#then there's a reflection for my study visit this past week

[aloyssobek]

first day back doing crt work tomorrow...i'm not excited i am a little nervous but i'm hoping that it's a good day at the very least

[jubshead]

𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐈'𝐦 𝐀𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝

Paring: Lydia Lebasi x Reader

Summary: An unexpected visit turns your day south; Lydia is there to comfort you.

A/N: This is a request from the wonderful and talented @madamspellmans-met-tet, I’m sorry it took me more than a month to finish this, I hope you enjoy!!

Warnings: Implied past child abuse/neglect, Mentioned drug addiction, Mommy issues, Comfort sex, Fingering, Praise kink

Word count: 5.2k

Date: April 30, 2025

Lydia Lebasi is from SVU episode 11, season 16

Masterlist | Taglist | Read on ao3

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The streets of New York buzz with life. The sun shines its lazy light over honking cars and warmly dressed pedestrians, unhelpful with the autumn chill. Tall buildings throw cold shades on the sidewalk and you watch smoke leave your cracked lips, tightening the scarf around yourself. 

The walk from your college to the shooting address is filled with a freezing breeze and people in a hurry, the high class part of the town never taking a break. Your hard icy fingers squeeze the phone on your hand and you curse your brother for not meeting you in your usual lunch spot, just because he was part of a movie now it didn’t give him the right to make you walk twelve blocks in this weather. 

The end of the semester brought with itself the usual seasonal exams and an exhaustion that weighed you down. The sleepless nights walked hand in hand with the multiple cups of coffee and the seemingly perpetual study sessions. You could be nothing but grateful that the tests had ended today, even with your moufled mind and the need to tumble over your bed and sleep for a week. 

As you walk, your reflection on the buildings' glass follows you, the approaching blue dot on your screen indicating the proximity to your destination. Taking your eyes off the street for even a second seems to be the wrong choice when you bump into someone. 

“Oh, I’m so-” The apology is left hanging, blood completely draining from your face when you look up.

“Hi, darling.” 

The pet name is spoken anxiously, a sweet faux thing that makes you swallow the bile rising in your throat. Your mother stands in front of you, blonde burned hair tied back into a thin ponytail and yellow teeth gracing you with a rotten smile. 

“What are you- How did you-” Words escape you when you come face to face with the woman who raised you. 

“Oh, you know.” She laughs, trying to decrease the tension. “I saw your brother’s face on this big outdoor street and thought I should pay him a visit. I miss my munchkins.” 

Her cold hand reaches and squeezes your warm cheek. The childhood nickname makes you soften and, just like always, you’re pliant in her hand when she gives you any sort of affection. 

“Mom, shouldn’t you be in rehab right now?” You ask cautiously, aware of the sensitive topic. 

Her palm flies away from your face and she eyes you as if betrayed. 

“That horrible place? I left months ago.” She gesticulates widely. “They treated me like shit, humiliated me in front of everybody and used torture methods for abstinence. I don’t know which one of you chose that clinic, but I’m not going back there. I’m sure you understand, don’t you, darling? You wouldn’t want your mother to be hurt.”

The institution you helped your brother pick was one of utmost respect, held in a high regard of humanistic treatment and positive results. Neither one of you was saving expenses when it came to your mother’s wellbeing. 

You can only hum at her statement, used to her lying. 

For the first time since bumping into her, you actually take in her appearance. Her fingers tremble as she screeches her wrist, ripping the skin under her nails. Paranoia seems to grip her shoulders and bend her down, eyes shadowed by dark circles darting from left to right. She’s wearing rags, unmatching clothes that barely shield her from the weather, her large thin coach swallowing her frail figure. 

The blown wide pupils can’t seem to focus when she looks back at you.

“Well, this is not what I came here to talk about.” She does a dismissive motion. “I’d like to see your brother.” 

She turns in the direction of the building and you are quick to grab her arm, preventing her from walking. 

Your brother’s mention is enough to make you snap out of whatever trance your mother always seems to put you in. Just imagining her appearing in his work place, embarrassing him in front of everybody, builds the resolve that you will, for once, deal with this on your own. 

“What are you doing? Let me go.” Her face morphs, turns into the ugly one it did when you used to flush her drugs down the toilet, long before you learned it was of no use. 

She would just buy more. 

“Mom, I don’t-” 

“I told you to let me go, you petulant child! Who do you think you are?” Her voice raises, hardens. 

You feel the stares turning in your direction, people stopping to watch the scene unfolding as your cheeks grow warm and the bile rises in your throat once more.

“You think you can prevent me-” 

“What is going on here?” Someone interrupts her, imposing timber ringing over your mother’s tantrum. 

Lydia’s appearance makes you take in a breath you didn’t know you were holding, a flow of relief washes over you and you let go of the blonde, taking a step closer to the short manager, seeking her securiness. 

“Who are you?” Your mother’s rage changes targets. 

The brunette barely gives her the time of the day, turning to you with a questioning gaze. 

“I’m alright.” You mumble, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear out of embarrassment. “Mom, look, you can’t see Josh right now, he’s working. Why don’t you and I go out to lunch?” 

“You think I’m going to waste my time with you!?” She screams, her sweet facade sipling further as she steps closer. “This is an important matter, a conversation between adults. I’ve always known you were not a bright child, you never know when to mind your own business.” 

Her saliva lands on your face, the instability caused by her addiction showing its ugly head. You grip Lydia’s arm, speechless as your fist closes on the black sleeves of her overcoat, shrinking into yourself and looking down, trembling chin meeting chest. 

“It’s time for you to go.” Your brother’s manager says, a hard seriousness gracing her features in light of the situation. 

“Ow, got yourself a little dyke dog?” Your mother taunts, completely over the line. 

Her sense of superiority doesn’t last long, however, her expression turns panicked when Lydia raises her finger, calling the building’s security. From afar you can see two bulky men eye each other before following the manager’s request and moving to approach. 

Your mother runs, she does like she’s been doing her whole life, like it’s her specialty. Never looking back to glance at you as she disappears between the crowd walking down the street.

Her escape doesn’t bring the consolation it should, you know it’s not over. If she had shown up in the first place it could mean only one thing; she needed money. And knowing her well, she wasn’t going to stop persuading you or your brother until she got it. 

From your side vision, you can see as Lydia signals the guards again, letting them know they are no longer needed. Everything around you seems muffled, the cars sound fair away and your vision is blurred, it had escaped your notice before, but now you feel the brunette’s strong hands gripping your waist, grounding you to the present. 

“Honey.” She softly calls you, her entire demeanour changing now that your mother is gone. 

Breathing feels challenging and you close your eyes to focus on it, using the technique you’ve learned helps with your panic attacks. Your nails sink into the skin of your free palm and Lydia’s covered arms, and she stays there, holding, waiting for you to recover on your own time. 

“Can you take me home?” You croak out. 

“Of course, baby.” 

The nickname makes your knees weak, you hold in a sob. 

She takes you inside, barking orders left and right for people to move out of the way, ignoring whoever tries to stop her for whatever matter you couldn’t make yourself hear. Her hand rests comforting in the small of your back and you let her guide you, leading you up floors and into the garage, taking control of the situation since you were clearly in no state to do so. 

“Put on your seatbelt.” She tells you and you follow her command like a devoted follower, clinging to anything she says in hope of staying under her light. 

The ride is mostly silent, your head rests against the window and you watch the busy traffic of New York, noticing from time to time how the brunette throws furtive glances in your direction. The knot on your throat grows heavier as each car drives by and you swallow around it non-stop, ignoring the pricking of tears in your eyes as you do not wish to make a fool of yourself in front of the older woman. 

She knows the way to your apartment by heart now, always visiting to run things over with Joshua or keep you company when you’re feeling down. Your brother likes to joke that, much like a puppy who chooses its owner, the manager he has hired for himself actually adopted you as her little project and, even though you scoff at it everytime, he can’t help but be right.

Lydia always makes time for you, you’ve lost count of the many ways she has helped you with college bureaucracy or dropped what she was doing to run an errand with you. Even though she has few clients, her plate is always full, knowing you’re at the front of her mind even with her busy schedule makes your heart warm. 

Being someone’s priority is not something you’re used to. 

Her hand touches your thigh, taking you out of your trance and making you realize that you’ve arrived at the garage of your building. She encouragingly squeezes the flesh under her palm. 

“Thank you for bringing me home.” You force your voice out, whispering inside the car. 

She gives you a tight smile, turning to open the car door before being stopped when you grab her gloved hand. 

“Lydia, you don’t have to stay.” A furrow grows in her brows and you’re quick to clarify. “I know you must have a lot to do on set, it’s still the middle of the day.” 

“Whatever it is that they need, they can reach me through my phone.” She responds decisively, fingers traveling up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “I’ll be staying with you. Come on.” 

Her lack of doubt makes your stomach flourish, redness growing on your cheeks. 

It’s good to know she’ll be there with you, at least until your brother arrives. When alone your thoughts could go into dark places and, with the events of this morning, it is inevitable that they would. Lydia’s presence would make them vanish as if they never existed in the first place.  

“I texted your brother, told him I was bringing you home because you weren’t feeling too well.” She says as the elevator door closes. 

No answer comes out of you, but your head moves to rest on her shoulder. You couldn’t tell the exact moment she had done that, but the feeling of being taken care of feels unusual and pleasant, alarm bells going off on your head as your body relaxes into her warmness, relieved that she had thought of explaining your disappearance to the one person you cared about, without telling him the reason behind it.

You’d like to tell him the situation yourself and she knew that. 

There are no impediments in the hallway and you find your keys easily enough in the mess that is your bag, opening the door and breathing in the safe haven that is your apartment. Your gaze automatically strays to the stairs and you eye them longly, craving nothing more than a hot shower to take away all of your problems. 

“Go on.” Lydia’s voice sounds from behind you. “I’ll be here when you get down.” 

Unspeakingly, you softly place a kiss on her cheek, thankful for her understanding, before hurriedly making your way upstairs, not wishing to leave her alone for too long.

The relief brought by the end of the semester didn’t have a lingering presence, the encounter with your mother had, however, increased the exhaustion siping into your bones. A headache starts forming behind your eyes as you make fast work of discarding your clothes and heading straight into the bathroom box, averting the mirror at all costs. 

Turning the tap, you wait, sensing the temperature of the water as it becomes steaming, hot, burning. A groan escapes on your lips when you get under it, the scalding stream meeting your shoulders as you take in a deep breath, feeling the drops running down your back and hitting the white tiles. 

You tense for a second when a sob echoes, leaving you without permission and lonely enough that it could have been mistaken for something else. It is a defence mechanism that takes over you after that. Bottling up the tears and humming a random tune comes natural to you and you wash your hair as if nothing is amiss, avoiding the dark childhood memories that invade your mind. 

The prevented panic attack from earlier had been a victory you intended to uphold.

If you’d normally take forever to finish your shower, this one is over in the blink of an eye. You do everything twice as fast, knowing that the comfortability of the hot stream could make you melt down in a few minutes and wishing for nothing more than to go back to the light that is Lydia’s presence. 

Wrapping a towel around yourself, you pass the sink, grabbing your green hairbrush from the bench and making your way into your wardrobe. Opening the drawers, you stare down. Your drenched hair drips over the clothes and your mind wanders, going everywhere and nowhere at once. You grab your comfortable pajamas; satin shorts and a matching loose tank top. 

You wouldn't leave the house today.

As you make your way down the stairs, you hear Lydia moving around the kitchen. The midday sun shines through the big glass windows into the white tiles of the living room. Your brother’s career was doing well, enough for you to afford a big apartment with separate bedrooms and house supplies that your childhood had lacked, a lot more than you could have dreamed of. 

Your bare feet silently carry you to the dinner table and you sit on its surface, a small habit you’ve had your entire life of placing yourself on top of desks and counters. Lacking the strength to do anything else, you observe the other woman as she opens cabinets, unaware of your appearance. Your dripping strands wet the blue material of your pajama and the brush lays discarded on your side, apathy clings to you like a leech, sucking your vitality. 

Lydia turns and spots you, if she’s surprised by your presence she doesn’t let it show, her eyes barely sweep your figure before she goes back to the task at hand. 

“I’ve ordered lunch.” She says, throwing you a reassuring smile. “It shouldn't take long to arrive now.” 

Surprisingly, your stomach makes itself known at the idea, even though your appetite hasn’t graced you, the biological clock on your body screams for food. You hum absentmindedly, observing as the manager places herbs into a pot and boils water for tea, using the leaves you stock away in case of headaches or restless nights. 

The simple things Lydia does are enough to warm your heart and make your insides flutter, a blush rises in your cheeks. Her caring attitude brings you complicated feelings and the need to be desired and nurtured. You stay seated, barely acknowledging the bubbling emotions. 

She closes the kettle lid, turning her undivided attention to you as the tea rests. When she rounds the kitchen counter, you notice her hands. They are bare, her gloves discarded somewhere in the apartment, the veins are prominent and the skin is thin, covered in wrinkles. When she comes to stand before you, her palm lays on your cheek, thumb caressing your face. 

Her eyes are big, brown and comforting, you feel fragile in her presence. The feeling you imagine is that of a devoted peasant who believes their God will take every problem away from them. She stares at you, taking in your features for what you imagine is a search for any type of distress. She would find none. You couldn’t feel anything besides weightless in her presence. 

Her gaze strays to the damp towel by your side before sweeping the dripping locks on your forehead. There’s no hesitation in her movements as she grabs the white cloth and uses it to squeeze the excess water out of your hair, presenting a softness she seemed to reserve only for you. Her actions are slow, as if savoring your presence and your allowance for her care; she does it as if helping you brings her joy. 

You can’t help the lump that rises in your throat. 

Buching your hair up, she carefully places the towel over your shoulders, running its fluffy material over the wet trails in your collarbones. You feel the redness growing in your face, the prickling in the tip of your nose and the stinging in your eyes as she attentively divides your strands and grabs the hairbrush to untangle them. 

The strokes make you melt, if you were worried about the hot stream of the shower lowering your emotional barriers, it doesn’t even come close to Lydia’s ministrations. You stare at her, catching every wrinkle and details on her face, the close proximity making your breath hitch. She doesn’t seem to mind your observing gaze, runs the hair brush over your scalp and makes you shiver, focused on her task. 

The tears are no surprise, they streak down your cheeks silently. 

The tea boils on the stove, the air around you filling with the smell of lemon grass and ginger. The midday sun comes through the window, washing over the older woman and making her shine, brunette locks glowing like a halo. 

Her eyes snap back to yours when a sob escapes you, worry clouding her brown orbs when she sees you crying. 

“Oh, my sweet girl.” She whispers, settling the green object down and circling your head with her palm, pressing you against her chest. 

The hiccups come out freely now, shaking your body as you clutch her black blouse. Her nails run down your scalp as she lets out light shushes. 

“You’re safe now, baby.” She reassures, resting her chin over your wet hair. “It’s alright, I won’t let her anywhere near you.” 

Her presence surrounds you like a blanket, her warmth disarming your defences as your walls crumble, the rich smell of her perfume making you soft on her embrace. The older woman envelops all your senses until you can’t think or feel anything else besides her. 

Her breasts are a cushion, your cheek pressed against them as your arms circle her middle, holding onto her like your life depends on it. Your breath is uneven, the sobs die down but the tears are persistent as you sniffle to contain them. She doesn’t let go of you as you calm yourself down. 

The hug stretches on, the manager’s comforting words filling the room as you pull yourself together. It isn’t until you dislodge yourself from her that she moves. 

“My beautiful girl.” Her sigh ghosts your face, her thumbs wiping the wet paths on your cheek.  

You stare at her in what you imagine is a pitiful position, she’s centimeters away from you, her expression showing nothing but understandment and tenderness. The way your eyes stray to her mouth is automatic, the support she’s showing you bubbling the feelings you’ve been trying to suppress for months now, afraid of a rejection. 

There’s no doubt you’re the first to make the move, but it is oh so carefully done, hitching closer and closer as you analyze her features, in search of hesitation before gaping the space between you in an encounter of soft lips.

The peck is gentle, insecurity gripping your guts at your show of vulnerability. It isn’t until you feel her fingers holding your jaw and angling your face that you relax, pressing your fronts together as your palms travel up, gripping her nape and groaning when her tongue meets yours. 

Much like a dance, the kiss is in perfect sync, you follow each other's movements as if you had done it a thousand times before. There barely is any time spared to breath, beneath the sweetness of it there’s an urgency, a hungriness for this moment. Her nails rank over your neck and your legs encircle her in their own accord. 

Time stands still, your perception of it slipping as you lose yourself in the woman in front of you. Dying in this instant is something you’d heartily agree too as long as you were able to keep the other woman’s lips on yours. The brunette, however, doesn’t seem to want your downfall anytime soon. She separates to take in a breath.

The air between you is shared as your foreheads touch, your eyes closing to take in what had just happened. Reciprocation was never something you expected from her and, now that you had a taste of it, of her, you could feel addiction clawing on your insides. 

It did run in the family after all. 

“Lydia.” You mumble. 

“Yes, baby?” She responds, fingertips playing with the tip of your wet strands. 

Your palms slowly run down the side of her body before grasping her waist, you hesitate. 

“Tell me what you want.” The manager says, sensing your uncertainty. 

“I want- I need you.” 

She takes a step back, hands falling to your covered shoulder to watch your face. You can only imagine the way you look, wide eyed and pathetic, wearing thin pajamas and mustering all your strength into a pleading expression. 

Whatever it is that she is searching for, she seems to find it in no time.

“I’m yours, baby.” 

The simple answer is enough for the air to get stuck in your throat, arousal building up at the promise of what is to come. 

She is the one that kisses you this time, guiding it into the same slow rhythm as before. There is no hurry in her movements, she savors you as one does their favorite meal, prolonging the taste on their tongue as much as they can. 

“I’ve wanted this for so long.” You whisper against her lips, afraid she would think this was just a distraction to you. 

This seems to build her resolve, her hands discard the towel on your back as her mouth unhurriedly descends into your neck, planting small pecks and sucking. One of her palms falls to the small of your back, holding you up as your head falls back. She reads you like a book, observing your reactions and the quiet sounds you let out, goosebumps growing on your skin at being touched in a sensitive place. 

A gasp escapes you when she finds your pulse point, lightly running her lips over before softly biting the skin and hearing you moan. Her free hand travels up your body, from waist to collarbones before slowly taking off the blue strap of your pajamas. The thin material falls easily down your shoulder, exposing part of your right breast. You shiver as her nails run down your chest, squirming under her caress when she reaches her destination. 

She squeezes your soft mound, stroking her thumb over your hard nipple and feeling you involuntarily buckle. Your own fingers take care of the other strap, letting the satin fall down your arm and bunch in your hip, eager for her touch on your fervent skin. She smiles softly against your neck before pulling back once again to look at you. This time, though, her pupils are dilated, she’s not searching your face, but drinking in as much as she can of the view in front of her. Your spine curves at the attention and your lower half shifts forward, seeking her touch on your wet folds. 

“You’re so good for me, honey.” She says, mouth dropping to suck the upper side of your left chest.

The praise makes you pudge on her embrace, tears showing themselves once again as you let them fall freely, cascading down your cheeks. 

“Please, don’t stop.” You beg her, afraid she’d notice your crying and take it the wrong way. 

Her big brown eyes meet your wet ones, she gently places a peck on your lips as if to show you that you’re safe. 

Her ministrations don’t meet your urgentness, she tends to you as if polishing a porcelain doll and, as much as your desperation grows in scale, you can be nothing but grateful for the care. Her fingers descend down your curves, landing in your thighs and squeezing them. 

The whine that escapes you is pathetic. 

She plays with the material of your shorts as she sucks a purple spot into your pulse point, marking you as hers. That finally seems to quench her thirst for your neck and her lips brush down to your chest, teeth grazing a path on your skin as she bends your back slightly to close her mouth around a nipple. 

A hiccup rocks your body as it's filled with buzzing anticipation, your fingers tangle in her short brunette hair and your palm rests behind you to hold your own weight. Your hips move on their own, making small circular motions against the desk as her hands reach up to grope them. 

“Lydia.” You breathe, drawing her closer. 

She softly bites the underside of your chest as a response, her digits travel down your waistband and a groan reverberates against your skin when she meets your wet curls. 

“Oh honey.” She says simply, your cheeks burn. 

As if sensing your embarrassment, her eyes find yours. She places a gente peck against your lips, free hand moving up to cup your jaw as she mutters.

“You are so beautiful.” 

Her thumb caresses your cheekbone, her lower fingers stroke your soaked slit. The praise and delicacy combined with the need inside you makes you pull her in for another kiss, legs squeezing her midsection in an encouragement for her to continue. 

She moans against your lips, the salty taste of tears growing on your tongues. Your bottom buckles against her hand when she nears your entrance, only for her fingers to gather your wetness and move up to circle your clit. 

“Please, don’t tease me.” You beg, separating yourself and holding her by the lapel of her shirt. “I can’t take it.” 

The weak timber of your voice makes her shush you softly, wiping the falling tears. 

“Oh baby, no. I’m not teasing you, I’m just making sure you are ready.” 

The concern is sweet, you couldn’t have asked for anyone better at your side in such a sensitive moment, but as much as it warms you, it doesn’t prevent you from pathetically speaking. 

“I’m ready! Please, I just- I need you inside me.” 

She kisses the wet trails on your cheeks, her digits enter you oh so gently, as if afraid you could break in her arms at any given moment. 

As if you weren’t broken already. 

Her palm meets your damp curls, her fingers fill you up and you close your eyes for a second, enjoying the feeling of having Lydia inside you. When she doesn’t move, though, you undulate against her hold, gasping when your clit meets her skin.

She smiles softly at your eagerness, before drawing her finger out and dipping them in again, startling a slow, torturous rhythm. Your head falls forward, resting against her covered collarbone as your hips urge her thrusting, trying and failing to make her move faster. 

“Relax, baby.” Her breath ghosts your ear. “Let me take care of you.” 

Giving in for someone else, letting go of your control, is not something you are used to, the idea usually leaves a bitter taste on your tongue and a sourness in your stomach, but now, you do so naturally. Trust a foreign notion that leaves you lightheaded. 

You relax against her hold, rests your temple on her shoulder and stops to feel the slow build pleasure washing over you. It envelops you calmly, as if out of grasp, working on its own time even if your body screams for it, for release, for the bliss of becoming unthinking for a minute. 

The fingers curl, your breath hitches. Lydia’s free hand takes hold of the back of your knee and pulls you closer, digits plugging deeper and making you shudder. The puffs of air that leave your mouth hit the brunette’s wrinkled neck and return to you, sweat growing on your brows as your body heats up. 

“That’s it, baby.” She encourages, thumb drawing random circles around your clit. “You are doing so good.” 

A whine escapes you at the praise, her black blouse bunching in your hold. Her finger finds the soft patch inside you and the calm thrusting is enough to have your eyes stinging with pleasure, the gentle approach of an orgasm alien to you.  

This type of intimacy is not something you are familiar with - to be coached, unhurriedly and attentively, through the waves growing in your body as it becomes rigid with pent up release. You shift with anxiety at the slow pace, but don't force Lydia to abide by your desires, only sink your nails into her covered shoulders and shiver when her free hand runs up to caress your hard nipple. 

The pinch makes you jump, a chain reaction following the electrical shot up your spine that, even with the unhurried rhythm, has you losing track of the world around you. Lydia applies pressure into your clit as you seize, the circling motion making you groan loudly and unrestrained, your out of reach orgasm approaching all at once as you become rigid. 

She speeds up now, just a little, just enough to have your toes curling and your eyes rolling, white flourishing behind your lids as she hits the perfect spot to have you trembling in seconds. It’s overwhelming and it feels sudden when your peak washes over you. 

