#Hope it's enjoyable to read

[yujeong]

There were moments when Vegas eyed his father's associates, the ones whose gaze lingered on his body a little too long, and instead of fury, instead of shame, there would be desperation brewing under his skin. Moments when he wished to be destroyed, ruined; begging to be changed in a way that would cause the something festering within, to turn into nothing. Because nothing was better than something. Because nothing meant the buzzing inside his head would stop and the pain would go away. Because nothing meant peace and quiet. He craved it. There were moments when Pete eyed his opponents in the ring, the ones whose body was made to break people's spines and their egos, and instead of anxiety, instead of fear, there would be anticipation flowing through his heart. Moments when he was hungry for violence, hungry for a home; begging for his father to hit him in a way that would make the nothing existing within, to turn into something. Because something was better than nothing. Because something meant he was real and alive. Because something meant a proud father and a happy grandmother. He longed for it. Eventually, even though they had stopped hoping for it, it happened. Eventually, Vegas became nothing - no minor family ring on his finger, no win against Kinn - and Pete became something - first a pet, then the most important person in someone's life - and it was strange how foreign it felt, how unfamiliar, but they didn't mind. Because together, they became everything.

[cordeliawhohung]

Again same anon, no need to like post this one BUT the whole cig shotgun thing, i also think that he wouldn’t want her to inhale the smoke. He’d make her exhale it after holding it for a second or two—let her get the taste. “Can’t have you doin shit tha’s bad for ya, you already overwork yourself.” And perhaps he’d hold her jaw while he holds it to her lips.

Okay bye now I will spare you my devious thoughts

you sent this ages ago sorry but i was going through my inbox (sorry there's a lot) and i am just-

"Can I try?"

Simon nearly jumps out of skin at the soft whisper of your question. His neck snaps over his shoulder, taking in your tired form standing in the doorway, hands rubbing at your eyes. The cool summer breeze pulls at your nightshirt; it does nothing to hide the swaying parts of you that dance beneath the fabric as your bare feet trot against the cool cement of the balcony. Dark shadows dance across your face as you blink, waiting for your answer.

"Hmm?" he asks.

"Your cigarette," you clarify.

With the way his brows draw together, you would have thought the item had magically formed between his lips and he hadn't realized it until you pointed it out. Embers glow and flicker as he takes it into his fingers, making sure to hold it away from you as you lean against the railing next to him.

"You wanna try?" he asks.

You shrug. "Never have before."

Mulling your proposition over, he bites the insides of his cheeks as he studies you. He always enjoys when you're like this. Half awake and still trying to fight off thick prostration. Your eyes always seem to glimmer more. They dance in the moonlight as you stare at him, tongue wetting the inside of your lips. He swallows as he takes in the sight of them, so soft and sweet. Figures maybe he wouldn't mind putting something between them.

"Alright," he relents. Surprised, your eyes widen as you tilt your head, not having expected him to give in so quickly. He raises the cigarette, plumes of smoke traveling in its wake, yet he refuses to hand it over. "But don't inhale this shit, yeah? Holdin' it in your mouth'll do plenty. You're already workin' yourself half to death, don't need to speed that up."

Nodding your head in agreement, he finally pushes the cigarette toward you, but he still won't hand it off. Instead, he situates it so the filter faces you, and gently brings it to your lips, spoon feeding you the nicotine high himself. Warm fingers hold your chin steady, trying to keep the ash from falling on you. Eager lips wrap around the filter, and his eyes become inky as he soaks up the sight. Your lips hollow, dragging the smoke into your mouth, and you hum as the flavor washes over your tongue.

He recoils the moment you start coughing, puffs of smoke expelling from your mouth too fast to keep shape. His titter is slightly jeering as he shakes his head, shoving the stick back into his own mouth as you attempt to catch your breath.

"What'd I tell ya?" he chuckles.

"How do you keep doing that when it burns so bad?" you wheeze.

"Lot'sa practice, sweetheart."

As it usually does this late into the night, Simon's mind begins to wander. He thinks about that delicate sheen on your lips, how prettily they parted for him, and he feels that heavy libidinous ache swell deep in his stomach. There's a feeble attempt to hide his growing desire, and he smothers it with a quick drag just as your coughing begins to dwindle.

"C'mere," he prompts, head motioning for you to come closer.

Sucking in a breath of fresh air, you comply happily, pads of your feet slapping against the ground. Simon pushes himself away from the railing, standing tall as he brings his free hand up to your face. He relishes the softness of your skin underneath the thick callous of his thumb as he presses on your bottom lip.

"Open."

Lips parting, you watch in awe as he takes a long drag, eyes never leaving you for a second. He leans forward, mouth full of smoke as his lips hover above yours and then blows. Gently, it seeps between your teeth and fills your mouth, coating your skin in a haphazard mess. Your warmth pours into him as he holds your jaw steady, and it's then that he realizes he can't hold back.

Sparks flying, his discarded cigarette flies through the air as he flicks it away, lips crashing against yours just as it collides with the ground. Between the nicotine high and the taste of you, it can't be helped when his tongue breaks free from his mouth and into yours. You hum, the vibrations cutting straight into his chest as you wrap your arms around him. That hum quickly turns into a giggle as you prematurely end the kiss.

He huffs as his nose knocks against yours, silently begging for more. Withholding it from him, your hips begin to sway.

"Gonna come back to bed?" you ask.

Before he replies, he steals a quick kiss as his hands wander down to your hips. He pulls you closer, body colliding against him and his growing want.

"I'd never say no to that."

[sensitiveheartless]

Written followup to the horrors comic! It got away from me lol. Most of it's under the cut, cause this part is also a bit long.

~*~

Minutes passed by on the quiet moonlit dock.

Despite the renewed serenity of the night, Chuuya’s heart continued to race sickeningly fast. It hammered away in his chest, as if unable to fully grasp that the danger had passed.

His clothes were heavy and waterlogged, so cold against his skin that he could barely keep from shivering. Icy trickles ran down the back of his neck and dripped from his hair.

Closing his eyes didn’t help. There were far too many twisted corpses engraved in the darkness whenever he blinked. So he kept his eyes open, staring at the planks beneath them as he tried to steady his breathing.

Don’t think about it, Chuuya told himself. Don’t think about them.

Instead, he forced himself to remain in the present moment. Beneath the planks, he could hear the swell of the ocean waters, each wave lapping at the posts in a quiet rhythm. Salt filled his lungs with every breath, the heavy tang of the sea-soaked wood wafting around him.

And against his chest was Dazai’s head, a steady and grounding pressure. His ear rested over Chuuya’s heart, his arms still tight around him.

In that position, Dazai must have been able to hear how hard Chuuya’s heart was pounding—but surprisingly, he didn’t remark upon it. He remained utterly silent.

In return, Chuuya didn’t say a word about the almost crushing strength of Dazai’s arms where they wrapped around his middle. Dazai’s fingers were digging into his ribs, twin rows of sharp pressure, and Chuuya could feel them shaking.

Dazai’s hair was coarse where Chuuya’s cheek rested against it. Back in the day, before Dazai’s defection, he never bothered with conditioner. It seemed some things never changed, even in the light.

For one wild moment, Chuuya wished that he wasn’t wearing a pair of gloves—then he could bury his bare fingers in Dazai’s hair and see if it was as tangled as it looked. And, perhaps, warm himself up. Dazai was like a radiator against him, heat seeping through Chuuya’s drenched layers of clothes at every point of contact, but his gloves remained cold, the sodden leather chilling him to the bone. His joints ached as he uncurled his fingers from around Dazai’s shoulders.

Perhaps it would be worth it to just…indulge for a moment, if only to have something else to needle Dazai about. Really, the man needed to learn how to groom himself properly one of these days.

As Chuuya’s hand hovered indecisively over Dazai’s head, however, he realized that his heart rate had already evened out. While he was reminiscing about Dazai’s damn mess of hair, of all things.

Ridiculous. But that meant that there was absolutely no excuse for the two of them to remain wrapped around each other any longer. Dazai’s shivering seemed to have calmed as well.

“We should—” Chuuya’s voice cracked when he tried to speak, so he paused and cleared his throat before going on. “We should make sure it’s really gone. I don’t want that thing getting the jump on me again.”

Dazai tensed, and his grip tightened so much that for a moment Chuuya could scarcely breathe.

“Oi. C’mon, you need to let me up,” Chuuya wheezed, swatting at Dazai’s shoulder. He strained his neck to look down at the head buried against his chest, a pang of something that was surely exasperation tightening his throat. “I need to be able to reach it, Dazai.”

Dazai remained still for another long moment, then abruptly loosened his grip. Instead of letting Chuuya up, however, he pushed him down to sit on the damp planks, and rose to his feet himself.

“I’ll go,” Dazai said quietly, and strode past Chuuya towards the small, oval mirror where it lay shattered on the dock.

Right. It did make sense to have Dazai touch it first, in case it was an ability that could be nullified.

…But what if it’s not? What if it’s something like Lovecraft? Dazai will be defenseless, Chuuya thought, and instinctively started to his feet as well.

“Stay back,” Dazai said sharply, without even turning to look. He was standing over the mirror, staring down at it. “Don’t move forward until I say so.”

Chuuya scowled, but remained in place. He watched as Dazai bent down and extended a careful hand towards the shards of glass.

One tap, with the tip of a finger. Then another, less cautious tap against the side of the wooden frame. Then another, and another, Dazai’s touches moving systematically across every inch of shattered glass and broken wood.

Nothing happened.

Dazai breathed out, and stepped back. “There. You are now welcome to crush it into dust,” he said lightly, waving Chuuya forward.

His head was still downturned, his eyes cast in the shadow of his bangs as Chuuya walked past him to do the deed.

It was with deep pleasure that Chuuya pressed each little bit of the mirror into nothingness, grinding it down with the overwhelming weight of gravity.

After it was done, Chuuya scattered the dust into the ocean waters below. “What the fuck was that thing, anyway?” he asked, turning back to face the other.

When he turned, however, he found Dazai had moved to sit on the edge of the dock, his legs dangling off the edge.

His back was facing Chuuya. It seemed deliberate.

