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kingveee · 13 days ago

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Loved this so much… omg 🥹🥹🥹

Muse: The Cleo Era

Muse: Epilogue | Muse Masterlist

Summary: You and Ari will be parents. Here's the first part of the journey.

Pairing: Art Curator! Ari Levinson x Plus sized model!Reader

A/N: Y'all are getting this Muse Monday on a Tuesday this week. lol. This is in answer to these asks and I got deep so this is just the first part of Muse and Ari as parents. This is it! I already have another ask (thanks, Nonnie) so there will be more. Thank you to those of you who just get these two like I do. You know my heart. 🥹 Muse has been a series of one shots featuring Muse and Ari, and this is it. 🥲 This AU is the nexus, not only connected to the Peach and Knock You Down verses, but also the Minx verse. I love reblogs, replies, asks and likes. Let me have it! :)

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. SMUT! Read at your own risk; curate your own experience. Art Curator Ari. Plus sized model Reader, this fic focuses on pregnancy, and all that comes with it, birth, and the period after birth. A marriage. Mothers and mothers in law. Frumoasa and Peach and their children! Also, pregnancy cravings, pregnancy sex, body insecurity, pregnancy kink, Ari is obsessed, lots of oral (f receiving), SIZE KINK, tit worship, raw p in v.

I don’t have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post!

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

---------

You didn’t notice at first.

Not with the whirlwind of the wedding and reception behind you, the press requests piling up, and the fall issue of Muse turning into a logistical beast.

Not to mention Ari bouncing between MoMA and Red Sea like he had clones.

You were both deliriously happy and utterly exhausted, too distracted to count days.

And too busy to notice your period hadn’t come.

It wasn’t until a shoot at the botanical garden, when the smell of roses made you nauseous and the heat left you dizzy, that it hit you.

You were late.

Really late.

You tried to brush it off.

Stress. Fatigue.

But the next morning, gagging over your toothpaste, you knew.

You didn’t say anything to Ari.

You threw a hoodie over your pajamas, bought a test from the bodega, and locked yourself in the bathroom at 6:30 a.m. while he slept.

The wait was short.

Two pink lines. Immediately, no question.

You sat on the edge of the tub, staring at it like it might blink first.

You were pregnant. Actually pregnant. Six, maybe seven weeks if the math in your head was right.

It may have even happened after the reception when you whispered that you went off the pill into your husband’s ear and he made good on every sacred filthy promise he’d made in response.

You had made her. Or him. Together.

Your eyes welled up. Your stomach turned again, but you smiled through it.

The floor creaked outside the door.

“Muse?” Ari’s voice was sleepy. “You okay?”

You opened the door slowly, test clutched in your hand. Ari blinked at you, shirtless, hair messy, and pajama pants low on his hips.

“What’s that?”

He stared at the stick. And then, like someone flipped a switch behind his eyes, he understood.

“You’re serious?” he asked, voice cracking.

You nodded.

“I think it happened the night of the reception. Maybe the elevator. Maybe the counter. Possibly the bed.”

A beat, then he laughed.

That laugh.

Full of disbelief and awe and all the things he couldn’t say fast enough.

He pulled you into his arms so hard you squeaked, then dropped to his knees, pressing his forehead to your stomach like he’d been waiting his whole life for this exact second.

“We made a person,” he whispered. “A fucking person. On purpose.”

You laughed, threading your fingers through his hair.

“I probably should’ve realized sooner. I thought I was just tired.”

“You’re growing a human,” he said, kissing your belly.

“Of course you’re tired.”

“Hi, baby,” he murmured. “I hope you are just like your mom. Beautiful, strong as hell and full of attitude.”

You rolled your eyes, brushing a tear from your cheek.

“This baby is going to own you.”

—

Three days later, Ari found you in the kitchen, standing in front of the open fridge like it had insulted your honor.

“You look like you’re about to fight someone,” he said carefully.

“There’s no fruit,” you said flatly.

A beat.

“There’s literally so much fruit,” he replied, opening the fridge like he needed to double-check.

You pointed dramatically.

