Boxer!Vi x Boxer–Masc/Butch!Reader [PT.1]
Summary: After an intimate boxing match, you touch yourself in the dark to the ghost of Vi's hands.
W/C: 1,479
18+
[boxing] [masturbation] [needy rivals] [touch starvation] [post-fight] [lonely] [violent desire] [unspoken desires] [yearning]
Pt.2
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I’ve never been touched the way Vi touched me tonight.
That’s the thought that loops through my head as I peel off my hand wraps in the dark of my bedroom. The tape clings to my knuckles, damp with sweat and the ghost of her. My whole body is a bruise in progress—ribs, jaw, the hinge of my left hip where she drove a knee in to break my clinch. But underneath the throb of pain, there’s another pulse. Hotter. Stubborn.
I should ice my shoulder. I should rehydrate. Instead, I lie back on the crumpled sheets, still in my fight shorts and the loose tank I threw on after the shower. The apartment is quiet except for the distant hum of the freeway. No roommates. Just me and the replay button in my skull.
Vi.
We’ve circled each other for months—same gym, same weight class, same quiet recognition that we’re the two best in the room. She’s not friendly. Neither am I. But tonight, in the ring, with the crowd reduced to a muffled roar beyond the ropes, there was no one else. Just her sharp grin, the sweat pasting her pink hair to her temples, the way her biceps cut shadows under the overhead lights.
When she moves, it's all roughness and precision. I’ve watched her spar a hundred times, but watching from the corner is nothing compared to having her inside my reach, her breath hot on my cheek, the grit of her shoulder against my collarbone as she shoves me back into the ropes.
I close my eyes, and my right hand drifts down my stomach of its own accord. Fingers skating over the waistband of my shorts. Not yet. Not quite.
I think about the first exchange.
She came out southpaw, which I expected. What I didn’t expect was the feint—a dip of her lead shoulder that pulled my guard up, and then a liver shot that landed clean. I remember the shock of it, the way my breath turned to steam in my chest. And the way she didn’t celebrate. Just reset her stance, those eyes locked on mine, attentive.
I touched her back a minute later. A cross that caught her cheek, snapping her head to the side. She liked it. I saw it in the curl of her lip, the way she rolled her neck afterward like I’d just cracked a good knot. That’s when the fight changed. It stopped being about winning. It started being about feeling each other.
My hand dips lower. Past the elastic. My shorts are loose, cotton, easy. My fingers find damp heat already waiting. I’m not surprised. My body knew where this was going before my brain gave permission.
I trace light circles, just breathing. The first touch makes my hips twitch involuntarily. I’m tender from the fight in more ways than one, but tenderness isn’t the same as fragility. I press harder, remembering the graze.
Round two. We clinched against the ropes, forehead to forehead. Vi’s fist pressed against my sternum, not punching, just holding me there. I could smell her—soap, salt, something metallic like blood from a split lip she got last week that had barely healed. Her thigh slid between mine as she angled for a knee. Not deliberate. Not not deliberate. In the moment, I shoved her off. But in my memory, I let the pressure linger.
God.
I slide one finger inside myself, slow, and the stretch makes me gasp. I add a second, working into a rhythm that matches the fight’s tempo—fast bursts, then patient circling, then fast again. My other hand fists the sheet. I’m not quiet. There’s no one to hear.
Her body. Lean and muscled. The cut of her obliques. The way her sports bra rode up during the third round, showing the pale skin of her lower ribs, and how I wanted—for one insane, crystalline second—to put my mouth there. Not bite. Just taste. She had a bruise flowering on her hip from an earlier match. Purple and yellow, tender-looking. I imagined pressing my thumb into it just to feel her flinch.
I’m close already. Embarrassingly close. But I slow down, because I don’t want to finish yet. I want to stay in the memory.
The fourth round was the best one. We were both exhausted, which meant the masks came off. No more feints, no more setups. Just pure, ugly, beautiful instinct. She caught me with an uppercut that lifted me off my feet for a second—I felt my brain rattle—and instead of stepping back, I stepped in. Crowded her. Let my chest press against hers, both of us dripping sweat, our legs tangling. The referee said something we didn’t hear.
For three seconds, we just breathed each other’s air. Vi’s eyes went wide, then narrow. She bit her lower lip, and I swear to God, it wasn’t focus. It was hunger.
I saw it because I felt the same thing.
My thumb finds my clit while my fingers curl deeper. I moan—a raw, broken sound—and arch off the bed. The ache in my ribs sharpens sweetly, reminding me where I am, who I’m thinking about.
She lost tonight by split decision. I got my hand raised. But walking back to my corner, I caught her staring at me from across the ring. Not angry. Not defeated. Just watching, the way you watch a storm come in. She nodded once. I nodded back. That was all.
But now, alone, I let myself imagine the thing I couldn’t say in the gym.
I imagine her in this room. Stripping off her wraps the way I just did, but slower, her eyes on me the whole time. She wouldn’t ask permission. She’d just climb onto the bed, straddle my hips, and press her full weight down until I felt every hard line of her. Her hands in my hair. Her teeth at my throat.
I imagine her taking my wrists and pinning them above my head—not hard, but firm, the way she controlled the clinch. And I imagine not fighting back. For once. Just letting her have me. Because she earned it. Because after four rounds of trading blows, there’s nothing left between us but the truth.
I want you to fuck me the way you fought me.
My hips lift off the mattress. I’m panting now, my rhythm stuttering, my inner muscles clenching around my fingers. I imagine Vi’s fingers instead. Callused knuckles from years of bag work. I imagine her parting my thighs with her knee, the way she’d murmur something low and mean—Is this what you wanted? Is this why you kept coming at me?—and I’d say yes. Yes. Yes.
I imagine her mouth.
Not kissing. Tasting. The flat of her tongue dragging up the inside of my thigh, skipping over where I’m wettest just to make me beg. And I would beg. I’d hate myself for it tomorrow, but tonight, in the dark, with the smell of her still on my skin somehow—on my hands, on my neck where she grazed me with a punch that came too close—I would beg like a dog.
Please. Vi. Right there. Don’t stop.
She wouldn’t stop. She’d be relentless. The way she is in the ring: patient, precise, cruel in the best way. She’d learn my body like a combination. Jab, cross, hook—except instead of fists, her fingers, her tongue, the press of her pelvis against mine while she grinds down and grins.
I’m so close I can taste it. My whole body is shaking. The fight adrenaline is gone, replaced by something softer and sharper at once, a blade wrapped in velvet.
I think about her face after the final bell. The sweat running down her throat. The way she spat out her mouthguard and looked at me like she wanted to tear me apart with her teeth.
That’s what pushes me over.
I come with a cry I don’t recognize—ragged, almost pained. My back bows. My thighs squeeze my hand tight, trapping it there as waves crash through me, each one stronger than the last. Behind my closed eyes, I see Vi’s grin. The one she gave me in round three, when we both knew we weren’t fighting anymore.
It goes on longer than I expect. Longer than it usually does. When I finally go limp, gasping at the ceiling, my hand is slick and my shorts are ruined and my entire body feels like it just ran a marathon in reverse.
I don’t clean up right away. I just lie there, listening to my heart slow down.
The ache in my ribs feels different now. Less like injury, more like memory.
A thought begins to form, curling smoke-soft through the dark:
Next time we’re in the ring, I’m going to lose on purpose. Just so she has to pin me down again.
°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞
