pairing: Hannibal x Will x chronically depressed!gn!reader
genre: hurt comfort • coping • caring
notes: based on this ask!
hi no pressure to ofc but could i please ask for a drabble of hannibal (or hannigram) x gender neutral reader with chronic depression? no worries if you don’t want to write it. have a nice day!! ^_^
MINORS DNI!!
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─── ꒰ 🩹 ꒱ ───
good and bad days
Some days are easier than others.
Not good, necessarily. But manageable.
Your lovers always contently notice when you are better.
The days you get out of bed before noon. The mornings you sit with Will on the porch while he drinks his coffee, wrapped in one of Hannibal's sweaters. The nights you actually eat dinner at the table instead of picking at it in bed.
For a while, things had felt… lighter.
You had been doing more. Speaking more. Existing outside the bedroom more often. Some evenings, Hannibal would find you in the kitchen while he cooked, leaning against the counter and just talking about what was on your mind.
Other evenings you were in the garage with Will, asking him for the 15th time what fishing 'thing' that was, just to hear him explain it with excitement.
It wasn't like you just shook off your depression.
But it was something closer to living again.
Which is why Will notices immediately when the bedroom door never opened today.
Morning passed quietly.
Then afternoon.
The dogs paced more than usual, lingering outside the bedroom every now and then before wandering back downstairs. Even Winston looked uncertain, ears flicking toward the hall every time the floor creaked.
Will tried not to hover.
He knew what it feels like to drown under concern that sounded too much like obligation.
But by the time Hannibal texted to say he was stopping to pick up a few things before coming home, Will finally made his way upstairs.
The bedroom was dim.
You were buried almost completely beneath the sheets, turned toward the wall, so still he wondered briefly if you were even awake.
He leaned lightly against the doorway.
"Hey," he said softly.
No response.
Will glanced toward the window, toward the cloudy afternoon outside.
"I was gonna walk the dogs before Hannibal gets back."
Still nothing.
He stepped inside anyway. The bed dipped slightly as he sat near your legs, not touching you yet.
"You don't have to talk," he said after a moment. "Just thought I'd ask if you wanted to come."
His hand rested loosely against the blanket near your ankle.
"You've been in here all day."
Your shoulders tensed faintly beneath the covers, and immediately he regretted the phrasing.
The sound of claws against hardwood interrupted the moment.
Will barely had time to turn before Max barrelled into the room first, followed by two others crowding curiously behind him.
"Jesus Christ," Will muttered under his breath.
Max leaped onto the bed before Will could stop him.
The mattress jolted with the impact.
A second later, a cold nose was shoved insistently against your ear.
Then another sniff.
Then an enthusiastic lick against your hand.
You made the smallest sound, and instinctively pulled your hand away.
Max only took that as encouragement.
His tail thumped violently against the comforter while he nudged closer, whining softly.
Will watched the blanket-covered shape of you shifting slightly.
Then slightly more.
Your shoulders shook once.
Not crying.
A laugh.
Tiny. Barely there. But enough that Will felt something unclench in his chest.
Eventually, very slowly, you pushed the blanket down.
"Hey there..." Will murmured.
You looked exhausted.
Will reached over absentmindedly to scratch behind Max’s ears.
"We probably can't let Hannibal know he jumped on the bed."
You let a small smile linger on your lips at that..
"You know he will find out..." you mumble.
"Yeah," Will admitted.
Max sneezed directly onto the sheets.
Another tiny smile pulled at your mouth despite yourself.
And Will didn't push any further than that.
Eventually, you do get out of bed.
Will didn't rush you. He just stood when you finally sat up properly, gathering one of the dog toys from the floor and tossing it absentmindedly down the hallway for Winston.
The house felt less heavy downstairs.
You settled onto the couch beside Will with two dogs immediately begging for pets and cuddles. Max wedged himself shamelessly across both your laps while another curled against your legs.
For a little while, things feel easier.
Will tossed one of the worn rope toys lazily across the living room, watching the dogs scramble after it.
You found yourself petting Max absentmindedly, fingers sinking into warm fur while your breathing slowly evened out.
Will glanced at you occasionally, subtle enough that he probably thought you didn't notice.
You leaned toward him first. Your lips brushed his cheek once.
Then again.
Then the corner of his mouth.
Will huffed a quiet laugh through his nose, one hand settling automatically against your knee.
"You feeling a little better?" he asked softly.
"A little."
His thumb rubbed slowly against your leg.
"We could take the dogs out before it rains."
The words were gentle.
But the second he said it, something inside you sunk again.
Because walking the dogs meant showering first.
Changing clothes.
Brushing your teeth.
Finding clean socks.
Finding your shoes.
And then suddenly your brain was pulling everything else back in too.
The cups of cold coffee still sitting abandoned on your nightstand.
The laundry you wanted to do three days ago.
The promise you made Hannibal this morning that you'd at least tidy the bedroom today.
The bit of fragile warmth in your chest caved inward all at once beneath the weight of everything you hadn't done.
Your hands stilled against Max's fur.
"You don't have to." Will interrupted your spiralling thoughts.
You stared down at the dog curled across your lap instead.
"I thought I wanted to," you admitted quietly. "But now it just feels like…" You exhaled shakily. "Too much."
Will was silent for a moment. He wasn't disappointed in you, not at all.
Then he nodded once, "Okay."
He picked up one of the tennis balls from beside the couch and rolled it between his palms thoughtfully.
"We can stay here."
You glanced at him uncertainly. "But the dogs..."
"I'll let them into the backyard. You can watch from here." he suggested.
His eyes flicked briefly toward the massive glass sliding doors.
"And if you decide you want to come out later," he added, "you can."
The simplicity of it nearly made your chest ache.
Will stood slowly, the dogs immediately sprung to attention around him in chaotic excitement.
Max hesitated, though.
He looked between you and Will like he was conflicted about abandoning his post beside you.
Max stayed on the couch beside you.
You couldn't help smiling faintly as Will slid the backyard door open, instantly the dogs jumped outside excitedly.
Will lingered near the doorway instead of joining them immediately.
Like he didn't want you to feel left behind.
You give him a small wordless nod, he should go outside and play with the pack.
And so he did step outside, the dogs running wildly around the backyard.
You watched Will through the glass doors for a long while after that.
The dogs raced through the grass, muddy paws kicking up dirt while Will stood in the middle of them with the tennis ball, occasionally throwing it or tugging at a rope with another dog.
He looked… easy out there.
Not happy exactly. Will rarely looked happy in obvious ways.
But capable, functional, alive.
Alive in a way you suddenly didn't feel.
One of the dogs crashed into his legs at full speed and he stumbled slightly with a startled laugh, while another stole the ball from his hand.
You stared at the scene too long.
Will understood your feelings. Better than almost anyone.
You knew that.
You knew about the sleepless nights. The dissociation. The darkness he still carried around like something stitched into his ribs. You knew there were days he struggled to crawl out from underneath it too.
But somehow he still managed this.
He still got up.
Still walked the dogs. Still remembered things. Still functioned.
And you...
You spent all day in bed beside cups of cold coffee and promises you couldn't keep.
Your chest tightened painfully.
Maybe some people survived this.
Maybe you wouldn't.
Maybe you were losing.
Your gaze drifted toward Will again as he bent down to wipe mud from one of the dogs with the bottom of his sleeve, completely unconcerned with the mess.
And you felt like something left behind by it.
The losing dog.
The one that never quite caught up no matter how hard it tried.
Your throat burned suddenly.
Before the thought could spiral further, the sound of the front door opening cut through it.
The dogs outside immediately lost their minds.
You heard Hannibal's voice faintly from the entryway, calm and warm despite the pack of dogs suddenly rushing back in as they bounced towards the door, barking and jumping in joy to see him.
"Please, calm down," he said dryly, speaking to the dogs like they'd understand him, "You behave as though I've returned from war."
A moment later he appeared in the living room carrying several grocery bags in both hands.
Hannibal paused the second he saw you on the couch with Max.
And immediately, genuinely, his entire expression softened.
"There you are," he said quietly.
He set the bags carefully onto the counter before crossing the room toward you without hesitation.
He leaned down, one hand settling lightly against your jaw while he kissed you slowly, like he wanted you fully present for it.
"You're out of bed," he said fondly against your forehead afterward.
You nodded faintly.
Hannibal brushes his thumb against your jaw absentmindedly before glancing toward the backyard where Will was still occupied with the rest of the dogs.
"How was your day so far, dear?"
The question was gentle, trying to be casual and encouraging.
But suddenly it felt unbearable.
Because the truthful answer was nothing. You hadn't done anything and your day had been... empty.
Because the cups were still upstairs.
Because you said you would try today.
Your eyes drifted back toward the yard instead of answering.
Will was laughing quietly now as Harley refuses to give back the ball, darting away every time he got close enough to grab it.
You stared at him silently.
And beside you, Hannibal went still.
His gaze lingered on your face for a moment longer than usual, reading the absence in your expression.
"…Ah," he said softly.
His hand moved from your jaw into your hair instead, fingertips smoothing gently through it.
"You're comparing yourself to him."
You swallowed hard.
The sliding door rattled close a moment later, after Will and the rest of the pack returned inside.
Will pushed his slightly damp hair back from his forehead with the back of his wrist. There was dirt smudged faintly across his hands and along the sleeve of his henley where one of the dogs must have jumped on him.
He paused slightly when he noticed the atmosphere in the room.
His eyes flicked toward you first, then Hannibal beside you.
Hannibal sighed softly as one of them shook water off dangerously close to his trousers.
Will hummed before stepping closer to the couch. His fingers brush briefly against your shoulder as he passed.
Then he leaned in toward Hannibal.
Hannibal caught sight of the dirt still smeared across Will's hand at the last second and tilted his head back slightly with elegant disapproval.
"Please refrain from dirtying my suit."
Will kissed him anyway.
"You're impossible," Will murmured against his mouth.
"And yet you persist."
There was the faintest twitch at the corner of Will's lips as he pulled away.
Then he glanced down at himself, finally noticing the state of his clothes properly.
"Might have to shower before dinner," he said, rubbing at a muddy pawprint near his ribs.
The Weight of Being Seen | Marie Philip Poulin x Laura Stacey | Part 2
Summary: The "untraditional" dynamic of your relationship has you feeling trapped in the world of isolation, no matter how much your partners try to keep those feelings at bay.
Word Count: 16.5k
Warnings: no use of Y/N
A/N: Hello everyone! Happy last day of Pride! I hope you all have enjoyed this month as much as I have. This is the *big* final for this month! This family series is not over. I have big ideas for what is to come, but if you have any ideas, please share! Also, for any request please send them my way I would love to write more for WOHO and honestly any of the fandoms I am deeply ingrained in!
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Your phone starts buzzing before the coffee is done. At first, you ignore it. It’s just past eight in the morning, and the house still has that soft, early-day quiet you love. The kitchen smells like coffee and toast. The sun comes through the window over the sink, catching on the little row of plants you keep forgetting to water but somehow haven’t managed to kill. Arlo is stretched across the cool tile in front of the back door, golden fur lit up where the sun touches him, one ear flipped inside out in a way that makes him look both majestic and ridiculous. Pou is at the stove, scrambling eggs with the intense focus of someone treating breakfast like a competitive event. Laura is sitting at the kitchen island in an oversized sweatshirt, one hand wrapped around her mug, the other scrolling idly through her phone. It has been a week since the picnic.
Long enough that the sharpest parts of that day have softened at the edges. Long enough that you can think about Allie’s camera without your stomach clenching immediately. Long enough that the photo she privately sent to Laura sits in your group chat like a small, strange miracle. You have looked at it more than you expected. Not constantly. Not obsessively. Just sometimes, when the house is quiet, and nobody is asking anything of you. In the picture, the three of you are on the blanket beneath the tree. Laura is leaning back on her palms, laughing. Pou is turned slightly toward you, her smile wide and unguarded. You are caught between them, head tilted, mouth open mid-laugh. It’s not an obvious photo. Not to everyone. But it’s obvious to you.
You can see the love in the spacing. In how your bodies angle toward each other. In how Pou’s hand rests near your arm, close enough to remember that it wanted to touch you. In how Laura’s knee is turned toward yours. In how the three of you look like a sentence no one else has learned how to read yet. A private photo. A photo Allie had promised wouldn’t go anywhere without your approval. Your phone buzzes again. Then Laura’s does. Then Pou’s. Arlo lifts his head from the tile, alerted by the chorus of vibrations. His eyes move from you to Laura to Pou, as if trying to decide which of his humans requires intervention first.
“Popular family this morning,” Laura says lightly.
Pou glances over her shoulder. “If that’s my Team Canada group chat arguing about the equipment schedule again, I’m leaving the country.”
You smile faintly and reach for your phone, expecting a text from one of your friends or maybe a reminder from your office software. Instead, there are fourteen Instagram notifications. Your stomach drops before you even understand why. You keep your account private. You barely post. You’re not the sort of person who wakes up to Instagram notifications, especially not in batches. Another one appears while you are staring at the lock screen. Then another. Your thumb feels clumsy when you unlock your phone.
The first notification reads:
teamcanada tagged you in a post. For a second, you don’t breathe. The kitchen goes strangely quiet around you. The eggs continue to hiss in the pan. The coffee maker lets out one final gurgle. Arlo’s tags jingle softly as he gets up from the floor. You open Instagram. The post loads slowly, which feels cruel. A bright carousel from Team Canada’s official account fills your screen, all rainbow graphics and clean branding and polished joy.
The caption reads:
Celebrating love, pride, and community with our Team Canada family. Happy Pride Month! 🏳️🌈❤️ The first photo is Sarah and Brianne laughing near the badminton net. The second is a wide shot of the pavilion, rainbow banners bright against the trees. The third is Natalie holding Rory, his tiny rainbow onesie wrinkled where his fist has grabbed at the fabric. The fourth is Brianne with her wife and kids, all five of them crowded together, laughing. You swipe again. Your hand goes cold. It’s the photo. Your photo. The three of you on the blanket, caught in the late afternoon light. You’re laughing, your head turned toward Pou. Laura is leaning into your space, close enough that her shoulder almost touches yours. Pou’s hand is nearly on your arm. The image is beautiful. It’s tender. It’s also completely unmistakable.
Your private life, the thing the three of you spent nine years shaping around caution and silence and careful almosts, is sitting on Team Canada’s official Instagram account. Tagged. Captioned. Public. Your phone buzzes in your hand again. A comment notification. Then another. Then another. Across the kitchen, Laura goes still. You look up and realize she is staring at her own phone. Pou turns away from the stove.
“What?” Laura doesn’t answer right away. Pou looks from Laura to you. Her expression changes instantly. She turns off the burner and moves the pan off the heat. “What happened?” You try to speak, but the words catch. Laura’s voice comes out thin.
“Team posted the picnic carousel.”
Pou frowns. “Okay?” You lift your phone and turn the screen toward her. Pou looks. For one second, her face is blank. Then her jaw tightens. “Oh,” she says.
