#last life smp fic

[underground-monarch]

The Ties of Friendship

Written for the @lifefanworkexch - the recipient didn’t give any social links, but I hope they enjoyed!

AO3 | Word count: 1.5k

Lizzie stepped back and planted her hands on her hips, eyes scanning the items spread before her for anything that might be missing. Satisfied that everything was present, she nodded once with a hum of affirmation.

“Are we ready, milady?”

Lizzie turned to look at her loyal knight. Ren was standing in shadow a little way behind her, his sunglasses reflecting the glow of the fire. His tail gave a single wag.

Lizzie smiled mischievously at him and nodded once more.

“We are ready, Sir Rendog. Bring them to me!”

*

“Bit late for a tactical meeting, don’t you think?” Cleo asked bemusedly as Ren led her and BigB between the dark oak trees. With the sun having set just as they left the mountaintop fortress, the threat of mobs and an embarrassing waste of a life lingered behind every trunk.

“’Tis the orders of the Queen of Shadows, Lady Cleo,” Ren proclaimed, and Cleo couldn’t help but roll her eyes at his gravelly roleplay voice. “She requires the presence of yourself and Sir BigB immediately!”

His tail was wagging like an excited puppy’s, though, Cleo noted, so obviously whatever Lizzie needed them for wasn’t that serious.

“Did it have to be at night, though?” BigB glanced behind himself, axe in hand as he walked. “I do not wanna get blown up by a creeper this early in the game.”

“Aw, c’mon, guys!” Ren said, dropping his accent and glancing over his shoulder at them. “This’ll be fun, I promise!”

“And what is ‘this’, exactly?” Cleo raised an eyebrow.

“Nope!” Ren turned his head forward again and picked up his pace. “I’m not tellin’ ya anything! It’s a surprise! Now come on, let’s get back to the Shadow Queen and she can reveal all!”

Behind Ren’s back, Cleo caught BigB’s gaze and rolled her eyes again. BigB held back a laugh, and the two of them hurried on after Ren.

*

As expected, Lizzie was waiting for them when they arrived. She stood between them and the campfire that burned in the centre of the clearing, her hands behind her back and a curious smile on her face.

“Ah, Cleo, BigB,” she said airily, nodding a greeting.

“Uh, hey?” BigB responded hesitantly.

“You may be wondering why I have summoned you here at this time of day?” Lizzie continued in the same breezy voice.

Cleo’s eyebrow ascended ever closer to their hairline.

“Well, my subjects of the Fairy Fort, members of the Shadow Alliance; tonight, I require absolute proof of your loyalty, the ultimate test of your allegiance! Behold-!” And from behind her back, Lizzie revealed the items in her hands with a dramatic flourish.

BigB looked concerned for half a moment, then frowned lightly, a confused smile pulling at his lips. “Um… are those marshmallows?”

“‘Friendship bracelets’?” Cleo tilted their head to read the label on the box that Lizzie was holding.

“Yep!” Lizzie’s excited grin widened as she clutched the two items to her chest. “I thought it would be fun to do a nice little hang out before we properly have to worry about getting murdered!”

There was a moment of silence, during which Lizzie’s expression faded a bit into disappointment at the others’ apparent lack of enthusiasm. Then Cleo laughed, and the mood immediately lightened.

“Yeah, sure, alright.” She stepped forward and held out her hand for the bracelet kit, which Lizzie gave to her with a bright smile. “I want the green one!”

“Yay!” Lizzie gestured them all closer to the campfire, indicating the log stools that had be set out around it. “I’ve also got some biscuits here so we can make smores, and I’ve been told that Ren is the master of Chubby Bunny…!”

*

“Fir’heen… Foh’een… Fih-!” Ren half-choked, the fifteenth marshmallow evidently one too many, and raised his hands in defeat. The others cheered, and Ren allowed himself a gracious bow before attempting to chew and eat his mouthful with as much politeness as fifteen marshmallows allowed.

Lizzie giggled happily, her hands going still around the partly-woven pink strands as she looked over at Cleo and BigB. The latter was working carefully on the green bracelet, focusing on getting the weaving pattern correct; to his left, Cleo was roasting a marshmallow over the fire, the yellow bracelet already laying finished over her knee.

Ren gulped down the last of his mouthful and sat back with a faint groan. “Ugh, I think that’s enough marshmallows for me, my dudes,” he chuckled, picking up the bag and passing it to Lizzie, who nodded with a laugh.

“I hope you don’t get a belly ache tomorrow, Ren,” she said, taking one of the few remaining marshmallows out of the bag and popping it in her mouth before resuming her bracelet weaving.

Ren waved off her concern lightly. “I’ll be fine, don’t worry about me. I’ve got a tough stomach.”

“Says the guy who can’t even handle one cookie without almost throwing up,” Cleo teased, taking her eyes off her roasting marshmallow and smirking at Ren.

“Those are different, cookies have chocolate in!”

“Aww, poor little puppy.” Cleo reached over and patted the pouting dog man half-comfortingly on his shoulder. “Doesn’t stop you from trying to eat them though, does it?”

“Sometimes a man just wants a cookie, ok?!”

“Sometimes a dog just doesn’t know not to eat things that aren’t good for him!”

Cleo’s marshmallow caught fire, but they didn’t seem to notice, too occupied with trying not to laugh.

“I at least try and eat around the chocolate chips! And it’s not like chocolate is a necessary ingredient to cookies, anyway…!”

“Alright, Ren,” Cleo said with a light-hearted chuckle; “When we get back to Hermitcraft, I’ll bake you some cookies without chocolate.” They pulled their burning marshmallow out of the fire and nonchalantly blew out the flames before taking a bite.

Ren stared in mild concern at the charred lump of burnt sugar on the end of Cleo’s skewer. “Um, thanks, but uh, I think I might pass if there’s the risk of them looking like that,” he said, laughter in his tone.

Cleo shrugged, eating the rest of her marshmallow in one with a grin. “Fine, more for me then.”

Lizzie and BigB both laughed with them. Ren picked up the half-completed blue bracelet that he’d been working on and continued weaving it, somewhat messily due to his claws. Cleo skewered another marshmallow.

*

“Well, Sir Rendog,” Lizzie announced a little while later, tying off the end of the pink bracelet and holding it up; Ren, realising what she was doing, stood up and moved to kneel beside her solemnly. “I bestow upon you this Bracelet of Friendship, as a thank you for your unwavering loyalty and a symbol of your allegiance to the Fairy Fort!”

Cleo and BigB cheered as Lizzie fastened the pink bracelet around Ren’s wrist, and their applause mixed with laughter as he stood up and happily inspected his new bracelet, tail wagging.

