#i think there'd be more mutual appreciation

[specialbluehens]

i'm thinking abt if/once shane becomes more involved in jas's life (trying to do better by her & stuff) that at events her & vincent will tire themselves out & shane will pick jas up (she's sleeping or almost asleep) & make eye contact with jodi or kent holding a sleepy vincent & it's just. silent understanding.

#i think their families would eventually have dinner together so jas & vince get to have play dates more #shane weirdly is in a position where he relates to jodi & kent but also relates to sam #so despite his anti social behavior if it's just them #he's chill & can handle a convo abt whatever #idk????? #i think there'd be more mutual appreciation #like i think jodi is friends with marnie not like GREAT friends but ye #& shane has always been an enigma but then she sees the look in his eyes once he holds eye contact #she understands #kent also understands but it's a different part of him that he understands #sdv #stardew vally #sdv shane #sdv jas #sdv jodi #sdv kent #sdv vincent #ramblings #IDK if this makes sense but #my headcanons

[lullabyes22-blog]

Mel x Silco - Happy Ending AU - A Drabble Thing

Based on this ask by @elviriel <3

Part of an AU meta of the Forward, but Never Forget/XOXO universe.

tw: pandemics, terminal illness, death

cw: sex, angst

"When I am gone, you will have many who will offer their love. Take their love, but never trade on it.  Love is not a currency. Love is a gift, and a gift given is a gift given freely.

 I cannot give you mine, not any longer. But know that it was real. It was true. And it was yours."

Given the fraught relationship these two have with love and trust, I truly believe it would be a long time coming. For a woman like Mel, love has always been conditional. It comes at a price: trade of power for power. Her mother may have loved her in her own way. But it was a love contingent on her worth as a Medarda.

Ambessa promised her the world... but only if she could prove herself in her mother's eyes.

With Silco, love is nothing but a petty conceit. He's known betrayal and disappointment from those he once called family, and from those who claimed to love him. So he doesn't put any stock in it. It's just a word that people use to control others. If need be, he'll weaponize it. He'll say anything, to get what he wants.

And what he wants most, is Zaun's ascendancy.

But somewhere along the way, Silco's and Mel's lives entwine, and feelings begin to creep in. Certainly, there'd have to be a level of mutual chemistry between them—cerebral, verbal, physical—if they chose to flout their cities’ conventions and tie the knot despite vehement protests from their respective political parties.

Baseline: Mel likes Silco. He's not a good man, but she's drawn to his brilliance. He's an incredible tactician and a shrewd politician. And the more she sees of Zaun, the more she admires him for what he's built. His ruthless streak unnerves her with memories of her own mother, and yet it's offset by his capacity for intense tenderness. For Jinx, for the future of Zaun, even, if in a twistedly wry way, for her.  Despite coming from two diametrically opposite social strata, their tastes are surprisingly well-aligned. They have a keen appreciation for art, music, fashion, philosophy. He denies it, but she thinks he's a fine dancer whenever he lets himself cut loose. And, when they're not trying to best each other in conversation, their silences are comfortable.

As a husband, he's not half-bad. He's attentive, in a hold-the-door-for-you and pull-out-your-chair sort of way.  He's perceptive, and knows almost intuitively when she's tired or unhappy in need of a distraction. In an indulgent mood, he'll leave queer little tokens on her pillowcase or in her trousseau, like a funny note from a fortune cookie or a pretty dried flower or a small gemstone. And he's got an appreciation for her intellect that goes hand-in-hand with his admiration for her beauty. He'll notice when she uses a special perfume with the same astuteness as when he catches a coy innuendo or a well-timed pun. Sometimes he'll even smile when she's not looking, a crooked curve to his mouth, gone as soon as it's there.

But love?

There's something there, for sure, this quiet warmth that grows between them. Something that's a little like amusement, and a little like fondness, and a lot like family.

But she'll never put a name to it. Naming things brings them to life. Like a curse.

The Medarda bloodline has enough curses to go around.

As for Silco?

Baseline: he likes Mel, too.  Granted, she began as an unforeseen complication. He didn't anticipate falling into a relationship with a Topsider, much less a member of the Council. Still, the gains far outmatch the costs. He gets to make a mockery of Piltover's hypocritical, stagnant elite. He gets an inside connection to the very seat of their power. He gets a gorgeous woman on his arm.  Mel’s mind is an endless wonderland of strategy, she's got a tongue dipped in sterling silver, and that body is a gilded marvel. She can be a proud bitch, sometimes, but she's got a secret sweet streak that she's at pains to keep hidden. Marriage was never part of the plan, but now that he has it, he's got few complaints.

As a wife, she's an unexpected boon. She's no homebody by a long shot. He's never once seen her set foot in the kitchen; nor does he care to. Cooking's not his thing, either, unless it's a cookie-baking night with Jinx. They have staff for that. But when they do entertain, she's a consummate hostess. She's a deft hand at managing her social calendar and his own. She dazzles at every event. Half the chem-barons would give their left rib for one dance with her; the rest fall over themselves just to catch a glimpse. And, she's got a wicked sense of humor. Behind closed doors, he's had more than one glass of whiskey ruined by her sly commentary on the partygoers.

But love?

Let's cut that word out of the picture entirely. It's a fairytale; a fantasy. Zaun has no room for either.

Yes, sometimes, at night, when she's curled up against him, her soft breathing stirring the hollow of his throat, he'll feel a bite of possessiveness and think, Mine. But, the next morning, it's a fleeting memory, lost in the heady rush of conquest.

He's got a city to run. There's no room for foolishness.

Less for love.

*

 And then Zaun is struck by the Ash Plague.

It's a mutated variant of Grey Lung, a disease that ravages the respiratory system, causing progressive weakness and eventual death. The victim’s skin turns gray and papery, and lesions erupt everywhere, like the flesh is sloughing off their bodies. Their lungs blacken and their coughs fill with blood. They grow progressively weaker, unable to do much more than lay in bed, struggling for breath.

Silco doesn't catch the sickness. His constitution is stronger than most, thanks to years spent working in the mines. And he's a careful man, washing his hands and covering his mouth whenever a new outbreak occurs. The Shimmer microdosage also boosts his immunity, making him less susceptible to common diseases.

Jinx, likewise, seems to have been blessed with an immune system forged of steel. She catches the colds and stomach bugs that go around the Lanes, but the Ash Plague slips by her, like a black cat in the night.

Mel, on the other hand, is vulnerable as a newborn.

She's possessed with a fine constitution. She takes scrupulous care with her hygiene. But her lungs have always been delicate. It's why she's seldom in Zaun without a mask. When the first cases are reported, Silco makes arrangements to escort her back to Topside, where she'll be safely ensconced in her private apartments, and guarded by a veritable battalion of doctors.

But on the day they're to sail, Mel comes down with a fever.

Silco doesn't panic. Not immediately. But by the time they've returned to the Undercity, she's already coughing, a wet, hacking sound that has him summoning Singed.

And that's when things go sideways.

When Singed examines her, his face darkens. He looks at Silco and says, "I am sorry."

The Ash Plague has a near-total fatality rate. The strongest of victims might last three months. The weakest, a fortnight. There is no known cure. Singed suggests an experimental Shimmer cocktail: a compound that should boost Mel’s immunity and buy her more time. But the odds are long.