The word is small. Not enough. Not nearly enough. You look back down at your phone. You can see the likes climbing. Hundreds already. Then more. People are commenting faster than you can read. Your chest feels like someone has reached inside it and tightened a fist around your lungs. “They posted it,” you say.
Laura stands slowly. “They weren’t supposed to.” Pou’s phone starts buzzing on the counter. She ignores it. You swipe down to the comments. Your vision sharpens in the awful way it does when panic turns everything too clear.
puckprincess88: Wait are Pou and Laura in a throuple?? Did I miss a chapter??
queercreasekid: I’m actually crying. I’ve never seen poly love represented in hockey before. This means so much.
hockeyheart_17: Pou and Laura are so cute but who’s the third person?
rainbowrinkrat: The way the three of them are looking at each other. That’s love. Full stop.
canadahockeymom: Is she their friend or partner? I’m confused.
sticktap_sam: Love in all forms 🏳️🌈❤️ This is what Pride is about.
neutralzone_nora: I hope this was posted with everyone’s consent. It feels like a pretty private moment.
The word consent makes your stomach twist. You keep scrolling even though you know you should stop.
rinkside_rachel: Not trying to be rude but Pou and Laura are married, right? So is this person dating both of them or just one?
goaliegirl1998: This is beautiful but I also feel like we’re missing context.
mapleleaf_maddie: I love Pou and Laura so much. Happy for them and their friend!
Their friend. Your thumb freezes. Your phone buzzes again.
blueline_bri: Wait. Is the third person a surrogate or something? The caption says family, and now I’m curious.
The room tilts slightly. “What?” Laura asks immediately. You must have made a sound. Something small. Something you didn’t mean to let out. You shake your head and keep scrolling, because apparently your brain has decided the best response to pain is more pain.
pucktalkdaily: I don’t get the dynamic but they look happy, I guess.
sapphic_stick: If they’re poly, that’s amazing. If she’s just a friend, this is still cute. Either way, happy Pride.
northstar_nate: This feels like an accidental hard launch.
creasecrush: Okay but if they’ve been together a while, why has nobody seen her before?
hockeyandhope: As someone in a three-parent family, this made me feel less alone today. Thank you.
rinkrumors_ca: Calling it now, she’s probably helping them have a baby. Friend surrogate situation maybe?
Your entire body goes cold. Friend surrogate. Two words. Two simple, careless words from a stranger who knows nothing about you, nothing about your life, nothing about the conversation you had on the blanket a week ago while the sun went down and your voice shook around the word mom. You lock your phone so quickly your thumb slips on the screen.
Pou steps closer. “What did you see?”
“Nothing.”
Laura’s eyes narrow with concern. “That wasn’t nothing.”
“I said nothing.”
Your voice is too sharp. Arlo moves immediately, crossing the kitchen to press his body against your thigh. He leans his full weight into you, solid and warm and uncomplicated. You put your hand on his head automatically. Pou’s phone buzzes again. Then Laura’s. Then yours. A new sound joins the others, Pou’s ringtone. She looks at the screen. “Comms,” she says under her breath. Laura’s phone starts ringing a second later. The kitchen fills with sound. Your phone lights up again with a text from Allie.
Allie: I am so sorry. I marked that image private. I’m calling comms now. That should not have gone out.
Your throat tightens. So it wasn’t Allie. It wasn’t the person who looked you in the eye and promised she would check. It was Team Canada. A system. A folder. A social media schedule. A polished Pride caption. A morning post built from photos someone didn’t understand weren’t theirs to use. Pou answers her phone and turns away slightly. “Yeah. I saw it.” Laura answers hers too, stepping toward the living room. “No, this wasn’t approved.”
You stand in the middle of the kitchen with Arlo pressed against you while both of your partners talk to people about the thing that has happened to all of you and somehow feels like it happened most violently to you. Pou’s voice is low and clipped. Laura’s is controlled in that way that tells you she’s furious. You should feel relieved. Instead, you feel outside of it again. They are handling it. Talking to the team. Using the voices they use when the world expects them to be composed and professional. They are upset, clearly upset, but they are moving. Acting. Responding. You are standing barefoot in your kitchen with your hand buried in your dog’s fur, trying not to throw up. Your phone buzzes again.
Jenna: Um. Babe. Are you awake? Because I just saw something and I have approximately nine million questions. Then another.
Sarah: Please tell me Team Canada did not just hard launch your entire personal life without warning. Then another.
Mom: Honey, your aunt just sent me a post. Can you call me? Then another.
Marcus: Hey. I don’t know if you’ve seen the Team Canada post yet, but it’s making its way around. I’m at the office. You need to call me when you can.
Marcus. Your coworker. Another therapist in the group practice. One of the few people at work who knows enough about your life to know Arlo’s name, but not enough to know why you leave early sometimes when Pou has late travel or Laura has a rare night off. Your stomach drops again. Because the internet is one thing. The office is another. Your professional life is not built like Pou and Laura’s. They are public figures. Their careers are shaped around cameras, interviews, speculation, fans thinking they are entitled to little pieces of them. You have spent years building the opposite. A practice shaped around privacy. Boundaries. Trust. The careful distance that lets clients feel safe without knowing too much about you. And now your face is in a viral Team Canada Pride post, pressed between two married hockey players, while strangers ask whether you are a partner, a friend, or a surrogate.
You crouch down before your knees can give out and wrap both arms around Arlo’s neck. He immediately shifts closer, pressing his chest against yours, his tail thumping once against the cabinet. He smells like grass and dog shampoo and the peanut butter treats Laura gave him the night before. His fur is warm beneath your cheek. “Good boy,” you whisper, though your voice barely works.
Arlo rests his chin over your shoulder like he knows exactly what he is doing. Maybe he does. For a few seconds, you let yourself bury your face in his fur and breathe. The world can misunderstand you. Instagram can dissect you. Team Canada can post your private life under a caption about love and community like consent is a minor detail. Coworkers can see. Clients might see. Parents of clients might see. Former supervisors might see and wonder what else about you has been private. Arlo does not care. Arlo knows you are his person. He knows Pou is his person and Laura is his person and you are all home. He knows the sound of your keys, the exact cabinet where his treats live, the corner of the couch where he is not allowed to sleep and absolutely sleeps anyway. He knows love as routine and scent and presence. No labels. No comments. No questions. Just the weight of him leaning into you as if he can hold you in place by sheer devotion.
From the living room, Laura says, “Then archive it while we decide.” Pou says, “No, not later. Now.” Your head lifts. Archive it. The words should bring relief. They do, for half a second. Then your stomach twists again. Because a part of you, the part you don't want to admit to, thinks about queercreasekid. Thinks about hockeyandhope. Thinks about the people who saw the photo and felt less alone before the wrongness of how it got posted swallowed everything. You don’t want it up. You don’t want it gone. You want a third option where it was never taken from you in the first place.
By eight thirty, the post is archived. The notifications slow, but they don’t stop. Screenshots already exist. The carousel has been reposted to fan accounts, quote tweeted on X, uploaded to TikTok with zoomed-in music edits. People have already started arguing about whether Team Canada “accidentally outed” someone or whether “public event means public photo.” Pou stands at the kitchen island with both hands braced on the counter, staring at her phone. Laura is pacing near the living room, one hand pressed to her forehead. You are still on the floor with Arlo. No one has eaten breakfast. The eggs are cold. Finally, Pou looks at you. “They archived it.”
“I heard.”
“They’re drafting an apology.” You nod.
Laura stops pacing. “They want to know whether we want the apology to say anything specific.”
“We?” you ask. Laura’s face tightens. “All three of us.” You look at her, then at Pou. “Do they know that?”
Pou exhales slowly. “They know enough.”
“Enough,” you repeat. Neither of them answers. Your phone buzzes again in your hand. Marcus.
Marcus: Are you okay? I’m asking as your coworker and your friend. Also, a practical thing. The receptionist just got a call from someone asking if you’re “the therapist from the Team Canada post.” We didn’t confirm anything. I told everyone not to discuss your personal life. But you need to know.
Your mouth goes dry. Another message comes through before you can answer.
Marcus: I also moved your first two appointments to telehealth and told them there was an urgent scheduling issue. I didn’t give details. We can cancel the rest of your day if you need that. You don’t have to be professional through this before you’ve had coffee.
The kindness of it almost makes you crack. You set your phone face down on the floor. Laura notices. “Who is it?”
“Marcus.”
Pou looks over. “Work Marcus?” You nod.
“What did he say?” Laura asks. You stand because staying on the floor suddenly makes you feel too small. Arlo stands with you, leaning against your leg like he’s taking your side in a fight he doesn’t understand.
“Someone called the office asking if I’m the therapist from the post.”
Pou’s eyes close briefly. “Shit.”
Laura goes still. “Oh, sweetheart.”
“No.” You hold up a hand. “Don’t sweetheart me right now.”
Laura’s face changes, hurt flickering before she tucks it away. You hate that you caused that hurt. You hate more that you don't have room to soften it. Pou’s phone lights up on the counter. Messages from Pou and Laura’s teammates keep coming in. You can see the names flashing before the screen goes dark again. Nursey. Jenner. Natalie. Rebecca. Jamie. Pou and Laura’s team knows. Not gradually. Not because the three of you sat down with them and chose honesty. Not because you decided who you trusted and how much they could hold. They know because a social media manager posted a carousel at eight in the morning. Pou unlocks her phone. Her face shifts as she reads.
“What?” you ask. Pou hesitates. “Read it.” She looks at Laura. You feel your chest tighten instantly. “Don’t do that.”
Pou looks back at you. “Do what?”
“Check with each other before deciding what I can hear.” Pou goes still. Laura’s mouth presses together. You are already raw, and that tiny exchange scrapes across every open nerve. Pou nods once, accepting the correction.
“Okay. You’re right.” She reads from her phone. “Sarah said, ‘Are you three okay? The group chat is losing it. Nobody knew. I’m sorry if that makes this worse.’" Laura looks down at her own phone. “Brianne said, ‘I just saw. Was this approved? Please tell me it was approved.’” Pou keeps reading. “Natalie said, ‘Oh my god. I called her your friend at the picnic. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I’m really sorry.’” Your stomach twists. Laura reads another. “Rebecca said, ‘I’m here if any of you need anything. Also, for what it’s worth, nobody in the team chat Pou and I are in is judging. People are shocked, but not judging.’”
Pou swallows. “Jamie said, ‘I asked how she knew you at badminton. I feel awful. I’m sorry if I put her on the spot.’” You look away. Laura’s phone buzzes again. She reads silently.
You laugh once, humorless. “You’re doing it again.”
Laura looks up. “Sorry.” She glances at the screen. “It’s Melodie. She said, ‘This should not have gone up without checking. That’s on comms, not you. But also, are we allowed to ask what’s true and what isn’t? Because everyone likes her. We’re just confused.’” Everyone likes her. We’re just confused. You press your fingertips against your forehead.
Pou’s voice is careful. “They’re trying to understand.”
“I know.”
“They’re not mad.” You look up at that. Something in your expression must warn her, because she stops.
“They’re not mad,” you repeat. Pou looks uncertain.
“I just mean…”
“I know what you mean.”
Laura takes a step toward you. “Hey.” You step back. That stops both of them. It stops you too. You don't usually move away from them. Not like that. Not with your whole body deciding before your heart can soften the gesture. Arlo moves with you.
“You both keep telling me the good version,” you say. Laura’s face changes.
“What?”
“You’re doing it again.” Your voice is calm, which somehow makes it worse. “They’re not mad. They’re trying to be kind. The comments are mostly positive. Representation matters. The post is archived. The apology is coming.” Pou’s mouth opens, then closes.
“All of that might be true,” you continue. “But Team Canada posted a private photo without approval. Your teammates found out because of Instagram. My mother found out because my aunt sent her a screenshot. Strangers are already asking if I’m a surrogate. Someone called my office. My coworker is moving my appointments because people are looking for me. And you two are standing there telling me no one is mad.”
Laura looks wounded. “That’s not what we meant.”
“It’s what you’re doing.”
Pou’s posture stiffens. “We’re trying to keep you from spiraling.”
You laugh once, sharp and humorless. “Do you hear how that sounds?”
Pou’s face shifts, regret flashing immediately. “I didn’t mean…”
“No, but you said it.” Your hands are shaking now, and Arlo presses harder against your leg. “You’re trying to keep me from spiraling. You’re trying to manage me. Both of you. Like I’m the problem in the room instead of the person this happened to.” Laura steps closer, then stops herself.
“It happened to all of us.”
“I know that,” you say, voice rising for the first time. “I know it happened to all of us. But it didn't happen to all of us the same way.”
Silence. Pou looks down. Laura goes still. You can feel yourself shaking, but you can't stop now. The hurt is too close to the surface, and every calm, careful sentence from them feels like hands pushing you back under water.
“You two have each other publicly,” you say. “You have the rings. The marriage. The years of people understanding you as a couple. So when they see that photo, they see Pou and Laura plus a question mark. You are not the question mark. I am.” Laura’s eyes shine, but she doesn't cry.
“You’re not a question mark to us,” Pou says.
“But I am to everyone else.” You point toward the phones on the counter. “And now everyone else includes your teammates, Team Canada staff, the fans, my family, my friends, my colleagues, my clients, maybe. Parents of clients who already worry that affirming therapy means I’m pushing something on their kid. People who have no context except a photo and a caption and comments asking if I’m a partner or a friend or a surrogate.” Pou flinches at the word. Good. You want it to hurt. Not because you want to punish her, but because you can't keep being the only one pierced by it.
Laura’s voice is quiet. “Who said that?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.” You unlock your phone with trembling fingers and find the screenshot you took without realizing you had taken it. You turn the screen toward them.
rinkrumors_ca: Calling it now, she’s probably helping them have a baby. Friend surrogate situation maybe?
Laura’s face goes pale. Pou stares at the comment for a long second, then looks away. You lower the phone. “That's what I was afraid of.” Neither of them speaks. “That's what I told you at the picnic. That if we stay private, if people see you as the couple and me as the friend, then pregnancy turns me into something else in their minds. Not a mother. Not a partner. A favor. A body. A friend helping you build your family.”
Laura puts a hand over her mouth, then drops it. “I’m sorry.”
“I know you are.” Your voice drops. “But I need you both to stop talking to me like the damage is smaller because some people are being nice.” Pou looks at you fully now. Her face is tight with stress, guilt, fear, and something else you recognize because you feel it too. Helplessness. “We’re scared too,” she says. “I know.”
“No, I don’t think you do,” Pou says, not harshly, but with a steadiness that asks you to stay with her. “My phone has not stopped. The Team Canada group chat, comms, my agent, people I haven’t talked to in years. Everyone wants to know what to say, what not to say, whether I’m okay, whether Laura’s okay, whether you’re okay. I don’t know what to tell them because I don’t know what you want me to say, and I don’t know what I’m ready to say, and I’m terrified that any answer I give will hurt you.”