“There are apples. Strawberries. Grapes. But no peaches. I want a peach, Ari. I want a cold, juicy, stupidly ripe peach and there are NONE.”

He blinked. And then, he moved, no hesitation. Just grabbed his keys, his wallet, and kissed your forehead.

“I’ll be back in fifteen,” he murmured, already halfway out the door.

When he returned, he had two brown paper bags and a look that screamed husband of the year.

“There were no fresh peaches at Whole Foods. So I hit up the bodega, then the farmer’s market on 12th.”

He laid out the goods like sacred offerings: yellow peaches, white peaches, canned in syrup, peach nectar, dried peaches.

You blinked. Then burst into tears.

“Oh my god. Who does that?

He pulled you into his chest.

“Husbands of hormonal goddesses,” he whispered, kissing the top of your head.

“Eat, baby. I got you.”

You ate three in a row over the sink, moaning through every bite.

Ari watched you like you were an art exhibit.

“I’ve never been more attracted to you,” he muttered.

You licked juice off your wrist, cheeks flushed, eyes glinting.

“Oh? You like the feral fruit goblin look?”

“I like the pregnant-with-my-baby look,” he said. “A lot.”

When you were done eating, Ari carried you to the shower and made love to you slowly, reverently, the scent of peaches still clinging to your skin.

——

At eight weeks, your skin broke out and your favorite perfume made you gag. The smell of espresso turned your stomach, a personal betrayal. You were bloated, irritable, exhausted, and more in love with Ari than ever.

When you cried over a dropped croissant, Ari didn’t laugh.

He just held you and whispered, “I’ve got you,” before coming back with four more.

He quietly took over your calendar and showed up to every OB appointment like it was a gala. At your first ultrasound, he didn’t blink, just stared at the grainy little smudge on the screen like it was the only thing that had ever mattered.

“That’s ours,” he whispered, awestruck.

You were bone-deep tired. Sex was still good, just less frequent. That didn’t stop Ari from pressing his mouth to your neck every night and whispering that you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

Then, around nine weeks, came a new craving.

You stood in front of the mirror in nothing but a bralette and the softest boyshorts, staring at your body like it belonged to someone else. Your belly hadn’t changed much, but your breasts were heavier, sore, almost unfairly full.

Your skin felt like it was buzzing. Not itchy. Not uncomfortable.

Just…strange.

You as Ari stood in the doorway, eyes dropping, then widening at the vision of you.

He closed the door behind him, already crossing the room.

“You okay?”

“No,” you whispered. “I think I’m losing my mind.”

He raised a brow, cautiously playful.

“That bad, huh?”

You reached for him, grabbing his shirt.

“It’s like, my skin’s too tight. Everything aches. But not in a bad way. I just…”

You leaned into him, mouth at his neck.

“I need something. I need…you.”

His breath hitched.

“You sure?”

You nodded, already pressing kisses under his jaw.

“I’m climbing the walls, Ari. I’ve been thinking about it all day. About you. Your mouth. Your hands. Your cock.”

A low growl rumbled from his chest.

“That’s a dangerous way to talk to your husband, sweetheart.”

“It’s the only way I know how to talk to you right now,” you panted. “I want you to fuck me.”

“Jesus,” he muttered, voice darkening instantly. “Come here.”

He didn’t make it to the bed. He backed you against the dresser, yanked your panties down, and kissed a path to your chest, pulling one aching nipple into his mouth.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” you gasped, hips canting forward. “I need it. Need you.”

He didn’t tease. Didn’t waste time. Just dropped to his knees and buried his face between your thighs, licking you like he’d missed it, even though he hadn’t. His tongue was hot and sure, curling deep, circling your clit until you were shaking, one hand in his hair and the other braced on the dresser.

You came with a gasp, loudly, thighs trembling around his ears.

“Don’t stop,” you begged. “Need you inside me.”

Ari stood and kissed you hard, then turned you around and bent you gently over the dresser, one large hand splayed on your lower back, the other stroking himself behind you.

“I love when you get like this,” he groaned. “Desperate. Greedy. So fucking hot.”

