𝐌𝐘 𝐃𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐍 𝐇𝐔𝐒𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐃 ✓ | Muzan X Reader X Giyuu

37. Baby Bump

(A/N: The first half is a dream!!!)

"You're not coughing up blood anymore."

The words were the first thing that your consciousness registered.

As your eyes opened to a surreal bedroom, the next thing catching your attention were the wood-planked walls, then the jade sculptures, and then the vases' newly bloomed orchids.

This wasn't your room, nor was this your house.

You were dreaming again, yet this time with sounds, smells, shapes, and colors.

Wherever you were, the architecture and interior design seemed...off, reminding you of the historical paintings in art textbooks.

On top of that, you were so tired, and you didn't know why.

Was it because of Douma?

Were you so drained such that your fatigue was also transported into this illusionary reality?

And, what was that about coughing up blood?

Confused, you turned to the source of the voice. To your surprise, propped upright next to your bedridden body was Muzan.

Except your husband didn't quite look like what you remembered.

His black hair, which now tumbled well past his shoulders, was held back by a single clip.

His garment's design also appeared out of fashion, to say the least, much like if you spotted someone wearing a bonnet on the streets.

When your husband noticed that you were awake, he grabbed your delicate fingers, caressing your sore knuckles. Then, he brought your hands to his lips, nipping at your fingertip pads gently.

Muzan smiled slightly as he kissed your pinky.

"How is the baby doing?"

Your brain short-circuited, coming to a pit stop.

"The...what?"

The raven-haired man chuckled lowly, dismissing your actual question as a joke.

One of his hands folded over yours, fingers lacing as a wordless promise that he would never let go.

Then, when his other hand pulled the duvet off your body, you choked.

Your stomach.

It's huge, bloated, and ballooned as though someone stuffed a watermelon into your abdomen.

The scene stole the breath from your chest and left your lungs as an empty shell, prepared to collapse in on itself.

"Holy cows, chickens, and pigs," you finally muttered under your breath, staring in disbelief at your swollen tummy.

This must mean—

"Eight months already," Muzan sighed, every syllable filled with awe and love. He led your intertwined hands over to the bump. "Our baby's inside, and we made that, Y/N."

"We did?" your voice croaked, hands resting over your belly. "How, and when?"

Stupid darn question.

With curiosity aching in your sore muscles, you just couldn't help it though.

"Remember that one time in the carriage?" he teased, offering little more information than you needed to know. "Or maybe it was the quickie in the alleyway, and you know."

The man smirked. He formed the OK gesture with his right hand and then stuck his left index finger through the resulting ring.

From the comfort of your pillow, you sputtered over thin air.