Imagine Chifuyu Really Sick And Reader Going To Take Care Of Him, And Hes Just Really Out Of Character

This is too good seriously too good holy shit....

put a ring on it.

premise. snippets of daily life between a humble servant and an increasingly clingy master.

word count. 5.2k

note. reader full of snark + dumbass in love ayato = gratuitous amount of banter. i have to say that ayato never goes out of line though, and you're not actually bothered by his advances; you're just a massive tsundere.

“With all due respect, I don't believe being your headrest is part of my duty, my lord.”

“Is that so?”

The noncommittal response pointedly marks the end of his acknowledgement as Ayato makes no effort to sit up, remaining slumped against your frame. His head rests upon your shoulder, a ticklish sensation blooming where the junction between your neck and chin meet. Pale blue hair trail prickling heat where it grazes your skin, an itch you can't quite scratch away.

Even so, the discomfort doesn't reflect on your face, frigid expression carefully layered with blankness. His sinking weight fails to impede your immaculate posture, refined poise a great disparity from his leisurely disposition. It paints an odd picture, the ordinarily faultless heir lacking decorum. Though granted the freedom to do as he wishes in the private confines of his room, it is a mystery why a servant such as you is... graciously permitted to bask in his exclusive company. In the private confines of his room. You feel the need to emphasize that detail.

In his hands lays a scroll concerning governmental affairs, urgent matters that demand his attention, so you can't begin to comprehend why he insists on using this time to harass reward a lowly servant with his valuable presence when there is business to attend to.

He leans more of his weight to your side, and he—you nearly sputter indignantly—mimics an action that can almost be described as nuzzling. “Mhm. This is convenient for me, since I've hardly found the time to rest today. Do you find it intolerable?”

Ignoring the last bit, you advise, “Perhaps it would be more effective if you were to rest in your chambers. I will come call when the Kanjou Commission asks for you.”

He pretends to consider it for a moment, the silence filled with the quiet jingle of wind chimes. Predictably, the corners of his mouth hook up to a smile. “I would prefer to stay, if you don't mind?”

Resigned to your fate, you can only say, “Of course not, my lord.”

For reasons you cannot fathom, the head of the Kamisato household harbors a strong attachment to you.

In normal circumstances, this fact would be taken as great news; presently, you are little more than puzzled and unfeeling. Rather than delight, dread stirs in your stomach whenever he calls your name in a volume louder than necessary—a conscious decision, you presume, since he seems to interact with other servants just fine. Curt and polite, keeping his words concise, preventing further delay from addressing his responsibilities.

Had you not known better, you wouldn't be able to identify him as the same man who indulges in trivialities when he invites you to share snacks, engaging in frivolous chatter over tea and pastries. With increasing frequency nonetheless, and with varying refreshments each time to boot, ranging from an assortment of wagashi. Strawberry daifuku on one tea break, mizu-yokan on the next, sakura mochi on the day after that... You've been serving him for a considerable amount of time, but he's never been much of a sweet tooth until as of late.

Ayato hums thoughtfully, savoring the sweet taste on his tongue. “The mild flavor is pleasant. I believe it might be to your liking.”

He offers you a cup, steam curling above the warm brew. The pink beverage glistens beneath the sunlight, rippling with movement when you take it into your hands. It doesn't require much thinking to conclude the tea leaves must've cost a fortune, but it leaves you plenty of questions just as well. Why would a benefactor give you a taste of luxury?

But you would be a fool not to appreciate it while it lasts, so you lift the cup for a sip.

The flavor of spring bursts in your mouth, fragrant and tasting of sweet nectar. Your frosty guise wavers under the bribery, bliss crossing your face before your lips quirk up to a small, almost imperceptible smile.

Deeming your elated reaction satisfactory, Ayato nudges the plate of confections towards your side of the table. “Eat. They pair well with the tea.”

Who are you to say no to your lord? Therefore, the correct choice must be to gratefully accept his gifts!

(Distracted by desserts, you fail to see his amusement in the way you stuff your cheeks full adorably like a chipmunk.

But he's aware it's not the right time yet, so he suppresses the urge to pinch your face.)

Kamisato Ayato is often praised for his intellect and cunning mind, but sometimes you wonder if he'd finally gone stupid after all that overthinking.

“My hand feels cold,” he laments, as if he hadn't chucked away his gloves ten seconds prior. “Can I hold yours for a moment?”

Ayaka, for her part, looks ashamed on her brother's behalf. With a graceful flick of her wrist, her fan snaps open and obscures the mortified expression on her face. Thoma's bottom lip quivers, valiantly repressing his bubbling laughter though he turns quite ugly in the process.

Sending a prayer to the heavens, you hope your face looks as unreadable as you think it to be. “...I'll fetch you a pair of gloves,” you say, side-stepping the pair he just abandoned on the floor.

“Mhm. That won't be necessary,” he counters, tugging on the edge of your sleeve. “You see, I heard those granted Pyro Visions have warmer body temperature...”

That is undoubtedly a lie he conjures up on the spot.

“...So I was hoping to sate my curiosity today,” he finishes, looking far too pleased with himself. Ayaka avoids your gaze when your eyes sweep past her (she absolutely knows it's an idiotic idea because going by that logic, she should have a colder temperature... but that is obviously not the case), and Thoma is blatantly ignoring your requests for assistance, whistling an awkward tune.

You have half a mind to shift the duty to another retainer similarly bearing a Pyro Vision, who is currently trying his hardest to stifle his pained grunts when you pinch his forearm admonishingly, but there's really no way out of this. Ayato would undoubtedly craft another bullshit reason to coax you anyway. (A part of you thinks it might be fun to keep up the charade just to hear what he'd say next.)

“Right.” You hold up your hand, and Ayato's eyes flicker with mischief. His slender fingers wrap around your wrist, brushing over the jut of your bone. He marvels at the size of it, dwarfed by his large hands, and he curls his fingers tighter.

...He doesn't seem to be assessing your temperature.

But you are mindful of his, a searing heat devouring your senses. His light touches settle heavily on your skin, a prominent warmth amidst the cold gale. Where his fingers rest leave imprints of fire, trails of scorched ash in his wake.

Experimentally, his thumb rubs circles on your palm, tracing over the lines. He rolls the soft flesh, staring at the small cuts and calluses with an attentive eye. Burning the image into his mind. Fiddling with the shape of your fingers. Then, following a brief hitch of his breath, he fits his own in the spaces between yours.

His hand is soft, you think to yourself. Without the presence of leather, it is fully bare, pale and dusted with pink. His knuckles are pronounced, palm surprisingly unscarred in spite of vigorous sword practice, but a writer's callus lay on his ring finger. It is easy to imagine his frame hunched over his desk, pen between his fingers, ink running dry from writing back to missives and signing endless contracts.

(And responding to engagement offers. You would know. They clutter his workspace, scented letters branded by wax seals of a distinguished family's emblem.

He barely throws a cursory glance at them before giving his never changing answer.)

When he gives your hand a squeeze, you finally ask, “Is it warm?”

“Yes.” He sounds somewhat strangled, there, less confident than he was before he took your hand. “Very warm.”

