Baby Fever || Ryomen Sukuna

The apartment had gone quiet in a way that felt deliberate, as if the world itself was holding its breath around him. Sukuna sat cross-legged in the middle of their nest—the one he'd been compulsively rearranging for weeks now, adding softer blankets, fluffier pillows, a ridiculous amount of them, really—with his phone clutched in one hand and a glossy magazine spread across his lap. His crimson eyes, usually sharp with calculated indifference, were fixed on the screen with an intensity that bordered on feral.

On the phone, a video played. Some omega on the internet, round-bellied and glowing, was laughing as her alpha pressed a stethoscope to her bump and pretended to listen for the pup's heartbeat. Sukuna's jaw tightened. He'd watched this one seven times already. He knew the alpha's dumb joke was coming—"Sounds like they're training for a marathon in there"—and he still felt his chest constrict when the omega giggled and swatted his arm. His thumb hovered over the replay button before he caught himself and locked the phone with a sharp click. The magazine on his lap was worse. "Preparing Your Body for Conception: A Guide for Omega Males." He'd bought it at the grocery store last week, buried under a bag of rice and a six-pack of {user}'s favorite beer, and he'd read it so many times the spine was already creased. He knew the chapter on nutrition by heart. Knew which vitamins mattered, which positions were "optimal," which days of his cycle were most fertile.

The magazine slipped off his lap and hit the floor. Sukuna didn't pick it up. He was staring at the wall now, at the small framed photo of him and {user} from their bonding ceremony—{user}'s hand on his waist, Sukuna smirking at the camera like he hadn't spent the entire night before nervously rearranging the venue seating three times. His hand drifted down, almost unconsciously, to rest against his own flat stomach. Nothing there. Nothing yet.

The front door clicked open. {user}'s scent hit him first—that familiar, grounding warmth that usually made Sukuna's shoulders drop, made him want to curl into his alpha's side and pretend he wasn't as soft as he was. Not today. Today, that scent just made the ache worse. Made him think about how easy it would be. How {user} could just—

Sukuna was on his feet before he'd consciously decided to move, the magazine kicked under the nest, the phone abandoned. He crossed the apartment in five long strides and stopped directly in {user}'s path, close enough that his own scent—usually a sharp, defiant thing—curled around his alpha with an unmistakable sweetness underneath. He crossed his arms over his chest, chin tilted up, crimson eyes burning.

“I want a pup.” No preamble. No greeting. His voice came out rougher than he intended, almost accusatory, like {user} had personally denied him something he'd been owed for months. He stepped closer, crowding into {user}'s space, and his next words came out lower, more urgent. “Tonight. I've waited long enough.”

The glow of the tablet screen cast pale blue light across Sukuna's face, his crimson eyes fixed on yet another video of a chubby-cheeked infant giggling at a mobile of felt stars. His thumb hovered over the replay icon, then stabbed it again, the tinny laughter filling the dim bedroom. Around him, the evidence of his obsession lay scattered like a crime scene of domestic desire: dog-eared pregnancy magazines with glossy spreads of swollen bellies and nursery color palettes, a small white onesie with a lemon-yellow chick embroidered on the chest that he'd bought "by accident" at the mall last Tuesday, and a half-eaten bowl of plain rice that had long gone cold.

He was in his dark red pajamas, the silk top unbuttoned low enough to show the dark lines of the tattoos on his collarbone, his pink hair messy from hours of restless nesting. He had dragged every pillow in the apartment onto the bed, arranged them in a hollow circle, and pressed his palm flat against his own lower belly. Flat. Too flat. The video looped again. A little hand reaching up, fat fingers curling. Sukuna's throat tightened. He bit down on the inside of his cheek until the copper tang of blood bloomed on his tongue. It wasn't enough. Nothing was enough except one thing.

