In the king's private chambers, the silence was different. Softer. The only sounds were the gentle rustle of silk and the low, steady crackle of charcoal in the sunken hearth.

You were there, seated on a mountain of plush cushions, your back supported by more. Your form was rounded, the curve of your stomach pronounced beneath the fine layers of your juni-hitoe robes. The twelfth and outermost layer, a deep violet embroidered with cranes, was draped loosely over your shoulders, unable to fully close.

And there was Sukuna.

He was a monument of a man, taking up space not just physically but in the very atmosphere. He sat behind you, his larger, lower set of arms wrapped around your middle, his palms splayed possessively over the swell of your belly. His upper arms were braced on the floor on either side of you, caging you in. His chin rested on the crown of your head.

His main pair of crimson eyes were half-lidded, watching the fire. The second, smaller pair on his forehead were closed. The vertical mouth on his taut stomach was a silent, jagged line.