He reluctantly parts with it, stepping back to reduce your close proximity. Ayaka fans herself as she scrutinizes his reddening complexion, and Thoma—partial to the lord, you see, even though he wasn't very eager to lend you a hand before—makes some excuse about a meeting he has to attend to (some beetle fight with Itto, most likely) and if you'd kindly excuse their presence.

“...Please pardon my brother's strange behavior,” Ayaka murmurs when only the both of you remain in the room. “He could be quite straightforward when his curiosity is piqued. He doesn't have weird intentions, really.”

She doesn't appear to believe it herself, but you appreciate her attempts to clean up Ayato's mess.

“It's no trouble, milady.” You flash a placating smile for good measure, reaching down to collect the discarded gloves Thoma nearly tripped on in his way out. “But I'm afraid I'll have to take my leave now as well...”

“Yes, of course! You may go.”

Following her affirmation, you scramble to take a duster and retreat to clean the library.

Mercifully, she doesn't comment on your flushed cheeks and colored ears. (There's only so much composure you can exhaust within one day.)

For all that you (privately) complain about the extensive list of chores to tackle in the Kamisato Estate, you find tending to the garden fairly enjoyable. Alas, you can't exactly spend the whole day pruning the shrubbery; the smile on your face drops immediately when you're sent to go on a shopping trip. Worse still, with no one to assist you in carrying the groceries. Thoma had already promised to accompany Ayaka for a mission, and everyone else is busy preparing for the Kamisato head's upcoming business trip.

Said Kamisato head is apparently “free” and “has the spare time to help” despite being the one who should be busy holing himself up in his office.

Regardless of your protests, Ayato insisted on tagging along to the market. Which brings you to your current situation, your employer dutifully carrying bundles of cloth and a basket of radishes and carrots with an easygoing smile, while your hands remain empty. He is... considerate, if you were to speak in flowery words. He is stubborn, if you were to be blunt.

However, he is relatively obedient, save for the handful of times he rushes off to chase something that caught his eye. As a result, he keeps purchasing cheap trinkets he'll probably have no use for and his pocket is brimming of candy he sometimes stuffs your mouth with when you have something to scold him for. (To be fair, it's very effective for shutting you up.)

“Please don't interrupt me from speaking,” your words are partly muffled, mouth still chewing on the confection. Ayato smiles innocently, pressing another piece of sugar to your lips.

“Where are we headed next?” He questions, looking around the bustling streets as he tucks the jar of konpeito in his sleeve. “Do you still have vegetables you need to buy?”

You shake your head. “No, the cook said he's only missing radishes and carrots in particular. I've also gotten the materials needed to mend clothes Thoma asked for.”

He deflates at that, disappointment painting his expression. “I suppose we're returning, then?”

You purse your lips, considering your options. It wasn't like you were told to come back an appointed time, and you could always blame Ayato for your tardiness... “Does my lord wish to visit anywhere specifically?”

The river of stars in his eyes twinkle ever so slightly, flashing a thinly-veiled childish gleam. “Not anything I could think of at the top of my head. Do you have any recommendations in mind?”

“Recommendations?”

“Places you like to visit.”

During your free time, you usually look around to shop for clothing or accessories... but they're nowhere near the quality befitting of nobles. The yukata isn't tailored to your size, made from cheaper cloth of cotton, and aren't as decorative to what your lord is used to; it's what makes it affordable. Whereas Ayato is often dressed in luxurious silks, embellished with golden thread and customized to his liking.

“It's no harm to bring you there... I guess.” you scratch your cheek. “Though I can't guarantee you'll like it.”

“Nonsense.” He smiles amicably. He reaches for the basket before you can grab it, gesturing for you to start walking. “I'm sure I'll have a good time regardless where it is.”

And... he does. He marvels at the extravagant brocades displayed at boutiques, wondering how one could possibly wear so many heavy layers. Though he doesn't buy clothes for himself, he decides to buy a cute purse he thinks his sister would appreciate.

Ayato expresses interest in ornaments and cosmetics as well, to which the shop owner proceeds to happily introduce her entire catalogue for a man she knows has deep pockets. He doesn't disappoint.

“You don't want anything?” He asks when you only answer his questions pertaining to Ayaka's preferences, two steps behind, never taking the opportunity to roam and search for potential additions in your wardrobe.

It's not that you haven't seen anything you'd like to take home, per se. More like everything is too expensive for your pocket money in this high-end portion of town. “No,” you say instead, because it's easier to explain that way.

He tilts his head inquisitively, but doesn't push the topic. “Help me choose a hair pin then. You know what fits Ayaka best.”

He leads you to the display case housing rows of hair ornaments, each one more remarkable than the next. The last one, undoubtedly the most costly whose price would make you weep, teeters on the edge of gaudy. Adorned with silver butterflies, tear drop sapphires, gems delicately shaped like dewy petals and white pearls sitting atop carved gold, they almost blind your eyes.

“...She'd look beautiful in everything,” is the conclusion you come to, because you speak nothing but the truth. “But please don't buy everything. She will get mad at you.”

“I know,” he sighs. “That's why I needed your help picking one.”

You almost drill holes to the items with how hard you're staring at them, but you eventually point at the pin with pink blossoms. “This would contrast nicely with her hair.”

“Mhm. If you say so,” he hums approvingly, tracing the sculpted leaves.

“Then if that's all, I'll go pay...”

“Ah, which reminds me.” He spins on his heel to face you, lips shaped into an apologetic smile. “I'm nearly running out of parchment paper. Could you stop by the stationery store up front? I'll handle things from here and meet you by the entrance.”

“Of course, my lord.”

On your way outside, you resolutely do not allow your curious gaze to steer towards the tables of sparkling jewelry.

--

The trip back to the estate is uneventful, and the rest of the afternoon passes like any other.

Perhaps the only inconsistency in your repetitive days is the accidental nap you fall into, blanketed in warm rays of sunshine and caressed by the refreshing breeze slipping past ajar doors, your cheek resting on the surface of the table you were supposed to be cleaning. How uncouth of me, you think as you wipe your mouth to check for signs of drool. Your only respite is not having anyone witness you in such a state, otherwise you would've long been rudely awakened and received an earful of chastising.

...Is what you think, until you spot a foreign ring you definitely do not recall putting on.

It curls around your finger, dotted with crystals in a hue of blue you're all too familiar with. You see it everyday, gleaming in mischief, darkening with intrigue. Framed by long, long lashes, crinkling at the corners when filled with mirth. Crashing waves turned to frost at the slighest hint of displeasure, yet inexplicably gentle the moment it meets your eyes.

(You wonder if this is why he insisted on touching your hands so much, just to roughly measure your ring size.)

“I hope you fare well during my absence. Fear not, I will do my best not to prolong my leave.”

The way his words sound so self-assured and full of conviction doesn't sit well with you, and the genuine pity reflected in his irises almost makes your eyebrow twitch. You hadn't even spoken a word before he began his theatrics.

“Take as long as you need,” you reassure him. “My lord mustn't rush his work.”

He wilts, but he perks right back up, “No need to put up a front. I'll come back for you.”

Incorrigible.

“Then I await your safe return.” You bow deeply as you swallow back a sigh of defeat, the other servants lined up on either side of the street moving accordingly.

“Please be careful,” Ayaka bids when she walks in front of him. “I've heard of bandits intercepting carriages to steal... I don't mean to undermine your abilities, but you should still be vigilant of trouble.”

