[darkromanceblackburn]

Slasher OC Masterlist

Richard Firewood🎶

Jackson Jasper🐴

The Hacker💻💙

Bambi Miller🐊

Dave Anthony🐙

Samuel Grayson🐕

Gerome and Axel (Miami Murderers)🏝️

Damiano Liberato💎

Azment💜

Mitch Carson🐾

Azol🎃

The Shadow💉

Bahini Talibah🐍

Xaviera Lah-Mo🐱❄️

Akshay Lah-Mo🐻❄️

Decebal Avram Chirilă🐯⚔️

Nadia Nikolina Chirilă🐆🖌️

Alexander Chirilă🌸

Ambros Abendroth 🥀

Nikita Piotr Volkov 🐉

🦅My Slashersona Genderbend-Self Masterlist

[ghostlybfgf]

Thinking about Gwayne being the most devoted husband..

He seeks you out everywhere, and in every thing. Knighthood may have taught him to be vigilant and steadfast, always looking over one shoulder to the other, but it doesn’t come close to how quickly he finds you.

His eyes search. Across court, through corridors, from the other side of the courtyard, even mid conversation, his gaze remains on you. Studying, computing, making sure you are alright, for no other reason than because he can.

No matter how many years together, he still treats you as he did when you were his betrothed. But in the sense that his chivalry knows no bounds. Only now, knowing you more. Always walking a step behind you, but with his hand raised to your lower back. Bringing flowers by hand to your solar or chambers when he returns home. Unclasping his cloak from himself to drape it around your shoulders on colder nights. It’s become second nature now.

And he secretly loves when you steal them from him, letting it fall into your hands even when his men eye him from behind. He could care less, so long as you’re the one doing it.

You’re the last person he sees before battles, if the time will allow him. It’s a ritual he has, already in his armour, tucking his helm under his arm before standing in front of you.

“Do you have to go?” You blink up at him, still fussing with the steel placed on his arm.

“You know that I must. I only want to make sure your face is the last I see.” His voice is a delicate rasp, not once tearing his eyes from you as his fingers raise you strike your cheek.

Your hand plants into the metal under your hand, nudging him as he tempts a smile, the action barely knocking him back at all. And then he leans, placing a kiss to your cheek, one longing and lasting, nudging his nose to yours as he breaths. Another one captures your lips, this time more fervent, both palms smoothing to the sides of your face as he draws you near. So that should it be the last, it’s the only thing to remember him by.

Speaking of battle and being taken from you, he brings souvenirs and gifts back with him as often as he can. Pressed flowers in his handkerchief at his breastplate, ones far from what you’re used to, summer flowers, wildflowers, and herbs in vibrant colours. Trinkets and delicate pieces of jewellery that are dainty enough to fit into his pockets. Or simply just the small letters he sends more frequently than he should by Raven.

Always signed with the signature of his name and beneath it:

Forever Yours.

The most protective in the quiet way. Because even if he can’t be beside you, his eye always is. Though jealousy isn’t something strong with him, he is weary of those around him, with full trust and care of you. He had seen how depraved men can be, how ruthless they become with a quick turn. At feasts he pulls out your chair, sliding an arm around you, or settling lowly on your knee, at ceremonies or in large crowds he’s at your side. And when others raise their voice or get too close, he’s slipping impossibly close just to put himself between you and the danger.

Gwayne doesn’t do titles, at least only for the times when duty doesn’t require it, and he introduces you as such. To him you are not just lady.. he speaks your name first, and that alone, before he continues.

“My wife..” A proud smile appearing on his face as he draws you closer to him. Though for whatever reason, he still uses ‘My Lady’ to tease in the softer moments, wrapping his arms behind you as you stand in front of your vanity, lips pursing at your neck. Because the titles and endearments are for you, no one else.

His favourite pastime is just being in the quiet with you, existing together, more so reading. Sometimes he will read with you in his lap, one hand combing gently through your hair as you listen, drifting slowly. Other times he’s the one laid behind you, your back pressed into his chest, his arms curling around you as you hold the book. Those are the rare times he truly feels like he relaxes, eyes closing, breath warm at your neck, listening to the soothing tone of your voice.

He reserves the more lighthearted sides of himself in private. Most people would describe him as plain, a chivalrous, good man, but perhaps in some people’s eyes boring. He doesn’t stand and shout amongst the other men, or become raucous in crowds, but he isn’t without humour. It’s dry, and sarcastic like he is. Like the looks he gives you from the side when a lord drones on too long, or the sly comments he makes behind someone else’s back that make you both laugh when you’re attempting to stay serious. There is more to him than most know, and he’s often mocking them at their own expense, just to see you smile.

When the weight of the realm feels impossibly heavy, he simply rests his forehead against your own, in company or without it. It’s your shared way of grounding one another, and how he vows to you silently, over and over, that he is yours. He’s here to protect, and be by your side more than any other responsibility that befalls him.

“Yours, before all else.”

He says it plainly, a whisper against your lips or into your hair, meant only for you, because by the Seven and his oath, that’s the truest thing he’ll ever believe in.

[torturedpoetism]

HOW THEY COURT YOU… TARGARYEN EDITION ⊹ ࣪ ˖

AEMOND TARGARYEN

• He is not abrupt. He doesn’t admit that he’s courting you, he just shows up where you are throughout the day.

• He expects intellectual conversation. Challenging him, respectfully disagreeing with him, showing you know your history would impress him.

• He’s not big on frivolous gifts. Instead he would give you ancient Valyrian books, jewelry with dragons and or sapphire gems.

• Not one for PDA, there wouldn’t be too much physical interaction. Once he grows closer to you, you would find his hand on the small of your back or a hand on your thigh during feasts.

• He quietly trains you to survive court politics, teaching you who can be trusted and who smiles with poisoned teeth.

AEGON TARGARYEN

• He makes his intentions very clear by being a total flirt.

• Despite his carefree image, he becomes strangely possessive once his feelings become genuine, always finding excuses to keep you close.

• He makes you laugh constantly, sometimes without even trying.

• When drunk (which isn’t as often as rumors have lead you to believe) he becomes embarrassingly honest, confessing insecurities he’d never admit while sober.

• Underneath his arrogance, he desperately craves your approval. Your disappointment hurts him far more than your anger ever could.

DAEMON TARGARYEN

• He decides you belong beside him long before he ever tells you.

• Every conversation feels intensely personal, as though the rest of the room disappears whenever he looks at you.

• Courtship feels like a challenge. He provokes you, tests your courage, and watches carefully to see whether you back down.

• If you argue with him and stand your ground, his fascination only deepens.

• He is surprisingly attentive in private, remembering tiny details you’d forgotten mentioning months before.

AERION TARGARYEN

• He’s extremely unpredictable. His courtship would be intoxicating one moment and unsettling the next.

• He expects unwavering admiration but becomes fascinated if you refuse to flatter him.

• Every interaction feel like walking the edge of a knife. his charm can disappear as quickly as it appears.

• He is constantly showing off his weath by giving you the most lavish gifts.

• Anyone who insults you would pay the price, his retaliation would be immediate and brutal. Cruel and unusual.

DAERON TARGARYEN

• He ends up falling for you way sooner than he means to.

• Rather than expensive gifts, he leaves handwritten poems or books he thinks you’d enjoy.

• He makes an effort to drink less whenever you are together, wanting you to see the man beneath his reputation.

• Once you get close enough he shares his prophetic dreams only with you, trusting you with fears he reveals to no one else.

• He is often apologizing for not being the prince he thinks you deserve.

VALARR TARGARYEN

• He is a true gentleman and is extremely well mannered.

• Before every tourney, he shyly asks if you would grant him your favor.

• Unlike many princes, Valarr pays close attention to the little things. He remembers your favorite flowers, the songs that made you smile.

• He talks very little about himself, and constantly asks about you. Your family, your house history.

• He is very laid back and love spending time with you. Reading together, riding through the countryside, or escaping noisy feasts to hide somewhere he could simply enjoy your company

BAELOR TARGARYEN

• Rather than trying to impress you with his status, he’d earn your respect through his actions.

• He asks your opinion on important matters, believing a future princess or queen should be an equal partner.

• Making sure you feel seen and heard is one of his top priorities.

• Small acts of service are his love language. Making sure your horse was ready before a ride or sending maesters when you were ill.

• Even after exhausting days , he always finds time to walk with you through the castle gardens at dusk.

MAEKAR TARGARYEN

• He insists you spend time with his children long before any wedding is discussed.

• Rather than asking whether you would make a good wife, he watches to see how you are with children, especially his own.

• Being a widower, he’s had walls up for quite awhile. He struggles but really tries best to show you affection.

• Publicly, he’d remain stoic and formal, but in private you’d catch fleeting moments of tenderness.

• During tournaments, Maekar is never one for grand declarations, but if he rides with your favor tied around his arm, it is because he has already decided there is no one else’s opinion that matters.

[moonofessos]

Can you do yandere rhae with like a nursemaid or wetnurse reader? Reader takes such good care of her boys, how could she not fall in love?

Rhaenyra Targaryen x fem!Reader

warning(s): obsessive behavior, intimate content, possessive themes, royal/servant dynamic

wc; 5.2k

(lowk this is longer than i expected 😭 but enjoyyy)

The candlelight flickered against the stone walls of the nursery, casting dancing shadows that seemed to breathe with the rhythm of sleeping children. Rhaenyra Targaryen stood in the doorway, her presence concealed by the heavy velvet curtain that separated the antechamber from the main room. She had come to check on her sons, as any mother might, but found herself frozen in place by a sight that had become increasingly familiar, increasingly necessary to her peace of mind

You moved through the nursery with the grace of someone who had been born to tend to precious things. Your hands, soft and capable, smoothed the coverlet over young Joffery's shoulders as he stirred in his sleep. The boy sighed contentedly at your touch and settled deeper into his pillows. Rhaenyra watched the way your fingers lingered just a moment longer than necessary, ensuring his comfort, and something tightened in her chest.

It had been months since you had come into her service. The Master of Coin had recommended you, speaking of your reputation among the noble houses, your gentleness with children, your discretion. Rhaenyra had barely glanced at you during that first meeting, her mind occupied with matters of succession and the endless political maneuvering that consumed her days. She had nodded her approval and thought nothing more of it.

How foolish she had been.

Now she could not go a single day without seeking you out, without finding some excuse to visit the nursery at odd hours. She told herself it was maternal devotion, a mother's natural desire to see her children well cared for. But she knew the truth, had known it for weeks now, perhaps longer. It was not her sons she came to see. It was you.

You moved to Aegon's cradle next, and Rhaenyra's breath caught as you bent low to press your lips to the child's forehead. The gesture was so tender, so full of genuine affection, that Rhaenyra felt a surge of something she could only describe as jealousy. Her own son, and yet she envied him that kiss, that closeness to you. The thought should have shamed her. Instead, it only intensified the obsession that had taken root in her heart.

The scent of lavender and chamomile hung in the air, herbs you had insisted on burning to help the children sleep peacefully. Rhaenyra had grown to associate that scent with you, with these stolen moments of observation. Sometimes she caught traces of it in the corridors and found herself following the phantom trail, hoping to find you at the end of it.

You straightened and turned toward little Viserys's cradle, and the candlelight caught your profile. Rhaenyra's hands tightened on the curtain. She had memorized every line of your face, every expression that crossed it. The small furrow that appeared between your brows when you concentrated. The way your lips curved when one of the boys said something amusing. The softness in your eyes when you looked at them, a tenderness that Rhaenyra craved to have directed at herself.

She watched as you lifted Viserys from his cradle, the babe having fussed slightly in his sleep. You held him against your chest, swaying gently, and began to hum a low melody. The sound was barely audible, meant only for the child in your arms, but Rhaenyra heard it as clearly as if you had been singing directly to her. Your voice was like honey, sweet and warm, and she wanted to drown in it.

This was madness. She was a Targaryen, a princess of the realm, mother to the future king. She should not be lurking in doorways like a lovesick squire, watching a servant go about her duties. And yet she could not stop herself. Every day the compulsion grew stronger, the need to be near you, to hear your voice, to breathe the same air.

You settled Viserys back into his cradle, your hand resting on his small chest until his breathing evened out once more. Then you stood there for a long moment, simply watching over all three boys with such devotion that Rhaenyra felt her heart might burst from her chest. How could anyone be so perfectly suited to caring for what she held most dear? How could she not fall utterly, completely, obsessively in love with you?

The word echoed in her mind. Love. Yes, that was what this was, though it felt like no love she had known before. It was consuming, all-encompassing, a fire in her blood that burned hotter with each passing day. She thought of you constantly. Your face appeared in her dreams. She found herself making decisions based on when she might see you next, arranging her schedule around the rhythms of the nursery.

Her advisors had begun to notice her distraction. Daemon had commented on it just yesterday, his knowing eyes studying her face as she lost track of a conversation about the Stepstones. She had brushed off his concern, but she knew he suspected something. Daemon always suspected something.

You moved toward the small table where you kept your supplies, and Rhaenyra took the opportunity to study the way you moved. There was an economy to your gestures, nothing wasted, everything purposeful. You were not a woman of grand beauty in the traditional sense, not like the painted ladies of the court with their elaborate gowns and jewels. But to Rhaenyra, you were more beautiful than any of them. Your beauty was in your competence, your gentleness, the way you gave yourself so completely to your duties.

She wanted to possess that devotion. Wanted it turned toward her with the same intensity you showed her children. The thought made her feel greedy, selfish, but she embraced it. Targaryens were meant to take what they desired. It was in their blood, their nature. And she desired you with a ferocity that frightened and exhilarated her in equal measure.

You began to tidy the room, folding small clothes and arranging toys, and Rhaenyra realized that soon you would finish your tasks and leave. The thought was unbearable. She needed more time, needed to watch you longer, needed to be in your presence even if you did not know she was there.

But perhaps tonight would be different. Perhaps tonight she would finally step out of the shadows and speak to you properly, not as a princess giving instructions to a servant, but as a woman speaking to the object of her obsession. The thought made her pulse quicken.

You paused in your work and turned toward the door, and for a heart-stopping moment, Rhaenyra thought you had sensed her presence. But you were only checking the hour candle, ensuring you had time before the children would need you again. Satisfied, you returned to your tasks, and Rhaenyra released a breath she had not realized she was holding.

Soon, she promised herself. Soon she would make her feelings known. Soon she would discover if you might return even a fraction of what she felt. And if you did not? The thought was too painful to contemplate. She would make you understand. She would show you how good it could be, how well she could care for you, how much she had to offer. She was a Targaryen. She did not accept rejection.

The candles burned lower, and still Rhaenyra watched, unable to tear herself away.

-————————————————————————

The evening had deepened into full night by the time you began the bedtime ritual in earnest. Rhaenyra had finally stepped into the room, no longer content to observe from the shadows. She settled into a chair near the hearth, a piece of needlework in her lap that she had no intention of actually working on. It was merely a pretense, a reason to be present.

You glanced at her when she entered, offering a respectful curtsy. "Your Grace. I did not expect you this evening."

"I find myself restless," Rhaenyra said, her voice carefully neutral. "I thought I might sit with my sons as they prepare for sleep."

"Of course, Your Grace. They will be glad of your presence."

But you did not seem discomfited by her arrival, and Rhaenyra took that as a good sign. You simply continued with your work, moving to wake Joffery gently for his evening washing.

"Come, little prince," you murmured, your voice soft and coaxing. "Time to prepare for bed properly."

Joffery grumbled but allowed you to lead him to the washing basin. Rhaenyra watched as you helped him clean his face and hands, your movements efficient but tender. You spoke to him quietly, asking about his day, listening with genuine interest as he told you about his lessons. The boy responded to you with an openness he rarely showed others, and Rhaenyra understood why. You made him feel safe, valued, heard.

She wanted that for herself. Wanted to be the recipient of your undivided attention, your gentle care. The desire was so strong it was almost painful.

"Your mother is here to see you," you told Joffery, guiding him toward Rhaenyra's chair. "Would you like to bid her goodnight?"

The boy came willingly, and Rhaenyra embraced him, pressing a kiss to his damp hair. "Sleep well, my son."

"Goodnight, Mother," he said, then turned back to you expectantly.

You smiled and took his hand, leading him back to his bed. As you tucked him in, you began to sing, your voice low and melodious. It was a song Rhaenyra did not recognize, something from your homeland perhaps, in a dialect she could not quite place. But the melody was beautiful, haunting, and she found herself leaning forward to hear it better.

Joffery's eyes grew heavy as you sang, your hand stroking his hair with a rhythm that matched the song. Within minutes, he was drifting off, his small face peaceful in the candlelight. You finished the song even after he had fallen asleep, as if the completion of it mattered, as if you could not bear to leave anything unfinished.

"That was beautiful," Rhaenyra said softly. "Where did you learn it?"

You looked up, seeming surprised that she had spoken. "My mother taught it to me, Your Grace. She sang it to me when I was small."

"It suits you," Rhaenyra said, and there was more weight in those words than she had intended. "You have a gift for this work. My sons are fortunate to have you."

A faint blush colored your cheeks. "You are kind to say so, Your Grace. I am honored to serve your house."

Rhaenyra wanted to tell you that it was not kindness but truth, that she had never seen anyone care for children with such devotion, that you had become indispensable not just to her sons but to her own peace of mind. But she held her tongue. There would be time for such confessions later.

You moved to Aegon's cradle next, and the ritual repeated. The gentle washing of his small hands and face, the quiet words spoken only for him. This time you began to hum the same melody, swaying gently as Aegon's small eyes grew heavier with each moment. Your voice painted pictures in the air, and Rhaenyra found herself as captivated as her son.

When Aegon finally succumbed to sleep, you pressed a kiss to his forehead, and Rhaenyra's hands tightened on her needlework. She wanted to be the one receiving such tenderness from you. Wanted to feel your lips against her skin, your hands in her hair, your voice murmuring sweet words meant only for her.

"You are so good with them," Rhaenyra said, unable to keep the admiration from her voice. "They respond to you as they do to no one else."

"Children know when they are loved, Your Grace," you replied simply. "I do love them. They are easy to love."

"And what of their mother?" The words escaped before Rhaenyra could stop them. "Am I easy to love?"

You froze, your eyes widening slightly. For a moment, the only sound was the crackling of the fire and the soft breathing of sleeping children. Then you lowered your gaze, your voice careful when you spoke.

"I am certain you are loved by many, Your Grace."

It was not an answer, not really, but Rhaenyra let it pass. She had revealed too much, pushed too hard. She needed to be patient, to let this unfold naturally. But patience had never been her strength, and with you, it seemed an impossible virtue.

You turned your attention to Viserys, lifting him from his cradle with practiced ease. The babe was fussy, not quite ready for sleep, and you walked with him, bouncing him gently, humming that same melody from before. Rhaenyra watched the way you held him, secure and loving, and imagined what it might feel like to be held by you, to rest her head against your shoulder and feel your arms around her.

"Hush now, little one," you murmured to Viserys. "The night is for sleeping, for dreaming of dragons and distant lands. Close your eyes and let sleep find you."

Your voice was like a spell, weaving peace through the room. Even Rhaenyra felt herself relaxing, the constant tension she carried easing in your presence. This was why she came here, she realized. Not just to see you, but to feel this sense of calm that you brought with you, this oasis of gentleness in a world of sharp edges and political machinations.

Viserys finally settled, his small fist curling against your chest as his eyes closed. You stood there swaying for a few minutes longer, ensuring he was truly asleep before you carefully placed him back in his cradle. Your hand lingered on his back, and Rhaenyra saw the love in that gesture, the genuine care you felt for this child who was not your own.

"You would have made a wonderful mother," Rhaenyra said softly.

You turned to look at her, and there was something sad in your expression. "Perhaps in another life, Your Grace. In this one, I am content to care for the children of others."

"Are you?" Rhaenyra asked, leaning forward. "Content, I mean. Are you truly content?"

You hesitated, and in that hesitation, Rhaenyra saw a glimpse of something deeper, some longing you kept hidden. But then you smiled, and the moment passed.

"I am grateful for my position, Your Grace. Your sons bring me great joy."

It was a diplomatic answer, the kind of thing one said to a princess. Rhaenyra wanted to push further, to dig beneath the surface and find the real you, the woman behind the careful words and respectful demeanor. But the nursery was not the place for such conversations, not with her sleeping sons nearby.

She would need to get you alone, somewhere private where you might speak freely. The thought sent a thrill through her.

You began to move around the room, extinguishing some of the candles, leaving only a few burning to provide light should the children wake. The room fell into deeper shadow, intimate and quiet. Rhaenyra rose from her chair, setting aside her needlework.

"Walk with me," she said, and it was not quite a command but not quite a request either.

You looked at her, surprise evident on your face. "Your Grace, the children..."

"Will sleep soundly, as they always do under your care. Come. I would speak with you."

-————————————————————————

You followed her from the nursery, and Rhaenyra was acutely aware of your presence behind her, the soft sound of your footsteps, the rustle of your simple gown. She led you to a small alcove just outside the nursery, a space where the night guards could not easily see, where the shadows were deep and the air was close.

When she turned to face you, she saw uncertainty in your eyes, but also curiosity. Good. She could work with curiosity.

"I have been watching you," Rhaenyra said, deciding that directness was the best approach. "For weeks now, I have watched the way you care for my sons, the devotion you show them, the love you give so freely."

"I... Your Grace, I only do my duty," you said, but your voice was unsteady.

"It is more than duty," Rhaenyra insisted, stepping closer. "I have seen many servants perform their duties. What you do is different. You give of yourself completely. You hold nothing back."

She was close enough now to see the way your breath quickened, the way your pupils dilated in the dim light. Close enough to catch your scent, something clean and simple, soap and herbs and something uniquely you.

"You are beautiful," Rhaenyra said, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "I do not think anyone has told you that, but it is true. You are beautiful in ways that have nothing to do with your face or form, though those are lovely as well. You are beautiful in your kindness, your patience, your capacity for love."

"Your Grace, I..." You seemed at a loss for words, your eyes wide.

"Do you know what it does to me?" Rhaenyra continued, unable to stop now that she had started. "Watching you day after day, seeing the way you touch my children, hearing your voice as you sing them to sleep? It has become a torment and a pleasure both. I find myself inventing reasons to visit the nursery, to be near you, to breathe the same air."

"I do not understand," you said, but Rhaenyra could see that you did, that you were beginning to comprehend the depth of what she was confessing.

"I think you do," Rhaenyra said, reaching out to touch your cheek. You did not pull away, and that small victory made her bold. "I think you have felt my eyes on you, felt the weight of my attention. I think you know that what I feel for you has grown beyond admiration into something far more consuming."

Your skin was soft beneath her fingers, warm and alive. She traced the line of your jaw, marveling at the simple pleasure of touching you, of finally closing the distance she had maintained for so long.

"I am obsessed with you," she admitted, and there was a freedom in the confession. "I think of you constantly. You have invaded my thoughts, my dreams. I see your face when I close my eyes. I hear your voice in quiet moments. You have become necessary to me in ways I cannot fully explain."

"Your Grace," you breathed, and she could hear the conflict in your voice, the war between propriety and something else, something that might be desire.

"Come to my chambers," Rhaenyra said, her hand sliding from your cheek to the back of your neck. "Come with me now. Let me show you what you have done to me, let me worship you as you deserve."

"I... this is not proper," you said, but you did not move away from her touch.

"Proper," Rhaenyra repeated, a bitter laugh escaping her. "I am a Targaryen. We have never been bound by what others consider proper. I want you. I have wanted you for longer than I care to admit. And I think, perhaps, you want me as well."

She saw the truth of it in your eyes, the way you swayed toward her despite your words of protest. You were not immune to her, not as indifferent as you pretended to be. The realization sent triumph surging through her veins.

"Say yes," Rhaenyra urged, her thumb stroking the sensitive skin behind your ear. "Say you will come with me. Say you will let me show you how deeply I feel, how completely you have captured me."

You were silent for a long moment, and Rhaenyra held her breath, waiting. Then, finally, you nodded, the movement so small she almost missed it.

"Yes," you whispered. "Yes, Your Grace."

-———————————————————————-

The walk to Rhaenyra's chambers felt both endless and far too short. She kept her hand at the small of your back, a possessive touch that she could not resist. The corridors were quiet at this hour, most of the castle asleep, and the few guards they passed kept their eyes forward, well trained in discretion.

Rhaenyra's heart pounded in her chest. She had imagined this moment countless times, had played out various scenarios in her mind during sleepless nights. But now that it was happening, now that you were actually here beside her, walking willingly toward her private chambers, it felt surreal.

She glanced at you from the corner of her eye, trying to read your expression. You looked nervous but not frightened, curious but not reluctant. It was enough. She would make sure it was more than enough before the night was through.

When they reached her chambers, Rhaenyra dismissed the guard at her door with a curt nod. She opened the door herself and gestured for you to enter. You hesitated for just a moment on the threshold, and Rhaenyra wondered if you might change your mind, might turn and flee back to the safety of the nursery. But then you stepped inside, and Rhaenyra followed, closing the door behind them with a soft click that sounded impossibly loud in the quiet room.

Her chambers were warm, a fire burning low in the hearth. Candles flickered on various surfaces, casting dancing light across the rich fabrics and dark wood furniture. The bed dominated the space, large and draped in crimson and black, the colors of her house.

You stood in the center of the room, looking uncertain, and Rhaenyra took a moment to simply look at you, to savor this moment she had dreamed of for so long. You were here, in her private space, away from the eyes of the court and the demands of duty. Here, she could be honest. Here, she could show you the depths of her obsession.

"Would you like some wine?" Rhaenyra asked, moving to the small table where a decanter sat waiting.

"No, thank you, Your Grace," you said softly.

Rhaenyra poured herself a cup anyway, needing something to do with her hands. She took a sip, letting the wine warm her throat, then set the cup aside and turned to face you fully.

"You need not be nervous," she said gently. "I will not harm you. I could never harm you."

"I am not afraid of harm, Your Grace," you replied. "I am simply... uncertain of what you expect of me."

"I expect nothing," Rhaenyra said, crossing the room to stand before you. "I only hope. I hope that you might feel even a fraction of what I feel. I hope that you might allow me to show you affection, to give you the tenderness you so freely give to others."

She reached out and took your hands in hers, marveling at how small they felt, how delicate despite the work they did. She brought them to her lips and kissed each palm, her eyes never leaving yours.

"You have bewitched me," she murmured against your skin. "Utterly and completely. I do not know if it was your kindness that first caught my attention, or your grace, or simply the way you exist in the world with such gentle purpose. But I am caught now, ensnared, and I have no desire to be free."

"Your Grace," you breathed, and she could see the effect her words were having, the way your breathing had quickened, the way your lips parted slightly.

"Rhaenyra," she corrected. "Here, in this room, I am simply Rhaenyra. And you are the woman who has stolen my peace and replaced it with this glorious torment."

She tugged gently on your hands, drawing you closer, until there was barely any space between your bodies. She could feel the heat of you, could see the rapid flutter of your pulse in your throat. The urge to press her lips there, to taste your skin, was almost overwhelming.

"May I kiss you?" she asked, her voice rough with want.

You nodded, and that was all the permission Rhaenyra needed. She closed the remaining distance and pressed her lips to yours, gentle at first, almost chaste. But the moment she felt you respond, felt your lips move against hers, something broke loose inside her.

The kiss deepened, became more urgent. Rhaenyra's hands moved to your waist, pulling you flush against her, and she felt you gasp into her mouth. She took advantage, her tongue sliding against yours, tasting you, claiming you. You made a small sound, something between a whimper and a moan, and it sent fire racing through Rhaenyra's veins.

When she finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard. Your lips were swollen, your eyes dark with desire, and Rhaenyra had never seen anything more beautiful.

"Come," she said, taking your hand and leading you toward the bed. "Let me hold you. Let me show you how precious you are to me."

She sat on the edge of the bed and drew you down beside her. For a moment, you both simply sat there, hands clasped, looking at each other. Then Rhaenyra reached up and began to remove the pins from your hair, letting it fall loose around your shoulders.

"I have wanted to do this for so long," she admitted, running her fingers through the strands. "Wanted to see you like this, unbound, free."

She leaned in and kissed you again, softer this time, savoring it. Her hands moved to your shoulders, your back, learning the shape of you through your clothes. You responded tentatively at first, then with growing confidence, your own hands coming up to rest on her waist.

Rhaenyra eased you both back onto the bed, arranging you so that you lay side by side, facing each other. She continued to kiss you, long, slow kisses that spoke of devotion rather than mere lust. Her hand cupped your cheek, her thumb stroking your skin with infinite tenderness.

"I could do this forever," she murmured between kisses. "Could spend eternity just like this, holding you, kissing you, breathing you in."

"Rhaenyra," you whispered, and hearing her name on your lips sent a shiver through her.

"Yes," she said. "Say it again. Say my name."

"Rhaenyra," you repeated, and she rewarded you with another deep kiss.

They lay there for a long time, wrapped in each other's arms, exchanging kisses and soft touches. Rhaenyra's hands roamed over your body, but always over your clothes, never pushing for more than you seemed ready to give. This was enough, more than enough. To hold you, to kiss you, to feel you respond to her touch, it was everything she had dreamed of and more.

"I have never felt this way before," Rhaenyra confessed, her lips brushing against your temple. "This consuming need to be close to someone, to know their every thought and feeling. You have undone me completely."

"I did not mean to," you said softly, your hand resting over her heart.

"I know," Rhaenyra replied. "That is part of what makes it so powerful. You were simply yourself, simply doing what you do, and I fell utterly under your spell."

She pulled you closer, until your head rested on her shoulder and your body was pressed along the length of hers. Her hand stroked your hair, your back, soothing and possessive at once.

"Stay with me tonight," she said. "Sleep here, in my arms. Let me wake with you beside me."

"The children," you started to protest, but Rhaenyra shushed you gently.

"Will be fine. There are other servants who can tend to them if they wake. Tonight, you are mine. Tonight, I will not share you with anyone, not even my sons."

She felt you relax against her, accepting, and triumph surged through her once more. You were here, in her bed, in her arms. You had kissed her, had responded to her touch, had whispered her name with something that sounded like desire. It was a beginning, and Rhaenyra would make sure it was only the beginning.

She continued to stroke your hair, to press kisses to your forehead, your temple, anywhere she could reach. She murmured soft words, telling you how beautiful you were, how precious, how completely you had captured her heart. And you listened, your hand curling into the fabric of her gown, holding on as if she were an anchor in a storm.

"I will take care of you," Rhaenyra promised. "I will give you everything you could ever want or need. You will never have to worry, never have to want for anything. I will see to it."

"I do not need riches, Your Grace," you said softly.

"Rhaenyra," she corrected again. "And I know you do not. But I will give them to you anyway, because it pleases me to do so. Because you deserve to be cherished, to be spoiled, to be loved as you love others."

She tilted your face up and kissed you again, pouring all of her obsession, all of her devotion, into that kiss. She wanted you to feel it, to understand the depth of what she felt, to know that this was not some passing fancy but something that had taken root deep in her soul.

When the kiss ended, she gathered you close again, wrapping herself around you protectively. "Sleep now," she murmured. "Sleep, and know that you are safe, that you are wanted, that you are mine."

She felt you settle against her, your breathing gradually evening out as sleep began to claim you. But Rhaenyra remained awake, unwilling to miss a single moment of having you in her arms. She watched the candlelight play across your face, memorizing every detail, every shadow and highlight.

This was only the beginning, she told herself. She would make you fall in love with her, would make herself indispensable to you as you had become to her. She would bind you to her so completely that you would never want to leave, never even think of it. You would be hers, utterly and completely, and she would be yours in return.

The obsession that had been building for months had finally found its outlet, and Rhaenyra embraced it fully. She had never been one to do things by halves, and she would not start now. She would love you with the same intensity that burned in her Targaryen blood, with the same passion that had driven her ancestors to conquer kingdoms and claim dragons.