The movement of your hip you’ve been trying to contain comes back at once, you meet her palm as you lose control of yourself, goosebumps rising in your skin as your hands squeeze the clothing beneath them. The gasps that leave your lips make you breathless and your vision swims in front of you, blurred by tears of pleasure. Your climax brings in the relief of body and mind as your thoughts are completely clouded by emptiness, the only thing you can do is feel. 

And just as unexpected as it started, it's over. 

The air in your lungs insufficient from the exertion and rush of emotions, you puff against Lydia’s collarbones, forehead resting on her shoulder. The smell of her rich perfume invading your senses as you weakly shift in her embrace, nodding as a signal and whining when she takes her fingers from inside you, cleaning them in the towel, never letting go of you. 

There’s a calming stillness in the ambient, the tea still boils on the stove, the sun shines over you and Lydia as you come back to yourself. 

And, like she had done many times before, the brunette waits, calmly holding you as you breathe, nails stroking your wet strands. 

“Take you time, honey.”  

─────── ⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅ ───────

Comments and constructive criticism are always welcome!

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[happy112288]

Jschlatt x Reader- Japan Vlog <3

summary: you are a streamer, and you're filming a vlog for your japan trip with schlatt!

warnings: kissing, and prob bad writing lol

word count: 1.2k

a/n: hi! this is my first time ever writing anything schlatt related so plz go easy. I wanted to write more on this or even turn it into a smut, or like other japan vlog ideas so lmk if anyone likes it. 🙏🙏🙏🙏

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The end of May brought a temperature that was not quite blazing hot, but not cold either. It's summer time in Japan. The perfect weather to spend a day outside, breathing the mostly fresh air of Tokyo. At least it's not LA. You were visiting Japan for the second time with your dear friend Schlatt. Well, dear friend might not be the right word. You and Schlatt had met in college. He was studying computer science, and you were studying forensic science, so your paths happened to cross in the endless (miserable) calculus class you had taken. Around the time he dropped out, you took an extended break from school as well. Also deciding to start your own channel. Unlike Schlatt, your channel was more of a mix, from thrifting videos, baking videos, and of course gaming. You even spent time on SMP Live together. Now, in 2024 you stick to vlogging and gaming. It was great, having a friend to stick by you through the past years of your life. The issue was, you had a massive crush on him. Who wouldn’t?! When you first met, he was a total classic nerd, but so hot. Then the chops came, and honestly…your crush got worse. Anyways, everyone but Schlatt seemed to be aware of this predicament. Even Tucker knows you totally like him. So of course the only logical solution is going to Japan…with Schlatt…for two weeks. Just the two of you. What the fuck. You snap out of your thoughts at the announcement of the train arriving soon. You pull out your camera and begin the vlog. Snapping open the side of the camcorder, you raise the camera to your face and say with a smile, "Hey Pussycat’s! Welcome to today's Japan Vlog!" You can see Schlatt roll his eyes in the small window of the camcorder. "Today we will be going down to…Takeshita Street in Harajuku!” you pause for dramatic effect. You can see Schlatt laugh in the viewer. You laugh at his lack of enthusiasm. "You really are only coming for Lemon-sha, aren't you?" You ask him. "Well, duh," he responds with a smile. You stop recording and shut the camera tucking it safely back into your bag. "Sadly, there's a lot of fun shopping to do before the camera store," You tell him with a smile, looking up into his eyes. He glares for a moment with a sad frown, it's hard to take him seriously when his chops curve into a frown as well. "Oh, please, you'll survive," You say as the train arrives. You both boarded and thankfully found seats. As the buildings blur, the stop for kita-sando station gets closer. You look at yourself in the reflection, double checking your outfit. You had gone with a gothic lolita vibe today. A black dress with ruffles and small bows, a pair of matching knee highs and gloves, all topped off with a cute skull and crossbones bow. Of course you had your favorite (and most comfortable) platforms on for the day. You notice Schlatt stand for the stop and you rise up to stand too. Suddenly the train screeches to a halt, causing you to fall into Schlatt, who thankfully catches you. Your cheeks heat up for a moment, mumbling a thank you as the both of you leave the train. As you reach the light at the top of what feels like a million stairs, you swear you can see a light blush on Schlatt’s cheeks. You take capture a shot of the bustling station to use later. Glancing over to your left you see Schlatt looking on the map for the stores. Slowly you two find your way, the excitement grows with each step as you make your way over. Eventually reaching Takeshita Street. You smile with glee and pull back out the camera, snapping a short clip of the street. You turn to Schlatt, who is looking at you with a smile. For once, he looks out of place next to you. Around you is a sea of color and oddity. People all over are dressed in full classic Harajuku fashion, and for once, you seemingly fit in. Granted, you did spend at least an hour putting together the perfect outfit for this vlog. This could be one of your biggest videos yet. You beam up at Schlatt as he looked over the crowd.

"There's so much color", he said with a squint, "My eyes are burning". You roll my eyes at his comment. Then, gently grabbing his hand, You drag him off to the first store.

-----------------------------------

Finally after (according to Schlatt) 10 hours of shopping (it was more like four), you two finally make it to the final store. At this point you have about five bags of clothes in all different styles, the ideas running through your head for try on hauls and styling videos. Walking into the store, you immediately go to the dress section with one goal in mind. To tease. Let’s face it, you had been friends with Schlatt for over seven years. It was time to make a move. Now or never. You were set to find the sexiest dress for dinner tonight. You two have plans to try a high end korean bbq restaurant.

You are sifting through the collection as Schlatt relaxes in the chairs, scrolling through his phone. While he was bored, part of him was excited to see what dress you'd pick. Grabbing three options you went into the dressing room. The first one was not great, while it was your favorite color, the dress design didn't fit you well, and it was a bit tight. Trying on the next dress, it fits perfectly, but something is missing. Curious you walk out into the dressing room to show Schlatt.

"What do you think?" You ask Schlatt, twirling so he can see the whole dress. He pauses for a moment, eyes crawling drown your body to edge of your dress, which falls onto your upper thighs. He swallows and glances up at you quickly.

"It's nice" he says, shifting in his seat. You smile at this reaction, but it's not perfect.

Scrunching up your nose you say, "I don't love it." Ignoring the disappointment on his face you slip back into the dressing room. A devilish smile dances on your lips. Grabbing the third dress, you check the size. It was the same dress as before, but in a deep red. Schlatt's favorite color on you. Quickly exiting the dressing room, you pay and follow Schlatt outside.

Your next stop was at the camera store, as promised. Walking into the rows of electronic filled shelves, you see Schlatt’s eyes light up with excitement. You two quickly get separated as you look for a new phone case, Schlatt is off drooling over the different camera models. Eventually deciding on your new case, you walk over to Schlatt. You open your camera and take a quick shot of Schlatt. He looks cute. You finally are able to drag him away from the camera section, with much protest. You both pay and return to your hotel to get ready for dinner.

—-------------------

The time is now. You have been preparing for this day for the past few weeks. You take a nice everything shower, then start getting ready. Drying and lightly curling your hair, putting on your makeup. Then finally the dress. You slip into the dress and it looks amazing. The dark red compliments your skin and brings out the color in your eyes. To simply put it, you’ve never looked hotter. You walk out of the bathroom. Schlatt is sitting on his bed, scrolling through his phone as he waits. He’s wearing a nice black button down, slightly unbuttoned at the top. Christ even looking at him makes you feel warm. You softly clear your throat.

“Are you ready?” You ask with a smile. Schlatt looks up at you and his eyes go wide. His gaze is hungry and a bit dark. He takes a long moment to look you up and down, before standing. He walks over to you and gently moves a strand of hair out of your face.

He bites his lower lip before saying, “Y/N, I was going to wait until later to talk to you.” He takes your hand before meeting your gaze again. “I have been in love with you, for years now, toots.”

You blush at his words, disbelieving what you were hearing.

“I know I should’ve told you sooner, but I was afraid.” He looks at your lips, “I don’t want to be afraid anymore.”

“Then don’t” You whisper. His lips crash into yours. You melt into his touch. He tastes like Whiskey and some chocolate you two bought at the family mart earlier. He brings his hand up to your face gently holding it. You smile more into the kiss. Your hands slowly travel up to his hair, lacing your finger into it. You two part for a moment.

Out of breathe he says, “I’m guessing you like me too, toots.” “No shit big guy.” You respond with a smile.

[wasteful-sam]

Worthy [Part 3, Chapter 16]

Tags:

Slow burn, romantic, eventual smut, mutual pining, angst and feels, ongoing, F/M, Rolan/female drow.

Summary:

After two weeks at Ramazith's Tower, Rolan reflects on the torment and manipulation he endures as Lorroakan's apprentice, recalling a cruel "lesson" meant to break his spirit. Still, he clings to hope.

Notes:

CW: abuse. This chapter is, unfortunately, full of misery and angst. But I simply cannot glance over Rolan's time at the RT with the phrase, "It was bad." Our character and motives are shaped by our experiences, both uplifting and horrible, and the same goes for his. You have my word: once this arc is over, the scum of the Earth known as Lorroakan will be humiliated and destroyed.

[AO3 Link]

+++

Worthy

Part 3 | Chapter 16

Distorted

The past two weeks under Lorroakan's tutelage had felt more like two years. At least to Rolan.

Midnight crept in as the tiefling sat alone in his small study, scribbling the day's reflections into a humble diary. Rolan was far from documenting everything that had happened, however. Some truths were simply too humiliating to commit to paper - even in a private journal.

Growing weary of the day's recounting, Rolan set the quill aside and mouthed a spell. Moments later, he hovered a few inches above the chair, legs crossed in quiet suspension.

The wizard's gaze swept over his temporary abode. Small and crammed with bookshelves, it felt hollow still. Even the bed - a luxury compared to the places he'd slept in recent months - was cold and uninviting. Rolan often found himself dozing off in the chair by his work desk instead, fatigued by the myriad of tasks Lorroakan would assign him.

It seemed that the master of Ramazith's Tower could never make up his mind: one moment, Rolan would stand at the Sorcerous Sundries’ counter, trading scrolls. The next, he was in the Vault, dusting ancient tomes.

It was nothing like he'd imagined a wizard's apprenticeship to be. It was as if Lorroakan would rather do anything else than teach him the ways of the weave. And on the rare occasions he did, the mage seemed more interested in flaunting his own power than passing it on.

But Rolan still found merit in staying at the Ramazith's Tower, where the access to knowledge seemed limitless. The tiefling seized every free moment to read rare manuscripts and refine his craft. Even in this short period of time, the arcane energy of the Ramazith's Tower did wonders for his magic skills. Small mercies, Rolan thought, reflecting on everything that had happened since he first stepped foot into Sorcerous Sundries.

He started mindlessly leafing back and forth through the diary, his golden eyes landing on old entries.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

August 3rd I got to see Dammon today. His forge is mercifully close to the Sorcerous Sundries. I can visit briefly when I'm out fetching Baldur's Mouth for Master Lorroakan. Impressively enough, Lakrissa found the underground passage between Rivington and the Lower City. She, Dammon, and Alfira crossed the very day I sent my letter. Dammon says Lakrissa managed to secure a job as a bar maiden at the Elfsong Tavern, and Alfira stays with her. Should I have a day off in the future, it might be delightful to visit them with Cal and Lia.

August 14th Lorroakan ordered Miklaur and me to double the number of traps at the Vault. He grows more paranoid by the day. Not good.

August 8th Another mutilated corpse was found, now near the Grey Harbor. Customers whisper it was a refugee, too. I must write to Cal. They need to stay off the streets after dark.

August 16th I am still unable to master counterspell. Lorroakan muses that it is due to my lack of strong will. Bloody bastard. What would he know of will? He teaches me nothing but evasive tricks. I doubt it's a coincidence. I must endure. Or he'll taste the strength of my will on his own foul bones.

August 4th Master Lorroakan is a braggart and a hypocrite, but he has what I need: resources. Knowledge. The ability to become who I truly am.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Rolan's gaze lingered on the August 4th entry. It was short - but it carried so much between the lines.

Those words etched into the parchment were for self-assurance. His quiet prayer for endurance.

His golden eyes slipped shut as memories of that day cast their shadow over him once more.

+++

He was summoned to the top floor of Ramazith's Tower that afternoon - nothing unusual in itself. In this short three-day span, Lorroakan developed quite a habit of calling upon Rolan at the most arbitrary hours. Later, he wouldn't hesitate to summon his apprentice even after midnight. To accomplish that, the magus weaved a simple yet effective spell: should he only wish for it, Lorroakan's voice would ring in the tiefling's mind, insisting, "To me, now." The command could reach Rolan anywhere in the Tower or the Sorcerous Sundries and wouldn't fade away until he'd complied.

As Rolan stepped into the chamber, he found Lorroakan standing at the center, head bowed over an ancient tome. It was a familiar performance. The wizard liked to feign distraction, to pretend he hadn't noticed anyone's arrival. But Rolan could already feel Lorroakan's saucer eyes following him across the room.

"Master Lorroakan," the apprentice bowed.

"Come closer, boy," he leisurely waved his hand, "I have something to show you."

No questions asked, Rolan strode towards his mentor. As he neared the center of the room, he felt a surge of weave stirred near the floor just ahead, brushing against his senses with an odd, defensive hum. The energy seemed to shift here, carrying a defensive aura. It was quite unusual.

Still pretending to read, Lorroakan urged, "How long do you intend to keep me waiting?"

"Master," Rolan hesitated, "Did you cast something recently?" his eyes drifted briefly towards the area of interest.

The wizard tsked, "Let's leave ignorant questions for later, shall we? I need you to come here. Now."

The tiefling took a couple more steps, but his gut feeling kept on persisting that something was very wrong. He stopped again, meters away from the place where a bizarre surge of invisible energy accumulated. Rolan would have to cross it to get to Lorroakan. His golden eyes flickered at his master. Surely, he was testing his apprentice somehow.

The tiefling took a deep breath and quickly waved his tale above the area. Seconds later, the floor exploded with bursts of ice and frost. Rolan barely managed to flick his tail away, remaining unharmed by the masterfully hidden glyph of warding spell. A smirk adorned his face - it was a test, and he passed.

Yet, Lorroakan was far from pleased. As he observed the scene, his lips shrank into a thin, pale line, "What do you think you're doing?!" he screamed.

Confused, Rolan muttered, "Uh… disarming the glyph. As you would - well, as I thought you'd expect me to?"

"You presumed wrong, you imbecile!" the wizard rushed to the tiefling, clearing the weave residue as he moved, "I ordered you to come to me, not to stand around waving your tail like a damned performer!

As the realization dawned on Rolan, his mouth went dry, "You wanted me to step onto it?" he asked slowly, trying to hide disbelief.

"It's an empowered spell," Lorroakan lifted his hands into the air, "How else do you expect me to see its effects on a living subject?!"

The tiefling remained speechless. Words he wished to utter would escalate the situation beyond repair. What's more, Rolan still struggled to understand if Lorroakan's words carried any hidden meaning. Perhaps the magus was just in a foul mood?

"I think, he began, "there are less harmful ways we can test..."

A thwack.

A dull, sickening crack against the left side of his face stole Rolan's breath.

Lorroakan's staff had struck without warning - clean, brutal, and precise. The force of it drove Rolan to his knees.

At first, Rolan thought he went deaf, hearing only the muffle of white noise. The sound of blood dripping against the cold stone finally returned him to reality. His nose and upper lip were dosed in burning pain, the smell of metal brought upon nausea. His limbs buzzed with a sickly cold as if his own body was punishing him for not reacting faster.

His fingers curled against the ground, and he stared at them - at Nimriel's ring, now streaked with crimson. Blood smeared across the band, like a mark of the tiefling's humiliation. He hurried to clean it away with his thumb as if doing so would erase his shame.

And when it didn't, the tiefling looked up, meeting Lorroakan's smug glare.

"I summoned you here not to think but to do as I say," he murmured, his voice drenched in amusement.

"Why...?" was all Rolan could master, unsure if he addressed Lorroakan himself or the cruel twist of fate that had brought him here.

"Why?" the master of Ramazith's Tower repeated mockingly, "Boy, don't you realize I went soft on you for such insolence?" he shrugged, inspecting the tip of his staff, checking if it was damaged in any way, "You don't quite understand your place in this world. I've given you one in a million chance, and you choose to disobey me at the first sign of difficulty? Quite pathetic."

Lorroakan lowered his staff towards the tiefling, making the latter flinch, "Grab it and get up," he commanded.

Rolan remained motionless. He stared at the man's face, studying every twisted crease, every gleam of sadism in his eyes. He knew. This would happen again.

The need for retaliation surged through him - raw, white-hot fury screaming for release. But reason followed close behind.

If he had acted out now, his journey here, years of writing letters and searching for a mentor, would have been in vain.

If there ever was a time to swallow my pride, it is now.

Ignoring the cautious protests in his chest, Rolan finally reached out and grabbed the staff, getting up on his feet.

"I misunderstood," he mumbled, jaw clenched, each word dragged like iron across his teeth.

+++

The memory gripped Rolan like a vice, yanking him from the air. His levitation faltered, and he dropped back into the chair with a jarring thud, eyes snapping open.

Unwittingly, Rolan brought his hand to his lips and nose, feeling a phantom pain of that hit. His lower lip was cracked - a consequence of another recent beating by Lorroakan. Rolan's "crime"? Forgetting to note one of the ingredients they'd received from the Underdark.

Maddened by the sensation of swelled, raptured skin, the tiefling swiftly got up, knocking the chair over with a loud crack.

Rolan stormed to the standing mirror in the corner. The tiefling's reflection looked even more miserable to him than it did yesterday. His amber eyes were sunken deep, their color amplified by the coal-black rings beneath them. His cheeks, jaw, and nose now always carried burgundy bruises. Lorroakan exclusively battered him with his staff as though even a short contact with the tiefling's skin might infect him.

The cut on his lip was now bleeding - an unfortunate consequence, as Rolan developed a habit of biting on it when distressed.

He sighed, thinking how merciful it was that Cal and Lia didn't see him like this. Lorroakan forbade the tiefling from inviting his siblings to the Sundries or the Tower, citing that they would serve as a distraction to his apprentice's "studies." Rolan knew it to be a blatant lie, but he didn't mind Lorroakan's decision as much. If his siblings discovered what his apprenticeship truly entailed, they wouldn't hesitate to drag him out of Ramazith's Tower themselves. And the wizard couldn't afford that to happen. Lorroakan paid him on the daily - undoubtedly, another leverage above the tiefling's head, his instrument of control, his disproportionate retribution for cruelty. But gold is gold, and without it, Lia, Cal, and he would be tossed out of the city, thrown into the wilderness again with little to no means of survival.

And so, he chose to protect his siblings' peace, lying to them in letters. Rolan wove excuses about long hours and difficult studies, telling them it wasn't a good time to meet and that their visits would only distract him.

Minutes passed as he stood motionless, glassy stare eviscerating the mirror. His thoughts drifted to the memory of Moonrise Towers when he plunged a dagger again and again into a cultist's flesh. Only in place of an absolutist, he imagined Lorroakan instead. Replaying the image over and over in his mind finally put a crooked smile on Rolan's face. He was ready for another of his daily rituals.

The tiefling feigned an unbothered look, eyes still on his reflection, "What, this?" he gestured vaguely at his bruised face, "How silly of me. The stairs at the Sorcerous Sundries are very twisted. I simply missed a step," he offered his clone in the mirror a clumsy smile.

Rolan repeated his well-rehearsed lies over and over, coming up with variations just in case.

Still, his reflection wasn't convinced. It finally snapped, twisting its lips into a demented grin, "Is it everything you ever dreamed of?" the creature that looked like Rolan sneered, eyes gleaming with mockery, "Revel in your misery, you sorry excuse of a wasted flesh bag."

"Shut your mouth," the tiefling could only mumble in response, shielding his face with his palms from the despised reflection.

It was enough practice for today. Stepping aside from the mirror, Rolan returned to his desk, getting the chair off the ground. Exhausted, he sank back into it, limbs heavy, mind humming with fatigue. The tiefling had no intentions of writing anything else or studying, for that matter.

Instead, his hand reached for a small, worn book tucked in the top-right corner of the desk. It was The Way of the Wanderer, gifted to him by the little Ide. Surprisingly, the book became one of the few joys Rolan blissfully experienced while staying at Ramazith's Tower. Reading it, the tiefling could pretend that he himself was the titular traveler - wandering lands unknown, free from masters, burdens, and bruises.

From Bex's last letter, he knew that Mirkon was still in Rivington, likely getting into trouble as usual, racing through alleyways with untied boots and too much laughter. But Ide and Umi… they had vanished into the night a week ago. A day later, the remaining tieflings received a note without the return address, saying Mol had found them and that they had now stayed together. There was no indication of their whereabouts, as the children were probably afraid to be discovered and scolded for running off. Mol was alive, at least, a small relief.

Still keeping the children in his thoughts, Rolan opened the book at the part he'd marked - one that echoed in his mind more often than he cared to admit. It read:

Home isn't home unless you're far from home. That love isn't love unless it unleashes you. That the sky is infinitely big as long as you can always see it.

There they were, the three integral things Rolan desperately lacked at the moment.

A sky - his freedom from Lorroakan's torment.

A home - where he could be living happily with Cal and Lia.

And...

Love. Unleashed.

Would he ever be able to unleash it? To speak aloud the truth that haunted his sleep, to face the one who now lived in the quiet corners of his dreams? Of that, he doubted the most.

A fresh wave of longing rose in him - gentler than grief, but far more enduring. He closed the book slowly, fingers brushing the page one last time before setting it aside.

Closing his eyes for a moment, Rolan reached for the piece of parchment he hid, which was locked in the desk drawer.

The tiefling had to reread it every night since he got it. Just to make sure it was real. Her letter.

[limbel]

𝐬𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐟𝐢𝐜 𝐫𝐞𝐜 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ꗥ❀

for week one of #sapphicnaturalreads here is a list of some of my favorite sapphicnatural fics ever that you should absolutely read asap. most of them are short one-shots. ordered by wordcount .

--𝐟𝐞𝐦𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐡

the saint patron of dirt under your fingernails by sonorousangels (anna/mary, 544, T) -- there's a house in lawrence kansas, and inside a woman named mary, and outside anna is watching her. incredibly poetic and atmospheric

the righteous woman (and the fallen angel) by anonymous (anna/jo, 947, G) -- what if. what if 4x01 lazarus rising but with jo dying and anna raising her from hell. this fic is the perfect example of why i will forever die on the hill of short fic

lonely for words unspoken by dirtybackroad (ellen/mary, 959, T) -- mary visits ellen before going home to her husband and kids after a hunt. they drink and they talk. there are things they can never have, some they can

lost and found by @roublardise (bela/meg, 1.4k, T) -- bela becomes a demon but her vessels are all wrong. meg is there to help her find the right one. also works perfectly as a demon!bela study

faith undone by @supersapphical (anna/layla, 9k, E) -- layla is slowly but inexorably dying, that is until one angel comes to answer her prayers. truly a staple of sapphicnatural fics. top-tier characterization for both anna and layla, lovely prose, it will change your life .

--𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐨/𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐲

hunter's daughter by dirtybackroad (mary, 264, G) -- very short and interesting exploration of kid!mary, what it means to be the daughter of a hunter, what it means to be a girl. some really banger lines if you ask me

without mythologies by bellatemple (anna, 3.5k, T) -- really fascinating anna study with some anna/ruby between the lines. it deals with her life as a person and as an angel while reflecting on her relationship with humanity. really good interactions between the characters

remember that summer? by halfweeze (dean&eileen, 3.5k, G) -- not sapphic but it's hands down one of the best eileen characterization i've ever read. explores her and dean's past during stanford!era. very delicate and thoughtful hoh!natural content

jo daily by @mrcowboydeanwinchester (jo, 37k, T) -- a beautiful exploration of jo's life as told through her blog entries from '05. the sapphicnatural fic that completely changed the trajectory of my life. did i mention there's also some jo/cassie .

--𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟-𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐨 𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐫 :^)

fil rose (jo, 1.3k, M) -- four stills from various moments of jo's life, connected by a thread

you need to be careful (eileen, 1.3k, M) -- when you're twenty on a hunt but you pick up a scent and everything changes. jo&eileen meet during a case

sea life, kansas city (mary, 1.1k, T) -- a 29-year-old mother confession to her 37-year-old-son. not sapphic per se, but i wrote it as a sort of mary study on motherhood so i guess it fits here

[la-galaxie-langblr]

May reflection/goals check-in

Academic 🎓

Achieve a 70% overall average for the year 🟡 - I've had 3 exams in the past month and I think all of them went pretty OK, it's still going to be a while before I find out my results though. Also need to keep studying for my final French exam in a few days 😔

Attend at least 1 volunteering event ✅ - yep! did another community gardening session but this time in a different location, it was great fun and as a bonus I'm back on track for my volunteering hours :)

Complete all year abroad requirements in a timely manner 🟡 - I submitted all of my uni's requirements (for now) this week and I'm currently waiting on the French equivalent of the Department of Education to send me some forms

Wellbeing/hobbies/social 🌻

Get back up to date with devotionals 🟡 - still a fair bit of backlog to work through but I'm getting there

Read at least 3 books ✅ - yippee!! I've read The Golden Raven by Nora Sakavic, Prayer for the Crown Shy by Becky Chambers and Diaries of a Bookseller by Shaun Bythell, and I'm pretty close to finishing another book, The Art of Logic by Eugenia Cheng!!

Improve my swimming best - I haven't gone swimming for weeks and it's likely I've lost a lot of stamina, unsure if I can get sub-1-hour 1500m at this point but I'm still going to try

Attend a special event at least twice a month ✅ - This month I took part in 2 ttrpg sessions, visited another city with my friends for a weekend trip and had some people over for a Fajita Friday dinner :D

Spend at least 5 minutes outside every day 🟡 - once again I've been bad with daily tracking but I still think I'm doing pretty well

Create 5th edition of Hot Enby Language Summer plan - not started yet but I should probably get a move on given I want to start it in (checks calendar) 2 weeks

Side quests/bucket list/things to look forward to 🍄

May: possible day weekend trip to another city with my uni friends - yeah!! and it was sooooooo much fun

June: start of summer! maybe seeing my friends at some point but I have a lot of hours at work to do so we'll see

Eat 1 full meal with chopsticks 🟡 - I ate quite a lot of Greek salad with chopsticks!! yes not the usual thing to eat with chopsticks but my housemate also wanted to give it a go, we had about 2/3rds of the salad between us and got really good at picking up both larger cucumber slices and smaller pieces of feta :D now I just need to make a noodles meal and see if I can eat it all

Run at least one week of couch to 5k - not started yet

Create a mini zine - not started yet, but in other craft-related news I bought a punch needle kit recently and I've had a lot of fun with it!! tbh even if I don't make a mini zine next month I might check this off anyways because the spirit of it was to do a Creative Activity

Local museum day ✅ - I had fun at the exhibits! Glad I made time to go and see them

Take stock of my incomplete online courses - not started yet

June will not be as exciting given that I'm moving home and starting the summer work grind, but life can't be exciting all the time!!

[tfyoulookingatgiuxs]

Mama's Boy

Depressed!Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: A very normal day at the Munson house. You were happy to visit your sweet boyfriend, too bad for you, he couldn't say the same thing. He wasn't in the mood and wanted to be alone. You had never seen him like this and that's why you had to ask Wayne for help.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: Insicure!Eddie, Depressed!Eddie, Patient!Reader, blurb, fluff, hurt/confort, theme about alcohol addiction, theme about sigarettes, theme about drugs, past traumas, mommy issue, suicide, bad language. (Whatever you now read about this one-shot is made up. Nothing I've written is canonical. Everything I have written is nothing that has been seen or confirmed in the Duffer Brothers' Stranger Things series!!!)

𝐀/𝐍: Sorry for my english, this is not my native languages. Please support new writers and reblog!Hope you enjoy! Anyway, if you shake your phone/tablet the daisies move :/ (DIVIDER NOT MINE)

word count: 3.4K

It was a simple fall day in Hawkins. The streets were quiet and the days too, while the citizens were already preparing for the Halloween party that would take place in a few months.

Autumn was perhaps one of your favorite seasons and apparently also that of your metalhead boyfriend, Eddie Munson.

Today as expected, you got ready to go to his trailer. You were supposed to go out together to pick up a movie at Family Video and spend the afternoon like that. You were happy to see Eddie again after a long week due to your studies. You were finally free and no one could take that smile off your face. Or at least that's what you thought...

You knocked cheerfully on the door only to hear an "Coming!" from the other side. His voice was hoarse. It wasn't Eddie. In fact, Uncle Wayne opens the door for you. He gave you a warm smile and invited you in but after you stepped into the trailer his smile disappeared turning his face into a worried look. You wanted to know what was wrong, but you thought maybe it wasn't any of your business. Maybe it was personal stuff and you didn't want to intrude. So you looked around noticing that Eddie wasn't there. "Is Eddie home?" You put your arms behind your back waiting for a response from the adult as he headed towards the kitchen counter.

He nodded "Yes, he's in his room but..." He didn't continue his sentence, in fact he seemed to be looking for the right words. You got worried thinking something bad had happened but then Wayne spoke "If you want I'll call him but I'm warning you kid, he's not well" His tone was low and you could see the concern "What happened?" You asked while hoping that nothing serious had happened. Wayne sighed and then pulled a photo out of his left pocket and placed it on the counter for you as you walked over.

It was old and what's more it was also in black and white. In the photo you could see the panorama of a wonderful beach with two subjects present in the photograph: a woman and a child. Both had their backs turned as they looked at the sea or perhaps the sunset. The woman, even if you couldn't see her face, was definitely beautiful with comfortable clothes. The child's features appeared to be five or six years old. You were confused but let the man in front talk to you.

"Today my nephew and I cleaned out the closet," he began, continuing to talk "In one of the junk we found an old photo album with him and his mother" at that news I felt a great weight on your chest.

You knew that Eddie was without his parents and that he had lived most of his life with his Uncle Wayne, but he had never openly told you what had happened to them.

"After we settled everything, he took the photo album and locked himself in the room. I tried to talk to him, but he said he wanted to be alone" You didn't know exactly how to react. You wanted to know more but at the same time you wanted to go console your boyfriend and find out how he is doing. After a moment of reflection and silence you decided to ask questions.

"If I may ask Wayne...what happened to Eddie's parents?" You were unsure whether to ask since the topic seemed sensitive. The man looked away for a moment and then took a cigarette and put it between his lips and motioned for you to go outside. You followed him, you both exited the trailer and Wayne sat down on the steps in front of the front door while you sat down next to him. He took out his lighter, lighting the cigarette, inhaling the smoke and then releasing it.

"Sorry for taking you out, I'd like to talk to you about it in private" He said. You nodded understanding his reasons.

"My nephew never told you about them, did he?" He asked, surely knowing the answer, but it seemed he wanted to be sure. "No, never. He only told me that they died, he never told me how" You replied as you fixed a lock of your hair feeling the cool air hitting your skin making you shiver. Wayne was silent for a moment, continued to smoke as some ash fell to the ground and he sighed. "My nephew. Before living with me, he lived with his mother" The question arises spontaneously "And his father?"

"That asshole brother of mine? He ran away. When he found out that his wife was pregnant he ran. I never heard from him until I was told that he died in a car accident" you were shocked at the news "His mother was desperate, she hadn't accepted being left like that" his eyes looked at the surrounding landscape of the Trailer Park as more smoke released from his lips "She raised him until he was six and then one day we found her dead on the sofa in her house" you were speechless and every part of Wayne's story made you feel bad, you had become a stone statue no longer knowing how to react and comment on those words of his coming from a difficult past, but the story wasn't finished.

"After my brother left, all she did was drink and take care of Eddie when she could. Most of the time I helped her and tried to keep her away from alcohol, but she never wanted to listen to me." Wayne sighed as if he were throwing himself into memories "She then started using narcotics and smoking more often, it had now become her daily routine..."

You wanted to say something but you was immediately interrupted by him "When she died for my nephew was a hard blow at that age. He loved his mother very much...even if every now and then she forgot that he had a son to raise and spent the hours watching television drunk" This time the man looked at you and noticed your sweet soul worried "I can't imagine what it was like for him, losing a mother at such a young age..." you said it in a whisper and Wayne heard you and nodded "It was very difficult for my nephew. His mother was everything for him, even if it doesn't seem like it now...he may seem scary but in reality he has always been a mama's boy" Wayne smiled and his words had the same effect on you.

You had never thought of Eddie as a mama's boy, and it made you feel tender. "Really?" You asked as if you were in disbelief and he chuckled "Really. At the age of five he was already helping her, asking her for help and taking advice from her for anything. However, he never came to me to ask me for something, for my nephew it was obligatory ask mom" You were touched by this side of Eddie that you didn't know. You were really curious to see how he would act if his mother was still here.

"His mother though? How did she react to it?" You asked and Wayne smirked again "Well, yes, she was happy to have this relationship with Eddie, they spent time together, even if it wasn't much, but for my nephew that time was enough for him to be happy" your smile widened hearing those words "But as I told you before, she forgot about him and spent the rest of the days on the sofa. At times like those I took my nephew home with me so he wouldn't see the horrible state of his mother..." Wayne finished the cigarette and threw it on the ground, stomping on it. "Has he ever thought that his mother didn't love him?" Your lips moved by themselves, you didn't know where this one came from but you tried to identify with that little Eddie who was just trying to stay close to his mother even in the most difficult moment, but she was psychologically destroyed and let her uncle get away with it took care of it for him, you would surely have thought something like "Does mom love me?" or “Why does mommy do this?” something similar.

Wayne nodded "Yes...I remember he told me this on an ordinary day while he was having lunch with me. I didn't know how to answer him, I mean, how can you tell your five year old nephew that his mother takes drugs, drinks and that does he do anything but smoke? And what's more, she only loves it because it reminds her of my brother?" That answer left you stunned and Wayne seemed to understand your reaction "Exactly. His mother, as much as she might love him as a son, loved him even more just because he reminded her of my fucking brother... she always said that Eddie looked a lot like him" The cool air moved your hair slightly "And that's it?" He glanced at you "Do I have to be honest? Not at all, it's all her mother. Especially now" You let out a giggle.

"Can I talk to him?" You asked. Wayne nodded but first, he ask you to wait outside for a moment.

After a couple of minutes Wayne came back to you motioning that you could go into the room. Before leaving you took the black and white photograph and headed towards Eddie's room. You found him sitting on the bed looking at the photo album and it made your heart ache. As soon as he saw you he whispered a soft "Hey" while you whispered a soft "Hi" and sat down next to him.

"I'm sorry sweetheart, today we were supposed to go to Family Video and catch a movie to watch-"

"Don't worry Eds, it's okay, it'll be for another time" Your tone was sweet, making him understand that you didn't care about seeing a fucking movie now, but rather being close to him.

"Did my uncle tell you everything?" He said as he looked at you. As soon as his eyes met yours you could see his wet cheeks. He had cried, and it broke your heart in two. You hated seeing him like this and just wished you could console him as best you could. You nodded "How are you?" He didn't seem to want to answer you. Your hand began to caress his back as your eye fell on the album. “I miss her..." Was hi answer. You now saw a color photo of a woman, who you understood to be very beautiful, holding little Eddie by the hand. "I see"

"She's very beautiful and looks a lot like you" now you understood Wayne's words. Even if you didn't know what Eddie's father looked like, he sure as hell couldn't have looked like Eddie looked like his mother, they were identical "Uncle Wayne tells me that too, but she always said I looked like my father" you could hear the note of sadness and contempt falling from his lips "And that's why she left..." You saw how he bit his lower lip tightly, surely keeping himself from shedding tears as you moved closer to him "Why do you think that?"

"Beacuse is it like this... I ruined her life. Every day she woke up looking at the spitting image of my father and that's why she despaired on the sofa ruining herself day by day" Damn it hurt to see him like that. You immediately wanted to hug him tightly "But she loved you and you loved her right?" He nodded.

"Yes, i love her very much but she didn't love me, and she had her reasons, I was the cause of her pain and it ended with her death" Eddie hid his face with the palm of his hand. “I ruined his life Y/N… I'm ruining the lives of everyone around me, starting with Uncle Wayne and-”

"Eddie look at me" A note of seriousness came out of your mouth and you didn't let him finish. Not after he started shedding tears. He looked up and looked at you and with your free hand you cupped his cheek, his eyes were bright "You're not ruining anyone's life Eds. Get it through your head-"

"How can you say that? I should never have been born in the first place, so she wouldn't have died" He said irritated and immediately more tears hit his cheeks.

"What happened to your mother is not your fault, not was your birth. Maybe it's true, your mother loved you above all because you reminded her of the man who abandoned her, but that doesn't mean she doesn't has ever truly loved you" You took out the photograph Wayne had shown you. "This photo is of you and her, Eddie. And all these others too" you pointed to the album "You were always her baby, and as hard as life was on you that doesn't mean she stopped loving you as a son" you said. "I don't know exactly the whole story, but I know that there is no more beautiful bond than that between a son and a mother, and yours was a beautiful bond Eds and it certainly didn't lead her to kill herself" Fuck... he started to sob "You haven't ruined anyone's life honey, not your uncle or even the people around you. If your mother isn't here today it's certainly not because of you, she was suffering too much and wasn't able to move forward" With your thumb you dried the tears Eddie was shedding "But at least she left with the knowledge of having given birth to a wonderful son" you wrapped him in your arms while he let himself go, wetting the cotton of your t-shirt with his his tears. You gave him a light kiss on his scalp as you stroked his hair. "You are the most beautiful thing your uncle could have asked for and the same thing goes for me. You are one of the sweetest and most special boyfriend I could have ever asked for. Every day you improve my life, so don't even think about something like that" you whispered in his ear as he held you tighter.

Eddie didn't answer but vented his tears some more before trying to compose himself.

You didn't accept that your boyfriend talked about him that way. His horrible past had left him with too many insecurities and doubts after his mother's death, that a poor child like him at that age didn't have the strength to face. An image of a little Eddie spending moments with his mother appeared in your mind. The afternoon, the first day of school, the days with his uncle. Your imagination of that sweet, beautiful child was overwhelmed when you then thought about how he and Wayne found his mother dead. Coming home, ready to hug his mother again but she was gone forever. You felt a lump in your throat as you thought about how he must have felt when he tried to wake up his mother. The tears and desperation he felt, something you absolutely couldn't understand but imagining it was definitely heartbreaking. No one would have tolerated it...

Eddie was one of those people who never fully enjoyed his parents. He never knew his father and his mother had passed away dying of an overdose. You begin to think that in all respects you were lucky compared to him. You had a mother and a father, even if they were distant because they no longer felt the love they had before, but they were still your parents. A feeling of guilt invaded your abdomen thinking about how although you had a mother who takes care of you, you didn't have the relationship that Eddie had with his mother and that perhaps he would like to have again. You were also envious of this, yes. But you felt like somehow it was your fault. You have always had arguments with your parents, especially with your mother and now you realize that not everyone was lucky enough to have a mother who takes care of you.

You really appreciated what your mother did, but you never admitted it and maybe that was the reason why you didn't have a good relationship. You could sense that something in you had changed as you caressed the boy's dark curls, pressing light kisses from his ear to the crook of his neck. His breathing had returned to regularity but he was still sniffling and sobbing slightly. Now you felt somehow good, lighter with less weight on your shoulders. You wanted to be even closer to him than you already were and somehow heal his wound that was still dripping blood if touched with a finger.

"Feeling better big boy?" You used the nickname he loved so much. He just nodded. "If you need anything you know you can tell me, right?" He nodded again and gave him another kiss near his ear. It was hot, actually burning hot. You could tell all that heat was from the outburst, the crying and even the embarrassment. He absolutely didn't want you to see him in that state and be able to understand it. Eddie had always been a guy who preferred to do everything alone and without anyone's help, which is reasonable, you had been there too...

But Eddie will also have realized that obstacles are not always faced with one's own strength. Sure, you've always been there for him and definitely Wayne too, but you didn't know how many times Eddie needed his mother. To go to her and ask for help or hug her if he was sick, something Eddie desperately wanted. You felt his grip tighten on you again as he started to sob.

"Shh Shh Shh...it's okay Eds" a hiss came out of your sweet lips and after a couple of minutes he broke the hug trying hastily to clean his face.

“I-I'm really sorry, you shouldn't see me like this.”

"Why do you say this?" He shakes his head.

"Beacuse...well you don't-" you didn't let him finish.

"You didn't want me to find out about you and your mother?" He looked at you in surprise as he nodded quickly “Did you by any chance think I would judge you?” He looked at you and was afraid to give you the answer, because even though he loved you to death and had known you for a long time he was afraid that you would actually judge him, he didn't answer "You know I would never judge you, especially on something like that," you placed your hand on his. "Knowing about you and your mother makes me happy, because I know that you loved her very much, and that she loved you despite everything" now your foreheads were touching "I'm sure your mother is very happy to see her mama's boy grow up" you smiled and he did the same and you pressed a kiss to his forehead "How about this..." Eddie looked at you with his puppy eyes "How about I'll bring you a glass of water and then, if you want to, can you tell me about your mother?" You asked. You couldn't lie, those photos intrigued you and you wanted to get to know Mrs. Munson a little through those beautiful photographs.

He sniffed and nodded smiling at you "Now big boy, dry these tears, I'll be right back ok?"

“Okay” He said and you gave him a kiss on the lips which widened his smile.

And so you spent the afternoon with your boyfriend. Sitting leaning against the headboard of the bed while together you browsed through those photos showing off smiles while you were wrapped in each other's arms. Eddie's head rested on your shoulder while yours rested on his head. He looked up when you finally closed the photo album "Thank you sweetheart" He said as you caressed his scalp "Whenever you want Eddie, you know that I'm always there for you"

“I wouldn’t know what to do without you” his chocolate brown eyes got lost in yours.

"Well, don't think about it then. Just think that now I'm here with you" He chuckled and you both smiled at each other as your sweet boyfriend fell asleep in your arms.

Even though he was now a grown man, Eddie was still a mama's boy.

[yourneighborhoodporg]

The Guardian

Chapter 2: The Revelation

Obi-Wan Kenobi x Reader

Warnings: hella abandonment, angst, mention of deceased character, banter, fluff, self-doubt, lore-building, reference to enslavement, reference to life-threatening danger.

Summary: In the evening, as the four of you arrive at the shelter, Obi-Wan becomes curious about your past from this time of rest and conversation. While Anakin and Ahsoka conduct repairs the next morning, Obi-Wan decides to stay behind to find answers, his unclear intentions putting you on edge. What he discovers, however, will change his, Anakin's, and the Galaxy's future forever.

Song Inspo: Superwoman — Alicia Keys

Words: 7.2K (it's a big boi)

A/n: THANK YOUUU for the wonderful messages, likes, and reblogs. You’ve made my week! I'm planning on making a taglist so message me if you'd like to be on it. Was so excited to write this one for y’all. Keep your thoughts coming 🥹 Also, poor obi (we mess with him a lil’ in this one 😅)

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Series Masterlist

Sometimes a ‘mistake’ can end up being the best decision you’ve ever made — Mandy Hale

The journey to the shelter was tiring, but serene. Snow begun to fall a few hours into the trip, its accumulation gradually adding to the weight on your shoulders and boots. Yet you were distracted from the intensifying ache in every joint by the allure of nature’s frosty expanse. The beauty of each shimmering flake accented by the setting sun made you fall in love with Hoth all over again.

Oh, and that sunset. Its red and orange and yellow hues blended together in their final dance before dusk. A pleasant yet shocking contrast to the landscape’s muted whites and shaded grays.

Yes, it was challenging at times, and if you were truly honest with yourself, each moment felt like part of some long, never-ending trial. Everyday, the instant your skin met the chilly outdoors, you were perpetually on high alert. The wildlife was vicious and unpredictable, the terrain bare, the climate deadly.

But then, there were the majesties— the snowfall, the half-light shades, the way the light reflected off milky surfaces all around you. In moments like these, you felt deeply intertwined with the world, even though you’ve never really explored it. Yet despite your isolation, you’ve always found a way to make the most of it. You had a knack for manufacturing fun in the most bleak circumstances. But even that’s been hard to do in the last decade.

You missed him. You really did. And you wondered every second whether this would be the day he returned. Your friend, your mentor, your…

You couldn’t say it. Your heart ached boundlessly.

You’d tell him face-to-face once he returned. And you knew he’d return.

No matter how long he’d been away, sometimes months at a time, he would always bring you the most delectable treats from a place called Corellia. Sweet rolls, if you remember correctly. On the first day of visiting weeks, whether you were studying, training, or reading through old legends, the moment you heard the distant rumble of his shuttle’s engines, you took off sprinting. Up the ladder you’d go, holobooks thrown to the side in chaos, as you booked it to his favorite landing spot. You’d always forget your cloak, making your meeting with the freezing snow an unwelcome one. But you weren’t deterred, not even by the ship’s manufactured mini snow devils that swayed your stance and blinded your vision.

He was always quick to shut off the power before you reached him, opening the door to lightly reprimand you for getting too close to the ship when he was trying to land. But you had only one response.

“Did you bring the sweet rolls?”

And he would laugh, heartily. And reach into his robe to pull out the most mouthwatering fluffed sweet you’d ever seen. You’d grab it with a wide grin, biting your lip as you salivated before running back into the shelter. He’d smile gently at your retreating form. Not that you’ve ever seen it, but his fondness brimmed the air.

You’d wonder if he was reminiscing too, wherever he was. Maybe he was staring up at the same stars as you. Maybe he was on his way here at this very second.

“Y/n?”

Obi-Wan pulled you out of your fantasies with a gentle tap of the shoulder. You turned to him, continuing to walk alongside the man while Ahsoka and Anakin took their turn on Meetra. When you offered your spot to Obi-Wan an hour earlier, he declined, claiming he preferred to walk.

“Are we nearing the shelter? I don’t see any structures around us.” He questioned while observing his surroundings.

“Don’t worry,” you reassured. “It’s right up here.”

You took a few more steps, checking the distance for certain landmarks. The batch of ice caves to the Southeast stood about two kilometers from the small, folded ice mountains to the West. Yes, this looked right, you thought to yourself before kneeling to the ground.

The travelers watched you quizzically as you began to shovel away snow with your hands and arms, the sleet melting and soaking into your thick gloves. Anakin and Ahsoka demounted, inching closer to get a better look. After a few more labored scoops of hardened ice, a glimmer caught your eye. You cleared the sludge collecting around the metal panel, finding a handle, and pulling it up. The hatch fell open with a clang.

“I live beneath the surface.”

You pulled the sack off your back and dragged it in front of you, opening it slightly to grab a few tufts of lichen which you promptly tossed over to Meetra. She huffed contently, leaning over to enjoy her feast. After closing the bag and tossing it back over your shoulder, you shuffled to position yourself over the entryway ladder before beginning the climb down. One at a time, each traveler followed your descent.

—

Obi-Wan reached the bottom of the rickety ladder that swayed with each step before turning to take in the dimly lit shelter. He was amazed. The older Jedi soon realized that the entire structure was an old starship encased in thick ice and packed snow. There were stacks of holobooks, even some hard copy novels, scattered across the left wall around an old, tattered bunk. A built-in desk sat on the opposite side, a datapad lying neatly in the center. Most notably, colorful blankets with varying patterns, thickness, and textures were strewn throughout the cabin, some neatly folded and others stretched out like a Tooka cat. A large maroon curtain with reflective gold stitches and floral tones hung toward the far end, likely concealing a separate room. A table and two chairs stood in the nearby corner. Steel storage tins often used to store smaller items on starships were scattered against the walls, contents unknown.