Ayato laughs at that. “You don't have to worry, Ayaka. They'll sooner surrender before they lay a single scratch on me.” Glancing at the luggage being loaded on his carriage, he grimaces. “I better get going. I'll see you all in three weeks.”

He climbs to the interior, giving you a final smile before closing the door. You stare at the carriage until it fully disappears, the trotting of horses out of earshot. When Thoma begins to walk back to the estate, you fall into step with him, matching his strides.

“The lord hasn't left for this long in a while,” he comments, to which you hum in agreement. “Think you'll miss him?”

“Three weeks is hardly a long time,” you retort back, complacent for the rare period of peace to follow the next month. “He'll return in no time, as if he'd never been gone in the first place.”

Thoma eyes you strangely at that, but says no more. “If you say so.”

--

The first day is bliss. No disruptions in your work, no unwanted conversation partner as a distraction, no midnight snacks needed to be prepared for the clan head a weird mix between workaholic and slacker.

The second day proves to be the same. No incessant chatter in your ear as you sweep the floor, no complaints for a stack of paperwork to be done within the day, no sudden requests of a shoulder massage for a job well done deserving of a reward.

The third day, you feel like your schedule is lacking, blank spots of free time sprinkled in between.

Ah, right. The tea breaks.

You tell yourself you only miss the fragrant tea, the selection of treats given to you by the young master's generosity. Not his thoughtful commentary for the taste, the chuckles spilling from his lips when you respond to his quips, the brief moments of eye contact before you resume your respective duties.

The fourth day, you're sent to hang the laundry. You tell yourself you don't miss a certain someone's abrupt appearance, poking a head through the sheets to startle you, huffing bright peals of laughter when he attains his desired reaction.

The fifth day, the cook requests your help to prep dinner. My lord doesn't like this dish, the sentence almost leaves your tongue as your eyes track down the recipe when you remember right, he's not here, and milady likes this dish, so it's one of the few chances she gets to eat it.

The sixth day, you clean his office. You organize the account books, restock his collection of pens and paper, and shuffle through his mail to sort them by category (definitely not noting down the number of letters asking for his hand in marriage). Your face flushes slightly when an unassuming bookmark falls out of a book you pick up from the floor, familiar flowers pressed thinly to fit between the pages. (You had only given those flowers on a whim, plucking fresh blossoms from plants you grew outside the Kamisato's garden. You didn't think he'd keep it around; they're not nearly as fancy as what his family owns.)

By the seventh day, you check the calendar and determine time is a social construct. There is no way it's only been seven days.

--

“How do I look?”

“Positively charming,” you say dryly.

“You're not looking.”

Your eyes flit to Thoma's attire. “I am.”

He shakes his head, taking off the robes he'd been trying on. “You're always daydreaming nowadays. What are you thinking about?”

Reminiscing the last time you visited this clothing store, which is when you brought the young master in your shopping trip. But he doesn't need to know that. “It's nothing. Are you buying it?”

“Since you kindly gave an approving opinion, sure.” His tone drips with sarcasm as he takes out his money pouch, paying for the clothes. “I think I don't need the answer from you, actually. I'm confident I have an accurate guess.”

Your eyebrows knit together. “What do you mean by that?”

“Who else would linger in your mind?” Thoma sighs in dramatic fashion, stepping out of the premises with you not far behind. “Distance makes the heart grow fonder, after all.”

Bristling, you vehemently refute, “I'm not thinking inappropriately of the lord, if that's what you're implying.”

“I didn't mention any names.”

“But you clearly meant him.”

He holds up his hands. “If that's what you want to believe, suit yourself.”

His gaze drops to the ring wrapped around your finger. The ring had been a topic of interest for the gossip mongers within the estate, wondering who you could've received it from; what other implications can wearing a ring have? Your cold exterior is no secret, your heart guarded with thorns, so who was able to sweep you off your feet in the end?

Thoma only needed one look at the shade of blue to make a correct guess.

“...I'm sure at this point, you know of his intentions,” Thoma says slowly. “And I have plenty of reasons to believe his affections aren't entirely unrequited.”

If they were, you would have brushed off Ayato already, just like you always do with the others. He may be persistent, but he knows how to back off. Yet the most you do is sigh and spoil him, albeit in (fond) exasperation.

“Even if they aren't...” you fidget with the hem of your shirt, averting your gaze from his blazing eyes, “...it doesn't mean we'll work. I'm certain he has better prospects for a spouse, anyway.”

“You mean those daughters from noble families?” He snorts. “He'd barely give them the time of day before running back to you. You should know that by now. Don't you remember when he faked being sick in that lunch meeting so you could take care of him?”

Of course you do. He had pretended to be in a dizzy spell, collapsing on your shoulder and making furtive hand signals asking for your help to get the lovesick maiden off his back. There really is no way to reject people like her without offending his business associate, so he tended to evade confrontations in roundabout ways.

You could excuse his clingy behavior out of necessity; it would be disgraceful to collapse on the floor, after all. The problem lies with the aftermath where you had already steered clear of the trouble but he insists on requiring treatment, body calculatively feeble as he gives you woeful pleas.

In another world, perhaps this would've been a heart-rending experience: a cold man who didn't share his burdens with others asking help from you specifically, because you were special and he trusted you the most.

In this world though, the act is only deserving of a derisive snort. He'd pulled off this plot for who knows how many times. How would holding your hand help with his throbbing headache anyway?

(You ignore the fact you indulge him each time regardless.)

“In any case, the lord is returning in a week. Not much time left for you to mope,” he laughs, even as you elbow his side.

A week.

(That is one week too long.)

--

When Ayato returns five days short of three weeks, you aren't there to greet him.

Instead, you are sick in bed, bundled in a pile of blankets, and suffering from a stuffy nose.

Ah, and delirious from fever. Very much so.

So when Ayato miraculously appears in your bedroom earlier than scheduled, you only sniffed in response and brushed him off as a hallucination.

But of course, your dismissive attitude isn't enough to discourage him from pestering you and running his mouth. He hovers by your bedside, noting with glee that you keep his ring on a nightstand closeby. “This is rare. I don't think I've ever seen you ill.”

But you've seen him plenty, frail and weak after days straight of sleepless nights. He doesn't look too pretty in such a mood, quick-tempered and sharp-tongued at the slightest annoyance. He only ever softens when your expression flits to dismay for a fraction of a second before offering him prescribed medicine from the family's physician.

“How are you this annoying even in my dreams...”

As it turns out, you're even more of a worse case than he is.

“Mhm. Your filter is completely shut down when you're sick, huh.” Ayato laughs, amused at the surprising revelation. He doesn't get to be the receiving end of your blunt words very often. “Alright. How bad do you feel right now?”

“Terrible, since it's the ass crack of dawn.”

It is not the ass crack of dawn, but you wouldn't know any better with the curtains drawn. “Do you have an appetite? I'll have a servant bring a meal.” Then, he slyly adds, “I can feed you, if you want me to.”

He doesn't know which part of that statement appeals to you the most but you sit up straight, attentive.

Interesting.