You felt the wide head of his cock press against your soaked entrance and pushed back, moaning as he slid into you slowly, fully, and deeply.

“Fuck. Tight,” he hissed. “You feel different. Even hotter. Damn.”

“Don’t stop,” you gasped. “Harder.”

And he did. He gave it to you deep, slow, and then fast and filthy, one hand gripping your hip, the other reaching around to rub your clit just the way you liked.

You came again before he did, your body clenching hard around him, milking him until he spilled inside you with a groan and a whispered “God, I love you.”

“They’re going to be wild,” you mumbled, still breathless.

“They’re going to be ours,” Ari whispered, kissing your spine.

He carried you to bed and tucked you against his chest, and whispered soft things into your hair until you melted. You thought he’d sleep. But when you stirred he shifted beside you.

“You awake?” he murmured, voice rumbling against your cheek.

“Mmm… kinda. What time is it?”

“Late enough,” he said. “You hungry?”

“For food or for sex?”

He laughed softly.

“You up for round two?”

You tilted your face up toward him. He was already looking at you like he couldn’t believe his luck. Like every time he saw you, it hit him all over again.

You smiled.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

He rolled you onto your back.

“You’re glowing already,” he murmured, dragging his mouth over you. “Like your body knows it’s doing something holy.”

“You’re obsessed,” you breathed as your fingers threaded through his hair.

“I am,” he whispered, kissing your belly. “You’re carrying my baby. Of course I’m obsessed.”

You felt yourself throb with the sound of his voice alone, and he slid between your legs, kissing the inside of your thigh.

“But I’m not just obsessed with this,” he said, his mouth hovering over your pussy.

“I’m obsessed with you. With how you taste, how you sound, how you fall apart when I…”

You gasped as he licked a long, slow stripe up your center.

“...do that.”

Your fingers gripped the sheets.

He licked you again. And again. He was both filthy and reverent. His tongue teased your clit, circled it, sucked softly before pulling back to kiss your hip. You moaned, already close, your thighs trembling around his head.

He didn’t stop, sliding one finger inside you, and curling it just right, while his mouth stayed latched to your clit. He worked you slowly, building the pressure until you were whimpering his name, eyes glassy, voice ragged.

“Ari! I’m gonna…”

“Let go,” he rasped against your skin. “Let me take care of my wife.”

That did it. You came hard, with a cry that echoed off the walls, your hips jerking up as your body clenched around his hand. He didn’t stop until your legs shook and your voice gave out.

Then, he kissed his way back up your body, murmuring between every kiss.

“So good for me. So fucking sweet. I’ll never get enough.”

When you kissed him, you wrapped your legs around his waist, and he sank into you in one deep, slow thrust.

This time was different. This was languid, molten, and deliberate.

“I love you,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours.

“I love you,” you breathed back, clinging to him.

He came with a low moan, buried deep inside you.

You didn’t know how long you lay like that, wrapped up in him, warm and safe, heart racing in sync.

But you knew one thing.

You’d never been loved like this.

—-

By week 14, the nausea lifted like fog.

Your first real meal in days was Greek yogurt with honey, pistachios, and two-and-a-half nectarines. You sat at the table and sobbed through the entire thing. Ari sat beside you with a spoon in hand, feeding you bites like you were royalty.

He bought a crate of nectarines the next day.

Your skin became ethereal.

Your energy returned.

And the sex was outstanding.

By week 17, your bump started to show.

Ari stared while you brushed your teeth, then dropped to his knees and kissed your belly like it was sacred.

He spent the entire week painting one wall of the nursery, over and over, until it was the right shade of “sunlight through fog.”

At twenty weeks, the anatomy scan made everything real. The tech said she was healthy and “active.”

You watched her squirm on the screen and felt a flutter so soft you almost missed it. Ari sketched your face.

He’d started again after hearing Steve was an artist. He hadn’t done it since college. He said he never wanted to forget how you looked when you realized she was real.

Your dreams got weird. Gold-leafed babies, talking dolphins, a house made of socks. You mumbled them into Ari’s neck at 3 a.m., and he wrote them in a notebook by the bed.

