#in fics and in life btw...

[chapollynh]

I finished DS9 and here's my first offering to the fandom.

The show is just SO GOOD!! I wanna talk about it so bad, so I will spam the tags quite a bit... My bad. Also, the people who said Bashir would get better - you were right, he became a lot more fun! Plus he's got a teddy bear, that's peak character right there.

[gremnda]

i read @hopepetal's fic sunflower days, went insane for a few days and this appeared-

i am so weak to pearl and scar being besties and this fic is basically that and more :,) <3 genuinely so so good, i already cried to zera about it and yall should read it and do the same ù_ú <3

[tagidearte]

The first month alone (little spoilery moment from my SunxMoon fic "Undisclosed Desires").

Charcoal and white pastel + some digital clean up (plus the shattered mirror effect, of course). I don't really like how this turned out, but it's been sitting on the drafts for two months now, so here you go.

[thenugking]

I see people talk a lot about how Ketheric is the best villain in BG3 because he's serious and has genuine sympathetic motivations while Orin and Gortash are just going "heehee I love being evil" and I feel like these people have missed what a massive fucking loser and piece of shit Ketheric Thorm is. I say this as a Ketheric lover--I am rotating this man in my brain so often--but my god he sucks so bad.

Like I don't want to minimise the grief of losing your loved ones before their time, and I can't even imagine how horrific it must be to have to bury your child. But plenty of people have to do that and then don't become war criminals about it. Ketheric murdered a lot of other people's families in his grief, even before becoming Myrkul's Chosen in return for getting Isobel resurrected. (And ofc, his treatment of Isobel is more Control and Abuse and lying about her girlfriend being dead when he's actually torturing her than about being a sweet doting dad who loves his daughter, but that's a whole other post.)

Gortash is repressing his tragic backstory and delighting in hurting people the way he was hurt. Orin is too deep in a lifetime of cult brainwashing to recognise that she has a tragic backstory until the very last moment, and trying desperately to get family approval the only way she's ever been taught (murder). Ketheric only looks more tragic on the surface because he's marinating in his backstory. He is not in any way a better or more complex person for it, he's just a deeply sad man, in more than one sense of the word.

He absolutely benefits from having an entire act built around his storyline and having it be actually well written, while Orin and Gortash have to share Act 3 and then get upstaged by a talking brain as the Big Bad! But being voiced by JK Simmons doesn't make Ketheric not a loser.

[luckydeuce]

shoutout to @cruuella / @bunnybunnybunnyb who kept me sane through all the research and overthinking that went into writing HMWTHI so far and continues...

i really need everyone to realise you can write about, joke about, even sexualise serious issues in fics as long as u do research and approach these issues with some level of knowledge and respect lmao

[librathefangirl]

One of the worst feelings as a writer to me is when you think your writing is boring

Not in a I suck, my writing is bad, I wish my writing was less flat kind of way, nor in a this plot is boring, I don't like it anymore way

But in a this scene is boring, I don't feel excited writing this story anymore kind of way

When you need to include a scene and you WANT to include a scene... but you can't write it in a way that excites YOU

[seokminfilm]

cooking mama — kwon soonyoung

PAIRING 𐂴 kwon soonyoung x reader

TAGS & WARNINGS 𐂴 non-idol au, fluff, established relationship, opposites attract, husband soonyoung, mentions of food, kissing, pet names (soonyoung calls reader honey, reader calls soonyoung 'soonie'), soonyoung thinks he's cooking mama, soonyoung calls latte his daughter

SUMMARY 𐂴 no matter what your husband thought, he was not cooking mama.

LYR'S SIDENOTES 𐂴 here's the soonyoung fic requested by kae (@kyeomviiee) and a lyrnon! this is going to be hoshi's debut fic so hopefully you guys like it 🧍i don't think i've ever written for soonyoung before so....cut me some slack PLEASE 🙏 k bye thanks for reading

NOW PLAYING 𐂴 lease (takeshi abo)

WORD COUNT 729 𐂴 FOR @kstrucknet

"what are you looking for?" soonyoung peaks into the dining room where you're currently searching the shelves for cookbooks.

"i'm trying to find a recipe for the hot pot you're trying to make," you say, and soonyoung gasps, causing you to turn around as he stares at you with a hurt expression.

"do you seriously think that low of me, honey? i'm not going to burn the house down! i'm literally the male version of cooking mama!" soonyoung exclaims, sharp eyes squinting as he waves the spoon around, flinging dark sauce all over your walls.

