Sasha

words are my playground || 18+ MDNI

[sashasinfully]

𝓌𝑒𝓁𝒸𝑜𝓂𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝓂𝓎 𝒷𝓁𝑜𝑔

⋆˙⟡ hi! you can call me Sasha

⋆˙⟡ she/her • 24• lesbian

⋆˙⟡ minors do NOT interact. this blog is strictly 18+

⋆˙⟡ мαѕтєяℓιѕт ⋆˙⟡

⋆˙⟡ AO3: sashasinfully ⋆˙⟡

⋆˙⟡ side blog: draftdivasash (writing tips, content coming soon…)

⋆˙⟡ requests: closed

⋆˙⟡ about me ⋆˙⟡

⋆˙⟡ grad student

⋆˙⟡ vegetarian

⋆˙⟡ mom to a chinchilla and cat

⋆˙⟡ writing since 4th grade

⋆˙⟡ survived summer writing programs since age 12

⋆˙⟡ love the sims 4 & SSO( I play many other games but it will take a bit to list all)

⋆˙⟡ love matcha

⋆˙⟡ fav K-pop group: ATEEZ

⋆˙⟡ I write lesbian smut and slow burns ⋆˙⟡

expect arcane women (mainly Sevika and Vi ) . I'll stray into cod's world for Valeria

⋆˙⟡Rules regarding my writing ⋆˙⟡

I do not write rape, incest, underage sex, cannibalism, ageplay, race play, vomit , piss or scat. All characters are consenting adults.

I also do not write fanfics about real people (celebs, influencers, K-pop artists, etc) — writing about real people feels invasive to me

Do NOT repost my work on any platform, do not copy/paste or claim my writing as your own, do not translate my work, do not upload to archive sites.

© 2025-2026 sashasinfully. copyright applies to my writing only.

divider creds: pinterest. comment for credit or removal

[sashasinfully]

Ur back!!! Yes to sin session, yes to face-card reveal, yes to more p0rn with plots!! 💝 Feed the girlies !!!

(I vote reveal first hehe 🤭🫣👀)

I promise I’ll work on Sin Sessions soon!!

right now I’m mostly focusing on another series that’s only being posted on ao3 since it’s a lot bloodier/gorier ( vampire Sevika) than what I usually put on Tumblr, and I’m not sure how Tumblr would react to it.

but after Hemovore is finished, the sequel is most likely next on my list. I’ll probably still post little oneshots here and there in the meantime💗💗

reveal closed 😉

[sashasinfully]

When are we going to get a face reveal diva!??? 🥺

hmmmm….. should I do one :)))

[sashasinfully]

Sevika x fem reader

⋆˚࿔ muted

⋆˚࿔ warnings: 18+, mdni, fingering, established relationship, oral (reader receiving), dom/sub dynamics, some praising, some begging

⋆˚࿔ a/n: this is a quick read/update :))) @freak-it-net thank you for proofing !

⋆˚࿔ wc ~ 800

The light of the TV flickers against Sevika’s sharp features as she leans forward, her mechanical arm resting heavy on her knee. She’s sitting at the very end of the couch by your feet, while you’re sprawled out along the rest of the velvet cushions. From your position, the screen is off to the side, but Sevika is hunched over, eyes locked on the game. 

Through the headset dangling around her neck, you hear the muffled, frantic shouting of the guys. They’re losing the match, and Sevika is the only reason they’re still in it.

You’re tired of being second to a high score. You’d asked for her attention an hour ago, and she’d promised one more game three games ago. 

Now, your patience is officially gone. 

Sliding closer on the cushions, you hook your foot over her thigh, your toes disappearing under the hem of her loose shirt to find the warm, hard muscle of her stomach.

Sevika doesn’t look away from the screen, but her jaw clenches. 

"Jay, quit mouth-breathing into the mic and actually hit something." She growls into the mic.

You move your foot lower, the arch of your foot sliding firmly against the hard ridge of her denim, pressing right against her crotch. You feel her breath hitch, a sharp, jagged sound. 

Suddenly, her character on screen stops mid-sprint. Sevika slowly turns her head, her gaze dark as it drops to where your foot is pressed against her. 

Without a word she hauls your leg up, dragging it across her lap with such force that you almost slide right off the side of the couch, your body skidding across the soft velvet until you’re pinned right next to her. 

“Sevika? Yo, move! You’re gonna get knocked!” Jay’s voice crackles loudly through the headset.

With a bored look, Sevika reaches over and clicks the mute toggle on the cord. The red light on the mic glows, signaling silence. 

Then, she grabs your other leg, lifting it high. “Leg up. Over the backrest.”

You obey, your heart hammering against your ribs as you drape one leg over the top of the sofa while the other stays pinned across her lap, leaving you completely spread and open to her. Sevika’s gaze rakes over you, taking in the way her oversized t-shirt has bunched up around your waist, revealing that you’ve been waiting for her with nothing underneath.

“Fucking tease,” she hisses.

Her fingers find your heat, sinking into you with a force that catches you off guard. A loud, needy moan escapes you as your head thuds back against the cushions. 

Sevika’s eyes flash with a wicked, sudden mischief. She leans in close, her thumb hovering over the mute switch.

"Shh, keep those pretty sounds locked away," she murmurs teasingly. "Or do you want the whole squad hearing you?"

You shake your head frantically, heat flooding your cheeks, but before you can beg, she flicks the mic live again.

"Still with you, Jay," Sevika says into the headset, her tone deceptively even, though her fingers twitch inside you. She curls them deliberately, stroking that perfect, aching spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. "Gimme a sec... handling some business."

Her thumb presses your clit in slow, torturous circles, syncing with the pump of her fingers as she stretches your walls. Your body arches, thighs quivering around her wrist, but you bite down hard on your lip, swallowing every gasp as her friend's voices buzz obliviously in the headset, strategizing, laughing, yelling coordinates.

She doesn't answer them.

"Please, Sev," you whimper quietly, your fingers digging into the couch.

On screen, her character stumbles, a red warning flashing. Sevika's brow furrows, her focus splintering as your pussy clenches greedily around her invading digits. She tries to aim, thumb slipping on the stick, and bam another hit. 

Her character crumples to the ground amid a wave of boos and shouts.

“No way! Sevika, you just threw the whole match!" The guys start booing over the headset, their voices a chorus of disbelief and annoyance.

Sevika rolls her eyes, finally reaching down to click the mute toggle back on. 

“Fuck off, all of you,” she mutters, tossing the controller and headset aside.

She leans forward, her shoulders pushing against the back of your thighs as she replaces her fingers with the wet heat of her tongue.

She licks a slow, heavy stripe from your opening all the way to your clit, savoring the taste of you like you’re the only thing that matters. Her mech hand glides up your side, cool fingers slipping under the hem of the t-shirt to find your breast. 

The pads of her mechanical digits brush your skin before gently pinching your nipple, the sting sending sparks straight to your core. 

When she finally seals her lips over your clit, sucking with steady pulls while her metal fingers roll and tweak your hardened peak, the dual sensations shatter you.  

"Shit, Sevika... yes," you gasp out, your voice trembling. "Right there, please... I'm cumming!" 

You buck, your heel digging into the back of the couch and the other leg twitching in her lap, as a loud, broken moan finally tears from your throat, echoing in the room.

Sevika pulls back just an inch, her face glistening. 

“Good girl,” she praises. “Now stay just like that. I’ve got a few more games to finish, and I like having a view while I play.”

[sashasinfully]

pleeasseee give us sin sessions devotion im literally dying for it 😩😩

(love u and your work hope your doing good diva 💞)

thank youuuuu, I’ll be working on it soon! 💕 hope you’re well

[sashasinfully]

hey everyone ,

I can’t post the rest of The Straight Furrow here, I tried uploading chapter 2 twice ( with and without the picture) and it got flagged both times. I’m really sorry for the inconvenience! you can still read the story on my AO3 ( new stories will be posted there as well).

I’m not sure when I’ll be posting on here again, but I appreciate everyone’s support 💗💗

The Straight Furrow ( Ao3 link )

edit- I had to delete the first chapter too 🙁

[sashasinfully]

firstly, i love ur writing.

can u do a sevika one w mirror sex pretty plsssss

sevika x fem reader

⋆˚꩜｡warnings: 18+ , nsfw, mirror sex, strap on use, roughish sex, dom/sub dynamics, mild degradation, hair pulling, brief violence, mention of alcohol, slight begging, praise, kind of mean/grumpy Sev?, fwb

⋆˚꩜｡a/n: thank youu so muchh!! I hope you like anonnn <333

The air in the VIP lounge was a suffocating soup of shimmer-fumes, spilled rotgut, and the acrid bite of Sevika’s cigar. She sat hunched over the card table, a glass of amber whiskey sweating against the wood next to her mechanical hand.

You’d been at the edge of the booth for two hours, a silent fixture in her orbit. Every time the dealer slid a fresh hand across the felt, Sevika’s boot would hook more firmly behind your ankle, a heavy, silent anchor that kept you from drifting.

"Fold," a scrawny lackey squeaked from the seat right next to her at the end of the table, eyeing Sevika’s mechanical arm as it whirred with a low, predatory hum.

Sevika didn't look up. 

She took a long, slow drag of her cigar, the cherry glowing bright orange before she exhaled a cloud of grey smoke directly into the man’s face. "You’ve been folding for thirty minutes. Either play the damn credits or get out of the chair."

"I—I'm just playing it safe, Sevika," he stammered, leaning away from the smoke.

"You're boring me," she growled, slamming her whiskey back and letting the glass hit the table with a crack that made everyone flinch. She tossed her cards face down—a winning hand she didn't even bother to collect. "And I’ve got better things to do than watch a coward sweat."

She stood up abruptly, the metal joints of her shoulder popping as she rolled them out. Finally, her gaze drifted down to you, still seated. It was a slow, hungry appraisal that tracked the way the silk of your dress shimmered under the dim green lights.

"You're making a scene just sitting there," she muttered, her voice made your stomach flip. "Get up."

As you stood, the silk of the dress clung to your hips, the fabric catching the light. The lackey sitting right across from you let his eyes wander, his gaze dropping from Sevika’s face to the curve of your ass as you smoothed the dress down.

Sevika didn't even let him correct himself.

She reached out, her mechanical hand grabbing the back of the man’s head, and slammed his face into the edge of the table with a sickening, wet thud. The other players didn’t even look up from their cards; they knew better than to interfere with her.

Sevika leaned over him, grinding her cigar into the ashtray before blowing a final plume of smoke into the back of his neck. 

"Keep your eyes on the cards next time," she growled.

She turned to you, her expression darkening with irritation. 

She grabbed your arm, her grip firm and unyielding as she pulled you toward the exit. "Let’s get out of here before I lose my temper and actually do some damage."

She hauled you out of the booth, the force of her pull nearly sending you stumbling into the table where the man’s nose was still bleeding onto the wood. You managed to catch your footing, your heels clicking sharply against the grimy floor as she marched you toward the exit. 

The heavy velvet curtain of the VIP lounge swept over your shoulders as you were shoved out into the main bar, the sudden roar of the crowd and the pulsing bass of the music hitting you all at once.

"You're going to have a hard time finding a game next week if you keep breaking the players, Sevika," you murmured, a small, taunting smirk tugging at the corners of your mouth. You weren't even trying to hide the amusement in your voice.

"I'll find plenty of ways to spend my time," she snapped over her shoulder. "And none of them involve listening to you talk."

You felt the heat of her gaze when she finally glanced back at you, her eyes dark with a promise that made your breath hitch. You barely had time to steady yourself before she shoved open the heavy iron doors, the humid, chemical-laden air of the Sump rushing in to meet you.

The walk through the damp, neon-streaked corridors was silent, save for the rhythmic, heavy thud of Sevika’s boots. She didn't bother with subtle touches. Her hand stayed clamped over the curve of your hip, her blunt fingers digging into the silk.

As you navigated the narrow alleyways, she’d periodically tighten her grip, bunching the fabric upward. Each tug hiked the hem dangerously high, letting the cold Zaunite air bite at the backs of your thighs. She wasn't being romantic—she was impatient.

"Keep walking," she muttered into your ear when you stumbled, her breath smelling of tobacco and sharp alcohol. "Unless you want to do this right here against the pipe-works. I don't think the Enforcer patrols would mind the show."

By the time you reached your door, the dress was a wrinkled mess, hiked up nearly to your waist from her constant, restless tugging. She shoved you inside, the door clicking shut behind her with a finality that made your pulse skyrocket.

She caught your chin in her hand, forcing your head back until you were looking into her grey, uncompromising eyes.

"Hard to focus on the cards when I've got you dressed like this, just waiting for me to get bored." she rasped.

Her eyes drifted past you to the mahogany vanity. It stood out like a sore thumb in your cramped room—expensive, polished, and perfectly lit. She’d had it delivered two weeks ago, claiming the "shitty lighting" in your place was an insult.

"Go on," she murmured, a dark smirk tugging at her lips. "Get over there."

You walked over, your legs feeling like lead, and gripped the edges of the wood. 

The mahogany of the vanity is cool against your palms as you lean forward, your breath already fogging the expensive glass.

Sevika stands behind you as she reaches out, metal fingers hooking into the neckline of your dress. With a rough, downward sweep, she peels the silk off you entirely, letting the fabric pool like a discarded skin at your ankles.

She pauses for a second, her dark eyes tracking the way your bare breasts heave in the mirror's reflection. A slow smirk tugs at her mouth. 

"No bra," she mutters, her voice an appreciative growl that makes your skin prickle. "Always so impatient for me, aren't you?"

Her hand slides down to the elastic of your panties, hooking into the side and dragging them down your legs until you're forced to step out of them. You stand there completely bared to the expensive glass, the harsh vanity lights catching every flush of your skin.

She pulls the strap-on from the vanity drawer. You watch her in the mirror, her movements are almost bored, if not for the way her eyes keep snapping to the curve of your breasts.

She steps up behind you again, the weight of her body pinning you against the edge of the polished wood. With a low grunt, she hikes the strap-on into place, the leather creaking as she cinches it tight over her pants.

"Leg up," she grunts.

Before you can move, her hand drops from your waist to your inner thigh. The metal is cold as she hooks it under your knee, hoisting your leg up until your foot is braced firmly on the edge of the dresser. 

The position is ruinous, it tilts your pelvis back and up, baring your heat directly to the mirror. You can see everything: the slick of your own body and the strap-on poised right behind it.

"Sevika, this is—" you start, a flash of your usual defiance sparking as you twist to look at her. "I'm not some toy you just pose for your own damn—"

She doesn't let you finish. 

Her other arm snakes around your waist, her forearm a solid, unyielding bar that crushes you back against her front. She leans in, her teeth grazing the sensitive cord of your neck, and the sudden, hot friction of her lips against your skin turns your protest into a broken, jagged gasp. 

The attitude dissolves instantly, leaving you breathless and clinging to her arm for balance.

"Shut up," she rasps into your ear, her dark eyes locking onto yours in the reflection. 

She anchors you against her hip, forcing your body to stay open and exposed so the mirror catches every wet, needy twitch of your pussy as the strap-on teases your entrance.

"You want it?" she murmurs as she nudges the tip against you. She waits, her eyes tracking the way your breath hitches in the mirror. "Then put it in."

You glare at her, but reach down, your fingers trembling as they find the strap-on. 

You guide her in, the first slow inch stretching you until you're seeing stars, and you watch the mirror—watch yourself swallow every bit of her. 

As the rhythm picks up, her eyes stay glued to the reflection of the impact, her mouth falling open to form a silent "fuck" at the sight of you taking all of it.

The vanity creaks under the force of her thrusts, the wood digging into your palm as you brace against it. Your leg trembles on the edge, foot slipping slightly before her hand moves from your ass to under your thigh, holding you steady.

She drives deeper, the strap-on filling you completely with each push.

You can't tear your eyes away from the mirror. Her other hand moves from your waist and slides up your side, fingers tracing your ribs before cupping one of your breasts, thumb brushing over your nipple until it hardens under her touch. She pinches lightly, just enough to draw a whimper from your lips, and she chuckles low in her throat.

"Look at you," she whispers, her breath hot against your ear as she leans closer. Her hips snap forward again. "You love watching yourself, don't you?"

Your cheeks flush, but you nod, biting your lip as the pressure builds. The reflection shows everything—the way your breasts bounce with each thrust, the slick glide of the strap-on disappearing inside you, the way your thighs quiver from the strain of the position. 

Sevika's eyes meet yours in the glass and she smirks, slowing her pace to a torturous drag.

She pulls back almost all the way, leaving just the tip inside, and you whine, pushing back against her instinctively. Her hand on your breast tightens, holding you in place. 

"Not yet," she teases. "Beg for it. Tell me how much you need me to fuck you harder."

The words tumble out before you can stop them, your voice breathy and desperate. 

"Please, Sevika... harder. I need it—fill me up." Your fingers dig into the vanity's edge, nails scraping the polished surface as you arch your back, offering yourself more fully.

Satisfied, she surges forward, burying the strap-on to the hilt in one smooth motion. The sudden fullness makes you gasp, your head falling forward until she releases your breast, her hand moving up to grab a fistful of your hair, gently tugging your gaze back to the mirror.

Sevika moves faster, her hips colliding with your ass in a forceful, inescapable rhythm that leaves you dizzy. Her fingers on your thigh bite in, a grounding sting that keeps you anchored as she hurls her weight into every thrust.

Pleasure coils tight in your core, every thrust pushing you closer to the edge. You feel yourself clenching around the strap-on, slick and hot, the wet sounds of your bodies meeting filling the cramped room. 

Sevika's breath grows ragged behind you, her own arousal evident. She leans forward, lips brushing your shoulder before she nips at the skin, soothing the sting with her tongue.

Your orgasm crashes through you, waves of heat pulsing as you cry out, body shuddering against the vanity. In the mirror, you see your face contort in ecstasy, eyes fluttering shut even as Sevika's hand in your hair keeps you facing forward. She doesn't stop, drawing out your release with slow, deep thrusts until you're trembling.

Finally, she stills, pressing a kiss to the back of your neck as she eases out of you. Your leg drops from the vanity, and she catches you as your knees buckle, turning you in her arms to face her. 

"Good girl," she says, pulling you close for a kiss, her hands roaming your back in gentle strokes.

[sashasinfully]

sevika x fem reader

prompt: so wet for me already, huh?

warnings: 18+, (slight) fingering, power dynamics, teasing, dirty talk, dom/sub dynamics, clit stimulation, Sevika calls reader baby

⋆˙⟡ prompt m.list ⋆˙⟡

Sevika doesn’t miss a thing. She catches the hitch in your breath, the way your knees instantly part the moment she enters your space, and she scoffs, a sharp, cynical sound that tells you exactly how pathetic she finds your lack of resolve. 

Her hand finds your thigh, and the deliberate drag of her fingertip against your sensitive skin sends a jolt of pure, white hot heat straight to your core.

"So wet for me already, huh?" she mutters, it feels more like a claim than a question.

You arch into her, a silent, needy demand for more, but she’s like stone. Her mechanical hand presses firmly into your hip, securing you in place with a clinical, arrogant authority that turns your frantic need into a slow burn. 

She leans in, the heat of her breath ghosting over your ear, and you’re paralyzed by the sheer, calculated cruelty of her gaze—she knows exactly how much you need her to touch you, and she’s enjoying every second of your hunger.

"Patience, baby," she teases.

When her finger finally brushes the dampened fabric of your panties, the pressure is intentional, just enough to make your lungs seize and a gasp tear from your throat. 

She follows the curve of your body, her touch painstakingly slow. "Look at you. Dripping like you’ve been waiting all day just to be opened up. Begging without saying a damn word."

She hooks her finger under the edge of your lace, tugging it aside to expose your slick, trembling folds to the air. You wait, breathless, desperate for her to finish what she started, but she’s cruel. 

She doesn't dive in; she drags her fingertip along your slit in a slow, torturous slide, collecting your wetness only to bring it to her mouth. 

She parts her lips, her tongue darting out to lick her fingers, her eyes never leaving yours, the act making your cheeks burn under her scrutiny.

"Mmm, so fucking addictive," she hums, the sound vibrating deep in her throat.

She holds your gaze, her eyes a silent command that keeps you anchored even as your body begins to betray you. Her fingers drift back to your clit, beginning a slow, feather-light dance that has you squirming. 

Every rhythmic circle sends a jolt through your nerves; your thighs clench, and that familiar, sickeningly sweet flutter ignites in your gut, pulling a whimper from your throat that you can’t quite swallow.

"Tell me," she demands, her voice dropping to a serrated whisper. "Tell me how bad you need my tongue on that pretty pussy. I want to hear you say it."

prompt creds:@/dumplingsjinson post

[sashasinfully]

Ambessa x fem reader ˙⋆✮

PROMPT: Looks like you need to be taught a lesson.

warnings: 18+ , nsfw, masturbation, squirting, light dom/sub dynamics, power imbalance, elements of exhibitionism

Ambessa sat deep in her high-backed chair, the grand oak desk serving as the only barrier between her iron discipline and your blatant provocation.

For hours, you had watched her prioritize Noxian logistics over you, her gaze never wavering from the ledgers and maps. Tired of being a ghost in her peripheral vision, you had finally decided to become a distraction she couldn't ignore.

You had claimed the center of the desk, perched just beyond her field of paperwork. Your weight pressed into the dark grain of the wood, legs spread wide and skirt hiked to your hips, framing yourself as the centerpiece of her study.

From where you sat, you were the backdrop to her every thought, a heated distraction she was trying—and failing—to ignore.

Your eyes stayed locked on the sharp, focused line of her jaw as your fingers delved between your thighs. The rhythmic, wet sounds of your own need filled the quiet room, a sharp contrast to the steady scratch of her quill.

Ambessa’s dark eyes flicked up, cutting through the dim light. She didn't lean in; she simply watched you from across the short distance of the desk, her muscular arms steady as she gripped her pen.

"Don't make a mess on my papers," she warned, before returning to her work. 

But you couldn't help it, from your seat atop the desk, your gaze traced the curve of her lips, imagining them pressed against your skin instead of set in that hard, professional line. Your eyes drifted down to her powerful hands, the veins bulging slightly beneath her skin as she gripped her pen with focused precision. 

The sheer sight of her strength, her presence, sent a fresh wave of heat pooling in your core. Your breaths came faster, shallow and hitching, as your fingers plunged deeper into your wet folds, rubbing your clit with desperate need.

Ambessa’s attention flicked back to you, her pen pausing mid-stroke. 

She watched with a predator’s stillness as your body tensed, your hips bucking against your hand just beyond her reach. Even through your haze, you admired the way her lips parted slightly in concentration, the subtle, heavy flex of her biceps as she shifted in her chair to better view your descent.

The pleasure built relentlessly, a tightening coil that finally snapped. 

Your pussy clenched violently around your fingers until you shattered, your back arching as you gasped her name. A gush of your release squirted out, arcing forward across the oak and soaking the very papers scattered in front of her.

The liquid glistened on the ink-smudged sheets, turning the crisp black lines of her reports into a blurred, illegible mess of gray.