“Thank you, milady,” he said, bowing his head to her before turning to BigB and holding out the blue bracelet.

BigB stood up, grinning, and held out his wrist to Ren.

“Sir BigethB,” Ren began, earning a muffled cackle from Cleo, “I bestow upon you this Bracelet as a sign of our friendship and a promise that I will stand by your side in all future battles in this world until the gods themselves strike me down!”

Like before, the other two cheered as Ren tied the bracelet around BigB’s wrist, and then BigB turned to Cleo.

“Um, Cleo, I give you this friendship bracelet as a thank you for teaming up with me, and, uh… a hope that we will both make it far in this game…?” BigB paused and shrugged apologetically. “Sorry, I’m not as good at this as those two are,” he chuckled.

Cleo grinned and shook her head lightly in a don’t worry about it gesture. “Cheers, BigB.” She held out her arm, and Ren and Lizzie cheered loudly as BigB tied it on.

Cleo admired the green braid on her wrist for a moment, and then, finally, held out the yellow bracelet to Lizzie.

“Lizzie, Shadow Queen, I give you this bracelet as a symbol of your noble leadership, and a thank you for holding this alliance together.” The final cheer was the loudest as Cleo tied the braid around Lizzie’s wrist.

Moving carefully past the fire, Lizzie pulled Cleo into a hug, and then gestured for the boys to join them too.

As they released the embrace, Lizzie smiled at the other three and put her hand – the one with the bracelet – in the centre of the circle. The others grinned at her as well, and did the same.

“Team Fairy Fort, on three,” Lizzie instructed. “One, two, three!”

“TEAM FAIRY FORT!” they cheered, hands raising above their heads, reaching towards the moon that hung amongst the stars above them. They all laughed, happy and light-hearted, as they settled back onto their log seats, chatting and joking until the orange glow of sunrise began to brighten the sky, allowing themselves just a few hours to forget the world and enjoy each other’s company as friends.

[fountainpenguin]

Shout-out to loyal Joel laying down his Yellow guess on Pearl's task, deliberately incorrect, just to show her she's safe with him.

Shout-out to Mumbo immediately turning on his own team and trying to kill them horrifically with anvils. I expect no less after how wild he went in Last Life.

[raticalshoez]

Solace for the Lonely

This was an AU idea I had just aptly named "Life Series Therapy Session" where it stemmed from a stupid headcanon that after a while, Grian started to feel bad for how the games were taking a toll on his friends so instead of being an eldritch horror he uses Watcher like abilities to like.....make therapy for his friends???

Joel was his guinea pig.

Basically the premise for Joel's session was he had to find closure in his past as one of the lonelier members by helping other members who were cursed with loneliness in other life series' and help them come to terms with things.

With LL!Scar, Joel is a bit awkward because it's the first person he's conversing with so there's this sorta of whiplash and this season was the one where him going red left them both alone.

Scar is also shocked at the sight of a Joel who isn't mental, and given Scar's track record in later seasons of unfaithful soulmates and forced villainy, Joel finds him the hardest to comfort.

He opts for telling him that one day he'll meet people he can call family, hinting towards the Clockers, but never outright saying it. He thinks back on his time with the Bad Boys, and his unwavering loyalty to them. He thinks the season might've been a step towards a less solitary life for them both.

When he sees DL!Pearl is his next "client," he's much more confident. He's teamed with Pearl at this point, and he knows that she will not have to suffer her Double Life fate again.

He has to tiptoe around specifically mentioning the Mounders and the fact that they are a group that forms because he doesn't want the Butterfly Effect to take place. Being as vague as possible, he assures Pearl that one day she will find people to be devoted to again (even if he does leave out the part about them all dying before her...for her own wellbeing).

Pearl is naturally skeptical. She's been isolated on this server that's meant to be about love and in this world where DL!Joel is purposefully antagonistic, here he is uncharacteristically telling her everything will turn out okay in the vaguest nature possible. And she's just expected to believe that?

Even so, as he walks away, she can't help but feel a little more hopeful.

The last person Joel encounters is SL!Lizzie, and this one stings a bit more. Joel knows Lizzie's fate in this world, and it's not pretty for her. Lizzie didn't particularly have a happy story in Last Life either, so something about this is extra unfortunate.

Joel just goes straight in and tells her that he will always be there for her because that is the full truth and he knows Lizzie needs to hear it. Maybe not at this point; maybe at this point SL!Lizzie is completely content and nothing particularly bad has happened to her, and she's wondering why her husband is at her doorstep looking so sympathetic.

But when Joel remembers a certain party, and the way he was still attacked even after being her sole supporter, he feels he has to comfort her, and tell her that he loves her, and somehow make it so her cold and lonely death in the end doesn't feel so bitter after this is all done.

[whereispearlescentmoon]

Grian looks for an open space on his shelf.

The first space is taken up by a plasma ball. Sparks of bright blue streak across the glass. Inside, a man with blue hair runs and runs and runs around a cottage. It’s impossible to tell if he is running towards or away from something. Sometimes the sparks catch him and he stops for just a moment, before getting up and running again. He looks tired.

The next space is taken up by a snow globe. Grian takes a moment to turn it over, as the snow has settled. Inside is a woman in a red hood. She is shivering, pacing around in a small space. She drags an axe on the ground behind her. Sometimes she reaches out for someone who is not there. When the snow settles again it reaches her neck, and she has to struggle to claw her way out. She always sinks back in eventually. She is in pain, and she is alone.

The third space is an hour glass, set up on a rack to turn itself over every couple of hours. Inside, a blonde man rages at the falling sand. He slashes at it with his sword as though that could do anything. When he is at the bottom, he starts to drown in it. When he is at the top, he slides down with the sand against his will. He wants to stop moving. He can’t. There’s no time.

The fourth space has a miniature green house. Sunflowers grow there. A man coated in poppies struggles to keep them alive. He tends to them tenderly, but somehow he always slips, always cuts them off at the stem. His hands are built for violence no matter how hard he tries. He replants with tears in his eyes. His task is never finished.

The fifth space has a small dome. The inside looks like a hologram, see through and glitching slightly. Inside, a person with orange hair kills wave after wave of mobs. Her eyes are covered, her limbs don’t quite connect to her body. She struggles to aim. Sometimes the mobs get a hit in and she falls, having to scramble to catch up as enemies have surrounded her. Everything is much larger than her. A small counter at the top ticks up with each wave, as though there could be an end to this. There won’t be. It’s not real.