Laura nods, arms wrapped around herself. “I’m getting messages from people on the team and from family. My sister texted me a screenshot with question marks. Someone from media asked if Pou and I would make a joint statement. Not all three of us. Pou and me.” Your chest tightens. Laura looks at you. “I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. Because I knew if I said yes, it would erase you, and if I said no, they’d ask why. And if I said all three of us, then suddenly I’d be confirming something you didn’t get to choose to share today.”
Pou’s voice is rougher now. “We’re not calm because we’re fine. We’re calm because if we fall apart, we’re afraid you’ll have to carry that too.”
The room goes quiet. That lands. It doesn't fix the hurt, but it changes its shape. For the first time all morning, you see them not as a wall in front of you, but as two people standing in the same storm and trying, badly, to hold the roof up with their hands. Your anger doesn't disappear. But it becomes less lonely. “I felt ganged up on,” you say. Laura’s face crumples slightly, but she stays quiet.
Pou nods once, slowly. “Okay.” “
When you both started telling me the good parts, it felt like you were on one side of the room and I was on the other.” You swallow. “Like I had to prove it was bad enough to be upset about.”
Laura takes that in. “I can see that.”
“It wasn’t intentional,” you say. “I know that. But it still hurt.”
Pou’s voice is low. “We hurt you by trying to soothe you out of something that needed to be named.” You nod.
Laura sits down at the island, like her legs have gone unsteady. “You’re right.”
“I don’t want to be managed,” you say. “I want to be included. Even when I’m panicking. Even when you think I’m spiraling. Especially then.”
Pou leans back against the counter. “Okay.”
“And I don’t want decisions made in the room without me because you’re trying to protect me.”
Laura looks at the phone in her hand. “Then we need to decide together. Right now. What do we want Team Canada to say?”
The question settles between the three of you. Not what comms wants. Not what will make it go away. Not what will make the team comfortable. What do we want? Arlo nudges your hand. You look down at him, and his tail moves once.
“I need a minute,” you say. Pou nods immediately.
“Take one.” You move past them toward the living room. Arlo follows so closely that his nose bumps the back of your leg with every step.
You end up on the floor beside the couch, back pressed against the soft front of it, knees drawn up loosely. Arlo circles twice, then lowers himself across your lap with the heavy confidence of a dog who has decided he is needed and will not be taking feedback. He is too big to be a lap dog. He has never cared. His front half sprawls across your thighs. His head lands against your stomach. When you run your fingers through the longer fur behind his ears, his eyes close with a long, dramatic sigh. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Same.”
From the kitchen, you can hear Laura and Pou talking quietly. You can't make out the words. You are grateful for that. For once, you don’t want to monitor every syllable, every decision, every careful attempt not to make things worse. You just want to breathe. Arlo’s weight helps. Not metaphorically. Literally. The pressure of him across your legs gives your body something to understand. Something simple. Here is the floor. Here is the couch. Here is your dog. Here is the warmth of him. Here is the rise and fall of his breathing. Here is one living creature in the world who doesn't need you to explain the difference between privacy and shame. You press your palm to his side and count his breaths. One. Two. Three. Your phone buzzes again on the coffee table. You flinch. Arlo lifts his head and looks at the phone, then at you, as if personally offended by its existence. That almost makes you laugh. Almost.
“You’re right,” you tell him softly. “Very rude.” His tail thumps. You pick up the phone because not knowing is somehow worse. There are more texts.
Mom: I’m not angry. I’m confused and hurt, but I’m not angry. Please call me when you can.
Jenna: Okay, I panicked and sent too many question marks. I’m sorry. I love you. I just wish I had known because I would’ve loved you through it.
Sarah: I’m sorry. I’m not mad you didn’t tell me. I’m mad that you didn’t get to tell me yourself.
Then Marcus again.
Marcus: I talked to Denise at the front desk. She knows not to confirm anything if anyone calls. I also blocked your online booking page for the day so people can’t grab random consult slots to ask invasive questions.
Another message.
Marcus: Also, Dr. Shah texted me. She wants you to know she has your back professionally. She said your relationship structure is not a clinical ethics issue, but being outed without consent is a privacy issue.
You read that one three times. Your relationship structure is not a clinical ethics issue. You didn’t realize how badly you needed someone in your professional world to say that until it is sitting in blue and gray bubbles on your screen. Another message comes through.
Marcus: I’m worried about you as a human, not just as a colleague. Call when you can. No pressure.
Your throat tightens. For nine years, your privacy has had a cost. You knew that. You talked about that at the picnic. But you thought of the cost mostly in emotional terms. Loneliness. Secrecy. The ache of being called a friend. You didn't think this version through enough. The professional blast radius. Your private life running directly into your work with queer youth, family systems, boundaries, disclosure, and trust. Parents of clients asking whether your life makes you biased. Colleagues wondering why they never knew. The practice needing a plan because people online might decide your office is part of the story. You have always told clients that visibility matters. You have also built your career on careful, ethical privacy. Now both truths are sitting in your lap, as heavy as Arlo.
You open Instagram again even though you know you shouldn't. The original post is gone from Team Canada’s page, but fan accounts have already reposted screenshots. You click one because your self-preservation instincts are apparently taking a long coffee break. There are comments under that too.
bluepaintbabe: Team Canada deleted the post. Something feels off. Hope everyone involved is okay.
leftwing_lesbian: If this accidentally outed someone, that’s not Pride. That’s careless.
hockeydad204: Don’t post people’s private relationships without consent. Basic respect.
throuplethread: As a poly person, I loved seeing the photo, but consent matters more than representation.
puckprincess88: I got excited earlier but now I feel bad. Hope they’re safe.
You sit with those for a while. Consent matters more than representation. The words settle somewhere deep. That is what you could not say earlier when Laura and Pou were trying to find the hopeful angle. The photo did matter. It did help people. You believe that. You have to believe that, or the whole thing feels unbearable. But it was not freely given. And visibility that is taken from you is not the same as bravery. Arlo shifts, pressing his nose under your wrist until your hand falls back onto his head. “Okay,” you whisper. “I’m here.” He huffs. You keep petting him.
A few minutes later, Laura appears in the doorway. She doesn't come all the way in. “Can I sit?” You nod. She crosses the room slowly and lowers herself onto the floor beside you. Arlo lifts his head just enough to inspect her, then sets it back down on your lap. Laura smiles faintly. “He’s guarding you.”
“He’s the only one handling this appropriately.”
“That’s fair.” The silence that follows is not empty. It is careful, but not in the bad way. Careful like Laura is choosing each word because she knows the wrong ones could bruise. “I’m sorry,” she says eventually. “Not just for the post. I know we didn’t post it, but I’m sorry for what happened after. I’m sorry I made you feel like you had to defend being hurt.”
You look down at Arlo’s fur. “I know you were trying to help.”
“I was trying to make it less terrifying,” Laura says. “But I think I was also trying to make it less terrifying for me.” You glance at her. She leans her head back against the couch. “If I could focus on the good comments, the representation, the people saying kind things, then I didn’t have to sit with the fact that someone took a private moment from us. From you. And that the team, my team, helped do that.”
“Your team didn’t mean to.”
“No,” she says. “But impact matters.” You let out a slow breath. Laura’s voice gets quieter. “I think I also wanted the good comments to mean we didn’t make the wrong choice all these years.” Your hand stills on Arlo’s head. “You know?” Laura says. “Like if people were supportive, then maybe we could tell ourselves we didn’t need to be so scared. That we could’ve been open sooner. That maybe we hurt you for nothing by staying private.”
The honesty hurts because you have thought the same thing. “It wasn’t for nothing,” you say.
“No?”
“No.” You look at her. “There were reasons. Real ones. My work. Your careers. Families. Media. Fans. The way people turn anything they don’t understand into a debate topic. Privacy protected us.” Laura nods slowly. “And trapped us.”
“Yeah.” Arlo sighs again, deeply put upon by human complexity. Laura reaches toward him, then pauses.
“May I?”
“He’s not actually my emotional support employee.” Arlo lifts his head at the word support, then immediately pushes his nose into Laura’s hand. Laura laughs softly and scratches his ears. “Could’ve fooled me.” For a few seconds, the two of you sit like that, side by side, Arlo half-draped across your lap. Then Laura says, “Can I say something that might come out badly?” You tense. “That’s a terrible opener.”
“I know.” She gives a humorless little laugh. “I just don’t want to make it worse.”
“Say it.”
Laura looks at her hands. “Sometimes I worry that you think my love for Pou is the official one and my love for you is the secret one.” Your chest tightens. She looks over at you. “And I understand why it feels that way. We’re married. People know us as a couple. There are rings, paperwork, photos, and years of public history. But that’s not how it feels inside me.” You don’t speak. Laura keeps going, voice low and steady. “My relationship with Pou is mine and Pou’s. It has its own language, its own history, its own shape. But my relationship with you isn’t an accessory to that. It’s not less serious because people don’t see it. It’s not softer because it isn’t legal. It’s not something I fit around my marriage. It’s one of the loves of my life.” Your eyes burn, but you hold still. Laura’s mouth pulls tight. “And I hate that today made you feel like the hidden part. I hate that I contributed to that.”
“You didn’t post the photo.”
“No,” she says. “But I’ve helped build the conditions where people could look at it and think you were something smaller than what you are.” That one hurts. Because it is true. You lean your head back against the couch.
“I don’t know how to be mad at you without feeling guilty.”
Laura turns toward you. “You don’t have to make your anger gentle so I can handle it.”
“That sounds like something I would say to a client.”
“Maybe you’re good at your job.” Despite everything, your mouth twitches. Laura reaches for your hand slowly, giving you plenty of time to refuse. You don’t. When her fingers slide between yours, you let them. Her hand feels different from Pou’s. Laura’s touch has always had a kind of careful warmth to it, as if she were listening with her skin. Pou grounds you by being steady. Laura grounds you by noticing every tiny shift. “I love you,” Laura says. “Not as part of a set. Not as part of Pou and me. I love you as you. I need you to know that.”
“I do know that,” you whisper.
“Do you?” You look at her. The answer is yes. The answer is also no. The answer is, at home, always. In public, almost never. Laura seems to understand without you having to say it.
“Then we’ll make it easier to know,” she says. You squeeze her hand once. Laura moves closer, slow enough that you can stop her if you need to. When you don’t, she presses her forehead to your temple. The contact is small, but it nearly unravels you. You’ve spent the whole morning being watched, tagged, named wrong, and handled too carefully. This is different. This is chosen. Her hand leaves yours and settles at your waist, thumb tracing a quiet line over the fabric of your shirt. Not possessive. Not performative. Just there. “I hated seeing you step back from me in the kitchen,” she admits. Your throat tightens.
“I hated doing it.”
“I know.” Laura’s voice is soft against your hair. “But you needed space.”
“I needed you too.”
Her breath catches. You turn toward her then, and she meets you halfway. The kiss is gentle at first, more apology than hunger, but then your hand curls into the front of her sweatshirt and her fingers tighten at your waist. Something shifts. Not into urgency exactly, but into relief. Into the quiet ache of being able to touch without checking who might be watching. Laura kisses you again, deeper this time, and you feel the tension in her body loosen as yours does. Her other hand comes up to cup the back of your neck, and you let yourself lean into her until your shoulder presses against her chest and Arlo gives a dramatic sigh from your lap, deeply offended by being jostled. You break the kiss with a breathless laugh. Laura rests her forehead against yours. “He’s judging us.”
“He’s always judging us.”
“He thinks I’m doing a bad job comforting you.”
“He’s not wrong. He’s been carrying this family all morning.” Laura laughs, but her eyes stay soft. She kisses your cheek, then the corner of your mouth, then rests her lips against your forehead.
“I’m here,” she says. “Not just when it’s easy to explain. Not just when nobody’s looking. I’m here.” You close your eyes and let yourself believe her.
Pou finds you fifteen minutes later in the backyard. You had gone out to get air after Laura went back to answer a message from her sister. Arlo followed, of course, and now he is nosing around the fence line like he is conducting a very important security sweep. The air is warmer now, late morning sliding toward noon. The grass is a little damp beneath your bare feet. Somewhere down the street, a lawn mower drones steadily. You are standing near the garden bed, staring at nothing, when the back door opens. Pou steps onto the deck but doesn't come down right away. “Can I come over?” The question makes your chest ache all over again. “Sure.”
She walks down the steps and joins you by the garden. For a while, neither of you says anything. Pou isn't as naturally talkative as Laura in moments like this. She chooses words like she chooses passes, carefully, aware that timing matters. Arlo trots over to greet her, tail wagging. Pou crouches to pet him, murmuring something in French under her breath that you can't fully catch but know is affectionate by the softness of her voice. Then she stands. “I owe you a better apology,” she says.
You fold your arms loosely. “Okay.”
Pou nods, accepting the bluntness. “When I said we were trying to keep you from spiraling, I made it sound like your reaction was the thing that needed managing. That was wrong.”
“Yeah.”
“I was scared,” she says. “And when I’m scared, I want a plan. I want control. I want to make the next right move before anyone can get hurt worse. But you weren’t asking for a captain. You were asking for your partner.” Your throat tightens. Pou looks at you directly. “I’m sorry I forgot the difference.” You look away for a second because the apology lands too close.
“I know you were trying,” you say.
“I was,” she says. “But trying doesn’t erase what happened.” You let out a slow breath. “No.”
Pou looks toward the house. Through the window, you can see Laura in the kitchen, one hand holding her phone, the other pressed to her forehead. Pou follows your gaze. Her expression softens in a way that reminds you, very suddenly, that this is not just you and them. It’s you and Pou. You and Laura. Pou and Laura. All three lines of the triangle pulling taut at once. “She’s scared,” Pou says.
“I know.”
“She feels like she failed you.”
“You both keep saying that.”
“Because we both feel it.” You look at her.
“Do you feel like you failed Laura too?” Pou goes quiet. It is a different silence than before.
“Yes,” she says finally. “In a different way.” You wait. Pou’s jaw moves like she is pressing her teeth together. “Laura wants everyone safe. All the time. She’ll make herself the cushion between people if she can. And I think sometimes I let her do that because she looks calm while she’s doing it.” You look through the window again. Laura is still standing there, shoulders tense.
“She isn’t calm,” you say.
“No.” Pou’s voice softens. “She’s not.”
For a moment, the two of you watch Laura separately, together. That’s the thing people miss when they see only pieces of the three of you. They assume a triangle means competition. Unevenness. Two people against one. A couple and an addition. They don’t see moments like this. You and Pou standing in the yard, both loving Laura from different angles. Both worried about the way she folds herself around everyone else’s pain. Pou turns back to you. “I need you to know something.” You meet her eyes. “I love Laura,” she says.
“I know.”
“And I love you.”
“I know that too.”
