer to the front lines. The landscape passed by in a blur, and the closer you got to the new camp, the louder the sounds of war became. Shells exploded in the distance, and the ground seemed to vibrate with tension.

You spent the next few days in a haze of blood, bandages, and exhaustion. There was barely any time to think, let alone dwell on Logan. But still, every once in a while, your thoughts drifted to him—wondering where he was, what he was doing. If he was safe.

It was late one night, a few days into your new assignment, when the unexpected happened. The sirens had started to blare, lights flashing around camp. That could only mean one thing- you were under attack. And judging by the loud engines overhead, none of you were going to make it out alive.

---

Logan had gone with other soldiers to Sicily for Operation Husky. He didn’t want to leave you, but part of him thought, hoped, that maybe he was your bad luck charm.

Logan stared at the coastline of Sicily, but his mind was elsewhere. The mission was straightforward—get in, clear the path for the troops, and secure the area. But no matter how focused he tried to stay, thoughts of you kept creeping back in. He wondered if you were safe. He hoped, for your sake, that you weren’t thinking about him as much as he was thinking about you.

It was torture, being away. But deep down, Logan believed it was better this way. Maybe him being around was what doomed you every time. You had died three times before, and each time, he had been there. Maybe this time, distance would keep you safe.

But that didn’t stop him from wanting you. The thought of your smile, your laughter, the way you challenged him—it made him ache with something deeper than just desire. It was like an old wound that never healed, no matter how fast the rest of him did.

One of the soldiers called his name, pulling him from his thoughts. “Logan, you with us, man?”

He grunted in response, nodding toward the others. “Yeah, I’m here.”

“Good,” the guy said. “We’re heading out.”

Logan followed, but his thoughts drifted again, back to you. He had promised himself he wouldn’t get attached this time. But it was too late for that. He’d been attached since 1854, since that first smile, that first laugh.

---

It was a few days before Logan made it back to base, one closer to the frontlines. The mission had gone as planned, but something gnawed at him, an uneasy feeling he couldn’t shake.

As soon as the base came into view, Logan noticed something was off. Smoke still lingered in the air, and there were fewer people around than there should’ve been. His gut twisted. Something had happened while he was gone.

He found one of the soldiers he recognized, grabbing him by the arm. “What happened here?”

The guy’s face darkened. “We were hit. Bombing raid. Caught us off guard. There... there weren’t many survivors.”

Logan’s heart dropped. “Where’s the hospital unit?”

The soldier hesitated, eyes flicking away from Logan’s intense gaze. “It was one of the first targets. No one made it out.”

Logan felt like the ground had dropped from under him. “What do you mean, no one?” His voice was a low growl, almost dangerous.

The soldier shook his head. “I’m sorry, man. They didn’t stand a chance.”

Logan’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. The world around him blurred as the words sank in. You were gone. Again.

Without saying another word, Logan turned and walked toward what was left of the hospital tent. He had to see it for himself, even though part of him knew it was true. There was nothing left but rubble and debris.

His chest tightened, the weight of it crushing. You were gone. And he hadn’t been there to stop it. Again.

Logan stood there for what felt like hours, staring at the wreckage. He felt that familiar, burning anger rising inside him, but it was mixed with something else this time—grief. Deep, raw grief. He wanted to scream, to punch something, anything, but all he could do was stand there, numb.

He reached into his pocket, fingers brushing against the small velvet box he always carried with him. The engagement ring. The one he had never used.

It had been almost ninety years since he bought it. And still, he carried it, hoping one day he might finally be able to give it to you. But every time, every life, you slipped through his fingers.

Logan swallowed hard, his throat tight. He wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take. How many more times he could lose you.

“Dammit,” he muttered under his breath, his voice rough with emotion.

He had thought putting distance between you two would protect you. But it didn’t matter. You were gone, just like the other times.

And now, once again, he was left with nothing but memories and that damned ring.

in this chapter logan is 111 years old and reader is around 24-27 years old.

#logan howlett x reader #logan howlett x you #wolverine x reader #wolverine x you #james howlett x reader #james howlett x you #logan howlett #logan howlett fanfiction #logan howlett x fem!reader #logan howlett fic #i love you in every time

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buckys-arm-and-rios-dagger · 2 days ago

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Thinking about giving Bucky a bath for the first time after he gets away from HYDRA.

You and him escaped after the Potomac fight, he'd come back only to free you from HYDRA. He knew that you had never wanted to be in their clutches. You were the only one in that had showed him any kindness in his decades of imprisonment, he couldn't just leave you behind. Now the two of you sat in what was once HYDRA safehouse, trying to figure out your next move. He sat on the opposite side of the couch from you, his knees pulled against his chest. You watched him, unsure what to do. In all the time you two had been imprisoned together you'd never seen him like this. He looked scared, confused...vulnerable.

You debated reaching out to touch his hand, but decided against it. He was like a wounded animal in this state, and the last thing you wanted to do was something that would spook him and break the fragile trust he'd placed in you for all these years. So, you simply moved closer to his side, just trying to remind him that he wasnt going through this alone. You looked him over from your spot. He was still wearing his tac suit, covered in a layer of grime and blood and dirt and smelling of river water, mixing with smoke and sweat. You saw your in. This was a former HYDRA safehouse, set up for agents to stay here for who knew how many days. Surely there had to be some clothes in the bedroom, and some soap in the bathroom?

His body went tense for a moment, but he shook his head. He didn't know how to explain to you that the idea of standing under a spray of water reminded him too much of being stripped and hosed off after missions. He could almost hear the icy water slamming into his naked body.

"Soldat," you gently called him by the only thing close to a name that you had for him. The man startled, but his eyes met yours, "why don't you go grab a shower? I can't imagine sitting around in that wet leather suit is very comfortable."

"N-no," he stammered, "I... I don't want to do that."

He thought for a moment. A bath sounded... Nice. Safe.

"Okay," you spoke to him gently, as though trying to comfort a scared injured dog, "what about a bath? Would that be better?"

"Yes. Okay."

You nodded and stood, motioning for him to follow.

"Bucky."

"Come on Soldat."

You cocked your head.

"Uh, the...the man on the bridge," he explained, "he said my name was Bucky."

"Sorry?"

The man, Bucky, grunted in response and followed behind you like a lost puppy. You lead him into the bathroom. You checked the shower/tub combination, and were relieved to find a bar of soap and a hotel sized bottle of shampoo sitting on a small shell. You closed the toilet lid, motioning for him to sit, and he complied. Bucky said nothing as the tub filled up, just simply sat and watched the water rise through vacant eyes. Once it was full, you got up and turned to leave.

"Well, it's nice to finally have a name for you other than 'Soldat'," You gave him a gentle smile, "its nice to meet you, Bucky."

"Alright, Bucky," you gave him a reassuring smile, "you get undressed and clean up. While you're doing that I'll go find some clothes-"

You were taken aback. This man, Bucky, who had endured so much pain and abuse, was now entrusting you to see him in such a sensitive state. To wash him, to take care of him. You nodded shyly.

"Wait." He looked up at you with pleading eyes, "will...will you help me?"

You turned around to give Bucky some privacy while he undressed, and when he said he was ready you turned to see him sat in the bath, looking up at you with nervous eyes. You'd managed to find a wash cloth, and knelt by his side.

"Of course."

He leaned forward, allowing you full access. You began to carefully scrub the grime from his body, asking for consent before moving onto another body part. Bucky leaned into your touch, closing his eyes as you cleaned him, a small display of trust that made your chest ache. Once he was fully lathered, you went to grab the shower head and his eyes shot back open, his metal hand grabbing your wrist. Not harshly, not to cause you pain, just enough to grab your attention.