Finally, Grian sets down his latest creation. It’s a little box of glass containing a wind up car track. A man inside with green streaked hair turns the key on car over and over. It slips as his hands become coated in sweat, taking a lap around the track. If he can just get it to keep going, just turn it enough times before he lets go, then he can rest. He can’t leave it broken. He needs to fix this. Hes sure of it.

Grian takes a step back from his shelf, settles into his chair, and watches.

[tunastime]

UM UM UM “staying up until midnight to talk” with SEN or DBHC ethubs or docsuma

Or “pull me closer,” with dbhc docsuma :floshed:

Okay skitters away

staying up until midnight to talk (919 words) (x) (:3c)

Etho’s hands follow a practiced rhythm. He isn’t sure how they wouldn’t, with every wire and mechanism and gear in his body perfectly calibrated to move with precision and within expectation. He certainly fails, and jerks, and stutters, and falls, but base programming, movements that fell perfectly into subroutines he couldn’t even begin to trace, even if Xisuma showed him the exact steps? Of course they were perfect. And of course he never faltered.

The sand beneath him offers a much needed cushioning from the hard, winter dirt, despite the fact that the sun provides little warmth to the air around them in the snow fort. The sky is so blue it makes his eyes strain to look at—and maybe it would hurt, if he knew how it was supposed to feel.

Instead, Etho watches patches of sky blue in the silver-warped reflection of his sword, faint flickers of enchantment pulsing out from the hilt where the hastily carved runes sit. He runs the sharpening stone against the blade’s flat edge, careful not to nick the silicon of his fingers as he scrapes it across, again, and again. Practiced, careful, calculated rhythm. So much so that he doesn’t even register the sounds of shuffling a few paces away until Bdubs’ voice cuts through the silence.

“Etho,” he says, voice all rough around the edges like he were hungry for something more than just company. Etho keeps sharpening, just for a moment, before he chances a glance over.

Bdubs leans at the wooden fence, leaning his weight into the flimsily-set posts. He grins like nothing in the world could bother him. The characteristic dark brown of his eyes flickers with red, with that same hunger. Etho hates it. Which is odd. Because he really doesn’t feel strongly about much of anything, and disgust is an emotion very foreign to him, and he’s beginning to think the slight grinding in his chest is a problem Xisuma might need to diagnose when he gets back. It feels wrong. Because he knows he likes Bdubs just fine. He trusts him just enough. But that look.

Bdubs is still watching him, eyeing the sword in his hand with a gaze he can’t place, let alone read. Better give him an answer.

“Bdubs,” he says calmly, tilting his head to the side.

“You thought anymore about my offer?”

Etho makes a sound like a hum, mimicking the sound of turning the idea over in his head. He stands, setting his whetstone next to the cold embers of last night’s fire. The pot and cups still rest in the dirt, as cold as the rest of their surroundings. The sword stays in his hand.

(In the back of his mind, a memory surfaces. In it, Etho lies in the night-damp grass in clothes that still smell a bit like gunpowder, but not enough to notice unless you got real close. Bdubs is somewhere to his immediate left, still speaking, haloed in the glow of lanterns and lights of a shop. One of them at least. Within the clarity of memory, Etho can pinpoint that it’s Tango’s shop. Bdubs doesn’t live far from here. He isn’t sure when waiting for Tango to restock candles turned into tell Etho all about the extra additions to your base and your journey to find all the perfect horses for the Horse Course that you both just wrapped up, or into tell Bdubs all about how empty the mountain is, and how interesting this new game sounds, and how you hope you both find somewhere cool to base. Because you’ve already told him that you’re teaming up. But it does, and in this same space, the sky is full of bright white stars and a sliver of a moon that's starting to peek into the sky. Bdubs yawns.)

“The one from last night?” Etho asks, coming to with the sword heavy in his hand. He pushes the point into the soft sand until it hits hard earth and starts to give.

“You don’t gotta keep this fence, Etho…” Bdubs sighs, leaning his head into his palm. Etho folds his arms across his chest, splays one hand as he shrugs.

“Seems like the best way to settle this, ‘Dubs.”

“You could join me. Could always still join me,” Bdubs tries. “Just a quick one-two stab! Easy!”

“I can’t do that,” Etho says, shaking his head. “You know that.”

Bdubs sighs again, dramatic, deflating over the fence as Etho’s rejection stands firm. The thirium in his chest feels like it’s been flash frozen and has only started to dethaw, cold in his hands and feet, up his shins and to his elbows. He rolls his shoulders in, cupping each hand around each opposite elbow. There’s a little warmth to be found in the action with no fans kicking on to compensate.

“Well,” Bdubs says, drumming on the wooden beam between the two fence posts. “If you ever change your mind.”

He watches Etho for a moment, that familiar look coming to his eyes, as if it were trying to eclipse the haze of red Bdubs looks at him through, as if it were trying to expand his tunnel vision by just a fraction of an inch. Just as Etho notices, it’s snuffed, and the easy, careful look is replaced by an indifference Etho doesn’t think he enjoys. He still isn’t sure how much he knows for certain. He shrugs, barely a movement at all. Better say something.

“I won’t,” he says.

Bdubs huffs and turns away.

[firewolf111]

Hello!

I've had a fanfic idea in my head for a while, but have been struggling to find the motivation to write, especially since this idea would be a long form fic and I usually write oneshots. I have a bit of an all or nothing mindset, so convincing myself to work on a project I can't finish in one sitting is really hard. So I figured why not try a notes thing.

(Not sure why I'm trying since only my sanders sides ship posts seem to get any attention, but may as well)

So...

For every 5 notes this post gets, I'll write for 15 minutes. Every 10 notes I'll write for the 15 minutes and post a small blurb to keep myself accountable.

If we somehow get to 100 notes, I'll up it to 30 minutes.

Let's go over some basics for the fic so you know whether you want to root for me to write it or not.

It's a Hermitcraft fic. Although it is kinda, slightly a life series cross-over (the summary will make this make sense.

It would technically be Mumbo centric, but it would have scenes from multiple of the Hermits pov.

Sound interesting?

Here's the summary:

The life game was over. Mumbo knew that for a fact. Yet a part of him feels trapped there. Nightmares and paranoia have become a frequent experience for him. But it was just a game. He wasn't going to ruin his friends' fun just because he couldn't handle a little bloodshed. Besides, the game was over. This was Hermitcraft. Hermitcraft was a safe server.

Except... the server is safe. But the players aren't.

Most viruses and parasites that could potentially latch on to a player are normally large enough to be detected by the many firewalls and anti-virus programs Hermircraft has set up. Any of them small enough to slip past are too weak to attach to the players. Or normally they are. But Mumbo hasn't been doing too well.

