100x Rebate Sharing System: Retired Incubus Wants to Marry & Have Kids

Crack. Pop. Crack.

Viktor rolled his neck, feeling the vertebrae protest and then settle, one after another, like old wood expanding in morning heat. His arms rose above his head, stretching long, and the muscles of his back pulled tight and then released with a satisfaction he didn’t need to think about. He stood at the edge of the upper floor’s open walkway, bare feet against warm marble, entirely naked, and absolutely unbothered by it.

The garden below him was unreasonable. It had no business existing halfway up a dungeon tower and yet there it was — Helena’s floor, transformed from wooden soldiers into something that looked like a paradise a god had designed in an afternoon and then left running. The grass was an obscene shade of green. Flowers bloomed in clusters that matched no natural season. Small stone paths curved between them, and the whole thing smelled — God, it smelled — like warm earth and jasmine and something Viktor had no name for except ’right.’

He put his hands on the stone railing and looked down at it.

Peaceful. Genuinely, aggressively peaceful.

’...Unfortunately.’

The thought arrived on its own. Viktor looked at it the way he’d look at any inconvenient fact — acknowledged it, let it sit, didn’t argue. Because the truth was the truth. A peaceful life up here, surrounded by green gardens and warm stone and pregnant wives who looked at him like he’d personally hung the sun — that life existed. He could see it. Feel the edges of it from where he stood.

But Emperor Leo’s heroines were still out there. Still active. Still moving in directions he’d already calculated and some he hadn’t yet. The capital existed, and he had things to accomplish there that couldn’t be accomplished from a tower garden in Millbrook.

He looked down at his cock, hanging soft and unhurried between his thighs.

Then he looked up.

They arrived the way they always arrived — not one at a time, not all at once, but in the specific natural clustering of people who lived together and had stopped pretending they didn’t monitor each other’s movements.

Bella first. Of course Bella first.

She came bouncing up the walkway on light feet, silver hair catching the garden light, cat ears already forward and oriented directly at him. Her tail was up. Her dress — something Mira had picked, fitted at the waist, soft at the chest — moved with her the way fabric moved on a body it was only nominally containing. She had a bloom of color in her cheeks from the stairs and her golden eyes were already doing that thing where they narrowed slightly and aimed at his face with the cheerful intensity of a cat that had decided this was where it was going to be.

Behind her, Kaida. Her crimson gaze moved across Viktor with the practiced efficiency of a warrior conducting a threat assessment, which was also just how she looked at him when she wanted him and wasn’t ready to say so. Her red hair was loose this morning, falling across her shoulders. She crossed her arms under her chest when she arrived — a habit, a reflex — and the motion pressed everything together in a way that made Viktor’s lower body register information with the quiet diligence it always brought to this subject.

Then Mira and Helena.

Together, because they were always together now, the two of them having formed the specific alliance of women who are both carrying their husband’s children and have decided to stop competing about it. They walked with one hand each resting on their bellies — bellies that Viktor studied, openly, the way you study something you’re responsible for. The bloat was visible. More than bloat. The gentle but undeniable curve of early pregnancy on both of them, fabric pulling soft and round over what he’d put there. Mira’s dark hair was pinned back. Helena’s enormous breasts moved ahead of the rest of her with the unhurried authority they always had, the fabric across them strained and warm, and Viktor’s cock did a thing it did in her vicinity which he’d stopped trying to explain.

Elara came last of the five. Pink hair, pink eyes, that particular expression she wore when she was trying to seem like she hadn’t just been hurrying. Her tail curved at the end. Her hands were clasped in front of her. She looked at Viktor’s face with the flushed attentiveness of someone who had been thoroughly claimed and was still, periodically, surprised by the memory of it.

Viktor looked at all five of them.

His power slimes moved.

The amethyst slime and the pink slime — both of them always present now, weaving around him at the height of his hips, bouncing lazily in the still morning air like slow-moving electricity that had forgotten it was supposed to go somewhere — both of them swung wide and then returned, as if the proximity of his wives was a gravitational thing. Which, considering what generated them, perhaps it was.

badump.

’Right. Them.’

And then Gwen.

And beside Gwen, Vivian.

Viktor noticed Vivian first. He always noticed Vivian first, a fact he’d accepted about himself with no particular moral commentary attached. It was simply true that she was harder to ignore than most things. She came up the walkway with her arms slightly crossed over her chest — modest, careful, the posture of a woman who had been beautiful her whole life and had learned to carry it quietly — and the morning light was extremely unkind to Viktor’s self-control. Her hips. They had ’been’ wide when she arrived. Weeks of living here, of eating properly, of sleeping somewhere safe for the first time in years, had added something. The worn thin fabric of her dress moved with each step with the patient physics of things that had weight and were obeying it. Viktor tracked the motion with the detached professional interest of a man cataloguing a good decision he’d made.

’Her hips are wider. Definitely wider. That’s from—’

"YOU BASTARD."

Viktor blinked.

Gwen had stopped six feet away from him on the walkway, one hand on her bow, her silver-blonde hair disheveled from whatever she’d been doing, her pointed ears angled back with an outrage that was almost architectural in its precision. Her eyes — green, sharp, currently burning — went from his face to his body and then returned to his face with the momentum of a thing that had seen something it couldn’t unsee.

"Why," she said, her voice dropping from a shout to something more dangerous, "are you ’naked.’"

"Good morning," Viktor said.

"That is not an answer—"

"I live here."

"You are ’outside’—"

"Upper walkway," Viktor said. "My floor. My tower." He looked at her pleasantly. "My nakedness."

Gwen made a sound that was not a word. Her hand tightened on her bow. Her cheeks had gone a spectacular shade of red that traveled down her neck and disappeared under her collar, and Viktor noted this the way he noted all useful information — quietly, and for later.

Her eyes kept coming back to him despite themselves. Each time, they snapped away again with something close to violence. The third time, she stomped one foot on the marble and simply stared at the garden below instead, jaw working.

’She’s looking at it. She’s trying not to look at it. She’s failing.’