addy ᥫ᭡

22. wbb lover

[osarina]

IN THIS WORLD, IT'S JUST US

FEATURING: Jacaerys Velaryon x fem!reader, minor Aegon II Targaryen x fem!reader

SUMMARY: From the moment you were born, you were faced with the scrutiny of the court—the twin who lived while brother and mother died in a bed of blood. Rhaenyra had always done her best to shield you from its cruelty, so when her son is born with dark hair and dark eyes and that cruelty is turned on him, you vow to shield him the same. It is a promise that would come to shape both of your lives far more than either of you could have imagined.

WARNINGS: fem!reader. TARGCEST (aunt-nephew, half-sibling). reader is a Targaryen (daughter of Viserys & Aemma)—no physical features are explicitly described (silver hair, purple eyes, etc) BUT it is implied through Jace's insecurity that he does not look like her because he references not looking like "everyone else". forced marriage (reader & Aegon). Reader & Aegon are VERY young when they have their kids (14 & 13 respectively), and reader has some complications/health issues following the birth because she was so young/her body wasn't ready for it. Eventual smut. Infidelity (technically—Aegon and reader are both cheating on each other LOL but neither gaf). Jace is wildly unhinged about reader and everybody but reader knows. Codependent relationship. Slight age gap (5 years between reader & Jace)

NOTES: WOWWWW my great step into targcest. This will be 3 parts—this first part is their childhood, the second part is driftmark & the inheritance dispute, the third part is the dance. Lowkey I can't believe it took me so long to write targcest LOLLLL, but it is fitting it is for our prettiest prince, Jacaerys Velaryon, prince of Dragonstone, heir to the iron throne <333 There are some things to note so please read: I adjusted the ages for this fic for convenience purposes, but the general timeline will remain the same. Reader is born in 105, Aegon 106, Helaena 108, Aemond 109, Jace & Daeron & Baela/Rhaena 110, Luke 111, Joffrey 118. Laena's funeral takes place in 120, the inheritance dispute & the Dance begins in 128. When it comes time for the Dance, ages are as follows: Reader is 23, Aegon is 22, and Jace is 18. Comments and reblogs are always appreciated! Love you all!

You were not supposed to be the twin who lived. 

Nobody tells you that in so many words, but it is the first thing you learn all the same.

You catch your father staring at you sometimes with an empty look in his eyes, and you know he is seeing the ghost of your mother, thinking that if Baelon had been the one to survive instead of you, he might have been able to justify her death. The lords and ladies of the Red Keep constantly look upon you with polite smiles and carefully chosen words, lowering their voices whenever the topic of your birth is raised, as if you are too young to understand them, even though it was the first thing you ever understood at all. 

Such a tragedy.

The queen gave everything.

The prince…

The prince, the prince, the prince—it is always the prince.

A son who never lived is afforded every virtue. He would have been strong. He would have been the perfect heir and the perfect king. He would have united the realm, and he would have spared your father his grief. He is remembered with all the generosity reserved for the dead, and none of the criticism reserved for the living.

You grow accustomed to measuring yourself against a brother you never knew. Every accomplishment is met with the unspoken question of whether Baelon might have done it quicker or better, and every celebration carries a shadow of mourning that you will never escape. 

It is only Rhaenyra who has ever looked at you and seen nothing to mourn.

She has never spoken of Baelon as though he ought to have taken your place. She sneaks you your favorite desserts when you are sad, and she wipes your tears before anyone else can see them. When you are too scared to be alone at night, she slips into your chambers with stories of dragons raining fire from the sky and queens who crossed seas. 

Your father has always been distant, but you have never minded because Rhaenyra is enough warmth for two parents, and when the whispers of the court become loud enough to reach you, she rolls her eyes and steals you away to the dragonpit or cuts the gossipers down with words sharp enough to leave them speechless.

She is your shield whenever the court would have you bleed, and your sword when distraction alone is not enough. For a little while, that is enough.

Then Jacaerys is born. 

You are still young enough to be bundled off to lessons with Septa Elaine, feet dangling from chairs too tall for you, when Rhaenyra places him in your arms for the first time. 

You think he is beautiful.

He has a mop of dark curls and bright brown eyes that seek you out in every room. He laughs more readily than he cries, and he reaches for your finger whenever you are near, curling his tiny fist around it as though he has claimed you for himself. 

He is perfect—you know it the moment he giggles up at you the first time, but the whispers begin before the bloodied sheets are removed from your sister's bed.

Strong. Bastard. Plain.

The words are spoken with feigned innocence, as though they are not daggers pressed to both his back and your sister’s. For the first time since you were born, the court’s attention shifts to another, and you desperately wish that it hadn't.

You know what it is to have your life measured against someone who is not there, but Jacaerys is measured against people who are. 

Your half-brother, Aegon, with silver-gold hair that gleams in the sun and eyes the color of amethysts, every inch the image of Old Valyria from the moment he was pulled from your stepmother's womb. Beside him stand Helaena, Aemond, and Daeron, no less unmistakably Targaryen. Silver hair and purple eyes; four children who look exactly as the world insists dragonlords should.

By the time Jacaerys is born, the image of a Targaryen prince has already been firmly etched into the court's mind, and it is not a little boy with brown curls and warm eyes who resembles neither the princess who bore him nor the husband sworn to be his father. 

You recognize the look in their eyes intimately when they turn their gazes on him. It is the same one they once turned on you—a child who has already failed to become what the realm expected of them before they have spoken their first words. You had been the daughter who survived instead of the son who should have. Jacaerys is the son who does not look as though he should have.

Rhaenyra never allows you to bear your burden alone. Before the whispers find you, they find her first. Whenever cruel words are spoken, hers are always sharper. She stands between you and the court so often that most days you hardly realize she’s shielding you at all. 

So when the whispers begin to follow Jacaerys instead, you do the only thing you have ever been taught—sharpening words and standing between him and the world whenever you can.

If your sister has always been your sword and your shield, then you will be her son’s.

——————————

JACAERYS, 2; READER, 7; 112 AC

“He really does adore you, doesn’t he, princess?” one of your ladies in waiting, Melynda Darklyn, says with a soft laugh after Jacaerys climbs into your lap at Lucerys’s first nameday celebration. You wind your arms around the boy, relishing in the delighted noise he makes once he’s wrapped in your arms.

Your sister and her husband are sitting at the center of the table, chatting with your father and entertaining the assembled lords while musicians fill the hall with cheerful melodies and servants weave between tables bearing silver platters piled high with roasted meats and sugared fruits. Rhaenyra occasionally looks in your direction, casting a small smile your way when she sees how Jacaerys is tucked against you, fisting the embroidery of your gown tight enough that you fear he might rip some of the tiny pearls from the fabric.

“He has excellent taste,” you answer primly, with all of the seriousness a girl of seven can muster, earning a ripple of laughter from your end of the table. “It certainly has nothing to do with the fact that I let him have his sweets before supper.”

Jacaerys blinks, head lolling against your shoulder, unconcerned with being the subject of conversation. You can feel his small fingers picking at the ribbon tied around your wrist, freezing comically every time you look down at him. Each time you return your attention to the feast, his fingers creep back toward the knot with painstaking care, his tongue peeking from the corner of his mouth in concentration. He glances up at you every few moments to make certain you are not watching before tugging experimentally at the ribbon once more.

You pretend not to notice, smiling lightly to yourself when you hear the triumphant little hum that escapes him as the knot finally begins to loosen. 

“His hair really is so dark,” Aegon suddenly says on your left, voice idle as he yawns. 

The conversation immediately halts. 

You wonder if Aegon knows the gravity of the words he spoke, stiffening slightly from where you’re sitting, enough that Jacaerys seems to sense the shift in your demeanor, lifting tiny hands to your face to squish your cheeks. It’s only when you smile at him that he finally lets go, and he returns to toying with your ribbon. 

You look at your younger half-brother from the corner of your eye carefully, catching the bored expression on his face as he absently pokes at his peas, still looking at Jacaerys. You do not know why your father insists on seating him near you during feasts—you desperately wish he would sit with his mother and your other half-siblings. He has spent half the evening kicking the legs of his chair and playing with his food, bothering you with inane questions about whether there is an end to the Sunset Sea and if you think there is such a thing as water dragons or ice dragons. 

You see three of your ladies-in-waiting exchange glances, Melynda stiffens slightly as she glances between the princes before her gaze meets yours, riddled with concern, and two lords further down the table quiet down immediately to listen in on whatever Aegon might say next. No one speaks openly of Jacaerys’s… coloring. Not yet, at least. The whispers have remained whispers, traded behind fans and cups of wine, because everyone is unwilling to be the first to give them voice.

So the court waits, each lord and lady wondering who will finally speak the unspeakable. 

For one fleeting moment, you can’t help but wonder if the Queen has whispered something into Aegon's ear before the feast, if she has sent him here to say what no grown lord dares so that life might be breathed into the whispers haunting Jacaerys. You would not put it past her—she has always had a certain disdain for you and your sister—but you do not think that is the case this time. Aegon is six, and he hardly has the patience for lessons in High Valyrian, much less the conspiracies of court. Every thought that enters his head escapes his mouth within moments, innocent of the havoc it might wreak. 

He is simply a little boy who has noticed that his nephew's curls are brown where everyone else's are silver. The court, however, has spent so long waiting for someone to say too much that even a child's idle observation is enough to make half the hall hold its breath.

Aegon notices the silence at last, mid-motion to tug Jacaerys’s hair. You slap his hand away before he can. His brow furrows, and he glances around the table. He looks from one lady to the next as though expecting someone to satisfy his curiosity. Instead, they busy themselves with their cups of wine and suddenly find the roasted lamb before them intensely interesting.

He frowns. “What?” 

“I suppose everyone else is too kind to say it,” you say dramatically, giving Aegon a bright smile as he tilts his head questioningly. “You should not speak on someone else’s hair when yours is so greasy, valonqar.” You reach forward to tug a long lock of silver hard, and Aegon yelps, squirming away. “It only draws more attention to it. Did you not bathe before the feast?”

Little brother.

“I did bathe! It’s not greasy!” he disagrees loudly, lifting his hands to cover his hair. “You’re a liar!” 

“Of course it is,” you insist. “Why else do you think no one dares look you in the eye? You should be grateful that you have me to tell you the truth when others would avert their gaze and pretend they do not notice. Say, thank you, mandia.”

Older sister.

“No!” 

“Do it, or I’ll pull your hair again, you little wretch.”

Aegon gapes at you and looks around the table for help—unfortunately for him, the only one who might have taken his side, scandalized by your behavior, is sitting on your father’s opposite side, watching the two of you from afar, unable to do anything about it. You give the Queen a faux-sweet smile before raising your eyebrows at Aegon and lifting your hand threateningly. 

He shrinks back. “Thank you, mandia.”

You raise your chin proudly, and the tension slips away. The tension eases from your shoulders when you realize you’ve successfully averted the crisis, but the dread you feel remains even as goblets are lifted once more, and conversations that had died on waiting breaths begin again. One lord clears his throat loudly and returns to discussing the harvest with his neighbor, and another asks after plans for hawking. 

Around the table, everyone is suddenly very eager to prove they had not been listening at all; as though moments before, they hadn’t been on the edge of their seats waiting for someone to give them a chance to speak what they’ve all been thinking.

Jacaerys gives one final victorious tug, and the ribbon slips free into his hands. He squeals with delight, waving it triumphantly in the air, utterly oblivious to what just took place. 

You pluck it gently from his fingers before he can stuff it into his mouth, and he immediately looks up at you, big brown eyes watering, lower lip quivering. He pleads in a tiny, wobbly voice, “Please.”

You raise your eyebrows at him pointedly. You say firmly, “Ivestragon ziry drējī.”

Say it correctly.

He stares up at you, brow furrowing in fierce concentration. His lips part once, then close again. He glances toward his mother for help, but she is much too far to be of any assistance, so his little nose wrinkles as he thinks harder.

“K-k…” he begins uncertainly, fingers curling tight around the sleeve of your gown. You wait patiently, toying with the ribbon. At last, he says proudly, “Kolilus!”

“Close,” you say, tapping his nose, smiling softly when he immediately scrunches it again with a giggle. “Kostilus.”

Please.

“Kostilus!” he repeats, beaming. “Kostilus! Kostilus!” 

“Sīr albie,” you praise as you tie the ribbon around his small wrist, watching as he waves his hand in the air trying to show Rhaenyra across the room. “Olvie tolī albie pār aōha qȳbor.”

So smart. Much smarter than your uncle.

Jacaerys spends the rest of the feast showing anyone who will look the ribbon tied around his wrist, never noticing the glances that follow him, and you are filled with a dread that will haunt you for years to come, because one day, someone will find the courage to finish Aegon's thought, and when that day comes, no amount of distraction or childish innocence will be enough to swallow the words back down.

——————————

JACAERYS, 3; READER, 8; 113 AC

“Sleepover!”

You wake blearily from where you’re dozing off on your couch as the door to your chambers swings open, exhausted after a day of flying. Rhaenyra finally gave you leave a few months ago to take flight with Zūgaxes, once she was certain you would not go flying off the large dragon's back the moment he took to the air, and you have spent almost every waking moment with him above King's Landing and the Blackwater. Your thighs are sore, and you barely fight a wince when you push yourself into a sitting position just as a small ball of energy slams into your abdomen, pushing you back down against the couch.

You blink once, a smile instinctively curving your lips when Jacaerys’s face pops above yours, a wide, toothy one spread across his lips as he looks down at you, excited, dressed in his nightclothes and holding his favorite blanket. 

“Mandianna,” you say fondly, lifting your shoulders enough to press your lips against his cheeks, biting down lightly to make him squeal happily. “What are you doing here?”

Nephew.

“I hope I didn’t wake you, sweet sister,” Rhaenyra murmurs as she makes her way into your room. She holds Lucerys carefully on her hip—the boy is half asleep, blinking sleepily in your direction before giving you a small smile. She nods in the direction of the couch you’re lying on and asks, “May I?”

You tilt your head curiously and nod, shifting to sit up properly. Jacaerys clambers off your lap to go play with the toys he left in your room the other day, and Rhaenyra sits next to you, smiling at you softly as she lifts a hand to tuck your hair behind your ear. Your eyes are wide and adoring as you look up at her, leaning into the familiar warmth of her hand—you have been so busy flying that you've hardly seen her as of late.

"Look at you, growing up so lovely," Rhaenyra sighs lightly, running her thumb along your cheekbone as Lucerys nuzzles into the crook of her neck. "I heard father was upset with you this morning. What happened?"

You scowl immediately, crossing your arms and looking away. The reminder of the argument sets your mood afoul, throat already tightening with a something caught between irritation and hurt.

"He is always upset with me," you mutter. Rhaenyra raises her eyebrows at you, waiting for you to explain, and you push your bottom lip out into a pout. "I only mentioned that I wanted to fly to Highgarden. Ser Lowen says the flowers will be at peak bloom soon. I should like to see them."

Rhaenyra laughs lightly, and your cheeks feel hot as you keep your gaze averted even as she tilts your face toward her. She strokes your hair lightly and says, "You have only just turned eight, hāedar. You cannot expect him to allow you to fly off on your own across the kingdom."

Little sister.

Your eyes well with tears immediately, and Rhaenyra's expression shifts into one of alarm, shifting Lucerys on her lap so that she might face you fully.

"He can hardly even stand the sight of me, mandia. He could at least let me travel. I do not just want to see Highgarden—I want to see the Wall and Casterly Rock. I want to cross the Narrow Sea and travel the Free Cities, see the ruins of Old Valyria, walk the House of the Undying in Qarth. It is not fair. He cannot keep me trapped here forever when nobody even likes me."

Rhaenyra's expression softens; she tilts her head slightly to the side as she holds your face between her palms, stroking your cheeks steadily with her thumbs. You grit your teeth hard to try to stop the tears from spilling over, but you fail miserably, breath shuddering as you sniffle and choke back sobs.

"Did someone say something to you?" she asks you, lips pressed together and eyes a bit cooler. "Ali—the Queen? One of her sons?"

You shake your head, trying to pull your face away, but she does not let you. "I just—"

You just what? You're lonely? You're tired of the way everyone looks at you? It feels unfair to say that to Rhaenyra, who has always done her best to shield you from it all. It feels unfair to say it when Jacaerys and Lucerys have faced worse from the court these past three years.

It is all unfair, you think miserably. All you want to do is lounge in gardens and snack on oranges with your sister and your nephews. You want to watch as Jacaerys plays with his wooden dragons and finds pretty flowers to put in your hair, as Lucerys naps in his mother's arms, oblivious to the world around him. You want to do it all without the eyes of judgment constantly pinned on the back of your head; you want to do it without the fear that someone, one day, will speak the words that will condemn them all.

"Well, then, perhaps it is a good thing that Jacaerys asked for you, hāedar," Rhaenyra says softly. "I did not realize you were so upset. Were you really planning to spend the night alone?"

"I did not want to bother you," you reply glumly, glancing away to where Jacaerys is trying and failing to gather all of his toys up in his arms, pouting each time he drops one back to the floor.

"You are never a bother, sweet sister. You must come to me whenever you feel like this. I loathe the idea of you being alone," Rhaenyra tells you softly as she leans in to brush her lips against your forehead. "Jacaerys, come here."

The boy immediately pokes his head up from the other side of the room, putting down all of his toys except for the wooden dragon you gifted him for his first nameday. He bolts across the room, tossing himself on Rhaenyra's lap and jostling Lucerys, who immediately starts sniffling. Rhaenyra raises her eyebrows at Jacaerys, who gives her a sheepish smile before he gives Lucerys a hug.

"Sorry, Luke," he says dutifully before shifting to sit between the two of you, holding his wooden dragon in his lap. He gives his mother an expectant look.

"Didn't you want to ask your muña something?" Rhaenyra prods, raising her eyebrows. "Instead of coming in here and demanding?"

Aunt (mother's sister)

Jacaerys's face lights up as he swivels his body toward you, brown eyes bright with delight. "Can we have a sleepover, muña?"

You say, "Ivestragon ziry drējī.”

Say it correctly.

Jacaerys immediately wrinkles his nose and gives Rhaenyra a pleading look, but your sister only gives him a small smile, beckoning him to do as you asked.

"You're so mean, muña," Jacaerys whines, giving you a pitiful look, wide eyes and a pushed-out lip that he certainly learned from you whenever you're trying to convince Rhaenyra to get you extra snacks from the kitchens. Unfortunately for you, it is infinitely more effective coming from baby Jacaerys with big brown eyes and chubby cheeks. He wrinkles his nose as he thinks, a few long moments passing before he tries, "Kostan ēdrugon toliot?"

I can stay over?

You correct, "Kostagon nyke ēdrugon toliot?"

Can I stay over?

"Kostagon nyke ēdrugon toliot?" he repeats instantly, leaning forward, tiny fingers wrapping around your hand. "Kostilus, kostilus, kostilus."

Can I stay over? Please, please, please.

You lean in with a small smile and tell him softly, "Hen rhinka, kostā."

 Of course, you can.

Jacaerys lets out a squeal of glee and immediately leaps off the couch to run over to your bed, climbing on top and bouncing happily three times before flopping down and rolling around. Your lips curl up into a smile as your sister leans in to nudge her shoulder against yours.

"Are you truly going to look me in the eye and say nobody likes you when mine own son adores you so deeply?" she asks you quietly. "When I do?"

Your shoulders slump slightly, unable to meet her gaze.

"Jace would be distraught if you left," Rhaenyra continues, undeterred. "He has… been having night terrors. He struggles to sleep through the night. He has tried sleeping in bed with Laenor and I, but nothing seems to be enough to rid him of them. At first, I thought he simply preferred being fussed over, but the servants have made me aware that he does not cry out once during his naps in your chambers. When he wakes beside you, he is… lighter."

You turn to look at Jacaerys. He has managed to wrap himself in your blankets like a cocoon, your favorite stuffed dragon tucked to his chest. Every few moments, he glances over his shoulder to make certain you're still watching him before burying himself deeper beneath the covers.

You hear your sister let out a soft huff of laughter at your side at the sight of him, brushing a sleeping Lucerys's curls away from his forehead.

"I did not know," you whisper, guilty now—not just for wanting to leave and travel, but also for the number of days you've landed in the dragonpit with Zūgaxes to find Jacaerys sitting there waiting for you. For hours, Ser Steffon told you once when you'd asked how long he'd been there. "I…"

"I do not think he does either," Rhaenyra admits, smiling sadly. "Children simply know where they feel safe, and he feels safe with you."

Rhaenyra watches Jacaerys for a long moment as he buries himself beneath your blankets, only the top of his dark curls visible.

She says after a moment, "I should like it if you spent more time with him." You blink and give her a questioning look. She amends immediately, "I know you already do, but… he adores you. There is no one in the Seven Kingdoms whose presence delights him half so much as yours. Every morning, he asks whether you will break fast with us. Every afternoon, he asks whether you are flying. Every evening, he asks whether you have already gone to sleep. Laenor has begun telling him that dragons require princesses to nap as often as hatchlings simply to stop the questions."

