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Vi wakes to wandering hands and a smile pressed into the side of his neck.
“Finally,” she murmurs, the hand on his waist sliding over his stomach when he rolls onto his back, arm stretched out to tuck under her head.
Caitlyn plants a kiss on his cheek, his jaw.
Vi grunts, stretching. Waking, still.
“Hullo,” he mumbles—barely intelligible.
The hand on his stomach ventures lower, to the waistband of the boxer briefs he sleeps in. She tucks her thumb under the elastic. Does nothing else.
His eyes scrunch at the sudden shift to alertness. He lets out another groan, disoriented. A vaguely irritated question mark.
Caitlyn doesn’t take offence. Knows all of his inarticulate first-thing-in-the-morning noises by heart.
“Morning,” she whispers, right against his ear. He can feel her warm breath, smell her sleep-worn scent.
“Mmph,” he responds, clawing at consciousness with his junk tingling.
Morning wood.
Figures.
“You came to bed late,” Caitlyn says.
The side of her thumb moves infinitesimally against the skin of his stomach, and one of his legs shift under the covers.
“Sorry. Report’s kicking my ass.”
Caitlyn hums.
She doesn’t actually want to talk about his sports science homework.
Like, at all.
Caitlyn’s hand ventures lower. Over his bulge. Cups him.
His hips shift.
“Can I do anything to take your mind off it?”
Vi chuckles, nerve endings singing already.
“Can I really say no at this point?”
She smiles into his shoulder, catching his warm affection, but says, seriously, “Of course you can.”
“Oh, yeah? And what would you do with yourself, if I said no?”
Her mouth furrows a moment, mirth returning to her eyes. “Let’s see… Stick my fingers between my legs and make you watch?”
“No. Nope. I’m saying no. No is my answer.”
She smacks him on the stomach, and he catches her hand, laughing with her, pulling her palm to his mouth to kiss it, and her fingers.
“Or…” she adds, downright conspiratorial.
“Or?”
“There’s also a third option.”
“Is there, now?”
Caitlyn shifts her leg over both of his. Stretches to stroke down to his shins with the long, smooth, paleness of it.
“Both.”
It’s a convincing counterpoint.
Her hand is in his boxers not thirty seconds later, holding him, tugging gently. Testing.
Vi rubs his face with his palm. Rests the back of his wrist on his forehead. Sighs, relaxing into the pleasant sensation building between his legs.
Her hand works him slowly at first, the sheet draped over his waist tenting with the movement. Vi wriggles under the attention, and at the sight of it.
Caitlyn pulls her hand back to spit into her palm and slip it back under the covers, under the waistband, around him. The sound of her movement changes, and the sensation.
“Fuck.”
“I love seeing you enjoy yourself,” she whispers. “My good boy. So hard for me, love.”
Vi huffs, an arm draped over his face. His other hand finds Caitlyn’s forearm. Rests there, low by her wrist.
“Hard not to be,” he tells her, squeezing, “when your—hm—when your hand feels so good.”
“Does it?”
“Yes.”
“Like it when I tug on your dick, don’t you?”
Vi grins, covering his mouth, his blush, with a sweaty palm. “I’ll never tell.”
Caitlyn giggles, kissing his neck, his shoulder. “Drat. And your poker face is so utterly convincing, too. I’m completely confounded.”
Leave it to Caitlyn Kiramman to say things like confounded during a lazy morning handjob.
Vi looks down his body to watch her hand move—watch the sheet make a little mountain, the way his feet twitch at the end of the bed.
He moans, and leans his head back, and closes his eyes.
////
They had to learn how to do it together, like this.
There’s a difference between jerking a dick made of silicone and a dick that isn’t.
“You can’t actually—um—stroke, a whole lot,” he tells her one night, mortified the entire conversation has to happen. “Not without, y’know. Moving… it…”
Caitlyn frowns, hand hovering over the bulge in his underwear. She’s sitting on his legs, knees bracketing his hips.
He can see her imagining picking the packer up, inadvertently. Shifting it away from his body, however briefly.