At first, Dazai didn’t respond to Chuuya’s question. The silence stretched long enough that Chuuya began to shiver again, the cold wind cutting through his damp clothes.

“…A Face Like Glass,” Dazai said at last. “That’s what the ability was called.”

“So it was a gifted,” Chuuya muttered. He walked to Dazai’s side, and dropped down beside him with a heavy sigh. “That mean the user is still out there somewhere?”

“No,” Dazai said softly. “She died some time ago, I’m afraid.”

Chuuya looked at him sharply. “What?”

There wasn’t much light by which to see, but Chuuya knew Dazai’s face like the back of his own hand. Better, probably. And he could tell that the detective’s features had gone unnaturally still.

It was how Dazai looked whenever he was unsure of how much he should give away. Typically his poker faces were more natural, but when he was strongly conflicted, he would simply go blank.

“Explain,” Chuuya said, crossing his arms. “That thing almost killed me, I think I ought to know what it was.”

That got a reaction. Dazai’s lips twitched downward and he looked away, hiding his face from Chuuya once again.

After another lingering pause, however, he finally began to talk.

“A Face Like Glass was the ability of a woman named Hardinge,” Dazai said, as blandly as if he were reciting a history lesson. “She could reflect the darkest thoughts of anyone who looked into that mirror of hers, and give those thoughts physical form. Quite literally a nightmare to deal with, as one can imagine. She was the terror of England. However, after she rose to prominence, the mirror began to behave a bit oddly.

“The more renowned Hardinge became, the more people began to fear her ability. She kept the exact details of the mirror shrouded in mystery, so her enemies were always speculating what horrors it might do to them next.

“Naturally, over time, their darkest thoughts became consumed with fear of the mirror itself. And when Hardinge reflected those thoughts, manifesting them into reality…well. You can imagine what happened.”

Chuuya’s hands formed fists in his lap, so tight the leather of his gloves creaked. His fingers were somehow even colder than before. “A runaway effect,” he said. Despite his best efforts, his voice came out rough. “A singularity.”

“Quite,” Dazai said. “The heights of human imagination should never be underestimated. The more powerful anyone imagined the mirror was, the more powerful it became. When their fears manifested, their imaginations ran ever more wild with terrifying possibilities. Which it would also reflect. And so on, and so on. The only one who could control it was Hardinge herself, stopping the runaway cycle by covering the mirror. She acted as a control for the ability for many years, preventing it from going too far.

“But one day, one of her enemies had the dubiously clever idea to turn the mirror back on Hardinge herself. Which, ordinarily, would have been a mere scare tactic. I’m sure their only intent was to make her hesitate to use the mirror by making her own fears manifest.

“However, that is not what happened. Keep in mind, Hardinge had been watching this ability of hers grow with each battle she fought, gaining strength after strength, only barely containing it with her efforts. Sometimes it must have seemed so powerful that it nearly eclipsed her own self.

“Anyone would be frightened of that. It can’t be surprising that her darkest thoughts contained the fear that her mirror would one day consume her.”

Silence stretched, frigid and fragile as ice.

“…So her own ability ate her,” Chuuya said flatly.

“Yes,” Dazai said. “And without anyone left to contain it, the mirror was unleashed.”

Chuuya rubbed wearily at his temples. “Okay. Then how did it get here? To Yokohama?”

“From what I hear, Hardinge was not popular with the Order of the Clock Tower,” Dazai said. “She had gone into hiding here when her ability overtook her. The Special Operations Division then sent out operatives to contain it.”

Chuuya raised his head. “Oh. They’re involved? Wait, does that mean…was that ex-drinking buddy of yours the one who told you all this?”

Dazai nodded, and Chuuya could faintly make out a crooked smile on his lips in the darkness. “Ango called to warn me of its escape. They had done everything they could to keep it locked away so it could be studied, but all it took was one researcher fearing that the creature had the ability to get out of its cell, and it immediately had that power,” he said, leaning back on his bandaged palms. He gave Chuuya a sidelong look, heavy with significance. “Then, of course, while Ango was briefing me on A Face Like Glass, I also got word that a certain tiny mafioso had gone out to fight an unknown monster that was terrorizing the shipyards.”

Chuuya met his stare with a raised eyebrow. “Yeah, so?” he said. “It was scaring my subordinates. Someone had to do something.”

Dazai’s gaze darkened further. “Chuuya, you went alone,” he said. “You tried to face it all by yourself, without even knowing what it was. You could have —” He broke off, and looked away once more. His nails were digging into the wood of the dock, his shoulders stiff. 

Hiding again, Chuuya thought.

For a moment, Chuuya considered pointing out that there wasn’t anyone for him to call for help. Very few of the other mafia members could stand up to an otherworldly threat—and even those who could, like Akutagawa, were not anyone who Chuuya would want exposed to a fear-monster. Everyone in the mafia had far too much darkness to reflect.

Besides, Dazai had no room to scold Chuuya when he was the one who had left him without a partner in the first place.

But even as Chuuya contemplated speaking those cutting words aloud, he found himself unable to.

Because even though Chuuya hadn’t called, Dazai had come anyway.

And, if the reflections of that ability could be believed, one of Dazai’s darkest thoughts was losing Chuuya to Corruption. Right alongside Dazai’s fear of his own past self, and his fear of disappointing his old friend. That…changed some things.

Chuuya sighed, releasing a long-held weight. Then he prodded Dazai’s shoulder with a cold, gloved fingertip. “Hey,” he said. “Look at me.”

Dazai’s shoulders hitched higher, but he didn’t turn.

“What’s your deal?” Chuuya demanded, poking him again. “You don’t have to hide from me, idiot. What, you think I’m gonna make fun of you for having emotions?”

That, apparently, surprised Dazai enough to glance back at Chuuya, his brow furrowed.

“Because I won’t,” Chuuya said. “Not about this. I mean…look, before you showed up, that mirror motherfucker had already reflected a lot of people at me. The Flags, the Sheep, Murase, even N. That’s how it got close enough to me to grab me and drag me under in the first place. So if you’re embarrassed of breaking down or some shit, you shouldn’t be. I did too.”

“It’s not that,” Dazai muttered, his eyes darting away across the dark ocean waters once again.

“Then what?” Chuuya prompted impatiently, leaning closer.

“I froze,” Dazai said, his lips twisting in disgust. “Under the slightest amount of pressure, I broke. You could have died, just because I couldn’t bring myself to fire at a poor imitation of my friend.”

Chuuya blinked. “What’s wrong with that? I broke too. And you were there to pull me out of the water. I saved you, and you saved me. That’s what partners are for, right?”

That finally got Dazai to face him, whipping around so quickly it must have hurt his neck. His eyes were wide, his lips parted in surprise.

Chuuya knew why. It had been years since he had called Dazai his partner.

All too aware that his cheeks were beginning to heat, Chuuya reached out to pull the infuriating man into his arms, tucking Dazai’s head against his shoulder. “Not a word,” he growled, squeezing Dazai tightly in warning. “Make fun of me for this and I’m kicking you into the ocean.”

Dazai let out a choked noise, and suddenly he was clinging to Chuuya just as tight, his fingers practically clawing into his back.

He was shaking again. Or maybe they both were.

“It—it had been so long since I heard his voice,” Dazai cried against Chuuya’s neck, muffled and damp on his skin. “I don’t want that to be how I remember him, I don’t, I hate it…”

Chuuya closed his eyes and saw Albatross laying on the ground in pieces, staring up at him in betrayal. He let out a slow, careful breath, and held Dazai closer.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I know. I get it.”

Dazai was still so warm. And Chuuya’s hands were still so terribly cold.

Making a reckless decision, Chuuya pulled off his soaked gloves and tossed them aside, then sunk his fingers into Dazai’s mess of curls without hesitation. He felt more than heard the sharp inhale against his neck, and the quiet questioning hum that followed. Chuuya ignored it and continued to card his fingers through Dazai’s hair.

“…Chuuya?” Dazai breathed.

Chuuya tugged absently at a knot. “Tangled,” he grunted. “It was bothering me.”

“Mm,” Dazai hummed, and his hands slid up the back of Chuuya’s jacket. “Chuuya’s cold.”

“No shit,” Chuuya said grumpily. “I fell in the fucking ocean, and it’s freezing out here.”

There was a soft laugh, then a strange sensation ghosted across the side of Chuuya’s neck just above his choker, almost like a pair of lips had pressed there. Chuuya’s hands tightened in Dazai’s hair, stiffening in surprise. He could only wonder if he had imagined it, unable to comprehend any other possibility.

He certainly didn’t imagine what Dazai said next, however.

“Come home with me,” Dazai whispered, his lips brushing against Chuuya’s skin once again.

Chuuya made a very strange noise, somewhere between a shriek and a gasp, and used his grip on Dazai’s hair to haul him away just enough for their eyes to meet. “The fuck?” he spluttered, face burning. “What do you mean, where did that — hah?”

Dazai’s eyes were rimmed in red, dulled with weariness. One of his hands wandered up to Chuuya’s cheek and rested there, circling the blush with his thumb. “I don’t want you out of my sight right now,” he said quietly. “That’s all.”

Ah. Right. The reflection of Corruption.

Well. Chuuya couldn’t really deny that he wasn’t looking forward to a night spent alone in his own apartment. He might not dream, but that didn’t matter if he couldn’t even get to sleep. Having someone beside him might help.

And beyond all that—this was the first time that Dazai had ever asked Chuuya to stay with him.

So, dazed and still a little flushed, Chuuya abandoned all common sense and replied, “Okay.”

Dazai captured one of Chuuya’s hands between his own, and brought it to his lips to brush a kiss across his knuckles. “Good,” he murmured, and pulled Chuuya to his feet. A slight smile flitted across his features. “I think I spotted Chuuya’s dreadful hat further towards the shore. Shall we find it first?”

Chuuya’s knuckles were still tingling. “Okay,” he repeated, strangled and utterly bewildered. His thoughts were chasing themselves in circles like a pack of confused terriers, but he allowed Dazai to tow him away towards the lights of the city.