You giggle, hand flying to your mouth as you imagine an exhausted Laenor forced to answer question after question—Jacaerys is insatiable when it comes to needing things answered. You once spent two hours trying to answer incessant whys when you told him that dragons could not fly forever without taking breaks, and you know Laenor well enough to know his patience is not endless.

"He is noticing things," Rhaenyra tells you after a moment, voice breaking. "He does not understand why some lords smile at him only when I am looking. He asked me last week why everyone stares at him, if he had done something wrong—I had to tell him that people only stare because he is a prince. That they admire him. I lied to him."

You stare at your folded hands, unable to think of anything to say that would make her feel better. You know she lied because there had been no other choice. What else could she have told a three-year-old boy? That grown men whisper about him behind closed doors? That ladies who smile at him in passing spend their evening wondering aloud whether he has any right to the Velaryon name?

Children should not know such things.

You should not have known that the court would have preferred you dead to your brother.

"He believed me," Rhaenyra says quietly, "but he will not forever, and I dread when that day comes. And it will come. One day he will hear every cruel thing that we have kept beyond his reach, but—"

"I will make them stop," you say immediately, leaning forward and grabbing her hands. Rhaenyra gives you a small, sad smile, but you insist with a nod. "I will, mandia. I will cut them down. Ser Steffon is teaching me the sword, I—"

Rhaenyra blinks. "Does father know that?"

"—I will take the head of anyone who says such things about him. I will feed them to Zuzu, and I'll burn their keeps," you declare, ignoring her question, because no, your father does not know, and you have no intention of telling him. "You do not have to worry, mandia. I will protect Jacaerys and Lucerys forever. And you."

Then, she laughs. It is quiet and watery, born through tears rather than amusement, but it is a laugh nonetheless. A success, you think.

"Oh, sweet girl."

You frown. She says it the way she always does when she does not believe you.

"I am serious," you insist.

"I know you are," she sighs, reaching up to cup your face with both hands, smiling softly. "You are a child. You should not be talking about taking heads and feeding people to dragons."

You frown again, deeper this time. "But I mean it," you tell her again. "I will take their heads, and I will feed them to Zuzu. I will burn their keeps, should I please."

"You are eight, hāedar."

"Then, I will wait until I am nine," you say firmly. "I will grow very tall. Taller than Ser Steffon. Even Ser Harrold."

"I think that unlikely."

"I shall," you say fiercely. "And I shall be stronger than Ser Erryck, and wiser than every maester."

You do not know why Rhaenyra looks as though she's going to cry again as she looks down at you, stroking your hair gently. "So, when you are the tallest, strongest, and wisest princess in the Seven Kingdoms…"

"I will protect all of you," you finish. "Anyone who is cruel to Jacaerys will regret it. And Lucerys. And you."

Rhaenyra's smile softens, and your lashes flutter as she leans in to brush her lips against your forehead.

"Well, if you are so adamant, then I suppose I must believe you." You nod at her words, pleased. "Will you promise me one more thing?" You look up expectantly. "If one day, the court makes him feel alone… find him, please."

You nod immediately. "I promise."

"And if one day the court makes you feel alone…"

You hesitate. "… He is only little."

"He will not always be," she tells you with a faint smile, and your nose wrinkles at the idea of Jacaerys growing older. You like him the way he is now—tiny and cuddly. "Promise me you will let him find you, too."

You glance over to where he's curled up in your bed, fast asleep now, ignorant of the conversation taking place between you and his mother. He is so small, you think doubtfully—you cannot imagine a day will ever come when he will be the one to seek you out.

Still, Rhaenyra has that expectant expression on her face, so you find yourself nodding.

"I promise."

—————————

JACAERYS, 4; READER, 9; 114 AC

"Jacaerys?"

You rise to your feet from where you were sitting with your half-sister, Helaena, on the edge of the gardens in Maegor's Holdfast as a small figure rushes past the two of you. Helaena blinks once, tilting her head to the side as she cradles her beetles between her palms.

"He looked sad," she says quietly. "Do you think he's okay?"

You don't respond, rushing after Jacaerys as soon as he turns the corner, ignoring the eyes of the knights and servants lingering as you push past them. You thought he was supposed to be in the training yard with Laenor today? He was excited about it last night—so excited that he kept you up for hours, asking for tips to impress his father and Ser Criston. So why—

"Jacaerys!" you call again as he turns down the hall, taking a familiar path through the holdfast. Where is he going? To his mother's chambers? To yours? "Jacaerys!"

Jacaerys skids to a stop halfway down the next hall, and you glare at a passing knight whose gaze lingers a moment too long on the sniffling boy. He hurries away, leaving you alone with Jacaerys in the long hall. He lifts his face to look at you, and alarm shoots through you when you see the dark bruise on his jaw.

"Jacaerys, what happened?" you demand, making your way over to him. He rushes toward you, throwing his arms around your waist and burying his face in your stomach. You wrap your arms around him, fingers threading through his thick hair as you hold the back of his head to your body, lowering yourself to your knees in front of him. "Jacaerys."

You pull his face back gently. His fingers clutch desperately at the back of your gown, bunching the fabric in both fists as though he fears you'll disappear if he loosens his grip. He is trembling. He is shaking so badly that he can hardly hold himself upright. Your fingers bite a bit too hard into his shoulders as your hands slide from his face down to his upper arms, forcing him to look you in the eye.

"Tell me what happened," you say furiously, rage already bubbling in your chest, vision tinted red as you squeeze his tiny biceps. "Who hurt you? Jacaerys, answer me!"

Jacaerys lifts a hand to wipe at his eyes, tears stubbornly clinging to his long lashes. The bruise on his jaw makes your stomach lurch. You force your grip to ease as you lift a hand to his cheek, cradling it gently as you brush your thumb over the mark.

His lower lip trembles violently before he whispers, "… I fell."

You stare at him blankly. "Did you?"

He gives you a tiny nod, refusing to meet your gaze. He is a terrible liar.

"I see," you say slowly, eyes narrowing slightly, "and the floor struck only your jaw?"

He sniffles and nods again.

"How curious," you say flatly.

You wonder if it was Aegon or Aemond. You thought Aegon was getting along with the boys, for the most part, but your half-brother has always been fickle and capricious, prone to changing his mind on a whim; and Aemond has taken to the sword, but he has always been careful enough with smaller children, more interested in proving himself than hurting anyone else. You struggle to picture him throwing a careless blow at a four-year-old.

"It must have been a very malicious floor," you say at last, the anger ebbing away at the sight of his mouth twitching up into a small, wobbly smile. "I shall have the castle steward informed. Dangerous stones cannot be allowed to wander the halls attacking little princes."

Jacaerys giggles, lifting his fists to wipe clumsily at his eyes.

"It wasn't the floor," he admits in a tiny voice. "I lied."

You sigh lightly as you brush the last lingering tear from beneath his lashes, leaning in to press your lips against his forehead. You say, "I suspected as much. What really happened, mandianna?"

His gaze immediately drops to the floor. "Ser Criston was teaching me how to wield a sword."

You stare at him for a moment and then ask slowly, "Ser Criston gave you this?"

"He didn't mean—" Jacaerys begins quickly, fumbling for words. "He was showing me, that's all."

"Showing you what, exactly?" you question, voice strained.

Jacaerys withdraws, shrinking a little. He says quietly, "I do not want to get in trouble."

"Iksā dōrī isse qopsa lēda nyke, mandianna," you say, softening your tone, sighing lightly as you brush your lips atop the welt forming on his jaw. Jacaerys clutches at your arms, trying to keep you close."Nyke mērī jaelagon ao naejot ivestragon nyke se drēje."

You are never in trouble with me, nephew. I only want you to tell me the truth.

"He was showing me how to block," he finally says, sniffling again as he presses his face into the crook of your neck. "I was supposed to stop it, but I didn't. He said I should have blocked it, and then went back over to Aegon and Aemond."

You do not reply immediately, rubbing between his shoulders to soothe him, one hand sliding down to his tiny wrist and tinier hands, small and uncalloused, barely able to wrap around the hilt of a sword. Ser Criston is a grown man, you think, outraged. He is years older than Rhaenyra, and he struck Jacaerys.

"How hard did he strike you?" you ask him softly.

"It hurt," Jacaerys says, voice small and muffled. Your eye twitches—a kingsguard striking a prince, Criston Cole gets away with far too much because of the Queen's favor. "He said if I cannot stop a practice sword, I will never stop a real one. I couldn't find father—he was supposed to be there—and mother has been busy all day in court, and I—I wanted you, muña. I always want you when…" His face twists as he searches for the right words. "… when things hurt."

Your expression softens into a smile as you sit back on your heels to look him in the eye. Jacaerys looks at you through wet lashes, bottom lip still wobbling, and you hold his face between your hands, squeezing his cheeks gently until he giggles and turns his face into your palm.

"Well," you say lightly after a moment, "your muña is here. How about we go down to the dragonpit and check on Vermax?"

His face lights up instantly. "Yes! Maybe they'll let me feed him. Do you think they'll let me?" he asks, excited, grabbing your hands and squeezing. Before you can respond, he presses, "Will Zuzu be there? Can we go flying?"

You lean in and lower your voice conspiratorially as you whisper, "Only if you promise not to tell your mother."

"I promise! I promise, I promise, I promise!" he cheers.

You give him a small smile, running your thumb one last time over the welt on his cheek before you rise to your feet and hold out your hand to him. He takes it quickly, entwining his fingers with yours as he takes off in the direction of the dragonpit, and you laugh as he drags you along with him.

Jacaerys forgets all about the bruise and Ser Criston Cole by the time the two of you reached the dragonpit, but you do not.

—————————

JACAERYS, 6; READER, 11; 116 AC

Jacaerys becomes your shadow over the next two years.

He rushes to your chambers before you've even woken, and will linger there long into the evening until his mother finally forces him to return to his own. Some nights, he sneaks back well after midnight because he insists that your room is safer than his, though you suspect he simply sleeps better with your dragon stuffed beneath one arm and your hand draped over his back.

He follows you everywhere.

When Ser Steffon trains you in the yard—now with your father's permission, though you had to put up quite the fight because your father was unconvinced that there was any need for a princess to learn the sword—Jacaerys perches himself on the balcony, his chin resting in both palms as he announces every successful strike as though you had just won a tourney.

"You got him!"

"It is a wooden dummy, Jacaerys."

"But he was losing!"

"The dummy?"

"Yes! He looked frightened!"

When you fly Zūgaxes, Jacaerys waits patiently in the Dragonpit with a book in his lap that never seems to advance beyond the same page. The moment your dragon's shadow crosses the courtyard, he leaps to his feet, waving both arms high above his head before racing to meet you

"How high did you go?"

"Very high."

"Higher than the towers?"

"Certainly."

"Higher than the clouds?"

"Not quite."

"Tomorrow?"

"Perhaps."

When you retreat to the gardens with a book, he appears scarcely minutes later, carrying one of his own. He cannot yet sit long enough to read more than a page or two before asking questions, but he tries valiantly, resting his head against your shoulder as he sounds out unfamiliar words. When he inevitably grows frustrated, you take the book from his hand and read aloud instead—by the third chapter, he is almost always asleep against you.

The servants quickly learn that if the young prince cannot be found, they only need ask where the princess has gone, and he is always there.

Which is why you feel so terrible about what you have to do today.

"Tell me it's not true," a shrill voice accuses from the door of your chambers as you finish packing the last of your bag. Ser Steffon gives you an apologetic look as he holds the door open for the little prince, and you grimace but signal for him to close it and step outside so that you can talk to Jacaerys. "You can't be leaving. Say that you're not leaving!"

"Mandianna," you start to sigh, turning to face him. His eyes are already welling with tears, face red and fists clenched at his sides. "I—"

"No!" he screeches. "You're a liar. You're a liar. You promised you wouldn't leave me. You promised I wouldn't be alone. You're a liar, and I hate you."

"Jacaerys," you say quietly, kneeling in front of him. He has grown over the past year, but so have you—and unfortunately for him, you have been growing faster. Where he once nearly reached your shoulder, the top of his curls now barely reaches your chest. He'll be even taller when you return, you think mournfully—how much will you miss? "Come here."

"No."

"Please."

"No!"

"I only want to talk, mandianna."

"I hate talking to you. I don't want to talk to you."

"Jacaerys…" you sigh again, a helpless feeling tugging at you because you do not want to leave while he's angry at you. You knew this would be a difficult conversation, but you'd hoped to at least leave with one last hug. "I know you are angry, but—"

"You don't!" he cries, stamping his foot so hard the floorboards rattle beneath him. "You don't know anything! Everybody hates me here. They all stare at me and think I don't notice, but I do! You promised you would stay, that I would always have you. You're a liar!"

Your breath hitches as you stare down at the tears tracking down his cheek. For a moment, you are no longer looking at Jacaerys. You are six years old again, yourself, standing in the halls of the Red Keep, wondering why everyone always stares at you, convinced that if you disappear, no one but Rhaenyra would notice.

You had spent years hoping he would never know the feeling.

"I know that they do," he insists before you can speak, as though he already knows you will try to deny it to preserve his innocence, as Rhaenyra has been doing for years. "They look at me all the time. They whisper, and then they stop when you or mother comes. They think I don't notice, but I do." He wipes furiously at his face with the heel of his sleeve. "They don't like me because—because I'm not pretty like everyone else, because I don't look like mother or father or grandsire or Aegon. But you always liked me—you said I was clever, and brave, and you said that I always would have you."

"You do, Jacaerys," you start to say. "I meant it."

"Liar!" he shouts again. "You wouldn't leave me if you meant it!"

You do not have a choice, you want to tell him.

Your father has asked you to go to Pentos to convince Daemon to return. You are not sure the Small Council knows of his request, because he has specifically asked you not to breathe a word of it to anyone, knowing too well how fiercely they opposed Daemon and how quickly they might act to convince him otherwise it if they learned where you were bound.

He thought he was doing you a favor—he remembers how badly you wanted to leave two years ago, and is giving you the opportunity now under the guise of a request from him. You did not know how to tell him that the last thing you wanted to do now was leave when Jacaerys hardly goes an hour without you.

You rise slowly from where you are kneeling, crossing the small distance between you. The moment you lift your hand toward him, he recoils.

"Don't touch me! I don't want you to touch me!"

Your fingers freeze in the air before falling back to your side. Your heart feels as though it is stuck in your throat as you stare at him, watching as he wipes hard at his face again, gnawing at his bottom lip as he fights a sob.

"Okay," you finally say, hand dropping back to your side.

"I don't want you to come back," he tells you, sniffling loudly, refusing to look at you. "I hate you."

You know he does not mean it. You do. Children have so few weapons when they are hurting, and cruel words are among the first they learn to wield. You know this better than most, and yet, somehow, his words still manage to find every wound you've ever been dealt in this keep, salt on open wounds because they are being spoken by the one voice whose opinion matters more than any vicious noble ever could.

Your throat feels swollen, and your chest aches so painfully that you fear you might die. You had imagined this moment so differently. You had imagined Jacaerys helping you fasten your cloak, asking you to bring him back gits and insisting you write him every day, faster even than the ravens can deliver. Instead, there is only a frightened little boy glaring at you through tears, insisting that he hates you and never wants to see you again.

"I'll see you soon, mandianna," you say quietly. "Avy jorrāelan. Kesan sagon arlī gō ao gīmigon ziry."

I love you. I will be back before you know it.

You wait just in case he changes his mind, but he does not answer, turning his back on you as your hand closes around the handle of the door.

It is the first time the two of you have to bid goodbye to one another.

It will not be the last.

—————————

JACAERYS, 7; READER, 12; 117 AC

It has been a year since you departed King's Landing.

Pentos had become a fortnight, then a moon, then half a year, and before anyone quite realized what had happened, an entire year had passed. Your father had sent you to talk to his brother, hoping that you might be able to convince your uncle and his wife to return home. Instead, Daemon had laughed in your face and said you were too small to be so bold, and refused every plea you had bade.

You had failed. The only consolation was that Daemon had immediately not sent you away. He had taken one look at your pinched expression and fisted hands, and he took you flying over the bay and the Velvet Hills. He taught you more about your history than any maester in King's Landing ever had, and filled your head with so many stories of Old Valyria that it had you dizzy with homesickness for a place you've never known, longing for a future you would never know.

Every morning, you would challenge him for Dark Sister, and he would pummel you into the tiled floors of the Prince of Pentos's palace, and every evening, he would make you do it again until he properly beat out the "poor teachings of Ser Steffon"—his words, not yours.

You met your cousins for the first time, too.

For years, you only ever had Rhaenyra, Laenor, Jacaerys, and Lucerys, but Baela and Rhaena quickly latched themselves to each of your arms, showing you all around Pentos, desperately trying to keep you in the Free City with them longer.

Baela had insisted on racing dragons before she'd properly introduced herself, offended when Zūgaxes won by what she declared was an unfair margin. She reminded you so much of Jace, forever at your heels, rarely letting you out of her sight for long. Rhaena spent long afternoons wandering Pentoshi markets with you and her mother, pointing out fabrics she thought would look pretty on you and teasing you relentlessly whenever Daemon tripped you and claimed he was only trying to hone your reaction time as you fell flat on your face.

For the first time in years, your world stretches beyond the walls of the Red Keep and lingering gazes, and yet not a single day has passed without you wondering whether Jacaerys still sits in the godswood, waiting for someone who is no longer there.

When your father finally sends a letter recalling you to King's Landing, tiring of your frolic with Daemon and not wanting to deal with another member of his family joining self-imposed exile, you spend the entire flight back thinking about what you would say to him, wondering what he might do when he finally sees you.

You have imagined him running at you and throwing himself into your arms, and you have imagined him turning his back to you once more. You do not know what to expect from him, so your heart is in your throat when you see him standing with the dragonkeepers as they bring out a sheep for Vermax, dark hair flopping around his face, a bright smile on his face.

In your worst fears, the smile drops when he realizes that you have returned.

You clear your throat and force a light expression on your face as you say, “He is almost big enough for you to ride now, isn’t he, mandianna?”

Jacaerys startles, smile dropping just as you feared, eyes widening as he whips around to face you. He stares at you, blinking once, head cocking to the side—for a terrible second, you wonder if he even recognizes you. It has been a year apart, you try to rationalize to mitigate the hurt. You have grown a lot; your hair is styled in the typical Pentoshi way, and you have spent the majority of the past year basking in the sun. It would not be so far-fetched if he did not recognize you right away, in fact—

"Muña?"

"Jacaerys," you greet quietly, hands behind your back to hide the way they're trembling uncertainly. Is he still angry at you? What if he doesn't— "I—"

Jacaerys is across the vast pit in an instant, a blur of black and red as he charges in your direction. The air leaves your lungs in a whoosh of relief as you dip down to catch him in your arms, lifting him off the dirt floor and swinging him through the air. A noise caught between a gasp and a broken sob escapes his lips as he buries his face in the crook of your neck, arms wrapping so tight around your neck that he momentarily chokes you.

For a long while, neither of you speaks. His fingers clutch desperately at the back of your riding leathers, bunching the fabric beneath his fists, and you hold him just as tight, arms wrapped around his waist and face buried in his fluffy hair.

You have spent an entire year imagining this moment, worrying he might shrink away or turn his back on you, fearing that he might remember only your departure and not the years that had come before it. But he clings to you so tightly that your arm and neck begin to ache, and you have never been happier for the pain.

"I'm sorry," he blurts into your shoulder, words muffled against your neck. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

"Mandianna, you have nothing to apologize for," you murmur, pressing your lips to his temple, and letting out a wavering sigh. "I—"

"I said I hated you," he cries, voice catching over the words. "I didn't mean it. I promise."

"I know, Jacaerys," you murmur. "It's okay."

"I wanted to hug you," he sniffles, words tumbling out, desperate to be heard before the courage abandons him. "I was going to, I really was, but then you started leaving, and I got scared, and I thought maybe if I didn't hug you goodbye, you wouldn't leave, but you did leave. I wished I'd hugged you every day."

You let out a huff, unsure if it's a laugh or a sob of your own. "I'm here now, mandianna. You do not need to cry."

"I thought maybe you weren't coming back," he admits, pulling back just enough to look at you, cheeks damp and his eyes red-rimmed. You brush his unruly curls back from his forehead. He hiccups as he presses his nose into your hand. "I thought I made you mad, and you were going to stay away forever. I wanted to send a raven, but I was scared I would only make it worse."

"I could never be mad at you, silly boy," you murmur, carding your fingers through his hair absently. You give him a small smile, and he gives you a wavering one back—he's missing his front tooth. "I missed you."

"I missed you, muña," Jacaerys sniffles, pulling one hand from where he's clutching the back of your tunic to rub his face. You hum lightly, putting him back on the ground and kneeling in front of him, lifting your own hands to cradle his cheeks between them, thumbs wiping away his tears. He returns to clutching your arms, nails digging into your bicep. "I hated going to lessons with Maester Gerardys, and I hated going to feasts, and I hated training, and I hated everything. I just wanted to sit in the garden with you all day, but you weren't here."

You exhale through your nose as you hold his face gently, watching as he tries to hide it in your palm.

