Ayo Edebiri — Met Gala 2025

Ordinatio {Marcus Acacius x F!Reader}

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 15.4k

Warnings: Political intrigue, force/arranged marriage, mentions of infertility, vaginal fingering, rough sex, unprotected sex, breast play, nipple biting, riding, talks of family planning, pull out game, attempted theft, brutal attack, Marcus going feral, mentions of pregnancy, betrayal, gladiatorial violence

Comments: Forced to marry general Marcus Acacius, you are ordered by your emperors to spy on him in order to make sure that he is not indulging in traitorous acts. Quickly falling for the war roughened solider, you must risk the wrath of the Emperors in order to possibly have a future with him.

Co-written with @storiesofthefandomlovers

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|| MasterList || Marcus Acacius MasterList ||

Click Keep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says 'creator chooses not to use warnings'. You also agree that you're the right age to be consuming anything here.

Swallowing harshly, you wait for the carriage to stop in front of the palace that towers over the city below on Palatine Hill. The shuffle of the Praetorian guards always makes you nervous, they answer only to the emperor and would kill anyone they deem a threat. It’s nerve wracking to be summoned so late at night that the torches that normally light the streets were burned out and the silence makes echoes through the darkness. Your cloak covers your hair, hastily fashioned when your household was disturbed merely an hour ago. Just the order that you were to appear before Geta and Caracalla as soon as you dress. The carriage had been waiting outside and your servant was pushed away when she tried to join you. Leaving you alone with the guards to travel just outside the city. Everything looks ominous at night, maybe it’s because your late husband so often spoke of the rot beneath the surface, but you still shiver. Jumping slightly when the door opens and you are helped out and directed to follow the flowing cape of the guard into the large palace.

You are escorted through the halls until you enter a room to the side of the court, the fires burning and casting shadows on the marbled walls. You stand there, two guards on either side of the door, and you are there for several moments until the Emperors both stride in and you bow your head, heart thumping as you await the reason why you’ve been brought here in the middle of the night.

You shiver when you see the two most powerful men in all of Rome. Uneasy by their almost manic expressions as Geta practically giggles. “This will be perfect, Caracalla.” He coos, stepping unreasonably close to you and gripping your chin so he can examine your face. “What do you think?”

“She will be perfect.” Caracalla giggles, eyes manic and they inspect you, dragging up and down your body. “He will not be able to resist her once she is in his possession.” You frown, not liking where this could be going. “You are to marry General Marcus Acacius.” Geta declares and claps, you resist the urge to pull your chin from the Emperor’s grip. You open your mouth before you think better of it, allowing the Emperor to continue, “you’ll marry him and report back to us any conversations or exchanges he has with anyone in the Senate or the army.” Geta orders and you cannot withhold your tongue, “marry the General to spy on him?” You ask and Caracalla giggles, “yes.” Geta sighs, “your late husband was a good man. Misguided in his views to an extent but we know he would’ve married a good woman. You are still young, it is sad to see you widowed.” You don’t buy their false concern for your being. “And the General?” You question softly and Geta continues, “we fear the General has become too…influential in court and in the Senate. We wish to discover if he has plans to establish a coup. We wish to avoid killing our General if we can. Perhaps you could…influence him to withhold any plans of attack.” Geta hums and Caracalla smirks, “with your cunt.” Your chin is finally released and you offer them a stiff smile, “the General is not a stupid man, he would recognize the ruse.” You say, knowing you’ll be killed if you refuse. No one denies the Emperor of Rome.

“He will not if we order the marriage. He still mourns his wife and child. Perhaps giving him something outside of war will mellow him from any unwanted…advances to the palace.” Caracalla raises his eyebrows, “do you not think you are up to the task?” He dares you and you swallow, “I- I will not disappoint you.” You promise, praying the idea fades with the sunrise and you can continue living in your villa without need for a husband. “Excellent. We shall inform the General of your wish to marry once the sun has risen. You may go.” Geta dismisses you with a wave of his hand. “Yes, Emperor.” You bow your head and back towards the door until they say your name, “fail us and you will be fed to the lions.” Geta warns and Caracalla’s shrieks of delight echo off the marbled walls. You nod, bowing your head again and you rush out the room once the guards open the doors. You have to make a plan to survive, to escape from under the thumb of the Emperor.

Marcus sighs as he adjusts the cuff around his wrist. It’s elaborate and unnecessary. Just like the laurel wreath he wears in his hair. The trappings of Rome had once held appeal when he was younger, brasher. When his wife was here to greet him with a lusty kiss and promises of pleasures far beyond what he had imagined while laying in his cold tent outside the battlefields. Those dreams had long since been buried with her and the child she had suffered to bring into the world only to be lifeless when he slipped from her womb. Leaving him alone to focus on war and follow orders. Orders that he is increasingly uneasy with, the regrets of battle following him and the weariness of the continuous fight weighing on him. Roman conquests need to be countered with prudence, allowing the people to flourish in other parts of the realm instead of just the grandiose of the capital. He taps his hand on his knee as he waits, looking out over the olive trees in the gardens below and he wonders what war the emperors have decided to wage now, the senate unwilling or unable to keep them in check.

“Ah General Acacius, thank you for joining us.” Geta crows as he swaggers into the room, Caracalla’s eyes manic and a grin on his face as he approaches Marcus. “Emperors.” He bows his head after he stands up, the laurel flashing in the sunlight coming through the linens covering the balcony. “So glad you could come on such short notice. We have some wonderful news to share.” Caracalla smirks and Geta continues by saying your name. “She is the widow of Senator Gracchus?” Marcus tilts his head, recognizing your name and he knows you from events thrown in the palace. “Yes. She is young, widowed at such a young age with no father to oversee her. She must marry again. And she will marry you.” Geta declares like it’s an honor.

Marcus pauses, his jaw tightening slightly and he clasps his hands together in front of his robes. “That is…..a great honor.” He says stiffly, immediately opposed to the idea, but he has to tread carefully with the emperors. They are impetuous at the best of times and have never learned how to accept rejection. Why would they have to when the world bows to their whims? “I fear that I would be unable to provide for a wife of such a status.” He adds, making it actually sound as if he has regret. “I spend so much time away from Rome, fighting for my emperors.” He sighs. “I fear that the young widow would not be happy with a husband such as I. Perhaps one closer to the senate might be more suitable?”

“She does not wish to have another senator husband. She wants protector. Someone who can provide for her in ways other than coin. She expressly wishes for a gladiator and you are our most prized fighter. You are worthy of a high bred woman like her. Consider this a reward for your loyalty to Rome.” Geta insists, not letting Marcus push off the marriage. You must marry him. “A union like this will bring our fighters good spirit so they win our battles. Knowing they too could possess such a woman would motivate them to fight harder. The people want to see their General happy and we-” Geta gestures between him and Caracalla, “wish to award our greatest fighter with a grand prize. She is self sufficient, running her late husband’s household which we will assign to his brother as he had no direct heir. She will ensure your home is cared for and warm your cock at night.”

There is no way that he can reject the woman without offending the emperors. It seems as if he has no choice right now but to accept this. “You honor me.” He bows slowly, seething inside. He doesn’t know you, he doesn’t want to know you. He has no need for a wife and can have all the companionship he desires if he just wants his cock warmed.

A horse neighs as a soldier brings news from the palace and you scramble when your servant brings you the scroll. You quickly unroll it, praying to the gods that you have been released from your duty and your shoulders drop when you read that you are to marry Acacius in two days time. Your villa will be transferred to the hands of your brother in law, Albus, as you are to move into the General’s villa. You fall into your chair as you reread the scroll. It’s over. You must marry and you are to be under the control of the Emperors. You could run, try to escape into the countryside but you know they would find you. No one escapes Rome. No matter how far you go, you will be found. You swallow harshly, tears stinging in your eyes, and you look up when Antonia enters, “is everything okay, matronae?” She asks and you nod, sniffing to control your emotions. “I wish for you to pack my things, I am to be wed to General Marcus Acacius. I will need to relocate to his residence after we are wed in two days' time.” You declare and her eyes widen, knowing of no existing relationship between you and the General. “Ye-yes, matronae.” She nods and rushes off, leaving you to wallow in your unfortunate luck.

“I will not do it!” The crockery shatters against the marble walls of the villa. The servant who had just brought the meal scurrying out of the room in order to avoid Marcus’s wrath. His chest heaves as he looks at the ruined meal, food scattered and his situation still just as hopeless as it had been moments before. “Fuck.” He hisses, dropping back onto the chair and reaching for the cup of wine that he hopes will drown his sorrow. He will be married in two days’ time. Another wife to bear his name and his children. He scoffs to himself and puts the wine to his lips. You had not born Gracchus any children so perhaps you are barren. It would be the gods favoring him if you were. He has no desire to have children, to leave a legacy behind. The pride he had for Rome had slowly eroded away over the years and campaigns, leaving him with a hollowness he can never tell anyone about. “Fuck.” He slams the cup down and rubs his hand over his face. The villa will be ready when you arrive, the servants already informed, he just needs to accept it himself.

You bid goodbye to the servants that you’ve overseen since you arrived at your late husband’s villa. They look sad to see you go and you take that as a compliment. You sigh and only Antonia follows you as you are helped into the quadriga as you depart for the palace. Your hair styled by your servant and the red veil placed over your head as you ride to your fate. The General will be waiting for his bride and you pray you don’t disappoint him. You’ve seen glimpses of him but you’ve never been able to properly look upon the man. “All will be well.” Antonia promises as she reaches for your hand to squeeze it. “I hope so.” You whisper, knowing this will be a life or death situation for you. When you arrive at the palace, you are helped out of the carriage and escorted up the stairs to the doors to the grand hall. You glance around, “am I not allowed to see my intended before we wed?” You ask the guard who doesn’t say a word. You swallow harshly and Antonia rubs your arm before she checks your long tunic, ensuring you are a beautiful bride. “Thank you, Antonia.” You murmur and she offers you a sweet smile, “I will be with you with every step, matronae.” She promises and you squeeze her hand and take a deep breath just as the doors open to reveal a grand hall full of the members of the court and Senate. The Emperors standing on the balcony with what seems like the entire Roman Empire watching below as General Marcus Acacius stands there dressed in white with a golden laurel atop his head.

Of course Geta and Caracalla have turned this into an ostentatious event. He would have preferred something intimate, or nothing at all. However, the emperors had other plans and invited the entire senate to witness the marriage. Marcus doesn’t flinch, standing tall and watching as you walk towards him. The red veil covers your face and he can make out your features as you move closer. You are a beautiful woman, but he’s never paid much attention to another man’s wife. Now you will become his wife.

You inhale deeply as you take a step up to the balcony and the General holds his hand out to help you. You thank him softly and the Emperors grin. Marriage is usually informal, decided upon between families and within the home but the Emperors planned for a spectacle. “We welcome you here to witness the marriage of a great Roman General, Marcus Acacius. He is to wed the widow of Senator Gracchus.” Geta announces and Marcus releases your hand. The marriage scroll is laid out on the table and you have no dowry. Lacking a father along with your late husband accepting your dowry, you have nothing to give but yourself. A fact that the general doesn’t seem to care about. The crowd cheers and the court claps, making you feel more like you’re about to become Empress than the general’s wife. “Let us witness their union. A gift from Rome to her greatest warrior.” Geta declares and the crowd cheer, making your hands shake slightly. “Now, join hands.” He orders and you nod, joining your shaky hands with Acacius who frowns as he grips your hands in his large ones.

Marcus doesn’t like the idea of you being a gift. Not caring for the implication you are being forced, even if both of you are. The whims of the emperors must be met. Your hand is small in his, soft. You are a woman of nobility, you are not used to rough men. That is what he is, despite the finery of his costume. He remembers a different wedding, a lifetime ago in the small parlor of his late wife’s house. He had been so excited then, and now he is hesitating to say the words that are expected. “Ubi tu Gaius, ego Gaia.” He murmurs, his voice low and clear.

You swallow harshly, your throat dry as the Emperors look to you expectedly. You look at

Acacius and lick your lips. Caracalla shifts, his eyes narrowing slightly and you manage to choke out “ubi tu Gaius, ego Gaia,” to seal yourself in marriage to the general. The Emperors grin and you know there’s no escaping this fate. Your union must be sealed with a kiss so you let go of Marcus’s hands and wait for him to lift your veil.

Marcus stares at you. Almost surprised to find that you are so young. He feels much older compared to your youthful beauty and he leans in, pressing his lips to yours in a brief kiss while everyone around erupts into cheers. The marriage contract will still need to be signed, but the two of you are married in the eyes of Rome.

The cheers roar in your ears but you blank it out, focused on the rough looking man in front of you who is now your husband. The Emperor snaps his fingers and his servant carries over the papyrus that will be the marriage contract between you and General Acacius. “Please sign to join in matrimony with your intended.” Greta orders you and you swallow, picking up the pen to sign your name on the marriage contract. Your hand shakes and you hesitate, not wanting to marry the man beside you but you have no choice. Caracalla stares at you, a menacing look on his face that has you scribbling your name in fear of the consequences of not marrying the General. You look up to see the grin of glee on the Emperor’s face and you stand up, handing the pen to Marcus.

Sighing softly, Marcus leans over and scribbles his name beside yours. Making the marriage contract legal and binding. You are now his wife in truth. “Excellent!” Geta claps his hands together. “Now we will slaughter a dozen pigs, sacrificing them to the gods for a blessed union!” It’s excessive and disgustingly wasteful, making Marcus curl his lip slightly. The animals would not feed anyone, and people in Rome were buckling under the expense of war.

You want to suggest a cake for Jupiter but you will not argue with the Emperors. You swallow harshly and the Emperors clap, approaching the balcony edge to declare the union. The crowd cheers, “feliciter!” and the Emperors spin around to both cheer, “let us feast.” You look at Marcus whose jaw is clenched and you bite your inner cheek, imagining he is not pleased with you, you are not young enough, pure enough. You have no dowry to provide. Perhaps you’re not pretty enough for him. Lacking in all aspects. You don’t have time to dwell on it when Antonia comes for you to prepare you for the feast. You look at Marcus as you are taken away and he nods, his laurel shining like he’s Mars himself standing there.

He has a wife. A woman that he knows nothing about is now under his care and carrying his name. He receives the congratulations of the Senate, aware that they are all just as confused as he is by the speed and celebration of the events. Especially when neither he nor you look particularly happy. Marcus had noticed how nervous you had seemed and had wondered if it was because of the emperor’s attentions or if you did not care to be under a man’s thumb again. He is aware of the way the two most powerful men are carefully watching him as he shakes hands with the senators, keeping his conversations brief because he knows Geta and Caracalla would rather be feasting than talking. They love to drink and carouse, and he hopes that the wedding feast they have prepared will not turn into the orgies they are becoming known for.

Antonia removes your veil and restyles your hair for the reception. She reaches into the pocket for the bottle of perfume oil, rubbing it into your skin to refresh you and you exhale shakily, realizing you are married once again. “I hope he is not cruel.” You confess to Antonia who shakes her head, “I spoke with one of his house servants, he is strict but does not hit them. I pray to the gods he treats his wife the same.” She whispers, knowing that most nobles would smack her for speaking as she does but you request her candid nature. “Very well, let’s return and feast. I am anxious for wine to calm my nerves.” You confess and Antonia nods, escorting you to the hall where the feast is being laid out for the guests.

Marcus has not yet sat down. Always finding it rude when a man would put his own comfort before that of his wife. While training with him, he had heard stories of Maximus’s devotion to the woman he had loved, the care in which he had treated her when she was alive before Commodus had her brutally murdered. He had treated his first wife the same way and had been rewarded with the loyalty and love that he had cherished when he was away. Eyes turn towards you when you arrive and Marcus is once again struck by your beauty, your slight apprehension as you look around for him and the surprise that he is not already feasting.

Antonia escorts you to the table where your husband sits alongside the Emperors who are gulping down wine like it’s going to evaporate at any moment. Antonia bows her head and rushes off to the servants area, watching you while Marcus pulls your chair out and gestures for you to sit. “Thank you.” You murmur, taking your seat and he sits down beside you, his posture stiff as you look at the food on display. “My Emperors have been most generous in their hosting of our union.” You declare to Marcus so Geta and Caracalla hear you, wanting to ensure they are in good spirits so you can leave the feast earlier than expected.

“Yes.” Marcus finds it to be a lavish expense that is completely unnecessary, but so many of the Emperor’s decisions cost the people of Rome. “The excess is very abundant.” He picks up the cup of wine that is at his plate and offers it up in a toast. “To Rome and her glory.” He offers. “And our Emperors that make it so.”

“To Rome and her glory.” You toast and Caracalla giggles, holding up his golden goblet. “And your Emperors.” He adds with raised eyebrows. “And her Emperors.” You declare with a stiff smile. You know you are playing a dangerous game with the manic leaders. Any moment they could change their mind and have you killed. You doubt you’ll be able to report anything on the general. He seems reserved and only speaks when he feels he has something of substance to add. He doesn’t speak at all while you enjoy the meats, cheeses, and fruits on display in front of you. You gesture for another cup of wine when Caracalla tuts, “you really shouldn’t drink so much. It’s unbecoming of the bride to be drunk when she takes her husband’s cock for the first time.”

Marcus’s brow arches up, wondering why the emperor is so invested in this marriage being consummated. Your fingers pull back from the cup as if you are being rebuked and the servant pulls the carafe of wine away, but Marcus turns around to take it himself, refilling your cup. “There is no celebration without wine.” He reminds them, refilling his own cup as well. “She has been a wife before, she knows what is expected of her.” The truth is, he has no intention of bedding you tonight, he doesn’t know you and he feels as if you don’t want him. This is a marriage that was forced on both of you by the whims of madmen.

Your eyebrows raise slightly at the defiance shown by Marcus. Something that would’ve gotten him killed if he were of a lower rank. Geta stares as Marcus takes a sip of wine and you follow your husband, taking a gulp as the Emperor tilts his head. It’s Caracalla that breaks the tension by throwing his head back and laughing, “this is true. She is no virgin. She has been trained and therefore should satisfy our great general before he has to venture off to claim more land for Rome and her people.” The Emperor grins and raises his goblet towards you. You offer him a stiff smile and glance around the room at the court and senate feasting while the people of Rome suffer for their gluttony. The feast continues with Geta and Caracalla standing up to mingle around the room, wanting to boast about their perfect match. “Shall we return to your villa? I am certain you wish to bed me and get some rest after such an arduous day.” You ask your husband softly.

