Mostly cod writer but I am open to writing other game characters or stuff just let me know!!
I go by she/her pronouns but I dont care if you address me as something else
I write with automatically with ages 20 and higher in mind
I mostly write with a fem reader in mind and I usually try not to use physical body types but if I do its usually a chubby/slim reader in mind (I have no problem writing a request with a different body or gender)
˚ ༘ 🍼𖦹⋆｡˚ a pledge to keep series masterlist ˚ ༘ 🍼𖦹⋆｡˚
summary: getting knocked up by your older brother’s fratbro wasn't exactly apart of your five year plan. least of all with notorious fuck boy ryomen sukuna.
pairing: frat!kuna x reader
content: everything in this series is considered 18+ so not minor friendly! contains mature content such as rough sex, breeding, spanking, spit play, lactation kink, descriptive child birth, postpartum depression, probably more
dividers by: @petalpxl | series moodboard | art by lorinmower
chapter one: how you met \ chapter two: of course it's yours, you fucking idiot!
chapter three: meeting the itadori's \ chapter four: hospitals and hot dad walks
chapter five: fratuncles \ chapter six: more than co-parents
chapter seven: graduation \ epilogue
series oneshots/drabbles:
1. stinky feet bandit ❀ 2. late night feeds ❀ 3. daddy's little poop monster ❀ 4. baby carrier experiment ❀ 5. yuji loves his baby cousin
The lake was quiet in the early morning, covered in a thin layer of mist that curled across the water like smoke. The only sounds were the soft creak of the wooden dock and the distant chirping of birds waking with the sunrise.
You sat near the edge of the boat, bundled in one of Price’s hoodies that swallowed your hands whole. The air was cold enough to nip at your cheeks, but the warmth beside you made it bearable.
Price adjusted the brim of his hat before glancing over at you with a small grin.
“You’re supposed to be fishin’, love. Not starin’ at me.”
“I can multitask,” you mumbled, smiling sleepily.
He huffed out a laugh and handed you a steaming cup of coffee from the thermos he brought. Your fingers brushed his rougher ones for a moment, and the familiar warmth settled right into your chest.
This trip had been his idea after months of nonstop work and missions. No phones. No interruptions. Just the two of you and a tiny cabin hidden near the lake.
At first, you thought Price would spend the entire time focused on catching fish, but most of the morning had been him quietly watching you instead.
Every now and then he’d fix your scarf when it slipped loose or steady you whenever the boat rocked too hard. Small things. Gentle things.
You cast your line again with a dramatic sigh.
“I think the fish hate me.”
Price reeled his line in slowly. “Might be because you scared ‘em half to death earlier.”
“I slipped one time.”
“You screamed loud enough to alert the entire lake.”
Your jaw dropped in fake offense while he chuckled low under his breath. The sound was warm and deep, blending perfectly with the calm water around you.
Then suddenly your fishing rod jerked violently.
“Oh my god—Price!”
He looked over instantly. “Easy, easy, don’t yank it too hard.”
“I’m trying!”
You nearly lost your balance when the fish pulled again, but Price moved fast, stepping behind you and wrapping his arms around yours to steady the rod.
“Lean back a little,” he murmured near your ear. “That’s it.”
His chest pressed against your back, solid and warm, while he guided your hands carefully. Together, you pulled the line in until a silver fish finally burst from the water.
You stared at it in shock.
“I actually caught one.”
“Told you,” Price said proudly. “Just needed proper supervision.”
You laughed so hard your stomach hurt.
The rest of the afternoon passed slowly after that. The sun climbed higher, warming the lake until you could dip your fingers into the water without shivering. Price taught you how to bait hooks properly, though he ended up doing most of it himself because he claimed you looked “too pretty to be dealing with worms.”
By evening, the two of you sat outside the cabin near a crackling fire. The fish Price cleaned earlier cooked over the flames while you rested against his side beneath a thick blanket.
The orange firelight softened the lines of his face, making him look calmer than you’d seen in months.
You tilted your head against his shoulder. “You happy?”
Price looked out over the dark lake for a long moment before squeezing your hand gently.
