#Just a solid joke ...

[vurelly]

the thing nobody tells you about being too cute to boot is that everybody wants a piece of you, literally all my friends want me carnally

[secriden]

Source

Fort, straight up interrupting Peat mid-reply goes:

Um...

Yeah...

I think we know, Fort. xD

[paladanses]

I really like absolutenutcase162

[merlins-strawberriesandroses]

The thing no one ever considers while writing up character analyses about Merlin is that. he must have been sooooooo sleepy.

[sorrelpaws]

GOTTA KEEP THOSE RECEIPTS, DAWG

[dykedvonte]

Danse and Hancock work only after blind betrayal because it’s the equivalent of the one closeted person you kinda pity getting kicked out after being outted and you and your like 7 other faggot friends take them in and help them do a 180 on their outlook on life and personal style and get them to weed (possibly grape mentats in this case).

[jtl-fics]

Fluent Freshman - Part 22

PREVIOUS

Y’know how sometimes you have something that you need to do or something that you know is going to happen but you just keep…putting it off? Like you know at some point it is going to happen but you put it off over and over and over and over again? You’re getting increasingly anxious every time you put it off because you know it has to get done but you also know that the longer you wait the worse it is going to get. Finally, FINALLY, the anxiety is just a little too much and you end up having to deal with it.

You finally deal with it and the whole ordeal takes maybe five minutes tops and it was in no way shape or form worth the level of anxiety that you put yourself through. Like you worried about this for a good and long while and it wasn’t even that bad?

That is currently how FF feels about being stabbed by Andrew Minyard.

This is what he was so worried about that he had lost sleep, had nightmares, had lost weight, and had exacerbated his stress ulcers over.

Getting stabbed wasn’t anywhere near as bad as he had thought it was going to be. Maybe it was the fact that it was just a single stab wound instead of the Psycho levels that he had been imagining (Wow, showers were going to be so much less stressful now that he didn’t have to confirm Andrew Minyard’s location before triple checking the lock). Maybe it was the fact that he is PUMPED full of adrenaline from his fights against Jackson and Romero but the stab wound didn’t even really hurt at the moment.

This isn’t even the worse thing that had happened to him this year!

That honor still goes to the joint winners of when his Step Family and mother found out that he had a full-ride to Palmetto and when he had tripped up the same step on the stairs at school three times in a row as people watched and laughed.

(Maybe also the solitary congratulations from his Grandma in regards to his graduation but FF doesn’t let himself think about that, won’t think about it.)

He wouldn’t necessarily call being in a state of ‘stabbed’ a pleasant time but Andrew was being so NICE about it.

“Stop trying to sit up you fucking idiot!” Andrew shouts at him.

Well….Andrew’s version of nice.

(This is the same version of nice that he had misunderstood for months at this point. Maybe FF is just enough in shock from the stab wound in his stomach that he’s starting to grasp the basics in the difficult language of Andrew Minyard’s niceness.)

Andrew had gotten off the phone with 911 and then started pulling off his own jacket before draping it over FF’s upper body, wedging his phone between his shoulder and his ear, and then Andrew started to apply pressure to his stomach wound.

Ow.

That is not a great feeling. This stabbing may eke out past the great triple trip of March 2010.

“No, take back your jacket. You’ll get cold if you don’t have it on.” FF argues because his own jacket is barely doing the job. Maybe it’s the cold pavement of the alley, maybe it’s the blood loss, or maybe it’s the cooling sweat he’d worked up but he is shivering pretty badly.

A thought occurs to him as he feels the weird wet stickiness of his own blood sticking to Nicky’s shirt. “Can you help me get my jacket off?” He asks looking pleadingly at Andrew, “It’s my dad’s. I don’t wanna mess it up with my blood.” He clarifies when Andrew looks at him like he’s a lunatic.