“Your quarters are beautiful!” Ahsoka exclaimed as her feet met the floor.

She strolled right over to a particular forest green-based textile with honey-shaded swirls. The young Padawan lifted it, feeling the charming item between her fingers. “Where did you get all of these colorful fabrics?”

“I’m not sure. They were all gifts from a friend.”

Obi-Wan noticed your downcast expression as you turned away from the group, placing your bag on the desk.

Meanwhile, Anakin examined the shelter’s walls by the holobooks, similarly feeling the material with the pads of his fingers. He checked its thickness with a light knock.

“Huh,” he thought out loud, before turning toward the gracious host. “Is this a scouting vessel? It reminds me of something I’ve read about the old Duros vessels.”

Obi-Wan hid his astonishment, biting his tongue to hide a cheeky comment about Anakin’s reading escapades that seeped into his thoughts.

You turned back around, this time with a bright smile resting on your face. “Yes, it is! It’s been here long before I ever was.”

Anakin continued to pore over his surroundings, lightly crossing each arm.

“Do you know a lot about ancient vessels?” You inquired before opening the sack and pulling out a clump of… moss? You promptly examined it. “I’ve collected lots of information about them. It helps me understand this shelter better. You’ll probably find something about your ship in one of my holobooks, depending on its age.”

Obi-Wan watched as you finished your botanical observations, placing the moss on your desk.

“Thanks!” Anakin said, kneeling to inspect your collection. “Snips?” He motioned at Ahsoka who promptly joined him.

As the two searched for information about the shuttle from your extensive collection, Obi-Wan decided to try approaching you once more. He walked slowly, but confidently, warning you with his presence with a question.

“What is that?”

Your eyes grazed his briefly before returning your focus, pulling apart the mystery plant.

“This, is lichen.” You answered. “It needs time and space to defrost.”

You glanced at Obi-Wan who was slightly taken aback by the intensity of your unnaturally shimmering silver eyes staring deep into his, but he didn’t dare show it.

“Eat it before it’s fully defrosted and your stomach will not be happy.”

The older Jedi raised his eyebrows in amusement. “Duly noted.” He paused, combing over your words once more. “Is this what you’ve survived on during your time here?”

“Only recently.” You shook some ice dollops off a particularly shaggy clump of lichen. “I used to get rations and the occasional batch of medicinal goods, but that was many years ago.”

Obi-Wan’s head tilted. “Oh? What changed? Did cargo ships stop coming to Hoth?”

“No. Cargo ships had no reason to be here. The occasional group of hunters, sure. But as long as I’ve been here, I’ve never seen any working civilization that requested supplies.”

“So, who aided you?” He asked.

“A friend.”

He hummed, pulling at a strand of hair and twisting it with his fingers. Obi-Wan was intrigued by your vagueness, hoping to further inquire into your story and learn the details you seemed to openly avoid sharing.

“Here,” you tossed him a large clump of lichen.

He barely caught it against his chest in surprise, surveying you in delighted curiosity.

“Get to work,” you teased.

He smiled, pausing to watch you carefully before copying your actions with the frigid, crystallized vegetation. The olive-tinted herb felt rough beneath his fingers, and as he pulled it apart, he thought to himself.

There seemed to be more to you. Obi-Wan believed this largely in view of his past exposure to secluded beings. These encounters granted the bearded Jedi broad experience with aloof, nefarious, and aggressive personalities from pirates to wartime saboteurs. Yet his superficial impressions of your disposition— outward confidence and affable charisma— did not align with these assumptions.

That ushered him toward a new rationalization— you may not be here by choice. It could potentially explain your obscurity, Obi-Wan thought. Especially if you were being held here against your will, and feared your detainer. If he wanted to at least see if he could help, Obi-Wan would need to gather more information. It was the least he could do given the warmth you’ve shown three stranded Jedi, or who you thought were lost travelers.

“Found it!” Ahsoka yelled from behind Obi-Wan.

He finished tearing his last moss clod, leaving it on the desk before turning around.

“Emissary-class shuttle owner’s workshop manual.” She sighed with relief with a victorious beam as she shook the holobook in the air to make her point.

Obi-Wan watched as Anakin squinted at the media before turning to you quizzically. “Why do you have a holobook dedicated to obscure ancient manuals?”

“There isn’t much else to do as the sole sentient being on an ice planet,” you deadpanned.

Obi-Wan internally chuckled at your infallible logic.

Anakin seemed equally unimpressed. “Touché.”

Obi-Wan was shocked by how effectively a stranger dealt with Anakin’s lip. No argument, no snide remark from his former Padawan. Just, acceptance.

He gazed at you, really stared, hoping to get a stronger sense of your force. To better understand you. But when he concentrated on your life energy, he couldn’t find it. Despite the Force’s link to everything in the galaxy, it seemed that didn’t include you.

Maybe you were, in fact, a criminal. Extremely adept at hiding the truth. Obi-Wan thought it quite possible that he missed key indications of illicitness, thanks to this strangely dormant force signature within you. In that case, he would need to stay on guard. It would be unfortunate if the group of Jedi had to defend against an attempted robbery in addition to crash landing on a deserted ice planet, even if it was three to one. But it would be even more serious if this whole meeting was instead a larger Separatist ploy to isolate and trap two powerful generals. But Obi-Wan wouldn’t let that theory hold much water for long. He knew war had made him somewhat paranoid. Either way, the older Jedi found it necessary to learn more about you during this accidental detour to Hoth.

You interrupted the silence before he could continue his analysis.

“There will be plenty of time to read the manual in the morning.” You advised. “I recommend you all sleep soon. The shelter keeps us warmer underground, but the temperature will still drop drastically soon. It’s best to sleep through it.”

Obi-Wan was warmed by your compassion. “Thank you for your concern.”

He turned to his former Padawan with a knowing look. It was doubtful that Anakin would follow your instructions, he thought. But it’s still better to be polite. At least Obi-Wan certainly knew from the pull of his eyelids and the discomfort in his knees that he would accept your guidance. Even if you were a criminal, it was nearly impossible to steal from a Jedi, even during sleep.

“We will take your advice.”

“Feel free to use the various linens. The bunk is also open to you. Good night.”

Obi-Wan watched as you turned on your heel and walked toward the curtains behind you, disappearing behind them.

He stared at the shimmering, dark red screen that separated the two of you. His conclusion was that you were an enigma, and Obi-Wan found that fascinating. His curiosity was always piqued by the unknown, which would drive his exploratory mind. There seemed to be so much more to you, but he could only scratch the surface. Your intelligence, kindness, and resourcefulness reminded him of great leaders’ and soldiers’ personalities. And yet, here you were, a solitudinarian on a distant planet in the Outer Rim, spending your days reading old holobooks or collecting moss. More and more, he doubted that you had any unlawful connections. But there was still surely more to your story.

He needed to learn who you were, how you got here, and the identity of this mysterious friend, hoping that these answers assured you were here by choice. As a Jedi, however, he was primarily obligated to discover why he failed to register your life force. He wished, no, he found it imperative to solve this mystery before departing from the planet. Though he also hoped to respect your privacy, not prod into your being and mind when you were winding down to rest. Obi-Wan hoped to avoid that altogether unless absolutely necessary. He was The Negotiator after all, and he knew well that gathering information through a conversation rather than prying at your mind would lead to more trust and a clearer picture in the long run.

Obi-Wan’s ears caught shuffling behind him. He twisted to watch Ahsoka collect a few fabrics across the floor while Anakin hunkered down around the holobooks with a few nearby blankets. Obi-Wan snapped a mental image of the scene. He doubted he would ever again have the rare privilege to glimpse at Anakin and a pile of holobooks so intimately collected with brows dipped in concentration. He was clearly desperate to leave this planet, a cold twin to Tatooine. The moment they landed, Obi-Wan was sure that in the back of Anakin’s mind, he was struggling with his memories as a slave boy. This detour was too much of a reminder. Manuals and shuttle specs seemed to serve as his distraction, but he knew it wasn’t enough.

The older Jedi too began to prepare for night, strolling over to the empty cot. He sat in the center, elbows digging into each knee as he rested his chin on the backs of his fingers. For the first time in weeks, Obi-Wan felt comfortable, safe even. There was no last-minute mission, no sleeping on a battlefield, no late-night reports. And it was quiet, peaceful. He scanned the shelter once more, thinking he might get the best sleep he’s had in months.

And he was right.

—

You woke slowly, gently granting your mind room to register its consciousness. Your limbs stirred, testing the width of your linens. In time, each eye relaxed open. Stretching both arms, you sat up, settling into reality as you observed your comfy surroundings in dull lighting. Your bed was soft beneath you with four layers of blankets weighing your form down in its warmth. All that fit in the pilot’s cabin was your bed with limited walking room, but you enjoyed the small space with its elevated concentration of heat and bare walls.

The exhaustion and excitement of yesterday’s trek slowed your morning routine. Your thighs ached from the hours traveling with Meetra, and the detour didn’t help. Glancing at your damp gear sprawled on the floor, you determined it would be at least another couple of hours until your boots, gloves, and fur cloak had dried. You fell back into the mattress with a sigh, bouncing slightly at the impact. You would have been happy to rest for a few more hours. But the moment your head hit the pillow, you knew there was too much to do to lie around. Primarily, addressing the three travelers in the main cabin.

You threw your legs off the bed’s side and pushed yourself off to stand, tossing on a thinner cloak that hung next to you before drawing back the curtains in a slight stumble. Perhaps you should have taken more time to wake.

“Good morning.”

You looked up at Obi-Wan who sat comfortably at your table, legs folded and Holobook in hand.

“Mornin’.” You replied with a smile.

With a stronger gate, you sauntered toward the pile of lichen that had defrosted overnight. A ravenous ache pulled at your stomach as you reached the desk to determine its digestibility. In that moment, you realized you’d forgotten to have supper, and now you were suffering the consequences. Nevertheless, A quick test of the lichen’s plasticity between your index finger and thumb brought out its slimy texture. Perfect. Breakfast was soon to be served.

You briefly glanced back at Obi-Wan. He seemed engrossed in the text before him. “I’m glad you’re enjoying my collection.”

“You have more holobooks of The Old Republic legends than I’ve ever known any one individual to own.” He exclaimed, eyes glued to the screen.

“They’re my favorite stories.”

You leaned over beside the desk to reach into a storage box, pulling out a pair of plates and a couple forks. While in the middle of placing them on the desk, you suddenly recalled exactly who those stories were about.

“Sleep well?” You quickly interjected. The slight pause turned your head. Obi-Wan looked as if he was about to sneeze right at you, but it was more likely that you’d interrupted him mid-thought with your change in topic.

Seemingly disappointed, he readjusted, rolling his shoulders and returning to his story.

“Yes, I did.”

You began to line the plates with lichen. “You and your companions are welcome to my facilities. There’s a trapdoor behind the curtain that will lead you there.”

His features lightened once more. “I’m quite alright.”

Obi-Wan rotated, this time fully facing you in his seat, uncrossing his legs with a hand loosely holding the holobook to the side. “Are you usually this kind to strange travelers?”

Having finished plating the lichen, you picked up both dishes, making your way over to Obi-Wan.

“Only the charming ones.” You winked as you placed breakfast on the table.

Obi-Wan chuckled at your whit, but couldn’t hide the light blush that grazed his cheeks. He quickly buried his face back into the holobook, but you wouldn’t make it that easy.

“Where did everyone go?” You asked.

You used your fork to stick then toss a clump of lichen in your mouth. Its musty tang perfumed your senses, leaving a bitter aftertaste as it slipped along your tongue.

He examined the food before him curiously, picking up a fork to test its consistency.

“They went to fix the shuttle. Anakin stayed up all night reading that manual of yours then departed early this morning with Ahsoka.” He lifted a small piece and took an experimental bite.

“Where does he find the energy?” You exclaimed as you observed him struggle to swallow politely. You tried to hide your faint giggle with a cough.

He shrugged. “Only the Maker knows.”

The cabin echoed with the light clinking of your fork and plate as you continued to eat. “So why are you here?”

Obi-Wan eyed you pointedly. “I enjoy your company far more.”

Despite his confident demeanor, you sensed his intentions reached far beyond his outward manner. It didn’t feel malicious at all. Just, different. As if courtesy and inquisitiveness were not his only motivations.

Your imagination must be getting the best of you, you thought, brushing off your concerns fairly quickly. The man didn’t look like he could hurt a Saccorian grain fly. It was easy to assume that strangers on Hoth had ulterior motives, largely due to your many dealings with pirates and hunters in the last few years. Yet you continued to help them when you crossed paths, even though you were often betrayed. Whether that meant a robbery attempt or something more nefarious. But no matter the threat, no stranger on Hoth has ever posed much danger to you. This wouldn’t be very different.

“Do you say that to all the singular planetary beings you meet?” You teased.

He relaxed into a gentle smirk, returning to the holobook confidently. “Only the kind-hearted ones.”

You beamed at his charm.

Yet, concern still tugged at the back of your mind. He still seemed to be hiding something.

“So how did you come to Hoth?” He inquired.

You struggled internally for a moment as you examined the man. There was no cloud covering that statement, no alternative meaning. It appeared he hoped to understand you better out of pure curiosity, and not for any personal gain.

But why? Why not aid his companions to hasten their escape from this icy trap? Because your company was so pleasant? No, something wasn’t adding up. You must have been reading him wrong. Best to keep it vague. To stay safe, and keep your promise.

“I was brought here when I was young. There are some dangerous people who aren’t my biggest fan.”

Obi-Wan’s eyebrow lifted as he watched you carefully. “Dangerous people? What did you do?”

You grinned, finding his overly troubled demeanor for the safety of a stranger endearing.

“Nothing yet. They just don’t like the idea of what I might do because of an old story.”

Obi-Wan nodded, unconvinced. “And I assume your friend brought you here.”

“Yes, he understood my background and brought me here to train.”

Obi-Wan perked up, raising his eyebrows. “To train you?” He questioned, staring intently.

His interest was beginning to concern you. It was time for you to be more cautious when formulating responses.

“To protect myself.”

“Ah,” he nodded, but a hair dissatisfied. “What is he like?” He leaned back again with the holobook, as if pretending to be less interested. “You friend.”

“Well,” you thought for a moment. “I suppose he’s more like a mentor.”

His eyes shot up, and you hesitated once more. Obi-Wan must have noticed as he conveyed an encouraging smile, motioning for you to continue while returning to his story.

You sighed, looking up at the ceiling, your lichen long forgotten as you tried to picture him. You endeavored to visualize your memories on the cold, rounded metal hull above.

“He’s wise, soft-spoken, the kindest man you’d ever meet.” You emphasized. “He always makes sure I’m focusing on the here and now.”

You paused.

“Sometimes I’d put the weight of the world on my shoulders and he would always knock me down a peg.” A laugh escaped you, head falling in mirth.

Obi-Wan’s warm eyes glistened as you calmed. You took a moment to ruminate further, returning your gaze upwards, nose wrinkling.

“I-“ you paused as a wave of sadness washed over you. “I miss him.”

You looked back down at Obi-Wan. A swirl of emotions played on his face. Sympathy, mostly, but an air of curiosity seemed to bubble underneath.

“He sounds lovely.”

His words felt authentic, but the battle within Obi-Wan that danced so clearly around him was hard to ignore. You were beginning to question your delicate trust in the man. The many questions with veiled intent suggested that he may know your true identity. And if he avoided asking you directly, it could point to dark motives, or a malicious plan.

His highly inquisitive behavior up to this point had subconsciously fueled your anxiety. Your suspicions could no longer be shunned. Despite hoping to steer clear of invading the privacy of these travelers, it seemed that you had no choice. You needed to know more. For your own sake, if not for your mentor’s. He told you to stay safe, and you weren’t going to break that promise. Avoiding scrutinizing this group’s true intentions was too much of a risk to that.

His eyes were still set on you, so you returned the favor. You stared deeply into his gaze, preparing to investigate the roots of his being, until you saw it. In the reflection of his eyes, something strange sparkled. You refocused your vision on his retinas, a crease forming on your forehead. And what you saw felt like lighting to your core.

You launched from your chair, knocking it over as you stumbled a few steps away from the stranger, mouth hung open and eyes wide.

“Who are you?” You asked firmly, making each vowel distinct.

You felt tricked, made a fool. You let your guard down a few times in these many years of caution, but this time would be terribly different. This wasn’t the average hunter or trader. This was an entirely different animal. And you were about to pay the price of this mistake with your life. Unless, you did something quick.

Obi-Wan, on the other hand, seemed perplexed at your sudden change. He watched you with concern.

“Are you alright?” He acted carefully. “Did I say something wrong?”

But this time, you refused to believe his seemingly empty words. “No more games.”

He slowly stood with his hands up as if surrendering while your backward creep accelerated.

“Who are you?! How did you find me?!” Your patience was wearing thin.

Obi-Wan took a wary step forward, hands remaining lifted. “I’m not sure I understand.”

Another step.

“Could you explain?”

You felt the curtain brush against the pads of your fingers as you finally reached it. His continued steady approach had you feeling cornered. It was time to act now. You slipped your right hand behind the divide, feeling the wall for your hanging weapon while keeping your sight trained on Obi-Wan.

Finally, you felt the cold metal hilt. You wrapped your fingers around it and held it tight, keeping it trained behind the curtain.

“I’m warning you…”

He took another step forward.

There was no longer a choice. You activated and thrust your lightsaber in front of you, its gray hue created a pocket of hot light in the shelter between the two of you. Its tip hung inches from his chest.

“Not. Another. Step.” You warned rigidly.

—

Obi-Wan’s mind was racing. New thoughts and questions stumbled over each other in an endless stampede of disorientation.

Hours ago, he advised Anakin and Ahsoka to attempt shuttle repairs without him for the chance to discover your truth. He was convinced now that you were no thief. The older Jedi checked his pockets and lightsaber to ensure everything was in place when he awoke at daybreak. It would have been the best opportunity to strike, and yet, you didn’t take it.

Obi-Wan’s priorities centered. He needed to understand why your life force was unreadable, why your presence on this planet was shrouded in mystery, and why a person who seemed so dedicated to others chose to live in isolation, assuming you had any say in the matter.

When he explored your collections this morning, Obi-Wan was intrigued by the sheer number of Old Republic Jedi tales included. He found it especially telling when you claimed they were your favorite, but lost the opportunity to probe that declaration further.

Regardless of this small success, Obi-Wan’s efforts to connect with your signal proved fruitless. As the breakfast conversation continued, he tried to explore the space around and within you. But still, he felt, nothing. No matter how deeply he engrained himself into the Force, he could not glean one iota of life from you. It obfuscated his mind with theories as he struggled to rationalize this anomaly, but not one postulation had real merit.

So, he switched tactics, relying on his talents as a master negotiator. Yet even then, he perceived little progress. Obi-Wan did gain ground when he learned why you’ve spent so many years alone on Hoth. He was interested, yet bothered, by the possible threat to your life, wondering how a being so harmless could attract such dangers. Such conclusions opened the door to more inquiries.

But then, he learned about your ‘friend.’ How he taught you self-defense and emanated qualities of insight, thoughtfulness, and tranquility— all characteristics that were highly familiar to the Jedi. He reasoned, no, hoped that his suspicions were correct. That he knew this unidentified man. But just when he was about to pose that quintessential query, something went exceptionally wrong.

Now he stood very cautiously, hoping to de-escalate this rapidly spiraling situation.

At least one question had been answered. He finally felt a strong force signature within you, like water through a collapsed dam. And if all was calm, he may have even asked you how you were able to so completely conceal your energy readings.

But now, there were many, far more pressing inquiries that mandated answers, he thought, as he stared down the blade of a Gray Jedi.

“Y/n.” Obi-Wan soothed, dropping his arms beside him. “I promise I will not harm you. And I will respond to any questions you may have about who we are. But I must ask you something very important first.” He watched you closely for any change, but all he could feel was frustrated suspicion radiating off your figure.

“First, you tell me who you really are.” You demanded.

“I am Obi-Wan Kenobi, a Jedi. We are tasked with preserving peace in the galaxy.” He explained, clasping his hands behind him.

“You’re a Jedi?” You questioned, the lightsaber’s point faltering slightly.

“Yes,” he continued in a calm, clear tone. “Y/n, I must know the name of your friend.”

You hesitated, causing his eyes to soften. Whatever he did to scare you profoundly triggered deep regret within him. He hoped to regain the trust of a possibly abandoned Jedi, especially if his speculations proved true.

“Please.” He breathed.

You loosened ever so slightly. “His name is Qui-Gon Jinn.”

Even though he somewhat surmised this truth, Obi-Wan was still taken aback. He took a step away, turning from you as he tried to wipe off the shock pooling around his parted lips. He sensed you further lower your lightsaber in confusion, now aiming it at the ground.

Obi-Wan breathed deeply as he reminisced about his former master. He remembers the many times throughout the years in which Qui-Gon disappeared without informing him or The Council of his travels. He always thought it was just his Master’s nature. His independence and desire to make his own path shine through. Little did Obi-Wan know, Qui-Gon Jinn was raising and training a new Padawan in secret. Yet still, some young piece of Obi-Wan was not surprised. This certainly seemed like something his old Master would do.

He turned back to you, a wistful expression poking through his racing thoughts. “Qui-Gon Jinn was my master.”

He watched as you deactivated your saber, letting your arm fall to the side at this revelation. Your lips slightly parted, eyes searching the older Jedi for any possible mistake before reluctantly settling into the truth. “Was?”

Obi-Wan sighed. “He died ten years ago fighting the Sith on Naboo.”

Horror invaded your features. Waves of sadness and despair poured out of your being as you gently staggered to a nearby wall, steadying against it with your head hanging between your arms. Obi-Wan’s heart dropped, knowing all too well how you felt. He swiftly moved behind you, gently squeezing your shoulder.

“I’m so very sorry,” he whispered into your ear.

Obi-Wan felt your shoulder rise and fall as long, shaky breaths filled the air. He couldn’t imagine not only losing your Master, but likely the only other being you’ve truly known. The blue-eyed Jedi realized your world was crashing down before you.

But somehow, after only a few moments, your breathing stabilized. Slowly, you stood up straight, removing your hands from the wall to turn to him. Deep roots of sorrow controlled your features, your face loosely stained with a few stray tears. Removing his hand from your shoulder, he watched you with anticipation.

“I think he told me about you.” Your eyes tethered to the ground.

Obi-Wan felt a morsel of hope tug at his chest as he watched you sympathetically. The possibility of learning something new about his former Master was tantalizing. After so many meditation sessions in which he failed to connect with Qui-Gon’s spirit, this could be his chance to feel tethered to his Master one last time.

“He told me that you worried too much.” A reminiscing smile graced your lips.

Obi-Wan couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him, relaxing shoulders he didn’t realize were tense. “That sounds like Master Jinn.”

Your sparkling, silver eyes met his intensely. "It's not how it sounds. It was his way of building my confidence."

Your sudden beam at the memory left Obi-Wan in awe of your strength. Your gaze trailed to your holobook collection.

“I read all these stories of amazingly powerful Jedi who seemed invincible in the face of the most dire odds.” He watched you motion to the piles of knowledge. “I never felt like I could quite live up to their memory, but Qui-Gon was always sure to remind me that like all great Jedi.” You paused to send him a lighthearted smirk through dejected eyes. “Including his Padawan, I had no need to worry. The Force would help me grow into the Jedi I’m meant to be.” Sincerity seeped from your words.

Obi-Wan felt as if the hole in his heart punctured at Naboo ten years ago just experienced its first stitch. To find another piece of Qui-Gon, another connection to him, was a dream made reality. Not just by words he never heard him say, but through you, his secret Padawan.

Although there was still much for him to learn, he already found you to be one of the more idyllic Jedi he’s met. Not only in your strong connection to the Force, but from your person. The fortitude, compassion, and honesty you’ve shown in only a day is an example often demonstrated to initiates. That thought brought him back to a question he needed answered.