You stirred slightly in your sleep, and Rhaenyra tightened her hold, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "Mine," she whispered into the darkness. "You are mine now, and I will never let you go."

The candles burned lower, the fire in the hearth faded to embers, and still Rhaenyra held you, watching over you as you had watched over her sons. But where your vigilance came from duty and love, hers came from obsession and possession. She would protect you, cherish you, worship you, but she would also keep you, claim you, make you hers in every way that mattered.

As the night deepened toward dawn, Rhaenyra finally allowed herself to close her eyes, secure in the knowledge that you were here, in her arms, where you belonged. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new obstacles to overcome. But tonight, she had won. Tonight, you were hers.

And she would make sure that every night after this one, you would be hers as well.

[dyke4milfs]

; baran al-hashimi x f!reader . w/c 2.4k established relationship, smut, mdni, oral (b!receiving), fingering (b!receiving), overstimulation (b!receiving)

summary; you feel bad for denying baran her orgasm earlier in the day and decide to alleviate her growing ache

an; i’m a bottom al-hashimi truther what can i say also haven't proofread this so ignore any mistakes

Baran was irritated.

No, she was infuriated.

As a matter of fact she despised you right now.

The two of you had woken up relatively early that morning, limbs tangled with each others and your slow breath against Baran's neck.

It had started harmlessly. You had walked out of the bathroom to Baran in her scrub bottoms and singlet, sorting her hair. She had looked irresistible in the morning light. You approached from behind, hands settling on her waist while your lips brushed her jaw.

You couldn't even remember how Baran ended up laying back on your shared bed with your hand between her thighs and lips connected to her neck.

She had gotten so close. Hands gripping the sheets tight, the coil in her mid-section about to snap when you pulled your fingers out suddenly. She had whined and in turn you cocked an eyebrow.

"We should probably get going" you mused nonchalantly. Baran sat up and watched in bewilderment as you just straightened out your scrub top and exited the room.

The drive to the hospital was just as excruciating for Baran. You insisted on driving like you usually do, scooping up your keys and opening the passenger door for her. Once you started the car your hand found her thigh, giving her knee a quick squeeze. It wasn't exactly a long drive to your shared work but you made it hell for her.

Your hand would inch up ever so slowly until your fingers were resting right next to where you knew Baran needed you. Her cheeks were flushed, her breathing heavy when you looked over at her.

"You okay baby?"

Your voice was unnaturally sweet as you feigned obliviousness. She just hummed, eyes remaining forward which drew a smirk from you at her uncharacteristic quietness. You fingers began moving in slow circles on the inside of her upper thigh. Baran made a low noise which she masked by clearing her throat. You hadn't missed it though.

The two of you went your separate ways upon arriving to the hospital. You left Baran with a quick kiss and lingering hand on her lower back, the heat of it remaining long after you left.

She was thankful the two of you worked on different floors. She knew she wouldn't be able to handle seeing you work in the condition she was in. Your toned arms and stern but warm demeanour when dealing with patients and staff alike. She had been going fine until you came down for a surgical consult, something you rarely if ever did.

The knowing smirk playing on your lips as you entered and found her eyes was enough to let her know you were doing this on purpose.

"What's up everybody, doctor Al-Hashimi" you nodded in her direction. She gave you a brief glance, cheeks flushed before one of the residents gave you a run down. You had looked over the patient, confirming the diagnosis before arranging for an OR to be freed.

You caught Baran leaving the trauma room from the corner of your eye and you were quick to excuse yourself and follow her.

"How's your day beautiful" you murmured, shoulder brushing hers. "Good, you?" She didn't look at you once. Her jaw was tight and you huffed a laugh. "It's fine. I'll see you later?" She nodded and you had pressed a chaste kiss to her cheekbone before disappearing back upstairs.

Now Baran is laid back in bed, hand shoved down the front of her pants. She had received an apology text from you saying you were going to be stuck in surgery.

That was a couple hours ago now.

She had tried to busy herself with house work, reading, online shopping, literally anything to keep her mind off the growing ache between her legs but she was fighting a losing battle.

The house is quiet when you enter. The lights are off and Baran's presence is missing. You drop your bag and kick your shoes off, placing them neatly onto the shoe rack next to Baran's. You wander down the hallway when you hear noises coming from your bedroom. The door is pulled closed which is unusual. You push it open cautiously to see Baran layed out in bed, whining as she pumps her fingers in and out of her soaked heat.

Your eyes widen, a shiver running straight down your spine as your body heats up at the sight. You take a moment to collect yourself before announcing your presence.

"Need a hand?" Her eyes shoot open and she looks over at you, nodding meekly. That's all you need before closing the distance and tugging her pants and underwear down in one swift motion.

The sight you're met with makes your mouth water. Her glistening cunt all swollen from the time she's spent trying to make herself cum to no avail. Your hands find her thighs as she lifts her legs up, running up and down the exposed skin. You drop a kiss to her knee.

"You just couldn't wait for me to get home, huh?"

"No. Not after this morning" she grumbles, clearly still resentful. "I'm sorry baby, I'll make it up to you".

You push her legs apart and level your mouth with her core, meeting her gaze before licking a stripe up her folds. Baran lets out a shaky sigh, her hand coming to the back of your head to grip your hair.

"Shit azizam" she mutters. You only mess with her for a moment before giving her what she needs, your tongue pushing past her folds. The taste of her makes your stomach flip as the familiar heady scent clouds your mind. Her fingers tighten in your hair and you moan in response, the sound vibrating into her. She attempts to tighten her thighs around your head but you hold her legs apart by her hips as you practically devour her pussy.

Her hips begin to rock against your face, her other hand grasping at the sheets as her body begins shaking.

"Fuck— eshgham" she gasps, hips writhing against your jaw. Your fingers dig into the soft flesh of her waist, pulling her impossibly closer as your tongue works inside her.

You free a hand to slip under the thin material of her singlet to grope her breast. "Ey Khodā" she groans, hand abandoning the bed sheet to reach up and cover your hand with her own. Baran glances down at you, the sight pushing her closer to her climax. Your head buried between her thighs, eyes shut and completely focused on her.

Baran can feel her body humming with pleasure as she throws her head back, soft breaths falling from her lips. You pull a gasp from her when your fingers comes in contact with her sensitive clit, rubbing in firm circles.

"So good baby, 'm so close" she stammers.

She comes quick, likely from all the pent up frustration of the day. Her back arches off the bed while her legs convulse around your head and her hand pulls at your hair. Your mouth stays on her, eagerly receiving her pleasure as her vision goes static momentarily.

After cleaning her up with your mouth you trail your lips up her body before finding her lips in a sweet kiss. Baran pushes you back, dark eyes fixated on her slick that still coats your mouth. Her tongue darts out to lick it away and your fingers brush her midsection.

"That was—".

She gasps when you push three fingers into her, her walls clenching around the sudden intrusion. She grips your shoulders, breath hot against your swollen mouth as you lean down to kiss her. Your tongue swipes her bottom lip and she's quick to open her mouth, allowing your tongue free range to tangle with hers.

"Is this okay?" you ask softly after leaning back. Baran nods and you kiss her cheek. "I want to hear you say it" you mumble against her skin. "This is okay—" she sucks her bottom lip between her teeth. "Fuck it's okay". Her voice is hoarse and it makes your stomach flip as you start moving your fingers slowly.

She's warm against your fingers. The wetness from moments ago allowing her to take your digits easier. "You’re so perfect" you murmur before kissing her cheek and burying your face in her neck, tasting the skin there.

She arches into you, eyes squeezed shut. "Shit" she breathes out.

Her arms slide down from your shoulders to your neck and bicep. Baran guides your head out of her neck to kiss you. It's messy when your lips meet, a mixture of saliva and cum. It makes you shiver.

You know she's close when she starts huffing against your lips, almost whining when you quicken your ministrations. Soon enough you're pulling another orgasm from her. Baran's body twitches beneath you as you slow your movements. You proceed to do this two more times, alternating between using your mouth and fingers until Baran is a whining mess.

Baran's eyes flutter closed and her chest is rising and falling rather quickly as you retreat from the bed. She barely registers the sound of you shuffling around the room while grabbing your harness and a rather modest strap for your wife. You carefully step into the harness and adjust the strap before approaching her, kneeling at the end of the bed.

You slowly position yourself so the dildo is lined up with her entrance and you watch as her eyes shoot open once she feels it brush against her. Her eyes land on it between her legs before she looks to your face.

"Azizam I don't think I can" she practically whispers, her voice completely spent. You bring a hand up to caress her face, thumb brushing her cheekbone. "I think you've got one more in you, don't you?" You watch her eyes, clearly mulling over the decision before nodding.

You press a soft kiss to her jaw, hand absentmindedly stroking her side as you push in slowly, allowing her to get used to the toy. Baran moans low against your ear as you bottom out inside her. You wait for a second, eyes watching her face closely. Tears gather in her eyes and a pang of guilt shoots through your chest. You lift up your hand to brush an escaped tear with the pad of your thumb.

"Are you okay?" "Yes" she breathes out quietly with a barely noticable nod.

You begin to move after a moment and she whines beneath you, fingers digging into the skin on your shoulder.

"Tell me if you want me to stop". She shakes her head.

"Don't stop" she husks.

That spurs you on as you begin to find a steady rhythm and stick to it, the sound of Baran's wet cunt as you thrust in and out of her filling the room. Each sweet noise that leaves Baran's mouth gives you more motivation to make her feel good.

"Harder" she groans as you hit a certain spot inside her.

You obey and allow your movements to match the intensity of earlier, her body jolting as you pound into her.

"Is that good my love?"

"Yes— so good. You feel so good in me azizam" Baran chokes out and you smirk, head dipping down to suck at the soft skin of her neck. She's too distracted by the overwhelming feeling inside her to tell you not to leave any marks. Oh well.

You're sure she's broken the skin on your shoulders as her head falls back to let out a moan. You drag your tongue over the darkened marks on her neck, feeling Baran shudder beneath you. You look down at where the silicone is sliding in and out of her cunt with ease and a throaty sound leaves you.

"Taking it so well baby, my beautiful girl" you utter against her neck.

Your words seem to push her over the edge as a spasm wracks its way through her body, toes curling as it dies down.

You drop down next to her, dildo still buried inside her as your hand finds her waist where her singlet has ridden up. You run your fingers up and down her side, waiting for her breathing to slow as you place gentle kisses to her jaw.

"Water?"

"No... just stay" she mutters and you nod. Your hand finds its way under her singlet, splaying out against her warm skin and Baran holds onto your forearm. You utter quiet affirmations against her skin, Baran sighing contentedly.

After a moment Baran shifts and whimpers at the feeling of you still inside of her. You adjust yourself and slowly pull out, Baran's mewls tugging at your heartstrings. You remove yourself from her embrace, pushing her whimpers to the side.

"I'm sorry baby, I'll be right back" you murmur, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth. You rush into the bathroom, chucking the used dildo to the side to clean later before grabbing a cloth and wetting it with warm water.

You walk back into the bedroom, hand landing on Baran's leg to let her know you're there. "This might be uncomfortable" you say softly as you nudge her legs open and gently clean up the mess. Baran's breathing changes momentarily at the sensation around her sensitive core.

You leave once more to the bathroom to put the cloth into a hamper before returning to your wife, kneeling next to her.

"What can I do?"

"I just want to feel you".

You nod at her words, already pulling your top off and aiding her in slipping out of her singlet. You lay back against the pillows and allow Baran to nestle into your side, welcoming the feeling of your skin on her own. Her hand lands on your chest, firm and grounding and your fingers move lazily up and down her back. Your legs tangle with hers instinctually like they've done a million times before. Her forehead is rested against your chin and you tilt your head to leave a quick kiss there.

"You okay?" "More than" she confirms.

A moment of comfortable silence passes before Baran takes a deep breath. "Don't think I'll be able to walk tomorrow though" she mumbles which earns a laugh from you, Baran chuckling along with you.

"I promised I'd make it up to you didn't I?"

"Hm, that's true. You'll have to do that again sometime".

You raise an eyebrow. "Will do".

Baran shifts closer to you and soon enough the two of you drift off into a hazy post-sex sleep.

[brunettemarionette]

𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐚 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐬? ⤷ Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Castiel, Gabriel, Charlie Bradbury, Crowley.

☾‧₊˚ ⋅ ― gender neutral reader. no description of features. no mentions of size, race or age.

🇲​​🇦​​🇮​​🇳​ ​🇲​​🇦​​🇸​​🇹​​🇪​​🇷​​🇱​​🇮​​🇸​​🇹​ | ​🇸​​🇺​​🇵​​🇪​​🇷​​🇳​​🇦​​🇹​​🇺​​🇷​​🇦​​🇱​​​​ ​🇲​​🇦​​🇸​​🇹​​🇪​​🇷​​🇱​​🇮​​🇸​​🇹​ | ​🇳​​🇦​​🇻​​🇮​​🇬​​🇦​​🇹​​🇮​​🇴​​🇳

a/n; requested by @reginaphalangelobster but I accidentally deleted the ask!

𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧

The first time Dean realizes you’re a full-blown animal lover is during a hunt when you suddenly stop mid-conversation because a stray dog wanders into the alley. Instead of focusing on the case, you crouch down and start talking to it like it’s your long-lost friend.

Dean stares at you like you’ve lost your mind. “We’re hunting a monster and you’re making friends with Cujo?”

You immediately correct him that the dog is clearly a sweetheart and probably just hungry. Five minutes later you’re feeding it beef jerky from Dean’s stash.

“Hey! That’s my jerky!” “He needed it more.”

If you mention casually that you have five dogs, Dean just slowly turns his head toward you. “…You’re nuts.”

But later he asks their names. All of them. And he remembers.

He will absolutely pretend he’s annoyed whenever you stop to pet random animals on cases, but he always slows the car down if you spot one.

If a hunt involves a threatened animal, Dean actually gets quietly angry about it. Seeing you upset flips the protective switch.

Sometimes you bring stray animals to the bunker temporarily and Dean acts like it’s a huge inconvenience… even though he’s the one sneaking them leftover burgers.

He’ll complain about fur on his jacket but won’t move when a cat or dog falls asleep on him.

Dean secretly thinks your compassion is one of the purest things about you. In a world full of monsters, you’re the one still stopping to help the defenseless.

He loves watching you light up when animals trust you immediately.

If a dog chooses him as its favorite instead of you, he’s insufferably smug about it.

If you’re sad about an animal getting hurt on a hunt, Dean sits with you quietly and lets you ramble about every pet you’ve ever loved.

One time he catches you talking to a raccoon behind the bunker. “…Sweetheart, that thing’s rabid.” “He’s just misunderstood.” Dean sighs like a tired dad and goes to grab gloves.

𝐒𝐚𝐦

Sam finds out about your animal obsession when you volunteer to check the woods for “possible supernatural signs” and come back carrying an injured owl.

Instead of questioning it, he immediately helps you research how to care for it.

If you volunteer at an animal shelter, Sam starts going with you without hesitation.

He’s ridiculously gentle with nervous animals and they warm up to him fast.

The shelter staff love him because he’s tall enough to reach the top kennels and strong enough to lift giant dogs.

Sam absolutely helps you build things like cat towers or outdoor rabbit shelters.

When you tell him stories about your childhood pets, he listens like they’re epic sagas.

If a hunt involves hurting an animal that’s been turned into a monster, Sam is the first one trying to find another solution because he knows how much it would hurt you.

He’ll sit with you in the Impala after a hard case and let you cry if an animal got caught in the crossfire.

If you have multiple pets at home, Sam happily learns all their routines.

He is the designated “big dog walker.”

Sometimes he reads research books with a cat curled up in his lap and it’s honestly the calmest you’ve ever seen him.

If a shelter animal bonds with you but you can’t adopt it, Sam will quietly donate money to make sure it’s cared for.

You once joked that Sam gives off “golden retriever energy,” and now Dean won’t let him forget it.

Sam genuinely believes your kindness toward animals says everything about your heart.

𝐂𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐥

Cas discovers your love for animals when he finds you sitting outside the bunker with a handful of birdseed.

There are birds everywhere.

He tilts his head in that curious angel way. “They appear to trust you.”

You start pointing out different species and Cas listens with genuine fascination.

Soon it becomes a quiet routine: you and Cas sitting behind the bunker watching birds, rabbits, and squirrels.

Cas is endlessly intrigued by how animals behave around humans.

When a stray cat shows up, Cas tries speaking to it using his angelic abilities.

The cat hisses.

Cas: “…Perhaps I mispronounced something.”

He asks a lot of questions about why humans form emotional bonds with animals.

When you explain that animals love without judgment, Cas seems deeply moved by that concept.

If you bring injured animals to the bunker, Cas carefully watches you treat them like they’re sacred.

Sometimes animals instinctively gather around Cas because of his grace, which completely fascinates him.

One day he quietly admits: “Your compassion reminds me of Heaven before the wars.”

Cas absolutely names animals in very serious ways like “Reginald the Sparrow.”

Watching animals with you becomes one of his favorite peaceful moments on Earth.

𝐆𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥

Gabriel discovers your animal obsession when you stop mid-hunt to rescue a turtle crossing the road.

He appears beside you eating candy and goes: “Oh my God, you’re literally Dr. Dolittle.”

The nickname never leaves.

Ever.

Gabriel absolutely conjures animals just to see your reaction.

Once he filled the bunker kitchen with puppies.

Dean was furious. You were ecstatic.

Gabriel likes to tease you by pretending animals like him more.

He shapeshifts into animals sometimes just to mess with you.

One time he turned into a raccoon and stole your snacks.

When you volunteer at shelters he sometimes secretly magics food and supplies into their storage rooms.

He’d never admit he did it.

Gabriel loves watching how gentle you are with scared animals.

It’s one of the few things that quiets his chaotic energy.

If someone hurts an animal on purpose, Gabriel’s sense of humor disappears instantly.

“Congratulations,” he tells the offender. “You just unlocked my smiting mood.”

He also absolutely spoils any pets you own with enchanted toys.

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐞

Charlie finds out you’re an animal lover when you show her pictures of your pets and she immediately demands to see all of them.

If you have a cat, Charlie is instantly obsessed.

She will absolutely sit on the floor playing with it for hours.

The vibe becomes exactly like two proud cat parents.

You and Charlie definitely adopt at least one shelter kitten together.

She gives it a ridiculously nerdy name like “Gandalf the Greybean.”

If you volunteer at shelters, Charlie wants to help build their website or organize adoption events.

She also makes spreadsheets tracking animal care schedules.

You two spend entire evenings watching animal videos online.

Charlie loves that animals instantly gravitate toward you.

She calls you a “Disney prince/ss.”

If you foster animals temporarily, Charlie turns your place into a mini sanctuary.

She’s especially soft for shy animals and celebrates every tiny step of trust.

You’ve both absolutely cried together when a foster animal finally gets adopted.

Charlie believes kindness toward animals is one of the most attractive things about you.

𝐂𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐥𝐞𝐲

Crowley first learns about your animal soft spot when you scold a demon for scaring a stray dog.

The King of Hell finds this endlessly amusing.

“You’ll face monsters without blinking but a puppy makes you emotional?”

When you meet his hellhound Juliette, you treat her like a giant puppy.

Crowley is stunned when she immediately likes you.

“Traitor,” he mutters at her.

You start bringing treats for Juliette whenever Crowley visits.

Crowley pretends to be annoyed but secretly loves it.

He once summoned rare gourmet dog food from Europe just to impress you.

If someone threatens an animal in front of you, Crowley becomes frighteningly calm.

“I can tolerate insults,” he says. “But upsetting my… associate is another matter.”

He actually enjoys watching you play with Juliette.

Sometimes he stands there with a faint smile he quickly hides.

Crowley claims animals are “simpler than humans,” which is why he respects them.

If you ever bring an injured animal around him, he might quietly use a tiny bit of magic to help it heal.

Of course, he insists he did no such thing.

[reginaphalangelobster]

The Supernatural Characters' Nicknames for you....

Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Castiel, Crowley, Gabriel, Lucifer, Charlie Bradbury Jody Mills, Rowena MacLeod, Arthur Ketch x Fem/Male!Reader

Summary: A list of nicknames and situations involving all of these characters as your significant other.

Warnings: fluff, comedy, suggestive, emotional vulnerability, I think that's it?

Word Count: 2k

A/n: Fem/Male!Reader because there are male and female options for some of the nicknames - Fem!Reader for Charlie and Jody though. @dontlistentodaisy thank you for giving me the motivation to finally finish this lol, I hope you like it <3

Dean -

He would absolutely call you Baby all the time and make jokes about "the original baby" just to annoy you. Sweetheart and variations, e.i. Sweetness - almost always with an overexaggerated accent, Sweet girl/boy/one - just to make you blush, Sweetcheeks - when he's feeling cheeky/flirty, Sweetums - this one especially when he's feeling silly and just thinks about how much he loves you. Doll, you saw the way he fangirled when he was in the 40s, he definitely brought that back with him. Darlin' when he looks at you with those eyes full of love and whenever he's sleepy. Like early mornings in bed when you pull away just a little too soon, he'll mumble into your ear "Where d'you think you're goin' darlin'?" as he pulls you back against his chest. "The ol' ball and chain" around other people but only when you're not around. Said with love of course. Always as a joke, but a part of him loves it because it makes him think about an apple pie life with you. My Girl/Boy when he's proud. If you gank some vamps with no help needed or scare off a guy at a bar? "That's my girl/boy". Sunshine. No explanation. Just Sunshine. All the time. Gorgeous, Beautiful, Pretty and Handsome are up there, Pretty probably most of all, soft little "Hey Pretty"s when he walks into a room and sees you. Along with Pretty Girl/Boy of course. When he's feeling super domestic and cuddly and just freakin' adorable, he'll wrap his arms around you from behind, lean in close to your ear and say "How's my little humming bird doin'?" especially if you hum a lot but even if you don't, he loves calling you this. He says it very randomly but it's the way he says it, with that low voice that's rough but somehow still feels like a warm blanket wrapped around you.

Sam -

Honey, he absolutely loves this one, it's just so perfectly domestic. He often says "Hey you" in a completely lovestruck voice with those big puppy eyes. He also says it after a fight, when he comes back to apologize for lying to you about some deadly threat or for forgetting about date night because of research. He'll knock on the door gently and slowly walk in with a soft and remorseful "Hey you" and you'll melt. Babe and Baby but he'll be careful not to say those ones around Dean too much, lest he be bombarded with jokes and remarks about the Impala. Sweetheart in tender moments only, especially when either of you are sad or sleepy. You'll wake up in his arms one morning and one of his eyes will be cracked open, the light of the morning too bright to look fully but your beauty too powerful not to look at all. He'll nuzzle into your neck or hair and murmur in that rough and honey morning voice of his "Mornin' sweetheart" and if you try to get up? "Five more minutes, just five" and you'll spend the next hour in his warm embrace, completely content. Sometimes, when he's feeling extra soft, he'll use his sweetest tone when he says "Hey Beautiful" and he means it.

Castiel -

He's not big on nicknames to start with but once he realises they're conventional, he opts for Honey and Honeybee when he wants to be extra sweet. If you're feeling insecure or sad for any reason, he'll wrap you in his arms, tell you soft, quiet reassurances, how much he loves you, and he calls you his Beloved. On occasion, like if he feels the need to 'fit in', he'll call you Sweetheart, but it's never casual. It holds so much weight to it, the single word laced with his feelings, telling you that you have a sweet heart, and that's one of the many reasons he loves you. His favourite of all though is just your name. But the way he says it? It makes you weak in the knees. He says your name with such love, fondness and reverence. To be able to say your name at all, let alone so intimately, is a true blessing to him. To whisper your name in your ear early in the morning? Or say it with such solid love late at night? The entirety of Heaven could never compare. He will sometimes call you My Love because that's what you are. His love. Before you he could never have imagined love, but now? He couldn't imagine a second of his existence where he didn't love you with every fibre of his being, vessel and celestial form alike.

Crowley -

Gorgeous, Beautiful, Pet and Sweetheart are fairly common. He's a bit possessive so Darling and Love will often be preceded by "my". He doesn't say "my dear" as much as he just says "dear" as the former reminds him of his mother. His favourite of all is My Queen/Prince - never King of course as the only King around here is him. He'll say this around everyone and he will say it whenever he gets the chance. In his kingdom? Always, especially in front of his subjects. In Hell? Of course, with a slightly worried undertone and protectiveness. Around the Winchesters? All the time, especially if you're a friend of theirs, and if you're their sibling? Wow, he will piss them off, on purpose every time. He'll be painfully smug with all nicknames but when you're alone and the world fades away, he'll say your name in a way that makes you certain that he would use the full force of Hell for you in a heartbeat.

Gabriel -

He will use every single name in the book. His favourites are anything to do with candy and sugar. He will very regularly call you Sugar and Sweetness. Some of his other favourites are Sugarplum, Gumdrop, Cupcake, Muffin, Buttercup, Dumplin', Pumpkin, Love bug, lil' bug. The classics of course, Dear, Darling, Doll, Sweetheart and variations, Baby and variations - Babe is used very often, generally when he's calling out to you from another room he'll call out "BAAAAAAAAAAABE!!!!" at the top of his lungs. LOVES calling you Gorgeous, Beautiful, Sexy, Pretty Girl/Boy. He will often put "my" in front of these, not in a super possessive way - although he does get possessive, especially around Lucifer - but more in awe. His brain short circuits sometimes and he thinks "You're mine, you're actually mine" in an "I can't believe it" kind of a way. Lady Marmalarde - he'll change it just for you to Sir, too - when he's flirty, well, flirtier than usual. This will often be followed by "Voulez vous coucher avec moi, ce soir?". Schnookums and Pookie as a joke to start with but depending on your reactions, they may become fairly regular. For soft, tender moments, when he stops the jokes and flirtations, he'll call you Firefly or Lightning Bug, because through all the darkness you still shine impossibly bright.

Lucifer -

My Little Temptress/Tempter. He will call you this constantly. Generally more so when you're alone but if you say something flirty around the Winchesters he'll smirk and say with a smooth and devilish voice "Come here My Little Temptress/Tempter". If it's a more serious moment, he'll look you in the eyes and say "You, my dear, are my greatest temptation". He'll say this in painful and soft moments alike. Whether you're facing some big trouble or you're holding each other close at night and never dreaming of letting go. If he's in a good mood and you walk through the door he'll exclaim loudly "Hello Gorgeous!" it's rare but it feels magical every time. If either of you come home from a long day, he'll wrap his arms around you, exhale deeply, sway you gently, music or not, and whisper in your ear "I missed you, my love". If he wants to stir the pot or make you blush, he'll be as casual as possible and say "Good morning, Cotton Tail" or something along that line. He says it no matter your personality type, but if you're soft and sweet like a bunny? This is his favourite. If you're more of a black cat kind of person, he'll call you Kitten or Tiger, if he's feeling a certain way "My darling lion/lioness".

Charlie -

Baby and Babe are extremely high up there and used many times a day. She also loves calling you Sugar. In the mornings, she'll go out into the kitchen, see you making coffee and slip her arms around your waist. She'll burrow her nose into the crook of your neck and hum contentedly while she murmurs into your hair "Can I have some extra sugar, Sugar?" and you'll happily oblige. She will often greet you with "Hello love" and a kiss on the lips or nose when she's feeling extra love for you. Gorgeous, Sexy and Beautiful are all quite common, especially as greetings. A cheery "Hey Beautiful!" as you walk through the door. Even though she's met an actual Angel, she loves the nickname. But she does feel a little awkward calling you that after that one time you were staying at the bunker. You and Castiel walked past her together and she said "Your ass looks great in those pants, Angel" and Cas turned around, replying with a very confused "Thank you?" to which Charlie groaned and hid her face in her hands. She has special nicknames for you too, only ever used at the softest of times, "My Knight" if you protect her or "My Queen", one you called her many times.

Jody -

Baby, Sweetheart, Darlin', Beautiful, Gorgeous, Honey, all the classics. If you are a mother figure to Alex and/or Claire she'll call you Pretty Mama and Hot Mama a lot, making the girls groan and call you both gross. She loves it when you're protective over the girls, when someone looks at them the wrong way and you have to resist decapitating them then and there. You'll go up to them and dish out the most terrifying threat imaginable, walk back over to your girls and Jody will lean over and whisper in your ear "Nice work Mama Bear". If she really wants to annoy the girls she'll wait until you walk in the room and she'll overact as much as possible. She'll look at you a certain way while she says "Hey Lover", accompanied by a suggestive eyebrow wiggle. They hate it. You love it. Win-win.

Rowena -

My dear is by far the most common. At this point, it's practically become your name, not that you mind. If she's trying to cover up something less than good that she's done, she'll call you Dearie. You say it makes her sound even more like an old witch, she casts a muting spell on you for a few hours, all is well. She's very fond of putting "my" before any nicknames she uses, because after all, you are hers, you best not to forget that. When she's being sweet, with no ulterior motive, surprisingly, she'll cup your face in her palms, voice soft like honey as she whispers "My darling boy/girl, what would I do without you?".

Ketch -

Love has got to be the most common. Darling is up there too. If he wants to butter you up, he'll use that smooth accent of his to his advantage, wrapping his arms around you from behind, leaning in close to your ear and placing a kiss, followed by "I love you my darling", sometimes though, he reserves this for soft moments too, loving to hold you close and know you're his and he's yours. If you're a Man/Woman of Letters and you work with him he'll call you "his little fighter", sometimes it's annoying and sometimes it's cute, just like him. When he's feeling retrospective, looking back over all he's done, all he's lost, the next time he sees you, he presses a soft kiss to your lips, barely pulling away to mutter "You are my everything, you truly are Love, everything" and he makes you feel like it, everyday.

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[prettywomanimagination]

You Deserve This

After a god-awful case, losing a child, the rapist almost getting away because of a small mistake she made, Olivia feels like she isn’t good enough and doesn’t deserve to feel good. You remind her she deserves the world. 

Season 1 Olvia, Subish!Olivia, Gn!Reader, cunillingus, fingering, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, reader does Olivia in front of a mirror, then moves to the bed, breast play, body worship, praise kink, hair pulling, mommy kink sorta? Reader calls Olivia ‘Mama’ but not in a submissive way. Brief mentions of child rape/murder/abuse. 2.8K Words.

Olivia had had the worst couple of weeks possible. She was the lead detective on a rape homicide case involving four underage girls between the ages of ten and thirteen.  The case was brutal; any case involving children was always awful, but this was another level. The perp had beaten and assaulted the girls so badly that the only way they ID’d them was through the missing child database and then matching their heights and whatever features they had left to the most likely child. The case had taken its toll on Olivia almost instantly. She was determined to catch this guy as fast as she could. She was staying up for days at a time, crashing only for maybe an hour or two tops before getting back out there. They had interviewed the perp in one of the first rounds of suspect interviews, but Olivia had missed a vital detail and let the guy go. After that, he killed two more girls before Elliot had made the connection, reviewing the detail that Olivia had missed and realising it was the guy they’d interviewed. They eventually arrested the guy, and he made some unsavoury comments to Olivia, blaming her for the deaths of the last two girls. Stating that if she hadn’t been so stupid and caught him during the first interview, the girls wouldn’t have died and that their deaths were on her head. After that, Olivia spiralled. Cragen told her to take a long weekend off and to take some time for herself. She drove home to your guys' apartment on autopilot and walked in looking wrecked. 