Ambessa sighed heavily, a sound of weary, dangerous patience. She leaned back in her chair slowly, the leather creaking under her.

Her eyes met yours, intense, unamused, and dark with a budding promise of discipline, as she took in the ruined documents and your flushed, spent form still trembling on her desk.

"Three days of logistics, ruined in a single moment of weakness," she murmured, her voice dropping an octave. She didn't look angry; she looked like a commander tallying a debt.

Her gaze lingered on the way your heat had blurred her ink before cutting back to you. "You’ve destroyed my work to satisfy your own. It seems you’re in need of a lesson in discipline."

prompt m.list

prompt creds:@/dumplingsjinson post

a/n : thank you for proofing !! @freak-it-net

[sashasinfully]

CH 10: The Counterpunch

series: COUNTERPUNCH • Boxer!Vi x Nurse Practitioner!fem reader

warnings: 18+, nsfw, fingering, facesitting, semi-public sex, possessive behavior, dom/ sub dynamics, slight intoxication, mention of alcohol, teasing, workplace sex, professional boundaries crossed (lol), minor violence mention, slight hangover , kind of a confrontation, fluff, domestic intimacy, mild injury anxiety, Vi does use pet names for reader ( cupcake mainly, and babygirl once)

wc: 6.8k

a/n: thank you all so much for reading Counterpunch! your support really means a lot to me, and I hope you enjoyed reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it <3

The drive home is a study in restrained energy. Vi’s knuckles are tight against the steering wheel, and though she stares straight ahead, her movements are fluid, there is none of the guarding or hesitation you’ve grown accustomed to watching for over the last few weeks. The window is cracked, letting in the cool city air, and the silence in the car feels heavy, charged with the lingering electricity of the fight.

You lean your head against the cool glass, trying to blink away the slight, hazy blur at the edges of your vision. The shots from the bar are doing a slow, sluggish waltz through your system, making the streetlights outside streak into long, neon ribbons.

The moment the penthouse door clicks shut behind you, the world feels suddenly small and enclosed. You don’t let her move toward the kitchen or the bedroom. 

You step into her path, your gaze fixed on the shoulder you’ve spent so long protecting. “Sit.”

She pauses, her blue eyes guarded, still vibrating from the adrenaline of the bar. A ghost of a smirk tugs at her mouth. “Yes, nurse.”

“Vi,” you say, your voice firm, though you have to concentrate on articulating the syllables clearly. “Sit. Now.”

Her posture slumps, and she complies, moving to the couch and collapsing onto the cushions. You follow, your movements methodical as you peel back the sleeve of her button-down, exposing her shoulder. You brace yourself for the heat of inflammation or the tell-tale tension of a joint pushed too far, but the skin beneath your fingertips is calm.

You probe the joint, your thumb pressing into the deltoid, waiting for her to flinch, but she doesn't even blink. The tissue is supple, the range of motion unobstructed by the usual tightness. You look at her, searching for the grimace you were so sure you'd find, but she just watches you with an amused glint in her eyes.

“Lift it,” you command, your voice barely a whisper of surprise.

She raises her arm overhead. It’s effortless. She rotates the joint in a slow, smooth arc, her muscles shifting perfectly beneath her skin, showing absolutely zero signs of the violent confrontation she just walked away from. You exhale, the suffocating knot of anxiety in your chest unraveling into pure, baffled relief.

"I… I'm impressed," you admit, as you run your hand down her arm again, searching for even the smallest hint of compensatory swelling. The alcohol makes your movements feel a little disconnected, but your instincts remain razor-sharp. "Vi, you beat the hell out of him on a shoulder that was barely holding on a month ago. I should be looking at a Grade 1 strain at the very least, but there’s nothing."

You let out a shaky breath, the residual adrenaline of the fight finally beginning to dissipate. "Do you realize how close you were to a catastrophe? A redislocation at this stage wouldn't have just been set and forget. You’re looking at labral damage, permanent instability, potential surgery. You could have effectively ended your own career tonight."

Vi just hums, her gaze tracking your movements with that maddeningly relaxed confidence. She watches your face, a smirk playing on her lips as the medical terminology flies over her head.

"Labral... something?" she repeats, testing the word with a playful tilt of her head. "Cupcake, you’re using those big words again. I don't know what half of that means, I just know it didn't pop out, and AJ got fucked up."

"It means you risked your entire future for one fight," you counter, though the severity in your voice softens when you meet her eyes.

"I know it was a risk," she says, her tone turning serious for a heartbeat as she reaches up to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. "But the tear was tiny. You said yourself it was a micro-fray. I listened to the PT, I did the bands, I did the reps. I trusted my body, and I trusted that you’d keep me from doing anything too stupid."

"I didn't keep you from anything," you murmur, shaking your head, trying to steady the slight sway in your perspective. "You dragged me along for the ride."

She lets her arm drop and leans back, giving you a sharp grin. "Told you I was ready. Maybe I’m just made of tougher stuff than you give me credit for."

You let out a long, shuddering sigh and reach up, rubbing the bridge of your nose and then your tired eyes with both palms. The world feels a little sharper now, the edges of your vision clearing as the sobering reality of the night sets in.

You know she’s feeling invincible right now, but your nurse brain won't stop running the worst-case scenarios, regardless of how good she looks tonight.

"Maybe," you say. You drop your hands, looking at her with a steady, serious expression. "But tough doesn't mean healed. I need to see it for myself, Vi."

Out of the corner of your eye you see Inky suddenly hop up from the floor. With a soft trill, she moves directly onto Vi’s lap, curling into a ball right against her. Vi’s hand moves automatically to stroke Inky’s ears, her expression softening.

"Tomorrow," you continue, ignoring the way your heart melts at the sight of them together. "We’re going to the clinic. I’m getting an MRI done, no arguments."

Vi’s thumb pauses on Inky’s fur. She looks up at you, her brow furrowing in a quick flicker of annoyance, the familiar spark of rebellion that you’ve come to know so well. She lets out a sharp huff of air, looking down at the cat, then back to you. 

She clearly wants to fight you on it, to tell you she’s fine and you’re overreacting, but she catches the look in your eyes.

"Fine," she mutters. "Just... promise me we’re done with the babying after this?"

"I'm not babying you, " you reply, already reaching for your phone. 

You don't wait for her to change her mind. You sit down and tap the icon for your hospital’s secure portal, the familiar blue interface glowing in the dim light of the penthouse.

Vi watches you, a trace of annoyance still clinging to her brow, but she doesn't interfere. She just stays there, pinned by the weight of the cat on her lap, while you navigate to the scheduling module. 

You bypass the standard front-desk triage and type in her chart number, a privilege you usually reserve for yourself or urgent clinical alerts, and slide her name into the morning slot for diagnostic imaging.

Confirmed.

You lock the screen and toss the phone onto the cushion beside you. "You're booked for 8:00 AM tomorrow. Don't try to talk the tech out of the scan. I've already put in the order."

You’re lucky that Evelyn’s clinic is as elite as it is; it’s the only private practice in the city that houses a high-field, open-bore MRI on-site. Usually, that machine is reserved for the city’s top-tier professional athletes or high-net-worth clients who demand absolute discretion, a place where you don't have to worry about a camera phone snapping a photo of a bruised, taped-up fighter in a public waiting room.

It’s an incredible luxury, having that kind of diagnostic power at your fingertips, but tonight, the thought of it just feels heavy. You know that by tomorrow morning, that machine will either provide the validation you’ve been praying for, or it will expose the brutal reality of what Vi has been hiding. 

Vi rolls her eyes, though there’s no real irritation in it. She reaches out snagging your wrist and pulling you until you’re sitting right in the curve of her side, Inky purring loudly on her lap.

"You're a real pain in the ass, Cupcake," she sighs, her thumb brushing over your arm.

"I'm a professional," you correct, though your head finally rests against her shoulder, the exhaustion you’ve been fighting finally starting to win. "And I'm a professional who needs to know for sure that you aren't holding yourself together with nothing but spit and sheer willpower."

"Whatever you say," she whispers.

You blink, the haze in your head shifting as a sudden, sharp realization cuts through the alcohol-induced fog. You pull back slightly, pushing yourself up to look her in the eyes, your brow furrowed.

"Hey, wait," you say, your speech just a fraction slower than usual. "You... you drove. You’re not drunk?"

Vi looks surprised for a split second, her eyebrows arching high before she throws her head back and lets out a low laugh that makes Inky stir on her lap. She reaches up, cupping your cheek with a hand that feels steady and solid against your skin.

"I'm not a lightweight like you, babygirl," she says, her voice teasing and warm. " Now, let's go to sleep."

Vi gently nudges Inky off her lap with a soft movement, the cat letting out a disgruntled mrp before hopping to the floor. Vi stands, her movements devoid of any pain, and she reaches down to pull you up. 

As you rise, the room tilts just a fraction, your equilibrium taking a second to catch up. You’re definitely not as tanked as you were at the bar, but the alcohol is still humming in your veins, making your limbs feel heavy and wonderfully uncoordinated.

Vi chuckles. 

She doesn't wait for you to find your footing; instead, she sweeps an arm around your back, effortlessly hoisting you up. Your legs hook around her waist, your arms draping over her shoulders.

She starts toward the bathroom, her gait steady, a stark contrast to your own dizzy haze.

"I am actually impressed," she starts, her voice laced with amusement. "You're still able to spew all that medical bullshit even when you’re tipsy, Cupcake. That's cute."

You don’t have the energy to argue, or to defend your clinical integrity. You just let out a long, pathetic groan, burying your face into the crook of her neck, the scent of her sweat and cologne comforting you. 

You feel her hand begin to move in slow circles against your back, a touch so grounding it almost makes you drift off right there in her arms.

"Whatever," you mumble into her collar, your voice muffled. "Just... make sure you set an alarm. "

"Yeah, yeah," she whispers.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The morning light in the clinic is unforgiving. It’s bright, and seems to drill straight into the throbbing base of your skull, a lingering souvenir from the shots you shouldn't have finished last night.

You stand in the control room, rubbing your temples, your scrubs feeling like lead on your shoulders. You’re trying to maintain your professional distance, but every time you look at Vi, who is sitting on the exam table in the scanning bay, your pulse spikes. She’s completely still, her posture relaxed, looking entirely too healthy for someone who, by all medical logic, should be nursing a torn rotator cuff.

"Ready, nurse?" Vi calls out, her voice echoing slightly in the quiet, sterile room. 

She flashes you a lopsided grin, and you can’t tell if she’s truly unbothered or just performing for your benefit.

"Just stay perfectly still, Violet," you murmur, your voice tight. 

You turn to the MRI tech, giving the nod to start the sequence.

The machine begins its rhythmic, mechanical thrumming, a loud, pulsing sound that fills the small space. You turn your attention to the monitor, your breath hitching. You’ve reviewed thousands of these, but this one feels different. It’s the visual equivalent of a high-stakes bet, and your sanity, and your heart are all on the table.

You scroll through the slices, your eyes scanning the anatomy intensely. Supraspinatus insertion... acromion... glenoid labrum. You’re waiting for the tell-tale white of fluid, the jagged tear, the sign of failure.

Nothing.

The tendon fibers appear smooth, perfectly aligned, and completely intact. You adjust the contrast, zoom in, and toggle the views, searching for a trace of the injury that had been documented a month ago. It’s not there. It’s as if you’re looking at a shoulder that has never known a day of strain in its life.

A shaky, disbelieving laugh catches in your throat. You pull back from the monitor, your hands trembling just enough that you have to clasp them behind your back to hide it. You feel lightheaded, partly from the lingering hangover, but mostly from the sheer impossibility of what you’re seeing.

The scan finishes, and the heavy machine goes silent. You walk out into the scanning bay, your movements mechanical. Vi is already sitting up, looking at you with that maddeningly relaxed confidence.

"Well?" she asks, tilting her head. "Do I get the green light for the gym, or are you still going to look at me like you’ve seen a ghost?"

You stop in front of her, the MRI screen glowing behind you like a portal to a different reality. You’re still reeling, your clinical mind desperately trying to find a logical explanation, a misdiagnosis? A hyper-fast healing response? You have no answer.

"Just a second, Violet," you murmur, your voice tight. You turn to the tech, who is already starting to power down the console. "Can you upload these sequences to her file immediately? I need to review them."

The tech nods, not looking up from the monitor as he clicks through the command prompts. "Uploading now. It’ll be live in the system in about a minute."

You give a curt nod, not waiting for the progress bar to finish. 

"Go get changed back into your clothes," you say, your voice maintaining a strictly professional, clinical distance. You keep your hands at your sides, carefully avoiding any lingering touch as you gesture toward the changing area. "I’ll wait right here. Once you’re dressed, I’ll take you to the exam room to review the images."

Vi gives you a sharp, knowing look, the kind that says she sees right through your need for professional separation in the workplace, but she doesn’t push it. She heads into the changing room, and you remain in the hallway, crossing your arms and staring at the floor, trying to quiet the buzz of the morning’s headache.

A few minutes later, the door clicks open. Vi emerges, looking like her usual self again, the hospital gown traded for her casual attire.

You don’t reach out to touch her; you keep a polite, clinical two feet of distance between you as you gesture down the hall. 

"Follow me," you say.

You lead her down the sterile corridor, your footsteps echoing against the linoleum. When you reach the exam room, you hold the door for her, letting her enter first before you follow and shut it firmly behind you. The moment the latch clicks, the professional mask you’ve been wearing finally starting to fray at the edges.

You move straight to the wall-mounted monitor, your hands shaking slightly as you pull up the high-resolution sequences.

You’re still waiting for the glitch. You’re waiting for the shadow that indicates a partial tear, a frayed tendon, anything.

"Vi," you whisper, gesturing toward the monitor. "Look at this. There’s... there’s nothing. Not even a scar. I should be looking at the repair site, or at least the residual inflammation from the initial injury. But the tissue... it’s perfectly integrated. It’s like it never happened."

Vi walks over, her boots clicking against the floor. She stops right next to you, and leans in to look at the screen.

She reaches out, tapping your hip with her knuckle. "See? I told you I was made of tougher stuff. Can I stop with the athletic tape fully?"

You just stare at her, shaking your head, the dull ache in your skull completely forgotten. You're a Nurse Practitioner, a professional, a skeptic, you live in a world of evidence and protocol. And yet, looking at her, you have no choice but to believe in the impossible.

"I... I don't know," you admit, your voice barely audible. You turn to look at her, your gaze scanning her shoulder as if you could somehow see through the skin to the miracle underneath. "This doesn't happen, Vi. Bodies don't just... reset like this."

"Maybe mine does," she says, her smirk widening. 

You stare at the scan, the grayscale images flickering on the wall-mounted screen. You’ve spent years in medical school and clinics, studied thousands of charts, and never once encountered a case where trauma of this magnitude simply... erased itself. It defies everything you know about biology. You’re left with the haunting thought that either your diagnosis was flawed, or the woman standing behind you is fundamentally different from anyone you’ve ever treated.

You turn to look at her, your voice steadying despite the internal turmoil. "You can spar. Hell, you could probably get back to heavy hitting and not even feel a twinge."

Vi’s gives you a small smile.

She looks pointedly at the closed door, then back at you. Before you can process the sudden shift in her demeanor, her hands are at your waist, pulling you flush against her. 

You feel the immediate heat of her, and you instinctively raise your eyebrows, whispering, "Vi, behave. We are in the clinic."

She lets out a low, amused huff. 

"I just want to thank you," she murmurs, her voice dropping to a gravelly, intimate register. "I wouldn't have been doing so well without you, Cupcake. Seriously."

She leans in, and when she kisses you, it’s not gentle, it’s possessive and starving, her tongue thrusting deep into your mouth like she owns every inch of you.  You feel her hands begin to roam, slipping beneath the edge of your scrubs, her palms hot and rough against your bare skin, tracing the curve of your hips before dipping lower. 

The kiss intensifies, her teeth nipping at your lower lip, pulling a sharp, involuntary gasp from your throat that echoes too loudly in the sterile exam room. You snap back to reality, pulling away and glaring at her, your heart hammering against your ribs, the door just a thin barrier between you and the bustling clinic hallway.

"What did I just say?" you hiss, your voice sharp with warning, though the flush creeping up your neck betrays you.

Vi only chuckles, a dark, teasing sound. She leans in again, her lips grazing your ear before trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down to the sensitive skin of your neck, sucking lightly until you feel the pull right between your thighs. 

Your breath hitches, your professional resolve crumbling in seconds as her breath fans over your pulse point.

"I want to eat your pussy," she whispers against your skin, the words demanding, her hand squeezing your ass possessively.

Your eyes go wide, and you elbow her back, your face heating up with a mix of shock and that forbidden thrill, the risk of footsteps in the hall outside making your core clench. "Are you crazy?! You know I can't be quiet enough for this, and your appointment is done."

Vi just smirks, tilting her head to the side, her blue eyes daring you to keep pretending you don't want it, her gaze dropping to the way your scrubs tent slightly from your hardening nipples. You look from her annoyingly beautiful face to the monitor beeping softly, then back to her, and let out a long, defeated sigh. 

Your professional mask is in shreds, and the ache of wanting her is suddenly far more pressing than literally anything else.

"Three minutes," you bite out. "That is all you get."

Vi’s grin is pure victory. 

At your sharp nod, she moves to the exam table and lies back. You don't waste another second, stripping off your pants with frantic movements, the cool air of the room hitting your soaked folds and making you shiver. 

As you climb onto the table, positioning yourself over her face, her hands come up to guide you down, her thumbs brushing against your inner thighs, spreading you open with a possessive grip.

"Funny how you were acting like you were going to say no," she murmurs, her voice dripping with arousal as she stares up at your glistening pussy, so close her breath teases your clit. "You're already dripping wet, Cupcake. You wanted this as bad as I did, wanted me to devour you right here where anyone could hear."

You sink down onto her mouth, muffling her teasing words with your pussy as her tongue immediately flattens and laps upward, dragging through your slick folds in one long, firm stroke that has your hips bucking. 

"You talk too fucking much," you moan, but the sound comes out breathy and desperate, your hand flying up to clamp over your mouth to stifle it.

Vi doesn't hold back. 

Her tongue thrusts inside you, fucking deep and possessive, swirling against your inner walls while her hands grip your thighs harder, pulling you down to grind against her face. 

You start riding her tongue in earnest, rolling your hips in a rhythm that's needy, chasing the pressure building so fast it embarrasses you. The risk of it all, voices murmuring faintly down the hall, sends sparks of humiliated arousal straight to your core, making you wetter, your juices coating her chin as she groans into you.

Then her lips seal around your clit, sucking hard the pull sending tremors through your entire body. Your legs shake, thighs quivering against her cheeks as she alternates between sucking and flicking her tongue over the swollen nub, each tug making your back arch and your free hand fist in her hair. 

"Fuck, Vi," you whimper behind your palm, biting down to muffle the cry, but the vibrations of her hum travel right through you, intensifying everything.

Two fingers slide up from where her hand kneads your ass, pushing into your soaked entrance with a wet squelch that makes your eyes roll back. She hooks them deep, dragging them against your G-spot with a calculated pressure that makes your stomach drop. 

Every time you try to stay quiet, she seems to find a way to drag a ragged sound out of you, she’ll intentionally twist her fingers or her lips will pull harder on your clit just as you’re trying to swallow a gasp. It’s sadistic, the way she knows exactly how to make you lose your composure.

Your body trembles uncontrollably, every muscle tensing as the pleasure coils tight and vicious, the embarrassment of how quickly you're unraveling only fueling the fire. 

You’re terrified someone will walk in, but the fear only makes your muscles clench tighter around her, milking her fingers as you grind down.

It hits you like a wave crashing, hard and sudden. 

Your orgasm rips through you, your pussy clenching around her fingers as you cum with a force that has you grinding down desperately, flooding her mouth with your release. 

Waves of it pulse through your trembling body, your hand pressing harder over your mouth to swallow the scream. 

Vi doesn't stop, lapping and sucking through it all, possessive growls rumbling from her throat as she claims every drop. 

Her fingers slow, still buried deep, milking the last twitching remnants of your control until you’re a shaking, boneless mess, draped over her like you’ve been completely hollowed out.

Your legs feel like they’re made of lead, and your knees are still trembling as you finally push yourself off her. You’re wobbly, breathless, and intensely aware of how disheveled you must look. 

You scramble off the table and move to pull your pants back on, your movements uncoordinated, desperate to re-establish some semblance of order before someone knocks on the door.

Vi, however, is the picture of unbothered composure. She sits up on the edge of the exam table, her hair deliciously messy, her lips swollen. She’s slowly sucking the wetness from her fingers, her gaze fixed on you. 

A jolt of heat hits your cheeks, her chin is glistening, a blatant, messy reminder of what just happened.

You turn to the sink and snatch a handful of paper towels from the dispenser, then march back over to her, your hand shaking as you reach out to wipe her chin. She doesn’t move; she just tracks your face, her eyes heavy, that smug grin never leaving her mouth.

"You're a menace," you whisper, the paper towel coming away damp. Your heart is still thudding a frantic, uneven rhythm against your ribs. "Get up. "

Vi lets out a low, satisfied hum, sliding off the exam table. She doesn’t move away, though; she stays right in your space, her scent clinging to the air around you.

You step past her to the table she just vacated. With a sharp, aggressive tug, you rip the crinkly white sanitary paper off the exam bed, the sound unnaturally loud in the small room, and ball it up tightly, tossing it into the biohazard bin. It’s a mindless, cathartic gesture, a way to scrub away the evidence of just how thoroughly you’d just unraveled.

"You're cleared for full contact," you say, your voice tighter than you intended, though you still don't dare look at her. You reach for the fresh roll of paper, your fingers fumbling slightly as you pull it across the table. "Sparring, heavy hitting, whatever you need for next week. Just... don't be stupid."

Vi chuckles. "Whatever you say, Cupcake."

You walk to the door, your hand hovering over the handle for a beat, trying to pull your professional mask back into place. You turn back to her, and for a split second, the facade slips completely.

"That was a nice 'thank you,' by the way," you whisper, your voice barely audible over the hum of the clinic’s ventilation.

Vi’s grin deepens, and she leans back on her hands, watching you with an intensity that makes your breath hitch all over again.

You offer a final, shaky look, then pull the door open.

The transition from the exam room to the lobby feels like walking a tightrope. Your legs are still a bit shaky, and every time you look at Vi, who is trailing just a half-step behind you with that satisfied aura, you feel a fresh wave of heat climb your neck.

You reach the front desk, and as Vi settles her co-pay with the receptionist, who is clearly trying, and failing, not to stare at the celebrity, you stand off to the side, trying to look like a composed medical professional.

Evelyn emerges from her office just as Vi turns back to the counter.

"Violet, good to see you again," Evelyn says, her voice bright and professional, though her eyes are sharp, scanning the two of you with that signature, analytical gaze. "I've been looking over your file. The latest imaging is... nothing short of remarkable."

"Thanks, Doc," Vi says, her tone smooth. 

