the black siblings

You’ve been dating Kyle Rayner for three years and living together for one when it happens. 

Your period’s two weeks late. You don’t think much about it until the nausea and weird cravings start kicking in — and if there’s one thing Bruce taught you right, is to be aware of your body’s signals about something being off; another thing he’s unfortunately passed down to you is the ability to go completely blank in situations that require the emotional stability that neither of you has.

(No wonder Kyle had spent years trying to get you to agree to a single date — you weren’t even mentally prepared for one.) 

So when you spend a whole day throwing up — which, by the way, you never do — there’s only two possibilities in your head: it’s either a weird space virus that Kyle brought home from last week’s mission or pregnancy. Your bet’s on the space virus, but first it’s better to ensure that the latter is not an option, and your chance presents itself when your dearest boyfriend — tired and sad of hearing you suffer — gets ready to go to the store to buy the ingredients needed for chicken noodle soup. 

He still insists that his mother's recipe is much better than Alfred’s one — also, a miracle that you got yourself a partner that knows how to cook, because growing up with Bruce Wayne also means being unable to light a single stove. Alfred tried his best to teach you how to, but not even him knows how to make miracles happen. 

Kyle kisses your temple and hums, “I’ll be back soon, I promise,” he says, brushing your hair out of your forehead. He’s been tied to your side all day even if he’s got a deadline just next week and hasn’t even started drawing the first panels, and if you weren’t as stoic as you usually are, you would swoon for him. “Ah, could you buy another thing for me at the store?” you ask casually, cheek leaning against the cold tile of the toilet for comfort. 

He nods, “Anything you want, babe.”

“A pregnancy test,” you say it like it’s the most normal thing ever, “and a Milka cookies sensation pack. The XL one.” 

Kyle blinks, and you can almost see his brain short-circuiting in that thick head of his. “Oh.” he blurts out, “I… okay. Yeah, yeah, I can do that.” 

He’s going to come back home spiraling, you think as the door closes. 

“Okay, I’m totally not spiraling right now,” he says as soon as he gets back home, plastic bag in hand, hair messy from the wind outside, “Like, are you sure it could be pregnancy? How long have you known? Because these aren’t the kind of things that you just guess, right? Are there specific symptoms?”

You sigh from your place on the couch and get up to rummage through the bag as he continues yapping, “I mean, should I have noticed? Could I have noticed?” the yapping doesn’t stop as you take the test he bought and go back to the bathroom, because he follows you and continues talking while you pee on the stick and hope to not wet your hand, “Do you even want kids?” you place the test on the counter and wash your hands, “I mean– I do, and I would love to have a baby with you, but we’ve never talked about it and with the whole ‘tragic childhood with an emotionally unavailable father’ thing you have going on I’m not sure you’d want that and you don’t have to worry about what I want– it’s totally your choice and I’ll be there whatever you want to do–” 

You turn and take his face into your hand, squeezing his cheeks and making his lips pucker. “Kyle.”

His voice comes out a bit muffled, “Yeah?” 

“You’re spiraling.” 

His shoulders sag a bit. “I am. Are you not?”

You blink, “We’re adults in a healthy relationship, Ky. Even if I’m on birth control, I think at least one pregnancy scare was bound to happen.” you raise an eyebrow, “I am surprised that it wasn’t earlier on, though.” 

“Okay. Okay.” his foot’s been tapping on the floor since he got back from the store, “Um– how long do we have to wait? For the test to show the results, I mean. I bought the most expensive one just in case and I hope it wasn’t a scam, because if it was I will cry.”  

“It probably was,” you didn’t even know that brands of pregnancy tests were a thing until now, and you highly doubt that one is more reliable than the others. He’s already got tears in his eyes, but you continue, “But I do appreciate the thought, honey, thanks.” 

He sniffles, nuzzling into your hand, “The pleasure’s mine,” he just hopes that the test is the right one, because as much as he knows how to cook, the premium adult in the house it’s you. You do the taxes, make sure the bills and rent are paid — God, is he a sugar baby? Because with the trust fund and place at Wayne Enterprises that you have, he might as well be. His job as a comic book artist probably looks like a kid’s summer job in comparison. 

The timer from your phone buzzes — when did you even set up a timer? — and your hand flies to the test, angling it under the bathroom’s light to see better the results. “Fuuuck.” it’s not a ‘Fuck, this shouldn’t have happened’, it’s more a ‘Fuck, it’s kinda crazy that this is happening’ kinda fuck. 

Kyle peeks from behind your shoulder, “Lemme see–” you hold out the test for him to take, and he gapes. “Stop.” It comes out as a much less virile ‘Stawwwp!’ and soon enough, he’s jumping around the house with a test showing the words [PREGNANT — 3+] written on the screen. “I’m gonna be a dad! I’m gonna be a dad! I’m gonna be–” he stops once his hopping brings him back to the bathroom and looks at you with his big doe eyes, “I mean, uh… am I gonna be a dad?” he’s not begging — he would never force you to do anything you don’t want to. He just needs confirmation.

You huff, and a rare smile blesses your face. “Yeah,” you murmur, eyes soft, “you’re gonna be a dad.” 

He whoops, hoisting you up by the waist and spinning you around, all while continuing chanting “I’m gonna be a dad!” over and over again. He stops every once in a while just to place kisses everywhere his lips can reach, smothering you in love and spit.

You let him, mentally already making a list of things to buy — a house, first of all, then a crib, onesies and all of that — and the medical appointments to schedule — OB-GYN and, oh God, your therapist’s going to have to work overtime to make sure you don’t mess this baby up with your years worth of trauma. 

But, of course, you don’t say anything — not now. You don’t want to ruin the moment, and more than anything, you don’t want to think about the hardest part of the journey ahead of you — that is, telling your father. 

The first months you make sure to keep things low-key, mostly to assure that everything goes well before you tell anyone about the baby. 

You go to your appointments, take your vitamins and try not to stress about everything going on at Wayne Enterprises — because at the end of the day, you always come home to Kyle, and you two look for houses in the nicest neighborhoods that Gotham has to offer as he rubs the expensive ointment for stretch marks that you bought on your belly (even if it’s mostly useless, as you’re not even showing yet, you don’t tell him to stop, because he’s got hands that just know how to give a great massage — you make a mental note to yourself to ask him for a back massage one of these days). 

You tell Bruce about your search in the house market just in case he knows someone on Crest Hill who’s thinking about selling their property, because that’s honestly the nicest zone in Gotham and it’s the same where the Manor is, so he’s bound to know some of the neighbors. He frowns at your question, grimacing a bit, “You two are… buying a house? Isn’t it too early for that?” 

You raise an eyebrow, “Dad, we’ve been together for three years — I think that’s more than enough.” 

His frown deepens. “But you two aren’t even married. Not that you have to be to move in together, but aren’t you two a tad bit too young to buy a house together?”

“You had two kids at my age.” 

“I don’t think you’ve ever taken me as inspiration, so that doesn’t count.” 

You roll your eyes, “Do you know if any of the people living on Crest Hill are selling their house or not?” 

He sighs. “I’ll let you know.” 

Later that day, when you’re laid down on the couch and half napping as Kyle cooks dinner, you get a message from him with your response. Henry Solten’s selling one of his houses. Nice garden, two-story house with an attic. I can see it to get you two a tour if you want. Tell me if it was what you were looking for. 

You look a bit more into it, and you’ve gotta admit that Solten’s house is nice — suspiciously what you and Kyle were looking for, actually. Big enough for a kid — and any that might follow, for that — and your boyfriend looks as pleased as you about it. You two agree to still wait for the second trimester to make any permanent decision, but set up an appointment through Bruce for next week to see it in person. I can probably get you a favouring price, your father adds in one of his texts, even if he has to know that between your exorbitant salary and embarrassing trust fund any price is not a problem — because he’s the one who made sure of that. 

That same night you go to bed with your belly feeling pleasantly warm thanks to Kyle’s pasta, and as you’re between dream’s world and the real one you hear something. “Psst. Hey.” 

It takes you a moment to realize that Kyle’s not talking to you — he’s talking to the baby. His hands come up to your hips, gently raising your shirt as he presses his ear to your belly. “I know you can’t hear me — you kinda don’t have ears yet. You’re just a weird blob of cells for now, I guess, but it's not fair that your mom gets to spend the whole day with you and I can’t get a minute alone with you, is it? This is me making it fair.” 

He presses a soft peck to your bellybutton, nuzzling into the soft skin of your midriff, “I love you and your mom so much, kid. You can’t even imagine.” it’s a miracle you don’t burst into tears, really. 

After that, you let him have his ‘alone time’ with the baby, even if most of the time you’re awake — it actually lulls you to sleep, Kyle babbling about everything and anything to a baby that isn’t even a baby and can’t hear right now. It makes you wonder if Bruce would’ve done that for you, were you his biological daughter — you know for sure that your biological father didn’t. 

You buy Solten’s house — against all of Bruce’s protests to let him pay for it — one week after the start of your second trimester, and thanks to all the strings that the Wayne name can move in real estate, the procedure of buying it is much quicker and easier than it would’ve been normally. The process of moving soon starts, and Kyle spends half the time grumbling about not being allowed to use the ring to move all the boxes down the apartment to the rented truck you got in one go and the other half telling you to please not lift anything heavier than a pillow. 

It’s during the last day of packing boxes and getting them into the truck — you don’t even know you had so many things, by the way — that you tell Damian about the baby, even if it wasn’t really in your plans. 

He comes over to the apartment after hearing from Bruce that you’re moving out, hands in his pockets in the most nonchalant way a twelve-year-old kid that’s basically three apples tall can manage. “Heard you were making the worst decision of your life and thought I’d step by,” he mumbles, inviting himself in and down-right slumping on the couch that you had yet to bring to the new house. 

Damian’s distaste for Kyle isn’t something new — nor the distaste your whole family has for him — but you know better than that. You know that behind their voiced doubts and teases lies fondness and just mild concern. You ruffle his hair, going to the kitchen to get the snacks you keep there just for him, “Fought with Bruce again?”

He freezes. “Your ability to always guess right about things like that scares me.” 

“Oooh, the Damian Wayne scared? I must’ve scored really big.” you pat his head, dropping the paprika carrot chips you took out of the pantry in his lap while lowering your elbows to rest on the couch’s headrest, “Kid, I’ve been with Bruce before the Justice League was even a thing. I know that frown because it’s the same one I had at your age when he made me mad. C’mon, spit it out.” 

“He’s just been so annoying these past few months!” oh, God, here we go, “It’s always ‘We’re not doing enough, Robin’ and ‘Maybe you should step away from the scene for a bit, Robin’ — well, what about he steps away from the scene for a bit? He’s the one who’s been hogging all the limelight since the dinosaurs were still around!” It could be a joke, but knowing Damian, he’s referring to the giant dinosaur kept in the Batcave — which would make the saying ‘since dinosaurs were around’ quite true. 

“It’s just weird, you know? He just started acting like this out of the blue. One day he was happy about how we were doing with the criminals, and the next, BOOM! We’re not doing enough because some of them are still around. What am I supposed to say? It’s his fault if after twenty years and counting in the business the city’s yet to be cleaned out from all the scum of the slums.”

He starts angrily munching on his chips, and if that’s how he treats those poor fried carrots, you don’t want to think about how he’d deal with the supposed 'scum of the slums' if Bruce wasn’t looking. The things he’s saying are weird, though — while Bruce has always thought he wasn’t doing enough, it’s not usual for him to voice out these feelings. He mostly understands that there’s only so much he can do, so venting to Damian of all people about not doing enough is completely bonkers. “I’m starting to think someone has possessed him to irritate me to death,” he grumbles out, cheeks puffed out like a hamster. 

You almost melt. God, you love your little brother so much. And that’s when you decide that maybe — just maybe — telling him about the baby wouldn’t be such a bad idea. Just to keep up his morale. “Hey, Dames,” you murmur gently, brushing the hair out of his face — he really needs a haircut. “Do you still have Bitey?”

Bitey’s the first toy you ever owned, and a gift from Bruce from when you first moved into Wayne Manor. It’s a grey wolf plushie that’s definitely seen some things, as you passed it down to all your siblings once they came to live in the Manor, but it always got back to you in one way or another — all of them have always returned it, even if you never asked for them to. Now, you feel bad about asking Damian to give it back in just a few months, but it’s for the sake of the tradition of having Bitey passed down. 

He squints, looking at you suspiciously, “…I do.” he really can’t tell you that he’s been sleeping with it since you gave it to him. “Why?” 

You shrug, “Um… you know, I usually wouldn’t ask this, but could you give it back to me in, say… a few months?” 

He gasps. “No way! You’ve never asked Grayson or Todd or Drake or Cass to give it back– why me? I have the right to keep Bitey until I deem it appropriate for it to be returned to you–” he goes on as you reach for a folder on the kitchen table, passing it to him as he goes on, “What’s this? Whatever it is, sister, it won’t make me overlook the blatant favoritism that you showed towards the othe... oh.” 

It’s the hospital folder, the one with the latest ultrasounds showing the mass of cells that’s building up to be your baby. Damian gasps, “I think I should be happy for you — but the only concern I have right now is that the baby isn’t Rayner’s. Please, tell me you have cheated on him.”

You frown. “That’s not a nice thing to say, Damian.” 

“Please! He’s a total cretin!”

You wave your hand at him, “That’s not true–”

At that moment, the front door opens. Kyle emerges from the hallway of your complex, voice ringing out throughout the apartment, “Hey, babe, have you seen the boxes with my comics? They weren’t in the truck when I–” he promptly falls face down after tripping on a box labelled in bold, red ink, KYLE’S COMICS, making Damian point the scene like an obvious proof as you sigh, exasperated. “See? What did I tell you!” 

Kyle merely raises his face from the floor, smiling at your brother, “Oh, hey Damian! Didn’t know you were coming over.” 

You make Damian swear on his life that he’s not going to tell anyone about the pregnancy yet before he goes back to the Manor, and he scoffs as he does it. “Please, sister, do not think of me so low to be confiding in the others about such things.” 

The fourth month of the pregnancy comes around, and with it the realness of it all. As you get used to the new house, you also start preparing the nursery, and Kyle comes back from every morning run with a different souvenir — a plushie, a onesie, you name it. The time to tell the family about the pregnancy gets closer and closer, and with it your brothers’ unexpected visits seem to multiply, because two weeks after moving to Crest Hill Dick presents himself at your door unannounced. 

It’s Kyle who gets the door, and he happily greets your brother — the only member of your family who actually kinda likes him. “Heard you two bought a house and thought I’d pass by,” he says as your boyfriend invites him inside, “y’know, to see my sister be the responsible adult I’ll never manage to be,” 

You get down from the upper floor at that moment and frown at the sight of your brother swaying on the balls of his feet. One look at his face is all you need. “What did B tell you this time?” 

He groans, “God, you’re too good at this game,” he slumps on the new couch without too many problems and starts ranting. “I’m really happy that I’ve moved to Bludhaven, you know? Because he’s been unbearable as of lately, and I don’t know how long I will manage to stand him. He’s running the Manor like the navy and I’m suffering the consequences of it. Damian’s sneaking out more and more to hang around my flat and he says that nothing’s wrong but I know that something happened.” he finally looks at you, distressed, “Do you know something? Is it like some virus spreading around these days or what?” 

You raise an eyebrow as you and Kyle get comfortable on the sofa in front of him, skeptical. “I mean, Damian told me something about it, but no. I’ve seen Bruce pretty much every day at work and he looks like the same ol’ guy to me.” 

“Could this be about Poison Ivy’s last break out?” Kyle asks, his arm slung over your shoulders, “I knew he was beating himself up for it, and I tried to help, but he refused. Said he’d handled these things alone for the last two decades and didn’t want or need my help.” 

You facepalm, “God, he’s always so– so insufferable when it comes to needing some help. I don’t understand, what’s the problem with it?” 

Dick looks at you blankly, “One time I asked you if you needed some help in cleaning out your weapon inventory and you told me that getting help was for the weak.”

You wave your hand at him, “That was a long time ago, I was young,” 

He blinks, unamused, “That was two weeks ago.” 

Kyle chuckles as you groan, “Okay, maybe we have problems with getting help in this family, but it’s not like we can send him to a therapist like he did to me. He couldn’t even tell them one quarter of his problems– at least I can tell mine half of them. Besides, he doesn't even really do things alone; he's got you, Babs, Damian, Alfred–” 

“Well, I was actually wondering if you could talk to him,” Dick adds, a little… embarrassed? Is that embarrassment on Dick Grayson’s face? “Just… not as your civilian self, y’know. I was thinking that if your Batgirl were to come out just a little bit again–”

“No,” the reply comes simultaneously from both you and Kyle, stern, even if you doubt that the motives are completely the same. For him, it’s because you’re pregnant, for you… well, for you it’s because Batgirl has carried too much in her life for you to go back to her. “Dick, I left that life behind a lot of time ago. If you want, I can try to talk to Bruce, but I’m never stepping back into the costume. Not now, not ever.”

His hands are joined like in prayer, “Please, not even a little easter egg comparison, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it?”

“No,” your answer is final, “there’s a reason I stopped being Batgirl, okay? And you out of all people should respect my decision even more.” you cross your arms as Kyle’s hand goes to your bicep, rubbing it delicately to comfort you, “I’ll talk to Bruce. Is there anything else you need or can you just go?” 

He smiles sheepishly, “Actually, could I use the bathroom?” 

You sigh. “Upstairs, first door on the left.” 

Off he goes, leaving you and your boyfriend alone with your thoughts. “Maybe your father’s having, like, a midlife crisis or something,” he whispers, “y’know, it happens to people his age. You start thinking about being old and all that…” 

“Please, Ky, he’s had worse and handled with it better–” you both yelp when a full-on banshee screech comes from upstairs, and Dick comes running down the stairs, seemingly terrified, “What was that?” he yells, looking at you both with crazy eyes. 

You and Kyle look at each other, confused, “What was what?” 

“That– that room! You said it was the bathroom!” 

It takes you a moment to understand — but then you remember Dick’s absolute shit knowledge of left and right, and guess that he might’ve mistaken left for right again, and entered… the nursery. The very still-in-making nursery, with the box of the crib that still has to be built and the chest with the onesies that Bitey is sitting on. Your face becomes red, because that’s absolutely not how you wanted your brother to find out about this, “Well, Dick, I say you put two and two together,” you hint, unamused and a bit shrill. 

He stares at you two, mouth wide open, and then starts screaming again. “You knocked up my sister? That’s so not cool, bro! You’re, like, two years older than me! She’s my age! Does that mean I’ll have to get my shit together someday too?” he falls dramatically to the floor, clutching his chest, “I’m not ready for you two to have a baby! Who will I go to when I need to be reassured about being an irresponsible adult if you’re too busy being a dad, man?”

You blink as your boyfriend starts laughing like a hyena. “You’re… not ready for me to have  a baby? Because you’re irresponsible?” 

Kyle’s still howling, “That’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard! Man, this is absolutely going in the photo album written behind every pic of you and the baby–” 

They both end up kicked out of the house, because honestly, you’re not patient enough to deal with their shit. Kyle comes back with a bouquet of flowers and cookies three hours later, begging for forgiveness, while Dick has the great idea of aggravating his situation by sending a message to the siblings group chat that reads: DID Y’ALL KNOW ABOUT THE KID OR WAS I THE ONLY ONE NOT INCLUDED💔💔💔

One very angry phone call and a deleted message later, not one but three very confused siblings show up at your door — and you know that things are getting weird when it’s Cass, Tim and Jason that team up. “Yo,” it’s the latter who greets you first, “it’s like everyone went crazy lately — first B, then Damian, then Dick with… whatever that message was. We knew you just bought a house and were just wondering if you did it thanks to this freaky virus going around or something.” 

You really can’t take this anymore, and are grateful that Kyle is out of the house for last minute GL business. “Oh, just get in.” 

Cass is the only one who takes the news well. She immediately comes to hug you, snuggling into your shoulder like a cat while Tim and Jason just stare in disbelief. “You’re what?” 

“You two could at least try to act like you’re happy about it.” 

You’re pretty sure you just saw Tim’s eye twitch. “Does B know? Is that why he’s been acting like a maniac?”

You frown, “He doesn’t know, I meant to, like, organise a dinner together or something to tell you all but you’re all too nosey to mind your business. Dick literally snooped around and found out.” nevermind that you were the one to tell Damian. 