“Got you beside me, no one botherin’ us, and a full stomach on the way.” His gaze shifted down to you, soft and impossibly fond. “Don’t get much better than this, sweetheart.”
The fire crackled quietly between you both while the stars reflected across the water
Ill be taking a one or two week hiatus due to my medical issues right now but i have something in plan for when i do return, feel free to still fill my inbox and make requests during this time thanks.
The kettle had been screaming for a solid minute before John Price finally took it off the stove.
He did not rush. Even at home, with no mission clock ticking, everything about him moved with steady control. The kind that made people listen when he spoke and wait when he did not.
“Tea’s gone bitter,” you called from the couch, not looking up from your book.
A pause. Then, dry as ever, “That’s because you let it scream at me instead of getting it yourself.”
You smiled faintly. “I like watching you do things.”
“That so?” He poured the water slowly, careful like it mattered. “And what exactly am I doing that’s so entertaining?”
“Domesticity,” you said, glancing over. “It’s rare.”
He let out a quiet breath that almost passed for a laugh and carried the mugs over. He handed yours to you, his fingers brushing against yours for just a moment longer than needed. Warm. Grounding.
That was how he showed it most of the time. Small things. Quiet things.
You shifted to make space and he sat beside you, sinking into the couch like he had not rested properly in weeks. Maybe he had not. You did not ask yet.
Instead, you leaned into him, resting your head against his shoulder.
The silence that followed was easy.
After a while, he spoke, voice lower. “Missed this.”
You tilted your head slightly. “Tea?”
“Home.” A brief pause. “You.”
That made you look at him. His eyes stayed forward, focused on nothing, but his hand found yours again, this time more certain. His fingers laced with yours like he needed the contact.
“You do not have to say things like that just because you have been gone,” you murmured.
“I know.” His thumb moved slowly over your knuckles. “Still mean it.”
There was weight in it. Not heavy, not overwhelming. Just honest.
You squeezed his hand. “Then stay a little longer this time.”
He went quiet again. You were used to that.
Then he turned just enough to press a firm, brief kiss to your temple. “I will try.”
So when the alarms stop and the hallway outside your containment room goes still, your body locks up instead of relaxing. Your ears twitch at every tiny sound, your breathing shallow as you press yourself into the far corner.
Something changed.
Something is wrong.
Footsteps.
Not rushed. Not panicked.
Measured.
That’s new.
You bare your teeth before you even see them.
The door slides open with a harsh metallic sound, and light floods in. You flinch hard, a low, warning sound slipping from your throat before you can stop it.
Four figures.
Big. Armed. Unknown.
Threat.
Your instincts spike immediately. You scramble back even though there’s nowhere left to go, claws scraping uselessly against the floor. Your heart is pounding so loud it drowns everything else out.
“Easy,” one of them says, voice low, steady.
You don’t understand the word fully, but the tone… it’s different.
Not sharp. Not cold.
Still, you snap at the air between you, a desperate attempt to keep distance.
“Bloody hell,” another mutters, quieter. “What did they do to you…”
The tallest one steps forward slightly.
Authority. You can feel it.
You hiss.
He stops immediately.
Good.
He crouches instead, lowering himself so he doesn’t tower over you as much. His hands stay visible, weapon lowered but still within reach.
“You’re safe,” he says.
Safe.
The word feels foreign. Useless.
You don’t believe him.
You’ve heard calm voices before. They always came right before something hurt.
Your body trembles, torn between bolting and freezing. There’s nowhere to run. There never is.
Behind him, one of the others shifts.
You react instantly, lunging forward just enough to make them flinch back. A warning. Stay away.
“Alright,” the one in front says quickly. “No sudden moves.”
He’s watching you closely. Not like the others did. Not like you’re something to poke and prod.
There’s no softer word for it, no hidden kindness tucked away for the world to discover. He rules with sharp eyes and sharper patience, the kind that snaps without warning. Servants tremble when he walks past. Guards lower their heads, careful not to meet his gaze. Even curses hesitate, instinct screaming at them to stay small, stay quiet, stay alive.
He does not tolerate incompetence.
He does not tolerate noise.
He does not tolerate anyone.