He nods, figuring that he could speak with you in private without guards or servants around. It is rare to be able to speak freely. “Your possessions arrived earlier today and my servants unpacked them, but I am sure you wish to have things set up to your liking.” He murmurs as he stands up and reaches for your hand. “Do you have many servants coming with you?”

“Just one. Antonia. The others were my late - were Gracchus. They belong to his brother now.” You reveal and he nods as you take his hand. It’s calloused and engulfs yours, making you apprehensive that such a strong man could easily break you. You approach the Emperors and bow your head as your husband announces your departure.

Geta chuckles and nods. “Eager to fill her.” He claps Marcus’s shoulder and motions for the two of you to leave. “I do not blame you for wanting to feel the clutch of her cunt around your cock. The spoils of your latest conquest.” His shrill laughter grates on the general’s ears and he doesn’t do more than simply nod. “We have much to do.” He agrees.

Marcus escorts you through the bustling hall, Antonia and his own men on your trail as he takes you to the carriage that is waiting to bring you to his villa. Marcus helps you up into the carriage and you settle in to watch the city pass by on your silent journey to his villa. “I know that neither of us wanted to be wed but we must do what is required of us so we do not endure the wrath of the emperors. I wish for you to bed me tonight. To consummate the marriage as I do not trust that the Emperors do not have eyes watching our moves. If we fail to indulge them in our union, we will suffer.” You whisper, keeping your face turned away from your husband.

Marcus snorts softly and sighs. “I do not rape on a battlefield and I would not do so in my own bed.” He tells you. “We can send the servants away and say that we have fulfilled our marriage duties.” He knows you are uneasy so he doesn’t touch you. “I will not take a woman by force or coercion.”

You turn to look at him, his face flickered with each lamppost you pass, and you are surprised. Most men would have accepted your offer to have a warm cunt to spill inside without any care to how you feel or what you wish. “Thank you.” You whisper, knowing in that moment that the stories of the brutal warrior that fights for Rome has not returned to her streets. The man beside you is slow in his movements and you realize that he’s trying not to spook you. “I am no stranger to married life and I have heard that you were married too. I am sorry for the loss of your wife and child. I cannot - I cannot imagine-” You reach for his hand, “I lost my husband but I did not love him. My father arranged the marriage to guarantee his connections to the senate and we never were blessed with children. He was older, I was his third wife after his previous wives died from disease and a snake bite. He was unlucky and I do miss his companionship but I never loved him.” You confess, wanting your husband to know your history.

“Then you have my deepest sympathies that your second marriage is also not of your choosing.” Marcus looks down at your smaller hand in his and there is a moment where his heart jolts. You are soft and sweet and deserve much more than him. “My uxor- we loved each other very much. She was everything to me.” He admits. “I had thought to never marry again after burying her and our son.”

You squeeze his hand, “I’m sorry that you’ve been pushed into this but I want you to know that I would never try to take her place. This is an arrangement forced upon us. Your wife will be your true love. I am here to help with your household and provide you with a confidant if that is what you wish for.”

“You are a beautiful and youthful woman.” He murmurs honestly. “You won’t want to find pleasure?” He asks, wanting there to be honestly between both of you if this union is to be successful in the eyes of the Emperors. “What do you want out of this arrangement?”

“I want freedom. I have been running the household for a year and I wish to have my freedom, to not be under the control of my husband’s whims. I will provide for you a stable household and in return, I want to spend my time indulging in painting and needlework. My hobbies.” You confess, “and for pleasure…I have never known such a thing other than from my own hand.” You admit, “you cannot yearn for what you have not experienced.”

Marcus is stunned that you have never known pleasure. He would be lying if he did not immediately think to offer to show you pleasure. He could give it to you, he knows that. Even the whores that he sometimes uses that follows the army find pleasure with him. “I am gone from the city much of the time.” He reminds you. “The household is more yours than mine. The servants will do what you tell them to. Your time is yours to decide how to spend it.”

You nod, letting go of his hand, “thank you. Then we are in agreement. Our union will be one of convenience and to satisfy the whims of the Emperors. I will not sully your name by seeking pleasure from others.” You promise, “and I understand if you find your pleasure while you are away.” You’re a pragmatic woman, you know men need to find their pleasure.

“That will not happen.” Marcus admits. “It would be dishonorable to take another woman to my bed while you are my uxor.” He has a code that he follows. Even if he did not want to be married, he will not tarnish his reputation by seeking pleasure somewhere else. “I have a hand.”

You frown, knowing that most men would take your invitation and find the first whore to bury himself in. "Very well. We shall live our lives...together but separated." You declare just as you arrive at Villa Acacius. Marcus opens the door and holds out his hand, helping you out and you look up at your new home. It's not as grand as the Senator's home but it is beautiful. You enter the courtyard and smile at the servants awaiting your arrival.

Marcus normally allows the servants to run his household, not carrying much about the schedule of things as long as the place is clean. Now you might change things so he leads you over to them. “This is your new matronae, my uxor.” He introduces you. “She will oversee your work and any changes she wishes to make are to be treated as if they came from me.” He orders.

The servants nod, greeting you and some are more enthusiastic than others. “It’s a pleasure to meet you all. I want to observe during my first days here and then I will discuss what I’d like to change with input from you all on what you consider to be best.” You declare and some are shocked that you are considering their opinions. “My job begins tomorrow. For now, I’d like to retire to our rooms.” You declare and Antonia steps from behind you, “this is Antonia, my handmaid. She will be continuing her duties by my side.” You announce and the staff nod.

Marcus is pleased with the way that the introductions went and he turns around to stride off towards his room. He knows that you will have to sleep there, with him, but he needs a moment to change out of the cumbersome robes he had worn to get married in. Preferring a plainer, softer tunic when he is home.

You watch him go and Antonia is speaking with the women who give her a briefing on your new home. Antonia nods and turns back towards you, “let us get you ready for bed, matronae.” She says and you follow her to the room near where Marcus is changing. The room along from there is the bedchamber and you close your eyes as Antonia takes your hair out of its style to allow you to relax and you’re soon wearing a thin tunic, ready for bed. “I hope he treats you well, matronae.” She murmurs and squeezes your hand before she leaves you. You inhale shakily and enter the room you will be sharing with the general to find him standing there, shoulders broad in the thin tunic and he is looking to the streets below. “All is well?” You ask, letting him know of your presence.

Marcus turns and is struck by your beauty as he sees you in the simple tunics and your hair down. The jewelry is gone and you look like you are much younger than your years. It makes him feel older all of a sudden and he wonders again why the emperors would give you to him. “As well as can be expected.” He answers, watching as you look towards the bed warily as if you expect him to break his promise from earlier and throw you down on it. “I will sleep on the floor.” He assures you, making you drown. “That is not- it’s your bed.” You protest and Marcus snorts. “I have spent many nights sleeping on a rocky ground without a blanket.” He reminds you. “A floor with cushions will be a luxury.” He shrugs. “I wish to put you at ease.” He admits. “I will not take what is not offered, and you have no reason to offer if you find no pleasure in fucking.”

You stare at him and sigh, “I do not wish to cast my husband from his bed. We are well aware of the sexual act and what it takes to copulate. We can be adults and share a bed so you do not wake with an aching back.” You announce as you walk over to the bed. “I am weary. It’s been a long day. Get in bed and sleep, Marcus.” You order, not wanting to argue about this.

He stares at you for a moment and there is a hint of amusement that softens his features. “If you were a man, you would make a good general.” He hums, moving to the bed and throwing back the soft, clean sheets. “Come rest.” He urges once he has sat down.

You nod and sit on the bed, swinging your legs in and you pull the sheets up after Marcus slides under them. “I know I wasn’t what you wanted but I want to make this work.” You murmur and he hums, “we will.” He promises and you sigh, closing your eyes after he blows out the candle. You will need to report to the Emperors with something about him at some point and you already feel like you’re betraying him. “Goodnight.” You whisper and close your eyes as you fall asleep within moments, unable to worry about being in a strange place when you are exhausted.

Marcus lays in the darkness, listening to your breathing as it starts to slow down. The soft rustle of the sheets when you move. Looking over at you as the moon casts a pale glow through the sheer curtains covering the balcony. It’s a curse that you are so beautiful right now, since it has been some time since he has had a woman in his bed. His cock twitches as he imagines touching you, but he doesn’t reach out. Turning away and looking at the stand where his sword is displayed, sighing softly as he wonders how long it will be before the emperors send him off to war again.

You may have fallen asleep right away but you wake in the middle of the night. The moon is high in the sky and it takes you a moment to remember where you are. You inhale sharply when you remember you’re in Marcus’s villa. In your new home. You exhale and lean back onto the bed, looking over at the muscular back of your new husband. He’s handsome, no denying that fact, and he’s strong. Capable. Smart. All qualities to want in a man. You wonder what his desires are. He hasn’t been married for 20 years and you wonder who he fucks. He can’t be celibate. He’s a general. You’re not stupid enough to think he hasn’t slept with whores. You wonder if he pleasured them or simply took what he wanted. You can see his golden skin illuminated by the moon, moles and scars mapping his life before you and you can’t help but reach out to gently trace a path, your touch feather light. He grunts and you withdraw your hand, eyes wide at the idea of being caught. You sigh when he settles back down and you lean back on your side. Staring up at the ceiling, you imagine him giving you pleasure. You’ve read about it plenty of times but your late husband always fucked you to fill you. There was never a day in bed pleasuring each other. He had business to attend to in the senate and he didn’t have time for silly things like making his wife cum.

Marcus had woken up the second you touched him. Feigning sleep as he waited for you to slip from the bed. Only to feel you roll away from him and sigh. He wonders if you are regretting this, if you are doubtful of your future even though you had seemed to trust him enough to fall asleep. You grunt quietly and sigh, like you are thinking about something that is uncomfortable. “What keeps you awake, uxor?” He asks quietly in the dark.

His deep, sleep laden voice makes you squeak and you turn to look at him, his back still facing you. You bite your lip, wondering if you should lie or tell him the truth. You are no longer a young innocent bride. You were a widow, matured by loss. "I was wondering if you pleasured the lovers you've had during your time of being a widow." You declare, cheeks burning but you speak without wavering.

Marcus grunts slightly, the sheets rustling as he turns over to look at you. His dark eyes searching your face for some clue of what you are thinking. “Unless they cry out to gods falsely, I would say yes.” Marcus tells you, not bragging, but speaking honestly. “I do not like false attempts to flatter me and I prefer that a woman leave my bed with a smile on her face.”

You appreciate his candid response and you decide to be bold. You sit up, shifting to look down at him and you drop the sheets from your body. "I have never cried to the gods. My last husband would penetrate me without caring if I was wet enough before he would push into me. He would spill inside me and then go about his day, leaving me with my legs up in hopes of conceiving his child. He never - he never gave me pleasure or made sure I was enjoying myself." Marcus makes a noise of disappointment but you don't let him comment when you quickly add, "I want you to fuck me. Like you would a camp whore. I want you to make me cry your name so every god will hear me on Capitolium."

Pushing up to his elbow, Marcus stares at you seriously. “The camp whores are used to…rougher sex.” He warns you. “After war, after the killing- the urges to fuck are rough. There isn’t the pretty lovemaking that is slow and sweet.” His cock hardened even now thinking of it. “It’s hard and deep. Enough to steal your breath and make your tits shake from the force of my thrusts.” He arches a brow. “Are you sure that is what you want? I am sure your senator husband didn’t fuck you like I would.”

His words combined with his deep voice makes your cunt clench and dampen, and you lean closer to him, "my husband didn't make me see stars. He didn't make me cry. I want you to fuck me like you do those whores. Make me scream for all of Rome to hear. I can handle it. I can take it."

This time, the kiss Marcus gives you isn’t chaste. It’s not a quick pressing of his lips to yours to appease the Emperors. This is wet, carnal. Lunging forward and capturing your lips with his and sliding his tongue into your mouth as he rolls you onto your back. Completely and instantaneously taking over as his fingers reach for the hem of your tunic.

You gasp into his mouth, tongue meeting his and you whine when he breaks the kiss to drag your tunic up your body, tossing it down on the marbled floor. You shiver as the cool night air hits your skin and he shifts to kneel, his dark eyes looking down at you. You look up at him and reach for the hem of his tunic, already tenting with his arousal. "I want to see my husband."

He has no problem being naked, revealing himself for you. He pulls his tunic up and his cock catches, starting to bob as he pulls it up over his head and tosses it aside. “Spread your legs for me, bella.” He growls, his voice raspy and full of command. “Let me see my wife’s cunt.”

You are already wet just from the strength he displays and you whimper, spreading your legs for him and your slick is shiny in the moonlight as you put yourself on show for your new general husband.

Marcus groans, his large hands squeezing your thighs and then moving down to your hips, holding them as his thumbs spread apart the lips of your sex and his cock twitches. Sliding his fingers through your folds until he is circling your entrance with two fingers until they are wet with your desire and he pushes them inside your slick walls. “Perfect.”

You moan when his thick digits push into you, stretching you out. Your hands itch to touch him so you reach down to wrap your fingers around his cock. “Not yet.” He growls, batting your hand away and you whine, both in frustration and pleasure as he starts to move his fingers. Slowly pumping them until he’s twisting his wrist so he can press his thumb against your clit. “Gods.” You gasp, your fingers gripping the sheets.

Leaning down, he bites at your nipple before running the flat of his tongue against it when you gasp. It makes him smile, the shocked sound you give. “You should see men suckling the tits of whores as they bounce on their cocks.” He groans against your skin. “They all love it, the men, the whores.” He continues to pump his fingers deeper into your cunt and loves how your walls start clenching down around them.

His words are scandalous but you gush at the thought of watching a scene like that. Something so sordid. “Marcus. I- do it again.” You beg and he obliges, leaning down to suck on your nipple before biting down. “Oh gods.” You whimper, your hips tilting as he works you higher and you feel that familiar feeling in your stomach. Something you’ve only ever done for yourself.

“That’s it.” He encourages you, his cock throbbing as he presses his thumb against your clit and pumps his fingers deep, curling them up inside you like one of the whores of his youth had shown him. He had been grateful to her ever since when he had been able to consistently please the women he was fucking, including his wife when he had married. “Why don’t you cry out for me, uxor?”

Marcus’s words send you over the edge. His claim of you both verbally and physically has you clamping down on his thick digits. “Oh fuck.” You curse, soaking his fingers when you cum harder than you ever have in your life.

He isn’t the type of man to just stop as soon as you start to cum. Continuing to work his fingers into you as he watches you come apart. Groaning quietly as your slick coats his fingers and slides down his wrists. You are wet enough now.

He takes your breath as he works you through it. “Marcus. Please.” You beg, wanting to feel him inside you, “I need you inside me.” You reach out to wrap your fingers around his cock, pumping him like Gracchus taught you.

Marcus hisses, batting your hand away and for a moment you freeze, afraid you had done something wrong. “It had been too long.” He growls, grabbing your hips and flipping you over to your stomach to pull your ass up in the air. “I need to be inside you before I spill.”

The position is new and you gasp in surprise, looking over your shoulder at your new husband who has his cock in his hand, pumping himself as he smacks your ass with his free palm. “Fuck me.” You demand, arching your back to display yourself for him.

“You would make such a good camp whore.” Marcus growls, shuffling forward to line up. It’s not exactly a compliment to most high born women, but he doesn’t think you will take offense. His hand is on your hip as he presses the head of his cock at your wet entrance to push inside you in one, hard thrust.

He stretches you like you’ve never known but it doesn’t hurt. You moan in pleasure as he twitches inside your pussy, making you whimper his name. “Marcus.” You pant, “move.” You demand and he chuckles, “so desperate.” He pulls his hips back, leaving only the tip of him remaining before he pushes deep into you in one quick thrust. “Fuck!” You yelp, loving how he feels.

He chuckles and grips your hips harshly in his hand as he rocks into you. Watching as your body arches back as he pulls his hips back, withdrawing again. He had told you he wouldn’t be gentle with you and he is keeping his word. “Now you will cry my name.” He vows, pushing forward again to fill you up and rock your body into the bed beneath you.

He takes your breath away, feeling like he’s in your stomach and you cry out on every rock of his hips, falling forward onto your cheek as you grip the sheets that are crumbled beneath you. “Fuck, Marcus.” You cry, feeling your body jiggle with each thrust.

He had almost vowed that he would not touch you but he could not resist your request. Your body is so willing, so yielding to him, making him groan as he plows into you over and over again. Listening to your moans as he fucks you.

His hands squeeze your flesh and you are lost in the sensations. No one has made you feel like this before. “Gods, you’re - you’re so thick. Stretching me out, husband.” You whine, rocking back onto him.

He growls in pleasure, snapping his hips forward again and again. He won’t last long, he knows that. It’s been too goddamn long since he has fucked anyone. Leaning over your back, he slides a hand between your thighs and starts to rub the little pleasure button above your grasping entrance. “You are such a needy whore.” He coos in your ear.

His words make you squeal when combined with his fingers on your clit and it doesn’t take long for you to fall apart. You cry out his name loud enough that the servants will hear and your thighs shake as you clamp down on his cock.

“Shit, shit.” Marcus hisses in pleasure at how you soak his cock, rocking his hips through your pulsing orgasm. His body starting to tighten as he works himself closer. Pulling his hand away from your clit and grabbing your hips. Slamming his own against your ass for another few thrusts before he is ripping free of your cunt and taking his cock in his hand. Pumping furiously as he starts painting your ass with hot ropes of his seed.

You huff in disappointment when he spills hot cum on your ass. You wanted him to fill you up, to experience it. Not to become with child but to feel him. You look over your shoulder as he relaxes from his orgasm and he’s so beautiful. Jaw clenched, nostrils flaring, he looks like a god.

Marcus squeezes your hip with the hand that is still holding you and sighs. “Fuck.” He pants, feeling completely blissed out. Slapping your ass once before he is shuffling off the bed to reach for his tunic to clean your ass off. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

You rest your cheek against the sheets as you let your body lay flat while he cleans you up. “I did. Why didn’t you- did you not wish to spill your seed inside me?” You ask curiously, looking over at him as he walks naked across the room, the moonlight highlighting his form.