“But why?” Obi-Wan exclaimed to no one in particular. He turned on his heel to pace in thought, a hand gently resting below his chin. “Why did Qui-Gon bring you here? Allow you to live your days in isolation?” He spun back around, now directing his thoughts at you. “Who was he hiding you from that The Order could not face? Did he even tell The Council?”

You sighed, your eyes falling down to your hands where you gently circled your thumb into your palm. “He hid me from the world, and The Council, because of the prophecy.”

Obi-Wan cocked his head. A prophecy? Another prophecy?

“What prophecy?”

You looked off into the distance. And while your vision was limited by the small confines of an ancient ship buried underground, Obi-Wan thought your eyes were taking you quadrants away. Then, you faced him.

“You should probably sit down.”

He followed the guidance of your hand as it lifted to lead the way back toward the table. The sound of wooden chairs slightly scratching across rusted metal colored the sudden stillness. Obi-Wan settled, glancing at you only to notice your eyes glued to the peeling Japor ivory below. Your finger graced a discolored patch with interest. Obi-Wan waited patiently, hands clasped before him, your hesitation driving his curiosity through the hull.

You raised your vision. “The prophecy tells of a protector, a guide, known as The Guardian. It tells of a Jedi to be discovered and trained outside of The Order.”

“A Gray Jedi...” Obi-Wan mused aloud.

“Yes.” You confirmed.

Obi-Wan’s mind circled through your words. “And who does The Guardian protect?”

“The Chosen One. The Guardian must do whatever is necessary to stand between the Sith and The Chosen One so that they may return balance to the Force.” You explained.

Obi-Wan watched as you peeked at him, a sudden amusement dancing upon your lashes.

“It certainly puts a target on my back for anyone who doesn’t want that to happen.” You chuckled.

Obi-Wan sent you a thin look of disapproval at your dark joke before returning to his thoughts. In all his research about The Chosen One when preparing to be Anakin’s Master, he not once saw mention of The Guardian.

Obi-Wan’s brows furrowed. “I’ve never heard of this.” He admitted quietly.

“Few have. Qui-Gon discovered the legend by chance in the Holocron Vault when he was retrieving something for his Master. I think he said it was part of the Jedi Archives at The Temple, but you’d know better than me.”

“You’re correct.” He confirmed.

You nodded gratefully. “Anyways, from what I understand, The Council feared this aspect of The Chosen One’s prophecy because of its transparent separation from The Order. So they hid it away.”

Obi-Wan took a moment to gather his thoughts. The ramifications of your words were astounding. Another entity, willed into existence by the Force, with the purpose of aiding Anakin on his journey. In a sense, he felt relieved, like a burden lifted from his conscience. Qui-Gon was supposed to train Anakin, but when he passed, the duty fell to him. He never really felt ready, stumbling through ways to guide the young Jedi when he himself had only just become a Knight. But it seems as if the Force works in mysterious ways.

He was equally disturbed by the prophesy’s wording. If a Guardian was needed to protect The Chosen One from the Sith, it suggested that Anakin’s fate was not sealed on the side of the light. And that terrified him. Anakin always struggled with his place within The Order, and while he was very proud of the man he’s grown into, he knew that Anakin still grappled with his intense fears and deep-seated anger.

“I need to know.”

Obi-Wan returned from his thoughts, motioning for you to continue. You watched him for a moment. Obi-Wan could see the gears turn through complicated maneuvers in your head. Then, determination settled on your face.

“Are you The Chosen One?”

Obi-Wan shook his head. “No, not me.”

He noticed your brows crease in confusion. Quickly, the older Jedi played over the morning’s events. His mind centered on what started this conversation in the first place.

“Is that why you were afraid?”

You shot him a questioning look. “I was not afraid, I was shocked.” You staunchly defended, erupting within him a subtle sense of amusement.

But the sudden downcast of your eyes changed his tune.

“I thought you were a Sith.” You candidly explained.

This time it was Obi-Wan’s turn for shock to contort his features. “A Sith?! Whatever gave you that idea?”

“It’s the beard.” You said stone-eyed, pretending to scratch phantom whiskers on your face with an embellishing movement of the fingers.

Obi-Wan nearly choked on air.

You burst out laughing, holding your stomach for good measure. Obi-Wan, however, was unimpressed with your antics.

He leaned back, crossing his arms as an exceedingly light smile garnished his feigned displeasure. “Very funny.”

Your cackle died down before you seemed to relax back into the gravity of the situation.

“In all seriousness,” you began, taking a moment to compose yourself. “When I looked into your eyes, I saw the reflection of my own, and they were silver.”

“And?” Obi-Wan questioned, not seeing the point of her observation.

“Obi-Wan.” You sighed, glancing down at your hands, which you now had clasped together on the table before you.

You raised your head, staring into his gaze once more. And to Obi-Wan, it felt as if you were gazing into his soul.

“My eyes are y/e/c.”

The older Jedi’s jaw fell open as his eyebrows raised. He was dumbfounded, not understanding how that was possible. The first thing he noticed when he met you at the crash site was your extraordinarily bright, silver eyes.

“The legend says, that when The Guardian’s journey begins, it will initiate their transformation. Their eyes will begin to shine the color of their fate.”

Obi-Wan hummed. “And how does that journey begin?”

“By meeting someone tied to their fate.”

Then, it clicked. “Ah, a Sith or The Chosen One.”

“Exactly.”

A hush washed over the two of you as Obi-Wan considered the connotation of your eyes. The two passionate orbs that dotted your face shined a color with deep meaning.

“And your eyes are silver. The color of balance, purity, peace.” He mused, a hand lightly stroking his cheek in contemplation.

“Which hopefully reflects the future.” You countered.

Obi-Wan’s eyes sparkled almost as bright as yours. “A hope we share.”

However, once more, his countenance was shrouded in rumination at a discrepancy.

“But your lightsaber is gray.”

He noticed the corner of your eyes crinkle. “My journey has just begun.”

Obi-Wan matched your expression. “Of course, and was Qui-Gon able to prepare you before…” he trailed off.

You exhaled. “He taught me everything I know, but I must admit, most of my saber and force training was advanced through The Muntuur in the last years.”

Intrigue gripped Obi-Wan, edging him to lean toward you, hands gliding along the table. “The Muntuur?”

“An ancient Jedi training gadget Qui-Gon found abandoned on a distant planet. He never told me where.”

“Interesting.” Obi-Wan mused. “I’d like to analyze this device, if that is alright with you.”

“That’s fine. But first, I must know.” You watched him keenly. “Who is The Chosen One?”

Obi-Wan opened his mouth to answer when a light thud sounded behind him, followed by a ripple of frosty wind against the back of his neck.

“Y/n, I could hug you!” Obi-Wan heard. He turned in time to see Anakin jump down the shelter’s entrance with a wide grin, avoiding the ladder completely in his excitement. Ahsoka made a similar entrance, her lips quirked up.

“That manual was detailed enough for me to salvage secondary parts from other sectors of the shuttle in the repairs! Who knew that bucket of bolts had so many adaptable segments? Had to use every single one.”

Anakin froze mid-saunter, a meager speechlessness overcoming him as he seemed to register the humorless faces watching him from the table, including his former Master who was particularly annoyed. Obi-Wan watched the young Jedi rub his hands together, partly from the freezing outdoors but mostly, it seemed, in an attempt to cut the tension.

“Am I interrupting something?” He chuckled nervously.

Obi-Wan spoke. “Anakin, we need to talk.”

“Is he…”

“Yes.” He finished your thought, glancing back at you to glean your reaction to that sudden divulgence.

“Wow.” You mumbled before sending Anakin an earnest look.

“You should probably sit down.”

[hyukassubi]

🪡11 | Don’t You Get Homesick?

♡𓂃 Pairing -> (Former) Knight! Huening Kai x Seamstress! Reader

♡𓂃 Synopsis -> Growing up, you never believed in purpose, nor destiny. Simply following the path of life, becoming a royal seamstress didn't at all seem like a bad idea. Only thing is, it wasn't your idea.

Your best friend who just so happens to be the crowned prince knows what it's like to grow up having limited choices, and Prince Kang Taehyun doesn't want the same happening to you. The commander knight, in turn, has other plans for the future. After Huening Kai closes a profound chapter of his life, he seeks refuge from the chaos of his past, opting for a cozier lifestyle instead.

... And it just so seems that those plans wouldn't be fulfilled without you.

♡𓂃 Wc -> 644

It was one of those calmer days today, Wizard Beomgyu caved in his laboratory-turret brewing up another one of his unique antidotes for curing cancer in rabbits, Crowned Prince Taehyun in one of the study rooms in the library reading up royal history or something, you working on an aesthetically pleasing tapestry of your most favourite spot in the palace (aside from your studio/ bedroom)— the garden pond.

You didn’t know where Kai was, but you assumed he was busy, too.

Like you, like Taehyun, like Beomgyu.

Until a figure creeps up from behind you, proving all your assumptions wrong.

Huening Kai.

He walks into your peaceful embroidering session, squatting next to you, staring into the clean surface of the pond, reflection starring right back at him.

“...Hi.” He says.

“Hello.” You say, unfazed. "How's your first time being a knight going?"

“Hmm… It’s very tame, actually. I got notified of a perimeter inspection for the next week and tended to Hazelnut’s lice. Oh, and I had an arm wrestling match with the other knights, too. I won, of course.” Kai doesn’t ramble often. He speaks in pauses, short sentences piled one after the other. But when he does ramble, his words flow out as easily as pulling on decorative ribbon. “How about you?”

“Hm.” You pondered. “The tasks are demanding, deadlines are strict, but nothing I can’t overcome, right?”

Huening Kai smiles, nodding along because he completely believes his… close friend can do anything she sets her mind to.

It is Huening Kai’s turn to ponder over the calm waters of the trickling pond, a small population of swans looming in the distance, the faint scent of lilies salted the air.

"Y/n, I've had this in my mind for quite a while...” He started. “I would love to visit your family's shops again one day. Like, properly this time. Formally, I suppose, if it’s alright with you and them, of course."

Your thread that had previously needled in and out the fabric three stitches per second froze, impaled into the tummy of an embroidered swan. "Ahh right, I haven't seen them in a while either." You admitted, and why did that not jab at your heart the way it was suppose to?

For the next couple of intangible seconds, all Huening Kai could say was, “Oh… I… think it won’t hurt to go and pay them a little visit? I’ve been interested in their shops for a while now, actually. What I’m trying to say is… your father’s florist looks lovely, your mother’s bakery must be, too. I just.” Momentarily, Huening Kai held his breath. “It wouldn’t be that bad of an idea to take the day off and meet them? For a while? If that’s okay-?”

"Honestly, with where my life is going right now, I don't think I have time to even visit my parents every so often. Sorry to turn your offer down, though, perhaps sometime in the future?"

You didn’t mean to.

You didn’t mean to cut him off, his words off.

But the air was so thick, so unbearable, it would be awkward trying to fill up the air with a flunked makeshift apology now. Your hands did not move, the thread did not sew itself.

It was just you and Kai and Kai and you and this unfinished tapestry in your hands and the thick, unbearable air between you two.

All Kai can do was stare, and he didn’t know why it felt like he was looking into you from miles away.

He muttered, voice raw and clear, "Don't you get homesick?"

You shrugged. "Not really."

You apologized to Huening Kai later on.

He smiled away, bashful, understanding that that was just a social hiccup.

You agreed with him and kept things that way.

A social hiccup.

Yeah, that’s all it really was.

Was it not?

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♡𓂃Tags: @sweetheartsaku @imcringebutimfree @i-like-to-read-at-4am @pengningie @marloree @stormy1408 @blossommi @flaminghotyourmom

Reblog & review if you like my work !!

[deny-the-issue]

Rainbow Drabble Challenge

Yellow

64.media.tumblr.com

GIF by gameofthronesdaily

Red, Orange <- Previous Chapter, Next Chapter -> Green, Blue, Indigo

Overall Summary: This is a short love story about Otto Hightower being a sexy bastard. There WILL be a happy ending. The reader is mid to late twenties in age.

Chapter Summary: You gift Ser Otto a small token of appreciation.

AO3 link

Rainbow drabble challenge

link to divider

[spinster!reader] [Otto Hightower x f!reader] [fluff] [626 words] [Yellow expressed as optimism and friendship]

The dreaded day has come, and Ser Otto’s mood has suffered the brunt of it. His scowl sends the servants running, lest they draw his ire. He worries the gravity of his emotions has spread too far when you walk into his office with the same shy demeanor.

Then he spies a lacquered wooden box held by your delicate, nervous hands, and curiosity wipes the thought from his mind’s eye. 

You have read every text Ser Otto has to offer, except for a single chapter. He knows you feigned exhaustion the evening before. How could he not? It is part of his duties to know when someone is lying. It is also not in his nature to deny the chance to spend more time with you. 

You stand perfectly poised in front of his desk, finally meeting his gaze. A beautiful blush paints your face as you gently clear your throat. 

“My lord, I would like to present you with a token of my appreciation for allowing me to study your texts these past weeks.”

Raising his brow in stoic interest, he takes the offering, hands touching for a heartbeat before you retreat. The contact made him greedy for the intimate and obscene, something he could only dream of in the loneliness of his private chambers. Cool eyes cast down to the box as he lifts the hinged lid.

Inside lay five bare quills in a neat row atop rich green velvet. They seem finer than the ones he typically uses at first glance. He’s inspecting one in his hand when you begin to explain.

“They are crow’s feathers, my lord. I was told they produce a finer line than any other.”

Ser Otto nodded in agreement. He was told the same but due to their more expensive nature, he chose to remain with the common goose feather for his missives. However, his hand often cramped after long hours of writing, and he wondered if the finer edge would save him that pain. 

“Thank you, my lady. It is a most gracious gift,” he politely accepts the gift, his voice cold and unaffected by his internal turmoil. 

“It is the least I could do, my lord, for encumbering you with my presence for so many evenings. If you would indulge me one more kindness–may I hand deliver your portrait in a month’s time?”

“You may,” his answer is curt, but you wouldn’t know it from the brilliant smile lighting up your face. 

Anger flares in Ser Otto’s belly. Not for you, but for the absolute yearning you instill. So honorable he has lived, where other men visit pleasure houses, Ser Otto upholds his morals. He would take no whore, and the mere thought of ruining you disgusts him. To rip you of your worth for a moment of bliss is unthinkable. 

The emotion leaks into his expression, stealing your smile with it. 

“I’ll take my leave— I know my lord is a busy man. Farewell, Ser Otto, may your days be kind.”

“To you, as well, my Lady.”

The door shuts behind you, leaving Ser Otto to reflect in cold silence. Whatever warmth these chambers provided left with you, and he could feel the loneliness creeping up his spine. The sight of your gift wards off the cold, and the light weight of the quill in his hand brings forth the memory of the warmth you so effortlessly tended. 

A smirk pulls the corner of his lips as he remembers your feigned exhaustion the day before. You make such a beautiful liar, with an innocence he cannot even think of punishing.

A month cannot come soon enough. Even if the portrait isn’t up to his standards, at least he would be in your presence once again. 

[revlyncox]

Committed to Beloved Community

In this post-election sermon, we reflect on the strategy of connection and humanization as a path of resistance to authoritarianism, and on the heritage of Unitarian Universalism that supports that strategy.

Back at the turn of the current century, I visited our Unitarian cousins in what used to be called Transylvania, and is now mainly in Romania. The Unitarians there speak Hungarian and so are an ethnic, language, and religious minority. As many of you know, there have been Unitarian congregations in that part of the world since the 1500s, and though American Unitarian Universalism lost touch with them between 1920 and 1990, our international partnerships are currently strong. At the time of my visit, they were getting used to the new freedoms they gained after the changes that came in 1989, but still very cognizant of the survival strategies they used before that time, when their religious freedom was actively restricted and their cultural celebrations were suppressed; strategies that they may need to use again. 

One of the things our Transylvanian cousins did during the totalitarian era was to continue to meet. They taught their children in secret. They still made their cultural garments, even if they couldn’t show them at festivals. And they talked, learning to trust one another when trust was hard to come by. In an age before mobile phones, they put a pillow over the landline phone before having a conversation. They supported each other and they remembered who they were. Unitarian congregations in Transylvania come in all sizes, from tiny village churches to great historic buildings in the cities. Small groups, large groups, study groups, they all matter. 

The motto of the Transylvanian Unitarian church comes from the Gospel of Matthew, “Be you as wise as serpents and as innocent as doves,” a message of crafty and strategic survival combined with commitment to ethical living. We may find that we have a lot to learn from our Unitarian cousins in the months to come. 

It has been a difficult week to be human. We have seen a large mobilization of energy that aims to remove independence and bodily autonomy from women, to dehumanize and terrorize immigrants, to threaten Transgender people, to undermine science and public health, and to sacrifice the health and future of our planet in the name of profits for a few. Much of this energy is steeped in and fueled by white supremacy, and amplified by well-funded networks of disinformation. Perhaps the success or the volume of this wave of dehumanization was surprising to some. Perhaps it was not a surprise, but is disappointing and discouraging all the same. 

For those who have been working toward a just, equitable, multicultural democracy, the events of this past week have been hard to cope with. If you are worried, or angry, or sad, that’s valid. I hope that this congregation is one of the places where you can come to feel your feelings, to be held in care, and to process your thoughts. When we are ready to move into the next phase, our tradition, our collective wisdom, and our allies have a lot to teach us about what’s next. We don’t yet know all that Love will ask of us in the coming months and years, but we can prepare by strengthening our bonds to each other and to our deepest values. 

In times of heightened alarm, when the cortisol in our systems is pushing us to bypass nuance and reflection to respond to a threat, our first impulse might be to fight, or flee, or freeze. For those who are ready to fight, strengthening the bonds of trust may not sound like decisive action. For those poised to flee, being vulnerable in community sounds frightening. For those who are frozen, it can be hard to take the initiative to text a friend, answer an email, or go to a meeting. Building community at such a time as this may sound frivolous, but everything we know from scholars of authoritarianism and human psychology attests to the importance of human connection as a strategy and practice of resistance. 

Twentieth century German-American political philosopher Hannah Arendt wrote that tyrannical regimes are able to perpetuate themselves by manipulation through isolation. Dividing people into smaller and smaller slices of “us vs. them” increases authoritarian power. Preserving the gendered writing translated from the original, Arendt writes:

“Terror can rule absolutely over men who are isolated against each other … Therefore, one of the primary concerns of all tyrannical government is to bring this isolation about. Isolation may be the beginning of terror; it certainly is its most fertile ground; it always is its result. This isolation is, as it were, pretotalitarian; its hallmark is impotence insofar as power always comes from men acting together … isolated men are powerless by definition.”

Arendt observed that people must be divided from each other for totalitarianism to hold. Conversely, people must be deeply and authentically connected for freedom to take root. Our Transylvanian cousins know that. Paulo Freire, in promoting dialogues in his book Pedagogy of the Oppressed, knew that. In Chile in the 1970s, people organized into affinity groups. In the US in the 1980s and 1990s, ACT UP activists working through affinity groups, caucuses, and committees knew that. We create the conditions for human thriving as well as for effective action when we invest in relationships and build circles of trust with others who share our values. 

It’s important to clarify that, while our values will be shared, our perspectives and experiences will be diverse. Societal breakdown and the politics of fear attempt to drive people to connect with sameness, as I said, smaller and smaller divisions of us vs. them. Retreating into monoculture leads us to simplified answers that increase isolation. We need nodes of trust that are more complex than that. We need to hold each other accountable and to stretch  ourselves to continue to grow in mind and spirit. We will need skills for building pluralistic community, including conflict transformation and dismantling internalized oppression. Gathering in love and trust is about growth and challenge as well as support and understanding. 

The need for congregations like this one to be multicultural, multi-racial, anti-oppressive Beloved Communities is more important than ever. We can also form deeper relationships within this congregation, such as the Open Minds Book Club, or the committees where check-in and mutual support is part of the agenda. There are other models for affinity groups and small group ministries, and I would be happy to provide training and resources if eight or more of you commit to a regular meeting time. Leaning into relationships in this congregation is a liberatory practice. 

As Unitarian Universalists, we already know that creating communities where we are bound together by values and promises rather than by conformity brings great joy. We already know that our minds and hearts are strengthened and expanded by the challenge and the invitation of Beloved Community. We already know that creating a sanctuary for the diverse people who seek a spiritual home in Unitarian Universalism saves lives. We can always get better at creating diverse, anti-oppressive community, but we are starting from a strong foundation of an inclusive theology and a prophetic heritage. 

The part about joy is important, too. Building a trusting, pluralistic Beloved Community can allow us to feel our feelings of happiness, pride, awe, and wonder as well as process the difficult experiences in this world. We need those positive feelings to remember that we are human, to remember that there is life worth living for and working for. 

Also, personally, I am delighted that my joy and my continued existence is an annoyance to the people who want me dead because of who I am; some days, I keep moving forward out of spite. I will not close myself off from life’s blessings, and neither should any of us. To sustain our resistance to authoritarianism, to leave our legacy until such a time when freedom is again on the rise, to be fully present to the life we are given, it is imperative that we care for ourselves and make room for joy. This is especially true if you hold one or more identities that are targeted by a conformist, authoritarian regime: thriving is a revolutionary practice. 

Please know that you are precious and worthy and beloved. I’m going to say that again. Authoritarianism and the politics of cruelty want to make us think we are unwanted and unworthy. That is a fiibbing lie. You are loved. I love you. Let’s help each other thrive. 

Once we have gotten grounded in our values and our humanity, and committed to the communities where we will find trust and joy and challenge, we’re ready to turn toward our larger networks of allies and co-conspirators to get ready for taking the actions that are within our capacity. The circles of mutual thriving and support keep rippling outwards. The first place to look is with the community partners we already have. It is not productive to start a new organization or to invent solutions for people we haven’t consulted. The people who are most impacted by an issue know the most about what they need from their partner organizations. Also, the organizations led by people who are impacted by marginalization or targeting already know a lot about how to survive under difficult circumstances. We can learn something by showing up consistently in accountable partnerships. 

The list of people who are in danger in the upcoming transition is very long. We could start anywhere on that list. Immigrants, Transgender people, and people who can get pregnant are definitely on that list, which is not to discount our concerns about other people and the planet itself. We already have partnerships in place. 

This congregation supports I-RISE, Interfaith Refugee and Immigrant Services and Empowerment. If you have been alarmed by the mistaken and dangerous rhetoric about immigrants that has been salient in recent months, perhaps you will be moved to volunteer your time, or to introduce other volunteers to I-RISE. It matters when we show up for our neighbors.

Another partner we’ve been introduced to recently is the New Labor Center. New Labor provides support like classes for workers, particularly immigrant workers, and they are an organizing hub for worker-related social justice issues. Member organizers from New Labor were here as guest speakers in September. Their fundraising gala is coming up on December 2, and the TUS Board is considering purchasing an ad for the gala program as a way of increasing our connections with New Labor. 

As far as protecting Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, and especially Trans people, TUS has a pretty good relationship with Garden State Equality, and a familiarity with the Pride Center of New Jersey in Highland Park. There’s a UU committee forming statewide for collaborating with Pink Haven, a coalition that is helping Trans folks flee from legislatively dangerous areas. Leaning into these relationships will put our Welcoming Congregation commitments into practice. It would matter a lot to these partners to have the support of a religious congregation. 

Then there’s reproductive healthcare. A national abortion ban is part of the incoming federal administration’s plan, along with restrictions on birth control, and the end of privacy in medical records for people who can become pregnant. Here we can connect with UU Faith Action New Jersey, our statewide legislative action network. Reproductive justice is one of four main issues that UU Faith Action works on, and the volunteers on that committee are knowledgeable about both health care and health policy. They are plugged in to proposed legislation in New Jersey, and to the areas where advocacy can help make implementation of good reproductive healthcare laws a reality. 

