Hold my hair!

Tears prickle at the corners of your eyes as you sit in the waiting room, the incessant ticking of the clock on the wall delivering another blow with each beat, with each grating click. You fidget, watching the clock, the nail in the coffin hammering deeper and deeper.

You know the receptionist isn’t judging you. Her eyes are kind, but underneath, you know it’s pity she feels for you. 

Because he’s late again. Always delayed. Always prioritizing his career. Always sacrificing your marriage for another opportunity. Always keeping you firmly planted to the side where his job remains front and center.

He always attends your sessions. He at least makes an effort for that. But after last night’s fight, you’re not even sure your marriage is worth the trouble anymore. The thought makes you ache, your chest growing tight and the tears burning hot now. One slips out and you swipe it away before it has the chance to fall. To become real. If the receptionist notices, she doesn’t say anything, which you’ve learned is a small mercy.

A door opens and your head snaps up. It’s the wrong door. Not the entrance to the comfortable, sparsely decorated waiting room, but the door to the office housing your therapist. Your heart sinks, another fresh tear springing up and threatening to spill over.

A couple steps out. The woman grins at her husband over her shoulder, muttering something. He laughs, snaking an arm around her waist and pulling her back to kiss her cheek. They whisk by you without a glance, touching, holding, cherishing each other. They’re absorbed in one another in a way that’s become a faint, distant familiarity to you.

That used to be you and Marcus. But it hasn’t been for some time. 

“You didn’t even call to tell me you couldn’t make it, Marcus,” you sigh, arms tight around yourself, leaning against the counter just out of his reach. He knew better than to touch you right now.

“I know. I know, baby. I’m so sorry —“ he answers softly, eyes pleading and warm. Almost irresistible.

“Then why does it keep happening? If you’re sorry, why do you do this to me every time?” You demand, eyes stinging. You don’t want to cry right now. You never want to cry in front of him. Because a sick part of you knows he hates it and it hurts him to see you upset. And you don’t want that. You never want to hurt him. “Why can’t you just —“

“Just what?”

“Just — keep your promises! I looked like such an idiot waiting there for you. Alone at a table set for two,” you sucked in a breath when you couldn’t hold your tears back anymore. “The server just looked at me like I was pathetic. Like I’d been stood up by some blind date. She even asked me if it was a first date. And I just lied to her and told her it was. Because I couldn’t bring myself to tell her that no, it’s my husband who stood me up. Not just some random guy I met. My husband!” 

Your chest heaves after your outburst, tears flowing freely. Marcus looks like he’s in physical pain, like every word had sliced through him, down to the bone. 

“I am so sorry, baby,” he says again and takes a step forward but you inch away. He stops, “Please, let me hold you. I’m sorry. I have no excuse. I’m an asshole. Don’t push me away.”

“I’m not the one pushing you away, Marcus. Your job is doing that for you,” you sniff, turning your back to him.

“No, no, no, honey,” he reaches for you again, a hand grazing your bare shoulder before you whip around to glare at him. 

“Don’t touch me right now.”

He clenches his hands into fists, keeping them pinned at his sides instead. You swipe at your tears before looking down at yourself. You were stupid to get so dressed up for a date night you knew would be ruined by his job. But you did it anyway. You wanted to feel beautiful. You wanted to feel like your marriage wasn’t hanging on by a frail, easily snapped thread. Like it was a normal date night and you knew without a doubt that he would show up and you’d have dinner and laugh and be in love and strip each other down when you got home.

The dress was a waste, clearly. Simple. Black. Thin straps, enticing neckline, slit in the thigh. You wanted to look good for him. And you did. You look stunning.

And he hadn’t even shown up. Hadn’t even bothered to tell her he couldn’t make it.

“Why is your job more important than me?” You ask the question you’ve been careful to avoid in your therapy sessions, always skirting around the true issue, always minimizing your pain. Your voice was so small, so feeble, one small blow would incapacitate you. Shatter you beyond recognition.

His eyebrows draw together, jaw clenching. Big brown eyes brewing with heartbreak. You can see it. The realization.

“It’s not. It’s not more important. Nothing is more important than you,” he tells you, voice low, fists still clenched so tight his knuckles are white.