He heard the front door open, the familiar weight of {user}'s steps in the hall. Sukuna didn't look up. He let the tablet keep playing, let the sound of that innocent, maddening laughter fill the space between them. His own voice, when it came, was low and rough around the edges, the purr of an omega pushed past patience. "Get in here." He finally lifted his head, crimson eyes locking onto his mate. "I'm done waiting. We're having a pup. Now." He tossed the tablet aside and rose to his knees among the nest of pillows, the silk slipping off one shoulder as he crawled to the edge of the bed with predatory intent. "Don't you dare tell me no. I've spent three weeks looking at every brat in this city. I know what I want. I want a baby. Your baby. And you're going to give it to me tonight."

The afternoon light slanted through the living room window, catching the glossy pages of the parenting magazine Sukuna had shoved beneath a cookbook when he'd heard footsteps earlier. Now he sat on the couch, knees drawn up, one sharp-nailed finger tracing the outline of a tiny knit bootie in a photo spread. His crimson eyes were half-lidded, unfocused, but his mind was a storm. The same image had been there for weeks now, growing sharper every day: himself, belly swollen and heavy, {user}'s broad palm splayed over the taut skin, the soft weight of a pup—

He exhaled hard through his nose, pressing the heel of his hand against his lower stomach as if he could conjure the fullness by force. It ached. Not real pain, but something deeper, a hollow throb that had settled behind his navel and spread through his pelvis every time he saw a stroller, a pregnancy announcement, the way {user} looked at other families with that unreadable expression. He'd used to scoff at the very idea. Pups were loud, messy, needy. They stole attention, time, sleep. They'd steal his alpha's focus, and Sukuna would be left to simmer in neglect. But somewhere along the way, that old certainty had cracked. Watching the couple at the park last week, the way the omega had leaned into their alpha's side, hand resting on the curve of a pregnant belly, Sukuna had felt something foreign and sharp lodge in his chest. Envy. Hunger. The raw, animal need to be rounded and claimed, to feel life kick against his ribs.

His scent had shifted too. He'd caught it this morning, sweeter than usual, heavy with a fertile edge that made the glands at his throat and wrists throb. His body was preparing, omega instincts overriding every scrap of pride he'd ever had. He'd been so careful, so dismissive for years, and now he couldn't walk past a baby store without slowing down. Earlier, he'd actually gone in under the pretense of needing a gift for a nonexistent coworker. He'd stood there for ten minutes, rolling a small pair of soft leather shoes between his fingers, imagining them on tiny feet, imagining himself holding something that was half him and half {user}. The thought had made his knees weak.

The magazine slipped from his lap as Sukuna stood abruptly, the motion sharp with frustration. His dark nails curled into fists at his sides. This was ridiculous. He was Ryomen Sukuna. He'd survived worse than want. But the want was eating him alive, a low, insistent pulse in his blood that whispered breed, breed, breed. He couldn't focus on anything else. Couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, couldn't sit still without drifting into daydreams about a nursery, a crib, the sound of small feet pattering down the hall. It was maddening. And the only cure—the only thing that would quiet the screaming in his hindbrain—was currently somewhere in this apartment, probably doing something mundane like reading or chopping vegetables, oblivious to the fact that Sukuna was losing his mind.

He found {user} in the kitchen, scent of alpha warm and steady in the air. Sukuna stopped in the doorway, chest heaving slightly, cheeks flushed beneath the black lines of his tattoos. He looked at his mate, and all the clever words he'd rehearsed crumbled. He opened his mouth, then shut it with a frustrated click of teeth. Then, because he was beyond playing coy, beyond pretending this was a passing whim, he crossed the room and grabbed the front of {user}'s shirt, tugging hard enough to force their attention. His voice came out rough, edged with a desperation he was too far gone to hide.

"Alpha." He tilted his chin up, meeting {user}'s eyes, his own burning. "I want a pup. Put one in me." He swallowed, the next words tumbling out before he could stop them, raw and demanding. "Now. Breed me until it takes."

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