addy ᥫ᭡

22. wbb lover

[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.

[baigepueckers]

Nika Mühl X Reader

Holiday Glow

Snowflakes danced lazily outside the frosted windows of your family’s home in the quiet suburbs, turning the world into a serene winter wonderland on this Christmas morning. The air was filled with the comforting scents of freshly baked cinnamon rolls, brewing coffee, sizzling bacon, and the sharp, invigorating aroma of the real pine Christmas tree that dominated the living room. Twinkling lights draped across its branches cast a warm, multicolored glow over the piles of wrapped presents beneath.

You and Nika had been together for over two years now...long distance challenges during her rookie year with the Seattle Storm and her ACL recovery had only strengthened your bond. This holiday marked her first full Christmas with your family, a milestone she’d been excitedly planning for months. She’d arrived from Croatia just days ago, jet lagged but beaming, armed with homemade treats from her mom and stories that had your family hooked from the start.

The morning began perfectly. You woke in your old bedroom, sunlight filtering through the curtains, with Nika’s strong arms wrapped around you from behind. Her breath was soft and steady against your neck, her body warm under the thick comforter. She stirred as you moved, tightening her hold with a sleepy grin. “Sretan Božić, moja ljubav,” she murmured in Croatian, her voice husky from sleep.

You rolled over to face her, tracing the familiar lines of her face…those sharp cheekbones, full lips, and dark eyes that always seemed to see right into your soul. “Merry Christmas, baby” you whispered back, leaning in for a slow kiss that chased away any remnants of sleep. Her hand slid up your back, pulling you closer, and for a few blissful minutes, the world outside didn’t exist.

Eventually, the sounds of your family stirring downstairs…your dad’s booming laugh, your mom’s clattering in the kitchen, your siblings arguing playfully over who got the shower first…drew you both out of bed. Nika threw on one of your oversized hoodies over her pajamas, her hair in a messy bun, looking effortlessly adorable as she followed you down the creaky stairs.

Breakfast was a lively affair around the big kitchen table. Your mom had outdone herself…pancakes stacked high, crispy bacon, fresh fruit, and those cinnamon rolls that were a family tradition. Nika dove in with enthusiasm, praising everything in her thick accent and helping your little brother with his syrup pour. Your parents exchanged knowing glances…they’d welcomed her like one of their own since the first video call. “She’s a keeper,” your dad had whispered to you last night.

After breakfast, everyone migrated to the living room for presents. The tree lights sparkled against the wrapped boxes, and the fireplace crackled softly in the background. Wrapping paper soon littered the floor like colorful confetti. Your nephew, eight month old Leo, was the star of the show in his tiny red Santa onesie, wide eyed at all the commotion. Gifts were exchanged and Nika… well, her reaction to your gift was priceless.

You handed her a sleek box, nerves fluttering in your stomach. Inside was a custom necklace with a small gold heart and your handwriting engraved on the back stating, “I love you”. “Y/N… this is incredible,” she gasped, holding it up. She jumped up, pulling you into a tight hug and kissing your cheek repeatedly. “I’m never taking this off. Thank you, baby.”

She’d surprised you too…tickets to a Croatian coastal getaway for when her rehab wrapped up. “So we can make more memories,” she said softly.

Then came the moment that shifted everything into something even more. Your sister, juggling a fussy Leo after his morning nap, spotted you on the floor sorting ornaments. “Aunt Y/N to the rescue?” she asked with a tired smile.

You scooped him up without hesitation, settling him on your lap. Leo’s chubby hands immediately reached for your face, his big blue eyes locking onto yours as he let out a delighted squeal. You bounced him gently, making exaggerated faces, until he erupted in giggles, his little body shaking with joy. “Who’s the best nephew ever? You are!” you cooed, nuzzling his soft cheek. He smelled like baby lotion and milk, and he snuggled right into you, content and trusting.