And if Chuuya’s fingers ended up intertwined with Dazai’s as they traversed the shadows…well.

The streets were too dark for anyone to prove it.

“…Wait, is there even room at your place? You’re still living in that shitty dorm, aren’t you?”

A familiar grin and a pair of twinkling eyes turned back to him as they passed through a dimly lit alley. “Hmm? Chuuya has been tracking where I live? How sentimental of you, slug.”

At least he’s getting back to normal, Chuuya thought. “Oh, shut up,” he grumbled aloud. “Of course I’d keep an eye on your annoying ass.”

A scandalized, yet delighted gasp. “Chuuya likes looking at my ass?”

“…?! Shut up! That is not what I said—!”

[amoscontorta]

Hi, I write fanfiction about Love and Deepspace. Currently Sylus-specific, although I love and appreciate most of the LIs. Full summaries and tags are in each link.

Alike and cornered beast, Sylus's POV | ao3

I was desperate for Sylus's point of view during the first time that MC meets him in the Alike and Cornered Beast chapters of Long-Awaited Revelry. I wanted to know why he touches MC so reverently but also quite brutally, so I spent a lot of time thinking about possibilities and this is the result.

Roleplay, undercurrents, and rising curtain, Sylus's POV | ao3

It really bothers me in the game that the clearly traumatic experiences MC undergoes in the canon storyline don't seem to have any consequences for MC's character development. Yes, yes, this is a self-insert gacha mobile game, blah blah. MC has PTSD from chapter 4 (you know the one), and no one can convince me otherwise, so I re-wrote the auction bits from Sylus's POV to fix this grievous oversight, because I am also firmly convinced he is a champ at handling MC's trauma.

No way out, revised | ao3

I thought that MC was too mean to Sylus in his 4 star No Way Out card, and I didn't like it, so I fixed it. I mean, I rewrote how it went like a proper rabid fan. Sylus shows up injured near MC's place, MC tends to his injuries, and he takes advantage of the situation like a vampire and secures himself an open invitation into MC's home whenever he 'needs' it.

Datura tea, or how all you want is to get some sleep | ao3

You're suffering from insomnia due to untreated PTSD (probably, I don't know, I'm not a doctor or a therapist) from your family getting, well, exploded, and the longer this goes on, the sloppier you become in combat and just existing, and a bad idea is born (let's go to the club alone, drink enough to finally get drowsy and then go home and finaaaaally sleep it off). Zayne treats some of your injuries, Mephisto does Sylus's stalker bidding, and guess who appears at the club right before you're about to probably violate the Hunter's Association code of conduct on an idiot who has a hard time taking no for an answer? Spoiler alert: he can't sing but he can dance, even if he chooses to dance to the music he'd rather be hearing than the music actually being played. Full of clichés but hopefully with refreshing twists.

Sylus gets a headache | ao3

Sylus has secured the promise from you that he can use your place as a safe house if he's in the area and needs it. Sylus's definition of "need", it turns out, might be different than your own, as illustrated by the first time he shows up unannounced at your door.

Wine time with Sylus | ao3

Sylus invites himself over, helps himself to your first aid kit and your kitchen, manipulates you into tasting wine with him, discusses his latest business venture, and gifts you more than one present before he's good and ready to finally leave.

[beepboopappreciation]

AM + P03 = .... 3AM?

[rendevok]

your narumitsu art made me weep with joy and I heard you want more requests 👀

idk if this is the right place to put them but I think phoenix coming with miles to try on his glasses for the first time would be sweet :,) miles asking how they look and phoenix being just smitten. the good stuff

Dear anon… you sure know how to pick em! Things got very out of hand very quickly while drawing, and well. You inspired me to draft a comic! I didn’t want to make you wait long, so here are the sketches for the pages relevant to your request <3

Thanks so much, and hope you enjoy~! 💜

[soranker]

…..im wolfwood pilled atm 😆🤞

[thirdeyeblue]

“Nine would have treated Martha better than Ten did”

I need to talk about this argument that never seems to stop circulating.

Note: Not a venomous/anti post. There’s more than enough of that across fandom spaces as is, and this is supposed to be a place for ✨sweet, blissful escapism✨

When making this argument, people seem to envision a scenario in which Nine never met Rose.

While I can appreciate a good hypothetical, recognizing Rose's significance to the Doctor (Nine and Ten) is essential to understanding why things with Martha played out the way they did in the first place.

In the third series, the Doctor is grieving. This grief is deliberately threaded into nearly every script, whether spoken aloud or not (and these are just a few examples):

He's burning in Rose’s wake the entire time Martha travels with him, which is why it’s so frequently called upon: It’s 100% deliberate in framing his grief. He grieved as Nine too, of course— having been fresh on the heels of the Time War — but then he met Rose, which changed everything.

Back then, he was still a rude, traumatized pain in the ass, but we watch Rose soften more of those jagged edges with every episode as they grow closer; as he lets his guard down and forms a deep connection with her.

He falls in love (against his better judgment) and it's game over.

And yes: provided S1E1 had been titled 'Martha', one can realistically assume things might have unfolded similarly to how they did with Rose. However, it wouldn’t have been that way just because the Doctor was Nine and “Nine was different” — it would be because he wasn’t already in love with someone else. The same can't be said for the start of S3.

Think of it like this: if Rose AND Martha had been in that cellar — if Nine had taken both of them along with him in S1 — we’d eventually be looking at the most melodramatic love triangle ever, what with him living in close quarters with two brilliant, gorgeous, compassionate young women... But Doctor Who is plenty “soap opera” as is with just one woman in the TARDIS.

(I certainly wouldn’t object to reading that fic, though)

Now, regarding the unrequited elephant in the room…

His inability to be romantic with Martha isn’t because he thinks her lesser, nor is it for lack of compatibility. It isn't because Rose is any better than her. It certainly isn’t just because he’s Ten.

It’s really only for one reason, which can't be denied — and now I’m a broken record:

He is still in love with Rose.

(cut from a tenrosedaily gif)

Nine is Ten, and Ten is only such a mess in S3 because he’s just lost the love of his life. Martha merely got caught in the crosshairs of a volatile Time Lord in mourning, and yes — it sucks. Absolutely.

But it also feels dismissive to chalk Ten and Martha’s relationship up to little more than some sort of mindless dance of pining, jealousy, and toxicity.

Ten trusted Martha with his life over and over again — and hers, with him. He constantly praised her brilliance, happily carting her around time and space with no intention of letting her go. In the BBC’s extended universe of novels/comics/cartoons/etc, there’s so much depth to their relationship: love and trust and trauma and sacrifice. They had their own special bond as mates, their own complexities — so it’s a bummer that it's forever overshadowed by the other things.

I’m not denying that there was a lot of stuff that sucked/was for sure toxic about Ten's S3 behavior, but so many of the things I've seen him catching flak for can be directly attributed to being A Clueless Fucking Alien Idiot (not a trait that’s unique to Ten) — as well as his flat-out obliviousness to Martha’s feelings.

So yes, I agree: if Rose never existed, he would have treated Martha differently as Nine. He also would have treated her differently as Ten. Certainly.

But Rose did exist, and when discussing canon, it matters.

“He tells me that he absolutely, 100% loves Rose... He tells me how my daughter; my wonderful, beautiful, clever little girl saved him from himself before… And he says that’s all because of me! I made her into the Rose Tyler that saved him.”

-Jackie Tyler, Flight Into Hull!

Martha got the short end of the stick in S3. She came round at the wrong place and time, but that doesn't mean it was all bad. It doesn't mean the Doctor didn’t adore her. It certainly doesn't mean the time they spent together was wasted or worthless. They were brilliant!

Sure, he could be a twat, but let it be known that he was a twat with Rose as well, both as Nine and Ten. I’m sure Tentoo can be plenty infuriating, too. So while I'll defend Ten (and Tentoo) into the ground forever and ever and ever, I'll concede that he's fucked up.

The Doctor is a certified Pain In The Ass. It’s one of the things I love so much about this character — dynamics.

But never forget that Martha was goddamn tough as nails and overcame every bit of it. She moved on with her life, and the Doctor moved on with his. One can only pray that, when they inevitably drag her back onto the show (which feels inevitable if I'm honest), we see at once that she's been living her best life for all these years.

[tswwwit]

Here's a thing! Reincarnation of Dipper who's not in the best of situations. (A Cult)

Got some gore and knives in here so watch out!

In the room of ritual, everything is ready. 

Off in that wide and majestic space, the candles are lit. The circle is drawn. The altar spread with gold and trinkets, little offerings of delight and whimsy, tomes of knowledge. Along with the remnants of the latest sacrifice, dried in long trails down the stone.

The tomes, though. If one looked closely, they would see mostly encyclopedia volumes from like, sixty years ago. Because, yeah, those are going to be so tempting for a being of infinite knowledge.

Long chanting rings through the hallways, preparing the way. The ritual is in less than an hour. In preparation for the service, the servants of their lord make themselves presentable. 

Dipper adjusts his robe - too big for him, by at least one size- and pulls at the neckline. It always drags up against his throat, in a tight, uncomfortable way. He tugs it down again, glaring into the small mirror on the otherwise bare wall.

Bill Cipher is the most powerful being in the universe, and his reach is infinite and his discernment of the mind and mastery of mysteries is unquestionable, yadda yadda yadda. 

Dipper just. Doesn’t know what everyone else here expects to happen. Especially with the setup unchanged from the one he saw last year. And the year before that. And the one before that. 

Odds are, this ritual is going to end up the same as every other one. 

Pointless.

Dipper adjusts his robes again, and smooths out the front with slow strokes. As long as this is going to happen, he might as well avoid drawing attention to himself. He’s had enough ‘attention’ for more than a lifetime.

There’s a rhythm to these ceremonies.  Dipper hears the footsteps, and easily tucks the hood of his robe up, only semi-stumbling as he joins the twin lines of robed figures leading into the ritual room. 

As he tucks his hands together, covering them with long sleeves - Dipper spends another moment to silently sigh. 

