Oneshots! (Mostly Hermitcraft)

Dying Coals [Tango]

Summary (pirated from my AO3 version):
The rebellion failed. The Overworlders have officially taken over the Nether, pinning it under their dictatorship. Every Netherborn is either killed or enslaved. Some are lucky to die immediately from the bombs. Others suffer until they manage to find the sweet relief of death. There may be a few sympathisers, but they are silent, preferring to watch from the sidelines as the Netherborns suffer.
Tango is a young Netherborn, no more than eight years old, when he's captured by an Overworld nobleman and taken to his estate to be a "pet" for his son, Impulse. Fortunately, Impulse sees through his father's lies and treats Tango like a person. However, this does not stop the cruel twists of Fate.

TWs in the comments -->

Smoke, ash, and soot filled the air. Sparks flew as fires crackled, unable to burn through the fire-resistant buildings. That was one of the perks of living in the Nether: almost everything was fire-proof. However, the constant exposure to sweltering heat took its toll on the land, making every material, no matter how strong, brittle and easy to damage. A single explosion could cause every house in a fifty metre radius to blast outward in shards of wood, stone, and netherrack.

Shrapnel of the obsidian bombs would come flying, too, wicked and sharp, lodging into any surface or ruin not blown away. Netherborns fell, their mutilated bodies ragdolling in the street. There were some fortunate enough to die immediately, the bomb's power casting their severed limbs away with the rest of the debris, vaporising their blood and scattering the ash. These were the lucky ones. They died and did not have to experience the bloodbath following.

Unfortunate Netherborns found their fate in a myriad of ways. They fell before the soldiers like netherrack to a ghast, taken out in large, fiery chunks. They fell beneath the enemy's sharp lasers, rays of plasma punching through clothing and skin. They fell to netted wire traps, struggling against their bonds as ships came and flew them away. They fell like the Nether's hope in the rebellion against the Overworld.

Tango was in a rough spot. Blood – red-orange with tints of gold – leaked from the wound in his shoulder where a shard of obsidian was lodged. Every movement he made caused it to move inside his flesh, cutting open fresh tissue. He didn't dare remove it, though. If there was anything his parents taught him, it was to leave his wounds alone, allowing them to heal on their own. Granted, none of them were as bad as this one – usually no bigger than scrapes from wrestling in the netherrack – but he remained hesitant to make an attempt at tending to it.

More than ever, Tango wished for an adult. He was no older than eight in Overworld years, his claws and adult teeth yet to grow in completely. He was defenceless against the harsh environment that had detonated around him, crumbling buildings and rubble making navigation impossible.

Tango glanced at the smoke-filled sky again, praying that a glowstone cluster would peek through and guide him away from the city. He had the distinct feeling that he was going around in circles, wandering in the mountains of boulders, wood slats, and – occasionally – charred bodies. He did his best not to look at those.

Gunfire erupted to his right and he shied away, turning and sprinting in the opposite direction. He used his left hand to pull his shirt up in front of his mouth to filter out the ash as he ran, bracing his right arm against his stomach, tight muscles digging into the shrapnel.

He ran until he could run no more, then sank against the inside corner of a half-standing house, pressing himself against it. He nudged the obsidian with his finger, hissing under his breath when the fresh movement sent another wave of pain through his arm and blood to flow down his side. Tango risked tugging at the fabric of his t-shirt, hissing louder as the fabric pulled on the shard.