(Cw: injury description, death, some body horror ig, existentialism, lynx's dumb headcanons)

Gore dripped slowly down the slick, blue blade. A tear slipped down the cold cheek of the devil who lay there all wreathed in red and crowned if his broken horns. The sword had come down too hard upon his shoulder, and he hadn't been able to grab for the blade that he and scott had tossed aside in an act of virtue and honor. Their fists and claws had been all the weapon they'd needed... if the meteor hadn't struck when he had. The thick, acrid scent of burned fish swam through his nose as he cast his crimson eyes to the corpse of the merfolk who lay before him, wreathed in his own loser's crown of blazing laurels. A halo of blistering lava bubbled and popped as it seemed into the ground around the body. Scott hadn't even had a chance to grab their sword. Their legs had given out under them as the heat boiled their very will. Webbed hands were clasped around gills in a final act of desperate gasping, the smoke choking the air from lungs and gills alike.

Martyn felt the thrill filling his veins with a laugh. It was a hot, blazing pleasure that ran through his blood like lightning. It burned like pain, but it never did hurt. Others had said it hurt whenever you stole the time from another, but that wasn't true. It only hurt because they let themselves feel bad about it. He wouldn't do that. It was a death match after all.

Webbed hands twisted by the sea that gripped the blade losened their hold, and he only barely heard the sword fall to the red-stained grass beneath his feet. His boots had long since come off after his last death when he'd found they confined the large, webbed feet too tight. He clenched clawed toes into the wet grass. His arms felt heavy. Too heavy, and Martyn had to fight to stay upright as he laughed. No one was there to hear him laugh, but he threw his gold maned head back, every gasp of laughter making the pufferfish scales expand and flex under his skin, puffing up like the pauldrons of warrior. He laughed louder than he ever had before. Skizz had complimented his laugh on day one, hadn't he? Oh, how Martyn was glad Skizz had reminded him to laugh. Where was he now? With those listeners? Watchers? Taking his place among the contestants for the next match? Would Martyn join them then, too?

He sloughed the jacket from his shoulders, the banner of a long-lost land he could hardly forget flowing behind him like a scarf of blood from his waist. He flexed his claws- new additions after joining Scott- and looked down at those fishscaled hands. Were they stained red because of the blood he spilt? Or was it simply his scales matching his name? Filthy reds.

As he took a step forward, he lurched forward with an unnaturally long stride, feeling his muscles and flesh stretch with his motions like elastic stretched to its limits. His shoulder pulsed with his huffing breath. The fissures glowed purple, but he tried to ignore them. The time ticked down. The sand trickled through the neck.

That's my time.

He watched as every second passed in the pulse of his fissures and the beat of his heart. I need more time. He climbed the hill, every step more awkward than the last. It was like his legs didnt fit his hips anymore. He tasted the air, checked the tab. There had to be more time. Surely. He had drawn his blade with thirty minutes left. But now, Martyn wandered that familiar land for an hour. Maybe it was an hour? It was aimless and tired and hungry. Every second did not pass as a second, but as a beat of a time starved heart. Twenty four hours down to thirty minutes. I want my time back.

He broke into a sprint, tumbling down onto all fours. Drool (or was it blood?) Dripped down his chin as he scaled the towers, raced along the skynet, and over the hills. He scrambled around TNT craters. Had the meteor made those, too? The cake had gone stale. The bread had gone moldy. "Time... I need time. No, no, no, NO!" He snarled, his voice wet with bloodlust. After everything, he still LOST. He wasn't losing, no... no. But he watched as he lost. He stood before the hourglass, and watched red sand trickle down.

"CRUEL, YOU ARE CRUEL!" He snarled to the heavens, time-addled mind only forming words out of rage as he swiped with his claws at the sky. He couldn't hear their laughter. But he knew they laughed. They laughed and watched and listened and he had to wait. Is this how Grian felt while he buried Scar? Is this how Scott had felt before the watchers, in their infinate "mercy" slew him with a snap of their proverbial fingers? And Pearl? Did she relish the lonesome, or did she too curse the cruelty of those damn voyeuristic bastards overhead.

"Ren... Ren," he muttered, barely recalling whose name it is he called for as he held the tattered banner in his claws. "Scott... I..." He wasn't sorry. Betrayal had been in his blood since before day one.