He joins the line, ducking his head as he joins in formation. The two lines of followers shuffle on with their long robes brushing the floor. He can hear them whispering to each other; varying levels of excitement, boredom. Talking about plans for after the ritual. He thinks he picks up one of the more devout members, almost humming with anticipation.

Despite the murmurs, the sight itself could be quite impressive. An all-seeing eye, if it was real, might even appreciate it.

Still, all these dramatics are so over the top. Just as fruitless and stupid as every other prayer, or ritual. Never worked before, not gonna work now. Dipper’s not sure why they’re trying the same freakin’ thing, over and over again.

For a bunch of people obsessed with the infinite power and knowledge Cipher represents, they haven’t accrued any. 

And for that matter! If Bill Cipher’s eye is truly all-seeing, why hasn’t he ever responded? His triangle is emblazoned on every wall, and on their robes. You can’t look at a surface without seeing it staring back at you, and there’s no short of devout worshipers, constantly praying and doing rites. 

Dipper dares a glance at one of the long scrawls on the walls, seething slightly at the handwriting. And the grammar.

If he was watching, surely he would have spoken up by now. Even if it’s just to critique the decor, which is tacky as hell.

The main ritual room fills up with warm bodies, and Dipper stands in an inconspicuous place. Just to the left, and not quite entirely in the back. At the front of the room, he can see the priest nodding approvingly, hands tucked behind his back. 

Hidden under the sleeves, Dipper clenches his hands together. Breathing out a silent prayer of his own, to nobody particular. He can stand stock-still through one or two more ridiculous rituals, if it means no more prayers to a blind idiot god.

A week. Maybe two. That’s it.

Then he’ll be out of these robes, and far, far away from here. He’ll never see these people again. He’ll never have to chant a single verse again in slightly incorrect Latin. He’ll never have to kneel, or go before that stone altar again, not even once.

The outside world is - there’s a lot of talk about it. There’s always a lot of talk, more or less colored by personal experiences and levels of permission to go ‘outside’. Dipper’s learned, now, that well over ninety percent of the gossip is lies. 

If his palms still sweat at the prospect, it’s because it’s… New. Different. But it can’t possibly be worse than here, and, like. Novelty is condoned by his not-really-a-god. Trying new things should be standard doctrine - if the priest wasn’t a total idiot.

Not much longer, now. 

Out there, things will be better. Out there, Dipper will have a chance at having a life. 

And there won’t be any trouble, since he’ll keep his mouth shut.

 “Children of Cipher!” The high-pitched voice of the priest rings tinnily through the air. “We are once again assembled!”

Dipper bows in concert with his fellows. Staring at the ground is a good way to not roll his eyes. 

A chant rises up, and he keeps his lips clamped together as he mirrors the ritual bowing and scraping and general genuflection. The priest will go on and on, no matter what he does. 

All it takes to get through this is time. Another round of kneeling, then standing, then kneeling, until they stand at the last word in a thronging chorus.

“Brothers!” A louder, shriller call, now that everyone has been drawn close to a fervor. For all his faults, the priest does know how to read the mood - “Tonight is a special evening!” His arms thrown up, spindly and bare as the sleeves drop near to his shoulders. “Who will bleed for our god?”

The only thing that prevents Dipper from flinching is how much attention that would draw.

He hardly dares to breathe, lest some wayward motion be taken as ‘enthusiasm.’ 

Dipper keeps his head bowed, as murmurs start up around him and  his forehead starts to prickle with sweat. 

Sacrifices happen all the time. Mostly animals. Last year they got a goat, and that was considered a pretty big one and the stew afterwards was filling, and probably tasted pretty good. 

Human blood, though. That’s - They haven’t done this in years. 

The susurration of voices in the background grow louder, and Dipper stays bowed in place. Of course nobody wants to volunteer; ‘willing’ isn’t easily found when it comes to getting a knife in your flesh - but someone’s going to bleed, tonight. The ‘volunteer’ bit will be justified by whatever’s convenient.

Around him there’s murmurs, a few, low arguments. Tension is starting to rise, but for the most part, he’s being overlooked.

He nearly thinks he’s gotten away with it, too, when a hard shove on his back sends him stumbling forward.

“Here, brothers!” The voice rings in Dipper’s ears as he tries to backtrack, slipping on the robes of the person in front of him and dropping painfully to the floor. “The provider!”

Shit, shit, shit. 

Dipper tries to glance back at whatever asshole pushed him, but the crowd’s already grouped together into a bunch of faceless clumps, drawing back from his fall. 

He levels the worst glare he can manage, even as both his arms are seized by two of his so-called ‘brothers’. The big ones. 

Gritting his teeth, Dipper digs in his heels. Struggling’s ineffective, protesting’s impossible. Gesturing wildly, including a raised finger in the general direction of the asshole who pushed him, Dipper gets dragged to the foot of the altar. 

“See how he offers his flesh! See how he shakes with joy!” The priest jogs his arms in the air. Dipper shakes his head rapidly holding up his hands. “His arms, already offered!”

And for a moment Dipper’s simply annoyed at how obvious it is that the whole damn ritual is a farce. 

“Tonight, we call upon the god! Tonight! We-”

Whatever else he’s yelling about, Dipper doesn’t pay any mind. He’s busy trying to use the loose robes to worm his way out of the guards’ grip. It halfway works, until one of them gets him by the bare wrist and painfully pulls it out.

The cold stone hits his waist. One of his sleeves is drawn to his shoulder. His arm pinned, bare and wrist upraised, on the stone. 

Damn it, if he finds out who shoved him, he’s going to - he arches up, but firm hands hold his shoulders. There’s little time to think about revenge when he’s trying to find a way out of this. Arm, stuck. Shoulders, held. The exits, totally blocked by a bunch of crowded figures. 

In a way, Dipper can’t truly blame them. After all, if the current sacrifice got away, who knows? 

They could be next. 

The priest seems pleased, at least. He paces in front of the altar, gesticulating wildly, and rambling on about god and blood, and other nonsensical bullshit.

Great. They have their ‘sacrifice’ for tonight. So, so super ‘willing’ too, what with how he, quote ‘rushed to offer himself’, end quote. 

Dipper takes a long breath, holding it for three beats. Then he lets it out. 

Okay. If this follows most other ‘human sacrifices’, it should be bearable. Some bloodletting, a nasty scar. Maybe a missing finger, but he’s learned to deal with worse. Push through the moment, wait for it to be over. Soon enough, he’ll be on the other side of this entire godawful situation.

Focusing on the transitory nature of pain helps him steady his breathing. And more importantly, slow his heart rate.

Calming meditation. He can work on that. Though it’s difficult, with the way the priest keeps going on and on about an ‘auspicious night’. Also, the very large, curved, very sharp-looking knife.

Dipper tries his best not to stare at it. Or to linger too much on the thought of knives and flesh and blood. If he could stop thinking, for once in his stupid life, it’ll be over before he knows it.

That’s totally not not the usual knife, though. He wonders where the hell it came from.

Last time, it was some basic utilitarian repurposed chef-thing, with a crudely engraved triangle on the hilt and the blade. This one’s much more… Ceremonial. Sharper, too, with a wicked curve and a gleaming edge, and covered in runes that Dipper’s never seen before.

He mouths a swear as one guard uncurls his fingers from the edge of the altar, turning his wrist back upright. The priest waves the very, very sharp blade around, yelling something that Dipper doesn’t bother parsing, even as his mind races. He can tell it’s definitely not Cipher runes on that thing, and not the old Latin their god prefers. Did someone go outside to find this? Another random artifact that the priest got his hands on? Seems like he’s always picking up useless semi-magic items.

The knife doesn’t feel ‘useless’, though, even from a glance. It radiates a pure and terrifying purpose. 

Especially as it comes down, and rests against his wrist. Almost gently, its point bites a drop of blood from his skin.

The fetid breath of the priest pants over the altar. Dipper turns away, neck twisting as far as he can manage, eyes shut.

Please let this be just a bit. Just a drop. A small, tentative cut to fill a bit of the channels on the stone. There’s a sting to the metal, a slight burn, and though Dipper’s not one of the main Holders of Mysteries or anything, he feels like that’s a very bad sign.

Then he feels. Cold.

It runs down his inner arm, lingering for an instant before blossoming into sharp, bright pain. He nearly chokes on air, cringing into a hunched position as he feels the knife slide.

The catching drag of the old knife would have been painful, but that was mostly used for taking a finger, or maybe dragging across the back of the arm, in a more decorative than productive way of drawing blood. 

The ease with which this knife cuts sends a deep, swirling nausea straight to the pit of his stomach.

“Behold, the flow! The magic gathers, my children!” THe priest’s voice warbles a bit as “With this tool, with this magic, our god will hear our call! He will behold our devotion, and raise us to glory! He will answer-” More and more words, variations on encouragement. Zero substance, all hype. A fanatical motivation speaker, Dipper thinks, half-hysterically. 

Vapid or not, the result is effective. The sight of blood has certainly spurred everyone into a kind of frenzy, whether from fear or fervor, Dipper doesn’t care.

And they’re certainly getting a lot of blood. More than required.

Dipper struggles up against the hold, but it’s pointless. He ‘s stuck there for a few long minutes, oozing out for an audience that can’t even see half the damn thing, and it hurts. 

The red trail gathers, slowly pooling down and into the engraven triangle. Enough to fill the shallow channels easily, which, uh. Dipper’s never seen before. With the other sacrifices it kind of stopped and clotted, but this moves like it’s being wicked along the surface.

He makes a face as  his blood slowly travels through the lines, but can’t see any surface changes, or feel anything that might have been put on the stone.  

Until it connects at the top point. Then it meets, completing the image of Bill with a strange, too-bubbly ‘blorp’. 

Okay. Weird. But that’s plenty, right? Ritual done, blood offered, and now, he should get going.

Lurching upward gets the grip to loosen up on his arms, as the guards loosen their grip a bit. They already have what they need, and hell. Dippers deserves a friggin’ break. With the immediate attention off him, he can dare a glance at his arm - 

And instantly averts his gaze to absolutely anything else. 

The priest turns around, arms raised. Pumping them  in the air, knife glinting in the candlelight. “Yes. Yes!” He swings the blade around, nearly catching one of the big brothers in the side. “See how easily the liquid flows. The power builds! I can feel it - the summoning, in this room tonight!”

