Chapter Text
Yang's heart pounds against her ribs as she strides down the concrete corridor toward the arena. The distant roar of the crowd pulses through her veins, familiar as her own heartbeat. Sweat already beads along her hairline despite the chill of the air conditioning. Her eyes narrow as she catches a glimpse of Blake Belladonna warming up across the arena, that same infuriating half-smile playing at the corners of her opponent's mouth. Yang clenches her fists, nails biting into her palms. Tonight, she'll wipe that smug look off Blake's face for good.
The announcer's voice booms through the speakers as Yang steps onto the mat, the harsh lights beating down on her exposed shoulders. Her sports bra clings to her chest, already damp with sweat, and her shorts ride up her thick thighs as she stretches one final time.
"In the red corner, standing at five-foot-eight, with a professional record of seventeen wins and three losses... Yang! Xiao! Looooong!"
The crowd erupts, half cheers, half jeers. Yang raises her fists, acknowledging them with a tight smile that doesn't reach her eyes. She can feel Blake watching her, studying her like prey. The thought makes her jaw clench.
"And in the blue corner, standing at five-foot-six, with an undefeated record of fifteen wins... Blake! Bella! Donna!"
Blake steps forward with that casual grace that always makes Yang's blood boil. Her amber eyes lock onto Yang's, her gaze penetrating and calm. Like she's already calculated every move of this fight. Like she already knows the outcome.
They meet in the center of the ring for the referee's instructions. Blake's scent—something like sandalwood and sweat—invades Yang's space. Yang glares down at her, refusing to be intimidated.
"I've been waiting for this rematch," Yang growls, low enough that only Blake can hear.
Blake's lips twitch. "I know." Just two words, but they make Yang want to start swinging before the bell.
The referee pushes them apart. The bell rings. The fight begins.
Yang charges forward immediately, launching a flurry of punches aimed at Blake's head. Blake weaves away, her movements fluid and economical. Not a single punch connects. Yang follows with a vicious round kick that whistles through empty air as Blake ducks under it.
"Stand and fight, you coward," Yang hisses through her mouthguard, frustration already building in her chest.
Blake doesn't respond with words. Instead, she counterpunches, landing a sharp jab to Yang's ribs that makes her wince. Then another to her shoulder. A third to her jaw that snaps Yang's head back.
Yang shakes it off and comes forward again, more careful this time. She feints with her left, then throws her right in a hook that would knock Blake out if it landed. But Blake isn't there anymore, sliding to the side and delivering a kick to Yang's thigh that sends a shock of pain up her leg.
"Fuck!" Yang spits out her mouthguard as they break apart, circling each other. Sweat runs down her face, stinging her eyes. She can hear her corner shouting at her to calm down, to stick to the game plan, but all she can focus on is the calm expression on Blake's face.
The first round ends with Yang breathing hard and Blake looking like she's barely warmed up. Yang slumps in her corner, letting her cutman work on a small cut above her eye while her coach barks instructions she barely registers.
"She's baiting you," her coach warns. "Stop falling for it."
The second round begins with Yang trying to be more strategic, trying to cut off the ring and force Blake to engage. For a minute, it works. She manages to trap Blake against the cage, landing several body shots that make Blake grimace. Yang's confidence surges. She's got her now.
But Blake's counter comes out of nowhere—a sharp elbow that catches Yang's temple and makes her vision blur. She stumbles back, suddenly defensive as Blake advances with a series of precise punches and kicks that chip away at Yang's defenses.
By the third round, Yang is desperate. Blood trickles from her nose, and her left eye is starting to swell. Blake looks composed, just a slight sheen of sweat betraying any exertion. Yang charges forward recklessly, managing to clinch with Blake and drive her back against the cage.
For a moment, Yang has the advantage, landing several dirty boxing punches to Blake's sides. Blake grunts in pain, and the sound sends a jolt of satisfaction through Yang. But then Blake shifts her weight, hooks a leg behind Yang's, and suddenly they're on the ground with Blake on top.