"I tried reading by myself," he continues in a rush, "but it wasn't the same because you weren't there to do all the voices. Mother tried, but she doesn't make the dragon sounds the way you do. It made me mad."

"I brought some books back from Pentos," you tell him with a small smile, hoping to calm him down and dry his tears. You pull him closer so that you can ghost your lips to his temple again. He immediately latches back onto you, arms wrapped tight around you. "I think you'll like them."

"What are they about?" he asks, eyes finally shining with excitement instead of sadness as he pulls back to look at you.

"Dragons, of course," you say with a mysterious smile, and Jacaerys gasps in delight. "How about tonight you help me unpack, and afterward I'll read you the first chapter?"

"With the voices?" he presses.

"Would I ever read a dragon story without the voices?" you ask, mock offended.

He smiles immediately, bright enough to chase away every trace of the tears that had been welling in his eyes. For a moment, he looks exactly as he did before you left—missing tooth, unruly curls, and eyes sparkling with excitement at the prospect of a story.

Then, the smile falters. He says quietly, "I missed you."

Your expression softens as you brush his hair back gently. "I missed you too, mandianna."

His gaze drops to the ground

"Sometimes…" he hesitates, chewing nervously on the inside of his cheek, like he isn't sure if he should tell you this next part. "Sometimes I still went to your room. I knew you weren't there! I knew that, but… it still smelled like you. I slept with stuffed Zuzu instead."

You tilt your head with an amused smile. "Surely it did not smell like me for the whole year, mandianna."

"I asked the servants not to wash your blankets," he blurts out before you can finish your sentence. You blink, brows furrowing slightly. "I thought—I didn't want them to smell different. I missed you. When they smelled like you, I could pretend you were still here."

You tilt your head slightly, letting out a puff of air as you give him a small smile. "Oh, Jacaerys."

He shrinks beneath the tenderness in your voice, cheeks red, suddenly looking embarrassed. "I know it's silly."

"It's not silly."

"I just missed you," he says again quietly, bottom lip trembling again. You reach up and cup his cheek again, your thumb brushing beneath his eye. "I missed you a lot, muña."

"You should have written to me," you tell him softly.

His eyes widen. "I wanted to," he insists again. "I really did."

"What stopped you?" you press, raising your eyebrows.

"I told you," he says with a pout, gaze averting to the side. "I didn't know what to say."

"You could have said anything, mandianna," you answer, pinching his cheek enough to watch it redden, laughing when he squeals. "I would have been happy to hear from you even if you were just complaining about Lucerys stealing your honeycakes."

"He stole them all the time!" Jacaerys says furiously. "And mother didn't do anything about it!"

"How dare she?" you gasp with mock offense.

"I was so angry!" he scowls, puffing out his little cheeks. Then he deflates and looks away. "I thought if I wrote the wrong thing, maybe you would stay away longer, so I just… I talked to your room instead."

You give him a bemused smile. "You spoke to my room?"

He nods once. "I told stuffed Zuzu what happened every day the same way I would tell you, but it wasn't the same," he says quietly. He lifts his gaze to yours, and his eyes are shiny again, but you can tell that he is trying his best not to cry from the way his throat bobs, and he chews at the inside of his cheek. His voice breaks in a way that makes you sick as he holds your hands tightly and whispers, "Please don't leave again. Please, muña."

"I won't," you promise, squeezing his hands gently. "Never again."

"You promise?" he asks skeptically, nails digging deep into your skin.

"I promise."

—————————

JACAERYS, 8; READER, 13; 118 AC

"He's so tiny," you say softly as you lounge with Rhaenyra in her chambers. Jacaerys and Lucerys are in the training yard—you were supposed to go with them, because Jacaerys never likes training with Ser Criston without you there to watch, but the birth was harder on your sister than she is willing to admit, and someone needs to look over her. "Tinier than Jacaerys and Lucerys were."

You poke at Joffrey's forehead, delighted when the boy gurgles and reaches for your finger, and Rhaenyra lets out a soft laugh, a fond expression on her face as she looks at the two of you lying in bed, resting back on the settee a few feet away. You had tried to insist that she should lie down, but she was quite adamant against it, and you are not fond of fighting with her when she struggles to keep herself upright.

"As much as I do adore the way you look after me, sweet sister, I am sure you have more important things to be doing. Were you not meant to sit with our father in the small council today?" Rhaenyra asks with a tired smile, pretending she is not in pain as she adjusts her legs.

You hate the way she winces every time she shifts.

You are certain this is Queen Alicent's fault—you had been furious when you passed Laenor and the boys on the way to her apartments, and he told you that the queen had called Rhaenyra to her chambers immediately after the birth, insisting upon seeing the babe before your sister had even been given the chance to rest. She had walked, bleeding and trembling, barely able to stand after the labor but forced to climb the winding stairs from her own apartments with a newborn in her arms, crossing the holdfast while every servant and noble stopped to stare at the blood trailing after her.

You had not been there—you had been in the sky for hours with Zūgaxes, oblivious even to the fact that Rhaenyra had entered her labors—but you found her immediately afterward. Still, she had smiled at you, even as her face had gone pale with exhaustion, and she leaned too heavily against Laenor when she thought no one was looking.

Maester Gerardys had ordered her to remain in bed for several days, but everyone was more concerned with tiny Joffrey, who was born too small for their liking, so no one noticed that your sister was already wandering around after an hour.

Except you, of course.

"All of your attendants and the maestars are focused on Joffrey," you say simply, sniffing as you raise your chin. "Somebody has to attend to you."

You do not notice the way Rhaenyra's expression changes at your words, snatching away the fluff he tries to stuff in his mouth. You stare down at the boy, a conflicted feeling tugging at your chest. You love Rhaenyra's boys—you do, but…

"Mandia," you say quietly after a moment, shoulders a bit hunched as you glance over at Rhaenyra, who tilts her head to the side curiously. You know that all women are meant to bear their husbands sons—you perhaps, more than anyone, so that the blood of Old Valyria might be passed on—but… "I do not think I should like to have children of my own."

Rhaenyra hums. "I used to think so too, did you know?" she tells you, and you look up, blinking at her in surprise. She nods with a small smile when she sees your surprise. "I was terrified when I found out I was with child the first time. I never pictured myself as a mother."

"Really?"

"Really."

You frown. "But you're…" You glance down at the little bundle wriggling happily in the bed next to you. "… You're perfect at it."

Rhaenyra laughs. "I assure you, I am not," she says with a smile. "I have made more mistakes than I can count."

You sniff. "I have never seen one."

"You had never seen a pufferfish until two weeks ago—does that mean they do not exist?" she teases, reminding you of the argument you got into with Laenor a few weeks ago because he insisted there was a type of fish covered in spikes and you refused to believe him until he dragged you out to sea to show you. Your face feels hot as you look away. "As I thought."

"Still," you say primly, crossing your arms and looking away.

"What made you think of this, sweet girl?" Rhaenyra asks, and you know she wishes to cross the room to brush your hair out of your face, but you scowl at her the moment she starts to move, and she sighs, holding her hands up in defeat as she lies back against the settee. "Did my boys horrify you so much they scared you off children altogether?"

She is teasing, but you frown anyway.

You say firmly, "No. I love your boys. In fact, I do not think I need children of my own when I already have two—three, now—little boys who insist on occupying all my time."

Rhaenyra laughs, tilting her head back. For the first time since you arrived in her chambers, she looks genuinely happy. She says, "Jacaerys would be terribly offended to hear himself counted alongside his brothers."

You scoff. "He ought not be. He is the worst offender," you tell her fiercely, smiling. "He sneaks into my apartments almost every night, steals the snacks I go through the effort of stealing from the kitchen, and has somehow convinced himself that half of my wardrobe belongs to him. I found my favorite cloak in his chambers the other day—I had been looking for it for weeks, mandia."

Rhaenyra's shoulders are shaking, though you think they ought not be because it is not funny in the slightest.

"Oh, hāedar, you misunderstand," she manages between laughs, wiping at the corner of her eye. "He would be offended because you called them your little boys as well. He gets rather cross whenever he's reminded that he must share you with his brothers."

You squint. Last week, Lucerys had fallen asleep against your shoulder while you read aloud in the gardens, and Jacaerys had spent the better part of an hour attempting to wedge himself between the two of you under increasingly flimsy pretenses until you had finally sighed and let him climb into your lap as well.

"You may be right," you concede at last, "but I digress."

"What made you think of this then, if not for my boys?" Rhaenyra asks again, determined to get to the bottom of the issue.

Your shoulders hunch slightly. You busy yourself with fixing the blanket wrapped around Joffrey as you try to figure out how to phrase what you want to say.

"The Queen said something to me this morning," you finally admit. "It is why I've spent the whole day flying."

Rhaenyra's expression shifts instantly, fondness hardening and lips pressed together. "What did she say to you?"

"She said she was glad to hear that I've flowered… I did not tell her, I assume one of the servants must have," you say quietly, playing with your own fingers, unable to lift your gaze to meet hers. "She said that she would speak to the king about—matches."

Flowering means womanhood, and womanhood means marriage, and marriage means children.

Rhaenyra exhales hard through her nose, jaw tightening, and you feel guilty instantly. Your sister has just given birth. She has just given birth and was forced to cross the Keep because Queen Alicent demanded to see the babe, and now you are throwing more issues at her as if she isn't already faced with enough.

"Mandia, I—"

"I will speak to our father, hāedar," Rhaenyra says before you can say anything else, gaze lifting to meet yours. She gives you that familiar, reassuring smile that always puts your nerves at ease. "Do not fret. Your elder sister will handle everything. I will not see you forced to do anything you displease."

You know that she means it. If Rhaenyra said she would move the heavens for you, she would spend every waking second ensuring that it happens. Even so…

"I do not wish to be a burden. I—I know it is a woman's duty to wed and bear children, but I—"

"You are not a burden, hāedar. How many times must I remind you?" Rhaenyra tells you with a soft smile. "Be at ease. I shall speak to father. I—"

The door to Rhaenyra's chambers opens with a loud bang, and both of you startle, gaze lifting just as Ser Harwin enters the room. Rhaenyra blinks once and gives the man a questioning look, and you tilt your head to the side.

"Forgive me, princesses," the man says, dark curls framing his face as he looks between the two of you. His gaze settles on you. "The dragonkeepers sent for you, princess. Zūgaxes is—agitated."

—————————

"Are you upset with me?"

You exhale as Jacaerys barges into your chambers later that night, brows furrowed indignantly, as though to mask the anxiety plain in the way he otherwise holds himself. Your gaze slips down to the way his fingers tremble at his sides and his shoulders are too stiff, and Jacaerys instantly shrinks, hiding his hands and standing straighter.

You glance away, lips pressed together, fingers thrumming against your desk.

"'I waited for you in the garden, but you didn't come," Jacaerys continues, voice pitching in accusation as he comes closer to you. "I waited in the library, but you didn't come. And then I thought you'd definitely come for supper, but you didn't. Where were you?"

"I was busy, Jacaerys," you say, clipped, and Jacaerys freezes a few feet away. You stop yourself from glancing at him over your shoulder because you know the moment you see his bottom lip wobbling, your anger will start draining away. "Perhaps you would be better suited attending etiquette lessons with Septa Elaine. You have clearly missed far too many."

Jacaerys does not answer for a long moment. He asks hesitantly, "What does that mean?"

"What that means, Jacaerys," you hiss, whipping around to look at him. He flinches backward, but you barrel on anyway. "is that I found my half-brother crying in the dragonpit after nearly being burnt alive by my dragon because you thought it would be a good idea to taunt him with a pig."

Jacaerys stares at you for a moment uncertainly, shoulders hunching inward as though to make himself small. He has been mad at you countless times before. If he feels as though you're paying more attention to Lucerys, he will give you the cold shoulder all evening, and if you dare to even hint at missing story time, he'll insist he never wants to speak to you again, then will appear in your chambers after supper, asking you to read to him with the sweetest smile.

You have never been angry at him before.

"It was just a joke," he whispers, voice small. "I didn't—"

"You didn't what?" you interrupt. "You didn't mean it? Is that it?"

Distantly, you know you should not yell at him like this.

He is only a boy—you're almost tall enough to reach your sister's shoulders now and still growing at that, but Jacaerys hardly reaches your chest, cheeks still chubby with fat, giggling at every unfunny joke that Laenor makes. Aegon is likely the one at fault for the prank, miserable wretch, but Jacaerys—

Jacaerys should know better.

Jacaerys knows, as you do, what it's like to be ostracized by the court for something out of his control. Aemond is not your favorite sibling—he is too uptight, clings to his mother so much that it makes you roll your eyes—but to mock him for not having a dragon?

You yourself did not have Zūgaxes until your fifth nameday. Your cradle egg did not hatch, and Dreamfyre, Vermithor, and Silverwing had all rejected you. Zūgaxes had been nigh wild after the years he spent terrorizing the Riverlands following Princess Daenerys's death to the Shivers in 60 AC, having hatched moments before the princess took her last breath. The newborn dragon fled in the chaos after losing the bond as soon as it had formed, and if he had not come to you by chance while you were flying with Rhaenyra, you might be in the same position as Aemond is now.

"Aegon said it would be funny," Jacaerys whispers, bottom lip wobbling. "It was a joke."

"Aegon says a lot of things," you hiss. "He is a fool. If he told you to jump from Maegor's Holdfast, would you do it?"

Jacaerys's eyes drop to the floor. He says quietly, "No."

"You know what it is like to have people laugh and whisper," you continue furiously. "You know it feels like to have people smile to your face and question whether you belong the moment you leave the room. You cry to me because they stare at your hair and your eyes, and you cry to me when people mention that you do not look like Ser Laenor. You know those are not jokes."

Jacaerys flinches. "Muña—"

"No," you snap. "Do you think your uncle feels any different when the whole keep laughs at him for not having a dragon?"

"I'm sorry—"

"Your mother will be queen one day, Jacaerys, and you will be king after her," you interrupt. "Everything you do matters. Every laugh and every foolish prank—every time someone sees you, they are deciding what sort of man you might become."

"I didn't mean it—"

"The lords do not whisper about Aegon the same way they whisper at you," you continue harshly, kneeling in front of him and grabbing his shoulders. He is crying now, fat tears rolling over his chubby cheeks, chest rising and falling rapidly as he tries not to sob. "They already question you, Jacaerys, and it will not stop. Every action you take makes them wonder whether or not you deserve the throne your mother will leave you. They are waiting for you to fail, Jacaerys, they—"

You cut yourself off when Jacaerys chokes on a sob, the sound rips through your anger as though someone had plunged a knife straight into it. His little shoulders shake beneath your hands. He is trying so desperately not to cry that it hurts to watch, biting down on his lip so hard you worry he might draw blood.

What are you doing?

"I'm sorry," he whispers again, tears falling freely now. "I'm trying to be good. I am. I didn't think."

Good will not be enough, you think, but do not say, fighting a sob of your own as you pull Jacaerys forward into your arms, sitting back on the floor and letting him clamber into your lap. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, muffling his cries into your skin.

Good will never be enough. You have watched the court use every careless word he has ever spoken as proof that he is unworthy. You have watched them turn his hair, eyes, and face into evidence against him. They will not stop because he grows older—if anything, they will only become crueler and louder.

And you fear one day that words will turn to swords.

You see the glances exchanged between the Queen and her allies, how every feast ends with another whispered slight and word disguised as courtesy. One day, your father will die, and everything held together by his presence will begin to crack.

Your sister will be queen, Jacaerys will be heir, and there are already too many people who have decided they will never accept either of them.

You are scared.

Perhaps you are imagining monsters where none exist—you have spent years watching nobles smile with their mouths and sneer with their haves, and it has made you cynical. You hope one day the two of you will laugh about how frightened you had been over nothing, but until that day comes, the fear remains.

You tighten your arms around Jacaerys until he lets out a tiny squeak of protest. Then he melts into you, arms looped around your shoulders, sniffling into the wet spot at your neck.

"I do not want you to grow up," you whisper before you can stop yourself.

"Why?" Jacaerys murmurs.

Your eyes slide shut. Because the older he gets, the fewer days remain where the greatest thing you have to worry about is a prank gone too far. You smooth a hand through his curls and press another kiss against his temple.

Instead, you say, "Because I like you just as you are."

He giggles. "I still want to grow up."

"Traitor," you tease, brushing your fingers through his hair as he snuggles into you.

"I want to be brave, and I want to ride Vermax all by myself, and I want to protect mother, and Luke, and Joffrey, and—" He pulls back to look at you, big brown eyes still watery. "—and you, muña."

You smile at him, your own eyes stinging with tears. "I'm the one who protects you, silly boy."

Jacaerys shakes his head so vigorously that his curls bounce. "Not forever," he claims. "One day I'll be big and grown, and I'll have a sword, and Vermax will be bigger than Zuzu, and I'll be the one to protect you."

You exhale softly through your nose, swallowing the lump that forms in your throat. He lifts his tiny hands to your cheeks, squeezing hard the way you always do to him when he is sad, then he leans forward until your foreheads touch.

"Don't be scared, muña. I'll be a good king," he tells you simply. "I'll be kind. I won't do things anymore just because Aegon tells me to."

"I know you will, mandianna," you murmur. "I know."

He bites his lip, twisting nervously in your lap. "Are you still mad at me?" You pull back just enough to look at him properly. His eyes are swollen from crying, cheeks blotchy and damp, fingers clinging to you. He whispers, "I want you to be proud of me."

You lift your hands to cradle his cheeks and say firmly, "I'm always proud of you, Jacaerys. Always. I'm sorry if I was cruel—I was only scared."

Jacaerys wrinkles his nose.

"Then don't be scared, muña," he says firmly. "I'll make sure you never have to be."

—————————

You should have known things would never be so easy.

"Where are my trunks?" you ask as you make your way to where Rhaenyra and the boys are getting ready to leave for Dragonstone. Jacaerys's face lights up from a glum frown when he sees you, and you toss him a wink that he giggles at. You look back up at your sister and say, "I told my handmaidens to make sure they were brought down."

Rhaenyra's brows furrow. "They are coming, perhaps?" she offers, making her way toward you to ghost her lips against your cheeks in greeting. "We are not in a rush, hāedar, do not fret."

But there is a tightness in your chest that unsettles you. Something has been off the past few days—you know it. The Queen always has that small, knowing smile on her face, and your father seemed inordinately pleased with himself. You had thought, maybe, the Queen was just pettily satisfied that Ser Harwin was being sent away and your father was just happy having his third grandson, but there was something—something off-putting that could not let you rest.

"Mandia," you whisper, clutching the sleeve of her gown. Your fingers are shaking. Rhaenyra looks down at your hands, alarmed. "I don't…"

"There you are! To think it would be so difficult to find my own daughter for a conversation," you hear your father say from the top of the steps leading into Maegor's Holdfast.

King Viserys leans on his cane as he makes his way down the steps toward you—Rhaenyra blinks in confusion, lips parting but words escaping them as she moves forward to greet him.

He looks worse, you think absently. Even just walking down the stairs is an effort, his face pale with exertion, sweat beading at his temples. Heaviness weighs on your chest—grief, maybe, but what is there to grieve about a man who has spent most of your life incapable of looking you in the eye?

"Father," Rhaenyra greets with a sad smile. "You did not have to come down to bid us goodbye. You should be resting."

"Nonsense," your father dismisses, squeezing her hand. The Queen Alicent and your half-brother, Aegon, follow behind your father. She looks too pleased with herself still—your heart drops to your stomach. "But it is not the only reason I have come. My dear—" King Viserys turns to look at you, eyes upturned. You think it is the first time he has ever looked you in the eye. "—I would like for you to stay behind."

He reaches out to take your hands in his, passing his cane to a nearby attendant. They are clammy and unfamiliar; you are not sure if you are breathing.

Somewhere behind you, you hear Jacaerys inhale sharply, and to your side, Rhaenyra makes an audible noise, confused.

"Father," she starts, a bemused smile on her face, "I—"

"Alicent—she had the most wonderful idea to unite both sides of the family," King Viserys continues with a breathless smile, squeezing your hands. Behind him, Aegon, who had been bored and looked as though he wished to be anywhere else, starts to squint, realizing something might be wrong. Alarm hits him slower than it has hit you. He looks at you questioningly, but you cannot even bring yourself to meet his gaze. "It is high time we put these petty squabbles behind us, don't you think?"

You cannot feel your fingers.

Your pulse pounds so violently in your ears that you can almost not even hear your father over it. Across the city, you hear Zūgaxes let out a screech, feeling your fear as his own.

"Father," Rhaenyra starts to say, voice riddled with disbelief. "You cannot mean—"

"You and Aegon shall wed, my dear," King Viserys says, squeezing your hands as though this is news that shall delight you. "You are both of age. A marriage between the two of you shall bind the family once and for all. Alicent proposed it only a few days ago—I confess, I do not know why I had not thought of it sooner."

"What?" Aegon blurts out, eyes wide. "Me?"

"Quiet, Aegon," Queen Alicent says sharply, and Aegon silences immediately, gaze darting over to you as though you have any means of fixing this. "It is a fine match."