Why would the Hermits think to check? Surely, if one of them was feeling bad enough that a virus could latch onto and feed off of to grow stronger, then obviously, they would reach out for help. Except he didn't.

And now the virus has grown too strong.

What happens when the virus gives Mumbo the ability to alter the server's code?

Well... he already feels like he is trapped in the life game. So why not bring it to life?

Let the games continue.

(Well, that summary got away from me. I might later make a better one.)

But anyways, if that sounds like a fic you may enjoy, send some notes. Comment, reblog it, tag your mutuals who you think might like it. Do whatever to peer pressure me onto writing this (otherwise, the idea will probably rot away in my brain).

Just preferably keep it to 5 notes a person.

[its-muffin-tyme]

These Characters Are Stolen From Their Respective Life Games And Thrown Into A Tiny Life Series World/Game Together:

[betweenlands]

It takes exactly two seconds between Impulse looking up at the top of the Secret Keeper and him realizing what he's actually seeing up there to decide he is officially sick and tired of seeing ghosts.

There are seven entire ghosts around the thing today -- a couple appear to be tinkering with the secret delivery mechanisms. Impulse squints at them.

"What are you doing?" he says.

"Trying to figure out how to load more tasks into this thing," one of them replies, kicking one of the blocks with buttons on them. He's got a full beard and some weird green glowing mushrooms poking out of cracks in his face. It's definitely... a look, Impulse will give him that. Very Mycelium Resistance. "But whoever designed it used freakin' command blocks, and you can't even see the randomizer run."

"How many times did your randomizer break again?" one of the other ghosts calls from up on top of the Secret Keeper.

"Never!" the mushroom ghost protests, causing at least two other ghosts to crack up laughing. "It worked completely flawlessly except for user error."

One of the ghosts, someone who appears to have a floating cactus block for a head, snorts. "And programmer error."

"You shut it," the mushroom ghost responds.

"He's not wrong," the more normal-looking brown-haired ghost over by the command blocks says absently, purple eyes clearly focused on trying to trace the wiring back to the actual command blocks.

Impulse just stands there, bewildered -- both because the ghosts are actually talking to him, and also because these are extremely weird ghosts to be talking to who look nothing like anyone he's even vaguely heard of.

"Fine," he says, "you know what, I'll bite. Why are you guys here?"

"Checking in," a ghost sitting on one of the lower rocks says. He's wearing blue and yellow, looks to be a little more transparent than the others. "Y'know, new season and all that?"

Impulse squints at him. "No, I meant, why are you following me?"

"Ohhhh!" The ghost laughs. "Hadn't looked into what you were doing yet, and these guys wanted to see if they could get some of their tasks into the machine, so I just brought everyone along."

"That's not really a good answer," a ghost leaning inside the alcove under the Secret Keeper says. He's got a mask pulled up over his face, though his voice doesn't really sound muffled at all.

"What," the blue and yellow ghost says, "am I supposed to say something like it's because you're one of the people with no hard-and-fast thematic associations to stick to and therefore easier to facilitate a meeting with and freak him out more?"

Impulse squints harder. "Are you guys Watchers?"

The blue-and-yellow ghost snorts. "Hah! That's Martyn's lore, bud, not yours. Nope, nothing to do with the Watchers."

"Aren't you technically--" the ghost in the alcove starts.

"Tsssssshhhhhh," the other ghost replies by way of shushing him aggressively, "spoilers!"

"Alright," the alcove ghost says, spreading his hands in mock defeat, "fine, have it your way. He's right though. Not Watchers."

"Lowercase-w maybe," the brown-haired ghost still inspecting the redstone with the mushroom ghost says, "but otherwise, no."

Impulse is starting to feel like he's wandered into something way above his pay grade.

The alcove ghost snaps his fingers. Impulse notes somewhat absent-mindedly that he has, like, a lot of piercings on one ear. "Hey," he says, "come to think of it, we might be able to help you out with some stuff."

"I swear to God," another ghost says from on top of the Secret Keeper, "if you try to sell another person on your weird coffee god thing again-"

"I wasn't going to!" he responds. "Honest! I was just gonna say, it looks like there's a plains biome here, that means oxeye daisies, that means suspicious stew with regen if you can get a good source of mushrooms."

"Unfortunately," the mushroom ghost says, looking up from where he and the other ghost appear to now be trying to cram books into the ground, "the space for the hearts seems like it just kinda vanishes when people get hit. At least, if I'm not misunderstanding the programming."

"If you're misunderstanding the programming then we're both reading this code wrong," the brown-haired ghost says. "And I'm pretty sure I used something similar here for Dark Path stuff, so probably not?"

"Dang," the alcove ghost says, then tilts his head back towards Impulse. "Maybe make splash poison potions, then? That'll take out a good chunk of someone's health if they can't regen."

"He is green," the cactus-headed ghost says. "Why's he gotta make poison potions right now?"

A shrug in response. "Never hurts to prep early."

The blue-and-yellow ghost leans forward, squinting at him. "Alright," he says, "one of my wisps give you that idea or what?"

Another shrug. "I mean, what if they did?"

"Last time you started listening to his wisps," the brown-haired ghost says, "they told you to try and kill everyone just because I beefed it before the dragon fight."

"It would've worked if you hadn't warned them," the ghost in the alcove replies. "I can't believe you tried to sabotage my attempt at avenging you."

"I can't believe you listened to them in the first place," the blue-and-yellow ghost says. "They're bloodthirsty, they don't really give good advice."

"And I," Impulse says, having inched his way over towards the new task button, "am going to take my task and leave, because you guys are weird."

He hits the button and flips through the taskbook.

"End every sentence said to another player in a question?" he says, squinting down at it.

"You're already doing better than some of us were!" one of the ghosts on top of the Secret Keeper yells down.

"Oh my god, shut up!" the mushroom ghost yells back, and then turns to Impulse. "Hey, by the way, have you considered getting a pet parrot?"

"That's still a bad loophole and you know it," the blue-and-yellow ghost cuts in.

"I heard him just fine," the brown-haired ghost says. "Hey, hang on -- that's one of ours! It worked!"

Impulse decides he's not even going to bother trying to be polite about leaving. He has had entirely enough of these ghosts in particular.

[khoirkid]

You've been a soldier

So this is one massive spoiler but my goodness, it was fun to draw! Anyways, go check out https://archiveofourown.org/works/56361679/chapters/143203666#workskin by @amethystfairy1

[rodiimus1]

WINGS

GO READ IT NOWOWKWOWOWOWOOWOWOW

also super sorry if its like ass I haven't written a fic in like a year

[great-axepectations]

I desperately need everyone to understand that we are in the innocent lighthearted part of the Life game. This happens every time: remember how silly the Southlands were with the "ah-ha!" bit? The Team BEST's matching shields? Early Renchanting? The ranchers and the crastle and the fuckin flower husbands- it was all so sweet and innocent and fun and it all ends the same way. We all know it's comng!

