#mer scott (+fishfucker martyn)

[scribbling-dragon]

in honour of the soon-returning fishfucker series for the final few fics, i wanted to redraw my scott design for it! + the old art under the cut for comparison!

(reblogs > likes! <3)

#he was suuuper fun to draw #i'd like to also think that my art has improved since the last drawing. but that might just be me! #anyways. onto the tags #juno.art #scott smajor #scott smajor fanart #limited life smp #limited life fanart #mer scott (+ fishfucker martyn) #still my fave tag <3

[scribbling-dragon]

the world’s my oyster (i’m the pearl)

summary:

Um,” he stares at Scott for a moment longer. “Can I, uh, can I come in? Or,” he allows himself to trail off, still watching Scott. The crown certainly suits him, at least, even though the pinkish-orange colour of the coral is not something he’d ever have considered to go well with cyan.

The door swings open in front of him, and he almost startles at the abruptness of it, jerking his hand back and down to his side. “So,” Scott’s grinning, that grin that makes his teeth look far sharper than they actually are, “you've come crawling back, have you?”

“It’s,” he laughs, inching forward, “It’s not crawling back, it’s…sheepishly wandering in.” He smiles a little as he continues to inch his way forward, sliding past Scott and through the rather narrow ‘doorway’ when Scott doesn't move to stop him from entering.

-

Or, a 5 + 1 where Scott is acting suspicious, and Martyn is trying to figure out why

(ao3 link)

(11,149 words)

yeah the title’s a h2o reference. it’s comedy gold, alright (and mer scott. it just fits yk)

I.

The small, rather rickety path out into the water is what first grabs at his attention, snagging it and holding it as he steps a little closer. He crouches, trying not to come off as too suspicious, even though he is acting incredibly, incredibly suspicious right now, and anyone that might see him would be well-founded in whatever boogeyman-related accusation they throw his way.

The curse itches beneath his skin, far more intense than it had been in the previous games. It ticks alongside his slowly counting timer. The itching only grows more fierce the longer he sits around twiddling his thumbs, but he sits, squatted in the bushes and sheltered by the trees overhead, and watches as Scott moves around the small island he’s constructing.

As Martyn watches, he notices the way that Scott moves around the island is actually rather odd, especially as he occasionally jumps away from the edge, as though he’s been burned- which is impossible, because it’s water.

Despite his apparent hatred for the water, Scott continues to build where he is, sticking firmly to the centre of the small island that is beginning to take shape around him. The only part that remains unchanged is the small shelter right beside the bridge, though Scott does glance over at it occasionally.

More than once, Martyn swears Scott looks directly at him as well, eyes pausing for a moment over his hiding spot before he returns to whatever he was doing before. It makes the curse thrum a little louder, a little heavier, beneath his skin in anticipation. He squashes it down a little further, before creeping out from behind the bush he’d chosen to hide behind for the past…however long.

His timer tells him he’s only spent five minutes crouched there, but the moon had been high in the sky when he first started watching Scott, casting most of his surroundings into shadow - only the island had been lit up, a small beacon on light in the darkness swamping everything else - but now that same moon is incredibly close to setting, and the horizon is beginning to tinge pink with the sunrise.

He doesn't believe these timers one bit, not at all. There’s something wrong with them, but either everyone’s too caught up in the newness of this game to notice, or they have noticed and simply don't care enough to question it. Martyn didn't believe in the twenty-four hours, anyway, not when Grian announced it in such an odd way. And those watching on would hardly be satisfied with a day of entertainment.

The dirt bridge crumbles a little beneath his feet, and he pauses, holding his breath as he waits to see if it will take his weight- if it will betray his entrance onto the island. Scott’s back remains turned to him, and he watches as the man sifts through one of the chests he just set up.

He gives no reaction to Martyn’s approach, so he continues onwards, making an effort to place his feet a little lighter as he approaches, wary of alerting Scott. Martyn is well aware of Scott’s reputation in these games, of his seemingly inhuman hearing that catches even the smallest of sounds- Joel had told him once, in one of the afterparties they host once the games come to a close, that Scott had found him and Grian during last life because he breathed too loud. The man’s ears are entirely normal, too, not at all pointed or giving any indication that they're anything but human ears with normal, human-like hearing.

He realises, as Scott begins to turn, that he’s just been stood on the man’s bridge and staring at him like a creep. He scrambles for something to do, eyes landing on the odd shelter once more, spying the boat lodged into the side of the island and containing one zombified villager. Perfect.

He lunges for the boat, throwing himself into it and beginning to slowly push off the edge of the island, ignoring the thumping in his heart- the roaring in his ears that demands he kills Scott then and there, that he had had his back turned for several long minutes, in which he could have neatly lodged an axe in the man’s back and be rid of the curse.

“Uh,” he glances back, one hand still resting against the edge of the island, still in the process of getting the boat unlodged, Scott’s turned to face him, eyes wide with…shock? It doesn't look like shock, more like surprise. Martyn almost begins laughing. “No thank you.” Scott says, and the man is beside him a moment later, moving almost scarily quick, but he doesn't have much time to focus on that, instead focusing on not overbalancing and dragging them both into the water and Scott yanks him from the boat.

He stumbles a little as his feet make contact with ground, foot catching on nothing, and he grabs onto Scott’s shoulders to steady himself, gripping tightly to Scott’s shirt. And he almost succeeds in pulling both of them backwards into the water as he tips back, already laughing.

The water rushes up around him, and he inhales some as he laughs, popping back to the surface, coughing. His hair obscures most of his vision, dripping in front of his eyes even as he pushes it back out of the way; it only falls forward again, obscuring his vision once more and sticking to his face.

He continues laughing as soon as he’s certain he’s not going to inhale any more water and choke to death. He makes a grab for one of his sandals as it begins to float past, and it only makes him laugh a little harder at the sheer absurdity of it, having to grip onto the edge of the small island to make sure he doesn't go under again.

“Aw, man.” He manages to calm down momentarily, huffing out a breath, breathing out slowly as it threatens to turn into a laugh again. “You sounded so offended, man.” He grins up at Scott, pushing his hair back from his face again- seriously, what’s even the point of wearing a headband if it doesn't keep his hair out of his eyes.

“You tried to steal my villager,” Scott frowns down at him, but Martyn can see the corners of his mouth twitching into a smile, almost a laugh. “I think I have some right to be offended.” Scott tips his chin upwards, looking down at him almost haughtily- something that Martyn would only believe if he had known Scott for less than five minutes. The guy has some odd flair for the dramatics. It’s a shame that he and Ren never teamed, they would certainly have been interesting to watch.

“I guess so, thought you didn't hear me, though.”

“I heard you.” Scott says, looking down at him. The skin around his eyes catches the light slightly, flashing bright, but when Martyn takes a closer look, it’s just some rather bright eyeshadow the other has decided to wear. “I just thought I’d give you an easy kill.”

“An easy kill?” He laughs it off, ignoring how the itch beneath his skin seems to intensify with those few words- he already knows, he might as well. He shakes the thoughts off, pulling himself from the water. “Wait, wait, you think I’m the boogey?”

“Yes.”

“Aw, c’mon man,” Scott hops back a few steps as he approaches, looking more than a little nervous as Martyn steps forward. “That hurts, you think I've come here to just kill you in cold blood? Can't I just visit a friend?”

“While that’s a nice thought, I unfortunately don't believe you.” Scott smiles, expression not matching his words, the eyeshadow smudged around the corners of his eyes shimmering in the light again, drawing Martyn’s eyes back to it. “You got that whole-” Scott gestures at him, “-thing about you. Twitchy, like you're ready to swing at someone as soon as the opportunity presents itself.”

“I mean, you did that, didn't you?” His clothes stick to his skin rather uncomfortably, clinging. He finds a piece of seaweed stuck to his calf as well, peeling it off as he speaks. He flicks it at Scott, for a laugh, watching as the man jumps out of the seaweed’s path and sends a glare his way. “Poor Skizz, the man just wanted to chat with you.”

“He set it up so well, Martyn,” Scott groans, suspicion dissolving for a moment as he complains. “Everyone’s been getting on to me about it, especially after Bdubs’ stunt- which also wasn't my fault! But he was just saying all the right things- it was far too funny for me to let the opportunity pass up.” And Martyn’s sure that They rather enjoyed the show too, especially from the one person that refused to cooperate with their schemes the last two games.

“I hear you,” he laughs, even as he attempts to slip his foot back into his wet sandal without fiddling about with the straps too much. His clothes are going to be wet for the next while and the sun’s not even up yet meaning he’s going to be walking around in squeaky shoes for several long hours- no way he’s sneaking up on anyone like that. “But still not the boogey.” He grins, only sweating a little as Scott continues to look unconvinced- one word and everyone would start avoiding him like the plague.

“Mhm,” Scott looks him up and down, with a judgemental enough look that he almost cowers beneath it. But Martyn’s built of stronger stuff than that, staring back at Scott in return. “If you say so, then.”

Scott’s lips quirk up in the corner a little bit, as though there’s a joke only he’s been let in on. And Martyn has a pretty good idea that he’s probably the butt of said joke.

“Have fun sneaking up on people in your squeaky shoes,” Scott says, which. Great. Scott’s already noticed that and he’s not even moved yet, this is actually hopeless. He’s going to be yellow within the day, and there’s nothing he can even do about it.

“Still not the boogey.” He reminds. He leaves Scott to it, though, turning around and walking back down the bridge. His sandals squeak as he walks, and he does his best to ignore the snicker behind him. “Yeah, yeah,” he shouts back, turning around to face Scott, “laugh it up!”

He slips as he turns, some dirt giving way beneath his heel, and almost falls back into the ocean. He manages to regain his footing quickly, scrambling to maintain his balance on the rickety little path, glaring at Scott when the man’s snickering turns into a sharp bark of laughter.

He grumbles to himself, mind already running over the few ideas he has left, searching for an idea. His shoes continue squeaking as he walks, and all it does is distract him from his game plans, dragging his mind back towards Scott, and the man’s odd avoidance of the water’s edge and just water in general.

It could also, very easily, be that the man was avoiding him. But he looked far more nervous than he needed to as Martyn approached him after his brief dip in the ocean, far too nervous for someone that was just worried about being murdered. And that also doesn't explain his behaviour before Martyn even approached, avoiding the surrounding ocean like his life depended on it; and unless Scott’s hearing has reached new levels of freaky, then he definitely wasn't watching for Martyn then.

When he glances back, Scott is still keeping his distance from the water.

He considers it for a moment, then shoves the thought aside. He has far more important things to worry about than Scott acting weird- he’s always acting weird! He’s a weird man.

=== === ===

II.

He stares at the ground in front of him, the bucket in his hands warm as he stares at the empty spot, where there had been a cow only moments before. He glances over at Etho from the corner of his eye, biting on his tongue so he doesn't start laughing at possibly the worst moment he’s had all day.

He still aches from the pufferfish Etho had flung at him earlier. It’s a very good reminder of why he should definitely not start laughing at something that is actually very, very bad.

“Dude,” Impulse is staring at him as well, face set into one of those I'm-not-mad-just-disappointed looks.

“I did not mean for that to happen,” he says. And he can hear the laugh bubbling in his throat, threatening to break free if he continues talking much longer. He clutches the lava bucket a little tighter, before deciding that is probably a bad thing to do because the metal is already heating up to a hazardous temperature. And he likes being able to use his hands. “I was just memeing Skizz, and then-” he cuts himself off again, peering up through the small hole in the ceiling to look at Skizz.

The man stares back down at him, one hand resting against the edge of the hole. Martyn had definitely considered simply leaving the lava there for Skizz to fall into, unaware, and taken the kill then and there, but the swift death of the cow had been enough to make him feel a little guilty.

“Aw,” he buries his face in his hands, stepping back from the small entrance. “I am so sorry.” His words are muffled slightly, but he’s sure the others can at least guess the sentiment of his words if they can't understand them. He pulls at his face a little bit, glancing up at the people around him.

Impulse just looks sad at this point, staring at the spot their cow had been only a few moments before. Martyn has never felt regret as intensely as he does in this moment, even if his whole visit had been a ploy to try and kill one of them.

“You gotta be kidding me right now.”

Martyn can feel his resolve begin to waver as they continue on about the cow, lips twitching into an almost-smile as Impulse continues to bemoan their loss. Etho, at least, seems to have planned ahead, or at least far enough ahead that he saw the cow not surviving for very long anyway, as he manages to retrieve a cow within a few minutes after the incident.

It’s as though the cow never died in the first place, and he watches it meander around the small base from the step. Impulse had told him, in very few words, that he’d prefer it if he sat up here and away from the cows for now. He hadn't minded it either, as it means he can sit a short distance away from everyone else- a long enough distance that the itch at the back of his brain is reduced, if only a little bit. The need for blood still lingers, but it’s nowhere near as intense as it had been before.

He can't help but panic a little, unable to see any of these people splitting off from the pack so that he can follow and murder them. He also can't see them just letting it slide if he does kill one of them, so maybe it’s not his greatest idea to pick one of these four.

“Oh, Skizz,” his ears prick up as a new voice joins the jumbled fray, a little louder than many of the others and much further away. He stands, moving from the step Impulse had instructed him to stay on so there weren't any more cow related accidents. “Bud.”

He can hear the sympathy in Scott’s voice, and when he pokes his head out of the entrance to the underground base, Scott is smiling sympathetically at Skizz. A boat rocks gently behind him, lodged firmly in the sand as Scott steps gingerly out of it, scurrying a few metres up the beach before he comes to a stop.

“Dude, it’s been brutal,” Skizz says.

Martyn emerges fully onto the small island, only because hovering in the darkness is making him far more suspicious, and it would be very easy for Scott to pin it on him right now- especially as the man seems convinced that it is him anyway.

“What happened?” Scott seems to be asking from a sympathetic standpoint, but Martyn also knows Scott, and knowing Scott means that he knows Scott just wants the details of what happened from the source. Martyn listens as well, nodding at Scott when the man’s eyes slide over to him.

“I was way, way deep down,” Skizz gestures to the ground beneath their feet, moving back and forth a little bit as they talk. “I was just looking for some diamonds, and a creeper killed me.” Skizz turns his back to Martyn, and he has the idea to just do it now- do it here. He’d considered it already, back in the cave when the curse first settled itself over his mind, but he’d resisted then. But he’s so close to running out of time, so close to failing-

His hand hovers over the sword at his hip, and Skizz’s back is still turned, and Scott had even proposed an alliance to him earlier today, so he doubts Scott’s going to rat him out right now. He glances up, hand still hovering, still uncertain.

Scott glances between him and Skizz, mouth setting into a grim line. He then shakes his head, slight enough that anyone not looking would have missed it. And Skizz continues talking, oblivious to the silent conversation that had just passed between him and Scott.

And Scott’s right, honestly. It would be a bad idea, and they would have four angry people after them, one of which is definitely going to be a yellow soon, and that’s not something he wants to see at all. He swallows, glancing away, mind racing, curse roaring, demanding he ignore Scott, that he does it anyway.

He takes a step back, away from the shoreline and Scott and Skizz, pulling his hand away from his sword forcefully, reminding himself that it would be a bad idea, over and over again, and that Skizz has already lost enough time as it is, to lose more would only put him on Skizz’s list.

He takes another step back, and his foot catches on something. He glances back, finding it to be the hole that leads to the base beneath the island. The…confined base that has little to no escape routes, something which could very easily be blown up.

He glances back to the talking pair on the beach. Neither of them watch him, neither of them are looking to see where he goes.

He drops down into the hole, ignoring the slight jolt in his ankles as he lands. He pauses, not daring to even breathe. He can't hear himself over the sound of blood roaring in his ears- he doesn't know how loud he would be, can't know how loud it would be. So he doesn't dare breathe, straining his ears to make sure that there are people in the base below him, that him tossing away the few resources he has won't go to waste.

He chips away at the wall in front of him, clenching his hands tight around his pickaxe to stop them from shaking. Ignores the pounding of his heart, the rushing in his ears as he breaks through the rock, pausing to heave in a breath and to check that he hasn't been heard- hasn't been found.

He can't be found, he can’t. He doesn't have long left for this, not long at all, and he can't be yellow. Not yet, it’s too soon. Far, far too soon.

He breaks down the few feet that separates him from the room below, pulling back as soon as the last chunk of rock has been chipped away. He has to let it fall, there’s no way he can grab it back now, just has to watch it plummet and hope no one pays attention to the sound.

He holds his breath, feeling it catch in his lungs until he feels as though he’s going to explode. He watches as Scott turns around and stares at the rock for a long, long moment. Long enough that Martyn thinks he might say something, that he might warn the others.

He doesn't, eyes glancing up, though he can't see him- the rock blocks him from seeing Martyn, tucked away in his little gap in the rock, just large enough for him to crouch in. And then Scott turns back around, and he doesn't say a word. He just listens as the team continues talking, chattering amongst themselves.

He doesn't dare breathe, not even a sigh of relief- it could tell them that he’s still here, that he’s not disappeared away again.

He pulls the first bundle of TNT from his inventory, holding it in shaking hands as he fumbles for his flint and steel, grasping it and bringing it up to the wick, striking it once, twice, three times, hands shaking as he tries to light it, watches as it continues to sputter out before the wick can catch.

And then it does catch, flaring to life with a sizzle and he shoves it away, pulling the next bundle free, lighting this one quicker than the previous. There’s a shout from below- someone spotting the TNT no doubt. But it hasn't exploded yet, he still has time.

He drops the second one.

The third is the easiest to light, and he drops that too, peering over the edge, some morbid curiosity filling him- to see if he can get the kill or not. To see if someone might stray a little too close to the detonating bomb.

But, no. They huddle in a corner, all watching the TNT with wide eyes, watching. Waiting. And then it explodes, and his ears beginning ringing, though not with bloodlust this time. Instead, he blinks, coughing as smoke fills his mouth and makes him choke. He pulls back from the small opening he created, hacking and choking on his own breath as shouts of panic break out below.

He peers in again, still blinking back the tears in his eyes, watches as the rock wall behind where everyone huddles begins to crack, begins to give way beneath the sudden lack of stability and structure.

Scott breaks free first, sprinting across the room and skidding to a halt before throwing himself up the small wall and onto the stairs. Only then does he turn back around, posture stiff and tense, watching as the room begins to flood through the small fissures in the rock.

The TIES groan and grumble at the sudden flooding, kicking through the water and sloshing it around their ankles. And Martyn should move on, should leave now that Scott has thrown him under the bus- they could say something in the general chat at any moment, could condemn him to failing his one task.

But they don't, they continue complaining, continue kicking the water around. And Martyn finds himself far more fascinated about how scared Scott seems to be of the water, backing further and further away from the main room, beginning a slow, jerking path up the stairs, away from the steadily rising water and out of the splash zone of where the TIES have begun splashing water at each other.

Martyn watches Scott, files this odd information into his brain, alongside the way Scott avoids water like the plague. Doesn't even go near it despite having chosen to take up residence in the middle of the ocean, where you are surrounded by water.

And then one of the TIES shouts for his blood- and he knows they can't do that, they can't. It’s against the rules. And yet he flees anyway, squeezing back down the small corridor he’d hewn out, and sprinting for the surface.

He only looks back once he’s a safe distance away, watching as Tango and Skizz patrol the surface of their island and Scott climbs into his boat, and begins rowing back to his own island. Rowing, where someone else would have swam the short distance.

But the curse still lingers, still has its hooks in his mind. And he doesn't have time to sit around and watch Scott act odd, because he has other, far more pressing matters to attend to.

For now, at least.

=== === ===

III.

Scott’s island is bigger than it had been before. Spanning over a larger stretch of land, half-grown shoots of bamboo sticking out of the earth, marking out a perimeter. The leaves rustle gently in the breeze, and a few of the closer sticks of bamboo knock into each other, rattling in the wind.

A door stands at the entryway to the island, though there is no frame surrounding it. Truly, there is nothing but manners stopping him from bypassing the door completely, and stepping around. And also because it is far too comedic to knock on the door as well.

“Hi,” Scott peers around his door, not even bothering to open it. And…he’s wearing an odd crown of coral. Something he hadn't been wearing last time, at least. And the coral hasn't begun to bleach yet, remaining colourful despite being on land.

“Hi.” He responds, peering around the door as well, fist still pressed against the wood from where he’d knocked. The bridge is larger this time, too, more stable than it had been previously. He feels far less like he’s about to take an unwelcome dip into the ocean and far more like he’s going to remain nice and warm and dry.

“Um,” he stares at Scott for a moment longer. “Can I, uh, can I come in? Or,” he allows himself to trail off, still watching Scott. The crown certainly suits him, at least, even though the pinkish-orange colour of the coral is not something he’d ever have considered to go well with cyan.

The door swings open in front of him, and he almost startles at the abruptness of it, jerking his hand back and down to his side. “So,” Scott’s grinning, that grin that makes his teeth look far sharper than they actually are, “you've come crawling back, have you?”

“It’s,” he laughs, inching forward, “It’s not crawling back, it’s…sheepishly wandering in.” He smiles a little as he continues to inch his way forward, sliding past Scott and through the rather narrow ‘doorway’ when Scott doesn't move to stop him from entering. “Look,”

“You abandoned me,” Scott says, frowning. The sadness in his voice is incredibly fake, truly, no one would be buying it. But Martyn has to make a good impression, because this is his only chance at an alliance, and Scott is definitely a good choice for a teammate.

“I didn't abandon you,” he protests.

Scott ignores him. “You came to the coral isles, and then you left.”

“I didn't wanna kill you!” He protests, throwing his arms out. When Scott doesn't try to interrupt him, he continues. “I was already the boogey at that point, yeah, yeah, well done, you guessed it. Whatever. And then you were in the TIES’ hole, and I attempted to kill you, and if you attempt to kill someone then you don't immediately go crawling back to them and ask for an alliance! You leave them to cool down, to work out their frustration for a few hours, and then you come to grovel.”

“You're grovelling right now?” Scott raises an eyebrow. “I've seen better grovelling from a dehydrated plant.”

“Now that’s just hurtful, man.” He presses a hand to his chest. “And I am grovelling, I said sorry.”

“No you didn't.”

“I'm sorry,” he tries. “For, uh, trying to kill you- but in my defence! I was almost out of time, and there was a big group, and I was almost certain that the TNT would have gotten them.”

“It would have, if you threw all of it in at once.” Scott crosses his arms. “Throwing in just one, right after you lit the fuse too, Martyn, means that they had the time to react and then huddle, so the other ones didn't do anything.”

“So, what? I should just hang onto the TNT until it’s about to explode?” He’d have probably blown himself up if he’d done that- he can hardly remember anything from that panic-filled haze, so he doubts his planning skills were actually being used at any point.

“Yes.” Scott says, then sighs. “But I get it,” he shrugs as he turns away, “you were panicked, there’s a lot of pressure. I took out the first person I saw.” Martyn follows after Scott as he moves a little closer to the centre of the island, unsure whether he’s actually welcome to stay here or if Scott’s just humouring him.

“So,” he decides to break the ice, trailing behind Scott. “Can, can I move in?” He scuffs his feet against the ground, and Scott turns at his question. Scott frowns, lips pursed as he looks him up and down again.

“You're wanting to be a coral kid?” Scott asks. He sounds almost…pleasantly surprised.

“Okay, uh,” he laughs, “maybe not a coral kid,” Scott frowns a little deeper, “but I've come back with ideas- name ideas, okay? You know, I've been out and about, travelling the world,” the tiny little world they're confined in for the foreseeable future. “Uh,” he scrambles to keep talking, taking a few steps back from Scott, away from the small area he has set up in the middle of the island. Scott doesn't follow after him, propping a hip against the crafting bench. “I'm older, I'm wiser. I'm smarter,” he nods to himself, glancing back at Scott.