Though Ayato had meant it in jest, he has no complaints scooping spoonfuls of porridge to bring to your lips. He patiently coaxes you into drinking the bitter medicine after, quickly soothing you with bite-sized cut fruit to wash away the acrid taste.

“Good job,” he compliments, chuckling when you glow at the praise. Your lips are shiny with juice, trickling from the corner of your mouth.

Absent-mindedly, his hand lifts to caress your cheek, the pad of his thumb wiping it away. You jolt, a startled sound escaping you, and you hasten to clamp a hand over his mouth.

He blinks at you owlishly, dumbfounded.

“Don't,” you speak, your face decorated with a lovely pink. “You'll... you'll get sick.”

Ayato takes an embarrassing amount of time to process what that means. However, when he does, you can feel him grin beneath your fingers. He takes your hand, his huff of laughter tickling your palm.

“I thought we were in a dream? You don't get sick from kisses in dreams,” he teases, pressing a light kiss to your wrist. Your heart stutters in bewilderment but you make no move to pull away, only twitching when he kisses your fingertips.

“It's better to be careful...” your brows knit together, and he kisses the crease away too.

“Okay. Let's do it next time then, when you're truly awake.” He gently pushes you to your back, fluffing up the pillows for your comfort and tucking you in the blankets. Then, indulgently, he presses a final kiss to the crown of your head. “Rest well so I can get that kiss sooner, hm?”

“That's a stupid reason to recover...” you murmur defiantly, stubbornly blinking your drooping eyes open.

In the end, you fall asleep to the sound of his laughter, the fingers combing through your hair, and the rhythmic beat in his chest.

--

When you wake up, you admonish yourself for having such a shameless subconscious, but you acknowledge that you had a good dream.

Then your eyes land on a pair of discarded gloves on your nightstand, one that you remember Ayato putting away before he began to spoonfeed you your meal.

...Fuck.

“With all due respect, I don't believe being your headrest is part of my duty, my lord.”

A thoughtful hum answers you, preceded by a curious glance at your expression. Your legs are folded underneath you, back straight and eyes overlooking the garden instead of the weight resting on your lap. You can feel him shift, turning over where he faces against the porch, his robes wrinkling where it lay below.

“Are you suddenly becoming shy because a maidservant passed by?” He places down the novel in his hands on the wooden floorboards, watching your face burn in embarrassment. “I doubt this is the first time she's seen us, though.”

“My apologies. I'm not as thick-skinned as you are.”

“I'd prefer the term 'proud,'” he pokes the sash around your waist, smiling cheekily. “Who wouldn't want to show off their lover?”

He feels you stiffen, sees the flush of pink crawling outwards to the tips of your ears. “It's inappropriate. We're in a public setting.”

“That's only because you refuse to enter my chambers,” Ayato sighs and you look positively mortified. “I wouldn't ravage you, if that's what you're worried about?”

“My lord, please be reasonable. Whether you do or not, I will still be seen as your bed warmer. Did milady not advise us to be discreet? Inazuma would be in an uproar if they learned you were... you were...” you purse your lips, unable to spit the last word.

“Wedded.”

“I'm afraid we haven't gone that far, my lord,” you deadpan.

“So will you consider it?”

“My lord.”

“What?”

You give him a look, and he sighs in acquiescence. But he turns to face the opposite direction, expression hidden fron view. You can practically hear the pout in his voice, “I see. [Name] only sees me as a fling. My heart breaks to know this bliss is short-lived, but I will cherish our remaining time together.”

He's begun his theatrics again, you think tiredly, accustomed to his stunts. “In any case, we must be careful. We never know who has loose lips around here...”

He's still not facing you, resolutely looking away.

...Is he sulking for real? Was that a genuine marriage proposal?

“My lord?” You call out softly, in a lover's tender voice. He doesn't respond. Quieter, you whisper to his ear, “Ayato?” yet that doesn't earn a reaction either.

You start to panic, wondering if you were acting too indifferently. The change in your relationship had been a recent one, and you're still settling in a period of adjustment; even if you wanted to properly flirt with him like normal lovers do, bickering came more naturally to you.

You reach for his shoulder, hoping to turn him over and see his face. But then he catches your wrist, and you only have a second to catch a glimpse of his triumphant smirk before he captures your lips in a chaste kiss.

“Mhm, I see. So you're more considerate towards me when we're dating,” he cheerfully notes, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear as if he can't see the way your shocked gaze morphs into a cold glare. “I truly am privileged.”

“Incorrigible.” The word drips with poison, but he laughs and kisses you again, thumbing at the ring around your finger.

“Too bad you're stuck with me forever, huh?”

Gaz: What’s your biggest fear?

(Y/n): One of us dying. I’m not really scared of anything else to be honest.

Gaz: What about you dying?

(Y/n), smiling: That’s my biggest hope.

Price, appearing out of nowhere: Stop.

Please, reblog! IIt’s called self defense. Apart from having here, in the US, one of the highest cases of homicide and rape in the world and high rate of GBV, think about how this could help your mother or sister

old xian #19天# 番外小短篇。(#19days# side story)

English translation - extra chapter

previous qiu art - hecheng art - 393 - kids mo+ht - kids jy+zzx - 392 - JY+XXart - HT+MoArt - MoArt - 391 - 390b - 390a - 389 - MoGS art - special520 - 388 - 387 - 386 - 385 - 384b - 384a - he cheng art - 383 extra- 383- 382- 381 - valentine art - 380 - 379 - cny art - 378 - 377 - 376bis (special)- 376- 375 - 374- 373- HT art - 372 - 371 - 370- 369- hc art- 368- 367- 366 - art -  365 - 364 - 363 - 362-  361bis (special)- 361- 360- 359- 358 - 357 - 356- 355- 354- 353- 352

cleaning typesetting and translation by @about19days (on insta) and me, with the special collaboration of @wtfit.i (insta)

A LIFETIME IN REPEAT / kamisato ayato ( genshin impact ) ( WHAT WILL SURVIVE OF US IS LOVE ) a/n: reincarnation au. quote by philip larkin. title from eden - circles. for @yelans spring serenades event w/ the theme being rebirth. thank you for arranging this !!

i. under the cherry blossoms lies love eternal, wistful and tranquil in existence. under the cherry blossoms there is the blooming of flowers in spring reborn, the sun brilliant in her ways as she blesses the earth with warmth once more.

under the cherry blossoms is a promise of tomorrow in the way ayato holds you, bodies pressed closely together, his hands resting on your hips. you sway together, side to side, in temporary respite ; the quickening and slowing of time blurs -- and it doesn't make sense, but it does : the way you could find sanctuary in his arms forever, the way it’s over in the blink of an eye and you find yourselves missing each other all the more.

“relax, love.”

ayato whispers the words softly into your ear and laughs when you tense in response. your cheeks heat up, but you tell yourself it’s from the weather and leave it at that. you’ve never gotten used to his endearing terms and you’re sure he plays it to his advantage.

“i don’t slow dance-- and when were you so romantic, anyway?”

“i’ve always been a romantic at heart,” comes the matter-of-fact answer, though you sense underlying amusement in it, “now, relax. you can always lean on me.”

your lips part with the intention of a ( hopefully ) composed reply, but his smile is all too gentle, so the words fade into oblivion. instead, there is a feeling of happiness that dwells deep within the heart. you let out a sigh of defeat, pretend you didn’t hear him chuckle, wrap your arms around his neck, and lean your head against his chest.