In all of these cases, the partnerships will be strengthened as people show up. If you care about these issues, the Social Justice Committee and I can help you figure out how to attend meetings, get on mailing lists, and find a channel for your volunteer energy. Let the partner organizations know that you’re there because of your affiliation with this congregation, and because of our shared values. 

That being said, we need to remember that we can’t do everything, either individually or as a congregation. We will need to strategize about priorities. Trying to respond to every fresh horror will drain our energy and effectiveness. Choose to put energy into deep relationships whenever possible. We might be called to some different things as individuals, which is fine. We also should think strategically about collective action as a congregation, putting aside personal control so that we can harness our shared energy in collaboration with our community partners. 

Not only are we faced with choices about which issues resonate with our unique calling, there are different approaches for addressing those issues. Activist Daniel Hunter from Waging Nonviolence suggests a few possible pathways of resistance. 

One pathway is “Protecting People,” and I think this is where some of this congregation’s partnerships are currently leaning. This might mean organizing for abortion funds, finding an existing mutual aid network to become actively involved with, making a regular commitment to immigrant welcoming committees, or participating in bystander intervention training to be ready for white nationalist violence. 

Hunter describes another pathway as “Disrupt and Disobey,” which goes beyond symbolic protest to direct actions that intervene in the implementation of dehumanizing policies. This pathway carries more personal risk than the others, and requires some specialized knowledge, but it may be attractive to people who either have nothing left to lose or feel that they can afford to put absolutely everything on the line. 

Another pathway is “Defending Civic Institutions.” Recognizing that the current institutions don’t necessarily serve everyone, their complete destruction would harm a lot of people. Insiders in civic institutions might share science or health data before it gets erased. Friends and allies of insiders can support them and celebrate them when they get fired for the right reasons. 

Finally, Hunter describes the “Building Alternatives” pathway, generating visions of other ways we can live together, grow food, sustain the earth, care for children and elders, or work toward a different political reality such as the abolition of the Electoral College. Generative work is slow and difficult to implement, but it can be part of the legacy for future generations to take up when freedom is again on the rise. 

Each one of us may be called to a different combination of paths. Let’s recognize that all of these are valuable, and affirm each other as we live into our values. 

There are challenges ahead, and there will be losses. But I believe we are held by a Love that will not let us go, and will not let us off the hook. I do not know everything that Love will ask of us in the coming months, but I do know that the forces that create and uphold life are powerfully persistent. Justice may be delayed, but not forever. We can keep the vision alive by committing to Beloved Community in our affinity groups, in this congregation, and in collaboration with our partner organizations. Connection and commitment are some of our best tools for thriving and resistance. May we return to our values, our relationships, and our covenants as we hold one another in love. 

So be it. Blessed be. Amen. 

[ladysif-writes-chaos]

Life Changes

•Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Steve Rogers

•Rating: Explicit

•Tags: Recovering Bucky Barnes, Semi-Retired Bucky Barnes, Semi-Retired Steve Rogers, Husbands, Adoption, Hospital Setting, DCS.

Summary:

At three in the morning, Bucky and Steve get the call that changes everything: they're going to be parents. In a whirlwind of fear, hope, and heart-pounding excitement, they rush to the hospital and meet their daughter for the very first time. Nothing could have prepared them for the way she fits into their arms—or their hearts.

"Not all beginnings are quiet. Some start with a phone call, a hospital room, and a newborn who changes everything."

Authors Note:

So today was weirdly chill at the clinic—no dramatic splinters, mysterious rashes, or toddlers launching goldfish crackers like ninja stars. Which meant I had actual time to let my brain wander... and apparently, it wandered straight into a puddle of fluffy, lovey-dovey domestic goo. This little nugget basically wrote itself while I pretended to look busy. Enjoy the sweetness—your dentist might not approve, but your heart will.

The fluorescent lights in the hospital waiting room buzzed faintly overhead, casting a sterile, pale glow that made everything look a little too sharp, a little too cold. The glossy tile floor reflected the harsh light, interrupted only by the scuff marks of too many rushed footsteps. Nurses and doctors moved briskly through the halls just beyond the sliding doors, their quiet conversations blending with the soft beep of machines and the squeak of worn shoes. Somewhere down the corridor, a baby's cry rang out—sharp, thin, and aching.

Bucky stopped mid-step, his shoulders tensing as the sound pierced the quiet hum of the waiting room. His eyes flicked toward the source, then just as quickly away. Without a word, he turned and resumed pacing, his boots tapping a restless rhythm against the floor.

Steve sat in one of the stiff plastic chairs lining the wall, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees, fingers laced so tightly together his knuckles were white. He watched his husband move back and forth, back and forth, like a caged animal waiting for a door to unlock.

The clock on the wall blinked 3:32 a.m. in unforgiving red. The same time it had been when they'd rushed out of the house—shirts half-buttoned, shoes barely on—after the call from DCS.

Steve raised an eyebrow, voice low and even. "Buck, if you keep pacing like that, you're gonna wear a hole through the tile."

Bucky didn't answer right away. His jaw flexed as he ran a hand through his hair, fingers catching briefly in the strands before he dropped his arm and turned again. "I know," he muttered, just loud enough for Steve to hear. "I just... We've waited so long. What if they change their minds? What if we're not what she needs?"

"They won't," Steve said firmly, but not unkindly. His voice cut through the rising current of worry like a steady tide against a storm. "Paula wouldn't have called if she didn't mean it."

Nearly a year had passed since they started the journey—home studies, background checks, parenting classes, fingerprinting, home visits, interviews. It had felt endless, like trying to run in a dream. Paula had reassured them, told them the call could come any day now. But days became weeks. Weeks turned into months.

And silence began to feel like rejection.

Steve had wrestled with the thought, even though he tried not to let it take root: were they being overlooked because they were two men? Because one of them had a complicated past and the other carried a legacy heavier than most could understand? He was Captain America, for crying out loud. And Bucky...

Bucky had been the Winter Soldier. But he wasn't anymore.

He'd worked harder than anyone Steve knew to become something else. Someone better. And he had.

"I just..." Bucky stopped again, this time facing Steve. His arms crossed tightly over his chest, as if holding something in. His voice cracked a little, even as he tried to hold it together. "She's only three days old, Stevie. She doesn't know anything yet."

Steve reached out, resting his hand over Bucky's. His palm was warm, solid. Grounding. "She's not going home with strangers," he said softly. "She's coming home with us."

Bucky's throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. His eyes, red-rimmed and a little too bright, met Steve's. He nodded once, slowly, like he was still trying to believe it was really happening.

Around them, the waiting room churned with life—people coming and going, voices rising and falling—but it all felt muted, like they were in a bubble of something bigger. A moment they'd waited so long for, it didn't feel quite real yet.

Steve held on to that moment, his fingers gently tightening around Bucky's. Because this—this right here—was what they'd fought for. Not just the right to love and be loved, but the chance to give that love to someone who needed it the most.

It had taken years to get here.

When the topic of children had come up, it hadn't taken them long to decide what felt right. Surrogacy wasn't for them. Neither was going overseas or navigating endless private agency fees. They didn't want biology to be the only thing that defined family. They wanted to foster. To adopt. To show a child who needed love that they already had it, without question, without condition.

Bucky had thrown himself into the process headfirst. Every training session, every form, every home visit. He was all in. He'd always dreamed of being a father, long before he ever believed it could actually happen. And after everything they had been through—wars, recovery, rebuilding—he dreamed of Steve being a father, too.

He saw it so clearly sometimes it ached: Steve cradling a baby against his chest, reading bedtime stories in that soft, steady voice of his. Brushing back curls from a sleepy forehead with the same hands that once held a shield.

When their final approval letter arrived, Bucky stood in the middle of the kitchen, holding the envelope like it might crumble if he breathed too hard. His eyes shone in a way Steve would never forget—like hope had finally cracked the door open. And when he kissed Steve, it felt like the whole world had changed.

That was nearly a year ago.

Now, here they were—on the pediatric floor of a New York hospital at 3:45 a.m., sleep-deprived, hearts pounding with something caught between joy and fear. Everything about the moment felt surreal: the too-bright lights, the low hum of machines, the occasional squeak of rubber soles on linoleum.

Steve stood as a nurse approached them, clipboard tucked under one arm and a gentle smile on her face. Bucky stiffened beside him, shoulders squaring like he might need to brace himself.

"Mr. Rogers? Mr. Barnes?" she asked, glancing between them.

"That's us," Steve replied, automatically offering his hand.

"I'm Nurse Kamara," she said, shaking it. "Paula's just upstairs finishing the last of the paperwork with the social worker. They'll be down in a few minutes." Her tone softened. "She's doing okay. A little fussy, which is expected. But she's healthy. Strong. She's a fighter."

Bucky gave a stiff nod, his hands flexing into fists at his sides like he was trying to keep every emotion in check.

"Would you like to see her?"

The question hovered in the space between them. For a beat, the hallway was silent except for the distant beep of a heart monitor and a soft murmur from a nurse behind the desk.

Steve turned to Bucky, who was already looking at him. There was no hesitation in his eyes. Only a trembling kind of awe.

"Yes," Bucky said, his voice low and raw. "Please."

Nurse Kamara led the way. They followed close behind, walking in step, not speaking. The hallway was dim, the overhead lights softened for the night shift. They passed rooms where parents dozed in chairs and tiny feet peeked out from hospital blankets. The air was clean, cool, and heavy with quiet.

She stopped outside a door near the end of the hall and pushed it open.

Inside, the room was small but warm. A soft glow came from a shaded lamp near the bassinet. And there she was.

Swaddled in a pale green blanket, the baby lay sleeping beneath a clear plastic dome. Her chest rose and fell in slow, even breaths. A pink pacifier sat against her cheek, and one small hand had slipped free of the blanket, fingers curled gently under her chin. She had a full head of dark hair, soft and messy, and a tiny wrinkle in her brow like she was already trying to figure out the world.

Bucky stopped just past the threshold, staring like he'd forgotten how to breathe. Steve stood beside him, heart swelling in his chest.

"She doesn't have a name yet," Kamara said gently. "Her birth mother didn't fill that part out."

Bucky's breath hitched. He reached for Steve's hand blindly, like he needed something to hold him steady. Their fingers threaded together in a tight grip.

"You okay?" Steve murmured, voice almost lost in the hush of the room.

Bucky didn't look away from her. He nodded, slow and certain.

"Yeah," he whispered. "I think this is the most okay I've ever been."

They stood there for a long while, just watching her sleep—this tiny, perfect stranger who somehow already felt like theirs.

"Would you like to hold her?" Kamara asked gently, glancing between the two men. "Skin-to-skin is great for her at this age—it helps regulate her temperature, heart rate... and it's good for bonding, too."

Bucky's eyes didn't leave the bassinet, but he gave a small nod. Then he looked over at Steve. "You should do it," he said softly.

Steve blinked, surprised. If anything, he thought Bucky would have been the first to reach for her. From the moment they started this journey, Bucky had been the one leaping headfirst into everything.

"You sure?" Steve asked, voice cautious. "I thought—"

"I'm sure," Bucky said, his voice steady, but his eyes shimmered with emotion. "She should feel safe with you first. You've always been the safe one."

Steve didn't know what to say to that. So he just nodded, eyes wide, heart thudding hard against his ribs.

Bucky stepped back to give him space, but not too far. Close enough to see everything. To memorize it.

Steve toed off his shoes and shrugged out of his jacket, fingers fumbling slightly as he pulled his shirt over his head. The cold air hit his skin, but he barely noticed it—every ounce of his attention was locked on the tiny bundle sleeping in the bassinet.

Kamara moved with practiced care, lowering the rail and lifting the baby with the gentleness of someone who had done this a thousand times before. The moment she was in Steve's arms, though, it was like the entire room shifted.

She stirred, letting out a soft, hiccupping sigh as she adjusted to her new position. Her tiny cheek rested against Steve's bare chest, her breath warm and shallow. She was so small—so impossibly small—that Steve felt like he needed to hold his own breath just to keep from startling her.

Her little hand flopped against his collarbone, fingers twitching in sleep. Her skin was warm, soft as silk, and her hair tickled under his chin. His arms instinctively curved around her, protective, awed, reverent.

Bucky's breath caught at the sight of them—Steve standing shirtless in the low hospital light, cradling that baby like he'd been doing it his whole life. His expression had gone soft, almost stunned, like he hadn't expected this moment to feel so big.

"She fits," Bucky whispered, barely loud enough to be heard.

Steve looked up, eyes shining. "Yeah," he said, voice thick. "She really does."

Kamara stepped back, giving them space. "I'll go check on the paperwork," she said quietly, slipping out and closing the door behind her.

And in that quiet little hospital room, with the world shut out and only the sound of breathing and the soft hum of machines, the three of them began to settle into something new.

The baby shifted again in Steve's arms and let out a tiny sigh before falling still.

"She's perfect," Bucky said.

"She's ours," Steve replied.

And he meant it.

Time seemed to blur after that.

The hospital room had quieted again, the soft beep of monitors the only sound beyond the steady rise and fall of Mel's tiny breaths against Steve's chest. She hadn't stirred in a while—just slept, warm and tucked in close, like she already knew she was safe, like his heartbeat was one she recognized.

The room was dim, the kind of lighting that asked you to whisper. Outside the window, the first hints of dawn stretched across the sky, casting the faintest pink hue over the city. It was the kind of morning that felt suspended in time.

Bucky stood a few feet away, arms crossed over his chest, but not from tension—just habit. His posture had softened. His shoulders weren't tight anymore, and his face, while still a little dazed, had the edges of a smile tugging at his mouth. His eyes kept drifting back to the little bundle of blankets against Steve, like he was trying to memorize every inch of her already. Like if he looked away, he might wake up and find it had all been a dream.

Steve looked up at him, voice low so he wouldn't wake her. "We should probably give her a name."

Bucky smiled faintly and stepped closer. "Yeah. We've had a list for months."

"Ten lists," Steve corrected with a soft chuckle. "Color-coded, alphabetized... thematic categories... I think there was even a 'names that sound good when shouted across a park' column."

"Hey, we were thorough," Bucky said, holding up his hands. "This is important. Kid's gonna have it for life."

Steve looked down at the little girl nestled against him. She had one tiny fist curled up under her chin and her mouth slightly open, lips parted around the edge of her pacifier. Her breath was warm against his skin. "She doesn't feel like a Charlotte. Or a Ruby."

Bucky shook his head. "No. Beautiful names, but... not her."

There was a pause, long enough that the silence felt sacred. Then Bucky's voice softened, like he was afraid saying it too loud might shift the moment. "What about Melody?"

Steve's gaze lifted again, eyes finding Bucky's. "Melody."

"She's so small," Bucky said, his voice almost reverent. "But she's already changed everything. It's like... she walked in and rewrote the whole rhythm of our lives." He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. "Melody feels right."

Steve let the name settle into the room. It felt gentle. It felt like light breaking through clouds. He glanced back down, brushing his knuckles over her silky, dark hair. "Melody."

"She can still go by Mel if she wants," Bucky added, quieter now. "But if she ever wants something softer, something that sings..."

Steve's throat tightened at that, emotion swelling in his chest. "Melody Grace."

Bucky looked up at him, surprised. "Grace?"

Steve nodded, a small smile breaking through. "Because that's what this feels like. Like we were given something we didn't even know we still needed. A second chance. A beginning."

Bucky didn't say anything right away. Just stood there, watching her sleep, his eyes a little glassy now. Then he whispered, almost like he was saying it to her and not Steve at all, "Melody Grace Barnes-Rogers."

He tried it again, slower, like each syllable held a piece of magic. Then he smiled—wide and a little teary—and nodded. "Yeah. That's her."

They didn't say much after that. They didn't need to.

Bucky pulled a chair close and sat beside Steve, knees brushing. He reached out and gently touched the bottom of her tiny foot, just where her blanket had slipped a little. Her toes curled reflexively, the smallest movement, and Bucky let out a breath that sounded like a laugh and a prayer all wrapped into one.

And in that quiet hospital room, beneath the glow of soft light and the steady hum of machines, something permanent settled between them. Something sacred. Something unshakable.

She didn't know it yet, not fully. But she was already theirs.

Melody Grace.

The name lingered in the stillness like a promise.

For a while, the world held its breath with them—wrapped in warmth and wonder and the fragile magic of new beginnings.

Until, slowly, that magic shifted into motion.

Melody began to stir in Steve's arms, a soft squirm at first—barely more than the twitch of a foot and a wrinkle in her brow. But it was enough to set off a chain reaction. Her tiny mouth opened in a silent yawn, then puckered into a frown. A small whimper slipped out, fragile and uncertain, but quickly followed by another, louder one. Her face scrunched like a crumpled napkin, turning a deep pink as the cries built momentum.

Steve froze.

His arms went rigid, eyes wide as if someone had just pulled the fire alarm. "Oh no. Oh no, what did I do?"

Bucky was already halfway out of his chair. He didn't rush, but the movement carried urgency all the same. "You didn't do anything."

Steve glanced down helplessly at the crying newborn, panic creeping into his voice. "She was fine a second ago—I didn't even move."

Bucky crossed the room and pressed the call button for the nurse, his thumb firm and steady. "She's probably just hungry," he said, calm as ever. "It's about that time, right?"

Almost as if she'd been standing outside the door waiting for the cue, Nurse Kamara stepped in less than a minute later. She held a small bottle of warmed donor breast milk in one hand, a burp cloth folded neatly over her arm. Her smile was easy and knowing, like she'd seen this a hundred times.

"Perfect timing," she said, already walking toward them. "Someone's got a good internal clock."

Melody's cries had climbed to a full wail now, her tiny fists flailing against the blanket swaddled around her. Steve looked down at the bottle, then up at Bucky, eyes pleading.

"I, uh... I've never done this part," he admitted. "Like, ever."

Bucky gave a quiet laugh, warm and reassuring. "It's okay. I've got her."

Relief swept across Steve's face as he carefully handed Melody over. Bucky moved like he'd done it a hundred times before—arms instinctively shifting to support her head and back, eyes already scanning her face.

He reached for the burp cloth on the bassinet rail and slung it over his shoulder with the ease of muscle memory. Then he eased into the rocking chair, his body curving protectively around hers, the motion as natural as breathing.

Melody let out one last cry—more habit than need—before the bottle reached her lips. Then silence.

The sudden quiet was almost startling. She latched on, suckling softly, her whole body relaxing in Bucky's arms like she knew she was safe now.

Kamara watched the scene unfold, her smile deepening. "You're a natural," she said, her voice gentle with admiration.

Steve folded his arms across his chest, watching with a mix of awe and quiet pride. "He's the oldest of six," he said, a little softer now. "Used to help his mom with his baby brother when his dad worked nights. Guess it stuck."

Bucky looked up briefly, a quiet grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Some things you don't forget."

Melody's little hand reached out mid-feed and found the front of Bucky's shirt, her fingers curling into the fabric like it anchored her. The bottle's soft rhythmic sounds filled the silence, and the room settled again into something warm, familiar, and whole.

Kamara gave a small nod and stepped back toward the door. "Buzz if you need anything else," she said. "But honestly? I think you've got this handled."

The door clicked gently shut behind her.

Bucky kept rocking—slow, steady—his gaze fixed on the baby in his arms. Steve pulled a chair closer and dropped into it with a quiet breath, sitting beside him.

For a few long moments, they didn't speak. Just sat there together, watching their daughter.

"She really is ours, huh?" Steve said finally, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Bucky looked at Melody, then over at him, and nodded. "Yeah," he said. "She really is."

Time passed gently after that, measured in heartbeats and the soft rhythm of breathing.

Melody had drifted off again after her bottle, warm and full in Bucky's arms. He held her a while longer, rocking gently, the rhythm slow and steady. Her tiny mouth slackened as she slipped deeper into sleep, her soft breaths puffing against his shirt. One by one, her little fingers loosened their hold on the fabric, falling open like flower petals.

Eventually, Bucky rose with care and crossed the room. "Your turn again," he whispered, passing her off with practiced hands. A grin tugged at his mouth as he added, "Get some practice in."

Steve took her with both arms, his hands instinctively forming a protective cradle around her. He moved like she was made of glass, his motions reverent and focused. "She's so small," he murmured, marveling at how she barely took up the space between his palms. Her whole body fit snugly against his chest, light as air but grounding in a way he hadn't expected.

Bucky chuckled under his breath, crouching to repack the diaper bag. "Wait until she's kicking you in the ribs at three in the morning."

Steve arched a brow at him, one corner of his mouth twitching. "Looking forward to it," he said wryly.

Then Melody's face began to scrunch up again, her nose wrinkling like she'd just eaten a lemon. Her brow furrowed. Her bottom lip trembled.

"Uh..." Steve frowned. "Was that a fart?"

A brief pause. Then a small, unmistakably wet sound broke the silence.

"Oh no," Steve said flatly, glancing down at her like she'd betrayed him.

Bucky looked up, grinning. "Oh yeah."

What followed was ten chaotic minutes of Steve learning diaper duty by fire. Nurse Kamara walked him through the steps with the calmness of someone who'd seen it all before, while Steve looked like a man preparing to disarm a bomb. There was a close call with the wipes, a near-fatal misfold, and some light gagging—but eventually, Melody was clean and calm again. Bucky, for his part, stayed nearby with the gleeful energy of someone watching a friend try yoga for the first time.

Once the diaper was successfully secured and disaster averted, Steve sat down with Melody again and held up one of the soft hospital-issued blankets. "Okay. Swaddling. I've got this," he said, squinting at the corners like they might form instructions if he stared hard enough. "It's bottom first, right? Or... side first?"

From the hospital couch, Bucky tried—and failed—to suppress a laugh. "She's not a puzzle box, Rogers."

"She's got so many limbs!" Steve said in frustration as one of Melody's arms popped free again with shocking speed. "How do they even do that? She was just asleep!"

"She's a baby, not Houdini," Bucky said, rising from the couch and walking over. He crossed his arms and watched, amused. "Here. Let me show you."

He stood beside Steve and took the blanket, his movements easy and efficient. One corner tucked beneath Melody's shoulder, then the bottom folded up, and finally the other side wrapped gently over to secure it all. His hands moved with a quiet confidence, years of muscle memory kicking in.

Melody blinked up at them with glassy eyes, her hands now pinned at her sides in the warm cocoon. She let out a soft sigh that was equal parts surrender and satisfaction.

Steve watched the process with genuine awe. "Okay. That's actual magic."

"Nope," Bucky said, smoothing the last edge of the blanket. "That's what happens when you grow up with five younger siblings. You learn fast or you drown."

Melody's lips puckered as she made a sleepy smirk—or maybe it was a yawn. Either way, it was adorable. Steve bent closer and kissed the crown of her head, inhaling the soft scent of baby powder and formula.

"She looks like a little burrito," he said, voice full of wonder.

"She is a little burrito," Bucky replied, brushing his knuckles lightly against her cheek. "A loud, messy, adorable burrito."

Steve's smile widened. "Our burrito."

Bucky glanced at him, and something warm passed between them—quiet and certain. "Yeah," he said softly. "Ours."

For a moment, the room held still. Just the two of them and the tiniest person they'd ever loved, wrapped in a blanket and nestled between their chests like something precious. They stood there, letting it sink in—the newness, the weight, the weird, wild joy of it all.

Then Melody made another face.

Steve's expression darkened with suspicion. "Is that another fart or—?"

Bucky didn't miss a beat. He raised both hands and stepped back. "You're on your own this time, Rogers."

Steve squinted down at her as she squirmed in her swaddle. Her face puckered again, dramatic as ever.

"She's definitely about to blow," he said, sounding like a soldier spotting enemy movement.

Bucky, now refolding the diaper bag for the third time, didn't even look up. "She's not a ticking time bomb, Steve."

"She made that same face before the last one."