Scott seems to be mildly amused by him, head tilted at a slight angle as he watches him talk, smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“I've got some name suggestions,” he finishes, giving a little jazz hands as Scott continues to stare at him. He’s got that same eyeshadow on again, glinting around the corners of his eyes. Maybe it’s his new thing for this iteration of the games- people try new things all the time.

“Okay,” Scott drags the word out, but he gestures for him to continue. Martyn is absolutely going to get to stay on this island, thank god.

“Alright,” he rocks forward onto the balls of his feet before rocking back again, “so, obviously, there’s coral kids.” Scott nods his head, “Not too bad, but, you know, I think it makes us sound kinda like pushovers? Uh,” he thinks for a moment, “next one on the list honestly isn't that great either, though, so, damp dudes? Feeling that one?”

Scott clicks his tongue, leaning back on the crafting bench a little further, before shaking his head. “Nope, don't enjoy that one.”

“Alright,” that wasn't his best one, but better to lead with his worst because they can only get better from here on out. Hopefully. “Seeing as this isn't really much of an ocean,” and it isn't, “how about puddle pals?”

“No,” Scott’s response is immediate. “Puddle feels even less,” Scott pulls a face and Martyn gets the message.

“Okay.” Maybe he should have written them all down in a list. He’d spent most of last night brainstorming ideas, hoping to put himself on Scott’s right side and gain a teammate if he can impress him with a team name. “So, I was imagining leather jackets for this next one- like the bad boys’ jackets,”

“You know Jimmy just stole his from Tango, right?” Scott’s grinning, leaning forward a little.

“Really?” He blinks, thinks about it for a moment, then, “Yeah, that makes sense. Timmy doesn't seem like the kind to own a jacket more of a-”

“Denim guy, yeah.” Scott nods his head along, hair falling in front of his eyes before Scott brushes it back again. Martyn finds himself watching Scott for a moment too long before he averts his eyes again, moving a little further around the island. Scott swings his legs over the crafting table to watch him go.

“Alright, us in leather jackets: sons of beaches.” Scott doesn't say anything in response to that one, and when Martyn turns around the other is just staring at him, apparently slightly lost for words. He laughs a little, more out of nervousness at Scott’s silence.

“It’s, hm,” Scott pauses to think. “It’s better than the other two, but, uh.”

“Alright, alright. I've still got a few more,” he nods, even though his list is very rapidly running a little short. “I know you like the film Mean Girls,” Scott nods at that, “so what about Mean Shells?”

Scott tips his head to the side, still staring at Martyn. He stares for long enough, apparently lost enough in thought, that Martyn begins to feel a little flustered beneath Scott’s undivided attention. The green of the man’s eyes is far too intense compared to their normal blue, and it freaks him out. Just a bit.

“I like it,” Scott says, “but I don't know if people will get that reference.” Scott pulls a face, “Mean Gills, would’ve been-”

“Mean Gills!” He bounces a little in place, pointing at Scott and nodding. Scott looks a little taken aback by his enthusiasm, but smiles after a moment anyway. “Yeah, yeah! You've nailed that one there. Mean Gills,” he repeats to himself.

“Did you have any more?” Scott asks.

“Only a couple. What about beauty and the beach?”

“Okay,” Scott nods, “do like that. But which one of us is going to be the beauty and which one of us is gonna be the beach? Because I can tell you right now which one I don't want to be.”

“Oh yeah, alright. What about santa’s little kelpers?” He grins, quite proud of that one.

Scott looks rather unimpressed. “Bit too seasonal.”

“You're a harsh critic, Smajor.” He laughs, “Big buoys? Like, spelt like the, the floating things? B-U-O-Y-S.”

Scott shakes his hand back, side to side. “I think the bad boys would get annoyed with us there, encroaching on their territory and all that. And like, they might be bad at these games, but they've also got full diamond and enchanted armour, so I don't really want to go around annoying them, yeah? Trying not to make enemies just yet.”

“Sal-men?” He tries. His list is dwindling now, though Scott is cracking a smile at a few of these, so it’s not a total loss.

“Oh, no,” Scott shakes his head. “I've had a whole,” he gestures with a flippant hand, “salmon fiasco in the past. Let’s not go there.”

“LGB-Sea?” He says. “Like, like S-E-A?” He laughs a little, because it was a rather bad joke on its own really, but Scott seems to find it funny too because he’s laughing as well, leaning forward on his makeshift seat as he giggles.

“I like the-” Scott laughs again. “LGB-Sea is great.”

“Alright, alright, last one, and maybe we should just lock this one in straight away because I like this one: H-Two-Bros.”

“H-Two-Bros is great,” Scott’s lips are quirked up in a smile, the skin around his eyes crinkling as he smiles, that blue eyeshadow flashing in the light again. “But I'm kinda torn between that and mean gills.” Scott’s eyes then widen a little. “Not that either of us have gills, though,” he laughs, hand rubbing at the back of his neck. “That would be ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” his eyebrows crinkle together. “Neither of us have gills. But we’re going for the ocean-y fish theme, right?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Scott nods, “why don't we get Pearl’s opinion on this?”

Pearl’s? The question is half-formed on his tongue before Pearl pops out of the water, spraying it everywhere. Scott is halfway across the island a moment later, looking rather like a startled cat even though he was the one that requested Pearl join them.

Pearl then shakes like a dog, hair and water flying everywhere, hitting him as well. He winces as a stray chunk of hair hits him in the face. He backs up a few steps, away from the edge of the island and the danger zone that is currently surrounding Pearl.

“Ask me what?” She asks, rather cheery.

“We’re choosing a name for the people on this island,” Martyn gestures between him and Scott, who is yet to return from his corner of scared cat-ness. “And we’ve got two contenders currently: Mean Gills and H-Two-Bros.”

“I like Mean Gills better, it’s kinda cute.” Pearl laughs.

The conversation devolves from there, and before he knows it he’s rummaging around in his inventory to find a few bits of gunpowder and handing them over to Pearl. “I cremated her.” He says with a smile, watching as Pearl’s eyes widen slightly, glancing up at him, then back down at the gunpowder.

“I'm leaving,” she says, voice high-pitched. “This is not,” she shakes her head, hopping back into the ocean. She doesn't emerge until she’s several feet away from the island, water splashing as she kicks her way towards the next body of land.

“I don't know what she wanted me to say!” He laughs, though it’s a poor defence, really. Scott laughs a little as well, moving back towards the centre of the island now that Pearl has left. Scott didn't seem to hold any ill will towards Pearl, so Martyn doesn't understand why he avoided her so clearly. “She wants her dead dog from the last games, I don't have anything for her!”

“You could've saved that until she gave me the grass,” Scott frowns. “We only have a little bit now.”

“Eh, it’ll spread in no time.” He assures.

=== === ===

IV.

His hourglass is beginning to come together nicely, even with only the barebones of the structure constructed so far. The chest of resources he’s gathered for this mini project sits a few feet behind him, lid swung open so he doesn't have to keep opening it whilst building.

Scott sits on the small deck chair he’s built for himself, leaning back in it and watching him build. He had been wearing sunglasses, up until the point where Martyn had pointed out that he looked like one of the bad boys and he’d taken them off rather quickly after that.

He’s squinting against the sun as he watches Martyn build, still wearing that eyeshadow despite only getting up half an hour earlier. Martyn hadn't even seen him put it on, but it had been there as soon as he was up, so he must have put it on at some point.

Not that he noticed it immediately. He’s taken to watching Scott recently, but he’s not been staring at his eyes. His eyes might look rather nice, but that doesn't mean Martyn is caught up in staring at them all the time.

“See something you like?” Scott tips his head to the side, eyes still squinted mostly shut. Scott then stretches out on the deck chair, raising one arm above his head. He even winks, just to add to the effect.

“Not really,” he snorts, turning back to his hourglass. He still needs to add most of the glass to it, and that’s definitely going to be the most time-consuming part of this whole affair; he’s going to have to make sure he doesn't bend any of the glass too far and shatter it- why did he decide to build this again? It’s hardly going to be functional and Scott’s beach house is plenty large enough for the two of them. Their beds are side by side in there, too, and he’s not going to be moving out of there any time soon. “Keep dreaming, Scott.”

Scott hums behind him, and he can feel the other man’s eyes on him as he rummages through the chest, collecting as much glass as he can comfortably hold.

“Make sure you don't bend it too far,” Scott says as he starts to place the glass into its frame. “It’s an inflexible material and it will just shatter if you bend it too far.”

“Thanks for that, Scott. I am well aware.”

“Just making sure!” When he looks back Scott’s got his hands raised in surrender, drink held in one of them- when did he get a drink? He stares at Scott for a moment, and Scott stares back at him, before taking a sip from his drink. Where did he even get a straw from? Did he bring it with him?

…Honestly, he can see Scott doing exactly that for a moment like this.

“I just don't want to be the one cleaning you up if you manage to slice your hand open on some of the glass.” Scott shrugs, drink sloshing dangerously against the side of his glass. Scott seems to realise this, jerking the drink away from him hurriedly, before grinning at Martyn.

“I'm hardly going to slice my hand open on the glass,” he snorts. “What do you take me for, some kind of idiot?”

“Just remember that I dated Jimmy for a while, okay?” Scott says. Martyn takes his momentary distraction to slot a few of the glass panes in without any judgement or commentary. He’s all for ribbing at someone, but Scott takes it to an entirely new, rather impressive, level. “Love the guy, he’s great, but he was rather accident prone. I'm just making sure you don't hurt yourself.”

“Giving me the boyfriend treatment, Smajor?” He calls back, picking up the next piece of glass, bending it ever so slightly, careful with the amount of force he applies as he begins slotting it into its place.

“If you want, I've been told I'm rather good.”

The glass breaks in his hands, unable to withstand the sudden increase in pressure from his grip. And, hm. He stares down at his hands, brain not quite registering the pain yet, only that there is a lot of red. Probably a bit more than there should be.

“Scott?” He calls, not turning back around. Scott hasn't made any quip about him breaking the glass, so Martyn doubts he actually heard the glass breaking.

“Yeah,” Martyn can hear the rattling of ice against glass.

“Can you get tetanus from glass?” He asks. The pain is beginning to filter through his system, overtaking the shock and adrenaline of moments later to begin stinging. And then burning, a little.

“Uh,” Scott goes silent for a moment. “I don't think so?”

“That’s good.” He nods along. That is quite a bit of blood, and he thinks he might be going a bit light-headed from the blood loss. “You gotta promise not to make fun of me, alright?”

“I am not promising that.” Scott says. He can hear someone standing up. “Turn around, Martyn.”

He does, not sure what else to do. Scott is only a few inches from him when he turns around, and it’s enough to make him startle. Scott frowns at him for a moment- and they're both far closer than they've been during Martyn’s small stay here, and he can see the eyeshadow up close now, and it almost looks like-

“What did I tell you?” Scott interrupts his thoughts, and he snaps back into focus, slightly.

“Lots of things.”

“About the glass,” Scott stresses, grabbing his hand and shaking that as well a moment.

“Oh, yeah, don't bend it.”

“And what did you do?” Scott asks.

“Bend it?” He responds. “Look, man, I just wanna sit down, alright? I'm not…feeling great.”

“Yeah, no shit, Martyn. Look at this!” He shakes Martyn’s hand around a little, fingers smearing with blood. “This is why we don't play around with glass.”

“It’s your fault, anyway.” He frowns at Scott. “You surprised me.”

“I surprised you.” Scott deadpans. “And so it’s my fault.”

“Exactly.” He tries to point at Scott, but Scott is still holding one of his wrists, so the movement is far less confident and smooth than he had been hoping it would be.

“God, you're worse than Jimmy.” Scott drags a hand down his face. And his hand had blood on it, meaning he’s just smearing blood over his face. “How are you worse than Jimmy?”

“I take offence at that.”

“You can take offence at it when you're not about to pass out at the sight of some blood.”

“I'm not about to pass out,” he scoffs. Or tries to. He doesn't actually know how convincing it is, because everything sounds like it’s underwater. “It’s the blood loss.”

“You have not lost enough blood to feel dizzy.” Scott tells him, still gripping his wrist. “You're just squeamish.”

“Am not.” He tugs at the grip Scott’s got on him. “No way I’d have made it through so, so many of these games if I was squeamish.” It’s the blood loss- the same blood loss that is making the world spin around him like everything just’s been cranked up really high on speed, and his eyes ache with it.

“Martyn,” Scott sighs, but his voice is really muffled, and, wow, is that the ocean? The water is always super warm around here, he’s pretty sure it’s because of the biome they're in, but he always enjoys it. It’s like a slightly colder than usual bath- still warm but not too warm.

And it’s just as warm this time as he sinks into it, breath escaping him in a bubbly sigh.

There’s a loud splashing sound above him, and he squints his eyes open, but the saltwater makes everything blurry, and his eyes hurt already, so he squints them shut again. Something grabs at his arm, yanking him upwards.

And he resists, because this water is really warm and nice, and he actually rather likes it, really. Whatever is dragging him around, though, doesn't seem to care what he thinks, but he’s unceremoniously pushed onto dry land a moment later.

He breathes in, coughing a little and squinting his eyes open to watch as he coughs up water. His throat feels dry and scratchy, and his vision is still blurry. Blurry enough that he can't see much beyond vague shapes and colours.

Something moves in front of him, a little water lapping at his fingers as he opens his eyes a little more to try and get a better look at the- whatever it is in front of him. There’s a flash of deep blue, and then the whatever-it-was thing is gone. Huh.

Something flicks him on the forehead, and he blinks his eyes open again, finding that he’s lying on something far softer than the dirt ground, and blinking up at Scott. Scott is staring down at him, eyes flicking over his face, before he leans back so there’s more than just an inch of space between them.

“Good to see you're awake.” Scott says.

“When did I fall asleep?” He asks, going to push himself up, only to wince when sharp pain lances through his hand. He hisses beneath his breath, easing his weight off that hand.

“You didn't.” Scott smiles at him, but it’s the kind of smile someone wears when they're trying to hold back a laugh. “I didn't know you were squeamish.”

“I'm not.”

“Then why did you pass out at the sight of blood?” Scott asks, head tilting to the side. The bandages around Martyn’s fingers make them feel thick and clumsy, and the pain that sparks through his palm every time he flexes them is enough to stop him from moving that hand too much. “Sounds like you're pretty squeamish to me.”

“I'm not.” He protests, though his attempts seem to be in vain because Scott has actually started laughing at him now.

“Mhm,” Scott nods. “Seems like your hourglass is going on hiatus for a short while.”

“Ugh,” he lets his head drop back to the pillow, staring up at the sky. It’s cloudless. “Did I fall in the water?” He asks, after a moment.

“Yes, why?”

“My clothes feel all…disgusting.”

“Well, I didn't wash them for you. I'm not your personal servant.” Scott pokes him on the arm, just hard enough to hurt.

“Never said you were,” he rubs at his arm absently, frowning at Scott. “Did you see any big fish while I was attempting to drown myself?”

“Big…fish?” Scott’s back has gone a little stiff, and he looks down at Martyn with confusion.

“Yeah, kinda blue-y. Didn't see it for long, but.” He shrugs, which is actually a lot more difficult to do lying down than he thought it would be.

“No, I didn't see anything like that.”

“Hm.” Is all Martyn says in response. He doesn't buy it for one moment, but Scott’s stiffer than a stick of bamboo, and he knows when to leave well enough alone. “Alright then.”

=== === ===

V.

He wakes up to something that is very much so silence, but there was also definitely something that just woke him up- something that was not silence. But it’s dark, and the moon is just past a new moon, meaning he is blind and left scrambling around in the dark for a light source that might reveal what just made a noise and then abruptly stopped making noise.

He fumbles around for a few moments longer, attempting to find a light source- any kind will do, really, he just wants to be able to see rather than scramble around helplessly and hope that it’s not someone come to kill him. Oh god, he hopes it’s not someone come to kill him.

He manages to find a torch eventually, hands closing tightly around it, before he begins another search for something to light it with. It takes him several more long and painful moments to find something to light it with. Because it is dark, and he is blind.

When he does light it, he almost expects to find someone looming over him, before unseen in the darkness now brought into the light and silhouetted by the moon before they kill him where he sleeps. But the torch doesn't light up any ominous figure, and it doesn't reflect off of any weaponry either.

He relaxes a little, laughing to himself slightly as he slumps down into his bed. He’s careful to keep the torch away from his bedsheets, as he’d rather not accidentally set himself on fire. He’s had enough accidents in the past few days, and his hand is still sore and tender from his most recent stunt.

But he still hasn't found whatever it was that woke him up in the first place- and it wouldn't have been the bamboo or sugarcane shaking in the breeze either, because he’s gotten used to the quiet sounds they make when the breeze leaps over the water and towards them- hard not to get used to them when he’s constantly surrounded by the sound.

The sound of the waves against the edges of the island also hadn't bothered him beyond the first night, where he’d had to cover his ears with his pillow because he just couldn't sleep and the waves didn't stop. But he can tune them out easily now, and it becomes just another part of the background noise of their island.

He laughs a little to himself as he continues to look around, because he is being far, far, too paranoid for his own good, really. No one has even gone red yet! It’s way too early for someone to be red, and the next boogeyman hasn't even been picked yet. So, really, the only thing he’s got to worry about is Skizz. And he highly doubts Skizz is going to make a trip over to their base in the middle of the night to murder him in his sleep. Especially when Scott is right next to him and it would be two-versus-one-

Or, it would be, if Scott was currently in his bed. Which he’s not. The bedsheets are pushed down to the bottom of the bed, lying in a crumpled heap that is a far cry from the way Scott normally makes his bed (Martyn’s convinced Scott does it just to shame him into making his bed as well. Which won't work! It’s been tried before, and it’s not going to start working now, of all times).

But the bed has obviously been slept in, which Martyn also knows because they’d gone to bed at the same time after putting the campfire out. Martyn had chucked a bucket of water over it for good measure, aware of how easily the fire could spread to the grass and then they’d be toast - literally.

He does a cursory glance around the island, holding the torch up a little higher as he peers around. But it’s not a very big island, and the only potential hiding spots are behind his hourglass (which is see-through) and behind the chests (which is just dumb). And Scott is nowhere to be seen, even as Martyn looks around again, in case he missed something on his first sweep.

But the results remain the same, and Scott is nowhere to be seen. But, when he presses a hand to Scott’s bed, it’s still warm, meaning he can't have been gone for very long. Which also means that Scott moving about was probably what woke him up in the first place.

The circumstances are still odd, but Scott has had multiple chances to let him die over the past few days, so he’s feeling rather secure in their alliance right now.

Scott’s mysterious disappearance aside, he’s awake now, and rather unlikely to go back to sleep anytime soon. Especially as Scott is still gone, and he probably won't be able to relax until the other returns. Safety in numbers, and all that. If it’s just him on his own, he’s much more vulnerable to an attack, but if Scott’s here, then there’s two of them, and they can both make sure the other doesn't die in a stupid way.

And he might also be a little worried.

Sue him! His teammate disappears in the middle of the night without so much as a word, a note, or even a private message to let him know where he’s gone. Instead, he’s left on an island in the pitch dark with no knowledge about his teammate’s whereabouts.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed, shuffling towards where he’d kicked his sandals off earlier. The sound of his feet against the wooden boards is barely audible. He slips the sandals on easily, stepping down onto the grass a moment later, beginning to putter around their area.

Some of the sugar cane has grown tall enough to be harvested, and so he chops a few of the stems, bundling them together in one hand as he moves onto the next plant, repeating the process. Once he has enough sugarcane that he can't carry any more, he meanders over to their chests, dumping the sugarcane inside, organising it slightly so Scott doesn't complain about it in the morning.

He goes back over to the next section of sugarcane that has grown enough, cutting the stems again, repeating until he can't carry anymore. He returns to the chest with his second load. He doesn't return to cutting the sugarcane after that, mainly because there isn't any more sugarcane to cut, but also because Scott isn't back yet, and he’s beginning to get more than a little worried about his wellbeing.

He sits at the edge of their island, in a small gap he’s created in the bamboo and sugarcane, for easy access for boats from the rear of the island- perfect for a quick escape if they ever needed to make one.

He allows his legs to trail through the water, kicking them back and forth, watching as it laps at his knees, the waves breaking before they reach the very edge of the island. The water is as warm as it always is, just a little bit cooler than a hot bath, but it’s darker than it usually is as well.

During the day, the waters are a crystalline blue, allowing them to see to the very bottom. He’s spent more than a few hours sat watching the wildlife dart in and out of the coral, tracking the shimmering shoals of fish that make their slow way through the coral reef.

He can hardly see the coral now, only vague shapes clustered together, some of them stretching up higher than the others. He can't see anything swimming between the bits of coral, but that doesn't mean that there’s nothing down there- there is almost certainly something that he can't see.

Even the faint glow of the sea pickles is hardly enough to light up the seabed, only a small pool of light around each one that’s so dim he can hardly see it.

He continues to sit there, ignoring thoughts of something swimming up and grabbing his ankle to pull him into the depths- there’s not going to be anything large enough to do that to him, and a small clownfish isn't going to be big enough to eat him, even if it tries its very best.

The water is soothing, at least, and he allows himself to stare at the small ripples, forgetting about his worry for a brief moment.

At least, he manages to forget about it until he sees something move out of the corner of his eye. He freezes, hands twisting into the grass at his side, threatening to uproot it. He watches as the shape moves, glittering scales outlining the apparent size of the thing.

It’s…large. Very big. Easily half the length of their entire island, if not a bit over. And things that big are hardly ever herbivores. And it is with that thought that he rather hurriedly pulls his legs out of the water, standing up. He doesn't move away from the edge, though, watching as the shimmering scales- bioluminescent, his brain reminds him, continue to circle around the island, almost lazily, before disappearing from sight.

He swallows, brain flashing to all worst-case scenarios. All of which involve him still being stood at the edge of the island when that…whatever it was reappears.

He backpedals, maybe a little hastily, and it might be stupid to feel a little safer when he’s back in his bed, sandals kicked off at the bottom of it. But Martyn has long since accepted that he might be a little stupid.

That feeling of safety doesn't help him get much sleep, though. But he must have fallen asleep at some point, because when he wakes up Scott is back, and he’s handing him a mug of coffee almost immediately- and Scott is definitely a godsend at times like this, he can't even deny it.

He doesn't ask where Scott went the previous night, and Scott doesn't offer any explanations. He also puts the sea monster (he is perfectly justified in calling it that! He doesn't know what it is!) out of his mind as best as he can.

And his best is almost good enough for him to completely forget about it

=== === ===

VI.

In all honesty, he had expected Scott’s suspicious behaviour to have more of a dramatic conclusion to it- something that would be shocking and just! Something different from what actually happened, at least. Because the way it happened is possibly the most stupid way Martyn has found out someone’s big and terrible secret (and he’s discovered several big secrets, each of which had far more explosive endings than this one did).

He pushes the door open with his shoulder, both of his arms full of the logs Martyn had left to collect because they were running low, and he rather enjoys their evenings around the fire with nothing but the crackling flames between them, which cast a rather complimentary light onto Scott’s face and makes the eyeshadow he wears glow even brighter than normal.

He makes direct eye contact with Scott, and Scott stares back at him. Scott is dripping wet, arms braced on the edge of their grassy island and in the process of hauling himself up. Scott is staring at him, and Martyn continues to stare back at him. Scott is covered in scales, deep blue scales that are really quite familiar-

Scott disappears with a small splash. Martyn drops the logs, not really caring if they land on the island or roll merrily into the water, instead sprinting over to the other side of the island and dropping to the ground, peering down into the water, hoping to catch any glimpse of Scott.