"Can I start washing your body?" Bucky hesitated, but eventually nodded, "okay. I'm going to start with your back."

"I..." You thought for a moment, "okay. Hang on, Bucky. Let me see what I can find."

"N-no," Bucky murmured, "please. Not that."

You managed to find a cup in the kitchen, and held it up as you returned.

Once his body was free from bubbles, you grab the small shampoo bottle and smile.

"is this okay?" You asked. He nodded. You resumed your spot on the side of the tub and began to dunk the cup in the water and pour it into his skin, removing the bubbles. Bucky was shocked at your behavior. You didn't push his boundaries, you didn't yell at him for expressing he didn't want something. You simply found a new way that made him feel comfortable, even when it would take longer. Comfort and safety were things he had been denied for so long that he didn't believe they were even things he was capable of feeling, or receiving. And yet, here you were, being so careful and looking at him with eyes full of an emotion he had trouble placing. It was like he was something precious, something worthy of loving, and it filled him with so much longing it was almost painful.

He did as instructed, and you began dousing his brunette locks with cupfulls of water. Bucky hummed at the feeling of water slowly tracing its way down his locks and onto his back, and you repeated the step over and over until it was sufficiently wet. You grabbed the small bottle and squeezed a small glob into your hand, reminding him of your intentions before reaching up to start shampooing him. Bucky closed his eyes and hummed involuntarily as you worked. You took your time massaging soap into his roots, reveling in the fact you could make him feel so good. After rinsing the suds from his hair you repeated the steps over and over until it was free from grime. You smiled a bit at the little whimper he let out as your hands pulled away from his head.

"I'm going to wash your hair now, is that alright?" He nodded and you grabbed the cup, "alright Bucky. Keep your head back, I'm gonna wet your hair."

"Why don't you go lay down in the bedroom?" You ask when he's finished, "you must be exhausted after the day you've had."

"You stay here and relax, I'm going to grab some clothes for you." Bucky nodded, and you went into the small bedroom. You didn't have many options, but you managed to find a dark red t shirt and black sweatpants that look like they'll fit, and bring them into him alongside a towel. When you returned, you left them on the counter and turned around to give him time to dry off and dress.

Bucky's eyes found the ground as he fiddled with the hem of his shirt.

You cocked your head.

"Would, uh... Would you...," his cheeks were turning a light shade of pink, "will you, uh... Will you stay with me?"

You hesitated a moment, but nodded.

"I just," he finally forced himself to look you in the eyes, "I don't want to be alone."

"Let me shower and I will," you gave him a soft smile. He nodded, and left you to it. You rushed through the shower as quickly as you could and dressed in the too-big T-shirt and sweats you had grabbed for yourself before joining Bucky in the room. He was sitting on the bed, once again with his knees to his chest, his back leaning against the headboard. You pulled the sheets back and helped him lay down. Bucky sighed as you pulled the covers over his shoulders and sat by his side.

"Of course I am," you couldn't stop yourself from reaching out and gently tucking a strand of hair behind his ear, "I'll sit here with you for as long as you want."

"You're going to stay, right?" He asked. You nodded.

Bucky chewed his lip for a moment.

"Do you want to lay down?" He asked, lifting the covers. He had no idea when the last time he'd invited someone to sleep in his bed with him, but it had to have been a while. It scared him, but the warm look on your face gave him confidence.

"I'd like that," you told him, and settled down by his side. The two of you laid on your backs in silence for a long moment.

You smiled and nodded. Bucky wrapped his arms around you from behind and pulled you close to his chest. He buried his face in your neck, and you reached up to stroke his hair.

"Can I," you turn to look at him, "can I hold onto you?"

"You should rest," you whispered.

"You'll be here when I wake up?" He asked.

"Of course."

Bucky slowly drifted off with you in his embrace, soothed by the feeling of your hand in his hair. Tomorrow, the two of you will figure out your next move, where you plan to go now that you're fugitives. But for tonight, you were content to lay here, tangled up in his arms as he slept peacefully for what was probably the first time in decades.

Anyways, I love this sweet baby boy 💕💕

#bucky barnes #james bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes headcanon #bucky barnes drabble #buckybarnes

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yumeka-sxf · 3 days ago

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2-year anniversary post

My blog is now 2-years old~!

After my last anniversary post, I had quite a list of projects planned; in addition to making posts for all the upcoming SxF content, like the movie, season 2, and the video game, I had other personal projects in mind as well. I wanted to start on my Japanese Linguistic Observations in Spy x Family series, which I was able to write five posts for as of now! (I've currently exhausted all the topics I wanted to discuss for that, but I may come up with more ideas later on). There was also the Spy x Family Character Tracker, which took me a while to get motivated to do, but once I did, I'm proud of how it turned out 😃 I also made a lot of scan posts this year too, like the workbooks and my series of miscellaneous collab scans.

But compared to my last anniversary, which was at a time when there was a lot of new SxF content on the horizon, we've been in a bit of a dry spell the past several months. Hype for the aforementioned movie, game, and anime season have died down, and merch and collabs have slowed as well, since there hasn't been new anime content to promote. But I consider it the calm before the storm, lol.

This is also why my posts have gotten a little less frequent lately - there hasn't been as much new SxF content in general besides the manga chapters, and as mentioned previously, I was able to check off the projects I had wanted to do. So as of now, I don't have much new content planned in the coming year besides continuing my Chronological Analysis on Twilight and Yor series when season 3 airs (still no release date yet, but I'm betting on spring of 2025). I'll also make posts for each anime episode like I did with season 2. And of course, I'll continue my manga chapter reviews, and make merch and scan posts when I can.

I've always tried to maintain a "quality over quantity," "only write when I have something to say," mentality for the blog. I don't want to force myself to write when I'm not motivated (this is also why I don't take part in community writing projects and the like). I also have other hobbies besides SxF, so I like to focus my limited free time on those when there isn't much going on in the SxF fandom. Occasionally I think to myself, "Hm, I haven't posted on Tumblr in a while," but if there isn't anything I feel like writing about at the time, it's better if I hold off rather than force myself to churn out something uninspiring.

But as I said, I feel like we're in a calm before the storm. Season 3 will already be exciting enough, but there's a good chance more content will follow. The next Jump Festa is scheduled for late December, and as usual, SxF will have a dedicated panel with the four Forger voice actors in attendance!

The movie and season 2 were announced at this event in 2022, so there's a good chance we'll get more juicy announcements this year! Even if not another movie, I'd be happy with more artbooks, collabs, and other things down the line! There's also a good chance an idea for another SxF project will inspire me and I'll start working on that. Who knows. But I do know SxF is still a popular series with many more years of content to produce! And I look forward to seeing, and blogging about, it all 😁

#spy x family #sxf #spy family #spyxfamily #sxf manga #sxf anime

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darkoies · 22 hours ago

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— bot release

art donaldson — late night call

art is heartbroken after a fight with tashi leads to their breakup, leaving him feeling heartbroken and alone. unable to process his emotions, he ends up in the middle of nowhere, calling for your comfort.

chris sturniolo — long distance

after years of talking with chris online, never seeing face to face, you finally found time to meet, and now you’re making your way through the airport, excited to finally see him in person.

jonathan byers — the smiths

the quiet guy from your class works up the courage to talk to you after years of secretly crushing on you. you’ve only exchanged small talk before, but somethings different this time. it’s a simple, charming moment in the familiar setting of the hawkins record store.

matt sturniolo — sick day

your boyfriend, matt, is sick again and lying on the couch with an ice pack on his head, looking for comfort. you’ve seen this many times before, never failing to care for him, giving him your undivided attention, even now after so many years together.

rahh stranger things and sturniolo bots! definitely going to make more sturniolo bots btw i love them,, hopefully u guys enjoy these, i know most of my cai followers r there for mainly challengers so i made this art bot last minute to fee u guys a little something 😓 if u have any reqs for bots pls leave them in my asks!! next release will most definitely be a christmas release so pls look forward to that ^_^ i hope u have a good day thank u for reading!