Except you.
And even then, “tolerate” isn’t the right word.
You’re sitting by the open window, arms crossed tightly over your chest, expression permanently annoyed. The late afternoon air drifts in, but it does nothing to cool your mood. Everything irritates you lately. The heat, the weight of your body, the way your clothes fit wrong, the constant attention.
Especially the attention.
A servant steps too close.
“I brought—”
“Leave it,” you snap, not even looking at them.
They flinch and immediately retreat, nearly tripping over themselves in their rush to escape. You don’t feel bad. You’re too uncomfortable to feel bad.
A presence fills the room moments later.
Heavy. Certain.
Annoyingly familiar.
“Why are they running,” Sukuna asks, voice low and edged with amusement, “like you’re about to devour them.”
You don’t turn. “Maybe I am.”
There’s a pause, and then a quiet, almost pleased hum.
He moves closer, stopping just behind you. You can feel him there without looking. Always looming, always watching.
“You’ve been irritable all day,” he notes.
“No,” you mutter. “Really?”
His hand comes to rest against your side, firm and warm. Not asking. Never asking.
You immediately grab his wrist and shove it away.
“Don’t.”
The word comes out sharper than you intended, but you don’t take it back.
For a split second, the room goes still.
Somewhere outside, a guard inhales too loudly.
Sukuna doesn’t move.
Anyone else would be dead already.
Instead, he exhales slowly through his nose, something unreadable passing across his expression.
“…You’re in a worse mood than usual,” he says.
You glare at the floor. “Everything hurts.”
There’s no bite in your voice this time. Just frustration. Exhaustion.
That changes something.
He crouches slightly so he’s more level with you, his presence still overwhelming, but his attention… focused. Sharpened.
“Where.”
It’s not really a question. More like a demand for information.
You hesitate, then gesture vaguely. “Everywhere. My back, my sides… I can’t get comfortable. And everyone keeps hovering like I’ll break if they breathe wrong.”
“You might,” he says flatly.
You shoot him a look. “That’s not helping.”
A pause.
“…Noted.”
It’s stiff. Awkward, even. Sukuna is many things, but comforting is not one of them.
Still, he reaches out again, slower this time. His hand settles against your lower back, careful in a way no one would ever believe if they saw it. There’s pressure there, steady and grounding.
You tense at first.
Then… don’t pull away.
“…That?” he asks.
You huff. “It’s fine.”
Which, coming from you, means it helps.
He stays like that, hand firm against you, the other resting on the arm of your chair like he owns the space around you. Because he does.
Silence settles, but it’s not as sharp anymore.
After a moment, you mutter, “You’re still insufferable, you know.”
“And you’re still insubordinate,” he replies.
You glance at him. “You going to punish me?”
There’s a flicker of something in his eyes, something dangerous and amused.
“…No.”
The answer is immediate.
Certain.
You blink, caught off guard.
He doesn’t elaborate.
Instead, his hand shifts slightly, easing the tension in your back again, more deliberate now that he knows what helps.
Outside, someone drops something.
Sukuna’s gaze snaps toward the sound, expression instantly darkening.
“Useless,” he mutters, voice laced with quiet threat.
The poor servant scrambles out of sight.
You roll your eyes. “You’re going to scare everyone away.”
“Good.”
“…Then who’s going to deal with everything?”
“They’ll learn,” he says simply. “Or they won’t be here long enough to matter.”
You sigh, leaning back slightly despite yourself. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” he murmurs, almost thoughtful, “you remain.”
You don’t respond to that.
But you don’t move away either.
His hand stays where it is, steady and grounding, a quiet contradiction to the chaos he is everywhere else. The King of Curses, feared by all, reduced to sitting beside his grumpy, aching wife, adjusting his touch when she shifts, paying attention when she huffs in discomfort.
No one would believe it.
If they saw the way he looks at you now, they’d think it was a trick.
It isn’t.
It’s just his version of care.
Rough. Possessive. Unyielding.
But real.
And for now, with the world kept at a distance and his presence solid at your side, it’s enough.