"She also made that face before she sneezed. And before she hiccuped. And once just because the sunlight hit her eyebrow weird."

Steve held her out a little. "I think she's plotting something."

"Yeah. Probably to pee on you." Bucky grinned. "Which she will, eventually. You're overdue."

Just then, Melody made a high-pitched grunt, followed by a heroic squelch that echoed in the quiet room.

Steve froze. "Tell me that was the chair."

Bucky laughed. "It was not the chair."

"Oh god." Steve looked down at her with the weary acceptance of a man meeting fate head-on. "I don't know what to do with this situation."

"Step one: don't panic. Step two: don't sniff it. Rookie mistake."

Steve flinched. "I panicked and I sniffed it."

"And that, my friend, is what we call character development." Bucky walked over, still laughing. "Come on, hand her over. Your brave sacrifice will be remembered."

Steve passed her off, looking thoroughly shaken. "That's it. I'm changing the next ten diapers just to get used to it."

Bucky raised an eyebrow. "You say that now."

He laid Melody on the nearby changing pad, humming a little under his breath as she kicked and cooed, completely unbothered by the disaster she'd left in her wake. Steve hovered nearby like a rookie paramedic on his first call.

"You sure you don't need backup?"

"I need you to stop hovering like we're defusing a bomb." Bucky glanced up with a crooked grin. "This is just phase one. Phase two is when she starts crawling and trying to eat the cat food."

Steve paled. "Alpine is not ready for this."

"No one ever is," Bucky said. "That's the secret."

Within minutes, Melody was clean again, her tiny belly rising and falling with each peaceful breath. Bucky tapped her nose gently, then scooped her up.

"There we go. No pee casualties. I'm calling that a win."

Steve leaned in, proud. "Atta girl. That's teamwork."

Melody immediately sneezed—violently—straight into his chest.

Steve froze. "...So much for teamwork."

Bucky doubled over laughing. "She warned you, man. That face? That was the sneeze face."

"I'm learning," Steve muttered, wiping his shirt with a burp cloth. "The hard way."

"You'll be fluent in baby by the end of the week."

"And exhausted."

"That too."

Eventually, the laughter faded, replaced by a hush that settled over the room like a blanket. The kind of quiet that only comes when a baby sleeps and the world feels just a little softer for it.

Bucky sat in the rocking chair by the window, the hospital blanket still tucked loosely over his lap. The late afternoon light spilled through the blinds in soft golden stripes, casting warm lines across his arm and the tiny bundle curled against his chest. Melody was nestled there like she belonged—her cheek pressed over his heart, one little hand tucked beneath her chin. She was impossibly small—so light he hardly felt her weight, and yet somehow, she anchored him more than anything ever had.

His hand moved slowly down her back, careful and rhythmic, fingertips tracing the curve of her spine through the soft cotton of her onesie. Every now and then she gave a tiny sigh in her sleep, warm breath fluttering against his skin, and he felt it like a ripple through his whole body. That little sound undid him every time.

Across the room, Steve stood barefoot in the middle of the tile floor, his phone in hand, snapping quiet photos between easy smiles. His movements were deliberate, reverent—like he was photographing a miracle. "That one's going on the wall," he said under his breath, pausing to take another. "Right next to the one of you falling asleep with Alpine on your chest."

Bucky didn't even look up. "She's a lot cuter than the cat."

"Don't let her hear that," Steve teased, glancing at the kitten-printed swaddle half-kicked to the side of the bassinet.

Bucky smiled, dipping his head to press a soft kiss to the crown of Melody's head. Her hair was dark and wispy, still damp in places from her bath, and it smelled faintly of baby shampoo and the gentle floral scent of the hospital soap. He breathed her in, let it fill his lungs, let it settle him. Everything about her—her weight, her warmth, her tiny sighs—felt like something sacred.

Steve wandered over to set the phone down on the windowsill. "You realize you ordered five different diaper bags, right?"

Bucky didn't lift his head. "She might have different moods."

Steve huffed a quiet laugh. "And six sets of baby bottles."

"She'll have a favorite," Bucky murmured, brushing a thumb gently across the delicate curve of her back.

"A heated wipe dispenser. Two bassinets. And a stroller that costs more than our couch."

This time, Bucky did look up, entirely unbothered. "She deserves the best."

Steve leaned his hip against the windowsill, arms crossed loosely over his chest. His smile was soft, if not a little amused. "You're impossible."

"Just thorough."

Bucky didn't mention the miniature leather jacket he'd added to the cart, or the "Future Avenger" onesie he'd ordered in three sizes just to be safe. He definitely didn't bring up the custom name blanket or the lavender-glow nursery lamp shaped like a crescent moon. Some things were between him and his browser history.

Melody shifted slightly, making a quiet, breathy sound that was somewhere between a whimper and a sigh. Bucky adjusted without thinking, bringing his hand up to cup the back of her head, fingers cradling her gently, his thumb tracing tiny circles against her soft skin.

Just as he began to hum—a low, tuneless rhythm more vibration than melody—there was a knock at the door.

He froze.

The hum died in his throat.

The door opened slowly, and Paula stepped into the room, her expression kind. But she wasn't alone. A man in a dark blazer followed her—a clipboard tucked under one arm, a tablet in the other, his ID badge catching the light as it swung slightly from his chest.

Bucky's stomach dropped. He instinctively drew Melody closer, the hand on her back becoming protective. His heartbeat quickened, not from fear for himself—but from the sudden, sharp terror that something was wrong. That they'd changed their minds. That this was the part where someone said we're sorry, there's been a mistake.

Steve stood instantly. He crossed the room in two strides and came to a stop at Bucky's side, one hand settling gently on his shoulder, the other hovering protectively above Melody. His eyes didn't waver from the man who'd entered. He didn't have to say anything—the stance, the look, the tension in his jaw all said enough: you're not taking her.

Paula lifted her hand, palms open. "Hey," she said gently. "It's okay. You're all right. I promise."

Bucky didn't breathe.

Not until Paula gave him that same steady, reassuring smile—the one she'd given them the night they arrived, the one that said you're safe here.

"I just wanted to check in," she said, her voice soft. "See how you're all doing. And this is Curtis—he's with the state. He's only here to go over some early paperwork, nothing urgent. Just the beginning steps to finalize her release into your care."

The knot in Bucky's chest loosened, if only a little. He exhaled slowly, glancing at Curtis. The man gave a calm nod, not stepping any farther into the room. His presence didn't feel threatening now—just procedural. Distant. Like someone there to witness something, not undo it.

"You're doing great," Paula added, her eyes lingering on Melody. "She looks so peaceful."

Bucky looked down again. Melody hadn't stirred. Her tiny fist had curled up tighter against his chest, her lips parted just slightly in sleep. She looked so at home, like she belonged there—like she knew she belonged there.

Steve remained standing a moment longer, then let out a slow breath and eased himself down onto the arm of the rocking chair beside them. His hand slid to the middle of Bucky's back, grounding him.

"We're good," Bucky said finally, voice low and steady. "We're really good."

Paula's smile deepened, and when she looked at him, her expression held something warmer—something more certain. She didn't see a man with nerves or uncertainty anymore.

She saw a father.

Curtis stepped just far enough into the room to be heard clearly, but he kept a respectful distance near the foot of the bed. He looked younger than Bucky expected—mid-thirties, maybe—with warm brown eyes and a calm, unhurried way about him.

"Hi," he said with a soft nod. "I'm Curtis Brooks. I work with family services—mostly in adoption and placement support. I just wanted to say congratulations first. She's beautiful."

Bucky didn't answer right away. His fingers were still splayed protectively over Melody's back, tracing a slow, almost unconscious pattern along the fabric of her onesie. His eyes never left her tiny face, peaceful against his chest. But after a beat, he gave Curtis a small, cautious nod.

Curtis's gaze drifted between the two men, his tone gentle. "Do you have a name for her yet?"

Steve's face warmed with a quiet smile. He stepped a little closer to the rocking chair and reached down to brush a fingertip over Melody's tiny foot, where it peeked from the folds of the hospital blanket.

"Yeah," he said softly. "Melody Grace."

Curtis's brows lifted, his expression genuinely pleased. "That's lovely. Mind if I jot that down?"

"Go ahead," Steve replied, stepping back again.

Bucky didn't say a word. He was still too focused on the way Melody breathed, the steady rise and fall of her body against his. Her breath was warm against his chest, her lips slightly parted in sleep. Every little movement—the twitch of her fingers, the tiny shift of her head—felt like a miracle.

Curtis tapped something quickly into the tablet, then looked back up. "Do either of you have any questions for me before we get started with the paperwork? I know this part can feel a little... clinical, especially after everything leading up to it. But I want to make sure you both feel supported through every step."

Steve hesitated, his mouth tugging into a line. He looked down at the floor for a second, then back up.

His voice was quieter this time, less steady. "What about... the birth mother?" he asked. His eyes flicked briefly to Bucky before landing on Curtis again. "Is there a chance she could try to find us? Or... change her mind?"

Bucky didn't move, but his grip on Melody shifted slightly—his hand curling a little more protectively around her. She didn't stir, but he didn't seem to breathe until Curtis answered.

Curtis didn't look surprised. He nodded, slow and steady, like it was a question he'd heard a hundred times—and knew the weight behind it.

"She signed the final consent forms this morning," he said calmly. "It was witnessed by two staff members and myself. That means there's no legal way for her to reverse the decision. The paperwork is binding."

Steve's shoulders eased a little, but his expression didn't.

"But emotionally?" he asked, voice lower. "I just... I want to know what we're walking into. I don't want to be caught off guard if she ever—"

Curtis's voice softened. "She didn't make the choice lightly," he said. "I was with her. She chose a closed adoption, which means she gave up the right to contact. She asked not to receive updates. Her file will stay sealed unless Melody requests it when she turns eighteen."

He paused, then looked at Bucky—not because he expected a response, but because it mattered.

"She was heartbroken, but clear. Steady. She wanted me to tell you..."

Another pause. This one felt heavier.

"She wanted me to tell you to love her like she's yours."

Bucky's throat tightened. His eyes burned, but he didn't blink. He looked down at the baby girl in his arms, his thumb brushing gently over the downy edge of her hairline. He leaned down slightly, his lips barely brushing the top of her head as he closed his eyes for just a second.

She was his. In every way that counted.

Steve nodded, jaw working as he swallowed the tightness in his own chest. "We do," he said. "We already do."

Curtis smiled softly, almost like he was exhaling with them. "Then you're doing everything right."

The room fell into a hush, quiet but full. The weight of those words lingered in the air like a warm blanket. Steve let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and leaned in a little closer, his hand still resting on Bucky's back—steady, grounding.

Paula stepped forward again, her heels making a faint click against the linoleum floor. She hadn't gone far—just lingered near the door to give them space—but now she returned with a manila folder tucked against her chest and a calm, practiced expression on her face.

"All right," she said gently, her voice a soft nudge rather than an interruption. "We'll walk through the first part together. Nothing urgent, nothing binding just yet—just the preliminary release paperwork and medical transition forms. We'll take it slow."

Bucky didn't move. He didn't shift Melody, didn't even glance away from her tiny, sleeping form. She was still nestled securely against him, curled beneath his chin like a secret. One of her hands was balled near her cheek, the other tucked beneath the edge of the hospital-issued swaddle.

"That okay?" Paula asked, keeping her voice low, careful not to disturb the quiet harmony in the room. She glanced between them—her tone making it clear this was still their pace, their moment.

Bucky's gaze didn't waver. He nodded once, slow and sure. "Yeah. She's not going anywhere."

Paula smiled, gentle and knowing. "Didn't think so."

She moved to the small table by the window, clearing space before laying out the first few pages. She smoothed the edges flat with the side of her hand, deliberate and unhurried. Curtis joined her, tapping open a tablet, while Steve quietly pulled another chair closer and lowered himself into it beside Bucky.

Melody stirred faintly, a little crease forming between her brows. Her nose wrinkled, and a soft sound—more breath than fuss—escaped her lips. Bucky instinctively adjusted his hold, one broad hand sliding up to her back, fingertips tracing gentle, reassuring circles.

"It's okay, sweetheart," he murmured under his breath. The words were just for her—so quiet they barely left his mouth. His thumb moved slowly near her shoulder blade, and after a few long seconds, Melody let out a sigh so small it could have been mistaken for air slipping from a balloon and nestled deeper into the crook of his chest.

Paula glanced up at the sight, her eyes softening even more. "No rush," she said, her voice wrapped in warmth. "She can stay right there. We'll bring the paperwork to you."

Steve reached across the narrow table and picked up the first form. Without speaking, he turned it toward Bucky and slid a pen into his hand. His touch lingered for a beat—solid and reassuring.

His gaze dropped to Melody, then rose again to meet Bucky's eyes.

"We've got this," he said quietly. No embellishment. Just truth.

Bucky nodded, his grip on the pen tightening slightly. With Melody asleep against his heart and Steve at his side, he looked down at the first page.

And together, they began.

The soft scratch of the pen was the only sound in the room—a gentle, steady rhythm that marked the beginning of something far bigger than the paper it touched.

Bucky signed the first form with careful, measured strokes, mindful not to shift too much. Melody was still curled against his chest, her tiny body warm and quiet in the crook of his arm. Her breath fluttered softly through her nose, barely audible, but deeply grounding. Every so often, her lips puckered in a sleep-sigh or her fist twitched, but she never woke.

Paula, the social worker, slid another paper across the table, her fingernail tapping the top line with quiet patience. "This one's the name confirmation," she said gently. "It finalizes how it'll appear on her birth certificate and medical records. You don't have to fill in every section now—just the essentials."

Bucky looked down at the form in front of him, then over to Steve. For a moment, the pen hesitated in his fingers, gripped just a little too tight. Then Steve reached across the space between them and rested a grounding hand on his arm, the contact steady and sure.

"We talked about it," Bucky said quietly, not taking his eyes off the page. "I think... we're sure."

Steve nodded, his voice equally soft but full of conviction. "Yeah. We are."

Paula stepped back a few feet, giving them room. She didn't speak again—just waited, kind and quiet, letting the moment unfold at its own pace.

Bucky looked at the blank space that read Child's Full Name. The rest of the room seemed to fade, and all he could feel was the warm weight of Melody in his arms and the enormity of what came next.

He began to write.

Melody Grace Barnes-Rogers.

The pen hovered for a breath after the final stroke. His signature followed, careful and a little slower than usual, as if writing his name meant something new now. It did.

He passed the pen to Steve, who leaned forward silently. When he saw the name, something shifted in his expression—his jaw tightening for just a second, eyes stinging with quiet emotion. But he didn't say anything. He just signed below Bucky, their names now side by side like the foundation they were building for her.

Curtis, seated across the table, gave a small approving nod, his tablet ready but untouched, his presence respectful. Paula stepped forward again, collecting the forms as though handling something precious.

"Grace," she said softly, her smile gentle. "It suits her."

Bucky looked down at Melody, his thumb brushing along the edge of her swaddle, where a single wisp of dark hair peeked free. "She was always gonna have it," he murmured. "Whether we knew her or not."

Steve reached out and touched Melody's tiny hand, his fingertips barely grazing the delicate curve of her fingers. "It fits," he said quietly, voice thick with feeling. "Like it's always been hers."

The rest of the paperwork passed in slow, steady rhythm—consent forms, pediatric scheduling, a temporary guardianship agreement that would hold until the final adoption process caught up. Paula explained everything with patient clarity, answering questions and walking them through the next steps. But every few minutes, Bucky and Steve's eyes would drift back to the bundle nestled against Bucky's chest.

And finally, when the last line was signed and the last form collected, Paula tucked the folder neatly under her arm and looked at them with something more than professionalism. There was pride in her expression. Gratitude, even. Hope.

"That's it for now," she said. "You're officially her guardians. The rest is just time."

Bucky didn't answer. He just leaned forward and pressed his cheek to the top of Melody's head, breathing her in—sweet milk, baby shampoo, and something soft and new and real. She made a small noise in her sleep, content and safe, and he closed his eyes for a second to hold it close.

Steve slid his hand into Bucky's, threading their fingers together across Melody's back. The connection was quiet but strong.

"Welcome home, baby girl," Steve whispered.

And Melody slept on, completely unaware of how deeply she was already loved.

Melody looked like a dream.

Bundled snug in a lavender sleeper patterned with tiny white daisies, she was the perfect picture of sleepy and sweet. Her tiny arms were folded across her chest, fists curled beneath the soft cotton, and the matching lavender bow perched atop her downy hair made her look like a doll—gently wrapped, too precious to wake.

Bucky crouched beside her car seat, adjusting the chest strap with careful fingers. He made sure it lay flat and secure beneath her chin before brushing a hand over her sleeper to smooth a wrinkle. The oversized bow had slipped slightly to one side, and he gently nudged it back into place, his expression soft.

"She's gonna hate me for this one day," he muttered with a crooked grin, not even trying to hide the affection in his voice.

Steve walked in from across the room, juggling the discharge folder and overnight bag. He caught sight of their daughter and let out a quiet laugh, the kind that came from somewhere deep and happy. "That bow's bigger than her head."

Bucky shot him a sharp side-eye over his shoulder, though the mock offense was undermined by the obvious love shining in his eyes. "Don't listen to your Papa, sweetheart," he murmured, leaning in close to Melody's ear. "He doesn't know what he's talking about."

Melody furrowed her tiny brows, the slightest wrinkle appearing between them as she sucked steadily on her pink pacifier. The quiet rhythm of it filled the room, grounding and familiar. She didn't seem particularly concerned with the conversation—just warm, safe, and blissfully unaware that she was about to leave the hospital and step into a brand-new life.

"She passed her car seat test like a champ," Bucky said as he eased onto the edge of the hospital bed beside her seat. "Didn't even make a peep."

Steve nodded and sank into the vinyl chair across from them, exhaling slowly as he scrubbed a hand over his face. His shoulders sagged with the weight of everything they'd been carrying—tension, uncertainty, hope—but now they had her. She was theirs. "It's just after 11:30," he murmured, glancing up at the wall clock. "We haven't eaten since..." He paused, brow furrowed as he tried to remember. "Since forever."

Bucky chuckled, his voice low and raspy from exhaustion. "I could eat the chair."

They were both running on fumes—bone-deep tired, their nerves frayed, hearts stretched thin from the whirlwind of the last few days. But they were smiling. It lived in the corners of their mouths, the softness of their voices, the glances they kept stealing at the baby between them. They were overwhelmed, but not in the way they had feared. They were happy. Completely, achingly happy.

A knock on the door broke the moment just before it opened.

Paula stepped inside, clipboard in hand, with Curtis close behind her. She wore a bright but gentle smile, the kind meant to reassure without pushing. Curtis carried a large gift bag—lavender tissue paper blooming from the top, the bag itself decorated in pastel butterflies with soft yellow ribbon handles.

"Hey," Paula said, her voice warm. "We've got one last thing before you go."

Curtis raised the bag slightly. "This was left by the birth mother," he said, his tone respectful and measured. "She asked the hospital to pass it along. You're under no obligation—if you'd rather not take it, we can handle it."

Steve looked at Bucky.

Bucky didn't answer right away. His eyes were on the bag, but his hand reached instinctively to Melody's car seat, his fingertips brushing along the fabric beside her. He sat still for a long moment, and then gave a small, sure nod.

Steve turned to Paula. "We'll take it."

Curtis stepped forward and placed the bag gently on the bedside table. "I'll give you both some space," he said quietly, and stepped back.

"I'll go finish your discharge papers with the nurse," Paula added. "Once that's done, you'll be all set."

As the door closed behind them, the room fell quiet again. The air was soft with that in-between feeling—one foot still in the hospital, the other already out the door. Already home.

Bucky reached over and found Steve's hand, their fingers lacing together in a familiar gesture that said more than words could.

"She's coming home," Bucky whispered.

Steve's eyes flicked down to Melody, then back to Bucky. His smile was tired, but steady. "Yeah," he said. "She is."

Melody sighed in her sleep, her pacifier shifting just slightly. The tiny sound was almost nothing, but to them, it was everything.

Wrapped in lavender and love, she slept on—dreaming in daisies, ready for the world.

The house was quiet, wrapped in that kind of stillness that only settles in after something life-altering. Their bedroom—dim and warm with the fading light of late afternoon—felt different now. Less like just the place where they slept, and more like the center of something new. Something real.

Melody slept soundly in her bassinet beside the bed, her tiny chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. Her pacifier bobbed with each breath, her small mouth parted slightly around the edge of it. One arm was raised in the air, bent at the elbow, her hand curled into a floppy little fist like she'd won a fight in her dreams.

Beside her, the white noise machine purred with a soft hum, barely louder than a whisper, masking the quiet rustle of movement from the en suite bathroom.

Bucky sat on the edge of the bed, one foot planted on the floor, the other tucked under his thigh. He stared at her for a long moment, studying her the way you'd look at something precious and impossible—still not entirely convinced she was real.

A faint, deliberate scratching sound pulled his attention toward the door.

Alpine sat just outside the cracked door, perfectly still, blue eyes unblinking as she stared into the room like she wasn't sure if she was allowed in—or if she even wanted to be. Her ears twitched at every sound, her body low and tense, like she was weighing the risk of approaching the tiny, unpredictable creature that had invaded her domain.

Bucky caught her stare and huffed a quiet laugh. "Weirdo," he muttered, the fondness in his voice unmistakable.

He was about to turn back to Melody when his eyes landed on something across the room. The gift bag—the one from the hospital—still sitting untouched on the low dresser. The lavender tissue paper was slightly wrinkled now, the top folded like someone had peeked inside and then stopped, overcome by the weight of it.

Neither of them had gone through it earlier. The moment hadn't felt right. Too much emotion. Too much unknown.

But now? Now, with Melody here—safe, breathing, real—the tension in his chest had loosened just enough to let in something else. Curiosity, maybe. Or readiness.

He stood and crossed the room quietly, picking up the bag by its satin yellow ribbon handle. His fingers brushed the paper, soft and light. He turned back to the bed and sat again, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight.

One by one, he pulled out the layers of tissue paper, careful not to tear them, like the arrangement meant something—like someone had taken their time.

Inside, nestled against more soft paper, was a brown stuffed bear. Its fur was smooth and velvety, the kind you could tell would only get softer with time. It wore a tiny pink dress and a bow stitched between its round ears, the kind of toy that would probably end up in every photo for the first year of a baby's life.

Bucky held it gently, thumb brushing along the seam of one paw. He didn't realize he was holding his breath until he let it out slowly.

Beneath the bear were a few more things: a trio of newborn onesies folded into tight squares, a pair of hand-knit booties in pale yellow yarn, and a small blanket—rose-colored and clearly handmade, every stitch a little imperfect in the way that made it perfect.

They were personal things. Thoughtful things. The kind of gifts someone chooses when they want to give part of themselves.

At the very bottom of the bag, tucked beneath the folded edge of the blanket, was a white envelope. Plain. Unsealed. No return address. Just four words written in simple, even handwriting across the front:

To her parents.

Bucky's breath caught.

Just then, the bathroom door opened with a soft creak. Steve stepped out, barefoot and still damp from his shower, a towel draped around his neck. He rubbed a hand through his hair as he crossed the room.

"She's still out?" he asked, keeping his voice low as his eyes flicked toward the bassinet.

Bucky nodded. "Like a rock."

Steve gave a small smile and slid under the covers, laying on his side, elbow propped against the pillow. He glanced at the envelope in Bucky's hand.

"That from the bag?"

Bucky nodded again, staring at the handwriting. "Yeah."

Steve didn't press. He just reached out and placed a hand over Bucky's, grounding him without needing to say a word.

The room was still. The kind of stillness that wraps around you—not empty, but full of everything unspoken.