She looks at you, her expression softening into something so genuinely tender that you forget where you are. You’re staring at her, eyes wide and adoring, your own face clearly betraying every secret you thought you were hiding.

"Bye," Vi says, her voice a low, teasing hum.

"Have a good day," you stammer, your voice sounding thin even to your own ears.

Vi turns to leave, and you stay rooted to the spot, eyes locked on her back, completely unaware of the expression on your own face until you hear Evelyn stop mid-sentence.

You blink and turn back to find Evelyn standing there with her arms crossed over her chest, a look of profound amusement on her face. She doesn't say a word, just tilts her head toward her office door.

"Come with me," she says. "Now."

Your heart skips a beat, a hard, frantic thud against your ribs that leaves you breathless. A cold dread washes over you, but it isn’t the usual fear of a professional error. You aren't scanning your mind for missing charts or forgotten patient histories. Instead, your thoughts go straight to the small exam room you just left.

Did someone hear? The question hits you with nauseating force. Was the door not as soundproof as you’d assumed? Had a tech or a colleague walked by and caught the sound of your muffled gasps, or the undeniable, desperate cadence of what just happened?

The hallway feels exponentially longer than usual, a tunnel of polished linoleum and judgment. Evelyn walks ahead of you without speaking, her steps purposeful, heavy with authority. The lights hum overhead, that familiar, sterile sound now vibrating like an accusation. 

Your stomach isn't just twisting; it’s knotted into a hard, painful coil of paranoia. 

She stops outside her office and pushes the door open.

“Inside.”

Your pulse is hammering so hard in your ears it’s difficult to hear anything else. You step over the threshold, your legs feeling like they belong to a stranger, waiting for the floor to drop out from under you.

The door shuts behind you with a soft click that echoes in the cramped space, sounding far louder than it should. 

Evelyn turns the deadbolt, and leans back against the wood, exhaling a long, weary breath through her nose, her eyes fixed on you.

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, filled only by the hum of the office AC. You brace yourself, your hands balling into tight fists at your sides, waiting for the axe to fall, for the talk about ethics, for the list of violations, for the inevitable termination.

She sighs, and the sound is devoid of the anger you expected. “You’re in love with that woman.”

You freeze. 

Your brain scrambles for something professional, a deflection, a medical justification, a stuttered lie, but your throat is constricted. Your mouth opens slightly, then clicks shut, useless.

Evelyn lifts a hand, stopping you before you can even attempt to speak. 

“Don’t bother denying it. Please.” She shakes her head, a small, sad smirk touching her lips. “I have never seen you look at someone like that. Just now, out in the lobby? Your eyes were practically hearts, for God’s sake.”

Heat floods your face, a searing, painful tide. Your vision blurs before you realize your eyes are watering, the sheer exhaustion of hiding everything finally cracking your composure. You look down, ashamed, unable to hold her gaze.

“I’m… sorry,” you whisper, the apology feeling small and inadequate.

“Hey.” Her voice softens immediately. “Just don’t. Don’t do that.”

You swallow hard, your hands trembling as you fold them together, trying to hide their shaking. 

She watches you for a long beat, her gaze probing, before she asks quietly, “How long have you had something going on with her?”

You shrug, a weak, defeated motion. “A while.”

Evelyn drags a hand down her face, letting out a disbelieving, sharp scoff that makes you jump. “Is there anything else I should know?”

You hesitate, your heart stalling. 

“I’ve… been living with her,” you admit, your voice barely above a breath. “For over a month. But I moved in intending to help with her rehab. That was the plan. It was strictly about the recovery.”

Evelyn stares at you, her brow furrowing, before she throws her head back and lets out a laugh. It’s loud, sharp, and completely incredulous.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

You wince, shrinking back.

“How did you think moving in with her was going to end?” she continues, pacing once across the small office, her heels clicking aggressively on the floor. “You’re both hot. You spend every single day together. Emotional vulnerability, physical recovery, the high-stakes environment... that’s basically a romance novel starter pack. What did you expect to happen?”

You blink, startled, looking up to find her pacing has stopped. She’s watching you with a crooked, wry smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“Oh,” you murmur, the realization finally dawning on you. “You’re not… mad?”

She crosses her arms, leaning against her desk. 

“I’m hurt you didn’t tell me,” she says plainly. “That part? Yeah. I hate finding out important things about my best friend by accident, especially when it puts you at risk.”

Guilt twists in your chest. “I didn’t know how. I was terrified of losing this—of losing my job, and—”

“Honestly,” she interrupts, “her shoulder healed incredibly well. I’ve been tracking the imaging. She’s been remarkably consistent with PT. And unless I hallucinated, your famous girlfriend looks pretty damn functional in every interview and photoshoot I’ve seen.”

You huff a quiet, nervous laugh despite yourself.

“Injuries like that usually take a lot longer,” Evelyn continues, her voice gentle now. “Yet she’s back to fighting form. So, clearly, your romantic feelings didn’t interfere with your professional judgment. If anything, you pushed her harder than I would have.” She pauses, her eyes narrowing slightly. “But she can’t be your patient anymore. You’re too close, and the liability is too high.”

Your stomach drops. “I’ll take over her care,” Evelyn finishes.

You stare at her, waiting for the rest, the mention of a disciplinary board, the formal meeting notice, the reprimand. Nothing comes. 

Your expression must be an open book because Evelyn’s face softens instantly. She abandons her post at the desk, and pulls you into a firm, grounding hug before you can even think to react.

“Hey,” she murmurs against your hair. “I’m not firing you. And I’m definitely not reporting you. You’re the best NP I have, and I’m not losing you over a human emotion.”

You let out a long, shuddering breath against her shoulder, the tension finally leaving your spine.

“Sadly,” she adds with a small, self-deprecating laugh, “I don’t think I could ever punish you or tell on you, even if I watched you commit a crime. ”

You laugh weakly, a genuine, tearful sound. She squeezes you once more, a quick, supportive pulse of warmth, before pulling back.

“I’m glad you’re happy, babe,” she says, her eyes searching yours one last time. “You deserve it. Now, go wash your face before someone sees you and thinks I’m a monster.”

She turns and unlocks the door, swinging it open like nothing monumental just happened, leaving you standing there in the sudden quiet.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The workday feels like a blur of autopilot and adrenaline. 

You move through your remaining appointments with a stiff, practiced professionalism, your mind constantly drifting back to that locked office and the weight of Evelyn’s hug. 

By the time you clock out, the sterile scent of the clinic feels like it’s clinging to your skin, and you’re more than ready to shed the "NP" persona for the day.

When you push through the glass double doors of the clinic, Vi’s car is already idling at the curb. It’s a sleek, dark presence against the backdrop of the evening commute. You climb into the passenger seat, the heavy thud of the door shutting out the noise of the city.

Vi is leaning back, one hand draped over the steering wheel, looking calm, until she looks at you. The second her eyes land on your face, her relaxed posture vanishes. Her brow furrows, and she kills the engine, the sudden silence in the car amplifying the intensity of her gaze.

“What happened?” she asks, her voice low. “You look like you’ve been through a war, Cupcake.”

You lean your head back against the leather headrest, letting out a long, shaky exhale. “Evelyn knows.”

Vi freezes. 

Her hand tightens on the steering wheel, her knuckles momentarily pale, bracing for bad news.

“…And?” she asks, her voice barely a rasp. “Is she… are you in trouble? Did she fire you?”

You let out a small, breathless laugh, still a little stunned by the turn the day took. “No. She’s… she’s happy for us.”

The relief that floods Vi’s face is immediate and blindingly bright. It’s like a physical weight has been lifted off her shoulders. She doesn’t even hesitate; she unbuckles her seatbelt and reaches across the center console, her hands finding your waist and pulling you as close as the gear shift will allow.

“Seriously?” she breathes, her eyes searching yours, looking for any sign of a joke.

“Seriously,” you say, a genuine smile finally breaking through your exhaustion. “But there’s a catch. She’s taking over your care. Effective immediately, you are officially not my patient anymore.”

Vi’s grin spreads, more beautiful than any polished media photo. She looks at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters, her thumbs brushing against the fabric of your scrubs.

“So,” she murmurs, her voice dropping into that dark, honeyed register that always makes your heart skip. “Does that mean you can be mine now? No doctor-patient bullshit, no ethics committees… just mine?”

Your cheeks warm instantly, the heat spreading down your neck. 

You try to maintain a shred of your dignity, even as you lean into her touch. “That is not medically recognized terminology.”

She grins and then leans in and kisses you, not the frantic, risky kiss from the exam room, but something deep, and full of a new kind of freedom. It’s the kind of kiss that says the secret is out, the pressure is off, and for the first time, you don't have to look over your shoulder.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The arena roars like a living thing, a chaotic, suffocating wall of sound that vibrates right through the soles of your shoes. You’re pressed against the barricade, your knuckles whitening as you grip the cold metal. 

You’ve spent your career treating injuries, stitching gashes, and soothing the aftermath of violence, and the thought of Vi being on the receiving end of a knockout blow makes your stomach churn with a sickening, cold dread.

You aren’t mentally cataloging her range of motion or checking for signs of a concussion. You’re watching as someone who loves her, and that shift in perspective is terrifying.

Vi moves differently tonight. 

She isn’t the desperate fighter from your first few weeks together; she’s fluid, and surgical. She’s confident, sharp, every strike controlled, every dodge effortless. It’s as if those weeks of mandated restraint were just a coiled spring, and now, everything is finally being unleashed with lethal purpose.

Her opponent is fast, but Vi is inevitable. She reads the rhythm of the fight, baiting the other woman into a reckless, over-committed swing.

The announcer’s voice cuts through the frenzy, his tone spiking with adrenaline. “She’s looking for the opening! She’s baiting the trap, and there it is! A devastating, picture-perfect counterpunch!”

The final combination lands clean, a snapping hook that silences the opponent and the room in one breath. The crowd explodes as the referee steps in, the air thick with the smell of sweat and victory.

It’s over.

Vi’s hand is raised, her skin slick and shining under the harsh, white glare of the arena lights. Her chest is heaving, her eyes wild with the electric high of the win. She laughs, a sound of pure, breathless release, and as the chaos of the ring swirls around her, her gaze cuts straight through the noise.

Her eyes find yours.

For a second, the urge to bolt—the old, reckless Vi—flickers in her expression. But she catches herself. She nods to the referee, lets her corner team drape the towel over her shoulders, and endures the standard post-fight formalities with a newfound, focused patience. She’s done fighting the rules, and she’s finally learned how to play the game long enough to get what she actually wants.

Once she’s finally cleared by the officials, she doesn’t head for the locker room. She ignores the cameras and the encroaching reporters and jogs straight toward you.

Everything else, the cheering, the flashing cameras, the frantic officials, dissolves into static. She stops inches from you, breathless and flushed, her grin wild and bright as she realizes she doesn't have to hide anymore.

“So, nurse,” she says, “did I impress you enough to be your girlfriend?”

You let out a shaky laugh, the remaining fear from the last three rounds finally washing away. You reach out, your fingers ghosting over the bruised, darkening skin on her cheekbone, the only mark she took, and your heart swells until it aches.

“You always impress me,” you whisper.

Her smile softens, shedding the fighter’s mask and becoming something private, something just for you. You pull her down, abandoning all sense of propriety, and kiss her right there under the blinding arena lights.

The roar of the crowd shifts, turning into a collective cheer as they realize what they’re seeing. Flashes pop like lightning, but you’re blind to the spectacle. You only feel the damp heat of her skin, the strength of her hands framing your face, and the steady rhythm of her heart against your own.

Everything is simple, everything is right.

You finally exhale, holding onto the woman who already knew how to win, but who had to learn the hardest lesson of all: how to let someone in, how to ask for help, and how to stop fighting the very care she needed to keep standing.

In the aftermath of the most perfect strike you’ve ever seen, you realize that life isn't just about the damage you take or the impact you make. It’s a series of heavy hits, followed by the grace of a perfect counterpunch.

<- CH 9 masterlist

taglist: @thefantasticmissvixen @vxtanne31 @seasonsofchaos @oceantides-and-daffodils @twinkyfemmes @pixiegirlsy @caitlyns-left-mountain @vahnilla @ellielover69 @cutflwr @savedforlaterr @my-fabulousness-has-arrived @pugh-bug

[sashasinfully]

fics

all stories are x fem reader

.✦ ݁˖ Sevika

Sin Sessions // Ao3 link ( completed series)

The Straight Furrow //Ao3 link ( completed)

Hemovore// Ao3 link (ongoing) vamp!Sev x scientist!reader

.✦ ݁˖ Vi

Counterpunch // Ao3 link (completed series)

.✦ ݁˖ Ambessa

At Your Service ( coming soon)

M.MLIST | ONESHOTS

last updated May 27, 2026

© 2025-2026 sashasinfully

[sashasinfully]

oneshots

all stories are x fem reader

.✦ ݁˖ Vi

Purrfectly Naughty

Study Break

Take it

Reflected Lust

Soaked

.✦ ݁˖ Sevika

Heat of Jealousy

A Little Help

A Little Help Pt. 2

Private Performance

Behave... or Else

Five Minutes

Shop Talk

A Week on Delivered

Still Angry, Still Yours

Not So Tough

Rubies (Sevika x Vi x Reader) (on backup blog)

Winning Hand ( req)

muted

.✦ ݁˖ Ambessa

Yield to Me

.✦ ݁˖ Caitlyn

You up?

Bound in Blue

M.MLIST | FICS

last updated May 10, 2026

© 2025-2026 sashasinfully

[sashasinfully]

CH 9: New Positions

series: COUNTERPUNCH • Boxer!Vi x Nurse Practitioner!fem reader

warnings: 18+, nsfw, dom/sub dynamics, strap on use (Vi receiving), spanking, slight jealousy, power dynamics, emotional intimacy, fluff, Vi first time being strapped, slight implication of aftercare, switch dynamics, confrontation (with AJ), physical altercation, brief violence, mention of blood, alcohol consumption, intoxication, profanity

wc: ~6.7k

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Two weeks pass in a blur of motion that feels less like a recovery and more like a rebirth.

The penthouse is now a revolving door of Vi’s life. You watch her navigate it with a new kind of discipline. She’s at PT three times a week, gritting her teeth through the resistance bands without the frantic urge to overcompensate. 

She’s at meetings with sponsors, looking sharp in leather jackets that fit her like armor, and she’s at photoshoots where she looks into the lens with a confidence that feels earned.

But it’s the quiet hours, the ones the public doesn't see, where the lines between "nurse" and "something more" have blurred into a permanent smear.

You find yourself in her bed more often than you care to admit. It evolved into a shared space of tangled sheets and whispered conversations.

This morning, the sun is just beginning to bleed through the blinds, casting slatted shadows across Vi’s bare back. You sit up, reaching out to trace the line of her shoulder, checking for any remaining inflammation. 

Your breath hitches when your fingers graze a series of faint, red marks near the curve of her shoulder, the remnants of your own fingernails from the night before.

She yanks you down toward her into a soft kiss that tastes of morning and shared secrets. When she finally lets you up, the day starts to pull at you both.

Vi rolls out of bed with a stretch, her muscles shifting under her skin. 

On her way to the kitchen, she scoops up Inky, who has been weaving between her ankles and meowing like she hasn't seen a kibble in a decade. She lifts her to eye level, her expression mock serious.

"Why do you act like you don't eat, huh?" she whispers, her voice vibrating against the Inky’s fur. "You’re a tiny extortionist."

You giggle to yourself as you watch the light catch the tattoos on her arms. It’s these small, domestic moments that make the clinical distance you’re supposed to maintain feel like a distant memory.

An hour later, the apartment is filled with the steam of shared showers and the scent of strong coffee. You’re both by the front door, sitting on the bench to lace up your sneakers. The gym bag is packed, the medical tape is ready, and the air is thick with anticipation.

Vi stops mid-knot, looking up at you with an uncharacteristic flash of hesitation. "I can spar today, right? You said today."

"Yes," you say, reaching over to adjust the collar of her hoodie. "Light sparring is okay. Key word, light. If I see you trying to take someone's head off, you’re done."

Vi grins, that sharp, toothy expression that always makes your pulse quicken. She leans in, planting a quick, firm kiss on your lips. When she pulls back, she doesn't move away entirely, her eyes dancing with mischief.

"Light sparring," she repeats, her voice dropping into that annoying drawl. "Got it, but I don’t think that what we did last night was very light, pretty rigorous, huh?"

You roll your eyes, a fond, exasperated huff escaping you. "You’re such a pain. Let’s go."

You stand up and walk past her toward the door, heading for the elevator. You’ve barely cleared the threshold when a sudden, sharp smack connects with your ass.

"Ouch! Really, Violet?" you yelp, spinning around and rubbing the spot. "Keep that up and I’ll change my mind on the sparring. You can spend the afternoon on the foam roller instead."

Vi chuckles as she walks past you toward the elevator. She hits the down button and leans against the wall, glancing at you.

"Are you sure about that?" she asks. "I think you’d miss the show."

You mutter something about unprofessional conduct under your breath, but you can’t hide the smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

The atmosphere in the gym is electric.

This time, you aren't a frantic visitor or a worried shadow. You’re there with her, but you’ve staked out your own territory. You’re on a treadmill a few yards away, the steady thump-thump of your pace matching the rhythm of the gym. You told yourself you’d focus on your own workout, that you’d trust her not to push it, but your eyes keep drifting.

Vi is in the ring with a sparring partner, her movements fluid and terrifyingly precise. Every time she throws a hook or digs in a body shot, your heart does a nervous little skip, your medical brain automatically calculating the torque on her joint.

Every once in a while, as she circles her opponent, she’ll cut her eyes toward you. For a split second, the intensity of the fighter vanishes, replaced by a quick, private look, a silent check-in that says, I’m okay. I’m holding it. You offer a small, encouraging nod, and she’s back in it, her focus snapping back to the fight like a rubber band.

As you look away, trying to focus on the treadmill's glowing display, you catch a movement in your periphery.

Markus is leaning against a squat rack, arms crossed over his chest. He isn't watching Vi, he’s watching you. When he sees you’ve caught him, he doesn't look away. Instead, he slowly raises his eyebrows, a smirk spreading across his face. 

He doesn't say a word, but the look is loud enough to fill the entire room. He knows, he’s seen the way you look at her, and more importantly, the way she looks at you.

He catches your eye again and gives you a quick wink before turning his attention back to Vi, the corner of his mouth still tipped upward.

Fuck.

You immediately look back at the treadmill screen like it suddenly requires your full academic attention. Your pace stutters for half a second before you correct it, cheeks warm for reasons that have nothing to do with cardio.

Across the gym, Vi slips a jab past her partner’s guard and pivots cleanly away, light on her feet. No hesitation, no protective stiffness. Just controlled confident movement. 

Relief settles somewhere low in your chest.

She’s holding back, fully listening.

That might be the most impressive recovery of all.

The round ends a minute later, the bell cutting through the noise. Vi drops her guard and rolls her shoulder experimentally as she steps out of the ring. Your body tenses automatically, watching for any sign of pain, but she only exhales and reaches for her water bottle.

Her eyes find yours almost immediately.

You raise two fingers in a silent question, she mirrors it back with a small thumbs-up.

You slow the treadmill to a walk, heart rate easing as the adrenaline you didn’t realize you were carrying begins to fade. Around you, the gym hums with movement, gloves thud, music shifts tracks overhead.

When you step off the machine, Vi is already making her way toward you, hair damp, grin crooked and pleased with herself.

“Well?” she asks, grabbing a towel and dragging it over her face. “Did I behave?”

“You did,” you admit. “I’m shocked.”

She scoffs. “Rude.”

You reach for her shoulder without thinking, fingers pressing lightly along the joint, checking heat and tension. She goes still under your touch, watching your face instead of the gym around you.

“No swelling,” you murmur. “Range looked good.”

“Told you,” she says softly.

You realize then how close you’re standing and step back, clearing your throat.

“Cool down,” you say, slipping back into professional mode. “Five minutes. Then we’re leaving, please shower at home. I’m hungry.”

“Yes, ma’am.” 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

By the time you both head toward the exit, the gym’s chaotic morning energy has leveled off into a tired, mid-afternoon satisfaction.

Outside, the air is thick and humid, carrying that sharp, metallic scent of sun-baked pavement after a light drizzle. Vi tosses her bag into the backseat with a practiced thud and slides behind the wheel. You settle in beside her, your muscles feeling pleasantly heavy and warm.

For a while, neither of you speaks. The city moves past in a blur of midday traffic and glinting glass. Vi taps her fingers against the steering wheel, her gaze fixed on the road, though her mind is clearly elsewhere.

“So,” she says eventually, casual in a way that immediately makes you suspicious. “There’s this party tonight. You could come with me.”

You glance over. “A party?”

“Yeah, nothing super crazy. Just… industry people, friends, free food,” she adds, like that might be the deciding factor.

You consider it for a moment, then ask, carefully, “Will AJ be there?”

The hesitation is small, but you catch it.

“…Yeah,” she admits. “Probably.”

You stare out the window for a second, watching pedestrians hurry along the sidewalk.

“He kind of cornered me,” you say finally.

Vi’s hands tighten on the wheel. “What?”

“At the gym a few weeks ago, when you went into the locker room." You keep your voice even. “He started asking questions about… us.”

Vi’s jaw flexes.

“What did he say?” Vi asks.

“Nothing outright threatening. Just… pushing. Trying to get a reaction.”

Her jaw flexes hard enough you can see it in profile.

“If he talks to you again,” she says, each word controlled, “you come get me. Immediately. I don’t care where I am.”

“Vi—”

“No.” She shakes her head once. “You don’t deal with that fucker, I do.”

The protectiveness hits you unexpectedly, a warm weight in your chest. You hesitate, then voice the question that’s been simmering for weeks.

“Why do you still keep him around if he’s like that?”

She exhales through her nose, irritation flickering across her face. “It’s not that simple.”

You wait, letting the silence pressure her into a better answer.

“AJ’s the kind of person,” she says slowly, choosing her words, “who doesn’t just get mad when you cut him off. He gets… creative. Starts talking, spreading things. Sponsors hear it, promoters hear it, stuff that sticks even if it’s not true. He did it to someone I know.”

You frown. “So you tolerate him.”

“I manage him,” she corrects, though it sounds exhausting even to her own ears.

Silence settles again.

Silence settles again as she navigates a busy intersection. You sigh softly, leaning back into the seat. You don’t like the idea of her having to play politics with someone so volatile, but you understand the ecosystem her career lives in.

“That’s a hard spot to be in,” you admit.

Her shoulders loosen slightly at that.

“Yeah,” she says. “It is.”

The car turns onto your street, familiar buildings coming into view. The tension doesn’t disappear, but it softens, reshaped into something shared instead of carried alone.

Vi glances over at you as she pulls into the garage.

“So… you’ll come?” she asks.

You unbuckle slowly, considering her.

“…Yeah,” you say at last. “I’ll come.”

Her smile is small but genuine.

“Good,” she says, cutting the engine.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

The penthouse welcomes you back, unchanged and comfortably familiar.

