Archive of Our Own

The room is quiet. Dim.

Just the amber flicker of a lamp by the window, casting a soft halo across Caitlyn’s pale shoulders and the deep cut of Vi’s restrained silhouette against the bed. The tie wrapped around her wrists is silk; navy, patterned. A Kiramman heirloom, probably. Which only made it hotter…  the polished legacy of Piltover’s finest, now knotted tight around Vi’s wrists and holding her helpless against Caitlyn’s bed frame. Caitlyn had looped it through the headboard with practiced ease, then tightened it just enough to make a point.

Vi’s shirt is gone. Her chest rises and falls in slow, heavy breaths. Her arms are pulled taut behind her head, muscles straining subtly with every flex, not in defiance, but in anticipation. Caitlyn watches the twitch in her biceps, the slow roll of her abdomen when she shifts in discomfort. The kinda of discomfort she knows comes from need.

She’s gorgeous like this; a coiled spring, all that raw power bound in place. Trapped under Caitlyn’s cool, calculating gaze.

Caitlyn doesn’t speak.

She just sinks into the velvet armchair a few feet away, crossing her legs with deliberate grace. Her blouse is still buttoned, save for the top two. Just enough to draw Vi’s eyes and keep them there.

She lets the silence stretch. Long enough to make Vi restless. Long enough to let the tension start to bite.

Finally, Caitlyn exhales, like she’s just finished a tedious day of paperwork. “I gave you a chance to behave.”

Vi shifts. Her arms flex again, shoulders rolling against the headboard. “I was behaving.”

Caitlyn raises a brow. “You said ‘you gonna let me fuck that attitude out of you, cupcake?’ in the middle of my hallway.”

A beat. Then Vi smirks; half-hearted, already losing footing. “That’s not even the worst thing I’ve said to you.”

Caitlyn smiles, slow and sharp. “No,” she agrees. “But it’s the one that got you tied up and about to watch me touch myself.”

Vi’s smirk dies on her lips.

Caitlyn leans back, legs still crossed, fingers idly trailing down the buttons of her blouse, starting to undo them. “Let’s see how long you last.”

She doesn’t start with herself first. Instead, she lets her hand drop to her thigh, then lower, nails skimming just beneath the edge of her skirt, slow and idle, like she’s brushing away invisible lint. Vi’s eyes follow the movement, shoulders tightening again.

Caitlyn notices, like always.

She tilts her head, studying the way Vi’s chest rises just a little faster now. The way her wrists twitch once in the tie, instinctual. Not enough to pull free but just enough to remind her that she can’t.

And god, that tension in her muscles; like every inch of her is just waiting for permission to pounce. Caitlyn watches her abdomen contract with a breath she tries to hide. Watches her jaw clench when she shifts, hips rising slightly off the mattress. Pointless. Powerless.

“Still behaving?” Caitlyn asks lightly, brushing her fingers against the inside of her own thigh, not yet touching where Vi so desperately wants her to.

Vi’s throat works. “Barely.”

Caitlyn hums, pleased. “Try a little harder.”

She parts her legs just a little in the chair, lifting her skirt an inch at a time. Her fingertips dip beneath the lace of her underwear, just enough for a small, purposeful gasp; audible, wet. Her lips part, breath soft and teasing, as she rocks once into her own hand and then stills.

Vi growls, low, guttural. Her arms flex again, harder now. The tie unfortunately holds.

“Fuck,” Vi mutters, the sound nearly swallowed in the quiet.

Caitlyn glances at her, smug. “Oh no,” she whispers, saccharine. “Are you struggling?”

Vi glares. “You’re a real problem.”

“I’m your problem,” Caitlyn corrects, voice like velvet. “And don’t get it twisted, you love it.”

Vi exhales through her nose like she’s trying to steady herself. Her thighs shift on the bed, desperate for friction. The muscles in her stomach tighten again. Caitlyn watches the way they ripple, taut and trembling with restraint. Her arms are starting to ache now from holding back.

Good.

Caitlyn begins to touch herself properly this time; a low press of fingers against her clit, barely enough to register. She moans, soft and utterly self-indulgent, as if Vi weren’t even in the room.

Vi lets out a strangled sound, half groan, half plea.

“Let me touch you,” she growls, the words punched out like they cost her something.

Caitlyn licks her lips and pretends to think about it.