Yang struggles wildly, bucking her hips to try to dislodge her opponent. Blake's thigh presses firmly between Yang's legs as she maintains position, applying pressure to keep Yang down. The friction against Yang's crotch sends an unexpected spark of pleasure shooting up her spine.
"No," Yang thinks frantically, trying to squirm away. But the movement only intensifies the sensation. Blake adjusts her position, unknowingly grinding her thigh harder against Yang's center. Yang's eyes widen in horror as heat pours into her dick.
Blake's arms are like steel bands, pinning Yang's shoulders to the mat as she works to establish a dominant position. The crowd roars, sensing a submission coming, but Yang is fighting a completely different battle now. Every shift of Blake's body sends waves of unwanted pleasure radiating through her.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Yang's mind screams as she feels herself getting harder, her body betraying her in the most humiliating way possible. She tries to focus on the pain, on the fight, on anything but the mounting pressure between her legs and the blood rushing to her cock.
Then Blake shifts again, and Yang can't stop it. The orgasm crashes through her without warning, intense and violent. Her back arches involuntarily, her thighs clamping around Blake's leg as she lets out a choked sound that she desperately tries to convert into a grunt of pain.
Her vision whites out for a moment, her body trembling as the pleasure crests and ebbs. When she comes back to herself, Blake is staring down at her with a strange expression—confusion mixing with something else Yang can't identify.
"What was that?" Blake whispers, too quiet for anyone else to hear.
Shame and rage flood Yang's system. With a roar, she bucks wildly, managing to break Blake's hold, but she's sloppy now, uncoordinated. Blake easily retakes control, pinning Yang's arm and applying a textbook armbar. The pain is sharp and immediate, and Yang taps desperately against Blake's leg.
The bell rings. The fight is over.
"Winner by submission in round three—Blake Belladonna!"
Yang rolls away, curling in on herself for a moment before laying on her stomach. Her face burns with humiliation as Blake is declared the winner, avoiding eye contact. The crowd's reaction is distant noise compared to the screaming in her head.
In the locker room, Yang waits until everyone is gone before unleashing her rage. Her fist slams into the metal locker, denting it. Pain shoots up her arm, but it's nothing compared to the agony of her shame. She punches the wall next, then again, and again until her knuckles split and blood smears across the white paint.
"Fucking pathetic," she snarls at herself, watching her blood drip onto the tile floor. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
She catches her reflection in the mirror—swollen eye, bloody nose, haunted expression. The woman staring back at her found sexual pleasure in her own defeat. Yang's stomach heaves, and she barely makes it to the toilet before emptying the contents of her stomach.
When there's nothing left but bitter bile, she slumps against the cool porcelain, her body aching from the fight and the aftermath. The worst part isn't the loss. It's not even the public humiliation. It's knowing that tomorrow, she'll have to face Blake again, who likely knows exactly what just happened in that ring.
---
The sports bar reeks of beer and victory. Yang hunches over her third whiskey in a dark corner booth, the amber liquid sloshing against the sides of the glass as she swirls it slowly. Ice cubes clink, a quiet counterpoint to the raucous laughter emanating from the center of the room where Ruby holds court. Yang's sister stands on a chair, her championship belt gleaming around her waist as she pantomimes the knockout punch that put Cinder Fall in the hospital and earned her the title. The crowd around her erupts in cheers. Yang downs half her drink in one burning swallow.
Her bruised knuckles throb against the cold glass. The cuts from punching the locker room wall have scabbed over, but the skin stretches painfully with each flex of her fingers. Yang focuses on this small pain, using it to ground herself as she watches her sister shine.
"And then—you should have seen her face!" Ruby's voice carries across the bar, high and excited. "Cinder thought she had me pinned, but I feinted left—" Ruby demonstrates with an exaggerated duck and weave, nearly toppling off her chair. Weiss steadies her with a hand at her waist, rolling her eyes fondly. "—and BOOM!" Ruby mimes an uppercut that has the crowd gasping in delight.