Disconnection.
Unreal.
False.
“Ah,” she says, succinct as ever.
“Which can, y’know. Kill the mood.”
“Yes. We don’t want that.”
“If you, uh… If you hold the base of it, and kind of press down and then, er, up, it’s—it’s the same kind of feeling.”
“And it rubs against your dick? Your—other dick, I mean.”
Vi ignores the way his face heats hotter than the sidewalk on a blazing summer day.
They both woke up early, and after they’d peed, they’d both decided this was a good use of their extra time, apparently.
Christ, it is so unfair how effortlessly direct Caitlyn Kiramman can be when they’re talking about sex.
“Yes,” says Vi, determined to match her energy. “It rubs against my dick. Feels like an—extension, or something. Like I’m…”
“Jerking off?”
“Yeah.”
“And how does that feel?”
He considers her a second.
Trick question?
No.
No tricks.
This is Cait.
Cait’s only ever real.
“Good,” he says, honest and open and stifling the urge to shiver.
Caitlyn smiles. Leans over him with her hands resting on his chest, his black binder making him flat and firm and also good, and kisses him sweetly.
“Good,” she echoes, sitting back up. “How about you show me, then?”
Vi swallows.
Eyes flicking to his bulge, and back up to her gaze.
Caitlyn’s expression is warm—like it usually is, when she’s looking at him, unless he’s left his underwear on the bathroom floor again—and her eyebrows sit raised just enough for him to notice.
“What?”
Cait runs her hands from his sides to his hipbones. She won’t venture around to the flesh of his hips, not from there; knows he tends to dislike touch there. Her thumbs stroke the hollows of the bone, the skin and muscle, or what there is of it not hidden away by his waistband, anyway.
“You seem to know what you want,” she says, wriggling in her place on his lap. “A good way for me to learn would be… a demonstration.”
Vi drums his fingers on her knees.
Thinks.
“So… you’re…”
“Asking if you’d be interested in masturbating while I watched, yes.”
“Right.”
“Yes.”
“Just… wanted to be clear.”
“That’s okay.”
“Um.”
“Um?”
“Why?”
“Because I think it would be hot.”
Vi makes a very inelegant choking sound.
Spittle or air—no idea what causes it.
Hot.
He does not feel hot right now.
More like caught at the grocery store with his pants fallen round his ankles.
Which…
… makes it all the more incredible that he believes her.
That when he looks at her, in her polka dot sleep shorts and her bleach-stained oversized t-shirt that used to be his but she sometimes sleeps or cleans in, and her no-makeup, woke-up-not-along-ago, messed-hair, crinkle-eyed… fucking loveliness, he only sees the truth.
Caitlyn wants to see it.
Wants to see him.
And he is ten thousand feet tall and the world is nothing but an inconvenient series of doorways he can’t fit under.
“Okay,” he says.
Easy.
She makes everything easy.
Even so, Vi can feel her eyes tracking every bit of his movement when he reaches into his briefs to pull himself out, and his tongue is thick in his mouth and his chest’s all warm.
These briefs haven’t got a fly in them, so he can’t slip through the front—helps the packer stay put, when he can. Helps it all feel that bit more real, too, to see his dick hanging out of his underwear like that. The waistband sits snug on his balls, this way, which is good, too.
“Can you just…”
“Yes, of course.”
Caitlyn holds her weight on her knees to let him lift his hips, adjusting.
They settle back down together, they bed rocking gently.
“Wow,” she says, eyes on his junk.
“Yeah,” he agrees, her gaze as gentle and firm as her touch.
He pushes his waistband down a smidge to keep the flat base of the packer lined up where he wants it. Shows off more of his hipbones; feels the waistband dig underneath him into the curve of his ass, his crack partly exposed to the air, the sheet under him; bares the top half-inch of his thick, dark hair, with his dick nestled in it.
It looks real.
Which is the idea, for him.
Caitlyn’s hand drifts into his coarse curls. She knows she can touch him here. Knows, generally, he’s not entirely averse to feeling her hand anywhere except right between his legs, he just—needs to ease into it, hear the right words, feel the right way. Knows, specifically, having the packer helps a bucketload.