One night, after a dream where the baby was late to a Vogue shoot, he rubbed your back and whispered, “She gets that from you.”

Your hips ached and your cravings changed weekly. One week, it was grilled cheese at 2 a.m., every night. The next, sour cherry popsicles. You ate one topless on the balcony and Ari almost dropped his drink.

The third trimester arrived and you couldn’t see your feet. Your ankles swelled if you stood too long and you wore Ari’s T-shirts inside out almost exclusively.

The baby kicked with force now, especially when Ari read aloud, which he did every night. She kicked hardest when he read Toni Morrison.

You swore she was trying to communicate.

Modeling stopped, but Muse didn’t. You ruled from a throne of pillows, compression socks, and croissants. Ari brought smoothies, kissed your belly, and whispered to the baby like she could answer.

The nesting hit like a fever.

You cleaned out the coat closet at 2 a.m. one night and reorganized every spice alphabetically. Ari didn’t stop you, just brought a chair when your back hurt.

You bought two bassinets, five swaddles, and an antique wooden sheep that cost more than your first car.

When Ari asked why, you said, “She’ll know it’s art.”

At thirty-six weeks, you only slept in short bursts because the pressure in your hips was brutal. You got Braxton Hicks, which you thought were real one night.

Ari threw the hospital bag in the car. Turned out it was nothing. He didn’t sleep for two days just in case.

You woke up crying one night after a dream where the baby looked up at you and said, “Thank you.”

Ari cried with you, then spooned you until sunrise.

At 39 weeks, you stopped wearing waistbands. You waddled and peed constantly yet Ari couldn’t stop touching you.

He whispered into your shoulder every night, “We’re so close.”

Your due date came and went; she didn’t. Until one morning, forty weeks and one day, you woke just after 3 a.m.

At first, you thought it was a dream. Then you shifted and felt it: a wet warmth soaking into the sheets. A slow, low cramp stole your breath as you gasped, sat up, and touched your belly.

Ari bolted upright beside you.

“Was that…?”

You nodded. Grinning. Eyes wide.

“It’s time.”

—---

The contractions started slowly; they were manageable.

You even joked through the first couple, sitting on a towel in the passenger seat while Ari broke the speed limit down the West Side Highway at four in the morning.

Ari was not calm. He kept glancing at you like you might break open in the front seat.

“You okay?” he kept asking.

“Yeah,” you breathed. “I think so.”

“You sure it’s not Braxton Hicks again?”

You glared.

“That was one time.”

“I still haven’t recovered.”

You huffed a laugh just as another wave slammed into you. You moaned and clutched the edge of the seat.

Ari reached over blindly, offering his hand without taking his eyes off the road.

You squeezed. And he didn’t flinch. He never did with you.

At the hospital, walking took effort. You paused every few steps, panting. Ari let you brace against him, murmuring, “I’ve got you,” over and over like a mantra.

Inside, everything blurred. Monitors. Nurses. Antiseptic. Wristbands. The contractions sharpened. Ari stayed right there, one hand in yours, the other brushing sweat from your brow.

Twelve hours in, things got real.

You were dilated enough to scream but not enough to push. Your back felt like it was splitting. Your stomach twisted with every wave.

Your eyes welled with tears and you weren’t sure if it was pain or fear or hormones.

“Fuck,” you gasped. “I can’t…”

“Yes, you can,” Ari whispered.

You shook your head.

“She’s never coming out. She’s going to live in there forever. I’m going to be the first woman to carry a full-grown adult.”

“She’ll be gorgeous,” Ari said softly. “But Baby, she’s coming. You’re doing so well. You’re strong. You’re already her whole world.”

Another contraction rolled through you like a storm. You screamed and gripped his shirt so hard the seams popped.

“I hate you!” you cried.

He nodded solemnly. “That’s fair.”

“I mean it.”

“Absolutely.”

“Don’t touch me.”

“Copy that.”

You leaned into his chest and sobbed.

“I’m so scared.”

His hands cradled your face.

