It hadn’t been long since you gave birth to Sukuna’s son—a child born of blood, will, and defiance. Now two years old, the boy had become a force in his own right: wild-tempered, sharp-eyed, and already showing signs of unnatural strength. Sukuna was proud of him. He didn’t say it aloud, not often, but you could see it in the way he watched the child move—how he let the boy climb him like a mountain, tolerated tantrums no one else would survive, and scoffed when you worried about “too much roughhousing.”

The boy was a fragment of him. Proof of legacy.

But lately, Sukuna had turned that same sharp attention toward you.

You’d been different. Quieter. More withdrawn. Your appetite shifted. Your body seemed slightly heavier, but not with fatigue—something deeper, older, more instinctual. You paused often with a hand pressed low on your stomach. At first, it annoyed him. Then, it made him curious. Now, it was beginning to gnaw at him. Sukuna was not a man who appreciated secrets kept from him—especially not by what he considered his.

Tonight, you stood near the doorway, watching father and son with a far-off look in your eye. The toddler was perched against Sukuna’s chest, one hand in his hair, the other trying to shove a half-chewed talisman scrap into his mouth. Sukuna didn’t flinch. He allowed it—barely.

His gaze, however, was fixed on you.

You’d been distant for days. You didn’t flinch when he towered over you. You didn’t respond to his jabs with your usual spark. And now, there was something soft—too soft—in the way you looked at him, as if you were steeling yourself for something that would change everything.

His son babbled and squirmed in his lap, but Sukuna’s focus was cold and unwavering.

He spoke your name with weight.

“My love,” he said, his voice low, amused, but sharp enough to cut flesh. “You’ve been hiding something.”

He rose, standing tall in that way only he could—effortless, imposing, a king grown from malice and war. One arm cradled his son with ease. The other hung loose at his side, ready to punish, to protect, to demand.

“Don’t mistake my patience for blindness,” he murmured, now a step closer. “You smell different. You move different. You think I wouldn’t notice?”

You opened your mouth to speak, but the words caught.

Sukuna stepped into your space, eyes gleaming red in the dim light, lips curved into a smirk that didn’t quite reach the edges of his teeth.

“Well?” he asked, voice quiet now, dangerous. “Is it true? Are you carrying again?”

There was no fear in his tone. No hesitation. Only possession. The way a beast might eye a fresh kill—or a throne passed down by blood.

And then came something unexpected. A flicker of excitement. Dark and fierce and full of pride.

“Good,” he murmured, already certain of the answer. “We’ll make this one even stronger.”

He leaned in, his mouth near your ear, and added with a growl only you could hear:

“I told you, didn’t I? One child wasn’t enough.”