You hadn’t seen much of Olivia for the past two weeks. With her working crazy hours and you working your work hours, you guys hadn’t had the chance to really talk or see much of each other. You immediately noticed she wasn’t in a good headspace just from her body language. Her shoulders were tense, her face had a blank, neutral expression, but her eyes were filled with a burning sadness and self-loathing. “Hey, what happened?”  You asked, standing up from the couch and walking over to her cautiously, not wanting to scare her. She flinched ever so slightly as you approached, shaking her head as her eyes stayed fixed on the floor. “I screwed up.” She whispered. Her words were barely audible, but you heard her. “I messed up bad.” You wrapped your arms around her securely, hugging her close to you, whispering soft words of love as you rubbed her back soothingly. “Come on.” You whisper, picking her up carefully with your hands under her thighs, wrapping her legs around your waist and carrying her to the bedroom. You sat her down gently, kneeling in front of her to take off her shoes first, pressing soft kisses to the tops of her feet and massaging the balls, heels, and soles of her feet delicately. “Whatever happened, whatever you ‘did’ wrong, it wasn’t your fault, okay?” You said softly as you looked up at her with a loving expression. Olivia wouldn’t meet your eyes, too ashamed and guilt-ridden to even think about receiving love right now. You sighed softly and stood up, taking off her blazer first, then kneeling again between her legs and looking up at her for permission to carry on. She nodded slowly, still not meeting your eyes but permitting you. “I need verbal consent baby. Can you do that for me?” She hesitated at first, but then spoke quietly, “Yes, you can carry on.” You nodded and began unbuttoning her shirt, kissing over each button as the shirt opened up for you. Olivia gasped quietly at each kiss, sighing as the shirt fell from her body onto the bed. You threw it to one side and wrapped your arms around her waist gently, kissing and nuzzling over her stomach and under the wire of her bra. Hands splaying over her back as you kept her as close to you as possible. She’d let out little gasps and quiet moans as your lips worked over her body, letting herself enjoy your ministrations somewhat. You made quick work of her bra, throwing it to the side with her shirt, marveling over how beautifully her breasts sat on her body. “God, you’re gorgeous,” You mused, kissing down the valley of her chest slowly, savouring every moment your lips touched her skin. She let out a low whine, threading her fingers through your hair as your lips wrapped around her left nipple, sucking softly. “Fuck…baby.” Her voice was low but thick with need, hips bucking up as your tongue swirled around her pebbling nub, hand gripping and tugging at the roots of your hair as your right hand squeezed and massaged her right breast. You moaned around her nipple as she tugged on your hair, your left hand gripping at her left hip to ground yourself. You detached your lips from her nipple and swapped over to her right, sucking and grazing your teeth lightly over her bud as it hardened in your mouth. Olivia let out a high-pitched whine as your teeth grazed over her nipple, pushing her chest further into your mouth, silently begging for more. You undo her slacks, pulling them off her body before detaching your lips from her nipple again. She lifts her hips, helping you shimmy off her pants and underwear, now leaving her naked.

You helped her up and stood her in front of the full-length mirror in the corner of the bedroom. “Look at how beautiful you are.” You whisper, kissing along her neck and shoulders, letting your lips linger on her skin with each kiss. Olivia refused to look at the mirror, keeping her eyes fixed on the ceiling as you kissed her body. You stopped kissing her and looked into the mirror, cupping her chin in your hand and forcing her gently to face the mirror. “Listen to me and look mama, look at how pretty you are.” You whisper as you look into her gorgeous brown eyes in the mirror. You see the tears start to form, and you shush her softly. “Shh, it’s alright. Why don't you let me take care of you and show you how much you deserve to feel loved and cared for?” You purred against the skin of her neck, nipping softly. She nods, still reluctant to feel positive about herself but willing to let you try. Your fingertips dance along her skin, trailing down her arms, then down her sides, over her hips, waist, ribs, stomach, everywhere you can reach. Finally, after agonising minutes of you mapping her body, memorising every curve, dip, and scar, you dipped your fingers to where she needed you most. Your fingers glided through her labia, coating your digits in her sweet arousal, earning you a desperate whine from her lips. You wrapped your other arm around her waist, pressing her back against your chest, keeping her steady as you explored her. Her chest heaved as she breathed heavily, trying to keep her eyes open and on herself in the mirror. You brought your fingers up to her lips, nodding to her in the mirror. “Open.” She parted her lips obediently, and you slid your index and middle fingers into her mouth, letting out a deep groan as she sucked softly. Tasting herself on your fingers was something Olivia always loved doing. The way you watched her, the way you reacted to it, made her already soaked cunt drip even more. “Gonna let me have a taste pretty girl?” You asked softly, smiling at her in the mirror as you felt her tongue swirl around the middle appendage. She let your fingers go with a quiet moan and nodded, grabbing your wrist and guiding them back to her labia. You swiped the pads of your fingers through again, slower, more precise movements this time, nudging her clit ever so slightly with the tip of your index finger, causing her hips to buck forward and for her to make the most beautiful sound you had ever heard. You brought the arousal-covered digits up to your lips and moaned softly as they entered your mouth. The sweet, tangy taste of her slick filled your taste buds, and you couldn't help the way your eyes rolled back. The taste of Olivia was something you would never get tired of. She tasted like a breath of fresh air, like an iced cold bottle of water on a hot summer's day, like the first sip of hot chocolate on a crisp winter's night. From the first time you tasted her six months ago, you knew you were going to be addicted to her for the rest of your life. You sucked and swirled your tongue around your fingers, lapping up every morsel of her arousal you could before locking eyes with her again in the mirror.

You dipped your now spit-covered fingers down to her core and applied gentle pressure as you began working on her clit in slow, lazy circles. Olivia’s head fell back onto your shoulder; a chorus of moans and gasps tumbled from her velvety lips, gracing your ears like a church choir. You worked your fingers at a lazy pace, wanting to prolong her first orgasm as long as you could. “Look at yourself mama, eyes on you.” You breathed against the shell of her ear, reveling in the way she shivered in your arms. Your arm tightened its hold on her as your fingers continued their idle movements, causing more sweet sounds to erupt from her throat. She squirmed in your arms restlessly, begging for you to speed up in breathy moans. “Please…Please baby! Need you to…fuck…hurry up,” She begged prettily, looking desperately at you in the mirror. Her eyes shone with frustrated tears as your fingers kept their leisurely pace, not relenting to her pleas. “Easy love, you’ll get to cum. But first, tell me you deserve it. Tell me you deserve to cum and I’ll let you.” Your voice was soft and gentle against her skin, causing goosebumps to adorn her body. Olivia whimpered quietly as she bit her lip hard, tugging the blush flesh between her teeth. She didn’t feel like she deserved to cum, not after the case she’d just finished, but she wanted to oh so badly. She wanted to fall apart as many times as you’d let her in as many different ways as you wanted. The words were right there. She knew what she had to say to earn that overwhelming, leg-shaking, knee-weakening feeling that coursed through her body like an electrical shock, numbing her nerves with pleasure, but she couldn’t say it. “Come on sweetheart, say it. Say it for me, and I'll let you cum as many times as you want.” The skin on her lower lip ripped from how hard she was biting. The blood seeped through to rest beautifully on the flesh of her trembling lower lip. She let out a heartbreaking sob as tears trickled from her rich, chestnut eyes, making them look even more stunning. Your fingers sped up ever so slightly on her clit, inching her even closer to her impending orgasm. Her body shook elegantly in your arms as you held her back to your chest securely. You knew she was right there, and the words you wanted to hear from her desperately would be tumbling out of her mouth sooner than you expected. “Please! I deserve it! I deserve to cum..” Olivia's broken voice rang out like an enchanting melody. Her eyes fluttered shut, and her chest heaved frantically as moans and whimpers ripped themselves from her throat. You smiled against her shoulder as you kept your eyes trained on her ethereal face. Your fingers sped up to the pace she craved against her clit, circling at the pleasurable tempo you knew would have her hurdling over the edge. With a few tight circles around her sensitive bundle of nerves, Olivia felt that familiar coil tighten in her lower stomach. You knew she was close from the way her clit pulsed against your fingers rhythmically in time with your movements. “Good girl, cum for me. That’s my girl.” Your words were all she needed to push her over the edge. And just like that, she was cumming with a wanton cry of your name. Olivia tried her best to keep her eyes on you both through the mirror, but she couldn’t. Her head fell back onto your shoulder, eyes screwing shut as her orgasm ripped through her body. Her hand gripped your wrist like a vice, nails digging into your skin enough to break it. Her captivating moans filled the room as the pads of your fingers worked diligently against her nub, working her through her orgasm. “Good job baby…I’m so proud of you.” Your words smoothed over her like a balm as you held her close to your body. You removed your fingers from her clit and brought them up to your lips, tasting her again. God, she tastes so sweet. Like your own personal treat.

You picked her up carefully and laid her back on the bed, looking down at how she sprawled herself out like a goddess. She smiled up at you with her deep, chocolate eyes that sparkled in the soft bedroom light and her flushed, tear-streaked cheeks that made your heart melt. “Are you going to keep staring at me or are you going to clean me up?” Olivia asked in a teasing tone, eying you with a hint of mischief. She knew you’d never leave her without a minimum of two orgasms, and she knew you loved to eat her out after she’d already come. You smirked and knelt at the foot of the bed, grabbing her ankles firmly and tugging her with one swift pull to the edge of the bed. Olivia gasped and looked at you with a shocked but wanting expression. Her glistening pussy was right in front of your face, inviting you to dine on her like a temptress. You threw her legs over your shoulders and gripped her thighs tightly before diving into her. Your tongue lapped up every ounce of arousal and cum Olivia had to offer, swirling and dipping into her core to get as much as you could. You were drunk off her taste. No matter how many times you went down on her, you’d always get pussy drunk after only a few seconds between her pretty thighs. Her hand flew to your head, clawing and gripping at the roots of your hair, pushing your face as close as you could get to her. Her nails scratched against your scalp almost painfully, but you didn't care. The feeling of drowning between her thighs, having her hips rut against your face, having her use you to get off, was the best feeling you had ever experienced, and you would be damned if you ever stopped that feeling because of a little pain. You moaned into her cunt, from both the taste of her and the way she was gripping your hair. Your fingers dug into her inner thighs. Hard enough to leave fingerprint bruises, but not hard enough that it was too painful for her. “Fuck! Oh god…baby I’m gonna…” Olivia's muffled moans were a symphony to your ears. Her free hand was clamped over her mouth as her hips ground against your face, focusing her clit on your nose.  The way her thighs tightened around your head had you going dizzy in the best possible way. You sucked and swirled your tongue around her clit, giving it your full attention while listening to her lewd, uncontrollable sobs and whines. Her second orgasm came crashing over her like a tidal wave, washing over her body in a hot flash. Her thighs shook and squeezed around your head as your dutiful tongue worked her through her orgasm. You sucked, lapped, and cleaned up everything she gave you eagerly with a hint of desperation. Olivia tried to push you away, whining about how it was too much, but you were too lost in the overwhelming feeling of her. She eventually pushed you away, much to your dismay, and she looked down at you with an adoring look. Your face was covered in her cum, it was practically dripping off your chin. Your eyes were glassy and glazed over as you nuzzled into her thigh. “You always know how to make me feel better, don't you honey?” She said in a soft, breathy tone, stroking her fingers through your hair gently this time. You nodded against her thigh before standing up and going to grab a washcloth and some water. Once you return, you clean yourself and Olivia up before dressing her in one of your T-shirts and a pair of underwear. You climb into bed and hold her close as she comes down from her highs, cuddling close to you and eventually falling asleep in your arms.

[venusarchivess]

guys? yes? no? maybe?

Pairing: Olivia Benson x Dana Evans x Emily Prentiss x Reader

Warnings: fingering, oral, strap ons, toys, dom/sub dynamics, age gap (reader is late 20s)- specifics will be to added on the actual post.

Sneak peak:

There was a certain hatred in your soul for fundraising galas- well, not when you said it like that. You loved fundraisers, especially when it came to important causes. It was why you took this job in the first place: Project Manager for the National Trauma Informed Care and Victim Advocacy Agency .

However, there had been an oversight regarding how involved you’d need to be in the actual fundraiser, and being involved where there were influential people seemed like a nightmare.

What was usually a to-do list of coordinating and ensuring the fundraiser ran the way it was supposed to from behind the scenes had turned into finding the right outfit, looking fancy enough to fit in, greeting and ensuring all the guests had what they needed, while liaising with the representatives for each branch of involved personnel. You were starting to really hate the past version of yourself who had said, “Yes, of course, I’d love to be the one in charge of this fundraiser.”

There were a few trainee coordinators who would help with the fundraiser as it ran tonight, especially with the guests. You were in charge of them too, and while you trusted the trainees, the one table you did not trust them with was the Honouree Table.

You stood in the empty gala room, looking at the place cards on the Honouree Table:

FBI BAU Section Chief, Ms. Emily Prentiss

SVU Captain, Ms. Olivia Benson

PTMC Charge and SANE Nurse, Mrs. Dana Evans

Yeah. Definitely not leaving this one to the trainees.

Emily Prentiss, Olivia Benson, and Dana Evans were the honourees of the fundraiser. When the fundraiser idea first came around, these women had been put forward to receive recognition for their work.

Emily Prentiss for the Interagency Victim Protection Award.

Olivia Benson for the Survivor Advocacy and Protection Award.

Dana Evans for the Trauma Care Leadership Award.

It was your job tonight to ensure everything ran smoothly for these women.

Which had stressed you out approximately three times, every day.

[storiesofsvu]

Tour Guide

Olivia Benson x fem!reader x Emily Prentiss warnings: language, smut, threesome, daddy!olivia, mommy!emily, derogatory talk, dirty talk, oral, fingering, rough sex, a little bit of slapping, some pussy spanking, a hint of brat!reader, some minor cum play. safe to say this one got away from me. somewhat hilarious that House Tour was stuck in my head while i wrote half of this. 6.5k

Over the years Olivia had become accustomed to the feds crashing in and taking over a case, what she wasn’t used to was them sticking around and actually using NYPD to help solve it. The BAU was a welcomed change in her squad room, seamlessly fitting in with her team, cooperating to the tasks at hand. Emily Prentiss was a welcomed person in her office, slowly pacing back and forth while spit balling ideas as Olivia watched from behind her desk.

It was only when a knock came from the door that Emily stopped, turning on her heel to face the noise and Olivia leaned back with a sigh. Both sets of eyes were locked on you when you stepped through the doorframe, navy pant suit perfectly fitted to your frame, hair swept back into a styled bun. An air of confidence came into the room as you did, barely noticing Olivia had company, or if you did, you didn’t care, whatever you needed was clearly more important.

“You know normally when detectives are so stubbornly annoying about getting a warrant they actually show up to pick them up.” You stated, dropping papers down onto Olivia’s desk.

“We were a little pre-occupied.” She replied, her voice stiff as she gestured to the other woman and out to the bull pen bustling with people.

Your eyes finally slid from the woman behind the desk to the silver haired stunner also in the office and you flashed her an apologetic grin, “sorry. I’m their ADA, Parker.”

“Emily Prentiss.” She stuck out a hand that shot a spark through both of you when you took it, “Unit Chief of the BAU.”

You let out a low whistle, “BAU…” you glanced between the two of them, “the big guns… you two must have your hands full.”

“Only because you decided to walk in the door.” Olivia shot back and you gave her a side eye before perching yourself against her desk.

“So, tell me Agent Prentiss, first time in the city?”

“Won’t be the last, that’s for sure.” The grin on her cheeks spread, corner of her lips curling up almost into a smirk.

“Hope you get some well deserved time off before having to jet home.” Your tongue darted out to wet your lips and Emily felt herself pulse at the sight, “I’d love to show you around.”

“You like playing tour guide?”

A shoulder raised then lowered, the grin spreading on your face, “for the right people.”

Behind you, Olivia rolled her eyes so hard it hurt. You hated galivanting around the city and she was more than well aware of it. If she’d knew you any better, she would have thought you forgot she was in the room, but that was the thing, she knew you all too well and knew what kind of a game you were playing. 

And it was totally working. 

You were chuckling at something Emily said, a coy smile on your face as your gaze dropped to the floor, feigning the shyness so you could drag your eyes up her entire body. Somehow while doing so, you’d managed to lightning fast adjust your shirt, tugging the hem of it just right so the swell of your chest was teasing the other woman. When Emily’s eyes lingered a little too long, pupils darkening as a carnal look took over her features, Olivia couldn’t take it anymore, loudly clearing her throat.

“Counsellor, you have anything else for us, or are you just here to gossip?” 

A puff of air resembling a laugh left your lips, your arms crossing over your chest as you turned over your shoulder to look at her, “and here I was thinking you loved it when I came by.”

“Not when you’re being a brat.” She raised a brow in challenge and you rolled your eyes, hopping off the corner of her desk.

“I guess I’ll be on my way then” You pulled a business card from your bag, flourishing it between your fingers to extend towards Emily, “call me if you get bored.”

With a flash of a glittering smile, you were gone from the office and Emily was left glancing between the piece of cardstock in her hand and Olivia.

“Well… she seems like a shark.” She finally settled on.

“In the courtroom maybe.” Liv glanced up with a knowing smirk and Emily balked. 

“Oh shit. I’m sorry, I didn’t…” she felt the pink creeping its way onto her cheeks, sucking her lower lip into her mouth. 

“What?” 

“You two…” She gestured between Olivia and the direction of the door.

Liv shrugged, “have history. Nothing serious. You’re more than welcome to call her.”

“Oh, I, no, that’s not—”

A laugh burst from Olivia’s lips as she slid her glasses back on, “please. You didn’t need to be some fancy, specially trained profiler to pick up on the tension in the room.”

Emily, still chewing on her lip looked through the glass window into the bullpen, that familiar pulse between her legs when you felt her gaze and looked up from Bruno’s desk, locking eyes with the woman. There was a sparkle in your eye that was incredibly intriguing and definitely had her wanting to know more. 

“Well…” her head tilted, mouth drying when you winked at her before sauntering out of the squad room.

“No harm in having a little fun when you’re away from home.” Olivia suggested.

“I suppose there isn’t.”

“But don’t let the upfront behaviour fool you…” Olivia chuckled darkly, “she’s a pretty little mess of a slut. Doesn’t take much to fuck her dumb.”

Emily felt her stomach drop, a pulsing between her legs growing stronger with each beat of her heart and her mouth went dry. She’d been fiddling with the business card but her hands froze before she pivoted back to face Olivia.

“Oh?”

“Seems like that piqued your interest.”

“It certainly did.” Emily slid the card into her back pocket, “be a shame to leave you high and dry though, it’s been a long stressful week for both of us.”

“Oh…” Olivia leaned back in her chair, a wicked grin forming on her lips, “now there’s an idea. As long as you’re not thinking this is some good cop, bad cop routine. If she has the audacity to come into my office and eye fuck you so boldly, she’s gonna answer for it.”

“You always play this ruthless Captain Benson?”

“When it’s deserved.”

“And let me guess, it always is with her?”

Laughing, Olivia closed her laptop, “our case is solved, but by all means if you need to hurry on back to D.C…”

“You know… I’ve been thinking my team needs a little break… a little fun.”

“Without you?”

“If I leave them my credit card they won’t bother asking any questions.” With a smirk she settled into a chair across from Olivia’s desk, “now tell me… how far can we push her?”

**

The knocking on your apartment door roused you from the agonizing paperwork in front of you and you glanced over your shoulder to the noise. With a soft sigh, you rearranged the confidential information and flipped the file closed as you stood before padding through the room to pull the door open. 

“Liv?” Your brow raised at the two women standing on the opposite side, “what’re you doing here?”

There was a dark look in her eye, a mischievous glint in Emily’s as you stepped back from the doorframe, Olivia pushing past you, letting herself into your apartment while you left the door to swing shut behind Emily. Liv chuckled, already stepping out of her shoes, tossing her blazer over the back of your couch before invading your liquor cabinet.

“What do you think? You were a fucking brat today.”

A shiver ran through your entire body, your shoulders dropping as every muscle seemed to relax, already turning to mush after just one sentence and a look. You glanced between the two of them, picking up your abandoned wine from the coffee table as Emily crossed the space to accept the glass of whiskey Olivia was offering.

“And you brought the fed?” You raised a brow and Liv looked over the rim of her glass at you.

“Well, I thought maybe I should, considering you were so busy eye fucking her in front of me earlier. Thought maybe that was the sneak peek of the show you wanted to put on for me,” she drained her glass, leaving it on a spare table before she crossed the room toward you and you felt yourself already fluttering. She watched your tongue dart out to wet your lips, the almost silent whine that followed making her chuckle, “figured I could let her have her way with you before Daddy does.” 

This time your whimper was audible, Olivia’s hand tangling into your hair, yanking your head back to gain access to your neck. Her teeth scraped over your skin, lips leaving a trail of messy kisses before she husked into your ear.

“What do you think of that? Hmm? Are you gonna play nice for Agent Prentiss and be a good girl?” Her hand gave your hair a harsh tug and you did what she wanted, dropping to your knees in front of her, “or are you gonna be the dirty slut Daddy knows you want to be?”

“I can be good.” You panted, eyes darting between them as Emily approached from the side, glass of liquor still in her hand. 

She laughed darkly, “somehow I doubt that.” Her free hand reached out, stroking the side of your face before pulling back, slapping the apple of your cheek, “colour?”

“Green.” You replied, already aching between your legs.

Emily smirked, “dirty girl.” She took a sip of her drink and Olivia’s hand dropped your hair, shifting around your face so her thumb could trace your lower lip.

“Open.” Oliva instructed, pulling your lips apart and you tilted your head further back, “good girl.”

Emily leant forward, parting her lips and letting the amber liquid trickle from her mouth into yours, watching it drip down your tongue, pooling in the back of your throat. Your tongue twitched, a droplet escaping the corner of your mouth and trailing down onto your neck. Emily was quick to duck down, catching it with her tongue and licking her way back up to your open mouth, her hand slid up your throat, replacing Olivia’s in keeping your lips parted and as soon as her tongue was sucked back into her mouth her jaw shifted then spat onto your waiting tongue. 

“Swallow.” She tapped your chin twice, humming happily as you did as told, tongue sticking back out to prove it. She glanced over to Olivia before looking back down at you, “so obedient so far…maybe she’s just more of a Mommy’s girl.”

You couldn’t help the shiver that travelled up your spine, you pussy clenching around nothing as your thighs rubbed together and both the women took the time to laugh.

“I told you she was a little whore.” Olivia clicked her tongue, “now are you going to stay on your knees for us or should we move to the bedroom.”

“Bedroom.” You nodded a little too fast, a little too eager, your eyes begging as you looked up at them with a pout, “please. Use me.”

Olivia’s hand circled your throat once again, gently tugging you up to your feet before nudging you towards the hall, “well… you better start stripping then princess.”

With an eager nod you darted down the hallway, removing clothes as you went, tossing them in the direction of your closet once in the bedroom. Your body was so alit you couldn’t even risk a glance over your shoulder when you heard the other two talking softly, a chuckle you now could recognize as Emily’s echoing down the hall. The sound made you shiver, a tingle starting between your legs at the husk of her voice. Your thighs squeezed together, the damp spot in your underwear growing right before you peeled them off, leaving you fully bare in the cool room. Footsteps got closer, and not wanting to disappoint, you positioned yourself on your knees on the bed, ready and waiting for the two other women. 

Olivia stepped into the room first, her grin widening at the sight of you, eyes raking over your body as she moved slowly through the room, beginning to unbutton her shirt. 

“What a good girl you are.” She praised, “you must be eager tonight.”

“Sitting so pretty.” Emily purred, her eyes lingering on your bare chest, “shame you aren’t all on display though.” 

“Mmm.” Olivia nodded to her before glancing to you, “lie back and spread your legs, let us see that greedy, dripping cunt of yours.”

Your eyes darted between the two of them, heat crawling its way up your neck as you leant back into the pillows, slowly opening your legs. Your hands smoothed down your body, cupping and pinching at your chest before sliding over your stomach, pressing your thighs further apart, your knees falling open on the bed. 

“Fuck…” 

Emily couldn’t help it, the word slipped from her lips before she realized she’d spoken, her eyes trained on your pussy, glistening in the low light of the room. She hadn’t expected you to be so wet already, so pliant and needy, aching to be touched, to be tasted, stretched and filled like the dirty little slut you were. She was suddenly very happy for sticking around a little longer than needed.

A sense of pride flooded your system at the way she was watching you, a smirk finding its way onto your lips as your cockiness returned. Your hand moved between your legs, fingers swiping over your clit before spreading your pussy lips open, wetness slicking your fingers as you angled your body towards Emily whose eyes darkened at the sight. 

Olivia watched with a smirk of her own, letting her shirt drop to the floor before unbuckling her belt and she beat you to the punch.

“Looks like someone likes what they see.” She teased and Emily was finally able to tear her gaze away from between your legs. 

“Yeah.” Her voice was a husk of a breath as she sucked her lower lip between her teeth, feeling the desire throbbing between her own legs. 

A satisfied hum came from the back of your throat as your fingers rubbed your pussy lips, smearing wetness around, your back slowly arching off the bed, putting on a little show for them. 

“Well…” Olivia lifted a shoulder, a grin on her lips as she slid her pants down her legs, “get comfortable. And have a taste.”

Emily felt like she couldn’t move fast enough, tearing off her shirt and bra, kicking her way out of her pants as she crawled onto the bed. The pulsing between her legs growing stronger when her hands finally met your burning skin, cooling paths as they made their way up your legs. 

Your breath caught in your throat, your body arching into her touch as your eyes began to flutter shut, her fingertips left sparks beneath your skin, ones that sent tingles throughout your entire body. You felt your nipples harden, your clit pulsing as your heart began to race, and she’d barely touched you. Your head lolled to the side, your eyes cracking open just enough to see Olivia watching with a grin on her cheeks. You struggled to form a thought as Emily’s hands traced up your thighs, drawing patterns across your skin and just as you were about to get a sassy remark out, Emily’s tongue swiped through your pussy. 

“Oh god!” Your entire body spasmed, your head thrown back into the pillows at the feeling of her mouth on your most sensitive spot. Your hands shot downward, fingers threading into her silver locks and she happily let you nudge her deeper into the apex of your thighs. 

Emily’s tongue sunk as deep into you as it could, savouring your taste, lapping as much wetness as she could into her mouth, her nose bumping your clit, eliciting a gasp from you. Her mouth moved against your pussy with such ease that you just knew this was one of her favourite pastimes, that she was a woman who absolutely adored the taste of another woman. This was the type of woman who could read you in a millisecond, know just by the way your thigh twitched exactly what it was that made you come undone, the type of woman who was going to make you come faster than anyone else ever had. 

It was like your body was on high alert, ultra-sensitive, as if you hadn’t been touched in years, pent up frustration, yearning and need all bursting at the seams. As if the two of them had been riling you up throughout the entire day with dirty words and naughty images playing through your mind. You weren’t quite sure what had come over you, but you weren’t about to complain. 

Certainly not when Emily let out a low groan into your cunt, the noise vibrating through you, pulling shudder after shudder from you, your nails digging into her scalp. Her mouth shifted up, the tip of her tongue flicking your clit and you cried out, back bowing as your head and shoulders lifted off the bed, hips dipping deeper. 

“Fuck…” You gasped out, eyes cracking open just enough to catch Emily smirking up at you from between your legs. The gleam in her eye was so seductive you barely even felt Olivia take advantage of your altered position, sliding onto the bed behind you. 

It was only when her hands yanked you back toward her that you realized you were slotted between her legs, her breath hot on the back of your neck as you settled back against her. 

“That’s it pretty girl.” Liv cooed, her hands ghosting around your sides, fingers moving to pinch at your nipples, pulling a whine from you. “That feel good?” Another pinch, “You like what mommy’s mouth feels like?”

Emily’s lips wrapped around your swollen clit, sucking it into her mouth and your head fell back onto Olivia’s shoulder as you let out a moan. Your hips jumped up off the bed, eager for more, you were certain you were so incredibly close it would only take another flick of her tongue to have you seeing stars.

“Answer me.” Olivia’s hand suddenly came down over your chest, spanking at one side and then the other, her lips brushing at the side of your neck, “or are you being a fucking brat?”

“No daddy.” You groaned, body trembling again as Emily continued her movements, “f—eels, so good!”

A second later and the damn was breaking when Emily’s teeth ever so gently nipped at your clit in the same moment that Olivia began rolling your nipples between her thumbs and forefingers. 

“Fuck!”

Your body arched off Olivia’s, thighs shaking as your orgasm burst through you, one hand clenching around Olivia’s wrist while the other tugged at Emily’s hair. You could feel your wetness smearing down Emily’s chin as your pussy pulsed around nothing, begging to be filled despite the pleasure soaring through you. 

“Oh my god…oh my god…” You shivered, your eyes fluttering open in time to see Olivia grinning down at you, a darkness in her eyes before her gaze flicked down to Emily who reluctantly pulled her mouth off you. 

“Such a sweet girl.” Emily purred, nipping at your inner thigh, “with such a greedy little pussy.” Her eyes trained between your legs, a smirk pulling up her lips as she watched you pulse. 

“She came so quick I think maybe she needs another one.” Olivia suggested, kissing at the side of your neck, earning a soft sigh from you. 

“What do you say, princess?” Emily asked, tongue laving over the bite mark she’d left on your thigh, “you want another one?”

You sucked in a breath, barely able to get out a nod much less real words right now, your lips parting to try and form something but only a gasp came out when Emily’s hand spanked your cunt. 

“Answer me.” Her voice hardened, spanking you once again, this time harder than the last. 

“Oh fuck,” your hips jolted off the bed, juices dribbling out of your pussy and Emily chuckled, the desire burning deeper in her at the sight. 

Olivia’s hand closed around your throat, fingers squeezing to get your attention, “don’t be fucking naughty now you little slut. Answer her.”

“Y—ye—s.” Through half open eyes you looked down at Emily, “please Mommy. Make me come.”

“Mmm.” Emily’s hand pressed against your pussy, giving just enough pressure to tantalize you, to bring the heat prickling back under your skin, “good girl.”

“Hit her again.” Liv suggested, and the other woman smirked before spanking your clit.

“Oh god!” Your hips jolted up off the bed, wetness pooling between your legs.

“God that’s fucking hot.” Emily mused, tapping her fingers against the pulsing nub, “just a little bit” rough tap, “more” tap, “wet,” tap, “with every touch.” Spank. She looked up to Olivia, “I take it she can squirt?”

Olivia laughed and there was almost a hint of darkness to it as her fingers squeezed at your neck, “she can make quite the fucking mess. Can’t you sweetheart?”

“Mmhmm.” You nodded eagerly.

“Messy little whore she is.” Liv pressed a kiss to your lips, her tongue plunging into your mouth and you couldn’t help but surge upwards, eager for more, to be lost to the two women currently in your bed. 

You groaned into the kiss when Emily’s tongue swept through you again and Liv was quick to pick up on it, her free hand returning to your chest. Squeezing and groping at your body, pinching your nipples as hard as she could one at a time before letting them release in the cool air. You whined against her lips, trembling as Emily’s mouth wrapped around your clit once more. Though this time you felt her fingers pressing against you, ever so slowly inching into your drenched cunt until they were buried inside you.

Head falling back you let out a groan, “fuu-ck.”

“Yeah?” Olivia asked, “you like your pretty pussy being stretched out?”

“Yes Daddy.” 

Emily’s lips curved up against your skin at your response and she began slowly moving her fingers in and out of you, relishing in the way your breath would hitch, the little twitches of your lower stomach, the sudden jump of a thigh muscle as she brushed back and forth inside you.

Your teeth sunk into your lower lip in a feeble attempt to hold back whatever noises were trying to come from the back of your throat. Your entire body was glistening with sweat, tingles and jolts spreading further and further until you could feel them under every inch of your skin. Emily’s mouth was like fucking heaven, her tongue swiping patterns over your clit while her fingers began to curl. It only took her a few passes to find the sweet spot on your inner walls, a high pitched whine coming from you when she did. 

She laughed softly, her mouth lifting off you as her hand continued its movement, “there it is.” She teased, finger tips pressing into the spot again, watching the way you scrunched your nose up, your pussy clenching around her fingers. “You gonna come again for Mommy?” She fucked into you harder, swirling her fingers around, her knuckles brushing the spot on the way out, “squirt for me? Make a mess of yourself like the dirty girl you are?”

“More!” You cried out, “please!”