There’s a flash of blue scales between two things of coral, and he spares about a second to think through his idea before he’s kicking his sandals in and dropping his jacket off. He hesitates for a millisecond after that, and then simply dives in, plunging beneath the surface.

The one thing he appreciates about this biome is that the water is never a cold shock. The worst part about diving into water is always the cold shock, but the water here is warm, meaning he doesn't have to regather his bearings before he starts swimming after Scott.

It takes him a few seconds to realise that there is absolutely no way he’s going to catch up with Scott when the man is some kind of aquatic hybrid adapted for swimming. And he’s struggling to catch up with the other man for god’s sake.

He swims between the pieces of coral he had seen Scott swim between, ignoring the burn that’s beginning in his lungs, glancing around and squinting for any flicker of scales that would betray Scott’s whereabouts.

Something grabs him from behind, and he thrashes around for a moment, bubbles spilling from his mouth, and he almost inhales again on instinct before realising that he’s underwater, and that he definitely can't breathe underwater.

He breaks the surface, gasping for air as the grip on his arm remains iron, keeping him afloat as he regains his breath. He hadn't even realised his vision had started greying out a little until it began to clear up.

“Man,” he laughs. “I have gotta stop drowning myself, huh?”

“You are so incredibly stupid!” Scott responds, voice growling as he yells at him. “What the hell were you even thinking?”

“Wasn't, really.” He would shrug, but he’d also rather not accidentally submerge himself again, so he settles for a grin.

“I just-” Scott cuts himself off, shaking his head. It’s then that Martyn really gets an opportunity to take Scott in, eyes drifting over his face, taking in every small detail. He can see now, closer, that the eyeshadow that decorates the edges of Scott’s eyes isn't actually eyeshadow and is instead small scales. Scales which now spread to cover his cheeks and nose like some kind of freckle. Like, deep blue freckles.

In contrast, the fins at the side of his head are an orange-pink, fluttering slightly in agitation as they fan open before snapping shut again. The membrane of them is thin enough that he can see the sunlight filtering through them, making them almost glow.

“Huh.” He says, which is apparently enough to get Scott’s attention.

“Are you even listening to me?” Scott asks, and, huh, he didn't know Scott could growl like that.

“Not really,” he says. “I'm more caught up in your whole.” He gestures, because he doesn't really have words for what he’s thinking or feeling right now.

Scott’s eyes narrow and he pulls the arm supporting Martyn back, meaning he has to work to keep his head afloat. He reaches out for Scott again, grabbing onto his shoulders- and, oh wow, he’s not wearing a shirt. Like, at all. Huh.

He stares at Scott’s chest, and the scales covering large parts of it. They glint in the sunlight, wet from the water, which only makes them shine even more. They're smooth beneath his hand, and he finds himself rubbing a thumb back and forth over Scott’s shoulder without even thinking about it.

“Martyn,” Scott’s voice is half-strangled as he speaks, and when Martyn looks back at his face, away from the tail he had just noticed, he finds that Scott’s fins are pressed flat against his head, face faintly pink.

“Ah, sorry.” He stops rubbing his thumb over the scales on Scott’s shoulder, even though the pink flush of his face is really quite pretty- and. He’s not going to think about that one too hard, actually.

“It’s fine they're just,” Scott clears his throat, “sensitive.” One of Scott’s hands comes to rest beneath his elbow, supporting him a little more. “Aren't you a little- y’know, unnerved?”

“By what?”

“The whole scales and fishtail thing?” Scott quirks an eyebrow. “Normally people run screaming the other way.”

“I was more worried you were gonna freak out, honestly.” Martyn confesses. You looked a bit stressed before you just ducked back under.”

“Well, I am fine.” Scott clears his throat again, glancing away. “As lovely as this conversation is, I’d rather not be caught looking like this.”

“Why not? You look quite nice, honestly.”

“I- what?” The pink flush staining Scott’s cheeks is only barely visible beneath the scales covering most of them, but the scale-less parts of his neck and shoulders have turned pink as well.

“Aw, c’mon, Scott,” he leans a little closer, which isn't actually all that hard with their current positions. “You've been flirting with me for several days now, don't think I didn't notice.”

“I am a fish, Martyn.” Scott deadpans. “I am a literal fish and you're still absolutely onboard with this.”

“Absolutely still onboard with this, besides.” He rubs his thumb over Scott’s shoulder again, summoning his confidence with the action as he leans a little closer, close enough for their noses to brush. “You look really quite lovely right now- I thought you were wearing some really nice eyeshadow this whole time, and instead it’s these wonderful scales.”

“Martyn, stop, you're being ridiculous.”

“Aw, Scott.” He frowns as Scott pushes him away.

“I am not kissing you while we’re both in the middle of the ocean.” Scott says. “Also you stink of sweat.”

“I do not!”

“Yes, you do.” Scott pats him on the cheek. “You've been chopping trees all morning, and you're definitely flattering me right now; but I also have standards, and those standards include not kissing people that smell of sweat.”

“You're so rude to me, and after I was so nice to you.”

“I’ll be nice to you once you don't smell of sweat, dear.”

#juno.writes #limited life smp #limited life #martyn inthelittlewood #inthelittlewood #scott smajor #limited life spoilers #limited life fic #trafficshipping #trafficblr #traffic smp #traffic series #trafficverse #majorwood #god thats such a dumb name. i love it sm #coral kids #mean gills #ls4 #ls4 spoilers #mer scott (+ fishfucker martyn)

[scribbling-dragon]

you've got two lives down and one life left

summary:

“They're also headed over here,” Cleo says. He can hear the frown in her voice. “You're still yellow, meaning you're still target number one. They're all going to be vying for your time.” “Yeah, yeah,” he waves her concern off. “I know.” He pulls himself off the bed, trying not to wince too much at the aching in his chest. “Are they on their way yet?” “Joel’s just pulled himself out the water,” Martyn tells him.

(ao3 link)

(6,604 words)

[hey hey hey! the fishfucker series makes a grand return! this is the first of two final installments in this series,, there are some references to earlier fics in the series, so if you haven't read those there may be a little confusion, but other than that, just think: scott is a mer than works on (slightly modified) h2o: just add water mechanics. hope you enjoy! and remember- reblogs are ALWAYS super appreciated &lt;;33]

He shakes his head in an attempt to rid himself of the disorientation that comes with a sudden death. Several faces peer at him from above, all of which shift backwards when he starts to sit up. Scar looks a little guilty, but overall pleased with himself. Scott would, personally, be a little annoyed if he didn’t look pleased with himself after gaining another thirty minutes to his timer.

“Was I right?” He asks, more occupied with finding out whether his hunch was correct or not. He can continue to regain his bearings over the next few moments.

“Yeah,” Martyn’s stood towards the edge of the hill, peering out towards their island with a spyglass. He lowers it from his eye and glances back. “They're looking around right now, all confused.”

“What did I tell you,” he grins. So sue him, he’s pleased with himself for reading the bad boys like a book; not that it’s a hard thing to do in general, they're each an open book with their motivations easy to pick apart and determine, with enough time and effort.

“They're also headed over here,” Cleo says. He can hear the frown in her voice. “You're still yellow, meaning you're still target number one. They're all going to be vying for your time.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he waves her concern off. “I know.” He pulls himself off the bed, trying not to wince too much at the aching in his chest. Scar certainly doesn’t pull his punches, but the slight desperation in gaining time only put more force behind his blows. His chest feels as though it might cave in with too hurried a movement. “Are they on their way yet?”

“Joel’s just pulled himself out the water,” Martyn tells him, “looking rather like a disgruntled dog- oh, yeah, look. He’s shaking himself off like one, too. Grian just hit him for that. I think. Oh man!” Martyn breaks off into a laugh, “Timmy looks even worse- look, Cleo, he’s like a drowned bird.”

Cleo hums. “It reduces the intimidation factor quite significantly.”

“From what?” Scott manages to get himself completely upright, joining Cleo and Martyn in their watching of the bad boys (still a stupid nickname). “Zero into the negatives?”

“Aw, c’mon,” Martyn bumps his hip against Scott’s. “You don't need to be so mean to them, they're trying their best, you know. Look at them.”

“Joel just tripped over nothing,” Cleo announces. “And the other two are laughing at him.”

Scott looks back to the trio in time to watch Joel throw his hands up in frustration and walk away, forging a path ahead of the other two. Grian and Jimmy continue to laugh, though they're too far away for Scott to hear anything.

He’s smiling, amused at the small performance, when Joel glances up. He’s in a patch of the forest that has fewer trees, meaning they make eye contact near immediately. This is apparently enough to make him forgive his fellow teammates for their earlier transgressions, as he immediately turns back to yell at them.

“You know,” he takes a step back from the edge of the hill, “I do believe that’s my cue to do a disappearing act.”

“Have fun.” Cleo tells him, still watching the bad boys with something resembling amusement.

“Stay safe,” Martyn tells him, halfway turning away from the view. “And good luck.”

“Thank you, dear,” he blows a kiss towards Martyn, only beginning to back up more rapidly as he hears the sound of shouting approaching quicker and quicker. He scrambles around the side of the Clock Tower, a plan already quickly forming in his mind.

He digs his fingers into the cobble, lengthened nails aiding in his ascent. He makes it to the first of several ledges, pulling himself over the edge and tucking his legs a little closer. The sound of shouting has lessened, but people are still speaking below.

He inches around the edge, one hand pressed against the side of the tower for stability, ears pricked to listen to the conversation happening just below him.

“Oh, I think he went that way,” Cleo points over the hills, past where the bad boys’ base is. They're lying through their teeth right now, but the trio don't seem to pick up on those cues. As a group, they glance over at where they're pointing. Scott leans back against the wall behind him slightly, pressing a hand over his mouth to muffle a laugh. “He started running as soon as you guys did, so you're gonna have to be quick to catch up with him.”

“And how do we know you're not lying?” Joel crosses his arms, sunglasses slipping a little lower on his face with the sudden movement. He doesn’t push them back up, because that would mean uncrossing his arms and then crossing them again once he’s adjusted his sunglasses. “He’s your ally, you could be defending him. He could be here right now, and you might be lying.”

“And if you found that out, you’d kill us.” Martyn shrugs.

Scott slowly chips away at the block behind him, aware of how exposed his current position is but far too curious to hide himself somewhere safer.

“And he went that way?” Grian asks, tipping his head in the direction Cleo pointed in.

“Yes.” Cleo says. “He might have veered off elsewhere afterwards, but he headed that way.”

“He might’ve gone back to our island,” Martyn muses. “Regather supplies, y’know?”

“As if,” Joel scoffs, hefting his axe over one shoulder and begins walking away. Jimmy stays for a moment longer, eyes squinting at the small group of gathered people. His wings are puffed up behind him, making him look like an angry cat.

Jimmy follows after a moment too, and Scott watches, alongside his allies, as they descend the hill again, set on the path of a wild goose chase.

He slips down the tower after a few minutes of silence, bracing himself before dropping the last few feet. It sends a slight shock through his legs, jarring his ankles with a sharp sting.

“How would you feel about checking on our base? Joel seemed pretty confident that you I wasn’t going back there.”

“Probably because everything’s destroyed,” Martyn sighs. “We both saw him coming out of our little hidey-hole.”

Scott grimaces at the thought of what destruction Joel might have wrought on their base. Any number of traps could have been set up there in preparation for his own inevitable death. He’s only lucky that he decided to tether his spawn to the bed in the Clock Tower rather than gambling with his luck and losing a larger chunk of time.

“Well,” he starts, “I'm sure it’s nothing a little carpet won’t be able to cover up.”

=== === ===

“Woah!” He veers out the way, watching as the firework explodes into a shower of sparks and fire. The heat of it licks dangerously close to his skin, sending heat washing over him in waves. He stumbles to a stop, dirt crumbling beneath his feet as he halts.

The ground below looms, warning of the fate that awaits him if he overbalances.

Another firework shoots past his head, whistling as it misses.

“You missed!” He calls back, unable to refuse a taunt even if it’ll only anger his pursuers more. A wordless shout follows behind him, frustration bleeding into it. “You’ll have to do a little better than that to hit me!”

He glances up with a grin, only slightly out of breath. He’d barely reached the top platform after hauling himself up the ladder before they were on him, relentless in their pursuit, chasing him down like a pack of rabid animals.

Etho looks up from where he’s reloading his crossbow, face unreadable. “I'm sorry Scott, it’s gotta be you!”

“Why’s it gotta be me?” He calls back, backing up a few more steps. He hides a hand behind his back, summoning an ender pearl to hand. It settles comfortably in his palm, the cold weight of it familiar as he readies himself to fling it as far as possible.

“’Cause you’ve got the most!” Etho’s footsteps are heavy behind him, the sound of another firework exploding beside his ear deafening. He turns to glance over his shoulder, finding Etho far closer than he first thought.

He flings the ender pearl in a panic, watching as it hurtles out of sight.

Etho reaches out for him, going to grab onto him – any part of him – and teleport with him. Scott ducks out of the way, elbowing Etho in the gut as he drops himself off the side of the rickety bridge. Etho makes a punched-out noise as all the air is forced from his lungs, his hands loosening their already loose grip on him.

He plunges off the side easily after that, a fuzzy feeling already beginning to surround his limbs. Etho frowns down at him from above, lining up his crossbow for a final shot.

Said shot never hits, as the ground surges up around Scott, a purple tint overtaking his entire field of vision for a few moments. He stumbles, knees threatening to buckle from the impact. He continues running in spite of it.

His mind runs through several scenarios, each of them being discarded one after the other, as he scrambles for some kind of escape plan.

He could escape into the water, but that move is now a predictable one, and there are very few rivers deep enough that he could leave the ocean if necessary. And the ocean itself may be deep, but it’s a small area that he can do little with if he’s pursued there.

To retreat deeper into the forest would only place him closer to the bad boys and their bases, placing him directly in the line of sight of another group that wants him dead.

There’s potential in escaping to the Clockers. But their base is close to TIES’, and he’d feel endlessly guilty if he brought conflict to Cleo’s doorstep in an effort to escape the inevitable.

As he’s grasping for another idea, he almost runs directly into a low-hanging tree branch. He skids to a stop before he can collide with it, chest heaving with exertion as he glances around. Then back at the tree and its low-hanging branch. He could…

Decision made, he hauls himself up. The bark scrapes against his hands as he clambers up the tree, but he climbs it as quickly as possible while also doing his best to not shake the entire tree and give his position away.

It’s during moments like this that he almost wishes Martyn had come with him rather than scurrying off to wherever it is that he’s gone. He’d much rather have an ally beside him, one that can protect him and, in the truly dire moments, take the time rather than have an enemy gain the upper hand.

Scott whips his head around when he sees something glinting in a nearby tree, shoving his shield up just quickly enough to hear the thunk of an arrow embedding itself into it.

“Goddamnit,” is the whispered curse he hears, before Impulse is poking his head out. “How’d you see me?”

He swallows back the anxiety before he even dares speaking, only lowering his shield enough that he can peek over the edge of it. Impulse is still holding his bow, an arrow loosely notched. Scott knows full well how quickly that arrow could go from being loosely notched to embedded in his shoulder, and so he keeps the shield up.

“The sun reflected off your arrow,” he tells Impulse.

“Damn,” Impulse frowns. “I don't think there’s a way I can fix that.”

“You could just walk away?” Scott offers, “You're pretty close to eight hours, aren’t you? We’re at a similar time here Impulse. You kill me, you’ll just be switching our places – you’ll become the one with a target painted on your back.” A branch snaps on the forest floor below, quiet enough that it could easily be a curious animal poking around in the shrubbery below. “Or, I guess you could just let Etho carry out his sneak attack.”

He knows he’s hit gold the moment Impulse’s eyes widen, and the rustling of undergrowth turns into the snapping of twigs and small branches as Etho forces his way through the dense bushes to stand below the tree Scott perched himself in.

He…didn’t really think this through, actually. He’s cornered himself in this tree he sought as his sanctuary, leaving him trapped in a cage of his own making.

“Good afternoon,” he greets, nodding down at Etho. He doesn’t know what time it actually is. It could easily be early morning or late afternoon, and he wouldn’t have a single clue. “Funny seeing you here.”

“Uh-huh,” Etho ignores him, slotting a firework neatly into his crossbow and lighting the fuse. “Funny seeing you here, too, Scott.”

Scott shuffles back a little further on his branch, glancing down at the drop to the floor. Not terrible, but also not ideal. His shield catches against the fork of the tree branches that he wedged himself into. He sighs and yanks it back further, firmly wedging it into the wood before he drops.

The explosion of a firework rings in his ears, his ankles protesting the repeated abuse they’ve undergone today, sending small flares of pain up his legs with every step he takes.

Colourful sparks settle on the ground around him, residue from the previous shot.

Etho steps around the tree trunk, unperturbed, simply loading another firework into the crossbow. He hopes Etho runs out soon. He really hopes Etho runs out soon, actually.

“Nowhere to run now, Scott,” Etho says, eyes crinkling at the corners with his smile when he looks back up. He squints when he lines the crossbow up, following Scott easily, even as he takes staggering steps, trying to get Etho to shoot it early and give him enough time to duck out the way. “You’ve abandoned your shield, too. You're gonna be wishing for it back in a minute.”

“Yeah,” he laughs nervously, already wishing for his shield back. He started wishing for his shield back the moment he abandoned it in that tree.

He ducks as Etho releases the firework, rolling and hoping that it misses him. Even if it singes half his scales off, he doesn’t care anymore.

Somehow, perhaps with some divine intervention from above, the firework only catches the edge of his already torn jacket, setting a small fire that he puts out when rolling amongst the leaves.

He hops back to his feet, turning on his heel to continue run. The exhaustion dragging at his bones makes him a little slower than usual, a little more clumsy on his feet from the stress of constantly escaping and running and fleeing whoever’s decided that he’s easy pickings.

He chokes.

The feeling of something lodged in his throat brings him to a halt. A halt which almost ends with him keeled over on the forest floor as his legs abruptly weaken beneath him. he manages to avoid falling flat on his face by throwing a hand out to catch himself, the other flying to his neck.

The metal bolt from a crossbow is what greets him, when he ghosts his fingers over the skin of his neck. He can feel his gills fluttering, attempting to make up for the sudden lack of oxygen. But they're not designed for extracting oxygen from the air, not designed with that in mind at all.

His fingers come away wet with his own blood, glistening in the sparse few rays of sunlight that slice through the thick canopy of leaves above him.

A few beads of blood drop to the leaves below him, a slow pitter-patter, almost like rain, filling his ears.

“Aw, man,” he hears, despite his rapidly fading vision and hearing. “I wanted to get him. Now you're gonna be back to yellow.”

“I didn’t think it’d actually hit him! It was just meant to soften him up for you, make him a little easier to hit.”

“And what were you aiming for? His head?”

“I was aiming for his leg,” Impulse hisses. Leaves crackle underfoot nearby, but Scott doesn’t find it in himself to care. He’s already on his way out, there’s nothing more they can do to him.

“Wow,” Etho whistles. Blurry outlines appear in his peripheral vision, fading more by the second. “Your aim is terrible.”

=== === ===

Scott sighs. Again. For what feels like the fifth time in the last ten minutes.

His throat still feels weird, the new scar tissue raised and irritated. It’s only barely healed, just enough to make sure that he doesn’t start bleeding immediately upon re-entering the land of the living. Cleo grimaces at him from her seat as he runs his fingers carefully over his throat again.

“You better stop prodding at that,” she tells him. “You're going to give yourself an infection.”

“I'm not going to be sticking around long enough for an infection,” he tells her. “None of us are.”

Cleo snorts. “Might be true, but you don't need to say it.”

“Someone needs to.” He heaves himself out of his chair with a sigh. “Anyways, I'm off. Got some business to attend to.”

Cleo watches him go, one eyebrow raised. “You might not be everyone’s favourite punching bag anymore, but you're still one of the people with the highest time. You sure you wanna go alone?”

“I'm off to my death anyway,” he shrugs. An agreement is an agreement, and just because he’s died before he intended doesn’t mean he’s going to break his word. “No point in prolonging the inevitable. And they might think I'm attacking them if you come with me.”

Cleo makes a sound in the back of her throat. “Just remember that Martyn won’t be pleased if you're back in less than one piece.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he pushes the door open with his foot, waving her off. “I’ll be back in a minute, just you wait.”

He doesn’t intend for this to take long, anyway. He’s got an agreement, and he’ll stick around long enough to uphold his end of the deal. Jimmy should be waiting for him in the agreed upon spot, and then he can decide how he wants to kill Scott. It’s out of his hands at that point.

The climb up the ladder is long and boring, the waterlogged mansion looming below, a dark splotch amongst the otherwise green forest. He pokes his head out into the main house, glancing around. He’s wary of Joel and Grian being the first to see him, and only emerges once he’s certain neither of them are waiting to pounce on him.

Unfortunately, he can’t see Jimmy either, poking around in all three of the little houses and just about ready to give up on this whole thing. He might dislike breaking his word, but there’s nothing he can do if the other person isn’t here either.

“Scott!” He jumps at the sound of his name, spinning around. Jimmy grins back at him from the top of the bread loaf house. His wings flutter behind him. Once upon a time, Scott might have been able to read the exact mood Jimmy is in from the fluttering of his wings, but now he can only guess that it’s something like excitement or anticipation.

“Jimmy,” he returns the greeting. “I almost thought you weren’t here.”

“Course I'm here,” Jimmy scoffs, crossing his arms. Scott can’t see his eyes for the dark sunglasses covering them, but Jimmy is still smiling down at him. He’s managed to crack his sunglasses since Scott last saw him, running through an entire lens. “We’ve got a deal to complete.”

“That we have,” he spreads his arms out wide. “How is it you're choosing to kill me?”

Jimmy pauses. “You're gonna let me choose?”

“Makes it more fun for you that way, doesn’t it?” He cocks his head to the side, watching as Jimmy considers his options. “A little fun never hurt anyone.”

“Alright,” Jimmy shoots him a look he can’t read. Wearing sunglasses makes it infinitely harder to determine what it is that Jimmy’s thinking. He might have been grateful that Jimmy is the only one amongst his trio that knows how to wear sunglasses properly, but at least he can get a good read on Joel and Grian still. “Let’s head up, then.”

Scott glances upwards, towards the ladder leading onwards and upwards. The same ladder that has claimed several lives in recent days…hours? He’s still not sure how time passes here, several days disappearing in front of them, yet only a few hours ticking down on their timers.

“More ladders?” is what he settles on instead, “Really?”

“Good for building upper body strength,” Jimmy claims. “C’mon, you said I could choose. Up we go.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he sighs, for the umpteenth time, and begins climbing the ladder. “You could just shove me off here and have it done with. Doesn’t seem like there’s much point in climbing only to drop back down.”

“You're sure doing a lot of complaining for someone that told me to pick how I get to kill you.”

“I'm a complainer,” he glances down at Jimmy. “You know this. I do things, I complain, and that’s how all of this works.”

“I’d like it if you complained less,” Jimmy tells him. “As the person deciding your death.”

“Uh-huh,” he turns to continue climbing, only to balk at the arrow that goes flying past his nose. He looks up further, finding Joel and Grian, each holding a crossbow and peering down the small gap at him. Joel looks as though his birthday has come early, positively giddy at the thought that he might be able to kill Scott. Grian just looks annoyed.

“Excuse me,” he frowns. “This is Jimmy’s kill.” Something else falls past him as he speaks, and he presses himself closer to the ladder, before turning to glare back up at Joel. His fins, a new addition since his most recent death, press flat against the side of his head in annoyance.

“They just tried to dri- drop dripstone on you,” Jimmy tells him.

“Did you just try and steal Jimmy’s kill?” He pauses in his ascent again, looking up at Joel properly. The man is giggling, far too excited at the prospect as he stares down at Scott.