Inthelittlewood Ran Out of Time.

Second time's a charm - Ethubs angst oneshot

This blurb takes place during Double Life.

Bdubs watched from a distance as his ex-joked about with his soulmate. He knew there was no changing fate, but he still longed for the days when he had all of Etho’s attention.

Bitterness began to envelope him as they walked off. The mental picture of the two hugging and enjoying each other’s company made him nauseous. He could come to grips with Etho being happy by himself. But seeing his arm wrapped around Joel was a too much for him. He had always understood that his favourite person in the world was beloved by all.

I mean, who could look at the man and not fall head over heels for him. Everything from his hair to the way he walked was eye catching. His voice deep and sweet like whisky. His eyes could stare into yours and you'd feel nothing other than a wave of comfort and love.

He never would admit it to Etho, but he was jealous. Bdubs missed the warmth that Etho brought into his world. The joy that they shared and their bond that felt unbreakable. He wanted to be the only one to see his smile; and he couldn’t stand to see Etho well off without him. He wanted to be Etho’s soulmate. But it wasn’t meant to be.

That didn’t mean that Bdubs wasn’t allowed to make his own happy memories. If anything, he was going to make the most out of his new companionship with Impulse. Even if his heart wasn’t fully invested yet.

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Limited Life | Last Life SMP Series, 3rd Life | Last Life SMP Series Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death Relationships: Martyn Littlewood | InTheLittleWood & Scott Major | Smajor1995, Martyn Littlewood & Rendog Characters: Martyn Littlewood | InTheLittleWood, Scott Major | Smajor1995, Rendog (Video Blogging RPF) Additional Tags: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Decapitation, Mentioned Decapitation, Canonical Character Death, Main Character Death, Respawn Mechanics (Minecraft), Mentioned Rendog (Video Blogging RPF), Stabbing Summary:

A shimmering axe. A partner begging for death. A teammate hesitant to do the deed. A feeling so familiar, yet one he hadn’t felt in a few seasons. Not since the Winter.

Grian opens his eyes, a second heart echoing his own, and the first thing on his tongue is a quiet, dreading,

Oh god, not again.

Where did he come from? His heart’s been reset, his emotions severed from memory, and three hearts sit cheerily on his wrist.

Grian, it reads above the red, yellow, green. How nice. He’d gotten used to two hearts already, so the green heart is a wonderful thing to see.

It feels weird, having a soulmate. Having nicks and niches along his skin. They’re patterned like a star, flickering flames tamed and healed. They don’t feel like him, but they’re his. Just like that second heart.

He starts the early game procedures. Whoever he’s bound to, he’ll keep safe.

Wood for the outside wall. The color’s a comforting one, birch, and the soft yellow of fine sand.

Whoever he’s bound to, he’ll build them a home. A corner of the world built peaceful, for him and the person he’s fated to love the most.

His hands shake as he builds, and almost as an afterthought, stalagmites are set tall and pointed atop the wall.

The woodgrain feels strange. The peace feels strange. He can’t help but wonder if he had died.

His heart lurches, taking a heart of damage as it settles. It leaves a cut on his arm with a steady train of blood. Even as they heal, the red lingers.

He looks away, back to the wood.

He hopes his soulmate will like it. It’s no field of flowers, no hobbit home, but it will be theirs.

Maybe he should find some flowers.

Whats y'alls go back to life series for when your just down? Im a last life gal myself.

Hi hello!! Pirate anon here again to give you an excuse to expand upon that as you wished!! Hi :b

There’s the loud slap of a wave right against the boat’s side, meaning Scar stumbles and almost impales himself on his assailant’s blade. Hurray. The hand on his arms tighten, straightening him up as roughly as possible and pushing him forward to the looming captain’s cabin. His mind’s running through scenario after scenario as he approaches, trying to find the one that’ll let him stay alive the longest. Maybe gold—no, diamonds! He’ll spin a tale of diamonds kept buried, safe beneath the sand. He’ll make up as many clues as he needs, with an offer they can’t resist at the end.

That dastardly door is opened, and Scar’s roughly shoved inside.

“Hey, I hold precious information here!” He squawks back at the white-haired pirate. “Honestly, 4/10 stars for treatment here. That’s not the best way to get things done. I should be treated kindly, like…”

The captain turns, the movement capturing Scar’s gaze, and all thoughts promptly leak out from his ears.

