Local Caitlyn Degenerate

“You know there’s an afterparty, right?” she says quietly, pulling her fingers from your mouth even though she doesn’t want to, just to hear your answer.

You nod. “I don’t give a shit about the afterparty,” you admit. To you, one more party or one less never meant much anyway. It’s all the same in the end. “I’m good here.”

“You sure you’d rather have this than a party with music, food, alcohol?” she asks in that low, dirty voice.

“Mm.” You murmur against her neck, leaving open-mouthed kisses, soft and lazy, teasing her with a small bite that makes her grab the back of your neck. “You’re better than all that, Violet.”

Vi laughs, flips you over in one sharp movement and leaves you underneath her, her thigh wedged between yours. She leans down, kneading your tits, staring at them like they’re something precious, or like she likes to call them, “her stress balls.” She licks one nipple hungrily, moaning before you even do, enjoying this as much as you, maybe more. Vi takes her time, sucking each nipple one by one, biting right at the edge of pain. She talks with her mouth still against your skin.

“We could be on a yacht right now,” she says, “But you want a stiff bed and hotel sex.”

You pull her hair back and stare into her dark, burning blue eyes.

“You can leave if you want,” you reply, pretending not to care while partly daring her to do it. With a glance, you point at the faint smoke still rising from the joint she abandoned on the nightstand. “Give it to me.”

Vi brings it to her mouth, takes a long drag, then parts your lips with her thumb and blows the smoke into your throat while kissing you. You choke a little, the burn sliding down your chest, your mind starting to float while your hands move on their own, desperate, touching Vi’s body like she’s liquid, like every inch of her skin is charged with static electricity.

Vi lowers her hand to your cunt, just playing, like she could torture you mercilessly all night long. Her finger gets bolder, stroking between your lips where she finds wetness. She laughs under her breath.

“You’re sick,” she mocks. “Concerts turn you on?”

“You turn me on, idiot.”

Now it’s your turn. You slip your hand between her legs and rub her clit with practiced rhythm, pressing slow circles, feeling the heat build while Vi curves toward you, mouth at your ear, breathing hard.

“Come on, doll, I know you love making me cum. Do it,” she begs, and the fragility in her voice catches you off guard.

You answer with the same touch, picking up the pace without going too fast, searching for the exact spot that makes her shake. Vi kisses your cheek, your neck, your shoulders, biting everything she can until you feel marked and feral. Before letting her enjoy your fingers too much, you switch positions, climbing on top of her, pressing your pelvis against hers until your cunts line up, heat and slick mixing together, your clits searching for each other.

It’s slow at first, just brushing, grinding, feeling the pulse of your bodies and the sway of your hips, sticky skin sliding together, slick overflowing between your thighs. Vi guides you with her hands on your waist, tattoos shining under the dim light, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks.

“That’s it, baby,” she murmurs against your neck, already lost in the feeling of you against her. “So good, so fucking good. Don’t stop.”

Vi forces you to grind harder, to crush yourself against her like you could eat her whole.

“Fuck, Violet.”

“Ah, there it is,” she teases quietly, breath brushing your skin. “That little voice. I like that one.”

You bite her shoulder just to shut her up for a second, but she only laughs against your neck, completely entertained by you.

“Don’t laugh at me.”

“Then stop making such pretty sounds.”

There’s no sound except your bodies slamming together, Vi’s muffled moans, your ragged breathing, the dull thud of your heads against the headboard, hot crushed tits and the smell of sex filling the whole room. Your mind goes blank, only movement and hunger exist, the need to grind her down until she surrenders, until she cums first.

But Vi is stubborn. She holds on like a champion. So you take control, hook her legs over your shoulders, spread her wide and line your cunt up with hers higher, closer. Then you start grinding again, slower this time, your clits rubbing together, swollen pussy lips slick and hot, heat climbing like a fever.

You look down at her, your pace slowing more and more, like you want to feel every tiny tremor running through her body. Vi’s cheeks are flushed, lips shiny and swollen from all the kissing, and she’s still smiling at you in that insolent way that melts you.

“What?” she murmurs, still rubbing against you. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

You don’t answer right away. You just brush a strand of hair stuck to her forehead aside and run your thumb over her bottom lip, soft, almost tender.

“Open your mouth, my love.”

Vi does it without questioning you, staring up at you, trusting, like she’d let you do anything to her as long as it was you. The gesture is slow, intimate, more vulnerable than anyone would ever expect from her. And when your spit falls onto her tongue, slow and warm, Vi lets out a quiet sound that tightens something in your chest more than between your legs. Her fingers sink into your thighs as she swallows without looking away.

“Again,” she whispers, rough and needy. “Please.”

The way she asks makes you kiss her before answering. Your mouths crash together wet and messy, sharing breath and taste without caring about anything else. There’s no disgust, no shame, just hunger and affection tangled together in a way that can’t be separated.

Vi cups your face while you keep grinding together, slow but desperate at the same time. Every kiss feels like she wants to swallow your moans, your soft laughs, even the air from your lungs.

You’re close, too close, orgasm bubbling low in your stomach, but you refuse to cum before she does. Vi looks wrecked, mouth open, begging for more, repeating “don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop,” so you keep going, grinding your cunts together until suddenly her body arches and she cries out, rough and animal, pure pleasure. Heat explodes between you, soaking everything, and only then do you let go too, your legs shaking while your body collapses onto hers.

You stay there for a moment, breathless. Vi strokes your hair, your cheek, kisses your eyelids.

“nNw it actually feels like we had a party.”

“We’re disgusting,” you say, but you’re laughing.

“Does that bother you?” she asks, with a hint of vulnerability.

“The opposite.” You kiss her cheek, her forehead, her mouth. “I want you exactly like this. With everything you come with.”

“You wanna skip rehearsal tomorrow?” she asks, grinning with that wicked spark in her eyes. “Stay here all day, fuck and write songs.”

“Otherwise what the fuck are we rockstars for?” you say, kissing her, and inside that kiss, it feels like the whole world fits.

Caitlyn pulled back, her damp breath brushing over the delicate skin of your throat.

“Is this okay?” She murmured quietly, one hand resting on your thigh, thumb tracing circles over bare skin.

“Yes” you breathed out eagerly, hips shifting restlessly, thighs parting slightly.

Caitlyn made a noise halfway between a fond sigh and a chuckle, lips brushing across your neck lightly.

“Be patient, darling.” She chided quietly, pressing an open mouthed kiss against your neck, making your breath falter again.

A finger tugged gently at the neck of your shirt, and you were quick to pull it over your head, already bra-less underneath.

Your skin prickled in the cool air of the dim bedroom.

Caitlyn pressed one slow kiss into the dip between your collarbones, one hand shifting up to thumb over one of your nipples gently.

“Tell me if you want to stop.” Caitlyn said firmly, pressing another kiss in the valley between your breasts, hair hanging down over her shoulders and brushing over your skin.

“Yeah yeah, I get it. I’ll tell you.” You dismissed, chest rising and falling against her. You flinched as she pinched the side of your stomach.

“Don’t. I mean it. If you need a break, tell me.” She pulled away to speak, eyes firmly on yours

“Okay, I will. Promise.”

“Good.”

Her hands moved to rest on your hips, lips grazing over your stomach gently. Your hands drifted to your belt, reaching to undo the buckle. A firm pair of hands grabbed your wrists, pressing them gently into the matress either side of you wordlessly.

You huffed in protest but let her stop you, laying your head back and closing your eyes. Her tongue was hot and wet as she dragged it over the soft skin just above your waistband, pulling back to press a soft kiss to the same spot, lingering patiently.

You sighed in relief as she finally unlooped the tail end of your belt, ubuckling it and sliding it free slowly, watching for any sign of discomfort.

You raised your hips up and let her ease your pants down, unhooking them from each ankle before dropping them onto the floor, fabric rustling quietly.

Your thighs fell open instinctively, closely watching Cait’s eyes darken, gaze locked onto dampening fabric. Her hand moved gently, one thumb rubbing over you. You gasped softly and pressed up into her, biting back a protest as she pulled her hand away almost immediately.

She shifted and settled on her stomach between your thighs, fingers brushing over soft flesh reverently. You lifted your legs and draped them over her back, pressing your calves down to urge her closer to your aching pussy.

“Stop that” she muttered, but there was no bite in her voice, just a subtle amusement. Her mouth ghosted over the inside of your thigh, breath warm and damp against you.

You gasped softly as she pressed her lips against your heat, the fabric of your panties a barrier between you.

You watched caitlyn with dark eyes, lips parting in a moan as she pulled back and let saliva trickle from her mouth to the already-damp fabric against your cunt.

She swiped a tongue over the drool pooled onto the material, urging it to seep through, then sealed her mouth over it and sucked on your pussy through the fabric. You whimpered quietly, bucking your hips up slightly.

She hooked a finger around the side of the fabric, arousal and saliva clinging onto the fabric in a thin web before falling away. The cool air brushed over heated flesh, making your thighs twitch.

Her tongue dragged through you, before she pulled back and spat onto your clit gently, flattening her tongue against you and spreading her saliva.

Your clit ached under her ministrations, pussy clenching down around nothing. A high, weak whimper left you, hips canting upwards.

2 fingers prodded against your entrance, sliding into you, nudging against your walls as she pressed them as deep as they’d go.

Her fingers were long, reaching that spot inside you better than you even could on your own.

“Fuck.. move them.. please..” you whined, eyes squeezing shut as she curled them up, and pumped them slowly. Arousal trickled out of you, running down into your ass.

A sharp noise left caitlyn at the sight of you spread open and leaking against her, your chest heaving.

“Doing so good, darling. Just like that..” she groaned, voice low and heavy with lust.

“S’so good.. keep going..” you breathed, brows furrowing slightly and lips parting as the pleasure flickered through you with every thrust of her fingers.

She slowly eased you open, increasing her pace, curling up harder, twisting up her wrist, going steady until you were moaning with every other breath, stomach fluttering.

Her mouth found your clit again, tongue hot and wet against it, the sensation sharp and dizzying.

“Just like that, fuck-! M’gonna cum.. ah-.. Cait..”

Just when warmth started to coil up inside you, pleasure boiling under your skin, she pulled away her mouth and fingers. You whined loudly in protest, hips tilting forward, chasing more.

“What the fuck? I was close, you.. why did you do that?” You pouted, clenching around open air.

She looked up at you, the corner of her lips curling upwards slightly. She planted her hands down beside her and lifted herself up.

“You said you wanted to take the strap.”

“So? That doesn’t mean I can’t cum.. “ you protested weakly, sitting up, weight braces in your hands.

“You will. I was getting you ready.”

“You knew exactly what you were doing- that wasn't just ‘getting me ready’” you muttered, narrowing your eyes at her when she smirked at you. She climbed off of the bed and padded over to the bedside, pulling out the harness you’d asked her so nicely for previously.

You watched her, thighs still parted, chest still heaving slightly.

She stood by the foot of the bed, dropping her pants to her ankles, stepping into the harness. She met your eyes while she tightened the straps, the silicone dick hanging crudely between her legs.

You giggled at her, despite the heat tingling under your skin. She gave you a deadpan look, eyebrows cocked, as she climbed back onto the bed and settled between your thighs.

“You’re an idiot” Caitlyn muttered, huffing a laugh and reaching over to grab a small vial of lube from the bedside.

“I’m sorry, it looked silly..” you defended, still butting back a snicker. Caitlyn rolled her eyes and spread lube over the length of the toy, lithe fingers running over it elegantly.

You swallowed, settling back slightly, your breathing picking up again.

Her fingers found yours, her other hand slipping behind your knee and pressing your knee back towards your chest, spreading you open below her gaze.

Your face flushed, bottom lip caught between your teeth as she ran the head on the toy over your slit, the small ridge on the underside catching in your clit.

Her fingers tightened around your slightly, bringing your gaze up to meet her eyes.

“You ready?” She spoke softly, hips stilled, slick silicone resting against your heat.

“Yeah..” you breathed, letting the leg she didn’t have pressed up fall open further, making more room for her hips.

She pressed the tip against your entrance, and slowly eased forward. The initial burn was there, but she’d gotten you so worked up your arousal made it easy.

You’d never felt so goddamn full, the silicone pressed up against your walls perfectly. You clenched down without thinking, and immediately whined.

“Fuck.. you can move, maybe..” you panted, looking up at Caitlyn. She nodded, her gaze dropping from your eyes to your parted lips to where the silicone disappeared inside you.

She rocked her hips forward, the dildo sliding with a lewd wet noise.

You moaned breathily, grip tightening around Caitlyn’s hand. She got braver, catching her bottom lip between her teeth in a failed attempt to hide a smirk before sliding almost all the way out, then bottoming out in one firm thrust.

“Shit-! Oh, that’s so good.. Mmph..” your hips bucked forward, grinding down onto her desperately. The toy dragged along your walls, your pussy clenching around it desperately.

Caitlyn built up a pace, your arms resting over her back. You pressed your face into the crook of her neck, nails raking down her back while the strap plunged in and out of you, flesh meeting flesh wetly.

One of her hands was braced beside you, the other resting between your shoulder blades while she murmured praise into your ear.

“Taking me so well..” she groaned, eyes fluttering shut, hips pressing forward harder.

“Just like that.. gonna cum.. hah.. so good to me, fuck-..” you whined against her, pussy fluttering around her strap, an orgasm curling in your gut.

You rocked your hips down it’s her for a few more thrusts, then clamped down around the toy and spilled all over it, slick running down it. Your fingers dug into her back, a gasp leaving you as she pulled out.

You looked up at her, face flushed and eyes glassy.

“What about you?” You murmured, still catching your breath.

“You’ve got to be worn out, you don’t have to worry about me.”

