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crescentfool · 7 months

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What are your ryomina headcanons? I've loved these two since I played P3 FES, and I'm so excited to get back into the fandom^^

hi!! thank you so much for the ask, welcome back to the p3 fandom, it's always a delight to see new and old ryomina fans alike! 🥺💛💙

as for headcanons, here's a "few" i that i tend to come back to a lot! my interpretations of them are influenced from both the source material and other's fanworks, so i've linked to them as i saw fit! hcs in no particular order under the cut because oops this got long (900 word bullet point list, mentions of reload content up to 1/1)

minato's hair is dyed blue (hair originally brown, you can see it in his roots!) and he has a beauty mark on under his left eye. i like mirror imagery and there's definitely a few arts i've rb'd that portray them this way :) (e.g. this one by feliichu and this one by marasschino)

as far as i'm concerned the bathhouse scene from the manga where ryoji's hair down = similar shape to minato? that is canon to me. this art from xierru is a fun depiction of hair down ryoji :D

ryoji is homeless. everyone say thank you foxmulder_whereartthou for this awesome fic it's why i have the headcanon! but like seriously. we have no idea where ryoji lives and i could believe this.

minato dying at the end of the game is sad to an outsider's POV BUT!!! ryomina gets to be together in death for the rest of their lives (this illustration from mafuwara is a gorgeous representation of them as nyx avatar + the seal)!

speaking of the seal, they are like telepathically communicating to me in the great seal together. (mymp3 had a comic wip with this. give it a looksie :D)

ryoji likes cuddling with minato because he's warm :) (something something orpheus has fire affinity, minato is warm by extension and ryoji is cold because he's death)

ryoji's camera roll is filled with pictures of minato! ryoji... loves life, to me. and i feel that photography and journaling are perfect ways of expressing gratitude and capturing the moments in life that are most important to you :3

my other favorite activity for these two is stargazing- i feel like it's something they could appreciate either in life or death (looking at the stars from the great seal...)! they do a bit of this in the fic eurydice's vow by crescentmoontea (P5R spoilers, takes place in third sem it's a very fun fic concept).

between ryoji and minato i feel like ryoji was the one who fell in love first- and it doesn't really click in place for minato that he loves ryoji until december hits (appriser reveal + ryoji transforming into thanatos). its about the realization that ryoji was with him for his whole life and that he gets him like no one else does.

ryoji is like a sad and wet puppy who is so scared minato won't like him back. he is so scared of being rejected by minato to me like. this boy straight up deflates after he does his "i know i said i wanted us to be friends, but... i actually want to be something more." / "what about you?" on 12/1 ???

AND SPEAKING of wet puppy ryoji. ryoji is like. every animal in the world to me. he's a bird. he's a cat. etc. and also ryoji knows every language in the world ever and uses it to express his love for minato. see this fic from superheroics to see what i mean.

both of them are lactose intolerant. "this isn't lactose, it's milk!" i definitely think ryoji would make himself sick eating ice cream and milk he doesn't know what lactose is. (i made a silly poll about this once and the tags were very entertaining.)

i see minato as transmasc or nonbinary depending on the day (schrodinger's headcanons babey they're simultaneously true and not true at the same time!!). either way he's not cis to me and ryoji is like. His Gender. anyway go read this fic by nail_gun for t4t ryomina :D !

ryomina are WEIRD GUYS TO ME!!! they are so strange and they understand each other better than anyone else because of the circumstances of their relationship!!! if you asked them to do the "i wonder what i taste like" meme i think they'd start biting each other (affectionate) tbh but that's just me.

after ryoji gives minato the music box in 12/31 on reload, minato listens to the music box every night in january. this boy has insomnia and also chronic illness to me (things that housing death does to you). but i think he finds comfort in the melody and memories he made with ryoji.

in general, i think it's fun to imagine minato taking ryoji to places and show him things he's interested in! i feel that ryoji takes a lot of interest in minato's life, this isn't really a hc because in reload, minato DOES give ryoji a tour of the school (11/9) and possibly port island (11/12). but ITS CUTE OK! (tangentially related fanwork: this series of doodles from vinnigami: 1, 2, and 3)

not a hc but minato's kindness is like the backbone of their relationship and i think we would not have the ryomina we know and love today if minato wasn't such a kind soul. oh minato.... we can learn so much from you... like ryoji did!

