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At sixteen, Caitlyn has never quite experienced an injustice like the one brought upon her by Grayson.
She isn’t daft- she feels the shot being held. Through the scope of her own rifle, she watches as her Kiramman-crested bullet cuts through a thick blanket of fog; only after it has decimated its intended target does Grayson’s gun even fire, as if one of her fingers had been patiently resting on the trigger. Caitlyn doesn’t press the issue immediately; there is a tedious trek back to the gala to be made, and her nose wrinkles each time her leather boots dig into the mud. Grayson traverses the grime easily, her gait confident and assured, the rifle at her back barely jostling with the ease of her movements. She doesn’t seem to mind the muck, not a worry in her head about the methodical cleaning of a uniform later; Caitlyn cannot help but feel admiration for it, as she grimaces with the discomfort of twigs in her hair and dirt at the knees of her trousers. Irritation at her own prissiness settles in tandem with stray dewdrops, a tacky film over her skin.
It is only once Grayson is nursing a glass of bubbling champagne- her frame relaxed against the marble railing, her broad shoulders loose- and complementing her on a gilded prize she did nothing to earn that Caitlyn wields her accusation like a weapon.
“Did my parents pay you to let me win?”
Grayson seems… amused by the abrupt tone switch, which only serves to further frustrate Caitlyn. She is not some spoiled brat whose contentment can be paid for by her parents, nor is she a girl who would ever appreciate coddling and participation trophies, an insincere pat on the back for mediocre efforts. She wants to earn her place, and to be respected, and she wants that respect to come from being worthy.
There is also, admittedly, a part of her that burns for Grayson’s approval. At surface level, it’s self explanatory; she is the sheriff of Piltover, a master sharpshooter, gracious and kind and unyielding. Yet there is something deeper there, something that goes beyond hero worship, something that settles low in Caitlyn’s belly sometimes, hot and bright like molten silver. Something she cannot, no matter how hard she tries, put a name to. She doesn’t want Grayson to think her undisciplined or entitled. She wants the older woman to see her as good.
She is told she deserves the win, and though the placation does nothing to assure her, she lets the matter drop.
That night, as she lies in bed eyeing the newest ill-gotten trophy lined neatly alongside her others, Caitlyn curls into a tight ball atop her purple silk sheets. She thinks of Grayson’s gem-cut eyes, her proud nose, the sturdiness of her arms teaching Caitlyn how to shoot for the first time. She thinks of her smooth, baritone voice: Begs the question, young Kiramman- what are you shooting for?
She falls asleep with the window open, distracting herself with the earthy smell of petrichor wafting in from the gardens, a confusing ache dull between her thighs.
_____
Her first time is really nothing remarkable. She’s nineteen, tipsy off of liquor stolen from her parents billiard room, one year into her university schooling and all the more rebellious for it. Both who the girl really is- her hobbies and interests, her social circle, what she wants out of this encounter- and her appearance- ivory braids plaited down her back, eyes as black as squid ink, wide hips and a soft, inviting belly- are inconsequential. Even as Caitlyn thinks it, she finds she cannot feel badly about it. The sole purpose of this, her clean bedding and the imported incense smoking on her dresser, tongues loose with liquor and roaming, welcomed touches, is to finally have sex.
It has become something of a goal, an achievement not for bragging rights but for self satisfaction. She has tried recreational drugs- boring and uneventful, her vision swimming but her mind unstimulated beyond an intense desire for her favorite blueberry truffles from the patisserie deep in the heart of the city- and has engaged in a plethora of extracurriculars on campus. She has thrown herself into her studies, tried exotic forms of exercise requiring trainers and specialty gear, gotten a spine tattoo of her beloved rifle that she has yet to reveal to anyone.
Only when she crashes one of Jayce and Viktor’s brainstorming sessions does she think of this new experience she has yet to explore. They’re debating things about hextech that Caitlyn only half understands- but there seems to be an entirely different conversation being held between them, one that is nonverbal, one that is strictly energetic, rife with tension. Councilor Medarda- who Caitlyn has always admired and who she believes, truly, to be too refined for her idiot pseudo-brother- has at some point joined them in the cramped lab, and immediately she delves into this exchange that Caitlyn cannot hear, though not a word ever leaves her lips. Caitlyn watches, entranced, as the three of them share meaningful glances, orbiting awkwardly around one another like planets in disarray without a star to call home, and- well.