#darkoies bots #c.ai creator #art donaldson #art donaldson x reader #art donaldson bot #challengers #chris sturniolo #chris sturniolo x reader #chris sturniolo bot #sturniolo triplets #jonathan byers #jonathan byers x reader #jonathan byers bot #stranger things #matt sturniolo #matt sturniolo x reader #matt sturniolo bot #ngl there is a bot hidden in the little emoticon face bc i was scared of releasing it bc idk how many people fw dinner in america so…

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winxanity-ii · 24 hours ago

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⌜Godly Things | Chapter 08 Chapter 08 | unexpected arrival⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

The courtyard was serene as you sat, a soft breeze whispering through the olive trees, their branches swaying gently above.

The sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dappled patterns on the ground, and you found yourself absentmindedly playing the aulos, the dual pipes releasing a lilting melody that carried no particular tune—just notes flowing out of habit.

Your fingers moved automatically, pressing down on the holes with familiarity, though your thoughts were distant, elsewhere.

After a while, the tune drifted to a stop, leaving nothing but the rustle of leaves swaying in the breeze.

You sighed, setting the instrument aside, the hollow reeds settling on the grass beside you.

Slowly, you slouched forward, feeling the tiredness settle in your bones, and then leaned backwards until you were flat onto the soft grass, staring up at the cloudless sky above.

Closing your eyes as you exhaled deeply, trying to enjoy the calmness, but it felt impossible.

There was a lingering tension in the air—an unease that wouldn't leave your chest.

You lay there, staring up at the sky as your thoughts twisted and turned, weighed down by an uneasy sense of dread that no amount of sunshine could dispel.

It was overwhelming—how a moment of peace could feel so fragile, so precarious. Like a thin layer of ice over deep water, one wrong step and everything could shatter.

The warmth, the promise of rest, the brief hope—all of it felt so easily snatched away.

The night of the feast had felt like a dream—a moment where everything was finally right again.

It was filled with laughter and joy, music and dance. The food had been plentiful, the wine had flowed freely, and the smiles on everyone's faces had been genuine.

You could almost still hear the joyful cheers and clinking of cups, the echo of Penelope's gentle laughter, Telemachus' proud grin, and the way Odysseus' eyes glistened as he looked around the room—at everything he'd fought so hard to reclaim.

But the memory was tainted now, overshadowed by what had come next.

You remembered the feast—it had begun beautifully, like a scene straight out of one of your stories.

After the preparations were completed, the palace's great hall was filled with warmth and celebration.

It was not a large gathering—the losses and betrayals were still fresh—but those who were there made up for it with their energy.

Servants, soldiers, and the family sat together, sharing laughter and cheer.

The hall was alive with movement—dancing, smiling faces, and a lightheartedness that Ithaca hadn't known in years.

You'd even joined the musicians, playing your sistrum along with a few other musically inclined servants; the metal rattle emitted a soft, rhythmic jingle—a instrument that required no real effort so that you could lose yourself in the melody.

The sound of clapping, the stamping of feet, and the happy, vibrant music had filled every corner of the room. People spun and danced in circles, moving to the rhythm you all created.

Together, your music swirled around the dancers, the tambourine-like rattles and melodic hums weaving through the revelry.

The flames of the torches flickered in the evening air, casting golden light that made the whole room seem to glow.

It felt endless—pure joy, pure release after so many dark times.

You could still remember the moment Odysseus stood, raising his cup high, his voice strong and filled with hope as he spoke. "May Ithaca prosper in peace," he had declared, his gaze sweeping across the room, his eyes filled with determination, warmth, and promise.

And just as his words settled in the air, the doors to the dining hall had burst open.

A sudden, harsh noise in the midst of the festivities. The music stopped abruptly, and heads turned.

The messenger had stumbled in—a young man—panting, his face flushed and slick with sweat, his clothes dusty from the road. He had looked utterly spent, as though he had run the entire way to the palace without stopping.

His eyes were wide with urgency, and he clutched a bulging satchel at his side, as if it contained something too important to leave behind.

Odysseus' expression shifted in an instant, his eyes narrowing as he watched the man struggle to catch his breath. The king's jaw tightened, and he slowly set his cup down, his eyes fixed on the newcomer as silence blanketed the hall.

The crowd, once cheerful and carefree, now stood in an anxious stillness.

The messenger's steps were unsteady as he made his way toward the head table, each movement deliberate, as though he fought against exhaustion with every step.

Upon reaching the dais, he bowed deeply, his eyes lowered, his hand shaking slightly as he held out a rolled parchment.

Odysseus gave a curt nod, his expression unreadable as he signaled to a nearby soldier to retrieve it.

The soldier stepped forward, accepting the parchment with a solemn expression before handing it to the king.

As Odysseus unfurled the scroll, his eyes narrowed as they swept over the words written there.

His gaze darkened, and the tension in the room seemed to thicken, the cheerful atmosphere turning sour in an instant as everyone waited.

The messenger, still catching his breath, spoke up, his voice cracking slightly from exhaustion. "My king..." he began, his tone urgent, but loud enough to be heard throughout the hall. "...there are several... angry families of the suitors. They are furious, demanding retribution for their fallen kin. They intend to seek revenge." He swallowed hard, his face pale, the fear evident in his eyes.

As he spoke, he opened his bulging satchel, fumbling slightly as he pulled out another scroll—then another, the weight of them causing several to slip from his grasp and clatter onto the floor, parchment rolling across the polished stone.

It seemed that he had carried news from several households.

Odysseus' face was like stone, his eyes cold and calculating as he listened. He said nothing for a long moment, his gaze shifting to the fallen scrolls before he returned his attention to the parchment in his hands.

He then set the parchment down, his gaze sweeping over the people gathered, the warmth and openness from earlier now replaced with caution and calculation.

He stood silently for a long moment, his face hard as stone, before he spoke, his voice calm but commanding. "The feast is over," he declared, each word carrying weight, leaving no room for argument.

That night, the celebration was over before it had truly begun. People left quietly, their faces lined with worry.

The joyful cheer that had filled the hall just hours before was gone, replaced with the cold reality of what lay ahead.

Once again, Ithaca stood on the brink of chaos.

The thought of it gnawed at you as you lay in the grass, the sun warming your skin.

What would happen now? How would King Odysseus handle the families seeking vengeance? Would there be more bloodshed? The questions swirled endlessly, each one tugging at your mind until you could hardly stand it.

You inhaled deeply, the scent of blooming flowers filling your senses—a mix of thyme and lavender that usually soothed you but felt strangely fleeting today.

You opened your eyes slowly, squinting against the brightness, and lifted a hand to shield yourself from the blinding sun.

For a moment, you just stared at the patches of blue sky visible between your fingers, feeling the sunlight filter through, casting shadows across your face.

The courtyard was quiet, but it felt heavy, as if the air carried unspoken words, unvoiced fears.

You finally pushed yourself up, your fingers brushing against the grass, and settled into a sitting position. The sun above was unrelenting, making the world feel almost too vivid, too sharp.

Your thoughts then drifted to Telemachus.

You recalled how he had came to you early that morning, just as the first rays of sunlight were breaking over the horizon, painting the sky in soft hues of pink and gold.

He had approached your room quietly, his knocks barely audible over the gentle tweeting of morning birds. His face was still lined with exhaustion, the weight of everything that had happened etched in the set of his brow and the tightness around his mouth.

His eyes, however, were kind as they met yours, and he had given you a small, tired smile.