You’re quieter than usual, movements slower, like everything costs more effort than it should. There’s a tension in your shoulders, a faint ache in the way you sit, and something heavier underneath it all that has nothing to do with your body.
He approaches carefully, not wanting to overwhelm you.
“Can I sit with you?” he asks.
You nod, barely lifting your head.
The moment he’s close, it’s clearer. Your scent is off, strained and tangled with discomfort. Your body is going through something difficult, and whatever’s happening with your family is only making it worse.
He doesn’t ask too many questions right away. He just sits beside you, close enough that you can lean into him if you want, but not forcing it.
“You don’t look okay,” he says gently.
You let out a small, shaky breath. “I’m not.”
Silence stretches for a second, and then it spills out before you can stop it.
“My family’s just… a mess right now,” you murmur, voice tight. “Everyone’s arguing, everything feels tense, and I already feel awful and I just… I can’t handle both at the same time.”
Your hands curl into your sleeves, frustration building behind your eyes. “It’s too much.”
Choso doesn’t hesitate.
He turns slightly and opens his arms, giving you the choice.
You take it immediately.
The second you lean into him, he wraps you up gently, one arm around your shoulders, the other resting steady against your back. It’s firm enough to ground you, soft enough not to overwhelm.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs.
You shake your head against him. “I feel so weak right now.”
“You’re not weak,” he says, calm and certain. “You’re dealing with a lot at once.”
Your body aches, your emotions are all over the place, and everything outside of you feels unstable too. It’s exhausting.
He adjusts slightly, pulling a blanket over you both without letting go. His hand moves slowly through your hair, a steady, soothing rhythm.
“You don’t have to deal with everything tonight,” he continues. “Just focus on getting through this moment.”
“What if it doesn’t get better?” you whisper.
He’s quiet for a second, not dismissing the fear.
“Then we take it one step at a time,” he says. “And I stay with you through it.”
The simplicity of it makes your chest tighten.
You shift closer without thinking, seeking warmth, something steady. He notices immediately, adjusting so you’re more comfortable, letting you rest against him fully.
“Are you hurting?” he asks softly.
You nod.
His hand moves carefully, resting warm against your lower back, easing some of the tension there. He doesn’t make a big deal out of it, just quiet support, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Try to relax,” he murmurs.
“I can’t really sleep.”
“That’s okay,” he says. “You don’t have to. Just stay here.”
So you do.
Time passes slowly, but the sharp edge of everything begins to dull. Your breathing evens out, your body gradually loosens, even if just a little.
“Choso?” you whisper after a while.
“Yeah?”
“…thank you for staying.”
His hold on you tightens just slightly, protective but gentle.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says.
And this time, with his steady presence around you, the world doesn’t feel quite as overwhelming.
The first thing people noticed about Captain Price was how steady he was—unshakable, rough around the edges, the kind of man who carried storms in his voice and calm in his decisions.
But at home, none of that mattered.
At home, he was soft.
He’d come through the door late, boots heavy against the floor, the scent of smoke and cold air still clinging to him. And without fail, his shoulders would drop the second he saw her, like the world had finally loosened its grip.
“You’re up,” he’d murmur, voice quieter than anyone else ever got to hear.
She always was.
Waiting on the couch, blanket draped over her legs, something warm in her hands, tea gone half-cold because she’d been too busy listening for the door. She’d smile, sleepy and gentle, and that was it. That was all it took.
Price, the man who faced down chaos without blinking, would melt.
He’d cross the room in a few long steps, crouch in front of her, and rest his forehead against hers for just a moment. No words. Just breathing her in, grounding himself in something real, something safe.
“You alright?” she’d ask, brushing her fingers through his hair, softer than the world ever allowed itself to be with him.
“Better now,” he’d answer every time.
Later, when the house was quiet and the world felt far away, he’d lie beside her, one arm wrapped firmly around her waist like he needed to make sure she was still there. His thumb would trace absent patterns against her skin, slow and careful, like memorizing her.
He wasn’t a man of many gentle habits, but with her, he learned.
He learned to linger in the kitchen just to steal a kiss.
To press his lips to her temple when she passed by.
To listen to the small, ordinary details of her day like they were the most important intel he’d ever received.
