Can you do a fic for Olivia miles, and or Dom where them and reader are just overly freaked when it comes to each other.
Olivia Miles x Dominique Darius x fem!reader
Summary: You, Olivia, and Dominique have a situationship that’s entirely too obsessive, entirely too physical, and entirely too mutual.
Genre: Smutty tension, obsession, mutual thirst, chaotic affection
Warnings: MAYBE SMUT?, Strong sensual themes, suggestive dialogue, obsession, NSFW energy, emotional chaos
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
We were just going live. Just answering some questions. Saying hey.
But let’s be real—put three fine, 5’10, woman-loving athletes in the same apartment on break and hand them a phone? Yeah, something’s bound to shift.
The camera sits on the counter, propped up by a candle, angled to catch me in the foreground, chin resting in my palm. My gloss still glossy. Face dewy. My hoodie’s off the shoulder, legs crossed, thighs peeking under boxer shorts. I look like someone who’s trying to act casual but was literally feral in the mirror 10 minutes ago.
Behind me, Dom’s leaning on the fridge, thick arms crossed, tank on display like she knew the fans were gonna notice. Olivia’s leaned back against the island, hands tucked in her sweats, hoodie zipped halfway, glasses on, looking like the quiet problem she is. She hasn’t said much, but her presence is loud.
The live’s already hitting 20k views and climbing.
I scroll through the comments, smirking. “Y’all in here talking crazy already. Ain’t even been five minutes.”
Dom glances over, grinning. “What they say?”
I gesture. “‘Who arms is that in the back—Jesus.’” I laugh. “Like God personally crafted your shit.”
Dom lifts her arms just slightly, flexing without even trying. “They talkin’ ‘bout these arms?”
“Oh brother,” I sigh, throwing my head back with a grin. “Anyway…”
But the comments go insane. All caps. Rapid fire. “DOM LOOK FINE ASF.” “Y/N DON’T LOOK AWAY.” “WHO THAT IN THE GRAY SWEATS?” “IS THAT OLIVIA MILES???”
Olivia lifts her eyes to the camera for the first time. Just a glance. That’s all it takes.
I lean closer to the screen, like I don’t already know they’re losing it. “Why y’all typing in caps like I’m not right here?”
“You are,” Dom says, walking behind me. Her palm brushes my back lightly—nothing crazy, just… enough. “But we all know why they tuned in.”
I roll my eyes. “Who? Liv? Girl barely looked up.”
Olivia shrugs, licking her bottom lip slowly. “They not wrong.”
That’s the thing. We all do our own thing.
Dom got her vlogs, brand deals, that little “training arm day” series on TikTok that sends people straight to hell.
Liv be quiet, antisocial but heavy with the stare—glasses low, lips pursed, hoodie on, always in the corner somewhere looking real datable.
I’m lowkey. Boxer at UCB. Don’t do all the “look at me” shit unless it’s the ring or a fit check. But somehow I’m known. Quietly.
When we’re apart, it’s easy to pretend none of this exists. But when we’re together Everything feel too loud.
“You nervous?” Dom asks me suddenly.
“Why would I be nervous?”
“You been tapping your nails on the counter for like five minutes.”
I pause, looking down. I have been. I go still. Then I reach behind me, slowly running my fingers up the curve of Dom’s bicep. Not thinking. Just tracing.
“’Cause your arms feel like therapy,” I mumble.
Dom straightens slightly but doesn’t move away. “You tryna start something?” Her voice drops just a little.
I keep my eyes on the camera. “Am I?”
Liv finally steps forward from the island, slow and unbothered, like she got all the time in the world to collect me. She leans beside me on the counter, forearms on the marble, fingers curling loosely over the edge.
“Comment said you touchy today,” she says under her breath, brushing her shoulder against mine.
“That why you kept touching me on the plane?” Olivia asks, eyes glinting beneath her lashes.
Damn. Dom lets out a low whistle. “Y’all flirting for free?”
I slide my head onto her shoulder—sitting on the island now, my legs swinging, posture a little too comfortable like I don’t feel my body heating up from being this close to both of them. “We giving them content. You know. Fan service.”
“Mm,” Liv hums, taking a sip of her drink. “That what we calling it?”
“SHE’S ON DOM’S SHOULDER.”
“DAMN. Yall would have to physically remove me from all 3”
“IS THIS POLY??? DROP THE LINK.”
“LIV SMILING??? YEAH SHE GONE.”