“No,” she says simply, breath starting to hitch as her fingers move in slow, shallow circles. “You’re not allowed yet.”

Vi’s head hits the backboard with a dull thud. She’s trying to keep still, trying not to beg but Caitlyn sees it in her face, in the tight pull of her jaw, in the way her legs tense like she’s dying to press them together.

She’s not going to last much longer.

Perfect.

Caitlyn doesn’t rush.

She never does.

Not when she finally rises from the chair, not when she reaches for the buttons of her blouse, undoing the remaining few with clinical precision, no performance, no need for theatrics. Just quiet, methodical disrobing. The kind of confidence that doesn’t need permission to own the room.

Vi’s eyes follow every movement like they’re tethered.

Button by button, the crisp fabric parts to reveal pale skin, her chest rising and falling with slow, even breaths. She shrugs the blouse off her shoulders and lets it fall carelessly to the chair. Then her hands slide down to her skirt,  fingers grazing the zipper, drawing it down inch by inch.

Vi’s throat works hard around a swallow.

Caitlyn peels the skirt away and steps out of it, folding it neatly over the arm of the chair, leaving herself in nothing but a pair of near-transparent black lace panties which are clearly soaked through.

The sight alone nearly undoes Vi.

Caitlyn knows it; she sees the way Vi shifts on the bed, the way her hips jerk just slightly, just instinctively, trying to press against nothing. Her arms strain again behind her back, every line of her muscle tensed and trembling.

And Caitlyn hasn’t even touched her yet.

She pads toward the bed like it’s hers, like everything in the room is hers, including the panting, flushed woman tied to the headboard. They are hers.

She climbs on, one knee at a time, deliberately slow, as if mounting a throne rather than a person.

Vi’s breath stutters.

And then Caitlyn straddles her. Warm, bare thighs bracketing Vi’s hips. Lace barely concealing how wet she is. Her heat pressed down, taunting and electric, as she settles her full weight into Vi’s lap. She moves slightly; a roll of her hips so subtle it might’ve been imagined, if not for the sheer, involuntary gasp it rips from Vi’s throat.

Vi’s arms flex instinctively against the tie, shoulder muscles straining as if her body forgot, just for a second, that she can’t touch her.

Can’t grip her hips.

Can’t drag her closer.

Can’t do a damn thing but feel.

Oh, how cruel she could be.

Caitlyn leans in, close enough to smell the sweat beading at Vi’s temple. She glances down, amused, at the silk binding her wrists.

The knot still tight. Still elegant and absurdly out of place.

“A Kiramman family heirloom,” she murmurs. “Now holding down the city’s most incorrigible criminal.”

Her smile curves. “Mother would be horrified.”

Vi grits her teeth. “She’d be jealous.”

Caitlyn chuckles, a soft, dangerously fond sound. She rolls her hips again. The friction is perfect. Just enough to make Vi arch, to make her growl under her breath.

But Caitlyn doesn’t let it build. She lifts slightly, just enough to deny her.

Vi’s hips buck upward instinctively, and Caitlyn clicks her tongue. “Don’t.”

“I swear to god—”

“You can swear to whoever you like, darling” Caitlyn says lightly. “You’re not getting anything unless I give it to you.”

She rolls her hips once more; slower this time. A long, cruel drag. The lace sticks, wet and warm, every movement calculated. She knows exactly how much pressure to use.

Knows exactly what it’s doing to her.

Vi’s head falls back with a thud against the headboard, arms jerking uselessly. Her muscles are shaking now, the effort to stay still etched across every tense inch of her body.

“Still behaving?” Caitlyn asks sweetly.

Vi grunts. “You’re making this so difficult.”

Caitlyn smirks. “Am I?”

She dips low, until their bodies are flush, Vi caught between Caitlyn’s slick center and the weight of her control. She leans in, mouth close to Vi’s ear, breath hot.

Another slow grind. Another sharp gasp.

Then, soft as sin, her lips lightly against Vi’s earlobe:

“Beg for me.”

Vi exhales a breath she didn’t realise she was holding, but doesn’t beg right away.

She just grits her teeth. Strains against the tie. Stares Caitlyn down with wild eyes and clenched fists; like she can will her way out of it through sheer force.

But Caitlyn’s not here for force. She’s here for surrender.

So she shifts, lifting just slightly off Vi’s lap, and brings her hand to Vi’s jaw.