She has always had a knack for knowing when it might be time to detach herself from a situation.
So sex becomes Caitlyn’s newest endeavor. She has, of course, pleasured herself beneath her blankets at night, exchanged cash for unassuming toys at one of the seedy shops on the border of the Undercity. She knows, generally, what she wants- a firm grip but a soft hand, someone kind-hearted but perhaps indulgently stern enough to handle her haughtiness. Someone who will listen to what she wants and touch her accordingly, someone willing to learn her body.
And she wants a woman. It is, truly, her only desire that is non-negotiable.
Caitlyn’s search leads her to a classmate, one who is objectively beautiful, one whose family name is decently respected in Piltover, one who clearly takes her schooling seriously. She also cannot seem to keep her eyes off of Caitlyn, and though the blatant flirting and put-on ditzy demeanor would normally warrant something of a fight or flight response deep within her very being, Caitlyn reminds herself that this is exactly what she has been seeking out, and to miss the opportunity because of a stupid hangup over looks or personality would be a massive fumble.
So an invite to a sleepover turns into both of them pliant and giggly and fawning all over each other. And when the time comes, it’s… fine. The woman smells good, and she is, as Caitlyn keeps having to remind herself, very beautiful. Her skin is warm and doughy and lovely to touch, and she gleams between her legs when Caitlyn kisses her, moans when Caitlyn rubs at her, cries when Caitlyn tastes her. She returns the favor after an orgasm by Caitlyn’s hand, and physically, she supposes it’s quite nice. But there’s something unsettling about it, an itch beneath her skin that persists long after her own orgasm, long after the girl has fallen asleep against her breasts. The feeling that she’s missing something extremely important, something right under her nose, something that, should she understand it, she would realize was right there the entire time.
Caitlyn sends her first lover home with a homemade soufflé and a polite smile the next morning, ignoring the confusion and vague hurt that settles across her delicate features. They don’t speak again.
_____
As the years pass, milestones pass with them- her graduation, her first patrol as an enforcer, her twenty-third birthday spent gorging herself on buttercream cupcakes alongside, later that same night, the shy baker who had passed her the pastry box over the counter with a vibrant blush.
In the quiet of her bedroom, when she is left only with the endless barrage of her own thoughts, Caitlyn often wonders if this is all there is to life. She wonders what Grayson would think of her now, grown but just as childishly determined to do good as ever.
She thinks about Grayson a lot.
_____
In the beginning, it seems entirely possible that Vi is the most frustrating person Caitlyn has ever had the misfortune of working alongside.
She is brash and reckless, a brawler who has no regard for the possible fallout of leading with violence. It’s clear that she is most comfortable in the Undercity, and it’s even more clear that she had been well loved by nearly everyone there before being thrown in a hole to rot. Caitlyn slowly begins to understand what she can of Vi- the circumstances that led to her behaving so rashly, why her guard is up so high Caitlyn cannot see the top of it, even craning her neck.
And then she calls Caitlyn hot, pins her to the velvet wall of the brothel, a place that reeks of perfume and sex, and asks if she prefers men or women.
It isn’t as though Caitlyn is surprised. Perhaps it’s impolite to think, a stereotype she is placing on a woman for having short hair and a particularly alluring type of swagger, a muscular build she worked hard for- but it’s pretty obvious that Vi’s more primal interests lie with women. They’re alike in that way, Caitlyn supposes, though she doubts they have much in common when it comes to what kind of women they prefer- which is entirely different, at least to Caitlyn, from the kind of woman she chooses to actively pursue.
There is a word for the kind of woman Vi is; a word that many in Piltover see as gauche and venereal, something not to be said in polite company. A word Caitlyn is extremely familiar with, one she has whispered to the cashier at her favorite erotic literature storefront in the hopes of finding something geared towards her tastes. A kind of woman that Caitlyn has, regrettably, not been able to find ever since she first started desiring.