Except his second call must connect right then because Andrew’s answer is non-sensical to what FF had asked, “Neil, let Roland know the police and ambulances are en route.” There’s a brief pause and the pressure against his stomach increases as a muscle in Andrew’s jaw jumps. “Smith got stabbed.” He says and he looks angry, angrier than FF had ever seen Andrew when he’s talking to Captain Neil. There is another pause, more than likely Neil saying something or asking a question, “No, it wasn’t them.” Andrew grits out and the pressure on FF’s stomach hurts, “Just get out here, I need help with smith and making sure these two assholes don’t go anywhere before the police come and grab them.” He says before he pulls one hand away from Smith’s stomach (wow he really is bleeding isn’t he?) to hang up the phone.

Andrew’s gaze turns back to him fully, “You’re not moving an inch Smith, your jacket can be cleaned.” He hisses. “Now stay still and don’t fall asleep.” He orders.

Andrew seems stressed so FF complies. He can’t help but notice how Andrew’s hands seem to be shaking as the press down on his stomach. He kind of wishes he had a pillow or something for his head because he’s starting to feel a little dizzy. Andrew’s jacket would be safer from his blood if it was a pillow instead of a blanket. Still, FF would sooner die than spit on any of Andrew’s current efforts to make him more comfortable.

He looks at the knife sticking out of his stomach. Well, he might die regardless of whether or not he spits on Andrew’s efforts.

He needs to take his mind off this.

“Should we take it out and pretend the Dundee knife stabbed me instead??” FF asks letting his mind go to the first thought in his head so that he could be distracted from his own mortality. “I think it’s still under the dumpster over there.” He moves to point one of his hands towards where the knife had remained throughout this entire ordeal.

Andrew’s knee pinned his arm before he could move it, “Stop moving Smith.” Andrew reminded him before moving his knee. “We have to leave the knife in. You’ll bleed to death otherwise.” Andrew reminds.

“I guess that’s true, so do we just say that Romero got a handle on your knife and stabbed me?” He asks fighting his own shivers since he’s a little worried that any shaking on his part would just make the stab wound worse.

“I stabbed you Smith.” Andrew says looking at him with a furrowed brow.

“Yeah, I know,” FF agrees, “but we’re not going to say THAT to the cops.” He says and shock really is one HELL of a drug because he thinks he might have actually given Andrew Minyard an incredulous look with his atrophied face muscles. It’s either Shock or the knowledge that even if he irritates Andrew, what’s Andrew going to do about it?

STAB HIM?

“You’re going to lie to the cops?” Andrew asks, “I STABBED you Smith.” Andrew repeats.

“Yeah, I know!” FF repeats back, “You stabbed me on ACCIDENT.” FF makes sure to use the same intonation that Andrew had used to emphasize the word Stabbed. “Jackson wanted to stab me on PURPOSE. You saw that knife Andrew.” He tries to gesture towards the knife again but again Andrew’s knee pinned his hand.

He could use his other one but the reminder to stay still is enough.

“I still stabbed you.” Andrew says removing his knee again when it’s clear that FF wasn’t going to try and gesture again.

“Well, if I was going to get stabbed by anyone, I guess I’m glad my first time was with you.” Andrew let’s out a bark of a laugh that sounds more like it was punched out of him than anything, “Honestly, I don’t think Jackson would have given me his jacket afterwards or try and help me keep my blood in my body.” He says and it feels like a victory (not a both hands in the air victory cry level victory but it was close) when Andrew’s face settled into one of faint amusement.

“Probably not.” Andrew agreed, “He doesn’t seem big on Aftercare.” He says.

FF doesn’t know what that means but nods like he does, “So, Romero got a hold of your knife during our tussle and he’s the one who stabbed me. Okay? That’s the story I’m going to stick with no matter who asks me.” He looks Andrew in the eye.

“Alright Smith,” one of Andrew’s hands leaves his stomach and clasps around his shoulder and FF can’t help but notice how neither of Andrew’s hands are shaking anymore. “We can lie to the police.” He squeezes FF’s shoulder.

“Nice.” He says and lets his head fall back onto the concrete. He hears a siren in the distance and hopes it’s coming for him.