"so you're cooking papa," you say with a deadpan tone, and your husband nods like you've addressed him by his government name, pride in his eyes before he frowns at your tone.

not even willing to argue with him or burst his bubble with the honest truth, you just smile encouragingly, watching as your husband sulkingly trudges back to the stovetop.

when you married your best friend, you thought things would stay the same as they had always been. you were right, in some aspects: soonyoung stayed spontaneous as he was in college, and you liked order. he was positive beyond belief, and you were just honest. you always had been. as the saying goes: opposites truly do attract.

one thing that had changed, though, was soonyoung's unwillingness to stop and listen to the advice you'd give.

"honey, i burnt the garlic! what—what do i do?"

you don't even flinch at soonyoung's exclamation, silently bringing the proper cookbook as you trudge into the kitchen. latte is following behind you, tiny footsteps echoing on the hardwood floor of your apartment. smoke billows in the air, perfuming the whole kitchen with the smell of burning.

"soonie," you say with a sigh in your tone, and he scrambles to run behind you, face buried in your back as he mumbles what sounds like a "yes?".

"use the cookbook. for my sake." you hold the book up, and soonyoung removes his face from your back, lips downturned as he snatches the book from your hands.

you take the pan, scraping the now pitch-black garlic into the trash as you place it back on the stovetop, drizzling more olive oil into the pan as you sprinkle more garlic back into the pan. you step aside, handing the spoon to soonyoung again as you sigh, wiping the sweat from his forehead with a handtowel.

"watch the garlic closely. when it turns light brown, dump the vegetables in there, and only when it turns light brown. understood?" soonyoung sheepishly nods, cheeks puffing out as he pouts. he starts to stir the garlic around carefully, eyes darting between the pan and you as you go to slice the pork.

after a few moments of silence filled with sizzling, soonyoung glances at you once more, guilt written all over his face as he purses his lips together. "are you mad at me?"

soonyoung sounds so scared, so innocent, that your heart breaks when you see him staring back at you with those dark, boba-like eyes. sighing, you shake your head, leaving the pork alone as you walk over to soonyoung, laying your head on his shoulder.

"no, soonie. i'm not mad. i just—i want you to be careful." you say, and soonyoung nods, looking like a scolded child as he flushes a light pink.

"burning garlic is a predecessor to burning our apartment down." you chuckle, and soonyoung smiles, laughing with you as he nods. "yeah, true."

"look, even latte's worried about you." you hoist the tiny dog up in your arms, watching her eagerly sniff the air at the smell of the sauteeing vegetables.

"i think she's more worried about the food than she is about me." soonyoung mumbles, and you have to hold back the chuckle trying to spill from your lips. you knew for a fact if you were to laugh at the apparent injustice latte was committing against soonyoung, he'd start sulking for the rest of the night.

"you're so cute." you shake your head, giggling as soonyoung kisses your forehead.

"says the girl who married me and saved our new apartment from imminent destruction—" soonyoung cheerfully says, and you laugh, side-eyeing him as you watch him glance at the recipe in the book.

"'imminent destruction' referring to the loss of our apartment due to burning garlic."

[beetlearmand]

saw this picture and started thinking about all those fics where benson hunts down randy and chases him through the woods as foreplay...goddamn.

[vfx-batman]

Considering every attempt at bringing Jason Todd back as a villain (Dixon’s AU attempt in ‘96, Loeb’s Hush attempt in ‘03, + Winick’s successful UTH attempt in ‘04-5) was predicated on retconning Jaybin into someone that he wasn’t, I actually don’t think you can remove Red Hood from the discussion of how DC write Jason as a child. You can prefer one over the other if you want, but Red Hood + all his problems only exist because DC needed to villainise Jason Todd somewhere along his character history to prove that Jaybin’s death was a net positive.

The second Robin receiving an embryonic Red Hood-ification in Cheer, Robin Lives + apparently Lemire’s Robin + Batman was the whole point of Jason coming back as a Bad Guy to begin with. And at a stroke, it returns us to Marv Wolfman + Dixon’s classist victim-blaming narrative. And to their intended goal — to blatantly overwrite Jason Todd’s actual character with stereotypes to preserve the Batman + Robin power fantasy.

[hold-on-a-little-longer-whump]

Don't mind me, just thinking about a character recovering from an illness or injury. The danger has passed, but they're still weak and exhaustion follows them like a heavy cloud. Comfort food is brought regularly. Soft clothes. Blankets. Fuzzy socks.

Particularly, the image of them sleeping on a squashy looking couch. Maybe they kicked off the blankets. Golden sunlight bathes them in warmth, and it's heavenly. Their hair is fluffed and messy.

And their companion stops themselves in the threshold of the door, not wanting to disturb this rare moment of bliss. They're carrying a tray of warm food, and the steam catches in the sun's rays just right.

They smile. Lunch can wait.