“Yeah.”

“Joel,” he frowns, continuing to climb and pulling himself out at the top. He pokes Joel in the chest, right in the middle of his chestplate. “You're gonna steal time from someone on thirty minutes?”

“Thirty-five,” Jimmy corrects.

“You're gonna steal time from someone on thirty-five minutes?” he repeats.

“He was on seven minutes earlier,” Joel tells him. He’s still grinning, but it doesn’t seem to reach his eyes in the same way it had just a few seconds ago, when the idea of killing him had still been on the table. Joel pushes his sunglasses up a little higher when he sees Scott watching him.

“That’s why I'm here,” he plants his hands on his hips. “I told Jimmy he could kill me however he wanted, and he wants to shove me off of here.”

“Oh, really?” Joel’s eyebrows rise over the edge of his sunglasses, and he looks between Jimmy and Scott. “Please, do continue. Can I watch?”

Scott sighs. “Sure, yeah. Let’s make it a public spectacle, shall we?”

“Nah,” Joel pushes him between the shoulder blades, urging him onwards and into the wheat fields they’ve got growing up here. “Let’s get going, I wanna see this now.”

The wheat brushes around his ankles and up his legs, tickling the exposed skin as they make the trek across the wheat fields. Scott does his best not to trample the crops, even with the heavy press of a crossbow against his spine and his impending death looming ever closer.

Grian mutters something to Joel that makes both of them laugh.

He doesn’t blame them for getting giddy over the idea of someone offering themselves up for death – to reach this point in the game and not begin to become excited at the idea of spilling blood is more unusual – but he’d much prefer it if they giggled about it somewhere he can’t hear them.

The fields of wheat slowly turn to churned-up dirt underfoot as they approach the far edges of the platform. He can feel the give of the dirt beneath his feet, worrying for a moment that it might give out beneath him before Jimmy can shove him off the end.

Smaller branches spiral off of the end, spiderwebbing across the entire server, overlaying Skynet. He winces at the memory of how much destruction these pathways have wrought, still feeling a flicker of fire under his skin at the memory of explosions too close and sudden to survive.

Jimmy leads him out onto one of these branches, Joel and Grian hanging back.

The dirt sinks beneath his feet now, truly unstable and threatening to leave them to plummet at any second. Jimmy sticks closer to the main chunk, readying his crossbow with twitching hands. Scott would almost say he looks guilty, fussing over a crossbow that has been loaded and ready to shoot for the past few minutes.

He feels his heel dip into open air as he backs himself up to the very edge of the platform, resisting the natural urge to glance backwards and see how far away the ground is. Doing so will only cause the dread to build further, and he’s not sure he can withstand that right now, with Jimmy continuing to fuss over the most minute of details.

Scott watches as Jimmy nudges his sunglasses further up the bridge of his nose with his elbow, lining the crossbow up a moment later.

“Appreciate this,” he says, and shoots.

The impact of the hit is enough to send Scott tipping over the edge, shoulder smarting from the impact, fingers twitching. The other bad boys give a whooping cry, probably congratulating Jimmy on gaining himself a little more time.

He twists himself around midair, only to regret it a moment later as the ground surges up to greet him.

He doesn’t feel the impact, thankfully, nerves numbing and senses dulling as he shoots back up. He presses a hand to his chest, attempting to get his ragged breath under control. The feeling of air in his lungs, even after only a few moments of breathlessness, is uncomfortable.

The void stretches wide around him, water lapping at his ankles and yet refusing to reclaim him. It does not return him to the land of the living yet, seemingly content to allow him to stew in the silence for longer.

First to fall.

He jerks at the sudden voice, lurching to his feet. The water laps at his ankles, the splashing loud in the silence left in wake of the echoing words. He has heard of Them speaking to others before, choosing to bestow warnings or wisdom upon those They deem as worthy.

He has never been greeted with anything but disapproving silence on the few occasions where he has been permitted entry to this void.

You believe your sacrifice can reverse the Curse?

He stiffens, turning to try and find the source of this voice. To find a source of the gaze weighing heavily upon his back. And yet his watchers remain unseen, cloaked in the darkness that surrounds him.

He is trapped. You cannot prevent the inevitable.

“There’s no harm in trying,” he tells the open air. The empty space around him. He flexes his hands at his sides, wishing for some kind of weapon to fill the empty space there. “Every curse has a cure. That’s how things work.”

Not this one. Your efforts are foolish and misguided, your sacrifice will be in vain.

“Maybe I don't care, then.” He crosses his arms, “Have you ever considered that your shitty games are pointless? That they don't mean anything in the grand scheme of things. We’re gone for a day, maybe two. No-one misses us; we slot back in as easily as if we’d never been here at all. What’s the point when you can’t even make a lasting impression?”

That is what you think, the voices almost sound offended. A mere insect believes that when a tree shakes, it is the one causing it to do so, rather than the wind or a larger creature of greater importance.

“And I'm the bug in that analogy?” He cocks an eyebrow. “How creative of you.”

You overestimate your importance. You think you have more of an impact than you truly do. In reality…you are nothing more than an after-thought.

“Then why include me at all?” He laughs, “I fuck up your plans every time. Tell me, did you decide on me being the first Boogeyman as a joke? Or were you just so upset over last time that you couldn’t resist.”

Their silence permeates the air.

“Or, tell me this, actually: did it frustrate you that it was done so easily? That the usual build-up and betrayal was missing from the equation – is that why you were so desperate to create another? To make up for the way I've been ruining your games?”

You know not of what you speak. The voices are definitely offended this time. The tiny pest continues to believe itself more important than it is. Fine, a huff reverberates around him, return to your life. See how far your sacrifice carries the Canary.

He opens his mouth to respond, but the water surges up around him before he can say anything, muffling any words he tries to yell at these divine beings with Their overinflated egos.

He huffs out a breath as he resurfaces, pressing a hand to his chest again. This is beginning to become uncomfortably familiar. Feeling the way his heart gradually slows beneath his palm. The way his chest slowly stops rising and falling so quickly, breaths evening out into something less dizzying.

“Scott!”

He looks up at the familiar voice, smiling at the rapidly approaching Martyn.

“I'm back,” he pats the bed below him a little, swinging his legs over the side. “Hi.”

“Yeah, hi.” Martyn reaches him, trousers soaked below the knee and looking more than a little worried. “What happened?”

“I had a deal with Jimmy, remember?” He tilts his head to the side, watching how Martyn follows his every movement. His hands flutter anxiously around Scott, as though wanting to touch him but unsure whether he can.

Scott grasps his wrist gently, pulling it forward until it rests on his shoulder.

“Yeah, I remember now.” Martyn frowns. “How much longer have you got left now, then?” Martyn could easily glance down at his wrist, see the timer ticking merrily down himself, but he chooses not to, for some reason.

“Long enough,” Scott tells him. He’s still easily got the highest timers out of most of their allies and enemies, but there’s no reason to reveal such a thing to the pair loitering just behind Martyn.

He raises his eyebrows at Pearl and BigB, looking back at Martyn for a response. Martyn gives a small shrug, squeezing his shoulder once before releasing him completely. Scott stands, peering around at the almost invisible shards of glass scattered amongst the water.

He grimaces at the thought of jumping down and impaling himself on those by accident, sympathetic aches flaring up along his legs.

“Didn’t think you’d be appearing around here anytime soon, Scott,” Pearl greets. “Nice of you to drop in.”

“Ha-ha, aren’t you funny,” so maybe he’s still a little sore over Pearl attempting to attack them in the middle of the night. She seems to have moved past it rather easily seeing as she’s been setting up a trap alongside Martyn for however long – presumably for as long as Martyn disappeared for.

“C’mon,” Martyn grabs him by the elbow, surprisingly gentle over the new scales and fins. He feels the way Martyn swipes a thumb over the patchy scales, a question written into the furrow of his brow. “There’s a few of us gathered down here, and they’ll only get more and more suspicious the longer we hang around for.”

“We’ve got something else to be doing, anyway,” Pearl says. She hops out of the water easily, walking along the cobblestone path cutting through the water and leading towards the Clock Tower. “Just gonna have to wait and see with this one.”

“I'm sure someone’ll jump down sooner or later,” he replies. Martyn doesn’t release his grip on Scott’s arm, continuing to hold onto him even as it makes walking down the narrow path a little more awkward.

“We’ll just have to wait and see who falls for it first.”

He groans. “Martyn, dear, that might be one of your worst ones yet.”

“Really? I actually thought that was quite good- hey! Pearl! What did you think of that one? Pearl? Why aren’t you responding?”

=== === ===

Scott jumps at the flurry of motion beside him, leaping back and away from the bed. He watches as Martyn flails out of it in a tangle of sheets and limbs, landing with a dull thump on the floor.

Scott watches, amused, as Martyn rests his head on the floor and lets out a groan.

“Having fun?” He asks.

“Scott!” Martyn jerks his head upwards, “Uh, hello. Didn’t realise you were there.”

“I gathered,” he crouches down in front of Martyn. “Need a hand up?”

“No, I’m…I'm fine, actually.” Martyn sighs. He then begins to untangle himself from the bedsheets, wriggling around awkwardly on the floor. Scott watches, still crouched in front of Martyn as he seems to only get himself even more tangled. “I- ugh.”

“Do you need a hand?” He asks again, watching as Martyn continues to struggle for a moment before going entirely limb.

“Yes, please.”

“See,” he unwinds a tangled bit of the bedding, releasing one of Martyn’s arms. “No harm in asking for help, hm?”

“I'm perfectly capable of asking for help.” Martyn sits up as Scott untangles his other arm, leaving him able to untangle himself easily. “It’s you that seems incapable of such a thing.”

“I ask for help when I need it.”

“Uh-huh, then what’s all this?” Martyn gestures at him, the vague way he spreads his hands out not at all helping with Scott’s confusion.

“What’s all what?”

“You, right now.” Martyn catches one of his hands. “I haven’t seen you since you turned red, and then you turn up out of nowhere, freshly dead, and you look sick.”

“It’s just a few aesthetic changes,” he scoffs. Martyn ignores him in favour of studying his hands, scales now covering most of them and webbing stretching between his fingers. “Don't poke at that, it’s sensitive.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Martyn stops prodding and stretching the webbing on his hands, looking up at him guiltily. “You're not bothered by this? Everyone might have seen your other form, but that’s very different to being unable to choose what you look like.”

“I expected it,” he lies. “Red lives always look a little…different. I mean, the first time around everyone went grey. Jimmy looked like he was a strong breeze away from collapsing at all times. I think I've gotten a slightly better end of the stick, here.”

“Hm, well I certainly won’t disagree with you there,” Martyn brings his hand up to his lips and presses a kiss to it. The sudden warmth on his cold, and rather sensitive, scales sends a tingle up his arm and down his spine. “It’s much easier to admire you like this when I'm not a few moments away from drowning.”

He laughs, even as he feels his face growing a little warmer. “Always a flatterer.”

“Is it flattery if it’s true?” Martyn leans back from where Scott has moved forward to continue talking. “Flattery implies that I'm trying to get something out of you, and simply trying to get on your good side in order-”

Scott quiets him with a chaste kiss, grinning with some satisfaction when Martyn shuts up immediately, even going so far as to lean after him when he pulls back.

“You talk too much, sometimes.”

“Good thing I have you here to shut me up,” Martyn’s fingers curl into his hair, pulling slightly but not enough to be painful. “Though, I do often find myself without words around you. You really steal my breath away.”

He sighs, pulling back. “Are you ever going to let that go?”

“You didn’t even know it would work,” Martyn pokes him in the chest. “How long did you think regular people could breathe underwater for? Ten minutes? You were a regular person up until this round of the games, and you forget it so easily?”

“I was certainly not a regular person.”

“Alright, Mr. Pedantic, you weren’t capable of breathing underwater before this, and yet you still managed to forget the need for air?”

“I had it all sorted. You’d have died otherwise; alternatively, I could have just left you to Pearl and BigB.” He narrows his eyes. “See if I’ll save you next time.”

“Aw, no,” Martyn reaches after him, grabbing his face between his hands. “That evening was a great experience. I’d never known such things could be done-”

“Do you have no sense of decency,” he interrupts, pressing a hand firmly over Martyn’s mouth.

“No kiss to shut me up this time?”

Scott frowns at him, opening his mouth to respond. He closes it a moment later, tilting his head to the side. His fins quiver slightly, perking upwards as he listens. Martyn’s gone stiff as well, head tilted in the same way as Scott in order to listen.

“Can you hear…”

“The Canary Call,” Martyn finishes. “Damn. I almost thought Joel might go out first this time.”

Scott doesn’t respond to that, and Martyn doesn’t continue talking. They both want to see how long it’s going to take before the song cuts out, before that lilting melody fades and leaves nothing but silence in its wake.

He winces at the final drawn out note, the pitch rising to something painful.

In the silence afterwards, Scott finds that his previously light-hearted mood has been destroyed. Martyn’s watching something just over Scott’s shoulder, eyes far away and not seeing anything that’s actually there.

Scott tries not to look too closely at Martyn as he regathers himself, not wanting to see the glassy sheen of almost-death covering his eyes.

Scott only allows himself to look again when Martyn sucks in a deep breath, loud and jarring, filling the silence where, he realises, Martyn previously hadn’t been breathing. The glassy sheen is gone, but the look in his eyes doesn’t return them to their previously playful moment.

“Well,” Martyn breathes.

“Well.” Scott returns. “I guess that’s the beginning of the end.”

Martyn laughs. “I almost wanted it to last longer. I thought it might, even with the ever-present timers counting down our every second.”

“Nothing to be done now,” there’s a bitter taste in his mouth. At knowing that They had been proven right once again, that there is no escaping of whatever they ordain as fate. He wonders if They’re laughing right now, gleeful over claiming the Canary once more. Or perhaps they're watching for his reaction, to see how he feels as his sacrifice amounts to nothing.

“No,” Martyn sighs. “Guess not.”

#juno.writes #mer scott (+fishfucker martyn) #majorwood #trafficshipping #traffic series #limited life smp #limited life #trafficblr #coral kids #mean gills #limited life scott #limited life martyn #scott smajor #inthelittlewood #limited life smp fic #trafficfic

[scribbling-dragon]

don't turn out the lights (kiss yourself goodnight)

summary:

“Hi,” Martyn continues to grin, even as it turns awkward and even guiltier. “I'm coming over. Can I come over?” Martyn pauses on the bridge then, as though just realising his presence might be unwanted after ditching him all morning. “I don't know if I should let you,” he says. It’s not an answer either way.

(ao3 link)

(7,119 words)

[hi! talking in bold so this catches your eyes ooOOooo anyway! this is the FINAL PART of this series! it's done! this is the end! meaning, everyone dies in this fic. there's your warning! there's gonna be death, injury, blood, etc. all the fun stuff! so just keep that in mind when you read it. also! it'd be really nice if you could reblog this because it took me a long time and i put a buncha effort into it! comments in the tags are even cuter- they let me know you liked it! i write for fun but i post because i want other people to also enjoy what i make, letting me know that you did quite literally makes my day.

anyway! hope u enjoy! <33]

The Isles is almost eerily quiet.

It is expected. The losses they had experienced only a day prior are enough to stun even the loudest of people into silence. It seems their world is only mirroring their mourning, not even birds singing to greet the dawn. Instead, it leaves everyone to prepare for their day, silence permeating the air around them. Even the sun appears muted, watery, as it tiredly heaves itself over the edge of the water, already beginning to chase away the deep purples of night.

He doubts any of them will be around to see another miserable sunrise such as this one.

Scott runs a cloth over the dull edge of his sword, wiping the dried blood away as best as he can manage with only a scrap of damp fabric. It’s already stained red, beyond any kind of repair. The dried blood remains stubborn, clinging to his blade as the last few echoes of others’ lives.

It flakes away as he scrapes against it with a single, sharp nail. The dried blood of friend and foe alike clumps together as it gathers beneath his nail, forcing him to stop his task and pick it out once he can no longer stand the feeling of it. He flicks it to the ground beneath him, hoping the flecks of red will become lost amongst the yellowing grass he sits upon. He still finds his eyes picking it out, like berries nestled amongst the dry stalks of grass that are determined to catch his eyes whenever he glances over.

He pauses at the sound of creaking floorboards above him, a few grains of sand pattering down onto his head. He cocks his head to the side and listens a little more intently as more creaking follows. Martyn had still been sleeping when he got up, curled comfortably in their shared bed. Scott had been tempted to stay and enjoy the peace a little longer, but his own mind was restless.

He hadn’t wanted to disturb the last few peaceful moments Martyn would probably get before this is all over, rising and attending to small tasks that didn’t really need to be done; tasks that were there to busy the hands rather than be productive. He doesn’t have that sort of time to waste, still target number one, certainly, his clock ticking down from higher numbers than everyone else, but his time is as limited as the rest of them.

His sword had been cleaned and sharpened. The blade, previously coated in dried blood so thick you could barely see its shimmer now gleams in the rapidly strengthening sunlight.

The purple hue of the skyline has been almost completely wiped away, leaving a pink sky in its wake. The light of it dyes the ocean a deep red, churning against the edges of their island as though it can hardly wait to devour it all once they're gone.

He continues to listen as footsteps echo overhead, uninterested in continuing to prepare for murdering his friends, waiting for Martyn to poke his head through the doorway and begin chattering away. He’s always more talkative in the morning, as though he has to make up for not speaking all night.

He looks over at the sound of a quiet splash, sitting up and sword forgotten as he stands a moment later. He pokes his head out of their storage room, watching as Martyn swims away from their island and towards the mainland. He dips beneath the waves a few times, swimming quickly.

Scott lingers in the doorway, watching as Martyn emerges onto the sandy shoreline, not even bothering to rid himself of the water he’d collected on his trip over as he usually would. Instead, he looks around, searching for…something. Scott isn’t certain what it is that he’s searching for – they hadn’t even had a conversation yet that morning to go over what should be done, who to avoid, who to target – and apparently not find it as he trudges into the treeline, quickly disappearing into the murky darkness that seems to cling to any dark oak forest, still soaking wet from his short swim.

Scott withdraws into their storage room, confused and more than a little hurt. His mind races a mile a minute, barely giving him a moment to process anything before he’s thinking of another potential explanation. Did they have a conversation last night that indicated Martyn was going to do something like this? Did Martyn assume he had already left and gone searching for him?

Only, Martyn had swum over there like a man possessed, like he would die if he didn’t reach the shoreline as quickly as he did. And yet – and yet – the moment he reached his destination he had looked around, as though uncertain of where to go.

Scott likes to think that he can read Martyn quite well, after the multiple times they’ve gone through these games together, and also the time they’ve spent together on this very island. He likes to think he can read Martyn well. And the way Martyn had looked around, on that shoreline, had not been with the intent of finding something lost, it had been done with the confusion of someone that had walked into a room and forgotten what they were going to do.

But, there’s no point in catching up with him yet. No reason to dive after him and catch up; see if he can shake any answers loose from the man. Not when he still has arrows to make and a bow to restring.

They can talk later. It’s fine. It’ll be fine.

=== === ===

“Now, I'm not a professional,” he tells Cleo, hopping down a few more blocks and squeezing into the gap he’d left for himself. There’s no redstone involved in this, only the tiny guide in the back of his head that’s jumping between steps as he attempts to remember how to do this, struggling to reconcile the new information he had with the idea that he’d already gotten it right.

He’d done it wrong last time, his hands still stinging from the hot blast that had gotten him before he managed to shove his shield in front of himself, letting that take the brunt of the explosion rather than absorbing it with his face.

“Never said you were,” he feels a shadow fall over him as Cleo leans down to peer at what he’s doing. “Reckon you're gonna blow the both of us up again?”

“I wouldn’t stand so close,” he chuckles, feeling rather than seeing as Cleo steps back. He slowly, carefully, places another bundle of TNT into the minecart, feeling the thing rattle with the weight of how much TNT he’s shoved into it. The sculk clings to his hands as he sets it down onto the block, gripping onto him as he attempts to pull away, unwilling to release him.

He continues pulling his hands back until the sculk accepts its loss, releasing his fingers and withdrawing back to the dirt block he’d provided for it. He watches as it curls itself into the dirt block, then simply engulfs it. He has no better words to describe the way it simply spreads over the block, too fast for him to even track with his eyes, until the entire patch is made of sculk.

He withdraws even more carefully, slowly easing himself out of the hole. He’s aware of the way the dirt clings around his shoulders. One wrong move could set off the trap he’s just spent the better part of ten minutes setting up, and he’d probably be blown to bits alongside it.

Cleo waits until he’s completely free of the hole before continuing to speak. “Where’s your other half today? Didn’t think you came as a single package anymore.”

“Very funny,” he forces a laugh as he turns to glare at them. “I don't know,” he answers. Not at all bitterly. “He ran off this morning before I could even get a chance to speak with him, went off to do…something.”

He sees Cleo frown, eyebrows creasing together. “And you haven’t tried to find him?”

“He needs something, then he’ll find me.” He dismisses Cleo’s worries easily – he’s been dismissing his own all morning, ignoring them in order to actually get anything done. Dismissing Cleo’s probing questions and slightly worried glances is far easier. “He’s been acting all funny recently anyway. If he’s gone off to sort himself out, then that’s fine.”

“Wait, Scott,” Cleo moves around him, pressing their hands down onto the small tunnel entrance and blocking him from poking around in there a little more. He leans back on his heels, knees digging into the ground as he glares up at her. “That’s not at all like Martyn. He sticks around other people as best as he can, even if it means bouncing between several groups. You're telling me he’s disappeared and you're not even worried?”

“Of course I'm worried, Cleo.” He huffs out a breath, resisting for only a moment before he raises his hands to his face, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. It relieves a little of his stress, and also means he doesn’t have to look them in the eye anymore. “But there’s nothing I can do about it, so I just have to wait and sit tight and hope he shows up.”

“You said he was acting weird,” Cleo asks, after the silence has hung between them for a moment. “Weird…how?”

“I don't know,” he sighs, dropping his hands. Cleo stares at him. “Ugh, I guess, like, spacing out? He was acting really weird after, uh, yesterday and the whole,” he waves a hand, “canary business. But I thought that was just the shock of all that, and then all the stuff after that. I didn’t even speak to him this morning, but there was this weird air around him. It was really fucking strange, Cleo, and I don't even know what it means!”

“Yeah, alright, alright,” Cleo hesitates for a moment, before patting him on the shoulder. “I think that’s just how he gets at this point. I think he was like this last time? I’d have to repeat myself several times for literally anything to get through to him.”

“I keep forgetting you were partnered with him last time,” he huffs out a laugh. “So he just gets like this every time? Why doesn’t anyone say anything?” He pauses. “Have you said anything?”

“To Martyn? No.” Cleo glances over at a shout from the Clock Tower, then back at him. “To anyone else? …Also no. I didn’t think it was my place to pry or ask around, and I guess that’s the common sentiment. Maybe he’s done it every single time. Maybe he only started doing it last time. Who knows? Maybe he's just gone insane.”

“Pretty sure that’s Joel you're thinking of,” he jokes, and then regrets when it opens up a pit in his stomach.

“Maybe go find him,” Cleo says. They both ignore the slightly heavier air around both of them, the mention of Joel souring their moods rather quickly.

“Yeah,” he brushes the dirt from his hands. “Yeah, I will.” He stands, eyeing the inconspicuous path ahead of them. “Thanks, Cleo.”

“No problem. Hope you find him.”

So do I, Scott doesn’t say. Hope you're still kicking around when I’ve found him, he keeps to himself too. He knows the Clockers aren’t doing well for time, all of their clocks far lower than his own, even after donating some of his time to Scar earlier.