anyway! that's all the hcs that i could think of, thank you for the ask! i had a lot of fun answering this, these two mean a lot to me 💛💙

i hope you don't mind the links to the fanart and fanfic as well, the fanwork people have made for ryomina have really made an imprint on me! if you want to see more of them, i definitely recommend looking through my tag for them because oh. i got a lot of them reblogged alright 😂 (<- SOOO NORMAL)

#UMMM hiiii #this was VERY fun to do thank you so much for the ask!! im very. well-adjusted about these two #this ended up turning into some art + fic suggests (they are like citations to my hcs)#but it was really fun! i love ryomina to bits and pieces i cannot provide a concise answer #this post nearly gave me a scare bc somehow the bullet point list doubled itself and wouldn't let me post #tumblr is a very functional website! but the posts intact so im happy!!! yippee!#i still need to finish reload but some of the hcs i wrote were partially backed by what i saw there #people are welcome to send asks btw! cant guarantee i'll answer them in a timely manner but i enjoy doing them #doing this reminded me of my early tumblr days when i'd get so many asks where ppl dropped their ryomina hcs it was cute...#im sure i will continue to recommend fanworks in the future i definitely want to start reading fic again after i finish reload! yahoo!#also this post is like the iceberg of my brain btw you have definitely not seen all of my thoughts im soo. (twirls hair) normal.#lizzy askbox #ryomina #<- why not i put effort into the post #anyway bye im going to go to the library to learn about my favorite new interest called html and css aren't websites cool :)

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tunastime · 23 days

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Watching the rain fall + crashing together on the couch (maybe after coming back inside soaked from said rain?)

And whoever you want this prompt to be about! I'm not picky lol

watching the rainfall / crashing together on the couch (1005 words) (x)

"Cleo!"

Cleo looks up, brow furrowed as their concentration from their cup of tea and sketches are briefly interrupted by the sound of their front door opening and shutting. They blink. The voice is familiar, warm, thinned out from surprise. It's—

"'Suma, you better not be dripping all over my front carpet—"

"Ah—” and there’s her answer, she notes, as they stand from the table, leaving sketches and tea behind. “Sorry!"

Cleo steps into her entryway.

Xisuma stands, still armored, dark purple and blue enchantments flickering ever so over the green, at her front door. Water drips from the creases of his arms as he holds each at the elbow, drips down his shins, drips down the lip of his helmet. Behind the tinted visor, she thinks she can place his bright, wide eyes staring back at her.

Cleo sighs, setting her hands on her hips. Xisuma shrinks. It does little to displace the height he has over them, but definitely makes him a bit less imposing. She shakes her head, unable to stop the laugh that bubbles up in her chest. Her admin, trying to make himself impossibly small, trying to avoid the rain, standing, rain-damp in their entryway.

"God's sake—" she barks out a laugh, shaking her head. "What, did I win the place-to-hide-from-the-rain trophy? A sopping wet Xisuma in my entryway?"

Xisuma snorts, eyes crinkling.

"Interesting choice of words," he says, amused.

Cleo raises her eyebrows, fixing him with a pointed look. "Xisuma..."

"Sorry!" X laughs, holding out his hands. More water drips from his wrists as he moves, and he shifts back and forth experimentally, as if it would make any less puddles where he stood. "Sorry, you were the first house I saw when it started really pouring. Didn't mean 'ta muck up your front mat. Promise."

Cleo sighs again, but a weasel of affection manages its way into their chest regardless. They tilt their head back and forth, as if they were weighing their options, as if there were really any options to weight. Eventually, a smile worms onto her face as they take a step forward, rocking on her heels.

"Well... I can't have you goin' out in this rain, can I..." she muses. "Knowin' you, you'll get all achey and collapse halfway."

X makes a disgruntled sound in the back of his throat, muffled by his helmet.