[greenglowinspooks]

(DCxDP) The obligations of a rogue versus those of a parent (Pt. 4)

—

Tw: descriptions of body horror, Dr. Crane has PTSD and Does Not Realize, Crane has an actual panic attack and just doesn’t care, the Riddler makes one (1) sex joke about Batman

Will be crossposted to AO3 eventually

(Pt. 1 here) (Prev here) - (Pt. 5 here)

(Masterlist here)

—

Dr. Jonathan Crane is in his lab, the acrid scent of chemicals filling the air, and his hands are shaking.

Danny’s health, for the first week that he had him, had been steadily improving at an extremely quick rate. However, his healing had begun to stagnate. Danny said that it was because his body had run out of ectoplasm, and that while there was a lot of ambient ectoplasm in Gotham, he needed a stronger type in order to heal.

And so, that led Dr. Crane here.

He had stolen the research notes from the Penguin years ago regarding his experimentation on him.

(He quite vividly remembers the sound of bone creaking and groaning as it twisted, lengthened. The squelching of shifting tendons and muscles, the strange fabric-like tightening of skin. The feeling of going from man to monster, of losing all claim to his humanity.)

Danny had called him Liminal, part ghost. He had said that he was transformed by, among other things, a kind of synthetic ectoplasm.

Danny needed ectoplasm.

Crane had the research notes. He had every ingredient necessary. And yet, attempt after attempt failed.

The chemical smell burns his nose. His hands tremble.

Dr. Crane is not afraid.

He doesn’t feel fear anymore. He’s tried to, many, many times, but nothing has worked. And yet, his hands are shaking still.

(The horrifying sensation of vertebrae pop-pop-popping along his spine, growing and lengthening. The unbearable itching beneath his skin as toxin glands begin to form. The feeling of his teeth sharpening and elongating, of his skull growing, of his vision changing and brightening. The awful stench of chemicals. The awful stench of ectoplasm.)

Jonathan takes careful note of his shaking hands, his blurring vision, his accelerated heart-rate and shallow breathing.

(Human hands. Human vision. Human heart and lungs and organs.)

He takes note of them, but he does not let that distract him from the task at hand. Danny is not a chemist, but Jonathan is.

The boy knows enough about chemistry in theory, but he won’t go anywhere near Crane’s equipment. He seems to have some sort of intense fear of laboratory settings, probably developed during his stay with the GiW, and Crane is willing to respect that, if only because he cannot afford to lose him.

As such, Crane is the only one qualified to do this. And, unfortunately, if he isn’t successful the boy may very well die.

He heats the chemicals to precisely the right temperatures, adding each one to its correct container.

Dr. Crane thinks of the Scarebeast, that creature born of cruelty and greed and a sense of superiority. That creature which he tries to ignore is a part of him, that can never be removed. A damage which cannot be undone.

He pours the contents of a small beaker into a larger flask, watching the liquids swirl together. The stench in the air is becoming closer and closer to the one burned into his memory.

Crane’s whole body is wracked with unpleasant sensations. It’s truly unfortunate, he thinks, that despite his mind’s lack of fear, his body still reacts so harshly.

Jonathan’s eyes wander, eventually settling on a purple and green card sitting innocently on the corner of the table.

Right.

Even if they wiped out the GiW tomorrow, and even if Danny could survive without ectoplasm, he would still be in danger.

Crane has to get him back to good health. It’s the only way he can be sure that the boy can defend himself properly.

The solution in the flask begins to foam, and Jonathan does not hesitate as he adds the final ingredient. He pours the mixture into a new container, capping it and placing it into a freezer set to -40 degrees.

Hopefully this time he got the timing right.

Jonathan tries to relax, the ventilation in the room slowly but surely clearing the familiar smell from the air.

He thinks of the letter.

Surely, he thinks, that man can come up with some better material for his jokes. Or, at least something new.

Same old threats, same old attempted poisoning.

Aiming his threats at Danny, though, that was new. New and utterly unacceptable.

Scarecrow did what he had to.

He doubted that his solution would last forever, of course, as with that man it never did. As such, he would prepare both himself and Danny for the inevitable moment that his choices came back to bite them.

However, for the moment, they were safe. Danny could rest and recover, and Jonathan could figure out a plan to minimize possible damages.

Jonathan is no longer shaking.

He’s exhausted. This is his fifth attempt today, and each one leaves an unfortunate strain on his mind and body.

With a sigh, he settles himself into his seat at a nearby desk, opening up his computer and logging his most recent attempt. He still has to wait for it to chill to know if it was successful, but he can always update the logs later.

Once he’s done, he stretches, joints popping loudly as he walks to the freezer.

When he sees the results of his tireless work, the ghost of a smile flits across his face.

Success.