So excuse her for getting a little bit flustered.
_____
By the time they are lying face-to-face in Caitlyn’s bed, their audience with the Council hours away, there is a tethered coil connecting them, so tangible she can almost see it. They’ve known each other barely a day, and yet Caitlyn feels so invested, so deeply attached that to be separated from Vi now would almost certainly feel like death.
“I’d say, No monster’s gonna get you when I’m here.” Vi’s saying, each handsome contour of her face etched with grief. “Then a real monster showed up, and I just ran away.”
It hurts more than it has any right to. To know how deeply Vi cares, how fiercely she protects, how openly she bares her soul to those who she feels comfortable enough to let see her. How she bares it right now to Caitlyn, as though Caitlyn has done anything at all to deserve it. All she can do is stroke Vi’s face, aching to be useful, desperate for more. She wants to hold Vi in her arms; she wants to be held by Vi. She wants to take all the pain, the insecurity and the betrayal and the suffering, and she wants to torch it out of existence, so far removed that not even muscle memory or bodily trauma could remind Vi of what she has been through.
She tells Vi as much, though the sentiment is less eloquently spoken than it had been in her head. She is quiet for a moment, and the moment is so long that Caitlyn worries she has made some grave error, insulted Vi in a way she couldn’t have possibly foreseen. Finally, Vi nudges her cheek into the cradle of Caitlyn’s palm, her eyes clearer than Caitlyn has ever seen.
“My experiences make me who I am.”
“Yes. But you aren’t entirely made of what you’ve been through. You deserve to be… more.”
In the contemplative silence, there is only trembly breath to be heard between them.
“It’s a sweet thought. Thanks, Cait.”
Long after Vi has fallen asleep, Caitlyn finds herself gazing upon the other woman, the ache in her chest growing tenfold, threatening to swallow her up whole.
_____
Her mother is dead.
Her mother is dead, and Vi is there, holding her weeping body into the pale pink hours of dawn, day after day. She is there to spoon feed her bland porridge in the hope that she will not vomit it back up, to comb conditioner through the indigo mop of hair Caitlyn has let go greasy and unkempt. She changes the sheets when they become damp with sweat from Caitlyn’s nightmares; her hands massage away the knots of tension in her shoulders, at the small of her back.
It’s obvious that, despite her own extensive history with loss, Vi is unsure how to go about comforting someone else through it. So she does whatever she can to combat the grief- shows that she is there, takes care of things like freshly laundered towels and a tea cabinet always stocked with Kiramman favorites. She lets Caitlyn know that whenever she is ready to talk about it- if she ever is- Vi will listen.
Her mother has been murdered, and Vi painstakingly disinfects and bandages the knuckles on Caitlyn’s hands, bloody and gritty from drunkenly pounding into the rim of the fountain at the center of her mother’s favorite garden, the pain sharp and bright but real.
Her mother has been murdered, and one week later, Caitlyn is sick and tired of crying, stuck in a debilitating spiral of oscillation between anger, numbness, and despair. She turns over in bed- Vi has taken to holding her at night, valiantly attempting to stay awake with her but ultimately succumbing to the comforts of a soft mattress and a warm woman in her arms every single time.
She studies Vi’s face for a moment- lax with sleep she looks younger, less like someone whose world has come crashing down countless times. She had, most likely, handled her grief much better than Caitlyn. She shakes Vi awake, an urge clawing its way out of her stomach and up her throat; it takes two attempts before her eyes blink open, cloudy with exhaustion.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?”
Nothing, and everything. But she can’t say that, because it doesn’t make sense, even though she believes Vi would somehow understand. Instead, she lunges at the other woman, relishing in the momentary shock on her face before pressing her lips to Vi’s own.
Caitlyn kisses like she’s starved for it- most likely because she is. She is starved for affection even though Vi has done nothing but feed her with it, and like a greedy, milk-plump cat, she demands more, more, more. She doesn’t want to feel anything besides Vi with her, on her, in her.
