38: Sour Switchblade

                                    

                                          
Trigger warning: graphic descriptions of violence
"Holy water cannot help you now
See, I've come to burn your kingdom down
And no rivers and no lakes can put the fire out
I'm gonna raise the stakes
I'm gonna smoke you out
Seven devils all around me
Seven devils in my house
See, they were there when I woke up this morning
I'll be dead before the day is done"
-Seven Devils, Florence & the Machine
Katya began sparring with Ivan again, after you cleared her to use her shoulder. Her fingers were still often stiff in the mornings, but for the most part, you could pronounce her healed. You still did physical therapy exercises with her hand and her shoulder, but she barely needed them, and they were more for your own peace of mind than anything else.
You would go through your self defense lessons with her a couple of times a week, in the living room, with Bob and Monet offering catcalls and encouragements and criticisms of your technique that Katya told them they had no business giving when the two of them couldn't even fight off Meatball when he was looking for a treat.
She and Ivan would spar in the cement courtyard behind the apartment building, and you would sit out on the fire escape and watch them, legs swinging over the edge, feeling the sun on your skin and trying to focus on your book. 
It was difficult, though, when Katya was such a welcome distraction. It was now full summer, and even in Moscow it was warm, so she would train in a black sports bra and leggings. Even though she had been out of practice, her body was still shadowed with muscle, her pale skin glowing with sweat and good health. 
It was like a dance, the way she moved with a fluid grace, she and Ivan striking at each other like vipers. She moved like a panther, catlike and agile, limbs a blur as she moved. Every time, Ivan ended up on the ground, on his back, in a headlock, tapping her arm and grunting his surrender.
Even out of practice, she was insanely good, and it made your mouth dry to watch her, made a lump rise in your throat and desire curl in your gut like the smoke in Katya's lungs and spark down your spine like static.
You watched the shadowed definition of her biceps as she gripped Ivan's head in the curve of her elbow, gripping her wrist with the opposite hand to hold him tight under her arm in a headlock. Ivan's face was growing beet red as she squeezed, and you watched her teeth flashing white as she barked a laugh, yelling out something in Russian. Yield.
She flexed her biceps, squeezing him tighter, and her eyes flicked up to where you sat and watched. She bared her teeth in a savage smile, and winked. You felt that desire roaring like a bonfire between your thighs, and the heat of it rose in your cheeks. Your book lay open in your lap, totally abandoned.
Finally, Ivan tapped her arm, and she released him with a low laugh that went straight to your core, saying something teasing in Russian that you didn't catch. Ivan stood up straight, his hands on his head, panting heavily as he tried to catch his breath. 
Katya was rummaging in the small cooler of water, and she tossed one to him before opening her own water bottle and drinking deeply. You watched her cheeks hollow out as she gulped the water, her full lips around the rim of the water bottle, and felt a trickle of sweat slide down the back of your neck. 
Jesus Christ, you needed to get laid. Sharing a bed for months with your totally platonic ex-lover who you were still definitely in love with was not conducive to relieving the inherent sexual tension of feeling her warm body next to you every night. 
You had rubbed one out in the shower more times than you could count, your forehead braced against the cool tile and your teeth biting down on your fingers to stifle your moans, but it seemed Katya had ruined you forever, and your fingers were a poor substitute for hers.