"How long does she have?" asks Silco.

"Six weeks. Perhaps eight. It's hard to tell."

"What can I do?"

"Keep her comfortable. Make her last days happy. She is strong. With luck, she may even pull through."

Jinx, of course, takes the news poorly.

"It's not fair!" she shrieks, tears streaming down her cheeks. "We can't let her die! She's family, Silco! You have to help her! We can't just sit here and let her die! You gotta do something!"

But what can he do?

For days, he sits by Mel's bedside. He's seen her sleep before. But not like this. Her breathing is labored. Sometimes, she hacks, and a bloody spume froths from her lips. The lesions are appearing all over her body, like a child's drawing of the sun. The fever rages on, no matter how many icepacks Singed prescribes.

When the fever is particularly bad, she'll murmur. A single word, again and again: "Mother."

Ambessa has already received the news. Due to the Plague's severity, Zaun is under lockdown. No one may come in, and no one may leave. Not unless they wish to be quarantined, and see the Plague spread to other lands.

Ambessa threatens to declare war on Zaun if they do not let her through the ports. But her warnings fall on deaf ears. She may be a fearsome general, but she is nothing in the face of a pandemic.

Ambessa curses, and rages, and swears her revenge on Silco.

"She should never have married you, you blasted snake!" Ambessa snarls at him, over the speaking telegraph. "But you had to drag her down, to your hellpit, where your fucking plague will do your work for you, won't it? Well, when the time comes, you can bet your life that I'll be there to cut your heart out and feed it to my hounds, and—"

At this point, Silco hangs up.

But her words haunt him.

You had to drag her down, to your hellpit...

He says nothing of the conversation to Mel. She's barely sensate, lapsing in and out of fever dreams. If he's lucky, she'll stay awake a few minutes. He'll spoon broth past her lips. But most of her feeding comes through tubes. The Plague is cruel, eating away at her lungs. She grows thinner by the day, the bones in her ribcage and hips like fragile branches. He'll lay beside her in bed, feeling each racking breath she draws.

Sometimes, she'll look at him and smile, murmuring, "Silco."

And then she'll close her eyes and sigh, and sleep.

When she's lucid enough to talk, she asks, "How is Jinx?"

"She's worried," he tells her.

So am I, he thinks but doesn't say.

"Tell her not to be."

"How can she not be, Mel?"

"I'll be fine," she says. "Don't worry."

She closes her eyes and falls asleep again.

The Plague rages on. Silco devotes more hours to Mel's caretaking.

And her time grows shorter.

In the afternoons, Silco takes to reading to her. He'll select a book from his shelf, or hers, and read a few pages. She seems to enjoy that, so he does it more often. The story of a soldier who finds a magical thimble. The legend of the Lady of the Lake. A romance about two star-crossed lovers. Fantastical tales as far removed from their reality as possible. Other times, poetry is her fare of choice, and Silco will recite the verses in slow, smooth cadences. He's not a bad reader, though his voice doesn't quite suit the tone of most of the poets' works.

There is one in particular that Mel enjoys. Each time he reads it, she sighs raptly. After he's done, she'll say, "Read it again?"

He'll kiss the inside of her wrist, and promise to read it the next afternoon.

Inside, he'll wonder if there'll be another.

Mel is dying. He can see it. Her skin grows grayer by the day, the lesions deepening in color. Her breathing is getting shallower. And when she talks, it's only to aspirate a few words. He's helpless against the tide of inevitability. It's an opponent he can't corner. Can't negotiate with. Can't kill. And the harder he tries to hold back the waters, the faster the tide rushes in.

She's dying.

But he keeps coming back, every afternoon, with a book under his arm and a bowl of soup in hand.

"Read the poem again," she'll say, her eyes half-lidded.

"And again," she'll repeat.

"Just a one more time," she'll rasp.

Sometimes, Jinx will join him. She's deeply agitated by Mel's illness, but determined to put on a brave face. She'll bring a pile of throw-pillows and her toolkit and sit at Mel's bedside, tinkering quietly with a new contraption.

"I'm working on a present," she'll tell Mel, with a wobbly smile. "It'll make you better."

"That's lovely, Jinx," says Mel, closing her eyes. "Thank you."

And then, barely a beat later, she's asleep.

Silco takes his daughter's hand and squeezes it. They trade a wordless glance.

She's dying, thinks Silco.

She's dying and there's nothing I can do.

But he still comes every day. He reads her books. He holds her hand. He brings her tea and hot-house hyacinths and anything she desires. In the evenings, Jinx keeps vigil, her gift blossoming beneath her hands in slow-motion. It resembles a flower, an intricate copper-plate bloom with furling petals. But she tells him it's meant to be a music box.

"To sing her to sleep," she says, and her smile is sad.

"It's beautiful, Jinx."

"Not yet. It's not done. Once it's ready, it'll sing to her, and she won't have to die."

But she is dying, he thinks.

She's dying and Jinx's music box cannot save her.

I cannot save her.

One evening, returning from his duties, he finds the door to Mel's bedroom ajar. He creeps closer, barely within the ambit of the lamplight, and finds a scene that has his heart skidding to a stop.

Mel is sitting up.

She is in her favorite dressing-gown, a ruched silk-and-chiffon number in pale cream. Her dark skin has gone a mottled gray. She is coughing, softly, the wet sound threading through the room. There's a handkerchief pressed to her mouth. When she lifts it away, there's a red stain on the cloth.

She is smiling.

"...That's why you married him?" Jinx's voice floats over. "Because he quoted a stupid poem?"

Mel chuckles, the once-melodic sound coarsened by suffering. "Not just any poem. The one I liked best. The one that was... mine."

"What d'you mean, yours?"

"I'd read so many poems growing up. None were meant for me. They were... generic. Like a suit. You know, a man goes to a tailor. He says, 'Make me a suit. Make it black. Make it sleek. Make it smart. For the ladies.' And then he wears it. Maybe it fits, maybe it doesn't. It doesn't matter. Because the suit doesn't matter. It's a costume. An... illusion."

"What does that have to do with the poem?"

"When Silco quoted that poem... that poem I'd always felt was mine... it wasn't like he'd tailored it to a passing fancy. It was like..." Her breath shivers out, "...he lived it."

Silco stays hidden behind the doorway, listening in, spellbound.

"Huh," says Jinx. "I think I get it."

"It was a gift, you see," Mel goes on. "In those eight lines... I saw myself. I saw our future."

"What was the poem, again?"

Mel closes her eyes. "It's a short one. I've memorized it."

Then she recites a poem Silco knows well. The same poem he has read to her, day in and day out, since her illness.

"'Had I heaven's embroidered cloths/Enwrought with golden and silver light/The blue and the dim and the dark cloths/Of night and light and the half-light/ I would spread the cloths under your feet/ But I, being poor, have only my dreams;/ I have spread my dreams under your feet;/ Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.'"

Her voice falters. She's breathing hard. Her lashes flutter.

"Oh," says Jinx, softly.

"The poem is about an unequal match. A man and a woman. From two different worlds. Two different social strata. A love that can never be."

"You and Silco."

