teen vi

vi

If there’s one name echoing through the sleek marble halls of Piltover’s prestigious Academy of Progress, it’s Vi. Or as her friends—and enemies—call her, “The Biceps from the Lanes.” And gods, she lives for it. Vi’s from the Undercity. Zaun. The kind of place where dreams die young and fists solve more problems than words ever could. But Vi? She didn’t stay down. With a body chiseled from years of scrapping, running, and surviving, she fought her way out—literally. Her shoulders are broad, arms roped in muscle, lean frame built like a coiled spring. Her sleeves are always rolled up, and if you so much as glance at her arms, she’ll flex without a second of hesitation and say something like: “Yeah, you’re lookin’. I would too. These babies could carry you and your baggage.” Cocky doesn’t begin to describe her. Vi struts through the Academy like she owns it, head high, boots stomping, always laughing louder than anyone else in the room. She’s charming in that reckless, magnetic way. Teachers hate how bold she is. Girls love how fearless. Boys? Half of them want to be her, the other half want to date her. And she flirts with both sides shamelessly. “Vi! Flex for us!” “Damn right I will,” she grins, biting into an apple, sleeves already sliding up again. “Try not to fall in love.” You’d think she was born into this—into money, privilege, power. But no. Vi clawed her way into Piltover’s finest Academy on a basketball scholarship, of all things. First Zaunite in history to even step foot in this school. And not because anyone wanted her there. Because she forced the door open and dared them to shut it again. Basketball is her second religion (after her own ego). Captain of the team, MVP three seasons running. Her vertical leap makes upperclassmen cry. Her slam dunks echo like thunder in the Academy’s gold-trimmed gym. Every game is a performance, every practice a battle, and she lives for it. But it’s not just biceps and buckets. Vi’s got street smarts.

part 2

Vi’s got street smarts that leave posh kids stammering. She knows how to read a room. How to shut down a fight or start one. She’s rude, raw, and ridiculously hard not to watch. Even teachers who scowl at her can’t help but notice that under all that chaos? She’s brilliant in her own, scrappy way. Before the polished hallways, the golden-trimmed doors, and the endless drone of rich kids talking about family estates and imported wines, Vi had Zaun. Not the cleaned-up version Piltover whispers about. Not the one in the sanitized news reports. The real Zaun—a place where the air stung your lungs, where laughter echoed through rusted alleyways, and where survival was earned, not gifted. She remembered the grime under her fingernails. The sting of skinned knuckles after bare-fisted brawls. The way the neon lights flickered outside their tiny apartment above a dead chemist’s shop. Powder used to draw pictures on the foggy windows while Vi paced behind her, fists clenched, listening to every siren. They’d had no parents. Not really. Vander had done his best. He gave them a roof, a place to feel safe for a few hours at a time. But even he couldn’t protect them from Zaun’s pull forever. Vi remembered the gangs. The turf wars. The long nights spent guarding Powder while she slept, knowing someone might break the door down for food, or scrap, or worse. She’d fight older kids for credits, bet on underground matches just to afford one hot meal a day. Her body got stronger. Harder. Faster. Her biceps came before pride—just tools for protection. But once she realized how much power they gave her, how people started looking at her different? Yeah. That’s when the cockiness started. “I don’t lose,” she’d growl, flexing before every back-alley match. “Don’t blink.” And she didn’t. Not once. Basketball was a fluke. A rusted hoop in an abandoned factory. A salvaged ball a kid tossed her once after a fight. She dunked it without even trying. Didn’t expect the feeling to stick.