"Ah—rude!" he grumbles. Cleo snorts.

"And truthful," she protests, poking him in the chest, meeting damp, ungiving armor. She waves a hand at him, shaking her head. "C'mon then, let's get you outta this. Least you can do is let me see your face."

X sighs, making a collection of sounds Cleo tries to classify as an argument, but none that form actual words. He starts with his chestplate as Cleo moves around him, dropping down to help weasel off the plates around his knees and shins. It takes some fiddling with the metal buckles, tugging until pieces come loose enough to slip over his shoes, tugging the chestplate over his head, laying everything out to drip-dry in an area less trafficked than the front step. Xisuma hands her his helmet as he toes out of his boots, stepping carefully to a place not yet damp by his own doing. As Cleo turns back to him, she catches him halfway through combing back his hair, a small frown screwing up his features. His nose crinkles as his fingers catch in his dark hair, trying to detangle what the helmet tugged free from the tie he'd held it back with. The score across his face crinkles with his nose, seemingly deepening the furrow of his eyebrows just from where it crossed his face. Cleo hums. Xisuma's washed-out eyes snap up. He snorts, wrinkling his face in earnest at Cleo.

"Happy?" he grumbles, but all the annoyance in his voice is feigned. She grins, beaming at him.

"Very!" She says as she steps past, pausing to pat his cheek. "You need'a change of clothes, love?"

Xisuma shakes his head as her hand falls away. There's a look just underneath the wrinkle of his face that Cleo's pretty sure is fondness. Smug, maybe. Cleo nearly snorts again. At least he was dry now. The bastard.

"Nah, stuff underneath's just fine," he says. "Maybe a blanket though."

Cleo waves a hand back to the space behind them as they step away and into the base proper.

"Go pick around, I'll put the kettle on."

X clicks his tongue.

"Aw," he muses. "Bless you."

Cleo laughs. She wanders into the kitchen as she speaks, lifting the half empty kettle back into the stove and weaseling open the top.

"Well you're damn lucky I like you, X," she says, picking a mug from the counter. "I don't do this for just anyone, y'know."

"I'm aware!" X says cheerily.

It takes a moment for the kettle to finally boil, but soon enough, Cleo carries in a mug of hot tea to the living area, and sets it down within arms reach of X, comfortably contorted on their couch. He lifts his head slightly, blinking contentedly at the cup before he pats the space beside him. Cleo tilts her head.

"You know I've got work to do, X," they start.

"So do I," Xisuma argues. "But I was told I have to be dry first. So the least I can do is enact the same fate on you."

Cleo gasps, laughing.

"So cruel!" She says, rounding the table and claiming her rightful spot next to him. Xisuma giggles, shifting a little to face her as she settles, knees touching. She smiles, reaching up after a moment to cup his face in her hands. He relaxes into her as she does, going easy as she brings his face down to kiss the space between his eyebrows. Cleo stays for a moment, nose to his forehead, as X rests his hands on their knees.

"There we are," she hums. "Nice and cozy, eh?"

Xisuma sighs. He sounds content.

"Very."

#hermitshipping #cleosuma #zombiecleo #xisumavoid #hermitcraft #hermitcraft fic #mcyt #mcyt fic #text #fics #ask prompt #asks #hiiii this freedom has allowed me to write my xisuma rarepair #they're all rarepairs to me...#idk!!! there's something there :3 i really like them #thank you for sending this in !!!! this was a fun prompt combination #i liked it a lot <333 #it was between this and ranchers.... whoops #sighs.... them <3

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jaimeski · 11 months

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SAM 49 😁

#samponk is now my oc btw 😁#haiiii ryinnn #foolsocracy #literally long time no see hiiii #thank you for the ask!!#jrrasks #jrrart #ask game #c!sam #c!ponk

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poisonheadcrabsalesman · 5 months

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weekend prompt: millinda and unintentionally ominous looming

Millinda is growing in my brain from 'haha how would these two interact' into 'oh Miller is her pet piece of wet bread.' I'm going to end up writing Blue Team makes Miller a real Spartan eventually, I just know it. Thanks for the prompt! (It got away from me)

Miller was finding that working with Blue Team, while incredibly stressful, was also incredibly rewarding. He felt like he was behind the camera of a nature documentary, watching in real time as the S-IIs wordlessly and flawlessly took down their prey. There was some chatter on TEAMCOM, but it was mostly from him doing overwatch.

