The baby gave a lazy kick against her palm, almost like agreement, and she smiled down at her belly. "You too, little one. Enough dimensional voyeurism for one night."
She killed the monitor with a single keypress, watching the static bloom and then die into black. The room fell silent, the only sound the distant hum of the Ark's life support and her own soft footsteps as she made her way to the door. She didn't look back at the console. She knew she'd be back. She always came back.
But tonight, her body was heavy with satisfaction, her limbs loose and warm, and the thought of her narrow cot in the crew quarters felt like a promise she intended to keep.
The corridor was empty, lit by the dim blue glow of emergency lighting that never quite switched off. She walked slowly, one hand resting on her belly, the other trailing along the cold metal wall. The Ark was quiet at this hour, the hum of its systems a lullaby she'd grown used to in the months since she'd made it her home.
Her quarters were small, barely more than a closet, but she'd made them her own. A narrow bed pushed against one wall, a small desk cluttered with datapads and half-empty cups of tea, a single viewport that looked out onto the endless black of space. She paused at the door, her hand on the frame, and let herself feel the quiet for a moment.
Then she undressed, folding her clothes into a neat pile on the chair, and slipped beneath the thin blanket. The sheets were cool against her skin, and she let out a soft sigh as she settled onto her side, her hand finding its familiar place on her belly.
The baby stirred, a gentle flutter, and she closed her eyes, letting the darkness take her.
Sleep came slowly, but it came.
And with it, dreams.
---
Robert Robertson III was having a very good morning.
The coffee was hot, the reports on his desk were actually manageable for once, and the ring on his finger still felt new enough to catch his eye every time he moved his hand. He turned it absently, watching the light catch the band, and allowed himself a small, stupid smile.
Married. He was married. To Invisigal, of all people—the woman who could turn invisible, who had spent years as his rival, who had somehow become the person he couldn't imagine his life without.
And they were trying for a kid.
The thought still sent a thrill through him, equal parts terror and excitement. A kid. A tiny, screaming, wonderful disaster of a kid that he and Invisigal would raise together. He'd caught himself looking at baby stores online more than once, though he'd never told her. He wanted to be surprised. He wanted to see her face when she realized he'd been thinking about it just as much as she had.
He took a sip of his coffee and turned back to the report on his desk, trying to focus on the numbers. But his mind kept drifting, kept circling back to the night before—the way she'd looked at him across the dinner table, the way her foot had found his ankle under the tablecloth, the way she'd whispered in his ear as they'd cleared the dishes that she wanted him to fuck her until she couldn't walk straight.
He'd obliged. Twice.
And this morning, she'd kissed him goodbye with a promise in her eyes that had made him grateful for the conference table between him and his pants.
He shifted in his chair, trying to find a comfortable position, and forced himself to read the same line of the report for the third time. It was no use. His mind was elsewhere, and his body was very much in agreement.
He didn't hear the door open.
He didn't hear anything at all, actually—just the soft rustle of air that might have been a draft, might have been nothing. But then there was a warmth against his thigh, a pressure that shouldn't have been there, and he looked down to find the front of his trousers straining against an invisible touch.
"Invisigal," he said, and his voice came out rougher than he'd intended. "What are you—"
His words died in his throat as invisible fingers found his zipper and pulled it down with practiced ease. He heard the soft click of his belt unbuckling, felt the cool air against his skin as his trousers were tugged open, and then there was a hand—warm, familiar, invisible—wrapping around his cock.
He was already half-hard, and it took less than a second for him to go fully erect under her touch. He let out a shaky breath, his hands gripping the arms of his chair, and looked down at the empty space between his legs where he knew she was kneeling.
"You're supposed to be at the meeting," he managed.
The hand on his cock gave a slow, deliberate stroke, and he heard a soft, muffled laugh. Then there was a breath against his skin, warm and teasing, and he felt the tip of a tongue trace along the underside of his shaft.
"Fuck," he breathed.
She didn't rush. She never rushed when she was like this, when she'd decided she wanted something and was going to take her time getting it. He felt her lips press against the head of his cock, felt her tongue circle the ridge, felt her mouth open wide and take him in—slow, so slow, inch by inch, until he was buried to the root in the wet, tight heat of her throat.
His head fell back against the chair, his eyes closing, his hands gripping the armrests hard enough to whiten his knuckles. He could feel her throat working around him, the muscles contracting and releasing, and he let out a low, guttural moan that he couldn't have stopped if he'd tried.
She pulled back, slow and deliberate, and then took him deep again, her nose pressing against his belly, her throat opening to take every inch. He could feel her hands on his thighs, her fingers digging into the fabric of his trousers, and he reached down blindly, his hand finding the back of her head—invisible, but there, always there—and held on.
"You're going to make me come," he warned, his voice strained. "If you keep doing that—"
She did it again. And again. And again, each stroke slower and deeper than the last, until he was trembling, his hips bucking up to meet her, his breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps.
"Invisigal," he gasped. "I'm—"
She took him deep and held him there, her throat contracting around him, and that was all it took. He came with a choked cry, his body arching off the chair, his hands fisting in her hair as he emptied himself down her throat in long, pulsing waves.