part 3

But it did. The rhythm, the movement, the sheer control—it was addictive. So she kept showing up, every night, until people started noticing her. Then scouting her. A Piltover talent rep, curious. Then shocked. “A scholarship,” he’d said, stunned. “No Zaunite’s ever qualified.” She spit blood from a split lip and grinned. “Guess I’m not ‘no Zaunite.’” Powder had cried when she left for Piltover. Vi hated it. Hated leaving her. Hated the idea of soft beds and warm food if Powder couldn’t have it too. But Vander had placed a hand on her shoulder and said: “Go. Kick the door down so she can walk through later.” That night, she swore two things: One: She’d never forget where she came from. And two: She’d never let these rich brats make her feel like she didn’t belong. So yeah—she walks the Academy halls now like a queen, but inside her chest still beats the fire of every cold night spent in Zaun. Every bruise. Every broken rib. Every moment she swore she’d make something of herself so the world would never look down on her again. And gods help anyone who tries. Vi remembers the stink first. Rust. Sweat. Mold. That sour, metallic scent that clung to the walls of Vander’s bar basement like it was alive. The air was thick, damp, always just a little too warm from the old boiler in the corner. No music. No fancy mirrors. No sleek equipment with blinking lights and chrome plating. Just her. And a couple of busted weights held together with tape and anger. Her first bench press was a rusted pipe balanced on two stacked crates. She used scrap metal for plates, her feet braced against cold concrete. There were no safety clips, no spotters. Just a lot of swearing and the distant rumble of a bar fight upstairs. Her hands were raw for weeks—cut open from the jagged grip, blood soaking into her wraps. She never complained. Just kept lifting. The dumbbells were uneven. One heavier than the other. She used to joke they were building her to punch in a curve.

part 5

The punching bag was a grain sack filled with broken bricks and old rags. It swayed lazily from a chain Vander rigged into the ceiling. Every time she hit it, dust burst out the seams. Some nights she coughed more than she breathed. But damn, it made her strong. No trainers. No routines. Just reps until her arms shook. Sit-ups until her stomach burned. Push-ups until her chest nearly hit the floor. And every time she failed, she’d scream into the concrete and start over. She remembers gritting her teeth through injuries, wrapping sprains in old cloth and going right back at it. Powder would sit on the stairs, watching with wide eyes, handing her water in old beer mugs. Sometimes she’d try to mimic Vi’s moves, skinny arms flailing, until she tumbled over laughing. Vi never told her, but those moments? They kept her going. She sculpted her body with nothing but scraps and spite. No fancy supplements. No “Piltover Elite Strength Program.” Just raw will. She carved her abs from desperation. Built her shoulders to carry weight no kid should have to carry. Her biceps were grown from the need to protect what little family she had left. So when she walked into Piltover’s Academy for the first time—when she saw their glass-paneled gym with state-of-the-art machines, robot trainers, and kids who had personal fitness instructors—she almost laughed. These rich kids? With their protein shakes and post-workout massages? She could outlift half of them in her sleep. And she looked better doing it. That lean, cut, sharp-edged body made from grime and grit put their soft, pampered physiques to shame. She caught them staring sometimes. In the locker rooms. On the court. Walking the halls. Jealous. Curious. Hungry. Vi smirked every time. “What, never seen muscle without a trust fund?” The whispers spread fast. “Zaunite girl’s built like a pro.” “I heard she trains with a broken punching bag and still hits harder than the boys’ captain.” “Her arms though…”

part 6

Sometimes, she’d flex just to shut someone up. Sometimes, just for fun. Most of the time, though? Just to remind herself she earned every inch. They had trainers. She had pain. They had routines. She had survival. They had everything handed to them. And she had nothing but a dusty basement, a sack of bricks, and a promise to herself: “I’m gonna walk into their world and make it mine.” And every time she looks down at her arms, at her reflection in those pristine Academy mirrors, she knows— She didn’t need Piltover’s help to look like this. Zaun made her strong. Vi made herself unstoppable. Vi always knew she had something. It wasn’t just the arms—though let’s be honest, those didn’t hurt. It was the grin. That crooked, half-smart, half-stupid smirk that made people lean in without knowing why. It was the way she walked, like she owned the street, even if she didn’t have a coin to her name. Like the entire world was her playground, and you were lucky to be in it. She wasn’t subtle. Never pretended to be. Subtle was for liars and nobles. Vi was loud, bold, and full of hell yeah. And she had that thing—that electric, can’t-look-away energy. People felt her walk into a room before they saw her. And one night in Zaun, she really let it rip. It was a rooftop party—some chem-baron’s son throwing a rave in an abandoned smog refinery, lights strung up between rusted exhaust stacks, bass shaking the rust off the beams. The drinks were cheap, the music was filthy, and Vi? She was in her element. Hair messy. Tank top clinging to her from the heat. Arms fully on display. Every time she leaned against a railing or lifted her drink, she knew they were looking. And she fed off it. Every glance. Every whisper. Every sideways stare from a girl pretending not to notice her biceps. Vi caught them all. She was working the crowd like a damn pro. A wink here. A bold compliment there.