“No,” Pou says, a little firmer. “I love you. Not because Laura loves you. Not because you fit into my life with her. Not because you make our home softer or easier or more balanced. I love you because you’re you.” Your arms tighten around yourself. Pou steps closer, but stops before touching you. “And I hate that the world saw a photo and immediately tried to decide whether you were attached to me or attached to Laura or attached to the idea of us. Like they had to solve you.” The words hit so cleanly that you almost lose your breath.
“I don’t want to be solved,” you say.
“I know.”
“I don’t want to be a question either.”
“I know that too.” You look down at the grass. “You and Laura are the answer people already have.”
Pou takes that in. “Yes.”
“And I’m the part that complicates it.”
“You’re the part that makes it true,” Pou says. You look up. She holds your gaze. “Not easy. Not simple. True.”
The word settles. True. The photo was true. The comments were not. The assumptions were not. The post wasn't, not fully, because truth taken without consent becomes something else in public hands. But the three of you? That's true. Pou’s voice drops. “About the surrogate comments.” Your stomach tightens.
“I hate them,” she says. “I hate them in a way I don’t know what to do with. Because I remember what you said at the picnic. I remember you saying you were scared people would see you as a friend carrying a baby for us instead of a mother building a family with us.” You look away. “And then someone said it,” Pou continues. “Not because they know you. Not because they know us. Just because the shape of our life didn’t make sense to them, so they filled in the blank with the easiest story.” The wind shifts across the yard.
You whisper, “That’s what people do.”
“It’s not what we’re going to do,” Pou says. “Not anymore. We don’t get to control every stranger, but we do control what we make clear inside our family. You are not a favor. You are not a solution for my career or Laura’s. You are not the body we use because ours are inconvenient.” Your eyes sting again. Pou steps closer, but stops before touching you. “And I need to say that for me too. Because I know I’ve let you carry that fear. I’ve let you talk like pregnancy would naturally fall to you because my body is my job. And I didn’t stop that hard enough.”
“You did stop it.”
“Not hard enough,” she says. “So I’m stopping it now. If we have a child, we decide together. No one disappears. No one sacrifices their body to make the other two more comfortable. No one becomes a secret surrogate because the world doesn’t understand what a mother can look like.” Your breath shakes. Pou waits.
“I don’t know if I want to carry,” you admit. “I don’t know if I don’t. I just know I don’t want fear making the choice.”
“Then fear doesn’t get the only vote.”
That almost makes you smile. “That sounds very captain of you.”
“I am very captain.”
“You’re also very bossy.”
Pou’s mouth curves. “Also true.” The moment softens. Then she lifts her hand, stopping just short of your cheek. “Can I?”
You nod. Her palm settles against your face, warm and steady. You lean into it before you can overthink it. Pou’s love isn't always wordy. It's not always easy. Sometimes it arrives as logistics, as plans, as carefully controlled anger directed at the right target. Sometimes it arrives as a hand on your cheek in the backyard, her thumb brushing once beneath your eye even though you're not crying. “I’m sorry,” she says again.
“I know.”
“I love you.”
“I know that too.” Pou studies you, and there’s something in her expression that makes your chest tighten. “Do you know how much?”
Your answer catches in your throat. She steps closer, close enough that the toes of her socks brush yours in the grass. Her hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers firm and warm. Pou has always touched like she means it, like she is making a promise with her whole body. “I love you when it’s easy,” she says. “I love you when it’s terrifying. I love you when I don’t know what the right answer is. I love you when the world looks at us and gets it wrong.” Your hands settle at her waist.
“Marie.”
“I love you,” she repeats, quieter now, “and I’m sorry I let you feel like that love had to stay smaller to keep us safe.”
You pull her in then, or maybe she pulls you. It doesn’t really matter. The kiss is slow and deep, the kind that steals the rest of the sentence from your mouth. Pou’s hand tightens at the back of your neck, and your fingers curl into her shirt as the morning finally catches up with you. The anger. The fear. The relief. The want. When she breaks the kiss, she doesn’t move far. Her forehead rests against yours, her breath warm against your mouth. “You’re not an addition,” she says. You swallow.
“I know.”
“Not a favor.”
“I know.”
“Not a secret surrogate.” Your eyes sting, but you hold her gaze.
“I know.” Pou kisses you once more, softer this time.
“Good.” Arlo barks from near the fence. Pou looks over. “He disapproves of emotional intimacy without him.”
“He’s been very involved today.”
“He’s family.” You look at her.
Pou’s face gentles. “He is.”
The word family doesn't cut this time. It lands where it belongs.
Around noon, Team Canada requests a call. This time, they request it with all three of you included. That part matters. You sit at the kitchen table with your laptop open, Pou on one side of you, Laura on the other. Arlo lies beneath the table with his chin on your foot, like he's appointed himself legal counsel. The call includes two people from communications, one senior staff member, and Allie. Allie looks miserable.
As soon as the call starts, she says, “I want to apologize first. I know comms already did, but I need to say it directly. I flagged that photo as private. I put it in the internal folder because I thought you might want it later, but I labeled it not for posting. I should’ve kept it separate entirely. I’m so sorry.” You believe her. That doesn't make the day easier, but it matters.
“Thank you,” you say. “I appreciate you telling us.”
One of the communications staff members explains what happened. The folder had been pulled for the Pride carousel early that morning. Someone saw the image, thought it was beautiful and aligned with the caption, and included it without checking the private flag. It is exactly as impersonal and careless as you feared. Not malicious. Not thoughtful either. “We are reviewing our consent procedures,” the staff member says. “This shouldn't have happened.”
Pou’s voice is controlled. “No, it shouldn’t have.” Laura adds, “You need a separate process for any image that could reveal personal relationships, family structures, children, or private identities. Pride content especially.”
The staff member nods. “Agreed.” You listen for a while, one hand under the table, resting on Arlo’s head. He licks your fingers once.
Then the senior staff member says, “We also wanted to ask how you would prefer us to handle future inquiries. We’ve already received interview requests.” Your stomach tightens. Pou looks at you first. Laura does too. The difference is immediate. This morning, you felt like they were standing together and you were trying to catch up. Now, they are waiting. Not making you decide alone. Not deciding for you. Waiting with you.
You take a breath. “No interviews.” Pou nods. “No interviews.” Laura adds, “For any of us.” The staff member writes that down.
“Understood.”
“And no statement identifying our relationship further,” you say. The words feel strange, but you keep going. “If people ask, the answer is that private relationships are private, and no one is entitled to details.” Laura’s hand finds yours beneath the table. Pou says, “Exactly.”
The communications staff member nods. “We can use that language.” You sit a little straighter. “Also, comments that speculate about surrogacy or pregnancy need to be removed. Immediately.” Allie’s face tightens with sympathy.
“Absolutely,” the staff member says. “We’ve already begun moderating those.”
You look at the screen. “That speculation is not harmless.”
“No,” Allie says quietly. “It isn’t.”
The call lasts twenty-six minutes. By the end, nothing is magically fixed. The screenshot still exists. People still saw it. Your mother still found out from Facebook. Your friends still have questions. The team still knows. But there is a plan. A real one. A plan you helped make. When the call ends, you close the laptop and exhale. Pou leans back in her chair. “How are you feeling?”
You consider lying out of habit. Then you don’t. “Wrung out.” Laura nods. “Yeah.”
“Also hungry.”
Pou immediately stands. “I can make lunch.” You raise an eyebrow.
“Can you?”
She points at you. “I can assemble lunch.”
Laura smiles. “That’s more accurate.”
Pou opens the fridge and stares into it with the focus of someone studying game tape. “We have turkey, cheese, hummus, leftover pasta, half a cucumber, and something in foil that I’m afraid of.”
“Laura made that,” you say.
Laura sits up. “That's roasted cauliflower.”
Pou looks over her shoulder. “Why is it looking at me?”
“It isn’t looking at you.”
“It has intent.” You laugh, and the sound surprises all three of you. Arlo emerges from beneath the table, instantly hopeful at the mention of lunch. Pou points at him. “You’re on my side, right?” Arlo sneezes. “Betrayal,” Pou mutters. It's not fine. But it's your kitchen. Your people. Your dog. Your weird foil-wrapped cauliflower. And for the first time since you woke up, your body starts to believe the day might not destroy you.
At one in the afternoon, Pou’s phone starts buzzing again with her Team Canada group chat. It is not your chat. It has never been your chat. You are not part of Team Canada in any official or unofficial way. You know some of the players because you love Pou and Laura, because you have stood near picnic tables and watched badminton games and carried coolers beside them, but you aren't on the roster, not on the staff, not in the group texts where team business happens. Whatever they are saying now, you only know it because Pou and Laura choose to read it to you. She looks at you before opening it.
“Read it,” you say. So she does.
Nursey: I know we’re giving space, but I want to say this clearly. I like her. We all like her. I’m just realizing I didn’t know something huge, and I don’t know how to talk about it without making it weird.
Spooner: Same. I feel awful because I called her your friend. And I meant it kindly, but now I’m replaying the picnic and realizing I probably made her feel like an outsider.
Rebecca: I asked her about how she knew you both, and she said you’d been friends a long time. I believed her because why wouldn’t I? Now I feel like I accidentally made her lie to me.
Jamie: I put her directly on the spot during badminton. I keep thinking about her face. I thought I was just being friendly.
Jenner: Nobody had the full context. That matters. But now we need to make sure we don’t demand context from them just because we’re surprised.
Melodie: I’m confused, but not in a bad way. More like, I’m realizing there was a whole part of your family we didn’t know how to see.
You sit very still. The messages are kind. They still hurt. Laura watches you. “Do you want me to respond?”
You think about it. “Maybe we respond together.” Pou nods, already handing you the phone. You type slowly, then read it aloud before sending.
Pou: We appreciate everyone giving us space. The post went up without approval, and we’re dealing with it together. Please don’t ask for details right now. What matters is that she’s not an outsider.
Laura adds, “Can I add something?” You nod. She types under Pou’s message.
Laura: We know people are confused. That’s fair. We kept a lot private for a long time. But confusion can still be handled with care. Please don’t speculate about labels, family planning, or who belongs where.
She looks at you. You nod. Pou sends both messages. The replies come quickly.
Nursey: Understood. Thank you for trusting us with that much.
Spooner: I’m sorry again. I won’t ask questions. I just want her to know she’s welcome with us.
Rebecca: Same. I’d like to apologize to her directly someday, but only if she wants that.
Jamie: Please tell her I’m sorry. No pressure to respond.
Jenner: Giving space. Sending love to all three of you.
Melodie: Thanks for explaining what you can. We’ll follow your lead.
For a while, nobody speaks. Then Laura says, “How does that feel?”
You stare at the screen. “Like being talked about by people who care but still don’t know me.”
Pou nods. “Yeah.”
“That’s better than being talked about by people who don’t care.”
“It is,” Laura says.
“But it’s still strange.”
“Yeah,” Pou says. “It is.” Your phone buzzes. Marcus again.
Marcus: I’m going to ask something practical, not personal. Do you want me to send a note to your clients for today saying you had an unexpected privacy breach and will be rescheduling, or do you want it vaguer than that?
You stare at the message. The phrase privacy breach makes your chest go tight. Professional. Clean. Accurate. You show it to Pou and Laura. Laura reads it and exhales. “Marcus sounds solid.”
“He is.”
Pou leans closer. “What do you want to say?” You think about it. Not what you should say. Not what would be easiest for the practice. What do you want? You type back.
You: Vague for clients. Unexpected personal matter. No details. For staff, you can say I was involved in a privacy breach connected to a public post, and I’ll address professional concerns directly if they come up. Please make it clear no one should discuss my relationship or confirm anything to callers.
Marcus replies almost immediately.
Marcus: Done. Also, for what it’s worth, you’re a good therapist. This doesn’t change that.
You stare at that line for longer than you mean to. You’re a good therapist. Laura’s hand settles between your shoulder blades.
“Hey.” You blink. “You okay?”
“I think I needed to hear that.”
Pou’s expression softens. “You are a good therapist.”
“I know. I just…” You set the phone down. “So much of my work is about trust. Parents trust me with their kids. Teens trust me with things they haven’t said out loud anywhere else. I have to hold boundaries. I have to be safe. And now people are going to look at me and wonder if my personal life is relevant.”
Laura’s hand moves slowly over your back. “Is it?”
“Clinically? Not in the way people might think.” You take a breath, grateful for the familiar language of your work. “Therapists have personal lives. We don’t owe clients every detail. But I specialize in LGBTQ+ youth and family systems. So people might assume I’m biased, or that I disclose too much, or that I’m pushing a worldview instead of supporting clients. And if a parent already feels uneasy about affirming therapy, this gives them something to latch onto.”
Pou’s face hardens. “That’s unfair.”
“Yes,” you say. “And real.”
Laura nods slowly. “What do you need professionally?” The question steadies you.
“I need to talk to Dr. Shah. I need to document what happened in case any clients or parents bring it up. I need a script for the office. I need to decide whether I’m working tomorrow or taking a day.”
Pou nods. “Okay. We’ll help.” You look at her.
She corrects herself. “If you want help.”
“Thank you.”
Laura says, “And Marcus?” “I’ll call him after my mom.”
Pou’s eyebrows lift slightly. “That sounds like a lot.”
“It is.”
“Do you want us with you for those calls?” You look between them.
“Yes,” you say. “But I need to lead.”
Laura nods. “You lead.”
Pou says, “We follow.” The simplicity of it helps.
By two, you call your mother. It takes you ten minutes to press the button. You sit on the back porch steps with Arlo pressed against your side, your phone in your lap, and Laura and Pou just inside the open sliding door. Close enough to be there. Far enough to let the conversation be yours. It's your idea. That matters. Arlo rests his chin on your thigh, his big brown eyes looking up at you like he is deeply invested in family communication. “You’re not subtle,” you tell him. His tail taps against the porch. You call. Your mother answers on the second ring.
“Hi, honey.” Her voice is careful, which hurts more than anger would.
“Hi, Mom.” There is a pause. You can hear her breathing.
“I saw the apology,” she says.
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry that happened.”
The sentence catches you off guard. You were prepared for hurt. For questions. For why didn’t you tell me. You weren't prepared for sympathy first. “Thanks,” you say, and your voice comes out smaller than you wanted.
“I’m still hurt,” she says. “I won’t lie about that.”
“I know.”
“But I’m trying to separate being hurt from what happened to you today. Because those aren’t the same thing.” You press your fingers into Arlo’s fur.
“No. They’re not.”
“I wish I had heard it from you.”
“I know.”
“Did you think I wouldn’t love you?” Your eyes burn, but you don't cry. You look at the yard, at the patch of grass Arlo keeps digging up no matter how many times Pou fills it in. “I didn’t know what you would do with it,” you say honestly. “And that felt too scary to risk.”
Your mother is quiet. Then she says, “How long”
"Nine years."
"Nine years?" She asks back in shock.
“Yeah.”
“Oh, honey.” There is no accusation in it this time. Just sadness.