Cait strokes through his tight black hairs. Her fingers swirl, playing with him, and splay, smoothing him over.
When she withdraws, she slides her hand lower, over his shaft, pressing with only the weight of natural gravity.
He can feel it, because of course he can. His legs tingle all the way down and all the way up.
He doesn’t watch, though—too busy locking eyes with her.
Unblinking.
Dark.
Hot hot hot.
“You, uh-” He swallows. “You sure you need a demo, here? You’ve kinda got a handle on it already.”
“Yes,” Caitlyn says, hands resting high on his thighs now. Kneading lightly—absently, a subconscious manifestation of her desires—at the muscle there. “I’m very, very positive.”
The awkwardness passes… fast.
Call that The Caitlyn Effect, too.
Vi stretches out under her, before her, slips his hand around his dick—more tingling, gears winding in his stomach, tension tension tension—gives a few experimental tugs. Wriggles, finding Caitlyn’s weight—her presence, her obvious eagerness—ratchets up the throbbing in his swollen anatomy tenfold in a heartbeat.
“Hm,” he hums, the packer grazing his hardness with every slight movement. He squeezes his shaft, thumbs his tip. Wriggles again.
Hand tugging.
Pulling, pressing.
His chest expands, fills with too much air, starts heaving with the effort of getting it in and getting it out.
His legs stretch—more tension.
Every jerk of his hand—because that’s what this is, literally, this is jerking, this is jerking off, this is his elbow bent and his forearm and his bicep and his shoulder and repeat repeat repeat—brings him further into the feeling of rightness, perfection…
Christ.
Joy.
It’s joy.
Caitlyn leans over him, enthralled.
Her pupils are blown and her grip on his thighs tightens, and her mouth keeps dropping open, until she catches herself and licks her lips and closes it until it happens again.
The packer’s made to hang downward, which means he either adjusts the angle of his strokes to keep it from shifting around too much, or he pulls the shaft to sit more parallel to his stomach—the way it would when stiff, erect—and get the extra-affirming bonus of the true jerking motion, with the who-gives-a-shit-right-now trade-off of having the packer’s balls tilt off him a little.
He chooses the latter.
Ding, ding, ding.
Caitlyn murmurs, “Fuck.”
Vi arm works harder, knees bending, spare hand finding hers, feeling her fingers slip between his, squeezing.
His cheeks quirk into a distracted smile.
“Hey beautiful,” he pants, to the ceiling.
“Hi yourself, handsome,” she responds. “You look… incredible.”
He cracks an eye open.
Huh.
When did his eyes close?
“You like this, huh?”
“Definitely.”
He strokes himself slower, pride and confidence and euphoria making his skin sizzle.
“‘Cause I can stop,” he says, “if you’ve changed your mind about watching me rub one out.”
She rolls her eyes, with zero real exasperation.
“At your own peril,” she tells him, fingers tucking into the waistband of his briefs—resting, holding. “I’m enjoying this very much.”
“Uh. Good. Me—Me, too.”
“I do wonder, though…”
“Yeah?”
“What if you used lube?”
He tilts his head at her.
“Huh?”
“On your hand.” Her fingers dig into his legs again. She leans so her mouth is close, so close, to his. “What if you were nice and slippery, and you could feel cum between your fingers while you played with yourself?”
Vi trembles.
Grunts.
“Shit, Cait.”
She’s already leaning over the side of the bed, pulling the drawer of the nightstand open to find the half-empty blue bottle.
“Here,” she says, uncapping it, as eager—more so—as him. “Let me.”
////
Vi’s known Caitlyn a while now.
A good few years.
And still, there are times when he could kick himself for forgetting key details.
Like how brilliant she is.
How goddamn right she gets to be, about literally everything, and how it is never not a huge benefit to him when he includes her in any and all parts of his life.
Even when he is meant to be teaching her.
What if you used lube?
For fuck’s sake.