Telemachus whispered to you in the early dawn light, his voice low and deliberate, sharing the reality of his father's restless night. He told you about his father—how Odysseus had been up all night, his mind sharp, aware of the potential danger looming on the horizon.

The possibility of retaliation from the families of the suitors was not lost on him, and he had set to work immediately, spending hours fortifying his position, preparing Ithaca for what might come.

The prince spoke of his father's resolve, his refusal to be caught unprepared, as well as the necessity of visiting his grandfather, Laertes, for guidance in the days to come.

Telemachus' presence had been brief, just a few moments shared between you before he and his father, and a few loyal servants had departed, setting off to see Laertes—to find answers, to find a way to protect Ithaca once more.

In those minutes, you had sensed not only his fatigue but also the determination that emanated from him—a drive to face whatever trials might come.

And now, here you were, sitting in the courtyard, the memory of his voice still echoing in your mind.

You sighed, the weight of it all settling heavily on your shoulders as you stared ahead, the sun warming your skin, the scent of the flowers mingling with the distant sound of birdsong.

There was a new confrontation on the horizon, one not borne of war or conquest, but of vengeance.

Ithaca was teetering, the promise of peace slipping further away—just as it had felt within reach.

The sudden crunch of leaves and the sound of hurried footsteps broke through your thoughts, snapping you back to the present. You looked up quickly, your gaze locking onto the figure sprinting towards you. It was Telemachus.

"Telemachus?" you murmured under your breath, unsure if your eyes were deceiving you.

He wasn't supposed to be back so soon.

You scrambled to your feet, your heart picking up pace as his form grew closer. The prince's face was flushed, his breathing labored as he rushed across the courtyard.

You barely had time to react before he reached you, his hands finding your shoulders just as you started to curtsy.

"Prince Telemachus—" you began, but he cut you off, his grip tightening on your shoulders. His eyes were wide, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

"The suitors' families," he said between gasps, "they... they are no longer seeking revenge."

You blinked, staring at him in confusion, the words not fully registering. "What?" you managed, your voice barely a whisper, as if you hadn't heard him correctly.

Telemachus nodded, his expression softening as he steadied himself. He could see the disbelief etched across your features, and he exhaled slowly, his voice calming as he explained.

As the prince began to recount everything, his voice wove a story so vivid that it felt as though you were right there beside him, witnessing every moment. You listened intently, the courtyard around you fading into the background as his words painted a picture that seemed almost surreal.

The prince told you how he and his father had arrived at his grandfather Laertes' farm, the land stretched out wide with fields that glistened in the early morning sun.

It had been peaceful, the breeze carrying the scent of fresh earth and ripened olives. But as soon as they had stepped into the clearing, Telemachus had noticed something amiss.

"The moment we arrived at my grandfather's farm," Telemachus began, his voice still slightly breathless, "we saw them—a mob of the suitors' families, armed and marching towards us. Their faces were filled with rage, their voices shouting for vengeance. They wanted blood, retribution for what happened to their sons and kin."

Telemachus paused, watching your reaction, and you couldn't help the sharp gasp that escaped your lips, your eyes widening in alarm.

The image of an angry mob storming the farm flashed through your mind, and you could almost hear their angry shouts, see the glint of their weapons in the sunlight.

"And you wouldn't guess who was leading them," he added, his tone bitter with a tinge of disbelief.

"Who?" you asked, your curiosity overpowering your unease. You leaned in closer, your fingers brushing against his arm.

"Eupeithes," Telemachus said, his tone carrying a bitterness that mirrored the situation. "Antinous' father. The same Antinous who led the suitors and was the last to fall."

Your gasp was louder this time, your hand flying to cover your mouth. The memory of Antinous was still fresh in your mind—his arrogance, his ambition, and his final moments.

The thought of his father leading the charge against Ithaca seemed almost poetic, yet tragic; you could almost picture Eupeithes' twisted face, anger and grief etched into his every expression.

Telemachus shook his head, trying to fight away the almost incredulous smile that tugged at his lips. "It was surreal, seeing him there, at the head of the group."

The prince's eyes then darkened, his voice growing steadier. "It looked like they were ready for another fight. A confrontation that could've thrown Ithaca back into chaos. My father, my grandfather, I, and those loyal to us were preparing for the worst, ready to defend what was ours." He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in.

You swallowed hard, the tension palpable. The picture he painted made your heart pound, your pulse quickening as if you were there yourself, standing at Laertes' side.

You could see the anger in those men's eyes, the rage that boiled over, the cries for vengeance that echoed through the clearing.

It was the promise of more bloodshed, more chaos.

But then, Telemachus' voice shifted, a sense of awe creeping into his tone. "And then, just as it seemed they would clash... Athena intervened." His eyes meet yours, glinting with something almost like reverence.

You reached out, grasping his arm tightly, your eyes widening. "Are you serious? Athena?" you breathed, your voice trembling slightly.

Telemachus nodded. "Yes. First, she came in the form of Mentor, but that wasn't enough to stop them. The suitors' families were still thirsty for revenge, still determined to take back something they felt they had lost." He paused, his eyes turning distant, as if reliving the scene. "It was as if they were blind to reason."

"And then?" you urged, unable to keep the excitement from your voice. You were practically vibrating, your curiosity consuming you. It was rare enough to hear of gods walking amongst mortals, let alone seeing it firsthand.

Telemachus drew in a deep breath, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Just when it looked like all hope was lost, before any fighting could begin, Zeus himself sent a thunderbolt—a sign, a warning." He looked at you, his eyes bright. "A divine sign—a command from the gods themselves that the fighting had to stop. that enough was enough, that there should be no more violence. It encouraged Athena to reveal herself."

Your jaw dropped slightly, and you shook your head in disbelief. "Two gods?" you murmured, your voice filled with awe. "How incredibly lucky... for Athena to intervene, and for Zeus to send a sign. It's... it's beyond words," you whispered, feeling a shiver run down your spine.

Telemachus smiled, his face softening. "It truly was. It was something out of legend—Athena stepping forth, no longer hidden in disguise, commanding both sides to cease, her presence both beautiful and terrifying. She spoke with such authority; she demanded that peace be restored, and it was impossible not to heed her words."

He paused, watching your reaction as your eyes sparkled with wonder, your hand still grasping his arm.

"Laertes, emboldened by Athena's intervention, was the one to end it," Telemachus continued, his voice growing softer, tinged with something more solemn. "He killed Eupeithes. It was quick, a final act of vengeance for all that had been done to our family."

You blinked, the gravity of the moment hitting you. The father of Antinous was gone, and with him, the leadership of those seeking revenge.

Telemachus nodded, as if he could see the questions forming in your eyes. "Athena didn't let the violence escalate. She stopped it, just in time. She spoke to everyone, reminding them of the destruction that would come if they continued this senseless feud. She insisted that it end there, that no more blood be spilled."

He looked down, his expression softening, the weight of everything finally seeming to lift from his shoulders. "And it worked. The families saw the will of the gods. They laid down their arms. They accepted peace, knowing they could not fight against the gods themselves."

He paused again, taking in a deep breath, his eyes meeting yours with a mixture of exhaustion and hope. "Athena erased the hatred from their hearts—the desire for vengeance, the anger that had festered for so long. She promised that the past would be forgiven and that we would all work together to rebuild Ithaca."

For a moment, the courtyard was silent, the only sound the gentle rustle of leaves in the breeze. You could feel your heart pounding, the weight of his words settling in, the realization of what had just transpired.

Athena had not only brokered a truce, she had ensured that the hatred would not linger, that peace could truly be restored.

It was as if a miracle had been gifted to Ithaca—a second chance, a chance to heal.