I am gripping you by the collar these are the moments we are going to look back on with heartache when the timers start to run out.

How is entertainment mountain going to survive if mom dies first? If mom dies protecting them?

Which bad boy is fated to die first? Which one is doomed to kill those he loves? How's the remaining one going to handle that?

When are letters going to get dropped from TIES? Will it go to TIE to IE to just E?

And the two duos in the game- who is going to die first? And which one is going to be left in the world feeling like they're missing their other half?

I am shaking you violently this is all temporary! We still have a few more silly episodes left but it's only going to end one way! THE FLUFF MAKES THE ANGST HIT HARDER!

[fountainpenguin]

Barely two minutes into Grian's Ep 8 and I'm losing it... what a fantastic task, oh my gosh. Jimmy on Discord haunting him from beyond the grave...

Every bit of that so far, from "No way!" to "Prove that you can see me!" and "This- This is mad-" is gonna make awesome 'fic material...

Jimmy: "And you're looking at Etho and ZombieCleo"

Grian, panicked, cutting him off: "Okay okay okay okay okay!"

[thetomorrowshow]

Whumptober 5 - Sunburn

title: survive the sun

fandom: last life smp

cw: sunburn, heat exhaustion, vomiting

~

“Rules are rules. You can’t join the Reds unless you’re killed by a Red.”

Scott huffs, crosses his arms. “You weren’t killed by a Red.”

Joel shrugs. “I was the only one. I get to make the rules.”

“Was Grian killed by a Red?”

“I was killed by Joel,” Grian reminds him. “So it counts.”

Scott has the sneaking suspicion that they just made up this rule to exclude him. He can’t really remember how everyone else died (the last week or two are something of a blur), but he’s sure that some of them weren’t Red kills.

“Basically, if you want to join we have to kill you,” Grian says helpfully.

Well, that’s a problem.

“You can’t kill me,” Scott points out. “I’m already Red.”

Joel shrugs again. It’s clear that he doesn’t care at all about Scott’s status, Red or not. “Sorry. No deal.”

Scott looks toward Grian, raising an eyebrow. Grian doesn’t show any sign of give.

They’ll try to kill him if he isn’t allied with them. He’s a threat, now, and he has allies that will join him as soon as they turn Red. They’ll want to pick away their enemies as soon as possible.

“Well, I can’t let you kill me. Is there anything else I can do to . . . join you?”

Maybe if he acts like he wants to be on their side, they’ll accept him. They need more people in their two-man team. They need him.

“Sorry,” says Grian. “Rules are—”

“Wait,” Joel says suddenly.

Scott doesn’t like the look on his face as his eyes travel up and down Scott, something dark in his gaze.

After a moment, Joel turns, drags Grian by the arm with him several meters away. They whisper to each other for a long couple of minutes, occasionally glancing over at Scott.

Scott shuffles his feet, examines his nails. They’ll probably send him on some task, won’t they? Like what Etho gave to Bdubs. Off to kill a friend to prove his loyalty, or something like that. He can kill Martyn, or Ren, or someone. Someone who is his ally by convenience, not by choice. And either one of them is mellow enough to not begrudge him for it too much.

Eventually, Grian and Joel turn back to him. There’s a smile on Joel’s lips—wolfish, his teeth almost too sharp. It reminds Scott too much of Third Life, of his crusade against the Red King, of everything terrible that had happened just after.

“We need you to prove your loyalty,” Joel says, and they don’t give him a chance to change his mind before lunging for him.

-

Scott tugs a little at his wrists, testing the knots. They don’t give.

“We’ll be back at sundown,” Grian says, pulling tight the rope around Scott’s ankle. He stands, dusts his hands off on his trousers. “Comfortable?”

Scott glares at him. “Oh, yes. I’m so comfortable here, tied to these posts.”

Two posts, about a meter and a half between them. Scott’s wrists are tied to a pole each, same with his ankles. The binds aren’t too uncomfortable, all things considered—Grian knows how to tie a good knot. More uncomfortable is the fact that the only clothes he’s wearing is a pair of boxers, his pale chest on display, the tan lines on his forearms stark.

The sunlight is weak, the air still chill enough in the early morning to send goosebumps sprouting across his skin, his feet wet with the dew beneath them.

There are no trees in this field, just grass and the occasional flower. Nothing to shield him from the rising sun.

“Right, well, we’ll be back at sundown,” Joel says jovially, clapping Scott on the back. Scott grimaces at the feel of his rough hand against his bare skin, clenches his fingers into fists.

It won’t be too bad. He won’t die, at least. A good regen potion, maybe some fire resistance, and he’ll be good as new.

If he’d been given the choice, though, he would’ve elected to make an enemy of Joel and Grian over this fate. Avoiding them for the next week would be easier.

“Try not to get too busy,” Joel calls over his shoulder as he and Grian pick up Scott’s things. “Have fun!”

Then they both hurry off, leaving Scott alone.

He rolls his shoulders, straightens his stance. He can do this, easy. It’s temporary, anyhow. It’s—it’s hazing. That’s all it is, an exercise in hazing to prove that he belongs here, that he has a place among the Red names.

He should’ve just opted to wait for Pearl and Cleo to go Red, huh?

The sun rises. It’s already a bit warm on his back, and he shifts just slightly.

Hopefully it doesn’t get too hot today.

-

There’s no way to drink any water.

Scott realizes that about an hour in, and by hour three he’s desperate for something to drink. It’s hot out, hotter than he expected—probably the hottest it’s been all week, but that could be attributed to the utter lack of shade in his position.

The sun beats down on him mercilessly, more and more painful with every ray. Scott clenches and unclenches his fists, breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth.

He hasn’t had a sunburn in weeks, now. In the early days of the game, his nose and cheeks were dusted with a light pink burn, clear evidence of his living outside. He’d tanned, though, and built a house, and this world tended toward cloudy days, so he’d pretty well avoided any damage to his skin after that.

In comparison, this is torture.

His back hurts. It burns, pulsing agony from his neck to his waistband, and his legs are probably burning, too, but the pain is inconsequential compared to his back. It genuinely feels like it’s on fire—and Scott’s stumbled backward into lava a few too many times to not know what that feels like. It’s awful, it’s so bad that each breath leaves him in a wheeze as he tries to restrain his panic at being stuck in this pain.