“the flowers are beautiful this season.” you half-heartedly murmur, face still ablaze as you seek distraction elsewhere. ayato knows this, kisses you on the head in quiet comfort. you feel him smile against your skin and you do not think you will ever get tired of the sensation.

“yes, they are.” he says, and somewhere in the tidal waves of the soul, there is a bittersweetness that invokes itself in the thought of a future known. “they are beautiful.”

( under the cherry blossoms is serenity and devotion and everything birthed from love. under the cherry blossoms there are lovers who will grow old and gray together, hand in hand.

under the cherry blossoms, in yet another spring, will lie love eternal after days long passed. in the roots of tomorrow, it will be found again. always again. )

ii. the colors blur, window to window, view by view. the subway hums, floods itself with life as passengers travel to and from, and here you are, gaze distant, vacant. waiting. you live this life now and it’s all you know. it feels weird, empty-- but you think that’s kinda how it goes nowadays : learn what it means to be an adult, or rather, function as one, have a crisis, think you’re taking all the wrong twists & turns, and learn to fake it like everyone else.

it is exhausting. you are exhausted.

you sigh, discontentment transparent on your visage. the subway buzzes again, but all the sounds twist into background noise, automatically blocked out from your senses. you fail to notice the stranger that appears before you until he gets a little too close for comfort-- and that’s when you’re suddenly all too aware of how crowded it is. you try to step back, take maybe half a step, really, and that hardly does much, but he senses your discomfort and offers a wry, apologetic smile.

you know that smile, is your immediate thought, but you don’t get to reflect on it too much before someone shoves him into you. he wraps an arm around you, staggers for a moment before finding stability, and here you are, one hand on his shoulder and the other desperately hanging onto the overhead handle.

“i deeply apologize.” are the first words you hear, and there is something about his voice that soothes the anxiety that brews in your chest. “are you hurt?”

your breath hitches in your throat. your eyes sting suddenly and your vision goes unclear, and that stupid, stupid, lump in your throat is too noticeable and bothersome. this is ridiculous and dramatic, you joke to yourself, and you want to find rationale, reason-- something -- to explain this whirlwind of emotions that sweeps you off your feet.

you nod because that’s all you really can do; you want to say sorry when you see concern adorn his features, but he smiles, he smiles and you’ve seen it before, somehow, and you think you are crying now.

“‘m okay.” you whisper. “i’m okay. thank you.”

“you’re welcome.”

the subway hums again. longing fills your heart. you want to know why.

the stranger clears his throat, lets go of you, and you stand before each other in silence.

“my name is ayato.” he tells you. he offers you a handkerchief. “i believe we’ve met before.”

tears trail down your face. it is three in the afternoon. you are on the subway with a stranger. you do not remember something you should.

“i don’t remember you.”

ayato’s smile almost falters, but he is used to masking such emotions, so he maintains it ever so perfectly, hoping that you will not feel guilt for something that is not in your control.

( you don’t remember him. that’s okay, he thinks. he will wait for you until the end of time. it’s okay, even if it hurts. )

iii. with an aching heart made of uncertainty, you fall asleep to peaceful dreams that night. it takes place in a regal estate, splendid and grand in its decor. you wonder how you find yourself in such a setting. it’s busy-- chaotic and calm at the same time, moving constantly at a steady pace as voices and faces flood the halls. you recognize these voices, hear yourself among them.

the faces are blurred. all of them.

this is where you belong. these are days you’ve experienced before ; nostalgia lines itself in the hollows of your ribs, wraps its knowing around your lungs. you have lived and breathed this life.

you can’t remember.

you wake up. the ache grows deeper, burrows itself in fragile heartstrings. you fall back asleep, vision engulfed in pink hues of cherry blossoms and ayato’s name lingering on your tongue.

iv. you don’t remember anything, not really. you know you dreamt of something strange and significant and it bothers you, horribly so-- but these things will come in time, you suppose. so you move on with your day, hope you can find solace in falling back to your daily routine.

you enter the cafe, inhaling deeply when the aroma of coffee overloads your senses. there’s comfort to be found in the little things, you remind yourself, ordering your regular drink. it’s not long before you’ve settled into the corner of the cafe, set up your laptop and stationary. your focus goes into your work for an hour or two-- maybe longer-- until you see a familiar face before you again.

“what a coincidence.” ayato muses, curiosity in purple eyes. “i did not expect to see you here.”

you stare at each other in silence for a moment-- you, more so out of shock, ayato, truthfully, in amusement at such a reaction to his presence.

“you must have missed me, finding me already.” comes your response, a forced lightheartedness in your voice meant to disperse the tension in your body.

“i did, in fact. may i sit with you?”

you almost want to think he’s joking with you, but the way he looks at you is too tender, too knowing, and somehow, it breaks your heart.

( ayato spends hours with you at that cafe. it feels like home, feels right. feels like something is missing and it shouldn’t be. )

v. you don’t ask ayato what he meant back then, where he recognized you or how he recognized you. you didn’t ask when you first met on the subway, didn’t ask at the coffee shop, didn’t ask during any single encounter you’ve had in these past few months.

you are frightened of the unknown, and perhaps you are a coward for that.

( because you want to know, but there’s something in the nagging feeling you carry that makes you want to run away from all of this. but you don’t because you know you shouldn’t. because in all the time you have spent with him since that fated meeting, maybe there is a place in your heart for him that grows larger and larger and maybe that scares you. )

you walk along the quiet streets, side by side with ayato. the storm has long passed, puddles of water reflecting gloomy skies. it is nearing the end of fall but the weather does not let up, always unpredictable in its path.

“i enjoy the rain when i am aware of its incoming presence.” ayato mumbles, gaze cast upwards at the clouds.

“you don’t like getting caught up in it and getting your beautiful hair ruined?”

“i don’t.” he laughs at your teasing tone. “you find my hair beautiful?”

“i do.”

“how generous of you.” he hums, and there’s an extra little skip in his step now. “i find you beautiful, as well.”

your face gets hot. how embarrassing.

“so romantic.” you mumble, clearing your throat. you can’t help but feel familiarity in such exchanges. “what’s your favorite season, anyway?”

ayato’s gait comes to a standstill. you pause, watch as a sorrowful and hopeful smile rests on the curve of his lips. he glances up at the sky once more before he looks at you, his hand brushing against the back of yours.

“i have always been fond of spring.”

“why’s that?”

you don’t move your hand away. he notices this, remains cautious, gentle, and laces his fingers with yours. it’s warm, comforting.

“it reminds me of someone i love.”

you freeze, see the way ayato looks at you-- like there’s something more, like he has known you in a life past-- and you want to speak, but nothing can register or come to mind.

the rain pours again, but neither of you move.

“you told me that we’ve met before.” your voice quivers. “so why don’t i remember you? i know you. i dreamt about you once, i think. i don’t know. why don’t i know? where have we met? what do you know?”

panic arises with each word spoken. you’re crying again, just like you did the first time you met. you feel like an idiot, your chest tightening with anxiety. ayato squeezes your hand. it would be so easy to tell you everything, to bring the memories back all at once. but such things take time, he kindly reminds himself, so he will wait until it all comes back.