Suddenly, a smile graces Jason’s face, “Does that mean Damian doesn’t know? Because I’ll never let him live this down–”

“Damian was the first one to know.” 

“…You just had to ruin the moment, huh?” 

“This is supposed to be my moment, dumbass.” 

You choose to go to the Manor that same night, because now that the whole family knows, it won’t be long until Bruce finds out, and you'd rather be the one to tell him. Kyle doesn’t ask you if you want him to come — smartly, you should add, because it’s best if you talk to your father alone before he decides to settle things between them privately. 

Alfred greets you at the door, his presence stoic as ever. “Good evening, Miss, at what do we owe the ple–”

“I’m pregnant.” 

He blinks, unmovable. “Well, that’s wonderful. I imagine you came here to tell Master Bruce the happy news?”

You come up to hug him, and after a brief moment of confusion he reciprocates. “Thanks, Alfie,” you mumble, “you’re the first person after Kyle that said that this is good news. I really needed that.” 

He gently pats your back, “Do the others know?” 

You scoff, “None of them were too pleased about it. Cass was happy about it, but… you know she doesn’t really talk.” 

His eyes soften, “It’s just the way they cope, Miss. I’m sure it’s all just a misunderstanding; they’ll come around.” 

Bruce is, as he always is, in the Batcave. These days it’s hard to find him anywhere else. His eyes are fixated on the screen of the Batcomputer, and he doesn’t even seem to acknowledge your presence until you call out, “Hey, Bruce,” 

He turns, bags under his eyes prominent, and he looks almost worried to see you there. He says your name, getting up from his seat, “You shouldn’t be here,” he mumbles, his hands cupping your shoulders as you frown, “it’s too cold. I should have a jacket somewhere–”

“Please, Bruce,” you cut him off, “it’s September. I would like to say that the temperature down here is perfect, actually.” you look at the giant screen in front of you, various news pamphlets open and surveillance footage replaying over and over again, “New prison break out to manage?”

He shrugs, “Dent’s been dealing some weapons in the black market for the last two weeks, if what my sources are saying is true. By the way, it’s almost October, so no, the temperature isn’t perfect.” he insists on getting that jacked he mentioned on you, even zipping it up for you like you’re some kind of hyperactive toddler. “There you go.”

You almost laugh. “The others told me you were acting weirdly, but I didn’t think it was this serious,” 

He barely reacts. “Hn. I’m not acting weirdly, I’m just being careful,”

“Are you the same man that gets into active shootings with a costume and a dream?” 

He glares at you. “Why did you come here?” 

You hop on a stool near the computer, “To check on you, dad. The others seemed worried, and I know that we haven’t had much time to talk these last few weeks, but I’m worried about you.” 

“Well, don’t be. I’m perfectly fine.” 

“Please, Bruce, you don’t look nor act fine. We just want to help.” 

You just can’t seem to get his attention, because as soon as his gaze goes back to the screen, it’s like you’re not even there anymore. As clearly this isn’t working, you make a drastic decision: to just spit the truth out. “Dad,” you start, voice trembling, “I… I’m pregnant.”

He doesn’t even blink. “I know.” 

You stutter, “You– what– I– oh, you know what? I’m so tired of you knowing everything. Is that why you’ve been acting so weird? How did you even find out, and why didn’t you say anything? I was pretty sneaky with it, you know!” 

“I found it weird when you asked me about the house,” he merely explains, not seeming bothered with this invasion of privacy like he’s done this his entire life — well, he kinda did. “I got suspicious and thought you were being mind-controlled or ill. It took me a quick check through your medical records to find out your… condition. I thought it best not to say anything in case you wanted to do a big reveal with the others and wanted me to act surprised.” 

“You really should stop doing that.” guess his weird behavior is explained, but the why of it all still confuses you. “I mean, I get that it may weird you out, but I still don’t get why you’ve been so odd since finding that out. I’m an adult woman in a loving relationship, Bruce, and even if me and Kyle never mentioned having kids, you could’ve guessed that something like this would’ve happened.” 

Finally, he stops. His stare is so blank that you’re honestly kinda scared. “I’m… I’m getting old.” 

You blink. “O… kay?” wait. Wait. Is your emotionally unavailable father opening up to you after almost two decades of stony facades save for a few crash outs? And it’s because you’re about to have a baby? Dear God, Kyle was right about him having a midlife crisis. 

“I’m not the Batman I was once,” he mutters grimly, “but Gotham is as relentless as ever.” 

“I mean, you’re still kicking butts left and right,” you say, “and I doubt that Gotham’s criminals actually think that you can age. They probably think that you’re, like, immortal or something.” 

Finally, his gaze turns to you, and he doesn’t seem too relieved. “My hair’s starting to turn grey.” 

It's genuinely starting to creep you out. “My God, Bruce, you’re fourty-four! Stop talking like you’re Santa Claus’ age, because Alfred is on the brink of his seventies and I’ve never heard him complain about a single joint creaking.” you stop when you take a better look at him, because– are those tears in his eyes? You’re not even sure you’ve ever seen him cry after Jason’s death. “I– God, will you just tell me what is going on in your head? I can’t read minds, Bruce.”

He fucking sniffles. “I… my baby’s going to have a baby. I’m not ready for that.” you almost melt. This is Bruce Wayne, Batman, your father — reduced to a puddle of sad emotions when faced with the fact that his first child will become a mother in a few months. “I… it just feels like yesterday when I took you to the Manor for the first time.”

You didn’t come from a perfect family like he did, nor had a nice house and a butler — but you guess that your parents dying during an armed robbery in an alleyway, even if you weren’t there to witness it, hit him a little too close to home to ignore the story when it was published on the newspaper. You were the first kid he fostered, and probably also one of the biggest messes, seeing the way your version of Batgirl was deemed to be far too violent by basically everyone — including Damian, and Damian got here after you dropped the costume and has killed multiple people. 

(One time, when he told Jason that he didn’t get why you stopped being Batgirl, he showed him footage of you beating up some of Black Mask’s goons completely unprompted and with weapons that he was pretty sure were now banned from the Batcave. Damian blinked and said Yeah, okay, now I get it.)

“And I know that I wasn’t the best father– I was never prepared to be one. Nor was I a really good mentor. But through it all, all of you — you, your brothers, your sister, have managed to go on despite everything. But you — you’ve managed to do something I’m not sure any of us will ever be able to actually do.” 

His head turns towards the costume display cases, where your suit is still set up despite not being used in over three years. “You’ve left this life behind.” 

“It wasn’t easy,” you mutter, “Batgirl literally haunts me, and it’s just a stupid costume.” 

It’s true, she does; your violent past and all the definitely too-near-death experiences you've had are still present in your recurring nightmares. You still get a little scared when you see Barbara or Stephanie in the costume, thinking that it came back to finally finish you off, and the relief you felt when you found out that Cass modified the suit was indescribable. 

The truth is, Batgirl isn’t just a costume to you — it’s a reminder of years spent amidst violence and the loss of yourself. “And, I mean, a good therapist does help with anger issues. I can’t tell her about the nights spent fighting crime and all the traumatising experiences I’ve had because of them, but I can tell her about my crippling fear of becoming a bad mom and the other thousand issues unrelated to vigilantism I have.”

He forces a smile. “You’ll be a great mom, I’m sure of it.” 

“And you’ll be a great grandpa,” you nudge him with your elbow, “I can already see the headlines: Billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne retires from his nightlife activities at only forty-four following the birth of his first grandchild: women and men all over the world declare grief-stricken strike.”

He perks up, “Speaking of which, is everything going well with the gestation?” 

You almost laugh at the way he says gestation like you’re some kind of lab rat. “Oh, yeah,” you muse, cupping the underside of your small bump, “it’s a boy.” 

You don’t entertain the idea of a babymoon until Bruce gives you and Kyle two tickets for the Bahamas and a reservation in one of the most exclusive resorts of the area for Christmas. 

Truly, you didn’t notice how tense and sore you’ve been these last few months until you’re laid out on a sunbed, fresh out of an all-inclusive spa treatment, and your biggest worry is making sure that none of the women eyeing up Kyle while he’s ordering drinks at the refreshments boot try something with him. 

Your belly is big enough that you often feel like an inflated balloon, even if the small kicks and your boyfriend’s constant and undivided attention are nice. The kid loves to hear your voice (or so you think, by the quantity of the kicks you get when you talk to him) but gets quiet when Ky has his alone time with him, which makes you wonder if he either likes you or him. That ointment you got back when you first found out you were pregnant does wonders, because you’re one month away from your due date and there’s not a single stretch mark in sight on your skin — even if you have to also credit Kyle for it, because he was the one who never forgot to put it on you every night before going to bed. 

The prodigal son finally comes back to your sunshade with your non-alcoholic drinks in hand, all giddy sun-kissed. “There!” he holds out the straw of your fruity drink for you to take a sip, “I asked the bartender about those cookies you asked about, but she told me that they don’t have them. I’ll pass by the deli later and get them for you.” 

He gives you your glass, setting down his to take the sunscreen and drop a blob of it on his hands, moving to smear it on your legs. “Looking a bit red here, lovie.” 

“I can’t even see my legs, Ky. What did you expect?”

He shrugs, a lazy smirk on his face, “Nothing else, don’t worry. I’m here to help.” 

And when it gets a bit too hot all you have to do is take the inflatable donut Kyle bought as soon as you two landed and sit on it while floating away, your boyfriend leaning on one of the donut’s side admiring the view — aka, the very pregnant love of his life basking in the coolness of the water. 

The vacation is a dream come true. You get to relax before you have to think about the stress of the labour, tan quite nicely and don’t have to think about anything because Kyle is at your beck and call; sore ankles? He gives you a massage. Thirsty? He gets back from the bar with the whole drink inventory. You’ll be two weeks away from the due date when you get back, and honestly, you’re sure you’ll miss this.

Except you really don’t — because once they place your little boy in your arms after almost a whole day of labour, all the pain and struggles suddenly feel like nothing. 

Tommy Rayner is born, healthy and with a prominent scowl on his face, on February 19th, effectively stopping Bruce’s birthday party. He’s also a bit late on the schedule, but the doctors assure you that he just didn’t have any rush in getting out of the little sanctuary you made for him. 

The scowl he’s got on softens as he settles on your chest, only to come back not even a minute later as Kyle approaches, tears in his eyes and hands trembling while rubbing tender caresses across his back. He almost glares at him, then seems to be turning to you almost as if to ask ‘Really? You couldn’t find better?’. Needless to say, he’s a miniature copy of you, and the mystery regarding his silence when Kyle talked to him is suddenly solved. 

He latches onto your breast without any fuss as you and his father stare at him, enamoured, his little hands making grabby motions on your skin like a cat making biscuits. “He’s so tiny,” Kyle manages to mutter out, camera in his hands, snapping pictures of you and your boy. “Do you need anything? I’ll bring you everything you want. You deserve it, sweetcheeks, because I’ve seen some freaky stuff — but that was something I’ll never get over.” he shivers, kissing your forehead, “If you never want to have another kid, I’ll understand. I’ll schedule a vasectomy right away, just say the word.” 

He gets out of your room with the intent to buy Milka cookies, the biggest boat of sushi to-go he can find and gets swarmed by your family members instead — he doesn’t even know how they got here, because none of you called them when your water broke. They drown him in questions, with Is she okay?s and How’s the baby?s as he barely manages to breathe with the little space they’ve given him. Bruce is in front of them all, and Kyle would’ve never thought to see the man who swore to find a way to skin him alive legally if he ever let anything happen to you or your son with tears in his eyes. “So — tell us, how is she?” 

Kyle excuses himself back into your room amidst their protests, only to come back outside with a blue bundle in his arms, “This is Tommy,” he whispers, careful not to wake him up, “His mommy’s sleeping at the moment, but I’m sure she’ll be elated to see you all once she wakes up.” 

And you are — even if he’s not sure if it’s for your family or the mega sushi boat he found at the nearest takeout place. Kyle feeds you the pieces as you hold Tommy in your arms while the others make what feels like a thousand questions per minute, silencing only when your son makes any type of sound. Alfred fluffs your pillow and takes his opportunity to take a better look at your son, “He does look incredibly like you, miss.”

They crowd his bassinet once Kyle places him back down to let you properly demolish the sushi boat, and Damian looks like the proudest of them all as he carefully tucks Bitey near Tommy. "It's a miracle he didn't get your stupid genes, Rayner, it would've spoiled the whole family tree."

Later, when it’s time for everyone to go home, it’s only Bruce that stays. Kyle needed a shower — he got the call about your water breaking from the hospital while fighting a slime monster in space and was still covered in weird alien goo — and so, it’s your father occupying the seat beside your bed, looking at you and his grandson with dazed eyes. “You want to hold him?” you husher as Tommy stretches and blinks, content in your arms. 

He flinches. The big bad Batman, scared of holding a newborn. “Oh, I, uh… I don’t think it’s the best idea, I’ve never held one before.” well, that doesn’t really surprise you — you and all your siblings came to him already too old to even be picked up, often. 

“Aw, c’mon– here, hold him,” despite himself, his hands reach out when you hold your son out for him, “careful with his head, place it on your elbow– there, just like that!” 

Bruce finds himself with a very disgruntled newborn in his arms, looking at him like he just did him a big wrong. “Hey, don’t look at me like that,” his tone is the softest you’ve ever heard him use. 

The baby responds by proudly and loudly farting, leaving his poor grandpa speechless. You laugh, “Well, that explains it,” 

A dim light comes from outside the window — the Bat-signal shines in the clouds, just like most nights in Gotham. Bruce looks at it through the window, but doesn’t move an inch. “If you have to go, you can,” you murmur softly. You’ve stopped getting angry about his disappearances ages ago. “Kyle will be back soon, and we’ll still be here tomorrow morning.” 

He looks at you, then down at Tommy, whose eyes are getting heavier and heavier. “No,” he whispers, finally getting comfortable in his seat, “I’m just fine here.”

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Laughter and cheers fill the Great Hall. The gathered lords and ladies clap for the circus performers, their faces red from the overindulgence in the Dornish wine flowing from golden goblets. It would be unsurprising if the clamor of your wedding celebrations echoed far past the stone walls of Dragonstone.

Your Lord Husband spared no expenses. Jesters, jugglers, fire-eaters. An entire company of circus performers plucked from the Free Cities. A flock of white doves released from the highest tower at the end of the ceremony. A lavish banquet fit for a king…well, future king. Roasted swans, glazed wild boar, spiced deer pies, pears dipped in wine and so forth.

The spread alone makes your head spin.

Your gaze glides over to him. Baelor Breakspear Targaryen, your Lord Husband. At eight and thirty, twenty summers more than you, he remains an astounding warrior and sharp-witted hand to the king. Or so your father told you. You know not the man you wedded at evenfall.

No more than a handful of words were traded between you and him before the ceremony. The bargain struck with your father was swift, your consent immaterial, your obedience expected.

All decided before you even crossed the Narrow Seas.

Even as you both uttered your wedding vows, him swearing to protect you and you swearing to obey, he said no more than what custom demanded.

Your eyes trail the sharp angle of his bearded jaw, his noble profile, his steely stare.

Targaryen majesty radiates from his being, lighting the very air around him ablaze.

As a keen mismatched gaze finds yours, your stomach clenches.

You nervously pick up your wine goblet and swallow another sip. A sip of courage. Tonight is your wedding night. The septa who prepared you beforehand had but scant knowledge to share. She said your lord husband will know what to do and your only task is to obey. It did little to soothe your unease.

Wives are vessels for heirs, instruments to further bloodlines. That is what you are now. A vessel. Your fears, your hopes, your dreams…they’re now as inconsequential and forgotten as yesterday’s rainfall. A proper lady must be soft, quiet. Seen but not heard. It is what mother used to say.

Prince Baelor’s eyes tumble to your uneaten plate.

“You have not had a bite,” he says, concern clouding his unflinching gaze.

You swallow the lump in your throat, nudging a gentle smile on your lips.

“I fear my travels have soured my appetite, your grace.”

Your husband studies you a long while, his pointed scrutiny needling your skin. Your eyes widen as he rises, offering his hand.

“Mayhaps that is enough revelry for the evening,” he states. You understand the unspoken command and slip your fingers in his open palm. His hold on you is firm, steady. That hand around yours is the only thing keeping your quaking legs from collapsing on the ground. You are thankful that the wine has gone to your head, begun to haze your senses. Perhaps it will make the entire ordeal more bearable.

As Prince Baelor escorts you away, the back of your neck tingles. You turn to glance behind you. Discomfort stirs your insides as a fiery mismatched gaze that eerily resembles your husband’s collides with yours.

Prince Valarr.

From the moment you got off the ship bringing you to Dragonstone, the princeling has made his disfavor of you a plain fact to all. He has not spoken a word to you. In fact, he has stormed off every single time you have tried to greet him. Unlike the young Prince Matarys who instantly clung to your skirts after the wedding and called you his new mother, Prince Valarr displayed no such warmth. You fail to understand what you have done to offend the princeling. You have endeavored to be kind, sweet, pleasant…everything your mother bid you to be. Yet the princeling appears to find your mere presence a curse upon House Targaryen.

The frightful ballad of your heart swells in your ears as you walk through the dim hallways of Dragonstone besides your new husband.

You reach Prince Baelor’s bedchambers. He shuts the door. Sweat blooms on your palms, your insides knotting with dread.

The soft glow of the candles paints the walls, the moon’s silver hues seeping through the curtains. Fear sings in your blood. You will it to not show.

As your lord husband turns, clasping your hands in his, his forehead creases.

“You’re trembling,” he notes.

Your stomach plummets. Have you already failed at your wifely duties?

“Apologies, your grace,” you mumble, guilt searing your chest.

Prince Baelor lifts your chin, assessing your expression. Your breath hangs still beneath his studious scrutiny.

“You are scared,” he says.

Panic clutches your heart. You give a frantic shake of your head.

“I am well, your grace. I am…delighted.” The lie wobbles off your tongue uneasily, its falsity scorching your throat.

His thumb sweeps over your bottom lip, his expression solemn.

“You need never lie to me.” He pauses, his mismatched stare corralling yours. “I swore an oath to protect, cherish and honor you. I aim to honor that oath.”

He brings your hand to his lips, brushing a gentle kiss on your skin. Heat floods your cheeks.

His deep voice is as gentle as a ripple over the sea, washing over your overwrought senses.

“I know how far from familiar shores you are, my lady. But I dare hope that, one day, you will call Dragonstone home.”

This draws a curtain of tears over your sight. Memories of your childhood home invade your mind, longing crushing your heart in its unforgiving fist.

“I harbor the same hope, your grace,” you croak.

Prince Baelor cradles your face, plucking your tears. Your chest heaves, unsightly sobs escaping the confines of your throat. Your armor shatters. To your astonishment, your lord husband collects the broken pieces, leading your quivering form to the bed’s edge.

He swaddles you in a thick blanket. For the first time since arriving at Dragonstone, a rush of warmth fills your chest.

Tremulous sobs swell in the room. Lord Baelor sits besides you. At first, his hand hovers, hesitant, searching. A silent inquiry. As your eyes swing to his, he seems to find the answer he sought. His firm hand settles on your back and you unleash a heavy breath.

You sag against him. He is unbothered by the flood of tears soaking his doublet, the steady press of his fingers your anchor amidst the rushing tide of emotions you throttled into silence. Now they refuse to be shackled.

When your tears subside, the weight of failure settles in your chest like lead. You were instructed to be meek, obedient, agreeable. Instead, you made a pathetic spectacle of yourself in front of your husband. Father would be furious. Mother would be disheartened.

Your gaze lingers on the floor, a blanket of defeat draping over your shoulders.

“Speak to me, wife,” Prince Baelor says.

Your heart leaps. Your husband speaks with the poised confidence of a man who has never needed to raise his voice to be heard, a mere whisper enough to inspire respect and compliance. Meanwhile you wager that you could scream until your throat bleeds and your words would still fall into unlistening ears. Such is the fate of a woman in this world.

His gentle yet firm command tears the words from your throat.

“I fear my melancholy ruined our wedding night, your grace,” you confess.

The shadow of a smile sways on his lips. His focus shifts to the window.

“Ruined? The moon and stars still hang in the sky.”

A bashful smile tugs your lips.

“They do,” you say.

When your eyes find Lord Baelor's this time, a heat is nestled there. Your stomach tightens. Your nerves flare again. Not from fear this time. Mayhaps a strange anticipation. One that sears your stomach and dampens your palms. Your attention falls to your lap, your fingers twiddling with the linen beneath you.