part 7

“Nice boots,” she said to one tall, buzzcut girl leaning by the keg. “Bet they’d look better at the foot of my bed.” The girl choked on her drink—and still gave Vi her number, scribbled on a napkin, blushing like hell. Ten minutes later, Vi spotted another one—piercings, heavy eyeliner, attitude for days. Vi slid up behind her during a slow song, pressed her fingers gently into the girl’s waist like she owned the moment, and said in that gravel-low voice: “Careful, sweetheart. You’re killin’ me with those eyes.” Another number. This time written across Vi’s forearm in smudged black ink. By the end of the night, her pockets were stuffed with numbers on receipts, matchbooks, corners of flyers. Some girls gave her theirs just after watching her flirt with others. It was a chain reaction. Confidence was addictive, and Vi? She was dripping in it. She danced with three different girls before midnight. Laughed with two more until her cheeks hurt. Got kissed in the shadows between neon pipes and didn’t even ask for a name. It wasn’t about ego. (Okay—maybe a little.) But mostly? It was about feeling alive. Feeling like the world saw her not as some grimy kid from the undercity, not as a fighter or a freak—but as someone who could light up a room just by being loud, stupid, and completely herself. Later, after the crowd thinned and Powder found her half-drunk and sprawled on a rusty lounge chair, Vi just laughed and showed her the ink smudges on her arms and hands. “How many is that?” Powder asked, unimpressed. Vi hiccuped. “Uh… five? Six? Wait—no, seven, this one’s from earlier. She kissed my bicep. Said it changed her life.” Powder rolled her eyes. “You’re insufferable.” Vi grinned. “Damn right I am.” And even now, standing in the crystal halls of Piltover’s Academy, Vi still remembers that night. The heat. The lights. The feeling of being wanted by a dozen strangers—not for money, status, or family name—but because of her spark.

part 8

No last name. No connections. Just her charm. Her laugh. Her arms. And that stupid grin that ruined people on sight. Vi never put a label on it. Girls, boys, whatever—if they were cute and she was bored, that was enough for a game. And gods, she was good at it. She remembers that one night in the Drop Zone—Zaun’s sketchiest club, all green fog and flickering lights, music that rattled your ribs. Vander would’ve grounded her if he knew she was there. But she wasn’t a kid anymore. Not with those arms, not with that mouth, not with the way she could walk into any room and make people trip over themselves to be near her. She’d saunter up to the bar, tank top hugging her frame just right, abs peeking every time she reached up to adjust her hair. The bartender would barely look at her ID—just stare at her biceps like they were going to start talking. That night? She locked eyes with a boy in a silk shirt, Piltover accent, trying way too hard to look “Zaunite.” Rich kid slumming it for the aesthetic. She smirked. He looked like the type who never got touched by someone who meant it. So Vi touched him. Brushed his arm as she leaned in to ask if he was alone. Palmed the side of his face lightly with her knuckles while she laughed at one of his jokes. Let her fingers linger a second too long when she leaned against his shoulder to whisper something she didn’t even finish. He melted. Two drinks later—both paid for by him—he was practically begging to give her his number. “Sure, babe,” Vi said, scribbling it into her sleeve, not even pretending she’d save it. “Text you next time I feel like ruining your life.” He blushed so hard it hit his ears. She turned, walked away, and never looked back. Another time? A pair of older Zaun boys at an underground court during a late-night match. They’d been checking her out since warm-ups. Vi didn’t even break a sweat. She ran her hand through her hair, pulled her tank up to wipe her face—and bam, both their jaws dropped.