“I wanted to tell you,” you say. “A lot of times. And then every time I tried, I thought about having to explain all of it. Not just that I love them, but how. What that means. What it doesn’t mean. Whether it’s serious. Whether it’s stable. Whether I’m being used. Whether I’m confused. And I couldn’t handle the idea of you looking at my life like it was something strange.”
“I might have asked clumsy questions,” she admits.
“I know.”
“I might still.”
“I know that too.”
“But I wouldn’t have stopped loving you.” You look down at Arlo, who has pushed his nose under your hand again.
“I think some part of me knows that,” you say. “But fear doesn’t always listen to the reasonable part.”
“No,” your mother says softly. “It doesn’t.”
Behind you, you hear a quiet sound. You turn slightly and see Laura standing just inside the doorway, arms wrapped around herself. Pou is behind her, one hand on the counter, watching you with a kind of helpless love that makes your chest ache. Your mother says, “Are they there?”
“Yes.”
“Pou and Laura?”
“Yes.”
“Do they love you well?” You look at them. Pou’s mouth tightens like she is trying very hard not to react. Laura’s eyes shine.
“They do,” you say. “Not perfectly. Today was hard. But yes. They love me well.”
Your mother exhales. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“I don’t have to understand everything today to be glad you’re loved.”
The sentence lands gently. It is not a perfect resolution. It is not a movie moment where all fear disappears. Your mother still sounds hurt. You still feel guilty. There will be more conversations, more questions, more places where language fails before it gets better. But it is a door opening. Not wide. Enough.
“I want you to meet them properly,” you say.
“I’d like that.” You look back at Pou and Laura again.
“They’d like that too.” Pou nods quickly, like your mother can see her. Laura presses a hand to her chest.
Your mother says, “And honey?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry strangers got to know before I did. Not because I deserved your truth before you were ready, but because you deserved to tell it in your own time.” This time, your eyes do fill, but the tears don't fall.
“Thanks, Mom.” After you hang up, you stay on the porch for a moment with the phone in your hand.
Laura comes out first. “Okay?”
You nod. “Better than I expected.”
Pou sits on the step below you. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not yet.”
“Okay.” Arlo, apparently deciding the conversation needs closure, climbs halfway into your lap and licks your chin. You make a disgusted noise.
“Arlo.”
Laura laughs, sitting beside you. “He’s proud of you.”
“He has no concept of emotional bravery. He ate a sock last month.”
Pou scratches Arlo’s chest. “Maybe the sock was emotionally brave.” You look at her. She shrugs. “We don’t know his journey.”
You groan, but you’re smiling. The three of you sit there on the porch steps, Arlo sprawled across all of you, the afternoon sun warming your shoulders. For a little while, the phones stay inside. For a little while, the world is only the yard, the dog, and the people you love.
You call Marcus at two forty-five. You sit in your office at home for this one, because the professional part of your life needs its own space. Pou and Laura stay just outside the door after you ask them to. Arlo, however, refuses to respect professional boundaries and plants himself under your desk with his chin on your foot. Marcus answers on the first ring.
“Hey,” he says. “First thing, are you safe?” The question makes your chest squeeze.
“Yes. I’m home.”
“Good. Are Pou and Laura with you?” You pause. You have never heard him say their names together like that. Not with the weight of knowing what they mean.
“Yes.”
“Good,” he says again. “Okay. Work stuff. I cleared your schedule for today. I told clients there was an unexpected personal matter and that we’d reschedule or offer coverage if urgent. Nobody pushed back.” Your shoulders drop a fraction.
“Thank you.”
“Denise knows not to confirm anything to callers. I told her if someone asks whether you work here, she can use the standard line about not disclosing provider schedules or personal information.”
“Good.”
“Dr. Shah called me. She wants you to call her when you’re ready, not because you’re in trouble, but because she thinks you need support before parents or clients start asking questions.” You close your eyes.
“That’s probably smart.”
“Also,” Marcus says, then pauses.
“What?” “I need to tell you something that might upset you.” Your stomach tightens.
“Okay.”
“A parent emailed the general office account. Their kid is on your caseload. They didn’t name the post directly, but they asked whether providers are required to disclose ‘alternative lifestyles’ that could influence treatment.” Your whole body goes cold. Arlo lifts his head from your foot.
Marcus says quickly, “I haven’t responded. Dr. Shah and I both think the response should be firm, boring, and policy-based. Something like, all providers follow ethical guidelines, personal protected information isn’t disclosed to clients or families, and treatment remains client-centered and evidence-informed.” You press your fingertips to your eyes.
“Oh my god.”
“I know.”
“This is exactly what I was afraid of.”
“I know,” Marcus says again, softer this time. “But listen to me. One parent asking a gross question doesn’t mean your reputation is gone. It means one parent asked a gross question.”
You let out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh. “That’s very clinical of you.”
“I’m trying not to say what I’d like to say about them.”
“I appreciate the restraint.”
“Barely restrained,” Marcus says. “Deeply heroic.” Despite yourself, you smile.
Then his voice gentles. “You’re good at your job. You know that, right?”
“I usually do.”
“Know it today too.” Your eyes sting. Marcus continues, “You’ve helped half the queer kids in this city feel like they can breathe. Your relationship doesn’t undermine that. If anything, the fact that you understand complicated identity and privacy from the inside probably makes you better at it. Not because clients need to know your business, but because you know what it costs to be perceived.” You do cry then, just a little. Quietly. One hand pressed over your mouth so Pou and Laura won’t hear from the hallway. Marcus pretends not to notice. That is one of the things you love about him. “What do you need from me?” he asks.
“I need tomorrow morning off,” you say, wiping your cheek quickly. “Maybe the whole day. I don’t know yet.”
“Done.”
“And I need help drafting the office response.”
“Already started.”
“And if reporters call…”
“We don’t talk to reporters.”
“Good.”
“And as your friend,” Marcus adds, “you don’t owe anyone a perfectly polished version of yourself today. Not your clients. Not your partners. Not your mom. Not Team Canada. Nobody.” You breathe in slowly. “I needed that too.”
“I figured.”
You hang up ten minutes later with a list of next steps, an email draft coming your way, and the strange relief of not having to hold the professional fallout alone. When you open the door, Pou and Laura are sitting on the hallway floor. You stare at them. Laura looks up. “We didn’t want to hover.” “So you sat on the floor outside my office?” Pou says, “It felt less hover-y from down here.”
You look between them. Then you laugh. Not because it is funny enough to fix anything, but because they look so earnest and ridiculous and worried, and because Arlo squeezes past your legs to join them like he too has been part of the hallway support team. Laura stands first.
“How was Marcus?”
“Good,” you say.
“Concerned. Helpful. Mad on my behalf.”
Pou nods approvingly. “I like Marcus.”
“You’ve never met Marcus.”
“I like his energy.”
Laura asks, “Professional stuff?”
You nod. “Some. A parent emailed the office.”
Laura’s face tightens. “About the post?”
“Not directly. But yes.”
Pou stands too. “What do you need?”
You glance between them. “My brain says I need to handle it alone because it’s my job.”
Laura nods slowly. “And what do you actually need?”
You swallow. “I need you to sit with me while I read the draft from Marcus and Dr. Shah.”
Pou’s voice softens. “We can do that.”
“Without trying to fix it.”
She nods. “Without trying to fix it.”
Laura adds, “Unless you ask.”
“Unless I ask.” That is enough. For now, enough is everything.
At four, you sit with Pou in the kitchen while Laura takes a call from her family. The house has gone quieter again, not peaceful exactly, but less frantic. Team Canada’s apology has been posted. The comments are being moderated. Marcus has sent a draft of the office response. Dr. Shah has emailed you directly, kind and firm and professionally unshaken. You should feel better. You do, a little. But better is not the same as fine. Pou is making tea because she doesn't know what else to do with her hands. She moves around the kitchen with the focused precision she brings to everything: mug, kettle, tea bag, spoon, honey. It's almost funny, how seriously she takes small tasks when big ones are out of her control. You sit at the island, watching her. She catches you looking.
“What?”
“You’re aggressively making tea.”
“I’m making tea normally.”
“You’re making tea like it insulted your team.”
Pou looks down at the mug. “It knows what it did.” You smile, but it fades quickly. Pou sees that too. She brings the mug over and sets it in front of you, then leans against the counter opposite you. “What happened?” she asks.
“Nothing new.”
“That’s not what I asked.” You wrap both hands around the mug.
“I keep thinking about the parent who emailed the office.”
Pou’s face hardens. “The one Marcus mentioned.”
“Yeah.” You stare into the tea. “I know how to respond professionally. I know the ethics. I know my personal life isn’t something I’m required to disclose. I know the work I do is sound. But there’s a difference between knowing that and imagining a parent looking at me like I’m unsafe for their kid because they saw a photo of me loving you.” Pou’s jaw flexes. You continue, “And then I feel guilty because so many of my clients are queer kids who need to see adults living full lives. Maybe seeing me out, even accidentally, could help them. But they’re clients. They’re not supposed to carry my story. They’re supposed to have their own space.”
Pou sits beside you. “That’s a lot to hold.”
“Yeah.”
“Do you want my honest thought?” You glance at her.
“Usually dangerous, but yes.”
“I think you’re allowed to be both a private person and a real person. Even with clients.” You look down at the mug. Pou continues, “You don’t have to turn yourself into a blank wall to be ethical. And you don’t have to turn yourself into representation for everyone else to be useful. Maybe some clients will see it and feel less alone. Maybe some parents will be weird. Maybe both happen. But none of that means you did something wrong.”
You are quiet for a moment. Then you say, “You sound like Laura.”
Pou makes a face. “Take that back.” You smile. She nudges your knee with hers. “I’m serious.”
“I know.”
Pou studies you. “Can I tell you another thing?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m worried about you at work,” she admits. “Not because I think you can’t handle it. Because I know that’s the place where you’ve always felt useful. Steady. Like you can make sense of other people’s fear even when you can’t make sense of your own. And I don’t want this to take that from you.” Something in your chest softens.
“Me neither.”
Pou reaches for your hand. “It won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No,” she says. “I don’t. But I know you. You’re good at what you do. You’re not good because you’re uncomplicated. You’re good because you know how to sit with complicated things without running from them.”
You let out a quiet breath. “I ran a lot today.”
“You came back.” You look at her. Pou’s thumb brushes over your knuckles. “That matters.” Laura’s voice filters in from the living room, low and tired as she talks to someone in her family. You and Pou both look toward the sound.
“She okay?” you ask.
Pou’s face softens. “I think so. Her sister is being protective.”
“Good.” Pou’s mouth curves. “Very protective. She asked if she needed to fight the internet.”
“She and Arlo should start a club.”
“They’d be terrifying.”
The two of you sit there, hands linked on the counter, Laura’s voice in the next room, Arlo asleep in a patch of sun by the back door. A triangle doesn't always mean all three points are speaking at once. Sometimes it's you and Laura on the living room floor, naming the fear of being the hidden love. Sometimes it is you and Pou in the kitchen, hands wrapped around tea, talking about work and damage and how to keep standing. Sometimes it is Pou and Laura in another room, loving each other through their own panic while you are held by the fact that they have their own line too, a line that doesn't erase yours. You're not outside their marriage. You're not inside it either. You are part of something built beside it, through it, around it, something with three sides and three histories and three different kinds of love. Harder to explain. No less real.
At five thirty, Laura finds you in the bedroom. You are sitting on the edge of the bed with your laptop open, staring at the email draft from Marcus and Dr. Shah. Your personal protected information is not disclosed to clients or families. Our clinicians follow all relevant ethical guidelines and provide evidence-informed care. We do not comment on staff members’ private lives. It is exactly what it should be. Firm. Boring. Policy-based. You hate that it has to exist. Laura knocks softly on the doorframe even though the door is open.
“Can I come in?” You close the laptop halfway.
“Yeah.” She steps inside and shuts the door behind her. That small choice, the click of privacy, makes something in you loosen. “How’s your family?” you ask.
“Protective. Confused. Trying.” Laura sits beside you, leaving a few inches of space. “My sister said she’s sorry you got dragged into public before anyone had language for it.”
“That’s nice of her.”
“She also called the fan accounts vultures.”
“That’s also nice of her.” Laura smiles faintly, then looks at the laptop.
“Professional response?”
“Yeah.”
“Is it okay?”
“It’s good.” You rub your forehead. “It just makes it feel real in a different way. Like now there’s a workplace version of the crisis. A family version. A team version. An internet version. I’m collecting versions.”
Laura shifts closer. “And what’s the you version?” You look at her. She waits. The question is so Laura. Not what happened. Not what needs to be done. What does it feel like inside you when all the noise is stripped away?
“I feel embarrassed,” you admit. Laura’s brow furrows, but she doesn’t interrupt. “I know I didn’t do anything wrong. I know we didn’t do anything wrong by loving each other. But I feel exposed in this humiliating way. Like everyone saw me wanting something. Like they saw me wanting you both.” Laura’s face softens. “And with you, it’s…” You stop.
“With me?” she prompts. You look down at your hands. “Pou gets read as powerful no matter what. People see her as captain, leader, legend. They might be confused, but they’re not going to imagine her as someone small in this.” Laura nods slowly. “But you…” Your voice gets quieter. “You and I have always had this softer thing. Not less strong. Just quieter. You’re the one who notices when I go still. You’re the one who talks me through panic. You’re the one who makes space before I even ask for it.” Laura’s eyes shine. “And I’m scared people will look at the photo and make you the bridge. Like you and Pou are the real couple, and you're the one who is gentle enough to include me. Or that you’re caught between us. Or that I’m somehow attached to you in a way that complicates your marriage instead of being loved by you directly.” Laura inhales. You keep going because the words are out now. “I don’t want people to flatten what you and I are into you being kind to me.”
Laura turns toward you fully. “That’s not what we are.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” You look at her.
Laura’s voice is steady. “I don’t love you because I’m kind. I’m not with you because I’m too gentle to say no or because you needed a place to belong. I love you because I want you. Because you challenge me. Because you see the parts of me that hide behind being easygoing and patient and fine.” You swallow hard. She continues, “Pou sees that too. In a different way. That’s the point. We all see different parts of each other. My love for Pou doesn’t compete with my love for you. Your love for me doesn’t make Pou less central. Pou’s love for both of us doesn’t make either of us an accessory. It’s not a couple plus one. It’s three relationships and one family.” You let out a shaky breath. Laura reaches for your face with one hand, slow enough that you can move away. You don’t. Her palm settles against your cheek. “And I’m sorry the world doesn’t know how to see that yet.”
“Me too.”
“But I know how to see it,” she says. “Pou knows how to see it. And we’re going to get better at making sure you can feel that, even when other people are lost.” You close your eyes for a second. Laura’s thumb moves gently along your cheekbone. “I love you,” she says.
“I love you too.”
She leans in and kisses you. It is not rushed. Not careful in the public way. Careful in the loving way. The kind of kiss that says she is here, she is choosing you, she doesn't need an audience to make it true. When she pulls back, she rests her forehead against yours. “I’m scared too,” she whispers.