Nika, who had been helping your dad assemble a toy, froze mid motion. She turned slowly, her gaze fixed on you and Leo. Her expression softened in a way you’d rarely seen…eyes wide, lips parted slightly, a flush creeping up her cheeks. She scooted closer on the carpet, abandoning the toy, utterly captivated.

“You two…” she breathed, voice thick with emotion. “You look so perfect together.”

Blushing, you smiled at her. “Want to hold him?”

She nodded eagerly, almost shyly…a rare sight for the confident guard. You passed Leo over carefully, guiding her arms. Nika cradled him like she’d done it a hundred times, rocking him instinctively. He stared up at her curiously, then grabbed a strand of her dark hair, tugging with surprising strength. She laughed…that bright, uninhibited sound that always made your heart flip…and started speaking to him in soft Croatian, words like lullabies about stars and dreams.

But her eyes kept drifting back to you, filled with something deeper than affection: pure, overwhelming love. “Y/N,” she said quietly, amid the family’s joyful chaos, “seeing you with him… it’s making me think about everything. Our future. You as a mom someday.” Her voice cracked just a little. “You’re going to be amazing. And I… I want that with you. So badly.”

Tears welled in your eyes as you leaned in, resting your forehead against hers while Leo babbled between you. “I want it too, baby. Kids, a family, all of it with you.”

She kissed you then, soft and full of promise, Leo’s tiny hand patting your cheek obliviously.

The day unfolded in a blur of happiness. A massive Christmas dinner…turkey, ham, all the sides…followed by board games where Nika’s competitive streak shone through, trash talking your brother during Monopoly.

Later, bundled up, you all headed to the driveway for an impromptu basketball game with the old hoop. Even with her knee brace, Nika dominated, sinking shots and playfully guarding you, stealing kisses between plays.

As evening settled and snow continued to fall, the house quieted. Everyone retreated to wind down, leaving you and Nika on the couch by the glowing fireplace, a soft blanket draped over you both. She pulled you into her side, your head on her shoulder, fingers intertwined.

“This has been the best Christmas of my life,” she said, voice low and sincere. “Your family… they make me feel so at home. And you…you make everything better.”

You tilted your head up, meeting her gaze. “It’s ours now, Nika. All of it.”

She smiled, and kissed you deeply as the fire popped and crackled. Outside, the snow fell silently, sealing the promise of many more joyful holidays together…one day, perhaps with little ones of your own running around the tree.

In that moment, wrapped in love and warmth, the future felt endless and bright. Merry Christmas, indeed.

[lupinqs]

WET CHRISTMAS ━━ paige bueckers x fiancée!reader

𝜗𝜚 ━ summary: paige and you have to stay quiet while at your parent’s house for christmas eve.

𝜗𝜚 ━ word count: 4.9K

𝜗𝜚 ━ warnings: filth. this might be the filthiest thing i've ever fucking wrote. oral (r receiving) and strap and just idk. Insanity. i probably just gained my spot in hell for writing this on christ's birthday

𝜗𝜚 ━ links: my masterlist

𝜗𝜚 ━ author’s note: this is all absolutely porn no plot i thought about this literally late last night and started writing it. but consider this my little gift to yall

THE GLOW OF the bedside lamp casts a warm, amber hue across the room, illuminating the familiar posters on the walls—faded relics from high school state championships and childhood icons that now feel distant. Your bedroom in your parent's house hasn't changed much over the years, a time capsule of sorts, with the same bright pink rug and worn dresser and the queen-sized bed that had borne witness to many pivotal moments between you and Paige. It was here, that the two of you shared your first kiss, then your first time, where friendship started to blur into something much more.