“…royalty.”

“Etho, you know Mumbo’s the captain,” Grian—Grian, alive and right in front of him—chides with that same teasing lilt he’s always had. “I just make the decisions.”

Scar doesn’t know if he should be offended or relieved that he hasn’t been extended the same courtesy of remembrance. Not that he can blame him, though. He barely recognized Grian himself, and Scar doesn’t have a pair of vibrant parrot wings to guide recognition.

“And if I recall, my decision was to have no survivors.”

That shakes him out of his shocked stupor like ice down his back, because while his tongue always goes dead around the avian, if he waits too long to do anything, he ends up overboard.

“Hey G,” he ends up saying weakly. “Long time no see.”

The captain’s full attention snaps to him, as well as the barrel of a gun. His gun, but it’s been out of his hands for years.

Apparently he hadn’t given his old friend enough credit. Beyond the very-intimidating gun in his face, there’s recognition-disbelief-betrayal-hope flashing through the captain’s dark eyes as they trace the remnants of his explosion painting his face.

“…Scar?”

This isn’t the first time they’ve been on a job together. There’s not a lot of people in this little illegal business Grian’s in, so when they need someone to talk the team out of things, it’ll be Scar he’s working with.

“It’s not grave-robbing, per se,” the man of the hour bolsters. Grian makes an exaggerated eye-roll behind him, mouthing his words mockingly. That gets a giggle out of one of their diggers.

“We’ve just been sent to check out the dig for traps, make sure it’s safe for excavating. See? That’s our traps guy.” Grian gives a little wave. “He’ll smell a trap from 40 feet away.” Wait, what.

“Okay Scar, that’s enough talking,” he jumps in before Scar can say anything that’ll damn him more. There’s no collar to grab like he usually does, and he ends up peeking around the conman’s unfairly large bicep to stare him down.

“Where are your clothes.”

“It’s hot here!” His teammate says by explanation, and Grian stares at him in his red jumper.

Why couldn’t it have been Impulse. They run in the same division of traps so they really only see each other for the big jobs, but from what Grian’s heard of this place, it would’ve been completely plausible to rope him into it. But no, every time someone new came they always insisted on recommending this ‘really good digger, guys, he can talk his group out of anything.’

That’s, of course, ignoring the fact that Grian always tells them to tell their contact to come in for an interview with the group. Scar was useful. And maybe he enjoys their constant bickering more than he lets on, but if anyone says anything about that, he’s rigging their house with TNT.

Scar knows, because of course he knows. He laughs at the offended look plastered across Grian’s face and walks right past the keeper to get to the jeeps. The keeper lets him for free, because Scar’s words are bloody magic. Their group files into the other cars in line and Grian contemplates going into the one with all the equipment, but Scar gives the passenger seat a pat and he has to follow.

“Where to?” He asks as Grian finishes securing his seatbelt.

“Don’t play dumb with me,” he scoffs, recognizing the teasing curl of his grin.

“I forgot! C’mon G, where are we off to?” Grian sighs and finally decides to humor his partner.

“The Red Desert.”

I HAVE A FIC NOW

https://archiveofourown.org/works/35203984/chapters/87720307

The day starts, inexplicably, with Etho sticking some sort of stick in his mouth mid-yawn. There’s a lot of sputtering and a lot of cursing because—

“Etho! What the heck! I could have choked and died!”

Etho turns away, shoulders shaking in laughter.

“You’re not listening!” Bdubs follows, feet sinking into the soulsand floor as he bounces to keep up. “How would you feel if you put me right back on my red life—“

“It’s just pocky, Bdubs,” he says with amusement curling in his smile like smoke. “11/11, you know? Pocky day.”

“Wuh?”

“Pocky. Y’know, the cookie?”

Bdubs looks at the stick he almost choked on, and slowly takes an actual bite of it. A strange, artificial flavor falls on his tongue, and it’s almost comical how his eyes widen in delight.

“It’s good!” He exclaims. He pulls his eyes away from the weird cookie just to watch how his partner’s eyes pinch at the edges, the way they always do whenever Etho smiles.

His next bite of pocky tastes that much sweeter.