It’s just for a day. Just for a day, then he can have potions and—and water, and food.

He needs water. He needs water, more than he needs to get out of the sun. He’s never had heatstroke—Jimmy got it, once, in that horrible desert, and Scott had spent all evening fanning him and pouring cool water on his body, coaxing health potions down his throat—and he doesn’t want to start today, but he’s afraid he won’t have a choice.

It’ll be bad if he gets heatstroke. The Red Names aren’t in any position to offer him the medical help he would need.

There isn’t anything he can do about it, though—there isn’t a way to power through and not get heatstroke if it’s too hot out. There isn’t any way to manifest the day being cooler.

He has to wait it out, or hope that someone finds him before the day ends.

`

The sun’s almost directly above Scott’s head (not quite, the brunt of it focused on the back of his neck and shoulders) when his knees try to buckle. He groans, his throat dry, forces himself to stay upright. It would strain his shoulders too much to try to kneel—he doesn’t think it would even be possible, with how closely tied to the posts his wrists are.

He’d kill for water. He’d even kill his own allies for water. Wait, he doesn’t have any allies. Perfect. Then nobody will be upset when he kills them for water.

Maybe they’ll take pity on him. Maybe Grian and Joel will come back early, realize that they’ll surely kill him by leaving him here all day.

They won’t come back. They told him that he could join them if he survived this—they may want him to die. 

The burns are bad. The burns are really bad—he’s afraid that even with a health potion, they’ll scar until a respawn. 

Scott grits his teeth. He isn’t going to die here. He won’t let himself die, no matter how bad the burns get, no matter how delirious he becomes.

At some point, the sun reaches its zenith. It’s enough of a relief to not have it directly on his back (though it is still on his shoulders) that he allows himself a moment of slumped stance, hanging down as far as his binds will allow him.

He can survive this. He will survive this.

His face, chest, and stomach take the full force of the sun for the next couple of hours, and that hurts like the absolute devil. He’s not sure he’s ever gotten a sunburn on his stomach, but it’s excruciating—the burn feels like it creeps into every fold of his skin, and he tries to stretch away from it but that only serves to expose more of his stomach.

The heat on his face makes everything worse. His cheeks flush under the burn, his lips cracked lips tremble, his eyes begin to ache.

Scott starts getting delirious around then, he thinks. He needs a drink of water, he needs to get away from the sun before his legs utterly give out, as many times as they’ve tried already (and each time he slips, he can’t bite back a hoarse cry as the pressure on his shoulders shoots up). Tears slip from his eyes when his knees buckle for the third time this hour, and Scott takes a moment to cry, his head hanging down.

The skin on his nose is peeling, his cheeks are on fire, but that doesn’t stop the tears running down them like daggers dragging their way through his skin. It’s only when he watches the third tear hit the grass that he remembers how badly he needs water, and how much more crying will dehydrate him.

He frantically tips his head back, trying to keep from crying, but his head tilted up puts his eyes staring into the sun and that just makes them water even further. Scott curses raspily, turns his head so that he can bury it into his reddened shoulder.

This is torture. This is literally torture. They’re torturing him for no reason, and he can’t escape it.

He can’t quite reach the ropes well enough to try and chew through them, but even if he managed it, what would he do? He’s practically naked, no tools or weapons or supplies. Joel and Grian are the only people allowed to help him. If they came by at sundown and found that he had freed himself, Scott has no doubts that they would kill him.

It’s hard to remember that this will ever end. There’s nothing but Scott and the sun and the heat, and his swollen tongue and burned skin and shaking limbs, and his scratchy throat and rope-burned wrists and too-dry eyes.

“I want to survive,” he croaks to nobody. There’s nobody, nothing. “I’m . . . I’m gonna win.”

The sun glares down at him accusingly. It’s right, he supposes.

How is he going to win when he can’t even survive the sun?

-

Scott’s barely conscious by the time Grian and Joel return, chatting idly, their armor clanking.

They don’t talk to Scott. Grian sets to work releasing him (every touch is dull fire against his skin) and Joel mutters on about fireworks and crossbows or something. Scott doesn’t listen. His ears hurt.

Grian unties his left side first, instead of his arms first or his legs. Scott isn’t sure why, other than perhaps it keeps him in something of a standing position while he works on the right arm.

He blinks slowly, captivated by the way the setting sun seems to make Grian’s hair glow. It even hurts to blink. His eyes are burnt just as red as the rest of him, he’s sure of it.

His very brain feels like it’s burning. Is this dying? Is he on fire from the inside out?

As soon as his right hand is undone, Scott crumples to the ground on his back, thudding onto the hard dirt. Joel snorts; Grian sets to untying his ankle.

Something hits Scott in the face and he hisses in pain, shifts just slightly so that it slides off of him. Then he opens his aching eyes, sees a pile of cloth beside him.

A glimmering potion lands on top of it, then a second one, the glass clinking on impact.

“Your clothes, healing, fire resistance,” Joel lists off boredly. “Your boots and other stuff’s at home, didn’t want to lug it all the way back.”

He should take one of those potions now. You aren’t supposed to drink fire resistance for sunburns, Scott knows that, but he isn’t quite sure what you are supposed to do with it so he settles on the health potion. Somehow, he manages to move his terribly weak arm enough to loosely grasp the bottle, but there was no way he was going to be able to work the cork out. He lets his arm fall, unable to contemplate it any longer.

Joel sighs, stomps around to that side and crouches beside him. He takes the potion from Scott’s limp grasp and tugs the cork out, then presses the potion to his cracked lips and pours it in.

It burns going down his throat, the sickly-sweet melon flavor overwhelming on his thick tongue and dry throat when he’s had nothing to drink in hours, and he coughs and coughs and coughs until his gag reflex triggers.

Scott throws up all over himself, mostly bile and a bit of pink health potion, and Joel leaps back in disgust as he chokes, his own vomit trying to slide back down the wrong tubes.

Grian yells something, and the next thing he knows he’s on his side, someone beating on his stinging back. He coughs even more, chest constricting feebly, until he feels like he can kind of breathe again. His nose is running and eyes teary and there’s the smell and taste of vomit everywhere, but he doesn’t have the strength to wipe his face. He just leans back against whoever’s holding him up, exhausted.

“Give him some water,” the person behind him commands. Scott takes in a shuddering breath, only for another bottle to be pushed into his mouth.

It takes every ounce of control he has in him to not choke as water starts pouring down his throat, lukewarm but water, too much and not enough all at once.

The person keeps giving him water, but they pull it away every couple of swallows and wait until Scott is pushing his head toward them, blindly seeking more, before returning the bottle to his lips.