A firm hand slides under your chin, angles it up, keeping you from evading sizzling, mismatched orbs.

Your throat knots.

“My lord-”

The words are seized from your lips as Prince Baelor’s mouth slams into yours. Your cry of surprise shrivels on your tongue. Steady fingers cradle your face, your husband's mouth gliding over yours with purpose. The path of his tongue is languid, fevered as it explores your mouth. Your body grows feeble against his, your mind going hazy.

Your hands tighten on his doublet as you get lost in your first genuine kiss.

His passion knocks the breath from your lungs, a startling contrast to the composed, regal lord you had come to know.

His hand drifts to the back of your head, twisting in your hair. You gasp as Prince Baelor tilts your head back, giving him complete dominion over the expanse of your neck. He abandons your mouth, leaving it swollen, tingling. He scatters a trail of fiery pecks with his lips. His teeth dance on your skin and a broken whine slips from your throat. Your Lord Husband relishes every sound, embers of desire sizzling in his stern gaze.

His hands travel down your throat and your breath stills in your lungs. His callused palms sweep over you until they find your hips. His fingers clench on the embroidered silk. Your heart bounces in your chest.

Darkness clouds your husband’s gaze as it traces your face, the motion of your throat, your heaving chest. His throat bobs, his lids sagging.

When he peers at you, still clutching the fabric of your dress, a question hangs in the sweltering air of the room.

A dull trepidation remains but the rising heat in your blood silences it.

You give a tremulous nod.

Prince Baelor peels the dress off you and it falls to the floor with a soft thud. Your husband’s eyes darken as they sweep over your bare, goosebumped flesh. You sit on the bed, watching him remove his royal attire. A dragon shedding its scales, letting you see what lay beneath.

So this is what a man looks like. You soak in every line of corded muscle, every pale scar and… the blatant evidence of his desire for you. Heat settles in your cheeks.

Your heart sings a clamorous, chaotic ballad in your ears as he approaches.

He presses his thumb over your parted lips. Despite the hunger etched in his mismatched gaze, you feel his silent inquiry again. It lingers in the hesitant graze of his fingertips along your arm.

You give another nod. The fear, the apprehension…they have shifted into a heated curiosity for what comes next, what husbands and wives do on their wedding night.

He nudges you backwards until your back lies flat on the plush covers.

You wait, your stomach clenched so tight it seems it might soon burst.

He rubs his swollen tip against your entrance. Your breath stumbles. Heat gathers between your thighs. The friction is maddening. You clutch at the linen, a whine spilling from your mouth.

He clutches your hip, lining himself with your folds. He enters you, and the world turns red. Despite bracing yourself for the discomfort, tears spill down your cheeks.

“My Lord,” you mumble, your voice hardly more than a husky breath.

“My Lady,” he replies, cupping your face.

He freezes, wiping your tears as he looms above you. His eyes never leave yours.

When he drags himself out and sinks into you at a sluggish pace, you tense.

“The pain will not last, sweet girl,” he whispers in your ear.

Your voice is distorted by your sobs.

“Do you swear it?”

He takes your hand and drops a gentle kiss on your knuckles.

“A knight never breaks a vow to his lady,” he says softly, his fingers twining with yours.

He moves his hips and you cling to his shoulders, his tender words anchoring you amidst the painful tide. The symphony of flesh against flesh swells in the room.

Your husband speaks truth.

The pain is ephemeral. Soon, delightful tingles bloom over your flesh; fire consumes you.

You melt against him, stars flooding your vision.

In his arms, you forget how far from home you are. Every gentle whisper and careful touch makes you feel safe, desired, cared for.

In Prince Baelor’s arms, you are no longer adrift. You are found. Again and again.

As your husband shifts you, making you straddle him, it’s when it begins.

Cool tingles along your spine that do not relent. They start down your back and bloom outwards. Persistent shards of glass embedded into your skin. Your head turns, your eyes landing on the wall. A feeling of dread settles in the pit of your stomach as you stare at the tapestry and wardrobe.

Your husband grips your chin, swaying your focus back to him.

“What is it, sweet girl?”

Your chest clenches. It is just you and your husband in this room. Dragonstone is brimming with dark corners and old statues that play tricks on the mind. You force a smile on your lips.

“Nothing. It is nothing, your grace.”

It is enough for Prince Baelor’s hip to start moving again, yanking a broken moan from your lips.

You dismiss the peculiar sensation along your back, yet it lingers even as you ride your lord husband with abandon.

Your days are filled with peace and joy. More fulfillment than you could have fathomed. You had worried your husband’s famed fondness of his first wife Lady Jane would be an unassailable opponent, that you would struggle to carve a place in a heart already claimed. But no such thing occurs. Prince Baelor seeks you out whenever his duties for the days are done. He takes you to bed almost every night, showing you countless paths to pleasure.

You even overhear the maids say that they haven’t seen their lord look so merry in years, which brings a smile to your face.

Little Matarys accepts your presence with ease, clinging to your skirts and allowing you to tell him stories from your home.

Soon, every fear you held close to your chest when you first set foot on Dragonstone dissipates. You settle into your life as Prince Baelor's wife and Lady of Dragonstone.

Still, the shadow of Prince Valarr’s hostility looms large over you.

Your stepson makes his distaste for you a truth known to all, skipping every dinner or feast when he’s made aware you will be in attendance. Every attempt at breaching the ice walls the prince erected around himself are met with crushing defeat. Your stepson won’t even look at you. And the rare times he does, your blood chills from the searing hatred burning in his mismatched gaze. The prince stares at you like he wished to tear you limb from limb or have your head mounted on a pike above the castle walls for all to see. Mayhaps both.

You cannot deny that this blatant rejection hurts, a fact you do not conceal from your lord husband.

“He is a child. He will grow to adore you as I do, sweet girl,” Prince Baelor mumbles, planting a tender kiss atop your head. Your chest warms with his words but the doubts nestled there remain.

You ache to argue that Prince Valarr is no more a child than you are, as only a few months set you apart from him. You have never been allowed such fickle whims. From a young age, you were taught a proper lady is to be ever pleasant, ever agreeable. But your stepson’s chilly glares and icy words leave a taste of failure on your tongue. As if every teaching and lesson was for naught. As if you will never be good enough, worthy enough. Everyday you try to engineer new ways to make the sullen prince despise you a little less. Everyday you find your attempts thwarted.

You lean back against your husband’s chest, your eyes falling shut. You soak in the smell of fresh cranberries and pine trees. It soothes your frazzled mind. Sitting in Aegon’s Garden always casts a blanket of serenity over your worries and fears, quiets your woes.

“It has been four moon turns, your grace,” you say, resigned.

“My son loved his mother dearly. So did I. Her kindness and sweetness knew no equal…until I met you,” he says with a smile, bringing your hand to his lips.

“I’m sorry he lost her so young.”

A shadow of grief flickers in Prince Baelor’s gaze.

“Me too.” He squeezes your hand. “Give him time. He is a good lad.”

“I know,” you reply, your heart sinking. It is the very reason that rejection aches so deeply. You’ve witnessed how gentle Valarr is, with his family, little Matarys, even the servants. You’ve seen him help an elderly servant to her feet when she apologized for spilling his food. He is kind to everyone. Everyone but you, his own stepmother.

Your husband plucks you from the depths of your forlorn thoughts by pressing you against a nearby pine tree, his hands firm on your hips.

“Enough about my son…especially when I have my lovely wife all to myself.”

You smile, your heart fluttering.

His lips tug upwards against the column of your neck, his fingers creeping below your dress. Your eyes swing to the nearby turret, the windows thankfully absent of any spectator.

An airy giggle soars from your lips as he trails languid kisses along your throat, his hand traveling to your inner thigh.

“My lord…we are out in the open. Someone could see…” you scold him though there is no real heat laced in your words.

“See me attend to my wife as a true husband should?” he says, drawing a gasp from you as his beringed finger sinks between your folds. Your back arches against the pine tree, your lips parting around a lustful whimper. The heat in your lower belly grows as your husband’s steel ring drags along your slick walls.

You bite your lower lip, riding his finger, seeking more of the delightful friction.

As you tilt your head back, your focus lands on a figure at a distance. A disturbingly familiar figure standing at the tower’s window. You shove Baelor away, your heart leaping.

“Wait…your grace!”

Prince Baelor scowls, confused by the expression on your face.

“What is it?” he inquires, following your gaze.

You blink, your eyes rounding when you realize the window is now empty.

“I…Apologies. I thought I saw-”

Prince Valarr.

But you dare not speak the thought aloud. Because it sounds ludicrous, unfathomable.

Why would Prince Valarr stand at a window watching you and his father in the throes of…passion?

Your husband cradles your face, concern wrinkling his stern features.

“Saw what, sweet girl?”

You shake your head.

“Exhaustion must be wearing my senses,” you mumble, ignoring your thundering heart.

Prince Baelor takes your hand.

“You shall rest then.”

You ignore the itch to glance back as he leads you away, that peculiar chill settling over your spine once more. The very same sensation that has plagued every intimate moment you’ve shared with your husband for several moons. In your chambers, his chambers, the gardens, the great hall…everywhere. Like a shadow tracing your every step.

Ever watching.

For the next few days, you are in hell, your own mind becoming a cage assailing you with doubts and inquiries. Did you truly see him? Were your overwrought senses conjuring false apparitions? Perhaps you are so far away from home, so desperate to be liked, that you are growing slightly mad.

There is no reason he would be there, staring. After all he cannot stand the sight of you, a fact he has made astoundingly clear.

You should go pray, light a candle to clear your mind of the unthinkable. The Septa says proper ladies must offer a prayer to The Seven at least twice a day. You have faltered in your duties to the gods. Perhaps it is why your thoughts are so scattered, your mind so hazy. Your husband is a pious man after all. You should follow his example.

As you are lost in a spiral of daunting musings, your feet lead you near the throne room. The sound of incensed, familiar voices reaches you, causing you to halt your steps.

“I will not marry her, father. You cannot make me.”

Your heart skips a beat as you recognize Prince Valarr’s voice. He’s angry…no, he’s furious.

You cling to the wall, clutching your chest when your husband’s imperious inflection fills the throne room.

“It is your duty, son. Or have you forgotten what is at stake for House Targaryen? Our dragons made us gods amongst men. Without them, we must be wise in choosing every match. The girl from Tyrosh is-”

“You had the freedom to choose your own wife,” Valarr snaps, his words sharp as the strike of a whip. “Why can I not?”

You hear your husband’s heavy sigh.

“I have done my duty, son. Therein lies the difference.”

“Indeed,” Valarr sneers. “Now that you have heirs, you may bed any fresh, pretty cunt you desire. Is that not right, father?”

Your chest tightens. Prince Valarr may have been unwelcoming, but he has never tossed such crude terms to your face. Tears hover beneath your lashes. You suppress them, your lip wobbling.

“The boy I raised would not speak with such a wicked tongue,” your husband says, his voice bleeding with disappointment. “I will speak to you when you remember your duty to this house.”

The irate stomp of your husband’s boots rises and fades. Silence then falls in the hall.

You close your eyes, willing yourself not to weep right here.

You remind yourself that those words were not designed for your ears. Still, despair squeezes your heart in its unforgiving fist. What have you done for him to loathe you so? What grave offense would warrant-

“I should kill you where you stand. How dare you spy on my father and I?”

You gasp, your eyes snapping open as a blade is pressed against your throat. Prince Valarr’s dagger. Angry, mismatched irises pin you into place.

Your pulse quickens.

“Apologies,” you croak, your eyes watering. “I was just-” The words stumble in your throat as the blade is pushed against your skin. A lone tear slides down your cheek.

Valarr’s gaze narrows, suspicion laced in his tone.

“Is this what you are, a spy? Sent here by the Blackfyre traitors mayhaps…It would make quite a bit of sense.”

An anxious squeal escapes your lips.

“I’m not a spy, my lord."

You gulp in a large breath, gathering the nerve to ask the question that has sizzled your insides since you first met him.

“Why do you abhor me so much, my lord?” you blurt out.

Valarr freezes at that, his eyes widening.

“My lord, Valarr…” you stammer, acutely aware of your pulse singing under the tip of his blade. “I have tried so hard to be agreeable yet you seem to hate me for the mere fact that I draw breath.” Flames dance in his eyes as he gapes at you, silence stretching to the point of discomfort. You quell your fear and mumble, “Have I done anything to hurt or offend you?”

The prince’s gaze narrows.

“You do not get to interrogate me, or question me,” he hisses, his dagger traveling down your flesh, along your heaving chest.

“You are a plague upon my house. A curse.” His eyes follow the path of his blade, his breath growing more erratic. His voice deepens, hoarse and hateful. “Your very existence fills me with rage. A rage I cannot contain.” He removes his blade, instead wrapping his hand around your throat. His voice lowers to a gravelly whisper. “Every time I see you, I just…I do not feel as myself, and I hate it. I hate what the mere sight, the mere thought of you does to me.”

His heavy, chaotic breaths flow over your face, his fingers squeezing your neck. You whine at the pressure and he releases you, his eyes wide and panicked.

He slams his fist besides your head into the wall. You leap in fear. He narrowly missed your face.

“Begone, mother…before I do something I regret,” he snarls.

Not having to be told twice, you gather your dress and race back to your chambers.

After the events of the throne room, you are the one keeping your distance from Prince Valarr. Even if you were aware he wasn’t fond of you, you didn’t expect such venom spilling from his mouth. Every time you remember his cruel words, tears rush to your eyes. You did not think it possible for someone to harbor such deep-seated hatred for you.

At least, you find comfort in your husband’s arms.

While he notices your melancholy, Baelor doesn’t press you to confess what’s gnawing at you. Thankfully. You decide to keep Prince Valarr's words to yourself. It would break Baelor’s heart. And what purpose would that serve? There is enough misery in you already. You do not wish for that burden to be shared with your husband, not when so much already rests upon his shoulders.

“I have to leave Dragonstone for a few weeks,” he announces one night as you lie in bed together.

You sit up, tugging the sheet against your bare frame.

“What?”

Baelor cups your face, his thumb sweeping over your cheeks.

“There is a Blackfyre uprising in the south. We must crush it before it is too late.”

Your heart plummets. You know that men must sometimes head to war. Such is the way of things. But you don’t want yours on a battlefield, in harm’s way. So often men leave and never return.

Your brows thread into a worried frown.

“Cannot your brother Maekar settle it on his own?”

His expression softens as he strokes your hair.

“What kind of future king cower from a minor rebellion?”

Understanding fills you, though in that moment you hate Baelor for being so honorable, so dutiful. You wish he were more selfish, selfish enough to stay besides you. But you know if he were selfish, he wouldn’t be your Baelor. He wouldn't be the man who owns your heart, body and soul.

He lifts your chin, brushing a tender kiss on your forehead.

“Although duty calls my name, my heart calls yours always,” he utters softly.

Your heart swells and shrivels all at once.

“If I could stay, I would, sweet girl,” he says, studying your sombre expression.

Resignation laces your tone. “I know.”

“Valarr will protect you in my absence.”

You go still, a chill traveling down your spine.

“I know there have been…hurdles. But he is my son. He will do what honor demands. You are safe with him.”

You swallow your words. Your husband is about to go to war. His mind must be clear, free of worries or distractions. You cannot cost him his life with petty grievances.

You give a bright smile.

“Of course, my love. I will pray to the gods everyday for your safe return.”

Fondness glimmers in his mismatched gaze.

You pin him with a stern stare, lifting your finger.

“Do not make me a widow, Baelor…or I will hunt you down in the afterlife and kill you again myself.”

Baelor grabs you by the waist, pinning you under him as you both laugh.

The day Baelor leaves, you feel as if a piece of your heart tore from your chest and walked away. The day itself mirrors your gloom, angry clouds roaring above Dragonstone, rain pouring down in thick sheets over the castle. Your desperation hit such a nadir that you begged your husband to take you with him the night before, but he reminded you that a woman’s place isn’t on a battlefield. You argued that your place is wherever he is and he gave you a smile that shattered your heart.

You lie in bed the entire day. You do not eat. You do not sleep. You do nothing but stare at the cold, empty space in the bed where your husband used to be.

Of course, Baelor’s words echo in your head. A minor rebellion. But how often do men go away to settle a minor rebellion, a trivial skirmish or enter a meager tourney to lose their life when the gods flip a coin?

“You have not eaten today. Come.”

Prince Valarr’s sharp tone startles you. Your gaze lands on his form near the door.

You ignore him, burying yourself further in the bed.

“I do not wish to be disturbed,” you counter, injecting all the meager authority you can in your feeble voice.

A deep sigh ripples through the room.

“My father told me to keep you safe. I intend to keep that vow.”

A sad laugh bursts from your lips.

“Even if you despise me?” you mumble.

“Come down and eat.”

“I’ve no appetite.”

“I care not. You will eat.”

His tone is icier. When you refuse to move, Prince Valarr does. Quick as lightning, he picks up your limp form from the bed and strides out of the room.

Your protests are ignored, Valarr’s expression determined as he stomps to the Great Hall, cradling you in his arms.

The prince all but drops you in a chair at the dining table before finding his own seat. Your eyes drift to Baelor’s empty seat at the head of the table. Your chest tightens.

Valarr’s mismatched gaze follows yours and his jaw ticks.

“He will return,” he states as a servant places a steaming plate of stew in front of you. “There is no warrior more fierce and capable than my father. Now eat.”

Impatience twists his boyish features.

“In my father’s absence, I am the lord of this castle. I command you to eat, lest I find less…pleasant ways to make sure you do.”

You shudder. Fingers wobbling, you collect the spoon but your stomach lurches at the sight of food.

“Please eat, my lady,” a familiar voice erupts besides you.

You blink, dazed. Little Matarys. The young prince’s expression is etched with concern. You didn’t realize he was here. Your mind lingers in a fog you can’t find your way out of.

Valarr rises from his seat, makes his way to you. He looms over you, his scent coating your senses.

His heated whisper tickles your earshell.

“What will my father say when he comes home and finds a skeleton waiting for him instead of his wife?”

His blunt words stab at your bleeding heart. Hand shaking, you take a slow sip of the stew. With every bite, you think of Baelor. He would hate to see you like this. You are a dragon’s wife. You must be strong, resilient. Your grip tightens on the spoon.

Beneath Prince Valarr’s watchful eye, you finish your plate.

The days fly by, each harder than the last, your husband’s absence carving a deeper hole inside you. The days erode into weeks. During these desolate times, Prince Valarr cares for you the way he promised he would. To your surprise, your stepson is the one reminding you to sustain yourself each day, displaying a care you did not think was in him. You learn to stand tall in your agonizing wait. Little Matarys’ gentleness helps. The long walks on the beach and games of cyvasse by the fire you play with the little boy help ease his father’s absence. While Prince Valarr’s gaze never sways from you, he makes no attempts at warmth or kindness, always keeping a careful distance. You’ve grown so used to the prince’s hostility that it leaves you numb. You just long for your husband’s swift return.

Every day you light a candle for him in the Sept, begging the gods to return him to you whole.

Most days, you hold on. You cry yourself to sleep no longer.

But tonight is different. A storm breaks out near the shore, dusky thunderclouds raging over Dragonstone.

You sit against the wall near the wooden wardrobe, your huddled form shivering.

You’ve been terrified of storms since you were a little girl. Baelor knows that. Whenever the heavens raged, he would cradle you against him, his deep, tranquil voice lulling into a sense of calm. He would stroke your hair and kiss your forehead, and never let go until slumber found you. With Baelor’s soft touch, the storm fell away, becoming a distant rumble.

In his absence you cannot stop shaking. The sky seems as if it might split open and the roof appears on the brink of collapse. You rock yourself back and forth on the floor, hands covering your ears to muffle the noise.

“My Lady?”

You lift your head, startled when a mismatched gaze fills your vision.

Hope flares inside your chest, tears filling your eyes.

“Baelor…” you mumble, overwhelmed with emotion.

“I’m not him.”

Your eyes round as you are yanked back to reality, realizing you are looking into Valarr’s eyes. You forgot how eerily similar they are to your husband’s.

The prince's jaw clenches as he studies you, kneeling before you, a flickering candlelight in his hand. You note that he dons a simple loose shirt and breeches, a sharp contrast to the armor you are so used to seeing him in. The candlelight casts shifting shadows over his face.