And sometimes, when sleep refused to come and old memories pressed too close, he’d pull her closer without a word. She never asked. Just tucked herself into him, hand over his heart, steady and warm.
Grounding him again.
In those quiet moments, Captain Price didn’t exist.
Just a man, tired and human, holding the one thing in his life that made everything else worth it.
Sometimes i make post before i go to bed and don’t look correctly and sometimes i write a gender neutral and character neutral so i put all the tags of fandoms I’m in, at the end of the day you can comment on a post you see i should’ve tagged differently and if i think they should be adjusted i will 🫰
Each time i go on your page, your profile design reminds me of spider lilies and i imagine Choso gifting them to you, outsrtetching them to you, handful, freshly picked, gorgeous flowers. And wouldnt even understand at first if you made a face until you let him know they are dangerously poisonous to humans in any form. He would look like he betrayed you and probably spend lots of time with books on herbs afterwards after he apologised profusely on his knees. Probably would cry too, like full on guilty sob, remembering that one time he almost killed Yuji. And now he almost did so to you, unintentionally.
But its a thought that matters, right?🥀🥀🥀
He is just so old fashioned, he strikes me as someone who's first gift choice would always be something useful or down to earth, like flowers, food, because he is from the time back when nesseseties and being provided was biggest show of love. Full on family man mod on, old style courting.
How would u react on that? 😸
Note: i literally just saw this💔
Sorry for being so innactive💔
“You reminds me of spider lilies.”
Choso had looked at you then, head tilting just slightly, dark eyes soft with quiet curiosity. He always listened when you spoke, even when your words felt insignificant.
“Spider lilies?” he repeated, as if testing the shape of the phrase.
You nodded, smiling faintly. “They’re pretty. Bright red. Kind of… delicate, but dramatic. They bloom around death, though. People associate them with the afterlife.”
He absorbed that. You could see it happening, the careful way he stored every detail you gave him, as if your words were something precious, something to be studied and understood.
“Pretty,” he echoed softly.
At the time, you didn’t think much of it. It was just another quiet exchange, one of many that made up the steady, comforting rhythm between you.
You should have known Choso wouldn’t forget.
Days passed. Maybe a week. You lost track. Time with him had a strange way of softening at the edges, blurring into something warm and unhurried.
That afternoon, the air felt different. You noticed it before you saw him. There was a faint scent, something floral, carried on the breeze. It was sweet, but sharp too, almost metallic underneath.
You stepped outside, curious.
And there he was.
Choso stood a few steps away, his posture unusually stiff, like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself. His hair shifted slightly in the wind, and in his hands—
A bundle of red.
Your breath caught.
Spider lilies. A whole handful of them, vivid and striking, their long petals curling like flames. Freshly picked. Beautiful in a way that almost hurt to look at.
For a moment, you didn’t speak.
He stepped closer, slow and careful, as if approaching something fragile.
“These,” he said, holding them out to you with both hands, “are the flowers you mentioned.”
There was something earnest in his voice, something almost shy. He wasn’t used to gestures like this. You could tell. But he had tried, in his own way, to do something that would make you happy.
“I found them,” he continued. “I thought… you might like them.”
Your chest tightened.
They were beautiful. Truly. The kind of beauty that made your heart ache. And in any other situation, you might have reached out immediately, taken them from him, thanked him with a soft smile.
But instead, your expression faltered.
It was small. Just a flicker. A hesitation.
Choso noticed.
He always noticed.
His hands stilled mid-motion, the flowers hovering between you. “You… don’t like them?” he asked, the uncertainty creeping into his voice.
“No, I do,” you said quickly, instinctively. “They’re really pretty, Choso, it’s just—”
You hesitated again, trying to find the right way to say it.
“They’re poisonous.”
Silence.
It stretched, thin and fragile.
Choso blinked.
“…Poisonous?” he repeated, quieter this time.
You nodded, a little more carefully now. “Yeah. Spider lilies are actually really dangerous to humans. Like, every part of them. If you touch them too much or accidentally ingest anything—”
You stopped when you saw his face.
The change was immediate.
It was like something inside him cracked.