The crowd calls out their enthusiasm, a high rising ‘oooh’ noise. 

Dipper sighs, and tries to scoot back away from the altar. It’s done, at least; he’ll just have to cope with the aftermath. Could be worse.

“The other arm, brothers!” A loud, clarion call. Dipper whips his head around,  as the priest lowers his arms - and turns back around. Pointing at Dipper. Again. “I feel the blade crave more!” 

Uh, hello? What?

Dipper glances up at the knife. At how the slight sheen of blood has dipped into some of the runes, the faint glow -  and goes ‘huh’. 

Alright, he’ll admit. It’s definitely magical. 

But he’s beginning to suspect it has less to do with Bill, and a lot more to do with other forces. Ones that might, say, make a ritual flow smoothly. Or make a fanatical asshole even more bloodthirsty.

Behind him, he almost feels the guards shrug, right before he gets shoved against the altar again. One of the assholes even dares to pat his side, in a brief bit of unexpected sympathy. Not that it means anything. 

Dipper longs to curse them out, to scream at every single one of these absolute jackasses. Every one of them is just watching this happen. Nobody thinks about what happens next, ever, including - 

He grits his teeth instead, hard enough that he thinks something might crack.

Everyone follows orders. The words of their supposed ‘god’, filtered through a man who’s fallible and frail and frankly fucking stupid.  Always getting stupid magical trinkets. Always trying to find a link to that demonic god, constantly pursuing magic, and power, and influence. No matter the cost.

Why would he care if one of the too-few worshipers pays the price?

And fuck that.

Before, Dipper struggled as much as he could. Partly from fear, sure. But mostly to make a point. That this was stupid and painful, and wasn’t going to do anything anyway. Knowing that with enough kicking and protest, he might get them to cut things short.

Now, seeing the priest whip the blade back around, raising overhead with both hands - he fights.

A solid kick lands in the left guard’s groin, and he gets his wounded arm back. Dipper clutches it to his chest, but the other’s still pinned and being twisted, now. Another kick gets something softer, and he hears a huff from the priest. Then a loud, angry order to ‘Hold him down!’.

Dipper’s shoved into the stone, stomach digging into the edge of the altar hard enough to make him gag. His head hits the surface, more dizzying than painful. There's a hand gripped in his hair. Then his other sleeve is drawn up, his healthy arm extended over the table. Bare skin exposed, lying over the bloody surface. 

He breathes heavily, nose nearly against the altar. It quickly grows hot from his breath, and moist, too, which is probably why his face feels wet. He doesn’t hear anything but his own harsh panting. 

He never wanted to be a part of this, he never wanted to grow up like this. In a week or so, he was going to get out, and now he’s going to get hurt again, so soon, and he only has so much blood in him. He doesn’t want to die. He shuts his eyes, tucking up against himself. Hoping the weight of his body will drag his arm away where his own strength couldn’t, choking back a tightness in his throat. He was nearly out. He was nearly safe.

He was almost free. 

He breathes harder, shutting his eyes tight. He presses his forehead against the runes, and the blood, and just wishes he wasn’t here. 

Metal clangs on the floor, ringing bright as a bell. 

There’s a sudden intake of breath. Dipper feels the hands release him, a shocked sound. Then the ‘flump’ of a lot of draped fabric, all at once. 

Dipper keeps his face against the stone, breathing slower. That’s. That’s not how any ritual goes.

He can’t waste the opportunity, though. Now that his arms are free, Dipper pulls his sleeve back up, bundling it around the cut. Shit. Does he clench his fist or leave his grip loose? Which one slows blood flow. 

Whatever interrupted this isn’t going to last. He’s only got a few seconds before everyone comes back to whatever passes for their senses, and tries to ‘complete the summoning’, or whatever the hell they were after.

Gotta act. Gotta - Dipper wheels around, panting for breath. 

In front of the altar, all the robed figures in the room have fallen to their knees. The priest’s dropped the knife. Dipper scoots it a little closer to himself with a foot, watching as the zealot raises his arms in devout praise. 

Dipper pauses. Still clenching tight on his wrist, though his sleeve is starting to feel damp. Things don’t just stop like that. The ritual has to continue. People should be surging up to keep the momentum, but the entire room is -

Oh. 

Yeah, now he sees it. 

All the candles were lit before. They give a little light to a room that’s never seen electronics in its life, dim as it is. 

Right now, they’re bursting with flame, rising high enough to cast weird shadows over the cavern - 

And it’s a very bright blue. 

Shit.

Dipper whirls around, unsteady on his feet. Staring at a long, long trail of rising blood. Almost a string, or a reverse droplet, floating up from the triangle carved on the stone. In midair it spreads into a thin web, shapeless and vaguely pulsing. 

Okay. That is definitely magical. And absolutely up to no good. 

He fumbles around - where did he kick the knife? Maybe if he breaks it, it’ll interrupt this whole thing. Who knows what the hell that idiot priest did, or where he got the artifact, or what it does. 

Dipper doesn’t know much about gods, or spirits, or demons, but anything that gets pulled in by a blood sacrifice can’t be a good sign. He spots the damn thing near the opposite corner, and braces himself on the altar. It he’s careful, he can reach it without alerting anyone. Maybe.

Which is when the entire hall fills with bright, loud laughter.

“Well, well, well, well, well!” The voice rings just as brightly as the laugh. Dipper jerks towards the sound, involuntarily, only to see a single eye open inside the breath web of blood. “What do we have here?”

There’s a resounding groan from the crowd. Various people start chanting, but they’re all using different verses, and the priest starts his own, presumably improvised, wail of praise and devotion. The end result is an ear-rattling clamor. 

Dipper looks back at the altar. Watching the blood twist in this way, and that. The eye alights on him for a moment - he freezes - but it moves on from him quickly, examining the room.

There’s a lot to see, too. Maybe terrified, devout worshipers isn’t weird for a supernatural entity, but it’s thoroughly freaking Dipper out. Even the priest is on his knees.

“Boy, it’s been a while since I’ve had this kinda summon!” The net stretches, almost elastic; twisting into limblike shapes, and fractal forms. The slit-pupiled eye rolls back and forth. Then it blinks twice. “Might as well get dressed for the occasion! Hold on a sec.”

The eye shuts into nothingness. Moments later, the blood starts getting really active, pulsing faster, twisting into shapes like it’s alive.

Dipper spares a terrified check on his wrist, but. No, he’s not feeding it, or anything. This is something else. Someone else, taking the material and lending it power enough to grow. 

Even as he watches, there’s a spreading arch of bone and the twist of veins. A fairly glorpy assortment of something between and below what looks like ribs, a strange thick blackness tinged with yellow…

He cringes back, and shuts his eyes. Shit, watching this is deeply unsettling. 

Not that it’s gory, per se - that would imply that something’s being taken apart, when it shouldn’t be. This is something being put together, a way that it shouldn’t ever be.

He backs up a step from the writhing mass, getting more fleshy by the instant. Then grimaces, teetering in place. Blood loss, right. From the asshole who started this whole thing. He levels a glare at said asshole - 

But. Beside him, the priest is quivering with tension. Trembling like he didn’t expect this to happen.

Frankly? Neither did Dipper. For all the times they’ve done a ritual, there’s never been a reaction like this. 

This insane mass, forming insanely out of nothing. Or well, from blood, that spread out in a weird three-dimensional - triangle, oh shit -

He should have known. Should have noticed. This was a summon, and while the object used wasn’t for the right being, maybe that doesn't’ matter with so much gathered intent. 

This is….

Dipper falls, awkwardly, to his knees. Then ducks down in as low a bow as he can manage, pulling the hood of his robe back over his head.

Part of him thought Bill didn’t exist, or at least not in the way these guys talked about him. Maybe they’d latched onto some other spirit or deity, and completely misinterpreted everything. Maybe they’d made it all up, including some of the really old texts. There was never any evidence that their lord and master was real.  

But given what’s happening here…

Like hell is he gonna look like the only person who doesn’t. 

Something - two things - go ‘clack’ on the altar. A few series of taps. 

Then a long, pleased sigh, and the sound of soft movement, like cloth.

Dipper keeps looking down. The hood keeps him anonymous, another faceless shape in the crowd. Just one more figure genuflecting before his - 

Before a god. 

One that might not even deserve a capital letter on the word, perhaps, but still an entity that he should not, under any circumstances, piss off. 

There’s a tap that sounds like a shoe, and a low hum. Something lands beside him with a thud. In the brief moment that he raises his head, Dipper catches sight of black loafers, and long fingers on an oddly human-looking hand. 

He quickly lowers himself more towards the floor, holding his arm tight. 

Yep, just one more super-devoted believer, same as all the others. Super not important enough to notice.

“You know, blood’s usually for blood gods!” Bill Cipher’s voice rings through the room. It’s higher than Dipper expected it to be. One of the fancy-looking black shoes kicks the knife up into the air, where it’s caught by the long fingers of that hand. “Pretty wild for you guys to pull this. With another guy’s artifact, of all things!” A chiding tut, and the knife twirls. “And pretty disrespectful, I gotta say.”

“My lord.” The priest’s voice is dry, even for a guy who already sounded half-dessicated. He rises to his knees, hands clasped together. “We meant no disrespect. We are here to serve you, master. As we always have.”

“Uh huh,” Bill says. In Dipper’s limited sight, he toys idly with the knife, pressing the tip against the finger of an opposite hand. A bead of something dark wells up, and he rubs his fingers together. 

The priest recites several lines of a chant, making a triangle with his fingers. So eager, and so totally missing the disinterest in Bill’s tone- “We have always been searching for you, our worship unending! You honor us with your presence. You shine upon us your infinite glory!”

“Sure you have,” Bill says, sounding, if anything, bored. The blade in his hand flips around between his fingers, then back again. The motion reminds Dipper of a very deadly fidget spinner. “Do tell.”

Which is when the priest surges up, nearly grabbing onto Bill’s thigh. He’s only stopped by a rapid sidestep. 