Alpine slipped through the cracked door with cautious steps, her tail flicking in short, uncertain sways. She didn't rush—just crept forward slowly, ears angled back slightly like she wasn't sure if she was intruding. Her blue eyes darted toward the bassinet, then back to Bucky, then to the bundle inside again. She jumped on the bed, approaching the edge warily, peered over with a tense flick of her whiskers, and sat down—not quite close, but close enough to watch. Not quite trusting. Not quite sure. Her posture was alert, stiff, like she wasn't convinced this tiny human wasn't going to suddenly cry or explode or both.

Bucky looked over at Melody again. She hadn't moved, her face soft with sleep, her small hand twitching now and then like she was dreaming something only babies dream.

The envelope sat between his hands like a weight.

"You think she'll want to know one day?" he asked, voice low, almost hesitant.

Steve's answer came without hesitation. "I think she'll want the truth. And we'll give it to her."

Bucky nodded slowly. His thumb traced the slope of a letter in the handwriting. "Yeah," he murmured.

He looked at the envelope one more time.

Then, with the same care he'd used to hold Melody for the first time, Bucky opened it.

The weight of the moment settled in his chest, heavy but full. Steve turned from where he'd just settled under the covers, brushing his hand over Bucky's back as he leaned in closer.

Bucky opened the letter.

Dear Parents,

I don't know your names, and you don't know mine. That's how it was meant to be. Still, I wanted to leave something—just a little piece of me—to go with her.

I can't tell you how I came to this decision in a way that would ever fully make sense. All I can say is that I made it with love. A love bigger than I've ever known.

I hope you'll forgive me for not being able to give her what she needed. I hope you'll tell her, when the time comes, that she didn't come from a place of abandonment—but from hope. That I wanted more for her than I could give.

I hope she is cherished. That someone rocks her when she cries and sings to her when she can't sleep. I hope she grows up knowing she's the most important person in the room.

If she wants to find me one day, and you're open to that, I'd welcome it. If not, that's okay too. My biggest wish is that she is safe, and loved, and happy.

Thank you—for saying yes. For giving her a future I dreamed of but couldn't provide.

Please be kind to her. Please tell her she was wanted.

With all the love I have,

—Her First Mother

Bucky's throat tightened. The words, though soft, hit him with the weight of everything they'd all just been through—the uncertainty, the waiting, the fragile hope that had led them to Melody.

The paper trembled just a little in his hand. He blinked hard, jaw set like he was holding something back. But there was no shame in his eyes. Just a deep, aching gratitude for a woman they would never know, but would never forget.

Steve didn't say anything right away. He simply reached over and placed his hand on top of Bucky's, grounding him. They sat like that for a long moment, the letter resting between them.

From just beside the bed, the soft, steady sound of Melody's breathing rose from the bassinet. Her tiny chest lifted and fell beneath the lavender sleeper, a peaceful rhythm that filled the quiet room. The glow from the bedside lamp painted everything in gentle gold, while a sliver of hallway light stretched across the floor.

Alpine lay perched at the foot of the bed, her white fur stark against the dark blanket. Her green eyes were wide and unblinking, fixed on the bassinet like it housed a ticking time bomb. She hadn't made up her mind yet about this squirmy, squeaky new addition—and it showed. Her ears twitched at every shift and sigh, but she stayed put, watching with the kind of deep, silent suspicion only a cat could manage.

Bucky followed her stare for a moment, then looked down at the letter in his hand. "She was brave," he said softly, folding the paper with care and sliding it back into the envelope. "Leaving this... that had to hurt like hell."

Steve leaned in closer, his shoulder brushing Bucky's. "Yeah. She was."

They didn't have to say anything else. One day, when Melody was older and the questions came—hard, heavy ones—they'd have this. A piece of the truth. A connection to the woman who'd made an impossible choice with nothing but love to guide her.

They'd keep it safe. Because Melody was already so deeply loved—from every side of her story.

And Alpine? Well, she'd get there. Probably. Eventually.

Maybe.

Go to Sif's Masterlist

Go to Series Masterlist

[notelcol]

Hello 👋, How are you, I hope you are doing great 😊

I saw your open request and wanted to ask

With wriothesley and thoma and if you want to add any character you like that will be great.

What will the relationship with them be like with crybaby S/O, because I get very emotional and teary especially when meeting someone new.

So what the beginning of the relationship will be??

Here a flower 💐💐💐

Ty for being my first request 😍

I am very well and excited to get this out for you!

Wriothesley

Working as Sigewinne’s assistant was tiring. You had come to learn to take any moment you could find to simply sit and spend time within your own mind. With a cup of fragrant tea in your hands, you watched the fish trail past the large window where you regularly took your breaks. Slowly your mind drifted to Wriothsley. The day you met, to be exact.

“So, you want to work here in the Fortress?” He says, while studying you. You could tell he was trying to work you out but you ignored it and nodded your head.

“Why would you be willing to leave the land behind, to live without natural light for weeks at a time?” His elbows leaned on his desk in curiosity. You took a deep breath as you gathered your thoughts, nerves causing them to jumble.

“I feel more at home the further from society I am. Yet, I still feel the need to help people.” A chuckle left your lips. “I know that makes little sense-“

He interrupted your nervous rambling before it even began, something he would come to do many times. He hated seeing your eyes shine as you became overwhelmed. But in that moment, he did not know that was how he felt. It was as if he acted on instinct.

“It makes perfect sense to me.” He smiled. A gentle one that surprised you coming from The Duke. A smile you would grow to adore. A smile that without realising made you return it, eyes filling even more. But this time it was because of the shock of connection.

You were broken from your memories when arms wrapped around you.

“Look at you, crying again.” Wriothesley spoke, voice carrying only love. He did not worry for these tears, for he could tell by the serene look on your face that nothing was wrong. You were simply happy. As he kissed your head, he looked down at you with a crooked smirk, eyes filled with amusement and adoration.

Thoma

You had been friends with Ayaka since the traveler introduced you at a festival. Which is why you were not surprised when she, of high status, visited you. You were surprised however to see she had brought along a friend.

“This is Thoma, he is a dear and trusted friend to me.” The girl introduced you.

You looked to him and he gave you the kindest smile you had ever seen, before reaching his hand out eagerly to greet you.

“It’s wonderful to meet you! I have heard many good things.” He beamed

You immediately liked him. He was a pure soul.

“Thank you!” Was all you could say, because your eyes had begun to betray you again. You don’t know if it was nerves or relief at how kind Thoma was, but you were definitely fighting back tears. Thoma noticing your shimmering eyes, decided to change the scenery to distract you.

“Let’s go! I know a beautiful field we can all spend the day at.” He grabbed you and Ayaka by the wrists and lead you away. Your eyes drying with each step.

Skip to now, where you and Thoma are alone and chasing eachother in that very same field. As usual he catches you, gently of course. You both laugh while holding eachother, taking in the moment. The sun was setting, casting purple all around. You looked into his eyes, full with a true kind of love, as he put a naku weed behind your ear. When he found your eyes, he saw them shining with tears. You had never looked more beautiful to him. The water brimming reflected the sky, an iridescent gold and purple. He did not need to fear your golden tears, for he understood them. His own were filled with the same.

[rjzimmerman]

Excerpt from this story from Inside Climate News:

It’s been a dark decade for the endangered North Atlantic right whale. More than 40 of these ocean giants have perished since 2017, mainly due to two human-driven factors: vessel strikes and getting tangled up in fishing gear. 

But this week, scientists announced a rare bit of good news for the struggling species. In 2023, the right whale population size climbed to 372 individuals—a slight uptick from 2022, according to the North Atlantic Right Whale Consortium, a scientific data-sharing body. 

The modest increase indicates a leveling off of the sharp decline seen in prior years—with some caveats. The estimate includes new calves before they are officially cataloged for the first time; recalculating 2022 in the same way updates that figure to 367, about a dozen whales more than the earlier number. The new numbers also do not reflect the five documented deaths or the four lost calves that scientists presume have died in 2024 so far, the third highest annual mortality count on record. 

“While the whales may be adapting to a rapidly changing environment, the continued high level of mortality and serious injury clearly shows we must continue to adapt and evolve our management,” Philip Hamilton, a scientist at New England Aquarium’s Anderson Cabot Center for Ocean Life and a member of the consortium, said in a statement. 

To prevent entanglements, the federal government has enacted seasonal fishing closures in parts of New England, which limit lobster harvesting during the whales’ migration season. In recent years, a new technology known as on-demand gear has emerged to minimize rope from lobster traps and help fishers get back on the water during these closures—without putting whales at risk. But many lobstermen see the technology as another threat to their industry rather than a solution.

In May, I visited Cape Cod to see this “ropeless” gear in action and talk to some of the main players in these efforts, which you can read about in a piece I published earlier this week. Today, I’m diving into the process behind reporting this story and what’s at stake for the right whales and lobstermen.

Entanglements, in a Nutshell: North Atlantic right whales migrate through the East Coast of North America to breed and follow their favorite food—tiny crustaceans called copepods, abundant in the Gulf of Maine. But these waters come with risks. Each year, the whales pass through lobster fishing areas in Massachusetts and Maine, where they may struggle to avoid copious amounts of gear and traps, research shows. 

Over the past decade, at least 10 right whales have died from entanglements with fishing gear. However, reports suggest that 85 percent of right whales have scars from an entanglement at some point in their lives. Studies show that even temporary rope incidents can cause infections, increased stress, starvation and disruption to the ability to breed. 

The situation came to a head in 2017, when an unprecedented 17 whales died in U.S. and Canadian waters. Research shows that waters warmed by climate change shifted copepod distribution, and whales likely followed their food into the new areas—which had little to no protection from fishing gear and ship traffic. I learned more about the boat collision side of this issue for a story I covered last year. 

My new reporting underscores that more fishery closures are likely—and that new gear could be a workaround.

[umichenginabroad]

Madrid Week 7: Viva Italia (not america..?)

Hola a todxs :). Niko back here again with week 7’s blog of my study abroad experience in Madrid! Like I mentioned in last week’s blog, this last weekend I traveled to Italy, and this past weekend I was in Sevilla, Spain. My trip to Italy was particularly transformative and jam packed with personal reflection. Read on for the reflection, stay for the photos (and Italian food p*rn). This blogpost probably took the longest for me to write, and was honestly pretty difficult for me to put in words. I hope I captured my thoughts well, and I always welcome feedback and discussion to any and all readers (at any point in time!).

Argentina (but aren’t we talking about Italy?)

As I’ve mentioned before, the summer after freshman year, I studied for 6 weeks in Buenos Aires, Argentina. One particular weekend, I took a trip to Iguazu Falls — the largest waterfall in the Americas by volume, and one of the 7 natural wonders of the world.

Long story short, I got onto a tour bus with a bunch of strangers from around the world, drove 15 hours across Argentina to get to the falls, randomly selected hostel room groups based on who was sitting nearby on the bus, and ended up in a group with 4 girls from Mexico, my travel buddy from the USA, and 1 girl from Italy.

We spent a wonderful weekend together seeing the waterfalls (barring a short-lived but intense spout of food poisoning after eating something funky at a Brazilian buffet), and formed the foundation of what could turn into lasting friendships. But, come Monday, we parted ways, not sure whether we would ever see each other again. 

This trip was the first time I went into a travel situation without a true support system, and an important exercise in “trusting in the process” — and It helped me realize that I was capable of forming meaningful connections across language barriers, cultures, and in un-traditional social situations.

If it wasn’t obvious already, you might be able to see where this little backstory fits into my recent trip to Northern Italy. Before I departed for Spain in January, I sent a text to Gaia — the Italian friend I met in Iguazu — that I would be in Europe for the semester, and would love to see her at some point if the logistics work out.

Now we actually talk about Italy

Flash forward a few months, and well, the logistics worked out. Although our original plan was to go skiing in a small village in the Alps, we ended up being unable to due to weather issues. Instead, Gaia, her friend Camilla, and I took a tour of Northern Italy, visiting Turine, Asti, Moncalvo, and Milan. 

In a way, this trip was an even bigger exercise in trust — although this time, it was my gut I was trusting, not the process. I hadn’t seen Gaia in nearly 2 years, and the only other time we had met lasted just 3 short days. I was about to spend another 3 days with her — but this time, nearly every waking moment would be spent together.

For some reason, the thoughts of “what if we didn’t get along?”, “what if it was awkward?”, “what if we got on each other’s nerves?” — normal things to think in this situation — never crossed my mind. I trusted my gut: that Gaia was someone that I got on with in the past, and I had a feeling that the people we grew into over the past two years would mesh just as well.

So, I didn’t worry. And I was right not to. After a short period of hesitancy, we clicked. We spent the weekend learning about each other — both from a personal and cultural point of view.

And by the end of this trip, I felt culturally enriched. There’s a level of cultural intimacy (is that a term? Well now it is, I just coined it) that can only be experienced by being someone who has lived and breathed that culture for their whole life — something that I feel like I’ve never had the pleasure of experiencing in my own heritage, first or second-hand.

A short aside on heritage in the USA

Ethnically, I am half Italian, half Greek. My great grandparents immigrated to the USA from the south of Italy through Ellis island, raising my grandmother, who gave birth to my mom. 4 generations later, I feel more comfortable calling myself Italian-American than Italian. 

My mom’s side of the family was raised in northern New Jersey. I was raised Roman catholic, and I have 11 first cousins. Family gatherings are loud and boisterous, and people talk with their hands. My grandmother makes delicious Italian cookies called Pizzelles, and we call dish towels Mopinas (which isn’t even in the italian dictionary — it must have evolved on its own. Call it Englitalian [Italinglish? Coined.] ).

And that’s about all I’ve got to hold onto of Italian culture. Although I have more contact with Greece through the Orthodox Christian community and my direct-immigrant grandparents, I’ve never felt particularly connected to either culture. I don’t speak either language, and up until this past summer (when I visited Greece), I’d never been to either country. 

People from the United States of America — especially, I think, those in the Northeast — place emphasis on their ethnic heritage that those from other countries around the world do not. Ask an American, and they’ll probably know where their blood comes from — if the records of their ancestor’s immigration do exist. Ask an Italian, or a Spaniard, and they probably will not. Odds are, in fact, that their blood will be just that: Italian, or Spanish. 

The USA is a country built on immigrants, and it continues to be so to this day — and to me, it somehow feels wrong to not know anything about your cultural background.

This is a weirdly complex topic — one that I’ve thought about a lot —but bear with me here (and keep in mind, this is all from my personal point of view, and I welcome all new perspectives! Feel free to send me a message to discuss🙂). I think that, in the more liberal sphere of American adolescents, it’s almost “bad” to not know anything about your heritage — especially among white people, which is a label that I identify with. The USA has done a lot of messed up stuff in the world, and I think this is true to an extent that young Americans feel a desire to distance themselves from their nationality. 

Instead, we grasp on to what we have that sets us apart from it — where our parents, grandparents, or great-grandparents come from. It gives us something to point to in conversations, something that lets us say “see, look, I’m not just a white-washed American, I’m cultured”, something to help us feel like we have more depth — especially in a country where everything feels like it comes from something else.

This is why I mentioned above that this is more common in the Northeast — although I can only truly speak on what I’ve experienced in Northern Virginia and in the University of Michigan. When I think of the term “melting pot”, I think of places like New York City. Southern states, and perhaps those in the West, have developed a culture that feels more unique, more distinctly American, and this is why (from my outside perspective) it seems like something more people feel proud of and claim as their own.

As I mentioned, this perspective comes from personal experience. And this is all something I’ve felt as a white American, at least 2 generations removed from my “mother countries”. After spending a weekend in Italy, I finally got a piece of that contact that I had always craved.

Italo-

Italian culture is just that — uniquely italian. Food, history, architecture, art — not only is it unique, but it is rich. From the first day that I spent with Gaia and Camilla, it was apparent that they felt a deep connection, pride, and understanding of their culture — and this is something that they graciously and enthusiastically shared with me.

I now have a greater — albeit limited — understanding of what it means to be Italian, in Italy. I learned about Italian espresso, when to have it (spoiler alert — any time of day is game), how to prepare it, and how it tastes. Some of my favorite moments of the trip were peacefully spent over the breakfast table in Gaia’s home, enjoying a light carb heavy breakfast and freshly brewed coffee.

We ate simple, delicious food at every restaurant we went to. The food was less extravagant than I expected it to be. Most of the meals were simple, with a focus on the ingredients and their preparation. Pastas, pizza, Milanese, Ragu, more pasta. Tiramisu, and gelato, too.

We had a night out — first to aperitivo, then to dinner, then to a bar that was built in an old desecrated church, then to a cheesy karaoke bar where the whole place was singing old Italian songs at the top of their lungs — with a group of 12 in Gaia’s hometown, which was made up of friends stemming from her high school days. The biggest difference between the Italian dinner party and an American one — we took our time. There was a feeling of ease at the table. Nothing was rushed. We enjoyed each dish, each glass of wine, and over everything, enjoyed each other’s company. The focus was on the people and the conversation, not on what was to be ordered and how fast it came out. I hope to bring this rhythm back to Ann Arbor with me (but that may be more difficult than I think. See footnote 1 below*).

We explored multiple Italian cities, and walked a TON. I learned an interesting perspective of Milan (which was a beautiful city) from Camilla’s boyfriend — Milan is Italy to Europe, and Milan is Europe to Italy. (See footnote 2**). The architecture was beautiful, and after a rainstorm, Milan looked magical. The ground was sparkling, reflecting the dramatically lit buildings of the city center in the puddles that gathered on the ground. I saw the Italian countryside, picturesque rolling hills backdropped by an epic sunlit cumulo-nimbus cloud.

I even learned a base of the Italian language (I probably said “Come si dice” 100 times) that will serve me well if and when I want to learn it in the future — or if I ever get my Italian citizenship and decide to move there. Guess only time will tell.

-americano

3 days is not a long period of time, but I can confidently say now that I understand a little better what it means to be Italian. I feel more connected to my cultural heritage — and in turn, I feel more connected than ever to my native culture in the USA.

It’s true that the USA has done a bunch of messed up stuff in the world. Imperialism, war crimes, political and economical extortion — the list goes on. But the longer I spend in Europe — the more I come into contact with different cultures, and understand foreign perspectives on the USA — the less these things feel like they’re inside a black box. Instead of avoiding these hard truths, I can face them head on — allowing me to acknowledge the bad and the good that comes with US culture.

A big critique I’ve heard abroad is that the United States has no culture of its own — but I don’t think that’s true. The USA is a place where global cultures collide, providing its citizens the opportunity to experience bits and pieces of the world and giving rise to unique elements born from this fusion.

Over the past 2 months, I’ve slowly shifted away from the feeling of shame that comes with being an American in Europe — and that’s thanks to a willingness to learn, adapt to, and accept cultures that I experience while I’m abroad (re: cultural humility, blogpost coming soon). Now, I’ll proudly say that I’m 50% Greek, 50% Italian, and 100% American. With my continuously evolving understanding of my individual parts (and all of the other cultures I come into contact with, especially Spain), I feel like I can better understand and contribute to that fusion, both in the melting pot of the United States, and as an international citizen in Europe — enriching the lives of myself and those I come into contact with.

Such is becoming “cultured” — a concept that has a bit of a pretentious connotation (IMO), but is worth striving for. I’ll be returning to Italy for spring break (Rome, Florence), so hopefully I’ll continue to develop this connection then. I also bookmarked in Google maps here all the places I visited in Italy this trip (and will do so in the next one) if you're considering taking a trip and want recommendations!

I planned on writing about Sevilla this week too, but I think this post has gone on long enough. I thoroughly enjoyed the different vibe it has from Spain, even through the rainy weather we experienced. 

As always, check out the image descriptions for more details on each one. I hope everyone has a great rest of their week, and see you back here next soon!

Hasta luego,

Niko Economos

Aerospace Engineering

Universidad Carlos III de Madrid

Madrid, Spain

* In Italy, and the rest of Europe, servers get paid fair wages. In the USA, it’s not required, because it’s expected that servers will make up the difference in tips. I worked as a server for 2 summers, and made $3.50 an hour. The amount of money I made in a night was directly correlated to the number of tables I turned over. As a result, I did my best to get orders in fast, food out faster, and clear the table as quickly as I could so that I could make more money. Until this fact changes, I think it’s hard to have the same no-rush Italian experience over dinner unless you’re really conscious of it. Personally, if I’m not feeling pressure from a server to leave quickly, I’m likely feeling a sense of guilt for staying too long and reducing their nightly wage, no matter how well I tip. Maybe home cooked meals are the answer, which I’ll hopefully be well practiced with next semester :)

**To Europeans, they look at Milan and see what they think of Italy. The world capital of fashion, beautiful architecture, prosperous and well known city. Italians look at Milan and see what they think of as Europe —highly international, intercultural, and as a result more gentrified and expensive. I found this to be really interesting. Is there a US city that fits this bill?

[starberry-cupcake]

I spent the past week re-reading a novel I started to write when I was 17 and abandoned a couple years after.

I had written it in notebooks because my first novel (that I wrote when I was 14) got lost in computer mess ups. I had decided to drop that one anyway because a friend at school made me feel insecure when she kind of mocked it for being self-insert-y/wish fulfillment-y. This would be something the fic world would also advice me strongly against.

Anyway, I knew where the second one was all along but I was afraid of re-visiting it ever since I abandoned it, like 14 years ago? not sure when exactly. I guess I was partially afraid of the cringe and partially afraid of finding that it wasn't that different from what I do now.

I think that many years studying in spaces that undervalued the kind of fantasy narrative I enjoyed and pushed me to fit more conventional boxes for what is published more successfully in my country had a bit on an effect on my perception of my younger self.

The editor side made me hyper aware of mistakes and issues, so I started to be more and more reticent to enjoy the process and even afraid to start them, if I judged them unworthy from the get-go.

The literary workshops that were always focused on contemporary fiction (no fantasy, sci fi or horror) intended me to fit more commercially viable molds where I live and "push me out of my confort zone" (words I was told many times in them) so much that I became afraid that going back to what I enjoyed would mean sacrificing "progress".

In the past few years, I noticed these things, been working on them and decided to finally sit down and write a sci fi fantasy project I've been marinating in my head for ages.

There's one thing from that second teen novel I had written that I wanted to keep, so I took the notebooks out from their box and read them.

Imagine my surprise upon finding out that I had written over 400 pages before abandoning it.

Contrary to my fears, reading it was a pretty great experience. It was a product of a teen me and all but I was so invested and I had so much fun writing it.

However, as cool as some concepts were and as wide a world I had built and character roster I had accomplished, I realized upon reading it back that is was very...impersonal.

It was drenched in things I liked and enjoyed in media, and it had some ideas of things I thought were interesting to work with, but I didn't see myself reflected in it. There was some stuff, there always is in art, but I think I had taken the criticisms on self-insertion so hard that I left out all of my experiences and perceptions of self.

I shoehorned in a lot of things and I can tell and remember how some of it was doing what I thought had to be done in a story like that. I had gone so far off the extreme of "no self-insertion" that I didn't see myself reflected in my own imagination.

The names sounded foreign, the spaces looked foreign (now there's thankfully more fantasy that isn't Euro-based or US-based but at that time it was rare), the bodies were unlike mine, the identities were different from what I experienced myself at that time and even now.

I know we all do this and I know it's not a bad thing to reproduce what you admire and like but, as cool as the story was for something I wrote in my teens; for the most part, it felt as if it could have come out of anywhere, not necessarily from me. If that makes any sense at all.

It was actually better than I remember it being and I can see in its progress an interesting development of me as a writer. I cherish the characters and story and will take that bit I remembered for something new. But I can't help but feel a bit sad.

Sad for the 14 year old I tried to tone down for being wish-fullfilment-y and self-insert-y, to the point of not seeing in her a story worth telling. And sad for the 17 year old because I spent all this time hiding her in a box and afraid of the cringe she might have created.

They were both cool fun imaginative girls and I'd like them to come with me in my new journey with this new project. They were "young and unafraid", but mostly unafraid, and that's something I admire from them.