His hands trembled, just slightly, and the flowers shifted in his grip. His eyes widened, not in confusion, but in something far worse.
Horror.
“I…” His voice faltered. “I brought these to you.”
“It’s okay,” you said quickly, stepping forward. “I didn’t touch them yet, and even if I did, it’s not instantly harmful or anything. You didn’t know.”
But he was already shaking his head.
“No,” he murmured, almost to himself. “No, I should have known. I should have asked. I should have—”
The flowers slipped from his hands, falling to the ground in a soft scatter of red.
“I almost hurt you.”
Your chest tightened painfully. “Choso—”
“I almost killed you.”
The words came out broken.
You froze.
His breathing grew uneven, his shoulders tensing as if he were bracing against something unseen. His hands curled into fists at his sides, knuckles whitening.
“I did it before,” he continued, voice cracking. “I didn’t know then either. I didn’t understand. And Yuji—”
He choked on the name.
“I hurt him. I almost killed him.”
“Choso, that’s not the same—”
“But it is,” he insisted, louder now, though his voice still trembled. “I didn’t understand. And because I didn’t understand, I caused harm.”
His knees hit the ground before you could react.
The sound was soft, but it echoed in your chest.
“I’m sorry,” he said, bowing his head, his voice shaking violently now. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. I would never—”
“Hey, hey,” you dropped down in front of him immediately, panic flaring in your chest. “Stop. Choso, look at me.”
He didn’t.
“I didn’t know,” he kept repeating, like a mantra. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know.”
Tears slipped down his face, silent at first, then heavier, his breathing breaking apart into uneven sobs.
It wasn’t just about the flowers.
You could see that now.
This wasn’t just guilt over a mistake. This was something deeper, something rooted in everything he had been through, everything he had done without understanding, everything he was still trying to make sense of.
Carefully, you reached out and took his hands.
He flinched.
“I’m okay,” you said firmly, squeezing his hands gently. “Look at me. I’m fine. You didn’t hurt me.”
Slowly, hesitantly, his gaze lifted to meet yours.
“You didn’t know,” you repeated, softer now. “And you were trying to do something nice. That matters.”
His lips trembled. “But I should have known.”
“Maybe,” you admitted gently. “But you’re still learning. That doesn’t make you dangerous. It makes you human.”
He shook his head weakly. “I’m not—”
“You are to me.”
That stopped him.
The words hung between you, steady and certain.
“You care,” you continued. “You try. You listen. That’s what matters. Not this.”
You glanced briefly at the fallen flowers, their red petals stark against the ground.
“They’re just flowers,” you said softly. “They don’t change who you are.”
His grip tightened slightly around your hands, like he was anchoring himself.
“I scared you,” he whispered.
“You worried me,” you corrected gently. “There’s a difference.”
Another tear slipped down his cheek.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, voice barely audible.
“I know,” you replied.
And you did.
That was the thing. Beneath all of this, beneath the guilt and the fear and the lingering shadows of his past, there was something unwavering.
He cared.
Deeply. Fiercely. In a way that made mistakes like this hurt him far more than they ever could hurt you.
You reached up with one hand, brushing a tear from his cheek.
“Next time,” you said softly, “maybe stick to flowers that aren’t associated with death and poison.”
A weak, shaky breath left him, something almost like a laugh, though it was fragile.
“…Yes,” he murmured.
“And maybe ask me first,” you added.
He nodded quickly. “I will. I’ll learn. I’ll study. I won’t make the same mistake again.”
“I know you won’t.”
You stayed there with him for a while, hands still intertwined, the tension slowly easing as his breathing steadied.
The spider lilies remained on the ground, vivid and untouched.
Beautiful.
But no longer frightening.
Because the thing that mattered most had never been the flowers.
TW: Injury,Blood and bleeding, Hospital setting and medical procedures,Near death experience, Violence involving curses, Emotional distress and fear of losing a loved one, Angst and some fluff
Note: a little celebratory fic from me too you <3 i hope you like it ✨
Wc: 1,215
The fluorescent lights in the hospital never really turned off. They only dimmed slightly during the late hours, casting everything in a pale glow that made time feel like it had stopped. You had grown used to it, the quiet hum of machines, the soft shuffle of nurses, the distant beeping that reminded you life could hang by a thread. Working here was supposed to make things easier, more controlled, more predictable.