////
That first time—that initial, tentative demonstration—devolved quickly into:
“Fuck.”
“Fuck.”
“Fuck.”
“Fuck.”
The lube bottle’s cast aside.
Vi’s hand glides over his silky, wet shaft, pumping with the least amount of effort he’s ever had to use, forearm burning, fist clenching, junk hot and throbbing. His head’s back. His neck strains. His entire body sings.
Caitlyn’s hand is in her sleep shorts, her other hand still gripping his leg, hunched over with her fingers making furious circles over her clit, far as he can tell.
“Fuck,” he says, for the hundredth time.
“Fuck,” she gasps, for the hundred-and-first.
His fist makes increasingly lewd sounds while he twists, strokes, fondles—finding whole new ways to touch himself, enjoy himself, take himself to the edge.
A familiar feeling extremely low in his belly contracts, tighter and tighter and tighter, the packer rubbing his nerve endings raw.
His hand moves faster and his hips tilt and his shoulders lift off the pillow.
“‘Mph—Fuck—I’m gonna-”
“Come,” she pants, hand clutching at his stomach while her other one stays at work between her legs. “Come on, big boy, want to see, want to—to see you come all over yourself-”
“Gonna come,” he says again, totally lost in the sensation of tingling and floating and flying, tugging on his dick with his stomach tense and his body taut and the muscles of his hips and legs aching. “Fff-”
He shouts.
Releases.
Pumps his sweaty, cum-soaked hand over his cock and can feel the spurt of semen spattering on his stomach, where Cait’s hand sits like she’s been waiting for it.
“There you go,” she’s saying, rocking aimlessly against him. “Let it all out—good boy.”
Vi shivers.
Another spurt.
Squeezes it out of himself, hand barely slowing.
Until he’s done.
Out.
Empty.
“Ha,” he groans, with one final stroke. “Jesus Christ.”
Caitlyn whines.
The sound brings him back to the present.
He realises the bed’s still moving, and she—she’s still going.
He lets his dick go so he has another hand free to hold her hips, and the sensation of his shaft flopping back into place between his legs, weighty and spent, is a whole other kind of excellence.
Caitlyn makes another noise, teeth sunk into her lip.
“You look really pretty,” is the first thing that comes out of his mouth.
Her response is a groan, and to hunch further forward, pelvis rolling into her fingers.
“Shit,” she whispers. “Vi-”
“Need something?”
“I think—Maybe-”
“Here—Here, baby-”
Vi clenches his exhausted muscles one more time, her weight on his legs helping him sit up.
He kisses the side of her head and wastes no time slipping one hand into her hair and the other into her shorts.
She gasps.
Her folds are swollen and hot. He dips a fingertip between her labia, testing the slick there, the easy give of her body—until she presses down on his hand and he slides into her, his whole middle finger.
He grins.
“Hungry, love?”
Her free hand is on his shoulder, nails digging into the skin by the strap of his binder. She nods, furiously, focused on her pleasure.
Vi relishes in the feeling of her muscles, her warmth, encasing him.
“Want another?”
The nodding turns to shaking, side to side. “No,” she pants, “no, one’s—one’s good, one’s-”
She lifts herself a fraction, drops down. Vi takes the hint. Wriggles inside her, leaving her to rock and grind and find her bliss—she’d tell him if she wanted him to be thrusting, and she hasn’t, so he doesn’t.
She comes soon after.
Rippling around his finger, her body falling against his while he tells her, again, how pretty she is.
When the contracting stops, he whispers, “Gonna pull out, baby,” and extracts his hand.
Sucks on his finger.
Wipes it on the sheet.
Caitlyn takes a moment to come down, and he waits her out, lies flat on his back again. She goes with him, flopping against his front, his side. He plays with her hair, and she plays with the hem at the bottom of his binder. He can feel his heart pounding still. He can feel hers.
Hell of a morning, all round.
With her breath caught, Caitlyn sighs.
Relaxes against him.
Opens her eyes, still dark and wild.
“Hi,” she says, rubbing his stomach.
“Hi,” he whispers. “That was… really fun.”
