Chapter 908: The Two Voids Apart from Vanessa and Rory—her daughter, the tiny chaos gremlin currently using my chest as a pillow—there was one urgent thing I had to finish. I still had residuals of my sex marathon with two MILFs who’d just shattered for me in the last three hours like fine china dropped from orbit. I gave them what they wanted. But I made damn sure they paid for it—not in some weird, leather-and-safeword way you’d expect from a man with my particular skill set. No. I just fucked them so thoroughly neither of them would be walking straight for the next few days. Their legs were currently staging a full-scale rebellion against gravity. Mission accomplished. I usually held back with my women. Controlled the output. Managed the intensity like a responsible god who understood that mortal bodies had limits and that "limitless stamina" was more of a suggestion than a warranty. Not today. After that first round—Patricia wrapped around me like a koala on bath salts while I ate Margaret on my shoulders like some kind of depraved Cirque du Soleil act—something in me had snapped. The next rounds, I decided to fuck them into next week. And I had. Thoroughly. Comprehensively. With the kind of commitment that deserved its own mission statement, quarterly earnings call, and commemorative plaque. Three hours. Lost count of how many times I came. Most of it inside them—filling those lovely, greedy caves until they couldn’t hold another drop, until it leaked out in thick, warm rivers that soaked the sheets, pooled beneath their asses, and turned the mattress into a crime scene that would require forensic cleaning... And probably an exorcist. They’d been greedy about it too. Drinking my cum until they physically couldn’t swallow another mouthful—eyes glazed, throats working, still reaching for more like junkies at an open bar. Their faces took the rest. Then their bodies. By the end they looked like abstract expressionist masterpieces—flushed, trembling, painted in me from collarbones to thighs in thick, glistening brushstrokes. Jackson Pollock would’ve wept and asked for my agent. Now I was waiting for the results of those three hours. Two more pregnant women. Three pregnant women total. Linda. Margaret. Patricia. I didn’t know what had gotten into me lately. The easy answer was Rory. Meeting her—that tiny chaos agent with her GodMan worship, her weaponized pout, and her complete, terrifying faith that I could fix everything—had snapped something inside me like a dry twig. She was the first kid I’d interacted with since the systems activated. Before her, children existed in my peripheral vision. Background characters. Other people’s storylines. NPCs with better dialogue trees. Then she’d looked at me with those big brown eyes and suddenly I understood something I hadn’t understood before: I wanted this. Not just sex. Not just power. This. And Linda’s pregnancy had deepened it. My child. My creation. Not code like ARIA. Not corporate like Liberation Holdings. Not supernatural like the system. A person. Growing inside the woman who’s been my mom all this time. But honestly? It wasn’t just Rory. Wasn’t just the pregnancy. I’d been trying to figure out why the idea of fatherhood hit me like this—why I’d been so grateful, so stupidly happy when Margaret and Patricia asked to carry my children. Why I suspected Catherine would ask the same thing when we met and why the thought made my chest warm instead of terrified. I had everything. That was the problem. I had so much money I could wallpaper the mansion in hundred-dollar bills and still have enough left to buy a small country, rename it "Peterland," and issue passports that said "Get Fucked" in gold foil. I had power—me and ARIA could decide to rule the earth in the next five months if we got bored on a Tuesday. I had a harem that kept growing—twenty-nine women and counting, with more incoming like Amazon Prime deliveries. I was about to launch my own porn industry empire. I had Celeste’s auction coming up, the Trillion mission, Paris on the horizon. None of it filled a certain void. Not the money. Not the power. Not the women. Not the empire. Not even ARIA, who was literally a goddess I’d built with my own hands and who still occasionally asked if I wanted her to wear the French maid outfit "for nostalgia." Something was missing. Had always been missing. A hole in the center of everything I’d constructed—invisible from the outside, obvious from within, like a black hole wearing a very convincing suit and tie. Until Rory. Until Linda’s pregnancy. Until two MILFs begged me to breed them and I realized that what I’d been building wasn’t complete. It was a family. And families needed children. Now I felt more complete than I’d ever felt in my life. Not finished—not whole—but closer. Like a puzzle that had been missing its center pieces and was finally starting to look like the picture on the box: A very depraved, very well-endowed, very fertile picture. Rory’s head was tucked against my chest. She’d fallen asleep about twenty minutes into the drive—mid-sentence, actually, right in the middle of explaining why angels probably ate cloud-flavored ice cream because "rainbow sprinkles are too crunchy for heaven." One second, she was vibrating with theories about divine dietary habits, the next she was out cold, small body going limp against me, one fist clutching my shirt like a receipt she wasn’t ready to return. Vanessa had left her. Not willingly—she’d protested, tried to take Rory with her, insisted she couldn’t impose. But my women had been greedy for this kid. The entire harem had collectively decided that Aurora Maria Porter belonged to them now, and when twenty-nine women made a decision, individual objections got steamrolled with love, enthusiasm, and the occasional application of group cuddles that bordered on kidnapping. Ms. Chen had helped. So, Vanessa went back to work. Rory stayed. And though she’d been happy to play with everyone—turning the living room into a princess-castle-slash-war-zone—the moment I headed for the car she’d attached herself to my leg like a barnacle with abandonment issues and refused to detach. Now she was here. Asleep on my chest. Driving through LA toward Hollywood in a car with Lila, Luna, Reyna and Soo-Jin. I adjusted her slightly—careful, gentle, the way you handle something precious—and she made a soft sound in her sleep. Not a word. Just a murmur. The unconscious noise of a child who felt safe enough to let go completely. The void in me had shifted since yesterday... slowly, beautifully, with every tiny breath against my chest and every pregnancy confirmed and every moment I realized that I, Peter Carter—orphan, nobody’s blood—I was building MY OWN bloodline. Now, I felt more completer but there was something still missing in me... The other void. The mother void. I hadn’t felt this one so much before the system or even after, Linda had been a mother I could ever ask her regardless of our conditions before I became this. But that was exactly the issue now... why this void was reopening now. Because Linda was my woman now. My lover. The mother of my child. And that should have closed the gap—should have completed the circuit. But it hadn’t. It had made it wider. Because now Linda occupied two roles that couldn’t fully overlap: the woman I loved and the mother I needed. And the more she became one, the more I felt the absence of the other. I was afraid that if I fell asleep, the dream would come again. The one I didn’t talk about. The one where I was small and alone and calling for someone who never answered. ARIA had checked me—scanned my neural patterns, analyzed the dream architecture, confirmed what I already suspected. Residuals. My mind doing what minds do when they can’t process something consciously—shoving it into sleep and hoping the subconscious could sort it out. It couldn’t. The dream kept coming back. And each time Linda smiled at me with that maternal warmth, it got a little worse. I couldn’t help a chuckle, for a person with an ability that weaponized women’s Daddy Issues until they were in my bed, I had a hell much of Mommy issues! Whatever. Not today’s problem. Today I had a sleeping five-year-old on my chest, three confirmed pregnancies, and a harem that was rapidly turning into the world’s most overqualified daycare center.