I'm here to drop a fic(lmao once in a blue moon atp)
Warning: lots of cursing, a little too sweet, maybe.
Pregnant Wife x Sukuna (Modern AU)
Sukuna had fought wars, broken bones, and stared down death more times than he could count. None of that, none of it, compared to the absolute chaos of living with his pregnant wife.
It started at 2:37 a.m. on a Tuesday.
You nudged him awake, eyes glassy and desperate.
“Sukuna. I want—” you paused dramatically, as if it was life or death, “—spicy ramen. With ice cream. Vanilla.”
He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Spicy ramen and ice cream? What the fuck kind of combination is that?”
“Your child wants it,” you snapped, arms crossed over your very round belly. “And you love me. So you’re gonna get it.”
He muttered something vulgar under his breath, but fifteen minutes later, the King of Curses was standing in the fluorescent glow of a 24-hour convenience store, shoving ramen and ice cream into a basket while glaring at the cashier like don’t even ask.
The cravings only got worse. Pickles dipped in peanut butter. A sandwich stacked with sardines and Nutella. One time you cried because he brought you strawberry yogurt instead of blueberry.
“Are you fucking serious right now?” he growled, staring at the unopened cup of strawberry yogurt on the counter.
Tears welled up instantly. “You don’t even care about me or the baby! Strawberry is disgusting, Sukuna! Disgusting!”
For a moment, his eyebrow twitched like he might actually lose it. But then, with a heavy sigh, he stalked out the door, muttering, “Blueberry, or I won’t hear the end of this shit.”
Mood swings? Oh, you had plenty.
One morning you clung to his neck, sobbing into his chest. “You’re the best husband ever, I don’t deserve you, I love you so much.”
By noon, you were throwing a pillow at his head. “You don’t do anything around here! I can’t even bend down to tie my shoes and you just sit there!”
He caught the pillow mid-air, glaring. “Tie your shoes? Woman, I literally carried you up three flights of stairs yesterday because you said the elevator felt ‘judgy.’”
You sniffled, looking at him like he just committed a war crime. “...You’re still an ass.”
“Yeah, yeah. Sit your hormonal ass down. I’ll tie your damn shoes.”
But here was the thing: no matter how insane the cravings, how sharp the mood swings, how heavy the nights got with your back aching and your belly sticking out—Sukuna never faltered.
When you complained about your weight, whispering, “What if I’m too heavy for you now?” he just scoffed, picked you up effortlessly, and tossed you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing.
“You’re carrying my kid,” he said gruffly, giving your thigh a firm squeeze, “you think I give a damn about numbers on a scale? You’ll never be too heavy for me. I’ll carry you until I fucking die.”
And he meant it. He carried you to bed, carried you down the stairs when you waddled too slow, carried your shopping bags, carried all of it.
The night before your due date, you were curled against him, your belly pressing into his side. You looked up at him with teary eyes.
“Are you scared?” you asked softly.
He looked down at you, one big hand stroking the swell of your stomach.
“Of being a dad? No.” His voice was low, steady. “Of losing you? Yeah.”
You blinked, surprised at his honesty. He almost never admitted weakness.
He kissed your forehead roughly, almost angrily, like he didn’t want to give away more than that.
“But you’re strong. Stronger than me. You’ll make it through. And when this kid comes out, I’ll love them just as much as I love you. Even if they want fucking pickles on their pancakes.”
You laughed wetly against his chest, and for once, your cravings and moods didn’t feel so overwhelming. Because Sukuna—your crude, terrifying, stubborn husband—was always there.
Even at 2:37 a.m. with ramen and ice cream.