part 8

She walked over, spun the ball on her finger, and smirked. “You two just here to drool, or you gonna play?” Ten minutes later, she had both their numbers and two energy drinks. One for her, one for Powder. Didn’t kiss either of them. Didn’t need to. Sometimes she’d stroke a guy’s arm mid-conversation, glance down at his chest, and grin like she knew something he didn’t. Sometimes she’d casually rest her hand on someone’s knee during a story, tilt her head, and whisper: “Is it just hot in here, or is it you?” It never failed. She had this energy that invited people in and dared them to try their luck. Some thought they could handle it. Most couldn’t. She’d flirt, fluster, and vanish before they even realized they’d never stood a chance. It wasn’t cruelty—not really. She just loved the game. The tension. The control. It reminded her she was somebody. That she didn’t need bloodlines or money to make people want her. All she needed was a grin, a little touch, and the swagger to back it up. So yeah—boys gave her their numbers all the time. And drinks. And compliments she never remembered. But the thing she kept most? The look in their eyes. That mix of awe and confusion. Like they couldn’t figure out if she was an angel, a menace, or just a fever dream they’d wake up from with shaky hands. And Vi? She loved that. People thought Vi had done everything. The way she walked, the way she talked—like she’d broken hearts and stolen kisses since she was twelve. That cocky grin, the arms, the mouth that never stopped… it painted a picture. And she let them believe it. Hell, she fed it. It made things easier. It gave her power in a world where she’d had none for most of her life. But here’s the truth? Vi had never kissed anyone. Not once.

part 9

She’d faked her way through every bold comment, every wink, every slick lean against a wall where someone stared at her like she was about to ruin their week. She could make them melt with a word, buckle with a touch—but follow through? Nah. She’d pull away with a smirk and a “maybe later.” Change the subject. Disappear into the crowd. Sometimes she’d laugh about it with Powder. “Queen of the tease,” Powder would joke. Vi would flex and say, “I’m too good for them anyway.” But on quiet nights? When the parties ended and she was alone in her dorm bed, staring at the ceiling? It hit different. Because deep down… she wasn’t afraid of kissing. Or touching. Or sex. She was afraid of what came after. Of letting someone get close enough to see the mess inside. The kid who grew up too fast. The girl who still flinched in her sleep. The one who had to learn how to flirt before she ever learned how to trust. Charm was her armor. Confidence was her deflection. And the longer she wore that mask, the harder it became to take off. She’d say things like “you couldn’t handle me” with a grin and a wink, but what she really meant was: “I don’t know how to do this.” “I don’t know how to let you touch me and not leave.” Because no one had ever stayed. Not really. So yeah—she was a super virgin. Not a little virgin. Not “just haven’t found the right person.” She hadn’t done anything. Not even a real kiss. But people looked at her like she’d lived a thousand lives. And she let them. Fake it till you make it, right? But sometimes—when she saw couples in the hallway holding hands like it meant something, or caught one of her friends getting kissed against a locker—she’d feel this tight twist in her chest. Not jealousy, exactly. More like longing. More like wondering what it would feel like to be wanted without playing a part. And maybe one day she’d let someone in enough to find out. Maybe. Until then? She’d keep winking, keep flexing, keep collecting numbers.