Marcus picks up the pitcher of wine and pours a cup. Turning to you with a slight tilt of his head as he starts to pad across the floor back to the bed. “We have not talked about children.” He reminds you. “I did not want to fill you if you did not want to risk carrying my child.” He never spilled inside the women he fucked, always pulling out. When he started to cum, he had just acted on instinct. He takes a sip of the wine and offers you the cup.

You take the cup from his hand, thanking him soft and you watch him as he sits down beside you. He’s so broad. You imagine him protecting you, defending you. You shift closer to rest your head on his shoulder, feeling closer now you’ve consummated your marriage. “I do not mind children. I am not sure I can have them. Gracchus…he spilled inside me every time and it never took. Would I disappoint you if I do not provide you with a child?” You ask softly, pulling away from him so you can look at him.

“I …..never imagined having another child.” Marcus tells you honestly. He looks over at the sword on the display and then back to you. “If you never give me a child, I would not think it was because of you, but because the gods did not wish it so.” He rationalizes. “One day, I will leave and never return home, fallen in battle.” He accepted his fate a long time ago, made peace with it. “If you have no wish to risk carrying, I will spill my seed on the sheets.”

You barely know the man but to know he could die in battle makes your heart clench. “I’d like you to spill inside me if you wish to have me again. I enjoyed the pleasure. I want to feel you and if it takes, then we will be blessed and you can fight knowing your legacy will live on.”

Marcus chuckles. “You are a beautiful woman, one the gods would be envious of.” He tells you. “I am just a man. I would have you every night and at least once during the day if you were willing.”

You fluster, biting your lower lip as he compliments you. Your late husband never did so. “I will not complain if that is what my husband wishes of me.” You declare and he reaches out to grip your chin, “it is not about whether I wish it of you, it’s if you wish to have me.” He says and you look into those dark eyes, “I want you if you want me.” You promise and he slides his hand down to your neck, inhaling deeply. He never expected to fall into bed with the woman that was gifted to him but he finds himself eager to bury himself inside you again and fill you up. “Let us rest, corculum.” You say as you stand up to set your wine cup down on the table and you make your way back to the bed, sliding under the covers still nude.

Marcus hums in agreement and slides back into bed beside you. Pulling his arm back to allow you to curl against him if you wish. “I don’t mind.” He tells you when you hesitate. “We will rest and know that no one can claim we have not consummated our vow.”

You curl into his side, listening to his breathing even out and you focus on his heartbeat. You’re here to spy on him, to ensure he’s not hurting the empire with a coup but you aren’t sure if you can betray him like that. He’s already gotten under your skin. Eventually, you close your eyes and decide to see how things go. Perhaps it’s only rumors and there will be no evidence of Marcus Acacius’s unrest with Rome and her emperors.

****

Marcus groans, toes curling as he thrusts up into you. Watching as your breasts shake, mouth dropping open in a low moan of his name. It’s been nearly a month and he is still in Rome. The Emperors claim they want their general well rested for the next campaign and to give him time to spend with his new bride. He has enjoyed that. Since that first night, you have become insatiable and Marcus has fucked you in every position, on every surface of the villa. Spending more time with you than anyone else although you do disappear with your servant at times, claiming you prefer the peace of the women’s baths in the city center. He doesn’t begrudge you that, although he misses the time when you aren’t with him. He slaps your thigh, smirking when you clench down around him. Riding his cock is probably your favorite way to have sex and he doesn’t mind, your beauty entrancing him as you gallop towards the Elysian Fields of pleasure. “Cum for me, amica.” He moves to rub your clit like you enjoy, having learned your body well over the past weeks and his other hand drags your body down so he can suckle at your tits.

“Marcus.” You gasp, tangling your fingers in his hair as he bites down on your nipple and the change in angle has you falling apart for him. His fingers rubbing your bundle of nerves has you shaking and you have never known such ecstasy. You rock back onto his cock, trying to work yourself through your orgasm and spur his but it’s so much. Your thighs shake as you collapse on top of him, smothering him as you moan his name. He moves fast, rolling you over so you’re beneath him, his jaw clenched as he looms above you, his hand gripping your thigh to push it towards your stomach so he can work himself deeper inside your pulsing cunt. “It’s it, fuck. You are so deep. Keep going. Want you to fill me with your seed.” You order, watching him as he grunts. The last month you’ve been indulging in your new husband but as you look up at him, the guilt looms. Your trips to the baths have not been truthful. You’ve been to the palace to inform the emperors about Marcus’s interactions, his meetings while he is in Rome. You hate betraying him, wish you could go to the palace and tell them you’re done, but you know the emperors would have you killed for insolence and treason if you dared to deny them. So far, Marcus has met with a few senators at his home, discussing the mounting cost of the endless war, the endless conquests that have sent the Roman people into poverty. That idea alone is treason to the empire, to question the decisions of the emperors, but they haven’t dragged Marcus from his home. They are waiting for something and you don’t know what that is. Marcus reaches for your hand, lifting it above your head to bring you back from your thoughts and you moan, squeezing him inside your pussy. “Want you to cum for me, Maritus.” You order, sliding your free hand up his chest.

He groans, his thrusts stutter and he starts to give himself over to your command. Life with you has been so rewarding, so free. He has done nothing more than drink wine and have sex with you. Feeling more relaxed than he ever believed possible. The emperors had truly blessed him when they had forced the marriage and he can only hope that he had treated you well enough that you look on your union favorably. Every day he has spent with you has brought you closer to his once guarded heart and he knows that he would die for you. Having fallen for you sometime between the hours spent in bed and the conversations you have while you indulge in your hobbies. Often you would sit outside under a shaded tree and watch while he trains in the courtyard. Making him proud when you later attack him and beg him to fuck you after he is done and his sparring partners have been dismissed. It makes him think of a simpler life, leaving the army and moving out of the city to work a small farm. Leaving the intrigues of Rome behind.

You slide your hand up to caress his cheek, his grip on your hand tightening as he pulses inside you, painting your walls with his seed. “Marcus.” You whisper, wanting to tell him how you feel. You believed him to be a heartless brute from the stories you’d heard about the general but he’s shown you nothing but kindness. He’s funny, he’s smart, and he is loyal to Rome. Not her Emperors, but the Empire and you admire that. You know he risks his life trying to associate with the senators to try and quell the Emperors’ need for more land, more blood. You don’t want to betray him any longer. Tomorrow, you’ll go to the palace and try to end the task you’ve been given. You can no longer betray the man you love. He turns his head to kiss your palm and you offer him a loving smile, wanting to spend the rest of your life like this.

Marcus pulls out of you gently and rolls to his back, pulling you against him. He has learned that you enjoy the closeness after sex. The lazy conversation that can be shared after you are exhausted. Your last husband cared little about your thoughts and he can only wonder how foolish Gracchus was. You are far more insightful than anyone would believe, brains behind your beauty matching most of the officers under him. “You enjoy your baths, but have you always wanted to live in the city?” He asks, his fingers stroking your spine slowly.

You caress his chest as you throw your leg over his, enjoying the closeness. “Not always. I’ve imagined a little farm in the country. Growing my own fruits and vegetables, maybe even some vines to make wine. Peace and quiet and away from the hustle of the city. When I married Gracchus, I was barely grown, and I imagined having children and watching them run free in the country.” You confess, “what about you? Your position in the city is close to the gods. Only the emperors and senate sit above you. Would you ever give up that power?”

He hums, happy that you are sharing with him. “I am weary of it.” He confesses quietly. “I have never wanted power, fame or adulation. I want to live simply. Quietly.” He had hoped to save for a little farm when he was married to his first wife, but he had given up those dreams when she died. Now that yearning was starting to build inside him again. “Would you be happy to live that way with me? Without children?”

You smile, leaning in to kiss his jaw, “I’d follow you anywhere. With or without children.” You vow, “if you wish to leave Rome, I will be by your side.” You promise and he turns his head to kiss you, his tongue sliding into your mouth and you moan at the way he devours you. “Insatiable.” You tease when you feel his hand trailing up your thigh to your cum slicked folds. “For you, always.” He promises and you giggle as he flips you onto your back, a growl escaping his lips.

****

You are reading a scroll outside under the olive tree, watching Marcus as he trains, and you turn your head when Antonia comes into the garden with a scroll. “Matronae, your presence is required at the baths.” She says your code and you sigh, shifting to stand after you hand her the scroll. Marcus pauses his training to look over at you, “Maritus, I will be heading to the baths.” You declare and he sets his sword down, striding over to you to cup your cheek, pressing his lips to yours. “Be careful.” He demands and you nod, pecking his lips as you step back and Antonia follows you when you enter the villa to prepare to leave.

Marcus sighs and reaches for the cloth to wipe his sweat away. “We are finished for today.” He decides, suddenly restless and uneasy about you leaving the villa. He’s not a man who ignores gut feelings so he decides that he will change and go out. If he happens to be near the baths that you frequent, it will be a coincidence.

You glance around the street as you make your way down the cobbled streets that lead to the baths before you’ll detour to the palace. You look over your shoulder, feeling like someone is following you and Antonia will wait at the baths to keep your cover. She doesn’t know what you’re doing but she keeps your secrets. You turn your head back to the street and moments later, your coin purse is grabbed from your belt and you are shoved to the ground. You hiss, hands grabbing your belt to stop them from robbing you but the man slaps your face, causing you to cry out. You keep hold on the coins and the man hits you again, grabbing your arms and you know he’s bruised you with his grip. He wrestles you as he grabs your belt and yanks, desperate to get the pouch of coins from your body. You scream for help, trying to slap the man and Antonia jumps on him but he swings her off and she hits the ground with a thud, a dazed look on her face.

The moment Marcus hears the scream, he knows his gut is right. The hood over his head is thrown back when he breaks into a sprint down the street. Citizens and slaves alike turn towards the sound, but Marcus ignores them, turning the corner to see a man on top of you, drawing his hand back to hit you. “Arghhhhhhh!” His screaming war cry distracts the man, giving him time to tackle him off of you in a red hazed fury. Enraged that someone would dare attack his wife, Marcus Acacius begins to hit him, over and over again.

You scramble to sit up, your body aching as Marcus hunches over the man, hitting him over and over. The crowd watches in shock and you are frozen as you witness your husband’s ferocity in person. He hits the man over and over until blood is pooling on the cobbled street and you scramble to stand, swaying as you approach slowly. “Marcus. Marcus. Maritus. Please -” You collapse back to the floor, your body aching as you struggle to stand and Antonia crawls to you as your eyes roll into the back of your head.

Your servant's cry is what breaks through the focused rage. Turning to see you pass out and he immediately abandons his task. Dropping the unconscious man back to the cobblestones to scramble over to you. “Uxor.” His bruised and bloodied hands are gentle as he cradles you, scooping you up into his arms. “Get a hippocrates.” He demands, his eyes filled with rage that you have been hurt. “Have them come at once.” He turns and starts to run back up the streets, carrying you back towards the villa.nmm

Marcus carries you through the streets and your head lolls as you regain consciousness in his arms. "Maritus?" You whisper, head throbbing and he stops walking to look at you in his arms. "You're awake." He murmurs, "we must get you home. A hippocrates will be there soon." He promises and you nod, closing your eyes again as he carries you until you're set down on the bench in the entrance of Marcus's villa.

Soon the servants are scrambling, fetching cool water and clothes when he orders them to. The wine is brought and he urges you to open your eyes and drink some, knowing you must be in pain. “What happened?” He asks, ignoring his own injuries as he starts to lift your dress to check your body.

You gulp down the wine and look at your husband, "he came from nowhere. He - he wanted my coins. From my belt. He was trying - he hit me. Over and over. Threw Antonia. Where's Antonia? Is she okay?" You demand and your servant steps forward looking worse for wear but okay. "I am fine, matronae." She promises and you sigh in relief. "He slapped me and pushed me down. I wouldn't let him take the coin and he was hitting me until you came and Marcus, oh carissima." You gasp, looking at his bloodied knuckles.

You reach for his head but he shakes his head, “I am fine.” He insists, knowing that he has been through much worse. A few busted knuckles is nothing compared to battle. “Where do you hurt, uxor?” He asks softly, wanting to make sure that the hippocrates examines you thoroughly.

"My head and my back. That's where he hit me. He was - I was so shocked. I should've fought harder." You shake your head and Marcus cups your cheeks to examine the tender skin from the hits to your face. Luckily the bastard didn't break the skin. "You were brave. Most would've simply given him the coins." He murmurs and you nod, wincing when his thumb presses against your tender flesh.

“I should have killed him.” Marcus growls. “The guards will hold him, but I will have to go speak to them about your attack.” He won’t leave you until you are being examined, unless you want him to stay. “I should have sent one of my guards with you.” He murmurs guiltily.

Your eyes meet his guilty ones, “do not think that way. I have never been attacked before and I had Antonia. You did nothing wrong. I will wait for the Hippocrates.” You murmur, knowing he wants to go speak with your attacker.

He is stubborn, staying with you until the man he had summoned is ushered into the villa. “She was attacked.” He explains. “I want her examined and treated. Nothing is to be overlooked.” He leans down and presses his lips to yours briefly. “I will leave you to his care and return shortly.”

You nod and watch Marcus leave your rooms as the man asks you what happened. "I was attacked. The man hit me over the head several times and pushed me to the ground." You reveal and the hippocrates asks you to remove your tunic so he can inspect your injuries. "Your husband wishes for nothing to be overlooked." He says and you wince as he pushes on your lower back where you fell. He asks you several questions and you pause when he asks when you last bled. You frown, counting until you realize you have missed your bleed. "It could be the stress of the marriage and moving and-" The hippocrates hums, "perhaps but you must be careful in case you are with child. We shall wait and see if you miss your bleed again." You nod, knowing you must take care and you slide your hand down to your stomach as the hippocrate applies a salve to your tender aches. You redress after the hippocates leaves and you are confronted by palace guards. "You are being summoned to the palace." Antonia tells you and you nod, wincing as you take your cloak and let the guards escort you to the palace. Marcus is not there to argue your presence and no one says no to the emperors.

Marcus watches as the guards bring the criminal into the cell, smirking at the swollen features of the man. “You fucked up.” He tells the poor bastard. “You assumed to rob a noble woman, not realizing who she was married to.” The man whimpers, both from his injuries and the implication behind the words. “Who does she belong to?” He scoffs, trying to appear like it makes no difference to him. The guard holding his shackles chuckles. “You beat Marcus Acacius’s wife.” He tells him.

You arrive at the palace, guided to the room to wait for the emperors and you bow your head when they stride inside. “Ah, we heard news that you were attacked and your husband protected you. That is why you did not arrive. We trust you are well.” Geta says and you nod, “tender and bruised but not gravely.” You declare and they smile, nodding, “we are glad to hear that but we want to hear news of your husband. We hear that he met with Senator Brutus.” Caracalla tilts his head and you raise your chin, “I will no longer speak of my husband’s meetings.” You declare and Geta raises his eyebrows. “Excuse me?” You clench your sore jaw, “I will not speak of my husband’s affairs any longer.” You announce and Caracalla laughs, throwing his head back. “The insolence.” He spits after his smile drops. “I love him. I do not wish to betray his trust any longer.” You say defiantly and Caracalla growls, “you cunt. We are going to have you killed for your treason.” He hisses and you stand tall despite your heart pumping. “No, no. We gain nothing by killing her. Let’s invite her maritus to witness her betrayal.” Geta smirks and you gasp, “no. No. He can’t know.” You plead and Geta smirks, gesturing to his guard, “chain her and send someone for Marcus Acacius.”

Marcus watches as the criminal starts to cry, begging for his life as he contemplates the punishment for this man. He should have him killed, but in truth, the man is less than a plebeian, begging and scrapping by for survival. A result of the emperors foolish taxes to support their war mongering. Because his wife was the victim, he can choose the punishment. “He will serve in the army.” Marcus decides. “Since he has a need to plunder, he can do so in the name of Rome.” He doesn’t believe the man would survive long, but he will have food and a bed until he does die in battle. “General.” The cell door opens. “The Emperors demand your attendance at once.” The head guard for the Emporers is the one speaking, making Marcus wonder what has happened now.

You are shackled when Marcus arrives, striding into the hall and his brow furrows when he sees you chained. “What is the meaning of this? She’s injured.” He growls at the emperors who had waited for him to arrive. “Your dear wife has a secret.” Caracalla grins manically, clapping his hands. Marcus frowns, “secret? We have none.” Geta smirks, “oh she does. She’s been spying on you. Delivering details of your meetings directly to us. You see, we were concerned about your influence in the army, we wanted to ensure you were not planning a coup. Your dissatisfaction with our regime has not gone amiss and we know you have been vocal about this with the senators. We simply had to take precautions to maintain our status in the empire. We had your precious uxor spy on you. We ordered her to marry you and she has delivered on our orders until today. Today she suddenly has loyalty to you.” Geta scoffs and Caracalla rolls his eyes.

His brow furrows when he hears the accusations and his eyes find yours, stomach twisting when he sees the guilt and truth of their words in your eyes. “Marcus, please-“ he turns his head, his heart twisting, ignoring your plea as he faces the two emperors. If they know the conversations he has been having, he is dead anyway. “Rome is crumbling beneath our sandals.” He implores them. “The weight of the campaigns is heavy. Today, she was attacked by a man who can no longer afford to feed himself because of the taxes imposed for the war chest.” He doesn’t look over at you. “The poorest of Rome suffer heavily.”

You watch Marcus condemn himself and you shake your head. The Emperors stare at him and you swallow harshly. “You shouldn’t have - Marcus.” You whisper and Geta stares at him while Caracalla growls. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t - I didn’t want to but they threatened me and I- I love you. I never wanted to do this.” You promise with a cry.

Marcus doesn’t look over at you, waiting for his Emperors to determine his fate. Gets curls his lips into a cruel smile and claps his hands together. “I have the best idea for his punishment.” He cackles. “He will compete in the gladiatorial games!” His wide eyes swing towards you. “And she shall watch!”