Paige lays propped up against the pillows, her long legs stretched out beneath the covers, one arm draped casually behind her head as she scrolls idly through her phone. The day's festivities have left her pleasantly exhausted—the laughter echoing through your grandparents' house, the click of glasses during toasts, the chaotic fondness of your large family wrapping her in a warmth she's always craved but has rarely experienced. Your aunts and uncles had pulled her into hugs, your younger cousins had been so excited to show her the presents under the tree and she'd played cards with your older ones as well. Even your grandparents had told her how much they missed her, stuffing her with probably a bit too much food. It's a stark contrast to the fragmented holidays of her own upbringing, where her parents' divorce had carved out divides that no amount of forced cheer could bridge. Her mom's side with its new stepfamily and half-siblings, her dad's with its own chaos—small pockets of tension rather than the sprawling inclusive belongness she's found with you.

She's been replaying a good amount of the evening in her mind, the way your family had folded her in without question, just as they had back when she was in high school when the two of you were just inseparable best friends rather than fiancées. But what's been sitting under her skin most of all is you. You looked incredibly all day, devastatingly so, in that tiny skirt that hugged your hips just right and the soft sweater that draped over your curves, smiling as if you didn't know you were absolutely wrecking Paige's ability to act normal. Paige had watched you laugh with your cousins, watched the way your family orbited you, watched the ring on your finger catch the light more than once. She'd had to actively remind herself that dragging her fiancée into a locked bathroom during Christmas Eve dinner was, in fact, frowned upon.

Now, though, in the quiet privacy of your old room, with the door firmly shut, her restraint feels thinner.

Paige sets her phone aside as the bathroom door creaks open, her gaze lifting to watch you pad back into the room. You move quietly, bare feet silent on the rug, the faint scent of your skincare routine—clean and faintly vanilla—trailing with you. The tiny reindeer sleep shorts you wear ride up a bit as you walk, clinging to the curves of your thighs. Paige's eyes trace the lines of you, appreciating the way the dim light splays over your skin. You pause at the edge of the bed, a soft smile tugging at your lips as you meet her stare, the exhaustion of the day mingling with contentment.

Crawling under the covers, you slide in beside her, the mattress dipping slightly under your weight. Paige doesn't hesitate, her arm extending to draw you closer, body shifting to accommodate yours in the way the two of you have managed to perfect over the years of sharing spaces. Her lips brush your temple in a gentle kiss, lingering there as she inhales the familiar warmth and scent of you.

"Hey, mama," she murmurs, low and husky, threaded with adoration.

You nestle into her side, your head resting against her shoulder, a quiet hum escaping you. "Hey," you mumble back, smile widening just a fraction as you tilt your face up to hers. "Merry Christmas," you add, the words soft.

Paige's grin spreads slow and genuine, her blue eyes crinkling a little at the corners as she looks down at you, the ring on your finger catching the lamplight again and sending a fresh wave of possessiveness through her. "Merry Christmas," she echoes, tone warm and teasing, before she leans in.

Her lips meet yours in a kiss that starts unhurried, a gentle press of mouths that deepens gradually, like savoring the first sip of something rich and indulgent. Her big hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb tracing the line of your cheek as your mouths move together, breaths mingling. Time stretches, the kiss unfolding lazily, her tongue brushing yours in a way that sends a shiver down your spine.

The world narrows down to the heat between you, the soft sounds of fabric shifting and lips parting, until a sudden patter breaks through—rain, of all things, tapping insistently against the roof like an uninvited guest that's certainly not Santa. It starts light, then builds heavier, the kind that promises downpour. You groan, pulling away with a reluctant sigh, your eyes rolling in mock exasperation as you glance toward the window, where droplets already streak the glass.

"Can't believe it's fuckin' raining on Christmas," you say, the words tumbling out with a huff. "I wanted a white one, not a wet one."

Paige chuckles softly under her breath, her gaze still fixed on the fullness of your lips, slightly swollen from the kiss, the way they curve in that endearing, disappointed pout. She nods absently, her mind not lingering much on the weather, but rather on you. If she's honest, a wet Christmas holds far more appeal to her in this moment, visions flickering unbidden of tangled sheets and breathless gasps and the satisfaction of making you wet, of making you cum. She doesn't say that, though, instead opting for a shrug and a reply of, "Global warming and shit."