Jonathan picks up the jug of ectoplasm and leaves the lab, which is in all actuality the basement of the new apartment that he moved himself and Danny into after receiving the note. The scrappy old woman who was his landlord had told him that as long as he paid her five hundred dollars up front, she would let him set up in the basement without any questions or cop calls.

And so, the most expensive apartment in the Narrows was his.

At least, he thought, the distance between the basement and the apartment was short enough that Danny didn’t have to sit in while he was doing his labwork.

Jonathan knew that he didn’t exactly have a strong grasp on the concept of ‘lab safety,’ proven by his built-up immunity to almost every toxic chemical he’d ever encountered, and he doubted that Danny should be around such an environment.

He was back to the apartment quickly, not bothering to hide the self-satisfied smile on his face. Danny is sitting in his armchair, trying to read one of his books. Danny looks up, ready to greet him, when he sees the jug in his hands and pauses.

“Is that..?”

“Synthetic ectoplasm,” Jonathan says proudly, “I found the Penguin’s research notes and decided to recreate it, since you said that you needed it to heal properly. I’m not sure if it’ll work the same as what you usually have, but I hope it’s helpful all the same.”

Danny is standing, now, and looking at Jonathan with a strange look in his eyes. He looks, Jon thinks, like he’s about to cry.

Then Danny is rushing forward and wrapping his arms around Jonathan, his scrawny form shaking.

Jonathan is, for a moment, horrified. Did he do something wrong somehow? Why is this child, who’s so afraid of touch, hugging him?

And then he hears Danny’s voice, and he knows that it was all worth it.

“Thank you,” he’s mumbling, over and over, “thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you so much.”

“Of course,” Jonathan says softly, because what else can he say?

The boy cries in his arms for a while, and Jonathan briefly wonders what his life must have been like before, if a person like him can be seen as a comforting figure.

Then, Danny pours himself a small glass of the synthetic ectoplasm, putting the rest into the small fridge which had come with the apartment, and he settles back down, sitting in the armchair once again.

Jonathan sits opposite of him, and they chat with one another as Danny drinks.

Danny talks to him about the stars and tells him about different spaceships, and Jonathan makes sure to pay attention and ask the boy questions.

He doesn’t miss the way that Danny lights up every time he asks him something about his interests. He’s so passionate, so smart, a trait that he seldom sees outside of his fellow rogues, and Jonathan wants to encourage that.

It’s…nice. Peaceful, almost.

And then the front door flies open, because Jonathan isn’t allowed to have nice things.

“Jon,” a familiar voice rings out, “what the hell?!”

Danny is frozen in place, clearly terrified.

Jonathan heaves a sigh, turning to face the nuisance who’s entered his apartment.

“Eddie,” he drawls, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”

Edward’s face is red with anger as he invades Jonathan’s apartment.

“Oh, I don’t know! Maybe it’s the fact that you sent a bunch of rogues a cryptic message and then dropped off the face of the earth for two weeks! I was worried, Jon!”

Jonathan hums in acknowledgement.

“I didn’t think it was that cryptic,” he says, picking up a book in order to pointedly ignore the Riddler.

“Oh, of course you didn’t, you straw-stuffed hickory dickory dickhead. I swear, you’re always—” he pauses, finally having noticed Danny sitting opposite of Jonathan, “—who is this?”

“My apprentice,” Jonathan replies, dreading the upcoming headache he was no doubt going to develop from Edward’s company, “he’s helping me hunt down the GiW. His name is Danny.”

Edward gasps dramatically.

“You—an apprentice?! And you’re letting him sit in the old man chair?! You don’t even let me sit in the old man chair,” he wails, draping himself over the headrest of the couch with a flourish, “Jonathan, I thought I knew you!”

“Edward,” Jonathan says, “get out of my apartment.”

“Oh my goodness, this is incredible. You’re becoming the bat!”

“I am not becoming the bat, Eddie, now get out.”

Edward has a shit-eating grin on his face as he waltzes over to Danny. Danny, who seemed terrified when he first appeared, is now looking at him with obvious amusement written all over his face.

“I mean, look at him! The hair, the eyes, the scrappy build. If you put him in one of those traffic light vigilante costumes, he could easily pass as a Robin!”

“I’m not doing this with you today, Eddie.”

“Riddle me this, Jon: I am a treasure hidden inside of a chest. You can break me, or steal me, or give me a rest. I can flutter, or pound, or attack, or drop, but if you don’t have me, you’re certainly fucked. What am I?”

Jonathan pauses for a moment before he groans, dropping his head into his hands.

“Eddie.”

Danny sits still, a confused look on his face as he repeats the riddle silently. Then, his face lights up in delight.

“A heart!”