He can feel Cleo watching him. Maybe they're giving him some of their own well wishes.

=== === ===

Going onto Skynet is never his favourite thing. But he’s been poking around on the ground for long enough that he’s rather certain Martyn isn’t hanging around there. Unless he’s dug himself into a hole underground as it currently hiding there until his clock runs out, he’s not on ground-level.

Meaning, into the skies he goes. The ladder is wonky and the rungs are thin enough that they threaten to snap under every step he takes upwards.

He can feel his hands growing sweaty the higher he ascends, nervousness making him glance down and come to terms with just how high he was in the air. With nothing to support him but a quickly and shoddily built ladder to nowhere.

He hauls himself up onto the main chunk of Skynet, grateful for the ground beneath his feet; solid despite being a thousand feet in the air. A drop from here would definitely kill him. A real risk, he realises, when an arrow thunks into the ground at his feet.

He glances over in the direction where it came from, dropping into a crouch. He’s not certain whether that shot was a mistake or a warning. It could have been fully intended to send him stumbling backwards and over the edge. But another arrow doesn’t follow, leaving him staring across the gap between their bridges, the group of three staring back at him.

…Three?

He can just barely see Etho crouched behind the makeshift wall he’s thrown up, the very tips of fuzzy white ears peeking over the edge of the dirt barricade, and Tango beside him is distinctive with his hair aflame. Meaning, no, his eyes are not deceiving him; Martyn really is crouched over with the other two, watching as they shoot at him.

He straightens up, almost planting his hands on his hips and yelling across the gap then and there. For Martyn to just ditch him earlier, and then for Scott to find him with people that have been relentlessly hunting him? Unacceptable. He only holds his tongue because shouting across such a wide gap is embarrassing, and not at all conducive to a proper conversation.

He stares across the gap a little longer, before holding a hand up in the universal gesture for wait.

He then takes a very brave step away from the main landing pad at the top of the ladder, the bridge narrowing even further and leaving him running quickly across the thin branches of Skynet. He keeps his shield held loosely at his side, and can only pray that Etho and Tango – or, gods forbid, Martyn – decide to get in an easy kill and shoot him.

He gets onto the same bridge as them before they start shooting at him, close enough for Scott to start talking to Martyn, even if it means he has to yell to be heard.

“Etho!” He jerks to the side as an arrow skims past his face, close enough that he can hear it whistle as it passes him. “No need!”

He hears Etho chuckling easily enough, even hunkered down behind his own makeshift shelter, only daring to peek over the edge once a moment has passed and his heart no longer threatens to leap from his chest. Martyn, Etho and Tango all peek back at him, lined up near perfectly. Scott might be tempted to take a photo if he wasn’t so irritated.

Another arrow shoots past his face and he scowls, pulling his own bow out and firing right back at them. He sees Tango jump in place and duck down as the arrow goes right over his head, far too high to actually hit anyone.

Several arrows embed themselves in the front of his small defence within a few minutes, making it easy to reach over and collect them up, adding them to his own quiver. “I've got arrows for days!” he calls over to them, grinning and urging them to continue shooting at him.

He notches another arrow, back pressed against his barricade before popping back up again, aiming and ready to fire.

Martyn visibly startles when he reappears, halfway across the bridge connecting them. He almost falls, Scott thinks, teetering dangerously on the edge as he readjusts his balance, shield held cautiously but not protectively in front of himself.

“Martyn,” he warns, not releasing his arrow but not dropping the bow either. He keeps it carefully trained on Martyn’s face, even as Etho and Tango continue to watch the two of them curiously. Martyn glances upwards from where he’d been watching his feet, smiling guiltily. Good.

“Hi,” Martyn continues to grin, even as it turns awkward and even guiltier. “I'm coming over. Can I come over?” Martyn pauses on the bridge then, as though just realising his presence might be unwanted after ditching him all morning.

“I don't know if I should let you,” he says. It’s not an answer either way. Something that Martyn seems to realise too, as he doesn’t keep moving forward, remaining rooted in place on the stupidly thin bridges that TIES built on a whim and everyone else decided to use. “Why are you with them?” He jerks his bow towards Etho and Tango, taking it off Martyn for a single second.

A single second which is, apparently, long enough for Martyn to run across the rest of the space and drop down beside him, both of them huddled far too close behind this too-small barricade. His knee knocks against Martyn’s, their legs pressing together when he lets them. He’s twisted awkwardly to continue aiming the bow at Etho and Tango, reluctant to take his eye off of them even if Martyn demands his attention with pleading eyes.

“Because I've not seen you yet today,” Martyn’s hand is warm on his arm. Near burning at the point of contact as he pulls at him, urging him to lower his bow. He holds the string of his bow tense for only a moment longer before heaving a great sigh and loosening it gradually, allowing the arrow to fall free from where it had been notched and into his open palm. Martyn continues, seeing him giving in, “I woke up and there was no-one here. There, wherever,” Martyn shrugs. “And then I just…” he trails off, eyes sliding to the side.

The hand on his arm slackens a little, turning from a comforting grip to a weight on his arm. The point of contact no longer burns, his skin warming up and adjusting to the sudden heat of another person.

“And then you just…?” Scott prompts, frowning when Martyn doesn’t give him a response. He’s still watching something off to the side, but when Scott turns to look where he is, there’s nothing there. No person trying to kill them or mysterious floating entity that would cause the kind of look Martyn currently has in his eyes.

“Hey,” he waves a hand in front of Martyn’s face, frowning when that continues to get no response from him. He rests his hand on Martyn’s cheek, growing even more concerned when that fails to get a reaction from him, sliding his thumb along Martyn’s cheekbone. His hand slips lower to cradle Martyn’s face, bringing his other hand to pat him on the cheek, like trying to wake someone up.

Martyn blinks, eyes refocusing, and then jolts. Scott holds onto him, keeping him in place as he regains his bearings from…whatever the hell just happened.

“When’d you get so close?” Martyn asks, clearly going for joking and missing it by miles. He lands somewhere around confused and worried instead, which only concerns Scott more.

Scott pauses for a moment, considering his next step. “Aw,” he tilts his head to the side, thumb still brushing against Martyn’s cheek affectionately. “Don't tell me you got so caught up in seeing me that you forgot to pay attention?”

Martyn laughs, leaning in a little closer, close enough that their noses are just shy of touching. His eyes are completely focused now, not drifting over Scott’s shoulder to look at something only Martyn can see. It eases something in his chest, something he hadn’t realised was so tight until it loosened all of a sudden.

“Well, it really is quite easy to get lost in your eyes. The depths of them are like an unexplored ocean-”

He shoves Martyn away from him with a laugh. “Don't you start with that,” he warns, mock angry as he wags his finger at Martyn. “That’s a terrible pick-up line, and one that doesn’t even work right now! My eyes are as red as they can be, so don't be silly.”

“Then your eyes are like the ocean in the morning,” Martyn counters. “Did you not see how red it was this morning? Like the sunrise itself had spilled into the waters.”

“How romantic of you.” He doesn’t mention how this morning was the only time the waters were dyed such a colour by the rising sun. Martyn wouldn’t know that, as a late riser, but Scott has watched those waters shimmer beneath the sunrise every morning since they were dumped here.

“Get a room!” Etho very bravely yells over at them, still hiding behind his barricade. “We wanna get past you!”

“Run on past then!” Scott yells back. “What’s there to be scared of!”

“What we might see!” Tango contribute, popping up beside his teammate. “I don't know what you two’re doing behind that!”

Scott scoffs in disgust at the idea. Not only is the entire place made of dirt, but they're also miles in the sky. Not exactly something he’d jump at the idea of.

“Go the other way then!” he yells, getting to his feet. He pulls his shield up just in case, but no arrows come his way. He offers Martyn his hand as he watches half of TIES (two-thirds, his brain supplies helpfully. Two-thirds.) deliberate over their next course of action.

“Cowards!” Martyn yells as Etho begins retreating.

Scott laughs at the offended noise Tango makes, loud enough for them both to hear it. Laughing is easier than thinking about what just happened. Easier than turning Cleo’s words over and over in his mind.

Easier to take Martyn’s hand and lead him away as though none of that happened at all.

=== === ===

He can see Etho watching him as he climbs, ears twisted backwards and crossbow held at the ready. He’s just as pleased to be up here as Etho is. All roads lead to Skynet, apparently, meaning he’s back on the hellish thing, praying that nothing breaks.

“We’re just here to talk,” he assures, crouching on the lip of cobblestone just above the ladder, reaching a hand down slowly for Martyn to take. He feels it slot into his hand easily, burning hot against freezing cold.

“Promise?” Etho keeps his crossbow held tightly in his hands. Not that Scott blames them. This is the time for temporary alliances, certainly, but he doubts anyone is above faking a temporary alliance to get closer to someone just to kill them.

“Promise.”

Martyn settles onto the ledge beside him, though Martyn sits down, legs swinging off the edge as he watches Martyn. Scott remains crouched, one hand flat against the cobbles, hunched over like some kind of gargoyle.

He probably looks like one, too. Fish-like spines and fins make it rather hard to hide the changes he’s undergone since going red. The scales layering over his skin and remaining thick until his elbows make it even more so. He can only be glad that he still has his legs, or that It didn’t decide to give him some kind of tail to weigh him down further.

“Okay,” Etho takes a step closer, and, in an incredible show of good faith, tucks his crossbow away so none of them have any weapons. “Let’s talk, then.”

Scott grins, more than a little satisfied with himself. It’s always risky reaching out for another alliance this late in the game, but taking the risk is better than leaving the ending unknown. This is a way for them to have a better shot at winning.

“The biggest hour- time, thingy, is the Nosy Neighbours,” he starts. “Pearl and Grian have the most time right now.”

“And they're a pretty strong team,” Etho glances over in the direction of the Neighbours’ tower, expression considering. “There’s three of them in it.”

Martyn hums something that vaguely sounds like agreement, but when Scott looks over at him, he’s staring off into space again, not at all registering the space around them. Scott shuffles a little closer to him, pressing his hip into his side in the hopes that the contact can bring him back from wherever his mind has wandered off to. Contact has helped, in the previous moments where he’s been like this.

“And we’re two sets of two,” Scott says. He feels momentarily guilty for pointing it out when Etho looks saddened by the reminder that Tango is gone now, too.

“Well,” Etho rocks back on his heels. “I can’t find Impulse at the moment- not a clue where he’s wandered off to.”

Maybe Etho’s words summon him, because Scott watches a blur plummet down onto the Mansion, disappearing under the water for a moment before resurfacing. Even from their distance, he’s able to make out the distinctive yellow ‘i’ on his shirt.

“Grian fell from Skynet,” Martyn says, blinking back to reality.

“Uh, no,” he gives Martyn a confused look from the corner of his eye. “That’s Impulse.”

“I- what?” Martyn glances over at the Mansion, “Oh! Yeah, yeah, that’s Impulse. Yeah.”

Etho gives them a funny look, eyes squinting as he studies Martyn.

“We can summon him over here,” Scott says, distracting Etho before he can ask too many questions. He’d been hanging out with Martyn earlier, could have seen his spacy-ness. Could identify it as something to be used later. Something that Scott would prefer him not to do. “Tell him we have Etho.”

“Like some kind of hostage situation?”

“Ooh, yeah,” Martyn nods along with Etho’s suggestion. “Let’s take him hostage.”

“Or we can just go down and meet him?” Etho suggests. He doesn’t look excited at the hostage idea, go figure. “I don't want to make him climb all the way back up for nothing.

“I don't really want to climb all the way back down there,” he complains, but its for nought as Etho clambers up to where they're sitting, leading the (very slow) charge down to the base of the ladder. His arms feel shaky by the time he reaches the bottom, from both exertion and exhaustion. He feels like he hasn’t slept properly in weeks.

Scott taps out the message on his comm, feet firmly planted into the nice sandy ground below him. It’s a comfort, to be back on truly solid ground again, even with the TIES’ wonky tower casting a slightly uneven shadow over them all.

<Smajor1995> come to us

He follows behind Martyn and Etho absently as he continues to type, hopping over the small blast craters easily and circling around the larger ones just as easily. He has to pause for a moment to bat away a zombie, sword slashing straight through its chest and sending it dissolving into a pile of dust.

<Smajor1995> we have etho

He knows its an ominous message to leave it on, especially when the two of them have been separated for who knows how long. Etho chuckles a little at it, but doesn’t send a message to reassure his teammate. A sense of urgency makes for swift feet, and they want to deal with the Neighbours as quickly as possible, he supposes. Better to do it now than when their timers are about to run out.

“What do you mean you have Etho?!” Scott spins on the spot to greet Impulse.

“As a friend!” he calls back. “We have Etho as a friend!” A skeleton shoots him as he speaks, managing to actually hit him when he’s sluggish on putting his shield up. It’s enough to make him realise how surrounded by mobs they’ve gotten, closed in on all sides, each of them beating back at least two mobs at a time.

“Let’s go!” he calls out, looking around for a place for them to actually go. He only manages to spot the little cave entrance by chance, remembering the little nook beyond that they can hunker down in for the night. Martyn catches up with him quickly when he realises where Scott’s heading. “Told you framing it like we had Etho as a hostage would work.”

“Yeah, wasn’t you he tried to run through with his sword.” Martyn mutters.

“He didn’t try to run you through with his sword,” he rebukes softly, speaking quieter as they enter the cave, aware that their voices will echo over to the following pair.

“He was thinking it,” Martyn says darkly. “I could sense it; hear it in the air.”

Scott doesn’t even get to ask what the hell that means, because Impulse is suddenly slamming the door shut and saying something about “not letting the zombies in too!”

The plan is laughably easy to make, once they get over their bickering and the small taunts they throw at each other. It’s hard not to point out Impulse’s attempts to blow him up earlier, something that Impulse receives with good grace and lets go as water under the bridge.

It’s only worrying how often Martyn spaces out, only ever chiming back in with something that nearly has Scott questioning how he knows Grian is currently away from the base, or that Pearl is up on Skynet, nevermind that all of them are underground and have been for the better part of twenty minutes, formulating the plan they're going to use to try and eliminate their biggest threat. How Martyn knows this is a mystery, but not anything that anyone is questioning, for some reason?

It doesn’t stop Scott from inching a little closer, until they're close enough to touch. So Scott can make sure he’s still real, still there. Not yet gone and seeing things that only the dead are meant to see.

It’s unnerving, how Martyn’s eyes go far away when he thinks about something, considers a question that he realistically shouldn’t have the answer to.

It’s terrifying when he tilts his head to the side, as though angling himself to listen to something more intently.

=== === ===

Oh this is new, he thinks, when he enters the tower that he knows BigB is in, and there’s no-one there. He holds his sword steady, laughing a little as he looks around.

He’s not invisible, no small swirls of smoke giving away his position as he moves. There’s absolutely no indication of where BigB is, other than the faint impression that there’s a person right in front of him.

“Oh, you're invisible,” he says aloud, mostly to himself.

“Am I?” BigB’s voice comes from a little to the left, and he swings for it, sword sweeping in a wide arc as he hopes it catches on flesh. It jerks to a stop as it embeds itself in…some part of BigB. He stares hard at that spot in front of him, but his eyes refuse to focus, sliding away whenever he tries to look for longer than a second.

“You are,” he confirms, ignoring BigB’s small grunt of pain as he yanks his sword back towards himself, holding it up defensively. This entire fight just got a lot harder if BigB isn’t the one doing this. It can only be one other doing this, sabotage against him. Something to make him fall a little easier. He loses track of where BigB is, the empty tower around them making his footsteps echo and hard to track. “I'm sure this fight will be easy enough, though.”

“No it won’t!”

Gotcha.

He swings around, spinning on the heel of his foot to make it quicker, flipping his sword at the last moment and slamming the blunt edge of his blade into BigB’s side, winding him rather than slicing him in half.

He swings his sword up to block at the shing of a blade being unsheathed, feeling the invisible weapon press down against his hands, heavy and forcing him to bend beneath it. He bends his knees, sinking a little lower. BigB laughs, excited at this upper hand he’s gained.

Scott holds it a little longer, ignoring the way his arms begin to shake from the strain. Only when he’s certain BigB is pressing most of his weight down against him does he slip away, dropping his sword and darting out of range as fast as he can.

‘As fast as he can’ is apparently not fast enough, feeling the cool metal of a blade dig into his back before he manages to slip completely away, hissing through clenched teeth at the burning sensation that quickly spreads over his back.

“Hah!” BigB cheers at this small victory, even as Scott turns back to face him. The wavering outline of something vaguely resembling a person is all he has to go off of. It’s like the wavering air above stone on a hot day. “Still confident?”

“Of course,” he scoffs. He ignores the way he has to readjust his grip on his sword, hand sweaty as he backs up another step. Whatever invisibility gift this is, it’s not fair. He has a rather good idea of who is doing this, and he cusses them out silently in his mind. Maybe They’ll be able to hear his swearing. “You think I’ll go down that easily?”

He can feel the blood soaking through his shirt rather quickly. For a surface wound, it’s bleeding a lot, and really quite painful.

He still swings when BigB comes at him again, the sound of feet on the cobbles his only indicator. Swinging in such a wide arc wrenches something in his shoulder, and he swears he can feel the flesh tearing further, strained apart like the threads of a garment, stretched beyond breaking point.

In the end, BigB catches him unawares. A rather easy feat, considering he can’t see the other man.

He gasps at the feeling of a blade piercing his flesh, stumbles back – tries to stumble backwards, finds himself stuck on whatever weapon he’s just been impaled with. The weapon he can’t see, but his mind still registers the pain pain pain of a slow death. Still registers the blood blossoming around the puncture.

He can see his insides, vaguely and through a distorted lens. It warps, as though he should be seeing something other than the tearing of his blood vessels and his parted flesh. He can see organs you're not meant to see, curled around himself in the way that he is, can see the puncturing of these probably vital organs which is not a good sign for his continued survival. His flesh is darker than he thought it would be, and bleeds for far longer than he expects.

He lasts far longer than he expected, shallow breaths wheezing out of him as he crumples to the ground.

“Woah, hey,” hands he can’t see lay over his arms, the faint feeling of pressure against his skin the only thing his mind registers. He can see his skin indent where hands press against his forearms, idents that can only be created by hands holding onto him. Hands that he cannot, for some reason, see. “It’ll be over in a sec, I’m sure.”

Scott tilts his head back and allows himself a small groan. He’s bleeding out slowly and sluggishly, he thinks he can afford a singular moment of pain amongst this shitshow.

He almost reaches the point of asking BigB to just slit his throat when the room spins dizzying circles around him, and words are coming from an unseen mouth, unseen hands brushing up and down his arms in what is probably meant to be a reassuring gesture, but is actually just unnerving.

He chokes on the blood in his mouth, and wakes with it still coating his teeth.

=== === ===

“Do you want to get BigB again?” Martyn asks, turning to him with a gleam in his eyes.

Scott hasn’t decided whether he likes this new Martyn yet or not. The Martyn of earlier, with his listless expression and drifting thoughts was not fun to deal with nor exciting to observe, but the Martyn of the here and now, the Martyn with an anticipatory gleam in his eye and a pep in his step at the thought of killing someone else is also not reassuring.

“Not really,” he replies, as casually as he can. “I got my time back from him.”

“And you don't want more?”

“Uh, not really, no.” He and Martyn are alone right now, Impulse and Etho splitting off from their little group momentarily. He doubts they’ll join back together again, everyone’s clocks hanging far too low to trust someone you only made a temporary alliance with.

(For just a moment, Scott wishes they’d come back. Come and act as a buffer between him and the ally that he no longer recognises. The gleam in his eye is dangerous, it warns. A herald of what is to come. He considers, briefly, slipping away into the night and disappearing until his clock runs out of time. Until that last grain of sand in his hourglass slips through and buries him completely. He’s not sure he wants to see what will happen if it’s just him and Martyn. When it’s just him and Martyn.)

“Alright,” Martyn drags the word out, as though he doesn’t believe him. Maybe he doesn’t, with the red-blindness that seems to descend onto everyone at this point, looming over their shoulders like a particularly grim reminder. He can almost hear the clocks ticking down, beat by beat, moment by moment. “If you say so.”

“I do,” he says. “I do say so.”

Martyn considers him for another moment longer. Watches him with those red eyes that seem to hold nothing but calculations behind them. A measure of how long it would take to overpower someone, how long it would take to bleed them dry of their blood and their time. How many arrows to divert someone from their chosen path. How many swings of the sword before their time can be claimed, like the spoils after a hunt.

Scott hates it. Hates this. Hates what his friends become. Hates what it is – who it is – that makes them do it.

Martyn shrugs and turns away. His walk is casual, deceptively so. He moves quickly, off to kill whoever it is that he’s set his mind on. Possibly the Nosy Neighbours, eyes set on them as a target, like a dog with a bone, relentlessly gnawing on it as though that will force it to produce something more.

Ah, yes. That’s what it is.

Martyn watches him as though his heart no longer beats, as though he is nothing more than a chunk of flesh to be devoured for the benefit, what he might gain from it.

Scott walks in the opposite direction to Martyn and hopes, rather selfishly, that they don’t have to cross paths again.

=== === ===

All paths lead back to the clock. All lead back to the timer ticking down, hanging heavy over their heads and around their necks; a slowly tightening noose.

Perhaps it is fitting, then, with his clock at a negligible amount that they arrive at the Clock Tower. Built at the centre of their little world. Everything revolves around the clock, and the Clockers have made sure they cannot forget that.

The face of it peers down at them, despite Scott not being able to see it from where he stands now. He can feel it. Can feel the ticking of the hands, the shifting and grinding of the gears that allow it to turn. Will allow it to turn long after each of them is dead.

Martyn and Impulse watch each other warily, watch him warily. He watches them back, far less wary than either of them.

He can see how this plays out, can see the end already in the tight grip of a hand upon a sword. Can see the way such a hand refuses to release the last weapon he holds, refuses to give up his one advantage here. Can see how the hand hesitates when moving to unstrap his armour, to unbuckle the plates and let them fall loosely to the ground.

Scott undoes the strap in one unceremonious movement, only grimacing slightly at the clatter as it hits the ground, rolling uselessly around his feet.

Martyn watches him, suspicion misting his eyes. His hand continues to falter, resting over his heart and over his chestplate. One that has still to be removed. Impulse’s armour lays on the ground, too, scattered around in pieces as though he’d simply tossed it aside carelessly in his eagerness to get it off.

Scott tilts his head to the side, almost imperceptibly, watches the way Martyn tracks the tiny movement. The way Impulse does not.

There is a question in his eyes, one that he is not sure Martyn can read anymore. The Martyn of yesterday would have been able to. The Martyn that still cared to scrub his hands free of blood, the one that cared enough to clean beneath his nails, so not even the slightest speck of blood would continue to stain his hands.

The Martyn of today is not the one he has spent time getting to know better. He is not the one that could read a question in the tilt of his eyebrows or the squint of his eyes. He is not the one that would be able to read the question in his eyes right now, swimming just below the surface. Maybe Martyn reaches for that understanding he once had, but the explanation slips away easily, a fish disappearing beneath the surface once more.

So maybe he doesn’t read the implicit permission. The silent question that doesn’t need an answer. Because Martyn might not be able to read his eyes, might not be able to read anything from him at this point, but Scott can still read him. Can still see the plan in his eyes, the way it whirrs in his brain as he smooths out the crinkles and finalises it.

Still, despite Martyn’s plan being finalised, set in stone and ready to be carried out regardless of what anyone says, Scott gives him a small nod that he might not catch. A granting of permission. A better you than anyone else. Martyn might not understand it. May have lost the ability to read him entirely.

He still ends up with a sword through the heart, pulled out slowly, longingly. Blood coats the inside of his mouth, and when he coughs, feels it spilling over, it feels like a parting kiss.