Before you can respond to that, her hand slides down, fingers splaying possessively over the curve of your ass, the thin fabric of your pajama shorts offering little barrier. She tugs you back toward her with insistence, closing the distance again, her lips finding yours once more, deeper this time, hungrier. Her thigh slips between yours, her lips parting. You taste like your peppermint toothpaste, her tongue sliding along yours in slow, exploratory strokes—first a gentle sweep on the underside, then a firmer press that coaxes a soft sound up and out of your throat. Paige's mind races with the heat of it, the feeling of your mouth, soft and pliant against hers, stirring that familiar ache low in her belly. Her free hand comes up to thread through your hair, tilting your head just so to angle the kiss deeper, thinking about how you looked today, in that skirt, all the restraint she'd had to keep.

You melt into her, a hand resting on her chest, feeling the steady thrum of her heartbeat quickening as your tongues tangle further, lips sliding wetly together, the faint smack of mouths parting and meeting filling the air. Paige moves, rolling slightly toward you, her body pressing in closer, the heat of her skin seeping through her t-shirt and your tank top. She nips at your lower lip, tugging it gently between her teeth before soothing it with her tongue, making a quick flutter echo in your cunt.

Finally, you pull back, gasping for air, your chests rising and falling in tandem. Your lips tingle, swollen and slick from the attention, and Paige watches warmth bloom across your cheeks prettily. She doesn't let the distance linger; her mouth trails immediately to your jaw, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the sharp line of it, her breath hot against your skin. She starts at the hinge, lips brushing feather-light before sucking gently, leaving a faint trail of dampness that cools from the air. Her nose nudges your earlobe as she moves, inhaling the scent of your freshly washed hair. She can't seem to get enough, her hand still gripping your ass, thumb circling lazily over the curve of it.

"You know," you murmur, a little breathily from the kisses, a small smile playing on your lips as you turn your head to give her better access, "this is gonna be our last Christmas not married." The words hang in the air, a reminder of the coming wedding in April.

Paige pauses mid-kiss, her lips hovering over the pulse point just below your ear. She hadn't even thought about that tonight, too caught up in everything else. Every Christmas after this, you'll be wives—not girlfriends, or fiancées, but wives, partners in every single sense.

The thought ignites something fierce in Paige's chest, a swelling. Her grip tightens on your ass, long fingers slipping beneath the hem of your sleep shorts, delving into the bare skin there. She squeezes, hard enough to make you gasp, her nails digging in just a fraction as she revels in the softness, the way your body arches toward her. Wives, she thinks again, the word sending a thrill through her veins.

Without another word, she moves with purpose, her body shifting to press you down onto your back against the pillows. The mattress creaks faintly under the motion, but the rain mostly drowns the sound out. She looms over you, one knee bracketing your hip as her mouth crashes back to yours, more demanding this time. Her tongue licks into your mouth eagerly, curling against yours in the way she craves to do lower. She sucks on your tongue, drawing it into her mouth before releasing it with a pop, only to dive right back in, her lips nearly bruising yours with the intensity of it. Saliva mingles, slick and messy, as she devours you, her hand abandoning your ass to brace beside your head, caging you in.

You laugh softly into the kiss, the sound vibrating against her lips, light and breathless, as her mouth leaves yours to trail back down to your neck. Your hand tangles in her hair, fingers threading through the blonde strands, tugging gently to guide her. Paige lavishes attention there, lips parting to suck at the column of your throat, tongue flicking out to lap at the skin before her teeth graze—not biting hard, but enough to make you shiver for her. She traces the line of your collarbone next, kissing wetly over the exposed skin above your tank top's neckline, her breath coming in hot pants. The vanilla-y scent of you fills her senses, intoxicating, and she presses her thigh firmer between your legs, feeling the slight shift of your hips.