Dom leans over to the camera, her grin slow and confident. “If y’all blow up this live, maybe we’ll drop the group chat name.”
“Stop,” I laugh, smacking her chest softly. “They’ll find it. They FBI.”
I don’t realize I left my hand there till Dom flexes and I feel it. I freeze.
Dom stares down at me. “You good?”
My fingers curl slightly around her arm. “I’m just…appreciating.”
Liv lets out a laugh that sounds like trouble. “You down bad.”
“You are,” Dom counters, brushing a knuckle under my chin. “But that’s cute.”
I look between them—Liv with her soft smirk and tense jaw, Dom with her hand still grazing my thigh.
We are not slick. They’re eating it up.
The live lasted longer than any of us planned. We weren’t even trying to do all that—just say hi, be cute, maybe hype up Dom’s arms and Liv’s little hoodie menace aesthetic—but the chat kept going. And so did we.
I finally tapped the screen, squinting at the time. “Damn. We been on here almost two hours.”
“Didn’t feel like it,” Olivia said from her spot leaning on the island. Her glasses had slid down the bridge of her nose, and she looked way too relaxed, hoodie sleeves pushed up, forearms out, voice low.
“It never do when you got attention,” Dom teased, tossing a berry into her mouth like she ain’t just spend the last twenty minutes letting me caress her damn triceps like a therapy dog.
I slid off the island, stretching my arms up with a small hiss. “Ouuu. Nah, I’m sore for real.”
Liv tilted her head. “From what?”
“Boxing gym before y’all came. I did pads and conditioning. I been pushing it lately.”
“You shoulda said something,” Dom murmured, walking past me toward the living room. “Woulda given you a massage.”
“You say that like you wouldn’t just flex and laugh if I flinched.”
She smirked over her shoulder. “I do like watching you flinch.”
“Y’all are unwell,” I muttered, following behind them.
The apartment felt colder now. Not bad—just cozy. You know the kind of cold that makes the couch feel softer, the hoodies feel thicker, the blankets hit harder? That cold where the TV doesn’t even matter ‘cause the vibe got you sunk into the cushions like a weight’s been lifted.
We didn’t even talk about what to do next. It just happened.
Dom stretched out first, dropping onto the L-shaped couch, taking the corner seat and throwing a blanket over her lap. Liv flopped down next, legs stretched long, taking her glasses off and cleaning them with the hem of her hoodie before propping them back on her nose.
I tried to wedge between them at first, blanket in hand. That lasted all of five seconds before Liv threw a thigh over mine like I was the couch. Dom had her arm around my shoulder casually like we’d been doing this for years.
Somehow, we all fit. Barely.
The show was playing—something background-worthy and low effort, probably Good Girls or Top Boy—but none of us were really watching. I was half dozing off, head on Liv’s stomach, my hand on Dom’s shin, cold air nipping at my legs.
“I can’t lie,” I mumbled. “This the best sleep setup.”
“It’s cold as hell in here,” Liv muttered, shifting to tuck the blanket higher. “Why your thermostat on disrespect?”
“You sleep better in the cold,” I said, yawning. “Body knows.”
Dom chuckled, voice low and thick. “That some boxer logic?”
“That’s some real logic.”
Another ten minutes pass. Dom’s fingers were playing in my hair now, lazy and slow. Liv’s hoodie was my pillow. I should’ve stayed still.
But the couch felt too warm. I needed to stretch. So I slid off. Right onto the floor. Flat on my back. Head near the base of the couch, legs slightly bent. Hoodie riding up. I grabbed a pillow and tossed it under my neck, eyes still on the screen.
They didn’t say anything for a second. Just… blinked.
Then Liv looked over the edge. “You good?”
I lifted my thumb in the air. “I’m tired.”
Dom leaned forward, peering down. “You look like a crime scene body.”
“I boxed like I was tryna kill the heavy bag. Arms dead. Lats cryin’. Mannn I deserve this floor.”
Olivia’s eyes were on me now. That long, slow kind of stare. She dragged the blanket over herself tighter but didn’t say anything for a beat.
Then she said, “You want me to rub ‘em out?”
I smirked. “Maybe later.”
“You say that like you think I’m playin’.”
“I know you’re not. That’s the problem.”
Dom’s laughing again. “Girl just lay there. You already home.”
That’s what it felt like. Cold air, warm couch, limbs touching, soft insults, and three fine women sprawled in a living room like we were made for this exact moment. No performance. No cameras. Just us.