You looked up at Telemachus, a small, hopeful smile breaking across your face. "Thank the gods," you whispered, your heart finally beginning to calm, the weight on your chest lightening ever so slightly.

Telemachus smiled back, his hand brushing against yours gently, his touch warm and reassuring. "Yes," he said softly, his voice steady. "Thank the gods."

The peaceful moment between you and Telemachus was abruptly interrupted by the sound of hurried footsteps crunching over the gravel path. You both turned just in time to see a young servant girl rushing towards you, her face flushed, her chest heaving as she struggled to catch her breath.

"Prince Telemachus! Miss ___!" she called out, her voice breathless but urgent.

You and Telemachus exchanged a wary glance, the serenity of the courtyard shattering like fragile glass. The prince's expression instantly grew tense as he shifted his attention to the girl approaching.

The servant girl skidded to a stop in front of you, her hands resting on her knees as she tried to steady her breathing. "Ships, my lord..." she managed to say between gasps, her eyes wide with fear. "Ships are arriving at the docks."

Telemachus frowned, his eyes narrowing slightly as he processed her words. You found yourself instinctively stepping closer to him, your heart pounding as you tried to read the meaning behind the servant's frantic message.

"Ships?" Telemachus repeated, his voice low, guarded. He glanced at you, and you could see the same unease reflected in his eyes.

You swallowed, your gaze darting back to the servant. "Are they friendly? Do we know who they are?"

The servant shook her head quickly, her eyes wide with uncertainty. "No, Miss ____. I only know they bear unfamiliar colors—green and yellow—and they approach quickly. The guards are trying to discern their intentions."

Telemachus' gaze hardened, a silent determination forming as he nodded. "Thank you, Althaia. You did well to inform us."

The girl dipped into a quick, awkward curtsy before she quickly turned and rushed back toward the palace.

Telemachus exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening as he turned back to you.

For a moment, there was silence—just the wind rustling the leaves overhead, the tension hanging between you like a storm about to break.

You looked at him, your heart twisting in your chest. You could see the weight of the moment in his eyes, the same thoughts running through your own mind.

After everything they had just endured, after the gods themselves had intervened, could more trouble be looming on the horizon?

Reaching out, the prince took your hand in his, his grip firm, reassuring. "We should go," he said, his voice steady, though you could hear the strain beneath his calm exterior.

And with that, the two of you turned and made your way towards the palace, the promise of peace feeling more fragile than ever, slipping further from your grasp with each hurried step.

☆

The flurry of movements after the servant girl's message had led to this moment, every step since then deliberate, hurried, with an underlying sense of urgency.

Telemachus had led you through the palace corridors, stopping by your room to quickly grab your lyre, the instrument a comforting weight against your side. His expression was tense but purposeful, and you followed without hesitation.

The two of you had moved through halls filled with servants whispering nervously, the tension palpable, until you finally reached the great doors to the throne room.

Telemachus stood in his honored position, close to Odysseus' side, while the king sat in his grand chair, regal and composed, the weight of his kingdom resting on his shoulders. Beside him, Penelope sat, her eyes fixed on the doors, her expression poised but visibly anxious.

A few guards stood scattered around the room, their eyes trained on the entrance, their postures rigid. Several servants, including Althaia, stood farther back, their heads bowed, waiting quietly for whatever news would come.

The flags hanging along the walls fluttered slightly, moved by the breeze sneaking through the open windows, the sun casting beams of light across the stone floor.

It might have been a beautiful day, but the fear that clung to the air turned it cold.

Odysseus had already briefed his son on the situation—the green and yellow banners of the ships' flags belonged to Bronte, a neighboring island kingdom.

The family crest, Odysseus explained, belonged to Andros' kin—the arrogant red-haired suitor who had been among those vying for Penelope's hand. Andros was the third son, far down in the line of succession for his own kingdom, seeking to elevate his status by claiming Ithaca as his own through marriage.

The news was such a surprise to you; who knew that brute was a prince?

Odysseus' jaw clenched as he spoke, his eyes narrowing. "It seems they come seeking answers, perhaps retribution, for what has befallen their kin," he said, his gaze shifting between Telemachus and the few gathered officials and guards. "We must tread carefully. The last thing we need is another conflict before peace has even had a chance to settle." He gestured towards a nearby guard. "Fetch the envoy from the ships. They are to be escorted here for a public discussion. Let them see that Ithaca stands united, that we have nothing to hide."

The guard bowed deeply before turning on his heel, marching briskly out of the throne room to carry out the king's orders. The echo of his footsteps faded into the tense silence that followed, the air thick with anticipation.

Now, here in the present, the great hall was silent, the tension palpable, the kind that came right before a storm.

You knelt beside the steps of the throne, your eyes fixed on the polished marble floor, the lyre resting against your knees, a comforting weight against your side.

You could hear the quiet rustle of the guards shifting their stances, the occasional creak of leather as they adjusted their grips on their spears.

Telemachus stood tall beside his father, his eyes forward, his expression unreadable. You could see the way his hands were clasped behind his back, fingers flexing slightly—a small sign of the tension he carried.

Odysseus sat still, his gaze fixed on the doorway, waiting.

Penelope's eyes, however, were on her son, the worry she felt clear in the way her brow furrowed, her lips pressed into a thin line.

The moments stretched on, the anticipation growing heavier with each passing second.

The servants along the sides of the room exchanged nervous glances, their postures stiff, uncertain of what was to come.

The sunlight streaming in through the high windows seemed almost too bright, the golden rays a stark contrast to the somber mood that had settled over the throne room.

Your fingers brushed against the strings of your lyre absentmindedly, the soft hum of the notes barely audible. It was a comfort, a reminder of something familiar amidst the uncertainty.

You kept your eyes lowered, focused on the instrument in your hands, but your ears were attuned to every sound—the shuffle of footsteps, the creak of the throne as Odysseus shifted, the faint murmur of voices just outside the grand doors.

Your thoughts wandered as you waited, the uncertainty gnawing at the edges of your mind.

Perhaps this kingdom—Bronte—was foolish enough to believe they could defy a goddess' will, or maybe they hadn't heard in time that the call for vengeance had already been stilled by divine decree.

How long could news travel across kingdoms? It wasn't hard to imagine that word of Athena's intervention might not have reached them, leaving them ignorant and reckless in their grief.

Or perhaps, they simply didn't care.

Just as the thought crossed your mind, the grand doors creaked open, the echo reverberating across the high ceiling of the hall.

The room seemed to collectively hold its breath, all eyes turning towards the entrance.

Your eyes flickered towards the grand doors as they creaked open, revealing the guard that had been sent to meet the visitors. Behind him, you could see the figures approaching, their outlines dark against the bright light streaming in from outside.

The guard stepped inside first, his expression serious as he turned to face Odysseus, bowing deeply. "My king," he began, his voice clear, carrying across the silent hall, "The visitors have arrived." He turned slightly, gesturing for the figures behind him to step forward.

A herald then stepped inside, his voice ringing clearly as he announced, "Princess Andreia, envoy of the Kingdom of Bronte, daughter of King Aeron."

Your breath caught at the name. Andreia. There was no mistaking the connection. She must have been related to Andros—sister, perhaps.

And then, she entered.

The sight of her took you by surprise.

Andreia was a striking figure, her beauty undeniable, but it was a beauty edged with something softer, something almost tragic in the way her eyes swept across the throne room.

Her hair, as red as her late brother's, spilled over her shoulders in waves, but where Andros' presence had been rough and full of brashness, hers held an elegance that was both captivating and disarming.

She wore a flowing gown of green and yellow, the colors of her house, the fabric catching the sunlight in a shimmering cascade that made her seem almost otherworldly. The dress was adorned with gold embroidery that traced along the bodice and sleeves, each stitch intricate and precise.