Your eyes widen, “no. No. You cannot do that. I am the one who betrayed him. I am the one who refuses to continue spying. Don’t let him- he is a good general. He’s fought hard for you. Please. Take me. Don’t let him fight.” You plead on Marcus’s behalf.

They wouldn’t listen to you anyway, they never listen, but Marcus shakes his head. “If the emperors wish for my life to be fought for in the arena, then they will have their amusement.” He answers them, making them smirk as their personal guards surround him.

You shake your head, tears in your eyes as Marcus is dragged off and so are you. Taken in opposite directions and you are pushed into a cell, shackled, and you sob for your husband. For the life you loved with him that is now gone. Even if he survives the arena, he won’t want you. You have betrayed him. You don’t know how long you’re in the cell with nothing but dirty water until the cell door is opened and you’re dragged out by the guards.

“We cannot have you looking like a prisoner.” Caracalla titters as he smirks at your dirty and disheveled appearance when you are brought in front of him and Geta. “So we must clean you up.” He snaps his fingers and a female servant appears. “Wash her. Dress her in robes that will hide the chains.” He orders. “You will be sitting with us, isn’t that fantastic?” He asks. “The best view in the house as your dear Marcus fights for his life.” He tilts his head. “And yours.” He adds menacingly.

You are numb as you are cleaned and scrubbed by the servant, dressed in a clean tunic and she wipes your tears after she hides the chains beneath your robes. “It’s time.” The guard declares as he opens the doors and you try to swallow the lump in your throat. You ride to the Colosseum with tears stinging your eyes and you’re dragged up to the balcony where the Emperors are sitting on gold thrones, matching manic grins on their faces. “So glad you could join us.” Geta chuckles and you are pushed into a seat beside him, your chains rattling but hidden. You refrain from glaring at him, clenching your fists, and the crowd roars as Marcus walks out onto the sands. Your breath catches and you want to close your eyes, pretend this is a nightmare. “And who is my husband fighting? What man could match my husband’s skills?” You ask the Emperor and Caracalla chuckles, “not man. Men.” You inhale sharply as four men walk onto the sands.

The armor that he wears is his own, the subtle needling of the emperors’ visible to the crowds but unknown to all but those he had conspired with. The message that even an honored general of Rome, a man who had spent his life fighting for her glory, was not immune to the will of her emperors. Turning to the stands, it is easy to spot Geta and Caracalla, both of them laughing and drinking, merrily watching men fight to the death. His eyes find you, the horror written on your face making him pause as he brings his sword up over his heart, signaling his fealty to Rome. He turns and honors the men who will be fighting him, knowing that they have no choice in their fight and accepting that they will do their best to kill him. He had always known he would fall on a battlefield, he had just never assumed it would happen in the Colosseum.

Your heartbeat is deafening in your own ears as you watch the men rush towards Marcus, his sword swinging within seconds and you are terrified that he’s going to be killed. Your battle worn husband has fought many during his life but you worry he will die today in Rome, the Roman people witnessing his death. A symbol that even a great general can be taken down. “Please. He didn’t do anything. He’s fought hard for you.” You beg Geta, who scoffs, “by conspiring with others?” You shake your head, “to protect Rome and her people. Not against you.” You plead your husband’s case but it falls on deaf ears as your husband takes one man down.

This is needless. Marcus pants, gripping his sword firmly as the next man attacks. Crimson spilling from the man in the dirt and being mixed into a bloody paste as the general blocks the lunge, his foot shuffling back and he almost trips over the body.

You gasp when he stumbles and one of the men swipes his arm, cutting him. “Marcus.” You whimper, not wanting to scream and distract him. He grunts and swings back, the man crying out when his arm is chopping off. “Please, maritus.” You beg, needing Marcus to win.

Another man rushes him while the man he had just injured drops his sword to grab the bleeding appendage. Causing him to shift focus and move to the other man, grunting out when he grabs the man’s arm as he swings his sword down and shoves his own blade into the gladiator’s belly. Watching as his eyes widen when the pain registers and he realizes he will die on the hot sands.

You gasp when he has one man left to kill. The Emperors frown and clap as expected when Marcus takes down another opponent. The remaining man swipes at him again and you are on the edge of your seat as you watch your husband fight for his life.

The last gladiator is obviously the most skilled. He was smart too, using the other men to exhaust Marcus as he fought for hard minutes at a time with little break between attacks. The days of little water and no food leaving the general much weaker than he would be under normal circumstances, no doubt planned by the emperors to make sure that he falls today. Marcus barely jumps back in time from a swipe of the sword, the tip dragging across the armor covering his stomach and he feels his resolve weakening. There is no point to continue.

You choke when the sword cuts close to his stomach and you stand up, yanking on the chains that bind you. You try to walk towards the balcony but you stumble. “Marcus! Marcus! You must fight, Maritus. Fight for us! For our baby!” You shout, pleading with him to fight for his life.

The roar of the crowd is loud but he hears your voice. The shouting cuts through the din and he stumbles back, turning to look at the balcony where you are watching. Your eyes are wide and frantic as you scream again. This time he hears what you are saying. Our baby. Our baby. You are pregnant. His mind is reeling when he hears this, ducking down from the next attack on instinct alone to be brought back into the fight.

You watch as he has more energy, spurred on by your words, and Caracalla growls, “sit the fuck down.” He demands and you refuse, remaining standing as you watch your husband swing his sword. His opponent is skilled but younger and Marcus has your future in his hands as he swings his sword. Swiping the man who cries out, Marcus grunts as he kicks at the leg of the man, making him fall. He moves fast, swinging his sword to behead the man. You scream in joy as the man’s head rolls, knowing that Marcus has saved you.

You try to scramble to the emperors but your chains keep you in place. “Please spare him. He’s won. He’s won.” You beg and Geta gestures for Marcus to come to the balcony. He bows his head, knowing he will be ordered to be killed soon after, and he makes his way up to the balcony. You swallow harshly and you want to reach for him when he walks past you to stand before the emperors, bowing his head before he lifts it to clench his jaw in defiance. “You have beaten men who should have killed you. You have won.” Geta declares and reaches towards Marcus’s belt, taking his blade from the sheath and he presses it against his neck. Marcus hisses as blood drips from the cut, his lip curling. “Please.” You whimper, wanting your husband to survive. “You will leave Rome today. Disappear and take your uxor. If we hear a word of betrayal, you will be killed before you even realize it. Do you understand?” Geta hisses while Caracalla shakes his head, wanting blood.

“I understand.” Marcus murmurs quietly. “I will leave Rome.” He knows that he cannot risk your life and that of a potential child, if you are indeed pregnant. He is weary and just wants to get away from the Emperors. His eyes cut towards the men, his disgust for them clear.

You watch as Geta lowers the knife and sheaths it back in Marcus’s belt. He looks over at the guard and nods for him to release you. The shackles fall to the floor with a clang and you rush over to Marcus, cupping his cheeks to make sure he’s okay. “Take your traitor wife and leave Rome today otherwise you’ll be killed.” Geta promises and you nod, caressing Marcus’s cheek.

Marcus doesn’t trust the other men to keep their word, but he nods. Letting the guards guide you off the balcony and he reaches for his knife when he is out of the Emperor’s presence. “Maritus-“ you murmur but Marcus cuts you off. “Be quiet.” He hisses, knowing that you are not out of danger yet. A shift of armor could be the only clue an attack from the guards is coming and he needs to be alert.

You cling to him as he escorts you out of the colosseum to the awaiting chariot that is waiting to take you back to Marcus’s villa so you can pack your things. You are helped onto the villa and you swallow harshly, “I am so sorry.” You choke out and he shakes his head, “not here.” He says still not comfortable that you’re safe and you nod, reaching for his arm.

Because of his training, Marcus is efficient packing up. He completely takes over and gives orders to the servants while he drags you towards the private quarters where you can be alone.

Your wrists are sore from the shackles as Marcus stands in front of you. Both of you are worse for wear. You are covered in dirt, him in blood as you stand in front of him.

He stares at you, wondering if any of the time you had spent together was real or if it was all to get him to relax around you. “Are you pregnant?” He asks finally, needing to know if you were just bargaining for your life and praying it would sway the emperors.

You reach for him but he takes a step back, “I- I think so. I’ve missed my bleed and I- I never do. I think I might be.” You say softly, not wanting to lie to him.

His jaw clenches and he nods. “Then we will see if you are before we decide where we will go permanently.”

You nod, “I- I know you’re angry that I betrayed you but I- I went to the palace to tell them that I was done telling them your secrets. I didn’t want to - I never wanted to betray you but they threatened me and I couldn’t do it anymore because I love you. I’m in love with you, Maritus.” You confess, eyes wide as you prepare for his rejection.

Marcus wants to deny you. To call you a liar but he doesn’t see lies in your eyes. Maybe he is a fool, because you have already betrayed him, but he believes you. “Are you not just saving your neck now?” He asks, wanting to be sure. “I have nothing now. No power, no prestige. If you go back to your Emperors and beg for mercy, maybe they will give you to another man.” You move closer to him again and he doesn’t step back.

You shake your head, “I don’t want another man. I want my husband. I want you.” You promise, “I love you, Marcus, and I know - I know you are still mourning your first wife, your love, but I want you to know how I feel, Maritus.” You murmur, caressing his cheek.

“I stopped mourning my first wife.” Marcus admits. “When I asked you if you imagined always living in Rome.” He hears the servants rushing around to pack up the household, but he doesn’t move, staring at you. “I was asking to see if you would move away with me. Before this. Before we were exiled.”

You nod, “before this…I would’ve followed you anywhere. I love you, Marcus. I never imagined when the emperors ordered for me to marry you that I’d fall in love with you. I’d follow you anywhere.” You promise breathlessly.

“I have no trust in you.” Marcus admits, watching your face fall, biting your lip as you nod. “But I know you were trying to survive the whims of our Emperors.” He steps closer to you. “And I will not let you suffer for that.” He promises, lifting his good arm to trail his fingers up your arm. “I love you, uxor. We will leave Rome and make our home somewhere else, away from the intrigue and betrayal of this festering city.” He smiles. “Perhaps we will have your dream of children running in the sunshine.”

You smile, imagining children running in the fields while you spend your days with Marcus in the sun without worry of the politics of Rome. You lean in to kiss his lips. “I know you don’t trust me but I want to earn your trust.” You murmur and he nods, “let us find a new home. Together.” He declares and you lean in to softly kiss him.

****

“Maritus.” You moan, caressing his shoulders as you rock on top of him, your bump between you. “Uxor.” He groans, his hands sliding down your back as you ride his cock. “I love you.” You moan, “so much.”

The villa around you is still being cleaned and repaired, abandoned for such a long time but it will be worth it when it’s restored to it former glory. The fields outside are fertile and the bones of the home are sturdy. After the fire years ago, it had been left to let the vines overgrow. Perhaps it was fate that you and Marcus are settling and creating a family where Maximus’s was taken from him, but the former general just thought it was the gods way of finding balance. “I love you.” He promises breathless as he rocks his hips up gently.

You moan, getting closer and closer to your orgasm as you rock on top of him. His cock thrusts up into you and you cry out, falling apart as you soak him. You clench down around his cock and fall into his chest, your bump pressed against him. “Fill me up, Marcus.” You plead, wanting to feel it, feel him.

He chuckles softly, puffing out the sound as he works himself in and out of your cunt towards his own satisfaction. “It’s obvious I’ve done that.” He grunts, loving how your walls tighten around him. The baby will come soon and he prays to all the gods that they will spare you and the child. “Fuck.” He grunts, pushing deep and painting your walls with ropes of cum as he moans your name.

You run your fingers through his hair as he relaxes beneath you and you sigh, “te amo.” You murmur and he caresses your back while the moon shines through the linen on the balcony.

****

Your screams echo in the halls as you bear down. You are in agony, Antonia pressing a wet rag to your forehead as you push. The women of the household surround you as you labor. “Gods!” You curse as you grip the sheets. It feels like hours of pushing and you’re exhausted. “One more push!” Antonia demands and you sob, shaking your head as you push and finally, the pressure releases and a cry fills the air.

As soon as the baby’s cry rings out, Marcus cannot stop himself. Pushing the doors to the bedchamber open, he rushes inside, his hair sticking up from long hours pacing and running his hands through it, worrying about your fate. “Uxor!” He only has eyes for you and the small little bundle you are taking from Antonia. Your face is drenched in sweat and you’ve never looked more beautiful.

You look up from the baby in your arms, a grin on your face as your husband rushes over. “It’s a boy.” You murmur, checking all fingers and toes are in place. Marcus grins, leaning in to kiss your sweaty forehead. “You’re incredible, amor.” He murmurs and you tilt your head to kiss him softly. The cord is cut and Marcus takes the baby in his arms, needing to claim him. He holds him up to the servants and says “My son.” He proclaims, cradling his son and he leans in to kiss you again. “Our son.” He says and you smile, taking the baby after he slides him back into your arms so you can have skin to skin. “What shall we call him?” You ask Marcus who leans over to kiss your son’s forehead before he kisses yours. “Maximus Acacius.” He declares and you grin, “it’s perfect.” A new life in a place that held such pain. Your marriage may have been arranged by the emperors but your life together is fuelled by love and by choice.

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espressheauxs

3 weeks ago

I love black trans people!!!

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espressheauxs

2 months ago

Whatamannnnnnnnn

GREEDY

─ Dr. Jack Abbot x fem! reader || WC: 3k

SYNOPSIS: You crave to feel your lover differently, and Jack is happy to satisfy your needs.

CONTENT/WARNINGS: MDNI/18+. NSFW. SMUT. Age gap implied [Jack is late 40s, reader is late 20s/early 30s]. Power imbalance mention [Attending/Resident]. Established "secret" relationship. Creampie. Unprotected sex (p in v). Mentions of oral (f! receiving) & fingering. Multiple orgasms. Overstimulation. Dirty talk. Brief mentions of birth control & safe sex practices. They fuck nasty and are down bad for each other. Reader is described to have hair. Jack Abbot is a really good partner. Brief mentions of Jack’s scars & allusions to a vasectomy he had in the past.

A/N: This all came to me in a dream lmao. I just had a certain itch I needed to scratch and I wanted to talk about getting creampied by a fine ass old man, so this was the product of that thought. I hope you all enjoy this and join me in feening for this man. Proofread by moi. Reblogs, comments, and likes are always greatly appreciated! <3

NAVIGATION | MASTERLIST | AO3

You’d never really consider yourself a greedy or selfish person, but when it came to Jack Abbot, you just couldn’t help yourself.

On your first day of residency at the Pitt, your attention instantly gravitated to him. He carried himself so confidently at times, never crossing the line of stepping into arrogance like some of the surgeons he complained about. He kept his head high, back straight, and shoulders flared as he maneuvered around patients and rooms alike, commanding every space with a calm confidence you almost envied.

Coffee and light teasing exchanged in the emergency department turned into cold beers and tipsy laughter at the local bar everyone frequented after long shifts or on their off-days. One drink too many resulted in a not-so-accidental one-night stand with the enigma of a man that was Dr. Abbot. You wondered if he regretted it by the time you woke up in the morning, hair a mess over your head, going in different directions; doing your best to bury the disappointment tugging at your chest when the other side of the bed was found empty.

Much to your surprise, light clanking from your kitchen forced you back on your feet, spotting Jack working over the stove, the smell of eggs and fresh toast wafting through your apartment. His jeans hung low on his hips, unbuttoned, with his black briefs hiding the rest of him. He turns when he senses your presence, the corner of his lips tugging upwards in a small grin at the sight of you, slightly disheveled and wearing nothing but his shirt from the night before.

“Morning. Stole some of your coffee; hope you don’t mind.”

You were doomed from the start.

It never stopped after that; a one-night stand turned into several over the course of one month, and one month turned into two. You found yourself in the consistent presence of Dr. Abbot, who was always there to satisfy your needs, whatever they may be. He learned how to read you, your likes and dislikes, your quirks, and the things that made you happy and tick in agitation. The few weeks you spent with him in secret amounted to the moment Jack popped the question of exclusivity one night, and you were more than happy to say yes.

Now here you were, Dr. Abbot’s favorite night-shift resident at work and his girl when you two were alone. You already had him wrapped around your finger, hitting close to five months of being with him and selfishly enjoying his company in this bubble you’ve created for yourselves away from prying eyes.

And yet you still wanted more.

You couldn’t quite explain what happened along the way, why you simply couldn’t stop finding any little moment to touch him, to kiss him, to taste him. You just knew you wanted every part of him to yourself, and he was ready to give it.

All but one.

Your sex life with Jack was already more than satisfactory, and even using a word as simple as that was a disservice in describing your experiences with him. Hell, you’re pretty sure he’s ruined you for anyone else, and you don’t plan on finding another to take his place any time soon. But there was this one pesky thing that still kept you separated from him.

The damn rubber.

Jack was almost too good for you—a softie despite his take-no-shit attitude, always sweet and considerate when it came to you. Of course, that translated to when he fucked you, prioritizing your safety and pleasure above all else, including maintaining recommended sexual habits. You can’t blame him; he’s not an idiot, and neither are you, but at times it irks you to still have something getting in the way of feeling him the way you wanted.

It almost pissed you off how badly you craved him, desperately holding on to him and pulling him closer when he was too busy fucking you into the mattress. His face dug into the crook of your neck, grunting as your walls fluttered around his length, your arousal covering the thin non-latex material that separated your bodies. Just the thought of it made you whine, clawing at his shoulders and wrapping your legs tighter around his waist.

You knew he was getting close from the way his breathing rumbled deep within his chest, his grip on your hips tightening as his thrusts picked up in force. The words that had been swirling in your head for the past 30 minutes slipped out of your mouth and into his ear before you could stop them.

“Fill me up, baby.”

He groans when he hears you, slamming his hips hard against yours, a curse tumbling from his mouth as he fills up the condom. He draws a final sigh from you before pulling out to dispose of the wretched thing while you remain occupied with taking a peek at his ass as he heads to the bathroom.

Having sex without protection was something Jack didn’t think to bring up or mention. The last thing he wanted was to make you assume all you were to him was a toy to be used when it's convenient and discarded when he grew bored of you. He already had the displeasure of approaching sex that way when he was younger and reckless; he vowed to never do that again, especially with you. And of course, you didn’t want to potentially ruin the relationship you’ve worked so hard to build with your attending.