Yang signals the bartender for another whiskey. Neat this time. No ice.
"The doctors said she might not fight again for a year," Ruby continues, her silver eyes wide with a mix of concern and poorly concealed pride. "I didn't mean to hit her that hard, but when you're in the zone..."
"That's what happens when you face the champion," someone from the crowd calls out. A fresh round of cheers erupts.
Weiss presses a kiss to Ruby's cheek, claiming her spotlight for a moment. "I told her Cinder was telegraphing her moves," she announces, her arm slipping possessively around Ruby's waist. "All she had to do was wait for the opening."
The fresh whiskey arrives. Yang takes it without thanking the server, her eyes never leaving the spectacle of her sister's celebration. Her loss to Blake feels like an open wound, salt being ground in deeper with each cheer for Ruby's victory.
Months ago, it had been Yang who'd stood triumphant after dismantling Pyrrha Nikos in the second round. The same fans who now fawn over Ruby had chanted Yang's name. The memory feels hollow now, erased by today's humiliation.
And not just the loss—the way she'd lost. Heat rises in Yang's cheeks as the unwanted memory surfaces again: Blake's thigh pressed against her, the unexpected rush of pleasure, the mortifying moment of climax disguised as pain. She drains her whiskey in one gulp, welcoming the burn down her throat.
"Let's hear it for my biggest fan, couldn’t have done it without you!" Ruby's voice cuts through Yang's dark thoughts. For a moment, Yang thinks Ruby has finally remembered her presence, but Ruby's attention remains on Weiss. "Best cheerleader ever!"
Not her then. Not her at all.
Yang's fingers tighten around her empty glass. Has Ruby even noticed she's here? After Yang dragged herself from the locker room, face still swollen from Blake's precision strikes, she'd come straight to this bar because Ruby had texted: "Celebration at Crowbar, 10PM. Be there!"
Be there. Like an afterthought. Like Yang's own fight—scheduled earlier the same night—was so inconsequential that Ruby hadn't even bothered to ask if she'd won.
"A toast!" Ruby raises her beer high. "To being the youngest champion in the league's history!"
Glasses rise throughout the bar. Yang doesn't move. Her sister's eyes scan the crowd, accepting their adoration, not once looking for Yang in her shadowed corner.
"And to many more victories to come!" Weiss adds, clinking her martini glass against Ruby's beer.
The couple shares a kiss that draws whistles from the crowd. Yang's stomach churns with something darker than envy. Ruby has everything—the title, the adoring girlfriend, the perfect record. Meanwhile, Yang has... what? A reputation as Blake Belladonna's stepping stone?
A hand falls on Yang's shoulder. She flinches, looking up to see one of the regional fighters—some middleweight whose name she can't remember.
"Tough break with Belladonna today," he says, his voice dripping with fake sympathy. "She's on another level, but you held your own for a while there."
Yang's face hardens. "Fuck off," she spits, shrugging his hand away violently.
The fighter raises his hands in surrender, backing away with a muttered, "Just trying to be nice."
Yang doesn't want nice. She wants oblivion, or revenge, or something that will fill the hollow ache spreading beneath her ribs. She signals for another whiskey, but the bartender is busy with the crowd around Ruby.
Her eyes drift back to her sister. Weiss now has Ruby backed against the wall, their bodies pressed together in a way that's entirely too intimate for a public space. Ruby's hands tangle in Weiss's white hair as they kiss deeply, lost in each other. Someone wolf-whistles. Ruby breaks the kiss long enough to flip them off with a laugh before diving back in.
It's too much. The whiskey churns in Yang's empty stomach. The noise of the bar crescendos to an unbearable level. She slams her glass down on the table with enough force to crack the bottom. No one notices. No one even glances her way as she stands, the chair scraping loudly against the floor.
Yang pushes her way through the crowd, shouldering past admirers and fighters alike without apology. Someone spills beer on her sleeve. She doesn't stop.