And I was tired. But not from boxing. Not from the live. Not even from pretending not to stare when Olivia sipped slow or when Dom’s tank top showed too much shoulder.
I was tired ‘cause I knew what I wanted—and it was right here.
And that… that’s exhausting. So I closed my eyes, let the TV hum on, and drifted off. Wrapped in warmth I didn’t even have to ask for.
Don’t even remember opening my eyes. It’s just that quiet shift of awareness—like my body still thinks we got morning drills or sparring at 7:30. Can’t even sleep in right when I try.
The apartment’s dark-blue dim, sun not fully up, but I can feel it—light coming through the blinds, warming the air just enough to remind me that last night’s cold is over. That we made it through the night without doing something dumb. Barely.
I don’t move, though. Not yet.
I can feel it already. That soreness. Real soreness. Not “oh I pushed myself” sore. No. This is molecular. Like my shoulders got salt in them. Like my triceps got jumped in an alley. Like my lats are filing a complaint.
I stay wrapped in my blanket burrito, tucked up in my bed. Ain’t no point in moving if I’m just gonna grunt through every joint click.
Eventually—like a whole hour later—I hear the door crack open. Soft footsteps. Familiar ones.
Then the low thump of someone hitting the bed behind me.
“Still tired?” Olivia’s voice. Raspy. Morning low. Smooth.
Dom laughs. I hear her drop something—probably her phone—before she climbs in behind Liv, scooting close like we all ain’t built like athletes who take up a full mattress each.
I stay cocooned, eyes still closed. Maybe if I pretend to be dead they’ll leave me alone.
“Her ass did say she was sore,” Dom says, already shifting the blanket off my shoulder. “You sure you don’t want help?”
I don’t respond. Just groan and roll to my side, pulling the covers up to my chin like a damn child.
“You look so pathetic right now,” Liv teases gently.
“Don’t talk to me,” I mutter.
“Oh, now you got boundaries.”
Dom laughs again. Then I feel it—her fingers brushing lightly over my upper arm. Not rough. Just enough to test where the tension’s at. She drags her thumb up my bicep, into the shoulder groove, then down toward my tricep. I flinch.
“Damn,” she mutters, half amused, half concerned. “This ain’t even massage-level sore. This medical leave sore.”
“You gotta shut up while you do it,” I grumble, half into the pillow.
“You not gon’ tell me how to love you.”
“I am,” I groan. “Loving me quietly is the only right way.” But I let her do it anyway.
Dom keeps working on my arm, slow and thorough, finding every tender spot and pressing gently. Her thumb rotates in circles, her fingers gliding over the sore grooves like she got a damn license.
Olivia shifts next to her, head propped on her hand now. I can feel them both watching me, but I don’t move. I’m too busy fighting the way my toes curl every time Dom hits a sweet spot.
“So you serious about the draft?” Dom asks Liv, voice casual, like she not massaging me into full-body heat.
“I mean… it’s on my mind,” Liv says, yawning into her hoodie sleeve. “But I still got time. Gotta finish the season first. And figure out if I wanna take that fifth year.”
Dom hums. “You think about where you’d wanna go?”
“Minnesota, maybe. Or Atlanta. Depends on what they need. You?”
“Same. I just wanna hoop somewhere warm.”
They’re just talking. Two ballers, two stars, shooting the shit in my damn bed while one of them works her hands up and down my sore arm and I’m laid out like a half-dead cat in heat.
“I hate y’all,” I murmur into the pillow.
“You don’t,” Liv says smoothly. “You love us.”
Dom presses her thumb into a tight spot on my shoulder and I let out a little whimper—not dramatic, just honest.
Liv raises an eyebrow. “That sound like hate to you?”
“Nah,” Dom grins, working a knot near my neck. “That sound like she finna fall in love.”
“I’m already in love with my heating pad,” I mumble. “That’s all I got room for.”
Liv leans down a little. Her breath brushes my ear. “What about me?”
I don’t answer. I just squirm and bury my face deeper in the blanket, praying for mercy or rain.
Dom switches to my other arm without being asked. Same slow motion. Same careful pressure. She’s good at this. Too good.
“You’re oddly quiet now,” she notes. “You ain’t got no slick comments?”
“I’m trying not to moan.”
Olivia chokes laughing. “Okay honesty.”
“You asked,” I say, deadpan. “And I’m being so brave right now.”
“You deserve a medal,” Dom murmurs. “You also deserve me sittin’ on your back and working the knots out for real.”
“Later,” she teases. “Be still.”