They sit in silence for maybe 30 seconds before the door slams open and only Andrew’s hands on his stomach and shoulder keep him from shooting straight up in a panic. Captain Neil seemed to take in the scene at lightning speed but it was Andrew who spoke first, “You left Aaron and Nicky with Roland?” He asks.

“Yeah I did,” Captain Neil confirms and FF can see the moment that his eyes land on the knife handle jutting out of FF’s stomach, “Andrew, what are we going to tell the police?” Captain Neil asks and FF could already see Neil crafting a lie to cover Andrew. That’s one of the things that FF likes about Captain Neil and Andrew’s relationship. He thinks it’s nice that both of them have someone who no matter the circumstances would be there with a shovel to help bury a body. He even thought it was nice when he thought it’d be his body!

“The second guy stabbed me.” The lie comes out smoothly which is good because he is planning on committing to it and Captain Neil blinks and looks at him, “He got hold of Andrew’s knife during the tussle.” He adds.

Captain Neil looks to Andrew, “You said it wasn’t-“

“I guess Smith can lie to a liar.” Andrew interrupts.

Captain Neil’s eyes widen before a wicked grin spread across his face that made FF just a little uncomfortable but only because Andrew’s grip on his shoulder suddenly tightened and his nostrils flared the way they did before the two usually started speaking in Russian.

He can handle being stabbed, he cannot handle being in shock and pretending that he doesn’t know what the two of them are saying to one another.

“Can you tell Nicky I’m sorry I got blood on his clothes?” He asks and both Captain Neil and Andrew’s gaze snap away from eye-fucking each other. He looks down and the clothes are black and they haven’t moved the knife so the wound is plugged still but yeah there’s definitely blood seeping into the shirt, not to mention the hole. “Could you tell him I’m sorry about that?” He asks.

“You are going to tell him yourself Smith.” Andrew hisses, “You are going to be fine. Do you understand me?” He asks before turning to Neil, “Can you bunch your jacket under his legs, it’s better to keep them higher than his head and heart?” He asks.

Aw.

Andrew is just so nice.

He can’t BELIEVE he thought Andrew wanted to hunt him for sport.

He’d apologize for thinking that but he thinks it’d be better to just let that particular misunderstanding go unmentioned.

Captain Neil bunches his jacket up and puts it under FF’s legs before he goes over to check on Romero and Jackson. In the corner of his eye he sees Captain Neil pause at the sight of Romero before moving over to Jackson.

“Why is he in these?!” Neil asks baffled.

“It’s a weird sex alley Captain Neil! I don’t know WHAT to tell you!” Yeah he’s definitely going into shock. The sirens are getting closer though so he’ll probably be okay.

***

The cops all have a bit of a laugh about Jackson’s cuffs until Neil tells them exactly who they are taking into custody. Neil could admit that he’s a little irritated with Andrew that at no point did the man clarify that the people who FF and Andrew were dealing with were Romero and Jackson.

Those are his father’s goons.

“They were here for me.” Neil says to the police officer and Andrew’s hand tightens in his, “They tried to take Smith because he’s my friend.”

They had decided on their story before the cops came. FF had no idea who any of these people were and was just defending himself. He’d gone out to catch his breath in the alley when Jackson had shown up. Neil had asked how in the world FF had handled Jackson on his own but FF must have been getting kind of loopy from blood loss because all he said was, “He told me to sing so I did.”

Neil can find out the full story later.

The important part is.

“Jackson went after Smith but Smith won the fight.” Neil says looking at where the cops are trying to decide how to get the fuzzy pink handcuffs off of Jackson to get him in the far more secure police issued handcuffs.

“Your friend said that you and he took out Romero together. That Romero is the one who stabbed him with your knife.” He says.

“Yes.” Andrew answers simply and Neil squeezes his hand as a reminder, “I went out to grab a smoke and Romero followed after me. Romero got hold of one of my knives in the struggle and stabbed Smith.” Andrew says with his usual deadpan affect.