She swallowed. He felt it, the ripple of her throat around his cock, and it drew another shuddering moan from him. She stayed there until he was spent, until his body went slack against the chair, and then she pulled off slowly, a wet, obscene sound that made him shiver.
He felt her lips press a soft kiss to the inside of his thigh, and then she was gone.
For a moment, he just sat there, breathing hard, his cock still slick and softening against his belly. Then the air in front of him shimmered, and Invisigal materialized, a satisfied smile on her face, her lips still glistening.
"Hi," she said.
"Hi," he managed.
"You're not going to make the meeting."
He looked down at himself, at his open trousers, at the mess he'd made, and let out a shaky laugh. "No. No, I'm not."
She grinned, and there was something hungry in her eyes that made his cock twitch despite being thoroughly spent. "Good. Because I'm not done with you yet."
She held out her hand, and he took it, letting her pull him to his feet. His legs were unsteady, but she didn't give him time to recover. She pulled him toward the door, and he stumbled after her, his trousers still open, his mind still foggy with the aftershocks of his orgasm.
"Where are we going?" he asked.
"The shower room," she said, and there was a wicked edge to her voice. "The men's shower room. I've always wanted to see what it looks like."
He didn't argue. He was learning that arguing with Invisigal when she had that look in her eyes was a losing battle, and frankly, he didn't want to win.
---
The men's shower room was empty at this hour, the tiled floor still wet from the morning rush, the air thick with steam and the smell of soap. Invisigal pushed him inside and locked the door behind them, the click of the bolt echoing off the tiles.
"You're insane," he said, but he was smiling.
"You love it."
She stripped him with quick, efficient movements—shirt, trousers, boxers, all discarded in a heap on the bench. Then she stripped herself, her clothes joining his, and stood before him naked, her skin flushed, her breasts rising and falling with her quickened breath.
"I want you inside me," she said, and there was no teasing in her voice now, only need. "I want to feel you come inside me."
He pulled her against him, his hands finding her hips, his mouth finding hers. She tasted like herself, like the coffee she'd had that morning, like the faint salt of his own release. He kissed her hard, his tongue sliding against hers, and she moaned into his mouth, her fingers digging into his shoulders.
He backed her against the tiled wall, the cool surface a shock against her hot skin, and lifted her. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her arms around his neck, and he guided himself to her entrance—already slick, already ready—and pushed inside her with a single, smooth thrust.
She cried out, her head falling back against the tiles, her inner walls clenching around him. He held still for a moment, letting her adjust, letting himself feel the tight, wet heat of her, and then he began to move.
Slow at first, deep and deliberate, each thrust drawing a moan from her lips. Then faster, harder, the slap of their bodies echoing off the tiles, the steam swirling around them. She kissed him, desperate and hungry, her nails raking down his back, and he groaned against her mouth.
"I'm close," she breathed. "Robert, I'm so close—"
"Come for me," he said, and his voice was rough, almost a command. "Come on my cock."
She came with a cry, her body convulsing around him, her inner walls gripping him so tight he could barely move. He followed a moment later, burying himself deep and emptying inside her with a shuddering groan, his forehead pressed against hers.
For a long moment, they just stood there, tangled together, breathing hard, the water from the showerhead above them slowly soaking their hair and skin. He was still inside her, still connected, and he didn't want to pull out. He wanted to stay like this, joined, complete.
"We should go home," she whispered.
"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, we should."
---
Their apartment was quiet when they got back, the afternoon sun slanting through the windows, casting long shadows across the living room floor. Invisigal kicked off her shoes at the door and headed straight for the bedroom, and Robert followed, his tie already loosened, his shirt half-unbuttoned.
She was waiting for him on the bed, naked, her legs spread, her fingers already between her thighs. She was wet—still wet from the shower room, still slick with his release—and she watched him with heavy-lidded eyes as he stripped off his clothes and climbed onto the bed.
"I want it again," she said. "I want you to fill me up again."
He settled between her legs, his cock already hard, and guided himself to her entrance. She was so wet, so ready, and he slid inside her with a groan, his hands finding her hips, his mouth finding hers.
This time, he took his time. He moved slow, deep, each thrust drawing out the pleasure, building it until they were both trembling, both desperate, both on the edge. She came first, her body arching off the bed, her cry muffled against his shoulder, and he followed, spilling inside her with a long, shuddering groan.
He didn't pull out. He collapsed onto her, his weight pressing her into the mattress, his cock still buried deep inside her, and she wrapped her arms around him, her legs still wrapped around his waist, holding him there.
"Don't move," she murmured, her voice drowsy, sated. "Stay."
He stayed.
The sun shifted, the shadows lengthened, and they fell asleep like that—Robert still inside her, his softening cock nestled in the warm, wet heat of her cunt, his hand finding its way to her breast, cupping it, his thumb absently stroking her nipple even as sleep took him.
Invisigal smiled against his shoulder, her eyes closed, her body warm and full and content. They were trying for a kid, and if tonight was any indication, they were succeeding.
Maria shifted on the padded stool, one hand drifting absently to the swell of her belly. The monitor bank hummed its familiar dimensional chorus, screens cycling through timelines she had already archived and filed away. The one labeled *Shadow's Awakening* still glowed in the corner of her vision, the image frozen on that other Maria's satisfied smile. She had watched it three times now. Her body still remembered the response it had pulled from her.