#juno.writes #mer scott (+ fishfucker martyn) #limited life #limited life fic #majorwood #trafficshipping #scott smajor #martyn inthelittlewood #mean gills #trafficblr #traffic series #traffic smp #limited life scott #limited life martyn #limited life smp #trafficfic

[scribbling-dragon]

kiss of not-drowning

summary:

“Ugh, you know what I mean, you dick.” Martyn drags a hand down his face. “I only meant that I’d appreciate you maybe giving me more than a split second to come to terms with everything before I'm inhaling a lungful of water.”

“You're fine.” He waves it off. “A little water never hurt anybody.”

(ao3 link)

(2,967 words)

He twitches slightly as sleep begins to roll off of him, like waves retreating from the shoreline. The very last dregs of sleep cling to him as he stirs, but he fights his way to the surface anyway, shaking those last few clinging threads of dreams away; he blinks, eyes opening to darkness. The sun isn't even beginning to peer over the horizon, the sky above remaining dark.

He glances to the side, ears straining for what might have dared to wake him at an hour like this- it’s ridiculous being awake this early! No one but insane people are awake at this time. Like Joel, because bad boys don't have bedtimes. Frankly, Scott thinks they're all being ridiculous, and Jimmy would have been able to avoid almost drowning if he didn't listen to Joel and Grian as much as he does. Jimmy’s just lucky Tango finds his idiotic tendencies endearing rather than stressful.

Martyn lies in the bed parallel to his, face smushed into his pillow and mouth slightly open. He can hear him snoring, but it’s nowhere near loud enough to have woken him up. He only considered smothering Martyn in his sleep once before he got used to the snoring, anyway. His arm hangs over the edge of the bed, knuckles just barely grazing over the wooden floorboards as it hangs there, with Martyn looking like he’s moments away from sliding out of the bed completely and making the floor his new home.

His ears twitch, mostly human right now, as the sound of footsteps reaches his ears. He doesn't move his head, continuing to lie on his side as he listens. The sound of shifting sugar cane gave them away, probably- was likely what woke him. Unless they walked in through the front door, with its artfully creaky hinges that alert them whenever someone steps foot onto their island. He hardly dares to breathe as he listens, worried he might miss the moment they begin up the steps to where they sleep- maybe they should have chosen a more protective home than the one they currently use, but anything more and it would have been far too warm to sleep and they'd have ended up outside anyway.

There’s the sound of muffled voices - two voices - a small back and forth between them as something is discussed. It’s almost too quiet for him to hear, especially with one ear still pressed into his pillow and mind fogged with sleep; he hears it anyway. He can't hear enough to make out what they're saying, but it’s enough to identify their location.

The sounds of movement stop after several more long and torturous seconds, pausing just below where they're both asleep. He swallows, looking back at Martyn again. His teammate sleeps on, face still pressed deep into his pillow and oblivious to the panic beginning to race through Scott’s system. The intruders- whoever it is, obviously know this island. So it’s someone that has visited them before, which…doesn't actually narrow it down all that much. But they're sheltering just out of sight from where he currently is, so that even if one of them did wake up they certainly wouldn't see them.

He swallows thickly, then freezes, worried that the sound was too loud- carried too far and alerted the intruders that he’s awake and listening. He listens, waits for one, or both, of the intruders to cry out and rush up the steps- too fast for anything to be done except pray for a quick death. 

But nothing happens, and he exhales softly, listening as they begin speaking again. The hurried whispers barely reach his ears, hardly audible over the sound of the crashing waves. The crashing waves. The same crashing waves that are probably too loud, too distracting, for the intruders to hear anything over. A plan forms in his mind, only half-planned and halfway thought through, but it’s enough to get both him and Martyn out of the immediate line of fire- and Martyn’s great at thinking on his feet! Far better than Scott is, but he needs Martyn awake for him to begin thinking, and waking him is another matter entirely.

He slips from his bed, sheets falling back onto the mattress with a muffled thump (too quiet to be heard over the crashing waves, he reminds himself, too quiet). He could wake his teammate, could pull him from the land of dreams and hope that he remains quiet enough that the intruders do not hear him. But that has many, many ways for it to go incredibly wrong (Martyn can be incredibly loud, most often with his laughter, but waking loudly now is the last thing Scott needs- he needs quietness and secrecy, enough for them to escape unscathed).

He avoids the squeaky floorboard as he creeps towards Martyn, ears remaining pricked for any indication that their intruders are on the move once more, that they've ended their hushed conversation and come to a decision (surely it’s a bad idea to approach another base with so little of a plan that they have to stop halfway to discuss what they're going to do- Scott can only thank them for their lack of planning). They are not, their whispered conversation still drifting towards him on the salty breeze as he deliberates, hand hovering over Martyn’s shoulder.

It rises and falls, just slightly, with the motions of sleep. He still doesn't so much as twitch, even as Scott’s shadow falls over him (him and Martyn certainly need to have a conversation after this, if he doesn't so much as wake even if someone looms over him as he sleeps- he could be killed so easily, and then Scott would be alone, again-).

If he wakes Martyn before making another move, it has several ways in which it could go wrong. The largest of those being Martyn making a loud sound- something to alert their intruders. Something which he does quite often when woken from his slumber unexpectedly. He has a habit of waking with a yell, which is probably due to surprise, but Scott can't think of a nicer way to be woken than how he already does it (and, in fairness, he lets Martyn sleep in rather often, even if it means he has to check on the sugar cane alone- the silence whilst also knowing that there is someone else there is almost comforting, and he takes the small comforts where he can in these games).

No, the second option is far easier, even if it will be a far ruder awakening.

He spares a momentary apology to Martyn, offering it up slightly - but it is better to seek forgiveness afterwards rather than ask permission and risk being horribly murdered, he reasons - and grabs Martyn by the shoulders, hands closing around both skin and fabric. He doesn't give Martyn even a moment, hearing his choked-off yell, strangling its way from his throat as Scott begins pulling him- yanking him towards the small balcony.

He only hesitates for a moment, Martyn’s yell still ringing in his ears, faintly registering that Martyn is gripping onto him as well, nails digging into his skin. The sound of a scramble below reaches his ears as well- their intruders obviously realising that they're awake and currently in the process of escaping. He doesn't hesitate a moment longer, hearing footsteps echoing up the steps behind him, slamming over the wooden flooring-

He throws himself over the balcony, thankful that he chose to build so close to the water (for this exact reason, for when people began sneaking in during the night- attempting to strike when the moon is at its highest; underhanded tactics, and not something he can't respect). Martyn resists a little, but Scott can only hope he follows willingly now, because he risks both a dislocated shoulder and death if he doesn't. Resistance does not meet him- his arm is not suddenly jerked back as Martyn fails to follow. Instead, he continues falling, releasing Martyn’s shoulders and hoping the other remembers to hold his breath.

The water swallows them easily, bubbles streaming from his nose as he ducks beneath the water, eyes squinted shut against the salt- against the stinging of his eyes as the water rushes into his nose and attempts to choke him. His hair swirls around him as he darts backwards, reaching out to pull Martyn with him, retreating into the shadow of their island.

An arrow shoots into the water around the same time the numbness in his legs has spread to his knees, steadily climbing higher. The arrow plunges into the water with enough force to send bubbles spiralling upwards- a force that can only ever be achieved with a crossbow. He breathes out, a stream of bubbles leaving his nose, gathering in a small pool below the island, shining faintly in the water.

Martyn continues to hold onto his arm, nails biting into his skin a little less, though his grip is no less tight. He flicks his tail back and forth, shuddering as the last of the transformation washes over him, shutting his eyes against the vertigo that threatens to disorientate him. Only once the dizzying feeling has vanished, does he dare to open them again, squinting for a moment as his eyes readjust to the darkness of the water.

“Aw, c’mon,” a voice from above reaches his ears, distorted by the water and land between them, but it reaches him nonetheless. And with relative clarity. “I thought we had them.”

“We almost did, but you sneezed!” Scott didn't even hear one of them sneeze, he’d been far too focused on leaving and planning their escape route to notice someone sneezing- which is actually a little worrying now that he thinks about it.

“When a man’s gotta sneeze he’s gotta sneeze, Pearl.” Ah. Well, he’s just managed to identify their intruders. Martyn squeezes his arm, where he’s still gripping, but Scott ignores him for a moment longer, following the conversation.

“Your sneezing’s cost us half an hour each.” He can almost hear the frown in Pearl’s voice, though it’s offset a little by the small giggle he hears a moment later, warping oddly with the water. “Aw, I really wanted to kill Scott as well.”

“Yeah, well, they're long gone now- did you know Scott was that fast of a swimmer?”

“Nah,” Pearl pauses for a moment. “He hasn't gone near water for the entirety of this go-around, and then he just jumps in the water immediately! I thought we had him cornered!” And this is why you should never make assumptions! Only ever work on facts and pretty-much-a-fact facts, that’s how you get consistent information and a good idea of how people work.

Martyn yanks at his arm, threatening to pull it from its socket, and he turns to look at him, gills fluttering in annoyance as he’s pulled away from the conversation above- he was waiting to see if one of them would turn on the other. If they turn on each other, there’s one less person to worry about-

Martyn gestures frantically at his face, a few more bubbles spilling from his lips as he gestures, panic written into every feature of his face, and- oh, oh dear. He panics for a moment, brain whiting out as he struggles to come up with any solution- anything that might stop Martyn from drowning in this moment, because it looks like a pretty close thing. How long can humans hold their breath for? He could've sworn it was something like ten minutes- is it not? They've been under for barely two minutes, maybe his facts were wrong?

An idea crashes over him, like a particularly violent wave, and he doesn't stop to consider it for longer than necessary- because letting Martyn drown would actually be really embarrassing, for both him and Martyn.

He brings his hands up carefully, aware that he’s slightly larger than Martyn in this form, allowing his hands to frame his teammates face carefully. Martyn stares back at him, eyes wide, one of his hands coming up to wrap lightly around Scott’s wrist. Pearl and BigB are still talking above them, but it fades into background noise as Scott draws Martyn a little closer, close enough for their noses to brush against each other.

He connects their lips, half-faded memories of short bursts of power being granted by kisses like this one. He doesn't focus on those memories for too long, too caught up in the way Martyn runs that hand - that same hand that had previously encircled his wrist - up his arm, brushing over patches of scales in a way that makes him shudder, a shiver crawling up his spine despite the warm water surrounding them.

He sinks deeper into the kiss, Martyn’s lips warm against his own. His teeth scrape against Martyn’s lips and he exhales, feels Martyn drink the short burst of power in- he can feel the exchange of it, the small shifting beneath his skin. Martyn hardly seems to notice, pulling a hand through Scott’s hair, tugging harshly on the strands before he allows the grip to fall away once more.

Scott pulls back a moment later, bubbles spilling from his own lips as he stares at Martyn. Small patches of scales seem to have appeared around Martyn’s eyes, but he can see several of them already melting back into normal skin once more- not something that lasts then, only enough time for Scott to pull them to safety.

Martyn looks up at him from beneath heavy-lidded eyes- Scott doubts he can actually see anything but he appreciates it anyway, and- nope! Can't get distracted, because they only have a few minutes before Martyn starts drowning again.

He darts down into the water, away from the island- the conversation above had faded several moments ago, so there’s nothing left for him to listen to there. He ducks beneath a large branch of coral, pulling Martyn behind him, then pushing him in front, directing him towards the small gap in the seabed.

It’s unnoticeable unless you view it at this very specific angle, and he watches Martyn struggle to see it for another few moments, eyes squinted shut. He gives him a small nudge closer to the gap, watching as Martyn finally spots it, grabbing onto the rock around the rim of it to pull himself forward, disappearing into the small gap.

He waits a moment before following, fins flattening as he darts through the small tunnel, twisting slightly to move around the bend before surfacing again. He inhales quickly, only coughing slightly as his lungs rid themselves of the residual water.

Martyn is still spluttering, leaned against the edge of the pool, chin resting on the rock beyond. He looks rather miserable, something that is not at all helped by the lacklustre light from the singular lantern (maybe he should have invested in more lanterns for this place), and the way his hair drips over his face.

He looks like a cat that has been given a bath against its will.

He’s shivering as well, despite the warm water they're both still sat in.

“I’d appreciate a warning next time,” Martyn groans, tipping his head to the side so he can look at Scott. He coughs again, though it sounds rather put-upon.

“Ah, right, yes, of course.” He nods, swimming to the small ledge Martyn is currently resting on, leaning an arm against the rock lip. “Sorry, next time I’ll be sure to wake you and give our attempted murderers plenty of warning, so that they can still murder us.”

“Ugh, you know what I mean, you dick.” Martyn drags a hand down his face. “I only meant that I’d appreciate you maybe giving me more than a split second to come to terms with everything before I'm inhaling a lungful of water.”

“You're fine.” He waves it off. “A little water never hurt anybody.”

“I almost drowned.”

“Almost!” Scott grins. “Not did. Come on, Martyn, you think I’d let you drown?”

“You stole my breath away with that kiss,” Martyn grins. “Though I do believe you were trying to do the opposite.”

“And it worked.” He says, then quieter. “Thankfully.”

“I- Scott!” Martyn smacks at him, sending water scattering across the cave. “You did that without knowing if it would work! What if it didn't! What- just, ah well, guess you're gonna die now. But at least you got a good snog out of it?”

“I-” he breaks off into a laugh. “Would that be good enough for you?”

“No!” Martyn’s laughing too. “You're a good kisser and all, totally not complaining, but it was underwater and I was actively drowning for the first half of it!” Martyn pauses for a moment, then he grins- which is not at all worrying at all, the sudden switch from complaining to grinning at him like that does not make something in his stomach swoop. “Though…I could be convinced otherwise.”

“Oh, really?”

“Really. You owe me a little more than one kiss to make up for that. I think that might be worse than when you thought smothering me would be a good way to wake me up.” Scott hadn't actually meant to wake him up with that, it was done because Martyn just continued snoring. Not that he needs to know that.

“How demanding of you,” he swishes his tail in the water behind them as Martyn inches closer, slightly drier than before. He brings a hand up to the side of Martyn’s face, trailing his fingers across the skin there almost reverently. Martyn watches him back.

“How many do you need before it’s enough?” He asks, whispered into the small space between them.

“As many as you can give.”

#juno.writes #scott smajor #martyn inthelittlewood #limited life smp #limited life spoilers #limited life #life series #trafficshipping #trafficblr #traffic smp #traffic series #trafficverse #majorwood #limited life scott #limited life martyn #mean gills #coral kids #mer scott (+ fishfucker martyn) #<- series name! #trafficfic

[scribbling-dragon]

hello i am utterly obsessed with your mer scott au (as you know) and i heard you were taking requests - maybe something about being kissed to shut someone up?

you look better when you're quiet

summary:

Scott doesn't think. Scott likes to tell himself that he thinks all of his actions through, likes to boast that every plan he’s successfully pulled off has been because of extensive planning, rather than just luck of the draw. Scott is also a filthy liar- because he hardly ever thinks his actions through, and when he does, it’s normally for no more than a few minutes. Thinking any longer than that would put him off of whatever idea he’s had, and normally he only has a few moments to enact it anyway.

He grabs Martyn’s face with his hand, pulling the other man around to face him. Martyn allows himself to be pulled, words trailing off as he meets Scott’s eyes. Martyn smiles at him then, a little nervously, as though just realising that he might have, just maybe, said a little bit more than he meant to.

“You have something on your face, dear.” Scott says.

(ao3 link)

(2,418 words)

i am. almost embarrassed by this im ngl. but i refuse to be really embarrassed! even if the kiss scene made me embarrassed dsjhdj

Scott is rather good at keeping secrets, if he does say so himself. The mysterious personality was specially curated to make him more interesting- everyone loves a guy with a mysterious past, right? And it’s much more fun to watch people try to figure him out than spill all his secrets the moment they show him some basic human decency.

As such, he is used to keeping secrets, and finding out other people’s secrets- those are leagues more valuable than any secrets of his own. A secret, applied in the right place at the right moment can put just enough pressure on someone to sway their decision in his favour. And a few secrets are always bound to crop up around the games.

Point being: Scott is good at keeping secrets. And he is very, very quickly finding out that his teammate is…not.

Case in point, being their current situation.

“You two are looking…pretty green around the gills still.” Joel snickers as he says this, probably rather pleased with his play on words. Really, it’s only a little funny, and only because of the irony of what he’s saying.

Martyn casts a short glance at him from the corner of his eye, lips twitching up. No doubt, he’s thinking the same thing that Scott is.

“Oh, certainly.” Martyn nods sagely, as though he’s imparting some great wisdom onto Joel and Jimmy, and not just stating the obvious. “We’ve both got a pretty decent amount of time left, too, haven't we?”

He feels his jaw tense involuntarily at Martyn’s words, refusing to look at his teammate as Joel raises an eyebrow in question. Jimmy continues to stand a foot behind Joel, arms crossed, as though attempting to make himself look more intimidating. At best, he looks like a ruffled chick- no more intimidating than a bit of tumbleweed.

“Really?” Joel’s sunglasses slip a little further down his face, yellow eyes peering at them from behind the glasses. Really, Scott thinks Jimmy is the only one that knows how to wear sunglasses properly- seeing as Grian refuses to wear them on his face at all, and Joel insists on wearing them far too low. Surely it must be uncomfortable to have them slip so low that they're pinching on your nose, right? 

Joel doesn't seem to care, if that’s the case, bringing a hand up to rest on the arm of his sunglasses, tilting them down further. Really, they're only covering his lips now, eyes fully exposed, glinting an even brighter yellow in the midday sun.

“Your glasses low enough on your face Joel?” He asks, interrupting whatever the other man was about to say. “I can almost see your chin still.”

“Shut up, Scott.” Joel shoots back, though it has no real heat behind it. They're on rather friendly terms with the…bad boys right now, and he doubts that they want to turn a few more people against them- especially as he’s pretty certain they're actually the only people tolerating them right now. He has not missed the way both Tango and Impulse have been staring at them from their base for ten solid minutes now. He doesn't think either of the bad boys have noticed yet, so he doesn't point it out.

“I can kick you off this island right now,” he points out. He takes a step forward, considering how much trouble he would land him and Martyn in if he shoved Joel into the water- the man is practically asking for it, okay! He’s stood right by the edge, staring at him over his dumb sunglasses; he’s basically asking for a dip! “Watch yourself, bad boy.”

“Now, now, Scott,” Martyn pats him on the shoulder. “There’s no need to tease them over their name.”

Scott knows that’s a lie, even without turning to Martyn and seeing the amusement twinkling in his eyes. His eyes are the only giveaway, and it really is a good thing that Scott is good at keeping secrets- good at not spilling everything just for his own amusement, because he can remember several of the iterations of the bad boys’ name that Martyn came up with last night.

“There’s nothing to mock about our name.” Joel crosses his arms, leaving his sunglasses hanging onto his face, just barely. Jimmy nods behind him, sunglasses glinting in the sunlight. “We’re the bad boys.”

Scott is also impressed that all three of them are able to say the name without breaking. Personally, if he had a name like that he would laugh every time he was forced to say it. But each to their own, he supposes.

“Yeah.” Jimmy chimes in. He’s like…the world’s most un-threatening bodyguard. His wings are all puffed up behind him, though it does little to hide how small they are. “We’re not for laughing at.”

“And you two are still green,” Joel points out. “How many hours do you even have?”

Scott should have seen this coming, really, should have seen how easily this conversation could have turned in a bad direction. He should have known that Martyn would open his mouth, and, with all his usual cheeriness that is actually endearing on a normal day, would ruin it all.

“Oh, I haven't got nearly as many hours as Scott has.”

He doesn't give himself whiplash turning to glare at Martyn, but it’s a near thing. He attempts to telepathically communicate to Martyn that he should be shutting the hell up right now. Martyn obviously doesn't hear him, because he opens his mouth again. Scott can hear Joel giggling, obviously finding something absolutely hilarious.

“Oh, really?” Joel asks, still giggling. It sounds like he’s hiccuping when he tries to smother them a moment later.

“Yeah, yeah,” Martyn nods, “he’s got like-”

Scott doesn't think. Scott likes to tell himself that he thinks all of his actions through, likes to boast that every plan he’s successfully pulled off has been because of extensive planning, rather than just luck of the draw. Scott is also a filthy liar- because he hardly ever thinks his actions through, and when he does, it’s normally for no more than a few minutes. Thinking any longer than that would put him off of whatever idea he’s had, and normally he only has a few moments to enact it anyway.

He grabs Martyn’s face with his hand, pulling the other man around to face him. Martyn allows himself to be pulled, words trailing off as he meets Scott’s eyes. Martyn smiles at him then, a little nervously, as though just realising that he might have, just maybe, said a little bit more than he meant to.

“You have something on your face, dear.” Scott says. His brain is running on nothing- it’s sprinting away from him, he thinks, actually. He doesn't pause in his actions though, he’s far too deep to back out now- and his mother didn't raise no bitch. His mother raised someone that saw things through, no matter how ridiculous or convoluted they got. And by god he is not going to let this moment be the one that ruins that for him.

He swipes his thumb over Martyn’s face, watching the way Martyn’s eyes widen. The edge of his thumb brushes against Martyn’s lips- they're close enough now that he could very easily close the distance between them and kiss him. Martyn’s eyes are very obviously asking for it, even as red rises on his cheeks. Scott grins down at him, allowing his touch to linger for a moment before pulling back.

He turns back to Joel and Jimmy. Joel’s sunglasses are moments away from slipping off his nose, and his eyes are rather wide, flicking between him and Martyn. He smiles at them, tilting his head slightly to the side.

“I thought you two were just leaving?” He says.

“I- yeah, yes!” Joel takes a step back, hand reaching out for Jimmy’s arm. “Uh, yeah, we’re just going now! Don't worry, we won't stick around, uh- sorry for intruding?” It’s not often that someone manages to render Joel speechless, so Scott allows himself to enjoy the moment, watching the two bad boys practically sprint back to the mainland, away from their little island.

When he glances over at the TIES base as well, both Tango and Impulse are missing from the tower, no longer watching.

“That was easier than expected.” He muses, watching as the flash of yellow that is Jimmy’s wings disappears into the shadowed forest. “I thought I would actually have to kiss you to make them leave.”

He glances over at Martyn from the corner of his eye, still grinning. Martyn is standing in the position Scott left him, the only difference is that his eyes are now cast to the ground, though they are still wide and staring, and one of his hands is pressed to his cheek.

Scott leaves him there, pushing through the gate and into their small storage area. He had just returned from a small material gathering trip before Jimmy and Joel decided to make an appearance and his bag is still laden down with several different materials.

He occupies himself with putting them away, sorting them neatly so they don't have to rifle through the chests to find whatever it is that they want. Unorganised chest systems are just so inefficient, really. And the time he takes while sorting out the various items gives Martyn just a little bit longer to regain his wits and scrape together whatever shreds of his dignity he has left.

His ears pick up the soft sound of creaking wood, no doubt Martyn is attempting to be as quiet as possible and failing rather unfortunately as he fails to take Scott’s better than average hearing into account.

Scott keeps his back turned to Martyn. Perhaps he should allow him this small win, after embarrassing him in front of both Joel and Jimmy so thoroughly. He hasn't checked his comm recently, but it has been vibrating. And Joel is much worse at keeping secrets than even Martyn, so it’s probably all over the server by now.

Good. Maybe people will stop bothering them now.

Scott turns only when Martyn is directly behind him, leaning back on the chest and grinning up at Martyn. Martyn grins back at him, though it is a little sharper than usual. “You're just going to leave me like that?” Martyn asks, leaning a little closer. Scott can feel his breath on his face. The scales around his eyes are just that little bit more sensitive to it, and he shivers.