“I know.”
“I’m scared of people being curious in ways that feel kind until they aren’t. I’m scared of saying the wrong thing and hurting you. I’m scared of Pou feeling like she has to lead us through it because that’s what she does. I’m scared of wanting more visibility and knowing it came from something that hurt you.” You open your eyes. Laura’s are right there.
“I’m scared of all that too,” you say.
“Then we’ll be scared together.” You laugh softly.
“That seems to be the family motto now.”
“We should put it on a throw pillow.”
“Absolutely not.” Laura smiles, and you kiss her again because you can, because the door is closed, because this moment belongs to the two of you. Not you and Laura as a secret. You and Laura as one side of the truth.
At six thirty, the three of you end up in the living room again. Dinner is takeout because nobody has the energy to cook. Pou orders from the Thai place you all love, and Laura finds a movie none of you actually cares about watching. Arlo climbs onto the couch before anyone can stop him. “Employee privileges ended hours ago,” Laura says. Arlo rests his chin on your thigh. You look at her.
“He’s unionized.”
Pou nods. “Strong contract.”
Laura sighs, but she doesn't make him move. When the food arrives, you eat straight from takeout containers at the coffee table. It feels strangely normal. Pad thai, curry, spring rolls, Arlo staring intensely at every bite like his entire future depends on your generosity. Halfway through dinner, Pou sets her fork down.
“I need to say something.” Your stomach tenses automatically. Laura notices.
“Good something or bad something?” Pou thinks.
“Necessary something.” You set your container down.
“Okay.” Pou turns toward you fully. “I’m angry.”
You blink. “At Team Canada?” you ask.
“Yes. And at myself. And at the whole situation.” She looks down at her hands. “I’m angry that they took the choice from us. I’m angry that I didn’t protect you from it. I’m angry that part of me, for a split second, felt relieved.” Laura goes still. You do too. Pou continues before either of you can respond. “Not relieved that you were hurt. Not relieved that it happened that way. But relieved that the secret was out somewhere, somehow, and I didn’t have to be the one to make the decision. And I hate that. I hate that there was a part of me that thought, maybe now we don’t have to keep doing this.” The room is silent. You look at Laura. Her face tells you she understands too well.
“You felt that too?” you ask. Laura is quiet for a moment. Then she nods.
“For a second.” The admission hurts. It also makes sense. You wait. Laura’s voice is careful. “I saw the photo, and I panicked. Then I saw some of the positive comments, and there was this horrible little part of me that thought maybe this is easier than choosing it. Maybe if people already know, we can stop being afraid.” She looks at you. “And then I saw your face.” Your throat tightens. “And I knew there was nothing easy about it,” Laura says. “Because even if a part of me was tired of hiding, you still deserved a choice. We all did.” Pou’s eyes stay on you. “I’m sorry for that relief. I don’t want to hide behind the fact that I was scared too. You deserved better.”
You take a long breath. You could be angry about the relief. Part of you is. But another part of you recognizes it because some small, buried part of you felt something similar beneath the panic. A terrible, shameful thought that whispered, maybe now you don't have to find the courage yourself.
“I think,” you say slowly, “maybe that’s what makes this so hard.” They wait. “Because there are parts of today that are things I wanted,” you say. “I wanted people to know I wasn’t just your friend. I wanted to stop disappearing. I wanted someone to see the three of us and understand there was love there.” Laura’s eyes soften. “But I didn’t want it stolen,” you say. “And I didn’t want people to see before we knew what we were ready to say. And I didn’t want my first public role in this relationship to be decided by a comment section.” Pou nods. “I can be angry and still understand why part of you felt relieved,” you say. “But I need you to know that relief can’t turn into pressure. Not from either of you.”
“It won’t,” Pou says immediately.
Laura nods. “It won’t.”
“If we decide to be more open, it has to be because we choose it. Not because Team Canada made it harder to hide.”
Pou’s voice is firm. “Agreed.”
You look down at Arlo, who is asleep with one paw resting on your knee. “And if we decide to say something publicly someday, I need to be part of the statement. Not the subject of it.” Laura reaches for your hand.
“Yes.” Pou leans closer. “Always.”
You let yourself believe them. Not because the day has been easy. Because they've stayed. Because they've listened even when it hurt. Because they have apologized without making you comfort them. Because you've all been honest about the ugliest, most complicated parts and nobody has walked away. The movie plays quietly in the background, ignored.
After a while, Laura says, “What do we want now?” It is a simple question. Still, it feels enormous. You look at her.
“Tonight?”
“Tonight.”
You think about your mother. Jenna. Sarah. Marcus. Dr. Shah. Pou and Laura’s team chat. The apology. The comments. The office email. The parent who asked about alternative lifestyles. The stranger who called you a surrogate. “I want no more internet tonight,” you say.
Pou nods. “Done.”
“I want dessert.” Laura smiles.
“Obviously.”
“I want Arlo on the couch even though he’s not supposed to be.” Arlo opens one eye, as if aware his fate is being negotiated. Pou looks at Laura. “I support this.”
Laura sighs. “Fine. One night only.” You and Pou both look at her. She points at you. “Do not make this a policy.”
“No promises,” you say. Pou grins. The normalness of it settles over you like a blanket. Then you take a breath and say the thing that has been sitting in your chest all day. “And I want us to talk about what being more open might look like. Not tonight. Not in a crisis. But soon.”
Pou’s expression goes serious. “Okay.”
Laura nods. “Soon.”
“I don’t know what I’m ready for,” you say. “Maybe it’s only telling a few people. Maybe it’s correcting your teammates when they call me a friend. Maybe it’s letting Pou say all three of us in a room where people can hear it. Maybe it’s nothing public for a while. I don’t know.”
“That’s okay,” Laura says.
“But I don’t want to go back to exactly how it was,” you admit.
“I can’t. Not after today.” Pou reaches across Arlo to take your hand. The dog huffs at being disturbed but does not move.
“We don’t have to go back,” Pou says.
Laura’s hand covers both of yours. “We can build something different.”
“Something with more choice,” you say.
“Yes,” Laura says. “And more honesty, and fewer official Instagram surprises.” Laura says,
“That one feels very achievable.” You laugh, and the sound is tired but real.
Later, after dinner, containers are thrown away, and the phones are charging in the bedroom where nobody is allowed to touch them; the three of you end up on the living room floor. You're not sure how it happens. Laura says she wants to stretch her back. Pou says she should stretch like she's supposed to, and then demonstrates something that looks painful and unnecessary. You accuse both of them of being show-offs. Arlo interprets floor time as an invitation and immediately flops down in the middle of everyone. Soon, all three of you are lying on the rug in a loose triangle, Arlo stretched across the center like the world’s furriest boundary line. The room is dim except for the lamp in the corner. Outside, the sky has gone deep blue. The house is quiet in a way that feels earned. Laura turns her head toward you. “Do you regret leaving the photo up as long as we did this morning?”
You think about it. “I regret that it went up at all without consent.”
“Yeah.”
“I regret reading the comments alone at first.”
Pou’s face tightens. “Me too.”
“I regret that my mom found out from someone else.” Laura nods. “I regret that Marcus had to move my appointments because someone called the office.” You stare at the ceiling. “I regret that a parent now has my relationship in their head when they think about their kid’s therapy.”
Pou’s voice is quiet. “Yeah.”
You run your hand over Arlo’s side. “But I don’t know if I regret that people saw it.” Pou is quiet. Laura is too. You continue slowly. “That’s the complicated part. Some people were awful. Some people were invasive. Some people made me feel like an object or an accessory or a question.” Your throat tightens, but your voice holds. “But some people saw it and felt less alone. And I don’t think I can hate that.”
Pou’s voice is soft. “You shouldn’t have to.”
“I know.”
“Both can be true,” Laura says. You look at her. She smiles faintly. “I saw the comment too.” Both can be true.
You nod. “Both can be true,” you repeat.
Pou shifts onto her side. “Can I tell you something else?”
“Yeah.”
“I liked the photo.” You look at her. She looks nervous. Pou, who can stare down opponents, media reporters, and pressure that would flatten most people, looks nervous, saying she liked a picture. “I hate how it was used,” she says. “I hate what it did to you. I hate that it got posted without approval. But the photo itself…” She pauses. “I liked seeing us like that.” Your chest aches.
Laura nods. “Me too.”
You stare up at the ceiling. “Me too,” you admit.
For the first time all day, you let yourself think about the image without the comments attached. Without the caption. Without Team Canada’s account, fan speculation, and screenshots. Just the photo. Pou smiling at you. Laura leaning close. You laughing. A moment that was real before anyone else touched it. “I don’t want them to ruin it,” you say.
“Then they don’t get to,” Pou says.
Laura reaches over Arlo, and you meet her halfway. Your fingertips touch over the dog’s back. Pou adds her hand too. Arlo opens his eyes, deeply inconvenienced by being used as a family table, then goes back to sleep. You smile.
Laura says, “Maybe we print it.” Your first instinct is fear. Your second is something softer.
“Not big,” you say.
“Not big,” Laura agrees. “Not where guests can see it.”
Pou nods. “Bedroom?” You think about that. A private place. A place that belongs to the three of you. A place where the photo can be itself without having to explain anything to anyone.
“Yeah,” you say. “Bedroom.” Laura smiles. Pou’s thumb moves lightly over your knuckles. You lie there for a while, all three of you touching, Arlo breathing between you.
Then you say, “I want to be visible someday.” Pou’s hand stills. Laura’s eyes move to your face. You keep looking at the ceiling because it's easier. “Not like this. Not taken. Not forced. But someday, I want to be able to stand next to you both and not feel like I have to disappear for everyone to stay comfortable.”
Pou’s voice is quiet. “I want that too.”
Laura nods. “Me too.”
“I’m still scared.”
“We are too,” Laura says.
“I know.”
Pou squeezes your hand. “We can be scared and still move.”
The phrase settles into you. You had said something like it to clients before. Different words, same idea. Courage as movement, not fearlessness. Visibility as a choice, not a performance. Safety as something built in community, not found by shrinking. It's honestly annoying how often your own advice comes back to find you. You turn your head and look at them. Your partners. Your family. The women who hurt you today, not through malice but through panic and clumsy protection and their own fear. The women who listened when you told them. The women who let you be angry. The women who looped you into decisions, sat on the floor with the dog, and agreed that the photo could belong to you again. “I love you both,” you say.
Laura’s smile trembles slightly, but she doesn't cry. “I love you.”
Pou’s voice is low. “I love you too.” Arlo sighs loudly.
“And you,” you tell him.
His tail thumps once without opening his eyes.
By the end of the night, nothing is solved in the clean, final way you once imagined solutions were supposed to happen. Your mother still has questions. Your friends still have feelings. The team still knows. The internet still has screenshots. There are still people who will misunderstand, speculate, reduce, argue, and treat your relationship as a topic rather than a life. There are also people who are trying. Marcus moved your schedule and helped protect your office. Dr. Shah made it clear your personal life doesn't make you unethical. Your mother wants to meet Pou and Laura properly. Your friends are hurt, but still reaching out. Team Canada apologized. The post came down. The worst comments are being moderated. Pou and Laura’s teammates are confused, but they're learning to hold that confusion without making it your burden to solve. And inside your house, something has shifted. Not everything. Enough. Privacy is no longer a place where all three of you hide separately.
It's a choice you will have to keep making together, with more honesty than before. Visibility is no longer a door that can only open through accident or disaster. It's something you can approach slowly, with your hands held and your boundaries named. You don't have to decide tonight whether to make a statement. You don't have to decide tonight who gets told next. You don't have to decide tonight whether pregnancy is something you want, whether carrying would feel like choice or sacrifice, whether motherhood will come through birth, adoption, or some path you haven't found yet. Tonight, you only have to know this: You won't be the secret surrogate. You won't be the third wheel in your own family. You won't be managed into silence by people who love you but are afraid. You won't have to carry privacy alone.
Later, in bed, Arlo wedges himself at your feet even though he has a perfectly good dog bed two rooms away. Laura curls against your side. Pou lies facing you, one hand resting between you on the mattress, palm open. This time, you take it without hesitation. No cameras. No comments. No captions. Just the three of you in the dark, breathing through the end of a terrible, important day.
“I don’t want to go back,” you whisper. Pou’s hand tightens around yours.
“Then we don’t.” Laura presses a kiss to your shoulder. “We go forward.”
You close your eyes. Forward is still scary. Forward is still uncertain. Forward will have lawyers, family conversations, team boundaries, and probably more awkward questions than any of you know what to do with. But forward also has this. Warmth. Hands. Arlo snoring at your feet. The women you love on either side of you, no longer pretending that fear belongs to only one person.
“All three of us?” you ask, though you already know the answer.
“All three of us,” Pou says.
“All three of us,” Laura repeats.
For a while, nobody moves. The room stays quiet except for the hum of the fan and Arlo’s heavy breathing from the end of the bed. Laura’s fingers trace slow, absent patterns over your ribs, and Pou’s thumb moves across your palm, steady and grounding. It should feel like the end of the day. Instead, it feels like the first moment all day that belongs only to you all. You turn toward Laura first, because she's closest, because her mouth is already near your shoulder, because her softness has been holding you together in pieces since morning. She looks up at you, questioning, and you answer by kissing her. Her hand stills against your side. Then she melts into it. The kiss is unhurried, but it is not only gentle. There is need there too, tucked beneath the tenderness. Laura’s hand slides to your waist, pulling you closer until your body fits against hers in the familiar way it always does, like coming home through a door you know in the dark. Behind you, Pou shifts closer.
You feel her before she speaks. The warmth of her at your back. The press of her hand against your hip. The careful pause as she waits for you to decide whether you want more touch or less of it. You reach back for her. Pou exhales, low and relieved, and her arm settles around you. Her mouth brushes the back of your neck, a barely there kiss that sends a shiver through you. Laura notices. Of course she does. Her smile curves against your mouth. “Okay?”
You nod. “Yeah.”
Pou’s voice is quiet near your ear. “Tell us if anything feels like too much.”
“I will.”
Laura kisses you again, deeper this time, and Pou’s hand spreads warm over your stomach, holding you between them without trapping you. It's careful and intimate and completely yours. Not hidden because it's shameful. Private because privacy can still be a gift when you choose it. Your breath catches when Laura’s fingers slip beneath the hem of your shirt, just resting against your skin. Pou’s mouth moves from the back of your neck to your shoulder, soft and patient. Neither of them rushes you. Neither of them tries to make the day easier than it was. They just love you. Slowly. Fully. In the dark, where no one can misunderstand the shape of it. Arlo lets out a dramatic groan from the foot of the bed. All three of you freeze.
Then Laura starts laughing against your collarbone, quiet and helpless, and Pou drops her forehead to your shoulder with a muttered, “Arlo, please.” You laugh too, the sound breaking through the last hard shell around your chest.
“Out,” Laura says, still laughing. Arlo thumps his tail.