“Yeah that’s what your friend Smith was saying too.” The officer says. “Well, I’m sure the FBI will want to talk to you all further but for now it’s a pretty clear cut case of self defense and no one but your friend has any serious injuries.” The officer pats Neil on the shoulder and Neil manages not to shirk away from the touch. The officer retracts his hand, “You guys are free to go tonight.” He says and turns back towards the car where a dazed Romero is in the back seat.

“Where did they take Smith?” Andrew asks since they’d been shepherded away from Smith the moment the ambulance had come. They hadn’t been able to ask which hospital Smith was going to be taken to so they could go and get updates.

“Lexington.” The cop answers, “Go on and see your friend. He seemed pretty loopy he kept talking about some beauty contest thing when he was getting loaded into the ambulance. I’m sure he’ll be a riot on painkillers.” The cop goes for a joke but it twists something in Neil’s stomach to think of FF so out of it that he’s talking nonsensically.

He feels Andrew’s hand stiffen in his and knows he’s not alone.

“Thanks.” Neil says before they head towards the front of the club. The club had been emptied out when the cops had come so Roland was babysitting Aaron and Nicky for them while they talked to the cops and FF was loaded out to the hospital.

In a way it’s almost a blessing that Nicky and Aaron are both so blasted that they aren’t comprehending any of what’s going on. They’ll have to drop them off back at the house before they go to the hospital. They’ll beat Wymack there easily even after the interrogation and drop off.

FF had asked them to call Wymack to let him know what was going on “I gave him the rights to make health care decisions for me if I’m incapacitated.” FF had said so Neil texts Wymack the hospital and the address after Andrew rattles it off for him.

“I don’t like that you hid it from me.” Neil says in the car.

“They wanted to kill you.” Andrew won’t apologize.

They still hold hands on the drive back to the Columbia house.

Andrew takes care of getting Aaron into bed while Neil helps Nicky.

Nicky who looks at Neil with a loopy smile and Neil hurts knowing that tomorrow when Nicky finds out about tonight and how he was too blasted to do anything to help FF.

Andrew and Neil reconvene in the Maserati and make their way to the hospital before either of them realize the issue.

“What is the name of the patient you’re looking for an update on?” The receptionist asks.

Both Andrew and Neil freeze.

Fuck.

MASTERPOST FOR ALL PARTS OF FLUENT FRESHMAN AU

NEXT

Per your requests:

@i-have-three-feelings​ @blep-23​ @dreamerking27​ @andreilsmyreligion​ @belodensetdust​ @rainbowpineapplebottle @yarn-ace @iwouldlikesometea @lily-s-world​ @obscureshipsandchips​ @booklover242​ @whataboutmyfries​ @sahturnos​ @pluto-pepsi​ @dreamerthinker​ @passinhosdetartaruga​ @leftunknownheart​ @aro-manita-muscaria @hologramsaredead​ @Chaoticgremlinswishtheycouldbeme @tntwme​ @tayspots @nick-scar​ @crazy-fangirl2524​ @blue-jos10​ @stabbyfoxandrew​ @splishsplashyouropinionistrash​ @sammichly​ @the-broken-pen​ @bitchesdoweknowu​ @very-small-flower​ @ghostlyboiii​ @its-a-paxycab​ @bisexual-genderfluid-fan​ @cheesecookie​ @theoneandonlylostsock​ @foxsoulcourt​ @blueleys @adverbialstarlight​ @elia-nna​ @can-i-just-stay-in-the-corner​ @nikodiangel​ @foxandcrow-inatrenchcoat​ @hallucinatedjosten​ @satanic-foxhole-court​ @vexingcosmos​ @chalilodimun​ @insectsgetcooked​ @angry-kid-with-no-money​ @queer-crows​ @lillyndra​ @themugglemudperson​ @readertodeath​ @apileofpillows​ @mortalsbowbeforeme​ @hellomynameismoo​ @next-level-mess @youreonlylow​ @interstellarfig​ @notprocrastinatingatalltoday​ @percyjacksonfan3​ @queenofcrazy27​ @bsmr261 @ghostlyscares​ @spencellio​ @adinthedarkroom​ @harpymoth​ @sufferingjustalilbit​ @anxietymoss​ @oddgreyhound​ @ohno-myhyperfixation-itsbroken​ @ken22789​ @atiredvampire​ @isoldescorner​ @not--a--pipedream​ @azure-wing​ @bushbees​  @roonilwazlib-main​ @crumplelush​ @foldedaces-paperbirds​ @thesenseinnonsense​ @let-tyrants-fear​ @ketchupandfries​ @legowerewolf​ @deadlydodos​ @but-we-respect-his-craft​ @cariniqe​ @zanypersonapricotbiscuit​ @lesbian-blackbeard​ @lesbiansupernatural​ @silvermasquerade​ @thepeachfuzz​ @minniemariex @kazoo-the-demjin​ @gaypomegranate​ @ji-nk-ies​ @neilimfinejosten​