Inky is already perched along the back of the couch, tail wrapped neatly around her paws. She lets out a sharp chirp the moment the door closes behind you.

“Yeah, yeah, I see you,” you murmur, toeing off your shoes.

You cross into the kitchen and crouch beside her bowls. The water dish is nearly empty, so you rinse it and refill it in the sink, setting it back down with a soft clink. Her food bowl still has a decent layer of kibble untouched, which earns a small squint from you.

“You’re getting picky,” you tell her.

Inky ignores the accusation entirely, hopping down to investigate the fresh water instead.

From down the hall comes the faint sound of plumbing, followed by the steady rush of a shower starting. Vi, apparently, didn’t waste a second.

You pause a moment longer, listening to it, letting the normalcy of the sound settle your nerves after the charged energy of the gym.

Then you head toward the guest bathroom, peeling off your clothes and stepping under warm water of your own. The heat loosens your, the rhythmic spray washing away sweat, the remaining adrenaline.

By the time you’re dressed again in soft lounge clothes, hair still damp, the apartment smells faintly of toasted bread and something savory.

You round the corner into the kitchen and find Vi already there, towel slung over one shoulder, hair still wet at the ends as she assembles sandwiches at the counter.

“You’re cooking?” you ask.

She glances over. “Don’t sound so shocked.”

“I’ve seen your definition of cooking.”

“These require zero skill,” she replies, sliding a plate toward you. “Even I can’t mess this up.”

You sit across from each other at the table, sunlight warming the space between you. 

She tells you about sparring, about how her shoulder felt stronger when she rotated through combinations, how Markus kept yelling at her to slow down even when she insisted she was fine. You listen, asking questions automatically, your brain slipping between friend and nurse without effort.

When you finish eating, Vi leans back in her chair and stretches her arms overhead, her expression tightening just slightly before she masks it.

“Sore?” you ask.

She nods once. “Good sore, mostly.”

Of course she is. It’s her first time sparring in a month, muscles waking up the hard way.

You stand, collecting plates. “Go lay down on my bed.”

Her brows lift. “Your bed?”

“Yes, my bed,” you repeat, already turning toward the sink. 

A faint smirk tugs at her mouth, but she doesn’t argue. She pushes up from the table and disappears down the hallway.

You wash the dishes quickly, then dry your hands and follow after her.

Inside your bedroom, Vi sits on the edge of the mattress scrolling through her phone, looking entirely too comfortable in your space.

“Lay on your stomach,” you tell her.

She glances up, grin already forming. “Bossy.”

“Face down, take your shirt off. ” you repeat.

She tosses her phone aside and takes her shirt off revealing her sports bra underneath, then rolls onto her stomach, arms folding beneath her head.

You climb onto the mattress behind her, settling your weight carefully as you straddle her lower back, your hands finding the familiar tension along her shoulders.

Your thumbs press slow circles into tight muscle.

Vi groans softly, the sound low and unguarded, her tattooed arms relaxing outward as the tension begins to give beneath your hands.

"Damn, that feels good, cupcake," she mutters, her voice muffled against the pillow. You lean forward, your chest brushing her back, and press a gentle kiss to the back of her neck where her hair falls messily. 

As you lean forward, your chest brushes against the sturdy expanse of her back. The friction is brief, but it sends a sudden, sharp jolt through you. You notice the way your own breath hitches, the fabric of your shirt suddenly feeling too thin, and yet not thin enough, as your nipples begin to strain and ache against the material.

A heavy, pulsing heat begins to pool low in your belly, catching you off guard. 

Usually, you’re the one being pinned, the one reacting to her strength. But from this vantage point, looking down at the powerful line of her spine and the way she’s gone soft and vulnerable under your touch, a new thought flickers to life.

You imagine her staying right there. You imagine the weight of your body keeping her down, your hands exploring her instead of the other way around. The idea of seeing Vi yielding completely to you makes your heart hammer against your ribs.

"You know what you need," you whisper, your breath warm against her skin.

Vi lifts her head and turns slightly, blue eyes meeting yours with a flicker of curiosity amid the fatigue. She stays where she is, draped across the bed, watching you with a dazed, heavy-lidded stare that only fuels the fire in your gut.

You slide off her carefully, your hands trailing down her sides in a slow, dragging caress as you stand. You pad over to the dresser, and hook your fingers into the handle of the bottom drawer.

You’d bought it a week ago on a whim that felt almost too bold at the time. You had tucked it away beneath your sweaters, convinced it might just stay there, a private what if that you weren't sure you’d ever have the nerve to act on. But feeling the heat of her skin and seeing her beneath you like that changed everything. The maybe has officially become a right fucking now.

The wooden drawer creaks open, and you pull out the strap-on harness, the weight of the silicone dildo familiar and daunting all at once.

Holding it up, you turn back to her with a teasing smile.

The bed creaks as Vi’s entire demeanor shifts. She hauls herself up from her stomach, twisting her body until she’s propped up on her elbows. 

A nervous laugh bubbles from her lips, her cheeks flushing pink. "I... I don't know about that."

You saunter back to the bed, the harness dangling from your fingers. Sitting on the bed next to her, you tilt your head. "Have you ever been strapped?"

She hesitates, biting her lower lip, her gaze dropping to the toy before flicking back to you. 

"No," she admits softly.

You look down at the silicone, your grip tightening. 

"Even with Rita?" you ask. 

The name tastes bitter, your voice coming out saltier than you intended.

Vi’s expression shifts instantly from surprise to a pained sort of clarity. She sits up fully a small smirk forming on her lips.

"Cupcake, I didn't fuck her," she says. "We kissed a bit and she left that... mark. But I told her to stop."

"Why?" you ask, the word barely a whisper. 

Vi looks away, her hand reaching up to rub the back of her neck. 

"Well, honestly... I..." She trails off, then forces herself to look back at you. "I kept thinking about you. I kept seeing your face, and I just—I didn't want her then, and I don't now. I want you."

A warm, dizzying wave of relief washes over you. You feel a little pang of guilt for the comments you had made. 

A slow smile tugs at your lips.

"Want to try?" you ask, your voice gentle now, but laced with a new confidence.

Vi swallows, then nods.

You lean in, capturing her lips in a slow, deepening kiss. She sits leans in, her hands coming to rest on your waist as your tongues tangle. 

Breaking the kiss, you pull back just enough to murmur against her mouth, "Take your clothes off for me."

Vi pauses, her fingers twitching at the hem of her sports bra, but then she nods again, determination sparking in her eyes. 

She peels off her bra first, revealing the swell of her breasts, nipples already pebbling in the cool air. Her pants follow, shoved down her muscular thighs until she's bare, her skin flushed and inviting.

While she undresses, you step into the harness, buckling it snugly over your shorts. The weight of the strap settles against you. 

"Lay down," you instruct softly, your tone shifting to something more commanding.

Vi complies, stretching out on her back, her chest rising and falling quicker now. You climb onto the bed, settling between her spread legs, and lean down to kiss her again, your lips claiming hers. 

Your mouth trails lower, nipping at the column of her neck, sucking lightly until she arches beneath you. The sound she makes—a sharp, jagged inhale—vibrates against your lips, and for a second, you almost lose your own rhythm. 

You move to her breasts, tongue flicking over one nipple before drawing it into your mouth, sucking hard while your hand kneads the other. Vi's breath hitches, a soft moan escaping her.

Your free hand slides down her body, fingers finding her clit and rubbing slow, firm circles. She’s already wet, her pussy dripping under your touch, and her moans grow breathier, her hips twitching up into your hand in an instinctive, desperate search for friction.

"Please," she whispers, voice rough.

You release her nipple with a wet pop, your heart hammering so hard against your ribs you’re sure she can feel it. The harness feels heavy and foreign against your hips.

The tip of the strap-on presses against her entrance. You take a shaky breath, then push in slowly watching her face the entire time. Vi’s brows furrow, her head falling back into the pillow as her lips part in a sharp hiss.

"Shit," she breathes, hands fisting the sheets.

You pause, your own breath coming in shallow gasps. Seeing her stretched around the toy, seeing her body forced accommodate you, sends a wave of heat through you that makes your vision swim. 

"Breathe," you murmur, rubbing her thigh. When her body stops tensing, you start moving, shallow thrusts at first, building a rhythm.

Her pussy clenches around the strap, pulling you deeper, and soon you're snapping forward faster. You reach down, your hands gripping her hips to hold her steady, your fingers digging into her skin. 

Her tits bounce with each thrust, the movement rhythmic and hypnotic. A small, breathless smirk curls your lips as you watch her. The sight fuels your pace, turning your initial nerves into a burning, focused hunger.

"Flip over," you say, voice husky with command.

Vi pauses mid-moan, her face flushed deep red, eyes wide.

She searches your eyes for a beat, then turns slowly, whispering, “ I can't fucking believe I'm doing this.”

On her hands and knees, she presents herself, ass up, back arched slightly, her pussy lips parting invitingly.

She settles onto her hands and knees, presenting herself with her back arched slightly, her pussy lips parting invitingly. You take a second just to admire the view. The strain in her back, the muscles rippling under her tattoos, and the curve of her ass, it’s a landscape of power that you are currently conquering.

You slide the strap back in with one smooth motion, burying it deep. Then you start pounding, your hips slamming forward in an unforgiving rhythm.

Vi lets out a loud moan, her head dropping forward. “Ugh fuck, cupcake,” she gasps.

Your fingers dig into her hips, the blunt force of your grip pulling her back hard onto each thrust. The wet slap of skin echoes through the room, a steady percussion to her mounting cries. 

You bite your lip, a feral grin tugging at your mouth as you watch her ass recoil off you, the flesh jiggling with every heavy impact.

Vi’s moans grow louder, more desperate. One of her hands snakes back between her legs, her fingers working her clit furiously while her face stays buried in the pillow to muffle the sounds she can’t control.

Reaching forward, you grab a fistful of her hair, pulling back sharply to arch her spine. She gasps, her body bowing beautifully as you fuck into her harder, one hand braced on the bed beside her for leverage. 

Your other hand comes down in a sharp, stinging spank on her ass, the skin reddening instantly under your palm.

"Fuck!" Vi curses, her pussy fluttering frantically around the strap.

You don’t let up. 

"Shit, shit, shit, don't stop," she pants, her fingers working her clit faster, body trembling.

Your other hand shoots down, grabbing one of her muscular arms and hauling it backward. You use it as a handle, a solid point of leverage to steady yourself as you fuck into her with everything you have.

A jagged, white-hot current rips through her, and Vi shudders, her walls clenching tight around the toy as she cums, juices coating the strap and dripping down her thighs. 

You thrust through it, drawing out every spasm until she collapses forward, spent and gasping.

After a moment you brush damp hair away from her neck. “You alive?”

Vi turns her head just enough to look at you, her blue eyes dazed. A crooked smile pulls at her mouth. 

“Barely,” she rasps.

You huff a soft laugh, your muscles finally starting to notice their own exhaustion. The adrenaline fades, replaced by that loose, boneless feeling that always follows. 

Vi reaches blindly for your hand, her lips finding the back of it pressing a kiss once before letting go. 

“We should probably shower,” she mutters, though she makes no move to break the gravity of the mattress. “If we’re actually going out tonight.”

“Probably,” you agree. 

But for a long beat, you stay where you are, watching the light play across the tattoos on her arms and back before reaching out to trace them. 

Eventually, you slide off the bed, feet hitting the floor. You offer her a hand, and she takes it without hesitation, letting you pull her upright, her weight shifting against you for a second. The two of you head into the bathroom together, the shared silence feeling comfortable instead of empty.

Steam fogs the mirror as the hot water runs, time stretching easy beneath its rush. When the two of you finally step out, skin still warm and hair damp.

Vi rolls her shoulders loose, a small smirk tugging at her lips. “We have to leave in thirty,” 

“Got it.” 

Vi heads down the hall toward her room, stretching her arms above her head, while you move in the opposite direction. 

Your room feels noticeably colder, the last of the shower’s warmth already gone. You towel your hair over one shoulder as you go about straightening things without much thought.

When you pull the blankets smooth, your gaze catches on a faint damp spot left behind on the sheets. Heat rises to your face, and a small smile slips free before you shake your head and turn toward the closet.

You push past familiar clothes until a pale pink dress catches your eye. The fabric feels soft in your hands as you pull it free, pairing it with a set of white kitten heels tucked beneath the dresser. After changing, you smooth the dress over your hips and step into the shoes, standing a little taller for it.

Your damp hair clings stubbornly to your shoulders when you catch sight of yourself in the mirror. You pause, frowning faintly before letting out a quiet sigh. 

Right, hair.

You step back into the hallway, making your way to the bathroom, the soft tap of your heels echoing ahead of you. Inside, you plug in the dryer and work through the damp strands, warm air filling the small space as you coax your hair into place.

When you finish, you reach for your phone on the counter, brows lifting slightly at the time. Twenty minutes gone already.

“Shit,” you murmur under your breath.

You grab your toothbrush, working quickly, mint sharp against your tongue before rinsing and following it with a quick swish of mouthwash. One last glance in the mirror to make sure nothing’s out of place, then you switch off the light and head into Vi’s room.

She stands in front of the mirror, wrestling with the collar of a dark button-down she claims to hate but keeps anyway. The fabric fits her shoulders perfectly, and she rolls the sleeves just enough to show the map of ink on her forearms.

You sit on the edge of the bed, watching her debate between two pairs of boots. It’s the most tactical decision of her night so far, a far cry from the calculated torque of a body shot.

“You’re staring,” she says, her reflection catching yours.

“You take forever,” you reply.

“That’s rich, coming from the person who usually takes an hour deciding.”

You shrug, smoothing your hands down your sides. “Presentation matters.”

She snorts softly, then turns, her eyes dragging over you slowly.

“Yes,” she says quietly. “It does.”

She holds your gaze a second longer before turning back to the mirror, tugging her collar straight and running a hand through her hair like she’s trying to convince it to behave. You lean back on your hands, watching as she checks her sleeves, adjusts her cuffs, then gives a small, satisfied nod.

A sudden scritch breaks the moment.

Both of you glance down just as Inky pads over, tail flicking, and starts kneading at your ankles on the rug.

Vi groans. “Oh, you’re kidding.”

You laugh, bending slightly to scratch Inky behind the ears. “Inky, stop, baby.”

The cat pauses mid-assault, blinking up at you before obediently settling down, though not without a loud, opinionated meow.

“Yeah, yeah,” Vi mutters, grabbing her keys from the dresser. She glances your way, a crooked smile forming. “Alright. Let’s go.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

In the garage, the air smells faintly of concrete and engine oil. Vi unlocks the car with a click, holding the passenger door open for you before circling to the driver’s side.

The city glows as you pull out onto the street, headlights reflecting across the windshield. Music hums low through the speakers while traffic slides past in streaks of color. 

Vi drives one-handed, relaxed but attentive, fingers tapping lightly against the steering wheel in time with the beat. 

Soon, the buildings grow brighter, louder. Neon signs and marquee lights announce high-end shops and exclusive clubs, the party district, where celebrities and socialites congregate. 

She pulls up near the entrance of a sleek, upscale bar, its glass facade glowing gold against the night. A crowd gathers outside, security posted at the doors while a long line snakes along the block.

Vi cuts the engine and steps out, glancing around briefly before walking toward the curb. You follow, your shoes clicking against the pavement. You glance at the line of people waiting to get in and instinctively start moving toward its end.

“Hey,” Vi calls, amused. “Come on.”

You pause, confused. “What?”

She smirks, stepping up beside you. “I hate to brag, but I’m VIP.”

You grin. “Of course you are.”

Vi leads you straight past the waiting crowd toward security. One of the guards straightens immediately when he sees her.

“She’s with me,” Vi says casually.

The guard steps aside without hesitation, lifting the rope.

Inside, the party is loud in the way expensive places always are, vibrating floors beneath polished shoes, the clink of crystal glasses, conversations stacking over each other until individual voices blur into a constant hum. Warm light spills across marble floors, and somewhere nearby a DJ blends songs together so smoothly the beat never quite stops.

The moment Vi steps in, attention shifts.

It isn’t obvious at first, just small things. Conversations falter mid-sentence, heads turn. A woman near the bar nudges her friend and whispers something behind her glass. Across the room, you catch sight of faces you vaguely recognize from magazine covers and late-night interviews, people dressed like they belong on red carpets instead of crowded dance floors.

And more than a few of them are looking at Vi.

Her hand finds the small of your back almost immediately, anchoring you to her side as introductions begin. 

Names blur together at first. Firm handshakes, practiced smiles, people greeting Vi like an old friend rather than someone they’re trying to impress. You nod along, offering polite hellos, trying to keep track of who’s who when a burst of laughter cuts through the crowd nearby.

A tall man approaches with two others trailing behind him. You recognize him a second too late, a star quarterback whose face you’ve seen splashed across headlines more times than you can count.

“Violet,” he says, grinning as he clasps her hand. “Didn’t think you’d actually show tonight.”

Vi smirks, returning the handshake. “Miss a free drink? Never.”

They exchange a few quick jokes, the easy cadence of people who’ve crossed paths more than once. His friends nod greetings your way, respectful, curious, before the group drifts off again, swallowed back into the party.

You glance sideways at her. “Casual celebrity run-ins. Very normal.”

Vi huffs a quiet laugh. “Try not to sound so impressed.”

“Oh, I’m deeply unimpressed,” you say dryly. “I meet famous athletes all the time.”

She shoots you a sideways look, grin sharpening. “Hang around me long enough and you might start getting used to it.”

You roll your eyes, but her hand is still warm against your back, fingers brushing absently as she guides you through the crowd.

You notice how close she keeps you, how her touch stays when she leans in to hear you over the music. Part of you wonders if she even realizes how obvious it looks. Or maybe she does and simply doesn’t care.

The thought sends a small knot of nerves twisting in your stomach. Tomorrow’s headlines flash unhelpfully through your mind. Violet spotted with mystery girl. Grainy photos, speculation, comment sections you’d never dare read.

Vi doesn’t seem concerned in the slightest.

She steers you toward the bar instead, resting her forearms against the polished surface as the bartender immediately moves over.

“Two shots,” she says, then glances at you. “And whatever she wants.”

The first drink burns pleasantly on the way down, and the second goes easier. The music seems warmer after that, your shoulders relaxing as the buzz settles in.

You barely notice how fast you’re drinking until Vi watches you tip back another shot, one brow lifting.

“This,” she says, amused, “is why you end up sick and hungover. Your pacing is terrible.”

You giggle, warmth rushing to your cheeks, the alcohol softening every sharp edge of self-consciousness. 

“Maybe you’re right,” you admit, leaning a little closer than necessary. “But I’m having fun, with you.”

Vi’s expression softens, something warm and unfocused flickering behind her eyes, alcohol loosening the careful edges she usually keeps in place in public. She leans in before you fully register the movement, her hand brushing your arm as her lips press quickly against yours.

You pull back immediately, eyes widening. 

“Vi,” you hiss under your breath. “What are you doing? Do you know how many cameras are in this place?”

She chuckles, cheeks flushed, completely unbothered. 

“Funny,” she murmurs, voice low. “Usually it’s the celebrity worrying about that.”

“Yeah, but—”

She cuts you off gently, fingertips tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, her expression turning apologetic but still amused. 

“I know,” she says quietly. “I’m sorry, No PDA.”

You exhale, tension still buzzing under your skin, and turn your head slightly, scanning the crowd just to make sure no one’s pointing phones your way.

That’s when you see him.

AJ stands a few feet away, drink in hand, watching with a wide grin that instantly makes your stomach sink. The look on his face says he’s seen enough to be entertained.

He strolls toward you like he’s been invited.

“Well,” he says, stopping beside you both, eyes flicking between you and Vi. “Didn’t expect to see you two together tonight. Oh, no—wait. Yes, I did.”

Vi doesn’t even blink, but you feel her shift. She stands and steps slightly forward, her thumb tracing a protective line against your thigh before she lets go to square her shoulders. 

“What do you want, AJ?”

“Just making the rounds.” His gaze drifts to you, slow and insulting, like he’s appraising a piece of furniture. “Surprised she hasn't scared you off yet. Or is the view worth the headache?”

Beside you, Vi goes still, a live wire humming just before it snaps. 

“Stop it, AJ,” she says, her voice low.

AJ laughs, a dry, breathy sound. “What? I’m joking. Don't tell me you've lost your sense of humor along with your edge.”

“You don’t joke,” Vi replies, her eyes narrowing into flint. “You just talk until someone makes you stop.”

Something sharp and ugly flashes across AJ’s face, the mask of the polite guest slipping to reveal the resentment underneath. 

He takes a step closer, his voice dropping to a hiss. “You think you’re untouchable now, Violet? Like you’ve suddenly got something worth protecting?”

Vi doesn't flinch. If anything, she leans into the heat of the confrontation.

“And you think you’re subtle,” she fires back, her smile mocking and cold. “But you’ve always been loud when you’re scared.”

Vi tilts her head, letting her anger sharpen. “Why’d you corner her at the gym the other day when I wasn’t around?”

AJ smirks, his eyes glinting. “You weren’t telling me everything. I was hoping your little girlfriend might… but surprisingly, she held her ground.” His gaze flicks to you, amused and calculating.

Vi’s hand tightens into a fist at her side. “Surprisingly, huh… and you still want to test me?”

AJ’s grin turns jagged, his eyes dark with a sudden, localized malice. 

“You’re pathetic, Violet,” AJ says, his voice dropping to a dangerous, taunting level. “ You’re half-trashed with that shoulder. I could knock you out cold right now and you wouldn't even see the swing coming.”

You feel a wave of genuine disgust. He isn't a friend; he’s a leech who hates that he can’t control the person he’s been using for clout. 

You stand moving forward, your hand clamping firmly around Vi’s bicep.

“He’s not worth it, Vi,” you say, your voice urgent. “Let’s just go.”

AJ’s gaze shifts to you, his lip curling in a sneer as he steps toward you. 

“Why don’t you run along and wait in the car? Let the grown-ups handle things. Or is this your type of fun? Playing girlfriend to a girl who can barely keep up?”

The shift in Vi is instantaneous, she shoves him back, hard. 

AJ stumbles, rolling his eyes , and calmly sets his drink down on the cocktail table next to him.

He swings a heavy, desperate right hook towards Vi, who dodges it just in the knick of time. 

You call out her name, your heart hammering against your chest, but you know you can't get between them, unless you want to end up with a bloody nose.

The atmosphere shifts from a tense standoff to a chaotic, high-energy spectacle. A tight circle forms around them instantly, a wall of bodies vibrating with the thrill of the violence. 

Most of the crowd is shouting Vi’s name, though a few stray voices cheer for AJ as phones are hoisted high, their screens glowing like tiny, voyeuristic torches.

You push through the sweating, jostling crowd. 

Just as you break through the inner ring, you see Vi deliver a brutal blow straight into his side. 

The sound is sickening, a sharp, distinct crack that echoes over the cheers. You don’t need your training to know that at least two of his ribs just gave way.

