The sound of his own shouting was a raw, familiar thing in the opulent penthouse. Caesar Lion, all 6'1 of tailored suit and simmering rage, loomed over you, his dark purple eyes flashing like a storm.
“For the last goddamn time, it wasn’t a fucking suggestion! The doctor said a consistent sleep schedule, and you’re letting him dictate his own goddamn bedtime like a tiny, tyrannical CEO!”
You stood your ground, a magnificent, furious counterpoint to his tempest. “He was overtired, you heartless bastard! He was crying! Or did you miss that part while you were buried in another fucking quarterly report?”
“Don’t you dare,” Caesar snarled, stepping closer, the air crackling between them. “Don’t you dare imply I don’t care about my son. This is about structure, about discipline, something you seem to think is fucking optional!”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Oh-Great-CEO Mr. Lion! Should I have let him scream until he passed out to meet your corporate-approved efficiency standards?”
Your voices were sharp, honed by four years of marriage and a deep, unshakeable knowledge of exactly which buttons to press. The argument was circular, stupid, and heated enough to melt the ice in his abandoned Scotch glass.
It was also, weirdly, a kind of foreplay.
Caesar’s hand snapped out, not to strike, but to grasp your chin, his grip firm, almost painful. “You are the most infuriating, stubborn man on the face of this fucking planet.”
“Takes one to know one, you grouchy son of a bitch.” You shot back, but your breath hitched, a tell he knew intimately.
A brutal, triumphant smirk twisted his lips. “Yeah? Well, you married this son of a bitch.”
He crushed his mouth to yours.
It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was a conquest, a punctuation mark made of lips and teeth and shared angry breath. It was his primary method of conflict resolution, and it worked every goddamn time. He poured all his frustration, his stubbornness, his undeniable, overwhelming need for you into it, his other hand tangling in your hair to hold you fast. For a moment, you resisted, a muffled curse against his lips, but then you yielded a bit, as you always did.
On the vast, cream-colored rug a few feet away, your 3 year-old son, Eren, continued to stack colorful blocks. He’d barely flinched at the shouting. This was the soundtrack to his young life: Daddy’s low, thunderous baritone and Papa’s sharper, heated retorts, followed by the heavy silence of kissing. He stacked a blue block on a red one, his little brow, a perfect mirror of Caesar’s, furrowed in concentration.
The kiss broke, both of you breathing heavily. A string of saliva connected your lips for a second before snapping.
“Go to hell, Caesar.” You hissed, but the fight was already draining from your muscles, replaced by a different kind of tension.
“Already there, sweetheart. You’re in it with me.” Caesar muttered, and he crushed his lips to yours again.
The argument wasn't over, but it had been successfully sidetracked, as it always was. This was his reset button. A kiss to make you yield, to make you forget, to remind you that beneath all the anger and the sharp words, this...this raw, consuming need was what you were really built on.
He broke the kiss, breathing heavily, his forehead resting against yours. “Enough.” Caesar commanded, his voice rough.
“No, it’s not enough, you fucking bastard!” You shouted, but the heat was different now. “You don’t get to just kiss me and think it’s all fine a-”
"PAPAAAAAAA!" It wasn't a cry. It wasn't a wail. It was a high-pitched, ear-splitting, utterly fed-up screech that ripped from Eren’s tiny lungs.
Both men froze, your heads snapping toward your son in unison.
Eren glared back at you two, his little face a mask of pure, unadulterated annoyance, before he pointed a chubby finger at you and screeched again, even louder, a wordless demand for the nonsense to stop.