What about really bad cramps? Or a pregnancy scare? /rotten meat trio
Mia was curled on the couch, wrapped in the thickest blanket she could find, looking every bit like an exhausted cat after a long, losing fight. She had buried herself under layers—sweatshirt, socks pulled to her knees, heating pad clutched against her stomach—yet somehow still managed to look miserable.
Will crouched next to her, coffee mug in hand, but when she only groaned in response, he set it down and ran a hand over her hair.
“Is this a ‘leave me alone’ groan or a ‘do something’ groan?”
Mia let out another groan.
“Right. Helpful.” He pressed the back of his hand lightly against her forehead, not for fever, just habit, and muttered, “Could’ve warned me my genes would do this to you.”
“You should feel bad,” she grumbled, eyes still closed. “Your sperm did this.”
Will sighed. “Okay, I’m leaving.”
“No.” Mia reached out, grabbing his sleeve in a loose fist, her grip surprisingly strong for someone so dramatically ill. “Stay. Suffer with me.”
So he did. He settled on the couch beside her, let her use his leg as a pillow, and absentmindedly traced patterns over the blanket-covered curve of her back. Eventually, she sighed, tension easing the smallest amount, and that was enough.
-
Amara was not one to show weakness, but pain had a way of betraying even the most disciplined body. She sat at the kitchen table, knuckles pressed against her temples, body unnaturally still, as if holding too tightly to control.
Hannibal placed a porcelain cup in front of her. Dark, herbal, its scent earthy and sharp. She didn’t reach for it immediately.
“This should help,” he said, voice measured, certain.
Amara finally lifted her gaze, searching his face, as if gauging whether accepting help was an admission of fragility. But he had always taught her that pain was not weakness—only information. A problem to be solved.
She took the cup.
The tea was bitter, but it was warm.
-
Francis wasn’t good at this.
Savannah was curled up in bed, wrapped in layers of blankets, a heating pad pressed against her stomach, and he—useless, uncertain—stood at the doorway, holding a glass of water like it was a life preserver.
She peeked at him from under the covers.
“You don’t have to stand there like that,” she said, voice thick with exhaustion. “I’m not dying.”
Francis hesitated. “You sound like you are.”
She huffed a laugh, then winced.
He came closer, setting the glass on the nightstand, then, awkwardly, lowered himself onto the bed. He didn’t know if she wanted him there, didn’t know if this was something she wanted to be alone for, but she shifted, pressing her forehead against his arm, and he figured that meant stay.
So he did.
And after a while, when she muttered, “Your hand’s warm,” he pressed it against her stomach without thinking.
She exhaled, some of the tension bleeding from her body.
He had never thought his hands could be good for something.
But Savannah seemed to think so.
How would the rotten dads react to the girls being drunk? 🐰
Will knew she was drunk before she even opened her mouth. The way she stumbled through the door, her coat sliding off her shoulders, the lazy, lopsided grin—dead giveaway.
He sighed, locking the door behind her. “Mia.”
She turned, looking at him like she was seeing him for the first time. “Daddy,” she drawled, pointing a finger at him with great importance. “You’re very… here.”
Will ran a hand down his face. “Yeah. You, on the other hand—”
Mia took two unsteady steps forward and collapsed against his chest. He barely reacted, just let her weight settle, arms loosely wrapping around her out of habit.
“Mm,” she sighed. “You feel nice.”
“You reek.”
She hummed, utterly unconcerned, pressing her face against his shoulder. “S’fine.”
“It’s not fine,” Will muttered. “You need a shower.”
Mia groaned dramatically, letting herself go limp. He caught her easily.
“Nooo,” she whined, pressing a hand against his chest like she could physically push the idea away. “Too much effort.”
Will rolled his eyes. “C’mon.”
She didn’t fight when he led her to the bathroom, just stood there, swaying slightly as he reached for the shower knobs.
“Can you—?”
Mia, already halfway undressed, raised an eyebrow at him. “Will.”
He sighed again, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Forget I asked.”
Mia grinned. “You’re such a prude.”
“Just get in the damn shower.”
She did, eventually. Will sat on the closed toilet lid, arms crossed, waiting. When she finished, he towel-dried her and threw one of his old t-shirts at her and helped her into bed.
She curled up immediately, grabbing his wrist before he could pull away.
“Where you going?” she mumbled into the pillow.
Will just huffed, pulling the blanket over her. “Sleep.”
-
Hannibal was waiting when Amara arrived, the quiet disapproval barely visible in the crease of his brow, the slight tilt of his head.
She wobbled inside, attempting to appear composed and failing spectacularly.
Hannibal didn’t comment, merely stepped forward and caught her arm before she could sway too far.
“You’ve had quite the evening,” he observed.
She huffed a small laugh, resting her forehead against his shoulder. “Don’t be mad.”
“I’m not mad,” he assured, brushing a damp strand of hair from her face. “Though I do wonder what led you to believe drinking yourself into near-collapse was a wise decision.”
Amara groaned. “Not a lecture.”
Hannibal said nothing, merely guided her toward the bathroom with gentle insistence.
She leaned against the sink as he turned on the shower, testing the water.
“Can you manage?”
Amara, now pressing her face into his shoulder again, made a vague noise of agreement.
Hannibal smiled, steadying her. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
By the time she emerged, warm and drowsy, he was waiting with a robe. She let him wrap it around her, let him steer her toward bed with quiet efficiency.