“you’re not going to tell me.” you whisper. he shakes his head, places an umbrella over your heads. “then tell me this: the person you love-- is it me? and did i love you once, before?”

ayato smiles, just as he always does, and the tears run rampant.

( you both know the answer already. you know this, don’t you? )

vi. you dream again that night. it’s a different dream, but almost the same-- the hustle and bustle surrounds you, overwhelms you. you’re not entirely familiar with this environment yet. you only know some of the voices-- a bright, cheerful one that always seems to bring a smile to your face. a soothing one that always brings reassurance. you hear a bark and playful laughter, and in your heart there is relief.

you’ve done this before.

“daydreaming again?”

you recognize that voice. you are quick to turn on your heel, though reluctance fills the corners of your mind. you are afraid the faces will be hidden again, obscure just like last time, but they are not.

ayato stands before you, almost entirely the same with exception of attire. maybe you are daydreaming-- this is a dream, after all, and the boundaries between what is real and what is not are too chaotic to distinguish. but that doesn’t stop you from hoping, from thinking this could be what you were trying to remember after all. in the realization of such, you cry again. you cry again and again because you hope that this is it, that it’s not just a dream, that you’ve finally come to understand ayato’s words and what that emptiness meant.

“what is it? what’s wrong?” ayato asks, dabbing the tears away with a handkerchief. you know that one, recall it from the subway.

“nothing’s wrong.” you laugh in disbelief, shake your head as his thumb grazes over your cheek. “i’m okay. we’re okay.”

( you wake up the next morning. you remember it all. )

vii. it is spring now. you have not seen him in a long while-- perhaps out of avoidance or a clash in schedules, neither of you are sure. you weren’t ready to tell him once you awoke from that dream, more so because you couldn’t comprehend it all-- thoma, ayaka, ayato--

you spent a lifetime with him before. you were married to him and you loved him. you danced under the cherry blossoms on the first day of spring and you told him you didn’t slow dance, that you weren’t good at it, but he didn’t care, as long as he could hold you close.

you sit on the park bench with him now, quiet. children play in the distance, their laughter filling the silence that rests heavily in the air. your hands wring nervously in your lap, words unspoken lodged in your throat. you want to tell him, but you don’t know how. you want to tell him that you know, and you’re almost sure he knows this, too.

“have you been well? it’s been awhile.”

he starts off slowly, treads carefully on thin ice.

“i’ve been...thinking. i dreamt about you again.”

“oh?”

“i cried a lot in the dream.”

“you do that often in reality, too.”

you laugh for the first time that day, feeling your body relax against the bench. your hand rests at your side now, brushes against ayato’s. wanting. waiting. hoping.

the cherry blossoms are in bloom now, the wind casting the petals along the sky. they fall gently, gracefully, and it reminds you both of that day.

they’re beautiful, aren’t they?” ayato asks, taking note of the closed distance between you two. he swallows hard, curious as to why he hesitates now- because maybe you truly do remember now, and maybe this is the moment he’s been waiting for all this time-- the reunion of two lovers. his hand finds yours. you do not pull away.

“they always have been.” you smile faintly, intertwining your fingers. you ignore the way your voice trembles and you hope he does, too. you inhale deeply, close your eyes. “can i lean on you, ayato?”

you know. you have to, he thinks, and he cannot help the surprise that appears in purple hues. you look at him, countenance riddled with apprehension, and there’s that familiar curl of the lips you have seen many times before. he nods in confirmation, so you rest your head on his shoulder.

pink petals fall onto your laps-- delicate, loved, and seen.

“i remember you.” you whisper. the wind almost drowns out the words, but his grip on your hand tightens. “i remember our life back then-- being married, spending time in the garden when it was the beginning of spring. i-- i took so long ayato. i took so long to remember you.”

in your voice there is regret, but in his eyes there is understanding. you want to apologize, but you know he would tell you there is no need for such things.

“i knew you would, in time. i would have waited for you, nonetheless.”

ah. you’re going to start crying again. you laugh when he pulls out that handkerchief again, but when the tears come, he kisses them away ever so gently before murmuring words of comfort. his arms wrap around you, hold reassuring and filled with ardor.

“i missed you.” you whisper against his lips, and how lovely it is to feel him smile against them once more. “i love you.”

“i love you, too.” he tells you, once, twice, a million times-- as many as he needs to until it is known. “i will love and find you in every lifetime, my love.”

( under the cherry blossoms is rebirth and reinvigoration of life. under the cherry blossoms, there is love lost and love found.

under the cherry blossoms, there is you and the one you love, reunited at last. )

Who tf is this dude, he looks Hot

dating headcannons | mitsuya

warnings: hella fluff, cussing, kissing, one manga spoiler, mention of marriage and promise rings.

anon said: “hi hi! i love the way u write tokyorev chars 😭 exactly how i imagine them!! can i request dating mitsuya headcanons 😮‍💨 i love him”

— he absolutely loves to stare at you; he just finds you so fucking attractive.

— huge simp, will always tell you when he thinks you look nice, which is literally all the time.

— “babe, you look good today.” with a lil’ soft smile on his face.

— has massive urges to kiss you damn near every second of every day, has to restrain himself from kissing you in front of other people because he is afraid he’ll make you uncomfortable.

— he always waits for you to get out of class so he can give you a ride home.

— every time you walk out of your last class of the day, there he is. his head leaning against the doorframe as he smiles gently, his eyes racking up and down your body to get his daily dose of you.

— he is genuinely in love. the softest kind of love known to man, too.

— please hurry up though, he isn’t sure how much longer he can hold back to urge to kiss you.

— will grab you by the wrist and drag you to his bike, the second you guys get off at your destination, he will hop off and plant a kiss on your lips.

— a kiss from you will make his day.

— sometimes he can’t help himself, he is rather clingy.

— he tries to come off as cool and nonchalant, but he might subconsciously wrap his arms around your waist when in the middle of a conversation.

— next thing he knows, his chin is hooked over your shoulder and his face nuzzled in your neck.

— would apologize afterwards, praying you say it’s okay so that he won’t have to feel guilty for doing it again. and yes, he will do it again.

— he is so used to taking care of others that sometimes he wishes there was someone to take care of him.

— he won’t ask for much, but the two of you develop a weekly tradition in which you sit down on the couch and lean back so that he can lay in your arms and place his head on your chest. he likes it when you give him gentle praise, he needs to hear that he is doing good.

— the first time you told him so while he laid in your arms, he got really quiet and then teared up a bit. you laughed at him and wiped his tears and he was just so in love, clutching your hand to his cheek and rubbing his thumb over the back of your hand. he would smile to play it off, but he definitely needs this.

— don’t keep him waiting. he isn’t the type to complain but it does bother him when he can’t get to you whenever he wants.

— you likely have a pair of matching earrings, whether they are clip-on or actually piercings.

— he is super into matching accessories and couple outfits.

— please don’t say no to him on this, he really wants to wear a couple’s outfit with you.

— may or may not bribe you with food.

— you know he can cook now 👀 he will use that to his advantage.

— be prepared to be teased by his little sisters. they may laugh and joke about you and mitsuya, but they genuinely like you and think you’re good for their big bro.