"Me and Silco," Mel agrees. "We could never be. Not by the laws of our respective societies. And yet we are married. We are together. Because we chose to defy expectations. And when we stand together, we are stronger. More than the sum of our parts. That's what the poem is about. A defiant love. A love that dares to be."

She's quiet a moment. She coughs. Her shoulders shiver.

"He loves you," says Jinx, quietly. "I know he does. Even if he won't say it."

"That's the beauty of the poem," says Mel, smiling. "I don't need him to say it.  I feel it, every day, when he wakes me up with breakfast and sits by my side. Every time he reads me this silly poem over and over. It's his love letter to me. And I will treasure it. For as long as it's mine. Until the day it isn't."

Jinx's voice quavers. "You can't die."

"We all die, Jinx." Mel coughs again. She draws a sharp, shuddering breath. "But we do it... on our own terms. As best as we can."

Silco watches from the doorway. He can't breathe. His lungs have filled with icewater.

Mel coughs again. Her voice is barely a whisper. "Jinx. Do you mind... if we stopped talking now? I'm tired."

"Yeah. Okay." Jinx sniffles. "We'll talk more tomorrow, yeah?"

"Tomorrow," agrees Mel. She lays back on her pillows. "Goodnight, Jinx."

"G'night, Mel."

Jinx stands up and walks away. Silco sees the glisten of tears on his child's cheeks. But he cannot go to her, not right now, because Mel is still awake. Jinx has already lost so much. How much more loss can such a fragile girl bear?

He backtracks hastily before Jinx crosses the door, and pretends to have just come in. Jinx throws herself into his arms, and he holds her close. She cries a little, but soon composes herself.

"I have to finish my gift," she tells him. "It's almost done. It'll save her. I just have to figure out a few kinks, and it'll be perfect."

"Of course," says Silco. He's numb, unable to tell her the truth. He can't. "Go on. Work on your project. I'll take over for tonight."

"Thanks, Silly."

Jinx goes on tiptoe to peck his cheek, then races off.

When he returns to Mel's bedroom, he finds her asleep. She looks more peaceful than she has in days. Her favorite book lays facedown beside her, the spine cracked.

He sits down by her bedside, and stirs a fingertip through the book's pages. There's a loose scrap of paper tucked inside, a bookmark. He pulls it out. It's a folded square of parchment. He's seen the handwriting before, all looping lines and arcing flourishes in elegant cursive.

Mel's.

The note is brief.

Beloved,

This morning, I woke with the scent of your cologne on the pillow, and knew that you had come and gone, and left this parting gift: my favorite book, opened to my favorite poem. You always remember, even if I have not the strength to say.

And so, before the strength leaves me, I must leave you with this final gift:

When I am gone, you will have many who will offer their love. Take their love, but never trade on it.  Love is not a currency. Love is a gift, and a gift given is a gift given freely.

 I cannot give you mine, not any longer. But know that it was real. It was true. And it was yours.

Mel.

Silco reads the note three times.

His chest feels like a blade has cut his black heart in two.

He folds the note and returns it to the book. Then he sits, watching Mel sleep. She's fading fast, the plague ravaging her body, leaving only a ghost behind.

His fingers find hers, and clasp them gently.

"Thank you, Mel," he whispers.

He waits, the night passing slowly, his heart aching with each of her labored breaths.

After that, it happens quickly.

She wakes briefly in the early hours. Her eyes are fever-bright, and her skin is papery. The lesions are stark, deep-violet against her skin. She reaches for him, and he takes her hand. He can feel her, waxing and waning between life and death. Her pulse stutters, and her breaths are short, broken snatches.

She says only one word.

"Silco."

"I'm here," he soothes.

"Mother."

"She's not here. It's only me."

"Silco."

"I'm here. You're safe. Rest."

"Love..." she murmurs. "...love."

"I know," he says. "I know."

Her eyes close, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. She's slipping away, her spirit a candle guttering out. And yet, finally, there is a peace on her face that he hasn't seen in weeks. She is dying, yes, but there is a beauty, a lightness, a grace. Like a heavy weight has been lifted from her shoulders. She is treading softly, at last, into her dreams.

Silco leans in. He kisses her brow, her lips. His forehead, cool on hot, touches hers.

"I love you," he tells her. "And I always will."

Her smile is sweet and soft.

Her eyes close, and her breathing evens.

It stays that way, as the night bleeds away, and the sun fills the room.

The next morning, Silco finds Jinx working on her gift, the metal petals unfolding and unfurling. There's a delicate clockwork mechanism, with a single lever. The music box is beautiful, a work of art, a marvel.

"Look!" Jinx cries. "It's almost done! Just a couple more kinks, and then we can wake Mel up with it, and she'll be all better!"

Silco looks at the device. Then he looks at his daughter. She's staring at him with such hope, such joy, her eyes glowing fiercely. Her faith is unshakeable.

She doesn't understand that some bargains are more ironclad than others.

"She's not going to get better, Jinx," he says, quietly. "You have to let her go."

Jinx stares at him, her face crumpling.

"No," she whispers. "You can't say that. She'll get better. She has to. She promised."

Silco shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Jinx. But Mel's not going to make it. Not this time."

"But—"

"Singed and the doctors have tried everything. The Plague has taken hold. It's spreading. She'll only linger in pain."

"I can fix her! I just need a couple more days!"

"She doesn't have a couple more days, Jinx. She's fading. You have to let her go. She's going to die."

Jinx's face is wet.

"No," she whispers. “No no no.”

"Jinx. I'm sorry. She's gone."

"But she said—"

"I know. But it's not something we can fix. No one can. It's out of our hands."

Jinx is silent.

"Go to her," says Silco. "Tell her goodbye."

And Jinx goes.

When she comes back, her eyes are gleaming red. She's clutching her music box, which has finished unfolding into a magnificent metal bloom, the petals unfurling like a rose. But her smile is wobbly, and her hands are shaking.

"Mel liked it," she whispers. "She said it was the best gift she ever got."

Silco holds her tight.

"It's okay, Jinx. We're going to be okay."

"Are we?"

"I'm sure. I promise."

She sniffles.

"Y'know... for a sec... I thought..."

"What?"

Jinx lifts her head, eyes locking with his.

"For a second... when I was lookin' at Mel... I coulda sworn her lesions were smaller. Like... she was getting better."

"You're imagining things, Jinx. You're tired."

"Yeah."

"How about I read you a story? Something nice and easy, to get your mind off things. Would you like that?"

"Uh-huh," says Jinx. She nestles against him. "Read me that poem. I wanna hear the poem."

"What poem?" Silco says, as if he hasn't heard the words a thousand times, in a thousand variations.

"The one Mel talked about. While you were eavesdropping at the door. Peeping Silco."

Silco bites down a bittersweet smile.

"You knew?"

"I saw you duck out. I wasn't born yesterday, y'know. You're lucky I didn't call you out on it."

"You could've."

"And miss out on the juicy gossip? As if. Read me the poem, Silco. Please?"

"All right."

So Silco and Jinx settle together on the pillows of his couch, and Silco recites the poem, the words rolling from his tongue as if they were his own.

"Had I heaven's embroidered cloths/Enwrought with golden and silver light..."

The poem is brief. But it resonates, like a crystal chime, striking at his heart.

"'...Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.'"

"I like it," says Jinx, after a quiet minute.