“I’m not tired yet.. I wanna make you feel good too. Please? S’that okay?”

“If you feel up to it then, love. How do you want to do it?”

“Can I try eat you out? I’ve never done it, but I can try..” you breathed. Caitlyn smiled and ran a hand through your hair.

“I’ll guide you. You’ll be okay.”

Caitlyn shuffled back in her knees and loosened the harness, letting it fall down her thighs before pulling it off entirely and discarding it on the other side of the bed.

When she sat back against the headboard after pulling off her panties, you settled between her thighs timidly.

Your eyes zeroed in on her pussy, flesh slick and catching the light. You spread her open, your breath catching along with hers.

Sensing your hesitation, she reached out and ran the tip off her index over her clit.

“Start here.” She instructed gently, shifting her hand to thread it through your hair. You moaned lowly at the feeling of her finger against your scalp, flattening your tongue out against her clit and dragging it back and forth gently.

Caitlyn moaned softly, thighs twitching slightly.

“That’s perfect, keep that up, then when it’s been long enough, move down.”

You moaned against her, the taste of her slick and the feel of her against your mouth making your face warm.

You eventually shifted down to her entrance, lapping at it gently before pressing your tongue inside her.

“So eager for me..” Caitlyn sighed softly. You pulled back slightly, licking a broad stripe through her heat before going back to her clit, this time closing your mouth around it and flicking your tongue up over it languidly. She whimpered at that, fingers thightening in your hair.

“Shit.. you’re doing so well, darling, just like that.”

You worked your mouth against her sripping pussy until her hips were grinding up against your mouth, thighs pressing in by your ears. Your jaw ached, and your tongue grew sore, but you persisted, every little noise she failed to stifle making satisfaction curl inside you.

Her moans grew into high, keening whimpers as she grew closer, letting you take initiative. She spilled against your face with bitten back noise, thighs falling open again once she’d come down.

You pulled back, chin coated in her arousal, eyes heavy. You looked up to her for praise, which she immediately gave you, brushing a strand of hair away from your eye.

“You did so well, love. Let’s go get cleaned up, hm?”

You nodded and climbed off the bed with wobbly legs, taking Cait’s hand and padding into the ensuite with her.

Menus hit the table. Water glasses follow, condensation slicking your fingertips when you lift one. Voices overlap. The diner exhales into a steady rhythm.

You’re halfway through scanning the options when something shifts. 

At the counter, a woman freezes mid-sip, eyes fixed. She leans toward the person beside her, murmurs something behind her hand. Another head turns. Then another. Recognition moves through the room quietly, like a ripple under glass.

Vi clocks it immediately.

She doesn’t stiffen or play it up. She leans back a fraction more, expression settling into a version of herself you’re starting to recognize—composed, alert, relaxed in a way that bordered on confidence without slipping into careless nonchalance.

The first person approaches, a young guy with nerves written into every movement, phone already halfway raised.

“Hey, uh—sorry. Are you—”

“Yeah,” Vi says, tone level, neither dismissive nor overly warm.

His grin breaks wide. “Holy shit. My sister’s gonna lose her mind when she sees this.”

He holds out his phone like an offering.

Vi takes it, adjusts the angle with effortless precision, snaps the picture, and hands it back. The motion is smooth, practiced to the point of invisibility.

“Thanks,” he says quickly, already stepping back.

Then he hesitates, his gaze snagging on you.

“Wait… is she—your girlfriend?”

Markus chokes on a laugh, turning it into a cough.

Vi doesn’t look at you. Her expression doesn’t shift.

“No,” she says flatly.

“Yeah, right,” Markus mutters under his breath. “She’s way out of Vi’s league.”

Vi shoots him a sharp look. You rub your temples, fighting the urge to smile. Markus raises his hands in mock surrender, smirk barely contained.

“Oh—uh, sorry,” the guy mumbles. “Thanks again.”

He moves off quickly, as if he’s overstayed his welcome.

Another follows. A woman this time, bright-eyed, confident, stepping forward with the ease of someone used to being heard.

She asks about training, recovery, routines. Vi rises from the booth to meet her, posture relaxed, attention precise without ever becoming inviting.

Her answers are short, measured. Polite, efficient. She offers just enough warmth to be pleasant, never enough to become personal, her boundaries drawn so cleanly they’re almost invisible.

You watch the exchange from your seat, mildly fascinated by how easily strangers cross lines they’d never dare approach in their own lives. Questions asked without hesitation. Familiarity assumed. 

The woman laughs softly, then gestures toward Vi’s shoulder. “So… how’s it holding up?”

Her fingers brush the fabric of Vi’s jacket, light, casual, as if touch were a language everyone automatically shared.

For a moment, Vi doesn’t move. Then her gaze shifts—not fully toward you, just enough to register you at the edge of her awareness.

You look away.

Your attention drifts to the tabletop instead: the faint ring left by your glass, the crease in a folded napkin, the way light catches along the cutlery’s edge. Small, neutral things. Safe things.

Vi’s voice carries anyway, steady and controlled.

Something in your posture tightens, almost imperceptibly.

When you look up again, the conversation is already winding down. The woman thanks her, lingering half a second longer than necessary before finally stepping away.

Vi slides back into the booth and drags a hand over her face. “I should start charging.”

“You’d make a fortune,” Markus replies with a grin.

Food arrives soon after, conversation resuming in fits and starts. You eat, respond when necessary, let the rest slide past you.

Eventually, the plates are cleared to the edges of the table and the coffee sits untouched. Markus checks his phone one last time.

“I’m heading out,” he says, pushing himself up with a grunt and shrugging into his jacket.

“Same,” Vi says, sliding toward the edge of the seat.

She reaches into her pocket and drops a folded bill onto the table, attention already elsewhere. You follow her out of the booth as Markus steps ahead and pushes through the door.

Outside, the air feels harsher after the diner’s closed-in warmth. Sound spills in from every direction—engines, footsteps, distant voices.

Markus stops beside Vi’s car and claps her once on the back. She barely reacts.

“Keep her in line,” he says, half-joking, half-serious.

You give a small smile. “That’s the plan.”

He snorts, gives a lazy wave, and slips into his car before pulling away.

Vi watches him disappear down the lot, then gets in, movements unhurried as she reaches for the ignition. You slide into the passenger seat beside her, the door shutting with a muted thud as the engine comes alive beneath your feet.

“Before we go home,” you say, after a beat, “we need to stop somewhere.”

Her hand stills on the wheel for a brief second before she looks over at you, brow tightening.

“Where?”

“The pet store.”

Her foot eases off the gas, not enough to stop entirely, but enough for you to feel the shift.

“Why.”

“I need to get a litter box for Inky.”

She exhales sharply, jaw setting. “You’re telling me that cat didn’t have a litter box in my place all night?” Her grip on the wheel firms. “She better not have shit everywhere.”

“She didn’t,” you say immediately, keeping your tone even. “I improvised.”

Vi turns her head slightly. “You what?”

“Cardboard box. Trash bag. Lined it properly,” you explain. “It worked.”

Silence settles between you, filled by the engine’s low hum and the faint rattle of the dashboard. Vi stares ahead for several seconds longer than necessary, then releases a slow breath, the subtle sound of someone swallowing their pride. 

“Whatever,” she mutters.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

You’re out of the car first, the bell over the door chiming as you step inside. Fluorescent lights hit hard, bleaching the space into plastic brightness. Rows of shelves crowd together, packaging flashing color, the air thick with kibble and disinfectant.

A basket slides into your hands, and you head straight for the cat section, and Vi follows at an unhurried distance. 

The aisle narrows, flanked by rows of disposable bags, each promising a different solution to the eternal problem of odor control. The labels shout for attention: “Low‑dust Clay,” “Unscented Ultra‑Absorb,” “Silica Gel – Odor‑Lock.” You sweep your gaze across the options quickly, almost mechanically, the way a seasoned hunter scans a field.

A bag of low‑dust clay brushes against your fingers. Lifting it, you feel the subtle texture flex beneath your grip. Setting it back, your hand lands on a smaller, more compact package—easier to handle, easier to hide under the counter.

“You’re very serious about this,” Vi says.

The bag shifts in your hand as you drop it into the basket with a muted thump.

“I should be. Inky’s adjusting,” you reply. “New environment. New smells.”

Vi’s smile is thin. “New victims,” she adds.

The corner of your mouth twitches.

At the food display, fingers trace familiar labels, checking protein percentages, taurine, and the absence of fillers—the checklist memorized through late-night research sessions.

You slide a few cans into your basket, then pause, hand hovering over a brand you’ve always bought. You swap it out for a newer, boutique label that claims “wild‑caught salmon” and “no added fillers.” 

The decision feels like a tiny rebellion, a subtle attempt to give Inky something different, something that might make the transition to a new home a little more exciting.

Vi watches, her arms crossed, her expression unchanged. There’s no impatience in her eyes, no boredom. There’s only a patient, almost academic interest.

“You’ve done this before?" she asks.

You glance up briefly, catching the faint glint of her eyes, “…Yes. Obviously, Violet.”

“No,” she says quietly. “You didn’t just figure this out on the fly. You’ve done this before.”

Your fingers pause over a can of salmon pate. You recognize the shift in her tone immediately. Not curiosity. Not casual observation. Something closer to inference.

You’ve never liked that in people.

“Yes,” you say finally, your voice a shade flatter than before. “When I first got her, she needed help adjusting.”

A soft sound leaves Vi’s throat, somewhere between a chuckle and a scoff. “You know that’s not what I’m talking about, nurse.”

Of course you know.

Instinct tells you to deflect again, to reroute the conversation into something harmless and impersonal. Vi doesn’t belong in your private life. And the fact that she’d already witnessed the disruption Sam caused at work still prickles under your skin, a quiet humiliation you haven’t quite shaken.

“I know,” you say finally, quieter this time.

The words taste like concession, even if you don’t mean them to.

Vi’s gaze sharpens. 

You turn your attention back to the shelf, your eyes catching the glossy letters on a bag of “Organic Chicken & Turkey” as a way to ground yourself.

She steps a little closer, the space between you now just enough that you can feel the faint heat radiating from her. 

Her voice drops a notch, barely rising above the background hum. “With that girl who was causing a scene at your job?”

Your fingers tighten around the can until the metal presses into your palm. You don’t react right away. You turn slightly, as if to check the shelf again, buying yourself a second you don’t usually need.

Normally, this is where you’d shut down. 

But the answer is already there.

You feel the answer forming before you can stop it, the words gathering weight on your tongue, slipping forward with a momentum you don’t recognize.

“…Yes,” you say quietly. “That girl is my ex.” 

For a moment, Vi says nothing.

Then she exhales, slow, almost careless.

"Touchy subject,” she says. “Noted.”

The words land closer to the mark than you’d like. Something flickers in your chest, sharp and brief, but you let it pass without giving it shape. Reacting would only confirm what she already suspects.

It’s true. She’s right. And nothing is gained by snapping. 

You let the tension slip from your shoulders, loosening your hold on the can.

You finish choosing supplies, double-checking labels, expiration dates, ingredients. A small bag of catnip goes on top of the basket.

“Done,” you murmur.

Vi leans against the end of the aisle, posture relaxed, eyes fixed on you with that familiar mix of scrutiny and sly humor.

At checkout, the line moves slowly, a crawl of impatient shoppers and the soft beeping of scanners. You place each item on the conveyor belt one by one, watching the orange light of each barcode flash.

When it’s finally your turn, you reach into your pocket for your wallet, only to find it empty. A cold wave washes over your stomach, a sudden drop that makes the world feel a fraction larger.

You glance up at Vi, your face flushing a deep, embarrassed red. “…I—”

She sighs. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“I can pay you back,” you blurt, voice cracking.

She’s already pulling out her card, the metal glinting. 

“I don’t want your IOUs,” she says, sliding the card into the reader with a casual flick of her thumb. 

The machine chirps, the approval beep echoing in the near‑silence of the checkout lane.

She tucks the card back into her wallet, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, hinting at both restraint and a quiet enjoyment of the small power she holds in that moment.

You gather the bags, the plastic crinkling softly as you lift each one. 

“Thanks,” you say, voice lower now, almost apologetic.

“Whatever.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Back in the penthouse, the quiet swallows you whole again.

The bags are unloaded, shoes abandoned by the door, and Inky immediately claims the hallway as her runway, weaving around your legs with impatient curiosity. 

Somewhere between Vi disappearing into the kitchen and you retreating into your room, the temporary mess is dismantled. The makeshift litter box vanishes, replaced with something more appropriate.

Inky finishes her cautious inspection, circling it with careful, measured steps, whiskers brushing the rim as if weighing its worth. 

You remain crouched beside her, hands resting lightly on your knees, noticing the faint tilt of her ears. 

Vi appears in the doorway, one shoulder leaning lightly against the frame.

“I’ve got a few people coming over tonight,” she says. “Games, snacks, the usual.”

You pause, fingers brushing the remnants of packaging still on the floor as you consider her words.

“I’ll stay out of your way,” you murmur, nodding.

“That’s not what I meant.” She pushes off the doorframe, stepping closer. “You can join. We’ll be in the living room.” 

Her tone is uncharacteristically gentle, the tease usually laced into her voice held back, replaced with something softer—consideration.

You hesitate, feeling a pang of uncertainty. "Do you want me to?" 

The words slip out too fast, and you register it immediately - not embarrassment, but something worse. The faint, irritating sense that you've just reached for reassurance you never intended to ask for.

Vi grins and lets out a chuckle. 

You turn away instantly, eyes dropping to Inky, who sits near your ankles, tail curling around her paws, unblinking.

“Never mind,” you mutter. “I can’t drink tonight anyway. I have work tomorrow.”

You rise slowly, crossing your arms, finally meeting Vi’s gaze.