“It was, wasn’t it?”
“I didn’t… I wasn’t sure I’d like it, when you suggested. But shit. I really did.”
“I know,” she says, with a content sigh. “I can tell.”
Her hand touches his damp pubes a second, and trails up. Middle and forefinger wiping over his sweaty, still-heaving stomach. Drawing circles…
Collecting.
“Look at all this,” she says, devilish and debauched.
Caitlyn swipes her fingers over his exposed skin and raises her fingers to his mouth.
Vi watches the whole thing, wide-eyed and hot-faced all over again.
“Taste yourself?”
Vi opens his mouth. Takes her fingers in. Tastes salt, and very definitely cum.
He moans, and his eyes drift closed. She presses further into his mouth. His tongue darts between her fingers.
“Good,” she says, and he can tell she’s leaning over him again. Her lips press to his forehead. “Good boy. Thank you, for sharing that with me. I love you.”
“Love you,” he mumbles, around her fingers.
Absolutely done.
She only pulls out so she can lick at his stomach and gather up the rest.
////
So.
That’s how morning sex became… kind of a thing, with them.
////
Now, Caitlyn wakes him semi-regularly with his semi-hard dick in place already for a semi-handjob or whatever they both feel like.
Today, what started as a distraction from the homework he is definitely going to hand in late—ends with Caitlyn in his lap, straddling him, kissing him.
A long, lazy kiss that blankets the room in an easy, peaceful haze.
Caitlyn’s tongue knows every inch of Vi’s mouth and Vi’s tongue knows every inch of hers and for a while they lay like that, resting their bodies and mouths together, slow, careful, smiling.
He shifts to kiss her cheek, her jaw, her chin, her neck.
Caitlyn’s breathing gets heavier while he dotes on her, hands gliding across her back, slipping under the hem of her singlet without trying to take it off. Just wanting to feel, to touch. Soft, warm skin, prickling with slow-building arousal.
When Caitlyn shifts a hand to hold his side, by his hip, Vi takes the hint, tilting his pelvis up in a shallow thrust, careful not to compromise the closeness they’ve got going. Content to be pushed into the mattress by Caitlyn’s bodyweight. To rut gently against her while she blankets him, for hours on end.
Caitlyn hums, burying her face in his throat, arms around his neck. Warm breath rolls over Vi’s chest.
She’s started rolling her hips. Searching for him. For the friction.
“That’s—That’s very nice,” she says.
And her hips rock again. A confirmation.
Vi kisses her temple.
“Yeah, baby?”
“I can feel you. Just—Just want to feel you.”
“Want me inside? I can get the other one?”
She shakes her head against him, squeezes his side, and Vi’s hips jerk up in response.
“No,” Caitlyn huffs, looking for a rhythm. “No, I just want to rub.”
“Okay, pretty girl—take whatever you want.”
Caitlyn grunts with the effort of grinding her clit into his bulge.
He tenses to lean up, meet her halfway, and she follows him back as he settles down onto the pillows again so their lips can stay connected.
Their slow, long kissing returns as they shift against each other like they’ve got all the time in the world.
“Yeah, baby,” he whispers, right against her mouth, at nothing in particular.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Caitlyn sits up to pull her hair back over one shoulder, returns to sucking on Vi’s neck. He tangles his hand in it, helping, tilts his head to encourage her.
“Think you can come like this?” she asks, with a particularly pointed thrust against him.
Vi grunts.
“God, probably.”
“Good. Good, then.”
“Want—Want you to come, too.”
“Somehow I don’t think that’ll be a problem, darling.”
He smiles at her, captures her mouth once again with his own.
Caitlyn adjusts in his lap.
Vi knows the whole front of his briefs are damp and dark from Caitlyn’s movements and thinks about reaching between them to feel it.
Instead, his hand pushes at her stomach, fingers slipping under that old shirt of his to find one of her breasts, roll her nipple under his thumb. Caitlyn arches into his touch. He pinches gently, and her sigh becomes a moan.