“This is disgusting,” the person giving him water says.

The one holding him shifts. “It was your idea to leave him like that. I said he should just get fireworks, but no. Let’s see if he can survive the world’s worst sunburn.”

“I thought it’d be funnier, sue me.”

“Yeah, well, we want him alive, remember? We need him on our side.”

The water gets taken away again, and Scott feels more tears building up. He feels awful—he’s shaking, his throat hurts, his whole body feels like it’s on fire, even his brain—but when he leans forward for more water, the water is replaced with the health potion.

Scott drinks this as well, feels the fire in his brain cool slightly, his body losing some of the burning sensation. He opens his agonized eyes and sees a blurry Joel in front of him, holding the health potion.

Joel doesn’t speak until Scott’s drunk the entire potion, by which point he feels at least slightly capable of being alive. He shifts in—in Grian’s arms, lets him ease him into a sitting position.

Joel looks uncomfortable, but he doesn’t speak. He just shoves Scott’s clothes and the fire resistance potion toward him, then gets up, shoving the empty potion bottle into his pocket. He stalks off into the woods with a look back.

Grian fumbles in his own pocket for a moment, before withdrawing a strength potion. He reluctantly drops it in Scott’s lap and follows Joel.

They leave him there, practically unconscious from the pain, barely able to move, alone, as night comes on.

Scott’s trembling fingers try to make a fist. He can’t quite manage it.

But he puts his hands to the ground and starts to push himself up.

-

Scott doesn’t stumble into the Red Life base until about an hour later, when night has truly fallen. He ignores both the others and their awkward gazes and instead collapses onto the bed they’ve set up on the opposite side of the room from them, not even bothering to shove his boots off it and onto the floor. His clothes chafe against his untreated burns and his head is woozy from pain and dehydration, but he made it in one piece.

He’s up until late into the night, applying the fire resistance with low hisses and pained groans. Joel and Grian don’t speak, and eventually, they both bury themselves under their blankets and ignore Scott entirely.

Scott vows, then, as he carefully dabs fire resistance onto his eyelids, that he will kill them. He’ll kill both of them.

And then he’ll win.

[tunastime]

ok ok?

Once again, Etho and Bdubs find themselves in the same predicament: navigating the complex relationships of their lives while trying to keep each other safe. However, unlike the times before, they have a little bit of a better understanding of each other. And a little more commitment to what they've made together. Or: like every time before, Etho and Bdubs have a conversation. This time, it feels good. (1584 words) (x)

The light sky is waning fast, the fringes of the horizon still orange with fading sunlight. In it, the small, deepslate keep is almost purple, the warmth of the day still held close in the humid river air and sun-warm ground. Inside, Tango is fast asleep. The sniffling breaths he takes are muffled slightly by the noise of nighttime: crickets and salmon and birds. Bdubs is among these noises as he lowers himself to the ground at the base of the keep, dropping his pack and resting against the cooling stone. He tips his head back, letting out a long, tired sigh through his teeth. 

Above him, as he widens his eyes and raises his eyebrows, he can see the beginning pinpricks of stars. He hums to himself, reaching up, eclipsing for just a moment the spread of the planets and suns he’s learned so well from stargazing. The motion feels familiar, in its own, strange way. He stares up through his fingers before he drops his hand into his lap. Bdubs shuts his eyes, letting out another slow sigh.

From beside him, Etho clears his throat. Bdubs startles, immediately cracking an eye at him, shifting around to pretend like he hadn’t just jumped. Etho snorts.

“Mind if I join you?” he asks, that familiar smile to his voice and a crinkle to his eyes. Bdubs blinks his eyes open, furrowing his eyebrows as he gives Etho a quick once over. He crinkles his nose.

“You gonna nag me again?” he asks. Etho huffs out a laugh.

“Me?” he grins. “Always.”

Bdubs sighs again, slumping back against the cold deepslate tile. He rolls his eyes. 

“Alright, wise guy,” he grumbles. Then he pats the grass beside him. His hand comes back slightly dirty. Etho laughs under his breath as Bdubs waves his hand, trying to shake off the dirt before he ungracefully smears his palm onto his pant leg. After a moment, Etho sinks down beside him, letting out his own, tired sigh in relief.

“How ya feelin’?” Bdubs asks, shifting his body ever so to face Etho better. He glances over at him. Etho glances back. He raises his eyebrows and, in the fading light, looks less tired than normal. Bdubs for a brief moment wonders if it’s his doing.

“Mm?” Etho hums. “Pretty good, all things considered.”

Bdubs nods.

“Good,” he says. “I’m excited we’re together again, y’know.”

Etho snorts. He raises his eyebrows in question.

“And Tango?”

Bdubs makes a face. Duh. “A’course.”

Etho laughs again softly.

“Me too,” he says, all pleased like Bdubs had said something he found funny. Bdubs likes that tone of voice a lot. It means only good things out of Etho. Which usually meant good things for Bdubs, too. 

They lapse into a silence then, both comfortable and apprehensive. Etho fiddles with his hands, the skin of his fingers, picking at the nail beds in a show of his bad habit. Bdubs wants to grab his hands and force him to stop, as much as he kind of wants to tell him to just ask whatever question he’s holding himself back from, but Etho rolls his shoulders and settles back against the tile and seems to relax, so for a quiet moment, Bdubs watches his eyes flutter shut, and sees the pale eyelashes against his face in the rising moonlight. His chest seizes for a moment. Then Etho hums out:

“‘M sorry I forgot that one time,” he says, almost muffled through the mask he’s still wearing. “Bout the dragon.”

Bdubs blinks. He almost asks, albeit stupidly, what dragon. There’s a moment where his mouth opens and closes as he tries to remember what in the world Etho could be talking about. Dragon. Dragon. When had he fought the Ender Dragon recently? Not Hermitcraft, not this season at least. Later than that? Why would he be bringing it up now if it were something from this world? Unless he means. 

Ah.

Of course, this train of thought for Bdubs lasts only a second. And it’s in that second that he finally stammers out:

“Oh, what?” and clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “Nah, Etho. Don’t—that was so long ago. Don’t you worry about that.”

“You’re not mad?” Etho asks, tilting his head over. His eyes open to peer at Bdubs. It feels like his pupil is consuming his iris, the way the dark brown and black of his good eye muddle together in the dark. It’s black like the night sky. His eyebrows furrow as he looks over Bdubs’ face. Bdubs snorts.

“Oh I was furious,” he finally says, tearing his eyes away from Etho’s face. Warmth crawls up the back of his neck. He stares at Etho’s unfolded hands, which have come to rest palm up on his knees. “But now? You think ol’ Bdubs carries grudges?”