“I know,” he whispered. “But I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

At sixteen hours, everything shifted. You dilated. They called the doctor. The nurse raised the bed. The lights got brighter.

And suddenly, it was time.

You were drenched in sweat. Crying without realizing it, and gripping Ari’s hand like a lifeline.

“You’ve got this, Muse,” he said, voice low and steady, even as his own eyes glistened. “Bring her home.”

The doctor’s voice cut through the noise.

“Next contraction, push,” the doctor said.

You nodded, jaw clenched, legs trembling.

And you pushed. Until your throat was raw. Until you saw stars.

And then, you heard her.

A sharp, keening cry. One that broke your heart and healed it at the same time.

You collapsed against the pillows, laughing and sobbing as the world tilted.

And then there she was, tiny and screaming her arrival.

Ari cut the cord with trembling hands. You watched him through tears as they placed her on your chest. Skin to skin. Warm and fragile and real. She blinked up at you, impossibly new. Lips parted. Fists curled. Her little chest was pumping.

You stared down at her and whispered, “Hey.”

She made a soft, searching sound and Ari sank to his knees beside you, head pressed to your shoulder. He was crying openly now.

“You did it,” he whispered. “You brought her home.”

“She’s perfect.”

“She’s ours.”

And for one long, breathless moment, the world disappeared.

—--

The room was quiet, lights dimmed, and the soft beep of the monitor the only sound. You ached in every limb, but your arms were full of everything that mattered.

She lay against your chest, skin to skin under a blanket, mouth parted in a perfect pout as she suckled in her sleep. Her heartbeat fluttered against you, fast and rabbit-quick.

Ari sat halfway on the bed, one hand tracing her spine, the other resting on your thigh like he couldn’t stop touching both of you at once.

“She smells like some kind of heaven,” he murmured.

You smiled faintly, dizzy with exhaustion and love.

“You’re just high on pheromones and baby shampoo.”

His smile flickered, eyes never leaving her.

“I don’t think I’ve ever believed in God until right now.”

A nurse stepped in to check vitals, and Ari gently lifted her from your chest. She curled into him instinctively, as if she’d always known the shape of his arms.

You watched him.

Big, strong hands holding her so gently, voice softer than you’d ever heard it. His whole body curved around her like a fortress.

The nurse smiled as she left.

“That one’s wrapped,” she said, nodding toward Ari.

You nodded too, your eyes misting.

—-

You hadn’t officially told anyone her name. Not even the nurses.

Not even your mother.

The hospital placard on the little bassinet beside your bed still read blank beside F: 6lb 7oz” and “June 21st, 6:32 PM.

Ari had insisted on waiting.

“It should come from you,” he said, fingers brushing the IV line taped to your hand.

“You carried her. You fought for her. You get to say it first.”

You looked at the bassinet, where she slept swaddled, lashes impossibly long, nose like a button. Then back at him.

“Are you sure?”

“Say it.”

So you did. You whispered the name you’d once typed half-asleep into a shared notes file, inspired by a shoot in Morocco and a poem tucked into a forgotten book.

Cleo Noor Levinson

Ari closed his eyes like it was a spell. Cleo, one of the nine Muses, and Noor, meaning light.

Ari closed his eyes like he’d been waiting to hear it his whole life. Cleo, one of the nine muses. Noor, meaning light.

He leaned in and kissed your temple. “I knew that would be it.”

“You did?”

He rose, picked up the dry-erase marker, and wrote it on the placard with the focus of a man signing a masterpiece.

And just like that, she had a name.

—--

Ari took leave the moment you were discharged.

No emails. No delegation. Just a single call to the board and a quiet, “I’ll be off for the foreseeable future.”

The man who once ran international exhibits down to the minute now lived in newborn rhythms, feedings, cries, the rise and fall of her breath against his chest.

“I’ve already got the only masterpiece I need,” he said one night, her tiny form tucked inside his hoodie.

You weren’t alone for a second.

Your mother arrived first with a suitcase and surgical efficiency. She reorganized your freezer, folded onesies, made gumbo, and commented on your curtains.