Vi tilts her head, studying the defensive line of your shoulders. “You don’t have to drink.” She turns to leave, but stops, glancing back. “And… sure. I guess your company is nice. When you’re not nagging.”

You roll your eyes, but the curve of your lips betrays you. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

You lie on the bed, sweatpants and a long-sleeve shirt soft against your skin, phone in hand, scrolling through tomorrow’s schedule. 

The information isn’t new—shift start times, patient assignments, familiar names—but going over it brings a quiet satisfaction, a fleeting sense of control in a life that often demands quick decisions and measured reactions.

Inky is curled against your side, tiny and warm, a steady weight in contrast to the noise beyond the door. Her tail flicks once, sensing the subtle shifts around her without opening her eyes.

The gathering Vi mentioned earlier has begun. You can hear it gradually settling into motion beyond your walls: footsteps across polished floors, doors opening and closing, voices overlapping as people arrive, conversation flowing from casual chatter into something more boisterous. 

You keep your attention on the phone, scrolling with measured care. 

A sharp knock raps at the door. You glance up, just for a moment, and see Vi framed in the doorway, tank top loose against her shoulders, joggers slung low on her hips. Then your eyes drop back to your phone.

“Come out,” she says, steady, matter-of-fact.

You keep your gaze on the screen. “Nope. Thanks."

A hand brushes your ankle, tugging gently. A small gasp escapes you before you can stop it, and you glance back at her.

“Come on,” she murmurs. “I said your company’s nice.”

“Yeah,” you reply, voice flat. “And I said no thanks.”

You’re about to turn away again when your eyes catch something that makes your jaw tighten.

Her shoulder. Bare. No bandage. 

You let out a quiet sigh, part frustration, part resignation. She’s ignored your instructions—again—and now you get to fix it. 

You push yourself up, turning to sit fully facing her.

Vi watches you, brow faintly lifted, as if she already knows the question forming in your mind.

“Where is the bandage?” you ask, calm but edged.

Her eyes widen for the briefest moment, then she scoffs.

“Never mind,” she mutters, pivoting toward the hallway. “Stay in here. Buzzkill.”

You rise from the bed, moving quickly to catch up with her. Your hand curls around her wrist before she can take another step, and she stops, caught off guard. 

Her eyes lift slowly to meet yours.

“Don’t you have interviews coming up?” you ask, tone steady despite the tension coiling beneath it. “Press. Sponsors. Everything tied to the next fight.”

Her jaw tightens.

“It was itching,” she admits after a moment, voice rougher now. “And I don’t know where it is.”

A faint curve brushes your lips—not a smile, not exactly—but tinged with restrained annoyance.

“No worries, Violet,” you reply evenly. “I have plenty.”

For a fleeting instant, something like disappointment crosses her face.

She exhales sharply and pulls her wrist free. “Hurry up.”

You step around the bed toward your duffel bag, and rummage through it. You pull a roll of gauze free, feeling the familiar, slightly gritty texture under your fingertips. The cheap, sterile smell of the it hits you—sharp, antiseptic, oddly comforting.

“Sit,” you say, already moving toward her.

Vi hesitates, but then moves to sit on the edge of the bed.

The way she folds her legs—one knee bent, the other extended—forces her shoulder to angle away from you, as if she’s deliberately making the task more difficult. 

You tilt your head, catching the stubborn set of her jaw. Her lips are pressed into a thin line; she’s testing you, seeing whether you’ll rise to the challenge she’s set.

You don’t. Instead, you give her legs a subtle nudge apart with your foot, creating just enough space to reach her shoulder.

Vi glances at you, eyes narrowing ever so slightly, that silent, “really, bitch?” expression clear without a word. 

You ignore it.

Carefully, you hook a finger beneath the thin strap of her tank top and slide it aside, exposing the curve of her shoulder. Her skin is warm under your touch.

You begin wrapping her shoulder, pulling it snug but not so tight that it cuts off circulation. The cotton fibers bite lightly into her skin, a crisp, clean sensation against the muscle. You keep the tension even, winding the roll in a steady rhythm.

“I’m not against you, Vi,” you explain. “I’m just trying to do my job, and part of that is making sure you don’t make this worse for yourself. Plus… don’t you like what you do?”

Her eyes flick to yours. She doesn’t respond immediately; instead, she lets a soft, almost contemptuous sigh escape.

“Obviously,” she murmurs, clipped but not unkind.

You tighten the bandage a hair more, smoothing the layers so they lie flat against her.  “You’re good at what you do. I’ve seen your fights. Don’t make this difficult.”

Her eyes linger on yours for a moment, just enough for you to register the calculation there—a blend of admiration, irritation, and something that might almost be curiosity.

You finish the final wrap and secure it, then slide the tank top strap back into place. 

You notice how she watches you, as if expecting something else from you—some grand gesture of fanfare. You roll your eyes inward, a silent amusement bubbling up.

“I’m not a fan, though,” you say, voice steady, a thin thread of wryness slipping in. “Just happened to see.”

The corner of her mouth lifts, a hint of sly acknowledgment. She stands and her hand finds your wrist. 

“Come on,” she urges, tugging you gently out of the bedroom and toward the living room.

“Vi—” you start, but she’s already moving, insistent in that way that makes arguing pointless. 

Her grip on your wrist is firm but not harsh, guiding you with ease through the doorway.

By the time you step into the living room, she releases you and gestures at you with a faint, triumphant grin. “This is my new roommate—she’s going to hang out with us for a bit.”

Heads turn. Some offer smiles, a few hellos float your way. You tilt your lips into practiced polite returns, arms crossed loosely, though a part of your mind catalogues the dynamics: who’s loud, who’s quiet, who’s here just to socialize, and who’s sizing each other up.

Around nine people are in the living room—some clustered around the TV, some sitting on the floor, others perched on the couch. A few more have drifted into the kitchen, chatting and grabbing drinks. 

Vi’s definition of a “few friends” seems… generous.

You drift toward the couch and lean against its armrest, attention half on the game, half on the room itself. Voices overlap, someone laughs too loud, a bowl of chips rattles as it’s passed between hands.

You’re just starting to tune it all out when something cool brushes your arm.

You glance sideways. Vi stands there, holding out a Diet Coke.

You take it—or try to. Her grip doesn’t loosen.

Your gaze lifts slowly, meeting hers. She’s already looking at you, blue eyes sharp, a faint smirk playing at the corner of her mouth.

A beat passes. Then she releases the can and turns away, drifting back toward the couch like nothing happened.

You lift the soda, raising an eyebrow. 

What the fuck are you doing, Violet. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

By the time the last of the guests filter out, the penthouse has begun to settle, the residual energy of voices and laughter tapering off into something soft and subdued. You glance at the clock—11:30—and feel your shoulders loosen just a fraction.

It’s been a long evening, and tomorrow will be early, but you’re surprised at how… manageable it all was. 

Meeting Vi’s friends for the first time could have been chaotic, but between the card games, the teasing banter, and the easy rhythm of conversations, it hadn’t been bad at all. Maybe even… enjoyable, in small, unexpected ways.

Your phone buzzes on the kitchen counter. You step closer, leaning against the edge as you read the message.

Evelyn: quick update, clinic’s running a half day tomorrow. Some of the rehab equipment will be down for maintenance in the afternoon, so we’ll be finishing up appointments by 1.

A small surge of relief passes through you. You remember checking the schedule earlier—full appointments back-to-back, a handful of new evaluations, and more follow-ups than you can count. 

The front desk staff are going to have to smooth over a lot of irritated patients in the morning. You can already picture the calls, the raised voices, the sighs.

Vi, standing in the doorway between the kitchen and living room, notices the shift in your expression. “What?”

“I have a half day tomorrow,” you say, your tone light. “Getting out at one.”

Her brow quirks up slightly, the familiar spark of mischief in her gaze. Then realization hits—you haven’t figured out your ride yet. Vi had insisted on picking you up when you first moved in, and now you’ll need her as a chauffeur.

“I need you to give me a ride.” 

Vi smirks. “I know. What time do you need to be in?”

“7:45.”

Her eyes widen slightly, and you can’t help the small laugh that escapes. “Why don’t you just take me back to my apartment so I can grab my car, then you don’t have to drive me anywhere?”

Vi exhales, shaking her head. “There’s assigned parking here. You’ll get towed.”

You shrug. “I’ll park on the street. No big deal.”

She considers it, then finally nods.

Together, you move through the apartment, picking up stray cups and napkins from the living room floor, collecting empty snack bags from the coffee table, and sweeping up a few wrappers that had wandered near the couch. 

The place slowly returns to its usual order, the familiar layout of furniture and soft lighting reasserting itself after the energy of the evening.

Vi sinks into the couch, stretching her legs out as she settles in to watch the prerecorded football game flickering across the TV.

Back in your room, Inky curls beside you once again, her quiet presence comforting. You slip into bed, phone set aside, letting the quiet stretch around you. 

Fatigue takes over, heavy and welcome. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

The clinic is quiet, only the hum of the fluorescent lights and the faint beep of monitors filling the space—a stark contrast to the morning scramble when you’d had to threaten to take Vi’s car, if she didn’t get her ass up and moving so you could get to work on time.

You step past the front desk and set your bag on the counter, sliding open the drawer to tuck in your keys and badge. 

Evelyn glances up from the computer, offering a tired but genuine smile.

“Morning,” she says.

You offer a small smile and a quiet “good morning” in return, letting the familiarity of the space settle around you. The steady rhythm of the clinic eases in—the shuffle of shoes across linoleum, the faint hum of monitors, the occasional clink of instruments being set aside. 

Mid-morning finds you at the nurses’ station, flipping through patient charts, jotting quick notes, and moving through the motions with practiced efficiency. The routine is grounding, a calm anchor in an otherwise busy day.

A sharp ring cuts through the background noise. Before you can reach it, Taylor, passing by with a stack of files, snags the receiver. 

They speak into it briefly, then catch your eye and nod toward the phone. “Hey, someone’s on the line for you.”

You push back from the counter, slipping your pen behind your ear, and stride over. Taylor hands you the phone, giving a small nod.

“Hello?” you say, picking up the receiver.

“Hi, this is Dr. Dasgupta,” the familiar, professional voice comes through. “Vi didn’t show up for her session.”

Your exhale is low and sharp. 

“Sorry. I’ll try to contact her,” you reply, keeping your tone clipped. 

Hanging up, you pull out your phone and tap a quick message:

You: Where are you?

Minutes stretch into ten. Fifteen. Twenty. The phone remains silent in your hand—not alarming, but frustrating. Vi’s choice to skip something meant to help her recover gnaws at the edge of your patience.

The morning drifts on in its usual rhythm: patient charts shuffled, brief check-ins at the front desk, supplies restocked. Your attention splits between the tasks at hand and the subtle vexation threading through your thoughts every time you think of Vi.

By the time the clock edges toward one, the clinic winds down for the half-day. 

The last of the patients have been checked out, the waiting room empty, and lights dim slightly as the remaining nurses gather their things and head out, exchanging quick goodbyes and muted laughter that fades out the door.

You, Evelyn, and Taylor are the last three left, each grabbing bags and jackets. 

Evelyn lets out a soft laugh, glancing between the two of you.

“We should do drinks again this weekend,” she says, swinging her bag over her shoulder.

“Sure,” you reply, tucking your clipboard into the drawer at the nurses’ station and sliding your phone into your bag. 

The word leaves your mouth easily. Too easily.

A brief flash of memory follows: cheap cocktails, laughter that stretched too late into the night, and the next morning spent alternating between regret, water, and the bathroom floor.

You pause for half a second, almost impressed by how quickly you’re willing to volunteer yourself for that experience again.

Taylor nods, shrugging their backpack straps. “I’m in.”

The three of you move toward the exit together, stepping through the quiet corridors, conversation light and teasing, the easy rhythm of camaraderie filling the emptied clinic.

You pull the doors closed behind you, sliding your keys into the lock with a soft click that signals the space is finally secured.

Evelyn glances at her watch. “I’m running out—have to be back here to meet with the maintenance guys.”

“Alright,” you reply. “See you tomorrow.”

She waves, heads to her car, and drives off.

“I should head out too. See you tomorrow,” Taylor says with a small smile.

“Yeah. See you,” you reply.

They head toward their car, footsteps fading across the lot, engine starting a moment later.

You remain near the curb, eyes drifting across the quiet parking lot. 

A few minutes pass before an engine turns into the lot. 

You lift your gaze just as Vi’s car glides in, slowing near the curb. It comes to a quiet stop beside you.

You hesitate for half a second, then step forward and open the passenger door.

The seat is cool when you slide in. The door shuts with a muted click.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

You stare ahead through the windshield, giving yourself time to choose your words. You’ve spent enough years with patients to know how easily questions can sound like accusations. You’re not here to control her. 

But you are someone who understands what skipping recovery actually costs.

Your voice comes out calm, even.

“Hey,” you say, not looking at her yet, “I got a call from PT this morning.”

A brief pause.

Then you turn slightly toward her.

“Why didn’t you go?”

“I just didn’t feel like it,” she says, exhaling, like the answer costs her nothing.

You open your mouth to respond—

and then you see it.

A dark mark, unmistakable, blossoms just below Vi’s jawline. A hickey.

Your words die before they reach air.

For a second, your body forgets how to work. Your throat tightens, breath hitching just enough to sting. So that’s what it was. Not pain. Not exhaustion. Not anything worth skipping PT for.

Vi catches the shift instantly. The stillness. The way your gaze doesn’t quite meet hers anymore.

A slow smirk touches her lips.

“What?” she asks, head tilting slightly, like she already knows the answer.

“I’m driving,” you snap.

“No.” 

“Vi. Get out of the damn car.” 