"A fine match?" Rhaenyra demands, arm extending outward to push you behind her, stepping between you and your father. "They are children. You cannot be serious, father."

Aegon stares at you, and you stare at him.

He is only twelve; you are only thirteen.

You can see the fear you feel reflected in his eyes.

"Alicent tells me that she has bled," Viserys dismisses. You knew it—you knew something was wrong, you knew to be scared. "She is a woman grown, Rhaenyra."

"She is thirteen," Rhaenyra hisses. "Aegon is twelve."

"The King has already made his decision, Rhaenyra," Queen Alicent says coolly. "Would you question it?"

Rhaenyra stares at her in disbelief, a scoff slipping from her lips. She asks quietly, "How could you do this?"

For a moment, something flickers across the Queen's face—her lips become pinched, her gaze flits to the side—guilt? It couldn't be—Alicent is cold and cruel, stone made flesh, she has always hated you and your sister. You must be mistaken.

"Was it not you who offered marriage between your son, Jacaerys, and my daughter, Helaena?" the Queen asks. You blink, unsure if you heard her properly. "Let us bind our families through marriage, as you once proposed yourself."

Your head snaps toward Rhaenyra, appalled. She was trying to marry Jacaerys off? Rhaenyra does not meet your gaze, so you know it is true.

"It is not the same," Rhaenyra says, shaking her head, stepping forward again. She turns to your father, expression clearing of anger and disdain as she gives him a more pleading look. "Father, please. She has only just flowered—she has hardly had a chance to understand what that means. You cannot mean to—"

"Enough, Rhaenyra," King Viserys interrupts, exhausted. He looks as though he's aged decades in a matter of minutes. Did he really expect everyone to be made happy by this news? "I have made my decision."

The pavilion goes quiet, and you cannot breathe. This cannot be happening. It is—it is not possible. You are not meant to marry Aegon, of all people. You would rather anyone else. You would rather take the vows and become a septa. Your gaze lifts to meet Rhaenyra's, but there is a terribly defeated expression on her face—one that you have never seen before. You feel nauseous, bile rising in your throat, lightness in your head.

"What does that mean?" Jacaerys finally asks, breaking the silence somewhere behind you. "What does that mean? Muña is still coming with us, isn't she?"

"Jacaerys," Rhaenyra begins quietly, voice low and unsteady, because if the king puts his foot down, there is nothing she can do. She looks at both of you desperately, because for the first time in her life, your sister does not know what to say. "I—"

"She promised," Jacaerys interrupts, voice becoming a bit shrill—understanding enough from Rhaenyra's tone to know that you will not be coming with him. That you will be breaking the promise you made to him not two years ago. He turns his gaze onto you, eyes blown wide with anxiety. "You promised, you—"

"Jacaerys," you say, barely able to keep your voice steady as you make your way over to him and kneel in front of him. His eyes well with unshed tears, and you lift one hand to his face, brushing your thumb beneath his eye to catch the tears before they fall. You lower your voice, speaking just to him as you say quietly, "Do not let them see you cry. You are a prince of the realm, your mother's heir. You must be brave, remember?"

Jacaerys's bottom lip wobbles as he nods.

"I will not be across the sea this time, mandianna—only the bay. Vermax is growing quickly. You will be able to visit as frequently as you please," you soothe, brushing his curls from his forehead, "and I will be able to come to you."

"But—"

"There are no buts, mandianna," you say softly, and Jacaerys inhales sharply, fighting a sob. "We all have our roles to play. You will be king one day, your duty is to the realm, and mine—" Your voice threatens to crack, before it can, you clear your throat and force a small smile. If you start crying, so will Jacaerys, and he needs to be strong now more than ever. "—and mine is to a husband. I must stay at his side."

"Then I will be your husband, muña," Jacaerys says desperately, fingers clinging to your sleeve. "You can come with us then. You won't have to stay here."

You exhale through your nose, pulling Jacaerys closer so that you can press your lips to his temple, rubbing easy circles against his upper back. He flings his arms around your shoulders and buries his face into your hair to hide his sniffles.

"That is not how it works, Jacaerys," you tell him quietly. His shoulders are trembling, small whimpers in the back of his throat as he tries not to cry. You hold him a bit tighter. "The king has made his decision."

"It's not fair," he sniffles. "You're my muña. Why does Aegon get to have you? He doesn't even want to marry you. I want to marry you."

You laugh despite yourself, because Jacaerys is too young to know what marriage entails, but he says it with the conviction of someone who has never been more certain of anything in his life. You press your lips to his hair before you pull back just enough to look at him. You find him glaring over your shoulder at Aegon with all the ferocity he can muster with shiny eyes and wobbly lips.

Aegon has gone pale, but you do not think it's because of Jacaerys's righteous fury.

"I don't think…" Aegon begins awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. "I mean, I never—"

"Quiet, Aegon," Alicent says again sharply, and he falls silently immediately, shoulders slumping. She lifts her gaze to Rhaenyra, giving her a curve of the lips that doesn't reach her eyes. "Well, you and yours had best get going. Safe travels, Rhaenyra."

Rhaenyra scoffs and turns on her heel, but Jacaerys's grip on you tightens at the prospect of leaving.

"He doesn't even know your favorite story," he says desperately, as though it might change something, "or that you don't like onions, or that you can only eat two honey cakes before you start feeling sick, or that you can only sleep if there's a candle going. It's not fair. He doesn't know anything. He'll never take care of you."

"Jacaerys—"

"But I can!" he insists, wiping angrily at his cheeks. "I already do. I make sure you eat when you forget, and I bring your favorite cloak when you're cold, and I tell the servants not to wake you if you've fallen asleep reading. I know how."

"Jacaerys, come here," Rhaenyra says quietly, but Jacaerys only clings more desperately, nails digging into your skin. "Jace—"

You look up at your sister. There are tears in her eyes now too, though she does not let them fall. She gives you the smallest nod, an apology, a goodbye, and a promise wrapped into one gesture. This would not be the end of this—she will get the boys settled at Dragonstone, and she will return for you.

"Mandianna," you murmur, cupping Jacaerys's damp face between your hands. "You must go with your mother." You press a kiss to his forehead, then another to each cheek. "Look after Luke and Joffrey, and mind your mother—she is terribly stubborn and will forget to rest if no one reminds her."

Jacaerys fights another sob and nods, but Rhaenyra successfully pulls him away this time. She gathers him into her arms, and he clutches at her desperately, still looking at you over her shoulder.

"I'll come back for you," he promises. "I promise, muña! I do!"

You smile because he needs you to, even as your vision blurs—luckily, he is too far to see the unshed tears.

"I know you will, Jacaerys," you tell him. "I'll be waiting."

[maybestrid33]

Bedrest

Jacaerys Velaryon x wife!reader - House of the Dragon (spoilers for s3 ep1!!)

Summary: Jacaerys survives the Gullet, so naturally the maesters have opinions about what he should and should not be doing during his recovery. Unfortunately for them, Jace has opinions too.

Warnings: 18+ SMUT hurt/comfort, handjob, oral (blowjob), eventual smut, near-death aftermath, medical treatment, injuries/blood, married couple shenanigans, excessive flirting, Jace Velaryon lobbying campaign

A/N: this works as a standalone or sequel to Saltwater, except this fic is significantly less angsty and significantly more "what if jace spent a month trying to argue with medical professionals." :) must admit i cracked myself up a lil writing this and also PLEASE send in reqs im running out of ideas

MASTERLIST - REQUESTS (open) - WC: 4.0k

A month after the Gullet, the castle still smells faintly of medicines, as though the sea itself has followed Jacaerys home and settled in the stone with him.

You have grown so accustomed to it that you hardly notice anymore.

A month ago, you would have given anything to smell it. A month ago, there had been blood. So much blood. But now there are only maesters, all the time.

Three of them stand gathered around the table right now near the window, speaking in low, serious voices while Jace sits in a carved chair looking increasingly irritated with every minute.

Sunlight spills through the narrow panes behind him, catching in his dark curls and turning the edges of them gold, softening him in a way that makes him seem almost boyish despite everything he has endured in the last couple weeks.

His injuries have faded from terrifying to merely alarming. The worst of the bruising is gone, the cuts have begun to heal, and colour has returned to his face, though not yet enough for you to relax.

Unfortunately for everyone else, so has his stubbornness.

You stand beside him with one hand resting lightly on the back of his chair, partly affection but mostly precaution if you're being honest with yourself, because the prince has developed an unfortunate habit of forgetting that nearly dying is supposed to slow a person down.

"Your Grace is recovering admirably," Grand Maester Gerardys says at last.

Jace straightens immediately, as if the words themselves have restored him. Gerardys clears his throat with the patient air of a man who has spent his life delivering unwelcome truths to the powerful. "Recovering admirably, however, does not mean recovered."

Jace slumps back with all the theatrical suffering of a man condemned to the Wall. Gerardys continues as though he has not noticed the prince's offence.

"Your ribs are still mending. The wound to your side has not fully healed. The fever has passed, but weakness remains. Any unnecessary strain could set back his recovery considerably."

Jace folds his arms. "What strain?"

The three maesters exchange a glance, and you immediately become suspicious. Jace notices it too, his brows drawing together. "What strain?" he repeats, sharper this time.

Nobody answers.

The silence stretches, and stretches, and then stretches a little further, until finally the old maester clears his throat again, looking faintly pained. "This includes physical exertion."

Jace nods at once. "Yes, I gathered that, obviously."

"Excessive physical exertion."

"Yes."

"Particularly..." Gerardys pauses, and one of the younger maesters suddenly finds the floor fascinating. "...marital exertion."

The room falls completely silent.

For a single moment Jace simply stares at them. Then his face changes all at once, horror and outrage arriving together.

"I beg your pardon?"

You turn away quickly because you can already feel laughter rising in your throat and you know if you let it out now you will never stop. Beside you, Jace looks scandalised beyond measure. "What do you mean?"

"My Prince-"

"No." The word echoes off the stone walls. "Absolutely not. This is absurd and I refuse to accept it."

Gerardys remains maddeningly calm. "It is only temporary."

"Temporary?" Jace sounds personally betrayed. "You are forbidding me from bedding my own wife."

The younger maester goes slightly red. You stare very intently at the tapestry across the room, because if you look at Jace now you will lose whatever dignity you have left. He points an accusing finger at the entire collection of healers. "I survived a naval battle."

"Indeed."

"I was shot."

"Yes."

"I nearly drowned."

"Correct."

"And your conclusion is that my greatest threat is my wife?"

The maesters look vaguely embarrassed. Jace looks outraged. And suddenly, despite the lingering ache that still lives in your chest whenever you remember the sight of him bleeding on a bed, you feel lighter, because this is familiar. This is your Jace. He's alive enough to argue and complain. Alive enough to glare dramatically at innocent old men and be stubborn.

Your hand slips from the chair to his shoulder, and immediately he covers it with his own. Gerardys notices, and his expression gentles. "My Prince," he says, "the restriction is not punishment."

Jace groans. "I would beg to differ."

A few of the maesters smile despite themselves. Gerardys gathers his papers, "It is only another month."

Jace nearly chokes. "A whole month?"

"Perhaps less, if recovery continues."

"A month."

"You survived the Gullet. Surely you can survive a few more weeks."

Jace mutters something deeply disrespectful under his breath, and you squeeze his shoulder in warning and affection both. His fingers immediately tighten around yours as he looks up at you, exhaustion and frustration playing on his features.

You smile at him, and his expression softens immediately.

Then Gerardys speaks again, and the spell breaks at once. "And separate beds may also be advisable."

Jace's head snaps around, "No."

Silence settles over the chamber. Jace's hand remains wrapped around yours, firm and warm and immovable. "I nearly died, so I am not sleeping without my wife."

They exchange glances and then, wisely, surrender. "Very well."

You lower your head to hide your smile, because truly, there are battles even the maesters cannot win.

That evening the matter should have been settled, at least in theory.

The maesters had spoken, their instructions delivered and their warnings had been repeated no fewer than six times over supper, as though saying them often enough might somehow make Jace more inclined to obey.

Instead, he is attempting to negotiate, which is perhaps exactly what you should have expected from him and yet still feels faintly absurd when he is sitting there shirtless on the edge of the bed, looking incredibly offended by the very concept of restraint.

You sit beside him with a fresh roll of linen in your lap while he holds one arm lifted so you can reach the wound along his side.

The chamber is quiet except for the crackle of the fire and the distant, steady sound of waves striking the cliffs below; night has fully settled beyond the windows, leaving only darkness on the other side of the glass and the warm gold of candlelight within.

Carefully, you peel away the old bandage, and he hisses through his teeth at the movement. You glance up at once. “You are being dramatic.”

"Three arrows pierced my body.”

“A month ago.”

“It still counts.”

You make a skeptical sound and reach for the ointment, though you cannot quite keep the corner of your mouth from twitching. For a few moments silence settles between you. You smooth the salve across healing skin, studying the angry scar that is beginning to form there, the sight still makes something twist painfully in your chest.

There are moments when you look at him and see only Jace; your husband, your best friend, the boy who once raced you through castle corridors and stole lemon cakes from the kitchens with the shameless confidence of someone who had never once been told no in his life.

Then there are moments like this, when memory comes back all at once and with it the blood, the fever, the endless waiting, the terrible certainty, however brief, that you might lose him. Your fingers pause before you can stop them.

Immediately, his hand settles over yours.

He notices. Of course he does.

You lift your eyes, and his expression softens at once. “I am all right,” he says quietly.

“Mm.”

His thumb brushes slowly across your knuckles.

Then, because Jacaerys Velaryon possesses the survival instincts of an overconfident golden retriever, he says, “I still think the maesters are being unreasonable.”

You close your eyes for a brief, weary moment. You had been wondering how long it would take.

“You are recovering from grievous injuries.”

“I am recovering exceptionally well.”

“You still tire walking up stairs.”

“Well, I dislike those stairs.”

You begin wrapping the fresh bandage around his ribs. “They are not unusual stairs, Jace.”

"They are steeper than other stairs."

Despite yourself, you laugh, and his grin appears immediately. He tilts his head, thoughtful in the way that always makes you suspicious.

“What exactly constitutes marital exertion?”

You nearly drop the bandage. “Jacaerys.”

“It is a reasonable question.”

You finish tying the linen perhaps just a little tighter than necessary, and he winces. You feel no guilt whatsoever.

“They were quite vague,” he says after a moment.

“They were not vague. They were, in fact, extraordinarily clear.”

Jace considers this with the air of a man weighing evidence in a trial he has already decided to win. “Perhaps to you.”

“To everyone.”

“Not to me.” His smile widens, and you are suddenly struck by the realisation that the maesters should perhaps have prescribed confinement in separate castles.

“They said strain,” he says, as though he's continuing a perfectly sensible conversation.

“Yes.”

“And exertion.”

“Yes.”

“So theoretically-”

“No.”

“What if-”

“Jace.”

He stops, though only because he is laughing now, actually laughing, and the sound fills the room so easily that for a moment you forget everything else.

“You are impossible,” you inform him.

“I have been told.”

He reaches for your hand, and you let him take it. His fingers close around yours with a warmth that feels almost unbearably familiar, and when he speaks again his voice has lost its teasing edge. “Another month is a very long time.”

You shake your head, smiling softly, but before he can begin constructing another ridiculous argument, you lean forward and press a kiss to his mouth.

The effect is immediate. Jace falls silent, blessedly, wonderfully silent, and when you pull back he blinks once, then twice, as though he has forgotten every thought he was having.

A second kiss lands at the corner of his mouth, then another against his cheek, and with each one his smile grows slower, softer, warmer, until by the third he has entirely abandoned his campaign against the maesters.

You feel rather proud of yourself.

He grins and reaches for you, and you allow him to pull you nearer. The blankets shift around you both as you settle beside him carefully, because he is still healing and you are both painfully aware of it.

His arm slides around your waist. Your head finds its familiar place against his shoulder.

The first week after the maesters' decree is irritating.

The second becomes ridiculous.

By the third, it's infuriating.

Jacaerys Velaryon approaches recovery the way he approaches every obstacle in his life: by refusing to accept that it is truly an obstacle at all.

If the maesters insist upon restrictions, then he will simply find exceptions.

One evening, as you sit beside him on the bed with your book open in your lap, he glances over and says, almost casually, “I stand by my opinion that their instructions were imprecise.”

You do not look up. “No.”

“They never actually provided definitions.”

You turn a page. “They are maesters, Jace, not scholars debating philosophy.”

He sighs, long-suffering and theatrical, and shifts a little closer.

Recently, he has become fond of finding excuses to sit beside you, or hold your hand, or drape an arm around your shoulders, or rest his head in your lap while insisting he is 'too weak' to move despite having spent the entire afternoon arguing in council.

“What if,” he begins. You close your eyes.

“What if,” he repeats, undeterred, “the concern is specifically overexertion?”

“It is.”

“Then surely the solution is simply avoiding overexertion.”

At last you lower the book and look at him properly. His expression brightens at once, as though he has won something merely by drawing your attention.

“Jace.”

“Yes?”

“No.”

He groans, and you return to your book.

Three nights later, he appears to have developed a new argument. You discover this when he is sprawled across the bed with his head resting against your shoulder, warm and comfortable and entirely too pleased with himself.

“What if,” he says thoughtfully.

You nearly laugh. “Again?”

“I have had several days to refine my position on the issue.”

“Gods preserve me.”

“What if I simply did not move very much? You could do all the... moving... uh, like difficult parts.”

You lower your embroidery hoop and glance down at him. He looks entirely sincere, which somehow makes it worse.

“Jacaerys.”

“I am not going to do any part because we are not going to do anything.”

He studies the ceiling for a moment, then turns his head just enough to look at you. “I think you are dismissing my proposals too quickly.”

“I think you enjoy hearing yourself talk.”

“I enjoy talking to you.”

Oh, you hate how good he is at being charming.

His arm slips around your waist. “You know,” he says quietly, “I do understand why you’re worried.”

The humour fades a little. You look at him, but his gaze remains fixed on your joined hands.

“You frightened me,” you admit.

Something flashes behind his eyes. “I know.”

Silence settles between you, gentle and sad and comfortable all at once. Then, because he is incapable of allowing a serious conversation to remain serious for too long, he lifts his head and says, “So that is still a no?”

You stare at him.

Jace immediately begins laughing, and when you throw a cushion at his face he catches it easily, looking delighted by the rejection.

Which, unfortunately, only convinces you that recovery is proceeding exceptionally well.

One morning at the beginning of the fourth week you're standing at the edge of the bedchamber, the salt-laced wind moaning through the open shutters as the last embers in the hearth crackle low.

Jacaerys is desperate today, even more than usual

He lies propped against the pillows, his bare chest rising and falling with quick, restless breaths, the angry red scars along his ribs and hip still mapped in fresh pink, but they are scars now, nonetheless.

It's been two months since the Gullet.

To the naked eye he seems fully recovered — he partakes in council meetings, goes on long walks with you along the shore, is no longer winded by those particularly steep stairs — but the maesters’ edict remains iron.

No strain, no exertion, no touch that might tear what they say has barely knit. Yet here he is, dark eyes fixed on you with shameless hunger, voice low and frayed.

“Please,” he murmurs, the words thick with frustration, his hand extended, palm up, fingers flexing as if he can already feel the shape of your waist.

“I cannot do this, I’m not some broken thing anymore. I feel you every night in my dreams, and then I wake up and you won't even let me touch you properly. I need your hand, your mouth, anything. Just… let me feel you again.”

He sits up a little straighter, a small grin finding his lips, voice dropping to a growl. “You’re aching too, I know it. Two months without feeling how wet you get for me-"

"Jacaerys, stop being so crude, you cannot possibly think-" but he continues, completely disregarding your objections.

"Gods, I’d give anything to see you under me like I used to, but I won’t move. I swear it. Just you, I'll even lie still.”

Your fingers tighten on the bedpost, because you cannot dent he's right. You do miss him, painfully so. You miss the feel of his hands on you and the stretch of him inside you, but reluctance still coils tight in your chest.

You take one hesitant step closer.

The cool stone floor beneath your bare feet gives way to the softness of the mattress as you perch carefully at his uninjured side, your fingers brushing the edge of the linen without yet touching him.

“Jacaerys,” you whisper, “I cannot, the maesters said-” But the way his hips twitch, just once, desperate and involuntary, stops the protest on your tongue.

A soft, helpless sound escapes him, and something shifts inside you, because this, in a way, is also him in pain, except this time you actually have the power to help him.

Your hand drifts over the sheet, hovering just above the bulge you can just start to see emerging beneath the linen.

“You must promise me you’ll lie perfectly still,” you remind him, the words gentle but unyielding, “There are reasons they forbid it; you could open one of the wounds.”

His dark eyes flash, jaw tightening as if he might argue, but apparently the months of forced stillness have left him too raw, too aching, and he nods once, a bead of sweat tracing down his temple.

You smile then, small and maybe a little teasing, and let your fingertips graze the linen over the head of his cock.

Slowly you peel the sheet down, then work on the laces of his breeches before pulling them down and finally revealing him fully to the firelit air.