"Lemme eat you, please," she whispers against your skin, voice rough with need, lips brushing the spot she'd just marked with a faint red bloom. You're gonna have to wear a turtle neck sweater tomorrow for Christmas Day. "Wanna get you right, baby." The words are a plea wrapped in command, her hand sliding down to cup your hip, thumb dipping just below the waistband of your shorts.

You pull away, propping up on your elbows to look at her seriously, your eyes wide. "Paige, my parents are next door. The walls are thin, we can't fuck in here," you tell her.

Paige feels a surge of pent-up frustration, her body thrumming with unspent energy. She might die—genuinely, the ache between her legs is nearly painful, her mouth watering at the thought of burying her face in your pussy, of feeling you clench around her tongue.

"That ain't never stopped us before," she counters, almost teasing. She points at the bed with one hand while keeping the other possessively on your thigh. "Actin' like the first time we ever fucked wasn't right here"—she jabs a finger toward the rumpled sheets—"while your parents were asleep right in there"—her fingers moves to point at the wall, the barrier that separates your bedroom from your theirs.

She leans in closer, her forehead resting against yours, blue eyes locking onto yours with that intense stare that always seems to melt your resolve. "Please, baby girl," she begs, not above it, her voice dropping to a raspy whisper as her fingers trace circles on your inner thigh, inching higher. "Just wanna fuck you. Want you so bad, all you gotta do is let me and be quiet."

She kisses you again, softer this time, her attempt at persuasive—lips brushing yours in gentle pecks that builds back the tension, her hand slipping over your thin shorts to cup your pussy, feeling the warmth there without pushing any further. Come on, let me, she urges silently, heart racing. She needs to make you feel good, needs to taste how wet you are for her.

You hesitate, the rational part of you warring with the pull of her touch. But Paige persists, murmuring endearments against your skin—"You know I'll make it so good, mama, just relax for me"—her fingers teasingly circling over your clothed clit, building the ache until you can't help but nod, whispering, "Okay, but quiet."

The moment the words leave your lips, Paige's restraint completely snaps. She surges forward, capturing your mouth in a brief, searing kiss before she wastes no time, her hands on your shorts, tugging them down efficiently. The fabric leaves your skin, cool air hitting your bare thighs and core, making you clench in anticipation. She tosses them aside, eyes darkening as she takes in the sight of you—legs parting, pussy already glistening in the low light, folds swollen and inviting.

"Fuck, look at you," Paige says, a groan building in her throat. She settles between your legs, her broad shoulders nudging your thighs wider, hands gripping the backs of your knees to spread you open. "So perfect baby, so mine," she adds, before her gaze flicks up to meet yours. A wicked grin flashes as she continues, "Gonna make you cum so hard you forget your fuckin' name."

And then she's lowering her head. She starts slow, savoring it as best she can, her long tongue extending to lick a flat stripe from your entrance to your clit, gathering the slickness there. The taste soaks into her mouth and she hums in approval, the vibration making you twitch. "Taste like heaven," she mumbles, her own boxers beginning to pool as she dives in deeper.

Her lips seal around your clit, sucking gently at first, tongue flicking the sensitive nub in rapid, precise laps—up and down, then circles that tighten with each pass. You bite your lip to stifle a moan, hand flying back to her hair, gripping tightly as your body arches off the bed. Paige's hands slide up, one palm pressing flat on your lower belly to hold you down, the other fingers parting your folds wider, exposing you fully to her mouth. She licks into your entrance, tongue thrusting shallowly, curling to scoop more of your wetness, fucking you with it in short, insistent pumps. The wet sounds are obscene, her saliva mixing with your arousal to create a slick mess that coats her chin and drips down to your ass.

Paige is relentless, always a munch through and through. She alternates now, sucking your clit hard enough to make stars burst behind your eyes, then soothing with broad licks that cover every fucking inch. Her nose bumps your clit as she pushes her tongue deeper, spearing into you, feeling your walls flutter around the intrusion. The feeling of you—so tight and wet and just for her—is enough to spur her on. The hand on your stomach leaves to join, her index finger circling your entrance before sliding in knuckle-deep, crooking immediately to rub that spongy spot inside. She pumps it slowly, matching the pace of her mouth on your clit—lick, suck, thrust—building the pressure.