Ari’s mother followed, bearing folk remedies and weepy prayers. She sobbed the first time she held the baby, then tucked hand-knit booties under the bassinet like protective charms.

Trixie, your editor, breezed in wearing a leather trench and designer sunglasses, holding a tray of gourmet lactation cookies.

“I don’t know what your hormones are doing, babe, but if we shoot the maternity line in August, I’ll cry.”

You hadn’t slept in 48 hours. There was milk in your hair.

But you nodded, dazed, and said, “Sure.”

When Peach showed up, the door swung open with the wind, her four-month-old baby boy strapped to her chest, a pack of diapers under one arm and a bottle of prosecco under the other.

“You had a baby! I had a baby! Let’s compare battle wounds,” she cheered, already halfway in.

Peach’s baby, Kit Rogers, drooled into her blouse while she handed you nipple balm and kissed your cheek.

“This one spits up like he’s in a frat. Need help latching? I’ve got techniques.”

You blinked. “I’m…okay?”

“Let me know when you’re not.”

Then came Mrs. Barnes, glowing and exhausted, her two-year-old Luca trailing behind her, sticky-handed and singing a made-up song about blueberries. She was seven months pregnant again and still the most effortlessly elegant person in any room.

“I brought muffins,” she said. “And my toddler, who may try to feed your baby a raisin. Good luck.”

Within minutes, your apartment was full of babies, strollers, toys, lactation snacks, and the low-grade chaos of maternal love.

Then came the newborn photo shoot. It was Trixie’s idea, but Ari made it perfect.

“You’ll want to remember this,” he said as he helped you oil your skin and slip into a soft robe.

The photographer, a quiet friend, barely spoke. The windows were wide open. Morning light poured in.

Ari was bare chested and impossibly handsome, the kind of man you still couldn’t believe was yours.

You held Cleo in your arms, skin to skin, her curls damp and soft against your chest. Ari stood behind you, arms wrapped around both of you, his face at your temple, his body shielding yours.

At one point, he took her into his arms and you watched through the lens as he kissed her tiny forehead, the barest whisper of breath against her soft abundance of curls.

“That’s the one,” the photographer said.

It wasn’t posed. It wasn’t perfect.

But it was love.

—--

You’d delayed your six-week postpartum visit more than once, until your mother took matters into her own hands. She was at your door when you returned from third rescheduled appointment and practically shoved you out the door as you side eyed Ari.

"You two need a night. She’ll be fine. Go," she said, already bouncing the baby with one hand and waving with the other.

You looked at Ari like you might cry. He looked back like he might carry you to the car.

Ari had booked the hotel. Just one night a short drive away with robes, white sheets, and a view of the skyline you used to chase.

You felt like cancelling, but Ari reminded you of the doctor’s words: You’re healing beautifully. You’re clear to resume sexual activity whenever you feel ready.

And you’d clutched Ari’s hand, breath caught in your throat, unsure if ready was even a thing anymore or just an abstract concept.

—-

You stood in the middle of the hotel room, unsure what to do with your hands. Ari was already kicking off his shoes, eyes trained on you.

“I can order room service,” he offered gently. “Or we can just sleep.”

You nodded, then turned to face him.

“I missed you.”

His eyes softened instantly.

“I’m right here.”

“I don’t know what to do with myself,” you admitted softly.

He stepped behind you, just close enough to warm the back of your neck with his breath.

“I do.”

He eased off your shirt, his shirt, then your nursing tank, stopping at your bra.

“May I?”

You nodded.

He eased the bra straps down your arms, unclasped it gently, and let it fall. Your breasts were full, heavier now, darker at the nipples. You didn’t dare look at him. But he let out a breath like he’d been punched.

“Goddamn,” he whispered.

You crossed your arms instinctively, but he caught your wrists and kissed each one.

“Don’t hide from me. I want to see all of you.”

When he knelt, it startled you.

You looked down at him, this man, your husband on his knees for you. He slid your leggings and underwear down, kissed your knee, your thigh, the faint silver lines at your hips.

"These are mine," he murmured. "My favorite art."

“My body’s different.”

“It’s yours.” He looked up at you.