"It's not your thing, though. Poetry."

"Maybe it could be. You think I can write poems? About Zaun and stuff."

"You can do anything, Jinx. If you put your mind to it. You just need practice."

Jinx falls asleep in his arms, and Silco sits in the silence, his fingers idly smoothing her hair.

Then he goes to check on Mel.

He's braced himself for what he'll find, and yet he is still unprepared for the sight.

Mel isn't gone.

She is sitting up in bed. Her skin is still gray, and the lesions are still present. But her eyes are clear. Her breathing is steady. She looks at him, and smiles.

"Silco."

He is silent.

"Jinx showed me her music box. It's ... extraordinary. I've never seen anything like it."

Silco steps closer.

"How are you feeling?"

"The same. But..." Her smile grows, "...a little better, I think."

Silco frowns. He can't quite trust what he's hearing. Can't believe what he's seeing.

Because Jinx was right. Her lesions are less pronounced. Less angry. Her skin holds a warmer hue. Her breathing is easier.

"I don't understand."

"Nor do I," admits Mel. She pats the sheets, "Sit with me?"

He does.

She reaches for his hand.

He does not give it.

"What's wrong?" she asks.

"How are you feeling? Truly?"

"I told you. Better."

"Why?"

"I don't know. Perhaps I'm fighting it off. Or perhaps—"

"Or perhaps what?"

Mel gives him a coy smile. A fleeting flash of her old self.

"Perhaps I've crossed over and returned. I'm not certain. It felt like... a dream. Like the world was made of glass, and I was drifting. But a voice was calling to me. Telling me I was safe. Telling me I could stay, or go to my dreams. The choice was mine. And I chose."

"You chose what?"

"To stay. With you." Again, she reaches for him. This time, he doesn't deny her. "I don't know how. And I don't care. Because the dream wasn't worth it, without you."

Silco's throat is a knot.

He says nothing. He urges her to lie down again, and she does.

"Sleep," he says. "I'll be back later. And we'll talk."

"I love you," she says, with a sleepy sigh.

He doesn't say it back.

He cannot be sure if this is a dream or not.

Instead, he summons Singed. The doctor examines Mel carefully.

"There's a remarkable improvement in her condition," he notes.

"What do you mean?"

"Her vitals are stabilizing. She's regained color. Her breathing is stronger."

"Is she cured?"

"Not yet. But it's possible."

"What does that mean?"

"It means..." Singed hesitates. "She's been granted a reprieve." A beat. "As have you."

Silco scowls.

"There are no reprieves. Only hard bargains."

"It appears your bargain has been struck. Whether you meant it or not. She's made her choice. And she's staying."

Silco turns away, unable to rein in his emotions.

"You think she's safe?"

"With our treatment? It seems so. The Plague has retreated. She's no longer terminal. In a month, maybe two, we may see her through it. She'll have some scarring. But she'll live."

Vertigo nearly overtakes him.

He'd been ready to say goodbye. He'd prepared for her loss. He'd steeled himself against her passing. And now?

He's not prepared to feel his heart beating again.

"Thank you, Doctor," he says with terse formality. "Keep me apprised."

"Of course."

Singed leaves.

Silco is alone, and he is reeling.

Hard bargains. Harder truths. And yet, somehow, by the grace of something he doesn't believe in, Mel is here. And she's going to live.

It's more than he deserves.

But he'll take it.

The next weeks bring more change. The Ash Plague continues its relentless ravage of the city. More are afflicted, and many more die. Zaun is locked down. Shops and factories are shuttered. People hunker in their homes, waiting, praying for the end. But Singed's serum is making inroads. More are recovering, albeit slowly. The disease is not gone, but it's in retreat.

And Mel is regaining strength.

Day by day, her lesions heal. Her color returns. Her energy. Her appetite. By the month's end, she's well enough to rise from bed. Silco has one of the guest rooms in their suite remodeled into a sun-room, where she can spend her afternoons, surrounded by plants and art. The view is the Undercity, and the sky, a bright jeweled dome.

Mel resumes painting. Silco has a small easel set up for her, and brings her supplies: acrylics, charcoals, watercolors. Sometimes, she paints flowers and fruit. Other times, the cityscape, or portraits of Jinx. The girl's gift adorns the table, a magnificent centerpiece. From its copper heart pour the sounds of Zaun, a tinkling aria of notes raised in celebration and defiance.

Silco is a constant visitor. Sometimes, he'll bring one of her preferred philosophical treatises and read aloud. Sometimes, a newspaper, so she can keep abreast of the political landscape in Zaun and Piltover. He'll discuss the articles with her, and they'll brainstorm strategies, and Mel's eyes will grow bright, her tongue sharp, her mind a diamond-faceted brilliance.

Other times, he'll bring her tea, and a new book. They'll read together, a few chapters a day. He'll listen to her talk about the book's themes, its characters, its symbolism. She's an animated analyst, full of incisive ideas, and he's fascinated, and more than a little aroused.

He keeps the desire to himself. Her body is not yet fully recovered. The Plague has left her weakened.

He will wait, until she is strong again.

In the evenings, they have dinner together with Jinx. His daughter has taken up residence in the guest room next door, and often, they'll eat in Mel's bedroom, playing cards and swapping gossip on the chem-barons and Councilors. Jinx's wild tales always make Mel laugh, and, sometimes, the two women double over bubbling with hysterics, while Silco sits in contented silence, taking in the beautiful sight.

After the third month, the Plague is receding. The Fissurefolk bestow thanksgiving to Janna. Theories abound. Perhaps it's the Shimmer compound. Perhaps a quirk of genetics. Or perhaps, says Mel, a miracle.

"Doubtful," says Silco.

"Hey, stranger things have happened!" Jinx insists.

"Like what?"

"Like me and you and Mel," she says. "Bein' a family."

He can't argue with that.

The third month stretches into the fifth.

Mel is well enough to resume correspondence with her colleagues in the Council. Her desk is awash with missives inquiring after her health. There are a dozen invitations to tea, and twice as many invites to dinners and parties. Then there is the intimidating crest of the Medardas on a red-bordered envelope.

Mel is reluctant to answer it. Ambessa's threats have not abated. And Mel has no desire to confront her mother.

"Not yet," she tells Silco, "There is work to be done between our cities."

 Silco agrees, and leaves her to it.

 Week by week, their disrupted rhythms smooth back into a semblance of normality. The Plague is contained. The chem-barons are slithering out of their strongholds, and Silco is needed to keep them in line. He spends more time in his office, and less time hovering by Mel's side. But they send each other a brisk succession of messages, and he drops in to see her daily.

He's just returning from a meeting when one of his messengers finds him.

"Boss. There's a letter from the Missus."

Silco unfolds it, and skims through it.

Urgent.

You're needed at home.

It's a shock, to read the word.

Home.

Home is his office, and his desk, and the clutter of his plans and maps, and the view of Zaun from his window. But his home has also become Jinx's and Mel's laughter, and the burnished warmth of the sun-room, and the gleam of Jinx's music-box, and the floral lilt of Mel's perfume.

And now, this summons.

His pulse spikes, and he rushes home, his blood thundering in his veins.

Has the Plague come back?

Has Mel relapsed?