Her eyes flick to yours briefly, then without a word, she unbuckles her seatbelt and swings the door open, stepping out of the car.

You open your door, circle the hood, and drop into the driver’s seat. The engine hums beneath your hands, grip firm on the wheel, gaze fixed ahead.

Vi watches you from the passenger side, lips quirking, clearly enjoying herself. You ignore her.

You inhale slowly, counting the rhythm of your breath, letting the irritation settle into focus. It’s not just the skipped PT—it’s her stubbornness, the constant testing of boundaries, the way she ignores opportunities to recover properly. That part of her makes your patience fray, even as you know you have to maintain control.

Your reflection catches you in the rearview mirror: jaw set, eyes sharp. Logic over emotion. Anger doesn’t help. Yelling doesn’t help. You need her at PT today, and you need to stay professional about this—even if it’s hard not to let the irritation seep into your tone.

You reach into your pocket and pull out your phone. You scroll to Dr. Dasgupta’s contact, pressing the call button, waiting for the line to connect.

“Dr. Dasgupta’s office,” a calm voice answers.

“Hi,” you say, tone clipped, “this is Violet, I missed my appointment at 10 o'clock this morning and I was wondering if there’s any availability in the next twenty minutes?”

Vi scoffs softly from the passenger seat, leaning toward you. “Is that even legal?” she whispers, a teasing edge in her voice.

You turn sharply, lifting a finger to your lips.

She raises her hands in mock surrender, sinking back with a roll of her eyes.

A brief pause. “You’re in luck,” the receptionist says. “We do have a slot. But you’ll need to be here within fifteen minutes.”

“Okay. Thank you. See you soon.”

You end the call, snap the phone into its holder, and press down on the accelerator.

The car lunges forward.

“Shit—chill the fuck out!” Vi growls, hand flying to the dashboard. “Don’t crash my car!”

You keep your eyes on the road.

The drive is quiet after that. Not peaceful. Just restrained. Turn signals click, the city blurs past like it wants nothing to do with either of you.

The PT building’s parking lot comes into view, and you ease the car into a spot near the entrance. The engine clicks off, leaving a heavy, almost tangible silence. 

For a moment you sit there, taking in the quiet tension radiating from Vi beside you. 

You step out first, shoulders tight. 

Vi follows, her glare burning into your back as you move toward the doors. 

Inside, the smell of disinfectant and the quiet hum of the HVAC greet you. 

“Check in at the front desk,” you instruct, nodding toward the reception.

Vi mutters something under her breath but moves forward anyway, giving her name and insurance to the receptionist with minimal patience.

You hover nearby for a moment, then take a seat along the wall, your bag resting loosely in your lap. Vi drops into the chair beside you with less grace, knees angled forward, jaw tight. 

The waiting room is alive with small, impersonal sounds—keys tapping, paper shifting, voices leaking from the hallway.

You glance at Vi from the corner of your eye.

She stares straight ahead.

Minutes stretch thin.

Then the door to the treatment rooms swings open, and Dr. Dasgupta steps out.

He looks exactly the way you remember—neatly pressed navy scrubs, sleeves pushed up at the forearms, a slim clipboard tucked under one arm. A few strands of gray cut through his dark hair at the temples, more noticeable now than when you first started sending patients his way. 

Thin-framed glasses rest low on his nose, giving him the kind of calm, attentive look that makes people feel safer the moment he speaks.

Dr. Arjun Dasgupta, DPT.

You’ve worked with him for years, trusted him with cases you cared about, recommended him without hesitation to patients who needed more than generic rehab plans. He meets your eyes, recognition settling in, and his expression warms.

“Ah,” he says. “My favorite NP.”

You straighten instinctively, rising to your feet. Vi follows a beat later, slower, reluctant.

“Hi, Dr. Dasgupta,” you reply with a small smile.

He turns toward Vi. “You must be Violet. Come on back.”

Vi hesitates, jaw setting, but Dr. Dasgupta is already moving, expecting her to follow.

“Will you be joining us?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder at you.

Vi starts to shake her head, but you cut in smoothly, “Yes. I think it’s best I do. Sometimes she needs a helpful reminder not to be stubborn.”

Dr. Dasgupta chuckles, eyes crinkling. 

“Alright then,” he says, backing toward the hallway. 

You fall into step behind him, feeling Vi’s glare like a blade against your back. Her nostrils flare, her shoulders squared in outrage, and you know—you know—she’s seething.

You follow him down the hall, Vi close behind, her steps silent. He stops in front of a treatment room and gestures toward it. 

“Wait in here for me,” he says. “I need to grab something real quick.”

You step into the treatment room first, the door swinging inward with a soft click behind you. The space is wider than it is tall, more practical than clinical. 

A padded treatment table sits near the center, resistance bands looped on wall hooks, foam rollers stacked in a corner, a rack of weights and balance boards lining one side. The faint scent of disinfectant and rubber hangs in the air.

You drop your bag onto a bench near the wall, the strap sliding from your shoulder.

When you turn back—

Vi is there. Inches away from you.

Her blue eyes lock onto yours, and before you can react, her hand is cupping your face—thumb pressing lightly against your cheek, fingers on the other side, tilting your head upward so that you meet her gaze.

“Do. Not. Embarrass me,” she hisses, low and sharp. “You’re testing my patience.”

Your pulse jumps, but you don’t look away. You keep your body still, expression steady, refusing to give her the reaction she’s clearly looking for. Still, something in the way her hand holds you stays a fraction too long, sends an unwanted spark down your spine.

Finally, she releases you with a sharp push back, stepping just enough to claim space. A faint, annoyed smirk tugs at her lips.

“Why are you making that face?” she snarls.

It takes a moment to register what she means. Your lip is caught between your teeth—subtle, unconscious, traitorous. You drag your fingers over your mouth as if that alone might erase it, irritation flaring at yourself.

By the time your hand drops, your expression is back where it belongs: neutral, composed.

“I wasn’t making a face,” you say flatly. 

Vi lets out a short scoff, her gaze dragging over your face with open disbelief. “Yeah. Sure.”

She moves back a fraction, arms folding loosely. 

“You’re so obsessed with being professional,” she mutters. “And then you do shit like that. Pick a lane, freak.”

The door swings open before you can respond. Dr. Dasgupta steps back in. “Okay, let’s get started.”

<- CH 3 masterlist CH 4 ->

taglist: @thefantasticmissvixen @vxtanne31 @seasonsofchaos @oceantides-and-daffodils @twinkyfemmes @pixiegirlsy @caitlyns-left-mountain

You press a hand briefly to your face, then swing your legs over the edge of the bed. The room is still — curtains filtering sunlight into soft bars across the floor, dust motes drifting lazily through it — and for a fleeting second it almost feels normal.

You stand, and Inky hops down, landing with a soft thud before weaving figure-eights around your ankles.

“Okay, okay,” you murmur. “I’m coming.”

You follow her into the kitchen. 

One of your bags still sits in the kitchen, half-unzipped, where you’d dropped it yesterday without bothering to unpack.

Vi is already awake, leaning against the counter with a mug in hand, hoodie pulled on, posture relaxed in that deceptively casual way she has.

Her eyes flick to you. Then to Inky.

“She’s loud,” Vi says.

“She’s hungry,” you reply automatically.

You crouch by your bag, fingers rustling through soft packaging until you find the cat food, then reach back in for the small bowl you packed. 

The sound of kibble hitting ceramic feels sharp in the quiet kitchen as you set the bowl down near the window, nudging it slightly so it won’t slide.

Inky is on it immediately, nose first. 

You stay near the counter while Inky eats, the soft scrape of kibble against the bowl filling the space just enough to keep your thoughts from spiraling. 

It’s mundane, grounding, the kind of small routine that almost tricks you into forgetting where you are. When you finally straighten, your body still feels a step behind your brain.

“Where do you keep the glasses?” you ask, more to occupy your mouth than out of real need.

“Top shelf,” Vi replies, shifting her weight and sliding a half-step to the side without looking at you.

You grab one and turn to the sink, letting the water run a beat longer than necessary. The first sip doesn’t do much, but the second settles something, loosening the last of sleep from your shoulders. 

You lower the glass and glance back just in time to catch Vi already disengaging, attention drifting toward the entryway like her mind’s made a decision without bothering to inform you.

She turns fully, crossing the short distance in a few long strides, and bends to grab her gym bag from where it’s been tucked near the door. The strap slides into her hand like muscle memory.

Your stomach drops. You hadn’t noticed it there. 

A quiet, frustrated groan slips out of you before you can stop it. If she goes without you, there’s nothing stopping her from pushing too hard, from pretending the shoulder is fine.

You finish the last of your water, letting it sit cold in your chest for a second before setting the glass down. You inhale, slowly, then follow her path out of the kitchen.

At the front door, Vi is already crouched low, tugging her sneakers on with quick, practiced motions. The gym bag rests on her shoulder, strap cutting across her back as she tightens the laces, her posture already halfway into leaving.

“Where are you going?” you ask, trying to keep your voice neutral.

“Gym,” she replies, standing, eyes forward, already keyed to leave.

You blink. “Now?”

“Yeah. Markus is expecting me.”

“The only way you’re going,” you say, already moving after her, “is if I go with you.”

She stops short and looks back. “No thanks.”

Vi moves toward the hook by the door, but you beat her to it. The keys jingle softly as you lift them free.

She freezes, shoulders going rigid before she turns toward you

“What are you doing,” she growls.

“You aren’t going without me,” you reply calmly. 

Her expression sharpens. “Give me my keys.”

“No.”

She swipes at them, a quick jerk of her hand, and you step back, pivoting just out of reach. 

“Are you serious?” she snaps.

“Completely.”

“You don’t get to set conditions on me.”

“I do, when you're probably going to push that shoulder too far.”

The words leave your mouth before you can soften them.

Technically, you can stop her. You’re her nurse. You saw the injury happen, named it, wrapped it, and now you’re the one standing between her and her own stubbornness.

She scoffs, irritated, and crosses her arms, jaw tight. “I’ll be careful.”

You raise a brow, stepping closer. “Let me see your shoulder.”

Her eyes narrow, irritation sparking, but she lifts the tank strap slightly, rolling it down just enough to fully expose the skin underneath. 

There’s nothing new—just the slow, steady progress you expected—but the tight lines of muscle, the faint bruising, the way she flinches just slightly at your touch, remind you exactly why you’re here.

“I’m getting dressed,” you say, turning toward the hallway. “If I’m not there, you’re not going.”

“Whatever,” she mutters.

You don’t respond. You disappear back into the guest room—your room—and shut the door.

You change quickly. Sneakers, clean shirt, movements a little sharper than necessary.

When you step back into the living room, Vi hasn’t moved. She’s still planted by the door, arms crossed over her chest, weight set hard into one hip. The tension in her shoulders hasn’t gone anywhere; if anything, it’s sharpened, coiled tight beneath her skin. 

Her gaze is fixed somewhere past the wall, jaw working faintly like she’s counting seconds she doesn’t want to waste.

You walk toward her, the space between you narrowing with each step, the quiet stretching thin around the sound of your footsteps. 

You stop in front of her and hold the keys out.

She snatches them from your hand, fingers closing tight around the metal.

Her glare is immediate. “Don’t. Do that. Again.”

“Don’t give me a reason to,” you reply.

She stares at you for a long beat, then turns sharply and yanks the door open.

You follow her out into the hall as the door clicks shut behind you, the sound swallowed by the quiet of the penthouse corridor. The carpet dulls your footsteps as you move together toward the elevator, neither of you breaking stride, neither willing to speak first.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Black Forge Gym comes into view faster than expected, the large, industrial doors looming ahead. 

Vi eases off the gas and cuts the wheel into an open space near the curb. The tires scrape softly against the asphalt as she straightens out, engine idling for half a second longer than necessary before she shuts it off.

The sudden silence feels dense after the hum of the road.

She’s already moving, seatbelt snapping free as she pushes the door open and steps out. You follow a beat later, the cool air brushing your face as you straighten up beside the car. 

Vi reaches into the back seat, grabs her gym bag, and swings it over her shoulder. 

“Stay out of my way,” she says, already angling toward the entrance.

“I plan to,” you reply, falling into step without rushing her. 

The gym’s interior hits you with a subtle wave of energy. 

The smell of rubber mats, chalk, and sweat hangs in the air. Junior boxers shadow their coaches in the far corner, gloves raised, footwork precise but unpolished. 

A younger girl trips over a punch combination and mutters under her breath, red-faced, while her coach patiently corrects her stance. Nearby, a boy shadowboxes beside a heavy bag, trying to match the rhythm of the more experienced fighters, his movements sharp but hesitant.

Vi moves through it all without breaking stride. You notice the subtle adjustments—the shift of her hips, the tilt of her shoulders. People move for her without realizing they’re doing it, paths adjusting on reflex alone.

Markus is near the mats, clipboard in hand, mid-conversation with one of the trainers. He looks up when Vi approaches, then his attention shifts to you, eyebrows lifting slightly.

“Didn’t expect company,” he says, voice casual, curiosity threading through it.

Vi doesn’t even glance at him. “Mind your own business.” 

Markus lifts both hands and backs off immediately. “Alright, damn.”

She stops at the cable machine, and you slow a step behind her, attention sharpening.

Markus leans in beside her, pointing at the weight stack.

“Add a few more pounds,” he instructs, voice casual but insistent. “You’ll feel it—push through.”

You watch the way her shoulder settles as she grips the handle. The slight tightening through her upper back. The way her core engages a beat too early, compensating before the movement even begins. It’s subtle, but it’s there, written in muscle memory and restraint.

That load isn’t appropriate. 

“No,” you say, voice level but firm, cutting cleanly through the space between them.