As much as he wanted to deny it, your words tormented him, playing in his mind on loop so frequently he started dreaming about feeling you with no barriers, claiming you properly. He knows once you hit that stage in your fairly new relationship, there’s no going back. From the way you struggled to hide the slightest tinge of disappointment whenever he ripped open the foil wrapper in front of you, he knew the conversation would happen eventually.

“What if next time, we just don’t use anything? Protection, I mean.” You blurt out to him in the kitchen, wringing your hands together as Jack busied himself washing the dishes after dinner. He finished up and dried his hands, pivoting to face where you leaned against the island.

“Is that what you want?” He asks carefully, his eyes boring into yours gently, the way he always did when speaking to those he cared about. “Surprises aren’t exactly what I’m worried about; we’re good on that end, but, it’s whatever you want to do, sweetheart.”

“Yes, I want to try it out.” You feel his hands coming towards your waist, a comforting gap of space between as you mess with the collar of his t-shirt. “It’s not that our sex life isn’t fun or anything; I very much enjoy sleeping with you.”

“I sure hope so considering how much I risk pulling my back doing all the work.” You playfully slap his chest, rolling your eyes at his teasing smirk.

“I just…I want to feel you, all of you. It’s like an itch I can’t scratch sort of thing, and it feels stupid explaining it, but it’s a thing, okay. Don’t fucking laugh at me.”

Jack couldn’t help but chuckle dryly at your mild panic, shaking his head as he stepped closer to you, planting a kiss on your cheek and squeezing your hips in reassurance.

“Not laughing at you, I just think it’s cute how flustered you’re getting when you’re begging me to fuck you raw.”

“Now why are you saying it like that? It sounds raunchy coming from you.” He only laughs harder.

“I think we’re way past the point of calling what we do raunchy in our relationship, don’t you think?” There’s a faint glint in his hazel eyes when he takes in your features again, his fingers pinch your chin, holding your gaze. “Besides, you aren’t the only one who’s been thinking about it. I was just waiting for you to crack first.”

That’s how you found yourself in this position now.

Your cunt pulsed from the lavish attention bestowed by the older man above, who already made you cum once using his mouth and again in combination with his thick fingers. Even with the two orgasms you gladly took, your body clenched around nothing as you watched Jack lazily jerk himself off, dark eyes raking over your bare body. By now, he’d be tearing open another one of those flimsy foil packets and slipping inside you. Instead, your legs subconsciously widened even more, beckoning him closer to you in an attempt to take you.

Notching the tip of his length at your entrance, he groaned at the feel of you, shifting his hips to grind against your heat as more of your wetness coated the underside of his cock.

“Last chance to take it back, sweetheart.” He quirked, meeting your hazy eyes—glossed over and feral as you admired his broad silhouette and tempting movements.

“Shut up and fuck me already.” You only seemed to be thinking with your downstairs brain, your thirst for more overriding common sense, not that he was complaining.

“Yes, ma’am.”

He angled himself over you, keeping his observant eyes on your face as he started pushing into you, slowly sinking deeper into your welcoming body. Jack didn’t expect you to feel so damn hot, your walls surrounding his cock like a vice, like you were made for it. Your hands flew to grasp his bicep, gasping at the bare feel of him for the first time. Eyes fluttering closed, a whimper lurched out of your mouth when he was down to the hilt, the trimmed hairs by his pubic bone rubbing against your sensitive nub, causing you to twitch around him on instinct.

As he sat inside you and let you adjust to him, you could feel everything—every ridge, every vein, every swell and throb his body gave you, even his damn pulse. It was bringing you closer to the deep end.

“Jack…” You mumbled his name, blinking slowly as his nostrils flared.

“Hold on, hold on, don’t move.” Large hands clutched your hips, keeping you pinned to the mattress with his strength. “You feel so good.”

“Yeah?” The compliment took the rest of the empty space in your head, your thighs taking their rightful place around his waist, knees bracketing over his sharp hips.

“So damn warm and wet…God.” It sounded like Jack wasn’t talking to you anymore but reiterating his own innermost thoughts, filter gone. His attention trailed down to where your bodies were joined together, shifting his hips back to watch your lower set of lips part for him, your slick covering his skin. You moved towards him, already missing the stretch of him inside you, and Jack was just as eager to give you what you needed.

“Look at her. Taking me so well, like she always does.” Thrusting forward, he didn’t spare you an inch, drawing back just to pound into you again and again.

The friction of his hips intensifies the more he gets to feel you, and soon enough the four walls of your shared bedroom are filled with the audible slapping of skin as you lose yourselves in each other. Jack’s hips pummeled into you with a force you weren’t completely unfamiliar with, but this carnal need to have more of him creeps onto the surface. Your nails raked down his freckled arms and the planes of his shoulders, encouraging Jack to buck into you harder with your sweet cries.

It all felt too fucking good, like a dream.

You didn’t want him to stop, your legs winding tighter around his torso, mewling when he hit that textured spot tucked inside you with practiced accuracy, head thrown back against the pillow as you focused on catching each one of his harsh lunges. A hand sneaked to the back of your head, grasping the nape of your neck and angling your face to look up at Jack, the smallest bit of sweat lining up on his forehead.

“Keep those eyes on me, baby. Want to see your pretty face when you come for me.” He practically snarled over you, leaning down to roughly plant a kiss, his tongue swirling around yours, swallowing all of the petulant sounds he brought out of you. “Perfect fucking pussy, and all mine.”

“All yours, Jack.” You parroted, nodding dumbly from the impact of his movements against you. “I’m all yours, sir.”

His grin turned predatory at your needy words, both hands curling around your thighs to angle them higher up, your knees now pinned to your chest, allowing him to dig just a bit deeper into you. You jolted from the change in position, one hand rushing to press against his lower stomach, fingertips skimming the raised scars along his side, long faded and meshed with the rest of him.

He was unfazed by your movements, holding you steady, and upped his efforts against you. Your arousal practically seeped out of you, pooling at the base of him and dripping down his balls. Another whimper echoed in the room, your clouded gaze glanced down to watch Jack fuck you, mesmerized at the shine you left over him. You didn’t need to warn him that another release was swirling in your gut; your body language did all the talking for you.

“Know you’re close, honey. Can feel you getting tighter around me, damn near choking me.” He grunts, adding a swivel to his precise advances into you. “C’mon, need you to drench me. Let me feel you.”

Three more drives into you, and your third orgasm hit you so ardently your whole body trembled, a silent cry flying out of your mouth. Jack observed your reaction with hungry eyes, cooing at your cock-drunk expression, drool starting to spill out the corner of your lip.

He knew it was only a matter of time before he hit his peak, the tension in his body building in his core, and with the way you haven’t stopped convulsing around him, it will catch him off guard sooner than later. Through the haze of ecstasy, you found your voice and mumbled at him, the lust-filled mania that started this whole ordeal possessing you.

“Jack,” his attention was drawn to your face, plump lips and warm cheeks mirroring his ravenous stare, “I need you to come inside me.”

“You want it that bad, huh?” He was struggling to keep it together, his mind already hyper-focused on finishing inside until you took every damn drop. “So desperate to have your old man fill up your greedy pussy, hm?”

“Yes! Yes!” Tears streaked down your face at the mere thought of getting to feel him like this; the promise of getting what you wanted after so long was enough to overwhelm you. “Please, Jack. I need it; need to feel it. Want to feel you tomorrow, baby.”

That fired him up; the sight of your watery eyes motivated him to flex his forearms and force you to take all of him as he chased his prolonged release. A few more jabs and he was done for, digging his face into the crook of your neck and biting your shoulder to suppress the loud growl that buzzed through him. His hips were flush with yours, giving you everything he had to give, his thighs trembling and stomach almost cramping from his violent climax.

His orgasm felt never-ending; he just couldn’t stop, your body melting from the inside out as you held him above you until he plopped on top of you, pelvis subconsciously grinding into you more, never wanting to leave your warmth.

“Jesus.” You heard Jack murmur against you, placing light kisses over the indents of his teeth on your shoulder. His mouth followed a path up to the column of your throat, your jaw, and to your lips, offering you sweet pecks. “You alright?”

“Mhm,” you hummed at his affections, the rest of your limbs becoming one with the mattress under you. “Didn’t break me yet, though I don’t think I can feel my legs.”

“Means I did my job well.” Both ends of his mouth curl upwards, mimicking his expression as he gently wipes your tears away.

Carefully, he took hold of your legs, bringing them back down to the bed, rubbing them with an apologetic smile as you quivered. With ease, Jack maneuvers himself to pull out of you, his eyes going to your pussy and the mess he made of you. He catches the way his spend drips out of your opening and stains the sheets below you, a sight he was committing to memory for the first time.

A carnal urge flares within him, his curiosity getting the best of him as he brings a hand to the most sensitive part of you, his thumb spreading you out to get a better look at you. More of his seed dribbled out of you, tainting the thick digit as he smeared more of himself over the rest of your cunt. You gasped at the sensation, his thumb circling over your slick pearl, squirming under his touch from the overstimulation.

“I get the appeal now,” he says to himself again, swiftly bringing two of his fingers to scoop the rest of him and sink them back into your hole, serving as a plug to keep his release inside you. You keened at him, clutching his thick wrist as he breached your body with his hand, your breath hitching in your throat.

“Jack…”

“So pretty when you’re so full of me.” You clench around him, the sensation sending a current of pleasure coursing through him, his cock twitching again at the thought of having you again. “You can take a little more, right?”

Who were you to say no to that? You couldn’t get enough of him, and when it came to Jack Abbot, you always made room for seconds and more.

©️ ovaryacted 2025. Please don’t repost, copy, translate, or feed into any AI. Support your fellow creators by reblogging, commenting, and liking!

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espressheauxs

1 month ago

Boy-dad!Jack is always on my brain, because sure—we’re conditioned to think that tough men deserve soft things at the end of the day, like raising a little girl with their loving partners. But little boys can be soft too…

And Jack knows that better than most.

Because it isn’t just about protection. It’s about breaking the cycle. It’s about looking at a tiny version of himself and thinking, You won’t grow up afraid to feel. Not like I did.

It’s the way he crouches down to his son’s level instead of towering above him. The way he says, “Tell me what you’re feeling,” instead of, “Toughen up.”

The way he holds him close after a nightmare and murmurs, “You’re safe, I’ve got you,” like a promise he’d rather die than break.

Jack’s the kind of dad who teaches his son to say “I’m sorry,” and mean it. Who tells him it's okay to be scared, to ask for help, to wear his heart on his sleeve. Who high-fives him when he says something kind. Who’s patient when he cries. Who celebrates when he dares to be brave and vulnerable.

Because Jack doesn’t want to just raise a good man. He wants to raise a well rounded one. One who knows that softness isn't something to earn—It's something you're allowed to carry.

Like—Jack, who grew up with god-knows-what kind of pressure to bottle it up and be strong, now kneeling next to his son after a hard day and saying, “It’s okay to cry, buddy,” while gently brushing hair out of his little boy’s face.

Jack, teaching him that strength isn’t silence, that protection doesn’t mean control, that gentleness isn’t weakness.

It’s not just about giving his son a better childhood than he had—It’s about giving him the freedom to be whole.

Because somewhere deep down, Jack knows what it feels like to be a little boy who didn’t get that.

And he refuses to pass it on to his son.

Boy-dad!Jack supremacy, honestly.

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espressheauxs

4 weeks ago

meeting jack on some dating app and being completely taken by his profile. it’s a confident swipe right, with the hopeful presumption of a match with the handsome doctor.

Jack Abbot, Md. - 49 | Operating on 1 1/2 legs, but can do wonders with my two hands

that was a couple weeks and 3 dates ago. it was refreshing and exhilarant to meet someone like jack— who had as much reluctance as you towards the dating app world, but open to the idea. he was good conversation, luring you in with his relaxed disposition and electrifying gaze— he had you craving more of him in such a short amount of time. that’s how you found yourself at his workplace, unplanned and unannounced. the sweet blonde nurse said he’d just come in just moments ago, his shift starting soon, giving you a beaming smile and kindly ushering you off to the side to wait so he wouldn’t miss you. his features read as strongly concerned when he finally did approach you, “hey— what are you doing here? is everything okay?” as he gave you a brief once over. you assured him you completely fine, just wanting to catch him before his shift, “i’m totally fine!! i was on a walk and stopped into that bakery off of virginia avenue. you’d mentioned wanting to try their chocolate croissant, so i got you one of those and a scone the recommended. Oh, and a coffee— black with enough room for cream because I wasn’t sure.” handing off the paper bag and white to-go cup to him, hoping he can’t read how nervous you feel showing up out of nowhere. he doesn’t say anything. the silence that drags on between you feels excruciatingly loud and glaringly obvious that you crossed an undefined boundary. “oh my gosh. i— i totally must have misread things between us. i’m so so sorry. I shouldn’t have— i’m just gonna go.” you don’t even bother to wait for a response, immediately taking off in search of air that feels less suffocating and the farther away from this now failed thing between you two, the better. “wait—“ you’re about half way down the ambulance entrance to the hospital when you hear jack trying to get your attention before you get any further, “wait! please— that was an asshole move back there. i’m sorry, it’s just that nobody’s ever done anything like that for me before and i— I didn’t know how to react. i’m sorry and thank you.” you can tell he’s nervous and it makes your stomach do that little giddy flip it’s been doing since your first date. “you’ve never had anyone do something nice for you?” “No— i mean— yes, i have. it’s just been a long time. since i’ve dated. since i’ve really liked someone and wanted it to work out.” a shiver of goosebumps spreads over your skin as his hand cups your face, his thumb gliding softly across your cheek. “well, i think you’re worth doing nice things for. and i really like you too.” he hadn’t kissed you before now, not truly. respectfully pressing his lips to your cheek before bidding you a good-night is nothing compared to the way he’s kissing you now. all-consuming and toe-tingling. leaving zero room for doubt as he devours you— letting you know just how fiercely he likes you and how desperately he wants you. “what are you doing later?” “more than likely i’ll be in bed, sleeping.” “let me take you out when i get off.” “you’re going to be tired, jack. you need sleep too.” “sleep is for the weak. and if losing sleep means more time with you, then I’d give up a lifetime of rest without a second thought.”

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espressheauxs

1 month ago

A Year of You

part three of the life we grew series (part one ✧ part two)

summary : Jack experiences the life he never thought he could have—one small moment, one milestone, one quiet act of love at a time. Through first steps, long winter nights, and the ache of watching her grow too fast, he learns that family isn’t something you find. It’s something you make—and hold onto with everything you have.

word count : 11,658

warnings/content : 18+ MDNI! marriage intimacy including smut, emotional vulnerability, parenting milestones (first words, first steps, first birthday), marriage-coded affection, strong family themes, soft but explicit depiction of married sexual intimacy, very husband-coded and dad-coded Jack Abbot energy.

MONTH ONE

It’s the first night home from the hospital when Jack realizes no amount of emergency training prepares you for a seven-pound newborn screaming at 2:00 a.m.

You’re crying, too.

Soft, exhausted tears you wipe away with the heel of your hand while trying to figure out the damn swaddle that looked so easy in the maternity class.

Jack watches you for a second from the nursery doorway, heart caught somewhere in his throat. Then he steps in, limping slightly from the long day and the prosthetic pinching at the socket, and kneels awkwardly next to you on the carpet.

“Move over, honey,” he mutters, hands gentle as he scoops up the baby—your baby—his daughter—like she’s something sacred.

"You’re doing good," he says, voice low, rough around the edges. "We’re just outnumbered, that’s all."

You let out a low, breathless laugh and lean into his side, drawn in by instinct more than thought. Jack smells like the hospital—something sharp and sterile clinging to his skin—but beneath it, there's a rougher pull: warm skin, worn leather, the dark, carved scent of mahogany and teakwood.

“C’mon, little bean,” Jack murmurs, voice low and rough with exhaustion. “We’ve made it through worse nights than this.”

You snort under your breath.

“She’s five days old, Jack. What worse nights?”

He shifts the baby higher onto his shoulder, the motion easy, instinctive, like she’s already been part of him forever. Without missing a beat, he deadpans, “You ever been stuck inside a Black Hawk during a sandstorm?”

You smack his arm, half laughing, half crying again, the sound breaking loose before you can catch it. Jack just grunts, the barest curve tugging at the corner of his mouth. He rocks the baby gently, his palm splayed wide over her tiny back like he could shield her from the whole world if he tried hard enough.

“You’re not in a war anymore, Jack,” you whisper, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

He doesn’t look at you. Just leans down, pressing a kiss to the soft, downy hair at the crown of your daughter’s head.

“No,” he says, so quietly you almost miss it. “But I’m still fighting for something.”

The first month is a mess.

The kind of beautiful mess Jack would throw fists for if anyone ever tried to take it from him.

You both live in pajamas now. The kitchen has surrendered first—an open graveyard of half-drunk coffee cups, takeout containers, and meals nuked just enough to be edible. Some nights, you collapse into bed with the baby between you, swearing you’ll move her to the bassinet as soon as you can feel your legs again.

Jack, somehow, turns out to be better at diaper changes than either of you expected.

“Field dressing a sucking chest wound’s harder,” he mutters at four a.m., hands steady as he peels back the tabs of a fresh diaper. You’re blinking back tears over the latest catastrophic blowout, but Jack just shrugs, casual, like he's back in the desert again. “You just gotta respect the shrapnel.”

You’re better at feeding her—at being soft, patient, warm, even when you’re dead on your feet.

Jack watches you from across the couch sometimes, nursing her with your sweatshirt slipping off one shoulder, and he thinks about how he almost didn’t get this.

How easily it could’ve gone the other way.

And he aches.

God, how he aches.

At her two-week checkup, Jack nearly decks a stranger.

You’re pushing open the door to the pediatrician’s office when it happens—some old guy with too much time and too little shame leers and says, “Bounced back fast after birth, huh?” His eyes drift lower, lingering where they have no business being.

You freeze, the words catching in your throat.

Jack doesn’t.

He moves without thinking, sliding in front of you with the kind of quiet, coiled force that doesn’t ask twice. It’s instinct, muscle memory, something deeper than thought. His frame blocks you from view, every line of his body taut with warning.