The requests to be added to the tag list keep being spread out across a few different areas. If I missed you please just ask again in the replies I promise I just missed you.

As stated before if you’re up here and I spelled it right but you didn’t get a notification there might be something switched around in your settings that won’t let me tag you properly?

[deadscell]

[galacticlamps]

Jamie + Zoe textposts, not because they even vaguely relate to anything going on in canon, just because they have a very memeable dynamic & their screenshots pair well with the humor on this website

[loving-jack-kelly]

Jack Crutchie and Race childhood best friends who took turns sleeping at each others' houses when things were bad at home, who spent so much time together that they practically have their own language, who understand each other so well they don't even have to speak to know what's going on, who are so casually affectionate and loving with each other that all of the have been accused of dating the others more than once, who are each others' stability and solid ground and constant through everything life throws at them.

[slimemanagement]

Icon commissions are available on my brand new Ko-fi page! Get 'em while they're hot.

Donations are open as well. If you ever wanted to give me five dollars, well. Now you can.

I'm still learning the Ko-fi interface, so I'm starting simple with icon commissions. That being said, I hope to offer more types of commissions very soon. Please feel free to let me know what sort of offerings you'd like to see from me in the future.

Some of you already know that the last few years have been pretty rough for me, health-wise. It's been a while since I was able to offer commissions. Things are getting better, though. My newfound ability to sit in a chair and draw is all thanks to physical therapy, medication, and my lovely friends and family. Just wanted to use this chance to say thank you to those irreplaceable people. 🩷💛🩵 Thanks as well to the folks who helped me get my sea legs back by commissioning me privately. I appreciate you!

[not-tallytals]

do you see the vision??

[the-dragogirl]

it's been uhhh.. *squints* like.. more than a year since I last posted about my Metal Gear Solid journey.

the hyperfixation is well and alive, boys (gender neutral)!! I can safely assure you that an entire sketchbook has been filled with sketches of random MGS characters... can't scan any of them but I'll gladly give you some digital w.i.p.s I've made. :)

(let me know if you wanna see more of them please and thank you)

[contortedoptimist]

Like even if he's not gay solid snake has a family he lives with for many years composed of another man and a little girl for which they are the closest thing to parents she has. This is a fact.

[doueverwonder]

ngl I’m surprised we haven’t gotten a “the more north you go the more south you get” bit with Florida yet. He’s done different parts of other states as individual personifications and I think it’d be so funny for Gov to walk into a meeting and Florida not be the usual Florida. Throw him for a loop.

[thetomorrowshow]

Whumptober 5 - Sunburn

title: survive the sun

fandom: last life smp

cw: sunburn, heat exhaustion, vomiting

~

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

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

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

“Was Grian killed by a Red?”

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

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

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

Well, that’s a problem.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry,” says Grian. “Rules are—”

“Wait,” Joel says suddenly.

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then they both hurry off, leaving Scott alone.

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

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

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

Hopefully it doesn’t get too hot today.

-

There’s no way to drink any water.

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

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

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

In comparison, this is torture.

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

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

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

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

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

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

`

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He can survive this. He will survive this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I thought it’d be funnier, sue me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

And then he’ll win.