Again, they adapted to the drills and scenarios immediately, including him and listening to what he had to say. His intel mattered. He mattered. There was no mistaking himself as part of Blue Team, but they had him at their disposal and made use of him. He helped before shit hit the fan and he wasn't playing catch up. Even if he left each session with Blue Team exhausted. Wire tight tension and the utmost focus for a prolonged period of time left his head hurting. Miller was being pushed to the limit and he liked it. Training with the best was like opening a door he never knew was closed to him. Troop movements and team cohesion and every other significant detail flashing across his screens let him direct them and grow.

That's how he found himself socializing with them beyond the desk job. Spartan Town was only so big. Blue Team was full of natural leaders, and their reputation preceded them by a country mile. That's why Miller was flabbergasted when Linda 058 singled him out.

"You want me as your handler?" He tries not to stammer.

The height difference between them was negligible but the confidence coming off Blue-4, Linda 058, was overwhelming. Jared could find some steel in his spine when it mattered, but not in the face of her many goggled helmet or piercing green eyes. It wasn't that she saw him and found him lacking - he got that from others - she pinned him in place with a look and left him feeling exposed. Like she could go for the kill in an instant.

She nods. "One sortie. Low risk. Training exercise."

Miller's dumbfounded. This is the chance of a lifetime, but the what-ifs are already shutting down his higher thought processes with anxiety.

"A solo op with me as overwatch? What about your team?" He grasps for some kind of stability to add to the conversation.

"Don't need a babysitter." She says resolutely.

"Wait, is this for me?"

"Training exercise." She says again, with a curt nod.

"Yes, I guess." Miller agrees and Linda nods again, barely a lift of her chin in acknowledgement and then she leaves abruptly.

And that's how Miller gets to see Linda 058 patrol the edges of Banished space. The factions were a mess and who better to recon than the Lone Wolf herself. It was easy to sneak an Owl down to drop off a single Spartan. Local flora masking her presence as soon as her boots hit the ground.

The mission goes well, for once. Miller is both by the book and trusting his gut. He doesn't chatter incessantly out of nerves, something he prides himself on after the fact. Instead he finds himself copying Linda's silent focus while keeping an eye on the bigger picture she cannot see. It's a weird feeling. One he can't label until it hits him.

Trust.

Snipers don't go out in the field alone, unless they are exceptional. Linda let him see what that felt like.

He makes calls and marks points of interest, and even a few dropships. She trusts him to watch her back. In return, he has to trust her to make the right call. She goes closer to enemy fortifications than he'd ever want his S-IV Fireteams to go without proper intel.

"Blue-4, you're getting too close for quick extraction."

She flashes green once over comms. A moment passes and she flashes acknowledgement twice.

Enemy Detected.

Linda becomes a shadow in the underbrush and Miller goes into overdrive. He doesn't flood her HUD with markers, but notes her approach, the flight vectors the Banished Phantoms are following, and the warping on the helmet cam.

Cloaking.

Miller squeezes every bit of intel out of the situation without impacting Blue-4's focus or giving away her position. He finds himself breathing in time with her. Slow and even, her vitals present onscreen barely show an uptick while he finds his own heart racing. She has her job and he has his. He does it and he waits.

The warping goes away, moving along the ridge line overlooking the Banished outpost.

Linda slinks back into the vegetation and towards evac. Neither of them let down their guard until lift-off.

Miller congratulates her, more out of habit than necessity and thanks her for the opportunity. It feels like brown-nosing, but the "thanks" she flashes back makes it worth it.

The mission was a success, and Miller relaxes - his second mistake. The first was agreeing to the mission in the first place. His third is having a publicly posted schedule on S-Deck with his fireteams' schedules. His fourth was discussing the mission and how to improve within earshot of Linda, not that he noticed her there.