He looks up at Etho again. Etho shrugs, looking away.

“Uh… yeah?”

Bdubs blanches.

“What! No—not with—” he stammers out. Etho pales even further, visibly swallowing. “Etho!”

‘What!” he squeaks out, spreading his hands, shoulders coming up to his ears. Bdubs swats at him, grumbling as he whacks fabric. 

“Not for you,” he huffs. Etho deflates a fraction—at least, his shoulders come down from the sides of his head. He tilts his head, eyebrows still raised questioningly.

“You sure?” he asks. Bdubs sighs.

“Yeah. Not anymore,” he says, folding his hands together, unfolding them, fidgeting with his fingers. For whatever reason, a prickle of nervousness stores away in his stomach, forcing him to swallow to try and push it around. He sighs, stretching out his hands. “We… we play these things differently. I know that now.”

Etho, from his peripheral, nods once.

“Oh…” he says, voice mellowing out. He sighs too. “That’s good. I’m glad.”

“Yeah,” Bdubs says. He reaches out after a beat, knocking his fist into Etho’s shoulder. Etho wobbles, eyes crinkling. “I missed hanging out with you.”

“You—” Etho wheezes, voice peaking suddenly in amusement. Any higher and they’ll really risk waking Tango. “You see me every day!”

“Well!” Bdubs huffs, folding his arms. “This is different!”

Etho shakes his head. The tufts of white hair being held back by his poorly tied headband come loose all at once. He sweeps them back unsuccessfully, scrunching up his face.

“I dunno Bdubs,” he argues, squinting at him. Bdubs rolls his eyes dramatically, hunkering down over his folded arms. “Feels a bit the same, don’t’cha think?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Etho shrugs, relaxing again, leaning back against the cold stone. He finally tugs his mask down and off as he settles, turning his face from where it rests against the stone to give Bdubs a once-over. He smiles and it’s all slightly crooked teeth and sharp canines and wrinkling his nose. Bdubs’ lungs squeeze painfully. 

Maybe that’s the reason that he leans forward and grabs a fistful of Etho’s shirt. Maybe it’s the reason Etho’s hand ends up on his knee, then his thigh, then his hip as Bdubs kisses him. Maybe it’s the reason he feels Etho laugh against his mouth and kiss him again. And maybe it’s the reason that Bdubs rests his forehead against his, nose against his nose bridge, and sighs the most profound breath he has in a while. The air leaves his lungs and enters warm and humid. From this close, Bdubs can see the faint beauty marks on Etho’s cheek. He smooths his hand back up Etho’s collarbone to his shoulder, flattening out his high-neck shirt, keeping his hand under the lip of his coat, under fluff and wicking fabric.

“Let’s not do something stupid this time,” Bdubs says to the point of his nose. “Okay?”

“Like what?” Etho asks. His eyes flick up. For a moment, they’re far away, fixed on a spot far from Bdubs’ dark eyes. His expression softens like he’s remembering something far too painful. Bdubs squeezes his shoulder.

He’s never gonna get that blood off his hands, is he?

“Like stupid traps,” Bdubs finally says, forcing a smile. Etho’s eyes clear just a touch, and he pulls a face.

“I’ve never made a—” Etho pauses. Then he grins. “A stupid trap.”

Bdubs rolls his eyes. It’s in this moment that he pulls away, shaking his head as Etho giggles at him. He smothers the sound with his hands, peering over at Bdubs over his fingers. It takes everything in Bdubs not to swat at him again. His face is properly warm now.

Instead, he shuffles over and makes his home at the dip of Etho’s side. He folds his arms, huffs indignantly, and presses his cheek to his shoulder. Etho makes a small squeak. He relaxes, though, and lets Bdubs lie against him for a long moment. After that moment, however, he presses his cheek to his head and says:

“I’m not gonna let you fall asleep here.”

Bdubs grumbles.

“Fine,” he says. He lets Etho untangle himself from beside him, takes both his hands when he offers to help him stand. In the slowly building moonlight, Etho and Bdubs trudge into the small deepslate fort. Etho’s hand stays in his, warm and solid. Tango still rests soundly, sprawled out on one sleeping mat at the other side of the base, tail twitching ever so in his sleep. Bdubs sighs again as he lies down next to Etho. It takes a long time for his eyes to finally close.

At least he has him now. He doesn’t want to let him go any time soon.

[haveyoureadthisfanfic]

Summary: i wake up in some alley on a wholly other plane / can't remember who i am or how to get back to the base -- Or: a perfectly normal (if somewhat chilly) van ride on the way to Season 8 of Hermitcraft. Everything should be fine.

Authors: @fluffy-papaya, @betweenlands

Submitter: @staringamassivemistakeintheface

Note from submitter: datd is like THE hc/3l fic to me it ties together the two overlapping strings of plot without feeling uncomfortable and it makes rk into a character of his own instead of being a silly game of thrones impression. it has so many fun chapter endings that must have made the people who were there while it was live updating want to Scream. the writing is so good i want to podfic it. doc slowly figuring out the importance of martyn, a man he's never met, only through his interactions with rk is genuinely brilliant, and if you like either hermitcraft or the life series you've probably already read this, but if you haven't then you completely should.

[fleetinggill]

Hey fellas. I just watched episode 19 of Dungeon Meshi and OH BOY AM I BEING VERY NOT NORMAL ABOUT IT. You know what else I’m not normal about? Life Series, and Hermitcraft as well.

I might finally get back into fic writing exclusively to write a Dungeon Meshi crossover. It won’t be a direct 1:1 thing; like, it’ll keep the same basic premise of “this member of our party died and we have to go back into the dungeon to resurrect them!” and it will retain the core plot elements. A lot of the same monsters would appear, especially ones that hold more weight to the plot, but some of the earlier ones will be replaced with Minecraft mobs to tie the universes together more and to force me to get more creative with the food descriptions.

However, the character dynamics will be different. The person who they’re trying to rescue may not be a sibling. The number of people in the other groups they encounter may be different and such. There will be no X = Laios and Y = Kabru and so on. The most direct parallels will be Falin, Senshi, and the Mad Mage; even they will not retain the same personality, dynamics with other characters, or backstories.

It will have the same world-building and a similar but not identical plot line. I think it would be way more interesting than a 1:1 direct translation into one specific season of either Hermitcraft or Life series.

More on this to come as I flesh it out more!! I might just do fics, but I may try to do art for it or ask someone else to do art for it…

I dunno. I guess, like, let me know if this sounds interesting? Or not lol. I’m gonna do it either way but I might invest more time in it if people actually like it