His cock thick and flushed dark, the vein along its length pulsing visibly as you wrap your fingers around the base with deliberate lightness, still not quite sure how this is going to go.

He groans, low and broken, head tipping back against the pillows, but he holds himself rigid as promised, muscles trembling with the effort.

You lean in, breath ghosting over the sensitive head, and press the softest kiss there, tasting the salt of him while your free hand rests lightly on his uninjured hip to remind him of the boundary.

“Only on my terms tonight, dearest husband,” you whisper against his skin, stroking him once, slow and torturous, savouring the way his breath hitches and his fingers clutch the bedding instead of reaching for you.

“I will give you this, you just lay there and let me take care you.”

You tighten your grip just enough to draw another shuddering groan from him, your thumb circling the slick head of his cock in slow, deliberate strokes that make his thighs tense against the sheets.

He’s so hard it must be painful, the heavy length twitching in your fist with every pass,

The sight of your big, strong husband, normally so commanding, now reduced to biting his lip to keep from thrusting stirs something warm and aching in your chest.

It feels like the biggest relief.

You still remember every moment of the last two months, watching him wince at every breath, lying awake beside his bandaged body while fear gnawed at you both, and now here he is, flushed and leaking for you, trying so hard to obey even as his hips give one tiny, involuntary roll.

It’s adorable, that stubborn flicker of dominance surfacing in the way he grits out your name, only for it to dissolve into a whimper when you lean down and drag your tongue along the underside of his shaft.

His fingers fist the bedding harder, knuckles white, and you can see the war in his eyes, the urge to grab your hair and guide you deeper warring with the maesters’ warnings and his own fragile healing.

“Fuck… just like that,” he rasps, voice cracking with need so raw it makes your own neglected body clench.

You take him deeper into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks with a soft suck that has him arching his head back.

It's as if you're watching him heal in real-time, because he’s becoming himself again, that fierce, passionate man who once pinned you laughing to the furs.

You hum around him, savouring the salt-bitter taste of him while your free hand strokes soothing circles over his tightening stomach.

You pull off just enough to murmur against the flushed skin, teasing the slit with the tip of your tongue until his breath stutters.

“Still, Jace.”

Then you resume your rhythm, slow, twisting strokes of your hand paired with wet, deliberate licks. He trembles beneath you, every suppressed sound proof of how desperately he’s craved your touch.

You quicken your pace with deliberate mercy, not seeing a point in dragging this out any longer than you have to, lips sealed tight around him as your tongue swirls and your hand pumps in steady rhythm, feeling the way his thighs quake despite his vow to stay still.

His voice breaks on your name, half-command and half-plea, while one of his hands finds your hair and grips tight, not that you mind at all.

Finally, he spills hot and pulsing across your tongue, thick spurts you swallow with a soft moan of your own. You keep stroking him through it, gentling your touch as the last tremors fade, watching the tension drain from his battered body until he lies boneless and breathless, dark eyes glassy.

For a long moment afterward, neither of you says anything.

The chamber is quiet except for the soft crackle of the fire and the distant rhythm of the sea beyond the windows. The candles have burned lower than either of you realised, leaving the room washed in warm gold and shadow.

Jace lies beside you with that same dazed, contented smile still lingering on his mouth, as though he has not quite remembered how to put it away.

You glance at him from the corner of your eye and shake your head. “What?”

His smile only deepens. “Nothing.”

“Mhmm.”

He gives a quiet, breathless laugh and reaches for your hand where it still rests atop his stomach, threading his fingers through yours. His thumb moves over your knuckles, warm and absentminded.

The sight of him like this, softened and unguarded, makes something in your chest loosen.

You fuss over him out of habit more than necessity, fetching a washcloth, straightening the blankets around his hips and making certain he is comfortable, searching his face and posture for any sign that he has overdone himself despite every promise he made.

Jace watches the whole business with open affection, his expression growing gentler by the moment.

“My darling,” he murmurs, though there is no real complaint in it. You ignore him. “You are checking on me.”

“Someone has to.”

His teasing fades then, leaving something softer in its place. For a moment he simply watches you, and when he lifts your joined hands and presses a kiss to your knuckles, the gesture is so familiar that it catches you off guard all the same.

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

You look up at him.

The words are not playful nor triumphant, not even particularly clever. Your chest aches unexpectedly, because beneath all the bargaining and persistence and impossible shamelessness, you know what this has really been about.

Weeks of fear. Weeks of recovery. Weeks of being careful. Weeks of wondering whether life would ever feel normal again.

You squeeze his hand, and his fingers tighten around yours at once.

“You do not need to thank me.”

“I do.”

His voice is gentle. “I know I was insufferable.”

You giggle softly. “Do you now?”

Without either of you needing to say anything, Jace opens his arm toward you. You move into it at once, as naturally as breathing, as though you have done it a thousand times before. Because you have. Your head settles against his shoulder, his arm folds around your waist, and the blankets shift around you both as you settle more comfortably together.

Eventually you feel his lips brush lightly against your hair, a sleepy, lingering kiss that makes you smile before you can stop yourself.

“Tired?” you murmur.

“A little.”

“You should sleep.”

“So should you.”

The waves continue their endless song beyond the walls.

somehow i ended up writing a several-thousand-word account of jace velaryon attempting to find loopholes in doctor's orders. i regret nothing <3 lemme know if you guys liked this, trying to decide wether to write more for jace or not.

[baigepueckers]

Nika Mühl X Reader

Sweet as Cherries

The private cove on the small Croatian island felt like it had been carved out just for the two of you. The rest of Nika’s family was back on the mainland in Split, giving you this rare afternoon alone. The sun was warm, the sea a vivid blue that sparkled like scattered diamonds. You’d taken a small boat out here earlier, laughing as Nika pretended to be a terrible captain just to make you scream when she hit the waves wrong on purpose.

Now you were both sprawled on a thick beach towel beneath the partial shade of a twisted olive tree. A basket sat between you, flowing with fresh fruit…figs, cherries, peaches, slices of cold watermelon. Nika looked unreal in her green bikini. Her toned body was on full display strong shoulders, defined abs, powerful thighs that could crush you in the best way. Her dark hair was loose now, damp from an earlier swim and her skin glowed with sunscreen and a light tan.

You fed her a cherry, watching her lips wrap around it. Juice ran down her chin. You leaned in and licked it off slowly. She hummed in approval, her hand sliding possessively over your hip.

“You’re dangerous when you do that,” she murmured, voice low and husky with that soft accent that always got thicker when she was turned on. “Looking at me like you want me to ruin you right here.”

The beach was mainly empty. The only sounds were the gentle waves and the occasional distant cry of seabirds. Still, the thrill of possibly being seen from a passing boat made your pulse race.

Nika rolled onto her side, pressing her body against yours. Her hand trailed down your stomach, fingers slipping under the waistband of your bikini bottoms without warning. She found you already soaked.

“Fuck, baby,” she breathed against your neck, kissing the sensitive spot below your ear. “You’ve been dripping for me all day, haven’t you? Since we left the dock. I could tell how bad you wanted it when we were swimming.”

Two fingers slid through your folds, spreading your wetness before she pushed one finger inside you. You gasped, hips jerking. She added a second almost immediately, stretching you open with that perfect, confident pressure only she could give.

“Nika…shit…” you moaned quietly.

“Shhh,” she teased, nipping your earlobe.

“Someone might hear what a little slut you are for me.” Her voice was playful but dark with lust. She started pumping slowly, curling her fingers against your g spot with every stroke. Her thumb found your clit and rubbed tight, slick circles.

You clutched at her shoulder, nails digging into her sun warmed skin. The wet sounds of her fingers moving in and out of you were filthy, barely covered by the waves. She kissed you deeply, tongue sliding against yours as she fucked you harder with her hand.

“Look at me while I finger you,” she demanded softly. Her dark eyes were intense, locked on yours. “I want to watch you fall apart on this beach. My good girl… taking my fingers where anyone could see if they looked close enough.”

The risk, the heat, the way her athletic body hovered over you protectively…it all built fast. She quickened her fingers, stretching wider then went back to that devastating curl and thrust rhythm. Your thighs started trembling.

“You’re clenching so tight,” she groaned, grinding her own hips subtly against your leg, clearly worked up. “Gonna come for me already? So greedy.”

You nodded frantically, biting your lip hard. Nika leaned down and sucked on your nipple through your bikini top, teeth grazing just enough to send sparks straight to your core.

“Come on, baby. Let me feel it. Soak my hand.”

The orgasm hit you like a wave crashing over the rocks. You cried out into her mouth as she kissed you through it, fingers still pumping steadily, drawing every pulse out of you. Your back arched toes digging into the warm sand. Pleasure flooded your body in heavy, rolling waves until you were shaking and whimpering.

Nika finally slowed, then gently pulled her fingers out. She brought them to her lips and sucked them clean, eyes never leaving yours. “Tastes even better than the fruit,” she said with a wicked grin.

You were still catching your breath when she rolled onto her back and tugged you on top of her. “Your turn to take care of me,” she whispered, guiding your hand down between her own legs. She was soaked through her bikini bottoms. You pushed the fabric aside and slid two fingers into her easily.

She was burning hot and incredibly wet.

Nika moaned loudly, head tilting back. “Harder, baby. Don’t be gentle.”

You fucked her with your fingers while kissing down her neck, sucking marks into her collarbone where her family wouldn’t see. Her strong thighs clenched around your hand as she rode your fingers, hips rolling with that powerful grace. It didn’t take long within minutes she was gasping your name, coming hard with your fingers buried deep inside her…her walls fluttering and pulsing.

Afterwards, you both collapsed together in a sweaty, sticky tangle. Nika pulled you against her chest, stroking your hair as the sun warmed your skin. She kissed the top of your head softly.

“I needed that,” she admitted quietly, voice softer now. “Just you and me. No cameras. No noise. Just this.”

You traced patterns on her abs with your fingertip. “Best vacation ever.”

She chuckled, squeezing your ass possessively. “We still have a few more hours before we have to go back. Think you can handle round two after we eat some more fruit?”

You smiled against her skin. “Only if you let me sit on your face next.”

Nika’s laugh was bright and full of promise. “Deal.”

[akaz2908]

[rightwheresheleftmee]

this is genuinely the cutest thing i've seen all day

[bueckers555]

a nika and paige dump is exactly what my soul needed rn thank god

[bloodmoonlich]

Gabriela Jaquez at the 2026 WNBA Draft

[paigebueckersupdates]

babies 🥹🥹

[bueckers555]

CEDAR — nika muhl x reader

summary: in which, you and nika say your final goodbyes to each other.

warnings: angst, good luck, babe by chappell roan type beat

authors note. i was actually listening to cedar by gracie abrams when i thought of this idea and i couldn’t get it out of my head so i wrote it real quick. felt like nika fit the vibe the most. enjoyyy

You can’t take your eyes off the floor.

Haven’t been able to since you woke up this morning.

While your makeup is being done, you stare at the pattern in the carpet like it might change if you look long enough. While someone fixes your hair, you track the scuff marks near the dresser. Even now, as your mother tightens the corset at your back, tugging until your ribs ache, the floor feels safer than meeting anyone’s eyes.

You chalk it up to a mixture of nerves and excitement. It was your wedding day.

Everybody was nervous on their wedding day.

But your mind starts to wander, and you know better than anything it’s not nerves.

“Has anyone else RSVP’d?” your moms voice cuts through your thoughts, picking up one of many layers to your dress and fluffing it up. As if it weren’t already basically sitting at your chin.

“You mean between now and a few hours ago when you last asked me?” you ask, the tone in your voice teasing but the look on your face anything but playful.

“I’m sorry, I just want there to be a big turnout. you deserve to be celebrated,” she says softly, going to stand in front of you.

“I will be celebrated. More than celebrated, by anyone who decides to show up.” you nod, lower lip tucked between your teeth.

You almost miss it. The tear that rolls down your mother’s cheek as she takes you in, in your gown. Her hands are clasped together and pressed to her mouth, crows feet crinkling at the sides of her eyes.

You can’t help the soft sigh that leaves your lips. “Mom, please don’t cry. We’re not even at the ceremony yet.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I just…” she pauses, something you knew she liked to do for dramatic effect, “I can’t believe it. My little girl.. getting married.”

You nod because that’s what’s expected of you. But your eyes have already dropped back to the floor, your thoughts drifting to a place you’ve been trying not to go all morning.

You can’t believe it either.

Not the marriage part, you’ve always known you wanted that. A life with someone. Stability. A love that was consistent and stayed.

You just never expected it to be this person.

—

The ceremony passes in a blur. Vows spoken, hands squeezed, applause swelling and fading like a wave you never quite catch.

You spend most of it scanning the crowd.

You told yourself it was because you wanted to see everyone again. Your childhood best friends, your dad sitting in the front row, your old middle school teacher who stayed after school with you until algebra finally clicked.

You told yourself you just wanted to see everyone.

But she wasn’t everyone, and you knew that. and she wasn’t even in the crowd.

You’d know, because the seats specifically reserved for her and her family were empty.

You hadn’t spoken in a few months, but you thought you’d remained good friends. Even after everything that went down between the two of you.

It isn’t until after the first dance, after your spouse’s hands have settled at your waist, after you’ve smiled and smiled and smiled, that you see her.

She’s standing far from the rest of the room, tucked into a shadowed corner like she doesn’t want to be noticed. Like she’s been holding herself there the entire night.

She was watching you, and you suspected she always had been this entire time.

You excused yourself from the conversation you were half listening to, balling your dress up in your fists as you make your way over to the secluded area she stood at.

You stopped just inches away from her, eyes soaking her in. She hadn’t changed much since the last time you saw her. Her dark brown hair fell over her shoulders, a blazer over her dress shirt and dress pants fitting in all the right places.

She looked good. But she always did to you.

“Nika,” you breathed, the corner of your mouth peaking slightly. “You came.”

You could tell there were a million thoughts running through her head, and you wanted to pick her brain and know every last one of them. It was killing you inside to not know.

“I did,” was all she said, hands tucked into her pockets. “You look beautiful.”

Nika had a way of saying things that made you believe them automatically. But even if her tone of voice didn’t sound truthful, the look in her eye always was.

Her stare was intense, all the time. Captivating. And looking into her eyes was a tell-all kinda thing. That’s what drew you in, in the first place.

“Thank you,” you murmured, shifting your weight from one heel to the other.

All at once, you can see the facade she wore wearing off. It was like she finally let herself breathe, her shoulders dropping and holding her arm out.

“May I have this dance?”

She must’ve seen the hesitance in your face, her brows knitting together in desperation automatically. “Please.”

She hadn’t touched you in years. Of course she was desperate.

You always gave in to her too easily, letting her take your hand and wrap her own around your waist.

Your arms instinctively make their way around her neck, and you begin swaying back and forth slowly.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” you whispered, resting your head against her shoulder.

“I almost didn’t.” she admits, her chin pressing gently into your hair.

“I figured,” if you knew Nika like you thought you did, this was probably a last minute decision to come. That or... “did Paige tell you to come?”

She paused, and you didn’t have to look at her to know she was smiling a bit. She knew you could see right through her. “Yeah, she did. She says sorry for not being able to make it. Playoff season, and the Sparks couldn’t deal without their star player.”

You shrug, “She and Azzi owe me a big wedding present.”

Nika laughs at that, and your heart swells so fast it gave you whiplash. You hadn’t heard her laugh in so long.

You didn’t realize you forgot what her laugh sounded like.

“I’ll relay the message.”

A beat of silence.

“Are you happy?”

The questions throw you off for a bit. For multiple reasons.

You wonder if she’s asking because she genuinely cares for your wellbeing or if she’s asking because she wants to know if your having doubts now that you’ve officially tied the knot. Or does she want to know because she regrets letting you go?

And then you’re thrown off because… are you happy? This is what you wanted, isn’t it? A happy marriage? Honeymoon in Cabo like you guys planned? Three kids, named after his mom?

This is what you wanted.

“Yes,” you answer before your mind can fully process the question. If you began overthinking, you knew Nika would see that. And she’d convince you it’s not too late to back out.

And you needed her not to do that. You needed her to let you have this.

Your name begins to slip out of her mouth, and you can already tell what she’ll say. So you stop her. “Nika, please don’t.”

You look up at her, and she can see now the glossiness of your eyes and the small pout at your lips. “Please, I need this.”

“Need what?”

“I need this,” is all you repeated back to her, voice stern as you take a step back and out of her arms. “I need… I need you to let me have this. To let me go.”

“Listen—“

“No.” you shake your head vigorously. “Nika, we weren’t good together. We fought all the time. We didn’t listen to each other. We couldn’t be around our friends because we bitched at each other at any given moment.”

“Things are different now-“

“How?” you raise a challenging brow at her, feeling yourself getting worked up by the minute. “You’re in Seattle. I’m still working here in Connecticut. The distance is what fucked us over in the first place.”

“I’ve changed, I promise.”

“Nika, no. We do this again and again and again. And nothing ever changes.” Your voice is soft now, because you’re desperate to get her to listen.

She’s hearing but she’s not listening to you. And part of you understands it. There was once a time where you, too, thought that this would work out if you both wanted it badly enough.

If you worked on it, then yes, it could work out.

But that’s not true.

Nika couldn’t communicate, and you only ever over-communicated.

It was a bad match, and everyone around you could see it.

Nika didn’t seem to understand that, her shoulders deflating when she realized there was nothing she could say to get you to change your mind.

And now you wanna cry.

Not because you were disappointed. Not at all.

You were glad she came. Even if this felt like the last conversation you guys would ever have.

But because, “I don’t want this to be how we remember each other.”

Nika is staring at the floor. You don’t have to see her face that she’s crying.

You are too.

She swallows hard, then steps toward you cautiously, like she’s afraid you’ll disappear. Her hands come up to cradle your face, her touch unbearably familiar.

She’s looking down at you with the same amount of love and adoration she always used to look at you with. “You wanna know how I’ll remember you?” her thumbs moves to wipe the tears rolling down your face. “I’ll always remember you as the girl who screams at the refs at the top of her legs, defending my fouls before I even can. As the girl who points out the number ten everywhere we go and say ‘Look! Your jersey number!’ because you made it your lucky number. Who snorts every time she laughs. And sleeps with a hundred blankets even though it’s the summertime.”

There’s a hint of a smile at your lips, because that was a reoccurring argument in Storrs, Nika claiming she was drowning in sweat with all the blankets and you commenting on how dramatic she could be sometimes.

“I’ll always remember you as the girl who chews on her hair when she’s nervous, and leaves little notes around the house when you’re gone, which just isn’t fair because you’re an English major and have such a way with words than I ever could have. Who talks a lot when a drop of alcohol touches your tongue because your the lightest of lightweights there is,”

That has you laughing through your tears, looking down.

“My girl who goes to museums just to go. Just to stare at the art because you have a genuine appreciation for it. Who makes fun of my gum-chewing habits, then steals my gum even when I need it more than you do. Whose heartbeat puts me to sleep faster than any white noise ever could.”

You’re staring at her now, and it’s hitting you that this sounds like a goodbye.

A definite goodbye.

“I will remember you as the girl who’s always been too good for me.”

She leans down, presses a long, gentle kiss to your forehead and you lean into it because you know it’s the last time.

And when you open your eyes, you watch her walk away, her figure growing smaller, more distant, until she’s gone completely.

And suddenly, your own wedding was somewhere you didn’t want to be.

[da-pitt]

[multibows]

Don’t ever let me in the ER around ANYONE from the pitt

[dolloebaby]

hostile work environment

a particularly bad shift ends with you in tears and Trinity scrambling to make it right.

trinity santos x f!reader

______________________________________________

wc. 6.6k

rating. 18+

synopsis. Trinity liked you, probably more than she should and in a way that made her chest tighten and cause breathing problems. she could also be mean

warnings/tags. MDNI, mean!santos, (followed by), incredibly guilty!santos, protective trinity, medical inaccuracies, reader is referred to by she/her, reader is a resident, hurtful words, anxiety attacks, patient death, blood, needles, grievous injury, idiots in love, requited love, trinity is an idiot, emotional constipation, suicide jokes, brief suicidal ideations

a/n requests are always open, i write for multiple fandoms so i plan on making a rules/requests page for your convenience but i haven’t just yet. if you’re specifically interested in requesting for pitt characters i write for all of them, that includes the women ofc, i love my ladies 🫦

your first impression of Trinity Santos wasn’t exactly flattering.

it was your second shift in the pitt, and practically downpour outside the hospital walls as you scrambled to keep up with the work load. MVC, only 2 hours into the day, all hands on deck.

you were practically scurrying around the nurses station trying to discharge patients as quick as possible, free up some beds, move others to the hall if possible.

jackson peterson can go to the hall. he’s stable enough, plus he just finished getting iv fluids half and hour ago.

mrs richardson is good to go home, she just needs her paperwork.

kelly anderson is still waiting for CT but she’s stable, vitals are good, she can sit in the hall via wheelchair.

you pause, brows pushing together as you try to think back on what else dr robby had asked of you.

you turn, feet on a swivel without a glance.