“There you go, pretty girl,” he says, kisses her neck, rolling and pinching. He knows she loves this, what the extra stimulation does to her, but that she can feel self-conscious about it, about letting him pleasure her in this simple way. “Just like that,” he adds, so there can be no doubt about his own enthusiasm, and when she arches again he whispers, “I love it when your nipples are hard for me,” because it’s true and it sort of falls out of him.
Her movements stutter, hands dropping to his stomach and bracing.
“Fuck,” she mutters. “Hang on, I-”
She clambers up long enough to pull her sleep shorts off and toss them, to bunch the hem of her shirt in one hand and hold it aside.
To spread her thighs and press a hand between her legs to part her labia, too.
Vi cottons on with barely enough time to pull his shaft out, to eliminate the harsh cotton barrier of his briefs, to flop into the cool morning air and feel his cheeks burn as Caitlyn lowers herself to encase the shape of him with her swollen cunt.
She moans.
A high-pitched, spine-tingling thing.
She is pink and panting and perfect.
“Shit,” he mutters, rocking up to meet her. “Caitlyn.”
“Okay?”
“Yes—Yes, fuck yes—Fucking—Ride me, baby, whatever you fucking want-”
Caitlyn tips forward. Fists the sheets either side of his body. Leverage.
Rocks against him, hard. Forth, and back.
Again and again and again.
Vi clutches her bare ass in his sweaty hands and lets her have her entire goddamn way with him.
Presses the swell of his bulge into her open pussy and cannot tell the difference between this and burying his strap to the hilt, at this point.
The sloppy sounds of her labia enveloping his curved, half-hard dick—of her body swallowing him, holding him, wrapping him up, in every way that matters—fills the room at an almost embarrassing volume.
“Jesus,” he pants, “you’re so fucking wet.”
“Very. Very very. For you. Christ, you’re so lovely when you’re soft.”
She tilts her hips even further, an exaggerated stroke—wringing out every inch of texture she can find in him.
The dimple at the top, where his shaft starts to curve.
The subtle vein, running half the length of it.
The tip, and the slightly raised lip all around it—perfect for grazing a puffy red cunt over, if Caitlyn’s increasingly erratic movements are anything to go by.
Vi cackles at her eagerness, palming at her soft, perfect ass, and she tells him, breathily, to shut the fuck up.
“Don’t even need to be hard, huh?” he crows—sue him, but he is living for this. “Don’t even need to be inside? Just need my cock out for you to rub your pussy all over and you’re—and you’re good.”
Caitlyn shoves her hand over his mouth and he cackles louder, muffled by her warm palm.
Thrusts up into her for a bit, as penance.
Her hands scrabble at him a moment later—her body pressing his pelvis into the mattress, hard—and his own orgasm sneaks right up on him, the friction and her pleasure and the sheer sight of her so hungry for him tipping him right towards the edge.
He grunts, fingers digging into her ass cheeks, trembling.
It’s gonna be a quiet one, a little one, a lovely one.
“Come in me,” she pants, mouth open, face screwed, rocking rocking—she’s close, too. “Come—Come in me-”
And he does.
Fills her.
Feels her body sucking at his cock, the way she shudders, shakes, when she comes, too.
“Vi,” she moans.
“Here,” he tells her.
Always, he thinks.
////
Caitlyn showers first.
Vi stays splayed on the bed, attempting to return to reality.
Dozes off, on accident.
“Don’t go back to sleep,” she tells him, standing by the bed, nudging his side with her foot. She’s completely dressed, around-the-house sneakers and all, hair pulled back in her high ponytail. “Wake up. It’s Thursday—you have a lecture at eleven.”
He bats her foot away, groaning.
“Get up.”
He does. Chases her out of the room, her giggling and mock-fury following her down the hall.
“Make me breakfast!” he calls after her, pulling his binder off.
“Absolutely not!” she yells back, in a way that he knows means she will.
When he’s showered and half-dressed, he finds her set up at their tiny dining table, textbooks and papers and laptop. He can hear the oven going, and there’s something in a pot on the stove, too. It doesn’t… entirely… smell like breakfast in here.