At that exact moment, the world tilts. The several drinks you’ve had earlier decide to hit all at once, a heavy, dizzying wave that makes the floor feel like it’s made of water.

"Move! Back up!"

The circle finally breaks as security rushes in. 

One guard moves toward AJ, kneeling quickly to check his labored breathing, while another places a cautious, steadying hand on Vi’s shoulder. She doesn’t fight him; she doesn’t even look at him.

Vi  turns to you and reaches out, her fingers lacing firmly through yours, and begins to pull. 

"We're leaving," she mutters.

She drags you toward the exit, the motion making your head swim. By the time you hit the cool night air, the alcohol has taken full command. The streetlights are dancing, and you start to see double of everything, two Vi’s, two sidewalks, two flickering neon signs.

"Vi, wait," you stumble, your voice thick. 

You’re somehow not worried about Evelyn or the potential office gossip that could follow the videos people are most likely already uploading. You’re thinking about her, and her reputation. 

"Are you okay? Vi, everyone… everyone had their phones out."

Vi stops abruptly under a streetlight. Her lip is split, a thin trail of blood trickling down her chin. She wipes it away with the back of her hand, her eyes still flashing with a dark, restless anger.

"I box!" she snaps, the sudden volume making your head throb. "People pay to see me hit things for a living. It doesn’t fucking matter!"

She sees you flinch slightly, and the fire in her eyes dies out as quickly as it flares. 

She lets out a long, shaky breath, her shoulders dropping. "I'm sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you."

You reach out, your hand finding her arm and rubbing it gently to steady both her and yourself. 

"No… it’s okay, Vi. I get it." You lean a little bit of your weight into her, finding your balance. "Let’s just go home."

<- CH 8 masterlist CH 10->

taglist: @thefantasticmissvixen @vxtanne31 @seasonsofchaos @oceantides-and-daffodils @twinkyfemmes @pixiegirlsy @caitlyns-left-mountain @vahnilla @ellielover69 @cutflwr @savedforlaterr @my-fabulousness-has-arrived @pugh-bug

comment to let me know if you want to be added or removed from the list! ( I don’t tag ageless blogs )

[sashasinfully]

CH 8: Second Impact

series: COUNTERPUNCH • Boxer!Vi x Nurse Practitioner!fem reader

warnings: medical trauma, injury detail, emotional distress, professional boundary conflict, press/media harassment, performance anxiety, power imbalance, kissing, fluff?

wc: 3.8k

The arena is a dense thicket of shouted odds and the copper tang of old blood. It hums like a live wire, dangerous, erratic, and grounding all at once. You’re already gloved when the first fighter staggers into your corner. 

He smells of iron and exertion, a dark smear of red tracking down his temple. The chaos of the crowd muffles as your internal rhythm shifts into the clinical.

"Sit," you command.

Your fingers move with practiced neutrality. You check his pupils; they are equal and reactive, clear windows despite the haze of the fight. When you palpate along the line of his jaw, he sucks air through his teeth.

"Likely a mandibular contusion," you say, your voice a flat contrast to the roar of the stadium. "There’s no displacement. You aren’t concussed, but if you feel any nausea or your vision shifts, you’re done. Understood?"

He gives a sharp, jagged nod. You work quickly, irrigating a shallow split in his brow, applying pressure until the skin yields, and dressing it tight. It is a sequence of small, controlled victories.

The next fighter is a different story. He comes in on unsteady legs, eyes drifting toward the rafters as if he’s trying to anchor himself to something solid. You steady him into the stool and reach automatically for the clipboard resting on the table beside you, scanning the bout sheet for confirmation.

“Leo Ramirez?” you ask, watching his pupils as much as you wait for the answer.

He blinks, slow but present. “Yeah.”

“Okay, Leo. Look at me.”

You run through the neuro checks methodically; he’s oriented to person and place, but there’s a delay in his responses that settles heavily in your gut.

“Probable mild concussion,” you tell the coach, keeping your voice controlled. “He shouldn’t go back out.”

The coach hesitates, jaw tight, then scoffs under his breath. “Shouldn’t a doctor be making that call?”

You look at him, and for a split second, you aren't just seeing this man; you’re seeing every coach who ever treated a human being like a disposable resource. You know his type by heart. There is always one in every circuit, the one who views a concussion as "getting rocked" and a fighter’s long-term health as an inconvenience to their win-loss record.

It’s a familiar irritation, a low simmering heat beneath your skin. You’re used to being undervalued in this profession, used to the skeptical glances and the way men like him wait for a higher authority to validate your words. 

But it’s his negligence that truly gets to you, the way he’s willing to gamble with a kid’s neurological future for the sake of one more round.

“I’m trauma-trained,” you say evenly. “I diagnose and clear fighters for a living. And right now, I’m telling you he doesn’t go back out.”

“Oh, bull—”

"He’s done."

Leo sways slightly on the stool, the argument ending before it can begin.

The coach exhales hard, frustration burning off into reluctant acceptance. 

“Fine,” he mutters.

You turn back to Leao calmly. “We’re going to go do a full evaluation in the medical room,” you tell him. “Follow me, nice and slow.”

You slide a hand to his forearm as he rises, not because he can’t stand, but because you want to feel the shift of his weight yourself. He’s upright, though there’s a faint wobble as he finds his footing.

“Any dizziness right now?” you ask quietly.

“A little,” he admits.

“Okay. Keep your eyes forward. If it gets worse, tell me immediately.”

You guide him down the concrete hallway that runs behind the arena, your hand hovering near his elbow without gripping, ready to catch if needed. His steps are uneven but functional, more delayed than unstable, and you adjust your pace to match his.

The coach trails a few feet behind, tense and watchful, his presence thick in the narrow corridor. You can almost feel the resistance radiating off him, that old mentality that equates toughness with silence and injury with weakness.

When Leo veers slightly toward the wall, you tighten your hold just enough to correct him.

“Stay with me,” you murmur.

By the time you reach the medical room, you’re already mentally mapping the next steps: repeat neuro exam, balance testing, symptom scoring, documentation, discharge protocol. 

You push open the door and guide him inside, the lighting steadier here, less chaotic than the arena.

“Sit on the table,” you instruct gently. “We’ll take our time.”

Leo collapses onto the table, his chest heaving. His left eye is already beginning to swell into a purple, angry crescent. You snap on a pair of nitrile gloves, the sound sharp in the quiet room.

“Follow my finger, Leo. Don’t move your head,” you command, clicking your penlight.

As you move the light, you see it—the slight, rhythmic stutter of his pupils. Nystagmus. His brain is bouncing inside his skull like a bell that’s been struck too hard.

“He’s fine,” the coach snaps from the doorway, arms crossed. “He just got caught with a clean hook. He’ll sleep it off and be back in the gym Monday.”

You don't even look at him. To this man, Leo is a win-loss record; to you, Leo is a kid who might not remember his own name by forty if you don't do your job. You hate how easily coaches dismiss the fragility of the human nervous system.

“He isn't going to the gym on Monday,” you say, your voice flat and clinical. “He isn't going to the gym for at least thirty days. He has a Grade 2 concussion and a suspected orbital fracture.”

“Thirty days? You’re kidding. We have a rematch clause—”

“I don’t care about your clauses,” you snap, finally turning to face him. “I care about the fact that if he takes another sub-concussive blow while his brain is still inflamed, he could end up with Second Impact Syndrome. Do you know what that is? It’s when the brain swells until it has nowhere to go but out the base of the skull.”

The coach pales slightly, his bravado flickering for the first time.

You turn back to Leo, softening your voice just a fraction. “Leo, I’m going to palpate your cheekbone. Tell me if it feels numb or if you feel a ‘crunching’ sensation, okay?”

As your fingers move over the delicate bone, you feel the slight misalignment. The anatomy doesn't lie. In this room, the ego of the sport dies, replaced by the cold reality of what happens when human beings hit each other for a living. 

You wish the world outside these walls was this honest, that people didn't try to negotiate with facts.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

The press conference sounds like a warzone made of camera shutters.

Vi sits behind the long table, sleeves shoved halfway up her forearms, sponsor logos crowding the backdrop like vultures waiting for a stumble. The lights are hot, the air smells like cologne and blood in the water.

“Is the shoulder actually ready, Vi?” a reporter calls out. “Or are fans getting a delay wrapped in bravado?”

Another leans forward. “We’ve heard you’re still favoring it in sparring. Are you at full strength, or protecting your legacy?”

Vi snorts softly into the mic.

“You guys really love that word,” she says. “Legacy.”

She leans forward, elbows on the table now, chin tilted.

“If my shoulder wasn’t ready, I wouldn’t be here. I don’t do half-measures. And I definitely don’t do pity press tours.”

A few uncomfortable laughs ripple through the room.

“As for favoring my left,” she continues, voice dropping just enough to make them lean in, “I favor winning. That’s it. If you’re that curious about how it’s holding up, buy a ticket. Stand cage side. I’ll demonstrate.”

A reporter pushes again. “So you’re saying there’s no weakness?”

Vi’s grin widens. “I’m saying if there was, I wouldn’t tell you.”

That earns a louder reaction.

She maintains eye contact with the front row, posture steady, shoulders squared. To anyone watching, she looks certain. 

The conference wraps twenty minutes later.

Backstage is quiet in a way that almost hums. The lighting feels colder without the noise of reporters. Vi steps into the dressing room and closes the door behind her, the click echoing in the empty space.

She stands in front of the mirror for a moment, studying her reflection. Without the cameras, her expression shifts, the performance dissolves, leaving something more thoughtful beneath it.

She shrugs off her jacket and slowly rotates her shoulder, the movement is smooth, but not effortless.

There is no sharp pain, no instability, nothing dramatic enough to justify concern. It’s simply a subtle resistance deep in the joint, a faint awareness that the muscle is still catching up to her confidence.

She lifts her arm higher, testing range, holds it there, then lowers it carefully. Functionally, it works. But it doesn’t yet feel invisible.

Her jaw tightens slightly.

She rolls the shoulder again, slower this time, assessing the sensation with the same focus she uses in the ring. No swelling, no structural give, just healing tissue that has not fully forgotten what happened to it.

No reporter would notice it, no camera could catch something that small, but she feels it. And that is enough to leave a thin line of doubt running under her composure. 

She exhales, long and controlled, then straightens.

By the time she reaches for her jacket again, the mask has settled back into place. Whatever hesitation exists stays in this room.

No one else gets to see it.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

By the time the final bout is called, the arena has thinned from a roar to a restless hum. Corners are being broken down, tape peeled from wrists, water bottles kicked beneath folding chairs.

You strip off your gloves and drop them into the biohazard bin before gathering your things. Your penlight slides back into the side pocket of your scrub jacket, trauma shears clipped securely where they belong. 

You tuck the clipboard under your arm, double checking that Leo’s evaluation form is signed and logged before slipping it into your canvas medical bag.

The folding table at your station looks smaller now, stripped of urgency. Gauze restocked, saline capped, blood wiped from the vinyl edge.

You swing the strap of your bag over your shoulder and exhale, feeling the weight settle against your hip.

Your phone buzzes.

Evelyn: You survive the circus?

You glance toward the emptying arena floor before typing back.

You: Barely. Pulled a kid for a concussion. Coach tried to fight me on it.

Evelyn: Of course he did.

Evelyn: You win?

You: Always ;)

You lock your phone and slide it into your pocket.

Outside, the night air hits cooler than you expect. The crowd spills onto the sidewalk in waves, loud and exhilarated, still replaying knockouts with exaggerated arm motions. You step aside from the main flow and wait near the edge of the curb, adjusting the strap of your bag higher on your shoulder.

A familiar engine note threads through the traffic before you see the car itself.

Vi eases out of the stream of headlights and pulls in front of the arena, settling along the curb with a quiet authority that makes people instinctively step aside. The engine continues to hum, hazard lights blinking in slow intervals against the concrete steps and glass doors behind you.

You slip into the passenger seat, the door closing with a soft thud as the familiar scent of leather and engine heat settles around you.

“Hi,” you say, leaning slightly toward her.

“Hey,” she replies.

That’s it.

No sideways grin, no teasing comment about how long your shift ran or how tired you look. You’ve grown used to those little barbs from her, the way they usually soften the end of your day, and part of you almost waits for them. 

Instead, her eyes stay forward, fingers tightening faintly against the wheel before the light changes and she eases back into traffic.

You buckle your seatbelt, the click sharper than usual in the quiet, and steal a glance at her profile. Her jaw is set in a way you recognize from the high tension lead up to a match. That fight week rigidity where her shoulders are held a fraction too high and her posture is controlled but stiff.

The press conference.

The thought settles quietly in your chest. You wonder if someone pushed too hard, if a question pressed longer than it should have, if she'd had to smile through something she wanted to shut down.

You decide it’s better to let her breathe than to push for answers right now. So, you let the remainder of the ride go in silence.

Traffic carries you forward in slow waves of red and white light, reflections sliding across the windshield and briefly illuminating the tension in her hands before fading again. She drives cleanly, each lane change assured, each turn smooth, but there’s a distance in her silence that wasn’t there this morning.

When you reach the high rise, she doesn’t turn toward the ramp that leads into the garage. 

Instead she eases up along the front curb beneath the building’s overhang. The doorman shifts his weight a few feet away, pretending not to watch.

The car idles.

“You can get out,” she says.

Her voice is even, but distant, as though she is speaking from somewhere slightly removed from the seat beside you.

You look at her, waiting for her to turn, to add something, but her gaze remains fixed ahead on the steady flow of cars moving through the intersection.

“Okay.”

You unbuckle, the metal tongue of the seatbelt snapping back into place, and open the door. Cool night air slips into the cabin before the door shuts again with a firm click. The doorman steps forward automatically, offering a polite nod as you straighten on the sidewalk.

She pulls back into traffic without looking back.

You stand there longer than necessary, watching the taillights disappear into the stream of cars. The glass doors behind you reflect your own outline against the lobby lights, a solitary figure framed by marble and steel.

Inside, the elevator ride to the penthouse feels longer than usual. The mirrored walls return your own expression to you from every angle, making it impossible to avoid the tightness around your mouth. 

When you step into the penthouse, it greets you with stillness. 

The windows stretch across the far wall, city lights scattered beyond the glass. Without Vi’s presence, the space feels larger than it should, as though sound has been absorbed into the architecture itself.

A soft thump echoes from the hallway.

Inky appears a moment later, tail upright, trotting toward you.  She lets out a short chirp and circles your ankles, brushing against your calves before pausing to look up at you expectantly.

“Hi, princess,” you murmur, bending to scratch behind her ears. “ It’s just us for now.”

She follows you toward the couch and jumps up beside you once you sit, the cushions dipping slightly under your weight. The penthouse remains quiet except for the distant hush of traffic far below and the low vibration of the building’s climate system cycling on.

You check your phone, nothing. No text, no missed calls.

You set it face down on the coffee table and lean back, staring out at the city. The glass reflects the room behind you, empty except for the faint shape of you and Inky curled at your side.

She settles into your thigh, purring steadily, as you run your fingers absently along her back and try not to think about where Vi is right now.

The elevator never dings, but the penthouse stays quiet.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Hours pass before you admit to yourself that something’s wrong.

You try to distract yourself moving from room to room with a book, then a podcast, but your eyes keep drifting to the digital clock on the microwave. 9:30 PM. The numbers glow a neon green. 10:15 PM. You find yourself tracing the grout lines of the kitchen backsplash just to keep your hands from shaking. 10:52 PM. The refrigerator kicks into a high-pitched hum, a lonely sound that only makes the space feel larger. 

You finally reach for your phone.

You text her once.

You: You okay?

No response.

You wait twenty minutes and try again.

You: When are you coming home?

Nothing.

By 11:30 PM, the worry has curdled into a cold certainty. You know her, you know the way she retreats into physical exertion when her mind starts to spiral. You grab your keys and your jacket then head out the door.

The night air is biting as you walk to the bus stop. The streetlights flicker, casting long, distorted shadows on the pavement. When the bus finally screeches to the curb, it’s nearly empty, smelling of stale coffee and industrial cleaner. 

You sit by the window, forehead pressed against the glass, watching the blurred lights of the city streak by. You know exactly where she is.

The gym is a hulking shadow at the end of an industrial block. Most of the windows are dark, but the side entrance throws a slab of yellow light onto the cracked asphalt. You push through the heavy door, the heat and familiar smell washing over you.

"Hey! Gym's closed to the public," a woman calls out from behind a cluttered front desk. She’s chewing on a pen, looking bored and exhausted. "Are you a member?"

"I'm not a member," you say, your voice sounding thin in the cavernous space.

"Then you gotta head out, honey."

You’re about to argue when a sound echoes from the back—a rhythmic, visceral thud. It’s followed by a sharp, grunt that vibrates in your chest. You look toward the training floor, where a single bank of lights illuminates a lone figure.

Vi.

"I'm her… girlfriend," you say, motioning towards Vi before turning back to the receptionist with a sudden, fierce steadiness. "She’s recovering from an injury and she’s overworking it. She needs me."

The woman pauses, her eyes moving from your face to Vi. She sighs, glancing back at the clock. "Fine, make it quick. I’m locking up in thirty."

You don't wait for her to change her mind.

Vi’s at the heavy bag, her movements frantic. She hasn't even bothered with music; the only soundtrack is the slap of leather on vinyl and the scuff of her shoes on the mat. Her hair is plastered to her neck, and the muscles in her back ripple like corded rope under the dim lights.

She doesn’t stop when you approach. She just drives a left hook into the bag, the impact sounding like a gunshot.

"Vi."

The bag swings back. She catches it with her forearms, her chest heaving, her jaw set so tight you’re afraid her teeth might crack.

"What’s wrong?" you ask, stepping into the edge of the light.

She lets the bag sway. Her breath comes in sharp, jagged stabs. She yanks at the Velcro of her gloves, tossing them onto the mat with a dull thump. She won't look at you.

"I don't think it's ready," she says.

"Your shoulder?"

She nods once. “It’s getting better, I can feel that. Range is back, strength’s almost there. But it still feels… weak.” The word seems to irritate her. “Like it’s going to give if I push it too hard.”

"That’s the reconditioning phase," you say softly, stepping closer. "Your brain is trying to protect you. It’s a sensory feedback loop, Vi. It’s normal, it can take some time."

“I don’t have time.” Her voice cracks slightly on the last word. “This fight’s in three weeks, if I pull out again, it’s going to look bad. Sponsors start asking questions, people start talking.”

A single tear tracks through the sweat and grime on her cheek. She wipes it away with the back of her hand, a motion full of self-loathing.

"I don't know if I can trust it," she whispers. "I don't know if I can trust myself."

Seeing her like this, stripped of the armor, standing amidst the gear that usually makes her feel like a god, makes something in your chest ache. 

You reach out, your hand hovering near her arm.

"Don't," she says, flinching back. "Don't look at me like that."

Your hand falls slowly to your side. You take a breath, grounding yourself before you speak.

“Vi,” you say gently, “you’re safe with me. You’re allowed to be frustrated and scared. I wouldn’t ever judge you for that.”

Silence hangs between you, thick but no longer hostile. She stares at you, her expression shifting from a brittle defiance to a weary, bone-deep exhaustion. For a heartbeat, she looks like she might turn back to the bag, but instead, she steps closer. 

Her hand snakes around your waist, calloused fingers hooking into the fabric of your shirt to pull you flush against her.

She leans down and plants a desperate kiss on your lips. It tastes of salt and a frantic need for something that isn't broken. She leans into you as if she's trying to merge her strength with your calm.

You kiss her back, sliding your hands up over her shoulders, feeling the heat radiating off her skin, acting as the one thing in her world that doesn't require a win or a loss.

When she finally pulls back just enough to breathe, she doesn't let go. Her forehead rests against yours, her eyes hooded as she looks at you with a terrifying amount of clarity.

"I like you," she says, the words blunt and heavy. "It’s driving me crazy, how much I like you."

A rush of pure, golden relief floods your chest, followed immediately by a sharp pang of internal conflict. Your professional side that took years to forge screams that this is a mistake, you shouldn't be here, in a darkened gym at midnight, pressed against a patient who is as volatile as she is brilliant.

You know you have to tell Evelyn eventually, to figure out how to navigate the fallout of a provider falling for their patient, but right now, looking at the smudge of graphite on Vi’s cheek and the way her pulse is drumming against your palms, those consequences feel a world away. You push the panic into a corner of your mind, choosing the woman in front of you over the rules you spent years following.

"I like you too, Violet," you whisper. "So much it makes me angry."

A tiny, lopsided ghost of a smirk touches her lips. "Yeah?"

“Yeah,” you breathe, leaning in to brush your lips against hers again. “But I need to figure some things out. I need to talk to Evelyn. I have to figure out how we do this without it completely blowing up in our faces.”

She studies you for a long moment, breathing evening out.

“I get it,” she says, brushing her thumb along your jaw, gentler now. “Just… don’t…”

“I picked you over my job the day I agreed to move in with you,” you say, your voice steady and sure. “I’m not going anywhere.”

<- CH 7 masterlist CH 9->

taglist: @thefantasticmissvixen @vxtanne31 @seasonsofchaos @oceantides-and-daffodils @twinkyfemmes @pixiegirlsy @caitlyns-left-mountain @vahnilla @ellielover69 @cutflwr @savedforlaterr @my-fabulousness-has-arrived @pugh-bug

comment to let me know if you want to be added or removed from the list! ( I don’t tag ageless blogs )

[sashasinfully]

Girl, I read your last story and I'm eagerly waiting for the next chapter! Unfortunately, the site didn't allow me to comment, but I'm your number one fan of your writing.

hii, thank you so much, love 🤍 the next chapter to The Straight Furrow will be posted on the 14th!! I’ll also start posting the series here on the 24th 🤍

[sashasinfully]

CH 7: Vertigo

series: COUNTERPUNCH • Boxer!Vi x Nurse Practitioner!fem reader

warnings: 18 + , nsfw, pussy eating (Vi receiving) , choking , rough sex , hair pulling , marking ( scratching, biting), dom/sub dynamics , strap on use ,ethical boundary violations , possessive behavior, overstimulation , crying (good tears lol), dirty talk, physical domination , nurse/ patient, possible switch dynamics?, tension , sexual tension, passive aggressive posturing , social boundary crossing (not from Vi or reader)

wc: 7.5k

The air in the penthouse is thick. Not with the usual friction of unsaid things, but with the low, humming afterglow of what happened a few hours ago. 

You sit at the kitchen table, the clink of your fork against ceramic sounding like a gunshot in the quiet. Across from you, Vi is slouched in her chair, one hand scrolls lazily through her phone while the other lifts a forkful of stir-fry to her mouth.

She looks entirely too unbothered.

You, however, are struggling to swallow. As a woman who prides herself on logic and clinical detachment, your current inability to process a piece of food is a professional embarrassment.

Every time you blink, a memory slides in uninvited. The weight of her calloused hands at your hips. The way she pinned you to the mattress like you might float away if she let go. The look she gave you, dark, intent, and starving, before she systematically pulled you apart piece by piece.