Dipper cringes back out of secondhand embarrassment. Bad move. Dumb move. ‘Devoted’ or not, Bill was bored already - and infinite beings of pure energy do not like being manhandled by mortals. 

“Let us use this connection, and the blade! Let us complete the sacrifice.” The priest continues, undeterred. Shuffling closer on his knees, he spreads his arms wide, inviting and eager. “The blood could grant you all your power, that you might grant us-”

“Pass.” Bill says dismissively. The knife flashes, and there’s a wet, solid ‘thunk’. 

Dipper catches a brief glimpse of the priest’s face - stuck in shock, pale and lined with age - just before his body falls to the floor, as limp as a ragdoll. The knife handle in his chest props him up at a weird angle, before a swift kick from a black shoe sends it tumbling down the short three steps of the dais.

Dipper cringes into a smaller ball, trying to scrunch himself into invisibility. He watches Bill pass in front of him, standing in front of the crowd. The hand rests on a hip, while the other is raised out of site. Still far, far too close.

On the one hand, Bill’s examining the congregation. Distracted, for a moment. Staying out of his attention is so, so great. 

Dipper curls up in a much, much tighter ball despite that. 

In every single one of his plans to get out of here, Bill Cipher existing wasn’t a factor. Much less his actual, physical presence. All he’d ever thought about was how this was bullshit, that the people he knew were awful - and how hopefully, nobody would notice if he left. Now the ‘god’ himself is here. Standing so near Dipper he could, if he wanted, stupidly touch the hem of his pants.

A distant, insane part of him chimes in with the stupid idea that it’s nothing to really worry about. 

Like, compared to how he’s still losing blood, for example. 

Right. Staunch first, panic later.

Dipper wraps his sleeve around his arm, as subtly as he can, teeth gritted. His first priority is to stop bleeding. No escape plan - or any plan for that matter - is going to be useful if he dies. 

The immensely powerful nightmare god is also a problem, obviously. But in this moment he’s not the immediate threat. 

“Hmmm.” Bill lets out a low, contemplative hum. It resonates in the room, with how deathly silent things have become. “Let’s see here…”

After a pause, he snaps his fingers. “Stand!” 

The entire congregation leaps to their feet. One of them stumbles and gets a swift kick in the side.

“Sit!” Bill commands. Everyone drops to the floor. A low chuckle, then, “Turn around three times and bark like a dog!”

Oh, now that won’t - 

Or maybe it will. Dipper cringes, back pressed against the altar. Don’t just comply, what the hell. Sure it’s a magical god-being, but - fuck. He watches the scene with a grimace. 

Bill, though, seems to be having a great time. He’s bouncing in place, voice bright with enthusiasm. “Do a little dance! Twist yourself until your joints snap! Hell, start a fight with the guy next to you!”

There’s havoc in the room of ritual. Robed figures practically fall all over themselves, and Dipper notes with a nauseating turn that some of them have drawn knives of their own. Chaos reigns; an entire scramble to do each possible thing, all at once. 

And Bill’s laughter rings out over everything, clapping his hands in delight.

Dipper’s trapped in this room with an insane madman, leading a horde of equally insane idiots, and he doesn’t have a way out. He hopes he’ll stay out of notice. He hopes that he’ll live through the next five minutes.

There’s no controlling the situation, but he can improve his odds.

The altar’s pretty close, and Bill’s turned away, for the moment. Dipper scoots back, inching himself towards the corner. With enough shuffling, he might be able to move behind it and get out of sight. 

“Welp,” Bill claps his hands again, this time with finality. Some of the chaos stills. “You’re all annoying, boring little vermin, but maybe you guys could improve. I noticed the blood you used to summon me was real choice stuff!” The exaggerated sound of a kiss. “Very nice.”

Dipper feels sweat building up in his robes, and tries to be very still. Basically part of the ritual scenery. Anonymous furniture, at best.  

“In fact. It was so nice.” The voice continues, at a lower tone. Almost a purr. There’s a clack of shoes on stone. “Let’s see who this little treat is!”

The god seizes Dipper’s wrist - the wounded one, sending a bolt of pain down his arm - and clamps his palm around it, incredibly tight. 

Before he knows it, Dipper’s standing again, involuntarily, staring past his hood into a bright, glowing eye.

He’s meeting his god. He’s been noticed by Bill Cipher. 

So far he’s not trembling, so. That’s one thing he has going for him. 

Bill’s eye flicks down, then up again, almost thoughtful. Any question about his power is quickly tossed aside, because holy shit; the magic is nearly palpable, thrumming into Dipper’s skin and making his heart race. 

He’s also sporting a bright, wide grin, in a face that makes Dipper do a double-take.

Like. He thought - he glances at the triangle on the back of the wall, then to the person in front of him. 

Okay, it’s said that Bill Cipher can take any form he wants, human included, but, like. What?

Thankfully, Bill doesn’t seem to notice any of the insane, stupid things Dipper is thinking. All he does is raise his hand, and with one quick motion, sweep the hood off of Dipper’s head. 

Dipper flinches back. Jaw clenched, eye shut. 

Shit, shit, shit. Special attention. All the scenarios he can think of say ‘not good’. Best case scenario, it’s because Bill wants to thank him, for... Whatever his blood did. The rest of them involve increasingly terrifying ideas about what ‘nice blood’ means, and how much of it Bill might want. All of it, say. Maybe immediately. 

Dipper can’t pull away, not with such a strong hold on his arm. Fighting is downright dumb. Trembling’s happening, despite his best efforts, and the intrusive thought bubbles up that, hey, at least there’s lots of pressure on his wound. Could be worse.

Nothing happens. For several seconds.

Eventually, Dipper peeks an eye open. 

There’s Bill Cipher, looking back at him. His eye is literally lit up, the pleased grin wide on his face. 

Dipper waits for an order, but the god doesn’t speak. He just wiggles his eyebrows. If anything, he looks oddly… expectant?

Fuck. Dipper has to do something. 

What the hell, there isn’t any doctrine for this.

Sure, he knows all of the catechism, and each chant he was taught. He’s got an encyclopedic memory of everything he was taught about this powerful interdimensional god-being, he knows every ritual back and forth. The tenets spring to mind, unbidden: Be obedient, speak his words, serve him in all ways - and most of all, don’t think. 

But Dipper can’t chant. He hasn’t been told to do anything yet. And though it’d be a death sentence, if serving involves more bleeding he’d be tempted to kick again. Hell, he literally just watched everyone else trying the other bits. They did exactly what they were supposed to, and that was ‘boring’. 

He never could stop thinking, though. 

Now, his mind is racing.

A little-known and never-preached fact about Bill Cipher is that he doesn’t, actually, like rules all that much - 

So. 

Dipper offers a hesitant, closed-mouth smile. He wiggles the fingers of his free hand, a bit awkwardly, in greeting. 

Then ducks his head again, wishing he still had a hood to cover his face.

That didn’t make it weird, right? That’s a normal, devout thing to do. Coming from a totally religious guy, who’s only slightly damp from all the sweating.

“Oh.” Bill’s voice lowers to something like a purr. He tucks a knuckle under Dipper’s chin, lifting him to meet his single eye again. An eye that’s glowing now, bright gold and  half-lidded. “Ten outta ten on the offering, guys. Very cute.” 

Which is a little weird, but probably - 

“Y’know what?” And Bill’s grin widens, bright and wild, as his thumb strokes Dipper’s chin. “I like this one.”

Uh oh.

Dipper tries sinking down into his oversized robes, but Bill just fishes around inside them until he can pull Dipper up again by his undershirt. 

“In fact,” Bill declares, sounding proud. He pulls Dipper in closer, hand still clamped painfully tight on his wounded wrist. “I’m gonna keep him.”

What?

Immediately after that declaration, Dipper’s tugged in close, thumping against his side. Bill turns to start barking orders at the congregation, sharp and sneering.

Dipper can’t quite parse it. He’s still running over the last few words in his head. 

In the ritual room, the candles flare even higher, temperature rising to an uncomfortable degree. Dipper watches two worshipers collide with each other in their frantic obedience, and can’t even laugh about it.

‘Keep’, Bill said. 

What does that mean? Everything here is already ‘Bill’s’, in a way. But the way he said it sounded… oddly specific. 

A hopeful part of Dipper chimes in that it might just mean ‘not let him bleed out’, but he’s never been that lucky before, and there’s no reason it would start now.

With everything else going on. With the presence of a god. e. 

The cultists are bustling about; a few of them deposit things near Bill’s feet, like gifts upon the altar. Boxes, totems, more lit candles that Bill idly kicks over onto one of their robes, watching them flail at the sudden burst of fire. 

Eventually, Bill considered the task ‘done’, or close enough. He sighs, shaking his head. “About time, guys! Talk about slow. Hard to get good followers these days.”

Bill clicks his tongue in distaste, then snaps his fingers.

Dipper hears a weird ‘zmmm’ sound to his left. He notices that Bill’s suit is really soft material, and also that he probably shouldn’t be grabbing it like this. 

He doesn’t dare look at the sound. Not when Bill’s turned towards him with smug pride, like he’s pulled off a plan without a hitch. 

“Man, it's only been fifteen minutes, and I’ve had it with these losers.” Bill gives the congregation a look of disgust, then turns back to Dipper. That grin reemerges like the sunrise. “Screw these guys, am I right?”

This time, Dipper’s smile is involuntary. He quashes it fast, but not before Bill notices.

“That’s what I thought.” Bill says, with deep pleasure. He takes a step closer to the altar, pulling Dipper along with a surprising lack of force. “So! What’d’ya say we ditch this joint?”

Dipper doesn’t know what that means. He doesn’t know what’s been happening, either, other than it’s all been going way too fast.

But Bill Cipher is looking at him, still. Present, powerful. Eager for a response. 

Dipper just shrugs.

He wouldn’t know what to say even if he still had his tongue. 

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Bill says, eminently pleased. Pulling Dipper in closer, with an arm suddenly around his waist. “Hold on tight! It ain’t a bumpy ride, but it’s a weird one.”

Dipper follows as he walks. Partly on automatic, and partly because what the hell else is he supposed to do?