“Move along,” Jack says, low enough to rattle the floorboards.

The guy doesn’t argue. He takes one look at Jack—at the broad set of his shoulders, the dead-calm heat in his eyes—and stumbles off without another word.

Your fingers find Jack’s wrist, a light touch, grounding him before he slips somewhere darker.

He flexes his hand once, twice, the tension bleeding out slow. Then, wordlessly, he threads his fingers through yours, squeezing once.

He doesn’t say anything.

He doesn’t have to.

On the nights when the house feels too small and the baby won’t sleep unless she’s moving, Jack drives.

He straps her into the car seat so carefully you'd think she’s made of glass, adjusts the rearview mirror just to catch a glimpse of her, and drives the empty streets of Pittsburgh while you nap in the passenger seat, a ratty Allegheny General hoodie drowning you to the wrists.

Jack hums under his breath to fill the silence.

Old Johnny Cash songs. Some half-forgotten lullaby he doesn’t realize he knows.

You wake up once at a red light and find him staring at the baby in the mirror like she’s the first sunrise he’s ever seen.

You don’t say anything.

You just reach across the console and wrap your fingers around his wrist again.

Jack squeezes back.

Always back.

By the end of the first month, the house is wrecked, your work email has 235 unread messages, and Jack is one wrong word away from brawling with the guy at the grocery store who keeps asking if he needs "help carrying his bags" because of the limp.

Some nights you fall asleep on the couch with the baby breathing soft against your chest, too worn down to even shift her to the bassinet. Tonight’s one of those nights.

Jack walks in from the kitchen and stops when he sees you there—both of you curled into each other, the porch light casting a soft glow across the room.

Slowly, carefully, he lowers himself down. Not onto his knees—he plants himself into a sitting position, legs stretched out, leaning his good shoulder into the side of the couch so he’s right there, steady and close.

He brushes your hair back from your face with the backs of his fingers, so gently it almost doesn’t touch.

You stir at the contact, your voice thick with sleep.

"You’re tired too. Let me take her."

Jack shakes his head.

"No."

It’s soft. Absolute. Final.

He reaches up, sliding his hand over your shin, anchoring himself to you. His other hand comes to rest lightly on the baby's back, fingers spanning nearly her whole body.

"You’ve done enough today, baby," he murmurs, voice rough and low, barely stirring the air.

"You both have."

Jack tilts his head against the couch, eyes slipping closed. He doesn't need to say it—how much this moment means, how deeply it roots itself inside him.

The weight of it—the love, the exhaustion, the brutal, perfect ache of having something to lose again—presses deep into his bones, his chest, his blood.

And he lets it.

Finally, finally, he lets it.

MONTH TWO

The second month of her life feels quieter—but not easier.

The house settles into a strange rhythm: sleep in broken stretches, coffee going cold on the counter, laundry half-folded before someone cries (you, him, the baby—any of the above).

And Jack, god love him, tries to hold it all together like he's still back in combat—shouldering it, swallowing it, limping through it even when it's bleeding him dry.

You wake up around 3:00 a.m. to the soft, rhythmic creak of footsteps.

The baby’s crying had pierced your dream, but what keeps you awake is the sound of Jack pacing the living room—steady, stubborn, relentless.

You get out of bed and creep toward the hallway, heart aching at the sight you find:

Jack's shirt is rumpled, hanging loose over sweatpants. His hair's a wreck. He's moving with that stiff, exhausted limp he gets when he’s pretending everything’s fine. When it's been rubbing wrong all day and he hasn't said a word about it.

Your baby is pressed against his chest, tiny fingers clinging to the fabric of his t-shirt, and Jack’s rubbing her back in slow, soothing circles, murmuring nonsense under his breath.

You stand there for a second, heart splitting open inside your chest.

He’s trying so hard.

He’s carrying all of it.

And you’re not about to let him do it alone.

"Jack," you say softly.

He startles a little, blinking over at you with that war-tired look he gets sometimes, like he forgot he's allowed to have backup now.

You cross the room without hesitation.

"Hey," you murmur, gentle but firm, sliding your hands around his forearms. "Give her to me, baby."

Jack opens his mouth to argue—but you’re already untangling the baby from his arms, lifting her carefully against your chest.

He lets go with a shuddering breath he didn't even realize he was holding.

You bounce your daughter lightly, whispering soft, nonsense words into her ear while you use your free hand to tug Jack down onto the couch beside you.

"You’re limping bad," you say, thumb brushing over the line of tension at his brow. "You’re running yourself into the ground."

Jack huffs, looking away like he’s embarrassed, like admitting to needing anything is too much.

But you don’t let him.

You tilt his face back toward you with two fingers under his chin—gently, insistently.

"You don’t have to earn this, Jack," you whisper, so low it barely stirs the air. "You already have."

He closes his eyes like the words hurt—and heal—all at once.

You settle your daughter into the crook of one arm, and with the other, you start tracing slow, soothing circles against Jack’s wrist.

Just touching him.

Just reminding him you’re here.

That you’re not going anywhere.

Jack leans his head back against the couch, breathing you in. He doesn't say anything for a long time.

He just lets himself be touched.

Be loved.

And somewhere around the fourth circle you draw against his wrist, he shifts closer and drops his forehead to your shoulder with a heavy, broken little sigh.

You turn your face into his hair and close your eyes.

In the second month, the baby starts to smile for real.

Real, gummy, lit-up smiles that make Jack feel like some knife's getting twisted deeper and deeper in his chest every time he sees them.

She smiles biggest when Jack talks. It doesn't matter what he's saying. He could be reading off the damn grocery list, and she lights up like he’s singing Sinatra.

You catch him one afternoon standing in the kitchen, holding her in the crook of his arm like it’s second nature now, explaining in a deadly serious tone why the Pittsburgh Steelers are going to break his heart again this year.

“Listen, kid, it’s tradition. You root for them, they let you down. Builds character.”

You grab your phone and snap a picture before he can bark at you not to.

Jack scowls, but you see the faintest twitch of a smile he can’t fight back.

He wants to remember this.

You both do.

The second month also brings the first real fight since bringing her home.

It’s stupid.

It’s exhaustion and hormones and pride, the way all stupid fights are.

You leave the car seat in the wrong spot—tilted funny, not latched all the way into the base—and Jack’s voice cuts sharper than he means it to when he points it out.

“She’s tiny, for Christ’s sake, you can’t just—”

“I’m trying, Jack!” you snap back, tears already stinging because you’ve been running on fumes for weeks and you hate feeling like you’re screwing up.

“Yeah? So am I.”

You’re both breathing hard, the kind of thin, angry breaths that never come from real hatred—only from fear.

Only from love.

You turn away, chest heaving. Jack grips the counter, knuckles white, wrestling the instinct to bark something else, something mean just to end it.

Instead—he exhales hard, walks over to you, and wraps his arms around your shaking shoulders from behind.

You don’t fight him.

You crumble.

"I’m sorry," he says, rough against your ear. "You’re doin’ good. Better than good."

His mouth presses to your temple.

"I’m just... scared, honey." It guts him to say it out loud. It tears something wide open. But it’s the truth.

You turn in his arms, grab two fistfuls of his t-shirt, and bury your face against his chest.

Jack just holds you.

Breathes you in like it’s the only thing keeping him standing.

At her two-month appointment, the pediatrician grins and says she’s perfect.

You hold Jack’s hand in the sterile white room, squeezing so tight he must feel the bones grind together.

He doesn’t pull away.

He squeezes back.

Hard.

In the car afterward, Jack drives one-handed with his other hand curled protectively around your thigh, thumb tracing slow, steady lines into your jeans.

You lean into his shoulder at the stoplights, both of you blinking back tears that neither one of you says a word about.

That night, when the baby finally sleeps and the house goes still, you coax Jack into the shower first, insisting you’ll handle the night feed if she wakes.

He tries to protest.

You kiss the protest right off his mouth, slow and deep, until he’s dizzy from it. Until he forgets how to argue.

And when he comes back. you’re waiting for him in bed, the baby curled between you like the only piece of heaven either of you has ever touched.

Jack hesitates for half a second in the doorway, looking at you like a man seeing home for the first time.

Then he crawls in beside you, tucking you against his chest, wrapping his hand around both you and the baby like he can physically keep the whole world at bay.

"You’re my best thing," you whisper into his skin.

Jack's arms tighten around you instinctively.

You feel the rumble of his voice more than you hear it when he answers.

"You two are mine," he says hoarsely.

"My only thing."

And for the first time since she was born, all three of you sleep through the night.

Together.

Whole.

MONTH THREE

The first real laugh doesn’t come from you.

It doesn’t come from the hundreds of stupid faces you’ve been making, the toys you bought, the songs you sang off-key.

It comes from Jack.

Of course it does.

You’re sitting on the floor one slow Sunday afternoon, sorting laundry, when you hear it—a sharp, surprised little giggle that bubbles out of your daughter’s mouth like she’s just been given the whole damn world.

You snap your head up so fast you almost get whiplash.

Jack’s standing over the bassinet, freshly showered, shirt slung loose over his broad frame, cradling her under the arms and bouncing her so carefully.

She’s looking up at him with those big, bright eyes—utterly delighted just to exist in his arms.

And he’s looking at her like she’s gravity itself.

Jack bounces her again. She squeals, full-body, gummy-mouthed, hands flapping.

Jack grins—a real one, crooked and wide and rare—and chuckles under his breath.

"You like that, huh?" he mutters, voice going soft the way it only ever does for her. "Yeah, you would. Tough little thing."

You don't realize you’re crying until Jack glances over and sees you.

His grin fades, replaced by that worried furrow between his brows you know too well. "Hey. Hey, honey, what's wrong?"

You crawl over the laundry, heart a molten, useless mess, and surge up to kiss him—just grab the collar of his stupid, soft t-shirt and haul him down into a kiss so full of love it knocks both of you sideways.

He catches you with one arm, the baby cradled between you, and lets you sob into his mouth without complaint.

Lets you cling.

Because he knows.

Of course he knows.

"I love you," you breathe against his jaw when you finally surface.

"I love you so much I don't even know what to do with it."

Jack presses his forehead to yours, breathing hard.

"You’re doin’ fine, baby," he says hoarsely.

"You’re doin’ perfect."

Jack starts pulling on his black scrubs again.

Not full-time.

Not yet.

Just a couple shifts. Just enough to feel like he’s still the guy who shows up when it counts.

You watch from the kitchen doorway, the baby warm against your hip, as he adjusts the fit of his prosthetic with practiced, impatient hands. The grimace flashes across his face for just a second before he smooths it away.

You shift the baby higher, heart aching.

"You don’t have to prove anything, Jack," you say softly, voice thick with sleep and worry."You’re already everything we need."

He exhales slowly through his nose, scrubbing a hand over his jaw, his movements stiff with exhaustion.

Then he shakes his head once — small, stubborn, final.

"I gotta do it for me," he says simply.

No drama. No explanation. Just truth.

You don’t argue.

You just step closer, barefoot across the tile, and reach up to cup the back of his neck — that vulnerable, familiar spot you’ve loved for years — pulling him down into a slow, steady kiss.

"Come back safe," you whisper against his mouth.

Jack leans into you for a second longer than he means to, his hand sliding instinctively over the baby's small back, grounding himself in you both.

"Always," he promises, voice rough.

You let him go — but not before slipping a small, folded scrap of paper into the chest pocket of his scrub top when you hug him goodbye.

A stupid, crumpled love note, already warm from your palm.

He doesn’t find it until hours later — after he’s stitched up a kid with a broken bottle wound, after he’s cleaned puke off his boots, after he’s barked orders across the trauma bay like muscle memory.

It’s almost 3 a.m. when he sinks down onto a bench in the stairwell, legs aching, head heavy.

Jack fishes the note out absentmindedly, thinking it’s a scrap of gauze.

But when he unfolds it, it’s your handwriting — messy and rushed, like you couldn't get the words down fast enough:

We miss you. We love you. Come home to us.

Jack stares at it for a long second, the breath catching thick in his chest.

He presses the heel of his hand against his face — hard — willing the burn behind his eyes to back off.

Then he folds the note carefully, tucks it back into the pocket over his heart, and pushes himself upright again.

One more patient.

One more hour.

One step closer to home.

The baby starts reaching this month. Grabbing everything. Blankets. Your hair. Jack’s dog tags, which he sometimes wears tucked under his shirt when he needs grounding.

The first time she grabs them—those worn, cold little pieces of steel swinging free when Jack leans over her bassinet—he freezes.

She wraps her tiny fist around the chain and pulls. Hard.

Jack just stands there, staring down at her like she’s cracked open his chest with one touch.

You come up behind him, pressing your hand to the small of his back, feeling the shudder that goes through him.

"You okay?" you murmur.

Jack swallows.

Nods.

"Yeah," he says roughly.

"Yeah, she’s just... strong."

You curl your arms around him from behind, forehead pressed to the sharp line of his spine.

"You’re allowed to be soft too, y'know," you whisper against him.

"She's allowed to make you soft."

Jack closes his eyes and lets the weight of your words settle into his bones.

Late one night, after a particularly brutal shift, Jack comes home bone-deep exhausted. You meet him at the door, baby asleep on your shoulder, wearing nothing but his oversized hoodie and a pair of fuzzy socks.

Jack stares at you like he’s forgotten how to speak.

You press the baby into his arms without a word.

Then you wrap your arms around his waist, lean your cheek against his chest, and stand there breathing him in—hospital soap, sweat, exhaustion, love—until he finally melts against you.

Until he finally lets himself be held. He presses a kiss into your hair, breathing out a laugh that sounds more like a sob.

"Missed you" he rasps.

MONTH FOUR

Jack notices it before you do.

The shift.

One morning, while you’re wrestling a footie onesie onto the baby and cursing under your breath about the tiny snaps "Who invented these? Satan?", Jack leans against the doorframe, rubbing a hand absently over the back of his neck.

“She’s different,” he says quietly.

You look up, exhaustion written all over your face, and squint at him.

“She’s four months old, Jack. She’s not gonna start driving a car yet.”

But he just shakes his head slowly, eyes never leaving her.

“No. She's holdin’ herself different. Stronger.”

You look down—and sure enough, your daughter is sitting up better now, her spine wobbling but proud, little hands planted on her thighs like she’s ready to start throwing punches.

Jack steps forward like he can’t help himself.

He drops to a crouch—careful with the stiff pull of his prosthetic—and cups one big hand around her tiny side, steadying her without overwhelming her.

"Look at you," he murmurs, voice breaking a little at the edges.

"Look how tough you are, bean."

You watch him, heart climbing into your throat. Because you see it too. Not just the way she’s changing—but the way he is.

Jack Abbot, who once stood half a step too close to a rooftop edge because the world was too heavy, is now kneeling barefoot on the carpet, whispering praise to their baby girl who thinks the sun rises and sets just for him.

You slip your arms around his shoulders from behind, pressing your cheek against the crown of his head.

"I love you," you say simply.

Jack kisses the back of your hand.

"I know," he whispers. "And I love you back, honey. 'Til my last damn breath."

This is the month she starts teething.

You survive it through sheer grit, coffee, and the unspoken pact of taking turns walking endless circles around the house with a red-faced, furious, drooling baby in your arms.

Jack handles it the way he handles everything: quietly, stubbornly, with a fierce, aching kind of patience that makes you want to cry and kiss him all at once.

You find him one night at 2:00 a.m., swaying barefoot in the kitchen, shirtless, sweatpants slung low on his hips, the baby gnawing furiously on his knuckle while he hums some gravelly, broken tune into her hair.

You lean against the doorway and just watch him, blinking hard against the tears that well up.

Jack catches you watching. Doesn’t say anything—just crooks a finger at you without shifting the baby from his chest.

"Get over here, pretty girl," he rumbles.

You go willingly, sliding into his side, wrapping your arms around his middle and burying your face in the warm, solid plane of his ribs. He smells like soap, exhaustion, and her. Your whole world tucked into one man.

"You’re the best thing that ever happened to us," you whisper into his skin.

By the end of Month Four, she’s rolling over.

You’re standing in the living room when you hear Jack’s startled bark of laughter from the floor.

You whip around to find him sprawled out on his side, laughing helplessly, while your daughter beams at him proudly from her belly, arms and legs kicking like she just won the goddamn Super Bowl.

Jack slaps a hand to his heart dramatically.

"Baby girl, you’re killin' me!" he groans. "You’re growin’ up too fast already. Slow it down, huh? Let your old man catch up."

You cross the room, scooping the baby up into your arms. "You hear that?" you coo into her hair. "You’re makin’ Daddy emotional."

Jack props himself up on an elbow, watching you two with the softest damn look you’ve ever seen on his face. The one he only ever shows you. The one no one at the Pitt would even believe exists.

You kneel down beside him, easing your daughter into his arms again. You watch the way his whole body softens around her without thinking. How his scarred hands are somehow the safest place in the world.

"She’s perfect," you say softly.

Jack leans down and kisses the baby’s forehead, then yours.

"Yeah," he murmurs.

"So’s her mom."

You spend the rest of the evening curled up together on the living room floor—baby between you, laundry forgotten, the whole messy, perfect world you built breathing around you.

And for the first time since she was born—you’re not scared of time passing. You’re just grateful for every second you get.

MONTH FIVE

It happens by accident.

The first time she says it.

Jack’s sitting cross-legged on the living room rug, hair mussed from sleep, still wearing the black t-shirt and flannel pants he stumbled into after pulling an overnight shift.

You’re curled up on the couch, fighting to keep your eyes open, watching the early spring sunlight spill across the floorboards.

Your daughter is sitting between Jack’s legs, gripping his dog tags in one tiny fist, drooling determinedly all over them while Jack pretends to be scandalized.

"Hey, those are government-issued, kid," he drawls, grinning like a fool. "You gonna pay for ‘em with your drool tax?"

And then—like it’s the most natural thing in the world—she looks up at him, eyes bright, and squeals:

“Dada!”

The word is messy. Slurred. Half-drooled through.

But it’s real.

Clear as day.

Jack freezes.

Completely still, like something in him just snapped loose.

You sit up fast. "Jack," you breathe.

He doesn't move.

Doesn't blink.

The baby bounces in place, fist still clutching the tags, crowing delightedly: “Dada!”