“watch it hun,” dana.

she’s passing you right as your shoulder nearly collides with hers, and although her voice is strict her eyes are soft, amused beneath her glasses. noted. look both ways.

“i hope we get something good,” santos jogs to catch up with you, elbows bumping as you exit to the ambulance bay where you can already hear the distance sirens incoming, “dibs. watch and learn.”

she’s cynical, you can tell by the edge in her voice and the way she doesn’t bother to glance your way. rude. you didn’t even catch her first name, she didn’t even ask for yours. double rude.

your eyes narrow, about to retort at the brunette when suddenly your eyeline has gone vertical, hands shooting out as your body loses momentum, shoes squeaking against the rainwater.

one minute you’re approaching your attending, and the next your ass is smacking hard against the pavement. if your tailbone was sentient it would be cussing, a dull throb crawling up your spine.

the worst you’d get is a bruise if it wasn’t for the eyes that have followed you down, a few ooos and damn’s coming from your colleagues that make your ego shrink beyond repair.

“oh my g-, that was,” santos. she’s still beside you, maybe a few steps ahead but she’s now doubled over in laughter, clutching her stomach like it’s so funny it hurts, “that was beautiful.”

damn her.

mohan is already at your side, brows pinched in concern, a hand extending to aid you. you take it gracefully, as gracefully as someone who just embarrassed herself front of her higher up’s can manage. you’re pulled to a stand, groaning low at the soreness presenting itself across your ass. you would rub at the pain if it wouldn’t make you look even more like a moron.

…and santos is still laughing, so much so you’re positive you can see tears in her eyes. okay it wasn’t that funny.

“my day is made, nothing can top that,” she’s acting like you didn’t get hurt, granted it’s a superficial bruise of an injury but still, have some decency, “thanks for the show, slip.”

oh. oh no.

you were there when javadi collapsed. in fact you managed to catch her halfway to the ground. you remember the way santos rolled her eyes, arms crossed like it was an inconvenience.

you were there when she prodded at poor victoria and thus crowned her, ‘crash’. but javadi was a student still, passing out happens all the time for them. you were a resident, technically an equal to santos, both interns, both R1’s. and now what, you’ve been demoted by someone on the same level as you to slip?

it’s not even a creative nickname.

______________________________________________

“head in the clouds slip? or just running on fumes.” two hands grasp at your shoulders with a jolt, they’re off in a second but the way it shocks you out of your stupor lasts. you turn just as the short ponytail of brunette hair flicks to the opposite side of you. trinity leans against the counter of the nurses station beside you, a look on her face that says tell me all.

you sigh half heartedly, ignoring the way you can still feel the warmth of her palms against your shoulders, turning to face her.

“just thinking about the first time we met.” you chuckle, it’s a funny memory now thankfully. trinity eyes you for a second, you swallow, slightly shrinking under her gaze.

“oh yeah,” she says it like she’s too cool to think about it, lips pursing in a way that tells you she’s actually holding back a smile, “and you ignored me for weeks after.”

you snicker. yeah, you remember that part too.

however it wasn’t because you were mad per say, more because of the embarrassment you felt whenever you saw her… okay and you were a little mad.

“i’ve grown to appreciate your comments, no matter how annoying they can be.” you tease, nose wrinkling to really emphasize your point. trinity scoffs but the look in her eyes doesn’t change, gaze locked with yours.

“plus if i didn’t put up with you,” you lean in, mischievous grin creeping onto your lips, you miss the way trinitys throat bobs as you invade her personal space, “you’d be all alone.”

it’s a jab you know is a lie, and so does she, but you still chuckle as you grab your patients chart from the counter and briskly pass her.

the hum of the er drones.

you’re oblivious to the way her body turns towards yours as you leave, like it’s magnetized, green eyes following your frame until you turn the corner and disappear from sight.

trinity sinks forward into the counter, a harsh breath leaving her lips as she plants her elbows and places cheek to palm.

“am i intruding?” trinity’s head snaps up, eyes falling on dana now sitting across the desk. she’s looking over the glasses perched on her nose, a knowing smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth.

“do i sense tension?” samira smiles as she approaches, handing a chart off to dana. she’d seen the interaction, she’s seen all of them. her and dana exchange knowing looks as trinity’s back straightens, face sinking into an expression that reads ‘i have no idea what you mean’.

“i’m gonna get details on the nun with syphilis.” trinity turns to leave, not bothering to address the two women.

“gonorrhea.” dana corrects without a glance up.

“tomato, tomahto.”

—————————————————————————

“how do you put up with it?”

you look up to find victoria standing in the doorway of the break room, hands wringing awkwardly. you pause, sandwich halfway to your mouth.

“uh, context?” you laugh, placing your lunch back down on its wrapper as victoria takes the empty seat across from you.

“santos. she’s, pretty mean,” she continues, that uncomfortable look on her face that just screams victoria javadi, staring into your eyes, “like, how do you deal with that stuff.”

you’re not sure how to answer that. you just don’t really mind. for whatever reason.

“huh, i’ve never put too much thought into it,” you ponder, the question she’s asking now sparking your own interest, “i think it’s just her way of communicating.”

“by belittling?”

“unfortunately.” you chuckle, watching how victoria shifts in her seat. you can tell she wants to say more, it’s like she’s holding a jumpy frog in her mouth.

you glance up and down, taking in the way she clutching her lavender jacket closer around her body like a safety blanket.

“you want me to talk to her?” that gets victorias attention, her eyes widening like a frightened puppy put on the spot. her hands shoot up in mock surrender, palms waving.

“no, that’s not necessary,” she replies, tone a little panicked and speaking quicker than you’ve ever heard her.

“i won’t mention this conversation, i’ll make it seem like it was all me,” you continue, nodding, “i won’t throw you under the bus.”

victoria pauses, hands falling into a clasp on the table.

“um, sure. if you’re cool with that.” she goes to stand, smiling in that way she does where her lips slightly curl into her teeth. you pick up your sandwich, ignoring the dollop of mayo that drops onto your thumb.

then she pauses again, freezing for a minute at the doorway before angling herself so she can address you properly.

“she still calls you slip.” she says, voice a tad softer than before.

you smile. easy.

“i’ve grown to like it.”

______________________________________________

“did you hear about the guy in chairs who’s eye popped out of the socket?” was the last thing you wanted to hear as you took a sip of lukewarm, watered down coffee shen had offered you before he left.

you swallowed with a grimace as trinity stuck her phone in your face, zoomed in on a picture you can only imagine she took in an effort to make you puke. you shove the device away from your face, face screwing up as trinity just laughed like it was the best thing in the world.

“ew. gross trin.” you suck in a breath, watching trinity eye the picture again before slipping her phone in her back pocket.

“you’ve definitely seen worse,” she quips, leaning her backside against the nurses desk, looming over you like a dark cloud as you sit in the chair dana always claimed. you were just keeping it warm for her, “i didn’t take you for a lightweight, slip.”

if your eyes rolled any further back you’d lose them.

“i’m not, but come on i was eating.” you nod to the dunkin cup in your hand, trinity follows your eye-line, landing on the few inches of ‘coffee’ left.

“you don’t eat coffee, babe.”

you freeze before your lips can wrap around the orange straw again, hand unknowingly gripping the plastic cup harder. your eyes are on the counter beside trinitys hip, blinking like a moron.

your lashes flutter, eyes glancing up to land on the woman mere feet from you. a harsh breath escapes your throat when you take in the way she’s seemingly frozen as well, if you just lean in a bit closer you can faintly see what appears to be a pink hue coloring her ears.

“that’s a new one.” you cough.

“shut up,” trinity squeezes her eyes shut, running a firm hand across her face. you follow the movement.

she opens her eyes to glance down at you, and you suddenly feel very small under her gaze, the fact you’re sitting down and she’s standing doesn’t help the situation. nor does it calm the racing of your heart or the fuzziness in your brain.

“um, i-,” trinity starts, the stutter in her voice catching you off guard in a way that’s concerning. however she’s cut off by a frazzled whitaker appearing out of thin air, body practically collapsing while still standing before the two of you.

he’s huffing like he ran a marathon, however you know for a fact the two patients rooms he’s been managing are both only several meters away.

“alien hand syndrome.” he announces it like the two of you are supposed to have a clue what he’s referring too. you and trinity lock eyes, she shrugs and it makes you smile.

“huckleberry, you don’t have to make up excuses for why i caught you jerking it the other day,” trinitys arms cross, leaning further into the desk. that gets a laugh out of you, even though you feel slightly bad at the way dennis’s face drops.

his face says ‘not this again’.

“trin.” you chuckle, bringing the coffee back to your lips.

“what? no!” dennis waves his hands like he’s been accused of a crime, like he’s in defensive mode or fight or flight and he’s about to book it down the hall. how can someone look so much like a soggy, depressed napkin?

“my patient, mr davidson? he was brought in for causing a disturbance at the gym down the street,” he continues while shaking his head like she’s waiting for trinity to keep her joke going, her silence is worrying, “he has alien hand syndrome, i’ve never seen it in person.”

he seems both parts greatly excited and deeply confused. typical dennis. trinity looks back to you, brows raising when she catches your eye, then back to dennis.

she snorts a laugh through her nose.

“it’s okay, we all need time for ourselves.”

whitaker takes a breath, eyes falling shut.

“mr davidson-,”

“is that what you named your penis?” okay. she just says things in a certain way that you find so funny. you choke on a laugh, smacking a hand against trinitys knee as she just smiles at dennis, you don’t notice the way her eyes occasionally glance towards you.

“who named their penis?” oh my god. robby walks up from behind you, crossing his arms in a way that mirrors trinity. he looks amused, however you can also see the urge to reprimand the three of you sitting behind his eyes. your back straightens like you’ve been struck by lightning.

“dennis.” you respond calmly, holding back the howl you want to let out at the way dennis’s soul appears to leave his body. trinity seems to be doing the same, hunched over with her shoulders trembling.

robby eyes the three of you. he shakes his head like a disappointed father. you think you see a brand new wrinkle form on his forehead in real time.

“do i have to say it?” he says, hands on his hips.

you grab trinitys hand, standing to her left as you use your free hand to pick up the chart you’d been using earlier.

“nope! in fact labs are back so we’ll be on our way,” you tug trinity with you, past whitaker who looks like a kicked puppy, “i’ll let you know when mrs martin is discharged!”

you drag trinity along with you, grinning without teeth towards robby one last time as you leave the nurses station.

“um, we’re not on the same case?” trinity whispers, leaning so close you can feel how her breath tickles your ear.

“we just needed to get out of there, robby had that look on his face.”

______________________________________________

it’s been an awful day. there’s no other way to spin it. you’ve had patients die, you’ve had your hands on them as they’ve taken their last breath. you’ve seen children die, so young it hurts your soul and makes you find yourself on the roof. you’ve had belligerent patients, family, you’ve been shoved and hassled by people in chairs.

but that’s the job. and maybe that’s what it is, without a break in so long you slowly sink into the hopelessness of it all. thankfully you can go home at the end of the day, most times at least, flop onto bed still in your scrubs and just try to forgot. but it still takes a toll.

as you stare down at the blood coating your gloved hands, it draws your attention to the red bleeding through your scrubs into the clothes beneath. it’s tacky and growing cold, the edges of crimson around your shoes browning to a rust color.

your fingers tremble, bottom lip quivering. you’ve cried before on shift, it happens. it just always sucks.

“you did a great job.” mohan is beside you, you feel the steadiness of her palm plant on your shoulder. she’s always been kind, she always knows what to say, and yet this time her words fail to ease back the panic in your stomach.

“he still died,” you say it as a fact. his body is still only a few feet away, mckay is currently covering his face with a sheet. red bleeds through, “what’s the point if they just die.”

“sometimes no matter what you do, and no matter how good you are, they still don’t make it,” samira states, you can’t bring yourself to look at her, “it’s not a failure on our part.”

she’s right.

you know she’s right.

but it still stings. you can’t help the shaky breath that leaves your lips, shoulder moving in a way that lets samira know you appreciate the gesture but don’t want to be touched. she listens, grip falling from you.

“how much longer is your shift?” mckay asks and as she approaches, you can see the sympathy all over her face. something about it makes you uneasy. why would she feel bad for you? you didn’t die. he did.

“3 hours,” you reply, but it’s hollow, concerning. samira and cassie exchange a look, “i’ll be fine.”

and it’s the truth. you will be fine, you’re always fine. it’s just difficult sometimes, doesn’t mean you can’t pull yourself out.

“how about you clean up and then get some fresh air before returning, okay?” cassie tells you, and you can tell she’s telling, not asking, “i’ll let robby know. he’ll understand.”

you don’t bother arguing, just nod quietly as mckay motions for you to leave the room first. you do so in silence, head hanging a bit more than usual.

mckay and mohan give you another once over before dispersing.

you tug the gloves off your hands, tossing them in a nearby waste disposal bin, there’s a bit of blood near your wrists, having soaked in right below your sleeves. just as you turn to walk outside and follow the instructions you’d been given, you feel someone flick the back of your head.

you turn, coming face to face with trinity. her eyes widen, and for a second you think something reassuring is about to leave her mouth. you could use a hug from her, make just a pat on the back. someone you trust, someone you like, someone you…

your heart sinks when she smirks.

“damn carrie, who came in with the pigs blood?” it’s funny. really, it’s a good reference, it makes sense, if you saw her like this you’d probably say the same. but her words lodge in your ribs and wiggle up into your chest cavity in a way that makes you want to lurch over and lose your lunch.

you can feel how your face drops further, unfortunately for you, trinity was looking at your once white sneakers now red, when it did.

“seriously, did you actually kill someone on purpose?” she shuffles closer. eyes narrowing like she’s analyzing you, waiting for you to reveal a knife or chainsaw. you shake your head half heartedly, trying to muster up a smile.

“no.” you say it with a tone so forlorn you can see how trinitys brows furrow slightly, like she’s a bit taken aback.

she pauses.

“yeah, no shit,” normally her laughter would brighten your day, make a bad shift good. but right in this moment, you wanted nothing more than to hear it stop, “i don’t think i’ve ever seen you cry.”

she chuckles like that’s supposedly funny. you suck in a breath, you can feel the heat behind your eyes returning.

dammit. don’t cry. not now.

“come on, i thought you weren’t as sensitive as the others,” you know she’s trying to be funny. you can recognize it in her tone, you know her. she’s not trying to be malicious but man, she’s really making this worse for you. this is the last thing you needed.

you can feel your pulse pick up, the shake in your legs coming back full force. you need to get away from all of this, it’s embarrassing, you don’t want her to see you like this, it’s not her fault.

it’s not her fault, so why do her words hurt so much?

“scrubs exchange.” is all you can get out without it sounding like you’re about to burst into tears, keeping your voice calm and level. hopefully she gets the message as you move to scurry past her, shoulders brushing at the close proximity.

trinity can feel her smile droop, thrown off by your behavior. did she go too far? no, if you actually felt bad you’d tell her. you know you can trust her, right? her mouth opens and closes, trying to find the words.

come on, say anything.

her thoughts are begging her, she wants to grab your arm, pull you back in. but she doesn’t, because if you were really, actually feeling upset, you’d tell her.

so she turns before you get far, jogging to catch up with you. maybe if she can make you laugh you’ll tell her you were just messing with her, it was a joke, to see her reaction.

yeah. that’s probably it.

she places a hand on your arm, pulling it a little as she manages to stop you in your tracks. you stay facing the other direction.

“come on don’t be such a baby, i’m messing with you,” she jokes, chuckling awkwardly like she’s fixing something, “don’t be so pathetic, slip.”

mistake.

trinity braces herself for you to shove her, faux anger and whip back with you own retort. you always do, you’re slip, she’s santos, it’s your thing.

sniff.

trinity’s smile drops faster than her stomach, like she’s going to be sick. her grip on your wrist tightens subconsciously, which only furthers to splinter her chest in two when she feels you tug.

and then you rip your arm from her, like her touch has burned you, like you can’t stand to be touched by her, like it’s disgusting.

“hey, i-,”

the words die on her tongue when you whip around and she’s met with something that just utterly destroys her.

your face is blotchy with tears, cheeks swollen, bottom lip riddled with marks where your teeth dug into it, the flesh quivering uncontrollably. rivets of tears spill down your face, washing past and carrying drops of blood that had lingered.

then you made a sound, this soft, heartbreaking, whimper of a sob that thankfully isn’t loud enough for any other staff to hear but isn’t too quiet that trinity misses it.

trinity can feel her throat go dry, what? no, no no no, why is she crying?

her hands feel clammy, fingers twitching like she’s resisting balling up her fists, no matter how much she wants to dig her nails into her palms and draw blood.

“wait-,” she sputters, face contorting in fear. what’s she scared of? please, please don’t tell me i just lost her, “don’t cry, i was-,”

“it’s not funny.” you sound so sad so, so sad and she wants to scream. it’s like all the fluorescent lights above trinity are aimed at her. it’s cruel, the way her chest in heaving with heavy breaths she can’t seem to catch.

she watches as you wipe at your cheeks with open palms, which does nothing to clear the wetness of your face as more tears fall.

she wants to grab you, hold you, tell you she’s sorry, probably more sorry than she’s ever been. she’s never once felt bad poking and prodding at anyone before, but now? this? she feels as though she’s staring at the scene of a crime.

a crime she caused.

her hand is shaking as she reaches out, you have to know she’s sorry, right? you know her, she would never intentionally make you feel like this. if you could just take her hand, allow her touch, she could prove it to you.

all the movement does is cause you to take an unsteady step back, then another.

“just, leave me alone, santos.” and you’re turning on your heel again, pretty much speed walking as fast as you can away without getting told to slow down.

trinity stands with her had frozen mid air, fingers extended like an idiot.

her hand drops to her side, balling into a fist.

god. why do her eyes sting so much.

santos. you called her santos

not trinity, not trin, not idiot. you hadn’t called her santos since you’d first been acquainted, since the time period where you’d do anything to avoid her. she never wants to go back to that time, not after knowing you, not after…

she hangs her head, trying to get a grip, gain her momentum back. she can feel the sweat blossoming across the back of her neck, nervous, shaky. she takes a deep breath, and exhales.

she had to fix this. but how, when you didn’t even want to look at her?

______________________________________________

“do you think if i fling myself hard enough off the roof the impact will kill me instantly?” okay. wow.

whitakers head snaps up, eyes wide and rapidly blinking like he’s trying to rationalize that he didn’t actually hear what he thinks trinity just said. his mouth opens, then closes, fingers gripping at the binder in his hands.

“pardon, i, what?” he’s clearly taken aback, still blinking like it’ll shed some light.

“maybe i can blow myself up,” she continues, the serious look on her face fairly concerning, “hospitals have oxygen canisters, it’s possible.”

dennis takes a deep breath, glancing both ways like someone will come and save him from this conversation.

“you’re, joking right?” he needles in, hoping for the love of all things holy she breaks character and starts cackling like normal. instead she turns to him, face blank with a look of utter defeat. everything trinity is not.

“i fucked up.” she concedes. which is rare for her, so much so dennis does a double take, a little dramatic in a way that would make trinity roll her eyes if she wasn’t so damn bothered.

“i made her cry.” she confesses, lowering her voice a bit like anyone else knowing what she’s done would actually end her.

dennis blinks.

he says your name as a question.

“i’ve made people cry before, nothing bad”, she shakes her head, “but like, i have.”

she’s picking at her cuticles, pulling back skin and drawing blood. if it’s painful at all she doesn’t let on, stare empty as she looks to the tile floor.

“so what’s the issue?”

yeah. what is the issue?

“the issue is,” she inhales like it’s the last breath she’ll ever take. she wants the earth to swallow her up, maybe if she grovels enough it will, “she won’t look at me, won’t speak to me.”

a heavy pause.

“it’s been 3 days.” there it is, what’s caused the exhaustion to be present on trinitys face. it’s like in these three days, she’s gone through war.

“everything feels wrong.”

“maybe you should talk to her?” dennis tries, all it gets is that same blank look, like obviously, she’s tried that.

it’s like she has the plague. the day of the incident you finished your shift without looking her in the eye once, which she’ll admit was pretty impressive. even when you ran a code together, you managed to help the patient, stop a major bleeder, speak to her professionally like nothing had happened, and yet after you finished you left the room before she could say your name.

the next day trinity came into the pitt feeling a bit better, obviously you wouldn’t still be upset. you had a whole night to think, lament, hate her, get sleep and rest. maybe you’d come up and forgive her, maybe you’d act like nothing had happened. she just needed to know the two of you would be fine.

that’s until you came in with your coffee, looking well rested, and walked right past her. she watched you walk up to samira and begin chatting. and yeah, you and samira were friends, but you’d never ignored trinity to talk someone else.

however what hurt more wasn’t the fact you’d ignored her, it was how happy you looked. samira made a face and said something she couldn’t make out and you broke into laughter like it was the best thing you’d ever heard.

she was supposed made you laugh. trinity did. not mohan, not dennis, not dana. not anyone.

yet there you were, treating her like a stranger and fluttering around like you hadn’t a care in the world. you’d walked into the break room when she was finishing leftover lasagna, and caught the redness your eyes still had, most likely from the other day. it made her throat tighten, and suddenly she wasn’t hungry anymore.

the third day trinity hadn’t gotten any sleep. she spent the night rolling from one side to the other, her pillow was warm, her fitted sheet kept popping up, and her thoughts was running a mile a minute.

what if she never speaks to you again?

she jolted into an upright position, heaving like she hadn’t just been laying down. no, she couldn’t let that happen.

she was knocked from her thoughts by someone clearing their throat. oh yeah, she’d walked out with javadi to check on chairs and make sure no one had kicked the bucket.