Vi wanders into the kitchen, mapping out supplementary ingredients in his head. There’s still a couple mushrooms in the fridge.
His girlfriend is many wonderful things, but she has the unique ability to be able to eat one of the same three meals over and over until death. Her cooking ability is… limited.
“What’s on the menu?”
Caitlyn doesn’t look at him, glasses pulled to the end of her nose.
“Sausages. Hash browns. The rest’s up to you.”
Vi frowns at the stove. The glass lid of the pot, steamed up and covered in condensation. Lifts it off.
Blinks.
Puts it back.
Lifts it again.
“Cait.”
“Hm?”
“Why is my dick in this pot?”
“I did say I was making sausages.”
“Caitlyn.”
“It’s boiling, obviously.”
“Why?”
“To clean it.”
“Why?”
“Because unless you want some horrible yeast infection or UTI or some such, you do need to clean it every so often.”
“I know that, I just—This is—I make our beans in this pot. This is the beans pot. That’s what we use it for. Beans.”
“Well. Now it’s the cock pot.” And she smiles to herself. “Hah. Cock-Pot? Like Crock-Pot?”
“You can’t—It’s-”
“This is a really scintillating conversation, but I have three more chapters to read before I can even think about doing anything else.”
The most pitiful noise in the entire history of pitiful noises stumbles out the back of his throat and face-plants on the tiled floor.
“Would it make you feel better if I told you I salted the water first?”
“I’m serious,” Vi says, digging his dumbass hole even deeper. “I’m being serious and—and you’re being the funny one. We’re all upside down and I do not like it.”
Caitlyn sighs, extremely patient in a way that should be studied. Takes her glasses off.
“You left it on the bed when you went to shower-”
“Dammit.”
“-And I needed an excuse to leave this wretched chair already, so…”
“You dropped my junk into a vat of boiling water because you wanted a study break?”
“Basically. Yes.”
Another noise escapes him.
His dick stares dolefully up at him from its place in the pot.
Bubbling.
Vi puts the lid back in place, mouth and face and eyes twisting with disdain, sorrow, complete and total tragedy.
Least the mushrooms make it out alive, this way.
“He’s never gonna be the same after this.”
Caitlyn stifles what better fucking not be a laugh.
Vi spins round.
“Excuse me, Miss—Miss Kitchen Cock Killer—you cannot tell me you’d be all for it if I stuck your vagina in a pot while I did my stupid yoga.”
“You don’t do yoga.”
“Super not the point.”
“How have you been cleaning our dildos all this time?”
“How have you been cleaning them?”
“I asked first, and considering I’m the one who ends up with them inside me, I think I’m the most entitled to an answer.”
“In the sink. With soap.”
“Boiling prosthetics and sex toys, if it’s safe to do so—which, yes, shut up, it is with this one, I checked—is the quickest and best way to sterilise them for future use,” Caitlyn says, and Vi—he knows he’s mere seconds from losing this entire non-argument. “If you want to keep fucking me with it, you want me to be boiling it.”
There.
Lost.
Loser.
Vi looks at the pot, trying not to feel bone-shatteringly emasculated in a way that makes no fucking sense.
He relents.
Makes her promise to quarantine this specific pot for this specific purpose, regardless of the fact that boiling is boiling and who would even know, because a person has to draw a line somewhere.
“Alright,” says Caitlyn. “Cock-Pot it is.”
Vi waits where he is, arms folded.
How long’s it been in there?
He’s not a moron—he knows, rationally, the whole boil-to-clean thing is—is a thing.
But like.
Isn’t it gonna wrinkle?
Shrink?
Melt?
These things are not cheap.
And he is just a bit attached to it.
“It’s gonna burn.”
“It’s not.”
“Isn’t it ready yet?”
“It doesn’t smell ready.”
“Caitlyn.”
She makes her way over, and she is laughing now, so she can go fuck herself, really.
She kisses his cheek, switching the burner off. Rubs his back.
“Don’t worry, darling,” she says. “I was going for al dente.”