“Jon, I like this one,” Edward says with a smile, ruffling Danny’s hair, “you are correct! A heart, something that I wasn’t aware that our dear Jonathan had!”

“Eddie, stop.”

“No, no,” Edward says, “I was worried about you, you deserve this. I mean, you even missed girls night! You never miss girls night!”

“Girls night?” Danny asks, absolutely delighted.

“Oh, of course,” Edward says, sprawling over on the couch, dangerously close to just laying in Jonathan’s lap, “we have it once a week. I’m invited because of Selina and Jon’s invited because Harley likes him.”

“And what does girls night entail, exactly?”

“Eddie,” Jonathan groans, “please.”

“Well,” Edward hums, “we usually paint our nails, or watch a movie, or gossip about the other rogues, and occasionally, we tell each other about any ‘encounters’ we have with Batman,” he says, raising his eyebrows up and down.

Danny’s jaw drops.

“Edward, shut up,” Jonathan says, an irritated tone in his voice that wasn’t there before.

“No way,” Danny says, “I thought that Batman, like, hated you guys or something. You mean he actually..?”

“Oh, the Bat is much like a bottle of liquor or a cheap cigarette, in that he was made to be passed around.”

Danny chokes on air.

“Edward Nygma,” Jonathan hisses, getting out of his seat and looming over the man, “get the hell out.”

Edward pales.

“Leaving, leaving!” Edward says, dashing away from Jonathan. He pauses, turning to flash Danny a quick smile.

“Remember Danny, I’m your favorite uncle! Not any of the other rogues, me!”

With that, he leaves, the room falling completely silent.

And, as per usual, that silence does not last.

“You full-named him?” Danny asks gleefully, “and it worked?”

Jonathan just sighs, sitting down on the couch and rubbing at his temples.

“Please, don’t take anything Eddie says seriously. He’s a moron.”

“Dr. Crane, please let me come to girls night with you,” Danny pleads, his eyes sparkling, “I promise I won’t embarrass you.”

Jonathan groans.

“Of course you won’t, Eddie will do it for you.”

“Come on, please?”

“I think we’re a bit busy with the GiW at the moment,” Jonathan snaps. He pauses as he notices the crestfallen expression on Danny’s face.

This boy is going to be the death of him.

“Perhaps, though, when all that is taken care of…”

Danny cheers, grinning wildly, and Jonathan is not at all relieved to see him happy again. Certainly not.

The rest of the day is relatively normal.

Danny works on trying to get information from the GiW database while Crane refines his his fear toxin, both preparing for a raid on the GiW base they located in Gotham.

It was only a temporary base, nothing of note, but there was a chance of discovering more bases through it, and that wasn’t something either of them were willing to give up.

Still, something like this would take time. Rushing would only lead to failure.

…

Late in the night, long after Danny is fast asleep in his room, Jonathan pauses.

The GiW are not the only threat out there. They aren’t the only threat to him or to Danny. Perhaps it could be helpful to reach out to someone with greater resources than himself.

He sends a quick message to Red Hood.

Hopefully, he thinks, everything will go smoothly.

—

[lupeloto]

dugout headcanon

a sixteen year old ian stuck around the dugout one day after mickey left, smoking a cigarette and smiling proudly to himself as he revels in the nights events. it's dark, there's no one else around so he pulls out his pocket knife and carves a small "i + m" in the very back corner beneath the wooden bench, swiping one line underneath.

later in their married life, they return to the dugout and find the carving, Ian forgetting he ever put it there, surprised that it's survived the years, the baseball field now nearly abandoned. mickey tries to poke fun at him, give him shit for how corny he was as a kid, but finds himself overcome with warmth, the memories of their late nights rushing back. he pulls out his own pocket knife, underlining it one more time, right below ian's.

[wernerherzogs]

buck and eddie's red, hot, infidelity summer!

boys, when my baby found me by nondz (pinkjook) @hunybody (wip, emotional infidelity)

Three months later, things are mostly back to normal.

And then there's an accident.

something touched me (like a knife-blade) by kithmet @kithmet (emotional infidelity)

Eddie self-implodes. Christopher, seeking refuge, flees to Buck—whose priorities amount to, in varying order: take in the kid, get Eddie to talk to him, and keep the three of them afloat in the process. (Oh, and Tommy’s there too. He thinks.)

baby did a bad bad thing by Wildehack (tyleet) @wildehacked

This is just the worst idea, right, classic Buckley, a grade-A fuckup, a five-alarm fire, a pin pulled out of a grenade and tossed into Buck’s life, and he’s so stupid that he’s on his knees and moaning for it.

we can act a fool by detectivemeer @buick118

“You’re my best friend. I’d do anything for you. For both of you.” Buck’s eyes are stupid Hollywood blue and even in the dim light they glare electric. Intensified by Buck’s hushed, fevered sincerity. “You know that.”

you and tequila make me crazy by cranberrymoons @cranberrymoons (emotional infidelity)

His arm is still draped over Eddie’s shoulders, hand still holding the other side of his head, and he shifts so that his fingers push up into the hair at the back of his neck, thumb slotting up against his ear.

closer than my hands have been by cranberrymoons @cranberrymoons (emotional infidelity)

Eddie never feels easy.