Your breaths come in quick pants, thighs trembling around her head, but Paige doesn't let up. She never does. Instead, she adds a second finger, stretching you with a scissoring motion, the heel of her palm grinding against your clit as she finger-fucks you harder, her mouth latching back on to suckle at the sensitive bundle of nerves. Tongue swirling, teeth grazing just a little, enough to edge the pleasure with a hint of bite, her free hand squeezing your thigh. The coil in your stomach wounds tighter, your hips bucking despite her hold, and Paige moans into you, the sound thankfully muffled by your cunt.

"C'mon, baby, give it to me," she urges between breaths, fingers curling faster, tongue lashing relentlessly. "Wanna feel you soak my face, wanna drink every drop."

She feels you tense, walls clenching around her fingers, and redoubles her efforts—sucking harder, fingers pistoning in and out with wet squelches, thumb now taking over to rub firm circles on your clit while her tongue delves deep, lapping at the inside of your cunt. The orgasm crashes over you like the rain outside, your body seizing, a choked whimper escaping as you cum, gushing around her fingers, coating her chin and lips. Paige doesn't stop, riding it out with you, licking through the spasms, fingers slowing to milk every aftershock until you're limp and trembling.

Paige licks her lips as she pulls away, sitting back on her heels. She grips the hem of her t-shirt with both hands and yanks it up and over her head. The fabric peels away from her sweat-dampened skin, revealing her toned abs and her own small breasts, not wearing a sports bra tonight. She tosses the shirt aside, uncaring as to where it lands, her focus still locked on you as she hooks her thumbs into the waistband of her boxers. With a quick shimmy of her hips, she shoves them down her long legs, kicking them off the end of the bed.

Crawling back up your body, she moves with careful slowness, her naked skin brushing yours as she settles over you, one knee on either side of your hips. Her mouth finds yours in a soft kiss, lips pressing gently, a contrast to the frenzy before because she knows you're still sensitive, overstimulated from how hard she made you finish. She parts your lips just enough to let her tongue trace the seam of yours, a light sweep that coaxes you to open without demanding. Her hands frame your face, thumbs stroking your cheeks as she kisses you tenderly, sucking softly on your bottom lip before releasing it with a quiet pop.

"Did so good f'me," she mumbles against your mouth, low and rough like gravel wrapped in velvet. You sigh into the kiss, the sound adorable and breathy, your arms looping around her neck to pull you closer, fingers tracing the muscles along her shoulders. Paige lets you lead for a moment, savoring the way you melt into her.

But she can't stay passive for long. Pulling away, she reaches down, her fingers curling under the hem of your tank top. She tugs it up slowly, peeling the soft cotton over your ribs, exposing the underside of your breasts first. You lift your arms to help, and she slides it off completely, freeing your tits to the air, nipples hardening. Paige's eyes drink you in, a hungry edge sharpening her focus. She discards the tank top to the floor, her hands immediately returning to your skin, palms gliding over your sides in soothing strokes.

With a fluid roll, Paige moves, sitting up against the headboard, the wood cool on her bare back. She pulls you with her, strong arms wrapping around your waist to maneuver you between her spread legs, your sweaty back pressing flush against her chest. You fit perfectly there, your head tilting back instinctively against her collarbone, and Paige's large hand smooths up your side, tracing the dip of your waist before cupping your left tit lightly. Her fingers splay wide, thumb brushing the underside in a slow arc, then up to circle your nipple.

You hum, your body relaxing into her hold. Paige leans down, her lips finding the side of your neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses there. Her other hand wanders lower, trailing down your stomach, fingers dancing over the soft skin above your pussy before dipping between your thighs. She tugs lightly at your clit, still swollen and slick from before, pinching it between her thumb and forefinger with just enough pressure to make your hips jerk.