“Why are you…what are you doing here, Valarr?” you ask, shuddering as a bolt of lightning appears behind the window, heavy rain slamming against the glass.

“You are scared of storms,” Valarr says, like it's obvious. “I wanted to ensure your well-being.”

Your brows knit.

“How do you know that?”

“Know what?”

“That I’m scared of storms.”

Silence lingers, the prince’s gaze drifting away from yours.

“My father told me.”

He clears his throat and offers his free hand, helping you to your feet.

He leads you to the bed and you sit on the edge, your fingers trembling in his, your attention glued to the window.

“It is alright. I’m with you,” Valarr assures, placing the candle on the night table.

He hesitates a few seconds before wrapping his arms around you, tugging you into his embrace.

At first you are stunned. You freeze, completely still in Valarr’s arms. But it’s been so long since you’ve been held like this, felt safe like this. You surrender, sagging in Prince Valarr’s arms.

Fingers sweep over your hair, a soft voice pouring into your ear.

“You need never be scared when I’m with you.”

For a moment, you forget you are in Valarr’s arms. You imagine yourself in Baelor’s. In your mind, your husband is home. He is whole and he holds you through the storm the way he always does. Your arms wrap around Valarr’s neck. His hand settles on your back, traveling up and down in a soothing motion.

“I hate this,” you say.

“I know. I know,” he replies softly.

Remembering yourself, you retreat.

“Apologies, your highness.”

Valarr doesn’t pull away. He cradles your face, sweeping away your tears with his thumbs.

“You need not apologize. You have done nothing wrong.”

The prince's gaze roams over your face, landing on your lips. Clouds mirroring the ones in the angry sky darken the prince’s gaze. He drags his thumb down your cheek, presses it against your mouth.

You girdle your breath.

“Truly…nothing.”

The prince’s mouth slams into yours. Your eyes go wide as his lips devour yours, his tongue slipping into your mouth. You bite his lip, groaning in protest. The metallic taste of blood coats your tongue, Prince Valarr’s kiss turning hungrier, feral.

He pushes you onto the bed, his mouth tracing awful, fiery trails on your neck. You push his face, his chest, whatever you can grab at. His iron grip fastens around your wrists, pinning them above your head.

Disbelief makes your head spin. You struggle beneath Valarr, fighting him harder as he spreads your legs, his hand creeping under your night shift.

“No…” Tears blurs your sight as his mouth travels down your chest, his lips latching around your nipple. His tongue swirls until your peak hardens. Your body shakes with sobs, your whimpers swallowed by the rumbling thunder above Dragonstone.

The prince grunts as he cups your cunt, his thumb pressing into your tangle of nerves.

You shake your head, jolting as his thumb swirls around your sensitive nub. It grows swollen and slick under his hand. Your face heats.

“Highness…Valarr, you can’t…”

He buries two fingers between your folds. You gasp, your thighs closing around his hand. He thrusts inside you as you weep beneath him, the wet squelching melting with the sounds of the storm.

His breathy whisper flows over your face.

“I can’t stop…” He buries his fingers further inside you and you cry out, your back arching against the sheets. Valarr forces your thighs open with his knees, his hard tip nudging against your folds.

His long lashes flutter, an entranced expression on his face as he licks your essence off his fingers. You gape at him, horrified.

“I’m sorry, I can’t stop…”

He sinks into you to the hilt, drawing an ear-splitting scream from you. His hips collide with yours, the bed rattling with his frantic pace.

His chest brushes against yours, trapping you between his body and the bed.

Beads of sweat drip down his brow, landing on your face as he grunts above you.

He brings your wrist to his lips, dropping tender kisses there that twist your stomach in knots.

As you clench around him, your body betraying you, tears stream down your face.

Whenever your face turns, Valarr grips your chin, forcing your gaze to hold his as he ruts into you with abandon.

“Forgive me. Please, forgive me…” he repeats as he keeps slamming his hips into yours.

You lose track of time, going limp under him. You don’t remember when he leaves, when the storm ends. You only know one moment Prince Valarr was burying his cock inside you and the next, the sun is spilling through the velvet curtains.

You are alone in the bed. It is morning, you realize. For a few moments, you wonder if all of it was just a horrible nightmare conjured by the storm. You are wearing your shift, the sheets are clean. But the soreness in your limbs, the ache between your thighs…it’s all too real for all of it to be a dream. Your body tells the truth of what happened. You bring your fingers to your throat, your breaths growing erratic. You can still feel him, feel Valarr inside you. You rush to the nearest chamber pot and empty the meager contents of your stomach.

A maid barges into your room.

“He has returned, my lady!” she chimes.

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, staggering to your feet.

“What?”

“Prince Baelor! He has returned from his travels.”

The blood rushes from your head to the bottom of your feet, the room tilting sideways around you.

“My lady! My lady!” the maid yells, catching you as you topple to the floor. The room darkens around you, pins and needles scattering on your arms.

As you lose consciousness, you hear the maid’s muffled scream.

“Get the maester! Now!”

When you awake, you are lying on a soft surface, Baelor’s tender expression crowding your vision. He looms over you, a smile tugging his lips as he strokes your hair.

“Well, it is far from the sort of reunion I had hoped for, but I suppose it will have to do,” he says. His teasing lilt summons tears in your eyes.

“Husband,” you exclaim, throwing your arms around his neck.

He chuckles, rubbing your back in that achingly familiar way. A quivering sob escapes your lips.

“Now, now, sweet girl…there is no need for tears. I am unharmed, am I not?” He lets you weep in his arms. You cannot stop the flow of tears. You cry for your husband’s safe return. You cry for what happened the night of the storm. You let yourself drown in a sea of emotions. The relief, the elation, the despair, the pain…and the sobering, aching realization you do not know how to tell Baelor the truth without ruining this fragile happiness.

He cradles your face, collecting your tears.

“We are both unharmed, both safe. Please, sweet girl, I loathe to see tears on that lovely face of yours.”

“Both unharmed, both safe...” you repeat, your stomach sinking.

“Valarr told me there was a chill with the storm yesterday.” The sound of your stepson’s name coming from his lips makes bile rise to your throat. Baelor's knuckles sweep over your cheek. “Mayhaps you have fallen ill.”

When you remain silent, Baelor gets to his feet.

“I shall leave you to rest.”

Your fingers clutch his, your expression pleading. You cannot bear to see your heart walk away. Not again. Not right now. You need him here, where you can see him, hear him, feel him.

“No, I beg of you, your Grace, stay.”

Baelor’s brow wrinkles in concern. His thumb rubs the inside of your palm. He sits beside you on the bed, pulling you into his arms. Unleashing a heavy breath, you curl against him.

“Of course, sweet girl. Of course. I will not leave your side,” he whispers, his chin settling atop your head. You close your eyes, soaking his scent, the press of his body on yours, the soothing motion of his fingers over your hair. Fresh tears flood your sight.

Your fist tightens on his doublet.

“Do not leave me ever again. Swear it.”

“Alright. I swear it, my love.”

His lips brush against your forehead. The familiar tickle of his beard makes your stomach flutter.

“I will not leave your side…ever again.”

As you stand before the funeral pyre, the only thought in your head is that your husband lied to you. Fury mingles with grief. Baelor was supposed to stay by your side, to never leave you again. Yet he did. For good this time. Without a warning. Without a goodbye. Without giving you one last chance to look into his eyes and tell him how much you loved him. Just one more time…you wish you could tell him.

The trip to Ashford was supposed to be a mere courtesy appearance. Your husband was not even supposed to enter the lists. He did not even bring his own armor. He wore Valarr’s. He died in Valarr’s. And a small, shameful part of you wishes it had been Valarr, not your beloved, who fell in the tourney.

Your gaze swings to him. It is impossible to guess what thoughts lurk in the prince's head. His eyes are dry, unlike yours, the flames of the pyre dancing in his mismatched eyes.

You drag yourself away from the pyre, needing to be away from the scent of smoke, away from the smell of your husband’s burning remains. Your entire future, your love, your dreams…all gone up in flames and smoke.

You find a secluded spot in the grass. You completely sag in your spot, your body too heavy to carry. The air itself feels heavy. The beautiful sunset is a mockery to your grief. The lush forests are an offense to your loss. How dare the world go round, the sun still rise and dip on the horizon, the moon and stars still hang in the sky…when Baelor is dead. How dare the birds not stop singing, the wind not stop whistling, the waves not stop crashing against the rocky shores?

How dare the whole world not hold its breath when yours drew its last?

“We shall journey back to Dragonstone on the morrow.”

You are torn from your thoughts when Valarr’s voice shatters your peace.

Your voice rises, shaky but firm.

“Journey back to Dragonstone? My husband lies dead.” You hold Valarr’s gaze. “Lord Maekar arranged for me to board a ship so I may return home to my family.”

The prince’s jaw flares.

“I am your family, and Dragonstone is your home,” he says, his tone icy, resolute. “You were my father's responsibility and now, you are mine.”

Dread settles in your gut. After that awful stormy night, you avoided him. You never spoke a word of it to Baelor in the weeks that followed, burying the secret deep within your heart, so it may never hurt your husband. You are glad Baelor died thinking his son good and honorable, thinking him fit to carry his name and legacy. Still, you have no desire to be anywhere near Valarr ever again.

“I do not wish to return to Dragonstone with you, my lord. I have done my duty. It is only right for House Targaryen to release me.”

His gaze narrows.

“I do not care for what is right. I care that you stay where you belong.”

You lift your chin and get to your feet.

“I belong back home with my mother and father,” you say, starting to walk away from him.

His hand latches around your wrist. Your pulse quickens.

“No, you belong with me.” There is an edge of desperation to his words now. His fingers tighten on your wrist. “I will not lose both you and my father on the same day.”

“Apologies, my lord. It is done.”

You tug on your wrist but Valarr yanks harder, drawing a pained yelp from you. He drags you down to the grass, looming over you. His glistening eyes are brimming with emotions. Emotions that strangely mirror yours. Hatred, grief…utter despair. There's also that wicked glint of lust that chills your blood.

“I’m the one who ought to apologize, for not making myself more clear.”

Valarr pulls down his breeches and panic seizes you. You crawl to your feet but he's faster, shoving you onto the grass once more. His body traps yours, forcing you onto your stomach. You sob as he bunches your dress around your waist.

“You were my father’s…and now you are mine,” he mumbles against your ear, sinking himself completely into your dry entrance. Your nails break as you rake your fingers across the dirt, whimpering as he slams his hips into yours roughly. “And soon, you will be my lady wife, and I your lord husband.”

Valarr drapes his hand over your mouth, silencing your screams as his pelvis snaps into yours from behind. Tears blur your sight, your muffled pleas swallowed by the grass.

Prince Valarr’s warm breath tickles the back of your neck.

but he’s not looking at the place the way you do. the two of you react to a room on entirely different levels, your bodies wired for different threats: a mother and a father— man and woman.

when you first glance at the market, what you notice is how dead quiet it feels. its one of those squared market stores that look identical no matter what town or city they’re dropped into: pale siding and a flat roof with a strip of buzzing lights running along the edge. bright posters cover most of the front windows—groceries, energy drinks, lottery jackpots, cheap cigarettes—a little bit of everything because there’s a few gas pumps on the outside too.

but through the gaps between them, you can see fluorescent lighting that spills across narrow aisles of snacks and coolers humming along the back wall. everything inside seemingly looks clean. well stocked. the norm for places like this.. but its so fucking quiet. your mind subconsciously rations it's thoughts; you shouldn't be surprised, right? according to your husband, raccoon city is stupidly close. and it’s not like this place would be a terribly popular spot by any means. it's probably meant for the locals who’ve been populating the town for generations and have no intentions of leaving. the cost of living is probably crazy cheap too. still. the place reminds you of wrong turn or something..

and leon doesn’t see any of that first.

his attention moves along the roofline, the corners of the building, the spaces beside the entrance where someone could stand without being visible from the lot. the habit is second nature by now. you’ve watched him do it enough times to recognize the method to his madness: doorways, windows, sightlines, places a person could hide.

the quiet really starts to press in once the engine stops and without the car running the town around you makes your ears strain for sounds that might not even be there or maybe its tinnitus. you never felt silence like this back at home—there was always the tv running while you made lunch, matteo’s little feet padding against the floors while he plays, the cars passing by with neighbors chatting as they walk along the sidewalk. hosting dinner parties (that leon hates but he still plays along because he knows you’re excited about that pot roast you made). to think your life was seemingly normal less than twelve hours ago but it feels so far away now.

wind pushes lightly across the gravel lot, carrying thin sheets of dust over the ground that curl around the tires before breaking apart again. your eyes drift back toward the market.

the sign above the door reads harper’s market in bright plastic letters mounted against the front of the building, it lights up pretty when it's night like this—though, the sky is slowly starting to turn that odd morning gray. the storefront is clean enough to suggest someone still takes care of the place. a security camera sits tucked into the corner near the roofline, a dark lens angled toward the parking lot. security is nice. this is good. yeah, this is good.

the store looks open and there are no signs of anything odd, you feel like you can maybe breathe again. leon finally exhales through his own nose and he leans forward slightly, resting his forearms against the steering wheel while his gaze lingers on the glass of the storefront. he’s deciding something. you can tell by the way his shoulders— you can read this man like the back of your hand at this point in your marriage.

“tire’s done,” he says quietly, the words aren’t directed at you so much as spoken aloud for confirmation. “stay.” he reaches for the door handle and steps out, letting the outside air spill into the car, not surprising that it smells like gasoline and dry dirt but in some odd way—it makes your mouth water and crave something that you absolutely cannot ingest. pregnancy makes you have the weirdest cravings.

you watch him through the windshield as he circles the front of the vehicle and gravel crunches under his boots while he crouches beside the ruined tire, studying the damage up close. you can’t see it from where you’re sitting but there’s shredded rubber hanging in rough strips around the rim, the edges curled and blackened where the debris on the road tore through it. leon presses his thumb briefly against the bent metal wheel.

but leon already knows the answer. he needs a spare but he thinks he’ll be able to make due with some things around here.

inside the car, matteo shifts in the back seat and the sound pulls your attention away from the window immediately. he’s been awake this whole time it seems, just quiet. the sounds of the tire pulled him right out of this sleep. you turn slightly in your seat just as the little boy stirs, greeting him with a smile as his curls stick up in soft and uneven tufts where they’ve been flattened against the seat. his face is puffy with sleep and his eyes blink slowly in the cute way children do when they wake somewhere unfamiliar.

“good morning, sleepy baby.” you coo.

“mommy..” he mumbles. you glance back toward leon through the windshield without thinking to make sure he’s okay and outside he’s already looking into the car. it’s the way he always reacts when matteo makes noise or moves a little—like there’s some sort of invisible thread that connects them together. his expression softens for a second when he sees the boy moving around in the back seat, the tension in his posture easing just slightly before his focus drifts back toward the surrounding area again.

wind rattles the loose chain hanging from one of the gas pumps near the road, a faint metal clink carrying easily across the empty lot. leon studies the storefront a few seconds longer.

matteo shifts again, the soft creak of the seatbelt tugging lightly against the buckle as he moves. the sound pulls your attention away from the windshield and when you glance back over your shoulder, he’s pushing himself upright in the back seat with a sleepy effort, one small fist rubbing hard against his eye while his gaze drifts toward the front of the car.

the empty driver’s seat makes him pause.

and confusion settles across his little face first, that moment where something in his routine doesn’t line up the way he expects it to. he leans forward against the seatbelt slightly, peering between the two front seats like maybe leon is just hiding somewhere he can’t see yet.

“mama,” he mumbles thickly, voice still foggy with sleep as his eyes scan the dashboard, then the door, then back again. “mm.. papa? where is..?” the words come out uncertain, the question sitting plainly in his voice.

“he’s right there, sweetheart.” you say softly, tilting your head toward the windshield so matteo can follow your line of sight. “see him?” matteo squints toward the glass.

it takes him a second before his eyes land on the familiar shape of leon standing up beside the hood. the moment recognition clicks, the tension in his tiny shoulders disappears and his whole face brightens, his routine and reassurance visibly fall back into place.

“papa,” he hums quietly then just as quickly, his attention drifts somewhere else. one small hand presses against his round tummy as he shifts in the seat, fingers bunching the fabric of his shirt while he looks toward you again. his voice is softer this time, almost thoughtful. “..eat, ’teo.”

you open your mouth to answer, but matteo is already squirming again, the seatbelt pulling tight across his chest as he tries to shift his legs under him and his brows pinch. slightly.

“..mama.” he wiggles harder this time, the restless little movement of a toddler who’s suddenly realized something urgent. “potty.”

“okay, okay—” but before you can even get out yourself, its leon who opens matteo’s door, one hand against the frame of the car. his gaze flicks over you first then toward the carseat below him. you could see a little smear of black on his hand because outside the car, leon managed to find a spare nearby and dropped it beside the car. he could see the little scene playing out in the car and decided to be daddy to the rescue.

“papa!” he calls, voice suddenly bright. you can see the small smile tugging at the corner of leon’s mouth.

“hey, buddy.” he says quietly.

matteo looks at him immediately. “hungry.” he reports. then after a tiny pause with much greater urgency— “..’n potty!”

leon exhales slowly through his nose, the sound of a tired laugh as one hand drags briefly down his face before he glances back toward the market behind the car.

“yeah?” he mutters under his breath. “pssh. got some serious business to check off this to-do list, huh?”

you twist in your seat being mindful of your belly, but you’re already reaching behind you to unclip matteo’s latch. leon watches you, and he inwardly sighs. you’re always doing things he can do for you. he swears it's like you have this complex about asking for help but, he knows you probably need a task right now—he can only imagine how much you’re dealing with mentally and physically, so. he doesn't make a fuss. the metal tongue slides free with a quiet click and the second it does matteo leans forward into the space between the seats and leon lifts him out, setting him down outside the car. leon walks him around the car where you're currently opening your door.

the loose stones shift under your weight when you step out and matteo is already wiggling impatiently. little cutie.

“potty,” he reminds you urgently.

“i know, baby.” you say, fighting the small smile tugging at the corner of your mouth despite the tension sitting in your lower back. you lift him carefully, settling him against your hip.

the lot stretches wide and quiet around you, the darkness pressing in beyond the weak glow spilling from the market’s front windows. a single overhead light above the entrance throws a dull yellow circle across the ground while the rest of the lot dissolves into shadow. you carry matteo across the lot toward the entrance, one hand resting lightly on his bottom to keep him moving while the other steadies the door when you reach it. the glass reflects things in warped pieces—your tired posture, matteo’s rosy cheeks, the car sitting a few yards behind and leon.

“mommy, store.” he says, voice small and insistent.

“mhm! you're so smart, aren't you, sweet pea...?” you murmur softly, pulling the door open.

the inside of the market greets you with a rush of cool air and the harsh brightness of fluorescent lights. it floods the narrow aisles and spills out through the front windows into the empty parking lot, making the darkness outside look even deeper by comparison. the shelves are stocked neatly with chips, canned goods and rows of bottled drinks humming quietly inside the refrigerators along the back wall.

you guide matteo quickly toward the small hallway beside the counter where a printed sign points toward the restroom, your footsteps echoing faintly across the tile before the two of you disappear around the corner.

meanwhile outside, leon watches the door close behind you. he waits until you and matteo are fully inside before he moves, and once the coast is clear the driver’s door opens quietly and he leans down slightly, reaching beneath the seat where a small black case rests tucked out of sight. the latch pops open with a soft click when he flips it back, the lid lifting just enough for him to slide his hand inside.

the pistol settles into his palm and it feels like a familiar friend, something that’s lived in his hands for decades—a weapon unlike the one he keeps in the glove compartment, this one is.. essentially a handheld shotgun. a gun that really screams he was so fucking over fighting literal monsters and demons with a 9mm pistol.

it’s “gorgeous” as he would say. you get jealous of those things.

his thumb checks the magazine — full, just what he wanted. the metal glints faintly before he seats it back into place. he pulls the slide just enough to check the chamber, the faint click sound swallowed by the open night.

leon exhales slowly through his nose and his eyes drift toward the storefront again, studying the bright interior through the glass.. he doesn’t want to anticipate something happening but—his pregnant wife and kid are in there, he’d rather be safe than sorry. he tucks the pistol into the back of his waistband beneath his jacket, adjusting the fabric so it falls naturally over the grip before shutting the car door with a quiet push. he crosses the lot, the lights from the windows growing brighter the closer he gets.

by the time he steps through the door, the calm expression settles back on his face because you’re standing a few aisles over with matteo beside you. he’s already wandered toward a lower shelf stacked with brightly colored snack packs, his small hands hovering like he’s deciding which one deserves his attention most. you’re saying something to him that leon can’t quite hear but you’re smiling and cradling a couple bottles of water to your chest while you rub your belly.

leon joins you quietly, his eyes moving through the store as he gives your temple a kiss. the place is running. the lights are on but on his way in he noticed the counter sits empty. no clerk. no customers. no voices anywhere else in the building—he has a weird feeling but, he’s thinking maybe some kid is out back smoking pot because this place probably doesn't get a lot of business.

you glance up at him with a little smile.