— don’t let them catch you treating him badly though, they probably inherited dem hands too 👊💥

— mitsuya likes music, he probably has a custom mixtape that the two of you listen to whenever you’re together

— might eventually give you a promise ring if he can afford, definitely wants to marry you

— doesn’t care if you can’t cook or clean, he already promised to do it all, but he would appreciate if you helped every now and then

— tries to keep you away from the gang for your own safety but fails because mikey is a nosey son of a bitch.

— if mitsuya likes you, the rest of toman will too.

— you and hakkai probably besties low-key.

— you and hakkai probably gush about mitsuya behind his back ...right in front of his face. he just sits there like, “😐, can I get my significant other back? you’re wasting our time together.”

— probably prevents hakkai from coming over whenever you’re around solely to keep him from stealing you away tbh.

— sometimes mitsuya listens to you talk about your future together and he just sits there and smiles in awe, stars in his eyes when he thinks about how in love he is with you

— so in love that he embarrasses himself. sometimes he thinks about his feelings for you and just cringes, like “damn, I’m down HORRENDOUS.”

— will fight for you, don’t even have to ask.

— when you two go shopping, he may purposefully tell you that he thinks something that looks decent on you looks bad solely to get you to wear something he likes more instead.

— he’s a softie though, eventually breaks and tells you that he lied and that you look great in everything.

— better yet, he probably wouldn’t even let you buy anything. he might take a liking to making clothing for you.

— he’d be so fucking smug if he saw you wearing one of his designs.

— ⚠️manga spoiler⚠️ and when he becomes a designer, best believe you will be his one and only muse and his most favoured model.

— when y’all get married and yes, WHEN because it will happen. mitsuya will design your wedding outfit, don’t try to talk him out of it.

Tears Of Themis | Click And Drag

This is my first try on a click and drag game so I hope you enjoy it!

If you post your results please reblog or mention where you can find the game that would be very kind! C: ~

don't you realize our bodies could fall apart any second?

141 x male!reader

⚠︎ REPOST FROM PREVIOUS BLOG ⚠︎

warnings: gore, cod typical violence, foul language, kinda angst-y, could be read as either romantic or platonic, actually scratch that very angsty, death, alot of contemplating death, honestly mostly price centered lolz, its also like basically the convoy chase scene so yeah

notes: ⚠︎ this was a request from my previous account!! so uh 🪷 if u see this then here :3 ⚠︎ tsym for requesting !! this was crazy fun to write and i was really excited to work on it!! i had to fudge around some details for it to make a little more sense logistically speaking -- also sorry for taking a long ass while to get it done, but i hope you like regardless :)

(and yeah 🪷 is fine lol)

The horizon of the young night, painted in soft, deep blues, and splattered with stars like the flick of a paint brush, almost completely takes you out of your head. You don't often get the chance to enjoy the beauty around you, and even as you do in this moment, there's shouting and gunfire ringing in the background. Even the heavy pitter patter of rain can't deafen. It was ironic in a way--  you could probably find a cliche metaphor in there somewhere.

The huff of the helicopters rapid blades muffle what you can hear, even with your headset securely cuffed around your ears. The relentless wind beats against your skin, grabbing and pulling at your hair ferociously.

Even after all this time, these missions never fail to get your nerves up.

You feel your heart pound against your chest as Captain Price, in the seat besides the pilot, continues to bark out orders and directions. Pursing your lips, you bring your guns scope back to your eye, grip so tight you might've thought you've left your fingerprints indented into the plastic. You're squatted down on the helicopters floor, leaned against the wall as you use it for cover. Your bullets fly from the open door, aimed for the hostile vehicles set on evading your team.

Sergeant Kyle Garrick, or rather Gaz, mirrors your position on the adjacent side of the door-- Soap and Ghost no doubt holding similar positions behind you.

It's almost looking like this whole thing might go your way.

"Gaz-- [L/N]!" Price calls out over coms. "Anti-Air teams locking onto us-- your side!"

Your aim almost instinctively finds them-- large red lasers all seeming to be pointing directly at you. You squeeze your finger against the trigger, a cold sweat washing over you as you realize your bullets are doing nothing to their body armor. You felt the rhythmic jolt of your gun in your arms-- realizing you were swiftly running out of time, you called by to price, finger never leaving the trigger. "Captain-- They're wearing armor, we can't---!"

"INCOMING!" The frantic shout from Gaz cuts you off, eyes widening as you attempt to shield yourself from the missile blazing towards you. 

Your breath hitches as the heli begins to shake and spin-- you move from the door, pressing your back against the wall, madly grabbing onto whatever you can.

The pilots voice sounds in your ear, her voice strong, yet clearly frenzied. "We're going down, Y'all-- I need to execute an emergency lan-" Another large boom cuts her off, sending the heli plummeting to the ground, violent jerks being an attempt from the pilot to keep you from being obliterated the moment you'd make impact with the ground.

You try to maneuver to a more secure position as the heli grows unstable, but feel as the ground slips from under you, your back crashing again the floor with a heavy thump, head bouncing roughly against it.

Smoke fills the air, and your lungs, as alarms blare from the helis systems. There's a frantic cacophony of shouts as you fumble for anything to hold onto, nails screeching against metal as you claw to keep yourself alive. You feel your body lose to gravity as you begin to slip out, your gun now long gone.

your body dangles outside the heli, as chaos ensues. Your breath is rapid as you're just almost able to lift yourself back into 'safety.' but the rain has made everything slick and unstable. Your grip, your clothes, the metal.

Another hit to the tail end sends the helicopter to the point of no return. Plummeting downwards at seemingly impossible speeds-- in just a few seconds the chopper dove nose first into the ground, the screeching of metal aching on before coming to a silent hault.

The wreckage is still-- silent for a moment.

A sore groan stumbles from Prices throat as he forces his eyes open, a dull pain spreading through his body. On instinct, his hand goes to reach for the pilot, still sitting besides him. He stops as his eyes reach her-- her eyes wide open, empty, a strange glassy eyed stare bore into him. Broken glass litters her deep completion, the hair that had escaped her once neat bun lay stuck to her forehead as sweat and blood coats her flesh.

His chest tightness as he looks past her, into the cabin. After a moment of deadly silence, as if he were scared to ask, he finds his voice. "Are you-" a cough cuts him off, he almost instinctively turns away as he continues to hack through his sentence. "Are you alright!?"

He's partially relieved when a slew of groans answers him. Turning back, ignoring the stare of the pilot, he tries for an exit from the windshield, having been shattered upon impact. As he climbs from the cockpit, he hopes his voice is still loud enough for his team to hear. "Gaz?"

His head snaps as a figure emerges from the wreckage, pushing heavy scraps of metal from its way, and stumbling out from what remained of cabins open door. "'m alright..." He groans out in a hushed whisper, blood coating his forehead. It seems Gaz is still trying to process what's happened.

"Soap?"

As if on cue, Soap follows in Gaz's steps, footing unstable as he attempts to climb out. A string of barely legible curses are spat from his mouth before finally answering with an "I'm fine." The mostly agitated sort of growl sounded like it'd hurt his throat.

Soap extends a hand into the wreckage, a skeleton clad glove reaching for it, gripping it with a grunt as Soap pulls him up.

"Ghost, you alright mate?"