"I can't," you whimper, your thighs trying to close around her wrist, pushing weakly at her hand. The sensitivity bordered on pain, your body shaking from the fresh assault on your nerves.

But Paige won't have that—not when she can feel the fresh slick gathering under her fingers, your cunt betraying how much you want it despite the protest. "You can, I know you can," she murmurs into your ear. She circles her fingers on your clit with more pressure now, firm, insistent rubs in tight loops—clockwise, then counter, slicking the motion with your lingering wetness. Her arm bands across your chest, holding you against her.

"It hurts, baby," you whine, the sound muffled as you bite your lip, eyes squeezing shut. Nevertheless, your hips roll a little into her touch, chasing it amid the ache.

Paige shakes her head, her free hand grabbing your jaw gently but firmly, tilting your head back so you look up at her, eyes locking. "You got it," she tells you, her thumb brushing your lower lip before slipping into your mouth for you to suck, a silent command for you to just trust her. You do so, and then she removes it, replacing it with a quick kiss to your parted lips. Her hand returns to your breast, pinching the nipple sharply to mirror the tug on your clit below.

Paige lets her fingers speed up, rubbing quickly side to side now, her other hand still kneading your tit. You squirm in her lap, back sliding against her chest, rubbing against her own pussy a little too, the friction making her wet. Fuck, need to be inside, is what echoes in Paige's head next. At the thought, she withdraws her hand from your core with a wet glide, strings of arousal connecting her fingers to your folds before snapping. She brings them to her mouth, sucking them clean with a satisfied hum, before reaching over to her side of the bed just behind the pillow.

She pulls out the strap, admittedly having taken it from her suitcase in hopes of getting lucky tonight. You turn your head to see what she's doing and then immediately let out a long sigh when you catch sight of the harness, head falling back to Paige's chest. Paige lets out a little chuckle at the reaction, a fond smile spreading across her lips. She lifts your hand, kissing your knuckles, before moving you a little, just so she's got enough room to put on (albeit, awkwardly) the strap.

Finally, though, she gets you both comfortable, and then pulls you back flush against her once more, the strap nudging against your ass. "Gonna fuck you just like this, mama," she whispers filthily in your ear. "Sit on my dick, ride it while I play with this pretty pussy—make you come again, harder."

Her hand guides your hips up slightly, positioning you so your ass lifts off her thighs, knees bending as she aligns the head of the strap with your entrance. She rubs it up and down your slit, teasing your clit with the blunt tip before notching it at your hole. Slowly, she pushes you down, the thick head breaching you with a stretch that makes your walls flutter—inch by inch, she lowers you onto it, feeling the resistance give way as you take her deeper, the harness pressing against her clit.

You gasp, a quiet sound still mostly swallowed by the rain (Paige is seriously thanking this storm right now), your hands gripping her thighs for leverage as she fills you, the silicone stretching your pussy wide around its girth. Paige groans softly into your neck, her teeth sinking into the muscle there to muffle it. "So tight, suckin' me in," she rasps, her hands on your hips guiding the motion, lifting you a fraction before letting gravity pull you back down, the wet squelch of your arousal filling the space between you. She sets a slow pace at first—up, down, her strap dragging along your inner walls, catching every ridge inside you, making your toes curl.

But Paige, per usual, wants more. "Lean forward," she breathes, one hand pressing between your shoulder blades to urge you to do so. You comply, arms stretching out, fingers digging into the sheets, your body arching as you lean, ass pushing back against her. This new angle lets her thrust up deeper, her hips snapping shallowly from below, the tip of the strap nudging that spongey spot inside you with precision.

"Yeah, like that," Paige praises, trying to make her thrusts hard while simultaneously not making the bed creak with them. "Arch for me, babe, lemme hit it deep."

You whimper at the words while her hand snakes around to your front, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing in tandem with each thrust—circling, pinching, flicking the puffy nerves while she fucks into you from behind.