“bathroom was clean,” you say quietly, you’re half surprised by it because there hasn't been a time where you’ve felt comfortable using a gas station bathroom.

matteo tugs at your pant leg. “snack.” he says hopefully.

you sigh softly but reach down to grab the small packet of puffy cheetos he’s holding. “this is what you want, baby? how about—”

leon doesn’t take his eyes off the aisles and he hasn't this whole time even as you’re trying to talk your three year old into a ”healthier” option.

his head tilts slightly..listening.

because underneath the store music, your voice and the soft crinkle of matteo wrestling with the chip bag. something else is sounding inside the store. its a wet sound. a slow, thick sound like.. like meat slamming against something hard.

it comes from somewhere deeper in the building, he decides to move a bit down the aisle eyes narrowing slightly as he studies the stretch of store beyond the shelves. the sound isn’t loud but it repeats and repeats, over and over with a slow rhythm that feels mindless.

you notice the shift in his posture almost immediately. leon doesn’t tense in an obvious way when something’s wrong, especially when his family is around but there is a subtle change that always gives him away to you—the way his attention stops and locks onto one point in the room. he also doesn't have a very good poker face either.

“what’s wr—”

“stay here a second,” he says quietly, his voice calm enough that matteo barely notices the change.

you follow his gaze toward the back of the market, where a narrow corridor opens near the refrigerated cases. a neon sign hangs above it advertising the deli counter, the letters flickering faintly in the light like the sign has been buzzing there for hours without anyone bothering to turn it off.

the sound gets louder the closer leon steps but this time there’s another noise tangled inside it. a dull thud—metal striking something soft, yes. but.. strangled throat sounds.

leon’s steps are slow and careful as he angles himself toward the end of the aisle. the pistol appears in his hand sometime during the walk, drawn quietly from beneath his jacket in a motion so smooth it’s almost invisible. god, he’s so cool.

the smell reaches him before the sight does and he rounds the corner just enough to see into the deli area.

the overhead lights back there are still on above the long glass display case where cuts of meat sit neatly arranged for customers— but instead of meat from cattle, it looks like human remains. leon can’t quite make it out from this far. the counter itself is smeared with dark streaks that have dried in uneven patches along the white tile.

and two figures stand behind it.

the first one is a.. rather large male—at least 6’6, burly and still wearing a stained butcher’s apron to which it’s fabric hangs crookedly from one shoulder where something has torn through it. his back is turned slightly, broad shoulders hunched over the counter as one arm lifts and falls in a slow, mechanical motion. each downward swing ends with that same dull thud heard from before and in his hand is a meat cleaver.

the blade rises again and comes down hard against something lying on the cutting board.

a human hand. the butcher doesn’t react to the damage he’s already done to it. he simply repeats the motion over and over, chopping with the empty persistence.

beside him, slumped awkwardly against the tiled wall is the second body. the clerk or what used to be the clerk, if he could call the poor bastard that anymore. he can tell because the uniform shirt is still visible beneath the stains spreading across his chest, the name tag also hanging crookedly where it’s half torn from the fabric. his head hangs forward at an unnatural angle while one arm stretches uselessly across the counter.

the butcher keeps hacking at that hand as the clerk twitches. his head lifts just enough for leon to see the cloudy film coating his eyes. a wet sound slips from his throat as his mouth opens, jaw working in grinding motions as if trying to speak to service a customer.

there’s a very sudden pause—one that seems as though they’ve been alerted by something. a noise.

that very noise being his son’s high pitched giggles a few aisles over.

fuck.

leon quickly takes cover, after a few seconds he leans slightly around the end cap long enough to look again toward the deli counter. the butcher has wandered a few steps away from the counter now, the cleaver still hanging loosely from his hand while his head turns in slow twitching angles like something inside his skull is struggling to remember what it was doing moments ago. beside him the clerk has pulled himself upright, shoulders slumped forward while his ruined jaw opens and closes in useless motions.

neither of them has fully locked onto anything yet, but.. they are not idle either. both bodies drift pausing and turning in short, jerky movements that make it clear something nearby has disturbed them. the butcher’s cloudy eyes sweep across the aisles without focus while the clerk’s head tilts toward the open store floor, both of them reacting to faint sounds and subtle shifts in the air the same way animals react to scent they can’t quite locate.

leon doesn’t wait to see if they figure it out.

the moment the butcher’s head begins to lift a little higher, leon steps back from the corner without making another sound. he rounds the aisle again and finds you exactly where he left you. matteo is still standing beside you with the chip packet still clutched in his hands, the plastic crinkling softly every time he digs his fingers inside.

highway to hell starts playing over the store’s system and leon thinks this is one big joke.

you’re watching leon now, reading the change in his face immediately even though he hasn’t said anything yet. you want to say something but there's a noise relatively close those makes you turn your head and his hand closes around your wrist firmly. “come on,” he murmurs quietly and you don’t argue.

there’s something in his tone that tells you this isn’t a suggestion, and the way his eyes flick briefly over your shoulder toward the back of the store is enough to make your stomach drop without needing any further explanation.

he guides both of you quickly down an aisle and turns between two rows of shelving that block the line of sight from the open floor of the store. he makes you all stay crouched.

matteo looks up at leon, clearly confused by the sudden movement. “papa?”

leon smooths matteo’s hair with a strained smile while his other hand stays wrapped loosely around the grip of the pistol resting low at his side.

“hey, kiddo,” he murmurs softly. his voice shifts in that soft way it always does when he talks to matteo, the tension smoothing out of the edges even though his eyes are still tracking the open spaces between the aisles. the kid blinks up at him, crumbs already stuck to the corner of his mouth.

“can you do something for papa?”

matteo nods automatically. “mhm! ‘helper teo!”

“that’s right.” leon brushes his fingers gently through the boy’s hair, “close your eyes for me, okay? be as quiet as possible.. like a little mouse. and don’t open until i say it's okay.”

matteo tilts his head slightly, considering the request. “why?”

leon doesn’t miss a beat. “part of a game.”

the answer comes easily, he’s used it—all the questions. matteo is a curious little boy and leon doesn’t fault him for it because leon was a curious kid too, he just hopes his son opts in for a normal job. not like his old man. the boy studies him for a second with the deep seriousness, then squeezes his eyes shut tightly and puffs his cheeks.

“perfect.” only then do leon’s eyes shift toward you.

for a second he studies your face, the tension in his shoulders saying everything that doesn’t have time to be explained. his gaze drops briefly to your stomach before lifting again, the look lingering just long enough to make sure you understand what he needs you to do next.

“stay here,” he says quietly. “don’t make a sound.”

you nod and leon gives you both a kiss before standing up and stepping back toward the end of the aisle.

The first thing you registered was a warmth that enveloped you from behind, a heavy arm was draped across your middle. Your eyes fluttered open slowly, your lashes catching on the pillow. The light in the room was soft grey, through the heavy curtains painting everything in shades of pearl and shadows. It was morning. Dawn, perhaps, or just after, and he was actually here with you in the morning for once since you had been married.

You felt a burst of affection that spread from the tips of your cold toes up through your chest and out to your entire body. You lay perfectly still, hardly daring to breathe, terrified that any movement might break the spell and he would vanish like morning mist, that you'd wake up truly and find yourself alone in this large bed once more. You could feel the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest against your back, as reliable as the tide. you could hear the soft even sound of his breathing near your ear, the warmth of his breath stirring your hair.

Carefully you began to turn in his embrace, moving with the utmost caution as to not wake him. He murmured something in his sleep, a low incoherent sleepy murmur, and his arm tightened around you instinctively, pulling you closer against him with surprising strength. But he didn't wake, his breathing remained deep and even. When you were finally facing him, your heart felt like it was going to beat its way out of your chest.

In sleep, the weary soldier was gone. The lines of exhaustion around his eyes were smoothed away more peaceful than you had ever seen him. His lips, the same lips that had praised and plundered you hours before, were slightly parted, relaxed and soft in sleep.

You looked at the strong arm wrapped around you, holding you even in his unconscious state. Tentatively, you reached out, your fingers tracing the path of a thick, blue vein that ran up his forearm and disappeared into the hard muscle of his bicep, following its course like a river. You pressed gently, feeling the solid strength beneath the skin, the warmth of him, the life pulsing through him.

Your hand moved from his arm to his chest, your palm resting flat over his heart, feeling the slow, powerful beat beneath your hand. Your fingers drifted over the faint, silvery lines of his old scars, tracing each one with awed curiosity. And then your touch, moved to his face as you traced the line of his jaw, the faint roughness of his stubble scraping gently against your fingertips. You followed the crease beside his mouth, the one that deepened when he smiled, the smile you wanted to see every day for the rest of your life. This incredible, complicated, handsome man was your husband, and he was here. In your bed, holding you as if he never planned to let you go.

You couldn't help yourself, leaning in holding your breath, you pressed a soft tentative kiss to his lips. They were warm and pliant under yours, the slight scratch of his stubble rough against your lips. It was just a ghost of a kiss, barely there, but he let out a sleepy murmur of contentment in his sleep. His eyelids fluttered, golden lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. Then they opened, his eyes were hazy and unfocused, the color of a misty dawn before the sun has risen, his consciousness lost in the space between sleep and waking. They focused on you, inches from his face, and you saw the moment recognition dawned, followed by the memory of the night before flooding back into his waking memory.

A slow smile spread across his face, an expression of affection so deep that it crinkled the corners of his eyes. You wanted to cry with happiness as your heart melted, the love you held for your husband was deeper than any well.

“Morning,” he croaked his voice rough and scratchy with drowsiness. The arm around your waist tightened, pulling you flush against him, molding your body to his. His other hand came up to cup the back of your head, his fingers tangling gently in your hair, cradling your skull as he stared deep into your eyes.

“Good morning,” you whispered back, a shy smile that you couldn’t push down dawning on your own lips.

He answered by tilting his head and kissing you softly. The feverish energy of the other night evaporated in the morning sun. A languid exploration of sleepy contentment.

He broke the kiss with a low groan, a mixture of pleasure and reluctance. Before you could protest, he moved with a single, fluid motion hands sliding down your back to cup your bottom, his palms warm as he rolled onto his back, pulling you with him effortlessly. In a seamless movement, you were settled on top of him, straddling his hips your legs draped over his, the soft skin of your inner thighs resting against the warm hard muscle of his hips, the sheets tangled around you both.

He propped himself up slightly on the pillows, his hands resting on the swell of your hips, his thumbs stroking your skin in lazy circles. His gaze was full of a quiet adoration as he looked at you as if seeing you for the first time in weeks, his eyes tracing the curve of your collarbone, the soft swell of your breasts, the sleepy contented look on your face, putting every detail to memory.

You, in turn, were just as captivated by him as he was of you. Propped up on your hands on his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin and the beat of his heart beneath your palms, you looked down at the man beneath you. This was your husband. Your Leon. You played with the wiry hair on his chest, a fascinating landscape of silver and gold threads curling together, softer than you'd expected.

His hands slid from your hips down over the curve of your ass, squeezing gently, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. Then they moved back up, tracing the dip of your waist, his thumbs stroking your sides, as you shivered at his touch.

The sensation made you shift, a small involuntary wiggle of your hips seeking more contact. Suddenly you felt his warm and hard cock, pressed right against your most sensitive spot. A small involuntary whine escaped your throat, a sound of needy pleasure that you couldn't suppress. You instinctively rubbed against him, your body moving of its own accord.

He watched you through hooded, amused eyes, a lazy smile playing on his lips. “My wife,” he rasped, his voice thick with pleasure and satisfaction, “So insatiable.” His words sent shivers of pure lust down your spine. Your hands were still wandering over the landscape of his chest, exploring, but he put a stop to it. 

He captured both of your wrists his grip firm but gentle, and with surprising ease brought them together behind your back, holding them there with just one of his large hands. You were pinned your upper body held captive, arched slightly backward so your breasts were thrust forward, your lower half still free to move against him. His other hand coming to rest on the small of your back, pressing you down against him. Bucking his hips upward into you, his cock pressed directly against your slick and swollen slit.

“Leon,” you moaned, your head falling back, your eyes squeezing shut in ecstasy, your mouth falling open. “Yes... oh, it feels so good...” Your words devolved into a babbling, breathless mess, a litany of praise and pleading that you couldn't control. “Please...oh Leon, please don't stop...”

He watched you, his eyes dark with a lazy smile on his face that spoke of the deep satisfaction. He loved watching you, writhing on top of him, completely lost to pleasure.

“So beautiful,” he murmured. “Look at you, my lovely little wife... rubbing that sweet little hole all over my cock.” A fresh wave of heat washed through you, and you whined, the tension in your body coiling tighter and tighter. You slumped forward, your sweaty forehead coming to rest against his chest, your hair cascading around your face. You opened your eyes, looking up at him from under your lashes, your own gaze hazy with lust.

“Kiss me, Leon,” you whined, the words a desperate plea, a need as essential as breathing. He chuckled softly, before he cupped your face in his free hand, his thumb stroking your flushed cheeks. “Anything for you, my love. Anything.”

It was a slow open-mouthed kiss, a silent battle for dominance that he let you pour your frantic need into. His mouth swallowing your moans. When you pulled back, panting and dazed, your lips swollen and wet. He watched you with a contented sigh escaping his lips. His eyes were heavy-lidded, dark with sleep and a deep, simmering excitement that was intoxicating. He loved watching his wife, his beautiful, brilliant wife, go so crazy for him. All your poise and intelligence dissolved into a desperate all consuming need for his attention and affection.

“Leon,” you whined, your voice slightly breathless and full of frustration. Your hips bucked involuntarily, You were trying to ride him, trying to slip his cock inside you, searching for that fullness that would finally give you what you needed. He let you try for a moment, enjoying the fevered way you writhed on his chest, the desperate roll of your hips. With subtle shifts of his own hips, he guided your movements, helping you grind against his length, prolonging your pleasure. He was so mesmerized by the sight of you losing yourself that he could have just watched you like this for hours and hours.

His one hand not holding you captive to continued its journey upward to cup your breasts. He cupped the soft sensitive flesh in his palms, his thumbs brushing over your nipples, which hardened instantly at his touch, tightening into aching peaks. A shuddering gasp escaped you, your whole body jerking at the contact. He did the same to the other, pinched your sensitive little bud between his thumb and forefinger, sending a bolt of pure fire straight to your clit. you cried out, your back arching, pushing your breast deeper into his hand. He let out a low hum of pure appreciation, and then he did it again, a sharp twist that made your whole-body tremble and vision blur.

Then, he pulled you down, bending you forward until your breast was level with his mouth. He looked up at you, his eyes burning before he took the aching peak into his mouth.

“Oh!” you sobbed as his hot, wet tongue swirled around the sensitive flesh, laving it, worshipping it. His stubble was a delicious abrasion against the soft skin of your breast, building upon the pleasure and making it even more intense. He sucked hard, pulling your nipple deep into the heat of his mouth, his teeth grazing the peak in a way that made your whole body convulse, that sent electricity arcing through you. He released it with a wet pop and immediately turned his attention to the other, giving it the same lavish but torturous attention, sucking and licking and biting gently until you were a writhing, sobbing mess draped across his chest .

Your babbling was completely incoherent now, a stream of “yes, please, Leon, oh god, please, more, don't stop” that you had no control over, words tumbling from your lips without thought. You were completely at his mercy, your hands pinned, body a quivering mess, utterly consumed by the man beneath you, by the pleasure he was giving you, by the overwhelming need he'd ignited.

You devolved into a series of high, frantic whines, your body a taut quivering bowstring of desperate need stretched to its absolute limit. You were so worked up, so slick and ready, that he knew you couldn't take much more of the teasing, that you were on the edge of breaking.

The lazy appreciation in his eyes softened, full of love and tenderness that made your heart skip a beat even through the haze of lust. “Alright, my love,” he murmured soothingly his voice dripping over you like warm honey. “Let me help you.”

He shifted beneath you, his powerful body moving with grace, lifting his hips slightly. The thick head of his cock, which had been grinding against your clit, now nudged insistently at your dripping entrance, pressing against the slick swollen flesh. “Take what you need,” he whispered, his voice rough with his own barely restrained desire as he held his cock up for you to press into you as you pleased. “ Use me.”

With a sob of relief, you lowered her hips. The stretch was almost too much as just the tip stretched you, your legs shaking, almost unable to hold yourself steady above him. Sweat beaded at your brow sticking hair to your forehead as you moaned, before you readjusted sitting back up only to let your weight slowly pull you back down on him, letting your weight do most of the work. He soothed you whispering praises as he filled you, your body yielding to accommodate his size. You were so wet that he slid in your arousal easing his passage, but his sheer size was still a shock to you, a delicious but overwhelming fullness that made your head fall back and mouth drop open in a silent cry. When you were finally seated, hips flush with his, bodies completely joined, you just stayed there for a moment, trembling and panting atop him. Adjusting to the intrusion, feeling every ridge and vein of him against your sensitive inner walls.

“That's it,” he praised, his voice thick with satisfaction, his large palm holding your hands back and on your waist, his thumbs stroking your skin in soothing circles. “You feel... incredible.”

His grip tightened, his fingers digging into your flesh. He showed you how to move, lifting you with his strength as easily as if you were a doll, as if you weighed nothing, guiding your hips up until just the tip of him remained inside you, the loss making you whimper, then pulling you back down with a powerful motion that drove him deep. A long, drawn-out moan was torn from your lips as he did it again, and again, setting a slow and deep rhythm.

Your body took over, instinct overriding thought. Your hands slid from his chest to his shoulders, your nails digging into the hard muscle as you found your own pace, riding him with a rising urgency, chasing the pleasure that was building inside you. You were a spectacle of wanton abandon, breasts bouncing with each movement, your hair a wild cloud around her flushed face, her skin glistening with sweat.

He watched you utterly mesmerized, his lips parted as he panted with exertion and desire. He met your downward strokes with an upward thrust of his hips, driving himself deeper, angling his body to hit a spot inside you that made you cry out. He helped you, guided you, and worshipped you with his body, letting his desperate, beautiful wife use him to chase your own bliss, to take what you needed from him.

The pleasure was a tidal wave, and you were drowning in it, swept away completely. Every nerve in your body was on fire, overwhelmed by the feeling of him filling. Words became impossible, dissolving into a stream of whimpers and high, keening cries that you couldn't control. Tears streamed down your face, an overwhelming release of emotion you couldn't contain.

“Feels good, huh, my love?” You could barely comprehend his voice through the fog of pleasure. You could only nod, a jerky motion, unable to form words as your throat tightened up. He released your hip, his hand coming up to gently brush a sweat-dampened strand of hair from your face, his thumb stroking your cheek.

He pulled you closer, his arm wrapping around your back, crushing your breasts to his chest, your nipples dragging against the hair there. He angled his head and captured your mouth in a deep kiss.

His hips began to move with renewed purpose, thrusting up into you deep and hard, each forcing a sharp cry from your throat that he swallowed with his kiss. His arm snaked around your waist, his hand grabbing a firm handful of your ass, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, holding you in place and using you as leverage to drive himself deeper and harder.

Your face buried in his neck, your gasps and cries dissolving into a single, continuous moan against his skin. The pressure was building in the deepest parts of you, spreading form the center of you and fanning out in warm waves from head to toe.

The deep thrusts were scattering your thoughts like leaves in a storm, making coherent thought impossible. Your body was no longer your own, but a vessel for the pleasure he was giving you. Overwhelmed and drowning, you nuzzled deeper into the warm sweaty skin of his neck, your lips pressing small kisses against his throat, tasting the salt of exertion on his skin. You kissed his jawline, your lips catching on his rough stubble, You kissed the hard tendon that stood out in his neck as he strained, driving into you.