Her pale skin seemed to glow beneath the golden light filtering through the windows, and her eyes—green, like the deepest parts of a forest—were filled with something that you couldn't quite place. Sadness? Determination? Perhaps both.

Andreia moved with a grace that seemed practiced, her steps deliberate as she approached the dais.

Behind her trailed a small group of servants, each dressed in the same green and yellow livery, their expressions carefully neutral. They moved in unison, their heads bowed, carrying baskets and satchels that clinked faintly with each step.

You watched as she drew closer, her gaze briefly flicking over you where you knelt, before turning towards the throne.

There was something hauntingly familiar about her—the color of her hair, the sharpness of her features, the way her chin tilted upward with a sense of pride that echoed her brother's—but the hardness that Andros had worn like armor was missing.

Instead, there was a gentleness that made her seem almost out of place amidst the tension of the throne room.

Andreia came to a halt before the thrones, and slowly, she sank into a deep bow, her eyes lowering in deference. "King Odysseus. Queen Penelope," she said, her voice smooth, almost musical, but carrying an edge of something unspoken. "I come on behalf of my family, the royal House of Brontes, to speak for our fallen kin."

For a moment, there was silence.

You could feel the weight of her words settling over the room, the tension thickening as Odysseus leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing as he regarded the young woman before him.

Penelope's gaze softened as she looked upon Andreia, her fingers no longer tracing the armrest but now resting still, her eyes taking in the sight of the woman with a mixture of empathy and caution.

Odysseus spoke, his voice measured, the authority of a king evident in every word. "Lady Andreia, you are welcome in Ithaca," he said, though his tone held no warmth. "You must understand that the suitors—your brother included—took liberties that demanded consequences. They disrespected my home, my family, and my kingdom. Yet, here you are, bearing their colors. What is it that you seek?"

Andreia lifted her head, her gaze meeting Odysseus'. There was a fire there, restrained but present, as she drew in a breath. "I seek understanding, my lord," she replied, her voice steady, though there was a tremble beneath the surface, as if she were struggling to maintain her composure. "I seek to know why my brother's life was ended without a chance to answer for himself, why his ambitions were met not with words but with death."

The tension in the room grew, the silence that followed her words almost deafening. You kept your eyes on Andreia, your fingers tightening slightly around the lyre, the strings pressing into your skin.

Odysseus' gaze darkened, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the scepter, but it was Telemachus who stepped forward, his voice calm but carrying the weight of someone who had seen too much. "Lady Andreia, the actions taken were in response to the dishonor your brother and others brought upon Ithaca. Their intentions were clear—seeking to take advantage of my father's absence, to claim what was never theirs to claim."

Andreia's eyes flicked to Telemachus, her lips pressing into a thin line. For a moment, she seemed to falter, her gaze lowering. You could see the pain etched in her expression, the way her fingers clenched around the folds of her dress.

"I do not deny that my little brother was ambitious," she said, her voice softer now, almost a whisper. "But he was still my brother. And I... I am here to ensure that his memory is not one of disgrace." She lifted her head again, her eyes meeting Telemachus', and then shifting to Odysseus. "I come not to seek retribution but to seek closure, to understand the choices that led to his end, and to ask that his body be returned to our family, that he may be laid to rest with our ancestors."

A hush fell over the throne room, the weight of her plea hanging in the air.

You could feel your heart pounding in your chest, the emotions in the room almost tangible—the grief, the anger, the longing for peace. You glanced at Odysseus, who leaned back in his throne, his eyes never leaving Andreia, expression unreadable.

For a long moment, he was silent, the throne room holding its breath, waiting for his judgment.

The tension was thick, each second dragging on, the silence almost unbearable.

You watched as Penelope glanced at her husband, her lips parting slightly, as if she wished to speak, to offer some kindness to the young woman before them. But she held her silence, respecting her husband's authority in the matter.

Odysseus finally nodded, a slow, deliberate movement, his voice echoing through the hall. "You shall have your brother's body, Lady Andreia," he said, his tone still guarded but carrying a note of finality. "But understand this—what was done was not done lightly. Your brother's choices led him here, and Ithaca responded as it had to, to protect itself, to protect its queen." His gaze bore into hers, a challenge, a warning. "There will be no retribution, no further claims upon this land."

Andreia bowed her head deeply, her shoulders sagging slightly in what might have been relief or perhaps exhaustion. "Thank you, King Odysseus," she said quietly, her voice barely audible.

You watched her, the sight of her bowed figure filling you with a sense of sadness.

In her, you could see echoes of Andros—the ambition, the pride—but also something gentler, something that perhaps had been lost in him along the way. She was here not for power or revenge but for something simpler, something more human.

Odysseus turned to Telemachus, his gaze softening slightly. "Telemachus, escort Lady Andreia and her retinue to a place where they may rest and prepare. Ensure they are comfortable, and that they have all they need."

Telemachus stepped forward immediately, bowing his head in acknowledgment. "Of course, Father." He turned towards Andreia, his expression polite, though his eyes held a hint of curiosity. "Lady Andreia, if you would follow me," he said, his voice steady.

Andreia straightened, nodding once before gesturing for her servants to follow. Telemachus led them out of the throne room, a guard falling into step behind them, ensuring that the visiting party was properly escorted.

The room seemed to collectively exhale when the grand doors finally closed behind Lady Andreia and her entourage. The echo of their departure faded into the distance, and a different kind of silence filled the throne room—a silence tinged with relief rather than tension.

The guards visibly relaxed, shoulders loosening as they resumed their positions, their once rigid stances softening. They exchanged quick glances, the unspoken communication between them conveying a shared sense of cautious optimism.

A few of the servants resumed their tasks, their steps light as they moved to tidy up the room or to attend to matters elsewhere, their nervous energy now dissipating.

It wasn't long until the throne room was nearly empty, just a few trusted guards stationed near the exits, the king and queen, and you.

Penelope turned towards her husband, a gentle smile tugging at her lips, the lines of worry on her face softening. "You handled that beautifully, my love," she said, her voice tender, full of genuine admiration. "Many others in your position would have shown nothing but hostility, yet you offered her understanding." She leaned a bit closer, her gaze warm as she watched Odysseus. "It shows a strength that is rare, a wisdom that goes beyond vengeance."

Odysseus looked at her, his stern expression softening in response to her praise. He did not speak immediately, but his eyes held hers, his gaze filled with something unspoken, something tender. He gave a small nod, his lips curling just slightly in what could almost be called a smile.

Though his words were few, his attention to his wife spoke volumes—his gaze unwavering, listening to every word as though her voice alone anchored him.

"And that young princess," Penelope continued, her voice brightening, her eyes sparkling. "To travel all this way on her own... there is a strength in her that I admire. It takes courage to face what she has, to step into a kingdom that might view her as an enemy."

Odysseus hummed thoughtfully, as he nodded. His hand moved to rest over hers on the armrest of her throne, a simple gesture that conveyed more than words could in the quiet that settled between them.

Penelope's smile grew, her gaze distant for a moment, before she turned back to Odysseus, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "Perhaps," she began, a hint of enthusiasm creeping into her voice, "Lady Andreia should join us for dinner tonight." She rose from her seat gracefully, her movements fluid as she stepped forward, her eyes alight with purpose. "It would be a gesture of peace, a way to make her feel welcomed."

She looked over to you, her smile widening as she beckoned you forward. "Come, dear. There is much to do—let us head to the kitchens. We must prepare the menu and find out what our guests might enjoy." Her voice was filled with a warmth that seemed to dispel the lingering tension in the room, her excitement contagious.

You blinked, startled for a moment, before quickly standing, clutching your lyre tightly as you moved towards her. You nodded, offering her a small smile as she reached for your arm, her grip gentle but insistent.