“Out, sir,” Pou repeats, more firmly. He huffs like he is being exiled unjustly, then hops down from the bed and pads to his dog bed in the corner with great offense. The three of you lie still for a second. Then Laura looks at you.
“Still okay?” You look from her to Pou, at their faces in the dim light, worried and wanting and waiting for you.
“Yes,” you say. “Still okay.”
Pou’s hand tightens at your waist. Laura’s lips find yours again. This time, there is no interruption. The rest of the night unfolds slowly, in whispered check-ins and familiar hands, in laughter softened by kisses, in the careful removal of the day’s fear one touch at a time. The world has taken enough from you already. This, you decide, it doesn't get. This stays here. In your room. In your bed. In the quiet between the three of you, where love doesn't need to be explained to be real. And when the lights finally go out, you're held on both sides, warm and breathless and safe. Tomorrow, the world will still have questions. Tonight, nobody gets to ask them.
Maekar and Baelor looking at niennas boobs. I NEED that smut NOW.
LMAOOO (Nienna is affecting them real BADDDDD) but soon enough hopefully!!! They will meet fully within a few chapters- I just gotta line everything up!!!
OH THE PASSION. THE LUST. THE LOVE. Here’s how you met these two beautiful creatures :3 :
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ʚ♡ɞ Larissa has gone through a lot of dry spells in life. She spent a long stretch of adult life alone when first returning to Nevermore and becoming Principal. She was constantly busy and never had time for anyone else in her bed, much less herself. So anything regarding sex was put on the back burner. It became hard when she thought about it, but after soaking herself in heaps of work, it wasn’t so bad returning to a cold bed.
ʚ♡ɞ Then… you. And Alcina, of course. But first you. You, who started at Nevermore as a faculty member. You were a hit with everyone - especially the Principal. She thought you were funny and intriguing, and often found herself gravitating toward you at important events and staff meetings. Her eyes would always seek you out, and her heart began to pound whenever she thought about you walking into the room. It was hard to come to terms with this ‘crush’ - she hasn’t had a very good track record when it comes to romantic relationships, one night stands, or interests. You, however, melted around Larissa. You became best friends in no time. The dynamic duo of Nevermore. Wherever she was, you were usually close behind if you weren’t busy with classes or lesson planning.
ʚ♡ɞ And soon enough! You kissed. One warm night in her office, with you leaning against the couch, your bare feet in her lap. There was a glass of wine beside her kicked off heels and a glass of easy champagne in your hand. You were never a heavy drinker - and you always wanted to keep your wits around Larissa. But she was so… spectacular. She made you laugh until you cried, snarking about this person or another, and her hand was so warm on your calf. Those polished fingernails of hers drew random shapes along your skin, and you couldn’t help but fall into a state of utter happiness. Pure joy. You were so content you could’ve fallen asleep. But then the night was ending and she was shifting to get up and you leaned forward to sit up and your faces were suddenly so close and neither of you could pass up the moment. Not at all. Two seconds later, you were sharing a slow hesitant kiss. It was a soft press, and then a breath, and then another soft press. It was easy to fall into it, but she slipped a hand onto your shoulder and gently pulled away. A small talk ensued about your jobs - and you said you were already looking for a place in Jericho. Working at Nevermore was lovely, but you needed a bit more independence. She said to let her know when you were ready to go and kissed your cheek chastely before letting you go, blushing madly as you went.
ʚ♡ɞ So you began dating. It was beautiful. Slow and steady and not at all boring. Larissa herself was so fascinating that even a night in together, with no other plans, was a good enough date for you. There were picnics, restaurants, nights at her office, walks around Jericho in the light rain, even a vacation to Paris once over the summer.
ʚ♡ɞ It was amazing! Perfection.
ʚ♡ɞ Until you walked into a bar one evening, took a seat at a booth, and heard a deep rich voice break the comfortable conversation. It was angry and loud. Distinctly feminine but also a bit scary. You instantly made eye contact with Larissa, who looked rather (appropriately) startled.
ʚ♡ɞ “I don’t understand how you ever passed Kindergarten! Did you lose your ability to read in the huge clown pockets of your ridiculous suit pants? It clearly says ‘served chilled.’” And hard hitting heels spiked against the wooden floor. “No wonder this hole has such a poor rating! You can’t understand a wine label! Thank god I’m opening a business here. You’ll be out within the month. I suggest you start packing. Goodbye!”
ʚ♡ɞ And from around the corner came a woman even taller than Larissa. You saw her first and your eyes flew so wide, your lover had to turn right around in her spot and go “What’s wrong??” before the words died instantly on her lips.
ʚ♡ɞ There was a raven-haired beauty, sleek and curvy, that came stalking around from the back office. Her lips? Deep red. Her eyes? Hidden behind sunglasses. She didn’t seem to care if it was nighttime. Her attitude radiated arrogance and strength. She was obviously pissed, and obviously pre-occupied, but something stopped her. You and Larissa, probably. But you didn’t understand how she saw you - she was looking away! Apparently that didn’t matter, as a second later she stopped - and her head whipped around to face you two.
ʚ♡ɞ Instantly, you sank back into the booth. Larissa looked at you with wide eyes. You looked at her with wide eyes. It would have been comical if you weren’t so nervous. She definitely saw you. And she looked expensive. Opening a business? Out within the month? Who the fuck is she?
“Excuse me.”
And like one person, you and Larissa turned to look up. She was, somehow, taller than your lover. Larissa stood at a beautiful 6’3”, but the stranger stood at… 6’9” probably. She looked nearly inhuman. Pale, striking, and her nails were so… sharp.
“I couldn’t help but notice you’re the only ones occupying this… establishment,” she spoke so properly, drawing out some of her vowels with a drawl. You swallowed. Larissa stared. “I must be honest, ladies. It’s really not worth your time. Why don’t I show you a better spot? I have a feeling you’ll enjoy it.”
You shared a confused, worried glance with your lover. The woman’s smile was sharp.
“I um- Larissa? Thoughts?”
Your lover blinked and quickly gave you a polite smile.
“I think it would be rude if we passed it up… what do you think, love?”
“Uh-”
“How about this,” the woman interrupted and placed her palms on the table, and her sunglasses slid down the bridge of her nose. Suddenly, you were both pierced straight through by sharp golden eyes. Definitely not human. You and Larissa shared a look. “To apologize for my… earlier outburst… I’ll treat you both to a brilliant dinner. I insist.”
ʚ♡ɞ And so you went out together. She said she’d send you back to pick up your car later and then you all packed into the back of a limo. Clearly, she had money. You clasped Larissa’s hand. And then the woman went soft with charm. She took off her glasses, shook your hands, and introduced herself as Alcina Dimitrescu. Instantly, you knew the name. Dimitrescu Winery. The vineyard. And this was the Queen Bee herself.
ʚ♡ɞ It was riveting eating with Alcina. She got the best service, the best food, and the rich restaurant you went to some miles outside of Jericho seemed to welcome her with open arms. You talked about your job, Alcina mentioned her new business opening in Jericho, and Larissa kept herself quiet about her job. She was always weary. Thank goodness that changed as soon as Alcina gave her a once over and engaged her in the most intriguing conversation. She wanted her to be comfortable. Larissa squeezed your hand under the table when Alcina asked about her job, and you squeezed it back. When Larissa finally spoke about Nevermore, Alcina lit up.
“It seems like a marvelous place. I know I would have loved going there when I was young.”
ʚ♡ɞ You talked politics, dinner, jobs, men, and women. Alcina could obviously tell you were involved - and you were so used to people mentioning it somehow that it was weird how she didn’t comment on it. Until she mentioned an ex-wife, and you squeezed Larissa so hard she had to stop herself from bursting out laughing.
ʚ♡ɞ Alcina made you both blush. She was so engaging, so haughty, and clearly flawed. But you and Larissa looked at her with sparkling eyes. It was a marvelous evening. You exchanged numbers.
ʚ♡ɞ And then there was another meet up. And another. And soon enough, you were three best friends. Three best friends with a shit ton of tension. By the time you and Larissa spoke about your mutual interest, you knew a lot about Alcina. You trusted her with everything. On one of her less busy days, she brought Larissa lunch because she forgot hers. And one evening when you were working late, she showed up with a cup of hot chocolate and coaxed you into going home. She was very sweet on you both.
ʚ♡ɞ Eventually, you had the talk. It was in Larissa’s quarters. Alcina had invited you over to her very luxurious apartment many times, but on that evening, you were lounging in Larissa’s living room. Heels all kicked off, Alcina’s wine on the table, and you came up with the half tipsy idea to play spin the bottle. It was silly, made them laugh, but you put the emptied bottle on its side and spun and soon enough you were kissing Larissa. It was a gentle, slow kiss. Then she spun and oh… oh. Of course. You’d both have to kiss Alcina at some point. And something in her eyes glinted with sadistic pleasure. Larissa was a little nervous, but she threw caution to the wind and kissed Alcina soundly on the lips. You were buzzing with anticipation and nervousness—which quickly slipped into desire when Alcina let out a filthy groan and kissed Larissa back. She was quickly overpowering, shuffling closer, but your lover pulled back with a raspy gasp - And Alcina leaned over the table, took the bottle, and pointed it toward you. No spin necessary apparently as she moved across like a lioness, grasped your chin in one hand, and pulled you into a deep kiss. Again, she groaned. Larissa was blushing all the way to her toes. You were nearly fitful with pleasure. And when she sat back, satisfied with her smudged lipstick, looking bizarrely outrageously handsome, you and Larissa shared a look. But Alcina spoke first.
“Forgive my… overzealous nature. I’m sure it’s no surprise. I have just been… eager.”
“For how long?” You asked her.
The smile she gave you was sheepish.
“Since the first time we shared dinner together…”
ʚ♡ɞ And of course that led to your amazing power throuple.
ʚ♡ɞ It’s the best relationship you’ve ever been in. They’re mature women, but also incredibly childish at times. Alcina especially. Larissa has a better handle of her emotions and yours. She just knows how to be a good partner - probably because she’s spent a lot of time alone, wondering about all the ways she’d treat her lover.
Alcina, however… well she has her moments.
They’re usually in the bedroom.
ʚ♡ɞ Her nature is incredibly domineering and on one of your official dates together, she explained herself.
“I don’t think either of you will be surprised, but honesty is of course the best policy,” she cleared her throat. “So I should probably tell you both that I’m a dragon.”
Her bluntness had you laughing, but she was not joking around. Larissa could only gape.
“A dragon? That’s your gene pool?”
“Indeed, draga.”
ʚ♡ɞ So it did actually explain a lot. Her possessiveness, her strength—she doesn’t know how to be any way else. And her lust for blood, too… it’s something you try not to talk about in depth. She tells you her practices are safe and consensual, and she’s not interested in fucking anyone who isn’t you or Larissa. The crassness has Larissa blushing, but it’s endearing. And you both trust her.
HOWEVER.
The Bedroom is a different story.
ʚ♡ɞ There, the differences in your personalities stand out a lot.
ʚ♡ɞ There, you are the small quivering submissive doll that Alcina loves to play with and the sweet little darling that Larissa loves to tease. It’s rather unfair, but when you get both of their hands on you, you can’t complain.
ʚ♡ɞ BDSM is a big part of your relationship, as I’ve mentioned in the past. It’s something that means a lot to all three of you, and the intricacies are something you learn with passion; so titles (for example) is a thing you indulge in often.
ʚ♡ɞ Alcina is Mommy. It’s just how it is. And Larissa is Miss. Or Mommy. Or Mistress. It really depends on how far gone you are. If you’re deep in sub-space and shy, she’s Mommy. If you’re feeling a bit brat-ish and frustrated, it’s Mistress. Alcina’s title also changes sometimes, but it’s usually Mommy. Something about it gives her a power trip - which she lives on of course. And it’s… whew. It’s WHEW.
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I’ll probably do an NSFW Alphabet for both characters. What do you all think? Let me know ;)) Thank you for the support! - Rip x
You get hurt on a mission and it starts to make you doubt everything, even your relationship with John and Ava.
Mention of injuries, mention of sex, feelings of not being wanted, heartache, being shot, someone being in a puddle of blood. Angst then fluff
The heavy sound of your playlist echoed through the gym. Everyone had their own personal taste, you took a preference to rock. Your fists hit the heavy bag in tandem with the licks of the drums. Your body moved along with the rhythm almost like a dance, sweat dripped off of you. The soreness from your last run mission was nearly forgotten as you pushed your body to heal.
“Did it piss you off?” Yelena walked in behind you and you didn’t even break your stride, hitting blow after blow “Nope, just imagining what I want to on the bag” she chuckled low, walking wide around you “Would that happen to be your own face?”
You hesitated just enough the bag nearly knocked you on your ass on the back swing. “What?” she shrugged “You’ve barely been out of your quarters in days. You don’t come for meals. You won’t even talk to Ava and John” you shrugged, rotating your neck in a tight circle then turned back to the bag “They don’t need me. As for everything else, I’ll be fine before the next mission”
Your fists started to hit the bag again, a pace slowly building. You felt better just saying the words out loud because they were true. John and Ava didn’t need you. They had each other. They loved each other, you were just… you weren’t sure what the hell you were but the fact remained they didn’t need you when they had each other.
This last mission had been rough on everyone but you nearly lost a civilian because of a misstep. If you had been a fraction of a second slower that man would’ve been crushed to death. Your ribs still ached from getting him out of the way. You hadn’t let anyone know the extent of your bruising. You’d snuck to med bay to get an x-ray just to make sure you had no internal bleeding.
Ava had tried to check on you first. She caught you in the hallway outside of med bay. “Are you ok baby?” she’d tried to slip her arms around your waist but you’d known if she had you would’ve made a noise of pain. You’d side stepped her with a tense smile “I’m ok. I’m just going to head up to my quarters. I need a shower” at which she smiled “I’ll come with you. Keep you company. I can sit on the sink or something and talk to you”
You shook your head, offering her a smile and assuring her you’d be ok. Her face had fallen slightly but you’d pressed a soft kiss to the corner of her mouth before walking away.
John came to check on you a few hours later. Normally you would’ve emerged for some form of food by that time. That strong presence of his. You’d shook your head the moment you opened your door and he was on the other side of it “I’m ok” he’d stuck his foot in the door when you tried to close it. “Look me in the eyes when you say that sweetheart”
You had to bite down on the inside of your cheek to not break under his intense gaze. “I’m fine John. I just need some rest” he’d tried to kiss you, tried to get you to come to his and Ava’s quarters to rest. You turned your head away from the kiss and told him you’d find the two of them later. That had been days ago now and looked like they were doing just fine without you.
“I don’t think that’s true. Just know we’ve all had fuck ups on missions. That doesn’t change the good you’ve done” Yelena’s voice hit your ears and you nodded “I know Lena, like I said I’ll be ok” she nodded once “Find me or Bob if you need us. Even Alexei will listen” , with that she walked out of the gym. You caught the bag, your chest heaving with exertion.