“You love your job. I know you do. I would never ask you to stop doing what you love. I just wish you’d love me too. I don’t want to feel like I come second to some case or some promotion or whatever else.”

You can’t help the sob that rips out of you. The bone deep misery crashing into you. You cradle yourself, arms wrapped so tight it squeezes the breath out of you, as if keeping the last shreds of yourself intact. 

“Honey,” his voice wavers, reaching out to you, fingertips grazing your arms, “Please, baby, I’m sorry. It’s not like that. I swear, you’re — you’re everything to me. Maybe I — maybe I get preoccupied sometimes. I get a little busy. Maybe I lose track of time. But that doesn’t mean my job means more.”

“I ask for one night a week, Marcus. One night where I get you all to myself,” you sniff, “You can’t even manage that.”

“I’ll do better, I swear,” he promises, finally resting his hands on your arms and pulling you into him, but you shake your head and look up at him, eyes burning. 

“You always say that.”

“I mean it. I can’t stand seeing you like this. I don’t ever wanna be the reason you’re so hurt. I’m sorry. Please, don’t –“ he chokes on whatever thought passes through him and you frown.

“Don’t what? Leave you? Divorce you?”

His eyes are so dark and pleading, you wish you hadn’t spoken the words. Wish you hadn’t just confirmed his worst fears. Because you had considered it. He knows you must have thought about it at least once or twice. But to verbalize it is the very same thing as manifesting the outcome.

You can’t look at him anymore, and even though you don’t want to hurt him, you still say it, “Well, maybe that’s what’s best.”

”It’s not,” he says immediately. Firmly. Final.

”How do you know? You’re barely involved in our marriage as it is.” It’s the ugliest thing you’ve ever said to him, and it silences him in the blink of an eye.

You regret it the moment he turns away from you. The way his shoulders shudder, his hand trembling as he drags it down his face. The anguish in his posture is evident. And before you reach out to him, you force your hands to still, reminding yourself that he hurt you long before you hurt him. 

Still. It was a shitty thing to say. But you don’t apologize. He can think on your words. Stew over them, turn them over in his mind until he’s wrung dry with the pain of loving you.

“I’m going to bed,” you say softly, sniffing. The tears have run out, but you know the moment you lie down, they’ll return. They always do. 

He only nods, doesn’t look at you, ashamed. Good, you think. 

You go upstairs, strip out of your dress, the sexy lingerie you’d worn for him, and slip into a pair of his plaid pajama pants and an old FBI t-shirt. You wash your face. Press a cold washcloth to your eyes, and try to push him out of your mind. You can’t, though. Part of you doesn’t want to. The part that’s so hopelessly in love with him, you feel like your chest will cave in with the intensity of it.

The other part, the part that wants to forget, remembers the pain. The humiliation. The loneliness. The neglect. And you want to purge it all from your mind. Everything tainted by him.

You finish getting ready for bed, hot tears slipping down your cheeks before you’re even nestled under the covers. The exhaustion drags you under. And just as you’re slipping away, you swear you can hear the front door closing. And you think it means something. But you’re too tired to understand.

You waited with your therapist for fifteen minutes before leaving. Even though you cancelled the rest of the session, you still paid for a full sixty minutes. You didn’t care. You only wanted to go home, curl up in bed, and succumb to your misery. Drown in the despair of your failed marriage. But you keep telling yourself – it wasn’t you who failed. It was Marcus.

You’re buried under your comforter, consumed by soft down and fluffy pillows, hiding from the weight of your turmoil, when you hear the front door open and close. It’s nearly nine o’clock at night. On a typical evening, that would be considered an early arrival for Marcus, but on your therapy nights, he’s not only missed the appointment, but he’s over three hours late. 

He doesn’t come upstairs right away. You can hear him shuffling around in the kitchen, and you’re dreading the moment he decides to confront you, because you know he will. He didn’t come to bed last night, and you’re almost positive he went back to work after your argument. Good. At least he’ll always have his career to keep him company.

