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Luh-Sa-Coo-Re-Culla-Ha (Special Time of Day or Estimated Sun). Pawnee. Photo by Jackson Brothers (Omaha, NE). C. 1869. Source: Princeton Digital Library.

#native american #wayawolf412 #pawnee

Pawnee woman, 1868.

#native american #pawnee #1860s #antique #traditional

Original card : Pawnee

Story : She is a great shaman who lives in an Indian tribe. She is very calm, thoughtful, and patient. She draws spells on her body to allow her to contact the energies and the deceased, thus temporarily obtaining the knowledge and talents of the spirits to protect the tribe. However, this forces her to give up obtaining her own cutie mark.

Adopt : [open]

#mlp #pony #bella sara #bellasara #adopt pony #pawnee

✧ Regressor! Reader X April Ludgate

➥ A Comforting Encounter 🦦

April’s Office — Pawnee Parks Department

The department was quiet, the kind of stillness that only comes in the lull between tasks. You slumped into April’s office chair, exhaustion already weighing me down despite the early hour. She wasn’t here, or at least, you didn’t think she was, but the room carried her presence unmistakably. The faint, familiar scent of her perfume lingered, something sweet and sharp, undeniably hers.

Your fingers fidgeted, adjusting your glasses before drifting to your chin, scratching absently. A wave of regression tugged at me, that childish urge to retreat, to curl up somewhere safe. You clenched your jaw, fighting it. Not now. But the thought slipped in anyway. You miss your paci.

Home. You needed to go home. But first, there were still things to settle here, loose ends to tie up before you could let myself slip away.

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, too bright, too much. You’re slumped in a chair that smells like stale coffee and the faint, weirdly comforting scent of April’s leather jacket (and maybe… gunpowder? Why gunpowder?). Your mind try keep it straight, focus, focus, but your thoughts are already slipping, the edges of the room blurring like a watercolor left in the rain.

Then the door creaks open.

April (leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, one eyebrow arched): "Wow. You look like a possum that just lost a staring contest with a lawnmower."

She strides in, dropping a stack of files on the desk. They’re labeled "URGENT" in red Sharpie, but one is just a doodle of a frowning cat. Her eyes flick to your white-knuckled grip on the chair arms, the way your glasses are slightly askew.

April (sniffing the air): "Also, are you vibrating? Is this, like, a new human thing or…?"

You shook your head slightly, hands folding together in your lap like they needed something to hold onto. You gaze flickered away from her, don’t look, don’t let her see, as you forced a weak excuse. “I-I’m okay. Just… didn’t sleep right.”

The lie tasted thin. Your mind scrambled, clawing for the thread of the conversation that had brought you here. Focus. Right, the paperwork, the last loose end.

“I just need to confirm,” You mumbled, “those, uh… those last requests about the animal issues. Are they done?”

April narrows her eyes, her head tilting like a cat watching a particularly pathetic bird. She steps closer, the heel of her boot clicking against the linoleum.

April (dry as dust): "Uh-huh. ‘Didn’t sleep right.’ Sure. And I definitely didn’t find you just now rocking in that chair like a sad metronome."

She leans against the desk, crossing her arms. The URGENT files sit untouched. April (mocking, but with an edge of concern): "Wow, you’re really committed to this ‘functional adult’ bit, huh? Newsflash: I can see your little fingers doing the nervous tappy thing."

She gestures at your hands, which are indeed fidgeting in your lap.

You swallowed hard, your throat tight. Caught. “Uh, s-sorry, I didn’t mean to…” My voice dipped, barely above a whisper. you adjusted your prescription glasses again, the frames slipping slightly from your clammy grip. Breathe. Just get through this.

“E-excuse me,” You stammered, fingers twitching toward the papers on the desk. “J-just need to… fill out a form. For the request. Or, or something.”

The words tangled on your tongue. Every second under her scrutiny made your skin prickle. You just needed to leave.

April stares at you for a long, long second. Then she exhales through her nose like a bull about to charge, snatches the rabies forms from the desk, and stamps them with way more force than necessary.

April (deadpan): "Wow. ‘Fill a formulary.’ So convincing." leans in "You’re lucky I don’t care enough to call HR about… whatever this is."

She shoves the papers at you, but April (muttering): "Also, your glasses are crooked."

Before you can react, she reaches out and adjusts your pink frames with one quick, awkward flick of her fingers. Then immediately recoils like she’s been burned.

April (backing away): "Okay, no. That was a one-time glitch in my programming. Never mention it. [points at you] And stop looking at me like a kicked puppy. It’s weird."

Easter Egg: If you peek under April’s desk, there’s a half-finished "World’s Worst Babysitter" cross-stitch hidden under a pile of "Feral Cat Colony" reports.

The forms slapped onto the desk with a hollow thwap. You flinched, shoulders curling inward as if you could fold myself smaller under her gaze. Your fingers fumbled with your glasses, always slipping, always needing adjustment, but the gesture felt childish now, like a plea for help you couldn’t voice.

A soft sigh escaped me before you could stifle it. "Hm… Then, barely audible, the words crept out: "T-thanks…" Too quiet. Too fragile. The kind of whisper that clung to the air between us, heavy with everything you couldn’t say.

April freezes mid-retreat when you whisper "thanks." Her nose scrunches like she just bit into a lemon, but her fingers twitch at her sides, like she’s fighting the urge to fix something else.

April (muttering to herself): "Nope. Nuh-uh. Not doing this."

But then,April (abruptly yanking open a drawer): "Okay, look. I have one emergency thing." slams a Pawnee Parks-branded stuffed otter on the desk "It’s for ‘community outreach’ or whatever." glances at you, then away "…Don’t make it weird." The otter wears a tiny ranger hat. One of its eyes is sewn on crooked.