Her free hand spanked down on your throbbing clit, “please, what?”

“Please, Mommy.” You whimpered, “p-please! Need your mouth.” Your hand reached downward and she turned her face, sucking two of your fingers into her mouth at the same pace her fingers moved inside your cunt. “Fuck...” Your head dropped back onto Olivia’s shoulder, letting your eyes shut, your pussy throbbing.

Satisfied, Emily let your fingers go with a lewd pop, unsurprised when your hand instantly tangled into her hair again as she moved her mouth back to your body. She felt the way you jumped at the contact, how tightly you were squeezing around her, how with every push of her fingers the noises from your pussy got wetter and louder. 

It was downright filthy and she absolutely loved it. 

“Such a fucking dirty girl.” Olivia husked into your ear, teeth nibbling at your earlobe, “are you gonna come, little slut?” Her mouth latched onto your neck, “pussy’s so nice and loud for us, you must be close now.”

She sucked on your neck, teeth sinking in right as she squeezed your chest again and that was all it took, a strangled moan built its way from the back of your throat, echoing out into the room as your orgasm burst through you. Juices spilling out of your cunt, dripping down Emily’s wrist as she fingered you through it, her own lips parted, slightly out of breath, watching you come down. 

“That’s it,” Emily praised, her fingers sliding out of you, groaning over the juices that pooled between your legs. “Good girl.” Her fingers gently pushed back into you, as if she was fucking her own cum deeper into your pussy, “just fucking soaked.”

“And yet,” Olivia nipped at your neck, her hands smoothed down your body, palm coming to rest just above your clit, “I guarantee you she still wants more.” Her hand pressed against you and your breath hitched, your gaze stayed locked on hers as she dared you to look away, her hand moving between your legs. “Isn’t that right, slut?” Her hand slapped your pussy; a lewd wet sound accompanied the whimper you made but you still managed to not look away. “You want daddy’s cock?”

“Yes!” You probably replied too fast, too eager, but you didn’t care. Still trembling from your last orgasm all you could think about was the feeling of being stretched around Olivia’s favoured dildo as she pounded deep into you.

“I think she’s about earned it.” Emily commented, sitting up on her knees, her eyes dark while she watched Olivia toy with your body. 

“I suppose.” Liv leant down, pressing a kiss to your lips, “greedy girl’s already got two, you want one from Daddy?” Her hand closed around your jaw, tilting your gaze towards Emily, “how about you show her how good you are with your mouth while I fuck you? Hmm?”

Nodding, you scrambled up to your knees, letting Olivia slide off the bed behind you while Emily shifted toward you, pulling you into a deep kiss. You moaned over the taste on her tongue, sucking it deeper into your mouth to get as much as you could. Her arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you to her as the two of you fell into the pillows. Your hands slid up, exploring her body, groping at her tits, pulling a low groan from her when you did. She broke the kiss, her head falling back and you were able to smear messy kisses down the column of her neck. 

The bed shifted behind you and you knew Olivia was ready, cock thick in her hand as she smeared lube up and down the toy between her legs. With Emily on her back, you crawled down her body, sucking one nipple into your mouth, flicking at it with your tongue before repeating the motion on the other side. The grin on your face grew wider as she fell under your spell, her skin flushing, heat creeping through it as her breathing picked up, perfect tits swaying when her back arched, her body shifting on the bed. Your fingers slipped into the waistband of her underwear and tugged them down her legs, eyes immediately jumping to her pussy. 

She was already soaked, pussy glistening as if it was calling to you and your mouth practically watered at the sight. You felt Olivia’s hands on your waist, nudging you forward, one slid up your spine, pressing you towards Emily’s pussy while the other slipped between your legs. 

“God she really made a fucking mess of you, didn’t she?” Liv chuckled, fingers spreading open your folds and you nodded, “well, get going.” She spanked you, “make it up to her.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

You dropped to the bed, hands sliding up Emily’s legs, a thumb tracing through her cunt, gently rubbing her clit, a satisfied smile on your lips when she let out a soft moan, her body pushing towards the touch. Your fingers toyed with her only a little longer, tracing her pussy, listening to the little noises she was making that were getting breathier, louder, you felt yourself pulse at the sight of her getting wetter, knowing it was your touch and the anticipation of your mouth that was turning her on. 

Behind you, Olivia’s fingers pressed into you, slowly inching in, then pulling out all the way again, teasing you in an attempt to get you to hurry up. When her fingers disappeared from your body all together you whined, your thumb pressing against Emily’s clit, pulling a gasp from the other woman. Then you felt the nudge of Olivia’s cock pressing against your pussy and your entire body melted, aching to push your hips back. She always chose the largest toy, the one she could fill with lube to coat your greedy little cunt when she was finally done fucking you. The one you loved the most, the one that was almost too big some days. 

Tearing your head from the clouds, you surged forward, finally getting a taste of Emily’s perfect fucking pussy and you couldn’t help but groan. She was fucking incredible, your tongue traced every inch of her that you could, not letting a single drop of her wetness go to waste.

“Oh my god.” She groaned, your mouth was so warm against her, moving with precision she barely needed to guide you when her hand tangled into your hair. 

You wasted no time, knowing the faster you got Emily panting, the faster Olivia would finally fuck you. Her cock still just nudged at your entrance, heavy and waiting, slowly getting slick with your juices. There were days you were absolutely amazed at Olivia’s self-control and today was certainly one of them. If the roles had been reversed you would have been buried as deep as you could inside her the second she was on her hands and knees.

“Shit!” Emily swore, “right there, oh fuck yes.”

Olivia chuckled, “she’s good at that, isn’t she?” Her cock shifted, nudging just the tip inside your waiting pussy.

“Yeah.” Emily managed to gasp out, right as your tongue flicked across her clit, “oh fuck.”

“Such an eager slut.” Olivia mused, her hands squeezing around your waist and with one fast, heavy thrust you were shoved deeper between Emily’s legs, a muffled cry escaping your lips at the sensation of finally being so full.

“Fuck.” You whimpered, pussy fluttering around the toy, your walls squeezing and dripping as you tried to focus on eating Emily out. 

“Don’t stop.” Liv ordered, her hands on your hips, holding you in place so you couldn’t start fucking yourself on her cock. She stayed still, buried deep inside you, stretching you out until Emily was gasping, a hand clawing at the bedspread, every second breath a curse on her parted lips. 

“Shit, fuck. Fuck.” Emily’s nails dug into your scalp and you doubled down, sucking her clit into your mouth, groaning around it, the noise vibrating through her. Her hips jumped off the bed, juices dribbling into your mouth, smearing across your chin as she hit her peak, chest heaving, fingers twitching. “Oh my god…”

You kept your mouth on her, gently cleaning her up and Olivia patted your ass, “good girl.” 

Then she began to move, her cock slowly dragging against your walls, leaving you empty and stretched before pushing all the way back in. Your hands clenched into Emily’s thighs and you risked slowly rocking your hips backwards, sinking down onto the toy. 

“God,” Emily breathed, “she wants it bad.”

“Doesn’t matter how many times you fuck her.” Liv’s hips snapped forward and your body jerked, “she always wants more.” Her hand slid into your hair, yanking your head back, “isn’t that right?” She circled her hips and you gasped, “dirty girl who can never get enough.” She pulled all the way out of you, laughing darkly as your pussy clenched around nothing, cum already dripping down your thighs. 

“Daddy, please.” Your whine was high pitched, body trembling, hands still grasping at Emily’s thighs. Olivia’s grip on your hair tightened as she leant over you, teeth sinking into your neck.

“Suppose you want it hard and fast, don’t you?”

“Yes!” You did your best to nod with the vice grip she had on your roots.

“Dirty slut.” Olivia husked before plunging her cock back into you as deep as she possibly could; the front of her thighs meeting the back of yours. 

“Oh my gooddd!”

She set a relentless pace, the one you’d asked for, the one you craved, one that it seemed only she could truly master. Having dropped your hair, her hands were squeezing your waist, pulling you back to her faster and harder, pants of air leaving her lips as whimpers left yours. Her cock stretched you out so perfectly, you always felt so full when she fucked you like this, leaving no room for tenderness. Her palm spanked the globe of your ass and your pussy throbbed. You could feel how drenched you were, the apex of your thighs slick with arousal, the sound almost sticky each time Olivia’s body met yours. She shifted her weight just right and the head of the toy pressed into your g-spot on her next thrust. 

“Fuck!”

“Yeah?” The cocky tone returned to her voice, “right there?” She pushed into you again with such force that you fell into Emily, barely able to keep yourself from being fucked into the mattress. 

“Yesss…” you groaned, voice muffled by the sheets, body trembling as she continued to pound into you. A gasp left your lips when hands were suddenly groping at your chest, sneaking between the bed and your body. A second to open one eye and you found it was Emily, watching with a heavy gaze. 

“God the sound of her fucking cunt.” She murmured and Olivia chuckled.

“Desperate little slut,” her thrusts slowed ever so slightly so she could plunge into you with full force, “with the messiest fucking pussy. Just fucking sopping.”

“Pull her up.” Emily suggested and Olivia’s hand wrapped around the back of your neck, yanking you flush to her as she continued to fuck you. 

The new angle had you gasping for air, you could feel every single thrust down to your bones, your vision blurring as the head of the toy pressed harder and deeper against your g-spot each time it passed. A second later and Emily’s hands were on you again, pinching your nipples before one sunk lower. 

“Fuck.” The word barely made it past your lips as Emily’s fingers started toying with your clit. 

“Faster.” Liv instructed the other woman, “she’s so fucking close.”

Emily hummed, watching your face as she increased the pace and pressure, fingers almost slipping with just how slick you were. She felt herself beginning to pulse with need at the sight, at the noises coming from both your lips and your cunt, her free hand quickly sliding down her own body. A low moan broke free of her lips when she began to play with herself and your vision managed to come back just enough to watch. 

“Jesus…”

“So pretty when you come.” Emily murmured, “makes me hot.” Her fingers slipped down, sinking two digits into her wet cunt, “oh god, yes.” 

Olivia’s hand slunk up your body, closing around your neck as Emily’s fingers pressed harder against you and your body began to shake, there was no chance of even trying to form words any longer. Emily rocked her hips in the same rhythm she rubbed your clit; her lips parted in a silent ‘O’ as she fucked herself faster. She was so ready, half of her thought maybe she could have gotten off without even touching herself, just the sight of you so fucking wrecked enough to drive her mad. 

“Daddy…” you managed out, the word slurred on your lips and Olivia’s hand squeezed around your neck.

“That’s it baby,” Emily cooed, fingers moving faster, “come with me.”

“Make a mess sweetheart, come all over Daddy’s cock.” Oliva panted, “I know you want to, little cock slut.”

A strangled cry left your lips and your body thrashed, juices dripping down around the dildo as you almost forgot how to breathe. The only thing left holding onto you, the only thing that didn’t make your vision white out completely was the sight of Emily coming on her own fingers right in front of you. That she was coming because of you, because of how messy and horny you were. She let out a low groan, her thighs trembling and her hand vanished from your clit before she fell back into the pillows with a very satisfied sigh.

“Shit.” She muttered, watching with half open eyes as Olivia’s grip on you dropped and you fell back onto your stomach.

“Need your cum.” You moaned into the sheets, body still quivering in aftershocks. 

Olivia chuckled, somehow, she still hadn’t stopped moving, her cock pushing in and out of you at varying paces, watching how much cum smeared across it each time she pulled out. She thrust her hips sharply, once, twice, then a third, a small groan leaving her lips when she squeezed the base of the toy and lube coated your insides.

A dreamy sigh caught on your next exhale, lips curving up into a smile at the sensation. Olivia slowly pulled out, watching the lube mix with your juices as it dribbled out of your used cunt.

“Such a dirty girl.” She said, fingers scooping up the mixture and fucking it back into you, “greedy for Daddy’s cum.”

“Mmhmm.” You did your best to nod, humming at the gentle hand smoothing your hair off your face.

“Did so good for us.” Emily cooed, thumb brushing across your cheek.

“Perfect little whore.” Olivia murmured, leaning over your back to press a few kisses between your shoulder blades before she shifted off the bed to deal with the toy.

“Who knew you were such a good tour guide.” Emily said with a tease, pulling a small laugh from you as she helped you settle against the pillows.

“You, can come back anytime you please Agent Prentiss.”

__________

@red1culous @imlike-so-gaydude @altsvu @lesbianspacecowboy @wannabe-fic-reader @venablemayfairgoode @mysticfalls01 @beccabarba @littlegaybabe @cmmndrwidw @bumblebear30 @enduringalexblake @wosoimagines @solemnnova @infernumlilith @yourtaletotell @australiancarisi @cerberus-spectre @wandas-wife @lawandorderuswnt @wandasbrat @hbkpop @samwithnoplan @multifandomlesbianic @sia2raw @ladysc @narvaldetierra @dxtery @poisonedcrowns @momlifebehard @holycrapraewth @alexxavicry @onmykneesformarvel @kmc1989 @temp0rary-bliss @gamma-rae-bursts @oliviasgayvibe @schemmentisimpasours @daddy-heather-dunbar @maybe-a-humanbean @emilyprentisssluvr @zizzlekwum @emobabeyy @riveramorylunar @inlovewithemilyprentiss @regalmilfs4me @ara-a-bird @inlovewithmiddleagewomen @irishavengersassemble @hopedoesntknow @venromanova @noahrex @imlike-so-gaydude @wittygutsy @cx-emerald-cx @momily @nilaues @soverign @v3nusxsky @mccdreamys-writes @l4yne @obsessedwjill @asolitaryrose3 @lisqueen @mrs-prentiss @whitewinewithice @daffodil-heart @maximoffcarter @i-lovefandom @moonlightjxuregui @chestnutninny @just-moondust @idkifimasub @gaydragonwitch @dowsedwithbleach @m1lfsh4ke @idkwhatever580 @ohlookmypeach @hausoffun @suckerforcate @xenafan25 @decadentcatcrusade @mybraininblood @piiinco

[purplereina11]

You and Alexia Putellas have never liked each other.She thinks you’re uptight and impossible to please. You think she’s arrogant, emotionally unavailable, and incapable of committing to anyone for longer than a few months.The only thing you have in common are your best friends, a happily married couple with a one year old daughter.But when a tragic accident leaves that little girl orphaned, everything changes, because hidden inside their will is one final surprise.They named you and Alexia as the legal guardians.

Part 2 Word Count: 6k

You didn’t come back that night, or the next morning. Everything after the argument blurred into one long shift of fluorescent hospital lighting, stale vending machine coffee, and stubbornly refusing to check your phone more than necessary.

Alexia sent exactly two messages.

Olivia poo'd in her bath

Then three hours later

Olivia's asleep.

You didn’t answer either, partly because you were still angry. Mostly because every time you stopped moving long enough to think, grief hit you so hard it felt like drowning.

By the time you finally made it back to the apartment the following afternoon, your entire body ached with exhaustion.

The key turned quietly in the lock, there was no television, no crying, no cartoon music, just soft silence.

You stepped inside cautiously, shrugging your bag off your shoulder. The apartment lights were dimmed low now, afternoon sunlight stretching gold across the floorboards.

Alexia was sitting cross legged on the living room floor beside the sofa in grey sweatpants and an oversized hoodie, one arm resting against the couch cushion while Olivia slept beside her. Not in her crib, on the sofa, surled sideways against a pillow with her tiny stuffed rabbit tucked beneath one arm and her pacifier half hanging from her mouth.

Alexia looked up the second the door clicked shut, neither of you spoke immediately. You noticed things automatically, Olivia was clean. Fed, still wearing the little yellow sleepsuit from yesterday, but freshly washed.

A half empty bottle sat on the coffee table beside a folded muslin cloth and what looked suspiciously like handwritten notes.

Alexia followed your gaze, “She refused her nap unless she could still see me.”

Your chest tightened unexpectedly, because Olivia was one year old and grieving already, you swallowed hard, “How long’s she been asleep?”

“Twenty minutes.” Her voice was quieter than usual, careful, like she’d spent the last twenty hours thinking about every word before saying it.

You crouched automatically beside the sofa to brush a curl away from Olivia’s forehead. She stirred slightly but stayed asleep, tiny fingers flexing once against the cushion.

Relief moved through you so sharply it was almost embarrassing, Alexia watched you for a second before speaking, “You and I should talk.”

You leaned back onto your heels slowly, “About?”

Alexia let out a short breath through her nose, “Yesterday.”

Immediately, your shoulders tightened again, “I was tired,” you said flatly.

“So was I.”

“And?”

“And we said things.”

You stood before the conversation could settle properly, suddenly restless again, “You were late.”

“I know.”

“You can’t do that.”

“I know,” Alexia repeated, sharper this time, the irritation flared back to life so quickly it startled you both.

You folded your arms, “You say you know, but you don’t actually understand why it mattered.”

Alexia’s jaw tightened, “Because you think I don’t take this seriously.”

“You forgot Olivia.”

Alexia looked away first, eyes flicking briefly toward the sleeping toddler beside her, “I forgot the time,” she corrected quietly.

“She’s not training, Alexia. She’s not a meeting you can reschedule.”

Something flickered sharply across Alexia’s face then. Hurt. Anger. Exhaustion, “You think I don’t know that?” she asked softly.

The quietness of it hit harder than shouting would have, you rubbed tiredly at your forehead. “I just needed you there.”

Alexia looked up immediately at that and the fight underneath the fight sat exposed between you both, not lateness, not schedules, fear, you were terrified of doing this alone.

Alexia looked exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with football, there were dark shadows beneath her eyes, damp hair pushed messily back from her forehead like she’d been dragging frustrated hands through them all day.

“She cried for you after you left,” Alexia admitted eventually.

Your stomach dropped instantly, “What?”

“She sat by the front door for almost ten minutes.” Alexia swallowed once, “Every time someone walked past outside, she looked up.”

You sat down heavily into the armchair opposite her before your knees gave out entirely, neither of you spoke for a moment after that.

Olivia made a tiny sleepy noise on the sofa between you both, one little hand twitching toward the empty space where Alexia had clearly been sitting before you arrived.

Alexia noticed too, “She wouldn’t nap in her room,” she murmured quietly, “I tried twice.” A faint, tired smile crossed her face, “Turns out she just me close i think.”

You looked at Olivia for a long moment, then at Alexia sitting on the floor beside her automatically like it was the most natural thing in the world and something inside your anger shifted uncomfortably. Not gone, just harder to hold onto completely.

Alexia picked absentmindedly at a loose thread on her sleeve before speaking again, “Do you think she gets scared we won't come back like they did?”

The question hollowed the air out of the room, Alexia still wasn’t looking at you when she said it. Her eyes stayed fixed on Olivia sleeping beside her, thumb rubbing slowly back and forth over the seam of her sleeve like she hadn’t even realised she was doing it.

Your throat tightened instantly, Olivia shifted softly in her sleep, pacifier bobbing once before settling again. Completely unaware she’d become the centre of two grieving adults trying desperately not to break around her.

You swallowed carefully, “Maybe.” Alexia’s jaw flexed, “She’s one,” you said quietly, “She doesn’t understand death, not really.” Your eyes stayed on Olivia. “But she understands people disappearing.”

“She watches the door constantly,” Alexia admitted softly. “Every time I stand up she watches me to see where i'm going.”

“She did that with me too.”

Alexia rested her forearms against the sofa cushion beside Olivia carefully, keeping herself close enough that the baby could still feel her there even asleep. “She cried when I showered,” Alexia said after a moment, sounding almost bewildered by it. “Like heart breaking cried. I was gone five minutes.”

You looked over at her then at the confusion underneath her exhaustion, Alexia was used to pressure, to interviews, Champions League finals, pain, expectation, but this? A tiny grieving toddler needing her constantly that terrified her.

“I think she’s scared everyone leaves now,” you admitted quietly.

Alexia closed her eyes briefly. You looked around instinctively at the traces of Sofia and Marta everywhere again, ghosts in every corner.

“We can’t fight in front of her like that again,” Alexia said eventually.

You opened your eyes immediately, “I know.”

“She cried.”

“I know,” you repeated, sharper this time, like the memory was already cutting into you enough without help, you rubbed both hands over your face tiredly. “I hated leaving.”

That slipped out accidentally, Alexia looked surprised.

“I was angry,” you admitted quietly. “But when I got to work all I could think about was her crying.”

Alexia stared at you for a long second before looking back down at Olivia, “She kept sitting by the door,” she said softly again. “I didn’t know how to fix it.”

The honesty in that hurt, because neither of you knew how to fix any of this.

You slowly slid down from the armchair onto the floor opposite her, exhaustion finally outweighing pride, for a while neither of you spoke, then slowly, sleepily, Olivia stirred.

It started with a tiny frown, a twitch of her fingers around the stuffed rabbit. Then her eyelashes fluttered softly as she blinked awake, disoriented and warm from sleep.

Immediately, her eyes searched, you watched it happen in real time, that tiny moment of panic before recognition. Then she spotted you sitting on the floor beside the sofa, her whole face changed. Relief, pure, uncomplicated relief.

Your chest hurt so suddenly you almost couldn’t breathe through it, “Hey, baby,” you whispered softly, shifting closer automatically.

Olivia blinked slowly at you, still sleepy, pacifier bobbing gently between her lips while she stared like she was making sure you were actually there.

You smiled despite yourself, “You have a nice sleep”

Beside you, Alexia stayed very still watching, Olivia pulled the pacifier from her mouth clumsily with one tiny hand, then she smiled, huge, sleepy and gummy and absolutely devastating.

It hit you straight through the chest, your eyes burned instantly, “Hi,” you whispered again, voice rougher now.

Olivia made a tiny happy sound deep in her throat, one little hand opening toward you instinctively, and before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out quietly.

“I’ll always come back,” you promised softly, “I promise.”

The room went completely still after that, Alexia looked at you sharply, but Olivia just reached harder. A tiny whining noise escaped her as she stretched both arms toward you now, desperate to be picked up.

You moved immediately, carefully scooping her up from the sofa into your arms. The second she settled against your chest, her whole body relaxed, like something inside her had unclenched, “Oh, sweetheart,” you murmured, pressing a kiss gently into her messy curls.

Olivia tucked herself impossibly close, tiny fingers gripping the front of your hoodie while she buried sleepy warmth against your neck.

Suddenly you understood exactly what Alexia meant, being needed like this was terrifying, because Olivia trusted completely, without hesitation, without conditions. She had lost the centre of her world and somehow still believed the people left behind would catch her.

Across from you, Alexia watched quietly from the floor, something unreadable moved across her face watching Olivia melt into your arms so completely, not jealousy, something sadder and softer.

“She does that with your hoodies,” Alexia said quietly after a moment, you looked over, “When she’s upset,” Alexia explained, eyes still on Olivia, “She curls into them like that.”

Olivia made another sleepy little noise against your shoulder as if proving the point, you rubbed slow circles against her back instinctively

Alexia’s gaze followed the movement, “She didn’t want me putting her down earlier either,” she admitted softly. “I made coffee holding her because every time I tried she cried.”

Despite the heaviness in your chest, a tiny smile pulled at your mouth, “That sounds dangerous.”

“I nearly dropped a spoon.”

“That’s because you probably make coffee like a psychopath.”

Alexia looked mildly offended, “I make excellent coffee.”

“You put sugar in it.”

“It adds depth.”

“It adds betrayal.”

To your surprise, Alexia laughed quietly. a real one this time, small and tired but warm enough that Olivia lifted her head slightly at the sound.

The baby blinked sleepily between both of you before reaching one tiny hand outward toward Alexia now too. Alexia froze immediately, like she still couldn’t quite believe Olivia wanted her too.

“Go on,” you murmured softly.

Carefully, uncertainly, Alexia moved closer on the floor until Olivia’s fingertips brushed her sleeve.

The baby made a pleased little sound instantly and just like that, Alexia’s entire expression cracked open. You saw it happen in real time. All the fear, grief, all the panic she kept trying to bury under sarcasm and irritation, gone for one tiny second beneath pure love.

Alexia touched Olivia’s little hand carefully like something precious, “She trusts us,” she whispered quietly, almost like she was afraid to say it too loudly.

You looked down at Olivia curled safely against your chest, then at Alexia sitting beside you on the floor, for the first time since the hospital waiting room, the future didn’t feel impossible.

Terrifying, yes, messy, painful and still completely overwhelming, but maybe not impossible.

🍼

For a little while after that evening, things got easier, not good, not easy, just easier.

The shouting matches became arguments, the arguments became irritated conversations and Olivia slowly started settling into the strange new rhythm of her life.

She learned that if one of you left, the other would still be there, that breakfast happened every morning, that bath time came every night.

That even when the adults looked exhausted, somebody always came when she cried, but the peace between you and Alexia didn't last.

Because grief wasn't the only thing living in the apartment anymore. Reality had moved in too and reality was making you want to strangle her.

The first major fight happened three weeks later, you got back from a twelve hour hospital shift with aching feet and a headache building behind your eyes.

The apartment door opened and you immediately stopped, the kitchen looked like a crime scene, bottles in the sink, breakfast dishes still on the counter. Olivia's highchair covered in dried fruit, laundry overflowing from the basket still unwashed, toys absolutely everywhere.

You stood there staring, slowly blinking trying to convince yourself this wasn't real. Then Alexia appeared from the living room looking fresh and completely relaxed.

"Oh good," she said, "You're home."

You looked from her to the kitchen then back to her, "...What happened?"

Alexia frowned, "To what?"

You gestured at literally everything, "The apartment."

"Oh."

That was it? Oh. You felt your eye twitch, "Alexia."

"What?"

"Have you done anything today?"

Her face immediately tightened, "I had fun with Olivia today."

🍼

The second fight happened over punctuality, again, because apparently Alexia viewed schedules the same way pirates viewed international law, as vague suggestions.

You were supposed to leave for work at seven, Alexia was supposed to arrive at six thirty, simple, easy, straightforward or so you thought because at six twenty nine, you were ready. At six thirty five, she wasn't there. At six forty two, you were pacing. At six fifty, Olivia was getting fussy. At six fifty three, Alexia finally walked through the door carrying a coffee and looking annoyed that you were annoyed.

"You are twenty three minutes late."

"It was traffic."

"You live fifteen minutes away."

"There was construction."

"There was a phone in your pocket."

Alexia dropped her bag onto the floor, "I said sorry."

"No, you offered a poor excuse."

"Same thing."

"It is literally not."

🍼

The third fight happened over overnight shifts, you were halfway through making dinner when Alexia casually wandered into the kitchen.

"Hey."

Immediately suspicious, you looked up, "What?"

"Quick question."

"No."

"I haven't asked it yet."

"No."

Alexia rolled her eyes, "Can you switch Thursday?"

You stared at her, "Alexia."

"What?"

"It's Thursday every time."

"It is not."

"It absolutely is."

"Okay, sometimes it's Thursday."

"Every week."

She leaned against the counter, "We have sponsor obligations."

"We have a toddler."

"I have both."

You pointed the wooden spoon at her, "You agreed to the rota."

"I know."

"Then stop trying to change it."

"Can you or not?" "Going to have to aren't I"

🍼

The worst argument happened a few days later, because by then, the resentment had started building, quietly and dangerously one small thing at a time.

You noticed every missed pickup, every late arrival, every half finished chore. Every time you came home from the hospital to find Olivia happy and cared for but everything else left for you.

You did the laundry. You cleaned the kitchen. You organised Olivia's medical appointments. Bought nappies. Restocked wipes. You became the default parent without ever agreeing to it.

And one night after another twelve hour shift, you walked into the apartment and found Alexia sitting on the floor playing with Olivia while three overflowing bags of rubbish sat untouched by the door.

Something finally snapped, "You didn't take the bins out."

Alexia looked up, "What?"

"The bins."

"I was going to."

"When?"

She frowned, "Later."

"You said that yesterday."

Immediately, her shoulders stiffened, Olivia looked between you both from where she sat chewing enthusiastically on a toy giraffe, "Can we not do this?"

"No."

Alexia sighed heavily, "You always do this when you get back tired."

A laugh escaped you, a dangerous one, "Oh, that's interesting."

"Don't."

"No, explain."

Alexia stood, "You're acting like I don't do anything."

"You don't."

Alexia's expression darkened immediately, "I look after Olivia."

"So do I."

"That's not what I meant."

"No," you snapped, "What you mean is you play with Olivia and then leave everything else for me."

Alexia stared, actually stared like she couldn't believe you'd said it and maybe she couldn't, because the truth was ugly.

Olivia adored Alexia, she was wonderful with her you couldn't deny that, patient and so loving, but somewhere along the way, all the invisible work had quietly become yours and Alexia had never really noticed.

"You think I'm not trying?" she asked quietly.

"I think you're used to people picking up after you."

The silence that followed was brutal, Alexia looked genuinely hurt. Which somehow made you even angrier, because you were tired, so unbelievably tired.

Every time you thought about Sofia and Marta choosing the two of you for this, you wondered if they would recognise what you'd become. Two exhausted people constantly arguing over dishes and schedules while trying desperately not to fail the little girl asleep down the hall.

🍼

The handovers had evolved over the last few weeks, not because you and Alexia had become particularly good at communicating.

Quite the opposite, but after the seventh time she arrived late and after the third occasion you'd nearly missed the start of a hospital shift because of it, you'd found a solution.

You brought Olivia to training, Alexia was never late for football, never. So now, on swap days, you'd park outside Barcelona's training ground and wait.

It was annoying, inconvenient, but it worked, Olivia seemed perfectly happy with the arrangement. She sat on your hip wearing a little pink cardigan, one sock already missing because apparently that was her life's mission, happily chewing on the ear of her stuffed rabbit while watching players and staff move around the training complex.

A familiar laugh sounded nearby, you looked up to see Patri Guijarro crossing the car park toward you.

"Well, hello."

Patri immediately reached for Olivia and Olivia immediately went to her.

Patri grinned, "I knew she liked me."

Olivia rewarded her with a delighted giggle.

"See?"

"You fed her chocolate you'll be a favourite for life now."

"It made an impression."

Patri bounced Olivia lightly on her hip while the little girl immediately started investigating her ponytail.

You'd known Patri through Sofia and Marta for years, not particularly close, but enough that she'd checked in regularly since the accident.

She knew far more about your life than you probably were comfortable with considering the lack of time spent together, which explained the smirk that appeared next.

"Dora tells me you keep putting off that date Sofia got her with you."

You groaned immediately, "Oh my God."

Patri laughed, "What?"

"I'm busy, Patri."

"You've been busy for three months."

"I'm raising someone else's child," You pointed toward Olivia, "And saving lives. No time for dates."

Patri rolled her eyes dramatically, "Oh please."

You narrowed yours, "I'm serious."

"No you're not."

"Patri"

She tilted her head knowingly, "Or are you just nervous to actually put yourself out there for a change?"

You scoffed, "No. I'm just busy."

"Mhm."

"I am."

"Mhm."

You hated that noise, the knowing one, the one that suggested she could see straight through every excuse.

Patri adjusted Olivia higher against her hip, "Oh come on."

You sighed, "No."

"Just get Alexia to switch nights." The comment barely registered at first, then she continued, "You do it all the time for her so she can go on dates."

Everything inside you stalled, your chest tightened unpleasantly. All those switched nights, all those last minute changes, you'd rearranged hospital shifts, cancelled plans. Worked around Alexia's schedule because she'd always made it sound important, necessary.

You thought she needed help, you thought she was overwhelmed, every conversation replayed itself differently.

Every excuse, every request, every time you'd bent over backwards because Alexia needed you to.

While your own life had quietly stopped, no dating, no social life, no time. Just work and Olivia, meanwhile Alexia apparently still had enough freedom to go on dates.

The unfairness hit like a punch to the ribs, not because she was dating, because she'd lied.

Patri shifted awkwardly after the long silence, "You okay?"

You forced a smile, the kind that fooled absolutely nobody, "Yeah."