“i’ve been here for 4 hours, 4!” the man before them states, having stood up to block their path down the aisle. he’s taller than both of them, chest heaving, eyes wide and bulging.

“we see patients based on severity, so-,” javadi starts, mouth clamping shut when the man focuses on her, taking a bold step forward.

“severe? i could have a brain bleed, my heads been fuzzy for hours now and no one wants to do their damn job!” he shouts, now catching the attention of others, the room quieting down at his level of noise.

javadi checks her chart, locates his name, and nods.

“um, so you were seen briefly to rule that out, unfortunately we can’t bring you back just yet-,” she’s cut off again when trinity speaks up, expression like she can’t be bothered to deal with this.

“you’ll be seen when you’re seen, if you don’t want to wait,” she looks towards the door, angling a thumb at it to catch the man’s attention, “you can sign an AMA and leave.”

it blunt, it’s honest, and it clearly enrages the man.

“you know what, bitch-,”

he looks like he’s about to explode on them, hopefully not physically, they would never find out as dana and security come running up from behind.

“okay! okay no,” dana gets between, hands up like she’s ready to throw a punch if need be, “that’s what we’re not gonna do here.”

“sir if you can’t sit down and be an adult, i’m afraid we’ll have to get the police involved.” dana minces no words, glaring the man down like she really needs him to consider his options. thankfully it seems to have worked, his angered expression not leaving, yet he lowers himself back into the seat and crosses his arms. it’s like watching a petulant child get put in timeout.

javadi releases the breath she was holding, leaving back to the double doors to the pitt.

dana has already began speaking with security, pointing out who they need to keep a better watch on.

trinity sighs, and although her shift only started a few hours ago, she just wants to leave. she begins to follow Javadi, looking up from the various shoes of the people in the waiting room before her gaze falls on familiar eyes.

you stand a few yards away, seemingly having arrived with dana seconds ago which she hadn’t noticed to due facing the other direction. she’s ready to see you retreat, go back to treating her like dust under your sofa. but you don’t. you’re standing with wide eyes, lips parted like you can’t take in air fast enough. and suddenly you’re walking towards her, grabbing her hand before she can ask why, before she can worry you’re just going to say this is the last time you’ll ever touch her.

but you’re dragging her back through the doors, away from the noise of people. she can see you glancing around from behind you, like you’re searching for something. then she’s being yanked into an empty patient room, one that had just been discharged, drops of blood still on the floor.

you release her hand just to turn and yank the curtain shut, pausing after the light from outside dims and the silence becomes overwhelming.

“what, were you thinking?” you say before even turning to look at her, and trinity is properly confused, her hand still tingling from where you’d been grabbing her. she felt something like a caged animal all of a sudden, but maybe not seeing as there’s no where she’d rather be.

“w-what?” there’s that stutter again.

it’s your turn now, shifting to face her with an expression she’s never seen aimed at her before.

“you just riled up a guy twice your size, not to mention he was already pissed before you even opened your damn mouth!” that makes her jaw drop, brain back to static, confused.

“you care?” she replies, not snooty, not in a nasty way. she says it smooth, like a saturday morning, like she needs the answer to be yes or she’ll die right here and now.

you blink, taken aback.

“of course i care,” you say it like it’s easy, like you couldn’t even think of anything else you’d say to that. you don’t approach, you just stand their, staring at her like you also share her confusion, “you think i’d cry over someone i don’t care about?”

that’s a gut punch, and trinity would physically grab her gut if she didn’t think it would make her look even more stupid in front of you.

“i’m sorry.”

she says it barely above a whisper, eyes casting down like she’s ashamed. and quite frankly she is, she wouldn’t be in this predicament if it wasn’t for her and her annoying deflections.

your mouth shuts, processing.

“i didn’t like seeing you cry,” she continues, “i actually would rather go my whole life without seeing it again.”

the air feels heavier, weighing down on the both of you.

“especially considering i was the reason.” she can see the way your face falls at her words, and wishes nothing more than to pull you in and comfort you. but you probably don’t want that, especially after she treated you, after she hurt you.

“trin-,”

her breathing catches in her throat at the nickname, one you didn’t call her often but enough that whenever you did it felt like something real.

“i’m not mad at you.”

“you have every right to be.” she scoffs, lip curling like she has no right for you to forgive her. she’s caught off guard however when you take a weary step forward, rocking back and forth as you balance into the motion.

“i was upset, yes, but i was never mad,” she wants believe you but part of her is also jarringly aware that something in her brain wants you to be mad at her. she deserves it, she aimed her remarks at the one person she never wanted to see crumble from them, “my patient died that day.”

you say it with hesitation, and trinity has to physically hold herself back from approaching you and wrapping an arm around your shoulder, tugging you into her side.

she can see how your throat bobs, inhaling deeply like you’re preparing for a difficult conversation. she’s ready, ready for you to be done with her. she laughed at you when you’d lost a patient, she’d made it worse even unintentionally, how do you come back from that?

“i was having a rough week, and i was down,” you sigh, pained at the thought, “i’m sorry.”

trinity blanches. you’re sorry?

“what?” she speaks before her brain catches up with her mouth.

you nod, looking forlorn.

“i ignored you, which wasn’t very mature,” you’re clearly putting a lot of thought into your words based on the scrunch between your brows, “i think i was embarrassed, that what you said got to me so much.”

“don’t.”

you look up at that, finding a conflicted expression plastered across trinitys face. she looks distraught, pieces of hair have fallen from her ponytail to frame her face, she doesn’t bother push them back.

“don’t apologize, please,” she whispers, and it’s the more genuine you’ve ever heard her, “i’m the one who needs to, please.”

that’s probably the most you’ve ever heard trinity say please and it’s been twice, and aimed both times at you.

“i’m not good at this.” she huffs.

“this,” she waves a hand between the two of you, “being close like this with someone, not wanting to hurt them so badly it makes me feel sick.”

it’s your turn for your breath to catch.

“i never meant to hurt you,” she continues, as if you would start talking again, like you weren’t standing there at a loss for words, “i’ll never do it again, believe me.”

she’s begging.

if anymore desperation were to pour off her she’d been on her knees, looking up at you and hoping you wouldn’t slam the door in her face.

she doesn’t know how to do this, apologize, actually be sorry. she’s felt remorse, she’s not that emotionally reserved. but this is different, this is you. if she can’t talk normally to people her own age, family of patients, how is she supposed to explain how she feels to someone she’s…

she doesn’t have too.

because before her mouth can open again and spew more sorry’s, she’s pushed against the empty gurney behind her as your body collides with her. it’s warm, the way your hands wrap around her back, pull her weight into yours. your face is shoved in the crook of her neck, breath tickling the hairs at the back of her nape.

her hands shoot out, bracing a second too late and pausing before her brain catches up and she’s realizes what’s happening and wraps her own arms around you. her fingers dig into your scrubs, hands gripping at your waist like she’s scared you’ll slip away or disappear or, god forbid, ignore her again.

she can feel the breaths you take as your chest is pressed to hers, she doesn’t think she’s ever been this close to you. it sends her thoughts on a spiral, she’s so glad, overjoyed that you’ve obviously forgiven her but man.

she can feel the heat flood her cheeks, burning her face as if the ac wasn’t currently is blasting. her fingers tremble against your body, suddenly too aware of every part of you tucked into her. she’s happy, the relief she feeling is overwhelming, however the next breath she takes in is shaky.

“i take that as a-,” she wants to joke, make a quip that you didn’t stay mad long, how she can’t blame you, you must have missed her so much.

until you lean back enough to catch her eye, faces nearly nose to nose, and your head tips forward.

hold on.

trinitys aware of what’s happening. how couldn’t she be when she’s thought about this moment for months, unfortunately so often sometimes you’d catch her staring and make a tease about her being oh so in love.

“i can’t blame you trin, im just too pretty.”

you’re right, you can’t blame her, because that’s just a fact. a fact running through her mind as the plush warmth of your lips press to hers.

of course she tastes good, she’s always smelled amazing, this shouldn’t be shocking.

but it’s shocking enough that she stumbles a bit, the backs of her thighs catching on the gurney. and oh god, your hand is now in her hair, tugging at the roots, adjusting her back like she’d go anywhere.

it’s mean how you’d nails rake across her scalp, tongue darting out to lick at the seam of her bottom lip, it’s pure evil.

right as her mouth opens, heart thudding so quick she’s worried you’d feel it against yours, you pull away.

fuck.

there’s a string of spit connecting your lips, your hand swiftly coming up to wipe at the glistening on your chin an breaking the connection.

“i forgive you.” you say it in this soft voice, all casual like you hadn’t just rearranged her mind and weakened her self control. she can’t help but snort, eyes rolling as her heart continues to race.

“uh, no shit.”

a/n 🫦

[nyysblog]

lowkey missing nika after watching that game.

[baigepueckers]

Nika Mühl X Reader

Heated Rivalry

April 2024 Draft Night

The Barclays Center green room smells like fresh suits, nervous sweat, and champagne that no one’s really drinking. Lights flash constantly, cameras circling like sharks. You’re Y/N Y/L/N, Stanford senior, 6’1” forward with the kind of silky mid range game and a reputation for being cool under pressure. Leadership without an ego, charity work on your resume, zero scandals. The New York Liberty traded two future firsts to take you No. 3 overall. When you hold up the seafoam jersey and shake the commissioner’s hand, the applause feels like but also like a cage closing.

Across the room, Nika Mühl stands when her name is called 14th to the Seattle Storm. Croatian UConn guard…lean, quick, with dark hair cascading around her and a smirk that says she already knows she’s trouble. You’ve never guarded her, but you’ve seen her during games…locking down her opponents, chirping in broken English, celebrating steals with a spin that screams cocky. She doesn’t look nervous. She looks bored.

At the after party the room is loud…music is thumping, friends laughing hard, rookies toasting to their futures. You’re mid conversation with a Liberty execs when you feel eyes on you. Nika appears beside you at the bar, casual in a black dress and martini in hand.

“Y/L/N,” she says, accent wrapping thick around your name like she’s tasting it. “Liberty. Big lights for a golden girl like you.”

You turn, meet her brown eyes. Up close she’s taller than you expected, shoulders broad from years of defensive drills, faint scar on her jaw from some old overseas scrape. “Storm,” you reply evenly. “Hope the bench isn’t too lonely for all that mouth.”

She laughs…low, genuine, a little dangerous. “We’ll see who’s lonely on the court.” Her gaze drops to your lips for a heartbeat, then back up. She clinks her water bottle against your glass, barely a touch, and walks away. Your skin prickles. You tell yourself it’s the draft adrenaline.

Media catches the tiny exchange... “Y/L/N vs. Mühl: Rookie Rivalry Starts Day One.” Hashtag trends overnight.

Summer/ Fall 2024

First matchup…late July 2024, Liberty at Storm. Climate Pledge Arena is a wall of green and noise. You warm up strategically…stretches, jumpers, visualizing every screen. Nika comes off the bench mid first quarter. The second she checks in she switches onto you full court..hands up, feet sliding, body bumping every cut like she’s trying to crowd you out of existence.

“Princess can’t handle real pressure?” she mutters during a dead ball, breath hot on your ear.

You drive right, cross her over clean, pull up for a smooth mid range. Swish. You jog back staring her down. “Keep chirping. Makes it easier.”

The game stays chippy. She strips your pass for a fast break layup, celebrates with a scream and point at you. You answer with a baseline drive, step around her, layup in traffic. Liberty wins by 8. Handshake line…her hand wraps around yours, grip firm, thumb brushing the inside of your wrist…once, deliberate. Eyes lock. No words.

Three more cross conference games that season. She earns starter minutes by September. You post up on her, use your height and footwork to score over her outstretched hands. She answers with deflections, steals, hard contact that draw whistles. Every time she scores in your face she glances your way, smirk sharp. Media calls it “the new must see matchup.” You both deflect in interviews: “She’s a great defender.” “Good competitor.”

After a tough Seattle loss in August, your phone buzzes at 1:12 a.m…hotel name downtown, room 814. No name. No explanation.

You go.

The door barely clicks shut before she shoves you back against it, mouth crashing into yours…hard, claiming, teeth scraping your bottom lip and you taste copper. You kiss back just as fierce, hands fisting the front of her hoodie, yanking it over her head in one rough pull. Underneath she’s in a black sports bra, skin still warm and faintly damp from the post game shower, the scent of citrus body wash mixing with the sharp salt of leftover adrenaline. She bites down on the side of your neck, hard enough to leave a mark you’ll have to cover tomorrow, while her hands shove your shorts and underwear down your thighs in one impatient motion.

Her fingers find you immediately…already slick, already aching and she doesn’t tease. Two fingers slide in deep, curling sharply against that spot that makes your knees buckle. You gasp against her mouth, hips jerking forward involuntarily. She pins you harder against the door with her body weight, free hand coming up to feel your collarbones…not squeezing, just holding, possessive, thumb pressing the racing pulse there.

“You think about this during the game?” she growls low against your jaw, accent thicker in the heat, fingers thrusting faster, thumb circling your clit in tight, relentless strokes. “When I stole that pass? When I was in your face?”

You can’t answer…breath coming in short, ragged pants. Pleasure coils tight and snaps fast, you come hard, shuddering against her hand, nails digging into her shoulders, biting your own lip to muffle the broken sound that escapes. She doesn’t stop…keeps moving through the aftershocks, drawing it out until you’re whimpering, oversensitive, hips twitching away and toward her at the same time.

When she finally pulls her hand free, she brings her fingers to her mouth, licking them clean slow and deliberate while staring straight into your eyes. The sight makes heat flare low in your belly again.

You grab her wrist, spin her toward the bed, shove her down onto the mattress. She lets you…eyes dark, lips swollen. You yank her sweats and underwear down, drop between her legs. She’s soaked, thighs trembling when your fingers push inside, curling the same way she did to you. You lean in, mouth on her…tongue flat and slow at first, then flicking quick over her clit, sucking gently then harder. She curses in Croatian…sharp, broken syllables, hips bucking up to chase your mouth. One hand fists in your hair, tugging hard enough to sting; the other grips the sheets like she’s trying to tear them.

You add a third finger, stretching her, thrusting deep while your tongue works circles. Her accent breaks into gasps, thighs clamping around your head. She comes with a low, guttural moan, body locking tight around your fingers. Her back arching off the bed, hand yanking your hair so hard your scalp burns.

“This means nothing.”

You pull your clothes back on. “Obviously.”

You leave before the sun comes up. The pattern begins…post game hotel rooms, quick and furious, always ending with denial. Always over before anyone can ask questions.

2025 The Full Year of Absence

Nika tears her ACL in her first overseas game with Besiktas in Turkey. Surgery early November.

You explode without her on the court…All Star starter, averaging 25.8 PPG, leading Liberty to a deep playoff run. MVP votes stack up. Media won’t stop asking…“How does Y/L/N’s dominance change when Mühl returns?” You shrug in pressers. “She’s a great player. Looking forward to competing.”

Inside, the quiet is deafening.

No games against her. No chirps in your ear. No bruises from her body checks. No hotel rooms after.

You start “dating” a finance guy…tall, polite, zero drama. Public dinners, Instagram stories at charity events. Cover. It feels like wearing someone else’s skin. Every photo that hits socials makes your stomach turn a little.

Mid June 2025, you get a message: “Rehab hell. Your free throws? Still weak under pressure.”

You stare at the screen too long. Reply: “Storm defense looks soft without you.”

Texts become a thread of snark…sporadic, sharp. She sends clips of your games: “Missed wide open layup. Rookie mistake.” You send hers from old tape: “Still slow on closeouts.” Nothing personal. Nothing soft.

All Star break, July 2025… video call pops up at 11 p.m. You answer. She’s in a Croatian gym, leg braced, hair sweaty, tank top clinging.

“You ducking real competition?”

“Waiting for you to stop limping.”

She snorts. Silence stretches. Her eyes flick over your face like she’s memorizing it. Call ends abruptly…no goodbye. Your shooting streak starts the next week.

Nika posts rehab stories…pool laps, single-leg squats, slow jogs on the treadmill. You watch them late at night, thumb hovering over the like button. You never press it.

August 2025…your “boyfriend” photos go viral…courtside at a Liberty game, you two hugging after a game. Nika goes radio silent for three weeks. Then one text: “He any good?”

You type, delete, type again. “None of your business.”

Another pause. “Bet he doesn’t make you come like I do.”

You delete the thread. Block her number for a day. Unblock it the next. The words sit in your chest like a stone.

Season ends September 2025. Liberty lose sadly in conference semis. You fly home alone. Texts stop completely. October, November, December… just silence. You train harder, lift heavier, shoot until your arms burn. You tell yourself you don’t miss the fight. You tell yourself you don’t miss her.

May 2026 Pre Season

Nika’s cleared. Storm practice clips leak daily…her sliding through drills, hard passes, grinning that same predatory grin. Media is going insane…“Mühl returns 2026. Y/L/N vs. Mühl round two”

First game…June 8, Seattle home opener.

Sold out expected.

Text message from her last week: “Seattle. June. Don’t choke.”

You didn’t reply.

Climate Pledge is deafening. Nika starts, guards you full court from tip. She strips you twice early, blocks your layup into the third row, stares you down with that smirk. “Missed me, princess?”

You drop 28 anyway…step back fadeaway over her hand with 2.3 seconds left, seals Liberty’s 2 point win. The crowd stunned. During the handshake at the end…her fingers wrap yours, thumb brushes wrist. “Room 814. After media.”

You go.

Door cracked. She’s fresh from the shower…hoodie unzipped halfway, hair damp and loose, skin glowing under low lights. No hello. She steps back, lets you in, locks the door. The room smells like citrus body wash and warmth.

She doesn’t rush. Closes the distance slow, stopping inches away. Her eyes rake over you…jersey still on, shorts, game sweat. Fingers hook the hem of your jersey, tugging you forward until your bodies brush.

“You were cocky tonight,” she murmurs, accent thick, breath warm against your lips. “That fadeaway. Thought you’d miss just to piss me off more.”

You meet her gaze. “Knew it’d go in. Knew it’d make you chase harder.”

She smirks, kisses you slow…lips parting, tongue sliding in to taste, hands sliding under your jersey to palm your ribs. You kiss back, fingers in her damp hair, tugging gently. She pulls your jersey up and off, sports bra follows. Her mouth moves to your collarbone…soft bites, then sucking marks that bloom purple. You tilt your head back, breath hitching.

She guides you to the center of the room, stops you there, drops to her knees in front of you. Hands on your hips, Nika tugs your shorts and underwear down in one motion. You step out. Looking up at you…eyes dark, challenging…then leans in, tongue tracing a slow line along your inner thigh, teasing, never quite where you want. You shift, impatient; she grips your hips harder, holding you still. Finally her mouth finds you…tongue flat and broad, lapping slow, then flicking quick over your clit. You gasp, hand fisting in her hair. She sucks gently, then harder, fingers sliding in…two at first, curling deep, thrusting steady while her tongue circles relentlessly. Pleasure builds sharp and fast, you come trembling, thighs shaking, biting your lip to keep quiet, hips rocking against her mouth.

She rises, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, eyes locked on yours. You pull her toward the bed, shove her down gently. She lets you. You climb over her, yank her hoodie and sweats off. She’s soaked, thighs slick. You straddle one of her thighs, grinding down slow while your fingers slide inside her…two, then three…curling, thumb pressing her clit in tight circles. She arches, curses in Croatian, nails raking your back. You rock together, friction building, breaths huffing. She comes with a low, broken moan, body clenching around your fingers, hips snapping up.

After, sweat cooling, she turns on her side, traces the fresh marks on your collarbone, gentle. “Two years felt longer,” she says quietly.

“Yeah.”

You stay two hours. No more words. When you leave, she watches. “New York next month. Bring the jumper.”

June/ July 2026

Four more games. Each brutal. New York rematch: you drop 32, she forces turnovers, and you celebrate. Post game hotel, rougher…her pinning you to the mattress, mouth on your chest, fingers deep and fast while you arch and gasp. You flip her, ride her thigh while your hand works between her legs until she shatters, cursing. Denial holds: “Just blowing off steam.” “Rivalry thing.”

Jealousy spikes. Your cover boyfriend photos hit again…she sees them, and goes silent. Next Seattle game, she fouls you hard, stares burn. Post game: hotel, possessive with her whispering against your neck, “You’re mine on the court. And off it.” You mark her back, nails down her spine.