When your bedroom door opens to reveal him, his tie is loose, jacket missing, and his sleeves are rolled to his elbows, you almost flinch with the intensity of his presence. Like he’s the physical embodiment of the culmination of your pain. Right in front of you.

He doesn’t say anything when his eyes land on you, concealing yourself among the bedding, so you speak first.

“You didn’t come to therapy.”

Shaking his head, you can see his jaw clench, his eyes drop to his shoes, and his shoulders slump. “I had some things to take care of.”

You nod, eyes burning, anger pooling in your chest, hot and bright, “Of course you did.”

He sighs your name, pinching the bridge of his nose, “It couldn’t wait.”

“I never can.”

He looks at you then, his eyes sharpening, pained.

“They offered me the promotion.”

You expected as much. It’s the reason his life has been centered around his job for the past couple of years. At first, he’d only been held up a handful of times. It was nothing you didn’t understand and he always made it up to you. You were supportive, enthusiastic even, encouraging him to work as hard as he needed to to get the position. 

Then, he missed one date night, then two. Then several in a row. He’d get home later and later each night until the two of you were simply strangers living under the same roof. You'd never felt lonelier. 

And now, the job that kept him away for so many nights, was within his reach. You were proud of him for working so hard for it. But the bitterness that crept in was unmistakable. An odious, noxious feeling you wanted to smother. You didn’t want to be this person. This kind of wife. But his absence was worse. It carved a hole in you you didn’t think you could ever fill. Not without him. Not if it meant his job would rip him away from you permanently.

“I said no.”

Your eyes snap to his, unsure if you actually heard him correctly or if it was wistful thinking. If your mind was playing tricks on you. Your heart hammers away at your chest, blood rushing through your ears. You’re sure he can hear it.

“Told them I wanted to transfer.”

That makes your heart sink. Transfer. Transfer where? A different city? Is he trying to tell you he wants a divorce after all?

You swallow thickly, slowly pushing yourself to sit up. His eyes are so dark, so unreadable, you don’t know the path his thoughts are taking. When he doesn’t say anything else, you only nod, willing, pleading for your voice to be steady when you said, “So you’re leaving.” 

You prepare for the worst.

With his muscled arms crossed over his broad chest, he scoffs, and it stills your beating heart for just a moment.

“You drive me crazy.”

That makes you scowl, makes you want to jump out of bed and storm over to him so you can slap him. But you remain rooted in place, waiting for him to elaborate.

“I want you to listen to me very carefully,” he begins, his voice low and solid in a way you’ve never heard before. He’s never stern – not with you. He’s always been soft and gentle. Now, the grave look he gives you silences you. “No job, no promotion, no opportunity, no pay raise, or anything else will ever be as important to me as you are.”

Your eyes well with tears, hands clasping in your lap, heart racing. Your skin buzzes with awareness, with the shock of his declaration.

“Do you hear me?” He says, loud and crisp, “Tell me that you understand.”

“Yes,” you answer, voice so frail and searching. You’re not sure if this is real or not. You don’t dare to hope.

“I’m taking over Analytics. It’s still a promotion. But less field work. More delegating. More in house investigating.”

“What does that mean?” You ask, looking down at your hands, twisting your fingers together, gripping the comforter. 

“It means less late nights. Less absences. Less making you feel like you come second to absolutely anything. Because you don’t.”

You’re crying now, your face twisted, hands flying up to hide yourself from him. Ashamed. You never expected him to make such a drastic decision, not when he’s worked so hard for this. You never expected him to abandon it all just to make you happy. The guilt builds in your chest, bursting like a dam. You’d been prepared to divorce him, primed and braced for divorce.

And he’d surprised you.

“Hey,” he says softly, his weight sinking the bed, warm hands on your wrists to pull them away. When he does, he lowers his head to find your gaze and what you see there is warmth and understanding and remorse and it only makes you cry harder. “I can never take back the time that I missed with you. And I’m sorry I let myself get lost in my work like that. I know I can’t repair the damage I’ve done just by saying all of this. It’s going to take time for you to trust me again. But I want —“

He closes his eyes and takes a breath, centering himself.