Blue Team was no help. Kelly smiled at him when he approached them about Linda's newfound habit of popping up near him, randomly, at all hours. Miller had gained a second shadow, one that loomed over him and took his dessert when he wasn't looking.

"Working on your situational awareness." She had said.

He had yet to scream on comms, but it was a near thing when he noticed her in the vents of the Op Center. At this rate, Roland was going to get jealous over someone else competing for "who can give Miller a headache fastest?"

Miller just wanted his dessert and peace of mind back.

#hiiii #thank you for the ask!#sarnakhwritesthings #my writing #asks #Linda 058 #Spartan Miller

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lifemod17 · 5 months

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Hello Tonee, I'm just quickly fluttering by to let you, Miss ii Girlie (Girliie? Giirlie? Hm) know, that in that new couple's portrait of ii and ivy, ii looks grumpy and scawie and Vessel-coded because of his mask.

Because really, if he had the old one on, THIS is how he'd be looking with ivy resting on his shoulder:

Soft eepie king with his cuddly fuckboy bf 🥹 I hope this causes you pain! Because I sure am!! Okay bye!!!!!

DARYA PLEASE IT IS 7:20AM (you are so right though) BUT OH THE PAINNNN

the mask does nothing to me anymore, I AM IMMUNE to the scary Rottweiler facade, because I know inside, this mf has got THE SOFTEST, MOST LOVING EYES YOU EVER DID SEE (literally a Rott)

#what's the tag Drift uses? iinee?#i cant remember but that sounds about right #iinee #II CONTENT IN *MY* ASK BOX?!? this rarely happens i really appreciate this 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺#ii content for the ii girlies #hiiii Darya thank you for extreme emotions so early in the day ilyyyy 💛🐞🐞💙#Tonee's asks #moonchild-in-blue #sleep token #ii sleep token #your honor i love him

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skeletalheartattack · 2 years

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i am taping your leg to the ceiling fan and turning it to max power :)

you're gonna what now? huh? wait. oh shit-

WAAAAHHHHHH!!!

#ask #evildoctorsex #it took me like three tries and one crash to make this #i didnt have any ceiling fan models in gmod 12 so i had to make one from scratch with planes #also i recorded this at .4 timescale just so i could get a good enough gif. then i had to halve the frames a few times to shrink the file #also i gave most of breen non-gravity so he wouldnt drag across the ground as much #and i had a turret out of frame that id trigger to break the table since i didnt think hed break it on his own #i was also afraid he would fly over it but thankfully he hit the ground just in time for me to press the turret key #i accidentally made the winch longer in the first second of the recording since i forgot which key did what #anyway hiiii hana :)#ik you wont see this until tomorrow but i hope you liked the effort this took me to make #i had to also put gmod in the lowest resolution which was very funny to witness #can you get me down now? please? please? the fans only getting faster okay?#thank you for the ask hana :) >:)

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lickingthywounds · 3 months

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Any chance we could get a teaser for your story? A dustjacket promo or a lil excerpt? No pressure!

Will the full first chapter suffice? 😌

Wool Over Eyes | Chapter 1

The first thing he remembers is the fire.

Not a stranger to arson, he’s plenty familiar with the idea of flames against poorly guarded skin. This, however, was a different kind of heat. A blazing inferno — and no creation of his own — tearing through his gut, pacing chasing racing like his heart as it burned from entry wound to exit.

A fire of the invisible sort. That is, ruthless and unforgiving agony. Warm tails lapping at the lacerations. A single breath, gargled between beads of crimson, and he finally comprehends the sensation — and the severity of it.

He’s been shot.

The second thing he remembers is wetted concrete against his cheek, the way his temple fell against the cold remnants of a late summer’s rain, copper bangs sticking to his forehead, and the echo of patient footsteps that prefaced a shadow. The way its narrow body stretched beneath the streetlight is forever seared into the back of his eyelids, its owner a mystery.

His current surroundings, too, a great conundrum. The place he wakes next is not home, nor a hospital, but somewhere entirely foreign to memory. A simple room, beige walls under flush mounted lights, a single picture window with the curtains drawn, and a small cot dressed in cotton sheets with which he currently rests beneath… until, upon a quick double-back of the room, he becomes distinctly aware that he isn’t alone.