Patri looked unconvinced, thankfully, movement across the car park saved you, Alexia walking toward you from the training facility laughing at something someone had said behind her. Completely unaware she'd just become the centre of your rapidly worsening mood.

The second she spotted Olivia, her face softened automatically the sight usually annoyed you, today it hurt, because apparently while your entire world had changed, hers had found room to keep moving.

"There's Ale," Patri told Olivia playfully, Olivia immediately perked up.

Alexia reached you a moment later, "Hey."

Normally you'd answer, today you just nodded, Alexia frowned instantly, noticing.

Of course she noticed, "What?"

"Nothing."

Her eyes narrowed, you looked away first, Patri suddenly found the clouds fascinating.

Alexia took Olivia from Patri's arms carefully.

The toddler immediately buried her face into Alexia's shoulder before looking back toward you, expectant, waiting, the goodbye ritual.

You forced yourself to smile, "Bye bye."

Olivia immediately reached toward you, whining softly, you took her for one final cuddle, pressing a kiss into her curls.

"Be good." Another kiss, "I'll see you in two days."

Olivia patted your cheek, before you handed her back carefully, Alexia was watching you now, trying to work out what was wrong.

You ignored it, turning instead toward Patri, "Good to see you." You pulled her into a quick hug, Patri squeezed back, then you grabbed your keys from your pocket, "I have to go."

Alexia frowned, "You're leaving already?"

"I'm going to be late for work." That wasn't entirely true, but close enough.

You headed toward your car before she could ask anything else, behind you, you heard Olivia making little unhappy noises, then Alexia calling your name.

You kept walking, the car door slammed shut, a second later you were pulling out of the car park and in your rear view mirror, you caught one last glimpse of Alexia standing there holding Olivia, confusion written all over her face. She had absolutely no idea why you were angry and that just made you angrier.

🍼

The confrontation happened three days later, not because you planned it or because you wanted it, because eventually there was nowhere left for the resentment to go.

It had been building for days, layer upon layer. Every late pickup. Every switched night. Every dirty dish. Every excuse. Every time you'd swallowed your frustration because Olivia came first. Eventually something had to give and it happened after Olivia had finally gone to sleep.

The apartment was quiet, you were in the kitchen loading the dishwasher when Alexia walked in, looking fresh and well rested, again when again you'd come home to find laundry untouched on the sofa.

Again you'd found yourself doing dinner, bath time, bottles, all the cleaning, the endless invisible work that never seemed to stop.

Alexia opened the fridge, “What are we eating?"

Something snapped, not loudly or dramatically, you laughed a short, exhausted sound.

Alexia looked over immediately, “What?"

You closed the dishwasher harder than necessary, “Nothing."

"That's not a nothing laugh."

You turned around, “Did you not eat at your 'friends' tonight no?"

The question hit so suddenly even Alexia froze, “What?"

Her expression changed instantly, not guilt, but recognition, she knew exactly where this was coming from, “Patri said you've been going on dates, do those not include eating something other than your date no?" Alexia sighed heavily, “Are we seriously doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"This."

You stared at her, “This?"

"Yes."

“Yes, Alexia. Let's do this."

The frustration in your voice made her shoulders straighten immediately, defensive, always defensive, “I haven't done anything wrong."

That almost made you choke, “Haven't you?"

"No."

You looked at her in disbelief genuine disbelief, because somehow she still didn't get it, “You've spent weeks asking me to switch shifts."

"You agreed."

"Because you lied."

"I didn't lie."

"You told me it was sponsor events, work things.”

"Some of them were."

"Jesus Christ."

Alexia slammed the fridge door, “You act like I'm committing crimes."

"No." Your voice cracked unexpectedly, “No, I act like I'm tired."

The room went quiet, Alexia stopped talking, you hadn't raised your voice or shouted, but something about the exhaustion in those words landed harder than anger.

Because you were tired, god, you were so tired, you gripped the edge of the counter, “I don't even recognise my life anymore."

Alexia's expression shifted slightly, you kept going, because once it started coming out, it wouldn't stop.

"I go to work."

You laughed weakly.

"I come here."

A gesture around the apartment.

"I clean."

Another laugh.

"I do laundry."

Your eyes were burning now.

"I make sure Olivia has everything she needs."

Alexia opened her mouth, you didn't let her speak.

"I do hospital shifts where people die."

Your voice cracked harder.

"I come home and everything still needs doing."

The apartment had gone completely silent, Alexia was staring now, not arguing or interrupting. Just staring, you suddenly hated that, being looked at, hated feeling exposed. Months of pressure started spilling out before you could stop it.

"My entire life has just stopped."

The words echoed, they were raw, ugly and true.

"I don't get time to date."

You swallowed.

"I don't have any friends.”

Another swallow.

"I don't sleep more than 4 hours.”

Your chest was heaving now.

"I spend every second trying to keep this apartment running because if I stop for one second everything falls apart and I can’t let that happen for Olivia.”

Alexia's face had gone pale still she didn't interrupt. So you kept going, because apparently you'd been carrying this for far too long.

"You know what's funny?"

You laughed again, tears suddenly blurring your vision.

"I don't even live here."

The words cracked, you gestured around the apartment, Sofia and Marta's apartment.

"I spend more time here than my own flat."

Your voice broke completely.

"I wake up here."

You pointed toward the hallway.

"I sleep here."

Then toward the living room.

"I eat here."

The tears were falling now.

"I can’t grieve here."

Alexia looked devastated, you barely noticed, because for the first time in months the truth was finally coming out.

"This place is suffocating me."

You wiped furiously at your face, immediately angry at yourself for crying.

"I can't breathe in here anymore."

The confession hung between you, heavy and terrible, Alexia still hadn't moved from where she stood, hadn't said a word, hadn't defended herself which somehow that made everything worse.

Because now there was nothing stopping the last thing, the thing you’d never talked about, you looked down at the floor, voice suddenly small.

"I identified them."

Alexia froze, you hadn't said it out loud before, not to anyone.

"I had to identify them."

The memory arrived instantly, cold, the morgue with the fluorescent lights, the smell, the metal. You squeezed your eyes shut and they were there again. Sofia and Marta.

Your voice shook violently, “Every time I close my eyes…"

The sentence broke apart, you tried again but failed then finally forced the words out.

"I still see them."

The tears came harder, uncontrollable now.

"I see them every time I shut my eyes. I see them every single night and then I wake up and Olivia needs breakfast and the washing needs doing and she needs nappies and work needs me and everybody just keeps expecting me to keep moving."

Your chest hurt, everything hurt.

"I don't know how."

The words barely existed, a whisper.

"I don't know how much longer I can keep doing all of it."

The apartment fell silent, just your breathing and Alexia standing motionless across from you, staring at you like she was finally seeing the full weight you'd been carrying. You didn't look angry, you looked broken.

You scrubbed angrily at your face, the tears wouldn't stop, you hated that, hated crying in front of her, hated being seen, hated that she'd now witnessed the complete collapse you'd spent months desperately holding together.

"Don't," you muttered.

Alexia hadn't even moved yet, "What?"

"Whatever you're thinking."

Her expression softened you immediately hated that too, before you could retreat further into yourself, Alexia crossed the kitchen.

You frowned immediately, "What are you doing?"

She didn't answer, instead she reached out and touched your arm just lightly, you recoiled like she'd burned you.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm trying to help."

"Don't." Alexia ignored you, which was apparently becoming a theme, "Alexia." She grabbed your forearm firmly, you stared at her in horror, "No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Y/N."

"What are you" And then she pulled, not violently just decisively straight toward her, you looked genuinely appalled, "Absolutely not."

Alexia rolled her eyes, "You are literally crying."

"I know."

"So stop fighting me."

"I'm not hugging you."

"You are."

"I'm really not."

"You really are."

You attempted to back away, unfortunately for you, Alexia Putellas spent most of her life training at an elite athletic level.

This became apparent immediately, because she barely even noticed your resistance. One second you were trying to escape, the next her arms had wrapped around you securely , like some sort of incredibly stubborn human trap.

Your entire body locked up, "Oh my God."

"There we go."

"No."

"There we go."

You stood rigid every muscle tense arms trapped awkwardly between you, Alexia sighed dramatically.

"Just hug me, fucking hell, Y/N."

"I'm being kidnapped."

"You are being comforted."

"This feels illegal."

"It isn't."

"It should be."

Alexia tightened her grip slightly, you stared blankly at the kitchen wall.

"This is awful."

A laugh escaped her an actual laugh the first one you'd heard from her ever, "See?" she said. "Is this so bad?"

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

You considered your options, unfortunately, there weren't any, because she was annoyingly strong, "I feel like I'm being suffocated by a boa constrictor."

Alexia snorted, "All I got from that is you think I have muscly arms."

You groaned, "You're an idiot."

"And you've stopped fighting."

Damn it, you had, mostly because you were exhausted emotionally and physically. You'd simply began enjoying it slightly, Alexia seemed deeply pleased by this discovery.

You narrowed your eyes at the cupboard in front of you, "I haven't stopped fighting."

"You have."

"I haven't."

"You absolutely have."

You muttered into her shoulder, "This isn't me stopping fighting."

"No?"

"No."

"What is it then?"

You considered it seriously, "You know when goats get scared?"

Alexia blinked, "What?"

"They freeze.. they just sort of lock up and fall over."

Alexia stared, "What kind of information is that?"

"It's true."

"Why do you know that?"

"I don't know."

Alexia laughed again, "You've goat fainted?"

"I'm emotionally goat fainted."

"That isn't a thing."

"It is now."

You could feel her shoulders shaking with laughter, which was incredibly annoying, because despite everything despite being forcibly trapped in an unwanted hug some of the crushing pressure in your chest had eased.

At some point during the ridiculous argument about goats and boa constrictors, you'd stopped crying stopped feeling like the world was collapsing around you.

Alexia's arms loosened slightly, not letting go, just giving you room if you wanted it.

You didn't move, mostly because moving would involve admitting the hug had helped and absolutely nobody was getting that victory, especially not her.

After a moment, Alexia spoke quietly, "You should've told me."

Your eyes closed, "You would've argued."

"Probably."

"You would've gotten defensive."

"Definitely."

Despite yourself, a small laugh escaped you, "See?"

Alexia said, "You know me."

You rolled your eyes, "Unfortunately."

Her chin rested briefly against the top of your head, a tiny gesture almost unconscious, when she spoke again, the humour was gone, "I'm sorry."

Alexia didn't apologise often.

"I'm sorry I kept asking you to switch nights."

Her voice was quiet now.

"I'm sorry I didn't realise how much you were carrying."

You swallowed hard, Alexia tightened her arms briefly, just once.

"And I'm really sorry you had to identify them alone."

The kitchen fell silent again, the silence that followed felt different, the kind of silence that settled after a storm had finally spent itself.

You were still trapped in Alexia's arms, or choosing not to leave them, you hadn't decided which explanation annoyed you less.

You stepped away finally, leaning back against the counter, Alexia stayed where she was, watching you.

"You really don't sleep?" she asked quietly.

The question caught you off guard, you shrugged, "Sometimes."

"That's not an answer."

"It kind of is."

"Y/N."

You looked away, immediately giving yourself away.

Alexia sighed, "How bad?"

You rubbed the back of your neck, bad, very bad, but saying it aloud somehow felt worse, "Three or four hours."

Alexia's expression darkened instantly, "Every night?"

"Most."

"Jesus Christ."

You laughed weakly, "Yeah."

"And the nightmares?"

Your stomach tightened, you hadn't meant to tell her that part that had slipped out. Alexia waited patiently, which felt unnatural enough that you almost checked for a fever, "Most nights," you admitted eventually.

The words sat heavily between you Alexia looked genuinely devastated like she'd just realised how much she'd missed, how much she'd failed to notice, "You should've said something."

"There wasn't time."

"There was."

"No."

You gestured vaguely around the apartment, "Olivia." Then yourself, "Work." Then the mountain of laundry visible through the doorway, "Everything else."

Alexia looked down and she looked ashamed, "I thought you had it handled."

The confession came quietly, you laughed once, the sound was broken around the edges, "Everyone thought that."

Alexia swallowed, because she knew exactly what you meant, at the funeral, in the hospital, with social workers, family and friends. Everyone had looked at you and seen competence and reliability, the person who always knew what to do. Nobody had stopped to ask whether you were surviving it.

A soft sound drifted down the hallway, both your heads turned immediately silence, then another sleepy little whine from Olivia.

You and Alexia exchanged a look and without thinking, both started moving at the same time.

The absurdity of it almost made you laugh, months ago you could barely stand each other, now you apparently responded to Olivia's noises like emergency services.

You reached her room together, the moon nightlight cast soft shadows across the walls.

Olivia was sitting up in her crib, messy curls, sleepy eyes, pacifier hanging loosely from one hand.

She looked between both of you, processing, then immediately held her arms up, demanding.

Alexia huffed a laugh beside you, "You go."

"What?"

"You go." Alexia nodded toward the crib, "She wants you."

You stepped forward carefully and lifted Olivia into your arms, the little girl immediately tucked herself against your shoulder with a sleepy sigh, like she'd been waiting for that exact thing.

For a moment, none of you spoke, Alexia stood beside the crib, you held Olivia who yawned hugely against your shoulder.

Alexia smiled automatically, the expression softened her entire face and for a second, you saw exactly what Marta must have seen all those years ago.

Not the football star, or the woman who flirted with every woman she came in contact you, or the person you'd spent years arguing with.

Just someone who loved fiercely once she let herself, someone who had been thrown into the same impossible situation as you, who was grieving too.

Alexia looked over and caught you staring, immediately suspicious, "What?"

You shook your head, "Nothing."

"That was definitely a something."

"It wasn't."

"It was." You adjusted Olivia higher against your shoulder, Alexia narrowed her eyes. Then suddenly sighed, "Fine."

The word sounded reluctant like it physically hurt her, but then she glanced around the room, at the crib.

The photos of Sofia and Marta still sitting on the dresser and when she spoke again, her voice was quieter, "I'll do better."

You looked at her, she didn't look away this time.

"No more lying about why I need switches. No more assuming you'll just pick everything up. And tomorrow I'll do the laundry."

You nodded and you genuinely smiled and judging by the tiny victorious look on her face, Alexia noticed.

[starsandfrostcombined]

Santos Family Series

Soft One - Trinity Santos is already having a terrible day, until baby Jane Doe makes it worse in the best possible way.

Sudden Protest - Baby Jane Doe gets a name.

Sealed Deal - A proposal is made, and a secret is kept, until it isn't.

SOS - Dana finds out.

Stairwell and Silence - The first interaction with Dana.

Something Like Home - A day meant for celebration becomes the moment a little family is tested...and finally made whole.

Still Here - When an unimaginable case comes through the ER, all Trinity wants is to be home with her family.

Sauce Goblin - A night in with the Santos family... and Uncle Denny.

Staying at Denny's - It's Uncle Denny's weekend.

Santos Family Series: Med School Edition

Stress - It's the first year of medical school, and you and Trinity are just trying to survive.

Second Year - The second year brings new stress and new relationship dynamics.

Someone Else - It's the third year of medical school, and you and Trinity try to hold it together as you navigate the new hospital setting.

Sealed fate - It's the fourth year of medical school, and you and Trinity are faced with the risk that couples matching may not work in your favor.

Survival - It's the start of residency, can your relationship survive keeping it a secret?

[purplereina11]

You and Alexia Putellas have never liked each other.She thinks you’re uptight and impossible to please. You think she’s arrogant, emotionally unavailable, and incapable of committing to anyone for longer than a few months.The only thing you have in common are your best friends, a happily married couple with a one year old daughter.But when a tragic accident leaves that little girl orphaned, everything changes, because hidden inside their will is one final surprise.They named you and Alexia as the legal guardians.

Part 1 Word Count: 5.3k

The first time you met Alexia Putellas, she flirted with the waitress while her date was in the bathroom, that pretty much told you everything you needed to know about her.

Your best friend Sofia had spent months insisting Alexia was “actually really sweet once you got to know her,” but all you saw was arrogance wrapped in expensive perfume and cocky charm. She always walked into rooms like she owned them, like people should be grateful she acknowledged them and worse she knew it.

Alexia thought you were impossible, too guarded, too stubborn, too quick to judge her before she’d even opened her mouth. Every dinner with your mutual friends ended the same way, sharp comments, eye rolls, sarcastic digs disguised as jokes.

The only reason you tolerated each other at all was because of Sofia and her wife Marta, Alexia’s long suffering personal trainer. They were disgustingly in love. The kind of couple who danced in the kitchen while cooking. The kind who left voice notes just to say “drive safe.” The kind who made everyone else at the table feel painfully single.

And then one rainy Thursday night, they were gone.

A drunk driver crossed the centre line on the motorway, neither survived.

You still remembered the way the hospital waiting room spun around you when the social worker gently explained there had been a will.

A plan in the event something happened to both of them.

You and Alexia had been named legal guardians of their one year old daughter, Olivia.

You actually laughed at first not because it was funny, because it made absolutely no sense.

“You’ve got the wrong people,” you told them immediately, voice numb, “There’s no way Sofia chose us.” But she had.

Apparently, months ago over wine and dinner and one of those stupid hypothetical conversations nobody thinks will ever matter. Who would take Olivia if something happened?

Marta had chosen Alexia, Sofia had chosen you, and together, they’d decided Olivia deserved both.

Which was how, three days later, you found yourself standing in Sofia and Marta’s apartment holding a screaming toddler while Alexia argued with a car seat instruction manual like it had personally insulted her.

“This is impossible.”

“It literally clicks in.”

“It does not click in.”

“You’re a professional athlete and you’re losing a fight to plastic.”

Alexia shot you a glare sharp enough to cut glass, “Why is she crying again?”

“She’s one, Alexia.”

“Well what does she want?”

You stared at her in disbelief, “You seriously don’t know?”

“I know footballers, not babies.”

Olivia’s cries only got louder, for one awful second, silence settled between you and Alexia, not angry silence. Scared silence, because underneath the fighting, resentment and grief, the truth sat heavily in the room neither of you knew how to do this and neither of you could walk away.

Olivia needed you.

So when Alexia finally looked at the baby trembling in your arms, eyes red from crying, something in her expression cracked. Just for a second, fear, real fear, “She keeps looking for them,” Alexia whispered quietly.

The comment hit like a punch to the chest, because she was right. Every time the apartment door opened, Olivia turned her head expectantly.

Every time a phone rang, she perked up, waiting, still waiting for her mothers to come home and suddenly your anger toward Alexia didn’t feel nearly as important as the tiny little girl caught between both of your grief.

“She liked when Sofia sang to her,” you murmured.

Alexia swallowed hard, “Marta used to bounce her when she got fussy.”

The baby hiccuped another sob, then slowly, awkwardly, Alexia stepped closer, “Can I…?”

You hesitated before carefully handing Olivia over, at first she looked unnatural in Alexia’s arms, all long limbs and uncertainty but then Olivia grabbed onto the front of her hoodie with tiny fists, and Alexia completely froze. Like that tiny hand had shattered something open inside her.

“She trusts you,” you whispered before you could stop yourself.

Alexia looked down at Olivia, devastated, “No,” she said softly. “This is Marta's”

🍼

The funeral was a blur of black clothing, damp tissues, and people speaking too softly, you hated how quiet grief made everyone. Like if they lowered their voices enough, maybe it wouldn’t be real.

The chapel overflowed with people, family friends, neighbours. Marta had known half of Barcelona through work, and Sofia somehow collected people everywhere she went. There were flowers lining every wall. Olivia would never understand how loved her mothers were, at least not yet.

You stood near the back during most of it because the front row felt unbearable. Alexia sat there beside Marta’s elderly parents with Olivia asleep against her chest in a tiny black dress and white tights.

The image unsettled you more than it should have, Alexia looked… right, not polished celebrity Alexia Putellas. Not the smug woman you’d spent years rolling your eyes at across dinner tables.

Just a grieving woman holding a baby like she was terrified to let go, Olivia woke halfway through the service and immediately started crying.

The loud, confused cry of a child who didn’t understand why everybody around her smelled like sadness.

You instinctively stepped forward at the same moment Alexia stood up, your shoulders collided lightly, “I’ve got her,” you whispered automatically.

Alexia’s jaw tightened. “I know how to hold a baby.”

“That’s not what I—”

“She’s fine.”

The sharpness in her voice made several nearby people glance over, you immediately backed off, embarrassed, “Fine.”

Alexia disappeared out the chapel doors with Olivia still crying against her shoulder, you tried to ignore the guilt curling in your stomach.

🍼

The wake afterward was somehow worse, too many memories, too many people saying things like they’re in a better place when everybody knew the better place would have been here, with Olivia.

You escaped onto the balcony for air sometime after hour two, Barcelona stretched golden beneath the evening sun, beautiful and indifferent. “You always run away from parties?”

You didn’t turn around, “Only the ones where both hosts are dead.”

Silence, then the balcony door clicked shut behind Alexia. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed she’d changed Olivia into a pale yellow sleepsuit. The baby was finally asleep again against her shoulder, tiny cheek squashed into Alexia’s neck.

“You were rough on me before,” you muttered.

Alexia looked exhausted. “You think today is the day to pick a fight?”

“You started it.”

“You implied I couldn’t comfort her.”

“I implied she was crying.”

Alexia laughed once under her breath, humourless, “There it is.”

“What?”

“That thing you do.”

You frowned, “What thing?”

“You decide who people are immediately.” Alexia shifted Olivia carefully higher against her chest, “You met me once and decided I was selfish. Arrogant. Some woman incapable of caring about anyone but herself.”

“If the shoe fits.”

Her eyes flashed, “You know absolutely nothing about me.”

“And you know everything about me?”

“No,” she snapped, “But I at least know grief isn’t a competition.”

You looked away first, below you, traffic moved through the streets like normal, people walked home from work, couples laughed outside restaurants. The world kept going in the most offensive way possible. “I just…” Your throat tightened unexpectedly. “I don’t understand why they picked us.”

Alexia’s expression cracked slightly at that, “Sofia told me once,” she said quietly, you looked back at her, “She said you were the most loyal person she’d ever met.” Alexia swallowed. “She said if Olivia ever lost them, you’d love her enough to survive it.”

The words hit straight through your chest, “And Marta?” you asked softly.

Alexia looked down at the sleeping child in her arms before answering, “She said I’ve spent my whole life running from the idea of being needed.” A bitter smile flickered across her face, “Apparently she thought Olivia would change that.”

You didn’t know what to say to that, for a long moment, the only sound between you was Olivia’s soft breathing.

Alexia adjusted Olivia carefully against her shoulder, one large hand spread protectively over the baby’s back while the other rubbed tiredly over her own face. Up close, she looked wrecked.

Not the polished version the world knew. No cameras. No media training. No perfect hair or sharp little smirks.

Just grief.

“You know what the worst part is?” she said quietly after a while.

You leaned back against the balcony rail, arms folded tightly across your chest against the evening chill. “There’s a lot of options.”

Alexia let out the faintest breath of a laugh.

“She keeps doing new things,” Alexia murmured, looking down at Olivia. “Little things.” Her thumb stroked absentmindedly over the baby’s back. “Yesterday she said ‘up’ properly for the first time.”

Your chest tightened immediately.

“And they missed it,” Alexia finished softly.

The words settled heavy between you, because that was the unbearable thing about death, wasn’t it? Not just the absence. The accumulation. Every future moment stolen too.

First words. First day of school. Nightmares. Birthdays. Broken hearts.

Sofia and Marta would miss all of it.

Olivia shifted sleepily against Alexia’s chest, tiny fingers curling into the fabric of her black blouse. Alexia immediately stilled, instinctive now, protective.

You noticed it before she did, “You’re holding her differently.”

Alexia glanced up, “What?”

“The first day,” you said quietly, “You held her like she was glass.” Your throat tightened unexpectedly, “Now you hold her like she belongs there.”

For a second, something vulnerable crossed Alexia’s face, then she looked away, “She cried for an hour last night.”

You frowned slightly, “Why didn’t you call me?”

“Because it was three in the morning.”

“So?”

Alexia’s jaw shifted like she didn’t know what to do with that answer, “I drove around with her.”

“What?”

“She wouldn’t settle.” Alexia shrugged tiredly, “Marta used to say car rides worked sometimes.”

Your eyes widened slightly despite yourself, “You drove around Barcelona at three a.m with a screaming toddler?”

“It worked eventually.”

“And you didn’t think to ask for help?”

That finally pulled Alexia’s eyes back to yours, irritation flickering there again, familiar now, easier than grief, “You think I can’t do one night alone?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“It’s what you imply every time you look at me.”

You exhaled sharply, “Why are you so defensive all the time?”

“Why are you so convinced I’m going to fail her?”

The question hit harder than you expected because the answer was immediate and ugly, because you thought Alexia left people. You thought she got bored, detached, restless.

You thought eventually she would decide this was too hard and disappear, leaving you alone to pick up the pieces and maybe Alexia saw some of that on your face because her own expression slowly closed off, “There it is again,” she said quietly.

You looked away first.

Inside the apartment, laughter suddenly erupted from somewhere distant and painful. People trying desperately to force life back into a room that death had gutted clean.

You hated them for it a little, “I saw you once,” you admitted before you could stop yourself.

Alexia frowned faintly.

“At that restaurant near the beach. Maybe two years ago.” Your fingers tightened against your sleeves, “Your date went to the bathroom and you flirted with the waitress right in front of everyone.”

Realisation flickered across Alexia’s face, “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.”

Alexia actually winced, “She was flirting with me first.”

You stared at her flatly, “That’s your defence?”

“No.” Alexia rubbed a tired hand over her forehead, “My defence is that the woman I was with had spent three months cheating on me.”

Your mouth shut immediately.

Alexia looked back down at Olivia instead of you, “I’d found out an hour earlier.”

The silence that followed felt different, not softer exactly, but uncertain, “I didn’t know that,” you said eventually.

“You never asked.”

The honesty in it stung because she was right. You had decided who Alexia was instantly and never moved from it, but standing here now, watching her sway unconsciously with Olivia sleeping against her chest despite her own exhaustion, the picture didn’t fit together as neatly anymore.

Alexia looked over at you after a moment, quieter now, “Marta used to get so annoyed at me.”

Despite yourself, your lips twitched faintly, “Only annoyed?”

“She said I sabotage anything before it can matter to me.”

“That sounds dramatic.”

“She was dramatic.”

“She married Sofia voluntarily. Obviously dramatic.”

The corner of Alexia’s mouth finally lifted properly for the first time all day, small, brief, and God, that somehow hurt worse. Because suddenly you could see exactly why Marta loved her.

The balcony door slid open before either of you could say anything else, Marta’s elderly mother poked her head out carefully, eyes swollen red from crying, “There you both are,” she said softly, “Olivia’s overnight bag is packed.”

The reminder hit immediately, overnight, because Olivia wasn’t going home with Sofia and Marta anymore.

She was going with you and Alexia. Alexia’s face lost all trace of warmth at the exact same moment your stomach dropped.

Neither of you had thought past the first few days and funeral, not really.

Marta’s mother hesitated gently. “Have you discussed… arrangements?”

You and Alexia looked at each other, absolutely not, “I assumed,” you started slowly.

“At your place?” Alexia interrupted at the exact same time.

You both stopped, Marta’s mother looked exhausted already.

Alexia shifted Olivia carefully higher against her chest. “My home has security. Privacy. Extra rooms.”

You blinked, “You live way of the city, it would take me over an hour to get back and to, to work”

“And your flat is better?” Alexia shot back. “Fourth floor with no lift.”

“She can’t even walk yet.”

“She owns a stroller.”

“She also owns me, apparently.”

To your horror, Marta’s mother suddenly laughed, a real laugh wet and startled and exhausted, but real.

You and Alexia both stopped immediately, the older woman pressed trembling fingers against her mouth, eyes filling again. “God,” she whispered shakily. “You sound exactly like them.”

The grief hit so suddenly your chest physically hurt, because you could hear it too now. Sofia’s sarcasm, Marta’s dramatic sighing, the bickering underneath affection.

Alexia looked down abruptly, jaw tight and Olivia, still asleep between both your disasters of a lives, let out one tiny sleepy sigh and reached her little hand outward blindly straight toward you.

In the end, neither of you really argued about it, maybe because you were both too exhausted, maybe because every alternative felt wrong.

So you grabbed Olivia’s overnight bag in tense silence while mourners slowly filtered out of the apartment, and an hour later you found yourself unlocking the door to Sofia and Marta’s home with Alexia standing beside you holding a sleeping toddler and looking just as hollowed out as you felt.

The apartment smelled the same, vanilla candles, laundry detergent and baby shampoo, it was normal, that was the cruelest part. Nothing inside had changed even though everything had.

Alexia carried Olivia to her room while you stood frozen in the kitchen staring at the half finished grocery list still stuck to the fridge.

Milk. Pasta. Bananas. Marta’s terrible handwriting underneath: tell Sofia to stop buying expensive tomatoes x

Your throat tightened so fast it hurt, from down the hall, you heard Alexia murmuring softly, not words exactly, just noise of comfort.

You found her eventually standing beside the crib in the dim glow of a nightlight shaped like a moon. Olivia had starfished herself across the mattress, one tiny hand curled around the ear of a stuffed rabbit.

Alexia didn’t look up when you entered, “She fought sleep,” she whispered quietly.

“She always did.”

That finally made Alexia glance over at you, “You know a lot.”

You shrugged tightly, “Sofia used to call me every day after work.” Your eyes stayed on Olivia, “Sometimes just to complain about teething.”

A small silence settled, then Alexia carefully pulled the blanket higher over Olivia’s stomach with surprising gentleness, “She snores when she’s really asleep,” Alexia murmured.

You blinked, right on cue, Olivia let out the tiniest snuffling sound in her sleep and despite everything, a breath of laughter escaped you.

Alexia looked startled by the sound, like she hadn’t expected laughter to exist anymore, neither had you.

🍼

An hour later the apartment had gone quiet, too quiet.

You changed into one of Sofia’s oversized university hoodies you found abandoned over the back of a chair because your funeral clothes felt suffocating. Then you grabbed a notepad and pen from the kitchen drawer before heading toward the living room determined to do something practical before your brain collapsed entirely.

The television glow hit first, football commentary second, and then Alexia.

She was sprawled across Sofia and Marta’s sofa like she belonged there, one arm stretched along the back cushions, beer bottle dangling loosely from her fingers while some late night La Liga replay flickered across the screen.

You stopped dead in the doorway, “Really?”

Alexia’s lips came away from the bottle as she looked over lazily, “What?”

You stared at her in disbelief, “We need to sort arrangements.”

“For what?”

You actually laughed once because surely she couldn’t be serious, “For Olivia?” you hissed, “For the fact we apparently have a child now?”

Alexia frowned slightly like that was an overreaction, “She’s asleep.”

“Yes, and tomorrow she’ll still exist.”

“She tends to do that.”

“Oh my God.” You dropped the notepad onto the coffee table harder than intended, “We need a plan.”

Alexia looked back toward the television briefly, “We have one.”

“No, we absolutely do not.”

“She needs feeding, sleeping, nappies changed—”

“She also needs stability. Routine. Clothes. Daycare.” You pointed at her beer, “Apparently one responsible adult.”

Alexia’s eyes narrowed instantly, “I came here, didn’t I?”

The room tightened immediately, you folded your arms, “That’s not what I meant.”

“It’s what you implied.”

“You’re watching football while I’m trying to figure out how we’re supposed to raise a child.”

Alexia set the beer down slowly now, irritation finally surfacing properly, “And what exactly do you want me to do tonight?” she snapped, “Solve the next eighteen years in one conversation?”

“I want you to care.”

The words landed harder than intended, Alexia stared at you, then, very quietly, “That’s unfair.”

For a second guilt flickered unpleasantly in your stomach because she looked genuinely angry now, hurt.

“You think because I’m not panicking visibly that I don’t care?” Alexia leaned forward, forearms braced against her knees, “I am trying not to completely lose my mind in the house our friends are never coming back to.”