“I’m sorry I missed our appointment today. I couldn’t get away, but I want to keep going. I need us to keep going. I never meant to make you feel like my job was more important than you. You’re —“ he swallows thickly, eyes pleading, fingers trembling against your wrists, “You’re my entire world. I would quit my job entirely before I let you go. I need you to know that.”

He lifts your hands to his lips, kissing each of your palms, then your fingers, holding them close, eyes squeezed shut like he’s fighting his own tears. You press your hands to his cheeks, making his eyes flutter open to look at you.

“Did you really reject the promotion?”

He nods, kissing your hand again, lowering his eyes, "I did what I should’ve done the second I made you feel neglected.”

“Marcus —“ your throat feels tight when you speak, but you have to tell him, “I never wanted you to choose between me and your job. I’m sorry —“

“Don’t,” he hushes you gently, “It was never a choice, baby. You are the only thing that matters.”

“But you worked so hard,” your eyes burn with more tears, the terrible, aching sensation of dread clouding you, this moment, “You’re going to resent me.”

His eyes soften and he shakes his head, resolute and firm, “Listen to me.”

“I gave you an ultimatum —“ he shakes his head again, cutting you off, letting the words die on your tongue.

You stifle the next sob that threatens to escape, looking at him — genuinely looking at him — for perhaps the first time in months. His eyes are so dark. So warm. Gentle in a way that makes you regret ever looking away. 

“I made this choice. Not you. You didn’t give me an ultimatum. You didn’t tell me to choose between work and you. You were very clear about what you needed, and I refused to see it. Do you understand?”

You nod.

“I did this to us. And I had to fix it, okay?”

You nod again.

“I can’t have you thinking I’m not completely and totally in love with you.”

You can’t help it. You let out a laugh. Partially a sob, and a huff of air. A breath you’d been holding in since the first missed date night. The tension in your body melts when he wraps you in his arms, still seated on the bed next to you, your legs buried under the comforter. He holds you so tightly, so securely. You never want him to let go.

You burrow a hand in his hair, turn your head to kiss the side of his neck. He pulls away, giving you a beseeching look.

“Can I kiss you?”

You don’t hesitate, nodding, diving into him before the sentence is even fully formed on his lips. He meets you there, and it’s the best kiss you’ve ever shared. It takes shape quickly, dripping with desperation and longing and sorrow. You taste the remorse on him as he licks past your lips, threads his fingers in your hair, tips your head back. It’s hungry and deep and searching for salvation.

You’re the first to begin undressing him, pulling his tie loose and working on the buttons of his shirt as he continues to pour his entire soul into the kiss. He shrugs out of the shirt and breaks away when you start yanking his undershirt up his body. He does the same to you, both of you shedding everything in a matter of seconds.

When you’re both bare from head to toe, and he’s settling between the valley of your welcoming thighs, hand braced next to your head, he just looks at you. Takes you in. Scrutinizing the details of your face like he hadn’t done for some time. 

“I love you so much,” he whispers like it’s a secret he’s been keeping to himself. More tears spring to your eyes and you pull him down for another kiss, his stiff cock brushing your slick folds.

You whimper as he breaches you. It’s been so long since he’s touched you this delicately, this tenderly, or at all for that matter. His job has consumed every moment of his life, leaving little to no room for you. The lack of intimacy between you and Marcus an unwelcome side effect of his burgeoning career.

The sting of him pressing into you makes you gasp, your walls clenching tight. You break away with a whine, clutching at him, arching your body into him. He moans into your neck and flexes his hips.

“Never gonna let you go,” he mutters, sinking into you further. Your eyes flutter shut, and then you feel the brush of his thumb against your cheek. “Open for me, baby.”

You look at him then, and the adoration and truth behind his words strikes you, makes you shudder underneath him. It breaks you open in a visceral, raw way that has you pulling him impossibly close. He drops to his forearms, the weight of him covering you, grounding you. 

When he starts to move, his lips are on you. Your neck, your breasts, your cheeks, anywhere he can reach. In turn, your hands roam his body, feeling the muscles of his back tense with each thrust, nails digging and hips meeting. 