Outside, the night air is cool against her flushed skin. Yang stands on the sidewalk for a moment, swaying slightly, the bass from the bar thumping through the wall behind her. Through the window, she can see Ruby being hoisted onto someone's shoulders, her championship belt held high above her head.
Still no one has noticed Yang's absence. Not her sister, not anyone. The realization settles like a stone in her chest.
Yang turns away, her steps unsteady as she heads down the street. Away from the celebration. Away from Ruby's perfect fucking life. Away from the reminder of everything Yang doesn't have and never will.
She doesn't know where she's going, and for once, she doesn't care.
---
Rain slicks the pavement, reflecting neon signs in distorted pools of color. Yang stumbles from the entrance of her fourth bar of the night, or maybe it's the fifth. The whiskey has blurred the edges of everything—time, space, pain. Her knuckles throb dully each time raindrops strike the broken skin. The fight with Blake feels like it happened to someone else, some other Yang who hadn't cum while being pinned to the mat by her rival. Water streams down her face, mingling with what might be tears if she were the type to cry.
Which she's not.
Definitely not.
She shoves her hands into her pockets and walks without direction, putting distance between herself and the sounds of celebration still echoing from the sports district. Each bar she's stopped at has been seedier than the last, patrons less likely to recognize the fighter with the swollen face and bloodshot eyes.
A flickering sign catches her attention: "The Black Cat." Below it, a neon silhouette of a feline arches its back. Something in Yang's chest tightens at the reminder of Blake, but the need for another drink outweighs her instinct to turn away.
The door creaks as she pushes it open. Inside, the bar is a cave of shadows broken only by the dim glow of red lights behind the bar. A handful of patrons hunch over their drinks, none looking up as Yang enters. Perfect.
She slides onto a stool at the far end of the bar. The bartender—a hulking man with a face like weathered leather—looks her over once, notes the bruises, and sets a double whiskey in front of her without a word. Yang nods, grateful for the silent understanding.
The first sip burns all the way down, settling in her stomach like liquid fire. Yang stares at her reflection in the dirty mirror behind the bar. Her blonde hair hangs in damp strands around her face. Her left eye is swollen nearly shut. In the red light, she looks like something half-dead.
"Rough night?"
The voice doesn't come from beside her but seems to materialize directly in her head. Yang jerks, sloshing whiskey over her hand as she turns.
A woman sits on the stool next to her—a stool Yang could swear was empty a moment ago. She's striking in a way that's hard to define, with delicate features that seem to shift subtly even as Yang stares at them. Her hair shimmers between colors in the dim light—pink, brown, white—though Yang attributes this to the alcohol and poor lighting.
"Didn't mean to startle you," the woman says, her lips curving into a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. Those eyes—they're different colors, one pink, one brown, and they study Yang with an intensity that should be uncomfortable but somehow isn't.
"You didn't," Yang lies, wiping her wet hand on her jeans.
The bartender sets a colorful cocktail in front of the woman without her ordering. She nods at him, then turns her full attention back to Yang.
"I'm Trivia," she says. "Trivia Vanille."
Yang doesn't offer her name in return, but Trivia tilts her head like she's heard it anyway.
"Yang Xiao Long," Trivia says, confirming Yang's unease. "Lost to Blake Belladonna today. Unfortunate."
Yang's fingers tighten around her glass. "You following me or something?"
Trivia laughs, the sound like breaking glass wrapped in silk. "I follow everyone interesting," she says. "And you're very interesting."
Something about the way she says it makes Yang's skin prickle. Warning bells sound distantly in her mind, but the whiskey has muffled them.
"Not in the mood for a fan tonight," Yang mutters, turning back to her drink.
"I'm not a fan," Trivia says. "I'm more... an interested observer. There's a difference."
She leans closer, and Yang catches a scent that's impossible to place—something ancient and sweet and dangerous all at once.
"You had her, you know," Trivia continues. "Before you let yourself get distracted."
Yang's head snaps up. "What did you say?"
"Blake. You had her on the defensive until something... shifted." Trivia's mismatched eyes seem to see right through Yang, peeling back layers to expose what she's trying desperately to hide. "Something unexpected happened during that grapple, didn't it?"