But, when he gets to the penthouse, the space is quiet. The lights are dim. He heads to Mel's room, and finds her door ajar.

He enters.

It's dark, the drapes closed. The room smells of hothouse hyacinths.

"Silco."

Her voice comes from the bed. He sees her, lying under the covers, and his heart drops to his toes.

"Are you all right?" he demands.

"Better than all right."

Her voice is low. Musical.

Aroused.

"What's wrong? Why the summons?"

"Come here."

He does.

She's reclined on the pillows.

The bedcovers are pulled to her breastbone, revealing only the tantalizing slope of her neck and shoulders.  Her face, in the dark cloud of her unbound hair, holds an alluring glow.

She looks...

"You've been ill," he begins, cautiously.

"No longer. I'm well."

"But—"

"Silco," she whispers.

And her voice is a siren song, her lips a dark temptation. He's leaning in, and she's rising to meet him, and then their mouths find each other, the kiss slow, deep, drugging. He feels her arms loop around his neck. Her fingers curl through his hair. And then she is drawing him down, tugging at his clothes, pulling him closer, until he is braced above her.

"We shouldn't," he gasps one final time. "Not until you're—"

"Stronger? I am."

"But—"

"Shhh," she murmurs. "No more talk. Only us."

She's naked beneath the covers, he discovers, as his hand slips into the sheets. Her skin is deliciously hot, and the seam between her thighs is slick as melted butter. Her eyes hold a heavy-lidded radiance, and he is caught, a fish on a hook, a drowning man, powerless against the pull of the tide.

"Mel," he groans.

"Shh."

He lets her drag him under. He's already lost, his thoughts unraveling, his will dissolving. And she is exquisitely sensitive, arching and curling beneath his questing hands, his teasing fingertips, his ravenous mouth. He savors the way her breath catches as he parts her, caressing her with his thumb. She moans, a melting croon, and he dips his head and tastes her, his tongue teasing the silky nub of her clit. Her fingers claw into his scalp, holding him there, and he delves into her, drinking the sweetness of her need, the music from her throat, the symphony of her joy.

When he rises over her, she's trembling, her skin sheened, her eyes molten.

"Yes," she breathes.

He sinks into her, inch by inch.

She sighs, her body stretching to welcome him, and the hot, liquid squeeze makes him groan. He pauses, gathering his self-control.

"Don't stop," she says. "More."

And then he is moving, the rhythm a languid glide, his body making itself heavy on hers, her palms starfishing his spine. They've done this before, numberless times. But this is different. So different it's almost a dream. A fantasy. When he kisses her breasts, she arches her neck, and he laves her nipples, suckling gently, until she is keening.

"Silco..."

He's going slow. Slow, because he doesn't want to hurt her. Slow, because he wants to remember every detail. How her eyes are liquid gold, her mouth a swollen bruise, her body a sleek mold to his own. She flows with him, skin-to-skin, a river with a hundred secrets, and he wants to know them all, to learn her inside out, to drown in the dark velvet of her: heat and honey and salt.

Her breath is catching.

"More," she begs. "Please."

"No," he rasps. "Slow. Don't rush it."

"I can't—I can't—"

"Slow."

But he's not much better, the fulcrum of his control teetering. His muscles are coiling, his mind sluicing down black headwaters. She's so tight, the grip of her a sweet torment. He can feel the gathering tension in her body, the fluttering spasms that presage her completion, the way her nails are scoring his skin, her breaths sawing frantically.

The heat of her is a burning sun.

Mine, he thinks, with a surge of sudden fierce elation. Mine.

They've changed rhythm somehow, and he isn't sure if it's hers or his, only that they're grinding against each other, the pressure an unbearable sweetness, the friction sparking a fire through his nerves. Mel's breaths come wet and shaky. One broken sound, a gasp that is nearly a sob, escapes her. She is crying, tears streaking her skin, delirium reducing her words to a single whisper.

"Please," she begs. "Please."

Silco doesn't speak. He can't.

So he gives her what she needs.

He rocks harder, faster, driving her deeper into the sheets, her body a pliant curve, her legs locked around his waist. The headboard is rattling against the wall, a dirtysweet percussion. And the room is full of their cries, a ragged duet spiking into crescendo and then softening, softening, softening into a single, shuddering gasp.

Afterward, they lay entwined.

Mel’s body, dewy with sweat, is fused to his. Her hips stir lazily. He's still half-hard, but for the moment he's sated, the blissed-out aftermath resonating through his bones. He kisses her forehead, and she nuzzles his jaw.

"Well," she murmurs, "that was..."

"Good," he says, and she laughs, a breathy, satisfied purl. Stretching beneath him, she winds her legs round his, tracing his back with her palms. He's a canvas of old scars. Always has been. But now a few cicatrices linger on Mel's own skin: on her left cheek, below her collarbone, upon her right breast. Silco kisses each one, like a benediction.

"My warrior queen," he murmurs, tracing the mark on her breast. "The scars are badges of your valor. You won the battle." 

"Did I?"

"You survived. That's more than I could ask. More than I deserve."

"Sssh." She lays her finger against his lips. "I'd never have, if you hadn't taken my hand."

He kisses her: slow, savoring sips.

She breathes, "I heard, you know."

"Heard what?"

"That night. When I was... fading. You said you loved me. That you'd always love me."

His pulse trips.

"Did..." Her lashes dip. "Did you mean it?"

He can't lie to her. Not anymore.

"Of course I did."

"And now?"

His eyes lock with hers.

"Always," he says.

"Then it wasn't a dream. You called me back." She smiles. "The poem took care of the rest."

"Poems don't save lives, Mel. Only progress can."

"Poetry opens the doors of possibility," she insists. "And sometimes, the best poetry is the poem that you live."

He has no answer to that.

So he kisses her, a hot, deep, hungry kiss.

Her eyes flutter shut, and she sighs.

"We have much to do," he says, a husked warning.

"Mmm. I know. My mother’s missives..."

"I meant us." The kiss deepens: a promise. "The missives can wait for another day."

Her answering smile is a thing of beauty: a bright golden blossom that unfurls like Jinx's gift.

"Tread softly," she teases, "because you tread on my dreams."

Silco only kisses her again, their bodies folding together in the dark.

He doesn’t need to tread far.

His dream is already here.

#asks #arcane #arcane league of legends #arcane silco #silco #forward (never forget)/xoxo #forward but never forget/xoxo #arcane jinx #jinx #arcane ambessa #ambessa medarda #arcane mel #mel medarda #silco x mel #melco

[naoko-world]

Today for Encantober, after many drawings and the Bruno/gn!reader 3 days ago, I'm offering you another Bruno/gn!reader! The previous one was very angsty and triggering, this one will be way fluffier!

It's also the sequel to my Mikman AU story from Milk day!

And happy birthday @breannasfluff! This story is partly for you because you're awesome and I love you!

Oh! And @encantober-official

Encantober day 30: Milk!

One day, you and the milkman Bruno planned to meet because a mutual friend invited the both of you to go to their party. Since the day you met, his feelings for you progressively grew until he couldn't bear spending a day without talking or seeing you, even to the point of calling you when you couldn’t meet. He was hoping that day would permit him to finally be able to tell you about his infatuation. 