He’s slow and deliberate at first, making you feel every thick inch of him the way you were always meant to. But when your pleasure builds, his desperation eclipses anything tender and slow in favor of power and depth. You come on his cock with a cry of his name, chanting how much you love him, how you never want him to stop.

He’s right behind you, careening over the edge so fast, you’re unprepared for the intensity of it and the aftershocks it delivers. Marcus remains seated inside you as your breaths even out, pressing delicate, intentional kisses across your shoulders, up your neck, until he reaches your lips. You clutch him to you as though he could slip away at any moment, reveling in the attention he willingly gives.

Neither of you speak as he slides out of you and collects you in his arms. You can’t even remember the last time he held you like this, and it makes your chest ache at the lost moments his career stole from you both. You nestle against him, he tightens his arms around you, likely dwelling on the same misgivings.

His thoughts are loud, the tension in his body not quite eased. You look up at him and he’s already staring down at you. Forlorn, somber eyes greet you, and you kiss his jaw.

“I’m not perfect,” he says quietly, “But I want to be. I’m trying to be  – for you.”

The twinge of his admission is sharp and prominent. You press a hand to his cheek, “Marcus, I never wanted you to be perfect. I just wanted you.”

He frowns, and you know exactly what he’s thinking. Exactly how his insecurities are burrowing under his skin, darkening his thoughts.

“Tell me,” you say, kissing his jaw again.

“I almost lost you. I hurt you. And I didn’t even see it. I’m a fucking idiot.”

You don’t want to lie to him. But you also don’t want to tell him how his neglect had plagued you. How it wrung your self-worth completely dry. How lonely you were. How unloved. But you also know that neither of you can heal unless he knows. Unless you’re honest with him too.

So you tell him. You watch his face fall, his eyes shimmer with unshed tears, then close because hearing how deeply he’d wounded you is unbearable. His grip on you tightens, fingers threading in your hair.

And though your marriage is far from perfect, and you two have a lot of ground to cover before it’s  as strong as it once was, you’re hopeful.

Because for the first time in months, maybe even years, you fall asleep with your husband at your side.

:)

tags: @milla-frenchy @isabellaboo2025

You'd woken up with it your first morning in the Razor Crest. The soft hum of it was hard to locate at first. You lacked the tools to deactivate them. You were as sharp as a whip with technology. 

A skill you wouldn’t use in a long time since you were taken. 

He had plans. He wanted to find a home planet. Preferably somewhere adequate to raise his children and continue his life with you. The holopad he conspicuously left out in the hull while he was out one evening was full of data files on hundreds of mid-rim planets.

Most of the planets he landed on were among those in the holos. They were safe, quiet, and isolated. Once you had found the pad, he checked which images you would stare at the longest, which descriptions you would read with rapt attention.

He shakes his head remembering the first thing you did with the holopad. Immediately locating the communications feature and finding it disabled, the transmitter chip at the back of the device thoughtfully missing. 

He would watch as you would glance outside of the ship, your stare would wander often when the ramp was open. You clearly had a preference. Your eyes would glimmer in regions with cooler temperatures, lots of trees, deciduous and changing with the seasons.

You dozed off to the soft sounds of animal chirps and rainfall when he would leave for a bounty. 

By the fifth month of your Razor Crest residency, he lost his patience. He thought finding a planet would come easier. Some were perfect but the people were too hostile. For some, the people were peaceful but the planet was too unpredictable. 

He was tired of your lack of communication. The moment you were alone with him, the room grew deadly silent. The only sounds that would react to him were of Grogu, coincidentally the only person you willingly interacted with. 

Despite this, you were still pliant. Your pregnancy had made you sick early on. He’d make you food, soothe your back, bring you ginger tea and other higher quality rations he’d use extra credits on to make sure you were comfortable. 

He started to condition you to get used to his presence; the way he could make you feel. If only you would give him easier leverage.

You would often hear him pleasuring himself, murmuring about how you looked so beautiful carrying his child. How you would look so pretty all cock-dumb and fucked out over his bed in a real home.

You would try to sleep after, but you couldn’t help but think of the way wetness dampened your underwear and how a part of you thinks back on how he pleased you back in your home. Before you realized his plan to take you.