“She grew here. Right here. This body made her. This body fed her. Carried her. Protected her.”

He pressed a kiss just below your navel.

“I worship this body,” he said. “I will never stop.”

Your throat tightened. You reached down and threaded your fingers through his hair.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m yours.”

He stood then, shedding his own clothes piece by piece as he stepped toward you, letting you take in the long line of his torso, the soft trail of hair, the muscles still carved from habit and stress and devotion.

He wasn’t trying to be seductive. He didn’t need to.

You’d never wanted anyone more in your life. But…

“I’m scared,” you whispered. “Of it hurting. Of it… not feeling the same.”

He cupped your cheek and kissed your forehead.

“Then we’ll go slow. And if it doesn’t feel good, we stop.”

You nodded.

When he guided you back to the bed,you laid down and he hovered above you, eyes drinking in every sign that your body had been through something world changing.

“You’re so damn beautiful.”

His mouth found your throat first. Then your collarbone.

He kissed the heavier swell of your breasts, then ran his tongue slowly over your nipple before closing his mouth around it, sucking just enough to make your back arch. Your fingers gripped his shoulders.

“Still so sensitive,” he hummed, moving to the other breast. “I love how you respond to me.”

Then, he went down.

He kissed every stretch mark. Every inch of softened skin. Pressed his cheek to your belly and exhaled.

“I will never get over this body.”

And then his mouth was between your legs, and you forgot how to breathe.

He licked you with slow, purposeful strokes, his thumbs parting you gently. He wasn’t trying to make you come. Not yet. He was just reacquainting himself with you, but you came anyway, overwhelmed and sobbing.

“I’m yours,” he said, again and again, against your body. “Mine. Mine. Mine.”

You reached down and wrapped your hand around his cock, hard and heavy and slick.

“Please,” you whispered. “I need you inside me.”

He froze. Then nodded. Then he braced his thick head at your entrance, and slid in slowly. You gasped, biting your lip, feeling the stretch.

Your body remembering.

Relearning.

Accommodating him again.

When he was fully inside, he stilled.

“You okay?”

You nodded, eyes wide.

“You feel so good. ‘M so full.”

He moved, just a little, and you whimpered.

“Fuck,” he groaned, forehead to yours. “So tight. You’re still made for me.”

You held him close and rocked your hips, needing more. Wanting all of it. All of him.

When he started to thrust in earnest, you clung to him, hips meeting with slow, rhythmic intensity. You weren’t quiet, and neither was he; you sobbed into his shoulder, and he grunted into your neck.

He kissed your temple and murmured, “I missed you.”

“I missed us,” you whispered back.

You came again, more gently this time, your body fluttering around him.

Ari didn’t last much longer.

He buried his face in your hair as he spilled inside you calling your name.

“I love you,” you whispered.

“I love you more now than I ever knew I could,” Ari replied.

—--

You drifted for a while. And then his hands started to explore your body again.

“Ari,” you breathed.

“I know,” he whispered, his mouth already at your neck.

“But I need you again.”

This time, he didn’t wait. He rolled you onto your stomach and slid in from behind, one arm under your chest, the other gripping your hip. You gasped, the angle sharper, the stretch deeper. The sound you made drove him wild.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he groaned against your shoulder.

“Even tighter now. Wetter.”

He thrust deeper. Rougher. Every stroke coaxing louder cries from your lips. You reached back for him, nails digging into his thigh, as he fucked you slow and deep, hips snapping with practiced rhythm. You felt every inch, every ridge, and the weight of his need to claim you again.

When he came this time, he spilled into you thickly, whispering your name so angelically. Still, he didn’t stop touching you.

The third time came later, after water, midnight room service, a shower, and quiet laughter as you lay naked on the cool sheets.

You kissed him first, straddled him and took him in slowly, inch by inch, watching his face twist in pleasure.

“Oh fuck, baby,” he rasped.

“Ride me just like that.”

You moved slowly at first. Then faster. Grinding your hips until he couldn’t stop moaning. You came, your hips shaking. He came not long after, gripping your waist, panting into your mouth.