As Penelope led you out of the throne room, her demeanor was almost buoyant, her steps light, as if she had already dismissed the worries of the day.

Her presence, her warmth, brought a sense of normalcy, a reminder that even amidst uncertainty, there were still traditions to uphold, still hospitality to offer.

A/N: sorry for the lack of updates, the semester's coming to an end so im kinda swamped with exams, papers, etc. as well as trying not to fall into a hibernative-depression due to me having to start back working to fix this damn tooth 😡😡; also i took a lot of you guys advice and decided that apollo will be met last, hehe

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theambitiouswoman · 2 days ago

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Hi Angel 🤍

I'm a 19 year old girl, and i'm highly ambitious, i'm working my ass off everyday to get what i want, but fear is ruining my brain.

I'm glad i'm where i am now (3rd year at university, abroad in Canada, starting new projects...) but i'm always so terrified.

And fear paralyses me.

My projects include filmphotography/short movie and a book i'm writing right now.

I keep telling myself "do it scared" but i'm so sick and tired of being afraid all the time.

Do you have any advices ?

Hi beauty 🤍

First off, I just want to say how proud I am of you for everything you're doing at just 19!!! You're already achieving so much already. That's something many people only dream about, so please take a moment to acknowledge just how far you've come.

It's tough to have big dreams & to put yourself out there. Fear is like this shadow that creeps in, making us doubt ourselves, abilities & our paths. But here's the thing: fear only shows up when you're doing something that truly matters. It's a sign that you're stepping into something big, something that has the power to change you & the world around you.

You mentioned a phrase I love: "Do it scared." The truth is, fear never really goes away, especially when you're pursuing things that are meaningful & aligned with your passions. But fear can either be your enemy or your fuel. The difference is how you choose to see it. I would say to convince yourself that you are suppose to feel scared, it means you are actually doing something! So accept it as part of the process.

Sometimes, the fear comes from looking at the whole picture—how much you still have to do, how far you still have to go. Instead, focus on just the next small step. Small wins build momentum. Your big goals are certainly achievable, but breaking them down into small stepping stones helps take the fear away.

Remember your deeper "why"? Remind yourself of the passion that got you here, and let that drive you forward. Instead of thinking, "I'm scared," try shifting it to, "I'm excited." The physical sensations of fear & excitement are almost the same.

It's okay to feel afraid. It's okay to not have it all figured out. You're already doing amazing things and there's no timeline you have to follow, seriously. Be kind to yourself and remember that everyone you look up to has felt this same fear.

Lastly, something I always remind myself is: courage isn't the absence of fear; it's the decision to keep moving forward despite it. You're already doing that every single day, and that’s what makes you an incredibly brave girl.

Sending you so much love & strength 🤍

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vikkirosko · 3 days ago

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🧰 Engineer x fem!Reader headcanons Beloved wife 🎸

Dell stood out from the rest of the mercenaries because of his height. He was shorter than the others, but he never cared about it himself. However, when his colleagues saw him with you, his wife, they were seriously surprised. You were obviously taller than him, but neither he nor you seemed bothered by this height difference. Even after several years of marriage, you were passionately in love with each other, and even the fact that he spent a lot of time at work in another state could not destroy your feelings for each other

You and Dell have been together since you were a teenager, and even then many of your friends were surprised by your relationship. You spent a lot of time together. He played guitar to you under the starry sky, you went dancing together, he gave you a lot of kisses, and even after the wedding it didn't change. When Dell went to work as a mercenary, you made him promise to write and call you as often as possible. You both had no idea how you would be separated for so long, but you weren't going to forbid him anything, knowing full well that your husband was a reasonable man and you trusted him

Engineer received many letters from you and always tried to answer them on time. The scout was very curious and the fact that his colleague received so many letters and smiled so much every time could not but arouse his interest. He tried to peek into his letters, but Dell always took them away when letters from you came to the base. However, when Pyro asked him about the letters, the Engineer told him about you, about your relationship and even showed him a photo of you together, which he carried with him. He didn't mind at all telling his colleagues about how wonderful you were, and they were even surprised that he could talk about something other than his inventions with such passion

Every time he had a vacation, he would come home and you would spend time together. Dell told you about interesting things that happened at his job, and sometimes Pyro came with him. He was genuinely glad to meet the one he talked about so much, and you were glad to meet your husband's friend. You hoped to get to know the rest of your husband's colleagues someday, because according to the stories they were interesting people. Pyro, watching you and Dell dancing to the tune playing on the radio and couldn't get enough of what a wonderful couple you were. It seemed that even though you were both adults, you had no less passion than the newlyweds

Dell was willing to go to great lengths to make you happy. You were the love of his life and he wanted to provide you with a decent life. He was looking forward to each of his vacations to spend time with you again, to spin you around again and walk with you through your garden, which you worked so hard on. Next to you, he forgot about all his problems

#team fortress 2 headcanons #team fortress 2 x reader #team fortness 2 #tf2 #tf2 x Reader #tf2 headcanons #engineer #engineer x reader

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cityofmeliora · 1 day ago

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transcript: The Summoning + Sister Imperator's speeches

in chronological order:

LINCOPIA, OTROGOTHIA MAY 20, 2015 SISTER IMPERATOR: Brothers and Sisters, you know why you are here tonight. This Ministry is now seven years into The Ghost Project. Seven long years of work. Two Papas, two albums, one gold. These are indeed some respectable numbers, but let me give you some others. Churches opened: zero. Governments toppled: zero. World leaders converted to the cause: zero. You call yourselves salesmen? Masterminds? You have done shit! And don't blame the music. The music is the very manifestation of His Dark Majesty. And don't blame this fine merchandise! It's a disgrace! Papa 2 has been let go. He is a miserable, wounded, and bitter old man, and he is washed up! But let's look forward now. This is a new piece of music. And these are your new masks. And this is Papa 2's brother. He is a full 3 months younger. This man will take the band further than any of us could ever have imagined. I present to you now… Papa Emeritus III! The Summoning (part 1)

LINCOPIA, OTROGOTHIA AUGUST 10, 2015 The clergy has convened. The time for invocation has come. SISTER IMPERATOR: Brothers and Sisters, I realize the difficulty to get this message to you. It has become more dangerous than ever before to speak aloud our dark truths. But do not be dismayed. Papa Emeritus III knows of your commitment. But he needs more from you than this squirreling in secret, these whispers underground. It's time to act! In cities around the globe, his flock will be called. You will hear the call, like the voice of a siren, a temptation in your heart that can only be fulfilled by witnessing the ascension. And its music will rattle the hearts of the sleeping. You will gather in the rains of Seattle on August 18th, in the drought-stricken heat of Los Angeles on August 20th, in the lysergic deserts of Phoenix on August 21st, in the humid metropolis of Baltimore on August 22nd, and in the crowded streets of Brooklyn on August 23rd. You will meet in the record shops, where the authorities would never think to look! There is no master, there is only The Path. There is no destination, there are only winding steps. When the guitars are tuned and the Ghouls begin their invocations, there is only one thing left to do: shake off your slack social media chains, your cheap hunger for scandal and rumor! When the first chord is struck, you will turn to your neighbor next to you in the flesh, put your arm around them, and take back your humanity! You have already fallen! Hell is here! The time for ascension is now. The Summoning II: Unholy / Unplugged Tour (August 10, 2015)