“Like what?” He asks. “Standing around, like a gaping, lovesick fool?”

Martyn laughs, eyes squinting shut as he drops his head, shoulders shaking. Scott smiles at him, leaning a little further forward, pressing the both of them a little closer together. Martyn stops laughing a moment later, looking up. His eyes widen as he realises how close they've become.

Martyn’s eyes drift down, to his lips, and Scott grins. “See something you like?” He asks, even though he feels a bit breathless, a bit giddy with anticipation. Martyn’s eyes flick back up to his own, the green almost startling with how bright it is.

Scott stands from the chest, pulling himself up. He steps forward, and Martyn steps back, still grinning. He matches him, step for step, until Martyn’s back hits the wall on the other side of the small room.

He’s grinning, can feel it, and Martyn is grinning too- he can see it, a grin that teases him with a challenge that only his eyes can communicate. He presses Martyn up against the wall, one hand flat against his chest, and he leans in.

Martyn kisses him back eagerly, pressing forward, hands coming up, searching, clinging, pulling at his hair as they tangle themselves into it. Scott allows himself to be pulled forward- to be drawn deeper into the kiss, even as his lungs begin to burn. He doesn't mind, he finds he enjoys the burn.

Martyn pulls back first, lips red as he stares at him, eyes flicking down to Scott’s lips first, then back up to his eyes. One of his hands is still tangled in Scott’s hair, the other one cupped around his neck, keeping him close.

Scott finds himself panting, just slightly, leaning forward to press their heads together, grinning down at Martyn as they both regain their breath. Martyn doesn't say a word, simply staring at Scott, his eyes a little wider than normal and slightly hazed over.

Scott laughs, and Martyn’s eyes narrow a little. “You look better when you're quiet,” he teases. He can feel Martyn’s breaths, the way the heat spreads over his face, the rise and fall of his chest against his own. They're pressed close enough together that they could be one person.

“I guess you better keep me quiet then.” Martyn gasps out, still slightly out of breath.

Scott doesn't need any more permission than that, pressing in again, leaning closer, further in. His hands dig into Martyn’s hips- he can feel the way the other almost shudders against him at the action. He grins into the kiss, feels the way Martyn grumbles- can feel it vibrate through his chest as Martyn’s grip tightens on his hair, threatening to actually pull some of it out.

Martyn bites him a moment later.

He gasps into the kiss, eyes opening as he stares at Martyn. Martyn looks back at him, eyes heavy-lidded as he leans in again. The hand on the back of his neck slides around to cup his jaw, pulling him closer and keeping him there.

Martyn’s tongue swipes over the bite mark, soothing it slightly, before he presses himself deeper into the kiss again, stealing all the oxygen in Scott’s lungs. It’s almost enough to make him weak in the knees, and he grips at Martyn a little tighter, fingers digging into his hipbones as he clings on.

They only separate again when Scott feels as though he’s on the verge of passing out, spots dancing in his vision as he works on regaining his breath.

Martyn huffs out a little laugh, too out of breath to do anything more.

Both of them lean against each other, Martyn’s arms looped around his neck, breath ghosting over Scott’s collarbones.

“I think one of the TIES guys was watching us.” Martyn says, completely ruining the moment.

Scott groans, dropping his head to Martyn’s shoulder. “I liked it better when you weren't talking.”

#shoutout to that one anon i keep getting that really hates majorwood! this is for you!! #asks #wren-pineapples #juno.writes #limited life smp #scott smajor #inthelittlewood #martyn inthelittlewood #majorwood #coral kids #mean gills #trafficshipping #traffic series #traffic smp #trafficverse #trafficblr #limited life scott #limited life martyn #limited life mean gills #mer scott (and fishfucker martyn) #trafficfic

[scribbling-dragon]

i hunt for you (with bloodied feet across the hallowed ground)

summary:

The point of the sword presses to his chest, not even hard enough to break the skin. It shakes, wavering in the water as the shouts behind them turn distinctly louder- the splashing growing closer.

(ao3 link)

(2,816 words)

The explosion rings in his ears. White noise buzzing as he backs, step over step, one foot behind the other, towards the edge of the island.

He can feel the sugar cane at his back, can barely hear the rushing of the waves over the buzzing in his head- the ringing of his ears. He swallows, and it’s thick in his throat, breath coming short and fast with anxiety as the yellows stalk closer.

It had been coming- it had always been coming, but he didn't think it would be like this. Couldn't be like this- he thought it would be somewhere else, not cornered in his own, half-destroyed home as they advance on him like predators after a weakened creature.

The water laps at his ankles, spilling over the edge of the island and onto his bare feet.

He hardly even has to think about it. He considers it, one second no longer because if he thinks any longer he’ll probably back down and back away and then it would be truly over- because then they could just kill him. And they're going to do it, Grian has that look in his eye, that glint and shimmer that he only ever gets when his gazes are set on his target- when he’s honing in on his next victim.

He hardly has to think about it.

He turns and dives, shoving through the bamboo, ignoring how it cuts and scrapes at his skin. He ignores the shouts behind him, overwhelmed first by the ringing in his ears - the ringing of the explosion and destruction of his home - and then by the crashing of the waves and the silence of the water that swallows him.

He didn't want it to be like this. For the yellows to dive in after him only to find him changed. He sees them pause, for a moment- a split second as they consider him and eye him up and weigh up the chances of them catching him; but it’s barely a moment and he is watching them too. Watching for any reaction beyond the bloodlust and the greed for more time- time that will only get them hurt, nothing good ever comes of having more time. Maybe the extra time is a punishment itself.

And then the water splashes, fizzling with bubbles as they charge after him. He darts away, but he feels sluggish and tired, his ears still ringing, barely able to hear the frenzied splashing and shouting behind him as they start to encircle him.

And he’s tired.

He’s so incredibly tired. Everything aches. His bones feel leaden and weighed down where normally he would feel light as a feather, swift as he darts amongst the coral.

He scrapes his tail against a branch of coral, flinching away from it with a startled hiss as it draws blood. Blood that seeps into the water- bright red against a deep blue- crystalline blue.

They know where he is. There isn't anywhere for him to go. Nowhere to escape to and nowhere he would want to escape to. To escape would only delay the inevitable, would leave him free to be hunted like a common animal until his timer ticks down far enough that they view him as friend rather than foe- if only for a little while longer.

(And even that isn't enough to stop everyone. To turn on your friends is easy, as though it is second nature to smile at them as they face you, then drive a knife through their back- through their heart the moment they trust you enough to turn away.)

He turns, snarling as one of them gets close enough to make a grab for him. Their hand bounces easily off his scales as he turns, lunging towards them like a viper from its den. They pinwheel their arms, legs kicking uselessly as they flounder backwards.

He can't see who it is- eyes blurred by saltwater and panic and the overwhelming need to get away- run until they can't find you anymore, hide until there is nothing left to be found.

He grins, a mean and sharp grin as the yellows chasing him give him a wider berth- they eye him warily, watching carefully as though they are only just realising that they have caged in a wild animal. As though they've only just processed that caging him in, caging themselves in with him, has only made them easier targets. That they have stepped foot into territory that is not theirs- land that they cannot navigate with ease, and their regrets are only just beginning to surface.

He lunges forwards again, lips pulled back in the beginnings of another snarl, teeth flashing-

Something- someone catches him on the arm. Draws blood that spills easily into the water around them, snaking upwards, towards the sky.

And like sharks sensing blood in the water, so do the yellows sniff out the weakness. He is tiring, quickly and easily, movements slow and jerky, though it was enough to keep them away- keep them at bay for now.

They push forward, ignoring the way he snarls at them, the way he swipes and claws at them- his sword is gone, lost somewhere amongst the rubble of his home. He hadn't stopped to dig for it, his heart had already been rabbiting in his chest, head wailing and ringing, both from the explosion and with warning. Aware that their sights would turn to him before long.

He swims further from the island, backing himself up further and further, towards the mainland. Away from the deep ocean that could aid him if he was just a little bit faster- a little bit more energetic. He could do it, if he weren't so exhausted. If he hadn't been chased across the entirety of the land and back again.

But his bones ache. Everything hurts and he’s tired, but he agreed- he made a pact, promise this life, his time to another person if it came down to this. And it has. It has descended to the levels he thought were only a worst case scenario.

He crams himself further into the corner he’s found, watching the searching yellows with wary eyes. He tracks them, watches as they push from the seafloor, shooting back towards the surface to gasp in great lungfuls of air before sinking back down, resuming their searches.

His gills flutter, heart slamming against his ribs hard enough to bruise. He feels almost breathless from it- light-headed as he attempts to slow his heart, one hand pressed to his chest.

Something - a hand - ghosts across his scales. The touch is so light that he can barely feel it, would barely feel it normally. He turns to them with a snarl ready in his throat, threatening to bubble over.

Martyn stares back at him.

His eyes are wide, pupils so dilated that he can hardly see the yellow of his iris- a thin ring around his pupils as he stares at Scott. Martyn’s wrist is held in his grip, tight enough that Scott can feel the pulse thrumming through him, thundering in time with his own heart.

The moments tick down slightly, bubbles escaping Martyn’s nose and mouth. He can feel the shifting of bones beneath his skin, where his hand wraps around Martyn’s wrist- can feel the warmth of his flesh, can feel how easy it would be to snap his wrist and escape. To run and not look back, to keep running until no-one chases him anymore. Until he is free to return, the seconds remaining showing that he is friend and not foe.

He releases Martyn’s wrist.

Martyn draws his hand back, his own hand ghosting over where his sword rests, tucked against his side. His clothes billow about him in the water, being tugged first one way then the other by the tide. The question in Martyn’s eyes is clear, even as his eyes remain wide and worried.

The yellows behind continue searching. They have not turned their gazes upwards, but it won't be long until they do. And then they will see Martyn- but they won't see Martyn, they will simply see an obstacle to their grab at more time- their chance of clawing back a few precious moments.

Martyn’s hand continues to hover. There is no decision there, only question and sorrow in his eyes.

Scott seizes his wrist and Martyn tenses. He can feel the shifting of muscles beneath his hand, though Martyn does not move to wriggle himself free. Scott guides his hand downwards, positioning his fingers until he wraps them around the hilt of his blade. He does not look at Martyn’s face- cannot bring himself to look into his eyes as he asks him to do the unaskable.

The sword doesn't even make a sound as they pull it free from where it sits, snug and comfortable against Martyn’s side, nestled safely in its scabbard. The water muffles the shing of metal as it breaks free. It moves slow and steady through the water.

Martyn’s hands tremble, eyes wide as he looks back up at Scott. His pupils are no longer dilated, revealing the bright yellow of his eyes as he looks up at Scott, watching him carefully, anxiously. Something flickers behind those eyes, some memory that shimmers, just below the surface, before disappearing once more. Like an elusive fish.

His hand slips from Martyn’s wrist, leaving him holding his sword by himself, with his own two hands. He slips the hand to Martyn’s waist, tugging him closer, pulling them until they are pressed against each other, their faces inches apart, water filling the gaps between them.

He presses his other hand flat to Martyn’s chest, fingers splayed. He can feel the thumping of Martyn’s heart, like a panicked bird trying to escape the cage- to burst free from his ribcage and continue beating in the palm of Scott’s hand. His own heart feels as though it is about to do the same.

The point of the sword presses to his chest, not even hard enough to break the skin. It shakes, wavering in the water as the shouts behind them turn distinctly louder- the splashing growing closer.

Martyn tries to turn his head but Scott grabs the back of his neck before he can, holding him in place. He holds him carefully, pressing their foreheads together.

No words are exchanged, no words need to be exchanged.

Martyn watches him, and Scott watches him back. He doesn't blink, doesn't waver in the face of Marytn’s questioning. The splashing grows closer, the cacophony filling his ears- he wouldn't be able to hear any parting words even if they were spoken. He grips Martyn’s wrist, holds the sword steady as it continues to shake and scrape over his skin, not quite able to commit to burying itself within his chest.

He drives it forward, watches the blood blossom in the water around them, twining between them.

Martyn’s mouth opens in a soundless gasp, bubbles drifting towards the surface. Yells surround them, the yellows giving up on the hunt as they realise they have been beaten.

He ignores the pain that flashes through his body as he drifts slightly closer to Martyn, ghosts his lips over Martyn’s in both apology and farewell. He doesn't miss the hitch in Martyn’s chest, even with the fire flooding his own.

He watches Martyn until he cannot watch him any longer.

And then he is stood in water. Inky darkness surrounds him on all sides, stretching on for possibly forever. His hair drifts about his face, as though he still beneath water, yet when he opens his mouth it is air that floods it instead.

The air smells of iron.

The water laps at his ankles, but it does not rise higher. The darkness does not recede, leaving him stood in the darkness. He does not move- They have him exactly where They want him and he does not intend to move before Their judgement has been exacted.

The water laps at his ankles, splashing over his feet. It is cold, chilling his bones. His heart throbs in his chest, tearing itself apart before stitching itself back together- only to repeat the motion once more, tearing itself over and over again, every single time it attempts to beat.

The water laps at his knees. And it is rising now, where it did not rise before. Still, he does not move. He refuses to bow in Their presence, will not lower his head in deference when They cannot even bring Themselves to utter words in his presence.

They have spoken to the others. He has heard his servermates speaking of the way They spoke, the way Their voices echo every and nowhere at once- reverberating through the mind. And yet They do not speak to him, do not grace him with the sound of Their voices.

He refuses to bow in the face of Their silence.

The water presses down on his chest, compressing his lungs. The water has not been his foe for so long that it is hard to forget that it seeks to drown- to consume everything in its entirety. It eats away at land, eager to reach the living creatures that stand upon it so it may devour them too.

The water brushes over his lips, and he opens his mouth, allowing it to rush in, to fill his lungs. He does not choke or splutter. He will not give Them the satisfaction. He will play Their games, and he will play them on his terms, or he will not play them at all.

He blinks his eyes open. His lashes are crusted with salt and his skin feels tacky from seawater.

His heart throbs in his chest as he sits up, beating uncomfortably fast- uncomfortably hard as he glances around himself. Then down.

His hands are clawed- scales dot his arms and cover the backs of his hands. They shimmer beneath the light as he turns them back and forth. He is…not as surprised as he should probably be.

The scales had been a cruel joke from the start- a weakness where no-one else has one. He’s certain it was some kind of punishment from Them, and it seems their punishment has progressed to the next stage already.

He feels off-kilter, head throbbing still, wounds barely healed over. His chest aches.

“Scott!”

Martyn bursts onto the island, head swivelling back and forth until he finds him, eyes landing on where he lies. Those same eyes widen, yellow glinting in the light- yellow eyes that Scott now shares.

“Scott,” Martyn drops down beside him, words hardly above a whisper, as though spoken on an exhale. “I- I'm sorry, I didn't know what else to do and you said we should do it like that but then in the moment I wasn't sure whether I should still do it. And then you did it for me, and I don't want your blood on my hands. Not again, I can't do this again-”

“It’s alright.” He cups Martyn’s jaw with a careful hand, aware of the way his claws scrape along the sensitive skin there. Martyn shudders at the contact, falling silent, eyes dropping. “I asked you to.”

“But I still killed you,” Martyn protests, eyes wide again, leaning backwards and away from his hand.

“And if it hadn't been you it would have been someone else.” He chases after Martyn, leaning forward and out of the bed. He catches Martyn’s face again before he can retreat too far- before he can pull away entirely and leave him here, alone. “I am glad it was you. I would not want it to be anyone other than you.”

“But Cleo-”

“Was a favour for a friend.” He says. Martyn leans into his hold, skin warm against his hands. His hands are cold, leeching the warmth from Martyn’s skin, and yet he continues to lean into him without hesitation. “You are more than my friend, Martyn. I would have hoped you knew that by now,” he pauses to laugh, “it’s not just any friend that I-”

“Alright!” Martyn cuts him off, hand grabbing at his wrist. He almost expects Martyn to pull his hand away, but he doesn't, simply holding onto him. “Alright, I- I get it.”

Scott hums, low and in the back of his throat as he considers Martyn. He can feel the pulse in Martyn’s neck, can feel the way it has been slowly picking up throughout their whole conversation. “I don't think you do,” he hums, voice low. “Perhaps you need a reminder?”

Martyn runs a considering hand up his arm, fingers trailing carefully over the scales that dot his skin now. He does not seem to be put off by their presence, instead regarding them with something similar to reverence.

“Perhaps I do.”

#mer scott (+ fishfucker martyn) #juno.writes #majorwood #scott smajor #inthelittlewood #limited life smp #limited life scott #limited life martyn #mean gills #coral kids #trafficshipping #trafficblr #traffic smp #traffic series #limited life smp fic #limited life shipping #martyn inthelittlewood #trafficfic

[scribbling-dragon]

if you could only see (the beast you've made of me)

summary:

He surfaces, spluttering and hair dripping in front of his face, water cascading down and over his face, blinding him further. He swipes his hair backwards, dragging a hand through his hair as he glances around. His sword weighs heavy in his hand, threatening to drag him back under if he allows his thoughts to linger on it for too long.

“No!” He hears Joel cry behind him, far closer than Martyn thought he would be. He spins in the water, sword still heavy, still threatening to drag him into the depths as he kicks backwards a few paces.

(ao3 link)

(3,697 words)

[just a quick warning for violence! about 2k words of this is a fight scene between martyn, grian and joel!]

Arrows plunge past his ears, shooting through the water. But they're too slow to reach their target before Martyn does. He reaches out, hands catching on fabric before they close and he’s dragging Tango closer, even as the man thrashes and tries to escape.

It’s nothing personal, and he hopes his face communicates that well enough before he buries his sword in Tango’s stomach. It slides in horrifyingly easily, that distinct wet sound of metal burying itself in flesh, distorted by the water rushing around his ears and his heart thudding in his ears.

Tango’s eyes are wide as he glances up at him, pupils flickering back and forth. They're slitted, barely visible in the yellow of his sclera.

Martyn feels breathless, the water pressing claustrophobically close as the image of Tango wavers, flickering to a shimmering of scales and green eyes that watch him with the same fear. He wrenches his sword backwards, the sound of flesh tearing making him almost feel sick- he can feel his heart pulsing in his throat and he desperately tries to swallow it back down.

The blood blossoms in the water around them. The saltwater blurs his vision, warps it until he sees the flicker of light on scales again- he knows, he knows, that Scott is nowhere near here, that it is not his stomach that Martyn’s sword has just wrenched itself free from.

He can taste the iron tang of blood in his mouth.

He surfaces, spluttering and hair dripping in front of his face, water cascading down and over his face, blinding him further. He swipes his hair backwards, dragging a hand through his hair as he glances around. His sword weighs heavy in his hand, threatening to drag him back under if he allows his thoughts to linger on it for too long.

“No!” He hears Joel cry behind him, far closer than Martyn thought he would be. He spins in the water, sword still heavy, still threatening to drag him into the depths as he kicks backwards a few paces; he is uncoordinated in the water, nothing like his partner, who slips through the water as though he was made for it- and really, he was made for it.

“He sniped you!” Grian cries. His glasses are slipping from where they're perched on his head, and really it’s a miracle that they're actually on his head at all right now. He looks soaked through, jumper a deeper, darker red than it usually is. His wings are sodden too, and he looks, quite frankly, miserable.

Joel also looks insanely pissed.

He backpedals a little further, laughing. “Man, it was nothing personal I swear! I just saw the opportunity and grabbed it!”

“Goodness sake,” Joel mutters, but he’s still watching Martyn. His eyes are red, flashing beneath the sun as they continue to swim forward and Martyn continues to swim backwards, remaining carefully out of reach. He fumbles through his pockets for anything that might be able to help him- something that could lend him an easy escape from here.

He comes up empty just as his back bumps against something solid, sand shifting beneath his feet as he finds his footing.

He scrambles backwards, shirt hanging open and untucked from his belt as he pulls himself from the water. It cascades off of him in waves, fabric sticking to his wet skin as he backs up several more paces, watching as Grian and Joel splash in the shallows. Both of their eyes are fixed on him, shining a deep crimson.

He swallows, looking around for anything that might help him. He has nothing but the clothes on his back and the sword in his hand. It weighs heavy. Heavier than his sodden clothes; a reminder, of what this sword has been used to do.

He swings it in front of him, a mixture of water and blood flying off the end.

Grian pauses for a split second, eyes considering as he looks Martyn up and down. He pauses, ahead of Joel and barely pulling himself from the water. But he doesn't hesitate for longer than a moment, to hesitate is to admit weakness, and to admit weakness is to admit defeat.

His hand shakes as he brings it to join his other hand on the hilt of his sword, hoping that holding it with both hands will stop it from shaking so much. The diamond of his sword glints, the blue of Scott’s scales when the light hits him just right and he aims that smile at Martyn-

And the red coats the blade, dripping off of it in a cascade of red- a gushing river of blood. The same blood that had filled the water around him and Scott. The same blood he had drawn from Scott, pulled from his chest with his own sword and his own hand- the same blood he had spilled at a single insistence of his ally.

“Fellas,” he laughs, but even he can hear that it’s nervous, “c’mon. I'm sure this is just a misunderstanding, yeah? You don't wanna kill me.”

“I think I do,” Joel doesn't even hesitate, doesn't evaluate him like Grian did. His hands are empty one moment, then he’s pulling his axe loose, the blade flashing through the air.

He raises his sword to meet it, blades clashing, metal clanging as he shoves it backwards. His heart thunders, beating an uneven tempo in his chest. He lunges forwards, swiping at Joel, aiming for the chest- for anything.

Joel doesn't dodge back. He welcomes it with a grin, twirling his axe in his hands before he lunges forward again. He has that look in his eyes- that shining that Martyn has grown to fear- the shine of his eyes that promise nothing but violence and death. When he looks at Grian, the shine in his eyes communicates the same thing.

He hisses as something hits him in the shoulder, arm jerking back. Grian’s crossbow is raised, aimed squarely at him. He gasps out a breath, heart shuddering- if he hadn't moved, if he hadn't ducked beneath Joel’s axe that would have hit his head rather than his shoulder.

He shoves his blade forward. Joel springs backwards with a laugh and a giggle, barely landing before he’s pushing forward again. He’s as relentless as a dog with a bone, chasing after it with a tenacity that many a wolf probably envy him for. 

Martyn can't see a way he’s getting out of this- not a single way where he escapes this without Joel or Grian claiming his life and spilling his blood onto the sand beneath them.

He pivots as Joel swings his axe down, slipping out of the way. It crashes to the sand, sending the grains flying into the air. Martyn slams a foot square between Joel’s shoulder blades. Watches as he crashes into the ground, mouth filling with sand as he lets out a choked-off shout.

He shoves his foot down a little harder, pushing most of his weight onto Joel’s back. He ignores the creaking of bones, bones threatening to snap beneath his weight as he pushes Joel further into the sand. He raises his other foot - he wobbles as Joel’s back shifts beneath his other foot - then slams his heel back down onto Joel’s hand.

He releases his axe with a howl of pain, rolling onto his back and snatching at Martyn’s leg, dragging him to the sand beside him. Hands claw at his arms- at his face- at his chest, scratching at every bit of exposed skin they can reach, curling into his flesh and ripping.

He snarls something that could be words but could also just be him voicing his anger and desperation. He didn't want to attack them, hadn't left their island with the thoughts of violence swimming in his mind.

Joel glares up at him, eyes dark from how far his pupils have dilated. His teeth are bared in the beginnings of a snarl, words spilling forth from his throat.

Martyn punches him.

Hands grab at his shoulders, hauling him away from Joel, dragging him backwards over the sand. He twists in Grian’s grip, breaking himself loose and turning on Grian, sand spraying out from beneath his boots as he lunges forward.