The conversation shifts again—Liv talking about team dynamics, Dom offering shade about a girl on her team who never passes. I’m caught in the middle of it, letting the words blur while hands keep working over me.
It’s not sexual. Not really.
It’s care. Deep and quiet. Warm hands and soft words and two people I trust tucked in beside me like I’m some delicate shit instead of a boxer built like a problem.
And when they finally stop, when the last knot is rubbed and the pillow’s half soaked with my dramatic suffering, I crack one eye open.
“…Y’all tryna nap again or…?”
Dom grins. “We not doing shit until your attitude softens.”
Liv smirks. “She’s already soft.”
I blink slowly. “I will cry.”
Dom kisses the top of my head. “Good morning, crybaby.
We don’t make it to brunch. We say we’re gonna. Even talked about it—mimosas, hoodies, sunglasses like we ain’t fine as hell. A cute lil café maybe. Something light.
But that never happens. Because we’re on the bed. Still. And nobody’s hiding shit anymore.
Dom’s sitting against the headboard, legs spread, tank still on from last night but her sweats are sliding low on her hips. I’m draped across her thigh—like a house cat who fought her way into this position and dares anyone to question it. Olivia’s on my other side, laying on her stomach, chin propped in her hand, fingers tracing lazy lines along my lower back.
“Y’all don’t know how to act,” I mumble, eyes still half-closed. “It’s getting real touchy in here.”
Dom lets her hand drop to my waist. “You was touchy first.”
“You ain’t pull away though.”
Olivia hums behind me. “Exactly.”
I turn my head a little, peeking up at Dom from her lap. “So you not denying you down bad?”
She looks down at me, eyes soft but smirking. “Down horrible. Been bad since that clip of you training with your hair slicked back. I saved that shit.”
“Saved it,” she repeats proudly. “Watched it on the plane.”
Olivia stretches like she not about to make it worse. “You wanna talk about bad? Dom, she was shadowboxing in the mirror yesterday in a crop top. I walked out the room.”
“Because I knew if I didn’t leave I was gon’ end up behind you talking ‘bout ‘just one round.’”
Dom snorts. “Oh she wanted to be in the ring so bad.”
I sit up slowly, blanket slipping off my shoulder. “Y’all sound insane.”
“You sound fine,” Liv says, completely unfazed.
“And feel even better,” Dom mutters, hand now rubbing slow circles into my thigh. “Boxers built different.”
I’m quiet for a second. “So that’s all I am? A nice build and a jab?”
Dom raises an eyebrow. “Don’t start.”
“No fr,” Olivia cuts in, serious now. “You’re ridiculous.”
I blink. “Like in a good way?”
“In the way that I can’t stop thinking about you when you’re not around.”
Dom nods. “Like in the way I replay your voicenotes before practice.”
I sit there. Pillow in my lap. Blinking. “Y’all need therapy. We gone get yall some help.”
“You need to be kissed,” Olivia says, sitting up slow and tucking her leg under her.
I blink again. “You sound too sure.”
Dom taps her chest. “Me too.”
There’s a beat of silence. Nothing but the fan spinning slow and the air between us thickening by the second. Then Liv leans over and pulls me into her lap.
Her hands grip my thighs and pull me forward so I’m straddling her. “We not hiding shit anymore, right?”
My breath catches. “Guess not.”
Dom smirks, staying seated behind me, fingers brushing the back of my calf now. “Then let’s not pretend like we don’t all wanna ruin each other.”
My hand finds Liv’s jaw—slow, steady, dragging my thumb over the spot under her lip that always makes her twitch. She’s watching me, eyes low, lips parted.
“You gon’ kiss me?” I ask, voice quiet.
She does. Hard. Slow at first, then deeper—her fingers gripping tighter around my waist like she can’t help it. Like she needed this. I feel her tongue, her teeth gently catching my bottom lip, and I melt into it.
I don’t even realize how I’m rocking my hips until I hear Dom let out a low, “Damn.”
I pull back just enough to speak, lips still brushing Liv’s. “What?”
“She’s a grinder,” Dom mutters, voice thick.
“I am,” I whisper. “Period Kevin Gates”
Liv’s lips press to my jaw, then under my ear. Dom moves behind me, real slow, slipping a hand under the hem of my hoodie, dragging her fingers up my spine.
“You gon’ let us take care of you, huh?” she murmurs. “You always so strong. Always the fighter.”
“Yeah,” I breathe out, head tilting. “But not right now.”
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