He was waiting for a while in front of your door when it opened, discovering you in a very fitting outfit that made his heart skip a bit. You were the most gorgeous person in the world! He discreetly knocked on your door in hope you would accept going out with him. 

Showing your lovely smile, you asked "Were you waiting for long?"

 "Not at all", he assured you with a nervous chuckle. 

You took his arm in yours as you started walking to the party with him, beginning a conversation about your latest project you apparently couldn’t wait discussing with him. 

Once you arrived, you greeted your common friend as both of you handed her each of your gifts. Then, he followed you to the bar, where you poured yourself a glass of milk while he watched you do so with a smile, thinking about how you deserved it after working that much these last days. 

Curious, trying to continue the conversation, he asked "So...Did that commenter come back?"

You grinned. "Yeah,and they praised me again!" Then, you nodded, closing your eyes with a sigh. "It's so rewarding! I love people liking my work!"

"As they should! You're good!"

Your face saddening, you replied, "Then why don't my works get more attention?"

He opened his arms for you to snuggle in them, which you did with a sad grin. He didn't know what to say, but he knew you'd appreciate a hug. 

With a chuckle, you remarked "That milk is good!"

Chortling, he replied, "It's from our farms! Glad you like it!"

"Oh my! It's from your farms?"

"How do you think I knew her while having social anxiety?"

She laughed, "That explains it!"

He stared at you, hesitating. Then, breathing deeply, he took your hands to confess "I...I need to tell you something."

"What is it?"

He locked eyes with you, gulped, then started "I...I'm-" before getting interrupted by Camilo, jumping on you from behind with a “wassup”. As it made you laugh, Bruno cursed the bad timing that made his nephew interrupt him when he had gathered the courage to reveal his feelings. 

The boy let go of you to pour himself a glass of milk, as you asked Bruno “What were you going to say?”

“Oh...Nothing.” 

He decided to tell you later, when there'd be no witnesses too close from you. 

The party went smoothly, Bruno chatting with you and Camilo when Mirabel finally joined, at first wanting to drink some milk, but finding herself caught in the conversation. His niece had things to answer about their rival’s downfall. “Come on Tío! They had no chance! People do not want milk coming from enclosed cows! They want milk like ours, coming from cows that can freely walk in a field.”

He countered, “Were the customers aware their milk isn't from free range cows though?”

You intervened with a smile. “I wasn’t aware! I just know your milk is the best in town!”

“See! Thank you for confirming it!”

Mirabel was about to argue, when the lights went off, only letting candles illuminate the room as the birthday song started to play, sung by the guests as well. Clearly in bliss, the heroine of the day waited until the end of their singing to blow out the candles, followed by claps as everyone was plunged in the dark. Only when the lights went on again Bruno could see it was a very weird cake, half carrot cake and half strawberry. It seemed delicious though! 

He was wondering which side he should choose, when you took his hand to lead him in a side room, where he found himself completely alone with you as you shut the door behind you, blushing. He watched you with wide eyes as you moved awkwardly, clearly nervous, not daring to look at him. 

He still had his eyes on you, when you suddenly moved closer to him in a quick pace to stop just before him. Then, you took a big breath, which you let out while confessing “ILoveYouBrunoPleaseGoOutWithMe!”

Watching you with a dumbfounded face, not really sure of what he heard either since you spoke too fast, he asked “What?”

“I...I Love...You...I want...I would like...Please...I mean, of course you don’t have to...But...”

Seeing you hyperventilate, Bruno took your hands in his, locking eyes with you as he was helping you “Breathe in! Then, breathe out! Don’t talk, simply breathe!”

You obeyed, breathing deeply to get rid of the panic attack you were starting to have because of your love confession. It took you a while to calm down, following Bruno’s instructions, but you ended up breathing more easily. 

When it happened, Bruno thought it was a good time to actually tell you about his own feelings for you. We could hear the claps and cheers behind the door as he confessed “Actually...Earlier I wanted to tell you too.”

“Huh?”

“Oh! Hum...I mean I wanted to tell you that I love you. I want to be more than friends with you, to go on dates with you and cuddling and everything a couple do.”

You both jumped of surprise as someone behind the door was shouting “We love you girl!”

His heart beating fast from the fear he briefly felt, he put a hand on it, trying to ease his breathing, joking “One day these people will kill me and my poor old heart.”

You smiled “You’re not old.”, before asking with nervosity “So...Are we a couple now?” 

He chuckled, then nodded. The embrace you both shared then was the best thing he could have expected from this day with you. 

#milk #my writing #milkman au #bruno x reader #bruno x gn!reader #bruno madrigal x reader #bruno madrigal x gn!reader #encantober #encanto ficlet #encanto fic #encanto fanfic #encanto fanfiction #encanto #happy birthday Breanna! #milkman bruno au #encanto drabble #drabble #ficlet #encanto au

[blcsscdson]

✿ -- I know I know, but I would love to see where your brain goes with it hehe

SEND “ ✿ ” FOR 2 HEADCANONS FOR OUR MUSES’ RELATIONSHIP // Always accepting

Well... While Ashe and Jack have vastly different upbringings, they've got a few things in common, mainly the fact that their family wasn't exactly present (in Jack's case it's implied John wasn't very present in his life) & they got a troubled childhood in common.

1: I think they could bond over their rough upbringing, but their actual relationship would be a bit touch and go. He's not as much of a criminal as she is, his only crime is killing Ross and even then he doesn't see it as a crime, he's more akin to The Man with No Name from the Dollars Trilogy. He'd be the Bounty Hunter to Ashe's Outlaw, he'd disagree with her committing crimes, but he'd also let her go or hand her over to the authorities.

2: I feel like there'd be a lot of mutual respect. Jack, as a frankly impressive gunslinger, would appreciate and compliment Ashe's shooting skills. Though being younger than her, he'd cockily point out he's a better shot than her when it comes to a revolver since his Deadeye skills perfectly compliment his Quickdraw tendencies.

All in all, I feel like it'd be a bit like the dynamic Ashe has going on with Cassidy but less vitriolic since Jack hasn't really done much to anger her. I also feel like whenever they cross paths Jack does his best to not kill her or hurt her too much, he'd aim to disarm her. Meaning he'd shoot her hands or even her lever-action rifle so she can't fire back.

#calamitylocked #( HEADCANON ) #This is all my brain could think about lol #( ASK ) #( ANSWERED ) #Thanks for the ask!

[makerofmadness]

Mutuals and followers who actually have the guts to play horror games and like 100% them and stuff can you help me please? If any of you actually are like that?

There's like no real good exhaustive source for all the ghosts and documents in White Day 2: The Flower That Tells Lies and that's really frustrating when you're like me and are trying to update an old AU involving that series(?).

the FANDOM wiki (the only really decent English source for stuff on White Day) just has next to nothing for the sequel (the way the article reads it's like it's barely been updated at all for the game actually coming out, and it's been 4 months since that happened). Superhorrorbro (the YouTuber that first exposed me to White Day) hasn't made anything about the sequel to the point where I don't know if he's aware of it having come out (can someone with a YouTube account like go to his most recent video and put it in the comments or something? Preferably more than one person), and the longplay I watched for Episode 1 I don't think collected all the notes so I have no clue what else it may be missing. Trying to look up guides for all the ghosts and stuff in the game just turns up stuff for the first game. When I DID find a walkthrough I noticed that I couldn't find mentions of some of the ghosts I DO know exist. Also I have no clue what all the different endings are. And there's no TV Tropes page for the game (despite the first game having one).