But nothing in your life had ever stayed predictable once curses became part of it.
You adjusted your gloves as you checked a patient’s chart, your mind only half focused. The other half was somewhere far away, thinking about him. He had left earlier that day with a quick smile and a promise that he would be back before your shift ended. He always said that. Sometimes it was true. Sometimes it wasn’t.
You tried not to think about the times it wasn’t.
He was strong. You reminded yourself of that constantly. Strong, skilled, and stubborn enough to survive things most people couldn’t even imagine. Still, strength didn’t make him untouchable. You had seen too much to believe that.
A sudden noise broke through your thoughts. The doors at the end of the hall burst open, and the sound of hurried footsteps filled the air. Your head snapped up instantly. That kind of urgency never meant anything good.
“Emergency incoming!” someone shouted.
Your heart dropped before your mind could catch up.
You moved without thinking, stepping into the hallway just as a stretcher came rushing in. There was blood. Too much blood. It stained the sheets, soaked into the fabric, and dripped onto the floor in small, terrifying drops.
And then you saw his face.
Everything inside you froze.
For a second, the world went completely silent. The noise, the voices, the chaos around you faded into nothing. It was just him. Pale. Unconscious. Barely breathing.
“Move,” a doctor said sharply, pulling you back to reality.
Your body reacted before your emotions could catch up. You stepped aside, forcing your feet to move even though every instinct screamed at you to stay, to reach out, to do something. But you couldn’t freeze. Not here. Not now.
You followed them into the emergency room, your hands trembling as you pulled on a mask. Your training took over, guiding your actions even while your mind struggled to process what was happening.
“What happened?” you asked, your voice tighter than you wanted it to be.
“Curse attack,” one of the sorcerers answered quickly. “It was stronger than expected.”
Of course it was.
You swallowed hard, stepping closer as they transferred him onto the bed. Up close, it was worse. His uniform was torn, his skin marked with deep cuts and bruises. There was a gash along his side that looked like it had barely been stopped from bleeding out completely.
Your chest tightened painfully.
Focus.
You forced yourself to focus.
“Vitals are unstable,” someone said.
“I need pressure here,” another added.
You moved in, pressing down where they directed, your hands steady even as your heart raced. You couldn’t afford to break. Not while he needed you.
Not while he was like this.
Time blurred as the room filled with movement. Voices overlapped, instructions were given, tools were passed back and forth. You stayed where you were, doing everything you could, refusing to let your emotions get in the way.
But every time you looked at his face, something inside you cracked just a little more.
He was always so alive. Always smiling, teasing, pulling you into his chaos whether you wanted it or not. Seeing him like this felt wrong in a way you couldn’t explain.
After what felt like forever, things began to stabilize. The bleeding slowed. His breathing evened out, though it was still weak.
“He’s going to make it,” the doctor said.
The words hit you all at once.
Relief flooded through your body so suddenly that your knees almost gave out. You had to grip the edge of the bed to steady yourself, your breath coming out in a shaky exhale.
He was going to live.
That was enough.
It had to be enough.
They moved him to a recovery room not long after. The chaos faded, replaced by a quiet that felt almost too heavy. Machines beeped steadily beside him, each sound a reminder that he was still here.
You stood by the door for a moment, unsure.
You had faced curses. You had seen injuries, death, things that would haunt most people forever. But this felt different. This was personal. This was him.
Slowly, you stepped inside.
He looked smaller somehow, lying there in the hospital bed. The bandages, the IV, the faint rise and fall of his chest. It didn’t match the person you knew.
You pulled a chair closer and sat down, your eyes never leaving him.
“You said you’d be back before my shift ended,” you murmured softly.
Your voice felt too loud in the quiet room, even though it was barely above a whisper.
“You’re late.”
There was no response, of course. Just the steady beep of the monitor.
You reached out hesitantly, your fingers brushing against his hand. It was warm. That simple fact made your chest tighten again, but this time it was something softer. Something fragile.