Your gaze drifts up. It’s a reflex you can’t suppress. You trace the bridge of her nose and settle on her mouth, watching the way her lips move as she chews. Your focus narrows to the pale scar on her lip.

You remember exactly how that felt against your inner thigh, the slight scrape of it. The devastatingly steady rhythm she kept until your voice finally cracked in the quiet of the penthouse.

Heat blooms in your chest and climbs fast—up your neck, flooding your cheeks. You shift in the stool, your thighs pressing together instinctively. The smallest bit of friction makes your breath hitch, a soft, traitorous sound.

You look up to see if she’s noticed.

She has.

Vi has stopped scrolling. Her phone rests face down on the granite now. She leans forward, powder blue eyes hooded and focused entirely on you. She doesn’t speak; she just watches you dismantle your own composure. 

“Are you thinking about it?” she asks. Her voice is a low vibration that hums through the space between you.

You snap your gaze down, punishing a piece of broccoli with your fork. “No,” you say, the word coming out too fast. The lie is paper-thin and already tearing.

Silence again. You can feel her looking at you, not impatient, just waiting for the inevitable honesty your brain can't quite hide.

“…Yes,” you admit finally, barely above a whisper.

She doesn’t offer a witty retort. She just lets the admission sit there, heavy and warm. When you glance up, her expression is unreadable, but there’s a flicker in her eyes that makes your pulse spike all over again. The lack of a verbal safety net makes your nerves unravel.

“Can you say something?” you whisper, setting your fork down. “Anything?”

Vi leans back, the chair creaking softly under her weight. She crosses her arms, stretching the fabric of her shirt across her chest, dragging the moment out one breath longer than necessary.

“You taste really fucking good.”

You inhale sharply and immediately cough, the spice of the ginger catching in your throat. 

“I didn’t mean something like that, Violet,” you manage, grabbing your water and taking a hurried gulp.

She lets out a low, satisfied chuckle, her eyes dragging over you in a way that makes your stomach flip. 

“What?” she asks, all false innocence. “It’s true. Don’t ask questions you don't want the answer to.”

“Oh, just shut up,” you mutter.

You can’t sit there under that look anymore. It feels like she’s peeling back your skin. You stand abruptly, grabbing your plate and napkin. “I’m going to go eat in peace.”

You don't wait for her to answer. You’re halfway across the kitchen before the chair even stops creaking. The tile is cold under your feet, a sharp contrast to the heat still radiating from her gaze.

You escape to the living room, sinking into the oversized armchair by the window. The city glows beyond the glass, a frantic sea of lights that feels worlds away from the quiet intensity of the penthouse. 

You pull your phone from your pocket, tapping into a medical journal app you’ve already read twice. You stare at a paragraph about neuroplasticity, but the words are just shapes. You’re acutely aware of the weight of Vi’s presence still lingering in the kitchen, the muffled sound of her chair scraping against the floor, and then, the heavy, rhythmic thud of her feet.

She’s walking toward the living room.

Your grip on your phone tightens. You don’t look up. You keep your eyes locked on the glowing screen, your thumb scrolling with a performative focus.

You feel her stop at the edge of the rug. The air in the room shifts, displaced by her. Out of the corner of your eye, you see her lean against the doorframe, her shadow stretching long across the hardwood. She doesn't say a word; she just stands there, watching the way your eyes refuse to move from the screen. You know she knows you’re faking it. 

After a beat that feels like an eternity, she huffs a dry, amused breath and finally turns toward the hallway. Only when the sound of her bedroom door clicking shut echoes do you actually exhale.

You eat the rest of your meal mechanically, your mind trying to categorize the afternoon into "biological needs" and "recreational activity," but the categories keep blurring.

When you finally finish, the floorboards groan familiarly under your socks as you walk back to the kitchen. You reach the counter and stop.

The sink is full, a messy graveyard of coffee mugs, the skillet from breakfast, and the dinner plates you’ve both just abandoned. It’s the only thing in the penthouse that feels out of place, a small mountain of domestic chaos that demands to be dealt with.

You twist the faucet, and the rush of warm water over your knuckles feels like a tether, pulling you back into your own professional skin. One by one, you work through the pile.

A soft, muffled thud sounds on the granite beside you.

Inky plants herself squarely on the counter, her dark tail curled neatly around her paws. You can’t help it; the tension in your shoulders dips.

“Hi, sweetheart,” you murmur, the steam from the sink dampening your face. “You know you’re not supposed to be up here. Violet won’t be happy.”

Inky merely blinks, tilting her head with a slow, feline judgment that suggests Vi’s hygiene standards are merely a suggestion.

A huffed laugh escapes you as you reach for the sponge. 

“Why is that damn cat on my counter?”

Vi’s voice cuts through the quite.

You jolt, a small yelp escaping before you can stop it, sponge slipping in your grip and splashing soapy water against the sink. Your shoulders jump nearly to your ears as you whirl halfway toward the doorway.

“Damn it, Vi.” 

Vi stands there, one brow already cocked.

“Inky,” you correct gently, once you’ve recovered enough to breathe, turning back to the suds.

Vi strides forward, waving a hand in a half-hearted shooing motion. “Off. You don’t pay rent. Neither does your owner.”

Your head snaps up at that. You turn slowly, narrowing your eyes at her over your shoulder.

“Well, actually, I do,” you say, the sweetness in your tone just sharp enough to cut. “For an apartment I’m not even staying in at the moment. Thank you very much.”

"Oh, poor you," she drawls. “Paying for a place you aren’t even using while you score a five-star stay here for the low, low price of your company.”

Cocky annoying asshole.

You should be there—your apartment—sleeping in your own bed, maintaining the distance that every ethics board screams about. But instead, you’re here, elbow-deep in her dishwater, arguing about rent like a disgruntled spouse instead of a medical professional.

You tighten your grip on a glass, the warmth of the water suddenly feeling like a trap.

"My 'company' involves years of trauma training and a clinical license, Violet," you counter. “If I billed you for the professional risks I’ve taken just moving into a patient’s home without proper paperwork, you wouldn’t be able to afford this ‘five-star stay.’ ”

Vi rolls her eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t clatter against the tile.

“Can you just do something about her up there, please?” Vi’s tone is clipped, a rare note of exasperation. “That’s the one reasonable request I had regarding her.”

You sigh, the weight of the argument exhaling out of you. She’s right, it’s a bit gross to have paws where you eat, but the clinical mask is already slipping, replaced by something much softer as you look at Inky. 

“Alright, princess,” you murmur sweetly, holding out your hand. “Time to get down.”

With a huff and a final flick of her tail, Inky hops down, landing with a soft thump.

You rinse the last of the soap away, a small, self-satisfied smile tugging at your lips.

Vi groans and strolls over and leans against the counter right beside you, her arm brushing yours. The heat of her presence makes your fingers hesitate on the sponge for just a moment.

“We’re going to the fair at noon tomorrow,” she says, her voice dropping into that casual, sandpaper-low register. “It’ll be fun. You need 'fun.' You're getting all twitchy.”

You roll your eyes, stacking the clean plate on the drying rack with a bit more force than necessary. “I told you, I’m worried. If the board finds out I'm—"

“I know,” she cuts in. “I’ll wear a hat. Sunglasses. I’ll go incognito. And if someone questions you, you’re smart, you’ll have a reason.”

You turn off the faucet. The sudden silence makes the dripping of the pipes sound rhythmic, like a countdown. 

“That’s not the point, Vi,” you say quietly.

You dry your hands, then plant them on your hips, turning to face her fully. The height difference always feels more pronounced when she’s this close.

“Technically, I could be at a fair with you even if I’m your practitioner. That part isn't the hurdle,” you start, your voice wavering as you struggle to articulate the knot in your chest. “It’s just… everything else I’m doing is unethical. Or morally questionable. So things that aren’t necessarily bad start to feel… tainted.”

The words hang there. Vi studies you, the habitual cocky edge in her eyes softening into something uncharacteristically tender.

“I get it,” she says softly.

She doesn’t argue, and she doesn’t tease. She simply closes the distance, her shadow swallowing yours as she leans in. It’s slow enough that you could pull away, but you don't. When her lips finally meet yours, the "unethical" noise in your head goes terrifyingly silent.

You lift your hand, your fingers finally finding the purchase they’ve been craving all night as you cup her jaw. Your thumb traces the sharp line of her cheekbone, and you don’t just kiss her back, you pull her deeper, grounding yourself in the reality of her. It isn’t frantic; it’s a slow, starving sort of hunger that’s been building since you first moved in.

For a moment, the "professional risks" aren't just secondary, they’re gone. There is only the heat of her and the quiet hum of the kitchen.

Vi is the one to pause first, though she doesn't go far.

She pulls an inch, a low vibration of a chuckle rumbling in her chest as her forehead rests against yours.

“You want more already?” she teases, that ruinous smirk returning. “I thought you were worried about the 'rules.'”

You scoff immediately, stepping away as the heat crawls back up your neck. “You’re so annoying. Truly. Good night.”

You turn on your heel, heading for the safety of your room before she can see how much she’s actually gotten under your skin.

“Hey!” she calls after you, laughter threading through her voice. “I’ve got great stamina. I’m up for round two whenever you finish overthinking!”

You pick up your pace, the embarrassment and affection warring in your chest. Without turning around, you lift your hand and throw a middle finger over your shoulder.

Behind you, Vi’s laughter is loud and genuine. And despite the ethics, the stress, you’re smiling when you finally push your bedroom door shut.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

The neon lights of the fairground aren't just bright; they’re aggressive, a kaleidoscopic assault of electric blue and molten gold that makes the sterile, minimalist perfection of the penthouse feel like a fever dream. 

The air is thick—heavy with the scent of toasted sugar, scorched motor oil, and the sheer, humid press of humanity. Beneath your boots, the pavement still holds the day’s heat, and every few seconds, a deep, rhythmic bass thumps from a nearby speaker, vibrating upward through you.

Vi walks at your left. She’s a study in controlled tension, hands buried deep in the pockets of her hoodie, her stride loose but her eyes are constantly moving. 

“Place looks like a lawsuit waiting to happen,” she mutters, her gaze snagging on a ride that jerks with a bone-rattling clack.

You huff a quiet laugh, the sound lost to the screams of teenagers nearby. “It was your idea in the first place to come here.”

A smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth, though she doesn't look at you. “Whatever.”

You pass a booth where a kid is shrieking over a glitter-dusted funnel cake, powdered sugar clinging to her lips. A toddler drags a balloon shaped like a cartoon dinosaur, its plastic tail smacking rhythmically against his father’s leg. 

Somewhere behind you, someone wins something metallic and loud, the sharp clang of a bell cutting through the music.

The crowd surges. A group of rowdy kids brushes your shoulder, sending you stumbling half a step. You go to steady yourself, but Vi is already there. 

She shifts. One moment she’s a foot away; the next, her shoulder is a solid presence inches from yours, redirecting the current of bodies around you.

“Careful,” she says.

She adjusts her pace until you’re perfectly parallel.

“AJ texted,” she says after a few seconds, like it just crossed her mind. “He’s here. Brought half the gym.”

“Oh, great,” you reply, keeping your voice as neutral as a chart note.

She glances sideways at you, a quick, measuring flick of her eyes that lingers just a fraction too long. “You good?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Vi shrugs, the fabric of her hoodie bunching over her shoulders. “Didn’t say you weren’t. Just asking.”

Your mind drifts back to the gym, the way AJ had said, I’ve known her for years, like it was a credential you lacked. 

You wonder, briefly, if she knew what he said if that would have grated on her, too. Or if you were the only one feeling that subtle flex of territory disguised as loyalty.

The bass from a nearby ride rolls through your ribs as you step closer to the shooting gallery. The smell shifts here, gun oil and cheap cologne layered over cotton candy. A cork gun pops sharply, a mechanical duck jerking backward as a red light flashes.

You spot him near the shooting gallery, surrounded by a wall of muscle and loud laughter. There are five of them, some of them you recognize from the get together.

AJ is mid-laugh, gesturing animatedly to the group. 

One of the guys, a massive dude with a tribal tattoo peaking out of his shirt, nudges AJ and points toward you and Vi.

AJ’s turns and grins. “Look who decided to join civilization.”

Vi snorts, her hands buried deep in her pockets. “You’re calling this civilization? That’s optimistic. I see at least three people eating deep-fried butter.”

The guys let out a chorus of low chuckles, their eyes raking over you with a casual, unblinking curiosity that feels like an inspection. 

AJ steps forward, and he and Vi clasp hands, a brief, solid thud of palm against palm. 

AJ’s eyes drift to you, then back to Vi, something calculating flickering behind the humor.

“So,” he says lightly, leaning back against the wooden railing of the gallery. “We still running with ‘roommate,’ or did I miss a staff meeting?”

Behind him, the gym guys exchange glances—smirks and raised brows—but it’s not at AJ. It’s at you. Their unspoken assumption hangs in the air, loud and bold: this isn’t just a roommate situation. They think they’re catching something private, and it’s making them quietly entertained. 

You can feel the heat rising in your neck  from the sheer audacity of AJ’s grin.He’s performing for his audience, seeking that easy, cheap male validation by poking at something he knows is private. It’s pathetic, really. 

You’re almost certain he knows Vi hates being the center of attention in this way, yet he’s leaning into the "roommate" jab like it’s a punchline. It’s a classic power move, putting her on the spot in front of his crew to see if she’ll flinch. Your stomach sours as the other guys snicker, waiting for her to justify your presence .

He’d cornered you the other day when Vi went to the lockerroom, digging for information with that same "just between us" smirk, promising he’d keep it quiet. And yet, here he is, being vague and passive-aggressive in front of a crowd. 

Vi had already shut him down, already told him to mind his business, but apparently, AJ’s ego needs a constant audience to feel fed.

Vi doesn’t bristle. She just shifts her weight, her arm brushing yours for a fleeting second before she pulls away.

“You building a spreadsheet, AJ?” she replies. “Mind your business.”

AJ huffs a quiet laugh, but his gaze lingers on you a second longer than necessary, tracing the line of your throat before he lets it drop. 

He turns his attention back to Vi, the "gym talk" kicking in like a physical barrier.

“How’s the shoulder?” he asks, nodding toward her left side.

“Still attached,” she says dryly.

“Low bar,” one of the other guys pipes up. 

“Been worse,” Vi shoots back, her jaw tightening just a fraction.

Usually, Vi would loop you in by now, a sharp comment, a nudge, some hook to pull you into the rhythm. But today, she doesn’t reach for you. She lets the conversation move without interference, her weight shifted onto one leg, close enough that you can feel the radiant heat of her through your sleeve, yet she remains remarkably… still. 

The next hour blurs in fragments.

You lose horribly at the basketball toss while Vi makes a show of critiquing your form, her voice low near your ear. One of AJ’s friends, thick forearms, shaved head, leans against the railing behind you and calls out, “Elbow in,” like he’s coaching from the sidelines. 

Vi shoots him a look that says she’s got it handled.

You split a paper tray of fries drowned in vinegar and salt, grease soaking through the paper and onto your fingers. AJ stands a few feet off with two of the guys, talking, laughing—until he isn’t. Once, when Vi wipes salt from the corner of your mouth with her thumb without thinking, you catch him watching.

Not smiling.

Just watching.

Vi’s competitive streak flares up at the water-gun race, her eyes narrowing with a focus that usually belongs in the ring. The bell dings as her stream hits the target dead center, climbing faster than the others. One of the gym guys swears under his breath when she wins by a landslide.

“Damn, Vi,” another mutters, half impressed, half annoyed.

She just shrugs, but when she steps back toward you, you notice AJ again. He’s clapping slowly, expression unreadable. When your eyes meet his this time, he doesn’t look away immediately.

It isn’t a glare, but it isn’t friendly, either.

However, the "real world" keeps bleeding in. 

A couple of younger fans hover awkwardly near her after, whispering until one finally blurts, “You’re Vi, right? From the Harbor fight last spring?”

She scratches the back of her neck, almost sheepish. “Yeah.”

They ask for a picture. She agrees, posture shifting automatically into something camera-ready but distant. You watch the way she smiles, quick and controlled. The version meant for public consumption.

More than once, you catch her staring past the games, past the lights. 

She’s physically there, walking beside you, but her mind is clearly miles away, caught in a loop you can’t see.

Eventually, you and Vi split from the rest of the group.

“Alright, alright,” AJ says, clapping another guy on the shoulder. “Let’s leave the girls to their prizes. We’ve got a date with the strength tester.” He looks at you, giving a mocking little two-finger salute. “Don’t let her get too bored, Roomie.”

The group moves off in a cloud of boisterous shoving and inside jokes, leaving a vacuum of silence in their wake.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

At the ring toss, Vi picks up a plastic ring and twirls it around her index finger with practiced dexterity. “What’s worth winning?”

You scan the wall of neon-colored polyester and cheap stuffing. “That one. Obviously.” You point to an obnoxiously large, neon-orange tiger with a crooked plastic nose and a look of permanent shock.

Her mouth tilts. “Subtle.”

She studies the distance, her shoulders rolling once as if she’s stepping into the center of the ring. “If I win,” she says, her eyes finally locking onto yours, “you’re carrying it.”

“That’s the deal? I'm the pack mule?”

She arches a brow, that familiar spark flashing for only a second. “Were you expecting something more?”

She  turns and throws, the ring clips the edge of a bottle, dances for a heart-stopping second, and settles clean. The vendor groans; Vi smirks, then motions the tiger toward you with a quick, almost casual flick of her hand. 

When she hands you the tiger, your fingers brush. It’s a fraction of a second, just skin against skin, but she’s the one who breaks the contact first.

“Don’t name it,” she says, stepping back. Her hands go straight back into her pockets.

As you walk, you spot a flash of a familiar tattoo through the crowd—AJ and the gym crew near the fried dough stand, still loud, still taking up too much space. You find yourself wondering if Vi is always this guarded around them, or if AJ’s "territory flexing" earlier is a regular occurrence.

To shake the thought, you look up. The Ferris wheel looms ahead, a giant, rotating halo of white lights against the darkening sky. "It’s the only place in this death trap that looks halfway peaceful," you offer, nodding toward it. Vi follows your gaze, her expression softening just a fraction. "High enough to get away from the noise," she murmurs. “So, you wanna ride it?”

“Yeah.”

She jerks her chin toward it and starts walking. You fall into step beside her, the tiger tucked awkwardly against your ribs.

For a few strides, there’s only the sound of gravel under your shoes and the distant mechanical groan of the wheel rotating.

You glance sideways at her. “How long have you known him?”

Vi doesn’t look at you. “AJ?”

“Yeah.”

She shrugs. “A while.”

“That specific?”

A faint huff through her nose. “Couple years. On and off.”

You hesitate, then push just a little. “He seems…”

Vi’s brow lifts slightly. “Seems what?”

You search for the word. “Nosey?”

Silence.

“Pushy?” you try.

Her mouth twitches.

“Irritating?”

That earns you a sideways glance. A small, reluctant smirk.

“Yeah,” she says. “All the above.”

“Then why do you still talk to him?”

Vi’s shoulders rise and fall in an easy shrug. “Not talking to him would cause more problems than talking to him.”

It’s said simply, not bitter, not defensive, just factual.

You study her, trying to read the edges of that answer. She doesn’t offer anything else. 

By the time you reach the Ferris wheel platform, the operator is waving the next pair forward. The metal bucket sways slightly as you step in.

You consider asking another question. Something sharper. Something that might crack the surface.

But the way Vi settles onto the bench, forearms braced on her thighs, gaze fixed outward, tells you enough.

So you let it go.

The gate clangs shut behind you. The operator gives the side of the carriage a practiced shove, and the wheel groans as it begins its slow rotation upward.

Daylight spills everywhere. 

The fair stretches beneath you in bright, almost unforgiving color—striped tents in red and yellow, kids weaving sticky-fingered through clusters of parents, the shooting gallery flashing metallic in the sun. The scent of fried dough drifts up in warm waves. 

The carriage sways gently as you climb, metal creaking, shadows shifting across Vi’s shoulders. She leans back, one arm hooked over the back of the bench. Her other hand rests on her thigh, fingers loose but not idle.

“You having fun?” she asks. Her voice is softer up here, the roar of the crowd muffled by the wind.

“Yeah. You?”

A small shrug. “Could be worse.”

The wheel jerks at the apex, the carriage swinging slightly as it pauses at the top. The ground drops away beneath you, the fair reduced to bright blocks of color and drifting noise.

Your knees brush as the carriage tilts. The tiger shifts in your lap. You shiver from the cool air, and Vi nudges slightly closer, her shoulder grazing yours just enough to make you notice.

Her arm remains behind you, resting along the back of the bench. It doesn’t touch, just reinforces the space, a quiet, unspoken invitation if you want to scooch closer.

The air between you is charged, thick with the kind of silence that demands to be broken. Last night, the barriers had felt thinner, her actions more impulsive. But today, her stillness is a choice, a deliberate restraint that feels more intimate than a touch. 

It’s as if she’s waiting for you to bridge the gap, placing the ball firmly in your court while she watches with those heavy, unreadable eyes.

You take a breath, trying to settle your own pulse, then finally ask, a little hesitantly, “Vi… is something wrong?”

She glances at you. Close enough now that you can see the faint crease at the corner of her mouth. “No. Why?”

You shrug and look away, frowning slightly. “You’re quiet. Even with AJ and your other friends. You felt… elsewhere.”

Her fingers brush across her brow as she scratches at it lightly, a small, almost absent-minded gesture. “Honestly… I’m nervous for the press conference tomorrow. I feel like I’m going to fuck up. I'm better at hitting things than talking to microphones.”

You hesitate only a second before easing nearer, your hip brushing hers, testing the boundary instead of crossing it outright.

“You won’t,” you say softly. “You’ve got this. Hate to say it, but you happen to be very charismatic. Even when you're being a pain in the ass.”

You reach out, resting your hand on her thigh, giving the muscle a gentle squeeze. 

Vi’s breath hitches ever so slightly. She glances down at your hand, and suddenly her words stumble, just for a moment. “I… uh… I don’t—shit…I don’t know. I just don't want to look like an idiot.”

The break in her usual confidence is so small, so fleeting, that it makes you smile. It’s cute. 

Her leg starts bouncing lightly against the carriage floor, a rapid, unconscious rhythm. The subtle motion mirrors the nervous energy you usually feel around her, like a quiet echo of your own reaction. 

Somehow, knowing that’s her reaction, makes you feel lighter, calmer, like the tension between you just shifted into something safe, familiar, and shared.

Your gaze drifts, catching the tattoos along her neck, the sweep of ink, the way it curves with her skin, and you can’t help but admire her quietly.

Vi notices, her eyes sliding to you. “You seriously need to work on your subtlety when staring at people,”she says, a smirk finally reclaiming its rightful place on her lips.

You scoff, a little playful. “Maybe you should realize I’m not staring at you to be insulting.”

Vi doesn’t look away. Instead, she slowly tilts her head, her gaze dropping to your mouth for a heartbeat, just long enough for you to feel the heat of it, before dragging it back up to your eyes. 

