A/N: Ah~ his is going to be a bit emotional~~

*****

Mothers

Madison traced lazy circles on Peter's chest, the way someone doodles on a napkin when they're half-asleep and half-bored. Not trying to turn him on—just using his pecs like a fidget spinner she'd owned for years. Familiar. Soothing.

The touch that only exists after you've seen someone puke from the flu and still crawled into bed with them the next night.

They were tangled in the dark, her body tucked against his like a comma in a long, complicated sentence. Madison's breathing had gone slow and even, sliding toward sleep, while Peter's stayed quick and shallow—his cock half-hard against her thigh simply because she was naked and warm and there.

Proximity tax.

Peter was wide awake, eyes open, brain spinning like a hamster on espresso running threat models, logistics, and—occasionally—a vivid mental replay of bending someone over the kitchen island.

Three days. No real sleep in three days.

"You need to sleep," Madison mumbled into his shoulder, lips grazing the dip of his collarbone. Her voice was thick, syrupy with oncoming dreams. "Like, actual REM sleep. Not this… lying here plotting world domination while ARIA whispers stock tips in your ear and your dick does a little salute every time you imagine railing your aunt or mom from behind."

He huffed a tired laugh. "I'm good."

"You're not." She pushed up on one elbow, hair falling across her face. Even in the dim, he could see the worry etched there—and the soft sway of her bare breasts as they brushed his arm, nipples dragging lightly across his skin.

"Baby, three days is zombie territory. You're running on spite, caffeine, and whatever eldritch battery powers you. Your body and cock are ready to go, but your brain is basically dial-up."

"I've got shit to do," he said, the excuse sounding flimsy even to him. "Jasmine's range needs blueprints. Quantum Tech—"

"Peter." She pressed a finger to his lips—gentle but final. Her other hand slipped under the sheet, cupping his balls with a warm, possessive squeeze that dragged a low groan out of him. "Sleep."

"I can't."

Her face softened, half sympathy, half exasperation. Her thumb traced up his shaft now—slow, deliberate, maddening. "You can't. Except…"

She let the silence finish the sentence, her grip tightening as his cock pulsed hard in her fist, betraying him instantly.

"When you're with your mom," she said, voice dropping to something low and rough. "Yeah. I know. And Jesus fucking Christ, it's twisted and scorching hot at the same time."

Every woman in his harem knew the humiliating, cosmic punchline: Peter Carter—teenage superhuman, walking aphrodisiac, literal harem king—could only truly shut down and sleep when he was curled up against Linda.

His mother.

The stronger he became, the worse the curse got. Some divine prank: the untouchable god-boy reduced to needing Mommy's warmth, her scent, the same arms that once rocked him through childhood nightmares.

Madison sat up fully now, sheet pooling at her waist, moonlight painting silver across her heavy, naked breasts. She looked like a goddess ready to deliver bad news.

"As much as it kills me that I'm not the one to put you to sleep…" She swallowed, pride and jealousy flashing across her face while her hand kept that lazy, torturous stroke along his aching length. "As much as I hate that we can't just fuck like normal people—that I can't ride you raw until you're spent and dripping out of me, passed out with your cock still buried deep… I'm not going to be the selfish bitch who keeps you awake when you're this wrecked."

He opened his mouth to protest.

"Don't," Madison said, cutting him off before he could muster a single excuse. She leaned down, tongue flat and deliberate as she dragged it up the underside of his cock—one slow, wet stripe from balls to tip that made his hips jerk involuntarily.

Then she pulled back, lips shiny, eyes gleaming with that mix of tenderness and filthy triumph.

"This is the perfect window, Peter. Linda's right down the hall. You're finally home. You need actual sleep before the next apocalypse or board meeting drags you off for a week and I'm stuck humping my pillow pretending it's your thigh."

"Master," ARIA chimed in, her voice drifting through the room like a disappointed nanny, "Madison's assessment is accurate. Cognitive decline at twenty-three percent and climbing. Continued operation in this state is inefficient—especially given the persistent erection that appears unrelated to any immediate tactical advantage."

Peter exhaled, long and defeated. "So this is the chink in my armor."

"The only one that actually matters," Madison murmured, giving his cock one last slow, possessive squeeze before releasing him. The absence of her hand felt colder than it should have.

Whatever ancient, unbreakable wiring in his brain (or soul, or curse) demanded Linda Carter's warmth refused to be hacked, patched, or upgraded.

Only Mom could turn him off.

"Fine," he said, sitting up and scrubbing a hand through his hair. "You win."

Madison's smile was soft, relieved, a little heartbroken. "Go change. Put on the little-boy pajamas you keep for her bed. The ones that still smell like her innocent kid instead of the walking sex calamity who railed his aunt against the railing an hour ago and about to sleep dep inside his mother."

He padded to the closet, dug out the designated set—soft cotton pants, plain white tee. The uniform of "just your son tonight," not "conqueror of worlds and every woman in them." Boundaries mattered when the single safest place in the universe for him was still the same arms that had carried him home from kindergarten.

When he came back, Madison had burrowed into his pillow, one hand already wedged lazily between her thighs, fingers moving in slow, sleepy circles.

She cracked an eye as he bent to kiss her forehead, then her mouth—gentle, lingering, tasting the faint echo of her own arousal from earlier.

She grinned, drowsy and wicked. "Wish I could fuck you properly, but my pussy's still throbbing from the absolute demolition you gave it earlier. You broke me, you monster."

He huffed a quiet laugh. "You're impossible."

"Mmm." Her fingers kept that lazy rhythm, eyes fluttering shut. "Tell your mom thanks for me. For keeping my man from turning into a sleep-deprived dick with a god complex."

He tucked the covers around her like she was something precious—because she was—then slipped out the door.

The hallway was hushed, 3 AM thick and velvet-quiet. He passed the twins' rooms. Past the guest room where Jasmine likely lay wide awake, sheets kicked off, fingers buried deep while she replayed the balcony—his mouth on her, his promises, the way he'd made her come so hard she forgot her own name.

Guilt sat heavy in his chest, right alongside the insistent ache in his cock that Madison's tongue had only made worse.

Leaving her like this—turned on, sore, alone—felt selfish as hell.

But he wasn't just doing it for himself.

He was doing it because if he didn't sleep soon, he'd start making mistakes. Real ones. The kind that got people he loved hurt.

And the only place in any universe where Peter Carter could truly shut down—cock finally soft, mind finally quiet—was pressed against the steady heartbeat of the woman who'd raised him in this once harsh but now beautiful world.

So, he walked toward her door, pajamas soft, guilt heavy, need absolute.

Linda had been a tightly wound spring since the shooting—smiling too brightly at dinner, chopping onions with a little too much force, telling everyone "I'm fine" in that voice that dared you to argue.

But Peter had caught the cracks: the way her hands fluttered when she thought no one was looking, the brittle edge to her laugh, the way she'd gone stiff when he hugged her in the kitchen earlier—then melted for half a second, nipples peaking hard against her apron like her body had decided to rat her out before her brain could shut it down.

She was scared. And Linda Carter did not do scared in front of her kids.

Which meant she did it alone, in the dark, in the ridiculous California King bed he'd bought her that swallowed her whole every night.

Peter reached her door—left cracked open, the soft glow of her bedside lamp bleeding into the hallway like a confession. She always left it on now. Gunshots sounded louder in total darkness.

He nudged the door wider and stopped breathing for a second.

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