Tommy feels easy, but Eddie – he doesn’t.

yes god don't speak by detectivemeer @buick118

“You’re staring.”

“What.” Eddie says. “No I’m not.” 

i didn't even know that i was cold by teaspoon @standback

The first time is mostly an accident.

in the sun or in the shade by detectivemeer @buick118

“Yeah—yeah, okay. I mean, most of the stuff is the same?” Buck scruffs a hand through his hair, sliding back into his chair, long legs arrowing outward. “Like, obviously ass-play, stuff like that, that’s not new.”

We're Running With Our Eyes Closed by semperama @semperama

Buck shows up at exactly the wrong time to tell Eddie about what happened with Lucy.

nothing wrong with me loving you by cranberrymoons @cranberrymoons

He’s not thinking about it. He’s not. He’s definitely not.

[scruncheduppaper]

GABRIEL: JUDGE OF HELL

(A practice sketch that accidentally turned into a whole thing)

[person25]

i just realized that those ‘peter parker school trip’ fics are literally the maribat Wayne Industries fics just in a different font

[sherlockggrian]

- notes on impossible minecraft.

It’s the end of Wild Life, and something is different. 

Joel stands, breathing hard, a victor above his failed trap. He holds a sword in one hand, an ender pearl in the other. He knows that when he turns around he will see them, just like the others had. Except when he turns around, there are ghosts.

They’re supposed to go home, after they die. That’s what had always happened. It was how they got out of the world - but it didn’t seem to matter this time, everyone was still here, around him. 

Joel throws the ender pearl, and takes the ghosts with him to the void. They stand around him as he faces the Watchers, though they are unable to see it themselves. Joel begs the Watchers to let them go. He would let the Watchers have him, if they let the others go. But the Watchers don’t want just Joel. They want Grian. 

There are many different worlds within the universe. Hundreds, thousands, infinite numbers - some of them further away, distorted, uninhabitable. Time moves differently in some of them, you could spend a thousand years in one world and only pass the tick of a clock in another. Worlds are created and destroyed every day. Every hermit has come from somewhere - they are all refugees, in a way, forced out of their home worlds for one reason or another. For some, it’s been so long they can hardly remember the place they came from at all. Every world has its own rules. In these strange, short lived places created by the Watchers, the rules have always been simple - to leave, you die. Play the game, run out of lives, and one lucky winner might have the chance of a lifetime, the chance to speak to the gods. It never happened quite like that.

Joel stands in the void now, surrounded by his friends, sword in one hand, empty fist in another. If the Watchers wanted Grian, they’d have to go through him. There is a whirlwind, as the patchwork of worlds twists and turns around them. He’s spinning, thinks Joel. Creating more time. Giving us a chance. Grian calls to the others, to Etho and Cleo and Bdubs, who stand at the back - to go through the door that has appeared in the void. Joel wonders why, and how. The Watcher’s have created a portal - you can go home, they say, all of you - but Grian belongs to us. So does Joel. He won the game, after all. But the ghosts don’t all go home. To Joel’s surprise, he watches as Gem steps forward into the spinning vortex of space and time that he and Grian are caught in. She raises her fists defiantly toward the enormous, impossible beings bearing down on them. Pearl joins them. Then Impulse, and Skizz, their faces written with hard determination. Joel feels a hand take his, and he almost pushes Lizzie away, begging her to follow the others through the portal. He doesn’t. Worlds spin past them, faster and faster, thousands and thousands of them, each a tiny crystal in the infinite void. Grian’s screaming for Scar and Jimmy to go through the portal, and Cleo is trying to pull them in, but they don’t, and they’re running towards the circle of light. Joel tries to move, but finds his feet locked in place, wincing against the wind that whips his cheeks, faster than any storm, and he reaches for Jimmy and pulls him into him, clawing into his back for dear life. For a moment, he doesn’t think Scar is going to make it, but he hears the Watcher’s panicked voices in the back of his mind - 

And then everything stops. He stands, in a circle, on a rocky outcrop, and distantly he thinks he can hear the sound of the sea. Everything is silent. 

It’s the end of Wild Life, and nine players find themselves somewhere unfamiliar. 