A low, breathless chuckle rumbled in his chest, immediately followed by a deep, guttural moan as you clenched around him involuntarily. He was enjoying this as much as you were, lost in it with you.

“You're so beautiful,” he rasped, his voice a fond whisper right against your ear, his breath hot on your skin.

His words sent a fresh wave of heat through you; made you clench around him again. He was calling you beautiful? While he was fucking you into next week? It was intoxicating.

He turned his head, capturing your wandering mouth with his. He held you his hand still gripping your ass, his hips still driving into, pouring all of his own overwhelming desire into the kiss until you were both breathless and panting, until you couldn't tell where you ended and he began.

The final, deep thrust was the eruption of the pressure that had been pooling low in your belly. A violent, full-body quiver seized you, starting deep in your womb and radiating outwards in a shockwave that made your entire frame convulse, every muscle locking. You let out a cry as your inner muscles clamped down on his thick cock. Your vision went black, then filled with blinding, light.

“God..yes…my love,” Leon groaned, his voice a strained against your ear, his own control snapping as he felt you convulse around him. He held you, one arm around your waist, the other hand still gripping your ass, his fingers digging into your flesh hard enough to bruise as he continued to drive into you, prolonging your ecstasy until you were sobbing. You were crying tears of pure, overwhelming release streaming down your face as you clung to him.

With a final thrust that buried him to the hilt, he groaned your name. His body went rigid, his muscles locking as he poured himself into you. You felt the hot thick ropes of his seed pooling in your womb,  each shallow thrust accompanied by a deep groan, his body shuddering.

You were left a boneless, panting, sweat-soaked heap draped over his chest like a blanket. He was still inside you, breathing just as hard as you were, his chest heaving beneath your cheek, his heart beating wildly. He didn't let go, holding you close with his arms wrapped around you. He pressed soft, exhausted kisses into your hair, his lips murmuring praise you were too dazed to understand.

You could only lie there, little tremors running through you, and listen to the calming beat of his heart.

He shifted his hips so that the connection between your bodies broke. You moaned, your inner muscles fluttering around nothing, the hot thick spill of his seed dripping out of you. It leaked from your used, swollen lips, dripping down onto him, coating his abdomen and the dark hair that trailed lower in a messy display of your union.

He looked down between your bodies, fascinated by the mess, by the way his release mingled with your own slickness, creating a glistening white pool on his skin.

He reached up, his hand gentle, brushing a damp, tangled strand of hair away from your face where it stuck to your sweat-sheened cheek. His thumb stroked your cheekbone, his eyes soft when they met yours, a stark contrast to the debauchery of your physical state.

“Was that, okay?” he murmured. “I didn't hurt you?” You couldn't help it as a laugh bubbled out of you. You leaned down and kissed him, not caring about morning breath or the mess between you. It was a sloppy, uncoordinated kiss, teeth clashing gently, tongues tangling lazily, a wet press of lips that conveyed everything.

“Yes,” you breathed against his mouth, pulling back just enough to whisper the word. “God, Leon. It was better than okay. It was perfect.”

He hummed pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Good.”

He shifted slightly beneath you, “We should probably get up soon,” he said, though he made no move to dislodge you, his hand still stroking your spine idly. “The house will be waking up. Breakfast will be served soon.”

You let out a groan of protest, burying your face in his neck, inhaling his scent. “No,” you whined, your voice muffled against his skin. “Just... a few minutes. Please. I can't move yet. My bones have turned to water.”

He chuckled softly. “Alright, my love. A few minutes.”

His hand moved down your back, over the curve of your bottom, and you felt him shift beneath you. He was still half-hard, his cock not yet spent. He angled his hips up and you gasped as you felt the thick head of him catch against your sensitive leaking entrance. He gathered the fluid that was spilling out of you, the hot mess of his seed and your own arousal, on the tip of his cock. Then, with a thrust, he pushed it back inside you.

“Leon....” you cried out, your body jerking at the sudden intrusion.

“Shhh,” he murmured, pressing in deeper, feeding his length and the fluids he’d collected back into your body. He seated himself fully, stuffing you full of his cock and his seed until there was nowhere for it to go. He wrapped both arms around you, pulling you flush against his chest, tucking your head under his chin. He was enjoying the feel of you wrapped around him, of being buried deep inside your warmth while the morning light brightened the room.

He began to press soft kisses to your face, his lips wandered down to your neck, finding where your heartbeat fluttered under the skin. He lingered there, sucking gently, marking you, before his kisses traveled lower. He nuzzled into the soft skin of your chest, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to the swell of your breasts.

You floated in a haze of contentment surrounded by him. It sparked a thought in your sex-addled brain, a question that made your face flush hot. Between the wet, messy kisses he was pressing to your breasts, you managed to find your voice, breathless and flustered.

“Leon?” you whispered, your fingers tangling in his hair.

“Hmm?” he answered distractedly, not lifting his head from where he was pressing a kiss to the curve of your breast.

“Are you trying to make an heir already?” You joked softly, a small laugh slipping out.

He stilled against you. He lifted his head, looking up at you with an expression of amused surprise. His eyes crinkled at the corners, a smile playing on his lips.

“Not particularly,” he said honestly, he shifted slightly inside you, making you gasp. “I married you for you, my love. An heir is not the objective. I would not be opposed to it, certainly.” He leaned up, pressing a soft kiss to your chin. “But only if that was something you wanted. I am in no rush to share you.”

He paused, his eyes darkening with a renewed heat as he looked at you, his hand stroking your side. “However,” he murmured, his tone dropping and becoming huskier, “I find I am quite... addicted to the process of making one.” He rolled his hips up into you, a deep grind that forced a moan from your lips. “And I am more than willing to try again. And again. And again.”

You didn't know what to say to that, how to respond to his promise. You felt flustered, shy under his intense gaze. So, you didn't say anything, you just leaned down capturing his lips with yours in a kiss, he met you with equal fervor, his arms tightening around you.

The afternoon sun was warm and forgiving, a gentle heat that made you want to do nothing but sit still and drink in the moment. You were settled on a cushioned spot beneath the shade of the old oak tree, a half-written letter in your hands. The ink was drying in uneven splotches where you had paused to gather your thoughts, your quill hovering uncertainly over the parchment.

𝒟𝑒𝒶𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓉 𝐹𝒶𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇,

𝐼 𝓌𝓇𝒾𝓉𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒻𝓇𝑜𝓂 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑔𝒶𝓇𝒹𝑒𝓃𝓈 𝒶𝓉 𝒢𝓇𝑒𝑒𝓃 𝐻𝒶𝓁𝓁, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝐼 𝒸𝑜𝓃𝒻𝑒𝓈𝓈 𝐼 𝒽𝒶𝓇𝒹𝓁𝓎 𝓀𝓃𝑜𝓌 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝒷𝑒𝑔𝒾𝓃. 𝐼 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝒻𝑜𝓊𝓃𝒹 𝓈𝑜𝓂𝑒𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝐼 𝓃𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓊𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝓉𝑜 𝓁𝑜𝑜𝓀 𝒻𝑜𝓇, 𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓅𝒾𝓃𝑒𝓈𝓈. 𝒯𝓇𝓊𝑒 𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓁𝓂𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓅𝒾𝓃𝑒𝓈𝓈. 𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝓀𝒾𝓃𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓂𝒶𝓀𝑒𝓈 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓌𝒶𝓀𝑒 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝒶 𝓈𝓂𝒾𝓁𝑒 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒻𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝒶𝓈𝓁𝑒𝑒𝓅 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓉𝒾𝓉𝓊𝒹𝑒 𝒾𝓃 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓉. 𝐼𝓉 𝓇𝑒𝓂𝒾𝓃𝒹𝓈 𝓂𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓀𝒾𝓃𝒹 𝑜𝒻 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓂𝑜𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝓈𝒽𝒶𝓇𝑒𝒹 𝒷𝑒𝒻𝑜𝓇𝑒 𝓈𝒽𝑒 𝓅𝒶𝓈𝓈𝑒𝒹…

𝐼𝓈𝓃'𝓉 𝒾𝓉 𝓈𝓉𝓇𝒶𝓃𝑔𝑒, 𝐹𝒶𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇? 𝒟𝑜 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓇𝑒𝓂𝑒𝓂𝒷𝑒𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒹𝒶𝓎𝓈 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝓌𝑒 𝓊𝓈𝑒𝒹 𝓉𝑜 𝒹𝒶𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝒶𝓇𝑜𝓊𝓃𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝓊𝒷𝒿𝑒𝒸𝓉, 𝒷𝑜𝓉𝒽 𝑜𝒻 𝓊𝓈 𝒶𝒻𝓇𝒶𝒾𝒹 𝓉𝑜 𝓈𝓅𝑒𝒶𝓀 𝑜𝒻 𝒽𝑒𝓇? 𝐼 𝒻𝒾𝓃𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒷𝑒𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝐿𝑒𝑜𝓃 𝒽𝒶𝓈 𝓂𝒶𝒹𝑒 𝓂𝑒 𝒷𝓇𝒶𝓋𝑒.

𝐿𝑒𝑜𝓃 𝓁𝑜𝓈𝓉 𝓅𝑒𝑜𝓅𝓁𝑒 𝓉𝑜𝑜, 𝐹𝒶𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇. 𝒮𝑜 𝓂𝒶𝓃𝓎 𝓅𝑒𝑜𝓅𝓁𝑒. 𝐻𝑒 𝒸𝒶𝓇𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓌𝑒𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝑜𝒻 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓎 𝓂𝒶𝓃 𝓌𝒽𝑜 𝒻𝑒𝓁𝓁 𝓊𝓃𝒹𝑒𝓇 𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝒸𝑜𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓃𝒹, 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓎 𝒻𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓃𝒹 𝓌𝒽𝑜 𝒹𝒾𝒹𝓃'𝓉 𝒸𝑜𝓂𝑒 𝒽𝑜𝓂𝑒 𝒻𝓇𝑜𝓂 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓌𝒶𝓇. 𝒲𝑒 𝓉𝒶𝓁𝓀 𝒶𝒷𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝒾𝓉, 𝒽𝑒 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝐼. 𝐿𝒶𝓉𝑒 𝒶𝓉 𝓃𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉, 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓈𝑒 𝒾𝓈 𝓆𝓊𝒾𝑒𝓉 . 𝐻𝑒 𝓉𝑒𝓁𝓁𝓈 𝓂𝑒 𝒶𝒷𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝒷𝓇𝑜𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇𝓈-𝒾𝓃-𝒶𝓇𝓂𝓈, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝐼 𝓉𝑒𝓁𝓁 𝒽𝒾𝓂 𝒶𝒷𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝑀𝑜𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇. 𝒜𝒷𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝓁𝒶𝓊𝑔𝒽, 𝒶𝒷𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓌𝒶𝓎 𝓈𝒽𝑒 𝓊𝓈𝑒𝒹 𝓉𝑜 𝒽𝓊𝓂 𝓌𝒽𝒾𝓁𝑒 𝓈𝒽𝑒 𝓉𝑒𝓃𝒹𝑒𝒹 𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝓇𝑜𝓈𝑒𝓈, 𝒶𝒷𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝒽𝑜𝓌 𝓂𝓊𝒸𝒽 𝐼 𝓂𝒾𝓈𝓈 𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓃 𝓃𝑜𝓌, 𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓈𝑒 𝓎𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓈 𝓁𝒶𝓉𝑒𝓇.

𝐻𝑒 𝒹𝑜𝑒𝓈𝓃'𝓉 𝓉𝓇𝓎 𝓉𝑜 𝒻𝒾𝓍 𝒾𝓉. 𝐻𝑒 𝒹𝑜𝑒𝓈𝓃'𝓉 𝓉𝑒𝓁𝓁 𝓂𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓅𝒶𝒾𝓃 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝒻𝒶𝒹𝑒 𝑜𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓉𝒾𝓂𝑒 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓁𝓈 𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝓌𝑜𝓊𝓃𝒹𝓈. 𝐻𝑒 𝒿𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓈. 𝒜𝓃𝒹 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓉𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓈 𝒸𝑜𝓂𝑒, 𝒽𝑒 𝒽𝑜𝓁𝒹𝓈 𝓂𝑒 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓁𝑒𝓉𝓈 𝓂𝑒 𝒸𝓇𝓎 𝓊𝓃𝓉𝒾𝓁 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝓃𝑜 𝓂𝑜𝓇𝑒 𝓉𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓈 𝓁𝑒𝒻𝓉. 𝒜𝓃𝒹 𝒲𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓃𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉𝓂𝒶𝓇𝑒𝓈 𝓋𝒾𝓈𝒾𝓉 𝒽𝒾𝓂 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒹𝒶𝓇𝓀, 𝐼 𝓈𝓉𝓇𝑜𝓀𝑒 𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝒽𝒶𝒾𝓇 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝐼 𝓌𝒽𝒾𝓈𝓅𝑒𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒽𝑒 𝒾𝓈 𝓈𝒶𝒻𝑒, 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒽𝑒 𝒾𝓈 𝒽𝑜𝓂𝑒, 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒽𝑒 𝒾𝓈 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒𝒹.

𝒲𝑒 𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝓁𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔, 𝐹𝒶𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇. 𝐿𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒽𝑜𝓌 𝒽𝑜𝓌 𝓉𝑜 𝓈𝓊𝓅𝓅𝑜𝓇𝓉 𝑒𝒶𝒸𝒽 𝑜𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇 . 𝐼𝓉 𝒾𝓈 𝒶 𝓈𝓉𝓇𝒶𝓃𝑔𝑒 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒷𝑒𝒶𝓊𝓉𝒾𝒻𝓊𝓁 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔, 𝓉𝑜 𝒻𝒾𝓃𝒹 𝓈𝑜𝓂𝑒𝑜𝓃𝑒 𝓌𝒽𝑜 𝓊𝓃𝒹𝑒𝓇𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓃𝒹𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝒽𝒶𝓅𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓈𝑜𝓇𝓇𝑜𝓌, 𝓌𝒽𝑜 𝒹𝑜𝑒𝓈𝓃'𝓉 𝓈𝒽𝓎 𝒶𝓌𝒶𝓎 𝒻𝓇𝑜𝓂 𝒾𝓉 𝒷𝓊𝓉 𝒾𝓃𝓈𝓉𝑒𝒶𝒹 𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓅𝓈 𝒾𝓃𝓉𝑜 𝒾𝓉 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓎𝑜𝓊.

𝒜𝓃𝒹 𝒽𝑒 𝓂𝒶𝓀𝑒𝓈 𝓂𝑒 𝓁𝒶𝓊𝑔𝒽, 𝐹𝒶𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇. 𝒪𝒽, 𝒽𝑜𝓌 𝒽𝑒 𝓂𝒶𝓀𝑒𝓈 𝓂𝑒 𝓁𝒶𝓊𝑔𝒽. 𝐻𝒾𝓈 𝒿𝑜𝓀𝑒𝓈 𝒶𝓇𝑒 ....𝓉𝓇𝓊𝓁𝓎 𝒹𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝒻𝓊𝓁, 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓀𝒾𝓃𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓂𝒶𝓀𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝑔𝓇𝑜𝒶𝓃 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓈𝒽𝒶𝓀𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝒹, 𝒷𝓊𝓉 𝐼 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝓃𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝓉𝒾𝓇𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓂. 𝒥𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝓎𝑒𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝒹𝒶𝓎, 𝒽𝑒 𝓉𝑜𝓁𝒹 𝓂𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝐿𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝐵𝓎𝓇𝑜𝓃 𝓌𝒶𝓈 "𝓈𝓉𝒶𝑔𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒶 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓅 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝓇𝑜𝓁 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓉𝒽." 𝐼 𝓁𝒶𝓊𝑔𝒽𝑒𝒹 𝓈𝑜 𝒽𝒶𝓇𝒹 𝐼 𝓃𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓁𝓎 𝓈𝓅𝒾𝓁𝓁𝑒𝒹 𝓂𝓎 𝓉𝑒𝒶. 𝐻𝑒 𝒽𝒶𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝓌𝒶𝓎 𝑜𝒻 𝓁𝒾𝒻𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓂𝓎 𝓈𝓅𝒾𝓇𝒾𝓉, 𝑜𝒻 𝒻𝒾𝓃𝒹𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓁𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓃 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒹𝒶𝓇𝓀𝑒𝓈𝓉 𝒸𝑜𝓇𝓃𝑒𝓇𝓈. 𝐼 𝒹𝒾𝒹𝓃'𝓉 𝓀𝓃𝑜𝓌 𝒽𝑜𝓌 𝓂𝓊𝒸𝒽 𝐼 𝓃𝑒𝑒𝒹𝑒𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓊𝓃𝓉𝒾𝓁 𝐼 𝒻𝑜𝓊𝓃𝒹 𝒾𝓉 𝒾𝓃 𝒽𝒾𝓂.

You paused again, your quill hovering over the paper as your gaze drifted from the elegant script to the scene unfolding before you. Monet and Lord Byron, your two beloved cats, were engaged in their own elaborate game. Monet, was crouched low in the grass, his hindquarters wiggling as he prepared to pounce on an unsuspecting butterfly. Lord Byron, was batting lazily at a trailing rose vine, his movements far more dignified and measured than his companion's younger energy.

Monet launched herself into the air with all the grace of a dancer, missing the butterfly entirely but landing in a patch of lavender that sent up a cloud of purple petals and fragrant pollen. He sneezed and then immediately spotted Lord Byron's twitching tail and took off after him. The tom, realizing he was now the prey, let out an affronted yowl and took off at a surprisingly swift gallop for a cat of his considerable girth, weaving through the rose beds with Monet in hot pursuit. Their playful chase sent a small shower of petals scattering across the garden path.

Leon was lying with his head in your lap, his long, powerful body stretched out on the soft grass beside you. His eyes were closed, his face utterly relaxed. The usual furrow between his brows had smoothed away and the tight set of his jaw softened, he looked utterly relaxed and at peace.

Your free hand had drifted, almost without conscious thought, to his hair. You ran your fingers through the thick, silver-streaked strands, combing them back from his forehead in a slow, soothing rhythm. The texture was surprisingly soft, the silver catching the dappled sunlight that filtered through the oak leaves above. He let out a low, contented hum at your touch.

You looked down at him, your letter momentarily forgotten, and as if sensing your gaze, his eyes slowly opened. Those stormy eyes, now looked up at you, and still even after all these months, took your breath away. A slow smile curved his lips, crinkling the corners of his eyes.

"What are you writing?" he murmured.

"A letter to my father," you said softly, your fingers continuing their gentle path through his hair. "Telling him how happy I am."

His smile widened. "Are you?" he asked, though the question seemed almost rhetorical. He already knew the answer. He could see it in your face, feel it in your touch.

"Deliriously," you whispered, your own smile blooming in response to his.

He reached up, his hand warm and calloused as it cupped the back of your neck, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin just behind your ear. Gently he pulled you down toward him. The letter wrinkling slightly, your quill rolling off your lap to land somewhere in the grass below, but you didn't care.

The kiss was slow and deep, unhurried and achingly sweet, a kiss shared between two people deeply bound to one another by love, tangled together in the dappled shade.

When he reluctantly, let you pull back, you were both smiling, a little breathless. His hand drifted from your neck, trailing down your shoulder, your arm, before coming to rest on your stomach. His palm was warm and broad, covering the soft curve of your belly, his thumb began to stroke back and forth in a slow motion.

"You are my whole world," he said softly, his voice thick with emotion that made tears well on your waterline with unexpected tears as he looked up at you. "I love you."

Your breath caught in your throat, a small choked sob escaping your lips. You placed your hand over his, your smaller fingers threading through his larger ones, holding him against you. "I love you too," you whispered, your voice trembling with unshed tears. "So much, Leon. So very much."

He closed his eyes again, peace settling over his features. His head nestled deeper into your lap, his hand still resting on your stomach, your hand still covering his. The gentle rise and fall of his chest slowed, deepened, as if he were on the verge of drifting off into sleep right there in the warm afternoon sun.

A soft chirp drew your attention. Monet, exhausted from his frantic chase, came trotting over, his white fluffy tail held high. he regarded Leon's prone form with his usual skepticism before deciding that Leon was an acceptable resting spot. He stepped delicately onto his chest, circled kneading his paws into his shirt before settling down in a perfect loaf position, chin resting on his paws. Leon didn't even open his eyes, just lifted his free hand to scratch behind his ears, earning a rumbling purr.

Lord Byron followed at a more dignified pace, his dark bulk moving with surprising grace. He sniffed at Leon's feet, deemed them uninteresting, and instead chose to drape himself across your feet with a contented sigh, his considerable weight a warm, purring blanket across your toes as you wiggled them through his belly fluff.