Vi kisses back for a moment, before she truly grasps what has happened, the state she has awoken to find Caitlyn in. Then she rips herself away, holding Caitlyn at arms length, those plush lips turned down into a troubled frown.
“Come on, Cait. You’re not in the right place for that.”
Quick enough that she cannot be outmaneuvered, Caitlyn attaches herself to Vi’s body, her lips gaining traction on the slender neck. She can taste her pulse quickening, and she lavishes her tongue on the underside of Vi’s jaw in triumph.
“Don’t do that. I know how you feel about me. I know you want to help.”
“Caitlyn…”
It appears it will take more convincing- Caitlyn throws one leg over Vi’s hip, grinding her sticky center against Vi’s bare thigh, pressing her nose into the hallow of Vi’s throat and inhaling the familiar, comforting scent of her. There’s a brief, overwhelming surge of pleasure, and Caitlyn chases it, desperate for the endorphins, for the distraction. Vi makes a noise, one that sounds equally confused and alarmed, and Caitlyn thinks, if I can just get her to-
“Cait. Baby, no.”
Vi’s rejection is gentle, and though she pulls Caitlyn off her thigh and away from her neck, she still holds her close. The unmistakable shadow of pity falls across her face as she looks down, and Caitlyn is suddenly, violently nauseous with it. She shoves away from Vi, stumbling out of the bed and into the en suite, collapsing onto her knees just in time to retch into the toilet.
As has become usual, Vi is immediately there, chivalry dripping from every action- holding her hair away from her face, rubbing her back, pressing a cold, damp cloth to the arch of her neck.
She sighs, but it is one of knowing, rather than exasperation.
“Yeah. That’s exactly what I was worried about.”
_____
Their first kiss- their first real kiss, when the grief is no longer fresh, when the misery in Caitlyn’s heart has hardened, when she is perhaps still not herself but more Kiramman than she has been in weeks- that kiss makes something bloom within her. It is unfamiliar, this hunger she feels for Vi, unsatiated by even a friendship as intimate as theirs. Never has she felt this way having a woman in her sights- never has she wanted so badly. And when Vi presses up against her, holds her close and kisses back just as hungry, just as needy, it makes Caitlyn’s blood sing.
She feels fuzzy, stumbling back through the pipeworks, her fingers fumbling sweaty against her rifle. She still tastes Vi in her mouth, and she rolls the flavor around on her tongue- soon this will all be over, and she will indulge more thoroughly. For now, though, she’ll take the shot as soon as it is offered to her; she will not hesitate, and she will not miss, and Vi will forgive her.
_____
Of course, it all falls apart. When has it not?
_____
Months deep into her new position as Piltover’s professional scapegoat, she goes to Ambessa- and it feels like admitting defeat.
There are endless problems that need her attention, pointless political maneuvers and targeted attacks executed all in the name of protecting the Undercity from itself. She hates that has she has agreed to do Ambessa’s bidding, offered herself up as a little wooden marionette doll on a string, malleable and effortless to mold.
Fucking Maddie was a choice born of desperation for even a modicum of control, and it has left Caitlyn, for lack of a kinder term, miserable. She’s too peppy, too enthusiastic, too needy for Caitlyn’s affections. It’s like looking into a mirror of her old self, how she most likely appeared to Vi- minus, perhaps, all the useless chattering- and she resents Maddie all the more for it.
The arrangement worked in the beginning, when she was nothing more than a warm body to take frustrations out on, when Caitlyn could feel powerful by curling her fingers into that spongy spot and making her fall apart, making her do as she said and thanking her for it. But the lingering glances, the begging for allowance of reciprocation, the pillow talk- it has all become too much.
Ambessa says nothing as Caitlyn drones on, gossiping about her own trysts as though they are friends, as though Ambessa cares, as though any of it matters. And when she is done venting, when she has exhausted her complaints about both the war and Maddie alike, she slumps back on the fur-covered chaise, hoping that perhaps Ambessa will simply put her out of her misery.