“Oh, I know,” she says. Her voice has dropped an octave, losing the nervous edge from before and replacing it with a low, gravelly confidence that makes your toes curl.

“Problem is,” she murmurs, her eyes locking onto yours with a heavy, hooded intensity that feels like a physical weight on your chest, “you look at me like you’re waiting for me to do something about it.”

She lets the silence hang there, thick and suffocating. Her gaze flickers down to your hand on her thigh, and she lets out a huff of a laugh.

Your stomach lurches. Heat rises to your cheeks. You pull your hand back, embarrassed, and look away, chewing on the inside of your cheek. A second ago, you were the one teasing her; now, she’s dismantled you with a single look.

From the corner of your eye, you see her arm draped along the back of the bench. Her fingers tapping a slow, rhythmic beat against the metal. 

And suddenly, you need the grounding weight of her, even if it’s just to hide the fact that your hands are shaking.

Tentatively, you reach out. Your fingers hook into the fabric of her hoodie, and you pull her arm down toward you. It’s a silent surrender, a white flag disguised as a reach for comfort.

“It’s cold,” you mutter, your voice sounding small even to your own ears as you roll your eyes against the fabric of her hoodie. “And you happen to be a space heater. Don’t flatter yourself.”

She doesn't pull away. Instead, she pulls you a fraction closer, her thumb grazing your shoulder in a slow circle that tells you she isn't buying your excuse for a second.

After the ferris wheel, the tension doesn't vanish, but it softens into something manageable, settling into the background as the day carries on. 

For a while, things even feel normal, or as normal as they can be when you’re walking shoulder-to-shoulder with a professional fighter. You end up squeezed into a cramped, flickering photobooth, the heavy curtain shutting out the glare of the fair. 

Inside the small space, Vi’s warmth is yet again unavoidable, her body a solid, grounding presence against yours as the camera flashes.

Fans approach Vi here and there, their eyes lighting up with recognition from her matches. While she handles them with her usual dry, practiced grace, you notice the way some of them linger on you, side-eyeing you with a blatant, silent curiosity, clearly trying to map out exactly where you fit in her life.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

By the time you’re back at the penthouse, the fair still clings to you in small, stubborn ways.

There’s a faint stickiness at your wrists from spilled soda you never properly wiped off. The ghost of fried dough lingers in your hair. 

After you shower and change into something softer, you catch the clean scent of your soap rising from your own skin, sharp and grounding, washing away the press of strangers.

When she emerges from her own shower in a tank and sweats, hair damp, it feels different than a few minutes ago.

She settles onto the couch. You sit angled toward her, one leg tucked beneath you, your gaze drifting before you even realize it, tracing the harsh line of her jaw and the slope of her shoulders beneath thin cotton.

The space between you practically thrums with a restless, magnetic weight.

Vi catches your stare eventually. She notices it the way she notices everything, after pretending she hasn’t.

Her lips curl, subtle and knowing.

And only then does the heat begin to bloom low in your belly.

"I think I told you to stop looking at me like you’re waiting for me to do something about it," she drawls, her voice low and challenging. "Step up."

Annoyance flares in your chest, she thinks you won't, that you lack the nerve to dictate the pace of whatever is going on between the two of you. But you also see the bait in her eyes, the dark shimmer of a tease designed specifically to pull the rug out from under you.

As the silence stretches, the irritation gives way to a louder, more demanding ache. Your skin feels too tight for your body, flushed and hyper-aware wherever the air hits it. If she wants to play the aggressor, you're more than happy to flip the script.

You let out a sharp breath, rising to your feet slowly. "Okay, let’s hope you don’t regret giving me the green light."

Vi pauses, her expression faltering for a split second as surprise flickers across her face.

You scoff, turning toward the hallway. "Don’t pussy out. Let’s go."

Your footsteps echo softly as you stride away, heart pounding with a mix of defiance and anticipation. 

Behind you, the couch creaks as Vi stands, her presence closing in fast. 

Before you can react, her hand fists in your hair, the pull firm, guiding you with blunt force into the bedroom.

You yelp, the sharp tug sending a jolt of electricity through you as she maneuvers you inside and tosses you onto the bed. The mattress bounces beneath you, and though irritation simmers, amusement bubbles up too. 

You grin, propping yourself on your elbows before sitting up fully. 

With quick, confident motions, you peel off your shirt, letting it drop to the floor, then shimmy out of your shorts, exposing your bare skin to the cool air.

Vi stands at the foot of the bed, her eyes raking over you hungrily, devouring every curve and dip like she's starving. 

The sheer weight of her focus makes your nipples harden and your core throb. You stand, closing the gap between you, and grab a fistful of her hair, yanking her head down to your level.

Your lips brush her ear as you whisper, "Don’t fucking do that again."

You release her, the strands slipping from your fingers, and rise onto your tiptoes to capture her mouth. Vi responds instantly, her lips crashing against yours in a feral collision of tongues and teeth. 

Her hands grip your hips to steady you. 

She lifts you effortlessly, your legs locking around her waist as she backs toward the bed, the kiss deepening with unfiltered hunger.

Gently, she lowers you onto the sheets, her body hovering for a second before she pulls back to strip. Her fingers hook under the hem of her tank top, yanking it over her head. The sight of her, firm breasts and skin pebbled by the chill, makes your breath hitch.

You reach up, tugging her down by her waistband, and latch onto one nipple, sucking it deep into your mouth. 

Your tongue swirls around the peak, teeth nipping just enough to elicit a sharp, jagged gasp. Vi’s body tenses, a low vibration rumbling through her chest and into yours.

You push her back, sliding off the bed to kneel before her. Your hands trail down her sides as you sink slowly, pressing open-mouthed kisses along her ribs, then nipping at the taut muscles of her abs. Vi bites her lip, eyes locked on you as you mark her skin.

Your gaze never wavers, holding that unflinching connection as your fingers work the strings of her joggers. You tug them down in one swift motion, letting them pool at her ankles. She steps out of them as your eyes drop to the slick, glistening heat between her thighs. 

The musky scent hits you, making your mouth flood with saliva, your own wetness slicking your thighs.

You lean in, your tongue tracing her folds, savoring the tangy, salty taste that bursts on your taste buds. You love the way she tastes, lapping at her eagerly, hands gripping her thighs as they tense under your palms, muscles flexing with restraint.

Vi's lips part on a shaky exhale, her eyes fluttering shut as pleasure overtakes her. 

"F-fuck, cupcake," she breaks, her head tossing back, the corded muscles of her neck straining. 

You don't stop, your mouth working her pussy with dedicated strokes—sucking her lips, then delving inside to lick her entrance. Groans rumble from her chest as her hand comes to rest lightly on the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair.

You slide two fingers into her, feeling her walls clench around the intrusion. 

Vi gasps sharply, her hips bucking forward. "Shit, yeah, do that," she hisses, her voice frayed with desperation.

You pump your fingers in a steady rhythm, curling them to hit that sensitive knot inside while your lips seal around her clit, sucking firmly. Your eyes stay fixed on her face, drinking in the way her brows furrow and her mouth falls open in  sexy, unrestrained expressions, flushed cheeks, eyes half-lidded with bliss. 

The sight fuels you, your own arousal throbbing in response.

Her pussy starts to clench tighter around your fingers, and you know she's teetering on the edge.  You wrap your free arm around her, hand digging into the firm flesh of her ass to pull her closer to grind against your mouth.

Vi’s body jerks, a shattered sound tearing from her throat as she cums. Her moans fill the room, raw and uninhibited, her thighs quivering against your shoulders.

Finally, she tugs your head back gently. 

"Damn it, cupcake," she pants, "that felt so good."

Her chest heaves, skin flushed and glistening with sweat in the dim light of her bedroom.

Vi's eyes, hungry, lock onto yours. 

With a low growl, she reaches down, her hands clamping around your arms. She hoists you from your knees, the raw power in her shoulders making your core clench.

Vi pushes you back onto the bed, the mattress dipping under your weight as you land on your back, legs splayed. You watch her naked body towering over you—toned abs flexing, thighs still trembling slightly from your mouth's work.

She turns toward the dresser, her ass flexing with each step. The drawer scrapes open, and she pulls out the harness and strap-on, the silicone gleaming under the low light.

You lick your lips slowly, savoring the lingering flavor of her arousal, your gaze fixed on her as she steps into the harness. 

She adjusts the straps around her hips, buckling it tight.

Vi returns, and reaches for you, fingers aiming to drag you closer to the bed's edge, positioning you for what she has in mind.

But you meet her eyes, voice steady despite the fire pooling between your legs. "Lie down."

She pauses, hand hovering mid-air, a smirk tugging at her lips.

"You're always so damn bossy," she murmurs.

But she complies, easing onto the bed beside you, stretching out on her back.

Heart pounding, you hook your fingers into your panties, sliding them down your thighs and kicking them aside. The cool air hits your soaked pussy, making you shiver. You climb over her, straddling her hips, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of her.

Positioning yourself above the strap, you lower slowly, the tip pressing against your entrance. Inch by inch, you sink down, the stretch burning deliciously as it fills you.

Vi's hands shoot to your hips, fingers digging into you, her teeth sinking into her lower lip as she watches the strap disappear inside you. 

You gasp sharply, the fullness overwhelming, sending sparks up your spine as it bottoms out, pressing deep inside you.

You begin to move, lifting and dropping in a steady, rhythmic bounce. Moans spill from your lips with every descent, the grinding friction igniting a fever in your veins. Vi’s hands guide you, her palms firm and demanding, urging the pace as her own breaths turn short and ragged. 

She’s mesmerized by the view—you riding her, pussy swallowing the strap over and over.

She thrusts up suddenly, meeting your downward motion with a sharp buck of her hips. The jolt hits you hard, but your hand flies out instinctively, wrapping around her neck, fingers squeezing just enough to halt her.

Vi's eyes widen in shock, her body freezing beneath you.

"Who told you to move?" you growl.

A grin spreads across her face, wicked and thrilled. The sight of you trying to dominate her while her toy is buried deep inside you sends her over the edge. 

"Fuck, you really turn me on," she chokes out, her pulse thrumming frantically against your palm.

You release the pressure slightly and resume bouncing, allowing her hands to guide your pace again while your fingers stay curled around her neck, choking her lightly.

Vi's pupils blow wide, black swallowing the blue, her gaze dropping to your tits as they bounce with each rise and fall. 

She lets out a deep groan, the sound vibrating through her chest.

The coil in your belly tightens, pleasure burning hot and fast as you ride her, the strap dragging against your inner walls. You feel yourself nearing the edge, breaths turning to broken whimpers.

Then Vi's voice rasps out, choked but desperate: "Can I please fuck you now?"

You smirk down at her, nodding once. 

Instantly, she sits up, her breasts pressing against yours, her mouth crashing against your neck, teeth biting into your skin before sucking hard, marking you.

"Shit," she grunts, her biceps bunching and rippling as she hooks her arms under your knees and hoists you up gripping your hips. "I’ve been dying to ruin this pussy."

With brute strength, she lifts your hips, pulling you almost completely off the strap, the tip barely inside. Then she slams you back down, the force driving it deep. 

You scream, the sudden fullness ripping through you, arms flying around her neck to cling as pleasure borders on pain.

"Vi—" you start, but she cuts you off, lifting and driving you down again. The wet, heavy slap of skin echoes through the room.

Your mind goes numb, hazy with a static of ecstasy. As she heaves you upward again, your fingers curl into claws. You rake your nails down the broad expanse of her back, dragging them through her sweat-slicked skin with every ounce of your mounting desperation. 

You feel her flesh give way beneath your tips, leaving angry, jagged red welts in your wake.

Vi lets out a sharp, pained hiss, her body recoiling for a split second before she leans into the sting. A dark, jagged laugh rumbles in her chest, vibrating against your own.

"Yeah, that’s it," she growls into your ear, her voice a low, gravelly threat. "Mark me up then, cupcake. Show me exactly how much you can't handle this."

She keeps the brutal, punishing rhythm, picking your ass up and pounding it back onto the strap, each thrust jolts through your spine, your pussy clenching helplessly around the invading length.

Abruptly, she shifts, maneuvering you onto your back, the bed creaking as she steps off. Before you can catch your breath, her hand wraps around your ankle, dragging you toward the edge by your leg, your body sliding across the sheets.

She hooks your legs up, pushing down on the backs of your thighs to fold you open, exposing your dripping pussy. 

Without using her hands, she aligns her hips and slides in slowly, the silicone dragging deliberately against your g-spot.

Your toes curl tight, a high whine escaping as the pressure builds unbearably.

Vi leans in, capturing your lips in a messy, desperate kiss, her tongue invading your mouth as she murmurs, "Take every bit of what I’m about to give you."

She sits up then, hands pinning your thighs as she starts fucking into you, hips snapping forward with controlled power. Each thrust knocks the air from your lungs, your eyes watering from the relentless pounding.

Vi smirks down at you, sweat beading on her forehead, her muscles rippling with every drive.

Releasing one thigh, she moves her hand to press right above your mound, fingers splaying to feel the strap drag in and out.

The added pressure makes you gasp, the overwhelming friction amplifying everything, your orgasm barreling toward you at breakneck speed. 

You cry out, thighs twitching as you try to close them, but Vi's grip holds firm—one hand on your leg, the other elbowing your thigh wide.

"Hold your leg up," she snarls when you try to shy away from the intensity. "I want to see every bit of what I’m doing to you."

Weakly, trembling through the building wave, you obey, hooking your arm under your knee to keep yourself spread. The orgasm crashes over you, pussy spasming around the strap, juices soaking her harness as you sob, vision blurring into white heat, as Vi keeps the pace, unyielding even as you cum, her smirk widening as she watches you come apart at the seams.

Vi only slows when your gasps turn into hollow desperate sounds.

She pulls out with a heavy, suctioned pop, the air hitting your over-sensitized core like ice. She delivers a sharp, stinging slap to your inner thigh, the sound ringing through the room. 

"I don't pussy out," she breathes, leaning in to lick a stray tear from your cheek. "And you’re going to stay open just like that until I say you’re done."

<- CH 6 masterlist CH 8->

taglist: @thefantasticmissvixen @vxtanne31 @seasonsofchaos @oceantides-and-daffodils @twinkyfemmes @pixiegirlsy @caitlyns-left-mountain @vahnilla @ellielover69 @cutflwr @savedforlaterr @my-fabulousness-has-arrived @pugh-bug

comment to let me know if you want to be added or removed from the list! ( I don’t tag ageless blogs )

[sashasinfully]

CH 6 : Checked Out

series: COUNTERPUNCH • Boxer!Vi x Nurse Practitioner!fem reader

warnings: 18+, nsfw, sexual tension, power imbalance, dom/ sub dynamics, internal conflict, workplace boundary tension, jealousy, pussy eating, messy feelings, profanity, slight teasing, confrontation, nosey friend, sorry if any are missing…

wc: 6.2k

You eventually retreat to your room, moving through the penthouse on autopilot. The night stretches on in fragments: the hum of the city outside, the soft glow of your phone screen, the faint echo of music still lodged in your ears.

Sleep doesn’t come immediately.

Your thoughts keep circling back to the same jagged point, pressing at it with stubborn insistence. It’s like a bruise you can’t stop prodding—tender, localized, and impossible to ignore. It isn't even the specific memory of the touch that haunts you; it’s the terrifying ease of it. 

The way your body had leaned into the heat without permission. How dangerously thin the line had become between professional restraint and total surrender.

You tell yourself it was the residual hum of the alcohol. The suffocating closeness of the room. The inevitable result of mounting tension with nowhere else to settle.

The explanation barely holds.

In the quiet, the realization settles in with uncomfortable clarity: your boundaries aren’t the solid, reinforced walls you’ve been pretending they are. They’re porous. Frayed.

You’re closer to crossing them than you ever meant to be.

Eventually, the sheer weight of exhaustion begins to dull the sharpest edges of your thoughts. The frantic "why" and "how" of the night begin to blur, drifting into a quiet, hazy fog that finally pulls you under.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Morning arrives quietly.

Not gently, but without punishment.

Your head aches in that dull, distant way that suggests last night existed, but didn’t win. No nausea, no spinning, just a faint pressure behind your eyes and the kind of tired that sits deeper than sleep.

You blink up at the ceiling, and something warm brushes your cheek.

Inky.

She’s curled beside your pillow, one paw tucked under her chin, as if she’s been guarding you all night. A pent-up breath escapes your lungs as you finally push yourself into a sitting position, moving with measured caution.

From somewhere beyond your door, you hear movement.

Footsteps, cabinets, the faint scrape of a chair.

Vi.

Your stomach twists, a sharp coil of nerves that cuts right through the last of your morning haze. You pull a heavy sweatshirt over your head, the fabric muffled against your ears for a second before you step into the hallway. 

Vi stands by the counter, already dressed in gym clothes, toast clamped between her teeth, gym bag slung over one shoulder. She looks annoyingly normal, like nothing happened. Like last night was just another insignificant detail.

Her eyes flick toward you, when she senses your presence.

“Get dressed,” she says around the toast. “I want to go to the gym.”

Then she turns and walks into the living room, conversation apparently over.

You stand there for a moment, incredulous.

Of course she’d act like this.

Her voice reaches you a second later, softened by distance.

“I left some toast on the counter if you’re hungry.”

Your gaze drifts to the toaster, where two slices of bread sit untouched, still warm. Your stomach tightens, but whatever appetite you might have had is already gone. 

Instead, you reach for Inky’s bowl.

Dry food rattles softly as you pour it in, followed by the faint splash of water in the dish beside it. Inky pads over almost immediately, tail flicking once before she lets out a small, impatient meow.

“Hi, baby,” you whisper to her.

She lowers her head and starts eating, completely unbothered.

You watch her for a second, then you turn away and retreat back into your room.

You move through the routine on autopilot, pulling on sweatpants and sneakers without really registering the motions. 

The bathroom mirror catches you halfway, and you pause, studying the version of yourself staring back. 

You brush your teeth, rinse your mouth, let cold water run over your wrists and face, half-hoping the water might rinse away more than just the dregs of sleep. 

Your mind drifts back to last night, you wonder, briefly, if this is the point where boundaries should be rebuilt instead of tested. Whether you should bring it up. Shut it down before it grows teeth.

The thought lingers, then loosens.

Not now, you decide, the coward’s comfort. Later.

You grab your bag and phone, fingers steadier than the thoughts racing behind them, and leave the bathroom with the uneasy sense that you’re postponing something you won’t be able to avoid forever.

Back into the living room, Vi is adjusting the strap of her gym bag.

Your eyes drift, almost automatically, to her shoulder.

The memory hits you without warning.

You remember the first time your hands touched her for a reason that wasn’t loaded.

She watched your hand move across the paper like it was something personal.

When you offered the aftercare sheet, she didn’t take it.

“You’re benching me,” she said.

And yet, she’s still going to the gym. Still pushing. Not recklessly anymore, though. Not the way she used to.

For the most part, she’s been careful, listening, adjusting when you tell her to. It’s subtle, but it’s there. Proof that she’s taking your words seriously, even when she acts like she isn’t.

Vi catches you staring.

Her brow lifts, faintly smug, like she’s already mapped out the inside of your head. She finishes the last bite of toast, wipes her thumb across her lip, then drags a hand through her hair in a lazy sweep.

“You coming or not?” she asks.

You hesitate for half a second before nodding and following her out the door.

The elevator ride down is quiet, the kind that settles between people who are pretending nothing has shifted.

Vi scrolls through her phone beside you, composed. Her eyes flick to yours for a moment before she locks the screen and slips her phone into her pocket.

“What’s on your mind?”

You’re certain she can feel it, that she’s been tracking your spiraling thoughts from a distance and finally decided to call your bluff. 

You look away, “Nothing.”

The word sounds thin and unconvincing even to your own ears. Mercifully, the elevator doors chime and slide open, and you step out before she can press you any further.

Cool air rushes over your skin as the garage opens up around you, all concrete and echoing space, the city humming somewhere above. 

Vi’s car waits where it always does. She unlocks it, tosses her bag into the backseat, then drops into the driver’s seat. You slide into the passenger side, pulling the door shut as the engine turns over.

The garage peels away as she steers toward the exit. The light seeps through the windshield in pale streaks.

“So,” Vi says casually, eyes on the road, one hand resting on the wheel. “When do I get cleared to actually hit someone again?”

“Two to three weeks,” you reply. “Light sparring only. And that’s assuming you keep up with PT.”

“How often is ‘keep up’?” she asks, already sounding suspicious.

“Two, ideally three sessions a week,” you say without hesitation. “Plus mobility work on off days.”

Vi exhales through her nose, not quite a groan, not quite a complaint. “That’s unfair.”

You glance at her then, catching the hard, flat line of her mouth. You know that look, you hear the resistance before she says it.

“Your shoulder’s healing fast,” you add, softer now. “If it keeps progressing like this, you’ll probably land closer to the two-week mark.”

Vi’s shoulders ease a fraction.

“Yeah?” she says.

“Yeah.”

She nods once, as if accepting terms she doesn’t love but can live with.

The car glides onto the main road. Traffic is light, morning stretches ahead of you.

After a beat, you let the edge of your tone slip.

“Clearly you’re healing faster than expected,” you remark with a grin. “Must be the quality of your medical supervision. You’re welcome.”

Vi snorts.

“Yeah,” Vi drawls, eyes fixed on the road, voice smooth enough that it almost passes for sincere. There’s a faint edge to it, a knowing note. “With how professional you’ve been, my shoulder didn’t really have a choice.”

You turn on her instantly, scowl sharp. “Oh, will you stop it.”

Her laugh comes easy, like she’s been waiting for that. “Thank you, nurse.”

Before you can react, she reaches over and squeezes your thigh. The contact jolts through you.

You flinch, swatting her hand away. “Violet.”

She only chuckles, pulling back like she’s done nothing wrong, attention returning to the road.

You face the window again, jaw tight, gaze fixed on the blur of passing buildings.

Biting back a smile.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

The parking lot is crowded, cars wedged into every available space. Small clusters of fighters linger near the entrance, laughing loudly, stretching, arguing over something trivial. Someone leans against a hood, hand wraps half-done. Someone else shadowboxes beside a dented truck, breath fogging faintly in the cold.

Vi kills the engine and steps out first, rolling her shoulder once before grabbing her bag.

You follow a pace behind.

Inside, everything feels exactly as it always does. Platforms occupied, bodies in motion, coaches prowling the edges of the floor with sharp eyes. Chalk dust hangs faintly in the air.

“Yo, Vi.”

A guy near the front desk lifts a hand in greeting. You glance at him, searching for the name that refuses to surface. He’d been at the get-together. 

“What’s up,” Vi nods, barely slowing.

He looks past her, eyes flicking toward you.

“Oh,” he adds, grin sharpening, “you brought your roomie.”

Vi pauses, eyes shifting to you for a split second before returning to him.

“What?” she says, a beat too late.

She hesitates, lips parting like she’s about to say something else, then shifts gears mid-thought.

“Oh. Yeah, she— yeah.”

The words come out uneven, like she’s smoothing over something that didn’t need smoothing.