As she curled up beneath the covers, she mumbled, “Sorry, daddy.”
Hannibal smoothed her damp hair back. “Rest.”
-
Francis hadn’t expected the call. Hadn’t expected to have to drive out and pick her up, weaving through the night streets with a tension in his chest he couldn’t quite place.
By the time he arrived, Savannah was barely upright, mumbling something to herself as she squinted at the passing headlights.
Francis sighed, running a hand down his face before stepping forward. “Let’s go.”
She blinked at him, then grinned. “Dad.”
“Yes,” he muttered, carefully looping an arm around her waist.
The drive home was quiet, Savannah swaying slightly in her seat, humming some tune under her breath.
“You’re mad,” she finally said.
Francis exhaled. “Not mad.”
She turned, looking at him with exaggerated seriousness. “You look mad.”
He glanced at her. “You scared me.”
That seemed to quiet her.
By the time they reached home, she was practically asleep against the window. He hesitated before touching her shoulder.
“Come on.”
She groaned but let him help her inside. When he murmured something about a shower, she sighed dramatically but didn’t argue.
Francis stood outside the bathroom, listening for any signs of trouble. When she finally emerged, wrapped in an oversized sweater, he just shook his head and guided her to bed.
Before he could step away, she grabbed his sleeve.
“Thanks,” she mumbled.
Francis hesitated, then nodded. “Get some sleep.”
Rotten trio falls asleep in a car ride, what's the vibes for each dad? (obsessed with the oneshots btw)
the drive home was quiet, the soft hum of the engine blending with the low murmur of the radio. Will glanced sideways and saw Mia curled up in the passenger seat, legs tucked beneath her, head pressed against the window. Asleep.
Will exhaled through his nose. He kept his hands steady on the wheel, careful with every turn, every stop. The road stretched ahead in the dim glow of the streetlights, and for once, the silence didn’t feel empty.
When they pulled into the driveway, he cut the engine and sat there for a moment. Mia didn’t stir.
Will sighed. He leaned over, hesitating just a second before brushing a few strands of hair from her face. Her breath was slow, deep, mouth slightly parted.
“Come on,” he muttered, undoing her seatbelt. She made a quiet, content sound but didn’t wake.
Will got out, moving to her side. He opened the door and crouched down, resting a hand on her arm. “Mia.”
She grumbled something unintelligible and buried her face deeper into her arm.
Will huffed a quiet laugh. “Alright.”
Carefully, he slid his arms beneath her, lifting her with ease. She mumbled again, curling instinctively toward his warmth, her forehead pressing into his shoulder.
Will carried her inside, his grip firm but gentle. By the time he laid her down in bed, she was already half-awake, blinking drowsily.
“You could’ve just left me,” she muttered, voice thick with sleep.
Will pulled the blanket over her, ignoring that. “Go back to sleep.”
Mia hummed, already drifting again.
Will watched her for a moment longer before turning off the light.
-
Amara, always sharp, always watching, had grown quiet beside him in the car, answering in low hums and slow nods. He had known even before glancing over—before seeing the way her head lolled slightly with the movement of the car, eyes half-lidded, lost in that weightless space between wakefulness and sleep.
By the time they reached home, she was completely gone.
Hannibal parked with smooth precision, then turned to her, taking in the softened lines of her face, the slow rise and fall of her breath.
There was no need to wake her—not yet.
Instead, he reached over, adjusting the scarf around her neck, smoothing down the edge of her coat. His fingers brushed lightly over her wrist, checking the steady, slow rhythm of her pulse.
She shifted slightly at the touch, a barely-there murmur slipping from her lips, but did not wake.
Hannibal allowed himself a small, private smile.
Then, with the same quiet care, he unbuckled her seatbelt and, without disturbing her further, lifted her effortlessly into his arms.
-
He had noticed the way Savannah’s words had grown slower, her voice softer. He had seen her head dip forward once, twice, before finally resting against the window, arms tucked close to herself.
He didn’t say anything. Just kept driving, careful with the turns, slowing at every bump.
When they arrived, he hesitated.
He could wake her. She would grumble, probably swat him away, drag herself out of the car half-asleep.
Instead, he reached over, nudging her shoulder lightly. “Savannah.”
A small, muffled noise. She shifted, but didn’t wake.
Francis sighed. He reached for the blanket in the backseat, draping it over her.
Then he leaned back in his seat, settling in for a while longer, watching the steady rise and fall of her breath in the quiet of the car.
💐Going back when the girls were little girls, what if they were classmate? And they would play and talk together whenever they see each other?
In some AU where they were classmates (cause let’s be honest, Amara is in a very expensive private school and Mia and Sav are not), they would not been friends at all, considering their personalities. Mia is the pretty but weird girl who the popular girls hate, because she gets attention, but she doesn’t really act on that attention, she’s usually alone or with one other girl or two. Amara is the textbook popular girl, Blair Waldorf vibes, and Sav is the alt weird girl everyone thinks is weird and is always alone in some corner with a sketchbook.
Hii Milk!! Wanted to ask which one of the RM girls is more likely going to commit murder and why?🤔
-🐛
All if them haha! Amara is used to it, murder is but another thing she sometimes must engage with. Mia is ruthless and unstable, she does what she has to, and if that’s murder then so be it. Savannah is Francis’ child, those “terrible genes” are there haha.