She does not. She instead tilts her head meaningfully at Rictus, and he swiftly exits the tent, lowering the ornate flap behind him. Ambessa stands- Caitlyn is unused to being the shortest woman at any given time, so it is not surprising that the way the Noxian towers over her sends a ripple of something dangerous shivering down her spine.
“You are distracted.” Ambessa spits, each syllable dripping with disgust, her boots heavy against the ground as she comes closer. “Distractions leave you weak, vulnerable.”
Caitlyn certainly feels weak, and though she is smart enough to never truly let the other woman in on her thought processes, she does agree that she has let uncharacteristic vulnerability slip through the cracks as of late.
“I’m…” Caitlyn trails off, unsure what to say. Sorry seems immature; not distracted is laughable. She settles for saying nothing at all, and decides instead to force eye contact, hoping it will establish some sense of dominance.
“Hush.” Ambessa rolls her neck, lets her cloak unlatch and fall to the floor beneath her. She takes the time each morning to bathe her skin in luxurious oils, and it shows in the flickering light of the candles; her muscles are well-defined and gleaming, and it takes more time than it should for Caitlyn to tear her gaze away.
Suddenly, Ambessa’s booming voice breaks her out of her revere: “Get on your knees, child. We will straighten out that messy head of yours.”
_____
She is bound and gagged, plucked at and played with for hours until her cunt is drooling, her body floating, her mind pleasantly blank. She doesn’t have it in her to feel humiliated, or degraded, or even frightened by what she has become. If Caitlyn cannot have who and what she wants, this is- unfortunately- the next best thing.
She has learned better than to not take her pleasure where she can get it.
_____
It is Vi who she tackles on the outskirts of the compound, Vi who disarms her with one single, affectionate petname. It is, as always, Vi who drags her back to reality, makes her remember who she is, what she’s truly fighting for.
Caitlyn doesn’t deserve forgiveness. Back at the Kiramman estate, Jinx locked away in a cell, Ambessa’s forces mobilizing, the weight of what she has done crashes down on top of her, nearly bringing her to her knees. She would deserve it, were Vi to hurl insults at her, accuse her of treason and brutality, tell her to go fuck herself and disappear, never to be seen again. It would be unbearably painful, and it would be entirely warranted.
But Vi doesn’t do that, because she is Vi, and cruelty is not in her nature. She is frustrated, of course, and she lets the frustration build in the rigid line of her shoulders, lets it show in her voice- but she confronts Caitlyn with only blunt truths, before she storms out.
Caitlyn watches her go- knows exactly where she is going- and knows exactly what she must do.
_____
She gives Vi what she hopes is enough time to find Jinx, to make her decision. Caitlyn is in love- and though she has always scoffed at the cliche of loving something and letting it go, she finds that the sentiment is more apt than she would like it to be.
She loves Vi- no amount of distance or emotional turmoil has changed the breadth of her affections- and she will let her go, if that is the choice Vi needs to make.
It will destroy her, and she will survive in spite of it. Cassandra would have accepted nothing less.
_____
By some strange, wonderful, bittersweet twist of fate, Vi is still there when Caitlyn makes the journey to Stillwater.
As she leans against the wall, slyly revealing her hand in all of this, Caitlyn wonders if they can ever rebuild; if what they once had is completely lost, an innocent connection tainted by betrayal and hurt. She wonders, idly, if perhaps they can one day at least be friends again.
And then, Vi kisses her.
_____
Vi kisses her.
Caitlyn is almost sure she is stuck in a fever dream. Perhaps she bled out, in the battle with the Noxians, and this is her brain using its last few precious moments to conjure up something unattainable and beautiful, the only sort of image that would peacefully lull Caitlyn into eternal slumber.
But it’s real. It’s real when Vi kisses her harder, deeper, tasting of her. It’s real when her lips trail down Caitlyn’s sensitive neck, when goosebumps flare all over her body in response. It’s real when their shirts come off, when Vi palms greedily at her breasts, when she kisses down the gentle curve of Caitlyn’s tummy and the sharp cut of her hips. It’s real when she devours Caitlyn’s cunt, her tongue messy and expertly navigating the slick mess of her.