Both of them turn toward you—Vi with a flicker of irritation and surprise, Markus with a raised brow and half-defensive posture.

“That’s too much,” you continue. “You’re asking her to load a joint that’s still compensating. She’ll pull from her back or overload the surrounding muscle before the shoulder ever takes it.”

You gesture once. “Dial it back.”

Vi drops the handle abruptly, annoyance flashing across her features. “I told you not to interrupt.”

You take a step closer, lowering your voice so only she can hear.

 Leaning in just enough, you add quietly, “I moved in to make sure you don’t injure yourself further. Also, you don’t get to tell me what the fuck to do.”

Her expression falters for a brief moment—shock, maybe, but it vanishes almost instantly, replaced with a sharp curve of her mouth.

“Listen to me,” you add, firmly.

For a second, she just stares, chest rising and falling slowly, tension in her shoulders easing fractionally.

“Okay,” she finally says, the single word clipped. Her back straightens as she turns to face the machine again. “What do you want me doing?”

You rattle off the alternatives: controlled mobility, stability work, range without load.

She moves through each instruction with precision. Your eyes stay on her shoulder, tracking each subtle muscle engagement, noting every micro-shift and guarding movement. 

When a tiny misalignment appears, your hand gestures minutely, your tone clipped but neutral, guiding her back into correct posture.

Markus huffs under your gaze, clearly frustrated by your interference. He drifts to the sidelines muttering about “not being able to get anything done these days.” 

You watch Vi move through the machines with practiced ease, transitioning from one to the next without breaking rhythm, her body adjusting instinctively as she goes. Now and then you step in, a quiet correction here, a hand gesture there, keeping the load conservative and the range clean. 

Markus hovers at the edge of it, occasionally opening his mouth to suggest more weight or another rep, and each time you meet his gaze flatly until he exhales, backs off, and redirects his attention to barking instructions at the junior fighters scattered nearby.

Vi finishes on the treadmill, setting an easy pace, arms moving loose at her sides as her stride settles into something natural. 

By the time she slows and steps off, rolling her shoulder once out of habit, the session has passed without incident, and the low, constant noise of the gym folds back in around you.

She glances over at you, one brow lifting as she steps away from the treadmill, towel hooked over her shoulder. 

“I’m done,” she says lightly. “Gonna wash up and change.”

“Wait,” you reply immediately.

You step toward the stretching area off to the side, toe hooking the edge of a rolled mat someone left leaning against the wall. You drag it out with your foot, unrolling it across the floor, the rubber catching and squeaking softly against the concrete.

“We’re not skipping this,” you add, finally looking back at her. “Cooldown comes before anything else.”

Vi lets out a low groan but follows anyway, dropping down onto the mat with a soft thump. You gesture her through the stretches, pacing her breathing, watching the shoulder’s range as she moves. You kneel briefly to check alignment, then stand again, arms crossed, eyes sharp.

She shifts through each stretch with careful attention, jaw tight, following your cues even when it clearly annoys her. 

Only when you’re satisfied do you finally nod. 

“Alright,” you say. “That’s all.”

She exhales through her nose and pushes herself to her feet, brushing her hands together as if to wipe the whole thing away.

“Whatever,” she mutters.

Vi reaches for her water bottle. The plastic crinkles slightly under her grip as she takes a quick drink. She hooks a towel over her shoulder, grabs her phone from the bench, and heads toward the hallway that leads to the locker rooms.

Minutes pass. The hum of the gym settles heavier in your ears, the scent of faint disinfectant clinging to the back of your throat.

Markus is still nearby, muttering to himself about posture or balance or some obscure point of form, but your attention drifts. 

Your phone buzzes against your hip.

Vi: Bring me my bag.

You glance up, scanning the floor until you spot it by the treadmill, half-slouched against the frame where she left it. 

A quiet sigh slips out of you, more tired than annoyed.

You walk over, nudging the bag upright with your toe before bending down. The strap is rough under your fingers as you straighten it, looping it back into place out of habit before lifting the weight properly. 

“Be right back,” you murmur to Markus as you pass.

He barely looks up, grunting something vague and dismissive.

Your sneakers echo softly as you head toward the back hallway, the noise of the main floor fading behind you. The gym’s brightness gives way to quieter light, the kind that feels practical rather than performative.

The smell changes as you go too, less sweat and rubber, more soap and damp tile. Vi’s bag bumps lightly against your thigh with each step, the weight familiar in your grip.

You slow when you see the sign.

Women’s Locker Room.

You push the door open with your shoulder, careful not to let it swing back into you. Cool, humid air brushes over your skin, carrying the clean bite of disinfectant layered with shampoo and something faintly floral.

The soundscape shifts. Lockers closing somewhere deeper inside. Water running behind tiled walls. The low, constant hum of overhead lights.

The space opens up into neat rows of lockers, metal doors catching the light in dull reflections. Benches sit bolted to the floor, bare except for a forgotten towel draped over one end. You step fully inside, letting the door close behind you with a soft thud.

“Vi?” you call, your voice quieter here, instinctively respectful of the space.

Nothing.

You take a few steps forward, sneakers whispering against the tile. 

“Violet?” you try again.

A beat. Then movement.

From the doorway leading to the changing area, Vi leans out just far enough to be seen. Damp hair clings to her temples, skin flushed from exertion.

“I’m right here,” she says, already turning back inside.

You hesitate for a moment, then follow.

As you step closer, you catch her just as she pulls her tank up and over her head, the fabric peeling away to reveal a sports bra underneath. She doesn’t rush, movements loose, unguarded, like she’s alone.

The overhead light catches the sheen of sweat along her shoulders, the defined lines of muscle shifting beneath her skin as she straightens, the inked swirls and sharp edges of her tattoos tracing across her arms and back, adding a stark, artful contrast to the glistening skin.

For a second, she stays turned away from you, adjusting the waistband of her shorts, stretching her arms overhead. You notice the subtle movement of her shoulder blades, the controlled strength there, the way effort still lingers on her skin even after the workout’s done.

She shifts slightly, glancing over her shoulder, then pivots fully, her eyes finding you. 

Your gaze flicks lower, taking in the definition of her abs as the light catches the curve of each muscle. 

You don’t even notice that she’s watching you watch her, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.

“Earth to you,” she says, amusement threading through her voice.

The words snap something loose.

Your gaze jerks upward, heat flaring fast across your face as you realize you’ve been caught, bag clutched in your hands like an excuse you forgot to use.

“I—” The word stalls out uselessly.

You react instead, stepping forward and tossing the bag toward her. She catches the strap with one hand, a grin plastered on her face. 

You back up around the corner, palms lifting instinctively to cover your face, elbows tight against your ribs. Heat blooms across your cheeks and ears, creeping down the back of your neck. For a moment, you just stand there, breathing, trying to steady the pulse thudding in your chest.

The image lingers longer than it should—the curve of muscle, the easy power in her frame, the way her shirt moved with her—and you hate yourself for it. You force your thoughts back into order, back to the truth of it: she’s your patient, this is rehab, and whatever line you crossed when you skipped the formalities doesn’t give you permission to keep crossing it.

After a beat, you drop your hands, pressing them briefly to your thighs to hide the lingering warmth, trying to reclaim whatever composure you can. 

You force your eyes forward and call out, voice tighter than intended, “Violet, are you done?”

“No… I need to shower.” Vi responds, voice muffled. 

You swallow, heat still climbing, and hesitate. 

Her teasing voice follows almost immediately, dripping with mischief: “Did you want to watch?”

Your heart stutters. You don’t answer. Instead, you pivot sharply, walking toward the door, each step echoing faintly on the tile. 

Your hands press to your face again as you exit, murmuring, “I’ll… just wait outside.” 

The words come out rushed, your voice a whisper against the sterile hum of the locker room.

You step into the hallway, letting the door swing shut behind you. The sharp chill of the tile under your sneakers cuts through the heat still crawling across your cheeks. You press your back to the wall, taking a slow breath.

You tug at your collar, letting out a low curse, scolding yourself under your breath. 

You’ve been careful for years, keeping life and work separate, and here you are, breaking all your own rules—letting curiosity override caution, and realizing just how unprofessional you’ve been.

Ten minutes stretch slowly, giving you time to chastise yourself again for bending rules, skipping paperwork, and letting curiosity get the better of caution.

A faint scrape of a shoe on tile makes you glance up. 

The locker room door swings open as Vi emerges, towel slung over one shoulder, hair damp and sticking lightly to her neck. 

Her bag is looped over the opposite shoulder, swinging as she steps into the hallway, watching you with that same unreadable glint. “I’m ready.”

“Let’s go,” you mutter.

<- CH 2 masterlist CH 4 ->

taglist: @seasonsofchaos @vxtanne31 @thefantasticmissvixen @oceantides-and-daffodils @twinkyfemmes

You meet her as a political agreement since your families need each other, need the influence and stability.

Knowing the Kirammans you prepare yourself for arrogance and quietness and confidence that's practically condescension.

The first time you meet Caitlyn barely acknowledges you, and when she's forced to sit in front of you her eyes simply wander around, like the sight of you is boring and deeply annoying.

You notice she's uncomfortable, mad maybe. Her jaw is clenched, and her eyebrows merge into a frown. Her lips seemed slightly chapped, and there's a darker tone under her eyes. She's had a hard time, so you simply hope that explains her behavior.

“Do you object to this arrangement?” Her voice is gentle and quiet, and you notice the accent on each letter. It's almost like this is a formal meeting rather than the first approach before getting married. Which isn't so far from reality anyway.

“Do you?” Your voice comes out louder than usual, wanting to prove your worth to her somehow. Show her you're not afraid of her or her money.

“…No. It is necessary.” Caitlyn speaks, unbothered. She truly couldn't care less about you.

She is disgusted by the whole idea, but at the same time she finds it pleasing to have company, to own you somehow.

The wedding is beautiful. Expensive. Ridiculously expensive.

You stand beside her in silk and jewels and feel like you’re being displayed next to her, not with her.

Her hand holds yours perfectly for the crowd to see, like she's been in love with you forever. And for a second you almost believe it, for your sake.

She is gorgeous and polite and kind. Her skin is soft and cold. Even her condescension feels right, and you let yourself enjoy and trust for as long as it lasts.

You know, and it happens. The second the doors close behind you both in your shared estate she lets go.

The first nights are the worst.

Caitlyn barely acknowledges your presence, she doesn't talk nor make a sound. It's like you're the only one there.

She refuses to eat with you and sometimes even apologizes for sharing the same space even if it is just passing by you.

At nights you share a bed. Caitlyn simply lies stiff on her side of the mattress, back turned to you.

Days turn into weeks.

She is as polite as the whole situation allows her to be. Still not acknowledging you, but when she does she's cautious and courteous. And at least now she worries.

Never directly but through the staff that works at home, asking them to take care of you, feed you well, make sure you keep yourself active.

You begin to feel like furniture in her house.

Eventually she allows herself more closure.

She never enters a room without announcing herself first.

She always leaves space between you when sitting.

She asks permission for the smallest things.

And for once she actually talks to you, sometimes even laughs.

As time goes by, you learn to be with each other, how to share the space without bothering each other, and how to ask for company without crossing any lines.

Eventually you do cross those lines.

You simply cannot control how her stubborn pride makes you feel, how much you need to be touched and how bad you crave that touch is hers. You wonder how her nails would feel against your skin, how hard would she kiss and where. Would she be on top of you or under you. How would she sound like. How would she look like.

And it drives you insane, to peek at every inch of skin she lets you see.

Caitlyn herself also struggles.

She has always been a woman of strong needs. She wonders how you'd sound like. How your skin feels like. If you'd be loud or not. How far would you let her go. Would you let her taste you? touch you? where and how?

But her ego is bigger than her needs. So she finds pleasure in the quiet moments she gets to enjoy for herself. Locking herself in her office, not even undoing her uniform properly. Her hands simply trace small circles around her nipples, and she squeezes the fat of her breasts with need. She doesn't think of anyone, but when she does it's you she thinks of.

Then she slides one finger between her folds, rubbing her clit until she's loudly wet. With her other hand she collects some slick before sliding one finger inside, in and out at first to tease herself. She starts slow and keeps it like that for as long as she can handle.

Some other times she simply goes to one of the many rooms the estate has. She leaves her panties as the only barrier between her and whatever pillow she's chosen to hump against.

Until she breaks, as she had to.

And so do you.

And you find yourself kissing her neck and biting and gripping.

Caitlyn finds herself panting and touching and biting back.

The kisses are messy and sloppy and with drool everywhere. And sometimes you even hurt each other, because this only happens when there's stress or boredom bothering you. And it's all caused because of each other.

It turns into a toxic endless cycle of hating each other through sex. Over and over again until Caitlyn gets tired.

Not of your body.

She loves every inch of you. From your lips and how they bleed sometimes after a too rough kiss. Your eyes and how desperate you look sometimes. Your chin, your jaw, your clavicle. Your chest, your stomach. The stretch marks on your body. Your thighs. How wet you get with ease. How loud it sounds when she’s grinding against you. How easy you take her in. How tight you grip her hair when you need more.

But it gets boring. And there's certainly a bigger reason than her personality and her money and her smartness as to why she has never dated anyone before.

Caitlyn always needs more.

“We need to set terms.”

Your stomach drops.

You don't want terms or a discussion or a bigger contract than marriage.

You want her.

“Terms?”

“Yes.” She folds her hands like she’s in a meeting. Her face is just that serious facade she always carries near you. "I don't want this.”

She pauses, properly looking at you.

“You have needs. So do I.” You stare at how she steps closer, still keeping distance between the two of you. “We are not married by choice. I will not trap you or I in a situation where physical comfort becomes emotional obligation.”

Everything about it breaks your heart. But the word obligation is what truly infuriated you.