You’d stare half awake at the panels above you. Shifting uncomfortably against the small bunk that only seemed to get smaller as your belly grew.

He broke the silence one day as he was making portions. He stated how he had enough credits to buy an isolated cottage near farmland, of which planet, he didn’t say. Sleeping Grogu was taken out of your arms and tucked into his metal bassinet. With a press of a button it was closed shut, leaving you alone with 'Din'.

You'd spoken directly to him a couple of times since your kidnapping. He revealed his name to you the day you had woken up. Despite your anger, the fear, and the desperation to be free, you often caught yourself thinking of it.

Who would have known a bounty hunter to have such a simple name. You loathe the fact you would have chuckled in any other circumstance. 

You blinked up at him in confusion as the baby's pram closed shut. He sighs wistfully. As he sat down on the blankets and pillows he set up on the floor as a makeshift common area in the Crest, he reached for your hand.

You let him pull you down against him. He’s strong enough so that he could position you any way he wants without your assistance. He pulls his helmet off, the magnetic connection between it and his flightsuit hisses as it deactivates. He motions for you to pick up the plate of food he set on the small wooden tea table he had found in a market somewhere.

“We’ll be home soon,” he soothes as you eat slowly in his lap, pieces of his armor digging into your body. His cuirass was cold behind you, making you shiver. 

You look back at him, eyes blank. He just smiles and caresses your cheek briefly with a swipe of his thumb, a slight chuckle escaping him at your ‘pout’. His hands skim over your tunic and stop on the swell of your belly, lightly tracing it up and down with the tips of his fingers.

He cups the underside of the bump, his nose pressing against the side of your neck.

Your defeat was present from the beginning. You never fought back, barely argued. Things couldn't have gotten much worse than life in your village, barely able to make it through a work shift without passing out from dehydration or starvation.

Chills run down your spine and goosebumps start to rise. He holds you against his chest for a couple of minutes, urging you to continue eating. Breathing in the scent of your hair and lightly caressing your belly.

Then his hands move further down to caress over your mound, you shiver. A shot of pleasure goes up your spine. He continues to ‘accidentally’ rub against you in between his praises of how well of a mother you’ve been, especially to Grogu, whenever he was gone.

You were throbbing by the time you were done with the portions, mumbling that you were full to excuse yourself away from the table. 

That prompted him to ask you to feed him spoonfuls in return. He didn’t want to put anything to waste. It felt very intimate, especially with the way he loudly chewed next to your ear and groaned as if he were eating something gourmet, almost mimicking the sounds he made when he last had you in your bedroom back in your home planet, his mouth to your cunt.

The baby gave a sudden cry in his pram, you were grateful for the respite, especially as Din was starting to graze over your inner thighs to spread them. You excuse yourself to the restroom and curse yourself. It was the hormones, it had to be. You shouldn’t be this affected by his gentle touches otherwise.

He’s been doing the same technique for a little over a month afterwards. Grazing over your ass as he walked by, ‘accidentally' cupping your breasts and lightly squeezing as he mewled over your bump. Having you sit over his erection whenever you ate 'together' and the baby was napping in his soundproofed pod.

You hate the way your body responds to a simple touch on the shoulder and jumps to imagining him thrusting into you against the side of the hull.

It gets worse when you are finally 'home'. He was able to get his hands on a small cottage. It was far from the other housing units in the town, not quite secluded but not as neighborly. Despite the isolation, he didn’t allow you to even step outside the door. He said it was too dangerous.

You questioned him, considering you were a long way from other people. He never answered. Instead, he would hold you close to him and reassure you that it was safer for you and the baby.

Grogu was off to school, taken by his father almost every day. He wasn’t fussing constantly over him.

The one positive from being stuck ‘home’ was that he was barely there. You rarely had moments where he would make you want to rip his armor off and feel his skin on yours like the months before.

You had more time for yourself. To acclimate to the sudden shift in your center of gravity as your seventh month of your unexpected pregnancy began.

He was often away to earn credits working odd jobs. He'd leave you with the promise that soon, if you complied instead of ignoring all of his advances at becoming a family, you too would accompany him out one day.