The football commentary droned softly in the background, you looked away first.

Alexia rubbed tiredly at her face before speaking again, quieter this time, “Marta used to ask me watch matches here after training.”

Your eyes flicked back toward her despite yourself.

“Sofia would complain the entire time,” Alexia murmured, “‘Nobody normal enjoys this much football.’ she'd say. But then never made us turn it off”

A tiny smile tugged at her mouth briefly before disappearing again.

You sank slowly into the armchair opposite her, exhaustion finally catching up with you.

The notepad sat untouched between you, Alexia reached for the remote and muted the television, the apartment immediately felt heavier.

After a long silence, she nodded toward the notepad, “Fine.” You looked up cautiously, “We'll do arrangements.” You handed her the pen, Alexia took it like it personally offended her, then she stared blankly at the paper for a solid ten seconds before asking, completely serious, “What does a baby actually do all day?”

You stared at Alexia across the coffee table, Alexia stared back completely seriously, “You cannot be this unprepared.”

“She eats, cries and bites people,” Alexia defended, “I know the basics.”

“She’s one, not a raccoon.”

Alexia ignored that, reaching for the notepad instead, “Fine. Explain the tiny dictator’s schedule.”

You exhaled through your nose and dragged the pen back toward yourself, “Okay. Right.” You flipped to a clean page. “We need to figure out our work first.”

Alexia leaned back into the sofa cushions with another tired sigh, “Training starts at nine most mornings. Earlier if it’s gym work.”

You scribbled it down, “And matches?”

“Depends. League games are usually evenings weekends. Champions League can mean extra training.” She paused, “Sometimes away trips are a few days.”

Your pen stopped, because somehow you hadn’t really considered that part yet. Alexia wasn’t just busy, she was one of the most recognisable footballers in the world, her schedule was chaos wrapped in sponsorships and international duty.

You looked up slowly, “You travel a lot.”

Alexia’s expression tightened slightly, defensive instinct kicking in immediately. “I can't help that.”

“I didn’t say you could.”

“You thought it.”

You chose not to answer that. Instead you looked back down at the paper, “My shifts rotate.” You rubbed at your temple, “Usually three long days a week at the hospital. Sometimes nights.”

Alexia blinked, “You do nights?”

“Occasionally.”

“What about Olivia?”

“Well I’m hardly going to leave her alone in the flat.”

Alexia frowned deeply now, properly thinking, “Could your shifts change?”

You laughed once without humour, “In a hospital? Not because my life imploded, no.”

That quieted both of you again, life imploded, it was accurate. Alexia reached for the pen this time, pulling the notepad into the middle of the table between you both, “Okay,” she said, more focused now, “We work around Olivia.”

Something about the wording settled oddly in your chest, not around yourselves, around Olivia. You watched Alexia start drawing lines across the page messily.

Monday. Tuesday. Wednesday.

Her handwriting was unexpectedly neat, “You take evenings,” you decided aloud, “Your training’s done by early afternoon most days.”

Alexia nodded slowly, “You’d have mornings then.”

“That works better with my shifts.”

“And nights when i'm away?”

You grimaced, “I can swap some.”

“You shouldn’t have to swap everything.” You looked at her sharply, surprised by the immediate response, Alexia shrugged like it was obvious, “She’s both ours.”

The words landed strangely, because suddenly this wasn’t temporary sounding anymore, not babysitting or helping out, ours.

You looked down quickly before she noticed whatever crossed your face, Alexia tapped the page again, “Match days are harder.”

“Because?”

“I’m gone most of the day to late at night.”

“Right.”

“And after games there’s media, recovery, sometimes team obligations.”

You rubbed a hand over your face, “Jesus Christ.”

Alexia snorted softly. “Exactly what Marta used to say.”

You both fell quiet again at the mention of her. The grief moved strangely between you both now. Less like a wall. More like a third presence sitting silently in the room beside you.

Eventually you cleared your throat, “Okay. So on match days, Olivia stays with me, I'll have to make sure I'm not working.”

Alexia immediately frowned, “That’s not fair.”

“It’s fine.”

“No it's not.”

“It'll have to be, Alexia.”

“That’s not the point.” You blinked at the sharpness in her voice, Alexia looked frustrated suddenly. “I don’t want her feeling like a burden”

The room softened slightly after that, because underneath the bickering, underneath all the sharp edges, there it was again. You looked back down at the timetable quietly, “Neither do I.”

Alexia rubbed slowly at the label on her beer bottle before speaking again changing what needed to be sorted, “Maybe…” She hesitated like the suggestion physically hurt her pride, “Maybe we keep her here.”

You frowned, “Here?”

“In the apartment.” Alexia gestured around vaguely. “Her room is here. Her toys. Her routine.” She swallowed once, “Everything smells like them.” Your chest tightened painfully. “She’s already lost enough. She shouldn't loose her home to." Alexia’s voice had gone very quiet now.

You looked toward the hallway instinctively, toward Olivia asleep down the corridor surrounded by traces of Sofia and Marta everywhere. The moon nightlight, tiny shoes by the door, drawings on the fridge, a life paused halfway through.

“She stays here,” Alexia said again more firmly this time, looking at the timetable. “We come and go.”

You stared at her for a long moment, and annoyingly it was the smartest thing either of you had said all night. “She’d stay in her own bed,” you murmured slowly.

Alexia nodded once, “She keeps her familiarity.”

Another nod, “No moving her between apartments every two days.”

Alexia looked relieved you understood before she quickly hid it behind irritation again, “Obviously.”

You rolled your eyes automatically, “You don’t need to act smug every time you have one good idea.”

“One good idea?” Alexia scoffed, “I’m carrying this operation.”

“You couldn’t install a car seat six hours ago.”

“And yet here I am, solving custody logistics.” Despite yourself, a small laugh escaped you. Alexia looked startled again by the sound, then smugly, “There she is,” she murmured.

“Don’t ruin it.”

“Too late.”

You shook your head but the tension in the room had shifted now, just slightly, not gone, it'll probably never gone, but softer around the edges.

Together, you both kept scribbling across the timetable for another hour, training schedules, hospital shifts, night feeds, daycare possibilities, trying to find a solution for those hours neither of you would be able to be home with Olivia.

There were arguments, Alexia insisted toddlers could probably survive on pasta and fruit pouches alone.

You informed her that counted as nutritional neglect. You argued over bedtime routines, screen time, whether babies needed tiny expensive shoes before they could even walk properly.

But underneath every disagreement sat the same desperate, fragile goal to keep Olivia safe and loved. Keep Olivia happy enough to survive losing the centre of her entire world.

Sometime after midnight, you both ended up sitting cross legged on the floor surrounded by papers and half empty mugs of coffee, staring at the chaotic timetable that now controlled both your lives.

Alexia looked exhausted, you probably did too

🍼

The next morning felt unnervingly normal, which somehow made everything worse.

Olivia woke at six thirty screaming for a banana she immediately refused to eat. By seven, there was yoghurt in your hair, one sock missing entirely, and a children’s cartoon theme tune looping through the apartment loudly enough to qualify as psychological warfare.

You were exhausted, not normal tired bone deep exhausted, the kind where your body felt heavy and your thoughts moved slower than usual.

You’d barely slept after finally collapsing onto Sofia and Marta’s sofa around two in the morning, and Olivia had apparently decided grief meant separation anxiety because every time you stepped more than two feet away from her she burst into tears again.

By midday, the apartment looked like a tiny hurricane had passed through.

Toy blocks covered the rug, one of Olivia’s stuffed animals floated face down in a mug of cold coffee.

You had somehow changed three nappies, watched the same animated rabbit sing about vegetables six times, and cried quietly in the kitchen while sterilising bottles because Sofia used to do this exact thing standing in this exact spot.

Alexia still hadn’t shown up, you checked your phone again.

2:41 PM. Nothing. No message. No warning. No call, your shift starts at three.

You bounced Olivia absently on your hip while trying not to spiral into outright fury, “She said she’d be here,” you muttered more to yourself than the baby.

Olivia shoved sticky fingers into your cheek.

“Thank you for your emotional support.”

The front door remained stubbornly silent, by 2:52, you were pacing, at 2:56, you were fully angry, at exactly 3:07 PM, the apartment door finally unlocked.

You spun around so fast Olivia startled against your shoulder and there she was. Alexia walked into the apartment wearing training gear and sunglasses like this was any other afternoon, bag slung over one shoulder, completely unhurried.

“Hi,” she said casually, kicking the door shut behind her.

You stared at her in disbelief, then at the clock, then back at her, “You’re late.”

Alexia blinked once, slowly pulling off her sunglasses, “By seven minutes.”

“Seven minutes after my shift started.”

“You said three-ish.”

“I absolutely did not say three-ish.”

Alexia dropped her bag beside the sofa, “Training ran over.”

“And you couldn’t text?”

“I was driving.”

“For forty minutes?”

She opened her mouth, closed it again, “Okay,” Alexia admitted reluctantly. “I forgot”

You actually laughed once because the alternative was screaming.

Olivia immediately sensed the tension and started whining softly against your shoulder, Alexia’s expression shifted the second she noticed.

“Oh, hey Livvy,” she murmured instantly softer, stepping closer.

Olivia reached toward her automatically, the betrayal stung a little, “Unbelievable,” you muttered while transferring her carefully across.

Alexia took Olivia with practiced ease now, settling her easily against her hip. The baby immediately grabbed fistfuls of Alexia’s hoodie string with a sleepy little sigh, like she’d been waiting.

Something sharp twisted unexpectedly in your chest.

Alexia noticed your expression immediately, “What?”

“You can’t just wander in whenever you feel like it,” you snapped, grabbing your jacket off the chair, “This isn’t optional, Alexia.”

Her face hardened slightly at your tone, “I know that.”

“Do you?” You gestured around the apartment helplessly, “Because this morning Olivia cried for twenty minutes because I went to the toilet without her and I had to call my supervisor to beg for a delayed start because apparently my co-parent thinks punctuality is a suggestion.”

Alexia’s jaw tightened immediately at the word co-parent, “Training changed last minute.”

“So you call.”

“I said I forgot.”

“And I’m saying you don’t get to forget anymore!”

The words cracked louder than intended through the apartment, silence followed instantly, Olivia startled in Alexia’s arms, lower lip wobbling dangerously.

Alexia immediately bounced her gently, “Hey, hey, no, cariño…” The softness in her voice hit like emotional whiplash after the argument.

You dragged a hand over your face immediately, guilt crashing in, “I’m not yelling at you,” you muttered quietly toward Olivia.

“She knows,” Alexia said shortly, still soothing the baby.

The apartment went quiet except for Olivia’s little sniffling breaths. You grabbed your bag harder than necessary, “I can’t do this alone.”

The admission slipped out before you could stop it, Alexia looked up then, irritation flashing immediately into something sharper, “You think I’m not trying?”

“You forgot.”

“I was at training.”

“You were supposed to be here.”

“And I am here now.”

“That’s not how responsibility works!”

Alexia scoffed suddenly, exhausted and angry all at once, “Right, because you’ve been doing this perfectly?”

The comment hit instantly, your eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

“You keep acting like you’re the only one grieving here.”

“Oh, don’t do that.”

“You look at me like I’m one mistake away from abandoning her.”

Because you were, the silence after that was ugly, too honest, Alexia saw it on your face immediately and for the first time since all this started, something genuinely hurt crossed her expression.

“There it is,” she said quietly.

You looked away first, Olivia made another upset little noise between you both, tiny fingers tangled tightly in Alexia’s hoodie.

You suddenly couldn’t breathe in the apartment anymore, couldn’t stand the toys everywhere, the grief everywhere, Alexia everywhere.

You snatched your keys off the counter.

“Where are you going?” Alexia asked sharply.

“To work.”

“You’re upset.”

“No shit.”

“Don’t walk out like this.”

You laughed once, humourless, “You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

Alexia shifted Olivia higher against her chest, frustration radiating off her now too, “We’re supposed to be figuring this out together.”

“Well maybe try showing up first.”

The words landed hard, Alexia’s face closed off immediately and guilt flickered for maybe half a second before exhaustion smothered it completely.

You headed for the door, behind you, Olivia started crying properly now, distressed by the shouting, reaching one tiny hand toward you over Alexia’s shoulder.

The sound nearly stopped you, nearly, but Alexia held her tighter instead, jaw clenched, “Go then,” she snapped quietly. "Before you upset her anymore than you already have"

So you did.

The apartment door slammed harder than intended behind you, echoing down the hallway and even halfway down the stairs, you could still hear Olivia crying upstairs.

[starsandfrostcombined]

Fever Protocol | Trinity Santos

Summary: When Alma spikes a fever, Trinity learns that being mumu is sometimes all she needs to be.

Word Count: 9.3k

Warnings: no use of Y/N

Masterlist

Trinity knew fever rules. 

She knew them professionally, clinically, automatically. She knew which numbers mattered and which numbers only felt terrifying because parents were scared. She knew what questions to ask before anyone else thought to ask them. Wet diapers. Fluids. Breathing. Rash. Neck stiffness. Responsiveness. Exposure. Timeline. Dosing. She knew how to scan a child’s chest from across a room, how to hear croup in a waiting area, how to spot the difference between a miserable toddler and a truly unstable one. Trinity Santos was an ER physician. She was good in emergencies. She was excellent in emergencies.

 And yet, at 1:17 in the morning, barefoot in the dim hallway outside Alma’s room, listening to her two-year-old cry through a fever, Trinity felt like every useful thing she knew had been left behind at the hospital.

 “Mumu,” Alma sobbed from the crib. “Mumu, up.” 

“I know, bug,” Trinity whispered, pushing the door open with her hip. “I’m here. I’ve got you.” 

The room was warm and shadowy. The orange nightlight near the dresser made everything look softer than it felt. Bunny was on the floor beside the crib, facedown like he too had given up on the night. Alma stood gripping the crib rail with both hands, cheeks flushed bright red, curls damp and stuck to her temples. The sight of her made Trinity’s chest tighten. In the ER, she could move without hesitation. She could put her hands where they needed to go. She could give orders. She could watch monitors, parents, and nurses simultaneously. She could become all function, all precision, all steel. But Alma was not a patient in a bay. Alma was her daughter. Alma was hot, crying, and reaching for her with her little hands shaking. 

“Mumu,” Alma cried again. 

“I’m here,” Trinity said, lifting her from the crib. “I’m right here.” Alma came to her in one miserable, overheated bundle. Her pajama legs were twisted from restless sleep, and her skin felt too warm through the thin cotton. Trinity settled her on one hip and grabbed the thermometer from the dresser with the other hand. Her own reflection flashed briefly in the dark window over the changing table: hair shoved into a messy bun, old T-shirt wrinkled, eyes too wide for someone who knew better than to panic over fever. Alma saw the thermometer and immediately tucked her face into Trinity’s neck. 

“No temp.” 

“I know,” Trinity murmured. “Deeply offensive. Very rude of me.” 

“No.” 

“One quick check, bug. Then we can cuddle.” 

“No temp.” 

“Yeah, I know. I’m the villain.” She tucked the thermometer under Alma’s arm, holding her gently but firmly while Alma whined and kicked half-heartedly against her hip. Normally, this was where you were magic. You would make your voice soft and playful. You would ask whether Bunny needed his temperature checked, too. You would somehow turn the entire betrayal into a game, because pediatricians were apparently issued secret powers in residency that ER doctors were denied. Trinity was good at saving children. You were good at making them feel safe. That distinction had never felt more unfair. The thermometer beeped. 103.2. Trinity’s stomach dropped. For half a second, the number was only a number. Then it became Alma’s number. Alma’s flushed cheeks. Alma’s hot forehead. Alma’s wet lashes and trembling mouth. Okay. Still manageable. Not an emergency by itself. Likely viral. Congestion. Fever. A miserable toddler. They had been watching it creep up all evening before you left for night shift. But manageable was a much easier word when it belonged to someone else’s child. Alma whimpered against her neck.

“Mama?” Trinity closed her eyes for one beat.

“Mama’s at work,” she said softly. “Mama loves you. She’ll be home in the morning.” Alma cried harder. “Yeah,” Trinity whispered, pressing her lips to Alma’s damp hair. “I know.”

She tried all the reasonable things first. Light pajamas. Cool room. Tiny sips of water from the yellow cup. A fresh diaper. A careful check of Alma’s breathing while pretending she was only rubbing circles over her back. No retractions. No nasal flaring. No grunting. No blue lips. No alarming lethargy beyond exhaustion. Alma was sick, but not dangerously sick. Trinity knew that. Her body did not seem to care what her brain knew. The apartment felt too large and too quiet around them. The living room still held the remains of a normal evening: one of Alma’s board books upside down by the couch, a wooden puzzle missing three pieces on the rug, a tiny sock abandoned under the coffee table. The lamp beside the couch gave off a low yellow glow, just enough to see by, not enough to make the world feel awake. Trinity paced slowly from the window to the kitchen and back again, Alma tucked against her chest. Alma cried in waves. Sometimes she fell quiet for a few seconds, breathing heavily through her congested nose. Then her body would jerk with discomfort, and she would start again, raw and hoarse and furious at being sick. 

“Mumu hot,” she sobbed. 

“I know, bug.” 

“Mumu fix.” That nearly undid Trinity completely. She stopped in the middle of the living room. Because, of course, Alma believed that. Of course she did. Trinity was her Mumu. You were Mama. Between the two of you, every problem was supposed to have an answer. A bottle. A song. A kiss. A diaper. A dose. A cuddle. A diagnosis. A fix. But fever was not something she could order to stop. 

Trinity looked toward the bathroom. Warm shower. Not cold. Never cold. She knew better. But warm water, steam, comfort, loosening congestion, calming the spiral. It was something to do when Alma could not settle, and Trinity could not bear to keep pacing with her skin so hot beneath her palm. She had recommended it to parents before. She had never done it with trembling hands. 

“Okay,” she whispered, mostly to herself. “Okay. Let’s try something.” Alma sniffled against her collar. 

“No.” 

“You don’t even know what I’m doing yet.” 

“No.” 

“Fair. You’re probably right.”

The bathroom filled with steam quickly. Trinity stood in shorts and a sports bra, Alma perched on her hip, while she adjusted the shower again and again until the water was warm and gentle. Not hot enough to overheat her. Not cool enough to make her shiver. The kind of warmth that could soften muscles and loosen mucus and maybe convince a miserable little body to stop fighting itself for a few minutes. The mirror fogged at the edges. Water drummed softly against the tile. The room became its own small weather system, humid and close. Alma clung to her harder as Trinity stepped under the spray. 

“No,” Alma whimpered immediately. “No show.” 

“I know,” Trinity soothed. “Mean shower. Evil shower. Personally offensive shower.” Alma cried weakly, one hand fisting in Trinity’s damp sports bra. Trinity turned so the water hit her own back first, shielding Alma from the direct spray. Then she lowered herself carefully onto the built-in ledge, pulling Alma into her lap. Water ran down Trinity’s shoulders and back, soaking her shorts, but she barely noticed. Alma’s curls darkened and flattened against her head from the mist. Her cheeks were still too flushed, but her crying began to lose some of its force. “There you go,” Trinity whispered, rubbing slow circles over her back. “There you go, bug. Mumu’s got you.” Alma hiccupped.

 “Mama?” The word echoed strangely in the steam. Trinity’s throat tightened.

 “Mama’s at work. Mumu’s here.” Alma frowned like she disapproved of the staffing arrangement. Then she pressed one hot, damp hand against Trinity’s cheek. “Mumu.” There was no accusation in it this time. Just recognition. A small, feverish recalibration. Trinity swallowed hard.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “I’m here.” They stayed there for ten minutes. Maybe twelve. Long enough for Alma’s crying to fade into sniffles. Long enough for her little body to stop twisting in discomfort. Long enough for Trinity’s heart to slow from panic into something closer to fear she could manage. She watched droplets slide down Alma’s temple. Watched her eyelashes flutter. Counted her breaths without meaning to. Reminded herself again and again that she was not in a trauma bay. There was no alarm sounding. No one was crashing. Alma was warm, sick, miserable, but breathing. Still, when Alma sagged against her, boneless with exhaustion, Trinity had to fight the instinct to check the thermometer right there in the shower. She waited. Barely. When she finally stepped out, she wrapped Alma in the thickest towel they owned, the one you always complained took too long to dry. She tucked the towel around Alma’s shoulders, rubbed gently at her curls, dried tiny feet and damp knees while Alma leaned heavily against her. The bathroom smelled like steam and baby shampoo and the faint eucalyptus oil Dana had once insisted on leaving under the sink. Alma’s eyelids drooped. 

“Mumu soft,” she mumbled. Trinity laughed so suddenly it almost became a sob.

“Only for you,” she whispered.

Your text buzzed just as Trinity got Alma into fresh pajamas. “How’s she doing?” 

Trinity stared at your name for a second before answering. She could picture you under hospital fluorescents, badge clipped at your waist, probably standing at a workroom computer with half a protein bar beside you and three unfinished notes open. You were close enough to feel reachable, far enough to feel impossible. She typed one-handed while Alma clung to her neck. 

“Temp spiked to 103.2. Did a warm shower. Seems calmer now. Breathing okay. Congestion still bad.” Three dots appeared almost immediately. 

“Good call on the shower. Proud of you. Is she drinking?” Trinity stared at proud of you longer than she wanted to admit. It should not have hit her like that. She was a physician. She did not need praise for remembering basic fever comfort measures. Except tonight, she was not only a physician. Tonight, she was alone with a sick two-year-old who kept calling for Mama. 

“Some. Not enough for my liking.” Your reply came quickly. 

“That sounds like you. Tiny sips. Popsicle if she’ll take one. Is she in your arms?” Trinity looked down. Alma was slumped against her chest, thumb near her mouth, Bunny now tucked between them because Trinity had retrieved him from the nursery floor and apologized on Alma’s behalf. 

“Yeah.” 

“Good. That’s probably what she needs most. You.” Trinity’s throat tightened. She did not answer right away. Alma shifted and let out a small, tired whine. Trinity kissed her forehead. Still warm. Less terrifying than before. But still too warm.

By 2:40, Alma woke crying again. The fever was lower, but only slightly. Her nose was blocked. Every attempt to set her down ended in immediate protest. She wanted Bunny, then threw Bunny, then sobbed because Bunny was gone. She wanted water, then rejected it because the cup was apparently wrong, even though it was the yellow cup she had demanded. She wanted Mama. That one, Trinity could not fix. 

“Mama!” Alma cried, voice hoarse and thick with congestion. “Mama now!” 

“Mama’s at work.” 

“Mama!” 

“Mumu’s here.” Alma turned her flushed face away and wailed. There it was. The tiny knife. Trinity knew this was normal. She knew toddlers asked for whichever parent was absent. She knew Alma was not rejecting her. She knew sickness narrowed the whole world to discomfort and wanting. She knew it. It still hurts. She bounced Alma in the living room, hair still damp from the shower, a damp towel thrown over the back of the couch, a medicine syringe on the coffee table, a thermometer beside it like a threat. The apartment felt too empty. The crying filled every corner, somehow making the rooms feel larger. You should have been there. Not because Trinity could not do it. Not because she was incapable. But because some nights were meant to be shared. Some kinds of fear needed another adult hand on the back of your neck, another person awake enough to say, I see it too, and she’s still okay. Her phone buzzed on the couch. Dennis. 

“I’m told the child is on fire. u alive? “Then, immediately: “emotionally, I mean. medically i hope u know what a fever is.” Despite herself, Trinity snorted. Alma startled at the sound, then hiccupped. Trinity shifted her higher and typed with one thumb. 

“She’s calling for Mama. Fever was 103. Shower helped some. I’m losing the room.” Dennis replied instantly. 

“on my way.” Trinity stared at the message. A reflexive no rose in her throat. No, because it was late. No, because Dennis had his own life, his own shifts, and his own questionable sleep schedule. No, because she was Alma’s mother and an ER physician, and she should not need backup for a fever. Alma sobbed again, small hand scrabbling at Trinity’s shirt. Trinity’s chest ached with it. 

She typed: “You don’t have to.”

 Dennis responded: “too late pants are on.” Then: “wrong way first but fixed it. eta 18.” Trinity closed her eyes. For once, she let herself accept help before she broke completely.

Dennis let himself in twenty minutes later with the spare key. His hoodie was inside out. His hair was flattened on one side. He had the dazed, irritated expression of a man who had woken up too fast and made one too many life decisions in the dark. He stopped just inside the living room. The room looked like a small pediatric urgent care had exploded. Towels. Thermometer. Water cup. Medicine syringe. Bunny’s backup blanket. A half-open applesauce pouch Alma had refused. One of Trinity’s damp shirts discarded near the bathroom door from another shower attempt. Trinity stood near the window with Alma against her chest, swaying side to side. All humor dropped from Dennis’s face. 

“Hey,” he said quietly. 

“You didn’t have to come.” He kicked the door closed behind him with care. 

“Yeah, I did.” Alma lifted her head weakly at the sound. Her cheeks were still flushed. Her curls had dried into wild little spirals around her face. She blinked at him with glassy suspicion. 

“Dey,” she croaked. Dennis put a hand to his chest. 

“Even ill, she recognizes quality.” Trinity would have laughed if she had not been dangerously close to crying. Dennis crossed the room slowly and touched the back of his fingers to Alma’s damp curls, not her forehead. He knew better than to insert himself into a fever check when Trinity was already raw. “Hi, tiny furnace.” Trinity gave him a look. “What? Clinical term.” 

“No, it isn’t.” 

“In my practice it is.” 

“You are a menace to medicine.” 

“And yet beloved by children.” Alma reached one hand toward him, then immediately changed her mind and buried back into Trinity’s chest. Dennis nodded solemnly. 

“Correct choice. Mumu’s got you.” Something in Trinity’s face cracked. Dennis saw it. He did not comment. That was the thing about Dennis. He was ridiculous by nature, allergic to sincerity unless cornered, and had once lived on their couch for six months during Alma’s infancy before eventually finding his own place. But he knew when not to joke. Or at least when to joke around the wound instead of into it. He sat on the floor beside the couch, giving Trinity the room to keep moving if she needed to. “How high?” he asked. 

“Peaked at 103.2. Lower after the shower. Breathing fine. Congested. No rash. No stiffness. No concerning work of breathing. She threw up earlier after coughing, but nothing since. Small sips.” Her voice had gone clinical, clipped and efficient. Dennis nodded. 

“Okay.” 

“I know it’s okay.” 

“I know you know.” 

“She’s miserable.” 

“Yeah.” 

“And she wants her mama.” Dennis leaned back against the couch, stretching out his legs. 

“She wants both of you. She’s two and febrile. Emotional nuance is unavailable.” That dragged a small laugh out of Trinity. Then Alma whimpered and patted Trinity’s collarbone. 

“Mumu.” Dennis lifted his brows. Trinity glared through wet eyes. 

“Shut up.” 

“I said nothing.” 

“You said it loudly with your face.” 

“My face is expressive.” 

“It’s obnoxious.” 

“There she is.” The exchange loosened something in the room. Not enough to make the night easy, but enough for Trinity to breathe around the fear instead of directly through it.

At 3:10, you called.

Trinity answered before the first ring finished, her voice already fractured. "Hey."

"Hey," you said softly. "I'm stepping outside."

She heard it immediately—the shift in background noise, the muffled sounds of the ER fading as you moved away from the unit. You were making space for her in the middle of your shift, in the middle of someone else's emergency, and the knowledge of that made her throat tight.

The sound of your voice nearly undid her.

She had spent the last several hours holding herself together with protocols and practical tasks. The shower. The thermometer. The water. The breathing checks. The text updates. The moment she heard you, all of that structure wobbled. It was like she'd been holding her breath for hours and only now realized it.

"How is she?" you asked, and Trinity could hear the careful control in your voice—the pediatrician voice, the one that asked the right questions first.

"She's okay," Trinity said first, because she knew you needed that before anything else. "Fever lower. Shower helped. Breathing's fine. Dennis is here."

"Good." A pause. "That's good, Trin."

You were quiet for half a second, and Trinity could imagine you stepping into some half-lit hallway at the hospital, turning your shoulder away from the noise of the unit, maybe leaning against the wall near the supply closet where you sometimes hid to decompress. Making space for them in the middle of your shift. The image made her chest ache.

"How are you?" you asked.

Trinity closed her eyes. She'd been waiting for someone to ask that. She'd been waiting for you to ask that.

"I hate this," she said, and her voice cracked on the words.

"I know."

"I know what to do. That's the stupid part. I know what to watch for. I know when to worry. I know when not to worry. I know the numbers that matter and the numbers that only feel terrifying. I know all of it." Trinity's voice rose slightly, frustration and fear tangling together. "But it's Alma."

"Yeah," you said softly. "It's different when it's Alma."

Tears slipped free before Trinity could stop them. She turned away from Dennis, pressing her forehead against Alma's hair, breathing in the smell of her—fever-warm and still somehow like home.

"She said 'Mumu fix,'" Trinity whispered.

Your breath caught on the other end. "Oh, baby."

"I can't fix it immediately. I can't order it to stop. I can't—" Trinity's voice broke. "I can't make her not hurt."

"No," you said gently. "You can only comfort her. Which you are doing."

"She keeps asking for you."

There was a long silence on the other end. Trinity could hear the hospital behind you—a monitor beeping somewhere distant, someone calling for a nurse, the endless machinery of emergency medicine. You were there, in that chaos, and she was here, alone with a sick child who needed you.

"I'm sure that hurts," you said finally, and the gentleness in your voice nearly broke her.

Trinity said nothing. She couldn't deny it. Not to you. Not when you knew her this well.

"She is safe because of you," you continued, and there was something different in your voice now—something steady and certain, like you were speaking a truth you'd learned long ago. "She is in your arms because you are comfort. Not because you're fixing anything. Because you're there."

Trinity looked down at Alma, who had finally quieted again, cheek pressed to Trinity's shoulder, one hand curled in the neckline of her shirt. Her daughter. Her small, feverish, perfect daughter.

"She was left once," Trinity whispered.

The words hung in the air between them. Dennis looked down at the floor, giving her privacy even in the same room. On the phone, you went quiet too. Not empty quiet. Full quiet. The kind of quiet that meant you were listening with your whole self.

"I know," you said.

"I know she doesn't remember. I know that. She was so little. But nights like this, when she cries and cries, I keep thinking…" Trinity swallowed hard, and her voice came out smaller than she wanted it to. "What if some part of her body remembers being alone? What if there's some cellular memory of it, some part of her that still knows what it feels like to cry and have no one come?"

She could hear you breathing on the other end. Could imagine you closing your eyes, the way you did when you were thinking through something important.

"Trinity," you said, and the way you said her name—full and complete, not a nickname, not a shorthand—made her listen. "Listen to me."

"I'm listening."

"She does not know alone anymore."

Trinity's tears came harder.

"She knows you," you said, and your voice was steady and certain, like you were speaking a truth you'd learned long ago and were now passing on to her. "She knows me. She knows Uncle Denny, Dana, Bunny, home. She knows that when she cries, someone comes. That is what her body knows now. Not the before. The now."

Trinity pressed her lips to Alma's hair, breathing in the fever-warmth of her.

"But what if—" Trinity started.

"No," you said gently. "No what-ifs. She knows love. She knows safety. She knows that her mothers come when she cries. That's what her body remembers now."

Trinity couldn't speak. The words were stuck somewhere in her chest, tangled up with all the fear she'd been carrying since 1:17 AM.

"I love you," you said, and it sounded like a promise. Like a tether. Like the thing that was holding her together.

"I love you too," Trinity managed.

"I'll come home as soon as I can."

"No." The answer came quickly, even though the selfish part of her—the part that was terrified and alone and needed you—wanted to tell you to leave now, to abandon your shift and come home. But that wasn't who you were. That wasn't who they were. "Finish your shift. She's okay."

"Trin—"

"She's okay," Trinity repeated, and this time she almost believed it. "I'll call if that changes."