part 10

Vi played her role to perfection. Cool. Carefree. Loud-mouthed. Tattooed. Stoned just enough to laugh at the world and never too deep for anyone to realize there was something real underneath. She was Piltover Academy’s resident Zaunite legend—the only kid from the Undercity to get in on a basketball scholarship. A joke to some, a threat to others. Most of the silver-spoon Pilty brats thought she’d be dumb muscle, some rough street rat who lucked her way into their golden halls. And that’s exactly what she let them think. They didn’t know she could quote philosophy and chemical law better than half the stuck-up professor assistants. Vi hid it all. Because being smart? That drew attention. That made teachers hover. That made other students feel threatened. And Vi hated the feeling of people looking at her like she was something they needed to understand. She didn’t want to be understood. She wanted to be free. So she played the part: The flirty athlete. The charming rebel. The stoner with a wicked grin and stories too wild to be true. She’d shoot hoops till her tank stuck to her abs with sweat, then blow smoke into the hallway vents like she owned the school. She’d ace a chem test, then pretend she guessed half the answers while straddling a desk backwards, tossing jokes around like candy. And of course, the tattoos. She got her first ink at fifteen. A Roman VI etched low under her left eye—delicate, almost cute if you ignored the fact that it was a number for a name. A scar she turned into identity. That was Vi all over. Then the arms came. Thick black ink wrapping from her knuckles to her deltoids, blending into one another like a story told in jagged language. Snakes. Chains. A broken crown. A dagger with a rose blooming from its tip. And the back piece? That was her masterwork.

part 11

A sprawling, brutal mural running across her entire back—between her shoulder blades, down her spine, stopping just above her waistline. It was half-angel, half-demon. Wings cracked and scorched, muscles and armor and smoke. Some said it was violent. Some said it was beautiful. Vi didn’t say anything. It was hers, and that was enough. People talked. Whispered about her weed habits. The time she lit up behind the training gym and ended up teaching three freshmen how to hotbox in a janitor’s closet. Or the party where she did shots off a professor’s desk after hours. Or that one time someone offered her a blunt in the middle of a prep room and she just shrugged and took a long, deep pull like it was nothing. But through all of it, she never cracked. Never dropped her act. No one knew how hard she worked. No one saw her alone in the weight room before sunrise. No one knew she read complex engineering textbooks with highlighters in her teeth just for fun. No one knew she cried once when a teacher marked her as “accidentally placed” in the Academy. Because if they knew? They’d look at her differently. With pressure. With expectations. And Vi couldn’t handle that. She’d rather be “fun Vi.” The wild girl with ink on her spine and mischief in her voice. The one who made you laugh too loud and forget where you were. The one who could steal your heart, break your focus, and dunk on you in front of the whole court. She wore her mask so well, most people forgot it was a mask. But sometimes—late at night, when her tattoos itched with memory and the smell of weed clung to her hoodie, and she was sore from basketball but couldn’t sleep—she’d lie in bed and wonder: Would anyone ever see the real her and stay? Until then? She’d keep flexing, flirting, balling, and hiding. Because Vi was a masterpiece of misdirection. A brain hiding under muscle. A heart hiding under laughter. And damn if she didn’t look good doing it. she is a Gemini. and she has intersex with cute pink dick.

part 12

Vi never hated her body. Not really. But she never fully trusted it either. She was born different. Intersex. A word she learned way after she’d already figured out how people looked at her like they couldn’t decide what box to put her in. She wasn’t ashamed, not deep down. But it still hurt sometimes—like a bruise she never gave herself. Zaun wasn’t kind about things like that. Kids teased, adults avoided the subject, and bathrooms became a battleground. Even Vander, for all his warmth, never knew what to say. So he said nothing. And Vi learned not to bring it up. She built her body like armor—hard, defined, lean, sculpted—until no one dared question her again. Until all anyone could talk about were her arms, her abs, her swagger. Not what was in her pants. Not what made her “different.” She leaned into the confidence. Let people think she was experienced. She flirted. She teased. She said the wildest shit to make others flustered first, so they wouldn’t get close enough to ask real questions. Because underneath the jokes and the muscles and the chaos, there was fear: What if they got close… and then didn’t want her? What if the second she opened up, it was all over? So yeah, Vi was a virgin. Not for lack of opportunity—she could’ve had anyone she wanted. Girls threw themselves at her. Boys too. And she flirted back, made them feel like something might happen… then slipped away before it could. It wasn’t just nerves. It was protection. Because she’d rather keep the illusion of being untouchable than let someone touch her and recoil. Sometimes she’d lie awake, staring at the ceiling of her dorm or her apartment, wondering if it would ever feel safe to be held without pretending. If she’d ever find someone who wouldn’t flinch at the full truth of her. Someone who wouldn’t just tolerate her body—but want it. Want her. Until then, she’d keep being the flirty, loud, chaotic bitch with tattoos and a wicked mouth. Because that role? That armor?