Then he is sitting upward in a matter of seconds — or making an attempt of it, anyway. His endeavor is interrupted both by a miserable burn in his shoulderblade and the eager gestures of the stranger who’d nearly leapt from their chair upon seeing him up.

“Easy, kid,” says the man now at his side, “your wounds are only beginning to heal, try not to aggravate them already.”

They are no one he recognizes. A tall and lissome frame, his head crowned in rich black hair that is wrapped in a lazy bun, the sides shaved out, he wears a comfortable turtleneck and a watch of extravagant design. A strange show of wealth when compared to such a plainly decorated room.

Not allowed the chance to overthink the observation, his thoughts are interrupted as his savior’s hand reaches for his clean shoulder, “That was some mess you got caught up in,” they mutter, “Can you talk?”

“Don’t touch me,” he spits, answering the man’s question either way, “Don’t—” A stilted breath is kept hostage in his lungs until the man’s accusing hand withdrawals, and they lift both palms to show they mean no harm, only then does he release the air. His body sags forward with the effort. “Sorry,” he mutters under breath, as though it’s only an afterthought, “just — just give me a minute.” The heel of his palm lifts with careful measures — minding his wounded shoulder — to rub over his eyes, blinking away the remaining crust of sleep. “Who are you, again?”

An easy shrug is all he initially receives, unbearably casual. “Don’t sweat it,” the stranger replies, “you’re well within your right to be scared. Shouldn’t have reached for you just after wakin’ up, but you would’a torn right through the bandage if I hadn’t.” He turns over his heel and drags the stool he’d been on earlier to stand against the frame of the bed, then hauls himself over it so he’s less towering. “Let’s start over, yeah?” The man extends his hand to shake, “The name’s Esmond. And you are…?”

“Still waiting for you to answer my question,” comes his swift reply. There’s a drumming sensation between his ears, the headache he’d been nursing now making itself a force to be reckoned with. It does nothing but further sour his mood. “Maybe I wasn’t obvious enough. Where am I, and how the hell did I get here? The last thing I remember is a lead nose shaving through my insides, I should be surrounded by doctors right now.” Or dead, if he was being realistic, but that dreary thought didn’t need to be voiced.

“You don’t like the room?” Esmond asks, mock-disappointment dripping from his tongue. The attempt at humor is forgotten quick as it arrived, however, and replaced with a long sigh of defeat. “You’re in my house, that’s all. I found you half-dead on the pavement with uppers and snow spilling out your pockets. Thought I’d be doing you a favor, fixin’ you up myself over speed dialing the nearest cop.” He leans forward, tongue peeking out to wet his lips, “I meant no harm in bringin’ you here, kid. You…really don’t remember me?”

He stares long and hard, hazel eyes burning, trying his damndest to catch a lick of trust in the man before him and finding nothing promising. Cynicism is a bitch and it always got the better of him, anyway, but nothing about their character screams good samaritan to him. Not that he has much of a choice but to place his trust in the man for the time being. As it stands, he’s a whole arm short in terms of functionality and bedridden until the damage to his body and its residual soreness decide to play nice.

Speaking of soreness, that’s about all he feels of it. A sensation, or the lack thereof, that had gone unnoticed until now. He ought to be feeling a whole lot worse after taking a bullet like that, yet the pain in his shoulder is limited to a dull blade pressing hesitantly against his collarbone. Aside from that, it’s just the growing pressure between his temples and a subtle whirling of thoughts, like his mind swims through cotton, and that — if nothing else — is familiar.

“Hey, are you listeni—”

“Did you drug me?” He cuts the man off with a question of his own, aghast and well guarded, his head woozily swings upward to look him in the eyes.

“I…” Esmond pauses, a hand coming to rub against the back of his neck like a guilty dog hiding its tail, “well, yeah,” he answers honestly, “you were just shot, remember? I wasn’t about to let you endure that without some help, ‘specially since I had to dig the shrapnel out by hand. Real nasty work.”