The garden was quiet now, save for the gentle rustle of leaves, the distant chirp of a bird, the dual rumbling purrs of two very satisfied cats, and the soft, rhythmic sound of Leon's breathing. You looked down at the scene, at Monet curled on Leon's chest, at Lord Byron sprawled across your feet, at the roses swaying gently in the breeze, at the man resting peacefully in your lap, his hand warm against your belly, and felt happiness well up so powerful it threatened to overwhelm you and make you burst into tears.

You carefully retrieved your quill from the grass, brushing off a stray blade and returned to your letter.

𝐼 𝒽𝒶𝓉𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝒶𝒹𝓂𝒾𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉… 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓌𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝓇𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉, 𝐼 𝒶𝓂 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒𝒹, 𝐹𝒶𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇. 𝒯𝓇𝓊𝓁𝓎, 𝒹𝑒𝑒𝓅𝓁𝓎, 𝒾𝓇𝓇𝑒𝓋𝑜𝒸𝒶𝒷𝓁𝓎 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒𝒹. 𝐻𝑒 𝒾𝓈 𝒶 𝑔𝑜𝑜𝒹 𝓂𝒶𝓃, 𝒷𝑒𝓉𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓃 𝐼 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝒹𝒶𝓇𝑒𝒹 𝒽𝑜𝓅𝑒 𝒻𝑜𝓇. 𝒦𝒾𝓃𝒹𝑒𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓃 𝐼 𝒾𝓂𝒶𝑔𝒾𝓃𝑒𝒹. 𝒮𝓉𝓇𝑜𝓃𝑔𝑒𝓇, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓎𝑒𝓉 𝓈𝑜 𝑔𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓁𝑒. 𝐻𝑒 𝓁𝑜𝑜𝓀𝓈 𝒶𝓉 𝓂𝑒 𝒶𝓈 𝒾𝒻 𝐼 𝒶𝓂 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝓊𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒷𝓇𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓈 𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝒹𝒶𝓎 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓂𝑜𝑜𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓀𝒾𝓈𝓈𝑒𝓈 𝒽𝒾𝓂 𝑔𝑜𝑜𝒹𝓃𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉. 𝐻𝑒 𝓉𝑒𝓁𝓁𝓈 𝓂𝑒 𝐼 𝒶𝓂 𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝓌𝒽𝑜𝓁𝑒 𝓌𝑜𝓇𝓁𝒹, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝒶𝓎𝓈 𝒾𝓉, 𝐼 𝒷𝑒𝓁𝒾𝑒𝓋𝑒 𝒽𝒾𝓂. 𝐵𝑒𝒸𝒶𝓊𝓈𝑒 𝐼 𝒻𝑒𝑒𝓁 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝒶𝓂𝑒 𝓌𝒶𝓎 𝒶𝒷𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝒽𝒾𝓂. 𝐻𝑒 𝓂𝒶𝓀𝑒𝓈 𝓂𝑒 𝒻𝑒𝑒𝓁 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈 𝐼 𝓃𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝒷𝑒𝒻𝑜𝓇𝑒.

𝐸𝓋𝑒𝓃 𝑀𝑜𝓃𝑒𝓉 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝐿𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝐵𝓎𝓇𝑜𝓃 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝓉𝒶𝓀𝑒𝓃 𝓉𝑜 𝒽𝒾𝓂, 𝓌𝒽𝒾𝒸𝒽 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓀𝓃𝑜𝓌 𝒾𝓈 𝓃𝑜 𝓈𝓂𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝒻𝑒𝒶𝓉. 𝑀𝑜𝓃𝑒𝓉 𝒽𝒶𝓈 𝒸𝓁𝒶𝒾𝓂𝑒𝒹 𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝒸𝒽𝑒𝓈𝓉 𝒶𝓈 𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝓃𝑒𝓌 𝒻𝒶𝓋𝑜𝓇𝒾𝓉𝑒 𝓃𝒶𝓅𝓅𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓈𝓅𝑜𝓉, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝐿𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝐵𝓎𝓇𝑜𝓃 𝒹𝑒𝒾𝑔𝓃𝓈 𝓉𝑜 𝓈𝒽𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓉𝒽 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝒽𝒾𝓂 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈. 𝐼 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝓀 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝒶𝓅𝓅𝓇𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝓂𝓎 𝒸𝒽𝑜𝒾𝒸𝑒, 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒸𝒽𝑜𝒾𝒸𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓉𝓊𝓇𝓃𝑒𝒹 𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝓉𝑜 𝒷𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑔𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓉𝑒𝓈𝓉 𝒷𝓁𝑒𝓈𝓈𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝑜𝒻 𝓂𝓎 𝓁𝒾𝒻𝑒.

𝐼 𝓌𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓉𝑜 𝓀𝓃𝑜𝓌 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒹𝒶𝓊𝑔𝒽𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒾𝓈 𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓅𝓎. 𝑀𝑜𝓇𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓃 𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓅𝓎. 𝐼 𝒶𝓂 𝒽𝑜𝓂𝑒. 𝒜𝓃𝒹 𝐼 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝒻𝑜𝓊𝓃𝒹 𝒶 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝐼 𝓃𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓊𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝐼 𝓌𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝒷𝑒 𝒻𝑜𝓇𝓉𝓊𝓃𝒶𝓉𝑒 𝑒𝓃𝑜𝓊𝑔𝒽 𝓉𝑜 𝓀𝓃𝑜𝓌. 𝒜 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒽𝑜𝓁𝒹𝓈 𝓈𝓅𝒶𝒸𝑒 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝑔𝓇𝒾𝑒𝒻 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒿𝑜𝓎. 𝒜 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓂𝒶𝓀𝑒𝓈 𝓂𝑒 𝒻𝑒𝑒𝓁 𝒷𝓇𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝑒𝓃𝑜𝓊𝑔𝒽 𝓉𝑜 𝓇𝑒𝓂𝑒𝓂𝒷𝑒𝓇 𝑀𝑜𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒𝒹 𝑒𝓃𝑜𝓊𝑔𝒽 𝓉𝑜 𝓌𝒶𝓃𝓉 𝓉𝑜 𝒷𝓊𝒾𝓁𝒹 𝒶 𝒻𝓊𝓉𝓊𝓇𝑒.

𝒫𝓁𝑒𝒶𝓈𝑒 𝑔𝒾𝓋𝑒 𝓂𝓎 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓎𝑜𝓃𝑒. 𝐼 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝓀 𝑜𝒻 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝑜𝒻𝓉𝑒𝓃, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓃𝒹𝓁𝓎. 𝒜𝓃𝒹 𝐹𝒶𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇, 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓃𝓀 𝓎𝑜𝓊. 𝐹𝑜𝓇 𝓁𝑒𝓉𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓂𝑒 𝑔𝑜. 𝐹𝑜𝓇 𝓉𝓇𝓊𝓈𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝓌𝒶𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓇𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝓅𝒶𝓉𝒽, 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓃 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝐼 𝓌𝒶𝓈 𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓇𝒾𝒻𝒾𝑒𝒹 𝒾𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓈𝓃'𝓉.

𝒴𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒹𝑒𝓋𝑜𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒷𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓈𝒻𝓊𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓅𝓎 𝒹𝒶𝓊𝑔𝒽𝓉𝑒𝓇

You set the quill down with a soft sigh, blotting the letter carefully before folding it. You would seal it later and send it with the morning post. But for now, you just wanted to sit here, in this perfect moment, with your husband's head in your lap, contentedly in the garden of the warm afternoon sun.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊

･ﾟ 🎀 𝒮𝒾𝒹𝑒 𝓈𝓉♡𝓇𝓎 🎀 ﾟ･ ≽(◉˕ ◉ ≼マ Agnes closed the door to her small chamber with a soft click, leaning against it with a weary sigh and a small smile on her face. Now that her lady and her new husband were finally sleeping the same bed, it felt like a heavy weight had been lifted of her shoulders. She looked over at her narrow bed. Monet had already claimed the very center of it, curled into a perfect white fluffy circle on top of the coverlet, his white paws tucked neatly beneath his chin. The cat's eyes were closed, his expression one of supreme, untroubled contentment.

"Of course you're right in the middle," Agnes muttered, shaking her head. She moved to her small washstand, splashing cool water on her face and changing into her nightgown.

Carefully, ever so carefully, she lifted the edge of the coverlet and slid beneath it, inch by painstaking inch, trying not to jostle the mattress. Monet's ear twitched, but she didn't wake. Agnes let out a breath of relief and settled onto her side, pulling the blanket up to her chin.

She had barely closed her eyes when she heard it, the heavy thud of paws on the wooden floor. Then the creak of the bed frame as a considerable weight launched itself upward.

Lord Byron landed squarely on her chest with all the grace of a sack of potatoes.

"Oof!" The air left Agnes's lungs in a rush. The massive black and white tom, who had clearly been enjoying a late-night exploration of the room, settled himself directly on her sternum, his substantial bulk pressing down. He kneaded his paws into her collarbone, his claws catching slightly in the fabric of her nightgown, and then flopped down completely, his face mere inches from hers.

Agnes wheezed, trying to shift him to a less suffocating position, but Lord Byron was having none of it. He simply stared at her, his large eyes unblinking, his expression one of supreme satisfaction. His purr was a deep, rumbling that vibrated through her entire ribcage.

"Byron," Agnes gasped, trying to push him gently to the side. He didn't budge. "You're… crushing me…"

The cat blinked slowly, the feline equivalent of a kiss, and continued to stare directly into her face. His whiskers twitched as his purr grew louder.

Agnes sighed, accepting her fate. She reached up with one hand and scratched behind his torn ear, earning an even deeper rumble of approval. "It will be worth it," she muttered to herself. "Your parents are finally admitted they both love each other. Now they can stop dancing around it and just… be together. Properly. Without all the angst and the longing looks."

Lord Byron's purr intensified. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against hers, his nose nearly touching her own. His breath smelled faintly of the fish he'd stolen from the kitchen earlier.

"You're too close," Agnes whispered, but there was no heat in it. She closed her eyes, resigning herself to a night of shallow breathing and a numb chest. "But I suppose if it means the lady is happy… then I can endure."

Monet, disturbed by the commotion, stretched languidly in the center of the bed, claws extending and retracting. He let out a soft, chirping meow of protest, then resettled himself, this time draped across Agnes's legs, pinning them in place.

Agnes stared up at the dark ceiling, trapped between two cats and unable to move. Lord Byron purred louder, his eyes still fixed on her face, unblinking and far too close.

✦┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈✦ 𝖆 𝖓 𝖔 𝖙𝖊 ✦┈┈┈┈┈┈┈✦ Just one more short sweet and spicy one for the road! also I couldn't help myself with the little side story about poor Agnes who had to cat sit while these two were otherwise "busy" lol I was gonna do a pregnancy thing maybe? but idk...I think if you guys really wanted something like that I could revisit this much later for one more chapter. I would be down to do it......It's just personally I'm not a big fan of pregnancy stuff, buuuuut I can see the appeal of girl dad Leon.... OMG! I can't believe this is the end!!!!Thanks for sticking with me and reading, Ilysm!!❤︎❤︎❤︎❤︎❤︎ 𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯 See you in the next fic!!

 ๋݁ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦.⋆♱⃓ Summoning ♱⃓⋆. ꒦꒷⭑ ࣭  ๋ ݁ ˖Ი𐑼⋆ 𓊆ྀི❤︎ @frostbith3art , @fuckyeahporcogalliard , @a-bbles , @alyenna , @tatumrileyslover , @baby-bluezz , @gryffindor317 , @chernolian , @delulism , @leaflete , @venus-in-roses𓊇ྀི

✦✧✦ 𝖊𝖓𝖉 𝖔𝖋 𝖋𝖎𝖑𝖊 ✦ see you in the next life ✦✧✦ This post was brought to you by BUNI ✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦

He didn’t snap. It’s so much worse than that. At least in the eyes of the arrogant boy who got bested by, what he assumed to be a grade two curse because of how pudgy and stupid it looked. The thing that caught him lacking looked like a fucking blob fish that struggled with crippling anxiety, how the hell was he supposed to know that it could mess with timeof all things? 

One moment he’s laughing at the way it looks, the next he’s in the complete dark. 

That was the first time he’s smiled in months, by the way. 

“Huh?” Satoru huffs out, trying to look around before eventually realizing that he has a blindfold on, and rips it off in annoyance. “Don’t tell me that thing knocked me out,” he begins to grumble to himself. It’d explain why he had a blindfold on… but then he realized he was in a completely different outfit, one that you didn’t put on someone who was currently in rest and recovery. 

He highly doubts Shoko would even change him, anyway, at least not for this. 

“Oh hey, you’re home.” 

Home? 

He looks around, and all he knows is this isn’t the dorm he’s continued to stay in after graduation, purely due to the fact that he was already out on missions for up to 18 hours each day. Not to mention that the penthouse he was currently standing in was too clean to be his. Too warm. Way too comfortable.

You already knew there was something deeply off in those first few seconds of looking into his eyes. This wasn’t your husband— this was the hot mess you met and still fell in love with all those years ago. 

You tilt your head to the side, more curious than cautious, “Everything alright?”

“Yeah,” he snorts, literally the worst liar ever. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I don’t know,” you hum, holding eye contact long enough to leave him feeling a bit unsettled. “You tell me.”

First of all, who the fuck do you think you are speaking to him like that?

Second, who even are you?

Something big and shiny on your finger catches his attention, then he looks at his own hand that has an equally shiny band around his ring finger. 

Fuck.

“Honey–”

Satoru physically cringes at the pet name, giving himself away once again. 

“I’m not Satoru,” he blurts out, rubbing his eyes in frustration. “I mean, I am, but I’m not— FUCK– some fuckin’ curse blasted me into the future, and I need to go back.”

Well, that was quick. He’s always quick to fold under pressure when it comes to you— it’s something he’s unaware of though, as he fights back the urge to start pacing back and forth. 

There’s a light smack from your mouth when you go to open it, only for the words to never even come, let alone die out. Nothing about this surprises you. This is not the craziest thing that’s happened since you’ve met Satoru. 

Your lips thin into a smile as you take a deep breath, knowing you had no choice but to accept your new circumstances. 

“Okay.”

“Okay?” He raises a brow at how you just… accepted it.

“Yeah… I believe it.” You respond flatly, then point at him, casually motioning your finger up and down. “Your attitude kinda sucked when we first met.”

He grimaces, taken aback by the statement. “No, it doesn’t–”

“You also liked to argue, too.”

“Okay— whatever,” he waves a dismissive hand, not at all interested in hearing what else you had to say. At this point, it just sounded like you wanted to shit on him, something he actually doesn’t have any fucking time for right now. “You’re a sorcerer… right?” 

“No.” 

“Christ.” Satoru sighs, turning on his heel. “You’re fuckin’ useless—“

You scoff, more humored than offended. “Where are you going?” 

“To figure this shit out!” he snaps, throwing his arms out as he turns around to face you. 

“Okay,” you shrug, still way too calm for Satoru’s liking, as it pisses him off even more. “If you don’t get it all figured out tonight, you can always come back. We have a guest room.” 

“Yeah, thanks.” He huffs out a bitter laugh, as if that was the dumbest suggestion he’s ever heard. “I appreciate the offer.” 

– 

“Yaga” Satoru storms into the principal’s office, ignoring all his cursed stuffed animals, but noticing what he’s done with his hair. “What the fuck happened to you?”

The principal's brows pinch together, wishing he had locked the door to his office. Satoru fucked with him enough today by showing up to a meeting 20 minutes late with some sugary frap in his hand, and now he’s storming into his office, insulting him out of nowhere. 

“Actually, nevemind.” Satoru waves a hand to stop him from even answering his question, reminding himself not to get sidetracked right now. “Look, I need your help. I got sent into the future by some curse, and I need to get back.”

Yaga inhales sharply. “What are you even talking about?”

“Exactly what I just said! I’m from 2009! Not whatever age I am now—”

“31.”

Satoru throws up a little in his mouth. “Send me back.” 

Yaga lets out a long, disappointed sigh. It’s always something with Satoru. Always. Having to deal with the younger version of him was a painful reminder that he’s been dealing with his bullshit for well over a decade now. Nothing surprises him anymore.  

“Let me see if some other windows would be willing to help look through the library. I’m sure you’ll be able to find information on what kind of curse you got hit with.”

“Thank you,” Satoru groans, still not very pleased by everyone’s reactions thus far, but grateful that he can at least get somewhere with Yaga… unlike a certain somebody. 

Hours later, he finds himself at the school’s dusty, unkept library. It looks worse than it originally looked before he walked in. Books sprawled everywhere. Research papers were scattered all over the tables and floor. Assistants running around in every direction, more than half of them terrified at the total 180 in Satoru’s attitude. 

“W-we can’t find anything,” Ijichi says, too old to be acting this scared in Satoru’s opinion. 

He hums, elbows still resting on his knees, not bothering to sit up. “Hey, Ijichi?”

Ijichi gulped loudly, managing to annoy the world’s strongest sorcerer even more. “...Yes?” 

“How are you even more incompetent now than you were before?”

“I tried my best! I swear!”

“Well, it’s not good enough— I’m still here!” he snaps at the nervous wreck of a man. Thank fucking god Ijichi listened to him and just became a window. He sucks at it too, but at least it’s easier for this dumbass to avoid death. “God— what the fuck am I supposed to do now?!”

“This is just one of the libraries, there’s more! And some in Kyoto too, that we’ll have the Kyoto branch check out.”

“Do whatever you need to do. I’m just letting you know right now that if I'm not back by tomorrow, you better watch the fuck out.”

The threat is followed by complete dead silence, aside from a certain someone's breath catching in horror.

“Me?!” Ijichi squeaks out.

The sorcerer doesn’t bother answering that and instead walks away, grumbling something insulting under his breath, just in complete and utter disbelief over how Ijichi truly hasn’t changed. 

—

You figured your husband would eventually come back, so you set some food aside for him, and now you’re sitting at the dinner table, trying not to laugh at the pout on his face as he picks at his dinner with the chopsticks in his hand. 

“Is the food good?”

“Sure.”

“I can warm that up for you, if you want?” you ask, barely trying to hide your amusement. 

“No thanks,” he curtly responds before shoving another piece of karaage into his mouth. He’s known to have a sweet tooth, but chicken karaage’s probably his favorite food, savory wise. You almost want to tell him that he’s allowed to enjoy food even if his day hasn’t gone the way he had planned. “I’d appreciate it if you stopped staring.” 

Your lips twitch, threatening to break out into a fit of laughter. “Right, sorry.”

“Mommy…? Is Daddy home yet?” 

Oh great. As if the day couldn’t get any worse— now there’s a child.

“Yeah,” you respond in a tentative tone, shooting Satoru a look that screams ‘behave or else’, and even though you are currently a stranger to him, it intimidates him enough to behave for the time being. 

A little girl, no older than 4 years old, walks into the kitchen and Satoru’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head upon seeing his daughter. It’s pretty obvious she’s his with her baby blue eyes and stark white hair. Her facial features are entirely yours, though. It’s strange to see.

“Hey… kiddo—” he awkwardly says, not really sure how to address the little girl. You clear your throat, mouthing ‘princess’ when he looks at you, because your daughter also happens to have her dad’s attitude. “I mean princess.”

It’s hilarious how unnatural it sounds right now when he was the one who started calling her that the moment you two took her home from the hospital. 

“You pomis to wead bedtime stowie,” she starts to pout— same exact way he does.

“Did I?” He gives the girl a sympathetic look, albeit fake. 

“Yeah,” she frowns as she walks up to you, giving him the world’s nastiest side eye. “Liar.”

Why is that the one word she’s able to enunciate correctly? She didn’t even stutter.

“Yeah— I was a little busy with work today,” he murmurs, as if she knew what that even meant. With the glare she was giving him, he doubted she’d even care if he broke down what work and the importance of it was. “Maybe mommy can read to you tonight?”

Sai wasn’t having that. 

Satoru spent the end of his night reading her favorite book to her. Multiple times. He almost asked if it was some form of punishment for not upholding a promise he didn’t technically make himself, but decided against it in fear that she’d make him read it one more time. Sai fell asleep… eventually. Despite there being no way to prove it, he knows that the little girl forced herself to stay up out of pure spite. 

But still, he finds himself smiling as he thinks about his nightmare of a future, not wiping it off quickly enough when you lightly knock on the guest bedroom door.

“Here’s some jammys for the night.” You smile back as you walk up and hand him a pair of sweats and a white t-shirt, both neatly folded up. “Figured you wouldn’t want to sleep in your work clothes.”

“Oh uh— thanks.” He clears his throat and forces out a laugh, pushing through the embarrassment of getting caught smiling to himself. 