About three steps in, he realizes they’re both walking on thin air, towards and over the altar. 

He jerks his head over, blinking at the source of that ‘zmm’ sound. 

Because of course summoning am interdimensional god-being would leave a remnant. He had to come from somewhere. 

Like, say, a weird red-yellow gap in space, with nonsense things flung around in a black and bizarre starscape. Dipper catches a glimpse of something with two many limbs, and of a series of screaming mouths with no bodies, and a duck and a grandfather clock, tumbling through the air. 

It’s almost like it might be a nightmare dimension. Who could have thought.

With nothing else to cling to, his free hand clamps Bill’s shoulder, tight. 

“You’re my guest for the next while, sapling.” Bill says, squeezing him tight in return as he steps in - and drags Dipper alongside him, stalking into the portal. “Glad to have you!”

[yujeong]

For a writing prompt, how about Pete and his grandmother, post-canon? It could be Vegas/Pete + Macau + Pete's grandmother as well or any combination you want ^_^

I wonder how his grandmother would react to seeing a Pete she both knows and one who has been changed. How would Pete walk the line between the truth she deserves to know and the pain he wants to preserve her from? There are so many unique tensions between them that I'd love to see you explore <3

My beautiful friend, how kind of you to send me this prompt ❤️ Pete and his relationship with his grandma has occupied my thoughts many, many times, so this is an incredible chance to explore them. You already know this, but for the rest who will read it, the following will be part of a bigger fic I intend to write someday, which I had presented briefly here: aka, Pete will be teaching Vegas boxing post-canon, despite both of their better judgements. Here, Pete's grandmother finds out about it 😌 It's a very rough draft and very incomplete, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless 🥰 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Pete, dear, you're adding too many peppers." The pan made a sizzling sound when he added the fifth pepper into the mix, ignoring his grandma's comment. "Don't worry, grandma. It's fine. It's not too spicy," he said, adding another one just because. He heard a deep sigh coming from the laptop placed on the counter next to him. A smile appeared on his lips. "For you and me it isn't, but you know how the city boys are." "I know," Pete agreed, "I'm preparing this for them. Macau will be fine, he's taken this as a challenge." "That young man and his bravado," his grandma sighed again. "Sometimes, I worry he'll get himself into real trouble one day." "You and me both, grandma," Pete said and shook his head at the memories that resurfaced. It couldn't really be described as sadness, this feeling that overtook him. More like fondness mixed with melancholy. Macau had been through a lot this past year and Vegas' recklessness lately was making it worse. Not that Pete could exactly blame him for it.

"Pete, the temperature is too high, lower the heat a bit," his grandma suddenly said, snapping him out of his thoughts. It was fascinating how she could understand these things without being able to see the meal being prepared. Pete had placed the laptop at an angle that only showed his torso and the kitchen table behind him, his face hidden completely from view. If he did that on purpose, it simply couldn't be proven in any way. He slowly turned the dial to lower the temperature as he was told, then stretched his arm to grab a wooden spoon with which he started scraping the bottom of the pan, making sure the mix wouldn't get burned. "Hm, I think it's almost done, it only-" "Pete." He stopped talking. He knew that tone. He had made a mistake. "Show me your hands." Fuck. She saw the marks. "I'm cooking grandma, what-" "Stop what you're doing and show me your hands right now." He tried not showing his discomfort as he lowered the heat even more and presented his open palms to the screen. He could see his grandma's wrinkled face, her frown deep and concerning. This was going to be hell. Pete tried avoiding showing his knuckles, but it was impossible; she insisted on seeing every single part of Pete's hands. He always hated when she did that. "Have you started boxing again?" Pete was so thankful she couldn't see the expression on his face. He wasn't sure he would be able to hide the dread he was feeling as he heard the question. "It's just some light exercise, grandma," he said and hoped his voice wasn't betraying him. "Vegas just wanted to be more active and-" "Vegas made you start boxing again?" Another mistake. Pete shouldn't have mentioned Vegas at all, he was such an idiot. He hoped Vegas would understand, when he found out. "Vegas didn't make me do anything." It wasn't a lie. It had been Pete's choice. He had made a lot of those recently. "Pete," his grandma said again, but this time, instead of angry, she sounded sad. Concerned. "If you need money, maybe you could talk to Mr. Tankhun. He could give you your old job back or find you a new one." "I won't fight," Pete yelled, feeling his blood boil at the mention of his old boss. He checked himself before continuing to speak, making sure he sounded unbothered. "Grandma, I won't do any matches. I'm simply teaching Vegas some basic moves and that's it." "Show me your face." A pause. "What?" "I need to see your face, Pete." His heart was thumping in his ears. He didn't want to be seen right now. He almost said so, before an energetic Macau entered the room and addressed him. "P'Pete, what are you making? Oh hi, grandma!" He ran over to the counter and lowered his body to see her clearly. Pete could tell she wasn't happy she lost the chance to see Pete's face, but she hid her displeasure immediately and smiled brightly at Macau, asking him how his day had been so far and if he had any plans for the rest of it. Pete internally sighed and returned to his cooking, his hand trembling as he was scraping the bottom of the pan with a little more force than necessary.

[saturdaysky]

gale's act 2 romance scene got me. i'm an absolute sucker for last nights alive and the desperate desire to escape to a reality where you have more time than you do.

it's a not like this moment, but like this is all you'll ever have, so you both play pretend that the beautiful thing between you is something you can keep.

loved it. very tasty.

[moeblob]

Lil warm up doodle because I'd been playing some Thropes and then watched some dubbed DunMeshi and am a Damien Haas enjoyer so. Enjoy a Shez.

[quicksilversnails]

Rating Chapter II Princesses based on whether you would be able to hug them in their routes

The Damsel already canonically hugs you, and she’d do it again! (if that would make you happy) 5/5 would hug again :>

The Witch absolutely would not trust you getting close enough to hug her: she’d either interpret it as you getting close to try and stab her, or as yet another attempt to gain her trust and betray her later. If you tried, I think she’d bite you, or try to swipe the knife from your hands while you’re distracted. 1/5 just give her the blade instead

The Beast has no interest in hugging you: she's much more interested in consuming you, actually. The only way I could see you getting close enough is if you played dead, then jumped up to hug her once she approached you, but even that would be short-lived (and so would you. your life would be short.) 2/5

I don't think The Prisoner would willingly hug you: sitting too close to her is enough to break her trust, let alone trying to directly touch her. It's only logical: when someone has a history of being possessed into attacking you, it's wise to keep your distance; and that's not even accounting for her lack of agency in the situation. I guess you could hug her body after she decapitates herself... but that's gross on so many levels. The Prisoner doesn’t strike me as the type to enjoy hugs anyway, regardless of extenuating circumstances. 1/5 no one is happy with this.

The Adversary is only interested in fighting you head-on, but I don't think hugs and passionate violence are mutually exclusive. It's about the connection you share through physicality, y'know? The Stubborn would gladly hug her as he drives your blade into her side, and the Adversary would gladly hug you to crush your bones in the strength of her embrace. 5/5 for a passionate and reciprocated hug! 

I doubt The Tower would properly hug you herself because any attempt to do so would probably crush you, which wouldn’t be such a big deal for her if it didn’t involve using her hands. I could see the Broken hugging her by sort of clinging pathetically to her ankle, and the Tower might accept it as an act of utter devotion to her. 3/5 

The Spectre isn’t usually possible to hug, being a ghost. She becomes corporeal for a moment while ripping your heart from your chest, but hugging her then would be difficult since she’s actively restraining your movement, and she definitely wouldn’t reciprocate given the circumstances. You could also hug yourself while she’s possessing you, and if you were kind to her earlier I think she’d appreciate the gesture. 4/5 you could make it work

Hugging The Nightmare would be challenging, since physical contact with her breaks the Paranoid’s focus and lurches your body towards imminent death. That being said, in those cases the Nightmare initiates the contact rather than you, and you are capable of stabbing her with enough conviction. Maybe in one of your many forgotten lives before the Moment of Clarity, you could've concentrated your will in order to hug her? (I mean, you had to get the Smitten somehow...) As for how she’d feel about it… maybe she’d find it cute, in a pathetic way? Maybe she’d find your struggle meaningless, knowing how futile it is. Or maybe, being the vessel who desires companionship but only knows how to hurt, seeing you so driven to deliver a show of compassion would resonate with her…? 3/5 for physical psychological and emotional damages

The Razor thinks hugs are great! She loves it when you come within not-stabbing distance of her, which is of course necessary for a hug, so really you should just come closer now!! I think she’d happily reciprocate the hug only to sink her blade arms through your torso with a laugh. 4/5 would be nice while it lasted

You could totally hug The Stranger while you’re freeing her and slaying her and leaving her to languish alone in the basement. Everything's possible, right? The Contrarian would probably get a kick out of it too if he wasn’t being consumed by the horrors. As for once she’s converged into a single form, I don’t think they'd resist a hug from you, but they also wouldn’t reciprocate it. They'd have too many conflicting feelings… Strange Beginnings would hug you though! all/5

[fluffypotatey]

A Thought:

As Emrys, Merlin is a very powerful sorcerer.

However, his utter lack of any formal training means Merlin is not a very good sorcerer.

The magic he does should be theoretically impossible, but he's got enough raw fucking power to just make it work. Infant demigod smashing blocks together and creating a Lego Death Star.