His heartbeat quickens at the mention, and it’s a good deal calmer than it ought to be. Slower than if only under the effect of any over the counter pain relief he knows off the top of his head. A sedative, then?

He still isn’t getting the answers he wants. If anything, he only has more questions. The blanket shifts over his increasingly restless legs as he finally takes the time to better examine his surroundings; the feeling of clean linen itches against his skin, now more obvious than ever. He pulls away the covers with his good arm to see himself in a too-big shirt and gray pants, neither of which are his own. The beloved hoodie he went down in is no where to be found.

“It was like rooting around for a prize at the bottom of a cereal box,” Esmond continues to fill the silence, returning again to his strange choice of humor, if only briefly. “I didn’t give you anything serious, if that’s what you’re worried about. Just somethin’ to kill the pain ‘s all. Scout’s honor. Wasn’t sure how clean you were with shit like that in your pockets, after all, and I didn’t want a dead kid on my conscience.”

“I’m not a kid,” he’s quick to correct, “stop calling me that. I’m not some druggie, either. Only getting a few bucks where I can.”

Again, Esmond’s hands raise in a show of apology, “Alright, alright,” he resigns with a dry laugh, “why not give me something else to call you, then?”

A name. That’s all the man wanted, right? Even a nickname would do if only to keep that damn word out of his mouth. Still, his lips pressed together like a closing door, locked up tight. They weren’t getting anything from him.

“Fine,” hums Esmond, his mouth curving into a cheeky smile, “Ovis it is.”

Suddenly his lips can’t part fast enough. “That’s not my name,” he says.

“Maybe not,” Esmond shrugs, “but you seem determined to keep it from me, so I’ve decided your name is Ovis. You’re free to correct me at any time.”

The action is almost jarring enough to make him reconsider the decision to keep his identity a secret. Almost. This man already has him in the flesh, already has his clothes and any belongings left on his person after the incident. He didn’t want to give up his only remaining sense of privacy.

So again, his mouth clamps shut, visibly resolving to keep it that way this time. He’d rather stew in a pot of ire than give the man what he wanted.

Esmond’s smile grows teeth. “So stubborn,” his sigh is almost romantic, chin hanging casually on the base of his palm, “you’re more clever than you look.”

That’s all it takes for him to decide that it’s time to leave.

“Well, thank you for your help until this point,” he moves as he talks, legs swinging over the edge of the bed, his feet are bare as they land on the cold wood paneling, “but I think I can handle myself from here on out, so I’ll get out of your hair.”

“You’re leaving already?”

He moves to stand and makes it to his feet - barely. The sudden burden of his entire weight nearly threatens to topple him backwards and against the mattress once more. He grits through it, locking his knees in place until he feels stable enough to try again, and doesn’t bother tossing a look behind him until then.

Esmond, himself, does nothing to indicate that he plans to follow or stop him, anyway. The man remains seated at the bed’s side, hands now settling politely in his lap.

“I just really need to get home,” his answer spills out between labored breaths, each step further shocking the gentle analgesic from his system, “so if you could just hand over my shoes and jacket—” he is dizzy and heavy and so, so tired, a bone-deep exhaustion that has thoroughly settled its way through every joint, it makes the stretch between bed and door feel like miles. The left side of his body is beginning to scream. He makes it across the room and stables himself against the wall beside the door for only as long as it takes to catch his breath.

Still, Esmond says nothing, does nothing, up until the very moment his patient finally makes for the doorknob—

“Well, that’s a damn shame.”

—only to find it locked.

Ovis stills where he’s at, back turned to the man as his spine attempts to crawl out from between his teeth. The hairs along his arm prickle and brush against his soiled bandage, aching wildly, now, the wounds hidden beneath feeling all the more damning now that he’s well and truly cornered.

Breathlessly, he risks a glance over his shoulder.

Esmond’s hands brace against his knees as he stands with a low exhale, as if the next words to come out of his mouth are in any way remorseful. “The way I see it, you owe me a debt.” Casual strides carry him across the room and in no time at all he’s covered the distance between them, that same sly grin making up for the otherwise lazy expression on his face. “See, you’d be dead if I hadn’t dragged your sorry ass to safety. You have me to thank for being alive and well. It’d be selfish to just run off now, don’t you think?”