A sudden, traitorous spark flickers in your chest. 

It’s a quiet satisfaction, watching her stumble over the simple fact that she had previously introduced you as her roommate. You tuck your chin, biting back a tug at the corner of your mouth.

She steps forward and slides a laminated card across the counter. The woman at the front desk barely looks up as she scans it and hands it back.

Vi takes it, then turns slightly toward you.

“You remember AJ, right?” she says, casual, like it’s nothing. “From the get-together?”

You nod. “Yeah. Hi, AJ.”

AJ’s grin softens into something friendlier. “Hey.”

You’re about to move past him when something shifts in your peripheral vision.

Footsteps, familiar ones.

You turn just as Markus comes up beside you, coffee in hand, expression too awake for this hour.

“Morning, nurse,” he says lightly.

Before you can respond, he glances between you and Vi, smirking. “Damn. You’re really making sure she stays in line, huh?”

AJ’s eyebrows lift. He looks at you again, slower this time. “Oh. You’re a nurse?”

Markus turns toward him, entirely too pleased with himself. “Yeah,” he says. “She’s Vi’s nurse. The one making sure our star heals up fast.”

AJ opens his mouth. “Oh, but, I thought—”

His eyes flick toward Vi.

Vi’s expression is unreadable, but you catch the ghostly shape of the words on her lips.

Shut the fuck up.

AJ freezes for half a second, then closes his mouth with a soft click.

“Uh,” he says, recovering badly. “Yeah. I mean. Props to you.”

The timing is so disastrous, that you can’t help it.

A laugh slips out.

Vi turns her head slowly. Her eyes narrow just enough to lock onto yours, and for a heartbeat, you think she’s actually angry, until you see the faint, begrudging smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“Oh, so this is funny to you?” she murmurs. 

She shakes her head, a huff of exasperation escaping her, and strides toward the main floor without waiting for an answer. Markus stands there, looking between the two of you like he’s missing half the pages of a book.

“What?” he asks, his voice echoing the confusion in the room. “Did I miss something?”

You straighten your posture, your chest still tight as you fight the lingering remains of that smile. “Nothing, Markus. Don't worry about it.”

You move after Vi, passing AJ on your way in.

“Nice meeting you,” you say lightly over your shoulder.

Vi drops her bag beside an empty mat, rolls her neck once, then glances back at you.

Markus appears at her side almost instantly. He pushes past you with the practiced entitlement of someone who has owned this space for years, his coach-persona snapping into place. His coffee abandoned somewhere behind him.

“Alright,” he says, a single, sharp clap of his hands puncturing the air. “We’ll start light. Mobility, activation, then we build.”

Vi doesn’t argue, that alone feels new.

She begins with controlled shoulder rotations. You step back just enough to observe, your eyes tracking the mechanics of the joint, looking for the tell-tale hitch of restricted movement.

“Keep the range smaller,” you say quietly when you see her shoulder blade begin to hike toward her ear.

Vi adjusts the movement instantly, her focus shifting to your voice without comment. Markus catches the exchange. He opens his mouth, a reflexive objection clearly hovering on his tongue, but then he looks at Vi, sees her compliance, and closes it again. 

Next comes resistance bands. External rotations. Scapular retractions. Vi’s jaw tightens as the muscles engage, but she doesn’t push past what you’ve already set.

“Five more,” Markus says.

“Three,” you correct gently.

Markus stills. He studies you for a long second, his eyes narrowed as if measuring your resolve against his own. 

Finally, he nods once. “Three.”

Vi finishes the set, breath steady, eyes flicking briefly toward you like she’s checking if she passed something invisible.

You offer a small, affirming nod.

The workout continues in that strange, triadic rhythm.

Controlled lifts, core stabilization, modified push variations that don’t stress the injured joint. Every time Markus tries to inch the intensity up, you shake your head once.

And every time, he backs off.

AJ drifts into your peripheral vision somewhere along the way. He goes through the motions of his own routine nearby, the rhythmic clink-clink of plates, the heavy thud of a medicine ball, but his attention is a tether, always snapping back to the three of you.

By the time Vi moves into her cooldown, Markus has already stepped away, his phone pressed to his ear as he paces the far end of the gym.

Vi lowers herself onto the mat with a grunt of effort, her legs stretched out and her palms braced behind her. You kneel beside her, the gym floor cool against your shins. 

“Don’t force the range,” you murmur, fingers firm where muscle meets bone, guiding her shoulder with practiced precision.

“I’m not,” she snaps, the irritation sharp enough to cut. But despite the bite in her voice, she eases back, her muscles yielding under your touch.

AJ pulls out one earbud.

He watches for a moment, then walks over with a look on his face, like he’s trying to talk himself out of it..

“So,” he says, trying for casual and not quite landing there.

Vi doesn’t even do him the courtesy of looking up. “So what?”

AJ scratches the back of his neck, his eyes flicking between the two of you. “I’m just… curious.”

He doesn’t finish the thought, but he doesn't have to. You feel the weight of his confusion instantly. To an outsider, the optics are messy, because they are. 

Nurses don’t usually move into their patients' penthouse, and they don’t get introduced as "roommates".

But none of that is your debt to pay. You don't owe him an explanation.

Vi’s gaze lifts finally, slow and reflexive, like a predator spotting movement in the brush. “Curious about what?”

AJ hesitates, his bravado flickering. “I don’t know. Just… trying to figure out the situation. The whole setup.”

“I can’t really comment,” you say, your voice flat, a perfect wall of stone. “HIPAA.”

Technically, it’s true. But in reality, it’s a tactical retreat. It’s easier to invoke a federal privacy law than to explain a relationship that shapeshifts.

Say HIPAA, and people usually stop asking questions. Say HIPAA, and curiosity turns into a respectful, slightly awkward caution. Say HIPAA, and the door slams shut.

AJ blinks, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “…Yeah,” he says after a beat, his pride taking a visible hit. “Makes sense.”

For a second, a flicker of something dark and amused crosses Vi’s face, she looks like she might laugh and hate herself for the impulse at the same time. She exhales through her nose, a short, sharp sound.

“She’s my practitioner,” Vi says, her voice clipped, and yet somehow intensely personal. “She’s helping with rehab.” Her fingers flex against the mat, digging in slightly. 

“And she’s living with me so I don’t do anything stupid,” she adds, her eyes finally sliding away from AJ’s searching look.

A pause follows, thick with the smell of old gym floor and new tension.

“…She’s been good to me. And for me,” Vi finishes, the volume of her voice dropping an octave.

You keep your expression neutral, but something in you softens anyway, caught off guard by how easily she said it, like it was obvious. Like it mattered.

AJ nods. “Yeah. Got it.”

He steps back, slipping his earbud in again, but his expression stays thoughtful.

You guide Vi into the final stretch.

"Okay, you’re good," you say.

Vi doesn’t wait for anything else.

She grabs her bag from the floor and heads toward the locker room, stride steady, like the conversation never touched her.

You’re left standing there with the echo of it, the hum of the machine AJ is using beside you still vibrating faintly through the floor.

You shift your weight, count your breaths, pretend you’re not aware of how the silence has thickened around you.

A minute passes.

Then AJ’s rhythm falters. His reps lose their edge, movements turning slower, less focused. He glances up, hesitates, and finally pulls one earbud free.

“Hey.”

You look over.

AJ hesitates, his thumb hooked into the waistband of his gym shorts. He looks like he’s mentally weighing his words, sifting through what he wants to say versus what he should. 

When he finally speaks, his tone is a strange, neutral territory, not quite accusing, but lacking the warmth of a true peer. It’s the voice of a man making a reluctant peace treaty.

“I’m not gonna say anything to anyone,” he says, his eyes searching yours for a reaction. “About the... living situation. Not my business.”

You nod once, professional acknowledgement. You don't offer him a "thank you," because thanking him would imply there was something shameful to hide. 

He studies you for a long second, his gaze staying on your face as if trying to find the crack in your armor. Then, he exhales a heavy cloud of air through his nose.

“But,” he continues, quieter now, “you’re obviously good at what you do. If Vi let you move in with her and actually listens to you… that says something.”

His mouth twitches, a fleeting, ghostly shadow of a smile that doesn't quite make it to his eyes.

“I’ve known her for years,” he adds, and there it is, that subtle flex of longevity. “She rarely lets me crash on her couch.”

There’s no real bitterness in his voice, just surprise. Maybe a little wounded pride.

“So,” he finishes, giving a small, stiff shrug that ripples through his shoulders. “Thanks. For taking care of my friend.”

For a second, you don’t know what to say.

You’re not supposed to feel anything about that. Gratitude isn’t part of the job, neither is guilt. And yet, both flicker somewhere under your ribs.

You keep your expression neutral.

“She’s… a good person,” you say after a beat.

It feels like the safest thing you’re allowed to say.

AJ nods once, as if that answer is enough to satisfy whatever internal check-list he’s running. He slips his earbud back in, the muffled thud of bass leaking into the air as he turns back toward the weights.

His words coil in your mind, souring slightly as you process them. 

It rubs you the wrong way, the way he plays off his nosiness as "concern." He isn’t worried—he’s asserting presence, making sure his voice is the one that gets heard. To you, it reads less like friendship and more like insecurity dressed up as loyalty.

You’re still chewing on the irritation, wondering if everyone in Vi’s orbit is this protective—or this observant—when your phone vibrates in your pocket.

Vi: I need you to wrap my shoulder.

You glance back once. AJ’s no longer paying attention, lost in his routine. Markus is still on the phone near the entrance, pacing.

You grab your bag, and head toward the locker room.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

The air inside is cooler.

Vi sits on one of the benches, bag at her feet. Her shirt is halfway off, pulled over her head, shoulders bare. She doesn’t look up when you enter.

“How does it feel?” you ask.

She shrugs.

“Fine.”

She tosses a strip of gauze and a roll of athletic tape toward you. You catch them automatically.

You step closer, eyes scanning her shoulder.

“Don’t move,” you murmur.

You place your fingers lightly along the muscle near the joint, pressing with careful, measured pressure. Not enough to hurt, enough to test.

Vi flinches anyway.

“The fuck,” she snaps, tension flashing through her voice, “it doesn’t feel fine when you do that shit.”

You withdraw your hand immediately.

“I’m just checking it,” you say evenly.

She rolls her eyes, scoffing.

You start wrapping, movements methodical. 

Her phone rings, and Vi lifts it without thinking.

You don’t mean to look.

But you do. 

Rita.

Your stomach tightens instantly.

Vi stares at the screen for a second, then declines the call with a sharp tap. She exhales slowly, scrubbing a hand over her mouth as if trying to wipe away a curse.

You pause with the tape half-finished.

Long enough for her to notice, her eyes flick up at you.

“Say it.”

You finish the wrap in silence, smoothing the last strip into place. Then you step back, crossing your arms.

“Say what?”

She stands, turning to face you fully now.

“Ask me about her.”

You shift your weight, your focus fracturing as you find something, anything, else to look at.

“Why would I?” you mutter. “I said it was your life.”

She flashes a quick smirk before she turns away from you, rummaging through her bag.

Your eyes catch on the lines of ink across her back. The way muscle moves beneath skin, the way her breath lifts her shoulders, slow and controlled.

She turns back around, towel in hand.

“Are you checking me out again, nurse?”

You look away instantly.

She chuckles under her breath and brushes past you.

You hesitate, then turn after her. “Why didn’t you answer?”

She stops, and slowly, she looks back at you. Annoyance flickers across her face, sharp and brief.

“Because,” she says flatly, “I don’t want you thinking I’m someone who fucks their fans all the time.”

She turns away again, then pivots back, eyes narrowing.

“Sorry,” she adds, lifting her hands in exaggerated quotation marks. “Some fan I met at the diner.”

The words land exactly where she intends them to.

“I know what I said was rude,” you snap, voice tight. “And judgmental. I shouldn’t have said it. I already apologized.”

Vi watches you.

“So bringing it up again?” you continue. “It’s unnecessary.”

She raises her hands in a brief, almost mocking gesture of surrender.

“Alright,” she says lightly.

And then she turns away, and heads toward the showers without looking back.

You remain motionless for a second longer before finally snatching up your bag and heading for the exit.

You cross the main floor without stopping, past the machines, past the ring, past AJ, who doesn’t look up this time.

The doors creak open, spilling you out into the parking lot where the air finally feels thin and clean. 

You stop beside Vi’s car, lean back against the door, and wait. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

By the time the last of the dishes are dried and put away, the penthouse has settled into its usual, expensive quiet—the kind of silence that feels heavy, like it’s waiting for someone to break it.

You’re stretched across the length of the couch, one leg hanging off, foot tapping rhythmically on the floor. 

Your phone is balanced loosely in your palm, the glow of the screen reflecting in your eyes as you thumb mindlessly upward. Paragraphs of text scroll past, but the words are just grey blurs; your brain isn't recording any of it.

You haven’t said more than a handful of words to Vi since the gym. It isn't a "silent treatment" or a lack of things to say, it’s the mental exhaustion of editing yourself. 

Every potential conversation starter feels like a live wire, like one wrong syllable might trip a circuit and blow the fragile peace you’ve managed to scrap together.

The soft, rhythmic friction of footsteps on the hardwood approaches from the hallway. 

You don’t move until you feel the weight of your feet being nudged aside to make room.

Vi drops onto the couch beside you, pushing your legs just enough to make space. She reaches for the remote, and flips the TV on. Some show flickers to life, voices spilling into the room.

She watches for a few seconds, then she pauses it.

You tilt your phone down, peering over the top of the screen to find her already looking at you.

“Are you working tomorrow?” she asks.

“No,” you say, the word feeling a little dry in your throat.

“Wanna go to the fair?”

You hesitate, the invitation hanging between you like a trap. “Aren’t you worried someone might recognize you?” you ask quietly, your thumb tracing the edge of your phone. “See me with you? Start rumors or something?”

Vi lets out a short, breathy laugh that doesn't reach her eyes. “No.”

“Well,” you mutter, your gaze dropping back to the safety of your phone, “I am.”

The weight of the couch shifts as she moves closer, tapping your knee with her fingertips—a light, rhythmic touch that makes your skin prickle.

“Are you worried about a rumor,” she says, her tone dropping into a dangerous, casual drawl, “or about some fan giving me their nu—”

You move before she can finish.

You bolt upright, the phone forgotten as you close the distance between you. Your hand clamps over her mouth, muffling the rest of her sentence. 

“Violet,” you whisper, the name a jagged mix of a warning and a plea. “I swear. Stop it.”

For a heartbeat, neither of you moves. Under the curve of your palm, you feel the slow, unmistakable spread of her smile. She isn't repentant; she’s delighted.

You yank your hand back, the heat of her skin lingering on your palm, and start to recoil. But Vi doesn't retreat. She follows your movement, leaning forward just enough to close the gap and brush a quick, fleeting kiss against your lips.

It’s nothing, a ghost of a touch, gone before you can even register the softness of it—but it feels like lightning caught in a whisper.

A startled sound escapes you as you scramble backward, your limbs tangling as you nearly slide off the leather cushions. Heat floods your face, a hot, prickling wave that makes your ears ring.

“Vi— I— what—” The words are a wreck, tangled and useless in your mouth. Your brain has gone completely offline, replaced by a frantic, buzzing static.

She watches you with a small smirk, brows lifting slightly.

You don't wait for her to say anything else. You scramble to your feet and bolt, turning your back on her and retreating down the hallway. You move fast, like the floor might turn to liquid and swallow you whole if you slow down for even a second.

The bedroom door clicks shut, a soft, final sound that feels like a shield.

You pace the room once, then again, your pulse thundering in your throat. It’s too much adrenaline for a moment that lasted less than a second.

“Oh fuck,” you breathe, pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes.

It’s not panic, it’s something much more difficult to manage. It’s the lingering warmth on your mouth and the way that one stupid, brief peck managed to send a sharp, electric ache straight through the center of your chest.

It shouldn’t matter. It was a fraction of a second, a playful provocation that she probably isn’t even overthinking. And yet, the sensation remains, quiet, persistent, and heavy, settling into the hollow space beneath your ribs like a secret you didn't ask to keep.

You strip out of your clothes with clumsy, hurried movements, tossing them aside until you're down to your panties. You yank an oversized t-shirt over your head, the worn fabric falling in a loose, comforting weight against your thighs. 

Every movement feels restless, charged with an energy you can’t shake, like you’re trying to outrun a phantom itch curling just beneath the surface of your skin.

You flop onto the bed, the mattress sighing under you. You stare up at the ceiling, tracing the faint patterns in the plaster, trying to force your pulse to stop its frantic hammering.

A few minutes pass, the silence of the penthouse stretched thin, before a sharp knock echoes against the wood of your door.

“Hey, you okay?” Vi's voice filters through. 

You freeze, then call out, “Yeah, fine,” though your voice sounds higher, thinner than usual.

The knob turns with a slow click. She pushes the door open just enough to lean against the frame, her arms crossed over her chest. Her eyes find yours instantly, locking on with a steady, unblinking intensity that makes the room feel ten degrees hotter.

You push yourself upright, your palms flat against the bed, sitting to face her.

“Vi—” you start, intending to sound firm, but the name comes out as a mere ghost of a sound, breathless and dangerously unsure.

She doesn’t rescue you with a joke. She doesn’t say anything at all for a long, agonizing moment. Instead, she steps fully into your space, her back to the door as she pushes it shut. The click of the latch sounds like a gavel.

“You ran,” she says lightly. She tilts her head, her gaze tracking the way you’re holding your breath, like she’s studying a puzzle she’s already solved.

You open your mouth to argue, to claim you were just tired or that you forgot something, but the lie dies in your throat. No sound comes out.

She steps closer, stopping directly in front of you, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off her.

“Did you like it,” she asks, her voice dropping into a low, vibration that makes your toes curl, “when I did this the other night?”

Her hand moves then, trailing lightly down your chest, her knuckles grazing the thin fabric of your shirt. The touch is feather-soft, sending sparks dancing across your skin. 

When she flicks your nipple, it hardens instantly, and a shudder ripples through you despite your best efforts to remain still and play it cool.

Vi's hand continues its path, splaying wide as she hovers just between your legs, inches from the heat building there, before she presses against you. 

Her palm radiates warmth through your panties, and you can't help the soft sigh that escapes you, knowing she is waiting, daring you to make the next move, to admit what your body is screaming.

You look away. 

Vi scoffs, a low, frustrated sound. 

"Why do you have to be so stubborn?" she asks, a barely-there smile tugging at her expression.

"I'm not stubborn," you retort, your voice quieter than intended, but you meet her gaze again, defiant. "I just... We shouldn't be doing this."

She taps your thighs lightly with her fingers, a silent command hanging in the air. 

You hesitate, pulse thundering in your ears, but the want between your legs wins out. Slowly, you part your knees, exposing yourself.

Vi's finger traces up your inner thigh, inching toward your pussy. 

Your core clenches, aching with need you haven't fully acknowledged until now. She pauses right at the edge of your panties, her gaze dropping to the fabric. 

"Do you like when I touch you?" she murmurs.

You swallow hard, forcing nonchalance. 

"This is…nothing," you try to insist, but your body betrays you, hips twitching involuntarily as her finger presses against panties.

Heat crashes over you, embarrassment flooding in as you realize you haven't even noticed how wet you've gotten, arousal seeping through the cotton. 

She leans in, her face inches from yours, breath mingling with your own. You stare at her, caught in those blue depths.

"Be honest with yourself," she whispers, and then her lips press onto yours.

The kiss is explosive, shattering your resolve. 

You kiss her back fiercely, one hand wrapping around her throat, fingers digging in just enough to pull her closer. Hunger surges through you, raw and startling. Only now do you understand how long you’ve been carrying this, how quietly the tension between you has been building toward something inevitable.

Vi hums against your lips, the vibration sending shivers down your spine. Her hand catches your wrist, gently but firmly prying it from her neck. 

In one smooth motion, she grabs your hips and yanks you to the edge of the bed, the sheets bunching under you.

Before you can process, her fingers hook into your panties and tug them down your legs, exposing you completely. Cool air brushes your slick folds, and you freeze, caught off guard.

Vi's eyes fix on your pussy, bare and glistening. 

She bites her lip, a low "oh fuck" slipping from her under her breath. 

Heat crawls up your neck, flushing your cheeks, but god, you love it, the raw want in her expression, the way she devours you with her gaze.

She drops to her knees in front of you, hands gripping your thighs to spread you wider. You prop yourself up on your elbows, watching her, heart slamming against your ribs. 

Vi's lips press kisses up your inner thighs, hot and teasing, inching closer to where you throb.

Your body wants to squirm, to arch into her, but you fight it, swallowing the moan bubbling in your throat.

She grins up at you, sensing your restraint, then leans in and drags her tongue in a slow, flat stripe up your pussy, from entrance to clit. 

Pleasure lances through you, your hands fist the sheets, knuckles white, as you bite back the sounds threatening to escape.

No way you'd give her that satisfaction, not yet.

"Yeah, keep trying to act like this has no effect on you," Vi teases, voice muffled before she dives in fully, tongue lapping at your folds, sucking your clit with firm pulls.

It feels incredible, waves of heat coiling tight in your belly. 

You bite down on your lip hard, tasting the metallic tang, every ounce of willpower poured into silence. Your eyes flutter shut against your will, lost in the sensation, before you force them open again.

Vi is staring right at you, eyes locked on yours as her tongue circles your clit. The intensity of that gaze turns you on impossibly more, goosebumps erupting across your skin like wildfire.

Whatever control you had left dissolves.

"Oh shit, Violet," you gasp, one hand shooting down to tangle in her hair, pulling her head closer.

Your hips buck, grinding your pussy against her tongue, chasing the friction. "Please don't move," you whine.

You hold her head there as moans tear from your throat, unrestrained now.

For a moment, your eyes drift downward, watching as Vi's tongue moves over you. 

The sight is almost too much to bear, and you feel your heart knocking loudly in your chest, threatening to burst free from your ribcage. A thought hovers on the tip of your tongue, fragile and dangerous, and you swallow hard, trying to summon the courage to speak it aloud.

Your fingers tighten slightly in her hair, then loosen again.

"Vi…" Your voice comes out quieter than you mean it to. You hesitate, breath uneven, eyes flickering away before finding her again. "Can you—" 

You falter, heat crawling up your neck. "…please look at me?"

Vi's eyes meet yours again, fierce and unwavering, and that connection snaps something inside.

Your orgasm hits like a storm, crashing over you in shuddering waves. You come hard, pussy clenching around nothing, hips stuttering to a halt as ecstasy rips through you.

“Ffuucckkk,” you moan out.

You try to pull away, overwhelmed, but Vi's arms wrap around your hips, yanking you back. Her mouth latches onto your clit, sucking relentlessly.

You scream her name, back arching off the bed, knees clamping down around her head. 

Your vision blurs at the edges, stars bursting behind your eyelids as you moan and curse loudly, body shaking as you fully surrender to her.

As the tremors finally subside, you lie there, panting and flushed, Vi's head still nestled between your thighs.

<- CH 5 masterlist CH 7->

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