Heat floods Yang's face. No one could know that. No one could have seen what she felt.
"Fuck you," Yang hisses, but there's no real force behind it. Just fear.
Trivia smiles wider. "Your sister didn't even ask about your fight, did she?" she says, changing tactics smoothly. "Too caught up in her own glory."
Yang's anger redirects instantly. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't I?" Trivia's hand slides across the bar to rest just inches from Yang's. "Ruby Rose, youngest champion in league history, currently celebrating at the Crowbar with her girlfriend Weiss Schnee. Neither of them spared a thought for big sister Yang and her humiliating defeat."
Each word hits like a precise strike to tender flesh. Yang should get up and leave, should tell this creepy woman to stay out of her business. Instead, she finds herself asking, "How do you know all this?"
"I know many things," Trivia says, her fingers inching closer to Yang's. "I know you've spent your whole life in Ruby's shadow despite being the one who taught her to fight. I know you lie awake at night wondering if you'll ever be good enough. I know you found a forbidden thrill when Blake pinned you today."
Yang's throat constricts. She should deny it all, but the words stick in her throat.
"It's alright," Trivia says, her voice suddenly gentle. "We all have secrets. Things we want but shouldn't. Things we're ashamed to admit even to ourselves."
Her fingers brush against Yang's knuckles. Despite the gentleness of the touch, Yang flinches as though struck. It's the first kind contact she's had all day.
"Tell me," Trivia says, and it doesn't sound like a request.
Yang blames the whiskey for what happens next. Words spill from her like blood from a wound—her frustration with always coming second to Ruby, her hatred of Blake and the confusing attraction beneath it, her fear that she's peaked as a fighter and it's all downhill from here.
Trivia listens intently, occasionally touching Yang's arm or leaning in closer. Each point of contact sends a strange warmth through Yang's alcohol-numbed limbs.
"You deserved that championship," Trivia says when Yang finally runs out of words. "Everyone knows it should have been yours."
"Doesn't matter what should have been," Yang mutters, finishing her drink. "Ruby has the belt."
"For now," Trivia says, the words hanging in the air between them like a promise—or a threat.
Yang studies her through narrowed eyes. "What's your angle here? You a reporter or something?"
Trivia laughs again, that strange crystalline sound. "Nothing so mundane. Let's just say I have a vested interest in people who've been... overlooked."
She leans in closer, her breath ghosting over Yang's ear as she whispers, "I can help you get what you want. All of it."
Yang shivers despite the warmth of the bar. "You don't even know what I want."
"Don't I?" Trivia's eyes seem to glow in the dim light. "You want recognition. You want Blake Belladonna to pay for what she did to you. You want to step out of Ruby's shadow once and for all."
Each statement hits with perfect accuracy, striking vulnerabilities Yang didn't realize were so exposed.
"And what do you get out of it?" Yang asks, voice rough.
Trivia's smile widens, revealing teeth that seem just slightly too sharp. "Entertainment," she says simply. "It's so rare to find someone truly interesting."
Yang should say no. She should pay for her drink and walk away from this strange woman with her impossible knowledge and unsettling presence. Everything about Trivia screams danger.
But danger is exactly what Yang craves right now.
"Would you like to continue this conversation somewhere more private?" Trivia asks, her fingertips trailing up Yang's arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake.
Yang hesitates only a moment before nodding. "My place," she says. "It's remote. No neighbors."
"Perfect," Trivia purrs, the words continuing to somehow bypass Yang's ears entirely and materialize directly in her mind.
As they stand to leave, Yang catches sight of their reflection in the mirror behind the bar. For just a heartbeat, Trivia's image seems to flicker, revealing something inhuman beneath her beautiful facade. But then Yang blinks, and it's gone.
She chalks it up to the whiskey and exhaustion. What else could it be?
Yang holds the door open, letting Trivia step out into the rain first. The neon cat above the door flickers once, twice, then goes dark as they walk away into the night.