“What the hell are you talking about,” Ovis barks, shoulders going rigid. His hair stands on end like raised hackles as he turns fully to face the man again while his hand continues its fruitless struggle against the doorknob at his back, relentless. “I can’t stay here, I need to get home,” he finds it easy to keep the tremble out of his voice if he focuses on his growing temper rather than the fear slowly overtaking him, “listen, I can pay you, okay? I’ve got some cash stowed away that’ll make up for all of this.”

Another step forward brings them ever closer, toe-to-toe, until their arm braces idly above Ovis’ head, against the door, and their breath warms his forehead, “I’m not sure you understand, clever boy,” he speaks sweetly, like explaining something simple to a child, nothing but smiles as he bends to be at eye-level, “I wasn’t asking.”

A beat of silence passes between them. Limbs still, paralyzed, his breath quickening.

He ducks beneath Esmond’s arm and heads for the window, ditching the idea of escape through the door, but his captor is fast, faster by a mile, and catches him by the wrist like one might swat casually at a fly. It snaps, the joint locking beneath his iron grip and reverberating up the chain of muscle until thunder claps against his shoulder and the first cry escapes between his clenched teeth.

“Settle,” they order, tone even, “you’re only going to hurt yourself further like this.”

“You’re the one hurting me!” Ovis growls back, struggling still against the firm hold.

“I’m only holding you in place, lamb, to keep you from hurting yourself more,” he counters, “you’re the one squirming, Ovis. If you’d only settle down, like I’ve asked, you wouldn’t be in so much pain. It will stop when you decide you’re ready to listen.”

“Fuck that!” He lurches away, all but tearing his elbow from its joint in the process, and stubbornly bites back the resulting scream until the insides of his cheek tastes like old pennies. “Let. Me. Go—”

He’s released in an instant. The sudden lack of binding has him staggering backwards, and he lands — shoulder first — against the hardwood floor.

There’s few means to stop the shriek that erupts from his chest this time around. It echoes against the walls and yet earns no change in expression from the man standing over him.

“See?” Esmond tuts, abandoning him there on the floor and momentarily stepping in the opposite direction, instead, “I suppose you’re determined to learn things the hard way.”

He isn’t listening, and he doesn’t care to. Rather, his attention is evenly divided between the blinding spasms abusing his newly reopened wounds and the wave of nausea that each brings. He chokes on the taste of bitter acid at the back of his throat and fights it off the best he can, but his vision is swiftly tunneling, and he hasn’t much time to do anything more than take shallow breaths and feel like he’s drowning on land.

It can’t end like this. If he passes out for a second time, there’s no telling where he’ll wake up or what else will happen to him. He has to move. He has to get out of here. He has to get up. Get up. Get up.

Shaking, still, he manages to gather the strength to prop an arm beneath him, bent at the elbow, and with that last remaining burst of energy he raises himself up by an inch, then two—

A boot makes contact with the space between his shoulderblades and drives him back into the floor with a resounding crunch.

Ovis howls, dry heaving around the agony. With no strength left to shake the shoe off his back he is forced to stay down, fists clenched, angry and panting like a stray on the side of the road.

Blearily, he realizes he will be forgotten like one, too.

The stars forming in his vision are warm and inviting, the ring in his ears like a blaring alarm. He lacks the strength to refuse them a second time, and so his body slumps, fists uncurling to expose open palms, and everything

falls

silent.

#HIIII THANK YOU FOR THE ASKS. SORRY IT TOOK ME A GODDAMN Y E A R TO ANSWER #HOPEFULLY THIS MAKES UP FOR IT. LMAO #WOE: chapters #whump #whump community #whumpblr #hmmm should I tag this with CWs? probably #cw kidnapping #cw gunshot wound (mentioned)#cw drugging #those are the big ones but i'll update if i missed something #UHH OKAY THAT'S ALL. GOODBYE NOW 🏃

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