Merlin: *does magic that Should Not Work*

Other sorcerers:

AND THEY ARE RIGHT TO FEEL UPSET

IMAGINE YOU'RE A SORCERER. YOU'VE BEEN PRACTICING YOUR CRAFT, SHOOTING THE SHIT, LAYING LOW, PLOTTING PLANNING.....THEN THIS FARMY BOY TWINK SHOWS UP AND NUKES THE FUCKING PRIESTESS OF THE LAKE OF AVALON

I'D FEEL PISSED TOO

like, bro, you meet him, you're apprehensive of him bc 'shit that's emrys'. the emrys. the dude that's said to be the greatest sorcerer to ever walk the earth. you meet him. you can feel his magic and like holy shit, what the fuck was that??? you ask him how the fuck he gained so much power by the age of 21????

merlin: you mean....y'all don't also just have magic doing shit when you're a toddler

you, the sorcerer who has had to spend years getting control to fucking heat up a teapot: .........no.......no our magic doesn't do that

goddamn do you wanna just chuck this adult child into the lake and be done with it. better yet, you wish for the sprites to just pick you up and use your body as a sacrifice for entrance into Avalon.

and then, and then

you see how this motherfucker fights against bandits and "WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU JUST PUSHING THEM AWAY??? WHERE'S THE SHOWMANSHIP??? THE PIZZAZZ??? HOW MANY SPELLS DO YOU KNOW???"

merlin, who forgot he can freeze time and space and can launch lightning bolts at people: uh....3???

it takes the triple goddess to restrain you from murking the prophesized warlock right then and there.

"NO, NO, FUCK THAT, FUCK THIS, FUCK ALL O' Y'ALL!" you scream as you jump on a ship and move to a place that doesn't have op young adult children who didn't study shit and yet still get an A+

[seance]

CONVERSATIONS ABOUT HOME / Warsan Shire

[limnsaber]

Mandalorian Slash Fic Rec List - DinLuke Volume I: Big, Medium, Heartfelt and Solemn

Hello!! Welcome to the first volume of Mando Slash Fic Rec- Dinluke! This is a collection of Dinluke fics that have a notable wordcount and fics that have a more heartfelt/solemn tone, sorted under headings that make the most sense to me personally. For reference, 🔐 means a restricted work and 💜 means an personal favorite. Check out Mando Gen lists I, II, and III. Please enjoy and give love to our cherished fic authors who we owe so much to!! -Yours, Limn <3

Big and Long and Impressive

💜 The Wanderer and the Seer by @kevystel (Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker, Grogu, Ensemble Cast, Mandalorian Politics, Original Mandalorian Characters, Mandalorian Culture, Diaspora, Teen, one of my favorites!!, 98k)

Din Djarin is temporarily relieved of a single dad's responsibilities, only to be saddled with the much greater responsibilities of Mand'alor. Temporarily. Hopefully. This is not the story of a great man becoming king; it's the story of some dude finding his place in the galaxy, freedom, and personal happiness through having some goddamn decency and good manners. Also the power of love, or whatever.

finding the lost and losing the found (series) by deniigiq (Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker, Grogu, Ensemble Cast, Mandalorian Politics, Romance, Family Dynamics, Political Alliances, Teen, 35k)

“So you’re not stealing my ship?” Mando said. “What do I want with your ship?” Luke demanded. “I don’t know. I don’t usually ask,” Mando said. (Luke tries to help his student stay focused on his studies by helping his student's father. It's harder than it looks.)

A Near-Mythological Event by SybilStarnes (Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker, Grogu, Ensemble Cast, Force Sensitive Din Djarin, Mand'alor Din Djarin, Living Waters of Mandalore, The Mandalorian Darksaber, Explicit, 116k)

Desperate to rejoin The Tribe, Din Djarin (with Grogu) travels to Mandalore to seek the Living Waters. Once they're in the caverns below the destroyed mine, a cave-in cuts off their exit. Grogu calls for help, and the legendary Luke Skywalker responds.  Cleansed by the Living Waters, Din returns to his Tribe to reswear to the Creed. He discovers it has new members, attracted to a Child of the Watch bearing the Darksaber. Meanwhile, Luke has offered to help Din learn to use the weapon. The Mandalorian finds himself on a new path, one that draws him deeper into Mandalorian politics and closer to the Jedi.  With the help of several guest stars, including one fat and sassy Force ghost, Din struggles to free Mandalore from Imperial dominance.

All the pretty places that feel like home (series) by SunshineAndaLittleFlour (Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker, Grogu, Ensemble Cast, two dangerous warriors coparenting a tiny frog, Explicit, 73k)

“Would you be more comfortable if I called you something else?” Luke asked, and it should have been teasing, but it was genuine, the soft freedom to be who he wanted in this place. And that careful gift, that offer of being who he wanted, uncontrolled and unfettered, filled Din with a lot of hope and a little bit of terror. Who was he without the creed? His people? Who was Din Djarin, standing in the halls of someone who had once been his people’s greatest enemy? Din shook his head, hearing his own breathing echo inside his helmet. “No. You can,” he faltered briefly, then took a deep breath. “You can call me by my name.”

buy a big house where we could both live by @villanellve (Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker, Grogu, Ensemble Cast, Post-Canon Fix-It, Slow Burn, Mature, 73k)

Din trails behind them and reminds himself this is temporary. He’ll make sure they get to the temple safe, and once he’s sure that Luke agrees to continue training Grogu, he’ll leave them. Grogu reaches up with his hand to tug at the edge of Luke’s shirt, and Din’s fingers flex at his sides. This is the way, he tells himself.

🔐 Get Back Homeward by berryfunkedup (Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker, Grogu, POV Alternating, Jedi Tradtion & Culture, Clones, Getting Together, Teen, 42k)

Luke is at a stalemate with the New Republic in the aftermath of everything he lost in the war and his inheritance of the Jedi’s legacy. Din seeks his tribe and takes bounties, living according to the Way. And Grogu and the Jedi are not part of the Way. But he is definitely not the new Mand’alor, no matter what Mandalorian tradition about the Darksaber says. After Moff Gideon is assassinated while held in New Republic custody, Din and Luke must work together to clear the Mandalorians from blame and uncover the real culprit. Along the way they encounter terrible politicians, fights over naps, old secrets, and just maybe, find their way forward.

Medium and Impressive

parry, parry, strike by @alchemyalice (Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker, Grogu, Leia Organa, Post-Season 2, Teen, 18k)

“Oh? What are you, their king?” the Senator says sarcastically, and then freezes at the same time Din does. “...No,” Din says. He does not sound convincing.

I have made this place around you by HeadOn_HelmetOff (Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker, Grogu, Dialogue Heavy, Early Relationship, Introspection, Teen, 25k)

“Do you know who you are, Din Djarin?” Survivor of Aq Vetina. Mandalorian. Bounty hunter. Apostate. Father. Mand’alor. “...No,” he uttered. Luke nodded sagely. “Then that’s what we’ll focus on first.”

💜 A different kind of blood by HeadOn_HelmetOff (Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker, Grogu, The Armorer, Paz Vizsla, Good Parent Din Djarin, Good Teacher Luke Skywalker, Pre-Relationship, Mandalorian Culture, Jedi Culture & Tradition, The Mandalorian Darksaber, Teen, 25k)

A slight twist on events in Ch. 5 of The Book of Boba Fett: when Grogu is afflicted with visions of his father injured on Glavis, he and Luke make a decision that will greatly influence Din Djarin's journey toward redemption and reconciliation with the survivors of his covert.

where the spirit meets the bone by @ebonybow (Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker, Grogu, Developing Relationship, Intimacy, Canon Divergence, Explicit, 28k)

He dreams of his head feeling too-heavy on his shoulders, his helmet filling slowly with water. - Din navigates new feelings regarding his creed, himself, and a certain Jedi.

pluck a heartstring, duck for cover by owlerie (Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker, Grogu, Canon Divergence, Mand'alor Din Djarin, POV Alternating, Touch-Starved Din Djarin, Slow Burn, Sparring as Flirting, Mature, 28k)

“He's a bit of a sex icon, your Mandalorian," says Leia over breakfast the next morning, nose buried in a sea of taxation reports. Luke promptly inhales caf three inches up his airway and doubles over hacking gracelessly. “I— wait— he's not my Mandalorian," he chokes out, to which Leia raises a single dubious, well-groomed eyebrow.

Heartfelt and Solemn

crystals in the current by @willowcrowned (Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker, Grogu, Romance, Family, Luke Skywalker's Jedi Temple, The Force, Teen, 22k)

Luke gets the message from the child in the early evening. It’s spring on Yavin, and the wind smells like the glowing purple blossoms that cluster in the corners of old rooms and spring up through the pavement. The air is heavy with twilight, the orange-violet of the sky creeping its way down, filtering through the new-leafed boughs and down to where he’s sitting under a tree. or Luke takes Grogu, but the sundering on the lightcruiser isn't an ending; it's a beginning.

Timshel by skywalkers (Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker, Grogu, Force Visions, Hurt/Comfort, Order 66 (Star Wars), Hurt/Comfort, Getting Together, Teen, 5k)

“I think there’s something I can do to help him. A technique I could try.” Luke says. “I could use your help.” “What do you need?” Din says. Anything, he thinks. Anything. “I think he would be more open to the process if you do it as well.” Luke’s eyes, keen and ever-blue, that have the impossible ability to find Din’s own behind his mask every time, meet his own. He looks unsure. It’s not something Din ever thought he’d ascribe to Luke Skywalker. “But the process can be...intense. I understand if you don’t want to do it.” Din flips it over in his mind for a moment, considering. He’s not exactly sure what Luke is asking of him. But what kind of an example would he be if he asked Grogu to do something he refused to? And, looking at Luke, how could Din refuse him anything? Not that he could ever say that. Din nods. “‘Course. Show him there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

resonance by pixie_rings (Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker, Grogu, Kyber Crystals, Planet Ilum, Gen, 10k)

Rebuilding a dying Order is never easy. While exploring the ruined planet Ilum, Grogu gets a calling, and Din and Luke reflect on their son growing up - with and without them.

the unbearable loneliness of distant stars by Liathejedi (Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker, Grogu, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling in Love, Teen, 10k)

Din wonders when the Jedi became Skywalker, and when Skywalker became Luke, or when the lines between stranger and friend had blurred and left him standing in an unfamiliar ship, folding bare hands around a man he barely knew and feeling like his breath had been lost to the stars. A Jedi and a Mandalorian face down the ashes of the Empire and learn what it means to rebuild a broken people.

Mand'alor, The by scheidswrites (Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, Grogu, Bo-Katan Kryze, Gen, 3.5k)

They called him Mand’alor the Reclaimer, Mand’alor the Unifier. Some have started to call him Mand’alor the Vanished. The rumors run rampant that he is dead.