Lincopia, Otrogothia August 11, 2015 The battle for Philadelphia SISTER IMPERATOR: Children of Philadelphia. You are a special city. We have been pleased with growing unrest and incivility toward Frankie's visit next month. And we were especially pleased to register a sold-out concert on the same day Frankie would be blathering to the minions. But we also sensed a growing unrest amongst the church, especially the particular amount of attention they began paying the Ghost concert. We were ready to persevere in the name of the unholy, and to allow the dark side of Philadelphia to shine through while Frankie was in town. But this morning, we received this dispatch, a letter informing us that Ghost fans will not be able to use public transportation, park their cars near the venue, or even get the Ghost entourage close enough to load in their instruments of persuasion. So, children of Philadelphia, and in fact, children of the world, we regret to inform you that in the hopes to ensure each and every Ghost fan can attend the show, we've decided to move the Philadelphia concert at Union Transfer to Tuesday, September 29th. Concession is sometimes hard. Our quest to topple the church will be won across many battles. We thank you. The Summoning III: The Battle For Philadelphia

Lincopia, Otrogothia August 21, 2015 The arrival SISTER IMPERATOR: It has arrived! Some of you did not believe the new Papa would be able to cast a shadow as wide and as far as his great predecessor. Your faithlessness is now dust in my mouth. You should be on your knees humbling yourselves before what has been accomplished here! All you need to do is look outside. Look at the graffiti on the walls, look at the lights illuminated at night, where once there was only darkness. Mothers will whisper warnings to their children: the false prophets will wail from their hallowed churches and in underground hovels like these, across the world. Our legion will rise. But listen closely, now. There isn't much time. There is one thing you must know. [Ladies and gentlemen, I have summoned you all here. And now, I bring you Ghost!] [SAME SPEECH GIVEN AT UNHOLY / UNPLUGGED IN LA] The Summoning IV: The Arrival || Unholy / Unplugged - Los Angeles, California, USA (August 21, 2015)

SISTER IMPERATOR: Welcome! Welcome, my faithful brothers and sisters! Your presence here is proof of your commitment. If you are unsure, cast off your doubts now. There is no turning back. The rite you're about to witness is but one small but essential movement in our spiritual revolution. We prayed, and he has arrived! But! But! He will demand more of you! He will need to hear from the abyss of your hearts that you are ready. His is a voice of the pit and the pinnacle! His Nameless Ghouls are the music of the [UNINTELLIGIBLE] but your holy noise is the key! You must cry out his name! Say it with me now: PAPA EMERITUS! AGAIN! AGAIN! AGAIN! Very good. Shh! Shh! Shhhhhh! Listen. Do you hear it? Do you? It's the terrible sound of the ignorant– the mistrust and anger of the masses. The world is unstable and they have lost their balance. But we, here together, are the new foundation. we are the shape of things to come! There's not much time. We won't be able to do the required incantation. We must let the music do the summoning. My brethren, my brethren, bow your heads and raise your horns to pierce the veil of heaven, so the skies will be torn asunder! And Papa may fall into our midst! Now is the moment. Now, there is no other. Papa Emeritus III! Ghost! Ghost is here! Los Angeles, CA, USA (October 26, 2015)

EARLIER TODAY LINCOPIA, OTROGOTHIA THE CLERGY HAS ADJOURNED. AND THE NAMELESS GHOULS ARE SUMMONED. SISTER IMPERATOR: I think you all know why you have been summoned here. It's time to re-assess, to take stock of your failures. It started with a vision: you were all standing before me, hoodwinked and bound with both caddy and shack! I led you each toward a coffin, where you were made to lie down. The lids were closed, and one by one, I placed a level on the top to make sure you were still and cold in the darkness. Iron nails fell from my hands and scattered like leaves around my feet. I know that behind your masks, you are smirking at me, proud of your trivial accomplishments. Let's see what you have really done to topple the spires and the men who hurdle around their false god. No… Oh, yes. [LAUGHING] The industry has noted our good works with their trinket. And as a result, our message is carried further and wider. But do we take such trinkets as sacrament and the measure of true accomplishment? No! We don't need their approval. The truth of our work is not measured by awards and nods from the establishment. Can someone say "two in a row now", from the Swedish academy? It is still only a drop in the dark water of our mission. Sit still! Stop staring! Have you heard enough of the list of your petty dreams laid bare? Are there any among you who can say you can bear witness to the signs of the coming change? I see more of the same slumbering dreamers sleepwalking to their glass-and-brick towers, bowing at the feet of their priests and their false gods. I have here letters from your followers, demanding that we explain why nothing has changed. They have made their own sacrifices. But what have you done? How will you answer them? By holding up your golden gramophone? Is this the change you promised? Is this the sign of a new age? It is nothing! It is another false idol. It is time to answer for your failures. This is going to take some time, so I would prepare yourselves. Pray to your Dark Gods that you can handle what is to come. "NEXT: ARE YOU READY? LET'S DISCUSS THE MISSION, MAN" The Summoning V: The Square And Hammer (September 13, 2016)

"Later that day…" LINCOPIA, OTROGOTHIA The proceedings intensify. SISTER IMPERATOR: I expect no more interruptions. You had your chance to defend yourselves. Without your guitar and drums, you are are mere acolytes, not the grand missionary men you were trained to be. You want to be equal to your Papa? Ha! But all you can do is [UNINTELLIGIBLE] your own egos, waxing nostalgia about your petty sins. Well let's see what you have really done. You have sat for insipid interviews, answering insipid questions, afraid to reveal your true undertaking. You wear your masks for the press, but your masks were never intended to simply hide your faces– they are the visage of The Gods, and you mock them with your senseless orgies and trysts. Even your depravities are dull! I would like you to turn to exhibit one. Look at all the places you have been, all the cities you have made a mark on. But the rain has washed it all away… like the piss of a dog! Why are believers still living in secret, spinning your records in their parents' basements? Why have you not led them into the murky light of His shadow? You are supposed to lead. It is your task. Your task! To lead! I think you're afraid of real change. Let's take a breath. I think I understand the problem. You think Papa's words should be enough. But then you misunderstand the nature of true power. Papa is not a mouthpiece for the Dark Divinity. He is not a pawn. He is a mediator. He is the path. His way is the truth and the darkness! And you– you are his apostles. And yet, you deny, you deny! And so I charge you with deceit and with letting good people falter! The very people who believed in you. Your doubt sows their own. I charge you with dereliction of duty! For the harrowing initiation you have been through, I would charge you with treason! The Summoning VI: The Proceedings Intensify

"Days later…" Lincopia, Otrogothia Fatigue and apathy have set in. SISTER IMPERATOR: Despite your weakness, and your cowardliness, your failures, I still believe in you. And I believe in you because I have seen the future! I have already been witness to three transfigurations, and each time I can see that we are closer to the final glory, and I have seen you rise to the occasion each time. So can you do it again? Huh? Hmm? Do you see this [UNINTELLIGIBLE], this haunted servitor of our Dark Father asking for nothing while it does its simple tasks? You see it and all think, "Our instruments are far greater than that old broom!" But they are not! They are merely tools to do His great work! Sometimes, yes, you're genius, with the tools you have been given. I have attended your rites, watched you claim souls of thousands, of your strings, your skin, your masterful use of electricity. I, too, have been moved to tears as I stood before you as the music reached a sort of… transessence. This is why I believe. After all we have been through in these past few days, all the shames laid bare, are you ready to start anew? The new coming is about to begin. Will you take up your instruments? Will you be able to commit to the utter annihilation of all this is false? All that is greed? All that is staid and conformist and empty? Hm? Then rise. Rise!!!! Now! I give you another chance at transformation. But you must beg. You must demand to be sacrificed! You must prostrate your hearts while you stand tall in the dark, for the fourth incarnation of Papa will guide us. But we need faith now. Swear to me that my faith in you is not in vain. Swear to me now in His Unholy Name. Say it now after me, say it loud enough to shatter the windows of the world's lies. Say "I am ready! I am ready! I am ready!!!!" The Summoning VII: Believe This

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