“An obligation? is that so?”

Caitlyn sighs, rubbing the bridge of her nose before looking away. “You are mistaking this for love.”

It only gets worse after. Knowing she comes home with company to then pretend you two are happily in love with each other when there's other people around.

You dont even try to find anyone else, simply seeking for comfort in those small moments when you have public staring. Enjoying the feeling of her hands on your lower back, guiding you.

Or how she even kisses your cheek, looking down at you with feign adoration.

One time you take your chance.

“I love you.” You barely murmur.

And Caitlyn's eyes soften. She looks at you like you’re mistaken.

Like you’re naive and you don’t understand yourself.

She cups your face gently.

“You don’t,” she whispers before leaning forward to press a small kiss against your lips. "And neither do I."

The 2 were posted up outside the entrance to the bathrooms in the back of a club. It was a Thursday, so not overly crowded, but Vi had proposed an idea and Caitlyn had begrudgingly agreed, and was already regretting it.

“Oh chill out, you’d almost think we’re doing something illegal. Seriously, cupcake. S’not the end of the world. You were the one that suggested a third first, and it’s not like one’s gonna appear out of thin air.”

Caitlyn flushed slightly, swatting Vi on the arm before shifting her gaze away.

“I feel like a creep.” She hissed. “This better work.”

“We’re at a gay club, being a creep isn’t that bad if you’re a chick. Besides, if she doesn’t like us, we fuck off. No big deal.” Vi said with a shrug.

“That is not how that-! oh whatever.” Caitlyn sputtered. “You are unbelievable, Violet.”

Vi grinned and shoved her hands into her jacket pockets and leaned back against the wall. Caitlyn’s fingers drummed restlessly on her tricep.

The noise of boots hitting the ground suddenly growing louder drew the couple’s attention, Caitlyn’s back straightening slightly.

When you rounded the corner and almost immediately crashed into a tall woman with dark blue hair, you stumbled back slightly, barely catching yourself.

“Shit, sorry. Are you alright?” Caitlyn asked, pushing off the wall and stepping slightly closer. The other woman trailed her, waltzing up beside her with her hands still in her pockets and an amused smirk plastered across her face.

You quickly glanced over the two, frowning slightly at the look on the pink haired woman’s face. The ravenette just seemed a bit.. mortified.

“Oh, yeah I’m fine. Are you- ..did you need something, or?”

“Actually, yes, I- we— Vi and I— wanted to ask you something.” Caitlyn clasped her hands together, glancing back to Vi briefly.

You tilted your head slightly, waiting for her to ask whatever she seemed so hesitant to say.

“I’m Caitlyn, this is my girlfriend, and we saw you at the bar- not that we were staring or anything! You just.. caught our attention and want to know if you’d be okay with potentially..” she paused, trying to find the least crude wording. Vi gave her a pat on the back and stepped forward.

“2 questions; are you single and are you down to be a third? That’s what she’s trying to say.” She mused, looking up at Cait and flashing a condescending smirk.

“I did not need you to butt in, Violet,” Cait snapped. “But yes, that is what we’re wondering.”

You held up an index finger while you processed, eyes scanning over the pair of women with a slightly bewildered look. Vi puffed out her chest slightly and did it back. It hadn’t even been a week since you’d jokingly made a comment to a friend about how it would be a miracle if you ever ended up in a situation like this. They were both hot too.

You swallowed, exhaling shakily before answering.

“Yes, I am single, and yes to the second question too.” You replied, surprising yourself with how steady your voice was. You now wished you had agreed to taking that shot of tequila earlier. You really needed all the confidence you could get.

Vi grinned.

“See, cupcake! Not so complicated after all, huh?” She teased, turning to face Cait as she spoke.

“Shut up.” Caitlyn muttered, elbowing Vi in the side, to which she simply held up her hands in surrender and lazily stumbled a step back.

“So. What’s’ya name cutey?” Vi prodded, putting her hands back in her pockets and walking a slow circle around you. You looked to Caitlyn, who was still standing a few steps away and watching you, eyes dragging over you with parted lips, azure blue irises swallowed with black. You met her eyes briefly, then broke the contact when you felt a hand nudge your shoulder gently.

“Don’t go mute on us now, cutey.” Vi murmured, stepping up behind you, close enough that you could smell her, the faint smell of a nice washing detergent and a worn off cologne warming your face.

“Uh, y/n. My name is y/n.” You quickly replied, one hand fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. Caitlyn smiled fondly and stepped closer, towering over you, her chest inches from yours.

You swallowed thickly, looking up at Caitlyn, your breath catching slightly when Vi’s hands rested on your hips, warm and firm.

“Y- you meant now? Like you wanna do this now?”

Caitlyn pressed a hand to your chest, craning her head down slightly, moving even closer, her hair falling down past her face.

“Do you want to do this now?” Caitlyn murmured, eyes not leaving yours, Vi’s breath warm on the back of your neck.

You nodded, lips parted. Caitlyn tilted her head slightly, like she was still expecting something.

“Words, baby. She wants you to use words.” Vi whispered into your ear. This felt like a lot considering you were still standing in the hallway outside the women’s restroom.

“Yes, I do, but we can’t exactly do this right here” you replied breathily, your eyes dropping to Cait’s mouth briefly.

“That’s reasonable.” Caitlyn hummed. “Our apartment?”

“That’s fine.” You replied quickly, hearing Vi chuckle behind you, her warmth leaving you as she stepped back.

“Better not wait around then.” Vi mused. “Come on then.”

The three of you left the bar, Caitlyn and Vi intentionally flanking you as you crossed the car park. It was admittedly awkward, but you were letting go of your self consciousness. Just for tonight.

“Dibs not driving by the way” Caitlyn suddenly piped up, taking your hand and pulling you towards the backseat. Vi groaned in annoyance.

“Damnit! Should’ve known.” Vi muttered, her voice lacking any bite.

Caitlyn opened the car door for you and you climbed in and scooted across the other side. The smell of their car was something between an old air freshener that refused to give up and something warm and comforting like a well worn shirt.

Caitlyn ducked her head and climbed in beside you, shutting the door behind her and meeting your eyes.

Vi climbed in too, glancing back at you in the rear view mirror and rolling her eyes. Caitlyn climbed across the seat until one of her knees was between your own, one hand braced on the back of the driver's seat.

“Can I kiss you?” She breathed, making Vi huff in protest, twisting the key far harder than she needed to in the ignition.

You went to nod, but you quickly remembered that Caitlyn wanted you to verbally agree.

“Yeah” you replied, craning your head forward slightly, not quite closing the distance yet.

Caitlyn hesitated for a moment, her gaze dropping to your lips before she leaned forward and pressed her mouth to yours, your eyes fluttering shut.

It was only brief though, when she pulled back you looked slightly dazed, glancing over at Vi, who was visibly tense.

“Is this-? Is Vi okay with this?” You asked Caitlyn. She giggled and nodded.

“Yes, she said it’s okay. She’s just a bit jealous.” She replied, shooting a look at Vi that wasn't responded to with anything but a pouty sigh.

Vi pulled out of the parking lot, neither you or Caitlyn had seatbelts on, but you weren’t really thinking about that right now.

Caitlyn kisses you again, this time sucking on your bottom lip before shoving her tongue into your mouth with a breathy groan, your own tongue sliding against hers lewdly.

You moan lowly, pressing back, tongue running over her teeth and sliding deeper into her mouth shamelessly. You could barely believe you were sober right now.

“Fuck..” vi groaned, glancing at you in the rear view before reaching up and twisiting it so she couldn’t see you and Caitlyn, turning up whatever was playing on the stereo to try and block out the noise. Her grip on the steering wheel was white knuckled, her hips shifting restlessly in the seat.

You had been so quick to trust these strangers, getting in their car with no hesitation . If they were planning on kidnapping you then maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

Caitlyn shifted, climbing onto your lap, guiding your hands to her hips, the two of you panting into each other’s mouths.

You leaned forward and pressed your mouth to her throat, the soft noise that leaves her mouth making heat curl in your stomach.

You sucked damp skin between your teeth, gently tilting her head back and moving your mouth down her neck frantically, panting against her.

You had half a mind to start taking clothes off right there in the backseat but you restrained yourself, making a noise of protest when Caitlyn climbed off of you and sat down, finally doing up her buckle.

The rest of the ride to their apartment was painful, tension thrumming thickly in the air, so, so close to snapping.

You shifted restlessly in your seat, flushed and out of breath, throat dry as a bone, pussy soaking wet.

You’d always been one to lose it over a simple makeout. How could you not honestly? It didn’t take much to turn you on, especially not with a woman as ethereal as Caitlyn.

You did have to admit to feeling bad for Vi. She had to keep her eye on the road while her girlfriend made out with a stranger in her back seat.

When Vi pulled into a driveway, Caitlyn was fast to open the car door— to which Vi protested— and dragged you into the house. She eventually pulled away to go kiss Vi on the cheek and whisper something in her ear that made her turn pink.

The second you’d made it upstairs, The door was closed and Vi was onto you.

“Let’s see what all the fuss is about, yeah?” She breathed, mouth inches from yours. You assumed the “fuss” she was referring to was the way that Caitlyn had reacted earlier.

Caitlyn perched herself on the end of the bed, pulling off her shoes while watching you and Vi.

Vi backed you up against the closed door, kissing you too. She was different to Caitlyn— just as eager, but rougher and somehow even messier.

She was kissing you like she was trying to devour you, tongue clashing with yours, sucking your slick muscle into her own mouth and biting slightly, then backing off, running her tongue over your teeth. Saliva escaped your mouths, wetting your chin and Vi’s. It was crude.

she panted and moaned into your mouth, one hand on your hip pressing you back, the other groping your chest desperately.

Caitlyn sat on the end of the bed, eyes heavy. She didn’t stay out for long though, rising to her feet and padding over to you and Vi, wrapping her arms around Vi’s waist and resting her chin on her shoulder, watching the spectacle from up close.

Vi pulled back, huffing for air, and stared at you, glancing you up and down.

“Not bad” she murmured, making Caitlyn smile.

“Wow, Vi. You certainly got worked up.” She teased.

“Still am” Vi retorted, leaning down to kiss at your neck, this time slightly less frantic.

Caitlyn took the opportunity to kiss you again, this time her mouth moving slowly over yours, tongues sliding and lips brushing with painful patience.

Vi sucked on your neck particularly hard when Caitlyn made a pleased noise into your mouth. Having not only Vi’s attention but Cait’s as well simultaneously was dizzying.

You groaned in protest when Caitlyn pulled back, but it was immediately trailed off when you saw her pulling her shirt off, saliva pooling under your tongue at the sight of her topless, and a mole just below her right breast you suddenly really wanted to kiss.

Vi’s hold on you made that impossible though, one of her hands tugging the neck of your shirt down and sucking a mark into the skin over your collarbone.

You groaned, wanting to let your eyes fall shut but also not wanting to look away from cait. You squeezed your thighs together helplessly, one of your hands coming to rest on Vi’s shoulder.

She pulled back and looked up at you, panting, that insufferable smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth.

“Well Caitlyn certainly made a good decision.”

Caitlyn turned and moved over to the bed, and Vi pulled you along too, guiding you to climb onto the mattress.

Caitlyn sat back against the headboard, knees parted slightly.

“Can you make me feel good? Is that okay, darling?”

“More than” you panted, climbing forward on your knees and placing your hands on Cait’s thighs.

The mattress shifted as Vi climbed into the bed, sitting down beside you.

You fiddled with Cait’s belt and pulled it free, pulling her pants down her hips carefully.

You laid down on your stomach, pale thighs either side of your head, and a glistening cunt right in front of you.

Vi absentmindedly traced a thumb in circles in the back of your thigh, sitting back and watching with heavy eyes, clearly restraining herself.

You pressed a kiss to the warm flesh of Caitlyn’s thigh, the smell of her dizzying. When you finally reached her pussy and dragged a tongue all the way through her slick, you whimpered, and Caitlyn sighed softly.

You squeezed your thighs together, then gently parted Cait’s folds with one hand and licked a broad stripe through her cunt, pulling back and letting the drool pooled under your tongue drip from your mouth onto her swollen clit, targeting it deliberately this time when you went back in.

Vi noticed the way your hips shifted, like you were fighting the urge to grind down into the mattress. Caitlyn moaned, fingers threading through your hair and urging you in further.

The sound of your tongue working over Caitlyn’s slick cunt was lewd, your own arousal growing unbearable, dampening fabric between your legs.

You worked Caitlyn up, teasing over her clit with decent pressure, before shifting down, sliding your tongue into her with a wet squelch, making you moan into her like you were being eaten out.

You flinched slightly when Vi whispered into your ear. You hadn’t even heard her shift closer.

“You want me to touch you too?”

You nodded into Cait, tongue working relentlessly, thumb rubbing circles over the skin of her inner thigh.

Vi slid your pants down your thighs, sitting behind you and dragging a thumb over your sopping hole, spreading slick over your clit. She exhaled sharply at the feel of you, dipping the tip of her thumb inside you just enough to feel it before pulling back, making you shift your hips back slightly, a whine catching in your throat.

Caitlyn’s fingers tightened in your hair, her hips bucking up, cunt dragging over your mouth messily, saliva and her slick trickling out of her.

She dipped her head back, mouth falling over, panting and moaning sharply, noises tightening into keening whimpers as she came, thighs twitching shit around your head, stomach clenching.

You didn’t ease up, fucking her through it all until her hand in your hair tugged you away. Vi continued teasing over you with just her thumb, rubbing over your entrance, but not giving you any sort of friction that eased the ache between your thighs.

You looked up at cait, lips and chin slicked, face flushed, panting and looking up at her pathetically. Her eyes were heavy, slightly glassy, chest heaving slightly.

