⋆˚꩜｡ gn!reader x upper moon males ⋆˚꩜｡
“you’re sick and as much as they don’t want to admit it, the upper moons hate seeing you like that.”
You’re curled up beneath heavy blankets, fever painting your skin hot and clammy. A cough rattles your chest as you murmur weakly,
The air shifts, heavy with Muzan’s presence before you even see him. He appears in the doorway, gaze sharp as ever, but something unsettled lurks beneath the red of his eyes.
He strides to your bedside, movements smooth, deliberate. His cool hand presses against your forehead, and his frown deepens instantly.
“Pathetic. A fever has you bedridden? How fragile can one body be?”
You huff softly, trying to burrow deeper into the blanket.
He exhales through his nose, clearly biting back a sharper retort. With surprising gentleness, he adjusts the blanket up to your chin, tucking it close like he’s trapping you from the cold air.
“If you waste away like this, you’ll be no use to me,” he says flatly. But his voice is low, almost strained.
His eyes linger on your flushed cheeks, your trembling lashes, the way your lips part with each shallow breath. He looks away quickly, jaw tight, as if your vulnerability is something he shouldn’t have to see—something that claws at him in ways he doesn’t want to name.
You mumble drowsily, half-asleep. “You… hate this, don’t you? Seeing me like this.”
His hand freezes where it hovers above you. He could lie. He should lie. Instead, his voice drops, quieter than a whisper.
For once, it doesn’t sound cruel. It sounds like confession—like watching you sick cuts deeper than any enemy ever could.
When you wake later, the fever dull but still lingering, you find water at your side, a neatly folded cloth, and sliced fruit arranged with meticulous care. Muzan is gone, but the ghost of his touch on your forehead and the silence of his unspoken worry lingers.
The fever has you pinned down, your body weak and heavy beneath the blankets. Each cough feels sharp in your chest, and when you open your eyes, Kokushibo is already there, kneeling silently at your side.
His six eyes scan over you, unreadable yet unrelenting.
“You should not have allowed yourself to reach this state,” he says, voice even but edged with something heavier.
You let out a soft groan, tugging the blanket up higher.
“Thanks for the lecture… I feel so much better now.”
For a moment, silence. Then, Kokushibo reaches out, long fingers brushing your damp hair back from your forehead. The touch is careful, deliberate—like he’s unfamiliar with the act, but determined to do it right.
His gaze lingers on your flushed cheeks, your trembling breath.
“It displeases me… to see you suffer like this.”
Your half-lidded eyes flick toward him, lips tugging faintly upward.
“That almost sounded like you care.”
His eyes narrow slightly, but his hand lingers on the side of your head, thumb grazing lightly against your temple. His expression doesn’t change, but the stiffness in his movements betrays him.
At last, he pulls back, settling his hand into his sleeve.
“…Rest, and recover. I will not leave until you do.”
When you drift into sleep, Kokushibo remains—motionless as a statue, but unblinking, watching over you as if daring the fever itself to try and take you from him.
The sound of soft footsteps and an airy hum announce him before he even enters. Douma slides the shoji open, rainbow eyes glittering as he beams.
“Ahhh, _______! I’ve brought tea, gossip, and a few jokes to brighten your day!”
He struts in with his usual flourish, carrying a tray stacked with treats and flowers. But as his gaze falls on you—slumped weakly against your bedding, skin pale and lips dry—his grin falters.
The tray lowers slightly in his hands. For the first time, his voice softens.
You cough, trying to wave him off.
“Douma, don’t… I probably look awful right now.”
He sets the tray down without a word, the clatter uncharacteristically careless. In an instant, he’s kneeling beside you, a hand hovering just above your flushed cheek before finally settling there. The cheery mask he always wears doesn’t disappear completely, but it wavers, his smile trembling at the edges.
“You’re burning up,” he murmurs, almost too quiet to hear. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
You laugh weakly, though it quickly dissolves into another cough.
“Didn’t want to bother you.”