“You’re an idiot,” you continued, your tone gentler now. “You know that, right?”
Your thumb moved slightly against his skin, a small, absent motion.
“You don’t have to take everything on by yourself.”
The words felt heavy. You had thought them a hundred times, maybe more, but you had never really said them out loud like this. Not when he could hear you.
Not when it mattered.
Your gaze dropped, focusing on the way your hand fit against his.
“I hate this,” you admitted quietly. “I hate seeing you like this. I hate not knowing if you’re going to come back.”
Your throat tightened, and you had to pause for a moment.
“I know it’s your job. I know it’s what you chose. But that doesn’t make it easier.”
Silence filled the space again, but it didn’t feel as empty this time.
You stayed like that for a while, just sitting beside him, talking softly even though you didn’t know if he could hear you. It didn’t matter. You needed to say it. He needed to hear it, even if it was only later.
At some point, exhaustion caught up to you. Your head dipped slightly, your grip on his hand loosening just a bit as you drifted.
You didn’t notice when he woke up.
Not at first.
It was a small movement. A faint shift of his fingers against yours. Barely anything at all, but enough.
Your eyes snapped open instantly.
For a second, you didn’t move. You were afraid it had been your imagination, that if you looked too quickly it would disappear.
But then his hand moved again.
And when you looked up, his eyes were open.
They were unfocused at first, still heavy with pain and exhaustion, but they were open. He was awake.
Relief hit you so hard it almost hurt.
“You’re awake,” you breathed.
His gaze shifted slowly, landing on you. It took him a moment to fully recognize where he was, what was happening. But when he did, a faint, familiar expression crossed his face.
“You look… really worried,” he said weakly.
Your breath caught.
Even now, he was joking.
Something inside you snapped.
“You idiot,” you said, your voice shaking despite your attempt to keep it steady. “Of course I’m worried. You almost died.”
He blinked, clearly surprised by your tone.
“I’m fine,” he started.
“You’re not fine,” you cut him off. “You’re in a hospital bed. You were unconscious. You were covered in blood.”
The words came out faster now, all the fear and frustration you had been holding back spilling over.
“You don’t get to just brush that off like it’s nothing.”
He stared at you for a moment, silent.
And then, slowly, his expression softened.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
The apology caught you off guard.
You weren’t expecting that.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he continued, his voice still weak but steady. “It just… happened.”
You swallowed hard, your anger fading just as quickly as it had come.
“I know,” you said, softer now. “I know it wasn’t on purpose.”
Your grip on his hand tightened slightly.
“I just… I don’t want to lose you.”
The words felt heavier than anything else you had said.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Then, carefully, despite the pain it clearly caused him, he shifted his hand to squeeze yours.
“You won’t,” he said.
There was no hesitation in his voice. No doubt.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
You looked at him, really looked at him, and for the first time since he had been brought in, you let yourself believe it.
Not because it was guaranteed.
But because he meant it.
And for now, that was enough.
You let out a small breath, your shoulders relaxing just a little.
“Good,” you murmured.
Because if he ever tried something like that again, you weren’t sure your heart could handle it.
But as you sat there, his hand in yours, the steady rhythm of the monitor filling the room, one thing became clear.
No matter how dangerous his world was, no matter how many times things went wrong, you would be right here.
I just got accepted into my PCT class so a new fic will be on its way very soon. Probably along the lines of reader working at the hospital and her s/o gets admitted in while she is on shift🫰🙂↕️
Since i saw your Choso fic, i thought maybe id request one myself. So maybe something with Choso who dotes on his lover after he unintentionally scares them by going all out at the cursed spirit with his powers, and its kinda bloody and ends so fast that reader gets really spooked. Especially if reader is all about softness and healing instead of combat and violence.
(I knida started getting that feeling for a while now with latest anime episodes with almost every character in JJK. Just imagine suddenly being their target, gosh. Started thinking that ever since Yuta and Megumi episodes. I wonder if im the only one who caught myself wondering about such things.)
Im actually curious now, you ever got shivers from some of the character's fighting scenes?
I made the fic i just forgot to tag you💔💔 im so sorry