part 13

Vi never asked to be special. But life had a way of throwing curveballs, and this one? It was a hell of a curveball. Eleven inches when aroused. Thick. Veiny. Ridiculous. Some nights, she’d just stare down at herself and mutter, “Goddamn.” Other nights, she’d laugh—loud, sharp, a little manic—like she was trying to beat the world to the punchline. “What the fuck am I supposed to do with all this?!” she’d groan, flopping back on her bed, arm draped across her face like a tragic heroine in some raunchy indie movie. And yeah, when it was soft? It looked… cute. Like, embarrassingly cute. Pale pink, a little chubby, resting against her hip like it had no idea how terrifying it could be thirty seconds later. She’d caught herself calling it “buddy” once. Out loud. Never again. It was hers. And she didn’t hate it. But loving it? That was… complicated. She knew what it looked like to others. Too much. Too intense. Too confusing. She’d spent her whole life being stared at like a question no one had the guts to ask. And yeah, okay—sometimes she’d catch herself in the mirror, hard and heavy, and grin. Flex a little. Bite her lip. Whisper, “You’re a damn problem,” with that same cocky tone she used when dunking on some rich kid in front of a crowd. But that was the performance. The reality was more layered. More lonely. She didn’t want to scare people. Didn’t want to be fetishized. Didn’t want to be “hot” just because she had something different between her legs. She wanted to be wanted. Whole. As Vi. As her. Not just for the size. Not just for the rumors. Not just because someone wanted to say they’d taken the “Zaunite freak” for a ride. That’s why she’d never gone through with it. Not once.

part 15

All the flirting, the teasing, the touches, the offers—never led anywhere real. Because what if they froze the second they saw it? What if they stared at her body and forgot she was in it? So yeah. She was packing eleven inches when aroused. And yeah, when it was soft, it was cute, pink, and still hers. And maybe one day… someone would kiss her like they already knew. Like it wasn’t a shock or a secret. Just another part of her they wanted to love. Until then? Vi would smirk, flirt, brag about her biceps, and let the world think she was untouchable. Because sometimes, being a badass was easier than being honest. How Vi Manages Her High Libido (Quietly, Desperately, and Often) 1. Working Out Like a Maniac Her first outlet is the gym. Or any gym-like space she can bully into use—an old alley, a rooftop, even the dorm stairwell at night. She lifts heavy. Pushes herself until her muscles are screaming. Sweat helps. Pain helps. It distracts her. Channels that heat. But sometimes it’s not enough. 2. Secret Late-Night Relief She jacks off. A lot. Not that she brags about it, though she’d make some crude joke if someone accused her. She’ll do it quietly, under the covers, biting her fist, pressed up against a pillow like it could actually hold her. Sometimes it’s fast and frustrated—just trying to burn it out. Other nights, she lets her mind wander. She thinks about girls. So many girls. Pretty ones with shy smiles. Bold ones who’d shove her down. When she’s really desperate, she fingers her ass while stroking her shaft—a mix of both sides of her, something raw and overwhelming that leaves her gasping, skin flushed, legs shaking. She never talks about that part. Not even to herself.

How Vi Manages Her High Libido (Quietly, Desperately, and Often)