“Might need to get back here and take care of our girl, cupcake. She’s makin’ a mess” Vi teased, still running her thumb through your cunt.

Caitlyn reached down and cupped your face with one hand, brushing her thumb over your cheek and smiling down at you condescendingly.

“Are you making a mess? Did you like this that much?” Caitlyn cooed. “Can I use a strap on you? Or would you prefer something else?”

“Strap is fine.” You panted out, letting Caitlyn roll you onto your back and climb off the bed. You scooted up a little bit closer to the headboard.

While Caitlyn tightened the straps of the harness around her thighs and hips, Vi finally undressed.

The mattress dipped as Caitlyn climbed onto the bed, settling between your thighs. You swallowed thickly when Vi shifted, thighs either side of your head. She wasn’t quite as cocky as she had been earlier, tits heaving, face flushed.

“Look at you, Baby..” Vi groaned under her breath, more to herself than anyone else.

You couldn’t see Caitlyn anymore, but you could feel her hand running along your thighs, hear her spit on her hand and slick up the toy.

Vi’s fingers curled around the top of the headboard, hips shifting and pressing her cunt onto your face, which you welcomed gladly, dipping your tongue between her folds, lapping over her clit eagerly

“Shit.. so fuckin’ eager..” Vi hissed, hips rocking slightly.

Caitlyn pressed the tip of the strap against your entrance, silicone cool against you, and you moaned weakly into Vi as she pressed in, your thighs parting further as Cait’s hips shifted forwards.

Vi’s hips started moving slightly, grinding down into your tongue, her cunt making lewd wet noises with every shift of her body.

Caitlyn rocked her hips slightly, letting you adjust, then pulled almost all the way back and then bottomed out in one go, watching your pussy swallow the glistening silicone, your hips jerking at the sudden change in pace.

You rested your hands on Vi's thighs, fingers digging into plush flesh, your tongue poised just right while she ground down against you herself, her slick running over your tongue. You moaned into her as Caitlyn started to pick up her pace, your cunt making a loud “schlick” with every thrust of her hips.

The toy drove up into you, pressing deep, the light pressure against your cervix with every slide making an orgasm coil up in your stomach.

The room was a symphony of dirty noises, skin on skin, Vi dragging her dripping pussy over your tongue, Caitlyn driving the strap into you at a perfect pace.

Vi’s thighs clenched around your head, a guttural noise tearing from her throat, your own orgasm ripping through you a second later, thighs twitching, hips shifting as you rode it out.

You went lax, melting back into the mattress, eyes glassy, cunt throbbing pleasantly. Vi cursed under her breath and climbed off of you, sitting down next to you. Caitlyn pulled out carefully, unbuckling the harness and dropping it to the floor.

“Still in there?” Cait teased, rubbing circles on your thigh gently.

“Very much” you breathed, sitting up, hair mussed, lips swollen, face flushed.

“You want this to be over now?” Vi asked, chest still heaving slightly.

“Does it have to be?”

“Not at all, darling.” Caitlyn cooed, “but I think we take a break for now.”

TAGLIST: @thatredheadloserlesbian

That isn’t to say that she doesn’t work hard. Caitlyn cares about her work, about her grades, about her future. She’s never been keen on settling down as the socialite her mother expects her to be. She’s worth more than that. Not that anyone sees it that way — because what are grades when all people see are your Chanel shoes?

…

That’s all you see, anyway. 

You don’t concern yourself with popularity or anyone associated with it. Caitlyn and her friends — her shallow friends that look at her weird when she runs off to the library — barely cross your mind. You’re focused, determined. You know college is just a blip in your long life; you’re more concerned about what comes after. So, you hunker down over your textbooks and a thermos filled with coffee, far more interested in Piltover’s history than its rich inhabitants.

It’s not that you’re immune to Caitlyn’s charms. You’ve seen her flash a smile at a girl from across the room, watched the same girl quickly look away with flushed cheeks as if she’d been caught staring. That girl would be nothing to Caitlyn when she moved on to the next in five minutes.

It’s ridiculous. And frankly, you don’t have time for that.

“Are you asleep?”

You jerk your head up from where your cheek had been pressed against the open pages of your textbook. “Huh? No.”

“Sure,” Mel squints at you, hazel eyes flickering with doubt. “Your eyes were closed. I told you to go to bed early last night.”

“I was studying,” you shake your head, slouching back against your seat. It’s a lie: an unconvincing one. Really, you had gotten caught up in playing video games until you were too deep in competition to quit. Who can blame you? You had been helpless to resist the challenge.

Mel seems to gather as much because she just rolls her eyes and goes back to filing her nails. “Why don’t you come home with me tonight? You could use the fun.”

“Can’t,” you sigh, and you almost regret it. A night with your best friend sounds like a heavenly blessing, designed to heal your exhaustion. But— “Vi’s picking me up.”

“Vi?” Mel wrinkles her nose. “You’re still dating her? I thought you broke up two weeks ago because she was using you.”

“We did,” you argue, but your voice is weak. “But— but she apologized, and we talked it out. She wasn’t using me, she just didn’t know I wanted more than, you know, physical stuff.”

It sounds like a lie, even to you.

“I hope you hear yourself right now,” Mel’s focused on her nails again, but you can see blatant disbelief in her expression.

You pause for a moment, trying to find any excuse you can give — anything — before your phone pings with a notification from Vi. “She’s here. I have to go.”

“Be safe,” Mel calls over her shoulder, and while it would normally be all jokes, you can’t shake the feeling that she means it. That is, until you walk up to your girlfriend’s beat-up mustang parked at the curb. 

“Hey babe,” Vi calls cheerfully from the driver’s side. She loops an arm around you the second you slide into the passenger seat, planting a wet kiss on your cheek. “Ready for our date?”

You smile at the touch of her lips, and you find yourself relaxing back into your seat, the tension leaving your muscles. Maybe you really had been overreacting when you had called it off a few weeks ago, tired of Vi only hanging out to get into your pants. “Of course! Where are we going?”

“My favorite sports bar,” Vi revs her engine with a proud, almost smug little smile. As if she had spent days planning a whole event. Somewhere within your heart, you know she hadn’t. “Figured we could watch the game, grab some food, talk. Y’know, the usual date stuff.”

Your smile slips the tiniest bit, unnoticeable to anyone but you. “Oh, right, yeah. That sounds, uh, great.”

“Don’t I know it?” Vi runs a hand through her hair before turning the wheel and peeling onto the main road. She really is pretty with her freckles and puppy eyes. You don’t know how many times you’ve caved to those same eyes, irresistible when she wants something. 

You wouldn’t want to lose her. Not for anything.

|------» ~~~ «------|

“Oh my Gods!” Vi yelps, springing upwards out of her seat and rushing towards the biggest TV in the bar. “That was such a bad call! That didn’t deserve a penalty!”

You just sigh, burying your head in your palms. A singular basket of French fries sits in the center of the table, long forgotten in favor of Vi’s loyalty to her favorite sports team. And you? The smell of beer and day-old ketchup has long since stolen your appetite from you.

You need something to do, though, or you might just combust waiting for this game to be over. “I’m going to get another drink,” you call out to your girlfriend, but she doesn’t even turn her head from the TV — just nods in between angry curses falling from her lips.

You stand from your table, looping around to the front of the restaurant where the bar is. You scan the menu for something, anything, that looks appealing. After a moment, you set down the useless menu with an air of annoyance. “Can I just get a soda? Whatever you have is fine.”

“Sure,” the bartender barely looks at you before pouring more beer to a couple of men that have clearly been there a while. Great.

“I’ll have a sparkling water,” a voice echoes from behind you. 

This time, the bartender glances up. He seems to look past you, as if you’re not even there, to nod at the voice. “Yes, miss,” he clears his throat. “Coming right up.”

Your frustration only spikes at the unknown person. Could they not see you were already waiting? Were you invisible to everyone in this bar? “Hey I was already—“ you spin around with fire in your eyes, then immediately falter at the sight.

Caitlyn Kiramman.

She stands tall in her 6’1” stature, piercing blue eyes that perfectly matched her “ice queen” reputation. Her sharp features intimidate everyone she comes across, including you, apparently. One eyebrow raises when she sees your glare. “Yes?”

Oh, shit. She’s actually talking to you.

“Um,” you clear your throat, crossing your arms as you turn to face her fully. You might not even exist in Caitlyn’s world, but you’re not a coward. “I ordered a drink first. You could have waited until I got mine.”

Caitlyn just narrows her eyes at you. “So now no one can place an order at a bar you’ve ordered from?”

“No!” You blink in surprise, the words rushing out in order to deny her false accusation. “It just— would have been polite. I don’t know why your water is a priority over my drink, now.”

“Oh, you don’t?” The corner of Caitlyn’s mouth twitches, as if she’s biting back a smile. You’ve never seen her smile. Sure, you don’t know her personally, unless passing her in hallways or a singular group project counts, but she doesn’t get her ice queen reputation from nowhere.

“Whatever,” you huff, your competitive nature unable to let Caitlyn ‘win’ this disagreement. Why would you care about her, anyways? “At least I didn’t walk into a random bar to order sparkling water when I could have my private chefs make it for me from scratch.”

Caitlyn tilts her head slightly, not in confusion, but like she’s analyzing you. She’s quiet for a moment, just staring; and suddenly, you feel as if you want to sink into the floor and hide from that cutting gaze. “You’ve heard rumors,” she finally says. It’s not a question.

“Is it gossiping if it’s true?”

“Yes, it is,” she nods pointedly. As if she cares about rumors. As if she cares about anything she feels is beneath her, her reputation, and her designer shoes flown in from Noxus. 

“As if you’d care about that,” you roll your eyes, turning back around to snatch your finally-prepared soda from the bar counter. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to continue a date with my girlfriend.”

“You mean the girlfriend that’s chatting up some guys?” Caitlyn’s voice echoes, amused, from behind you. There’s something smug in her posh-accented words, as if she knows how badly she’s pissing you off.

You scan the tables in disbelief until you see Vi a few paces away, making conversation with some guys wearing the same jersey as her. Fans of the same team. Of course Vi would rather talk to them than talk to you — even on what’s supposed to be a date.

Your face must sink at the sight, because Caitlyn clears her throat from beside you. “Well, I’m waiting to meet someone, so I’m here for a few minutes. If you, um, need someone to sit with for a moment.”

You glance at her with furrowed brows. Why in Janna’s name is Caitlyn Kiramman offering to sit with you? Are you just some charity case she feels bad for? Some extracurricular her elite mother had signed her up to complete? You figure as much.

“I’m just asking,” Caitlyn clarifies, and it’s then you notice the slightest change in her expression. Maybe she feels bad for you, or maybe she’s just really bored, but you’re in no position to turn down company right now.

“Okay.”

“Great,” Caitlyn says smoothly, and she’s already striding over to a booth not far from where Vi stands. “Now are you coming, or what?”

“Damn, give me a second,” you mumble, sliding into the booth seat across from her a moment later. “Can’t you have your driver drop you somewhere else? I don’t even know why you’re here.”

“True,” Caitlyn concedes, sipping from her sparkling water, seemingly without a care in the world. “I could. But it’s nice to see new places; even if it’s just a shitty bar off of the main streets.”

You rest your chin in your palm, unconvinced. “So it’s just a hobby to go into sports bars, order water, then talk to people you barely know?”

“Talk to classmates,” Caitlyn corrects you, and you feel your cheeks burn with embarrassment. You had assumed she had forgotten you like every one of the parade of girls she meets on a daily basis. “I’m a grown woman, you know. I don’t have to be supervised everywhere I go.”

There’s a pause, and Caitlyn’s steel gaze darts from you to where Vi is still chatting up other fans. She’s pulled her chair up to a random table now. She hasn’t called your name once, hasn’t looked around for you, hasn’t checked the bathroom. You wonder if she even remembers that you came with her.

You think Caitlyn must realize this, too, because she brushes her navy hair back with a flick of her wrist. “Besides. I’m really not fond of Violet Lanes.”

“That’s my girlfriend.” You frown at her.

“And?”

“And—“ you bite the inside of your cheek, willing yourself to defend Vi. “And you shouldn’t find a random person just to talk shit about their girlfriend to them.”

“Call me rude and obnoxious, then,” Caitlyn snorts into her glass. “Go on, I don’t mind. Everyone does, anyways.”

You are. The words almost escape you, but you swallow them before they can come out. “I don’t think you’re rude,” you admit instead. Because you don’t think that, not really. Caitlyn’s annoying, sure, but it’s more to do with her endless riches and everyone’s endless obsession with her. Caitlyn herself doesn’t really say much — unless it’s to her girl of the week.

A flicker of surprise dances in Caitlyn’s eyes, and it’s maybe the first time since you’ve known her that her emotions have betrayed her stoic expression. “You don’t?”

“No. I don’t.”

“Oh.”

It’s quiet for a long moment after that. The only sounds heard within the bar are glasses clinking, people laughing, and the game playing in the background. Caitlyn’s stare is trained on you yet again, and you wish, for once, you could understand what she’s thinking.

“Hey!” Vi pops up beside you like a jumpscare, glancing between you and Caitlyn with furrowed eyebrows. “What’s going on here?”

“Just ran into her,” you blink, startled slightly but still moving to slide out of the booth. It’s the easiest interaction to explain, except it’s not. It’s not because you don’t know why Caitlyn spared you her time anyways. “We were just talking about a class.”

“Huh,” Vi’s eyes narrow for a moment, like she doesn’t believe you. But her doubt vanishes quickly, and she’s already tugging you back towards your table, your strength standing no chance against her muscular arms. “C’mon, the game’s about to end. You have t’see the final play.”