Then it was soft again, warm.

You laid side by side in the glow of the bedside lamp, your legs tangled and your foreheads pressed together.

You whispered about the baby, about how full your heart felt, how weird your body still was, and how you’d never been more in love.

He kissed your wrist.

You touched his hair.

Then, again.

Ari kissed down your stomach and between your legs. Slid his tongue into you and made you cum. And then he fucked you while sitting up, both of you facing the window, city lights flickering against your skin.

The last time, just before dawn, was the least careful of all.

He took you up against the bathroom counter after another shower. Your thighs were wet with slick. The mirror was fogged. And you were dripping down his cock before he even thrust inside.

He grabbed your hair, murmuring filth into your ear while he moved inside you, harder this time, like he couldn’t help himself.

“You missed this too, huh?” he growled. “Missed the way I fuck you? You gonna let me fill you up again, Sweetheart?”

You moaned your answer, half incoherent, and came around him again as he filled you once more, biting your shoulder as he spilled.

You were shaking when he cleaned you up and wrapped you in a towel.

He kissed your stomach as he knelt in front of you.

“I love this body. I love you,” he said again. “Every version of you.”

You barely made it to the bed before you passed out in his arms.

—---

The next morning, you barely had time to fumble with the keys before the apartment door opened. Your mother stood there, barefoot in sweats, cradling the baby against her chest and looking smug.

“Well,” she said, one brow arched as her gaze swept over you and Ari.

“You two look like you just got back from the honeymoon you didn’t take.”

You blinked at her, stunned. Ari chuckled under his breath.

You both did look different. Hair a mess, skin flushed. Your clothes were slightly rumpled from a morning of moving slowly and two pushed back checkouts because you didn’t want to leave that hotel bed.

Your mom’s knowing grin only widened when she took you in.

“You’re welcome,” she added, handing your daughter over with a kiss on her tiny forehead.

“She slept. I didn’t.”

You melted the moment your baby was back in your arms, her little fists curled under her chin, cheeks warm against your shoulder. Ari stood behind you, pressing a kiss to both your temple and hers, his hand resting on your lower back.

“Miss us, baby girl?” he murmured.

She cooed softly, half-asleep.

You and Ari exchanged a glance, melting, again, so in love it was hopeless.

—--

The next few days found you settling into something real, something new.

Your mother stayed for two more evenings, spoiling her granddaughter and watching you both with a kind of quiet satisfaction. Then, Ari’s mother arrived, sweeping in with meals, a silk wrap, and tears the second she held her grandchild.

“It’s not even fair,” she whispered one night, rocking the baby with a smile. “She got all the best parts of both of you.”

After that, the rhythm found its footing.

Mornings became sacred, half caf coffee, nursing, Ari holding the baby over his shoulder while you stole a shower, the quiet hum of domestic life.

Nights were warm and soft and sometimes sexy again.

Not every night.

But enough.

—---

Two more weeks and then it was time to go back to work.

Ari went back to Red Sea full-time. You weren’t ready for that pace yet, not with feedings and pumping and hormones and missing her every time you blinked. So you returned part-time at Muse, easing into editorial again with Trixie at your side.

You also began interviewing nannies.

Ari insisted on being there for every interview, sharp-eyed and surprisingly open-minded. Eventually, you found two who felt right, a weekday and a weekend rotation. Not to replace you. Just to help.

Your first real modeling job came a few weeks after that. Just a short editorial campaign.

You were nervous. But when you stepped into frame, something clicked.

And when Ari arrived at the end of the shoot, the baby strapped to his chest in a soft green sling, his eyes went wide.

“Holy shit,” he muttered, watching you pose with quiet intensity. “That’s my wife.”

The photographer caught him staring, and snapped a candid of you looking down at your daughter between takes, a beam of light catching the ring on your finger.

“She’s a goddess,” Ari said to no one in particular. “That’s my whole world right there.”

He worshipped you that night.

And your daughter giggled the next morning when he kissed you before breakfast, as if she knew that even now, you were still everything he wanted.

——

Love this little family. 🥹

#fic rec

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