The cold chill of winter hangs in the air. They’ve forgotten that it’s late December, somewhere. The world of Wild Life felt warmer. This one doesn’t - it’s bitter, there’s a freezing wind coming in from the ocean, and an icy layer of snow on the ground. It’s not a place any of them recognize. 

This world instantly proves itself to be different. The first death comes within an hour. Lizzie bolts upright, back on the slab of rock, still reeling from what had killed her. Pearl nurses a wound where the bark of a tree had sliced into her skin. Five hours in, and the group realizes that wherever they are, the rules here are unlike anything they’ve ever seen.

Grian privately wishes the others had gone through the portal home. He tries everything he can think of, but is unable to reach beyond the borders of the world. They’re trapped here, in this place where reality seemed to warp in on itself, and everything wanted to kill them. No matter how many times they died, they always ended up back on the rock by the ocean. 

Grian can’t tell if the Watcher’s had meant to send them here. They’d panicked, caught off guard by Grian’s swarm of chaos and unexpected backup. He can tell…something is here, though he’s not sure what - it’s an overbearing presence, a feeling that somebody is controlling them, watching them, learning from them. He has one goal in his mind. Reach the End, kill the dragon, and he can make a portal home. It’s worked in the past. The End is like a pocket dimension, a border between worlds, a place where the rules didn’t apply. They could get home, if they could only make it to the End. The uneasiness grows on him, and Grian tries to push it away, focusing on staying alive. The others are determined. He’s angry, at first, that they’d followed him, but soon he’s glad to have them. Three days in, and they’ve already grown somewhat numb to the constant onslaught of physical attacks. Grian almost welcomes the familiar feeling of dying. He catches himself cursing the view from his makeshift bed, wishing he might wake up anywhere else. 

A week in, and the determination starts to wear down. 

The cold makes it difficult. Gem shivers as she tries to heat her cabin, attempting to find a way to light a fire without burning to death. Despite their constant battle with the lava flow, the world is freezing everywhere else, hung deep within the darkness of winter. Pearl tries to make amends, but Gem is still tense, guarded, cautious - though she says they are on the same team now, the heat of the recent game is still clearly in her mind. Jimmy attempts to grow food, battling the icy wind and little daylight. Joel tries his best to gather Iron, though the caves are worse than above ground. Impulse and Skizz’s successful iron farm is a win. That night, the group huddles all together on the top floor of Joel’s cabin, repeating the only glimmer of hope they have, that they just have to kill the dragon. Joel starts to think it might be impossible. 

Two weeks in, and it’s like the world is learning from them, like it can see the small victories and successes, and preys on them like a hawk. Lizzie curses as the smoker burns her eyes, leaving what little food she had charred and barren. The sharks encroach further and further from the water. The Nether is a literal hellscape - and Grian almost gets used to the feeling of burning to death. Almost. 

And Scar, Scar is…wrong. He drifts along, as though he isn’t quite there all the time. He disappears, then reappears, once in front of Gem’s eyes - and she blinks, trying to make sense of what she’s seeing. He falls asleep, or stands still, and seems to sit on the edges of the world itself, growing stranger and stranger. Grian can feel it. He’s not really there, not all of him. 

When they’d been in the void, Grian had screamed for Scar, feeling the tug of the vortex already pulling him away. He’d grabbed out and touched his hand, reality bending and warping around them. He’d barely seen Scar’s wide, terrified eyes, before they’d been whisked from the black hole into the broken world they found themselves in. Scar had just made it. Or maybe he hadn’t. It was like he was half there, one foot inside the portal and one out - and as time went on and the world’s borders stretched and warped, so did Scar, drifting in and out of consciousness. Sometimes Scar found himself back home, except it wasn’t the right home, it was one he’d left years ago - and he’d wander aimlessly, utterly alone, before realizing it wasn’t right. He hopped between dreams and worlds, living and unliving, shadows and reality. Back in the strange place, the group grew increasingly anxious. Grian felt the hope he’d held for the End dwindling. He was powerless here. All of them were. 

Then, finally, they have the Eyes of Ender. They knew how to do this part. Lizzie stayed with Scar while the others went out, trying to shove thoughts out of her mind of what might happen if they were to fall into the void. They make it to the stronghold, the place they need to be, and all they have to do is defeat the dragon - freeing the borders of the End, and letting them go. Only the dragon doesn’t look how it normally does. It wasn’t like Grian expected it to, anyways. 

Six weeks in, and the compass is their last hope. If they can just get the echo shards, they’ll have a chance at killing the dragon. Gem has never liked the Deep Dark. It twists around her, whispering things in her ear and making her head hurt. Be careful, says Joel, as she leaves the camp with Grian and Jimmy. We need you. We need all of you to come back alive. 