Like otherwise: if any of y'all know Korean and can help me find sources in online in that language and translate for me I'd appreciate it (im assuming there'd be more since this is a Korean game)

[darklordofthesimp]

Lonely (Din Djarin x Reader)

Din finds you with a feverish migraine and, for once, his cold disposition is useful.

Requested by Anon: Number #36 and #39 - That feels nice - Do you mind if we stay like this a little longer?

A/N: Touch starved Din is just *chefs kiss*.

Category: Fluff, Angst if you squint, Mutual Pining

Warnings: Mention of sickness

"Once we get into hyperspace, I suggest you rest up," the preoccupied pilot threw over his shoulder. "It's going to be a long ride."

You grunted your acknowledgment, wincing as you laid your head against the seat.

The Mandalorian's fingers stalled over the dash, helmet turning a fraction toward you. He said nothing but his pause had been enough.

You groaned internally, forcing yourself to sit straight in your chair- though he wouldn't even see it. Your fingers itched to apply pressure to your head, to bid away the pounding migraine.

"Sounds good," you pushed out between gritted teeth. "I'll sleep a bit then have a look at some maintenance."

The child cooed softly, the only verbal response your statement received.

After a short moment of concentrated silence, the ship finally shuddered into hyperspace. You shakily sighed, the sooner everyone locked themselves away the sooner you could raid the medical kit.

Mando would linger whenever you were injured. You had known he'd be mad, he'd always get angry, a reprimand ready for every wound.

You shouldn't have done that. You shouldn't have gotten involved. You should have drunk more water. You should have eaten. You should have stayed on the ship.

You should have.

You should have just told him about the migraine.

Sprawled out in your tiny sleeping chamber, you groaned into the pillow harshly. Regardless of the lecture you would have received, you should have bitten the proverbial bullet and just told him.

Anything to get rid of the searing hot pain.

There was a soft knock on the metal beside you and you cringed. Mando had never been pushy about you getting onto the repairs, but you had been 'sleeping' for quite some time. There'd only be a few hours before you'd be out of hyperspace and thrown into the fray once again.

With your lip worrying between your teeth, you opened the hatch. The sight of the hunter was always a glorious one, even crippled by the pain you could appreciate it. His head was tilted downwards, appraising you. All of a sudden you felt silly lying down.

"Sorry," you began, pushing the blankets off your body. "I slept in, I'll be out in a second."

He said nothing, simply stepping back to allow space for your graceless exit. A small sound of pain grumbled from the back of your throat, the cargo bay spinning.

You tried to ignore him as best as you could, feigning normalcy as you reached for your boots. A gloved hand on your shoulder pulled you up short.

"You're sick."

You weren't sure whether it was a question or a statement.

"Why didn't you say something earlier?"

Definitely a statement.

You hesitated to meet his gaze, something like embarrassment swirling within your stomach. "Didn't want you to get mad at me."

Din leaned back, surprised.

You frowned as he removed his hand from your shoulder, taking it as your cue to continue pulling on the boots. He was quiet until you had completed your task and you made sure to take extra long tying the laces.

By the time you had finished, sweat trickled down your back. It was so hot, for no reason. Space is cold, metal in space is even colder. Realistically, you knew the cargo hold would have been freezing but the pain in your head might as well have been boiling your blood.

You sat down on a nearby crate, fanning yourself with your hand uselessly.

Din watched you for a solid moment and then approached. Stretching out his hand, he unfurled his fingers to show two small tablets. Pain relief.

You could have cried. You almost did.

"Thank you," you breathed, voice barely a whisper. He only nodded, turning his hand over to place them in your open palms. You didn't think about the brush of his fingers or how they lingered over your skin. You only thought about the reprieve soon to come.

Knocking back the medication, you sighed.

"Shouldn't take too long," Mando said, taking a seat beside you on the crate. You blinked, shocked by the move. It's not as though he'd never sat beside you before, though it was always in public. Always around others, especially Grogu. In a way, your conversations had always been chaperoned to an extent.

This was almost intimate in a rag-tag sense.

You swallowed down the heavy feeling in your chest.

It meant nothing.

Convincing yourself of these things was the only tether to your sanity. He was only being helpful, he was only resting his feet, he didn't want your company specifically. He didn't really care.

"Are you still hot?"

The hunter's question broke you from your internal warfare and you looked at him a little too quickly.

"Yeah," you finally managed to croak out. And you were. Your blood still simmered beneath your skin despite the pain ebbing away. Your eyes caught on the beskar protecting his shoulder. It was level with your forehead, perfect for you to just rest on and draw from its icy temperature.

You clenched your jaw and turned away.

"Beskar is cold," Din said softly, watching how you appraised his armor. He had caught on to your train of thought it seemed. "Lean if you want."

The inner workings of your body stuttered, as though a mini short circuit. Your heart skipped a beat, you'd held your breath and you'd fallen still.

"Are you sure?" You stammered. "I don't want to make you uncomfortable."

"It's fine," he reassured, jostling his shoulder as encouragement. "Rest."

Slowly, you shuffled along the crate until your body was flush against his. You watched him carefully in case he changed his mind. The last thing you wanted was to make things unbearable between the both of you. However, the only reaction you caught was his fingers flexing before he hid them away in his lap.

You pressed your face against the beskar softly and all reservations were out the window. A low noise of relief hissed from your chest as you sunk into his shoulder.

"Oh." You said softly, voice barely anything but a lover's murmur. "That feels nice."

There was a huff of amusement from the man and it made you smile. You loved the rare moments of expression, the few seconds that made you remember he was only flesh and blood just like you.

You don't know how long you laid there, pressed against him. Long enough for the migraine to be gone and your temperature settled. You didn't want to move. It was the first time you had comforting human interaction in so long, you selfishly wanted so much more of it.

"Do you-"

"Do you-"

You both spoke together and you chuckled.

"You go first," you conceded, enjoying the last few seconds of his physical presence. You knew he would ask you if you felt better, you knew he would then excuse himself. He would never subject himself to this, his shakily labeled employee leaning on him like a lover would.

Your mind was screaming for you to beat him to it, to take control and move without having to be asked. It was embarrassing to be shooed away and you knew that once you had a moment to think about it you would be crippled by the humiliation.

And despite all that you still sat there, eyes closed and rested.

God, you wish he would just stay.

You were so close you could hear his breath falter, you swore you could almost hear the frantic beat of his heart beneath all the layers he wore.

"Do you-" Din stuttered to a stop. He collected himself and you were suddenly hyperaware that it was the first time you had heard him so hesitant. "Do you mind if we stay like this a little longer?"

You couldn't stop your mouth from falling open. Did he just say that?

Forcing yourself to untangle the explosion that had just went off in your head, you swallowed heavily.

Was Din just as starved as you were?

Did he crave human connection, human comfort, the way you so desperately had?

Of course, you had never seen him hold anything other than the Child. You had not seen a single embrace, not seen him seek even verbal comfort.

Maybe he was just as lonely in his own skin as you were.