A pause. She could hear you breathing, could imagine you wrestling with the same thing she was—the need to be there versus the responsibility to be where you were.

Then you said, "Okay."

She knew what that cost you.

"Kiss her for me?" you asked.

Trinity bent and kissed Alma's warm forehead, pressing her lips there for a long moment. "Done."

"Tell her Mama loves her."

"She knows," Trinity said. "But I'll tell her again."

When the call ended, the apartment felt less empty.

Not full. The absence of you was still there, still real. But less empty. Like you'd left something behind—not just your voice, but your certainty. Your grounding. The knowledge that Alma didn't know alone anymore.

Dennis had moved to the kitchen while she talked. Now he returned with two mugs of coffee nobody needed and set one on the side table near her. The gesture was so perfectly Dennis—useless and necessary at once.

"You heard," Trinity said.

"Some."

"You going to say something annoying?"

"Eventually."

She looked at him.

He sat beside her on the couch this time, careful not to jostle Alma. His shoulder pressed lightly against Trinity's, familiar from too many bad nights, too many post-shift decompressions, too many months of him half-living with them when Alma was an infant and no one in the apartment slept more than ninety minutes at a time. He was the kind of friend who showed up without being asked, who knew when to speak and when to just sit.

After a second, he said, "She doesn't know being alone. Not anymore."

Trinity stared at the coffee, at the steam rising from it, at the small comfort of warmth in her hands.

"She knows you," he continued, and his voice was gentler than she'd ever heard it. "And her mama. And me, tragically. She knows Dana shows up with soup and opinions. She knows this apartment. She knows Bunny. She knows someone comes when she cries."

Trinity's throat tightened.

"That's what her body knows now," Dennis said. "Not the before. The now."

It was the same thing you'd said. The same truth, spoken twice, from two different people who loved them both. And maybe that was what made it real. Maybe that was what made it stick.

Alma stirred, then lifted her head just enough to blink blearily at him.

"Dey," she whispered.

Dennis smiled. "See? Tragically."

Alma reached toward him.

Trinity shifted immediately. "You want Uncle Denny?"

Alma made a tiny uncertain sound, then reached again.

Dennis accepted her as if she were made of glass. "Hi, bug," he whispered.

Alma tucked herself against him for exactly fourteen seconds. Then she lifted her head, looked offended by the general shape of his chest, and reached back for Trinity.

"Mumu."

Dennis sighed dramatically as Trinity took her back. "Used. Discarded. Story of my life."

Trinity laughed for real that time. Small. Exhausted. But real. And underneath it, something else: the beginning of belief. The start of understanding that maybe, just maybe, she didn't have to fix everything. Maybe she just had to stay.

At 4:30, Dana arrived with soup.

Trinity opened the door and just stared.

Dana stood in the hallway in scrub pants, compression socks, and a cardigan thrown over a charge nurse polo. Her hair was clipped up messily, silver threaded through the blond strands, and she carried a tote bag in one hand and a thermos in the other. She looked like she had come straight from managing an understaffed unit, fought sleep in the parking lot, and decided she still had enough energy left to boss a household into shape.

But it wasn't the soup or the practical efficiency that made Trinity's throat close.

It was the fact that Dana had come at all.

That she'd gotten a text from you in the middle of your shift—probably something brief and clinical: Alma's fever spiked, Dennis is there, Trinity's struggling—and Dana had simply decided that wasn't enough. That Trinity needed more than Dennis's well-meaning chaos. That she needed someone who had held her together before and knew exactly how to do it again.

Trinity had spent the last three hours holding Alma, holding herself, holding the line between clinical competence and maternal terror. She had not let herself fall apart because there was no one to catch her.

Now there was.

And the knowledge of that—the sudden, overwhelming relief of not being alone anymore—nearly broke her right there in the doorway.

"Don't look at me like that," Dana said, but her voice was softer than the words.

Trinity tried to speak. Nothing came out.

"I got a message," Dana continued, stepping inside without waiting for permission. "She said Dennis was here, but I know Dennis."

From the couch, Dennis lifted a hand without looking up. "Rude."

Dana looked him over with the critical eye of someone who had supervised too many residents through too many bad shifts. "You look like you dressed in the dark."

"I did."

"It shows."

Dennis opened his mouth to respond, but then Dana's eyes moved to Alma, limp and feverish against Trinity's chest, and everything in her face softened.

All the sharpness, all the charge-nurse efficiency, all the armor she wore to survive twelve-hour shifts in an understaffed ER—it melted away. What remained was something older and deeper. Something maternal in a way that had nothing to do with biology and everything to do with choice.

"Oh, baby girl," Dana murmured, and Trinity wasn't sure if she meant Alma or her.

Maybe both.

Dana had known Trinity for a few months before she met you.

Not years. Not some legendary origin story. Just long enough to see through the sharp edges Trinity used to keep people at a distance. Dana had been the charge nurse who bullied Trinity into eating during impossible shifts, who snapped at her when she got too brusque with terrified families, who taught her that half of emergency medicine was knowing when to listen to the nurse who had already seen the room twice.

Dana had been the one who found Trinity crying in the supply closet after a pediatric code went bad. The one who didn't ask questions, didn't offer platitudes, just stood there with one hand on Trinity's shoulder until Trinity could breathe again.

Then Dana met you.

You were already firmly established in Trinity's life by then, already loved in the stubborn, private way Trinity loved things. Dana had taken one look at the two of you together—the way you touched Trinity's wrist when you passed her in the hallway, the way Trinity's whole body softened when you walked into a room—and decided, apparently, that you both needed supervision.

She'd started showing up with food after your shifts. Started texting to make sure you were both eating, sleeping, surviving the chaos of residency and new love. Started calling Trinity on her nonsense when she got too deep in her own head.

When you and Trinity decided to foster Alma, Dana had been the first person you told.

When the adoption went through, Dana had cried.

She'd been there the night you brought Alma home—impossibly small, impossibly fragile, a six-month-old who had already learned that crying didn't always bring comfort. Dana had held her while Trinity paced and panicked, had shown you both how to swaddle her properly, had stayed until three in the morning because none of you could bear to put her down.

Over time she became yours too.

Not by blood. Not officially. But by showing up. By feeding you after shifts. By calling Trinity on her nonsense. By holding Alma when she was new and impossibly small, back when Dennis lived with you both during those first six months, and the whole apartment ran on bottles, panic, and takeout.

Dana had rocked Alma through colic. Had talked Trinity down from a dozen different parenting panics. Had been the one to tell Trinity, gently but firmly, that being a good mother didn't mean never being afraid—it meant being afraid and showing up anyway.

She had become family the way all the best family was made: through choice, through presence, through the accumulated weight of a thousand small moments of care.

And now she was here again.

At 4:30 in the morning, with soup and compression socks and that look on her face that said she wasn't leaving until Trinity was okay.

Dana stepped inside quietly, setting the tote bag down by the door. She moved with the practiced efficiency of someone who knew how to enter a crisis without making it worse.

"Oh, baby girl," she murmured again, and this time Trinity knew it was for Alma.

Alma did not wake, but one hand flexed in Trinity's shirt, a small unconscious gesture of need.

Dana's gaze moved to Trinity next.

Really looked at her.

Took in the damp hair still clinging to Trinity's neck from the shower. The exhaustion carved into every line of her face. The way she was holding Alma—not like a doctor monitoring a patient, but like a mother trying to absorb her child's pain through sheer force of will.

"How high?" Dana asked.

Trinity's voice came out flat, clinical. "Peaked at 103.2. Coming down now."

Dana's expression didn't change. "I asked about the child," she said quietly. "How are you?"

Trinity opened her mouth.

The words stuck.

Because how was she? Terrified. Exhausted. Ashamed of being terrified when she knew better. Ashamed of needing help when she was supposed to be competent. Ashamed of the tears that had been threatening to break free for the last three hours.

Dana gave her a look so sharp and maternal it was unfair.

The kind of look that said I see you. I see all of it. You can't hide from me.

Trinity's face crumpled instantly.

"Oh, honey."

That was all it took.

Two words, and Trinity shattered.

Dana set the thermos on the table and stepped close, wrapping one arm around Trinity's shoulders. Trinity bowed her head carefully over Alma—still protecting her, still holding her safe even as she fell apart—and cried.

Not the silent tears from earlier. Not the controlled breakdown she'd allowed herself during the phone call with you.

This was something else entirely.

This was her body finally giving up the fight. Her shoulders shaking. Her breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. The kind of crying that hurt, that felt like it was being pulled from somewhere deep in her chest where she'd been storing every ounce of fear and helplessness since 1:17 AM.

She cried because Alma had been so hot.

Because she'd asked for Mama and Trinity couldn't give her that.

Because Trinity knew all the rules and none of them mattered when it was her daughter burning up in her arms.

Because she was so tired.

Because she'd been alone.

Because she wasn't alone anymore.

Dennis quietly disappeared into the kitchen with the soup like a man who knew when to make himself useful. The sound of cabinets opening and closing was soft, respectful, giving them space.

Dana's hand moved in slow circles on Trinity's back. The touch was firm, grounding, the kind of touch that said I've got you. You can fall apart. I'm not going anywhere.

"I know," Dana murmured. "I know, honey."

Trinity tried to speak and couldn't. The words were stuck behind the crying, behind the fear, behind everything she'd been holding in.

Dana just held her.

"Different when it's your own," Dana said after a moment, and there was something in her voice—something that spoke of her own children, grown now, but once small and feverish and terrifying in their fragility.

"I hate it," Trinity managed, the words broken and wet.

"Of course you do."

"I know what to do." Trinity's voice cracked. "I know the protocols. I know the numbers. I know when to worry and when not to worry. I know all of it."

"I know you do."

"It doesn't help." The confession came out like something torn. "It doesn't help at all."

"No," Dana said gently. "Not always."

Trinity sobbed harder. "She said 'Mumu fix.' She thinks I can fix it. She thinks—" Her voice broke completely. "She thinks I can make it stop hurting."

Dana's arm tightened around her shoulders. "You are fixing it. Not the fever. But the fear. You're fixing the fear."

"I can't—" Trinity gasped for breath. "I can't make her not hurt."

"No. But you can hold her while she does. That's what she needs. Not a doctor. A mother."

The words hit something deep in Trinity's chest.

Because that was the thing, wasn't it? The thing she'd been fighting all night. She kept trying to be Dr. Santos—competent, clinical, in control. But Alma didn't need Dr. Santos. Alma needed Mumu. Needed the person who would hold her and rock her and stay with her through the misery.

Trinity had been trying to fix the problem, when what Alma needed was simply to be present in it.

"I'm so scared," Trinity whispered into Dana's shoulder.

"I know."

"What if I'm not enough?"

Dana pulled back just enough to look at Trinity's face. Her eyes were fierce. "You are enough. You have always been enough. You're just tired and scared and that's making you forget."

Trinity shook her head, tears still streaming. "She was left once. Before us. And I keep thinking—what if some part of her remembers? What if when she cries and cries, there's some part of her that thinks no one's coming?"

Dana's expression softened into something almost unbearably gentle. "Trinity. Look at me."

Trinity looked.

"She doesn't remember that," Dana said firmly. "Her body doesn't remember being alone. You know what her body remembers now? You. Dennis showing up in the middle of the night. Me bringing soup at 4:30 in the morning. That's what she knows. That's what her body has learned. Someone always comes."

It was the same thing you'd said. The same thing Dennis had said. But hearing it from Dana—from the woman who had held Trinity through her own fears, who had taught her how to be soft when being soft felt impossible—made it real in a way it hadn't been before.

Trinity's crying shifted. Still tears, but quieter now. Less like breaking and more like releasing.

"She's safe," Dana said. "And so are you."

Alma stirred at the sound of Trinity's uneven breathing. Her eyes opened halfway, unfocused and glassy with fever.

"Mumu?" she whispered.

Trinity wiped her face quickly with the back of her hand, trying to pull herself together. "I'm here. I'm here, bug."

But Alma wasn't looking away. She was staring at Trinity with that peculiar intensity that toddlers had, the kind that saw everything and understood more than they should.

"Mumu sad," Alma said.

The room went quiet.

Trinity let out a broken little laugh. "A little."

Alma's face scrunched up in thought, processing this information. Her Mumu was sad. This was new. This was wrong. Mumu fixed things. Mumu made things better.

Then, with the simple logic of a two-year-old who had been loved enough to know how comfort worked, Alma leaned forward.

She pressed a clumsy, fever-warm kiss to Trinity's chin.

It wasn't precise. It was more of a face-plant than a kiss, really. But the intention was clear.

Mumu sad. Alma fix.

Trinity's breath caught.

Dennis turned from the kitchen holding bowls of soup and stopped dead. His eyes went wide. "Oh, that's manipulative," he whispered.

Dana wiped under one eye with the heel of her hand. "Hush."

But Trinity barely heard them.

She was staring at Alma, at her daughter, at this small person who had learned—from Trinity, from you, from all of them—that when someone you loved was hurting, you offered comfort. Even if you were small. Even if you were sick. Even if all you had to give was a clumsy kiss and your presence.

Alma had learned that from them.

She had learned that love meant showing up. That it meant staying. That it meant offering what comfort you could, even when you couldn't fix the problem.

Trinity closed her eyes and held Alma closer, pressing her face into her daughter's damp curls. The smell of her—fever-warm and sweet and alive—filled Trinity's lungs.

"Yeah," Trinity whispered into her daughter's hair. "Mumu's okay."

And for the first time all night, she almost believed it.

Not because the fever was gone. Not because the fear had disappeared. But because Alma had just taught her something she'd been trying to learn all night:

Sometimes you couldn't fix it.

Sometimes all you could do was stay.

And sometimes—most of the time—that was enough.

Dana's hand was still on Trinity's shoulder, warm and steady. Dennis had set the soup down and was pretending very hard not to be crying. The apartment smelled like chicken broth and eucalyptus and the particular scent of a long night finally breaking toward dawn.

Trinity took a shaking breath and let it out slowly.

Alma's hand curled in her shirt, holding on.

"Thank you," Trinity said quietly, looking at Dana.

Dana squeezed her shoulder. "That's what family does."

And it was. That was exactly what family did.

They showed up at 4:30 in the morning with soup. They held you while you broke. They reminded you of truths you'd forgotten in the dark. They stayed until the fear became manageable again.

Trinity had spent so much of her life believing she had to be strong alone.

But she wasn't alone.

She had never been alone.

Not since you. Not since Dana. Not since Dennis. Not since Alma.

She was held by a web of people who had chosen her, who had decided she was worth showing up for, who had taught her—slowly, patiently, over years—that needing help wasn't weakness.

It was just being human.

It was just being loved.

By 5:15, the apartment had rearranged itself around the illness.

Dana took command with the quiet efficiency of a charge nurse who had seen every possible version of a bad night. She labeled medicine times on a sticky note and stuck it to the coffee table. She rinsed the medicine syringe. She refilled Alma's water cup. She made Trinity eat three spoonfuls of soup before accepting that a fourth might be considered a war crime.

Dennis, still half-asleep and entirely unhelpful in appearance, proved useful anyway. He found the missing thermometer cap under the couch. He changed the damp towel in the bathroom. He carried the rejected applesauce pouch to the trash with the seriousness of a funeral procession.

Alma drifted in and out against Trinity's chest, no longer crying constantly but still too uncomfortable to sleep deeply. Her fever had started to loosen its grip. The flush in her cheeks softened. Her skin remained warm but not alarming.

The original plan was to put her back in the crib.

That plan failed immediately.

The second Trinity lowered her toward the mattress, Alma's eyes snapped open.

"No."

"Bug—"

"No crib."

"You need sleep."

"No."

Her small hands clutched Trinity's shirt with surprising strength.

Dana, standing in the doorway with folded blankets, gave one slow shake of her head. "Don't bother."

Trinity looked at her. "She needs rest."

"She'll rest better with you."

"She can't sleep on me all night."

Dana raised one eyebrow. "Can't she?"

Dennis appeared behind her with a pillow tucked under one arm. "I support unsafe emotional dependence if it gets us all unconscious faster."

Trinity glared at him.

He shrugged. "I said emotional."

So Alma ended up in the middle of Trinity's bed.

That had not been the plan either, but the night had long since stopped caring about plans.

Trinity arranged the pillows, removed the heavy comforter, checked the room temperature, and settled Alma safely in the center of the mattress with Bunny tucked beside her. Alma immediately rolled toward Trinity and planted one hot little foot against her thigh.

Dana stood at the bedroom doorway, arms crossed. "I'll take the couch."

"No," Trinity said immediately.

Dana blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You're not taking the couch."

"I am absolutely taking the couch."

"You're sixty—"

Dana's eyes narrowed.

Trinity stopped.

Dennis made a choking sound behind his hand.

Trinity corrected quickly. "You are too valuable to be folded onto our couch like a camping chair."

Dana looked unimpressed. "Nice save."

"You can sleep in the bed."

Dana glanced at Alma, then Trinity, then Dennis. "And where, exactly, are you sleeping?"

Trinity gestured vaguely. "Here."

Dennis pointed at himself. "I'm taking the floor?"

"No," Trinity said. "You can sleep here too."

Dennis froze.

Dana's eyebrows shot up.

Trinity looked between them, exhausted beyond shame. "It's a king bed. Alma is two feet tall. I have shared worse call room furniture with worse people."

Dennis placed a hand over his heart. "I'm touched."

"You should be. I almost said no."

Dana shook her head. "Absolutely not. I am not sleeping in your marital bed with your child and this idiot."

"Hey," Dennis said.

Trinity rubbed a hand over her face. "Dana."

"Do not Dana me."

"You showed up at four-thirty in the morning with soup. You're not sleeping on the couch."

Dana's expression softened despite herself.

Dennis lifted a finger. "For the record, I am willing to heroically sleep in the marital bed if it prevents elder abuse."

Dana turned slowly toward him.

He lowered his finger. "Middle-aged abuse?"

"Try again."

"Charge nurse abuse."

"Better."

Trinity would have laughed if she had not been swaying on her feet.

Dana noticed.

Her face changed.

"Fine," she said. "I'll take the bed for two hours. Dennis gets the couch."

Dennis threw both hands up. "Why am I punished?"

"Because you're younger and dressed badly."

Trinity shook her head. "No. Dennis can share with me. Dana gets the couch if she insists, but she gets the long blanket and the good pillow."

Dana looked like she wanted to argue.

Trinity looked like she might fall over.

Finally Dana sighed. "Fine. Couch. Good pillow. Long blanket."

Dennis leaned toward Trinity and whispered, "She only agreed because you look haunted."

"I heard that," Dana said.

"You were meant to."

And somehow, absurdly, they all settled.

Dana on the couch with the good pillow, still muttering about stubborn doctors.

Dennis on the far side of the bed, fully clothed over the blanket, one arm thrown over his eyes, leaving a respectful moat of space between himself and Trinity.

Alma in the middle, curled toward Trinity.

Trinity watched them arrange themselves—this makeshift family that had assembled itself around her daughter's fever. Dennis adjusting his pillow three times before giving up. Dana's voice drifting from the living room, something about "ridiculous people" and "perfectly good couch." The sound of Alma's congested breathing, thick but steady.

This was not how families were supposed to look.

But maybe that didn't matter.

Maybe what mattered was that when she'd needed them, they'd come. When she'd been alone with her fear, they'd made her less alone. When she'd forgotten how to be anything other than terrified, they'd reminded her that she was also loved.

Trinity settled carefully beside Alma, one hand resting on her daughter's back.

Dennis's breathing evened out almost immediately. He had the enviable ability to fall asleep anywhere, a skill honed through years of residency and questionable life choices.

From the living room, Dana's movements quieted. The apartment settled into the particular silence of people trying very hard to sleep.

But Trinity stayed awake.

She propped herself against the headboard, one hand on Alma's back, feeling every breath. The rise and fall of her daughter's small body. The warmth of her skin—still too warm, but less frightening now. The weight of her against Trinity's leg.

The sky outside the bedroom window turned from black to gray.

Trinity watched it happen slowly. The darkness thinning at the edges. The shapes of buildings across the street becoming visible. The world remembering itself.

She had been awake for—what? Six hours? Seven? Time had stopped meaning anything around 2 AM, when Alma's crying had blurred one hour into the next.

But now, in the quiet, Trinity's mind began to settle.

Not into sleep. Into something else. Into understanding.

She thought about what you'd said on the phone. She doesn't know alone anymore.

She thought about what Dana had said. You're fixing the fear.

She thought about what Dennis had said. That's what her body knows now.

And she thought about Alma's clumsy kiss, pressed to her chin when Trinity had been crying. The way her daughter had learned—from all of them—that when someone you loved was hurting, you offered comfort.

Trinity had spent the whole night trying to be Dr. Santos.

Trying to fix the problem. Trying to make the fever stop. Trying to be competent and clinical and in control.

But Alma hadn't needed Dr. Santos.

Alma had needed Mumu.

She'd needed the person who would hold her through the misery. Who would stay even when staying was all she could do. Who would be present in the fear instead of trying to eliminate it.

Trinity looked down at her daughter.

Alma's face was peaceful now, slack with sleep. Her curls had dried into wild spirals around her face. One hand was curled near her mouth, the other clutching Bunny. She looked impossibly small in the center of the king bed.

She looked safe.

And she was safe. Not because Trinity had fixed the fever. Not because Trinity had done anything particularly heroic or medical. But because Trinity had stayed. Because she'd held her. Because she'd been there when Alma cried.

That was what motherhood was.

Not having all the answers. Not being able to fix everything. But having the courage to stay present in the uncertainty. To hold your child through the fear. To be soft when being soft felt impossible.

Trinity had learned how to save lives in medical school.

But Alma was teaching her how to live one.

The light outside shifted from gray to pale blue.

Trinity heard Dana stir in the living room. The soft sound of her sitting up, the creak of the couch. Then footsteps, quiet and careful, moving toward the bathroom.

The apartment was waking up.

But slowly. Gently. Like it understood that the night had been hard and the morning needed to be soft.

Trinity's phone buzzed on the nightstand.

She reached for it carefully, trying not to disturb Alma.

Your name lit up the screen.

“Getting out soon. How is she?”

Trinity looked down at Alma. At her daughter, sleeping peacefully now, fever broken, breathing steady. At Dennis, still unconscious at the edge of the bed. At the evidence of the night scattered around the room—the thermometer on the dresser, the water cup on the nightstand, another damp towel still draped over the chair.

At the proof that she had survived.

That they had survived.

She typed carefully with one hand:

“Fever down. Sleeping. Shower helped. Dennis and Dana came. I cried like four times. She's okay.”

The response came almost immediately.

“You're okay too?”

Trinity stared at the question.

Was she okay?

She was exhausted. She was still scared. She was still carrying the weight of the night in her chest, the memory of Alma's burning skin, the sound of her crying for Mama.

But she was also something else.

She was held.

She was not alone.

She had learned something true about what it meant to be a mother, and that knowledge—hard-won and painful—felt like a kind of okay she hadn't known existed.

She typed:

“Getting there.”

Then, after a second, she added:

“Missed you.”

Three dots appeared immediately.

“Missed you both. Coming home.”

Trinity closed her eyes.

Coming home.

The words settled something in her chest. You were coming home. The night was ending. The family would be whole again.

She typed:

“I was so scared.”

The dots appeared again, then disappeared. Then appeared again. Like you were trying to find the right words.

Finally:

“I know. I was too.”

Trinity's throat tightened.

“You were?”

“Of course I was. She's our daughter. Being scared doesn't mean you're doing it wrong. It means you love her.”

Trinity read the words three times.

“Being scared doesn't mean you're doing it wrong.”

She had spent the whole night thinking her fear meant she was failing. That a good mother—a competent mother—wouldn't be this terrified over a manageable fever. That she should have been able to hold it together better, be stronger, be less afraid.

But maybe that wasn't true.

Maybe being afraid was just part of loving someone this much.

She typed:

“I kept trying to be Dr. Santos. But she didn't need Dr. Santos. She needed Mumu.”

Your response came quickly:

“Yes.”

Then:

“You learned something tonight.”

Trinity looked at Alma. At her daughter, safe and sleeping. At the way her small hand was wrapped around Trinity's thumb, holding on even in sleep.

“Yeah,” she typed. “I did.”

“Tell me when I get home?”

“Yeah.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too. Drive safe.”

“Always.”

Trinity set the phone down and looked around the bedroom.

The light was different now. Not the harsh overhead light from the middle of the night, but the soft gray-blue of early morning. It filtered through the curtains, gentle and forgiving, making everything look softer than it had in the dark.

The apartment had been transformed.

Not physically. The same furniture, the same walls, the same scattered evidence of normal life. But something had shifted. The space felt different. Felt fuller. Like the presence of Dennis and Dana had expanded what home meant. Like the night had reinforced something fundamental about what family was.

This apartment had held a lot of hard nights.

The first night with Alma, when she'd cried for hours and Trinity had been convinced she was doing everything wrong. The night Dana had brought soup after a particularly brutal shift and stayed to make sure they both ate.

But this night felt different.

This night had taught Trinity something she hadn't known she needed to learn.

That she didn't have to carry fear alone.

That asking for help wasn't weakness.

That motherhood wasn't about being perfect, competent, or always knowing what to do. It was about showing up. About staying. About being present in the fear and the uncertainty and the helplessness.

It was about being soft when being soft felt impossible.

Alma stirred.

Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused and sleepy. She blinked slowly, like she was trying to remember where she was.

"Mumu?" she whispered.

Trinity leaned down and kissed her forehead. Still warm, but not frightening. Just the warmth of a small body fighting off an infection. Just the warmth of life.

"Hi, bug," Trinity said softly.

Alma's eyes focused on her face. "Mama?"

And there it was.

The question Trinity had been dreading all night. The reminder that she couldn't be everything. That sometimes Alma would want the other person, the one who wasn't there, the one Trinity couldn't summon no matter how much she wanted to.

But this time, it didn't hurt the same way.

This time, Trinity understood.

Alma wasn't rejecting her. Alma was just asking for her family to be complete. For the other person who made her feel safe. For the other half of the love that held her.

And that was okay.

Trinity didn't have to be everything.

She just had to be here.

"Mama's coming home," Trinity said, and her voice was steady.

Alma's face relaxed. She sighed like that settled the universe and closed her eyes again, burrowing back into Trinity's side.

Trinity stayed exactly where she was, hand on Alma's back, heart still tired but steadier now.

From the living room, she heard Dana moving around. The soft clink of dishes. The sound of water running. The charge nurse was already taking care of things, already making sure the apartment would be ready for the morning.

Dennis snored once, then rolled over, still deeply asleep.

The sky outside turned from pale blue to soft pink at the edges.

Trinity watched the light change and thought about what she'd learned.

She knew fever rules.

She knew ER protocols.

She knew medicine.

She knew how to save lives, make split-second decisions, and be competent in a crisis.

But motherhood kept teaching her something medicine never had:

Sometimes the emergency was not only the fever.

Sometimes it was the fear.

And sometimes the treatment was simply staying.

Not fixing. Not solving. Not making it stop.

Just staying.

Just being present in the fear with your child in your arms and your people at your back.

Just being soft enough to break and strong enough to hold on.

Just being human enough to need help and loved enough to receive it.

Trinity closed her eyes and let herself rest.

Not sleep. Not yet. But rest.

The kind of rest that came from knowing the hard part was over. That dawn had come. That you were on your way home. That Alma was safe, sleeping, and loved.

That she had survived the night.

That they all had.

And in the surviving, she had learned what it meant to be a mother.

Not perfect. Not fearless. Not always knowing what to do.

Just present. Just staying. Just loving her daughter enough to sit with the fear instead of running from it.

The apartment settled around her, full of sleeping people who had chosen to be there. Full of love that had nothing to do with biology and everything to do with showing up.

Trinity opened her eyes and looked at Alma one more time.

Her daughter.

Safe.

Loved.

Home.

And Trinity finally understood that she was home, too.

Not because the fear was gone.

But because she had learned how to carry it with other people's hands on her back.

Tag list: @newyork1215 , @nighttgarden , @perksofbeingatrex , @alotofpockets , @slutforabbyanderson , @perks-of-being-jojo  , @bluetreearbiter

[lanawinterscigarettes]

Dana Evans x guard dog! reader masterlist

Note: reader is gender neutral but implied to be butch/masc terms are used in reference to them

Explore more of the guard dog! reader universe ->

Fics!!

Beck and Call

Summary: while Dana's job is to keep the hospital running smoothly during the day shift for everyone else, yours is focused solely on making things easier for her

Dr. Evans

Summary: due to a slight misunderstanding about the exact relationship status between you and Dana, you become known as something other than just her guard dog around The Pitt by the new med students

By Scent Alone

Summary: you and Dana claim to be just friends, but scent doesn't lie (omegaverse au)

Taken Care Of

Summary: your coworkers make an interesting discovery about your dynamics in the bedroom one night after your shift

And Puppy Makes Three

Summary: you and Dana find yourselves taking in and treating the newest nurse in The Pitt as your own

Off Limits

Summary: Dana lets it be known at a backyard party that you're already taken when she sees a younger woman flirting with you

Built For It

Summary: your hobby of building furniture for your wife expands into doing it for other people as well

Stolen Heart

Summary: Dana tries to hide her jealousy when a patient goes out of their way to flirt with you, but it becomes harder to pretend that she doesn't care after they decide to ask you out (pre-established relationship)

Already Owned

Summary: when a flirty doctor refuses to give up, Dana decides to take matters into her own hands

Too Much to Bear Alone

Summary: you return from being stuck on the night shift to find a catastrophe awaiting you in The Pitt, one that has you determined to never let it happen again

Mate Misunderstandings

Summary: when Dana gets the wrong idea about your exact feelings towards Emma, it results in plenty of confusion for you and a rollercoaster ride filled with plenty of turbulence for everyone else (omegaverse au)

Missing Protection

Summary: Dana tries to keep herself together when she gets the news that you've been shot

Headcanons!!

What domestic life is like for Dana Evans and her guard dog

Guard dog! reader's relationships with the different members of the Pitt

Moodboards!!

General moodboard of Dana and her guard dog <3

Guard dog's constant thoughts

Omegaverse au (omega! Dana/alpha! guard dog)

Domestic life with them

Lazy mornings free from work

Pillow princess power bottom! Dana and stone top! guard dog

Femme! Dana and butch! guard dog

How Dana views Emma when she sees her interacting with guard dog

Dana and guard dog plus Emma

What guard dog sees when looking at Emma

Omegaverse au again, plus omega! Emma as Dana and guard dog's pup

The Pittlings aka guard dog's "pack"

Mohan and guard dog as a duo

Dana and guard dog's possessive yet romantic love

Furniture building or getting laid?

Dana and guard dog, pre-established relationship

Jealous! Dana

Protective! guard dog taking care of the girls after they're assaulted

Protective! guard dog comforting the girls after their assaults by taking them back home

Heather and guard dog's friendship

Guard dog missing Dana while on the night shift

Jealous! Dana again but make it omegaverse this time around (omega! Dana/alpha! guard dog)

Dana trying to keep it together when guard dog gets shot

Other random posts/thoughts!!

Emma and her precious face

Expanding a bit on the relationships guard dog has in The Pitt

Pic that's Dana and guard dog coded + me and guard dog anon talking about it

Talking more about guard dog's furniture building hobby

Post/tweet that's Dana and guard dog coded + me and guard dog anon talking about it

Texts that are Dana and guard dog coded plus me and guard dog anon's thoughts on it

Jealous! Dana scenting guard dog (omegaverse au)

Husky boyfriend post that's guard dog coded + me and guard dog anon talking about it

Suicidal guard dog flirting with Dana pre-relationship

Me and guard dog sharing some thoughts about "Stolen Heart"

"Pretty boy" guard dog

Guard dog's chain necklace

Guard dog anon and me sharing our thoughts on a collection of my guard dog fics

Texts that are Dana talking to/about guard dog coded

Credits for the dividers go to @/thecutestgrotto!