There it was round, soft, perfect, with button eyes and a lopsided smile. Your eyebrows shot up, lips parting before you could stop them."Uh… c-cute…"

The word tumbled out in a hushed rush, already too eager. Your hands lifted on their own, fingers twitching in tiny grabby motions need it, need to squeeze it, need to you forced your palms flat against your thighs. Too obvious. Too desperate. But the longing thrummed under my skin like a second heartbeat.

Your fingers twitch toward the otter like it’s a lifeline. April watches, arms crossed, as you finally snatch it and pull it to your chest. The crooked-eyed little guy fits perfectly under your chin.

April (grumbling): “Wow. You’re really committing to this whole ‘pathetic gremlin’ aesthetic, huh?”

But then April (muttering under her breath): “...At least Steve’s getting some use. Jerry’s dumb ‘community outreach’ idea was supposed to be about feral children, but whatever.”

She leans back against her desk, eyeing you with a mix of annoyance and something suspiciously close to fondness.

A giddy smile tugged at your lips as you traced the stuffie’s worn seams. Steve. The name suited him, sweet and sturdy, like a friend who’d always listen. Your fingertips lingered over his threadbare ears, committing every stitch to memory.

Then, before you could second-guess myself, you clutched him to your chest and peered up at her through your lashes. “C-can I have him? Please?”

The question came out smaller than you’d meant it to, barely more than a hopeful whisper. Steve’s soft weight against your ribs already felt like home, and the thought of letting go sent a pang through me. You think: Please say yes. Please please please —

April’s eye twitches. She opens her mouth, probably to say something sarcastic, but then she sees the way you’re holding Steve (like he’s the last lifeboat on the Titanic), and her shoulders slump in defeat.

April (dramatic sigh): “Ugh. Fine. But!” jabs a finger at you “You have to sign this legally binding contract.”

She slaps a Post-It Note onto the desk. Scribbled in her messy handwriting:

“I, [Your Name], promise: Not to tell anyone I did this. To name my firstborn child ‘Steve’ in the otter’s honor. To never ask me for emotional support again. (Unless it’s, like, a real emergency. Whatever.)”

She tosses a pen at you. It’s chewed.

You clutched the otter tighter under your arm, its plush fur grounding me as you grabbed the pen. The paper curled slightly under your palm, had you been gripping it that hard? But you smoothed it with your wrist, hesitating before scrawling your name in rounded letters:

(YOUR NAME) Then, before you could overthink it, tiny annotations bloomed in the margins like secret confessions: Don’t tell anyone → …what mean? Use assigned name in official settings → Is it really necessary? Contact in emergencies → What’s emergency? (And under it, softer:) Thanks so much Two lopsided hearts nestled in the corner, their ink smudged from your thumb.

April snatches the signed (and heavily annotated) contract back, squinting at your additions. Her face does a full journey from “are you kidding me” to “why do I even bother” to something dangerously close to amused.

April (reading aloud, deadpan): “‘What mean?’ Wow. Deep. ‘Is it really necessary?’ Yes. ‘What’s emergency?’ flips the note over, scrawls: ‘SEE: YOU RIGHT NOW’ And notices the hearts "Oh my god. You ruined my legally binding document with hearts.”

She stares at the tiny doodles like they’ve personally offended her. Then April (muttering): “…Fine. Steve’s yours. But!” points at you “If I ever catch you being nice to Jerry, the deal’s void.”

She folds the Post-It into a tiny square and flicks it into her desk drawer, where it joins a pile of similarly chaotic artifacts: a rubber band ball, a “How to Human” pamphlet, and a single, ominous chicken nugget.

Meanwhile, Steve the Otter:

You’ve officially adopted him. His little ranger hat is crooked with pride.

April pretends not to watch as you adjust his hat, but her eye twitches when it’s still not straight.

Secret: If you peek under his left paw, there’s a tiny “A.L.” embroidered there (April’s initials? A previous owner? Suspicious.).

You watched April leave, her footsteps fading down the hall, before glancing down at the otter in your hands. Steve. His beady eyes stared back, already familiar.

Signing the forms was easier with him tucked under your arm, your legs swung absently under the desk, pen scratching out loops and curls with uncharacteristic lightness. The moment the last line was signed, you was out the door, clutching Steve to your chest like a prize.

Home. Your home. Empty in the way that still ached sometimes, no family, no pets, just the hum of the fridge and the faint smell of old coffee. But today, it felt different.

“Welcome to your new home,” you whispered, giving Steve’s ear a soft squeeze. “Hope you like it.”

The shower washed away the office’s stale air, steam curling around me as you changed into your favorite pajamas, fleece covered in orange, blue, and green kittens, their cartoon faces slightly faded from too many washes.

Dinner was simple: a vegan, gluten-free Disney-shaped pasta (the kind that was technically diet, but who cared?) drowned in tomato sauce and a generous sprinkle of oregano. You ate cross-legged on the couch, Steve propped up beside you as Gumball played on the TV. His presence made the apartment feel less hollow.

After tucking him in with your other figures, a mismatched family of plushies and collectibles you cleaned up, scrubbing the plate with more energy than usual. Teeth brushed, paci retrieved from its hiding spot, you settled into bed, laptop open.

Your Tumblr blog, greeted you with it's usual clutter of agere posts and moody aesthetics. Tonight, you typed slowly, weaving little-space imagines between sketches of Steve and sleepy ramblings.

Somewhere between drafting a post and doodling in the margins of your notebook, exhaustion pulled you under. Your paci slipped free as you drifted off, leaving a tiny damp spot on the pillow as proof of a quiet, contented night.