His brows knit, eyes flickering with something unfamiliar—something dangerously close to fear. He adjusts the blankets around your shoulders, tucking them carefully.
“You could never bother me. Not like this. I… I don’t like seeing you suffer.”
For once, there’s no sing-song lilt, no exaggerated cheer. Just raw honesty slipping past his mask.
You smile faintly, half-dazed.
“You’re sweeter than you let on.”
His lips part, like he wants to protest, but he closes them again. Instead, he presses a cool hand to your forehead, eyes fixed on you with a strange, quiet intensity.
When you finally drift into sleep, you don’t see him sit there motionless, unblinking—his usual smile gone entirely, replaced with something heavier.
Your fever keeps you pinned down, beads of sweat clinging to your skin as you cough into the blanket. When you force your eyes open, Akaza is already there—kneeling at your side, brows furrowed into a deep frown.
“You shouldn’t have let yourself get this bad,” he mutters, voice low and tense. “You’re trembling like you can’t even hold yourself together.”
You give him a weak smile, though your voice is hoarse.
“I’ll bounce back… it’s just a fever.”
He doesn’t smile back. His jaw tightens, golden eyes scanning every detail of your face like he’s searching for something more dangerous than an illness. With surprising gentleness, he presses the back of his hand to your forehead. The heat under his touch makes his frown deepen.
“This isn’t ‘just’ anything. Your body’s fighting hard. You… shouldn’t have to go through this.”
You blink at him, startled by how raw his tone sounds. For a second, he almost looks… lost. Like he’s seeing someone else entirely.
A strange ache twists in his chest—a quick flash, like he’s knelt like this before. Sitting at someone’s bedside, worrying, tending to them. A weight of familiarity that makes his throat tighten.
He shakes his head sharply, as though banishing the thought. His hand lingers at your temple, thumb brushing lightly against your skin.
“I don’t know why, but… seeing you like this… it makes me want to fight something I can’t even see.”
Your lips part, stunned at the slip of honesty. You try to speak, but he hushes you, adjusting the blanket higher over your chest.
“Save your strength. Don’t talk. Just rest. I’ll make sure nothing happens to you.”
The promise hangs heavy in the air. When your eyes flutter closed, Akaza stays exactly where he is—kneeling at your side, one hand still hovering near yours, his frown deepened not with anger this time, but with worry he can’t explain.
You’re curled up in bed, fever burning through your body, a harsh cough rattling your chest. The sliding door slams open, and Sekido storms in, staff sparking faintly with electricity.
“Tch look at you! Pathetic! Can’t even stay on your feet because of some stupid illness?!”
You groan, pulling the blanket higher over your head.
“You don’t exactly sound worried…”
His jaw clenches, eyes blazing. He stomps closer, yanking the blanket down just enough to glare at you directly.
“Of course I’m worried, you idiot! Do you think I’d waste my time standing here if I wasn’t?!”
The words come out like thunder, but his hand betrays him—it presses against your forehead, lingering longer than he probably means it to. He jerks it back almost immediately, face twisting at the heat radiating off you.
“Damn it… you’re burning up. Why didn’t you say anything sooner?!”
You smile weakly, your voice barely above a whisper.
“Because you’d just yell at me like you are now…”
He freezes, expression cracking for just a moment. His grip on the staff tightens, shoulders trembling with the effort to hold back what he really feels. With a sharp exhale, he adjusts the blanket carefully around you again, almost tender despite his scowl.
“You… you better not die on me, got it? I won’t forgive you if you do.”
Your tired eyes meet his, and you manage a small smile.
“That sounded a lot like… you care.”
His face goes red instantly, his teeth gritting.
“Shut up and sleep before I change my mind!”
He turns away, pacing furiously at the edge of the room. But no matter how many times you drift in and out of fevered dreams, every time you open your eyes, Sekido is still there—arms crossed, jaw tight, guarding you like a storm waiting to strike anything that dares to get close.
You’re lying weakly in bed, body aching with fever, when the shoji door slides open. Karaku saunters in with his usual grin, his giant fan resting lazily against his shoulder.