[alliewrights]

Just Right

Dana Evans x partner!reader

Summary: Dana has been trying to find the right time for weeks now, if she could just make everything go perfectly for once. Alternatively: 4 times Dana tries to propose, and the 1 time she finally does.

CW: fluff, 4+1 trope, description of allergic reaction, reader wears makeup and has hair long enough to pin back

WC: 6.3k

Sequel to Three Weeks.

A/N: this request is from @tiredbisexualwithadhd 💛 Thanks for the request and the idea and for being so patient, I hope it lives up!

━━━━━━━━━━━ ♠ ━━━━━━━━━━━

The emergency department feels like it’s trying to tear itself apartment. 

Patients are arguing in the waiting room, one is throwing a fit in triage, and hospital staff are running through the emergency department so frantically that they’re nearly colliding with each other.

Dana barely notices. “Has anyone seen Dr. Garcia?” she calls openly into the ED.

“She’s over in radiology.”

“Of course she is.” Dana runs a hand over her face. “Okay, don’t let her go back upstairs yet, Mohan needs her for a consult. Where’s Langdon?”

Dr. Whitaker pauses, having been speed-walking past the nurse’s station when Dana asks. “I think I saw him headed toward the break room a minute ago.”

“Tell him I need him to pick up another patient asap, he’s not as fast as he used to be.”

“Dana.”

“What?”

Robby appears beside her with a coffee in hand and an expression that’s way too calm for the state of the emergency department around them. “You’re yelling,” he says.

“I’m aware,” Dana says, smoothing a hand over a few stray strands of hair that have falling out of her claw clip.

“You’re scaring my med students.”

Dana leans back just far enough to look past him to see one of said med students immediately look away.

“Good, fear builds character.”

Robby chuckles at that, leaning against the workstation counter as he watches Dana sign off on another chart. “You seem more stressed than usual,” he says before taking a sip of his own coffee.

Dana rolls her eyes. “Not everybody can disappear on a three month sabbatical when they start spiraling.”

He shrugs. “Some of us develop healthier coping mechanisms than others.”

Dana levels him with a look. “Name one.”

“I bought a motorcycle.”

“And then you never wear a fuckin’ helmet, that’s not healthy, Robinovich.”

Robby watches her for a moment before saying calmly, “I think work isn’t the only reason you’re stressed.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shrugs, taking another sip of his coffee before answering. “Don’t act like we both don’t know what’s hiding in the bottom of your backpack right now.”

Dana freezes before rounding on him, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You going through my stuff now?”

“No,” he says quickly, “I just know you’ve been carrying it around ever since you bought it because you can’t figure out how you’re going to do it.”

Her eyes are still narrowed in suspicion when she sags in defeat. “Is it that obvious?”

“To anyone who knows you? Yeah.” Robby leans in with a smug little smile. “How long has it been now?”

Lips pursing, she sighs. “A week.”

He looks taken aback. “You’ve been carrying an engagement ring around the hospital for a week?”

“Lower your fuckin’ voice,” Dana hisses, looking around to make sure Princess and Perlah aren’t listening in. “I just haven’t had time.”

“You haven’t had time to figure out how you’re going to propose to your girlfriend?”

“Don’t call her that,” she snaps, running a weary hand over her face. “This is a big deal and I just wanna get it right.”

Robby watches her cautiously for a moment before landing a heavy hand on her shoulder. “You know she’s going to say yes, right? You’re overthinking this.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

Before Dana can continue to argue, someone from the nurse’s station calls her name urgently. 

Robby steps aside so she can move past him, but he catches her arm briefly before she goes. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think she’s gonna care where you ask.”

There’s no humor in the laugh Dana gives him in response, and she doesn’t even look at him as she says, “Easy for you to say.” Then she disappears in the direction of the nurse’s station, more stressed than she was before.

Robby is left smirking to himself as he watches her go, and is still in the same spot he’d been standing in when the automatic doors to the ambulance bay slide open, this time with no paramedics rushing in. 

Dana doesn’t even notice. She’s halfway across the department, slamming down the red phone to announce the chest pain that’s coming in via ambulance when she looks up and sees you.

You’re stepping through the doors balancing at least three pizza boxes in your arms, with plastic bags hanging from both wrists, and two cardboard drink trays balance precariously on top of the boxes.

Suddenly, you have the attention of the entire department at once.

“Is that food?”

“Please tell me one of those coffees is mine.”

“You’re my favorite person.”

You laugh breathlessly. “If somebody could maybe help me before I drop all of this, that’d be great.”

Langdon appears from nowhere (which brings an immediate scowl to Dana’s face), relieving you of the drink trays, and Mateo is on your left, lifting the pizza boxes from your arms, leaving you with only the bags around your arms.

“Oh my god, are those donuts too?”

“You people work like fifteen-hour shifts, you don’t eat unless somebody makes you,” you laugh. “Trust me, I know the drill. Help me get all of this to the break room.”

You follow Langdon and Mateo, laying it all out on the tables in the lounge and quickly snagging Dana’s coffee from the tray before anyone else digs in. You weave your way out of the room just as the rush of doctors and nurses start heading in past you. Some clap you on the shoulder as they pass, murmuring a sincere “thank you.”

You make your way back to the nurse’s station and slide up beside Dana, sliding the coffee toward her. “This one’s yours.” Medium roast, two sugars, with a splash of oat milk. You don’t have to say it and she doesn’t have to ask, you know how she likes it. “You didn’t have breakfast this morning.”

“It’s been a busy day.”

“Mmm,” you nod in agreement, more placating her than anything. “When is it not?” From your own bag hanging from your shoulder, you pull a small paper bag, folded over on itself. Inside is an everything bagel, toasted, with cream cheese.

Dana suddenly feels disconnected from the rest of the ER. The sounds of footsteps and her coworkers around her fade into the distance, because this - this stupid coffee handoff in the middle of the emergency room feels unbearably intimate and she could kiss you right here if she knew she wouldn’t pay for it later with hospital gossip.

You notice Dana staring off into space and your expression twists into concern. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she says too quickly. But her eyes travel toward the hallway leading to the lockers. She could go get it, right now. Right now would be good.

You tilt your head, trying to get into her line of sight. “Dana?”

The thought arrives to her, sudden and without warning, to ask you. The ring is fifty feet away, she could do it now, in the ER, surrounded by some of the people she’s closest to -

“Shit, I gotta get back.” You’re looking down at your watch, a grimace on your face.

Dana’s heart plummets. “What?”

“I’m already pushing it on my break,” you say apologetically. “I just wanted to make sure you ate something.”

Dana squares her shoulders, irritation blooming in her mind. Not at you, of course, but at her own indecisiveness. “Right now?” she asks.

You’re surprised by the question. Dana isn’t usually one to want you to stick around, she usually does her best to keep you out of her ER. “Yeah?”

Robby is watching the entire interaction with thinly-veiled amusement, like this is the best reality show he’s ever seen. He saw all of it happen in real time, the moment that Dana very clearly decided this could be it.

You reach out, your hand landing on Dana’s arm. “Don’t look at me like that,” you say with a smile. “I’ll see you tonight when you get home, alright?” You lean in and kiss her cheek quickly, acutely aware of how much Dana is not fond of PDA. 

She opens her mouth and it almost looks like she’s going to argue with you for a moment, but in the end, nothing comes out. If she asks you to wait, you’ll know something’s up, and if she runs to her locker for the ring, you’ll definitely know something is happening. So instead, she just watches as you back out of the department, waving goodbye to the rest of the staff while several people yell thank-yous after you.

That was it. The moment had been right there, and she let it slip through her hands.

━━━━━━━━━━━ ♠ ━━━━━━━━━━━

The next attempt is made four days later.

The apartment is low-lit and warm, with music playing from the Bluetooth speaker connected to your phone in the kitchen, where you’re posted up, making dinner. You’d seen Dana’s location begin to move from the hospital about twenty minutes ago and started food right away, knowing she’d be both tired and hungry when she got home.

And you’re right. 

On the other side of your apartment door, standing in the hallway that leads to your apartment, Dana stands on the other side of the door with her key in her hand, heart racing and mind moving a million miles per hour.

Because tonight, she’s going to ask. No more waiting for a perfect moment, or rehearsing in her head until she talks herself out of it. And no more carrying around this stupid ring, it’s just begging to be stolen. She’s just going to do it and get it done.

She unlocks the door and steps into the apartment. 

“Hey,” she calls out into the apartment as she drops her bag on the floor in the entryway. 

“In here,” she hears you call from the kitchen. 

Dana walks further in, rolling her shoulders out of her jacket as she goes, hanging it on the coatrack behind the door. And as she rounds the corner into the kitchen, she sees you.

You’re wearing only a sports bra and pajama pants that sit dangerously low on your hips, your body is so soft that it should be illegal at the end of a day like the one she’s had. Barefoot, unbothered and relaxed in a way Dana could only dream of being right now. You’re stirring whatever’s in that pot on the stove with one hand, scrolling through your phone with the other. 

Dana stops in the doorway, completely forgetting what she came home with the intention of doing.

You look over your shoulder at the sound of her footsteps shuffling in. “You look like you got hit by a truck,” you tease.

“I feel like I got hit by a truck,” she says flatly. “Whatcha making?” She cranes her head to get a look at the pot.

“Pasta,” you say, the tiniest bit of tension lacing your voice at what you know is to come.

Dana pauses. “…you break the noodles again?”

“They don’t fit in the pot otherwise!” you whine, childlike, waving around the spoon you were using to stir. “Besides, you’ll eat it anyways.”

“I’ll eat it anyways,” she repeats with a laugh. 

She saddles up next to you, one hand reaching out and settling on your back against your bare skin, and you unconsciously lean back against the warmth of her palm. Dana doesn’t usually dawdle after work, she almost always disappears to shower right away, which is your first clue that something is off.

“Bad shift?” you ask, glancing over your shoulder at her.

“Long shift,” she corrects with a sigh.

You nod, understanding the difference without asking for details, because you know she won’t want to give them when she’s tired like this. “Go. Shower. Food will be almost ready when you’re done.”

Dana nods, even though she doesn’t want to go shower. If she leaves this room right now, she might lose her nerve, and then who knows if she’ll find it again? Nevertheless, the ick at the thought of staying in her scrubs for much longer wins out, and she disappears into the master bath for the fastest shower she’s ever taken. 

She makes it back in record time, not quite feeling as refreshed as she usually would after a post-shift shower, but better than still smelling like sick people. 

You don’t even have to turn around to know she’s returned. “I got that sauce you like, the one with the -”

“Sun-dried tomatoes,” Dana says, finishing the sentence for you. 

“Yeah, that one, I remembered this time!”

You don’t see the fond smile that crosses Dana’s face as she stares at your back. “Of course you did.” You don’t even hear the weight in it. You’re already hustling around the kitchen, plating both her food and your own.

This is it, she thinks. The exact moment, when there’s no interruption, just the two of you in the kitchen, in soft clothes.

Dana takes a deep breath. “I was thinking -”

You cut her off with a yawn.

Well, you don’t cut her off, not in the rude way that interrupting would. But you yawn and it stops her in her tracks as you stretch your limbs and roll your shoulders. 

“Sorry,” you say quickly, blinking it away. “I just can’t shake the tired today.”

The words stall in Dana’s throat and she curses internally as the moment fades away.

You move past it like it’s nothing, because you don’t know that it’s not nothing for her. “Okay, we need to eat, like, right now, because I need to sit down before I fall asleep standing up.”

“…alright.”

You pause, glancing over at her. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

But you’re looking at her like you always do when you know she’s not telling the whole truth, a scrutinizing, questioning look on your face. But instead of pushing her for the truth, you kiss her cheek as you pass with both plates full of pasta in your hands and head toward the living room.

“Good,” you say, “because I missed you today.” You set the plates down on the coffee table, clearly already having decided that tonight was the night to forego the formality of your dining room table and instead eating on the couch. 

Dana joins you a second later, settling into the spot next to you as you talk. You talk about your coworker, you talk about the traffic on your way home from work. The mindless topics that couples talk about after they’ve been together for so long that there are no more big topics left. 

And yet, you’re the one talking.

Now don’t get you wrong, that isn’t uncommon at all. Most days, Dana comes home too exhausted to keep up conversation, and frankly, she’s tired of talking at other people. It’s nice to come home and listen to the pleasant tone of your voice as you tell her about anything and everything that crosses your mind. She usually even asks you to keep talking when you stop, when you’re worried about talking too much.

But you can see that something’s on your partner’s mind. Dana doesn’t usually wear her emotions on her face, except for those moments when she’s too tired to hide them, and that’s where you find yourself now. 

You move a little on the cushion, angling yourself towards her. “What?”

Dana blinks like she’s coming back to the conversation, like she had forgotten you could see her. “Nothing.”

You laugh, because that’s the least nothing “nothing” ever. “Dana.”

She sighs, pursing her lips. “You ever think,” she starts thoughtfully, “that maybe people make too big a deal out of things?”

You raise an eyebrow. “That’s vague.”

Dana smiles, looking down at her bowl. “Yeah, well…” The ring is still in her bag, but she could go get it. Or she could ask and then go get it. No, no, she needs it first, she can’t ask without presenting you with a ring. 

You wait patiently for her to continue without pushing.

Dana swallows, trying to find the words. “I just mean…sometimes people spend so much time trying to make a moment perfect that they end up missing it entirely.” She laughs shortly, moreso at herself.

Maybe this is it. Maybe she doesn’t need the speech she practiced in the car a few days ago, maybe she doesn’t need candles or reservations, maybe she just -

You yawn again beside her, sleepily enough that your head tips toward her shoulder afterward. “Sorry,” you mumble. “Keep going.”

Dana’s face melts into a smile. “You’re falling asleep,” she says, nudging you with her elbow.

“I’m listening,” you insist, but it’s weak.

She looks down at the top of your head for a moment before choosing to go on. “I’ve been thinking that lately that maybe there are some things I don’t say enough.”

“Mhm.”

Dana’s thumb brushes against your arm as she reaches to touch your skin. “I think maybe…” she starts again, but the sentence trails off. Not because she’s lost courage, but because she feels your weight heavier against her side.

When she glances down, even leaning forward to look at you, she finds that your eyes have closed and your breathing has evened out completely. 

Her expression twists in disbelief. “Seriously?”

You do not respond. You can’t, because you’re fast asleep, still with a nearly-full bowl of pasta in your lap.

━━━━━━━━━━━ ♠ ━━━━━━━━━━━

For once, the emergency department is quiet.

Multiple people would slap Dana if they even knew she was thinking the q-word, but she can’t help it. There’s no way it isn’t on everybody’s mind. Chairs is under control for once, nobody’s bleeding in triage, and nobody in the entire department is actively dying. It feels unnatural.

Dana leans back in her chair in the nurse’s station while rough-drafting next month’s nurse rotation schedule because for once it’s calm enough in here that she doesn’t have to do it at home. 

Robby slides up beside her, leaning against the desk and glancing around the department suspiciously. “I don’t trust this.”

Dana doesn’t look up, adjusting her reading glasses. “Neither do I.”

“It’s too calm.”

“Well, because you said that, it won’t be for long.”

“Maybe everybody in the city decided to stop making bad decisions all at once,” he jokes. 

Dana tsks and the slight shift in her posture causes the weight in her scrub pants pocket to shift. Her hand reaches down to steady it automatically before she can even think about it.

The movement doesn’t go unnoticed by Robby. “What is that?” he asks slowly.

“Don’t,” Dana warns, her eyes never leaving the schedule.

“Are you carrying it with you right now?”

“I always carry it.”

“No,” Robby corrects, sitting up straighter. “Usually you carry it in your backpack, today you’re carrying it in your pocket.”

Dana finally glances up at him, pulling her reading glasses off her face and lifting an eyebrow. 

Robby’s face breaks out into a smile. “Oh my god,” he says. “You’re actually gonna do it.”

Looking back down at the schedule in front of her, Dana can’t help the smug smile that begins to make it’s way across her face, giving her away instantly. “Tonight,” she confirms. “I’ve decided, I’m done overthinking it. I just need to do it.”

“That’s very grown up of you,” Robby says, clapping a hand on her shoulder. 

“Don’t ruin this for me.”

The red phone rings and Robby, closest to it, picks it up without hesitation. He listens for a moment before hanging up. “EMS incoming, allergic reaction with epi administered in the field. Three minutes out.” He pushes up off the desk with a stretch. “Nothing good ever lasts.”

Despite Robby’s comments, allergic reactions aren’t usually complicated once epi’s been administered, especially if done quickly. While epi-pens are handy, they only delay issues, and most allergic reactions are standard aftermath procedure rather than acute emergency. 

The paramedics are wheeling a stretcher inside the bay doors quickly, though nobody is running, the lack of urgency confirming that this is most likely aftermath. 

“Shellfish exposure at her workplace,” one of them is saying. “Patient self-administered epi-pen approximately eight minutes prior to arrival. Airway remained open throughout transport but hives have been worsening -”

Dana freezes, recognizing the jacket on the stretcher. Because she hates that jacket, she only ever keeps her mouth shut about it because she knows that specific shade of golden yellow is your favorite -

Everything else in the ER fades into white noise as Dana catches sight of you sitting upright on the stretcher. Your skin is flushed, with blotchy hives climbing up your neck, and you look terrified as your eyes scan the inside of the ER, looking for her.

Dana is at the side of your stretcher in an instant. “What happened?” 

One of the paramedics starts to answer, telling her your vitals, about your airway, but she waves him off with a hand in his face, looking at you expectantly.

“Mandy brought food in,” you rasp. “There was shrimp in one of the dishes, she forgot I was allergic and I didn’t ask.”

“How much did you eat?” she demands.

“Not a lot.”

Dana is silent for a moment as she assesses you. “Get her into North-3, I want another set of vitals and respiratory on standby.”

The paramedics obediently move you into said room, Dana beside the stretcher the entire way. She helps with the transfer, despite your insistence that you can move yourself from the stretcher to the bed without help. 

You’re stable, that’s the important part. Your oxygen levels are good, your blood pressure is recovering, the swelling never even fully compromised your airway. The second dose of antihistamines is already making the hives fade from the angry red to a just slightly pissed-off shade of dark pink. 

Logically, Dana knows all of this. But emotionally, she’s one tight breath away from ripping apart your coworker with her bare hands.

“You need to stop glaring at her monitor,” Robby says from beside her.

Dana doesn’t look away from your room. “I’m not glaring.”

“Are too.”

Through the glass, you’re sitting upright in the hospital bed, blanket pulled over your legs while you scroll absently on your phone. You look exhausted, and you’re still flushed.

“She’s okay,” Robby adds.

“I know.”

That doesn’t stop her from drifting towards North-3 every few minutes, checking on you. Just in case.

Once, while she’s watching you from her normal spot inside the nurse’s station, you look up and catch her eye through the window and smile brightly at her, like you aren’t sitting in a hospital bed after being brought in by ambulance. Like this is normal and fine.

And there it is again: that unbearable warmth in her chest every time you smile at her - no, every time you look at her. The ring box presses against her thigh from inside her pants pocket again. Tonight, that little voice in the back of her mind whispers.

She looks at you again, at the hives scattered across your neck, at the hospital gown and the bracelets around your wrists: the hospital details, the red allergy warning, and the yellow Fall Risk one sitting just above the red.

Absolutely not, you would kill her.

If Dana proposed to you while you were sitting in an ER bed covered in hives, you would never let her live it down.

Of course this would happen today. 

“I’m starting to think the universe might have it out for you.” It’s meant to be empathetic, but all Robby’s really doing right now is pissing her off. 

“I’m glad my suffering is entertaining for you.”

“No, no,” Robby says, trying to hold the smile off his face. “I’m just imagining you trying to propose while she’s hooked up to a pulse ox. You know she’d still say yes, so why are you making such a big deal of this?”

“That’s not the point.”

No, it isn’t. Dana doesn’t want you to say yes out of fear or adrenaline, and certainly not just because you’re relieved you aren’t dead. She wants you laughing in your kitchen, or warm in your shared bed, it doesn’t matter as long as you’re safe. She wants the moment to just belong to the two of you and apparently the universe keeps taking that personally.

━━━━━━━━━━━ ♠ ━━━━━━━━━━━

Three weeks pass before Dana tries again.

Three weeks of the ring sitting in the bottom of her backpack to make sure that you don’t come across it accidentally. And it’s not because she’s changed her mind, definitely not, but rather because apparently every time she decided to propose, the universe responded by waging war. Either on your life or her psyche.

Dana calls it “pattern recognition.”

Robby calls it “avoidance.”

“You do know that your girlfriend surviving an allergic reaction is not a sign from the universe, right?” he’d said at one point, when she told him she was taking a break from the pressure she’d been putting on herself.

“Don’t call her that.”

And now somehow, despite all of that, Dana is standing in your shared bedroom buttoning the cuffs of the black blazer she’s wearing over her dress tonight with hands that are just a little too shaky, while trying very hard not to think too much about the velvet box hidden inside the pocket of this very jacket.

Tonight. Again. For real this time.

You appear in the bedroom doorway halfway through Dana wrestling with the cufflinks. She should’ve been smart enough to do this without putting the jacket on first.

Dana looks up briefly from her cuffs to you and does a double take, stopping her wrestling with the jacket to stare. 

You don soft blue satin, with sleeves low enough on your shoulders that the sight of your collarbone almost causes Dana to forget her own name. Your hair is half pinned back, with just the tiniest bit of makeup on.

Beautiful.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you ask with narrowed eyes.

Dana recovers quickly. “You look nice, am I not allowed to look at my own partner?”

Your laughter fills the room as you step further inside the bedroom, reaching out to help Dana finish buttoning her cuffs. “You look good too.”

Dana looks down at the dress that had been your idea. Black with long sleeves, not overly formal, but short enough that she had to wear opaque tights with it in case she happened to be on one knee at any point this evening. She didn’t really feel like flashing the entire restaurant. She lets you fix the collar of the jacket, your fingers smoothing along the base of her throat.

“Are you nervous?” you ask casually.

Dana almost chokes on her own spit. “What?”

“You’re doing that thing with your jaw,” you say, gesturing toward her mouth. “You grind your teeth when you’re stressed, I can see you clenching.”

She forces herself to unclench immediately, and you grin like you caught her doing something embarrassing. 

You giggle at the look on her face before leaning in to kiss her. “We’re just going to dinner,” you mumble against her mouth.

Well, for you it’s just dinner. For Dana, this evening feels balanced on the edge of changing the rest of her life. Luckily for her, you pull back before she can spiral too hard. 

“Ready?”

The restaurant is perfect for the occasion, the one you don’t even know about. It’s got low lighting and real candles on the tables and live piano music from somewhere in the restaurant. It’s the kind of place where the menus don’t list prices because if you have to ask, you probably can’t afford it. The kind of place where people get engaged.

You love it. It’s like a romance movie.

“Dana,” you whisper as the hostess leads you to a table, “this place is insane.”

Dana nods with a smug smile that doesn’t at all give away the fact that she spent two weeks trying to get this reservation. When you reach your table, she pulls your chair out for you before you can even reach for it yourself.

You grin up at her after taking your seat. “You’re being weirdly gentlemanly tonight.”

The waiter appears almost immediately with water, menus, and a bottle of wine that Dana doesn’t remember ordering but apparently selected during the online reservation process.

Everything is perfect. The restaurant is beautiful, you look incredible, the ring is in the pocket of the jacket that hangs on the back of her chair. Everything is lined up exactly the way she planned it, but somehow, Dana feels less prepared than ever.

Casual conversation, you’ll have dinner, and then the proposal around dessert. It’s easy.

Except the waiter interrupts twice while Dana’s trying to ask you about your day, and then your order comes out totally wrong, and the couple beside you is having what sounds like the final argument before a divorce.

When your food finally comes out (correctly this time), you’re studying Dana over the rim of your wine glass as you take a sip before finally deciding to say something. “Okay.”

“Okay what?”

“You’re being really weird tonight, what is up with you?”

Dana’s hands twitch toward her jacket pocket before she can stop herself, like she didn’t even mean to. You don’t seem to notice, or if you do, you don’t say anything about it.

“Are you okay?”

She hates how much she wants to answer that question honestly. Because the truth is that she’s terrified. Not that you’ll say no, she knows you’re going to say yes. But that somehow, she’ll fail to explain what this means to her. That the words she has won’t feel big enough, and that this moment, as planned and rehearsed as it is, still won’t hold the enormity of how much she loves you. 

“I’m okay.”

You don’t look convinced.

But before either of you can continue, the waiter reappears carrying another tray, and everything goes wrong at once.

It happens very fast. There’s an apology as someone bumps into the waiter, a metal tray slipping from a flat hand, and the tilt of a wine glass, and suddenly red wine spills directly down your front. Pale blue, now complimented by a deep red. 

Every table around you freezes. Even the couple at the table next to you pause their argument to watch.

“Oh my god,” the waiter breathes, horrified.

Dana’s eyes go wide.

And you burst out laughing. Not polite or embarrassed laughter, but full belly laughter as you stare down the front of your clothes. 

“Well,” you say as soon as you can get a breath in, wiping your eyes to avoid your mascara running down your face. “At least nobody can accuse this place of having small pours.”

The waiter looks like he’s literally about to die from embarrassment.

Dana stares at you, taking in the wine dripping down your dress and the candlelight catching your genuine smile and the way you’re trying to reassure the waiter instead of getting upset. And her shoulders slump as she relaxes for the first time all day. The perfection is ruined.

Thank god.

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You escape from the restaurant almost immediately. Mostly because the moment the initial shock wears off, your embarrassment catches up to you all at once and you both agree it’s time to get out of there.

So the waitstaff boxes up your food and you decline the free dessert, but you do accept the restaurant’s horrified offer of a discount, getting 40% off the food you’re definitely going to go eat at home on your couch.

You make it home in record time, Dana driving like a bat out of hell so that you don’t have to sit in wet clothes longer than necessary. But even as you pull into the apartment parking lot, you’re both laughing, and Dana realizes something important: that this, you rambling beside her in ruined clothes while takeout cools in the back seat of the car, feels way better to her than the version of the night she worked so hard to plan.

As soon as you’re back in the comfort of your own apartment, you disappear into the bedroom, and you strip out of your ruined clothes while bundling them in your arms. Dana slips into the kitchen to get your food out of the boxes and onto plates, and she lays her jacket across the island to hang up later. The ring box is still tucked safely inside the pocket, waiting.

“Babe? Is this shirt yours or mine?”

Dana looks toward the hallway, but you don’t appear. “Depends, are you gonna give it back if you put it on?”

“…no.”

“Then it’s yours.”

“Great, thanks!”

Dana smiles to herself as she plates both your food and her own, and it still looks just as good as it did in the restaurant.

You emerge a minute later wearing one of Dana’s oversized t-shirts and a pair of pajama shorts so short that wearing them in public would be a hazard. Your hair is messy where you’d slipped your old clothes off without worrying about fixing it.

Dana looks up and catches sight of you, and there it is again, that feeling, and suddenly she isn’t listening to you anymore, she has no idea if you’re even talking. Everything has gone very quiet inside her.

You notice. You notice everything about her. “Hey, are you okay?”

She takes a deep breath, closing her eyes. “I was going to wait for something else.”

The fork is halfway to your mouth when you pause. “Wait for what?” you prompt.

“I thought…I kept thinking if I didn’t do it perfectly…then it wouldn’t mean enough.” She sighs again, opening her eyes to look at you. “But that’s not how you and I work.”

You put your fork down. “You’re not making any sense right now -”

“You take care of me.”

You blink at the sudden interruption, so out of left field. “I mean, yeah, you do the same for me.”

“No,” Dana says, shaking her head. “You bring me food when I forget to eat, you wait up when I’m late even though you’re tired. And you don’t just do it when it’s easy, you do it when it’s scary. When I’m not…the easiest to be around. When I shut down or get in my head or pretend I’m fine when I’m not.”

You open your mouth to respond, but Dana shakes her head again. “Let me finish.”

She takes another breath, still shaky. “I’ve been thinking about this for a long time now, since I took some time off last year,” she admits. “About how you’ve shown up for me in every part of my life I didn’t think anyone would want to stick around for.”

She doesn’t have to say it out loud: you know how much it hurt her when Benji told her he couldn’t continue to watch her burn herself out at the hospital anymore, that it was him or her career.

“I’ve been trying to do this for weeks,” she says. “And I realized tonight that there’s just never gonna be a perfect moment. There’s always gonna be something that interrupts us, or messes things up, or ruins the mood.”

Dana lifts her jacket from the island and digs into the pocket, and this time she doesn’t hesitate as she places the box on the island between the two of you. There are no candles or fancy restaurant, no onlookers there to witness. Just the two of you in a kitchen that smells like takeout.

“I’m not going to ask you a question.”

That makes you pause, and you eye her cautiously as you wait for her to continue.

“Because I already know the answer,” she continues. “I want to spend my life with you, and I’m hoping you want that with me too.”

For a long minute, you just stare at her, and she returns the eye contact expectantly. Your breath catches once, then again almost immediately. 

“Oh my -” you start, but your voice breaks halfway through and you take a frustrated breath to try and steady yourself. 

Dana’s eyebrows lift. “Hey.” That’s all she says, like it’s her version of “it’s okay.”

Your eyes flick down to the box on the counter and then back to her, then back to the box again. “You -” you try again, but this time your voice actually cracks. “Oh my god.”

Her expression twists into concern. “Hey. Hey, it’s okay, don’t cry.”

But you’re already shaking your head, tears stinging at your waterline, laughing at your own absurdity. “No, I just -” you try to swallow the lump in your throat. “I can’t believe you waited until I changed into pajamas.”

That catches Dana off-guard. “What?”

You gesture down at yourself, like it’s obvious. “I was in nice clothes. Ones you made me put on, ones that survived wine. And you let me change into this ratty shirt and -” your voice pitches up a little, incredulous even through tears, “-this is when you decide to do it?”

Dana stares at you, her own eyes wide. “…that’s your takeaway from this?”

You laugh again but it’s wet now, and you’re made completely a mess. “You are unbelievable,” you say as you step toward her, your hands coming up to her face. “I love you so much.”

And this time, when she leans in and kisses you, it doesn’t feel like interruption or timing or luck or anything else that tried to get in the way before. It’s just right.

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[spencercore]

𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐕 𝐑𝐎𝐘

assistant!reader

working as an assistant to the youngest roy is far from easy work, especially when the two of you start sleeping together.

office dinner / you have a meaningless crush on your boss, Shiv Roy. as bratty and arrogant as she was, she was beautiful. though you knew nothing would come from such a crush - so you decide to go on a date. however, just as you’re about to go on your date, Shiv has other plans.

warnings: oral sex and fingering (r!receiving), shiv’s usual confident demeanor, assistant!reader.

kneel / after an embarrassing moment in front of her father and the pierce family, shiv decides to use you for her own personal benefit.

warnings: a bit of bitchy shiv, reader is sarcastic, oral and a bit of fingering (shiv!receiving).

𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐒

pent up / you go back to your childhood home for christmas, just to find that it’s only you and your stepsister shiv in the house, left to catch up alone.

warnings: stepcest. fingering (r!receiving), afab!reader + pronouns, alcohol consumption (just a few glasses of wine), the usual cursing.

pink is the flavor, solve the riddle / after some time apart, shiv decides to reward you; with a new lingerie set, and her mouth.

warnings: oral (r!receiving), usual cursing, afab!reader, spanking (very light!). 1.3k words.

fountain baby, watch me make it wet (newest!) / it’s summer break—a much needed reprieve from the hellscape that is college life. your plans for the afternoon? a solo tennis session. shiv has other ideas in mind.

warnings: stepsis!shiv, exhibitionism if u squint, g!p shiv, shiv playing mind games (as usual) and winning (unusual). fem!college!reader. 1.2k words.

𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐁𝐁𝐋𝐄𝐒

stepsis!shiv / shiv’s just looking out for her younger sister.

stepsis!shiv & her manipulation