He didn’t like the idea of keeping you as if you were a nanny to his children. Just a doll he could stare at and fondle. It was unbecoming of him and yourself.

But because you were currently pregnant and you didn’t reciprocate his kisses and affection, he thought it was best to keep you where you were. You had enough time alone to think about ways to escape, but with your growing condition the thought was dissipating quickly. You felt tired, nauseous, heavy. Your feet were swollen and even thinking of the months to come made you dread even thinking of being alone. In some sick way the bastard has debilitated you in this form.

Though that didn’t stop him from praising you. He likes to watch as you start to waddle around, chasing after his son, now yours, and play with him. Pride surges in his chest when he watches Grogu pat your stomach in question and you softly explain how there was a tiny person growing inside.

“The villagers have been asking for you,” he says one night, his shoulder leaning against the doorway to the restroom as you apply cream to your face in front of the mirror above the sink. 

You hum absentmindedly, looking anywhere but the reflection as he steps closer behind, wrapping his arms around you. 

“Is that so?” you question sarcastically. He ignores your tone.

“Mm.” He slumps over you, resting his head on top of yours. His eyes lower to your stomach and his brows furrow.

Skimming past your third trimester you outgrew all of your old clothes, including those of the man behind you. His stare made you fidget. You feel embarrassed as you try to tug the tunic as far down as it can go. A sliver of your skin still peaks through.

Tears well and blur your vision, you try to look away from his now worried gaze. Your hands move to cover your face as sudden emotion floods through your body, an unstoppable wobble from your lips gives you away. He stops your hands from hiding your face quickly, asking you what was wrong.

“My clothes don’t fit,” you whine. You think of how stupid you must sound. The way you could be thinking of many other worse things that he’s done to you, and you think to complain about this.

“I’m so big. I'm just so...,” you sigh weakly, hands fluttering over your body in an exasperated gesture. His grip tightens on your hands reassuringly and he presses a kiss to the side of your head.

He’s always liked his women with meat on their bones. He liked the thought that your body was changing because of him. Seeing you now, insinuating that you're not the most beautiful creation the maker has ever made, made his eyes twitch in irritation. Not at you, of course, but of the way you view yourself, of how people may have led you to believe.

In his culture women are respected as if they were goddesses. They are the foundations of their kind. Seeing you now look at yourself in disdain made him feel like a failure. He failed to take care of you as a spouse should.

All because he never touched you properly, fully and with his full intentions, he thinks. He's teased you for months, never going farther than a few raunchy touches.

He kisses up your neck and you freeze. His hands wander downward, under your stretchy maternity pants and underwear. His hand was so large that you could see it straining the seams of your pajamas.

“You’re beautiful,” he says as he flicks his wrist to palm over your mound, grinding it against you. You gasp as he continues, watching over you through the mirror as you twitch and lean your back further into his chest.

You sigh shakily as he inserts a thick finger inside of you. Then another as your eyes close shut tightly. The sound of your slick cunt resounds around the small room, your hand makes its way behind his head, pushing his mouth against your neck and shoulder.

He nips and sucks, groaning as he feels your walls squeeze around him. His palm grinds down harder, a quicker rhythm that makes his hand sticky with your arousal. He presses his pelvis forward, allowing you to feel the outline of his cock against the plushness of your ass. 

He brings you to climax easily. Your legs threaten to collapse but he catches you.

The rest of the night he praised your body, your caring personality. Often mentioning how you would be such a caring mother to your next child and children.

You were barely awake and on the verge of passing out. You felt as if you exerted yourself trying to keep up with his burning touches. You don’t think you’ve ever been cared for as much as you have been with him.

“Tomorrow we’re going into town to get tunics.”

He presses himself against your back maneuvering a pillow under your body which lays on its side.

He finally presses a kiss to your lips as he pushes a strand of hair from your face. He smiles as he sees you respond back weakly, your eyes closed and lips slack in a light pucker.

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I'll upload parts every Wednesday! Next one will have actual full-length smut. I'm a tease, I suppose.

Love at First Sight Masterlist

Taglist (hopefully it works chat):

@vanessalovesonedirection

If you’ve read this all the way, here is your little treat