“Aww, poor thing. You look like you’ve been through hell. Guess it’s my job to cheer you up, huh?”
You give him a tired smile, voice hoarse.
“You’re… way too chipper for this.”
He chuckles, crouching down beside you. At first, it’s the same playful act as he fans you lightly, teasing.
“See? I’m like your personal breeze. Bet that feels nice, yeah?”
But then his grin falters as his eyes actually take you in. Your flushed skin, trembling hands, the weak rise and fall of your chest. The fan lowers slowly. For once, he doesn’t laugh.
“…You’re really burning up.”
His hand, calloused but surprisingly gentle, presses against your forehead. He frowns—an expression rare on him.
“Damn. You weren’t kidding… You’re in rough shape.”
You blink up at him, surprised by the shift in his tone.
“…Is Karaku actually worried about me?”
He scoffs lightly, cheeks coloring just a bit as he adjusts the blanket snugly over your shoulders.
“Don’t sound so shocked. I like you, you know. What’s the point of all the fun if you’re not around to share it with me?”
Your lips twitch into a small, sleepy smile.
“That… almost sounded serious.”
He laughs, softer this time, brushing a strand of damp hair from your forehead with unusual care before caressing your cheek.
“Don’t tell the others, okay? I’ve got a reputation to keep.”
When you drift off again, the faint breeze of his fan continues to cool your fever. And though he keeps his grin, his eyes stay fixed on you—troubled in a way he doesn’t want anyone else to see.
You’re bundled in blankets, coughing weakly, your face flushed with fever. The shoji door slams open, and Urogi bursts in with a booming laugh, wings flaring wide.
“HEYYY! Who said you could go and look like you’re dying without me around?!”
You groan, dragging the blanket over your head.
He crouches beside you, his taloned arms resting against the tatami as he leans close. That wide, sharp-toothed grin beams down at you.
“Don’t look so miserable! You’re tougher than some little fever, right?”
But when he really looks at you—your trembling lips, shallow breaths, and how your hand barely clutches the blanket—his grin falters. His feathers twitch restlessly, wings folding in tighter.
He lowers one long, clawed hand carefully, hesitating before letting the back of his talons brush against your cheek. The touch is cool, feather-light. His eyes widen at the heat radiating off your skin.
“…You’re on fire. That’s… not good at all.”
Your weak smile peeks out from under the blanket.
“What’s this? Urogi actually… worried?”
He huffs, cheeks coloring faintly as his grin wobbles back into place.
“Huh, don’t say it like that. I just don’t like seeing you quiet. You’re supposed to laugh at me, tell me I’m too loud. Not… lie here like this.”
The corners of your lips curl tiredly.
“Then… don’t leave me alone.”
Something shifts in his gaze. For once, his grin isn’t loud or sharp—it’s small, fragile. He crouches lower, wings curving around you protectively.
“…Fine. I’ll stay right here. No one’s getting near you while you’re like this.”
When you finally drift to sleep, his talons remain curled gently against the edge of your blanket, as if anchoring you in place—keeping you safe through the night.
The fever has you curled on your side, shivering despite the mountain of blankets pulled over you. Every cough shakes your whole body, leaving you drained and aching.
When the shoji slides open, Aizetsu steps in slowly, his expression already heavy with worry. His eyes soften the moment they land on you, and his lips pull into a trembling pout.
“…You look so unwell. I hate it. I hate seeing you like this.”
You manage a weak smile, voice scratchy.
“Don’t… don’t look so sad. It’s just a fever.”
He kneels beside your futon, hesitant at first, then reaches out to gently adjust the blanket higher up your shoulders. His touch is feather-light, careful as if you might break. His brows furrow deeper as his hand brushes your damp forehead, feeling the heat of your skin.
“No… it isn’t just a fever. Not to me. Every sound you make… it hurts me to hear it. I can’t stand watching you suffer.”
Your eyes flutter, warmth pooling in your chest at how openly his voice cracks. You give a soft little laugh, though it quickly turns into a cough. Aizetsu immediately steadies you, a hand hovering at your back without pressing too firmly.