Vi is so into it, her eyes closed as if Caitlyn’s arousal is her own, her hands reverently grabbing at any part of her body that they can reach. She worships at the altar between Caitlyn’s thighs, her prayers spun of Caitlyn’s pleasure.
When she comes, Caitlyn is loud. She cannot help it; the pleasure is almost blinding, so full-bodied and all-consuming that she collapses into Vi’s lap on the cement flooring when it is done, her body wracked with aftershocks. Vi soothes her, murmuring sweet nonsense into her ear that Caitlyn cannot imagine she possibly deserves, but that she relishes in regardless.
She aims to reciprocate, but Vi gently redirects her hands away, kisses the slick skin there, a half-smile on her face. And Caitlyn, thinking of how she was earlier maneuvered as soon as her touch reached Vi’s collarbone, finds herself understanding without words.
“Yeah?” Vi whispers, out of breath; and she is breathy because of her thorough devouring of Caitlyn, and so it only makes sense that Caitlyn sloppily kisses her for it, tasting herself on Vi’s tongue, mild and warm.
“Yeah,” she whispers back in agreement, in understanding, in love.
_____
Once the dust has settled, Caitlyn finds that there are pleasures widely unknown to her, and that Vi has made it her mission to introduce them one by one.
There is breakfast in bed- Vi is an excellent cook, and Caitlyn is skeptical for about half a second before she realizes that it actually makes a lot of sense. There are nights spent by the fire, both of them engrossed in their own literature, their legs tangled together on the emerald ottoman. There are extremely intricate massages, warm oil and Vi’s strong hands, Caitlyn melting bonelessly into their sheets. There’s the target practice Vi sets up for Caitlyn on their property, just challenging enough to leave her huffing with exertion.
Her lover takes care of her in ways she never could have dreamed, and she finally questions it one night, when Vi is tenderly cleaning the socket where her aiming eye used to be.
“What do you get out of this?”
“Hm?”
Caitlyn winces, and Vi presses a kiss to her brow in sympathy- her loss of vision occasionally brings on migraines and light sensitivity, as well as heaping bouts of insecurity, all of which Vi manages effortlessly.
“The- caretaking. I’m not complaining, of course. But it’s… I feel like I don’t do enough for you to reciprocate.”
“Sweetheart,” Vi hums, carefully placing her bedtime patch- made of a softer, more flexible material- beneath her bow. “I don’t do this for reciprocation. And you take care of me plenty.”
“How?” She genuinely doesn’t understand. She doesn’t get how Vi can be so selfless, so eager to serve, so devoted- least of all to her.
“Baby.” Vi settles down against the headboard, gently tugging Caitlyn into her lap. “It’s in everything you do. Stitching up my bandages when they get too worn down. Giving me head scratches. Specially ordering any book I mention in passing. Allowing me to take care of you. That’s where I get my satisfaction.”
And she certainly seems satisfied when, not even ten minutes later, she has her fingers buried inside of Caitlyn, crooked up towards her belly- a slow, sinful curl and drag, accompanied by a languid, greedy lick up the length of her cunt, working over Caitlyn’s body effortlessly. Caitlyn feels raw, split open and gushing, the pleasure leaving her sweet and giggly, so giggly that Vi gets tangled up in the positive feedback loop, murmurs good girl, look how precious you are, how cute- so fucking beautiful, my perfect, sweet girl, just like that, huh?-
She grasps at her own breasts until Vi swats her hands away, using her unoccupied fingers to tease at her nipples until they have budded to a rich brown, until Caitlyn is squirming with it, begging for an orgasm, begging for kisses, begging for it faster, harder, deeper, begging for Vi to grab the harness and really make her a useless puddle of gooey pleasure. And Vi keeps up with her neediness with an ease and a teasing, indulgent chuckle that leaves her fuzzy-headed and even more aroused than she ever thought possible.
Caitlyn is so, so wet, and so, so in love. Perhaps Vi’s devotion, her personal method of love and care and obsession, will never be entirely for Caitlyn to understand. But she will indulge in it until she can no longer, and she will do everything in her power to continue to earn it, to deserve it.
There is, simply put, nothing else she desires more.