You nod along as she explains, but you can’t shake the feeling of a pair of eyes burning into your back. As if someone’s gaze has been following you for minutes at a time.

You don’t know why Caitlyn’s convertible is still in the parking lot.

|------» ~~~ «------|

Mel’s party is what gets you through the week. It’s on Friday, a big celebration for her upcoming birthday. You haven’t gone to many parties in your life, always preferring the comfort of your headphones and fuzzy socks to drinking games and dancing. But this one’s for Mel, and you’ll always show up to support her.

You walk up the path with your hand on Vi’s arm. You had spent  a full hour getting ready, wearing the dress Mel picked out for you herself: some short, crimson piece that you kept tugging down every few minutes. “Are you sure I look okay?”

“You look great, babe. That’s why you’re spending the night at my place tonight,” Vi grins, sharp-toothed and implying. She steps in front of you to open the door, entering before you into the chaos of the house.

You blink, disoriented. She hadn’t mentioned that before. “Wait, what? You didn’t tell me; I didn’t bring a bag.”

“You don’t need any clothes, trust me,” Vi replies smugly before disappearing into the crowd, likely off to find herself a drink in the kitchen. You stand there for a moment in disbelief, sensing the rising feeling of dismay building up within you, threatening to spill out if you don’t keep it properly contained. It’s Mel’s day, you remind yourself. Focus on Mel.

“Hello, sweetheart!” Mel greets you with a hug as soon as she finds you, dressed from head to toe in gold. You don’t think there’s anyone prettier than she is. “I’m so glad you could make it. Did you come alone?”

“Ah—“ You force a smile, shoving down all your worries regarding Vi. The last thing you want to do is dump all this on Mel during her party. “Yeah. Just wanted to make an appearance.”

“Oh, well you came at the perfect time,” Mel beams, the gold flakes on her cheeks glinting in the light. “Let me introduce you to some other friends.”

By the time Mel’s done parading you around, she’s disappeared off to greet some newly arrived guests, promising to find you later. You stand there for a moment, unsure of where to go. Part of you wants to find Vi, to bail on tonight, but you’re pretty sure you caught a glimpse of her playing beer pong a few minutes ago. She wouldn’t want to be bothered.

You need some air.

You exit through the back door of Mel’s place, finding a few partygoers out on the grass next to the pool. You lower yourself down by the pool’s edge, letting a foot drop into the cold water. It’s sobering, almost, a grounding feeling after being in the suffocating house.

“I thought you’d be with Mel.”

You know that accent.

“Why are you here, Caitlyn?” You ask without turning around, your eyes focused on the reflections of light on the pool water. “You aren’t even friends with Mel.”

“Our parents know each other.” That’s all Caitlyn offers before she sits down next to you by the edge of the pool, keeping a respectable distance between you two.

“You’re suddenly everywhere I go.”

“I could say the same,” Caitlyn’s lips tug into a half-smile. You glance up at her, and even you have to admit, you see why everyone falls at her feet at every party she goes to. Caitlyn’s gorgeous with her long legs, dark hair, and blue eyes that would make any girl go weak at the knees. 

Speaking of which. “Shouldn’t you be off flirting your way through a line of women?”

“Shouldn’t you be with your girlfriend?” Caitlyn raises her eyebrows in question.

You glare at her in response. “Touché.”

It’s quiet for a moment before Caitlyn speaks again: blunt and straight to the point as she always is. “You should break up with her.”

“What?” You force out a laugh that doesn’t quite mirror how you feel inside. “I’m not going to do that. Why should I?”

“She doesn’t treat you well,” Caitlyn shrugs, leaning back and supporting her weight with her palms flat on the ground behind her.  “It doesn’t take a genius to know that she’s taking advantage of you. Wanting the fun of a relationship without the responsibilities of one.” 

“That’s not true,” you scoff, throwing back the rest of your drink. The alcohol burns your throat, like the rest of the cups you’ve had tonight, but it’s the only thing that keeps you focused on reality. “She’s— she’s good to me.”

Caitlyn glances from you to the empty cup in your hands, a flicker of concern in her eyes. “How many of those have you had?”

“Enough to walk away from you,” you huff, standing on shaky legs with one foot still wet from the pool water. You’re tired of her, tired of even Mel telling you what to do. And worse? You’re tired of knowing they’re right. But you shake your head, determined to keep your head held high. You’re going to go find Vi, go home, and then the night will be over.

You find her near on the grass next to the pool, tossing around a football with some other people she probably just met. Vi has a way of fitting in with people she doesn’t know: a concept that seems so foreign to you. “Vi,” you tug at her arm when you reach her. “Can we go?”

“Huh?” Vi blinks, glancing at you as if she forgot you came here with her in the first place. Ironic, since you were the one who had invited her. “Yeah, yeah. Just give me a few minutes to finish this game.” 

Your stomach twists, but not entirely from the alcohol. “Vi, I really don’t feel good. I just want to go home. Can you just drop me—?”

“I said after this game,” Vi throws the ball to someone else, her tone turning increasingly annoyed, as if she doesn’t have time for this. Doesn’t have time for you. “Just go sit down somewhere?”

You take a shaky step back. “Vi—“

“Did you not hear me the first time?” Her voice turns rough, glance turns into a glare. “Go. I’ll find you.”

You snap your jaw shut and step back again, swallowing back the hurt and anger that have been boiling inside for days. “You said that thirty min—“

You take one more step back as you speak, clumsy from alcohol and hurt combined, and promptly fall back. But not onto the soft grass you had been imagining.

Right into the pool.

You gasp for air breath when you surface with wet hair and a ruined dress. Your eyes blur with water droplets, and when they clear, you see Vi’s hardened expression from a few feet away. Embarrassed, even. By you.

“What the hell did you do that for?” A voice pierces through the night, but instead of being directed at you, it’s meant for Vi. 

Vi scowls at the newcomer. “You again. Here to play the rich, perfect savior?”

“At least the money bought me empathy,” Caitlyn snaps back, facial expression tight with annoyance. “Something you don’t even have for your own girlfriend.”

You don’t realize that you’re still in the water, floating while watching your girlfriend throw away her loyalty to you, until Caitlyn kneels by the edge and extends a hand. Perfect, manicured nails that offer to help you instead of your girlfriend’s calloused palms. 

You can’t decide what’s worse: that you’re starting to hate Vi, or that you’re starting to like Caitlyn.

Caitlyn lifts you out of the pool with surprising strength, muscles toned from intense sparring training that the university had shared leaked photos from for a week. “Come on,” she murmurs as she helps you up to stand. “I have sweats in my car.”

You really have no other choice but to go with her, your ego wounded from the whole scene. Caitlyn takes you through the back gate instead of walking you through the house: a small detail that doesn’t escape your notice (or appreciation). You hesitate when you reach her car. “Where am I supposed to change?”

“I have tinted windows,” Caitlyn shrugs. “And the top’s on the convertible.”

You almost laugh from the sheer audacity of the suggestion. Falling into the cold pool water had really sobered you up. “I’m not changing in your car, Caitlyn.”

“Then you have to go change in a bathroom somewhere,” she shrugs, unfazed. “You’d better hope there’s not a long line.”

You exhale through your nose. Great. This was the cherry on top of this whole situation. “Fine.”

“I’m not looking. Don’t worry.”

You realize, when you’re fumbling her sweats on in her passenger seat, that you actually aren’t worried about her looking. The thought never crossed your mind, as if some part of you knew she’d be respectful enough not to. When you exit the car, you tap her shoulder awkwardly, as if letting her know she can turn around now.

When Caitlyn turns, you swear you see her eyes widen just a little. You can’t fault her. Who would have ever thought that Caitlyn Kiramman, the rich, popular, ice queen of your university, would be lending you her clothes after a party incident?

“Shocking, huh?” You almost grin, but falter at the memory of what just happened. How Vi had looked at you. How she’d spoken to you.

“Not shocking,” Caitlyn steps the tiniest bit closer until you have to look up at her to meet her eyes. Damn her height. “Ah— you’re really pretty, you know.” Her words come out sheepish, nothing like the ice queen you’ve known for the past year.

“Oh,” your breath catches in your throat. “I, uh— thank you?”

“I mean it,” Caitlyn gives you another half-smile, only this time, it looks far more genuine. Like this one’s directed at you, specifically. “Vi doesn’t know what she’s lost.”

You falter, shoulders dropping in some sort of defeat. “She was my ride home. But I— I just don’t want to see her right now. Is that wrong of me.”

Caitlyn’s usually sharp eyes soften at the question. “No,” she assures, reaching out a hand like she might touch your shoulder, but stopping herself at the last moment. “It’s not. I don’t think you should see her now or ever, actually.”

“But she’s my girlfriend—“

“She shouldn’t be,” Caitlyn’s voice is firm, but not unkind, and she finally lets her hand rest on your shoulder. “There are so many girls who would treat you so much better. Who would want you enough to never make you feel this way.”

You laugh, but it’s not humorous. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You might pull any girl you want, but it’s not the same for the rest of us.”

There’s a pause. Then, Caitlyn’s hand shifts from your shoulder to your jaw, tilting your head up to look at her. Your eyes widen, unable to help your surprise showing in your expression. Sue you if it’s attractive.***

“I’m looking at you and telling you this.” Caitlyn’s stare seems to cut into yours. “It’s much easier for you to pull any girl you want than you think. Trust me.”

“Hey!” The call echoes in the front yard of Mel’s house, revealing Vi standing on the porch. “What the hell are you doing.”

Caitlyn’s gaze turns cold as she lifts it to Vi, but she doesn’t loosen her gentle hold on you. “Comforting your girlfriend. Something you couldn’t be bothered to do.”

“Exactly! She’s my girlfriend.” Vi’s face grows redder by the second. “I know you think you can have whatever you want, Kiramman, but you can’t. So get your hands off of her.”

“Just leave, Vi.” Your voice is broken, exhausted. “You wouldn’t take me home, so I’m going home.”

“Wait, babe!“ Realization seems to dawn on Vi. “I can take you back to my place, we can make up, it’ll be—“

“No.” For the first time, your tone sounds as firm as Caitlyn’s. “I don’t want to. And I don’t want to be with you. For real this time, okay? We’re done.”

“No—!”

“Yes,” Caitlyn interrupts, and you can almost hear a smug lilt in her words. “I’m going to drop her, and you’d best leave her alone.”

When Vi storms back inside a minute later, red-faced and fuming with anger, you slip back into the passenger seat of Caitlyn’s car. When she pulls out of Mel’s driveway, you glare at her, but there’s no malice behind it. “Try not to be so smug about it.”

“What?” Caitlyn acts offended, flicking navy hair behind her as she drives. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

|------» ~~~ «------|

When Caitlyn pulls up in front of your apartment, you hesitate before getting out. “Thank you,” you murmur as you unbuckle your seatbelt, daring to look up at her. “You didn’t have to do all that.” Caitlyn’s quiet for a moment, as if figuring out what she wants to say. Then: “I meant it, you know. You really could get any girl. Including me.”

You blink once. Then twice. Then three times. “What?”

Caitlyn almost grimaces, as if bracing herself for a rejection she knows is coming. “You heard me. You could have any girl you want including me.”

You almost laugh. You would, actually, if she didn’t look so serious about it. “But— but you’re a player. And we barely know each other.”

“You’re right,” Caitlyn nods, fingers drumming on the steering wheel. “But I’d like to get to know you. We could take as much time as you need. If you’re open to it, that is.”

You open your mouth, then close it. “But—“

“If you’re going to reason with me and tell me I’m not really attracted to you,” Caitlyn’s smile turns almost amused. “Then it’s not going to work. Just give me an answer.”

“Well,” you hesitate again. And, against all your better judgement, you can’t ignore the feelings that have sparked within you lately. “Okay. We can get to know each other.”

Caitlyn smiles, and this time, it’s the most genuine smile you’ve seen from her. Relaxed; not forced or tight. “Okay.”

|------» ~~~ «------|

The following weeks blur together. Dates come and go: actual ones, that lead to late-night conversations and shy glances across the room. You see her in your dreams, sometimes, and that’s your cue to text her when you wake up. Usually, she’s already texted you, being the early morning person she is.

You’re studying with Mel again one day, curled up at your favorite table in the back corner of the library. Mel’s doing her makeup with her handheld mirror, and you’re taking notes on an assignment, when she suddenly nudges you. “I think you have a fan,” she whispers.

When you glance up from your notes, your eyes immediately zero in on Caitlyn a few tables away. She’s with a few of her friends as well, who are talking and laughing about something equally as stupid. But Caitlyn isn’t listening — she’s watching you. She smiles when you meet her eyes, doesn’t look away. You smile back on instinct.

And, when you pack up and leave the library a few minutes later, Caitlyn appears smoothly at your side as if she’s been walking with you the whole time. “You’re really going to go home without me?”

You grin, slipping your hand into hers and lacing your fingers together. “Never. I knew you’d follow me.”

“Of course,” Caitlyn huffs. “Now I look desperate.”

“It’s okay to be desperate for your own girlfriend,” you spin in front of her so that she has no choice but to stop in her tracks. You tug her down to wrap your arms around her neck. “Guess that means you don’t want to kiss me in public then.”

Caitlyn grumbles in protest, then promptly bows her head and presses her lips against yours. Once, twice, then three times for good measure. She knocks her nose against yours softly. “You know I do.”

“Yeah,” you hug her closer. “I know.”

HAPPY 1 YEAR ANNIVERSARY!!!

Wowowow, I can't believe it's been a year since I posted my first drabble on here!! I made this blog to post my silly little Arcane ideas w my wife Caitlyn (and my wife Vi, sorry for dissing her in this story), but I never thought you guys would like to read it! Sorry I took quite a long break, but I still have lots more to yap about. Love you guys, thank you so much ♡