"Not dead yet." Is all he responds, stumbling from the rubble. 

"[L/N]?"

Again, everything's still.

Rain pounds against his head, soaking his hair. He must've lost his hat somewhere in the wreckage.

"[L/N]!" He calls again, straining to listen for your reply. He hisses out a curse as he moves to the demolished, Ghosts voice stopping him mere seconds later.

"Price." He says it like a whisper, not even turning to look at his Captain. Its like he's frozen in panic.

Price turns, his gaze following ghosts a few feet from the crash. barely visible through the rain is a still body.

Your body.

Price doesn't register the fact that he's moving, his feet almost slipping against the mud, till he practically falls to his knees, the momentum of his movement pushing him into your body when he comes in close. His hands hover over your form, fearful his touch might shatter you.

You're on your side, limp as Price continues to mindlessly call your name, as if pleading with you to just hop up, pretending like the crash was just a scrape to your knee. "No, no, nonono- [Y/N]-!"

He rolls you onto your back eyes shooting to a large shard-like piece of metal stabbed into your side. Smaller pieces of shrapnel have torn into your clothes and buried themselves under your skin. His hope begins to falter just before you force out a breath, face twitching on discomfort as you shakily come to. You force your eyes open, meeting the fear-stricken frown of your captain.

Price lets out a breath of relief, putting on a smile to mask his panic. It doesn't work well.

You know something's wrong.

Scoffing at his almost fatherly attempt at comfort, you crack a smile, speaking through a sickly, dry throat. "Now be for real with me, old man; just how bad is it?" He's looking at you like you're a dog about to be put down.

He doesn't answer you.

Heavy boots bound towards you, snapping Price from his poorly concealed panic. His head snapps towards the rest of the team-- but he doesn't have to say a word. They're already doing what they have to.

You hear a certain sort of zip of fabric before you feel Ghosts unmistakeable warm hands pressed against you. You're covered in rain, dirt, and your own blood.

Price is still knelt by your head, trying to keep your attention on him-- trying to keep you talking, to keep you conscious. So it's that bad, huh?

"Kid, can you feel anything?"

You ponder the question, a strange happenstance that you don't know quite how to answer that question. "I feel..." You notice the gush of warmth flow out of your body, and a pulsing dullness. Nothing else. As you breath in to answer, you feel more blood gush from you. "Warm. It's kinda gross, actually." You went to laugh, but your chuckle is caught in your throat. You feel a strange sort of painful stabbing sensation in your legs-- like pins and needles amped up to a hundred. You don't say anything, just silently wince.

Price wordless stands, shouting into his walkie-talkie, as you look to Ghost. You don't dare look at the damage you've been dealt, just barely catching a glimpse of his scarf pressed against your skin, your red staining the once tan fabric.

You snap your eyes up, attempting to focus on the breath you're swiftly loosing. Your breathing grows shallow, despite your efforts to swallow back more air-- it's as if your lungs are simply refusing to work. Your chest aches as you fight for deeper breaths, as if your a fish fighting to survive above the water-- breathing a painful chore.

You try to move, to put a hand around your throat to sooth yourself, but your limbs all feel numb-- heavy, yet jelly-like all the same. It's as if some invisible force is holding you down.

your hearing begins to distort-- almost sounding like your head was plunged underwater, all voices and sounds fading beyond much of your understanding. You recognize Prices voice, shouting into his coms. His words echo three or four times, yet to you it's devoid of any substance or meaning.

Your vision blurs-- maybe it's the rain getting in your eyes, or maybe you're really just dying. You scowl at the cliche you're living through. At the very least, you now know all those books and movies held some truth to them.

he pain worsens as you try to speak to Ghost. "I swear to God, L.T, if I start rambling about seeing a bright light, just shoot me." Ghost doesn't find your attempt at humor very funny.

You're vision begins to go black, fading from the sides until only a fuzzy circle of your vision was left. For a moment you're struggling to figure out whether or not your eyes are closed.

Price continues to shout about medical evac, Gaz is at Ghosts sides, applying pressure to the multiple puncture wounds littering your abdomen as they try to work out a plan to move you to evac without potentially further harming you. Soap is at your side, his gloved hand protectively grabbing onto yours. You think he's talking to you, and you think you're answering, maybe offering him a joke or two to comfort his panic, but you can't be sure. This goes on for awhile, like you were stuck living the same minuet over and over again.

A ringing slowly floods your ears, and all at once your pain is eased. In the midst of such chaos around you, you find a quiet. A stillness. A sort of comforting peace washing over you.

The warmth of your blood is strangely curing. It reminds you of various memories from deep within your childhood-- lost instances of a tender embrace, being lulled to sleep in the arms of a loved one, dark and silent.

Death was an inevitable thought in your line of work. Honestly, the thought was probably the most consistent thing you had in your life. It was always pretty scary-- you didn't know when you'd die, how, what would come after-- frankly it scared you. But now, in the ease, there was a mysterious certainty in the cradle of death, you found yourself accepting the idea as if it were a gift you'd been waiting for.

"[Y/N]?" You've stopped answering Soap. Your instinct is to fight heft in your eyelids, but you're just so tired. As you begin to surrender to the peace, Soaps thick accent cuts through it. "No-- stay with me, [Y/N]!" He shifts his position, laying your head on his lap as his hands rest on your face, shaking your head to keep you awake.

His shout of protest gets Prices attention. Price approaches yet again and takes Soaps former place. He places a hand on your chest and shoulder, shaking you lightly. As he begins to speak, you roll your head towards him, barely making him out through the fuzz. "C'mon, stay with me, son." He sees that sort glassy glint in your eyes. "Don't close your eyes-- close your eyes and you're a goner. Jesus fuck--! Don't you fucking die on me-- that's an order!" His voice shakes despite himself.

You aren't afraid of death. You always thought you'd die slow and painful, but this was....Nice. There's no pain, no fear, nothing but numb. You struggle for a reason to not simply give into yourself-- maybe this was just your time. You're tired-- you're young, but so fucking tired. Why not let go? What are you holding on for?

Your head rolls to the other side. Ghost and Gaz's hands are coated in your blood, their clothes possibly forever stained with the memory of your life fleeting from under their palms. You can feel the warmth of Soaps lap from under your head, one hand lightly slapping your face, and the other combing back your hair with tender care. Weather its to sooth you, himself as a nervous tick, or to just keep your mud soaked hair from your face, it's still appreciated. Price has screamed his throat raw. You never thought you'd see the man falter, but you could feel his once strong hands seem to crumble again you as they gripped almost pathetically at your vest and shirt.

Suddenly you had your answer.

You draw a shallow breath.

"Wouldn't dream of it, Cap."

MORE ANGST, MORE SUFFERING

WTF IS WRONG WITH KURO?! I LEGIT FUCKING CRY WHEN WATCHING THIS SHIT. WTF LIV SACRIFICED SO MUCH JUST FOR THE SAKE OF EVERYONE'S HAPPINESSHFJSJSHDHOSJWNF

ALSO THAT PART WHEN LUCIA RUSHED TO SAVE HER? AND THEN SKK CAME TO HELP HER? AND THEN WIPED A TEAR OFF OF LIV'S FACE?! FUCKING GOT ME IN THE HEART