July 2026 All Star Break

Both selected. Skills contest…she edges your three point win, points at you celebrating. After party rooftop…eyes meet. She nods exit. Hallway, she corners you, kisses fierce. The hotel room feels different this time, hands exploring scars. You trace her knee. “Hurts still?” She nods. First time you fall asleep tangled. Wake at dawn, her head on your chest. No words. Just weight.

October 2026

You find the cabin two hours north of Seattle, tucked deep in the forest…cedar siding weathered gray, wide windows facing nothing but trees and the gray green churn of the Puget Sound in the distance. No neighbors. No road noise. Just the crackle of the wood stove and the occasional drip of rain on the tin roof. You rented it under a fake name, paid cash for the week. No one knows you’re here. Not your agent, not your family, not the media that still calls you “the golden girl of the Liberty” and her “the Storm’s comeback queen.”

Nika arrives after dark on the second day, headlights off as she pulls up the gravel drive in a rental SUV. She steps out in a black puffer jacket, hood up, duffel slung over one shoulder. You meet her at the door. No words at first…just her dropping the bag, hands framing your face, kissing you slow and deep, like she’s been holding her breath since July. The cold clings to her skin, raindrops in her hair. You pull her inside, shut the door against the wind.

The first night is quiet. You cook together…nothing fancy, pasta with jar sauce and garlic bread from the tiny grocery in town. She stands behind you at the stove, chin on your shoulder, arms around your waist while you stir. Her breath is warm on your neck. “Smells better than anything in Croatia,” she murmurs. You laugh, soft. She kisses the spot behind your ear. Dinner is eaten on the couch in front of the fire, plates balanced on knees, legs tangled. No TV. No phones. Just the pop of logs and the rain.

After, you clean up in silence. She dries while you wash, her hip bumping yours deliberately every few seconds. When the last dish is put away, she turns off the kitchen light and takes your hand. Leads you to the bedroom, king bed with flannel sheets, a quilt that smells faintly of cedar. No rush. She undresses you first…hoodie peeled off slowly, sports bra unhooked with careful fingers, shorts slid down your thighs like she’s unwrapping something fragile. You do the same to her…slow. Her skin is warm despite the chill outside. Scars catch the firelight, her ACL on the right knee, a thin line across her ribs from a college collision. You trace them with your fingertips. She shivers, not from cold.

She guides you to the bed, lays you down on your back. Climbs over you, straddling your hips. Kisses you deep…tongue slow, exploring, like she’s memorizing the shape of your mouth. Her hands roam… palms flat on your stomach, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts, then cupping them gently, rolling your nipples between fingers until you arch. She lowers her head, takes one in her mouth, sucking softly, tongue flicking, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp. You thread fingers in her hair, holding her there while she switches sides, lavishing the same attention. Your hips lift, seeking friction. She presses her thigh between your legs, lets you grind against it slow and deliberate.

She moves lower, kisses down your sternum, your stomach, the dip of your hip bones. Settles between your thighs, hands spreading you gently. Her mouth is relentless this time…long, slow licks from entrance to clit, tongue circling softly, then pressing flat and firm. No rush. She builds you up unhurried…fingers sliding in one at a time, curling lazily, thumb brushing your clit in time with her tongue. You come quiet, body trembling, back arching off the mattress, a soft, broken sound escaping your lips. She doesn’t stop…keeps licking through the aftershocks, drawing smaller ripples until you’re oversensitive and tugging her hair to pull her up.

You roll her gently onto her back. Straddle her thigh again, but this time you lean down, kiss her deep…tasting yourself on her tongue. Your hand slips between her legs, she’s soaked, thighs slick. You stroke slow, fingers circling her clit, then sliding inside, curling against that spot while your thumb presses steady. She arches, gasps your name…soft, like a secret. You grind against her thigh in rhythm, matching the pace of your hand. She comes hard, with her face buried in your neck, body clenching around your fingers, hips snapping up, a low moan muffled against your skin. You follow seconds later, rocking hard against her thigh, shuddering through it.

After, you collapse beside her. She pulls you close…arm around your waist, leg slung over yours, face tucked into the crook of your neck. The fire crackles low. Rain taps the roof. You lie there for a long time, breathing in sync.

She speaks first, voice quiet against your skin. “I don’t want to keep doing this in hotel rooms. In secret. Not forever.”

You turn your head, kiss her temple. “Me neither.”

She lifts up on one elbow, looks down at you. Firelight catches the gray in her eyes. “I talked to my agent. East Coast teams. Maybe next off season. Closer to New York. Closer to you.”

Your heart stutters. “You’d do that?”

“For this?” She gestures between you. “Yeah. I would.”

You reach up, cup her face. “I want more than stolen nights. More than burner phones and coded glances. I want mornings. Coffee. Arguments over who makes better breakfast. All of it.”

She smiles…small, real, not the smirk she wears on court. “Then we take it slow. Stay quiet publicly. Careers first. But exclusive. No more cover guys. No more pretending.”

“No more pretending,” you echo.

She traces your ring finger absently, thumb brushing the knuckle. “One day… when the league is ready, when we’re ready… we’ll make it official. Rings. Names. Whatever we want. But until then, this is ours.”

You pull her down, kiss her slow…deep, promising. “One day.”

She settles back against you, head on your chest, listening to your heartbeat. The fire pops in the fireplace. Rain drums steady. Outside, the world keeps turning…games, media, contracts, scrutiny. But in this cabin, in this bed, the rivalry ends. What starts is something quieter, stronger.

You fall asleep tangled together, her breath warm on your collarbone, your hand resting over her heart.

The long game begins.

[baigepueckers]

Nika Mühl X Reader

Mine to Claim

The stadium lights are blinding, as the Portland Thorns take on the Orlando Pride under a crisp evening sky. Nika sits in the family section, wedged comfortably between your mom and your excited fourteen year old brother, who keeps shoving his phone in her face to show old highlight clips of him playing football. She’s bundled up in layers…your navy Thorns scarf wrapped twice around her neck, the ends embroidered with your number 8 in white thread, and one of your old training jackets zipped up over her hoodie. It still smells faintly like you…clean body wash and the lingering trace of the hotel sheets from this morning.

Your family has fully adopted her tonight. Your mom keeps patting her knee every time you make a smart play, whispering “See how she drops deep to receive? That’s what the coach loves about her.” Your dad is on his feet half the game, yelling your last name like he’s been doing it since you were ten. Nika soaks it all in, heart swelling with something warm and proud. This is your world…the one you fought through injuries to reach. Seeing it up close, surrounded by the people who raised you, makes her fall for you all over again.

But then there’s her.

Number 14 for Orlando. Tall, lean, blonde braid swinging every time she sprints. Cocky smile. Too many tattoos. The kind of player who thrives on attention. From the opening whistle, she’s circling you. Marking you tight on set pieces, “accidentally” brushing arms during throw ins, leaning in to say something after every minor collision. You give it back…sharp words, competitive fire but you’re always professional, always smiling that polite post foul smile that drives Nika insane because it looks like encouragement.

Nika notices everything.

The way 14’s eyes linger when you jog back into position. The way she claps sarcastically after you pass in between her legs in the 22nd minute. The way she finds you again and again, like you’re the only person on there.

By halftime, Nika’s leg is bouncing nonstop. Your brother asks if she’s cold. She forces a laugh and says she’s just excited.

Second half is worse. Orlando presses and 14 is everywhere you are. She fouls you once…late slide, and when you pop back up she offers a hand. You take it. Of course you do. You always do. She pulls you up a little too close, says something that makes you shake your head with a grin. Nika’s nails dig into her palms.

In the 87th minute, you score.

A shot from the left wing finds you arriving late at the back post, unstoppable. The stadium erupts. Your teammates crowd you. Nika is screaming herself hoarse, scarf over her head like a rally towel, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes because God, you’re beautiful when you celebrate…fists pumped, mouth open in a silent roar, eyes scanning the stands until they land on her section. You point right at her, tap your chest twice, then blow a kiss that’s meant only for her.

The final whistle blows minutes later. 2-1 Thorns. Player of the match announcement comes over the PA…Y/N. You do the lap, signing kids’ jerseys, taking selfies, until finally the teams line up for the customary handshake.

And that’s when it happens.

You and 14 meet near the center circle. She says something…Nika can’t hear it, but she sees your laugh, sees the easy tilt of your head. Then you reach for the hem of your jersey and pull it over your head in one smooth motion. Slick skin, sports bra, grass stains on your ribs. You hand it to her like it’s nothing. She does the same…peels off her purple Pride jersey and passes it over. They swap. She holds yours up, admiring the number 8 on the back, then drapes it over her shoulder like a trophy. Says something else. You nod, smiling, and jog toward the tunnel.

Nika feels it like ice water down her spine.

Your family is buzzing, gathering bags, talking about dinner plans. Your mom turns to her brightly. “Wasn’t that goal incredible? And look at her making friends with the other team…always so sweet.”

Nika’s smile is razor thin. “Yeah. Real sweet.”

You finally emerge from the tunnel twenty minutes later, freshly showered, hair still damp, wearing a clean Thorns tracksuit. You spot the family group immediately and weave through security to reach the barrier. Your face lights up when you see Nika standing a little apart, arms crossed.

You pull her into a hug first, before anyone else. “Hey, you,” you murmur into her hair, voice soft with wonder, like you still can’t believe she flew across the country just to watch you play.

But Nika’s body is stiff. Her hands rest lightly on your back instead of gripping like usual. When you lean in for a proper kiss, she turns her face just enough that your lips graze the corner of her mouth.

You pull back, frowning. “Hey. What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” she says flatly, eyes sliding past you to where 14 is still on the far side of the pitch, laughing with teammates, your jersey now tied around her waist. “Amazing goal, baby. You were unreal.”

The praise sounds hollow even to her own ears. You glance over your shoulder, follow her line of sight, and understanding dawns.

“Oh,” you say quietly. Then, softer, “Nik…”

She doesn’t respond. Just turns to hug your parents goodbye, polite and warm like always, complimenting your mom on the sign she made. But you know her. You see the tension in her shoulders, the way her jaw clenches when she thinks no one’s looking.

The ride back to the hotel is quiet in the car. You try to hold her hand…she lets you, but her fingers stay limp.

Inside the suite, the door clicks shut behind you. The room is dim, city lights filtering through the half open curtains. You drop your bag by the door and turn to her.

“Nika, talk to me.”

She doesn’t answer right away. Instead she shrugs off her jacket, tosses it on the chair. Then she crosses the room in three strides, cups your face, and kisses you…hard, possessive, nothing soft about it. You make a surprised sound that turns into a moan when she backs you up against the wall.

“That jersey,” she mutters between kisses, teeth grazing your lower lip. “The one you just gave away like it didn’t mean anything.”

You try to pull back enough to speak. “It’s just tradition, you know that…”

“I know.” Her hands slide under your tracksuit top, palms hot against your skin. “But she doesn’t get to touch what’s mine.”

The word mine comes out rough, almost a growl. It sends heat straight through you.

She tugs the zipper of your jacket down, pushes it off your shoulders. Then the T shirt underneath. You’re left in just your sports bra and joggers, breathing fast.

Nika steps back, eyes raking over you like she’s memorizing every inch. She hooks her fingers into the waistband of your joggers and pulls them down slowly, deliberately, letting them pool at your ankles.

“Get on the bed,” she says, voice low, commanding in a way that makes your knees weak.

You back toward it, shedding the rest as you go. She follows, stripping herself efficiently…hoodie, leggings, underwear…until she’s bare, skin glowing in the low light. She pushes you down onto the mattress, climbs over you immediately, straddling your hips. Her mouth finds your throat, sucking hard enough to leave a mark, then another just below your collarbone. You arch up, hands in her hair, gasping when her teeth scrape sensitive skin.

“Say it,” she murmurs against the fresh bruise, tongue soothing the sting. “Who do you belong to?”

“You,” you breathe, hips rolling up instinctively.

“Only you, Nika.”

She rewards you with a slow grind down, the slick heat of her pressing against your thigh. Then she’s moving lower…kissing a deliberate path down your chest, pausing to lave attention over your nipples until they’re peaked and aching, until you’re whimpering and tugging at her shoulders.

When she finally settles between your legs, she doesn’t tease for long. She spreads you open with careful fingers, then lowers her mouth…hot, wet, unrelenting. Her tongue circles your clit with practiced precision, slow at first, building pressure, then faster when your hips start to buck. One hand pins your thigh wide; the other slips two fingers inside, curling just right, stroking that spot that makes your vision white out.

You come hard the first time…back arching, a broken version of her name spilling from your lips, thighs trembling around her head. She doesn’t stop. She works you through it, gentler now, coaxing you right back up the edge until you’re pleading, oversensitive and desperate.

Only then does she crawl back up, kissing you deep so you taste yourself on her tongue. She guides your hand between her legs…already soaked, swollen…and you slide fingers inside her easily, thumb circling her clit while she rides your hand, forehead pressed to yours, breath ragged.

“Fuck…harder,” she gasps, and you obey, curling, thrusting, until she shatters above you with a low, guttural moan, clenching around your fingers, nails digging into your shoulders.

Later…when you’re both boneless, tangled in sheets, sweat cooling on your skin, she traces the darkening marks she left on your neck and chest with the pad of her thumb. Soft now.

Almost timid.

“You know I’m not actually mad,” she whispers into the dark, voice hoarse from everything. “I just… can’t stand the thought of anyone else thinking they could have this. Have you.”

You turn your head, press a lazy kiss to her wrist. “They don’t. They never will. This…” you gesture between your bodies, the mess of sheets, the bruises blooming like proof “this is only us.”

She hums, satisfied, pulling you impossibly closer.

The next morning, your phone is a war zone of notifications. Orlando’s number 14 has posted her locker room mirror selfie…smirking, your grass stained Thorns jersey held up like a trophy.

But right after, your own story pops up, a candid from the Thorns media team last night…you walking out of the tunnel, arm around Nika, her head tucked into your neck, laughing.

[baigepueckers]

Nika Mühl X Reader

New Year’s eve

The loft was packed shoulder to shoulder by the time midnight crept closer, the kind of New Year’s Eve party where everyone pretended they weren’t checking the clock every five minutes. Seattle’s skyline glittered beyond the tall windows, all sharp edges and cold light, while inside it was too warm, too loud, too bright. You stood near the kitchen pass through with a half empty glass of champagne that had lost its bubbles an hour ago, smiling politely while your date, Tyler, explained…again, how his startup was “disrupting the future of decentralized finance.”

He hadn’t asked you a single question about yourself all night. Not one.

You’d worn the black satin slip dress you’d bought on impulse months ago, the one that made you feel like someone worth noticing. You’d done your makeup carefully, lined your eyes just right, curled your hair so it fell in loose waves. And Tyler still treated you like background decoration.

Across the room, framed by the city glow, Nika leaned against a brick pillar, arms loosely crossed. Her dark hair was down, a little messy from the humid air, and she wore a cropped black leather jacket over a silk camisole that caught every shift of the colored lights. She looked unfairly good..like she always did, but tonight there was a tightness around her eyes you recognized immediately.

Her date, a girl named Ava who you vaguely knew from the local media circle, was talking at her. Not to her…at her. Ava’s voice carried over the music, sharp and performative, something about “authentic storytelling in women’s sports” that sounded rehearsed for an Instagram caption. Every time Ava laughed, she tossed her hair and touched Nika’s arm like she was claiming territory. Nika’s smile stayed polite, but her body language screamed discomfort…shoulders angled away, weight shifted to one foot, eyes scanning the room for an escape.

You and Nika had been doing this dance for almost two years…friends who weren’t quite just friends. Late night texts after games, shared ubers home from team events, quiet dinners that lasted too long and felt too easy. You’d always felt the pull, but neither of you had ever crossed the line. Tonight, watching Ava lean in closer while Nika subtly recoiled, something protective and aching twisted in your chest.

Your phone vibrated.

nika 💜: ava just said women’s basketball only matters because of “marketable aesthetics”
i might actually commit a felony.

You looked up. Nika was already watching you, one eyebrow raised in silent desperation. You smiled despite yourself and typed back.

Y/N: tyler just asked if i “get” blockchain
i’m considering faking a seizure
we’re in hell together.

She read it, lips twitching into that crooked half smile you loved, the one that made her eyes crinkle. She glanced at Ava…still talking, then back at you, mouthing “save me” across the room.

You didn’t need to be asked twice.

The next half hour dragged. Tyler vanished to “grab another round” and never returned. Ava cornered a group of influencers and started live streaming her opinions. You drifted through the crowd until you ended up by the windows, the city sprawling cold and beautiful below.

Nika appeared at your side like she’d been waiting for permission.

“Hey,” she said, voice low, a little hoarse from forcing conversation all night. Relief softened her features the moment she saw you.

“Hey yourself.” You bumped her shoulder gently with yours. “Thought Ava was going to fuse herself to your side permanently.”

Nika groaned, tipping her head back against the window frame. “She keeps calling me ‘queen’ but in this condescending way, like I’m her prop. And she introduced me to someone as ‘the Storm’s Croatian hottie.’” She grimaced. “I wanted to disappear.”

You laughed quietly. “Tyler spent twenty minutes explaining yield farming to me like I’ve never heard of the internet. Then he asked if I wanted to see his NFT collection.”

Nika’s nose wrinkled. “Gross.”

“Right?”

You both went quiet, the music and laughter fading into a distant hum. Up close, you could see the faint shimmer of gloss on her lips, the small scar above her left eyebrow from a college elbow, the way her jacket had slipped off one shoulder. She smelled like cedar and vanilla and something that was just her, and it made your chest ache in a way you’d gotten good at ignoring.

“You look beautiful tonight,” she said suddenly, voice softer than the bassline. Her eyes traced over your dress, your face, lingering longer than friendly ever should. “I kept looking over here thinking… yeah. You look really beautiful.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks. “You’re not allowed to say things like that when we’re both stuck with terrible dates.”

Her smile turned shy, almost nervous. “I know. But I kept hoping you’d come alone.”

“I almost didn’t come at all,” you admitted. “But I guess… I wanted to see if you’d be here.”

Her eyes met yours, dark and steady. “I was hoping the same thing.”

Someone started the countdown early…two minutes to midnight. The room shifted, people pairing off, grabbing partners, clustering in the center. Ava was looking around now, probably searching for Nika. Tyler was nowhere.

Nika didn’t move.

“Ninety seconds,” the DJ announced.

You felt it then…the weight of every almost moment you’d shared. The way her hand had brushed yours passing a water bottle after practice. The night you’d cried in her car after a bad breakup and she’d let you, no judgment. The time she’d fallen asleep against your shoulder during a movie and you hadn’t moved for hours just to keep her there.

“Sixty seconds.”

Nika took a small step closer, close enough that her jacket brushed your arm. “I really don’t want to kiss her at midnight,” she said quietly, eyes on yours. “I don’t want to kiss anyone but..”

She stopped, like saying it out loud might break something fragile.

Your heart was hammering. “I don’t want to kiss Tyler either,” you whispered. “I haven’t wanted to kiss anyone else in… a long time.”

Her breath caught. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Thirty seconds!”

Nika reached for your hand slowly, giving you time to pull away. You didn’t. Her fingers slid between yours, warm and sure, and she tugged you gently until there was almost no space left between you.

“Fifteen!”

Her other hand came up to cup your face, thumb brushing your cheek like she was memorizing it. You tilted into the touch without thinking.

“Ten!”

The room was chanting now, loud and chaotic.

“Nine!”

Nika leaned in, forehead resting against yours. “Tell me if I’m wrong,” she breathed.

“You’re not.”

“Eight!”

Her eyes searched yours, wide and vulnerable in a way you’d never seen from her.

“Seven!”

You slid your free hand up to the nape of her neck, fingers threading into her hair.

“Six!”

She smiled..small, real, terrified and hopeful all at once.

“Five!”

You felt her exhale against your lips.

“Four!”

“Three!”

“Two!”

“One!”

The room erupted…cheers, horns, confetti cannons popping overhead. Gold and silver streamers rained down around you.

But the world narrowed to just her.

Nika kissed you like she’d been holding it back for years…slow, deliberate, certain. Her lips were soft and warm, tasting faintly of whiskey and cherry lip balm. She made a quiet sound when you kissed her back, fingers tightening in your hair, pulling you closer like she couldn’t get enough. You fisted the front of her jacket, anchoring yourself as the kiss deepened, unhurried and breathless and perfect.

When you finally broke apart…just enough to breathe…her forehead stayed pressed to yours. Both of you were smiling, shaky and stunned.

“Happy New Year,” she whispered, voice rough.

You laughed softly, brushing your thumb over her cheek. “Happy New Year, Nika.”

Confetti clung to her hair like stars. The city lights blurred behind her. Somewhere in the chaos, Ava was probably looking for her. Tyler had definitely moved on to someone else.

But Nika didn’t let go of your hand.

You stayed there by the window, trading slower kisses, quieter now, like you had all the time in the world. Her jacket slipped off her shoulder entirely; you traced the line of it with your fingertips. She shivered, pressed closer, whispered your name against your lips like a question and an answer all at once.

The new year stretched out in front of you.

[oovojaver]

WOAH. WWWOOOOAAAHHHH.