They tumble across the sand, rolling over as Martyn struggles to pin Grian. He wriggles too much to be properly caught, slippery like a fish as he breaks loose from Martyn’s hold several times, only for Martyn to snag a hand or a leg or a foot or a wing to drag him back towards him.

He grabs Grian by the shoulders, hands curling into the leather of his jacket until he can feel bones beneath his hands. Grian stills, breath leaving him in heavy, uneven pants as he stares up at him. His eyes still shine with that bloodlust, red shining even in the shadow Martyn casts over him. 

Martyn shoves him further into the sand, holding him tight enough to bruise. Tight enough to break bones, if he wanted to.

“Did you think I couldn't hear you?” He asks. His own chest heaves, breathless. “Couldn't hear your next plan, your next idea?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

Martyn can hear the sand shifting behind him. Can hear the way Joel staggers to his feet; his gait is uneven as he can hear the whistling of his breath- maybe he broke his nose. Martyn doesn't know. He finds he doesn't care.

“Scott.” He digs a knee into the centre of Grian’s chest, listens to the way the avian’s breath leaves him in a wheeze. “You were going to kill him next, weren't you?”

“So what if we were?” Joel laughs behind him. Martyn ducks and rolls to the side, releasing Grian, listens as the air above his head is disturbed- an axe barely passing over him. It can't have missed him by more than a hair. “He’s going to die eventually- going to turn red. It’s gonna happen, and I want the time from him.”

Martyn staggers to his feet. His arms are red and bloody from where Joel had scratched at him. They sting as he grips his sword again, holding it in front of himself, warning them backwards.

“Unless,” Grian grins at him, eyes shining with glee. “Unless you're planning on doing it yourself.”

“Again.” Joel adds.

Martyn flinches back at their words but he keeps his sword steady, no matter how fast his heart is racing or how sick he feels at the reminder. “You don't know what you're talking about.”

“Oh, I think I do,” Grian croons, grin crooked. “You killed him, on his orders, and yet you can't seem to get over it. And yet you continue to prowl around your island, watching for anyone that might try and kill him; someone that might target him before you can do it yourself.”

“That’s not true.”

He knows it isn't true. Scott has the largest target painted on his back right now, everyone on the server has their eyes pinned on him, waiting for a moment of weakness where they can secure themselves a measly thirty minutes more.

“Then what?” Joel steps forward. He’s favouring his right hand, the hand Martyn probably broke. He feels a grim sense of satisfaction at that. “You're just out here, acting like his rabid dog out of nothing but a sense of duty.”

He swallows. His heart throbs in his throat and he feels sick. Feels as though he can barely speak around it.

His hands are tacky with blood that isn't his own. Joel has blood running over his lip and down his chin from where Martyn punched him. His hands feel tacky, coated in blood that doesn't belong to him.

“You are!” Grian sounds positively delighted at this revelation, grinning at Joel for a moment before looking back at him. His eyes flash with something more than a promise of violence now- curiosity and glee swim together in the red of his eyes. “Oh, but I should have expected this, you do have a reputation to uphold.”

“This isn't the same.” He protests. It sounds weak to his own ears. They all know it’s a lie, and the scoff Joel lets out tells him that. He feels sick. “It’s not.”

“Of course,” Grian’s smile is overly sweet as he nods. “Tell me, if only to feed my own curiosity, who do you see when you look at Scott? Do you see a man- a fish with blue hair and shimmering scales? Or do you see a man in a crown? Swathed in red and dripping with it?”

“You don't know what you're talking about.” He breathes, eyes flicking back and forth between them. Grian is still moving slowly, his wings weighing him down and his jumper stiff and uncomfortable with the salt drying into it. Joel favours his left side, arm hanging awkwardly at his side.

He lunges, disregarding whatever it was that Grian was saying. He stabs at Joel with little care of whether he gets stabbed in return. But he seems to have taken them by surprise, Grian stumbling backwards and Joel letting out a pained yell as his sword glances over his side, slicing through his jacket and drawing blood.

The smell of blood hangs heavy in the air, heavy enough for him to taste it.

He ducks below the axe Joel swings at him, grinning as Joel swings too far, unused to holding it with only one hand and overbalances himself. Martyn drags a foot in front of Joel, tripping him and sending him to the ground.

He kicks him before he can stand, hauling him upright and pressing an arm over his throat, tightening it just enough to squeeze. He holds his sword in front of Joel’s throat, presses it hard enough to the skin that it splits, bleeding sluggishly.

Joel stills in his arms, though he can feel the thundering of his heart from how closely they're pressed. Grian pauses too, eyes wide and darting between him and Joel. His sunglasses are missing, disappeared at some point during the fight. He can see the crushed remains of Joel’s sunglasses behind him.

“I'm going to give you two options, fellas,” he grins, feels the way it pulls at the drying blood on his face- he doesn't know its source and doesn't care enough to think about it. “You're going to go on your merry way and we all get to live, or I slit Joel’s throat right here and leave you to pick up the pieces.”

Grian doesn't move. His eyes have lost their shine, leaving them dull and empty. He looks panicked, feathers only just beginning to fluff up as he’s caught by his own indecision.

“Clock’s ticking.” He tightens his grip on Joel’s throat, feels the way Joel helplessly claws at his arms. He ignores the stinging sensation, levelling a glare at Grian. “I know you don't have much time left, how quickly will your alliance fall apart when the first of you falls?”

Grian hesitates for another moment before he looks away, sucking in a sharp breath.

“We’ll go,” he says, refusing to look at Martyn. “We’ll leave you and Scott alone.”

“Will you?”

“Yes.” Grian grits out.

He releases Joel without another word, pushes him towards Grian. Both of them stare back at him like hunted animals, eyes wide with something that’s not quite fear, but isn't very far from it.

But Grian could never resist stoking the fire a little higher. “We don't need to do anything, you’ll kill him yourself.”

They're gone before he can even think of a retort, purple particles fluttering around where they were just a moment before.

He stumbles on his first step, feet uncooperative as he begins to make his way back to the Coral Isles. He takes the path, unsure that he could summon enough energy to make the swim, even if it would be quicker. He’d drown before he reached the island, he’s certain of it.

The door creaks as he opens it, peeking around the corner to see if Scott is there. He has blood soaked into most of his clothing, some of it his own some of it not, and he doesn't really want to face Scott looking like this- looking like the murderous red that everyone expects him to be.

Scott’s eyes find him immediately.

“Martyn,” he breathes out, barely above a whisper, eyes wide. Martyn hears him anyway, freezing in the doorway. The doorway that they don't actually need but one that he continues to entertain anyway, because Scott likes it and finds it funny when people knock on it before they enter.

“Scott,” he greets with a smile and a nod, slipping the rest of the way through the door. He shuts it behind himself with a click. “Hope you didn't miss me too much, tried not to be gone too long-”

“What happened?”

“Little scuffle,” he shrugs, ignoring the way it makes his ribs spark in pain. “Nothing I couldn't handle.”

Scott hurries over to him anyway, hands hovering anxiously around his shoulders, fingers fluttering before he sets them down. His touch is so incredibly gentle that Martyn finds himself swaying forward, swaying into the touch. Scott’s hands are blessedly cool against his skin, soothing over the worst of the aches and pains.

“This isn't what happens in a little scuffle,” Scott says, pulling back and placing him at arm's length to look over him.

His eyes shine beneath the sun, turning a molten gold as he looks over him. Only a thin ring of it is visible, the black of his pupils swallowing the gold as they dilate. His eyes are dark as he looks back up at Martyn, staring at him. He realises, after a moment, that he’s waiting for a response.

“I'm fine,” he says, only half-heartedly trying to pry himself from Scott’s grip. “Really.”

“No, you are not.” Scott’s voice is firm. It invites no argument.

His eyes crinkle around the edges, causing the scales dotted there to shift and catch the light, shimmering a beautiful blue. Martyn’s head feels clouded, brain only able to focus on how Scott’s scales reflect and refract the light until the man looks more stunning than he usually does.

“I appreciate the compliment, dear, but I'm more worried about the blood on you.”

“It’s not mine.” He pauses, and frowns, correcting, “Well, not all of it’s mine.”

“That doesn't make it any better,” Scott stresses, nudging him forwards. “Here, sit.”

Martyn sits. Grian’s words flash to the front of his mind at his easy compliance- rabid dog. He doesn't move, even though he considers it for a moment, just to be contrary. Scott disappears, winding between their chests. His tail flicks behind him- something new, since he turned yellow.

Martyn hadn't questioned it and Scott hadn't given him an explanation. Martyn doesn't think he has one. He simply woke up fishier than he died and it’d stuck. And his scales are really quite pretty, and Martyn had almost been sad whenever he didn't get to see them- Scott hardly entered the water for fear of making himself vulnerable, so Martyn only caught glimpses of him every now and then.

But now…he watches Scott shamelessly, admires the flicking of his fin-ears and the way the sunlight filters through the delicate membranes. They almost seem to glow with the light, giving him an odd little half-halo ringing the sides of his head.

Scott turns back to face him, a cloth clutched in one hand and a bowl held in the other.

Martyn blinks and Scott is kneeling in front of him. He laughs a little, brain working to try and come up with some kind of joke. Nothing comes to mind, brain working a little too slowly to provide him with a quip, but Scott smiles anyway, ducking his head.

He should probably be a little more worried by how his brain lags several heartbeats behind everything else. But Scott is sitting in front of him- beautiful, distracting Scott. And he finds his thoughts occupied with other, more important things. Like Scott.

One of Scott’s hands comes up to cup his face, the tips of his claws just barely brushing over his skin and causing him to shiver. He leans into the touch, closing his eyes at the first brush of the cloth over his skin.

“Where did all this blood come from?” Scott asks.

“I killed Tango.” He says. “And then Joel and Grian chased me- I stole the kill from them, I think. And they didn't like that.”

“So they attacked you?”

“Yeah,” he nods slowly. “Red-on-red violence is unusual this early on, but not unheard of.”

“I suppose not.” Scott brushes a thumb across his cheekbone and he leans a little further into the touch.

“I think I broke Joel’s nose.”

Scott snorts, still cradling his face even as he moves onto wiping down his arms. The cool cloth feels so incredibly good against the stinging of the scrapes. “I'm sure he was pleased about that.”

“Yeah,” he laughs, wincing a little as it jostles his chest. “I think I've bruised my ribs.”

“I’ll have a look in a minute.” Scott promises him. He opens his eyes, watching as Scott cleans the cuts on his arms with care- almost too much care. He kneels there, happily patching up someone that probably won't be sticking around for much longer. Cleaning his wounds and soothing his aches as though Martyn didn't kill him.

“I can hear you thinking from here,” Scott looks up at him, brows creased in concern. “Just relax, I’ll be done in a minute and then you can sleep.”

“I think I have a concussion.” He deduces. He thought the room would stop spinning after a few minutes, but it’s yet to do so. He’s not sure how long he’s been sat here for.

“Then I’ll supervise you,” Scott smiles, pausing his gentle ministrations. “Make sure you don't die in your sleep.”

“You're too good to me,” he hums.

“Only as good as you deserve.”

#juno.writes #mer scott (+ fishfucker martyn) #majorwood #scott smajor #inthelittlewood #limited life #limited life smp #limited life spoilers #(for session 6) #trafficshipping #trafficblr #traffic smp #traffic series #trafficverse #coral kids #mean gills #limited life scott #limited life martyn #martyn inthelittlewood #trafficfic

[scribbling-dragon]

until i wrap myself inside your arms, i cannot rest

summary:

Some of the dirt shifts, the sound of something metal sinking into the dirt. It breaks through the veil of silence he had draped over himself, the sound rooting him back in reality. It drags him back so harshly that he’s left disorientated and dizzy.

The sound comes again, and more of the soil caves inwards.

(ao3 link)

(2,270 words)

He’d managed to slip away from Joel five minutes into their small chase, ducking behind a bush and watching the other rush past, eyes gleaming red and still hunting, following the path Scott had abandoned as soon as he could.

He can feel his heart racing in his chest still, beating hard and fast, almost enough to make him light-headed. His racing heart refuses to slow, even with the walls on each side of him, enclosing him safely inside the bunker he’d dug for himself, as soon as he was sure he wasn't being followed. He doesn't know what’s happening, his comm silenced as soon as it became clear that the hunt wasn't over when he managed to slip away- any tiny sound, some other person dying, would be all it took to give him away.

He hasn't been able to bring himself to check it again, certain that the moment he takes his eyes off the closed entrance, even just to glance away, will be the moment someone bursts through and sticks a sword through his chest.

His chest tightens at the thought, the scarred remains of his death at Martyn’s hands aching with the reminder. He curls a little tighter on himself, shivering as the cold rock continues to leech heat from him. He didn't have much to begin with, but now his hands are losing feeling, fingers turning more and more numb the longer he sits here, watching the entrance, waiting for when someone begins to dig through the hastily packed dirt, suspicious of how fresh it probably looks from outside.

The ceiling trembles above him and he stiffens, tucking his limbs a little closer to himself, curling up smaller as though that would hide his presence if someone were to find his hidey hole. He hates this- hates the feeling of cowering in a corner, but he hadn't been able to think of any other solution. He can't take on the entire server, not when he doesn't know where his ally is- doesn't know where Martyn is, doesn't even know how he is.

Some dirt loosens from the ceiling, pattering quietly onto the ground in front of him. It spills in a small pile. He swallows, heart beginning to race even faster, heart thumping uncomfortably loud in his ears- he wouldn't be able to hear voices even if he strained his ears, wouldn't be able to hear anything, nothing at all, over the thumping, thrumming of blood in his ears.

He grips his sword, wraps a hand around the hilt, but doesn't pull it from where it rests. If he drags it, the sound will alert the person outside. The grinding of the sword against stone would be loud enough for many people to hear. Except for Scott, because Scott can't hear anything, nothing, over the roaring of blood in his ears. Nothing over the rushing of air in his lungs- not enough, not enough, never enough. He feels as though he’s drowning, but even that’s impossible now. He can't drown anymore, can't drown at all, not even if he tried.

But he still feels like he’s drowning on land, air rushing in and out of his lungs uselessly. He abandons the grip on his sword, clenching his hand into a fist in an effort to stop its shaking. He clamps his hand over his mouth next. His breathing is too loud, echoing in his ears. Echoing around the hidey hole, bouncing off the walls and practically screaming out his location to whoever’s prowling around outside.

He clamps his hand harder over his mouth, hoping that the person outside moves past, moves away. He doesn't want to be seen like this. Doesn't want to be seen huddled in a corner and panicking over the slightest of sounds, unable to even lift a weapon to defend himself- he should be fighting, should be lunging for his attacker first, striking first and striking hard. Hitting hard enough that they don't get the opportunity to strike back.

He doesn't. He sits and shakes, watching the entrance with poorly controlled breaths and the sound of blood rushing in his ears.

Some of the dirt shifts, the sound of something metal sinking into the dirt. It breaks through the veil of silence he had draped over himself, the sound rooting him back in reality. It drags him back so harshly that he’s left disorientated and dizzy.

The sound comes again, and more of the soil caves inwards.

It’s enough motivation to pull himself back together, surging to his feet and grabbing his sword from the ground. It scrapes along the rock with a loud sound, like a whetstone against a blade, sharpening it for battle. He grips the hilt of it until his knuckles turn white, raising it in front of him.

More soil shifts, more soil is removed. He can hear it thumping onto the ground as it is tossed aside, shovelled away from his hastily blocked entrance and exit- he should have made a second exit, should have dug further into the earth and escaped underground.

He waits, holds his breath, counts. Listens.

The shovel sinks into the soil again. Soil cascades inwards, spilling over the roughly hewn floor. Scott doesn't stop to stare at it, doesn't wait to see if it falls in a pattern, doesn't wait to see how it gathers.

He lunges through the entrance it creates, shoving at his assailant with his full body weight behind it, sending them both toppling to the ground. His assailant grunts at the impact, stilling beneath him as Scott presses his sword to their throat, leaning close enough so they can see his face when he kills them.

It’s dark, darker than he thought it would be. Even in the darkness, his eyes adjust, the shadows form shapes that are more familiar to him- skeletal trees grasping at the sky and shrubbery clinging to the thin soil.

Martyn’s eyes flash in the light too, catching a small glimpse of moonlight before it fades away again. Scott lurches backwards with a gasp, dropping his sword as he scrambles backwards and away.

Martyn’s on his feet a moment later, leaning over him, worry painting his features as he grips Scott’s shoulders. He shudders at the contact, head dropping as he exhales completely, breath gusting out of him in one go, until he’s light-headed, everything spinning around them.

He slumps, going boneless. If Martyn chooses, in this moment, to kill him, to take advantage of this weakness, Scott doesn't think he’ll be able to hold it against him- he’d rather it was Martyn. Would always rather it was Martyn than anyone else. For his time to be given to someone he trusts.

Martyn clears his throat, still gripping his shoulders. The sound is awkward, enough to make Scott look up at Martyn. “Did you want to go back inside?” Martyn asks. They stare at each other for a long moment. “Alright, let’s go inside.”

Martyn pulls him to his feet, hands cupped beneath his elbows. His legs don't seem willing to support his weight anymore and he stumbles, tripping over nothing but air and grass, stumbling into Martyn. And Martyn is warm. Far warmer than he is right now, heat practically exudes from the man- he’s like a furnace.

And Scott doesn't think he can be blamed for sinking into that warmth, for clinging closer to it. His fingers are numb, but he curls his hands into Martyn’s shirt anyway, leaning against him and soaking up the warmth that Martyn gives him.

“I thought you were dead.” He says, not thinking of his words before he speaks.

Martyn laughs, small and quiet. “I thought you were dead too, that it just hadn't shown up, for whatever reason.”

“Takes more than the whole server to kill me,” he jokes. His legs feel a little more cooperative than they were a few moments earlier. “Haven't you heard? I'm practically unkillable.”

“It’d take some serious dedication to kill you,” Martyn agrees. He steps backwards, carefully lifting his feet over the pile of dirt, pulling Scott along with him. The cave beyond is much smaller with two people occupying it, and the light of his singular torch, flickering miserably in one corner, looks wan and watery. It looks a little pathetic, and Scott can't help but be a bit embarrassed by the obvious desperation here.

Martyn shivers, pulling his shirt a little tighter around himself. Not that it does much in covering him up further. The buttons stop about halfway up the shirt- really, it’s not at all practical in staying warm. Or for anything at all, far too many floating edges to get caught.

Martyn starts to draw back, begins to pull away from him. Scott catches his shirt, clenches it tight in his hands, pulls Martyn closer. “Where are you going?” He asks, tilting his head to the side.

“Nowhere far,” Martyn says. He doesn't relax his grip on Martyn’s shirt, continuing to watch him.

“I thought you’d died,” he says, gaze dropping away from Martyn’s eyes for a moment, before darting back upwards. “I thought that I was being hunted, that every shadow was out to get me, that everyone was hiding, waiting for me to emerge.”

“But I was the one that found you.” Martyn breathes, leaning closer. He can feel the warmth of Martyn’s skin through his shirt- it really is too thin for there to be any benefit to wearing it. It’s completely see-through when wet and partly see-through the rest of the time. “That’s a good thing, isn't it?”

“Not if you're attempting to leave as soon as you can.”

“I wasn't going to leave,” Martyn’s hands drop to rest at his waist, the weight of his hands barely registering over the warmth seeping into his skin, brushing over his scales. He has to remember not to move his tail, still unused to the extra appendage. No point in giving himself away so easily, not when Martyn still watches him with some amusement, as though he can tell how much Scott wants to sway into him and his warmth.

“Then what were you going to do?” The entrance is still open, the dirt still spilling over the floor. He doesn't care anymore, the worries of someone stumbling across them dwindling to a whisper in the back of his mind. He can hardly think of anything other than Martyn and his warmth and his presence in the room as they stand, pressed close together.

“I was going to get a sleeping bag.” Martyn pulls back from him a little, though he doesn't go far. A warm hand presses against the side of Scott’s head and he tilts into it, leaning into Martyn. A thumb brushes beneath his eye, almost painfully gentle over his scales. “You look tired.”

Scott pulls back with a snort. “You really know how to make a man feel special.”

“I- Scott,” Martyn groans, dropping his hand. His face still feels warm, feels as though the path Martyn’s thumb traced over his cheek left flames in its wake. “I meant that you should sleep, not that-”

Martyn cuts himself off with another groan, leaning his forehead against Scott’s shoulder as he continues to laugh. The laughs are small and hiccuping, causing his shoulders to jump as he struggles to compose himself again, leaning against Martyn as much as Martyn leans against him.

“I wouldn't mind sleeping,” he manages, after several long moments of thinking he’s fine, that he’s composed himself to continue their conversation, only to start giggling again. “I am a little tired. Just what running for your life does to you, I guess.”

“C’mon,” Martyn tugs him over to the corner opposite the torch, letting go of him only briefly to pull the sleeping bag from his bag. It’s only big enough for one person. “I’ll keep watch,” Martyn explains, when Scott looks at him.

“And when do you get to sleep?”

“I can sleep whenever I want.” Martyn says. “I'm not the one being hunted.”

“They’ll know we’re together,” Scott says. “If you side with me, they’ll kill you too. Just because they haven't yet, doesn't mean they won't.”

“I can dream,” Martyn sits beside him as he wriggles his way into the sleeping bag. “Maybe we’ll both go to sleep, and when we wake up, there’s nothing there and everyone will be calm again.”

“Not happy?”

“Nah,” Martyn laughs. “That’s a bit too unrealistic, even for a dream.”

“Well, I can dream.” He says, parroting Martyn back to himself. Martyn hums in response, a fingers already tangling in Scott’s hair, brushing through it in repetitive, soothing motions. It’s enough to push him to the edge of sleep, nudging him closer and closer to the yawning abyss.

A thought trickles into his mind, just as he’s about to fall asleep completely. “Martyn?” He asks. Martyn hums, hand pausing the repetitive motions as he listens. “How did you find me?”

“I listened,” he can hear the smile in Martyn’s voice.

“But I didn't make a sound.” He says. He knows he didn't, even if he hadn't been able to hear anything over the rushing of blood in his ears- he’s quiet all the time, footsteps cushioned so he can find those making noise, descend on those that are sneaking about in places they shouldn't be. Joel still complains about it, sometimes.

“Sometimes you just need to know what to listen for.” Martyn says. He doesn't say anything for a while, but Scott doesn't feel on the precipice of falling asleep anymore. “Go to sleep, Scott.”

#i am once again telling everyone to go listen to howl by florence + the machine #its just so them coded. idk why (but i could probably write an essay on it <3) #juno.writes #mer scott (+ fishfucker martyn) #scott smajor #inthelittlewood #martyn inthelittlewood #limited life smp #limited life smp fic #limited life #life series #trafficshipping #trafficblr #traffic series #majorwood #coral kids #mean gills #limited life scott #limited life martyn #limited life mean gills #trafficfic

[scribbling-dragon]

alright alright. nother poll bc I love using em

#and those are your options!! #i have ideas for all three. and so theyll probably all get written eventually. so! #juno.talks #also. the planned series name for the mer scott series is #mer scott (and fishfucker martyn) #bc. i thought of it while going to sleep. and it kept me awake for another twenty mins

[scribbling-dragon]

hoping to have the mer scott fishfucker martyn finale up this weekend!

#saying “hoping” bc i do have mocks coming up and they/my motivation to make flashcards etc. fluctuates jdjskk #do have a few plans for fics after that! which i WILL make a poll for #so keep an eye out for that one ;) #(most of the options are team rancher) #and!! ik theres some decked out stuff going on on saturday.. ehich mighty reignite the inspiration for that one solidaritek decked out fic<3