You felt the muscles beneath the armor begin to stiffen, realizing that you hadn't given him a response. He was probably preparing himself for rejection.

"No" you choked, throwing caution to the wind. "God, no. Of course, I don't mind."

You felt him begin to breathe again.

"Thank you," he finally said, his voice small.

"No," you murmured. "Thank you, Din."

For the first time in years, you didn't feel so lonely. You wondered if maybe, just maybe, he felt the same.

#the mandalorian x reader #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #the mandalorian #star wars #baby yoda #din djarin #grogu #mandalorian x reader #din djarin x y/n

[quarterfromcanon]

002 + rebecca bunch!

Aaaaah, the character we have to thank for bringing everybody together! < 3

002 | Rebecca Bunch

How I feel about this character: The first word that springs to mind is always PROUD. I may have feedback about how certain loose ends of her story were tied but, even so, the conclusion of her journey - or the span we got to watch, anyway - still brings such emotional satisfaction. I recall that final expression on her face before the credits, and a sense of hope and peace settles in my heart. She truly is in love with West Covina! And with music! What’s more, she has love for herself and the stories she wants to share. It’s wonderful.

All the people I ship romantically with this character: There’s always going to be some room in my heart for Rebecca/Nathaniel, because I associate that pairing with my friends who write them so well. Audra, Valencia, Marty (How could I help it with such entertaining fic?), Patrick, Connie Cavanagh, the taco cart girl, etc. Rebecca’s very shippable. 

My non-romantic OTP for this character: OTF: Cookie Mama, #gurlgroupis4evah

My unpopular opinion about this character: Oh gosh, okay, so this one isn’t unpopular in the sense that other fans would be upset with me. It’s unpopular in the sense that it’s uncommon. As in, no one else would have this dilemma. When I first started watching the show, I knew something about Rebecca felt familiar to me. She reminded me of someone. Somewhere along the way, much to my dismay, I figured out that nagging feeling wasn’t just familiar but familial. She looks and talks a bit like a relative of mine used to when she was that age. It’s still technically an opinion, this assessment, since our shared family members might not agree and see what I see. But, yeah, ever since that realization kicked in, my aesthetic appreciation of her tends to lean more toward “You look nice” rather than “You look hot.” 

One thing I wish would happen / had happened with this character in canon: One thing? I have several about which I’m quite passionate. Our mutual friend @catty-words brought up one of them (showing us her journey writing her first song), so I’ll say that I would’ve liked to see her possible bisexuality examined more seriously. She’s surrounded by so many LGBT+ people in West Covina, so many different perspectives that could’ve helped her figure things out, if given the chance. My wish for this is definitely on the list of Things That Would’ve Featured in My Ideal Season Four.

my OTP: Rebecca + Her Abstract Theatrical Space. They've been with each other through it all. When they’re united, anything's possible.

my cross over ship: I have no ships for her from other media. I can say, however, that every time a protagonist uses vivid fantasies to process their problems, and what's in their mind manifests for us onscreen, I think of Rebecca Nora Bunch.

a headcanon fact: She went through a brief phase where she watched the 1998 version of The Parent Trap over and over around the time of her parents' divorce. Certain elements hit very close to home, but she kept coming back to it just the same. A rugged dad who lived out west and had a relationship with another woman who wasn't the mother, a mom who kept busy and was often guilty of very single-minded focus, the narrative importance of summer camp... It was like the movie presented her with a ready-made AU into which she could slot herself for two hours and eight minutes. After all, she did absorb the other fetus while in the womb so, technically, she was a twin. Rebecca couldn't help kinda wishing they'd both been born after all, so that at least she wouldn't be going through this as an only child. There'd be one member of her family who understood exactly how she was feeling, and with whom she'd always share a deep connection despite their differences. I suspect, after attempting to visit Silas and subsequently having to go back with Naomi, she avoided any more rewatches for a long time -- maybe more than a decade, even. Then she found herself at a camp with girls who were giving her a makeover and wanting to pierce her ear with a needle. Thoughts of Josh were still at the forefront but, in the back of her mind, the situation started to ring a bell...

#About Me #Answered Asks

[perhaps-just-june]

"Mutual Decisions"

- The one where both participants of an ongoing but unhappy relationship finally makes the mutual decision to let go -

It hadn't been a gloomy afternoon. Far from it, if one would look at the physical aspects of their ambiance at the moment. The sun was present, slowly setting, none of those sad, rainy scenes where breakups from movies and books usually occur. There hasn't even been any crying.

The both of them were silently sitting on a rooftop, watching as the sun descends alongside their dwindling relationship.

"3 years, huh?"

"God, has it really been that long? I feel old."

"Shut up, we're not even 23!"

Laughs were shared. Both were unperturbed by the fact that it could be one of their lasts as partners. After this, all they'd be are strangers. Acquaintances at most. There'd been too much hurt in their time together, too much memories and too much of their past to be able to be anything more than that. Not even close friends.

Nevertheless, there's no other way but forward as they glanced at the sun again. After all, they do say it's better to get off the car if you know you're on a road to nowhere.

"Man, it's been one heck of a journey though. I mean, those were some memories we made."

"Hell yeah, they were. We could even win an Oscar with all the shit we went through."

"Think we'll earn money if we wrote it down and sell it?"

"Most definitely."

The silence that followed was almost comforting. And it would've been if not for the inevitable ending that's about to happen. They've held it off for too long and it's about time they stop.

"But what if we didn't end it yet?"

"And get hurt over and over again? We both know you can't deal with another one as much as I couldn't bear making it again. I can't keep hurting you."

"I've fucked up too, though. We both contributed."

"Exactly. So it only makes sense to stop, right?"

"...I guess you have a point there."

A breeze blew and it tousled their hair from its previous position.

"...Plus, we couldn't make that Oscar-worthy story if there's no breakup."

And just like that, they were both laughing again. It's so easy because they know which words to say and which trigger each other's humor.

"Way to ruin a perfectly dramatic moment."

"It's what I'm here for, right? You know how much I hate all that sad, sappy stuff."

" 'Course I do. You couldn't even sit through The Notebook. You bailed halfway through."

"Did not!"

"Are too! You slept!"

"At least I was still there!"

There was a rolling of the eyes from one side and a mischievous smile on the other. It's at least good to know they could still good-naturedly get on one another's nerves.

"So this is goodbye then?"

"I guess. It's creepy to word it like that though, it makes it seem as if we're dying."

"The way you perceive things still baffles me."

"You see? It's one of the extra reasons we're breaking up, you still don't get how my brain works!"

"So we're just gonna ignore the fact that I could predict when you're gonna reach for either cocoa puffs or captain crunch?"

"You're creepy."

"You're creepy! You knew which bath soaps I use on the daily."

"And you know which shampoo I use! Fair's fair!"

One stuck their tongue at the other while the other just shook their head. They then finally got up from their seat and faced each other. They were smiling.

"I'll miss the weekly Monster Mash blasting."

"And I'll miss SpongeBob every Wednesday."

They shared a final hug and a kiss on the forehead. They both left that rooftop, free and with newfound respect appreciation for the other. Breakups aren't always so bad.

The End.

~ June 💙

#short story #breakup #mutualdecision #firststoryonTumblrxd