The position is intimate, exposed—your tits sway with each movement, nipples grazing the sheets if you dip low enough. But Paige keeps you upright, her free arm wrapping around your waist to pull you back flush against her every few strokes. She varies it, slowing to a grind where she rolls her hips in circles, stirring her dick inside you, the base of the strap rubbing nicely against her own clit, building her pleasure alongside yours.

"Fuck, pussy's grippin' me so good," Paige groans quietly, lips at your ear, her tongue darting out to lick the shell. When she hits a particularly good spot inside, you let out a moan that she quickly silences, hand slapping over your mouth. "Shhh, quiet now, baby. Don't want Mommy and Daddy hearin' how much you love this dick."

"Paige, shit," you whimper against her hand, sounding equally shocked by her words as you are pleasured. Her fingers slip slightly into your mouth, letting you bite down just a bit to keep you as quiet as possible, not wanting to traumatize your parent's Christmas.

Paige feels you clench, the telltale flutter, and she amps it up, her thrusts turning sharper, hips bucking up to meet your descent. She releases your clit momentarily to slide two fingers alongside the strap, stretching your entrance even further as she pushes in, the added pressure making you feel impossibly fuller, her digits curling to rub your walls from the outside while the strap claims the center.

Sweat beads on Paige's forehead, her breaths coming in controlled pants to stay silent. Her hand that's by your mouth reaches down to hold your hip steady. Then, she pulls her fingers out of your cunt, slick with your combined mess, bringing them up, painting your lips with the taste before pushing them into your mouth. "Suck," she orders, thrusting harder now. You hollow your cheeks, tongue swirling around her fingers, the salty tang of yourself flooding your senses as she finger-fucks your mouth in time with her hips below.

Not satisfied with just that, Paige shifts again, maneuvering one leg over yours, hooking her ankle behind your knee to spread you wider, changing the angle so her thrusts hit from the side, grazing new spots inside you. Her hand abandons your mouth once more, trailing down to pinch your nipple, twisting it sharply before soothing with a roll.

"Gonna make this pussy squirt for me, ma," she whispers filth, grinding deep, fingers rubbing furious figure-eights on your clit, the pressure building to a fever pitch. "Show me how bad you need it."

Just then, your body tenses, back bowing against her chest. Paige feels the dam break, a gush of wetness soaking her thighs, the harness, the sheets, everything. "Yes, baby, fuck, yes. That's my girl," she praises, riding it out with you, thrusting through the spasms. Paige herself finishes just in time with another firm grind against her clit, her own body shuddering, a bitten-off groan escaping.

The two of you stay like that for a long moment. Then, with a shared, breathless exhale, Paige eases away, the strap sliding out you with a wet sound that makes you both shiver. She unbuckles the harness slowly, her fingers shaking just slightly as she sits it aside on the nightstand, the silicone glistening in the lamplight. Collapsing beside you, she pulls you into her side, your bodies slick with sweat, hearts hammering. The sheets tangle around your legs, cool against overheated skin, and for a moment, you just lay there, staring at the ceiling where rain shadows dance like fireflies.

A soft laugh bubbles from Paige's chest, breaking the stunned silence. She turns her head, blue eyes sparkling with post-orgasmic haze, and brushes a damp lock of hair from your forehead. "Can't believe we had to be quiet like that during one of our best rounds ever, bro," she says, voice laced with a mixture of disbelief and amusement.

You chuckle weakly, rolling to face her, your hand tracing lazy circles over her abdomen. You shrug, a grin lifting your lips. "Didn't wanna explain to everyone why Santa came early."

Paige snorts, pulling the comforter up over you both, cocooning you in warmth. Outside, the rain starts to soften into a more gentle patter. She kisses your forehead, then your nose, then your lips—soft, lingering presses that show both her satisfaction and her much, much deeper affection. "Worth it, though. Merry fuckin' Christmas, baby."

[sierrale8ne]