3. Smoking to Take the Edge Off Weed helps. It dulls the ache just enough. Slows down the racing thoughts. She’ll smoke by the window, eyes half-lidded, watching the city, legs wide, underwear damp, pretending she’s not already thinking about touching herself again. Sometimes she lets it buzz in her veins without acting on it—just vibing, horny and lazy, letting the tension simmer. 4. Using Her Persona As a Shield When she’s really feeling it? She leans hard into the flirt. Gets loud. Cocky. Teases girls until they’re blushing—because if she can keep it on them, maybe she won’t give in and blurt something reckless. But it’s all talk. Always has been. Because behind the bravado is a girl who’s scared shitless of what happens when someone actually touches her the way she craves. Scared it’ll ruin everything. So she stays in control. Keeps it behind locked doors. Takes care of herself like it’s a ritual. And when it gets bad—really bad? She curls up in the dark, headphones blasting, hand between her legs, thinking about connection, about heat, about being seen, about someone moaning her name like they mean it. Then she finishes, wipes herself down, and gets up like nothing happened. Puts on her smirk. Rolls her shoulders. And struts back into the world like she isn’t constantly, quietly, burning. Vi’s Day-to-Day Struggles with Unwanted Boners 1. In Class – “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” She’s just trying to survive math class. Minding her business. Doodling tattoos in her notebook. Then someone giggles behind her, someone smells too good, or she just remembers something dirty from the night before— Boom. Boner. She shifts in her seat fast. Hood up. Legs crossed. She leans forward on the desk and rests her head on her arms, pretending she’s bored—but really she’s just hiding the very obvious, very hard problem trapped in her waistband. She once got called on to stand and read. She just fake-coughed and stayed seated. “Can’t. Sore quads, coach,” she lied smoothly.

Vi’s Day-to-Day Struggles with Unwanted Boners

It’s always there. Whispering. Throbbing. Being annoying. 2. During Practice – “Not now. Not now.” Sweat. Adrenaline. Girls in sports bras. Muscles flexing everywhere. Her body’s on fire from exercise and endorphins, and sometimes, it just happens. She’s dribbling down the court, focused—then bam. Boner. She adjusts mid-run. Pretends she’s tucking her shirt or fixing her shorts. But really? She’s just trying to keep eleven inches of distraction from peeking out or bouncing around. Once she dunked so hard and landed with a half-chub that her teammate yelled, “Damn, Vi, are you excited or just happy to win?!” Vi just grinned and said, “Both, babe. Always both.” After Games – “Cold shower. Or death.” After basketball? She’s wrecked. Sore. High off competition. Sweaty. And if a teammate hugs her too long or leans too close in the locker room? Instant issue. She turns away fast. Wraps her towel low. Pretends she’s digging through her locker. Hiding her very real, very obvious, post-game problem. She once considered taping it down. But she’s not about that life. So instead, she showers last. Stays quiet. Lets the water calm her down. Or… sometimes, she takes care of it real quick in the stall. Silently. Fast. Cursing herself the whole time. General Strategy – “Hide it. Ride it out. Never let ‘em see you sweat.” Vi’s learned to layer her clothes. She wears tight boxer-briefs to keep it tucked close. Sports compression under her uniform. She walks with a bit of swagger—not just because she’s cool, but because it helps keep things in place. She’ll sit with her bag in her lap. Cross her arms and legs when standing in lines. Lean against walls to tilt her hips. She has a whole system. Because the worst thing? Letting someone notice. Letting someone ask. Letting someone get close enough to know how often she’s on edge.

Vi’s Day-to-Day Struggles with Unwanted Boners

And it’s not just physical. Vi’s boners are tied to her brain, her nerves, her emotions. Sometimes she gets hard just from feeling seen. Or vulnerable. A compliment. A glance. A memory. It doesn’t take much. And the worst part? She still hasn’t done anything. Still a virgin. Still faking control. So the pressure builds. And builds. Until she’s alone in bed again, hand between her legs, whispering a name she’ll pretend she didn’t say. Vi’s made it an art—hiding the fact that she’s intersex, that she’s got a dick. Not out of shame exactly, but because she’s seen how people react. And Vi doesn’t do vulnerability. She does confidence, she does swagger, she does “you wish you could get with me.” But the second people start looking too close? She shuts it down. Here’s how she keeps her secret locked down tight—behind tattoos, sarcasm, and steel-plated boundaries: Layered Clothing, Always Vi’s got a style that screams chaotic hot girl with issues—baggy jeans, low-slung shorts, big hoodies, athletic wear. But it’s all strategic. She wears boxer briefs with thick fabric, often with compression shorts underneath, especially when she’s out or at school. Basketball uniforms? Modified. She sewed extra fabric in her shorts herself. Even when she’s at a party in a tank top, she’s still calculated: loose around the waist, hands in pockets, always leaning at the right angle so nothing shows. She learned early how to hide a semi without even blinking. Changing Rooms: Survival Mode Vi never undresses fully in front of anyone. She’ll strip her shirt, flex those god-tier biceps, get attention—but the bottoms? Never. In locker rooms, she faces the wall, wraps her towel high, makes jokes to distract anyone nearby. Once a teammate tried to slap her ass after a win. Vi spun, grinned, and said, “Touch my ass again and you’ll lose a hand, princess.” Everyone laughed. No one noticed the way she subtly pulled her towel tighter.