“Don’t push yourself,” he murmurs. “I’ll take care of you.”
You blink up at him, half-dazed with fever.
His cheeks tint pink, and he looks away shyly, but he doesn’t take his hand from your shoulder.
“Of course I do. I may be sorrow itself, but when it comes to you… I just want you to feel safe. To feel better.”
As your eyes drift shut, you feel him carefully shift closer, his sleeve brushing your arm as he sits vigil at your side. Aizetsu hums softly under his breath—a low, steady sound to soothe you as you fall asleep.
And when you stir in the night, you find his hand resting lightly over yours, his gaze still fixed on you with quiet devotion.
You’re curled up beneath layers of blankets, skin burning with fever. Your coughs echo softly through the room, leaving you breathless.
The shoji slams open with a sharp crack, and Zohakuten storms in, hands clenched into fists. His eyes blaze with fury as his gaze falls on you.
“What is this nonsense?! Who dared do this to you?!”
You blink up at him weakly, lips parting in confusion.
“It’s… just a fever, Zohakuten. No one did this.”
His expression twists, teeth bared. He stomps closer to your futon, glaring down at you as if the sickness itself is his sworn enemy.
Another cough racks your chest, and you wince, squeezing your eyes shut. Immediately, his anger falters. He kneels down, tugging the blanket tighter around your trembling frame. His movements are rough, almost frantic, but undeniably protective.
“…I don’t like this,” he mutters, voice quieter. “I hate seeing seeing you like this. It makes me angry. I want to destroy it. I want it gone.”
Your tired eyes meet his, and despite your fever, you smile faintly.
“That’s sweet… in your own way.”
His cheeks flush instantly, and he scowls harder to cover it.
“I’m not being sweet! I just… I just don’t want you to disappear. If you did, I’d—”
He cuts himself off, fists clenching at his sides. His face twists between fury and something softer he refuses to admit. Finally, he huffs and sits cross-legged beside your futon, glaring at the floor.
“Rest. I’ll stay here. If this sickness tries anything else, I’ll crush it myself.”
You giggle weakly, and his eyes flicker to you, softening for just a moment before narrowing again. He stays there, silent and stubborn, but his hand eventually finds its way to rest lightly over yours—hot with fever, but safe under his watch.
Your fever has you curled weakly under the blanket, coughs scraping your throat raw. Every breath feels heavy, and your skin burns hot.
From the corner, Gyutaro watches. His lanky frame is hunched, yellow-green eyes narrowed as his nails scratch absently at his skin. He clicks his tongue, voice dripping with bitterness.
“Heh… look at you. Perfect even when you’re sick. Figures. Meanwhile, l’m the one stuck watchin’ you suffer.”
You give a weak chuckle, though it dissolves into another cough.
“You don’t… have to stay. You don’t like looking at me like this.”
He flinches at your words, then scowls, crouching down beside you. His voice grows sharp, but his hands betray him as he tugs the blanket back up over your shoulder with surprising gentleness.
“Shut up. Don’t tell me what I like. You think I wanna see you all pale and burnin’ up like this? You think I enjoy it?”
His eyes dart over your face—every shiver, every labored breath. His chest twists painfully, like the sickness is gnawing at him too. He mutters, more to himself than to you.
“Damn thing doesn’t even care how good you are… it just eats away at you.”
Your lips curve faintly, even through the fever.
“…You care more than you admit.”
His cheeks flush instantly, and he bares his teeth to hide it.
“Heh.. don’t say crap like that. You’re delirious.”
But his hand doesn’t move from where it lingers, hovering at your temple before finally brushing damp hair from your face with the lightest touch. His voice drops lower, rough and raw.
“…Just get better, okay? Don’t leave me here with nothin’.”
When you drift into sleep, you don’t see him bow his head, his long hair shadowing his expression. His nails twitch like he wants to claw the sickness out of you himself, but instead, he just keeps petting your hair in shaky, uneven strokes, staying by your side through the night.
please do not copy my works.