You’re giving him that look again. The one that’s mixed with amusement and a bit of fondness, where you look like you’re about to start making fun of him, but never do. Satoru would rather die than admit it makes him nervous. 

“What?” 

There’s a small pause as your smile grows. “Do you like your kid?”

“She’s weird.”

“Yeah, no— you wouldn’t believe who she got that from.”

“Fuck off.” A laugh easily slips through his lips this time, unable to stay serious at the thought of her inheriting even just a quarter of the traits he had as a child. Then it grows quiet again as he realizes she probably has the freedom to be a kid. 

He wants to ask, but you beat him to it with a statement that answered the question he had in mind. 

“Your duties as her father don’t end just because you managed to time travel by the way,” you say playfully, though he knows you’re being dead serious. 

He can only guess what other horrors that little girl will subject him to for the rest of his time here. To put it simply, she’s not afraid of Dad. 

For once, somebody doesn’t look at him as a god to fear. 

—

It’s been over a month. 

Ijichi and the rest of the windows are just as useless as they were when they first started trying to find answers. All that’s changed is that Nanami knows, and doesn’t seem to be too thrilled about the fact that he is now involved.

But still, the search for the fix to his predicament continues, turning every library and warehouse upside down. That’s all they could really do— aside from asking the elders for assistance of some sort. 

Over his dead body. 

Knowing they’d most likely do more harm than good, everyone’s agreed to keep this all a little secret from them.

So all that’s left to do, or rather forced to do, is to be patient. It’s hard. Satoru doesn’t do patient— he’s the type to snap his fingers and have a solution magically appear right before his eyes. You can only imagine how difficult it’s been for him to accept that he can’t immediately get what he wants right now.

Not to mention the fact that he had to continue working throughout all of this, but that wasn’t very surprising. 

Now, what was surprising was learning that he has his weekends completely to himself. If anything, he assumed he’d just work more as time went on, but no. Turns out he threatened to kill the higher-ups if they didn’t let him have that when you two got married. 

Satoru looks over your body once. 

Twice. 

He totally understands his future self. 

He looks again for a third time, and you just so conveniently turn around, showing off your cute, frilly little apron covered in flour streaks. 

It’s Sunday— you’ve been baking sweet treats all morning, and he wishes he had been a little nicer to you. Especially a couple of days ago when he snapped at you. 

You had found him sitting alone on the balcony, head in his hands from yet another day of failure. 

“Hey… any good news?”

“No,” he said impatiently. “If there was, I wouldn’t fucking be here right now.” 

“Fair enough.” Your voice took a dip as you looked at the ground, allowing yourself to feel a little hurt for a moment before trying to lift the mood again. “Well… me and Sai stopped by your favorite bakery and got you the cookies you like if you wanted some—“

“No— no,” Satoru cut you off. “I don’t want your fucking cookies. I don’t want to do a family movie night where all we watch is Ms. Rachel. I don’t want to read some book about a mouse trying to become a fucking painter over and over again. I don’t want ANY of it. I want to fucking go home— what part about that do you not get?”

You tried to stand as straight as possible despite your shoulders growing heavier, pushing against the small frown threatening to carve itself across your face. You forgot how mean he used to be, at least during that first year of dating him. It only stings more because the man you married would never raise his voice like that, and you remind yourself that this isn’t him.

After a long pause, he looked up at you and immediately felt guilt wash over him.

“I didn’t mean that,” he tried to meet your eyes as he began to backtrack. “I’m sorry, I just— fuck. I didn’t mean any of that—”

“It’s fine.” You forced yourself to look at him again and smile. “I’ll uh… give you some space.”

The one thing about Satoru is that he doesn’t apologize. Like ever. So, one could only imagine how painfully awkward it was later that night when he knocked on your bedroom door to say he was sorry. It didn’t help that you were in a paper-thin silk slip, skin glistening from the lotion you rubbed all over it— he spent half his time trying not to stare at your tits. Had you been anyone else, it wouldn’t have felt as genuine. 

But thank fuck he apologized, you probably would’ve spent all day ignoring him. 

You raise a brow, and his cheeks start to pink. “What are you staring at?” 

“Nothing, you just–” he awkwardly gestures at your entire body, “there’s flour all over you.” 

It almost sounds like he’s offended by it. He kind of is. You keep your foot on his fucking neck— he doesn’t even know why he came out here. 

“Oh, right— 'cause messes have always bothered you,” you lean over the island ever so slightly. The pink on his cheeks darkens as you do, unable to control his eyes from drifting down to your cleavage. And while he’s not exactly ashamed of looking— you are his wife after all— he can’t help but be a little flustered. 

He’s always had a thing for milfs.

Especially when said milf is talking about messes— he knows a couple of places he could make a mess on right now. 

“Nah,” he rests his elbows on the marble counter as a playful grin stretches across his face. “This is nothing compared to how I like it.”  

You tilt your head, a small laugh escaping you as you rest your chin over your palm, curious to see where this conversation will get you. 

“How do you like it?” you ask, as if you didn’t already know how filthy and depraved he could get when he’s alone in a room with you. 

And you fucking miss that. 

He opens his mouth to respond. 

Then you hear your daughter whimpering about waking up alone. It’s nothing new, and you revert back to mom mode as you watch her turn the corner and waddle towards you. 

Satoru, on the other hand, is not used to this. The slightly bruised laugh he lets out just barely masks his desire to fucking scream. What a fucking cockblock— no wonder you only have one kid. 

His kid completely ignores his existence as she wraps herself around your leg, continuing to whimper despite no actual tears streaming down her cheeks. “I had a nightmawh.”

Meanwhile, there’s Satoru, who has yet to wake up from his very own nightmare. He internally sighs, then attempts to grab her attention because it doesn’t feel very good watching her give it all to you. “You wanna share a muffin with daddy?”

It’s starting to sound more natural.

“Y-yeah,” she sniffles. 

Minutes later, she’s sitting on his lap, absolutely demolishing the blueberry muffin they ended up splitting— a complete 180. He couldn’t be mad, even if he tried. 

His little girl was a dream. 

—

Month two. Ijichi is still as useless as ever. He stopped complaining to you about him, though. You noticed he doesn’t talk about going back to his original timeline all that much anymore.

It’s not like Satoru’s given up hope, he’s just more present, as if he finally realized that wallowing in self-pity wasn’t going to send him back any faster. He’s unknowingly more like his future self— laid back, not a care in the world. 

He’s even sleeping in for once. It’s not that hard though when Sai’s gone for the day. She seemed to care more about getting the hell out of the house with her grandparents than greeting her father a good morning. You didn’t push her to, either— figuring Satoru needed the sleep. He always does. 

It’s too bad that his phone started blowing up at around 10:00 am. Unfortunately for you, he left his phone in the living room, leaving you to get up and grab it since the master bedroom was the closest room to it. With how thick the walls are, you doubt he’d even hear it.

With a long sigh, you rise from bed, rubbing the sleep off your eyes as you snatch the stupid phone off the coffee table. 

The snores coming from Satoru reach your ears before you even open the door. You have to hold back a laugh as you walk in and take a look at him. Face down, his long limbs sprawled over the bed, messy white hair sticking out in all directions. 

You reach out and place a gentle hand on his shoulder, surprised infinity is off. 

“Toru?” He stirs a bit, and you cautiously attempt to wake him up again. “Toru— someone’s been trying to call you for the past 10 minutes now.”

He lifts his head, eyes still sealed shut as he murmurs, “Who?” 

“Uhh,” you look at the screen, unsure of who it might be. “Your contact name for them is nerd.” 

You know it’s not Ijichi because his contact name is “courage 🐶” in his phone. Someone else must've annoyed Satoru for him to change yet another contact. 

Satoru shoves his head back into the pillow and groans before taking the phone off your hands.

It’s Nanami. He, of all people, should know now is not the time to be blowing up his phone right now because he is fucking sleeping. It’s a Saturday for fucks sake. 

Satoru sighs and accepts the call, grumbling into the phone. “What?”

Nanami cuts straight to the chase, as he would rather be doing anything else right now. 

“How long are you planning on hiding your secret from the higher-ups?” he asks in a clipped tone. 

Satoru rubs his eyes, too tired to return the same sense of urgency his friend seems to have at the moment. “Forever.”

“Don’t give me that.” A vein pops up on the side of the usually stoic man’s forehead. “They asked me about you this morning. They know something’s up. I can’t keep covering for you if it means my own safety’s on the line.”

“You really haven’t changed, have you?” It’s more of a statement than a question.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean—“

“You’ll be fine,” Satoru cuts him off. “They’re always up my ass anyway. I doubt they’re even suspicious. They just don’t know how to mind their own fuckin’ business. Seriously. You’re worrying over nothing right now.”

“I swear to god Gojo, if you—“

“Kay’ good night.” 

Click.

Nanami’s probably fuming right now, but he’ll get over it. Satoru wanted to enjoy this. Lying in a comfy bed, surrounded by nothing but peace and quiet. He closes his eyes and stretches a bit, then rests his hands behind his head. 

He would’ve forgotten that you were still sitting at the edge of the bed had you not lightly cleared your throat. One eye opens to look at you, then closes. The last thing he wants to do is share the reason why Nanami had been blowing up his phone all morning. 

“Just because you can’t see me doesn’t mean I’m not here.” You cross your arms. “What was that all about?” 

“Nothin’,” he easily says. “Just Nanami being Nanami— the guy’s a fuckin’ stickler for no reason.” 

“That’s a little rude, no?” you chastise him. 

“So is waking me up.” 

“Sai wakes you up all the time, though.”

“Sai’s a ball of sunshine,” he says, quickly coming to her defense. “Not a grown man with depression— where is she by the way?” 

“She’s spending the afternoon with my parents.” 

Both eyes open this time, and stay open. “Why didn’t you go with them?”

“No way,” you wave a hand. “I need a break, too.” 

“Yeah, no— I’m sure,” he agrees, feeling flustered all the sudden. 

And Satoru being Satoru, he doesn’t do a very good job of hiding it, once again forgetting that you can read him better than anyone else can.

You smile, scooching closer, “You good there?” 

“Yeah, m’fine,” he murmurs, trying not to shift around too much.

“I can take care of that, you know.” 

“What?” 

“That.” You look down at the boner he’s been trying to hide since finding out it’s just you two here.

“That’s not—“ His brain straight up short-circuits. “You don’t think that’s weird?” 

“No.” You continue to inch forward, getting closer to him. “Do you think it’s weird?”

“No— never,” he shakes his head, answering a little too fast. “Fuck— won’t future me get mad?” 

“Not at all. The most he’d probably do is make me show him what we did.” 

“Make you show him?” he repeats after you in disbelief. 

“Is that a problem?” 

“No, that’s— that’s fuckin’ hot.” 

Minutes later, you’re leaning forward with your hand wrapped around his base, and his breath catches as you start to slowly pump his cock. 

“Feel good?” 

His lids lower as he hums, “yeah— keep going.”

You lean forward, letting a string of spit fall from your lips to the tip of his cock, letting it mix with the precum that was already beading down from it. The wet sounds of you stroking him begin to grow, making the heat in between your legs start to pool.

“Can I sit on it?” You look up at him, batting your lashes as you innocently ask. 

“Please,” he blurts out, just about ready to start begging you to.

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t just as eager as him after all the weeks spent pretending like you don’t notice the way he stares at you. Lustfully. The slip you’re wearing happens to be extra short today, so you forego stripping down and practically pounce on him. Your soaked panties grazing over his rock-hard length as you straddle him, letting yourself get comfortable while Satoru grows impatient. 

His hands find themselves planted on your hips and pull you down. A low groan escapes him as he grinds you against him. “God— fuck me. Please.”

“Well, since you’re being so sweet—”

You reach down, hooking a finger into the fabric of your panties, pulling them to the side. He’s already lining himself up with your entrance, teasing your hole as he runs his tip through your folds, collecting all the slick. His lips part as he watches in awe at how damn wet you are. 

His head tips back as you lower yourself, groaning and rambling to himself as if you weren’t there to hear it all. 

"Fuck. You’re so hot.” His words come out strained as he watches you start to take him inch by inch, slowly working yourself open. “So fuckin’ tight, too.” 

“Mmm— forgot how big you are.” Your voice is all soft and breathy from the fullness, nails slowly digging into his abs as you bottom out.

It takes a minute to adjust— it has been 3 months after all. But then you finally roll your hips, and Satoru almost starts singing praises at how good you are at that—  lifting your hips all the way up and throwing them back, taking all of him. 

"Fuck yeah– just like that," he breathes, fingers digging into the flesh of your hips. "Feels so fucking good."

You murmur back a measly, “kay,” already dizzy from the stretch. You’re able to keep up the pace on your own for a bit, until you feel his grip on you tighten and the sounds of skin slapping against his start to grow as he starts to help you out. 

You wouldn’t exactly call it help though, not when he ended up doing all the work— holding you steady while he practically bounces you on his cock, pulling more and more moans out of you as the head of his cock repeatedly kissed your sweet spot with almost no effort. 

"You take it so good," he groans, pupils blown wide as he starts to feel himself lose control, snapping his hips up a little harder than the last. He wants more, he always wants more— so he pulls you forward and pulls your straps down far enough for your tits to spill out. "Perfect fuckin’ tits. Been thinking about these for weeks."

You let out a surprised gasp as he pops a nipple in his mouth with no warning. You fully believe him with the way he starts sucking and swirling and flicking his tongue over your sensitive bud, all while snapping his hips up harder. 

He pulls back with a pop, looking up at you for approval. “Was that good?”

“Mhm.” There’s a fucked out expression on your face as you weakly nod. “Harder.”

“You want me to fuck you harder?”

“Yeah.” 

Something in him snaps. Eager to please you, he flips you over and folds you underneath him— grabbing the back of your knees and pinning them to your chest so he can drive his cock into you deeper. 

“Better?”

He drives his hips forward again, knocking the air out of your lungs. “God— yes.”

“I can’t— fuck— can’t believe you’re all mine, can’t believe I get to have you,” he starts to ramble as the sounds of him absolutely pounding into you fill the room. “You’re so fuckin’ perfect— all of you.” 

He crashes his lips into yours— the kiss is messy, powered by hunger. Satoru’s always been overwhelming, but it’s been years since it’s been this emotionally intense. He fucks you like he needs you, like he’s been waiting for you all his life. 

Your walls begin to squeeze and flutter around his cock, pulling another groan out of him. “You close?”

“Yeah,” you whine, feeling the pressure begin to coil. “Keep going.”

He’s close too, you can tell by how sloppy his thrusts have grown, no longer trying to control himself as he starts chasing after both of your releases. He shoves his face into the crook of your neck and fucks you faster, harder— balls slapping against your ass with each lewd wet squelch. 

Your orgasm hits you hard after one particularly rough thrust. Scratching at his back as a cry tears through you, and it only goes straight to his dick, not even realizing just how overstimulated you are from the way he drills into you. 

“Fuck.” It’s just one word that comes out of his mouth after realizing how hard he’s about to fucking cum. He bites into your shoulder as his balls start to tighten, squeezing his eyes shut as he braces himself. 

When it happens, it’s a lot. He shoves himself deep inside of you, unaware of all the weight he puts on you as hot spurts of cum begin to flood your walls. Slowly grinding against you, letting your tight pussy milk the rest of him. 

You’re wrecked by the end of it. You both are— lids tired and heavy, bodies sore and out of breath.

And in the end, you just let yourself fall asleep, unaware of the soft kiss pressed against your temple as he watched you.

—

It’s month three, and Satoru doesn’t want to go back. 

What was the point? It’s not like he had anyone or anything to go back to. Jujutsu Society never crumbled from him getting shot into the future. Would it really be that bad if he just never went back and continued on with his life from here?

He hasn’t uttered a word about it out loud, but the way he completely stopped asking Yaga and Ijichi for updates was telling of where he was at mentally.  

Acceptance. 

He likes his life here. 

You’ve come to your own conclusion after these last three months.

No wonder why he was so hot and cold when you were trying to get to know him. Satoru got a little taste of genuine comfort, only for it to be ripped away from him sometime before you two actually met. It explains all the times you wondered why he even tried with you, despite being too emotionally inept to even be in a relationship. He probably went through the beginning of your relationship thinking you could disappear at any second. 

With that being said, he can’t stay here. As much as you’d love to continue being the source of comfort for this version of Satoru, he needs to experience the last year he spent alone before meeting you. He needs to feel cautious around you. He needs to try and fail at opening up a handful of times before getting comfortable with the idea of truly being vulnerable with a person. Getting over that element of fear he had towards getting close to others is what made him a husband and father— he couldn’t just skip that part of his life. 

You have no idea how you’re going to tell him that, though. You’re not one to kick a sick puppy, especially one as cute as him. He’s so happy here with you and Sai that the thought of doing so makes your chest ache. 

He’s having a tea party with Sai right now, limbs way too long to sit in the little stool she pulled up for him to sit in. He drinks imaginary tea from the plastic pink cup she hands him, and your chest aches some more. You force yourself to look away before the tears start. 

You’d do the next 11 years all over again if you could.

“Hey, Honey?” Satoru calls out to you.

There’s a pause before you whip your head around— it’s been months since he’s called you that. There’s nothing but warmth and fondness in his eyes as his gaze meets yours. “Why is Nanami’s number saved under ‘nerd’ in my phone?”

He’s back.

“I don’t know,” you laugh, despite the tear falling down your cheek. “You tell me.”

—

Satoru didn’t want to believe it when everything around him went dark once again. It’s not until his feet touch the ground with a soft thud and he finds himself back in his messy, cold dorm when reality slapped him across the face.

Something between a sob and a gut-wrenching scream rips from his throat. Grabbing the round shades he had hoped he’d never have to fucking wear again, he rips them off his face and sends it crashing into the wall, breaking into a hundred little pieces. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t give himself a chance to even breathe or think before raising his hand and releasing a purple orb with just a flick of his fingers. 

Impulsive. Reckless. Deadly. 

Satoru was fucking devastated. 

Nobody knew what triggered him that night. All they knew was that the east wing of the school looked like it had been hit by an asteroid by the time he calmed down. He didn’t speak to anyone for a good two weeks following the incident. Everyone wants to think he was lucky the explosion didn’t have any casualties, but then they remembered who he was: Satoru fucking Gojo. 

God’s don’t get punished, nor do natural disasters— it’s hard to tell which one he was at this point. 

One Year Later

“If it’s that small of a curse, why are you sending me there?” Satoru continues to argue with one of the new managers over the phone. 

It wasn’t that small of a curse. It was a grade one. But still, given the sorcerer’s title as a special grade, he was overqualified for the job. 

“I’m sorry, we just don’t have anyone available to take on the case at the moment.” The young woman continues to apologize over the phone. “I think we might have a grade 3 available for the job. I- I can check—”

“Save it.” Satoru cuts her off. He wasn’t that heartless to push the case off to some 15 year old. That’s exactly how Haibara died. “Send me the address.” 

The mission was nothing short of an inconvenience for him. He liked a challenge when exorcising curses, and the damn thing didn’t even put up a fucking fight. He traveled 2 hours to get here just for that? Unbelievable. 

He wasn’t ready to leave and sit on a train for another 2 hours just yet, so he decided to walk around the town for a bit. 

It was a cute place, a little quiet. Kinda boring. That’s never a bad thing, though. Lots of mom and pop shops, a few coffee shops scattered around, one of which he decided to try. A little sugar’s always good, at least to him. 

The smell of vanilla and roasted coffee beans hit him as he walked into the place. There was a decent amount of customers inside. Not too much to feel crowded, but enough to stay busy. He keeps his eyes on the menu the entire time. The line moves fast, and he figures out what he wants just in time. 

“And what can I get started for you today?”

His eyes are still on the screen, reading the item off the menu.

“Can I get a white chocolate mocha frappuccino, with an extra pump of…” his words die out, and his eyes widen as he finally looks at the girl taking his order. “Hey.”

“Hi.” You laugh at the way this stranger loses his train of thought. “Extra pump of white chocolate syrup?”

“Yeah.” He exhales, unable to rip his eye off you as you write the words down on the plastic cup with a sharpie. 

“Name for the order?”

“Go– Satoru,” he corrects himself. “It’s Satoru.”

He’s a little awkward, but you still find him quite charming and smile. “Alright, Satoru. Your order should be ready in about 10 minutes.”

“Awesome. Thanks,” he nods rather pathetically, then goes to sit in an empty corner of the shop with only one thought in mind: 

He has 10 minutes to come up with what to say to get your number.