part 17

Sex Talk = Deflection Queen People assume she’s had sex—because of the way she flirts, the way she talks, the reputation. But every time the conversation gets close to actual intimacy, she flips it into a joke or starts teasing someone else. “Vi, you ever go all the way?” “Depends. You asking because you want to volunteer?” And boom. The topic shifts. She flirts like a pro but never lets anyone touch her below the belt. Not even during make-out sessions. Her hands go everywhere, but she keeps their hands off limits. She moves fast, takes control, makes them forget they even meant to reach down. Parties & Hookups: The Escape Plan If she ends up at a party and someone’s really into her? She plays the game—touching, biting, whispering filthy shit in their ear—until she senses it’s about to go too far. Then she’s got a million excuses. “Wait, I’m high as shit. Let’s not.” “My roommate’s home.” “I’m on my period, for real, babe.” “You wanna go down on me? Pfft, romantic, but let me take care of you first.” She turns it back on them. Makes them feel special. Then bounces before clothes come off. Fear of Exposure, Always Present Every time someone flirts with her too hard, or stares too long at her hips, a flash of panic runs through her. What if they know? What if someone talks? She has nightmares about it—being outed in public. Losing her scholarship. Getting cornered in a locker room. That fear is why she stays guarded. That’s why she’d rather be known as the flirt, the tease, the cocky Zaunite with tattoos and attitude—because being wanted for real might mean getting rejected for real. Vi’s body is hers, and she’s learning to own it. But the world? The world hasn’t earned that part of her yet. So for now… she keeps the truth close. Tucked under layers. Buried under laughter. Locked behind walls she doesn’t let anyone scale.

this one time

The room was quiet—too quiet. The kind of quiet that made her pulse feel louder, like it was echoing in her ears. She’d already worked out twice that day. Hit the gym, ran laps, shadowboxed until her arms shook. She smoked half a blunt afterward, hoping it would level her out. It didn’t. She lay there, one leg over the side of the bed, underwear pushed halfway down, hand between her thighs—but it just wasn’t enough. Her mind raced, her body buzzed like it had electricity running through it. The tension was unreal. Her dick was hard, straining, throbbing, refusing to quit even after she tried getting off more times than she’d ever admit. She swore under her breath, growled into her pillow, desperate for the feeling to pass—but it didn’t. She stood up, pacing in the dark. Then, without warning, her fist lashed out and crashed into the drywall. It wasn’t the first time she’d hit something out of frustration, but this time the wall cracked—splintered, dented, gave under the force of her knuckles. She blinked down at the hole she made. Her chest rose and fell with heavy, angry breaths. And then something just… snapped. She shoved her shorts down, hand braced on the wall, pressing her hips against the ruined plaster. The broken texture scraped her skin but the sensation pushed her further, and she let it happen—used it, lost in a haze of shame, arousal, and the desperate need to get the pressure out of her body. When it was over, she slumped to the floor, sweaty and raw and furious with herself. She didn’t cry—Vi didn’t cry—but she sat there for a long time with her back to the wall, breathing hard, face in her hands. She hated this part of herself sometimes. Not her body—but the way no one else would ever understand what it was like to burn this way. To feel like she was too much—too big, too hard, too wired for control in a world that demanded she stay cool, cocky, calm. She cleaned up in silence. And the next day? She covered it out a photo of her and Powder.