Jack finally exhales, a broken, wrecked sound like he just got the wind punched out of him. He scoops her into his arms so fast she squeals again, arms flailing, laughing.

He presses her tight against his chest, hands shaking.

"You talkin’ to me, bean?" he rasps, voice thick, kissing the top of her head over and over.

"That me?"

You slide off the couch, crawling across the floor to them, feeling your heart explode into a thousand shimmering pieces inside your chest.

You wrap yourself around both of them—Jack and the baby—your forehead resting against Jack’s stubbled jaw. He’s shaking. Full-body, unstoppable tremors. You just hold him tighter.

"You deserve it," you whisper into his skin.

"You deserve every single thing she sees in you."

Jack swallows hard, arms crushing both of you close.

"You’re my whole damn world," he chokes. "You and her—you’re it."

You kiss the corner of his mouth, the scar on his jaw, the salt of tears he didn’t mean to shed.

And when the baby says it again—“Dada!”—giggling and tugging on his shirt, Jack laughs through the wreckage of himself.

Laughs like he’s got a whole new heart built from the two of you.

This month, Jack comes home earlier when he can. Steals hours when the Pitt is short-staffed but Robby covers.

You make a ritual out of it without even meaning to:

Jack coming through the door, dropping his bag with a heavy thunk, immediately seeking you out first.

He always kisses you first.

Even if the baby’s squealing for him, even if she’s kicking her legs and reaching. He presses his mouth to yours first—hard, desperate, like he’s coming up for air.

Then he takes her from you, murmuring nonsense into her hair, like he can't bear to go another second without her.

You watch him sometimes from the kitchen, heart brimming so full it feels like your ribs can’t contain it.

You let the pasta overboil, the laundry pile up, the emails from your accounting firm stack unanswered.

Because nothing matters more than the way Jack Abbot holds his daughter like she’s sacred. Like she saved him.

Late one night, the baby finally goes down after an hour of slow rocking and whispered lullabies.

You tiptoe out of the nursery, heart thudding like you just disarmed a bomb, and find Jack waiting for you at the end of the hallway.

He’s leaned back against the wall, arms crossed. That tired, crooked half-smile lifts his mouth when he sees you.

"She out?" he murmurs.

You nod, grinning like an idiot. "For now. If we breathe too loud, she’ll start screaming again."

Jack chuckles low under his breath. Then he crooks two fingers at you—small, unmistakable—come here.

You pad over and melt against him without hesitation.

Jack’s arms slide around you automatically, strong and sure, pulling you flush against the solid line of his body.

For a few minutes, you just stand there.

Swaying a little.

Breathing in sync.

Letting the world be small and soft for once.

His hand comes up to cup the back of your neck, thumb stroking lazy circles into your hairline. "Miss you," he says roughly, voice low enough that it rumbles against your chest.

You pull back just enough to look at him—really look. At the dark shadows under his eyes. The worn edges of him. And the way his whole face softens when he’s looking at you.

"I’m right here," you whisper, sliding your hands up under his old t-shirt to trace the warm skin of his back. "You always got me."

Jack huffs a soft, broken sound and leans down to kiss you.

Slow.

Lingering.

The kind of kiss that says a thousand things neither of you knows how to say out loud.

His fingers flex against your spine, like he’s grounding himself. Like he’s still a little terrified that one day he’ll blink and you’ll be gone.

You deepen the kiss, tipping up onto your toes, tangling your fingers into the short hair at the nape of his neck. Jack groans quietly into your mouth and tightens his arms around you, lifting you slightly off the ground like it costs him nothing. (You know it does—you know he’s tired and sore—but he doesn’t care.)

He kisses you like you’re oxygen. Like if he stops, the whole world will collapse.

When he finally pulls back, breathing hard, he presses his forehead to yours and just stands there.

Silent.

Anchored.

You guide him gently down the hall, fingers laced through his. The two of you slip into your bedroom, leaving the door cracked just enough to hear the baby if she wakes.

He eases onto the bed. The prosthetic comes off with a practiced, tired motion — a routine so familiar it barely registers anymore — and he sets it aside without ceremony, like he can't stand the thought of one more thing strapped to him tonight.

You slide into bed beside him, the mattress dipping under your weight. Jack doesn’t hesitate—he hooks an arm around you and pulls you in close, pressing you against the steady, grounding thump of his heart.

With his free hand, he pulls the blanket up over both of you, tucking it carefully around your shoulders like he's sealing you in. Then he drops a slow, tired kiss into your hair, lingering there for a second longer than he means to, breathing you in like you're the only thing anchoring him to the world tonight.

You fall asleep like that—safe. Held. Loved. The two of you breathing slow and steady together, with your whole world sleeping peacefully in the next room

MONTH SIX

The thing about six months is—everything starts feeling bigger.

Her smiles.

Her babbling.

The way she kicks her legs like she’s training for the Olympics whenever Jack comes home from a shift.

And your love for her—your daughter—isn’t something neat and quiet anymore. It’s loud inside your chest. It’s messy.

It’s overwhelming in the best way.

You get the morning to yourself one rare Saturday.

Jack’s still knocked out in bed, sleeping off back-to-back night shifts, and the baby wakes early, squirming and babbling in her crib.

You scoop her up before she can start crying and carry her to the kitchen, heart already aching at how much bigger she feels in your arms.

She babbles nonsense at you while you fix a bottle one-handed, bouncing her on your hip.

You talk back, just as nonsensical, just as giddy.

"Yeah? You think so? I dunno, kiddo, the market’s not looking great for that kind of investment portfolio," you joke, nuzzling her soft cheek.

She giggles—full, wild baby giggles—and you feel it shake right through your ribs. You feed her at the table, tucked into the crook of your arm, sunlight pouring across both of you.

The house is still and warm and safe.

It’s just you and her.

When she finishes, you keep holding her, rocking gently. Her little fingers find your hair and tug, clumsy but affectionate. You laugh quietly and kiss the top of her head.

"You’re my best girl," you whisper.

"My whole heart."

You don’t even hear Jack come in. You just feel the change in the air—the way the world gets steadier when he’s close.

You glance over your shoulder to find him standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. Sleep-tousled hair. T-shirt wrinkled. And looking at you like you hung the goddamn stars.

"Hey," you murmur.

"Hey," Jack echoes, voice low and rough with sleep.

He crosses the room without hesitation and drops a kiss onto your hair first, then the baby's. Then he sinks into the chair beside you, resting his forearms on the table, eyes drinking you both in like he’s starving for it.

"You’re beautiful, you know that?" he says softly.

It’s not performative.

It’s not dramatic.

It’s just the truth, plain and steady, the way Jack says everything that matters.

You feel your face flush, your chest tighten.

Even after everything—even after the sleepless nights, the spit-up stains, the exhaustion—you still feel beautiful when he says it.

You still believe it.

Because it’s Jack.

And Jack doesn’t waste words.

That afternoon, you all pile into the beat-up Jeep and drive out toward the river, just to get some fresh air.

The baby's strapped into her carrier against Jack's chest, her little arms poking out. He adjusts the straps with the easy, absent-minded care of a man who would walk through fire just to keep her comfortable.

You hold hands as you walk, your fingers laced tight, your body leaning naturally into his.

Jack lifts your joined hands sometimes just to kiss your knuckles, like he can't help it. Like the love is leaking out of him at the seams.

The baby finally goes down around 9:30. You stand frozen outside the nursery door. Across the hall, Jack leans against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, watching you with that sleepy, crooked smile that always gives him away.

The 'I’d burn the world down for you' smile.

The one he thinks you don’t catch.

You tiptoe toward him, socks sliding slightly on the hardwood, and he lifts his hand—palm up, waiting. You grin, fitting your fingers into his without hesitation.

He squeezes once, slow and firm.

"Mission accomplished," he murmurs, voice low enough that it doesn't even ripple the heavy quiet of the house.

You snort quietly.

"One kid. One bedtime. And it almost killed us."

Jack tugs you gently toward the kitchen. "Almost," he says, mock serious. "But not quite. ‘Cause you married a damn machine, sweetheart."

You roll your eyes so hard you almost sprain something.

"A machine who just bribed a six-month-old with four rounds of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star and half a pack of graham crackers?"

Jack smirks as he grabs two beers from the fridge—one for him, one he opens and hands to you like he’s presenting you with fine wine instead of a Sam Adams.

"A win’s a win, pretty girl. Don’t question the strategy."

You lean your elbows on the counter, taking a long pull from the bottle, watching him. Loose, hair messy. T-shirt stretched across his shoulders. Grinning at you like he’s just happy you’re standing in the same room breathing.

He sets his beer down, then leans in until his forehead bumps yours lightly. "Still married to me," he murmurs, like it’s some grand, ridiculous miracle. "Still puttin’ up with my ass."

"Somebody’s gotta," you tease, nose brushing his. "Can't let you run around unsupervised. You’d live on black coffee and beef jerky."

Jack laughs, low and warm, and drops a quick kiss onto your mouth—chaste, easy. But you feel the zing of it anyway.

The way you always do with him.

Like the earth tilting a little under your feet.

You set your beer down blindly and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. Jack goes willingly, hands sliding low around your hips, thumbs slipping under the hem of your sleep shirt to find bare skin.

He grins against your mouth, voice rough with teasing. "Careful, honey. House is quiet. Baby’s asleep. Husband’s feelin’ reckless."

You tilt your head back a little, laughing softly.

"Oh yeah? What exactly is reckless gonna look like?"

Jack leans in again, bumping your nose with his. "Thinkin’ about throwin’ you over my shoulder. Maybe take you to the bedroom. Show you you’re still my girl first and her mom second."

You feel it—the way your heart slams against your ribs, the way heat flares under your skin.

God, you missed this.

Missed him like this—teasing and full of life and all that wrecking ball love aimed straight at you.

You tug his shirt higher, fingers skimming the hard plane of his back. "You’re all talk, Dr. Abbot," you whisper. "You forget—I know you."

Jack’s grin turns dangerous. "You sure about that, honey?"

Before you can answer, he sweeps you off your feet with one fast, practiced move—arms under your thighs, lifting you onto the kitchen counter like you weigh nothing.

You gasp, laughing breathlessly as your beer bottle clatters harmlessly.

Jack crowds into your space, standing between your knees, hands braced on either side of you. His eyes are heavy-lidded, burning dark under the dim kitchen light.

"You’re still my girl," he says, voice dropping.

"Always gonna be."

He kisses you then—and it’s nothing like polite.

It’s deep, dirty, teeth dragging gently against your lower lip before his mouth seals over yours in a kiss so consuming it makes you whimper low in your throat.

Jack groans in answer, sliding his hands up under your shirt, palms rough and reverent over your ribs, your back, the soft curve of your waist.

You clutch at his hair, pulling him impossibly closer, your body arching into him on instinct.

The kiss goes on and on—long, slow, greedy—like he’s trying to make up for every second the two of you have been too tired, too busy, too wrapped up in being parents to just be husband and wife.

When he finally pulls back, you’re both breathing hard, faces flushed, chests heaving.

"Love you," he murmurs, so low and wrecked you almost cry. "More now than the day I married you. More every damn day."

You kiss him again, softer this time, and thread your fingers through his.

"Same, Jack," you whisper. "Same. Always."

Jack presses another kiss to your temple, then another to your cheekbone, then one to the corner of your mouth—because he’s a man who doesn’t know how to stop once he starts.

And you let him.

You let him kiss you like he’s starving, let him hold you like you’re the only thing that’s ever made sense.

Because you are.

You always have been.

MONTH SEVEN

The late afternoon light spills golden across the living room, catching on the scattered toys and half-folded laundry.

Jack’s flat on the carpet, army-crawling after your daughter, who’s shrieking with laughter as she belly-flops toward her stuffed dinosaur.

"And she’s on the move!" Jack calls, his voice exaggerated and playful, dragging himself forward with his arms, shifting his weight carefully off his prosthetic like it’s second nature now.

Your daughter lets out a victorious squeal as she clutches the dinosaur, kicking her legs against the carpet.

Jack grins up at you from the floor, flushed and a little breathless. "Looks like the rookie’s got me beat," he says, dragging himself into a full, lazy sprawl. "Think she’s got a better crawl time than I ever did."

You’re sitting on the couch, your legs tucked under you, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

"Maybe if you had a binky and a stuffed T-Rex in basic, you would’ve made it further," you tease.

Jack barks a laugh, slow and rumbling.

"You tryin’ to start something, honey?" he says, rolling onto his good knee and levering himself upright in that smooth, practiced motion he’s mastered without fanfare.

"You got the mouth for it."

You arch a brow, playful.

"You wouldn't dare."

Jack tilts his head, that cocky, lopsided grin tugging at his mouth. "Wanna bet?"

Before you can move, he lunges—slow enough for you to see it coming, fast enough that you shriek anyway, scrambling off the couch.

You dart for the hallway, laughing breathlessly. Jack’s heavy footfalls thud behind you—the lighter footstep mixing with the solid stomp—and you’re laughing so hard you can barely breathe as he catches you around the waist.

You squeal, kicking your legs uselessly as he lifts you, hauling you easily against his chest.

"Gotcha," he murmurs, nuzzling into your neck, his voice a low, delighted growl.

You slump against him, laughing helplessly, your heart hammering in your chest.

His hands are warm on your hips, steady and strong. Jack chuckles low, pressing a kiss to your hairline.

"Raincheck," he murmurs against your skin. "Handle her first. Then you’re all mine."

It takes an hour to get her down.

A bottle.

Three lullabies.

Some quiet rocking with Jack swaying on his feet, his body moving instinctively to keep her settled. You watch him from the nursery door, heart aching so sweetly it hurts—the way he holds her, the way his whole body softens when she finally, finally gives in to sleep.

When he lays her gently in the crib and brushes a calloused knuckle over her cheek, you know you’re done for.

Jack straightens slowly, adjusting his balance before he turns back toward you. He’s flushed and tired and barefoot, in an old black t-shirt and sweats—and he’s the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen.

You take his hand silently.

He lets you.

Lets you pull him down the hall, fingers laced tight into yours.

The second you’re both inside the bedroom, Jack tugs you to a stop.

"You sure?" he says, voice low, serious. "Honey... we don’t gotta rush. You’re tired, I know—"

You cut him off with a kiss.

Hard.

Needy.

Full of every word you can’t fit into your mouth fast enough.

Jack groans low in his chest and lifts you carefully, steadying you against him before easing you back onto the bed.

No rush.

No slam.

Just the kind of rough, reverent touch that only he knows how to give you.

He crawls over you slowly, moving like he’s already half-drunk on you. His weight shifts naturally off the prosthetic, instinctive after all these years—but this time, he pauses. Sits back on his heels, eyes never leaving yours.

Wordlessly, Jack reaches down and unclips the prosthetic, setting it aside with a soft thud against the floor.

He exhales through his nose, rough and steady, the kind of sound he only makes when he’s dropping the last of his defenses. When it’s just you and him and nothing else that matters.

Then he’s back over you, heavier now, hotter, real in a way that steals the breath from your lungs.

Jack fits himself between your thighs, the mattress dipping under his weight, his hands bracing on either side of your head.

"You good, baby?" he mutters, voice gravel-thick, the words brushing warm against your mouth.

You nod, already arching up into him, already lost.

Jack smiles—slow, crooked, hungry—and kisses you like a man who’s got nowhere else to be. His hands slide under your shirt, fingers rough and reverent against your skin.

"You’re so goddamn beautiful," he mutters, voice wrecked.

"Been drivin' me crazy all day. Chasin’ you around the house like a damn fool."

You giggle breathlessly into his mouth, tugging his shirt off over his head.

Jack chuckles low, dragging your sleep shirt up inch by inch, kissing every new patch of skin he uncovers.

He’s warm and solid and stupidly good at this—kissing you until you’re panting, until you’re squirming under him, until you’re gasping his name.

"You’re mine," he murmurs against your skin. "Still my girl. Always."

When he finally slides inside you, it’s slow.

Deep.

A rhythm he sets without thinking—steady, grounded, devastating.

You clutch at his shoulders, your nails scraping gently over the broad planes of his back. Jack buries his face in your neck, groaning low as he rocks into you, one hand sliding under your thigh to angle you closer, deeper, better.

"God, baby," he pants. "Feels so good—always you, only you—"

You arch into him, every nerve ending blazing, every breath catching.

He kisses you like it’s the first time.

Like it’s the last time.

Like it’s the only thing that’s ever made sense.

You come apart first—soft, wrecked, clinging to him—and Jack follows with a groan that sounds like your name shattered across his lips.

He stays there, breathing hard against your skin, his body heavy and warm and so damn real on top of you.

You thread your fingers through his messy hair, stroking gently. Jack hums low, shifting carefully so he’s not crushing you, pulling you into his side, tucking your head under his chin.

"You’re my whole world," he whispers, voice cracking. "You and her. Always."

You kiss the center of his chest, right over his hammering heart.

"You’re ours too," you whisper back. "Always."

MONTH EIGHT

The house is so quiet in the early mornings now.

Jack is always the first one up. Not because he has to be—but because he wants to be.

You find him almost every morning sitting at the kitchen table, coffee in hand, the baby in his lap.

Sometimes he’s got her pressed against his chest, one hand wrapped completely around her little body.

Sometimes he’s reading aloud from whatever’s nearby—sports page, medical journal, the back of a cereal box.

This morning, it’s the latter. Jack’s deep voice rumbles through a very serious dramatic reading of the Lucky Charms ingredients list.

You lean against the doorway, grinning like an idiot, just watching them. Watching the way he sips his coffee absently between sentences, the way the baby clutches a fistful of his t-shirt, drooling contentedly.

The way Jack drops a kiss onto her hair every couple minutes without even realizing he’s doing it.

This is what love looks like, you think. This is what home feels like.

It happens on a Sunday morning.

One of those soft, slow days where the house smells like coffee and pancakes and the baby’s shrieking happily in her bouncer.

Jack’s at the stove, wearing nothing but flannel pajama pants and an old army t-shirt, trying to flip pancakes while holding a spatula and a coffee mug at the same time.

You’re sitting on the counter, swinging your legs, wearing Jack’s hoodie and absolutely no pants, grinning like an idiot.

"You're gonna burn those," you warn, sipping your coffee.