You logically knew you needed to take a step back, catch your breath. Unfortunately the heart didn’t listen to logic. You hollered at Siri to turn your music up louder, the bluetooth speaker straining as you took a swig out of your water bottle and turned your attention back to the heavy bag in front of you.
“What did we do?” the question echoed in the darkened bedroom of John and Ava’s shared quarters. You hadn’t spoken to either of them in days. John felt it even deeper than Ava, he’d pushed one woman he loved away before. Now that he was on the other side, he could vividly pick through his memories and see so many moments Olivia was silently begging him to reach out. All the times he was too far down in that hole to even think about making his way out.
He kept thinking about you turning away from his kiss. The fact that Ava said you wouldn’t let her put her arm around you and barely kissed her. Had he unintentionally missed cues from you? He racked his brain trying to remember any moments you reached out and he didn’t pull you in. He could think of any but if he’d managed to push you away too, how long before Ava was next?
“I don’t know” Ava hated how uncertain her voice sounded. She was laying against John, trying to ignore how the bed felt a little too big now. They’d purposely gotten a bigger one after you’d joked that it wasn’t big enough for three to sleep comfortably in. Now it was a reminder that someone they loved was hurting in some way and wasn’t letting them in. She’d never really had a chance for relationships. You’d been there to encourage her and John, her rock in every way. It hadn’t really been a surprise when they both started falling for you as a whole.
“What if she just doesn’t want this anymore? She asked softly and John kissed the top of her head “We’ll figure it out. I promise”
You stood at the island in the kitchen, leaning next to Bob. Little bob was nibbling on some lettuce in front of the two of you. You were on your third cup of coffee that Alexei swore was strong enough to know “any russian” on their ass.
You heard John and Ava’s voices and stiffened, keeping your eyes on the guinea pig. You strained your ears and could hear their light laughter, the sound of kisses being shared in the hallway just out of sight. They sounded happy at least.
You shifted, rubbing a hand over your side. The ribs were healed at least. You could be put on the roster for the next mission, get the hell out of the tower.
John walked in, his arm around Ava and they both froze when their eyes landed on you. John was shirtless, Ava wearing one of his shirts. The shirt slipped down on Ava just enough you could see a dark mark showing and knew it was from John’s lips. John had faint nail marks on his back. Just like you’d told Yelena, they were in love. You were… an extra.
“Morning” you spoke first, breaking the silence if for no one else’s sake for Bob’s. “Morning baby” Ava’s voice was warm, a smile slipping onto her face like the sun peeking out of clouds. You forced your heart down back into your chest from where it had leapt into your throat. “Morning sweetheart” John greeted, eyes holding you in place.
Bob scooped up little bob and nodded “Lena should be out of the shower by now” he scurried away and you muttered “Coward” under your breath. Ava walked over first, eyes trailing over you. You were wearing a tank and boxers, what you normally slept in but she was looking at you like you were dressed to the nines for a gala or something. “Can I touch you again or no?”
You smiled slightly “I’m actually about to get showered. Bucky said something about a mission coming up” her face fell “A kiss?” you looked from her to John, his face twisted with something… hesitation? Worry? You weren’t quite sure.
You scrubbed your hand down your face “Ava, John… I um… I don’t think I need to keep up this with the two of you” she stepped back, body bumping into John’s. “What do you mean this?” John found his voice first. You shrugged, waving a hand between them “You’re both my closest friends. I love you… I never should’ve allowed myself to fall in love with you however so I think it’s better if we go back to being friends. You two remain you two and I go back to just being me”
Ava scoffed out a laugh “Wow. You’re going to tell us you love us the first time as you’re breaking things off?” you shrugged, blinking back tears “It’s better this way. You two don’t need me. You’re head over heels for each other. I saw it first hand as you fell. You do not need another person in this. I’ll always be here, always have your backs. I just won't have anything else”
“We don’t get a say so?” Ava asked softly and you shook your head “You two are happy together. You were before that first night I ended up in your bed, you’ll continue to be. Now, I’m gonna go shower. Get your heads on right, we have jobs to do”
You turned to walk out, keeping your head high and shoulders squared up until the time you stepped onto the elevator to your quarters then the dam broke and a sob ripped out of you.
You loved them both. You would die for either of them over and over but they deserved to be happy. You couldn’t do it. You couldn’t be with them. You could only imagine the fallout. Olivia’s lawyers may attempt to freeze visitation, the media would rip all of you apart. Someone had to be strong enough to do what was best. You shouldered it for them. Let them be a couple without the unneeded part. Three’s a crowd right?
_____________________
“Did that just happen?” Ava asked, feeling John’s arms slip around her waist. “We’ll figure it out. We’ll get her back” he assured her but she could hear the hesitation in his voice. He didn’t believe any word as he spoke them.
“I love her as much as I love you John” she admitted in the quiet of the kitchen but he already knew. He nodded, pressing a kiss to her pulse “I know honey. I love her as much as I love you. She’ll figure it out. Just give her time. All we can do”
When a mission rolled in, you chose to sit between Alexei and Yelena at the debrief. Bucky raised an eyebrow when he noticed you not sitting near John or Ava but continued on. “Multiple combatants with civilians in the cross hairs. Be careful, clear as you go. Watch your partner's ass and try to make it back in one damn piece”
Considering the team it always ended up with a super soldier partnered with someone. John with Ava. Alexei and Bucky rotated between you and Yelena. Today you’d drawn Bucky as your partner. You followed him down a side street, clearing each alley as you moved. “Do I wanna know?” he asked low and you shook your head “Nope. Keep moving”
The city was nearly cleared but there was one building left that needed to be evaced. You stood just shy of it with Bucky and watched with horror as a little girl, maybe six, walked into the open calling for the cat that was sniffing at trash across the way.
Bucky called your name, tried to grab you but you were already moving. The sound of gunfire ricocheted around you but your only goal was the little girl. You made it to her, wrapping her in your arms and flipped tucking her small form between you and a wall. You felt a burning heat in your side and warmth dripping down your body. You were hit. You swallowed hard, forcing your eyes open.
She was wide eyed “Hey” you greeted, looking up to see Alexei had joined Bucky in the far alley and Bucky was nodding that he was going to lay cover fire for Alexei. “See that big Santa looking guy?” the little girl nodded “He’s gonna come get you” “What about you?” she sobbed and you laughed weakly “I’ll be next. You first” you tucked your body around her, hearing Bucky holler for Alexei to go before more gunfire rained down.
_____________________
John and Ava were just finished loading a truck to the evac site when they heard Bucky scream your name over the open comm line. Both of them froze. “EVERYONE ON ME NOW!” Bucky rarely lost his cool on missions but his voice broke in the end.
They were moving without a word. They slid around the corner to see you slumped at the far end of an alley, a puddle of blood slowly spreading under you. There was too much gunfire. Bucky was covering for Alexei to get a little girl out of the way. “She’s not moving” Ava whispered, looking at John before hitting to bring her mask down. He nodded “Go, I’ll cover you”
Ava phased to your side, hearing John bark for Bucky and Alexei to follow him or fall back and he didn’t give a damn which. Yelena ran to her side, the med kit already being ripped open as she hit her knees next to you. Ava’s hands shook as she touched you to roll you over, please don’t take her she thought to whoever was listening.
You let out a low grunt of pain and she nearly cried from relief.
______________________
You felt a wave of pain slam into you as you were rolled over. Fuck, everything hurt. You forced your eyes open to see those brown eyes you loved looking down at you “Ava?” you whispered and she nodded, tears falling from her eyes “Hey” you felt Yelena tugging at your suit and groaned “That hurts. Where’s the little girl?
“It hurts because you’re currently bleeding out. The little girl is fine but if I don’t pack this wound you won’t be” you loved Yelena for never sugar coating shit. Your hand skimmed down your side, coming back coated with blood “Shit, that’s not good” your head fell back but Ava slid to let it hit her leg before the concrete.
“You’ll be fine baby” you couldn’t think of anything but the fact that you’d made her cry. “Don’t cry, please” you whispered, she shook her head “Haven’t I told you and Walker to not order me around?” you laughed weakly but that caused a yelp of pain when Yelena shoved a handful of gauzed into the decent sized hole in your side. “He’s an ass, I’m concerned” your voice slurred a bit and you saw her and Yelena share a look.
You could hear gunfire winding down, the sound of men groaning in pain. The solid thwack of John’s shield hitting bodies. “Guess he’s mad?” you whispered and she nodded “Pissed” you smiled, darkness tugging at your mind “I love you Ava, him too. Know that” she shook her head “Don’t you dare do that”
Your blinks were slowing, your side wasn’t hurting anymore. You felt cold. “Wish he was out here. He’s always warm” you joked, eyes half lidded. She nodded, wiping tears away “Give him maybe thirty seconds and he will be love. He’ll hold you and get you warm” you nodded slowly, the motion making your head swim “Lena?” you called lightly and she looked up, typing on her communication wristlet “Yeah babe? Trying to get us a ride home”
“I’m tired”
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“I’m tired” you whispered right before your head lulled to the side. Yelena slid up, shaking you. Ava called your name, feeling for a pulse. Yelena moved her “Move. I need room” she stumbled back, hearing John’s boots “Ava?” her eyes stayed glued to your form, too still, too bloody “Please tell me we didn’t lose her..”
“I don’t know” she whispered, watching Yelena then Bucky work on you. One held pressure on your side. The other did CPR. Alexei was stealing a truck to get you to the evac location for a jet.
John and Ava stood there, neither of them breathing. Feeling like their very lives were in the balance. “Got a pulse, it’s faint but it’s there” Bucky muttered, picking you up and nodding to them “We gotta move, NOW”
You woke up slowly, feeling solid weight on your left arm and right leg. You forced your eyes open, groaning against the harsh lights of the med bay.
Your eyes flickered down and the weight was John’s head on your leg and Ava’s on your arm. They each sat on different sides of your bed, fast asleep but touching you like they were afraid you were going to fade away if they didn’t. “What the hell?” you muttered about the time the door opened and Yelena walked in.
She looked from John to Ava “Bout time they fell asleep. They were up for about fifteen hours straight” you raised an eyebrow and she motioned to your side “You no longer have a spleen by the way. You scared the hell out of all of us. These two especially”
You felt a small smile flicker to your lips “I never wanted to hurt them” “You nearly left them. Whatever holdbacks you had, let go of them. Oh god I’m talking in partial defense of Walker” Yelena laughed and you felt John stir first “Very nice Belova”
“Well she’s talking you both up” you laughed and his eyes flew up to your face, arm stretching across to bump Ava who jolted up, eyes landing on you and a smile slipped onto her face “You’re ok” you nodded “Apparently”
“Barnes has your blood type. Apparently the serum helps speed up healing” Yelena explained then pointed “I’m leaving now. I’ll let everyone know you’re awake”
______________________
You watched her go, feeling John rubbing your leg soothingly and Ava tracing shapes on your arm. It was like they were trying to soothe themselves as much as you. “I’m ok you two. I promise”
“We lost your pulse” Ava whispered, eyes searching your face. You smiled slightly “But I vaguely remembered I did tell you I love you before I passed out” John grumbled “Yeah but couldn’t hang on for thirty seconds for me” you rolled your eyes “You’re ridiculous”
He smirked slightly, waving a hand between you and Ava “I’m in love with the two of you. Forgive me for not thinking straight at times” you shook your head, looking back at Ava. “I’m sorry baby for scaring you” both of their heads shot up then “Did you call me baby?” she asked and you nodded “I love you, both of you. I’ve just..”
“Just what?” John asked so you took a deep breath “I didn’t want to be a third wheel. You were happy before me. You could be happy without me” “Forgetting that we’re in love with you too?” they both spoke in unison and your heart flipped.
“I was also worried about the media or Olivia’s lawyers…anyone using this relationship against us” John shook his head slowly “Honey. Liv knows” your eyes widened “What?” he nodded “She knows. I already told her. You and Ava love EJ. That’s all she cares about” “What about media?” you asked and Ava rolled her eyes “Fuck them”
“So, I’m really yours?” you asked and smiles slipped onto both of their faces “If you’ll have us” John spoke low, Ava adding “But you’re moving into our quarters. They’re now yours too” you looked back at John who shrugged “You already know she makes the rules” you laughed lightly, holding a hand to your side “I guess I can do that..for a price”
“Name it” John spoke first and you grinned “A kiss each?” Ava was on her feet first “Back off Walker” John shook his head with a laugh as she caught your lips in a gentle kiss, a relieved sigh leaving you both at the contact. You bought your hand up, cursing the iv because you couldn’t tug her closer. She grinned, leaning further in, flicking her tongue into your mouth.
When you pulled away to catch your breath she pressed another quick kiss to the corner of your lips “I love you” “I love you too Ava” John stood up, clearing his throat and she shook her head, a smirk slipping onto her face “Aww he looks sad” you cut your eyes at John who then leaned down. When his lips met yours it was a little less gentle than Ava’s but just as loving, you whined lightly and he grinned against your lips.
When he pulled away you pressed a kiss to his jaw “I love you John” “I love you too” he whispered. You looked from him to Ava “So, we’re really together?” they both rolled their eyes “I have a type. Stubborn, pretty and a little stupid” Ava laughed and John grinned “You love us”
“Damn right I do” she laughed and just the sound alone made your heart flip “So, when I’m healed..” you trailed off and they both cut their eyes at you “We’ll make up for it” John assured you with a wink and you felt your face warm “Looking forward to it”
Ava pressed another kiss to your lips “But for now, we’re taking care of you. Like it or not” you nodded “Ok baby” she smiled “Good girl”
✨ No Saints Here – Chapter 10: A Moment of Truth ✨
The Daily Prophet strikes. 📰
The Trio stop hiding. ✋
The Grangers & McGonagall strike back. 🦁
Pansy finds unexpected calm with Neville. 🌱
Luna calls Theo out with terrifying accuracy. 🌙
And Harry, Hermione, and Draco walk into the Great Hall hand in hand. 💥
Sharing something from this week's writing, from the so called throuple fic, that still has no name, but is living well and happy in my docs:
“Ok. Wille. What is it with Wille?” Rosh wanted to know, her tone both empathic and demanding at the same time.
“He’s not here. And that somehow feels… wrong.” Simon looked anywhere but at Rosh and Ayub.
“Ok, so you want him to be here. What would be different if he was here?” Rosh interrogated.
“I don’t know,” Simon all but whispered. Because that was just it. Simon didn’t know what would be different, didn’t know how to explain the wrongness of it all.
Sending the (no pressure) tag along to @lollygirlpops @putnamcapital and @retrieve-the-kraken if you want to share something from your current wips
Story Summary: Kate wasn’t expecting to take New York by storm. She was just looking for some peace, but when disaster after disaster starts piling up, she begins to regret her choice. At least until one week, and two extraordinary men, change everything. A story about finding the important things: the truth, yourself and your people.
Chapter Summary: Billy learns a little more about his Cinderella