It’s near the very end, when Grian remembers. He feels the twinge of longing in his back muscles, the phantom pain of something that should be there that isn’t. He could fight the dragon, if he was truly himself, if he had access to it - and he wonders if it’s possible. He’s never done it without killing the dragon first. There’s a first time for everything, he supposes. He’s not sure why he takes Jimmy. Maybe it’s because they’ve been together now for longer than they’ve been in a long time, and Grian is holding on to the hope that maybe he can keep Jimmy safe, if he takes him home. Maybe it’s because he feels guilty, still, for Wild Life - he’d only been trying to keep him from getting to the end, but still, the anger had been real. The blood had been real. There was no changing that. Maybe it’s because Jimmy is his brother, and despite it all, Grian still trusts him. Jimmy has always been complicated like that. 

When they get the wings, the feeling is magical. Grian feels the familiar magic course through his veins, and the feathers unfold from his back. It feels like taking a breath of fresh air again, arising from a deep and stagnant cave. Against all odds, here, in this broken, far away world where reality bent in on itself like a broken spring - Grian has wings, and Grian could fly. 

How many weeks has it been? Grian doesn’t know anymore. He forces Scar to come with him, one last time. They would make one last journey to the stronghold. They were ready for it, this time. For once it felt good to fight together, and not against one another. Pearl’s shouts echo through the black landscape, and Joel and Lizzie take swings side by side, no longer feeling the sting of death as they roll between hits. Gem fires arrow after arrow, and Grian and Jimmy weave through the great obsidian pillars, throwing themselves at the crystals, wincing to bear the explosion. The dragon has three lives. Grian is reminded, then, of a world far away - and he thinks, in a way, the answer is still to die. The universe works in a web of death and life. The Watchers aren’t the only power that exists out there. There are other forces at work, stranger than he can imagine, and as Grian lands the final blow, he feels the world around him shift, the borders change, and the End stretch out infinitely beyond him in a mass of dark void. As much as he hates it, it does feel like home. The Watcher’s voices echo in the darkness somewhere. Grian deliberately sounds them out.

Then they’re holding hands, standing in a circle, watching the dark, starless sky. Grian stares at the portal in the ground, a swirling mass of blue and black and endlessness, and knows that it will always lead the player back home. He feels that background presence start to lift, and he grips Jimmy’s hand tightly in his right hand, Scar’s in his left. Scar holds Gem, who holds Impulse, to Skizz, to Pearl, to Lizzie - and to Joel, whose grip on Lizzie and Jimmy is a little harder. In the back of his mind, he knows they have no home world. He wonders if they’ll make it back with them - or if they would once again be torn from him, transported somewhere else in the fabric of the universe. They couldn’t, he thinks, because right now, Joel’s grip is enough to hold the entire universe itself. 

Gem looks to Pearl, just before they jump. Her eyes are shut, her face lined with quiet determination and concentration, her hair pulled back and tangled from the fight. Gem thinks she might forgive her. 

Then they jump, the nine of them, all holding each other, just like they did in the void, just like they did when Wild Life ended. Worlds spin past them like grains of sand in a vast ocean. A thousand sunrises pass by in the blink of an eye, and Joel feels Jimmy and Lizzie start to drift away from him - but he pulls them in, holding on for dear life, clenching his eyes as the colours swirl around him. Grian knows the Watchers are out there somewhere, no doubt trying to steal him away. They can try, he thinks, surrounded by his friends. In reality, no Watcher can even come close to them now. Love disgusts the Watchers. It repels them. Scar had always said that is what made Grian human still, despite it all. Scar looks at Grian, a single constant in the spinning mass, and feels himself fall back together, like pieces of a puzzle. 

It is sometime in late winter, maybe early Spring. The snow is starting to melt here, and new shoots of grass are just barely emerging from beneath the dry bed of last year’s growth. Stars blink down over the lawn, where nine people lay, hand in hand, breathing hard. A light flickers on from a window a few feet away, where Hypno sits up in bed, wondering what the sound outside is that has woken him. The gentle glow of a Lighthouse hums in the distance. Mumbo rolls over, waking from the strangest dream he’s had in his life. Etho meets the eyes of Tango, still awake and drinking over a game on the table, and he feels something shift, like a slight pull at the back of his chest. Xisuma pulls the curtains back from his window and looks out toward the group of people in the distance, and smiles. He’d known it before they’d even landed. 

Joel, still holding the hands of Lizzie and Jimmy, still feeling the sting of the sword and the rush of blood and the hope and loss and finality of Wild Life, starts to laugh. 

hey if you read this far I love you!!! just wanted to get my thoughts out on the impossible lore, without doing a tumblr textpost word vomit lol. you can read this on ao3 if you'd like, I love the comments!