Jack glances over his shoulder, smirking.

"Negative, pretty girl. This is controlled chaos."

The second he turns back, the pancake flops halfway out of the pan, folding over itself in a sad, gooey mess.

You laugh so hard you almost spit out your coffee. Jack groans dramatically, setting down the spatula and mock-bowing to the baby.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," he says solemnly. "Your breakfast has been compromised."

The baby claps her hands excitedly.

And then—clear as a bell—she looks straight at you and says, "Mama!"

You freeze.

Jack freezes.

The whole house freezes.

Your coffee cup slips out of your hands onto the counter with a thunk. Jack turns, eyes wide, mouth falling open in slow motion.

"Did she—?" he croaks.

"Did you—?"

You slide off the counter, rushing over, scooping her up in your arms, laughing and crying all at once.

"Say it again, baby," you whisper, beaming through your tears.

And sure enough, your daughter beams back at you, kicking her little legs, babbling happily: "Mama! Mama!"

Jack’s standing frozen by the stove, coffee mug forgotten in his hand, just staring at the two of you. His face is flushed, his eyes suspiciously bright.

You turn toward him, bouncing your daughter on your hip.

"Jack," you laugh, voice thick.

"She said it! She really said it—"

You don’t even finish. Jack’s across the room in three strides, careful not to trip on the rug, pulling you both into his arms.

He hugs you so tight you can barely breathe, his head dropping to your shoulder, his whole body trembling with the force of it.

"I’m so goddamn proud of you," he mutters hoarsely, pressing a kiss into your hair, then one to your daughter’s head.

"So proud of my girls."

You blink up at him, overwhelmed with love, cupping his face in your hand. Jack leans into your touch shamelessly, his lashes lowering, his mouth soft and wrecked.

"Mama," the baby chirps again, and Jack laughs—low and broken and full of more joy than you’ve ever heard from him.

"Yeah, that’s right, bean," he whispers. "That’s your mama. Best damn one in the world."

You end up on the couch in a heap—Jack stretched out with you sprawled half on top of him, the baby curled between you, all three of you breathing each other in.

It’s messy.

It’s imperfect.

It’s everything.

The first real crisp Saturday, Jack piles you both into the Jeep.

No agenda. Just air. Leaves. Time.

He drives with one hand on the wheel, the other reaching over to hold yours across the console.

The baby babbles in her car seat, kicking her little feet at the window, and Jack keeps glancing at her in the mirror with that soft, wrecked look you’ve come to recognize.

You end up at a small park—just woods and trails and a rickety playground. Jack lifts her out of the car seat with the same appreciation he uses for the most fragile patients.

Presses his forehead to hers.

"You ready to see the world, little bean?" he whispers.

You walk the trails together, Jack keeping her tucked close to his chest, narrating everything he sees: "This is a maple tree, sweetheart. Turns red in October. Looks like the whole damn world’s on fire when it hits right."

"These are squirrels. Little thieves. Don’t trust ‘em."

You laugh the whole time, half at him, half at the sheer overwhelming joy of watching the two people you love most in the world wrapped up in each other.

Jack pulls you into a kiss when you least expect it—deep, slow, hungry—with the baby giggling between you.

Like he can’t help it.

Like loving you is as natural to him as breathing.

MONTH NINE

Jack’s the one who insists on it.

You catch him late one night scrolling through his phone in bed, looking at local pumpkin patches like he’s planning a heist.

You smother a laugh into his shoulder.

"You serious about this, Abbot?"

Jack snorts.

"First Halloween. First pumpkin. Non-negotiable."

He books it two days later—drives you both out on a crisp Saturday, one hand on the wheel, the other resting over your knee the whole time. Your daughter’s bundled in a little fleece onesie with bear ears on the hood, clutching the strap of her car seat and babbling to herself.

When you get there, Jack’s all in.

Wheeling the wagon.

Letting her "choose" a pumpkin by the scientific method of whichever one she tries to eat first.

Crouching slow and careful so she can sit in a pile of leaves while he snaps a thousand photos on his phone like a proud dad on steroids.

At one point you turn around and find Jack sitting in the dirt, legs sprawled out, your daughter crawling all over him—tugging at his hoodie strings, trying to steal his hat.

He’s laughing, full and unguarded, his face lit up in a way that makes your heart physically ache.

It happens when you’re least expecting it. Which, you’re starting to realize, is how all the big moments happen.

You’re doing dishes in the kitchen. Jack’s sitting on the floor, flipping through a toy catalog someone left at the nurses' station, pretending to be very serious about Christmas gift planning.

The baby’s on her playmat, babbling to herself, surrounded by stuffed animals and teethers.

You walk into the living room—and freeze.

She’s got her tiny hands braced on the couch. Her legs wobble dangerously under her.

But somehow—God, somehow—she pulls herself upright.

Your mouth drops open.

"Jack—"

Jack’s eyes are wide, almost panicked.

Like if he blinks, he’ll miss it.

Like it’s the most fragile miracle in the world.

She wobbles, Jack lunges—and catches her gently before she tips.

"That’s my girl! You’re gonna take over the world!"

You sit down hard on the couch, heart pounding, grinning so wide your face hurts. Jack beams at you over her head, and you swear to God his eyes are shiny.

He won’t admit it.

But you know.

You both pretend it’s for her.

It’s not.

It’s for you and Jack.

Jack spends hours on the couch sketching costume ideas like he’s designing a battle plan.

Pirates?

Farmers?

Superheroes?

Jack suggests "trauma surgeons," but you veto it when he tries to strap a fake scalpel to the baby’s diaper bag.

You finally settle on a simple one: A little pumpkin suit for her.

You and Jack wear matching orange hoodies.

Jack grumbles, but secretly loves it—you can tell by the way he keeps brushing his knuckles against your side every time you get close.

At the neighbor’s block party, Jack holds her the whole time, proudly accepting compliments like he personally grew her in the backyard.

He lets her chew on his hoodie string.

Lets her grab fistfuls of his hair.

Lets her shriek in his ear without flinching.

Later, back home, you find him sitting on the floor in the nursery with her asleep on his chest—both of them still wearing their pumpkin outfits.

MONTH TEN

The front yard was Jack’s idea.

"You can’t stay cooped up in the house forever, bean," he tells her, propping the storm door open with his boot while he adjusts the old quilt he spread out over the browning fall grass.

"You gotta touch some dirt sometime. It's character-building."

You smile from the porch, arms folded loosely over your chest, heart full to the point of aching. It’s cold enough that you’re both bundled up—Jack in an old hoodie and jeans, your daughter in a too-puffy jacket that makes her arms stick out like a tiny scarecrow.

Jack crouches carefully. He sets her down on the quilt.

She sits there for a second, blinking up at him.

Then at you.

Then down at the crinkling, crunchy leaves scattered across the grass. Jack tosses her one—big and orange, almost bigger than her face. She squeals, clutching it in both hands, waving it around like a victory flag.

You laugh quietly.

Jack turns his head, grinning that slow, easy grin that still knocks the breath out of you.

And when he turns back—it happens.

She pushes herself upright.

Wobbly.

Determined.

Like the whole world’s just waiting for her to take it.

Jack freezes, one hand still half-extended like he was about to offer her another leaf.

You watch, breathless, from the porch—hands fisted in the sleeves of your sweatshirt, heart pounding.

And then—one step. Another.

Toward him.

Toward Jack.

Jack doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just stays absolutely still, arms hanging loose at his sides, his whole body vibrating with the effort not to rush forward and grab her.

When she stumbles into him—three full steps later—he scoops her up so fast you barely see it happen.

Lifts her high into the air, spinning once under the porch light, laughing that full, broken, wrecked-little-boy laugh you only hear when he’s completely undone.

"That’s my tough girl," he breathes, pressing kiss after kiss into her pink cheeks. "God, you’re somethin’ else, baby bean."

He tips his head back toward you, still holding her high against his chest—and you see it.

The way his mouth is trembling.

The way his eyes are suspiciously bright, blinking hard.

Jack Abbot, who’s been shot at, seen death on rooftops and in ER trauma bays—wrecked into soft, helpless pieces by a pair of wobbly baby legs and three whole steps.

You jump down off the porch without even thinking, running toward them, wrapping yourself around them both.

Jack catches you one-armed, pressing his face into your hair, breathing hard.

"You see that?" he mutters against you, voice rough and low. "She chose me. Took her first steps to me."

You nod, laughing through tears.

"I saw it, Jack," you whisper back. "I saw everything."

The first real cold snap hits two weeks later.

Jack makes a production out of it—dragging down tubs of winter clothes from the attic, testing the space heater, checking the baby monitor batteries like you’re preparing for the Arctic.

You find him one evening sitting on the floor of the nursery, surrounded by a sea of tiny coats, mittens, hats, and boots.

The baby’s crawling around giggling, trying to chew on every hat she can get her hands on.

Jack’s holding up a toddler-sized snowsuit with a deeply skeptical expression.

"She’s gonna look like a marshmallow," he mutters. "Can she even breathe in this?"

You laugh, sitting down beside him. "You’re gonna be that dad, huh?" you tease, bumping his shoulder. "The one who brings her to preschool wearing a parka in 40 degrees?"

Jack lifts his chin stubbornly. "Better too warm than too cold."

He glances at the baby trying to fit an entire mitten in her mouth and grins. "Besides. She’s gotta survive Pittsburgh winter. It’s a rite of passage."

You didn’t plan on getting a tree that day.

Jack says it’s too early. You agree.

But when you drive past the little lot tucked between the church and the fire station—when you see the tiny white lights strung overhead—you both say nothing.

Just look at each other.

And turn in without a word.

Jack lifts the baby out of her car seat, tucking her close against his chest inside his coat. You wander through the rows slowly, letting her grab fistfuls of pine needles, letting Jack argue seriously with the teenager working the lot about which tree "looks the most structurally sound."

You settle on a small, sturdy one.

Jack ties it to the roof of the Jeep himself, refusing help.

You know better than to argue—watching him knot the ropes with steady, competent hands, his mouth set in that focused line you love so much.

When you get home, he lifts the baby onto his shoulders and lets her "help" you string lights—her squealing laughter echoing off the walls.

Jack catches your hand as you walk past, tugging you into his side.

"We’re makin’ a good life, huh, pretty girl?" he murmurs.

"One hell of a good life."

MONTH ELEVEN

You didn't plan to make a big deal out of it.

First Christmas.

She's too young to remember.

That's what you kept telling yourselves.

But Jack...he can't help himself.

You find him at the kitchen table on Christmas Eve, hunched over a roll of wrapping paper, tongue poking out slightly as he wrestles with Scotch tape and a box that’s clearly too big for its contents.

The tree glows in the corner of the living room, soft and gold, the whole house smelling like pine and cinnamon.

Your daughter babbles from her playpen, chewing on a crinkly ribbon Jack forgot to hide. Jack just shakes his head fondly and lets her.

When he sees you standing there, arms crossed and smiling, he tries to scowl. Fails miserably.

"What?" he mutters, sticking another crooked piece of tape down. "Santa’s gotta show up somehow."

You cross the room, sliding your arms around his shoulders from behind, resting your chin on top of his head.

"You’re gonna ruin her for real Christmases when she’s older," you murmur against his hair. "Nothing’s ever gonna top this."

Jack hums low in his throat, one hand reaching up to squeeze your forearm where it crosses his chest. "Good," he says simply.

"I don’t want her ever thinkin' she’s gotta go lookin’ for somethin' better. She’s already got everything she needs."

It’s still dark when you feel him stir.

Jack’s body slides out of bed carefully, trying not to wake you. You crack one eye open and watch him pad silently to the nursery in sweatpants and a ratty old Steelers hoodie.

You follow a minute later, wrapping a blanket around yourself.

You catch the scene from the hallway: Jack crouched low by the crib, one big hand resting gently on the bars, his head bowed.

Not saying anything.

Just... being there.

Breathing her in.

He lifts her slowly, carefully, pressing his face into her hair, and you hear it—the soft, wrecked sound he makes when she cuddles into him without hesitation.

"Hey, bean," he whispers, voice cracking.

"Merry Christmas, baby girl."

You stand there, hand pressed to your mouth, heart splitting wide open.

Jack turns finally, cradling her tight against his chest. His eyes find yours in the half-light. And even though he doesn’t say anything, you hear it clear as day:

Thank you. Thank you for her. Thank you for this. Thank you for choosing him.

It starts snowing after breakfast. Big, lazy flakes drifting down outside the windows, blanketing the world in white.

Jack builds a fire in the living room fireplace, cursing gently under his breath when it smokes at first.

You bundle the baby in a ridiculous red-and-white onesie covered in tiny reindeer and sit her in the middle of the couch with a pile of pillows on either side like she's royalty.

Jack flops down beside her with a grunt, stretching out his long legs and tilting his head back to watch the snow.

The fire crackles low. The tree lights blink softly. Your daughter babbles, chewing happily on the sleeve of her onesie. You settle into Jack’s side, his arm automatically looping around your shoulders.

He kisses your temple without thinking. Without needing to.

"You warm enough, pretty girl?" he murmurs. "Got everything you need?"

You don’t answer.

You just nod, curling closer into him, breathing in the scent of smoke and pine and Jack. Because you do. You really, truly do.

The baby sleeps early, worn out by too many presents, too many relatives, too much excitement.

You and Jack stay up late.

Too late.

Sitting on the living room floor like teenagers, backs against the couch, drinking hot chocolate and eating the burnt-edge cookies you forgot to take out of the oven in time.

You talk about stupid things at first. Work. Sports. Whether the baby's going to end up a hockey player or a piano prodigy.

And then Jack gets quiet. Staring into the fire. "You ever think it’d be like this?" he asks finally, voice low and rough. "Back then?"

You know what he means.

Back when the world was a lot harder.

When he never thought he’d make it past thirty.

When you weren’t even sure you believed in happy endings.

You slide your hand into his, threading your fingers tight.

"No," you whisper. "Not like this." You turn your head, smiling soft against the firelight. "Better."

Jack squeezes your hand once, hard, and you feel him nod. Feel him breathe. Feel him let it in. The good. The love. The life he never thought he deserved.

MONTH TWELVE

The holidays are over. The tree’s gone. The stockings are packed away. The house feels a little empty without all the lights and glitter, but honestly?

You’re relieved.

You and Jack have been circling the same conversation for two weeks now: How big should her first birthday be?

Jack leans over the kitchen counter one evening, thumbing through a battered old notebook, his mouth pulled into that stubborn line he gets when he’s pretending to be casual but is actually spiraling.

"I mean..." he says, flipping a page. "We could just do somethin' small. Family. Cake. A couple of her toys. No big deal."

You lift an eyebrow at him.

"And by ‘small’ you mean...?"

Jack shrugs, grinning sheepishly.

"Maybe invite, like, Shen. Dana. Robby. Princess. Perlah. Ellis. Collins. Langdon. McKay. And maybe the rookies if they don't annoy me"

You snort, dropping into the chair across from him.

"So, basically... the entire Pitt."

Jack smirks. "You wanna tell Ellis she’s not invited to her honorary niece’s first birthday?" He taps his pen on the paper. "'Cause I’m not getting in the middle of that one, pretty girl."

You shake your head, laughing under your breath.

"You’re impossible."

Jack leans across the counter, catching your chin lightly between his thumb and knuckle, tilting your face up.

"You love me anyway."

The January sky is sharp and dark, heavy with the kind of cold that makes the world feel smaller.

You find Jack in the nursery after you put the baby down—sitting in the old rocking chair, one foot nudging the floor in a slow rhythm. He’s staring at the crib. Silent. Still.

You lean against the doorway, watching him. Watching the way the weight of the year—the weight of love—settles heavy over his broad shoulders.

Jack finally looks up, catching your eye. His voice is low, rough with something he hasn’t figured out how to say yet.

"You remember..." He clears his throat. "You remember when we brought her home?"

You nod, stepping quietly into the room. Press your hand to the back of his neck, feeling the tension there. The life humming under his skin.

"I didn’t know what the hell I was doin'," Jack mutters, a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. "Didn’t know if I deserved her. If I deserved you."

You slide your fingers through his hair, soft and sure.

Jack leans into it like he can’t help himself.

"You do," you whisper. "You deserve all of it, Jack. You always have."

He pulls you into his lap then, wrapping his arms around your waist, tucking his face into your neck. Holding you like you’re the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth.

And maybe you are.

Maybe you always will be.

The day of her birthday dawns cold and gray, the streets dusted with a thin layer of January snow.

You wake up to Jack already downstairs, setting up balloons and streamers with the grim determination of a man trying to fix a leaky roof mid-thunderstorm.

You find him half-wrestling a giant "1" balloon into the living room, muttering curses under his breath when it refuses to cooperate.

"You good, champ?" you tease, sipping your coffee.

Jack glares at you over the top of the balloon, but there’s no heat in it. Only love. Only joy. Only him.

"You wanna fight the damn helium next?" he mutters, half-laughing as he pins the balloon to the back of a chair.

The party is perfect.

Small, chaotic, full of noise and warmth.

The Pitt crew shows up—Dana with an armful of presents, Robby with some ridiculous talking toy that immediately gets banned to the garage after ten minutes, Shen slipping Jack a flask when he thinks you’re not looking.

Jack never puts her down.

Not really.

He lets her toddle a little—lets her show off the new steps she’s so proud of—but he’s always within reach. Always there to catch her.

You cut the cake.

She smashes her tiny fists into the frosting with a triumphant shriek. Everyone cheers. Jack laughs so hard he almost drops the camera.

Later, when the guests trickle out and the house quiets, you find Jack standing in the kitchen, wiping down the counters like he can scrub the day into permanence.

He turns when he hears you, setting the rag down. Looks at you with that look—the one he only ever gives you. The one that says everything without a single word.

You cross the kitchen, wrapping your arms around his waist, pressing your face into his chest.

Jack hugs you back immediately, fiercely. Kisses your hair. "She’s gonna be so damn good, honey," he murmurs against your crown. "You’re makin’ sure of that."

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes. "You too, Jack," you whisper. "You’re the best thing she’ll ever know."

"Can’t believe we made it a year," he murmurs. "Can’t believe we get to keep doin’ this."

"Best thing we ever did." you whisper.

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espressheauxs

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