Vi freezes; pupils blown wide as Caitlyn’s fingers ghost along her jawline, over her cheek, landing on her lips. A hitch in her breath betraying just how far she’s already fallen.

Caitlyn hums softly, pleased.

“Open.”

Vi obeys without hesitation, her mouth parting on instinct.

Caitlyn slides two fingers in, slowly, pressing past her lips until they sit heavy on Vi’s tongue. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t rush. Just watches Vi take it. Watches her lips close around her fingers. Watches her finally submit.

Vi groans low in her throat, the sound barely restrained, desperate, needy.

Caitlyn keeps her fingers there. Lets Vi suck, tongue warm and slick around them, jaw working with something close to reverence. Her mouth working them as if if was the the real part she wanted to taste. 

Caitlyn leans in again, her voice a whisper against her ear. “Good girl.”

Then she withdraws, a slow drag of wet fingers slipping from Vi’s lips — and Vi whines, actually whines at the loss.

Caitlyn doesn’t let her linger in the grief.

She sits back, the slickness from Vi’s mouth still shining on her hand, and slides those same fingers beneath the waistband of her lace panties. Right there, right above Vi’s stomach, she sinks them into herself with a soft, trembling gasp.

Vi’s breath punches out of her.

“Fuck.”

Caitlyn moans softly, rocking into her hand with practiced ease, her other hand steadying herself on Vi’s chest — palm splayed flat, fingers splayed over her sternum, holding her down. Vi feels every twitch, every motion, every wet grind of Caitlyn’s hips as she fucks herself just inches above her.

It’s the filthiest, sexiest, most beautiful thing Vi’s ever seen.

And she can’t touch.

All she can do is feel; Caitlyn’s thighs trembling around her, her wetness dripping down, every thrust of her fingers echoing in sharp, soft gasps.

Vi can smell her, taste the ghost of her on her tongue, feel her in every sense except the one she needs most.

Caitlyn fucks herself harder now, eyes closed, mouth parted, breath hitching as her movements speed up; using the fingers Vi just had in her mouth to wreck herself with elegant control. She’s so close.

Vi arches up beneath her, desperate. “Please—”

Caitlyn doesn’t stop. Doesn’t open her eyes. Just grinds down harder, faster, her moans turning sharp.

“Please,” Vi begs again, raw. “Let me taste you.”

Caitlyn gasps; a sharp, shattered sound as her orgasm hits. Her whole body tightens, back arching, thighs trembling as she comes with her hand buried deep, riding it out above Vi’s lap like she owns the air between them.

And she does.

She always has.

When the trembling in her thighs finally settles and her breath evens out, Caitlyn doesn’t move away. She stays exactly where she is, still straddling Vi, flushed and glistening, her slick center pressed warm and close.

Her fingers, wet and spent, slide from between her legs. She brings them up to Vi’s mouth again, hovering just barely out of reach.

Vi leans forward instinctively, straining for the taste.

But Caitlyn pulls back.

Not to taunt this time, but to ask.

“How badly do you want it?” she murmurs, voice frayed but still wickedly composed. “To taste me?”

Vi groans like the words are physically painful. Her arms flex hard behind her, body trembling with restraint. “So bad I’m gonna die if you don’t let me.”

Caitlyn hums in mock sympathy, pressing a soft kiss to Vi’s cheek.

Then another. Lower. The curve of her jaw.

She moves slowly, trailing warm, open-mouthed kisses along Vi’s neck, featherlight but lingering, and with one hand, she finally starts to loosen the knot at Vi’s wrists. It’s a slow, silent undoing, the tie giving way strand by strand as she kisses her way beneath Vi’s ear.

Vi is panting now, torn between pleasure and anticipation. Every kiss, every tug of fabric, pushes her closer to the edge; not of orgasm, but of control.

The knot slips.

Caitlyn pulls back just enough to meet her eyes. There’s still a flicker of superiority there, the ghost of a smirk.

But she’s not in charge anymore.

The second Vi’s hands are free, it happens.

A blur of motion.

Vi grabs her, one arm around her waist, the other sliding up between Caitlyn’s shoulder blades, and flips them, slamming Caitlyn down onto the mattress beneath her. The breath leaves Caitlyn’s lungs in a gasp, her hair fanned out over the pillows, body bare and exposed, legs falling open with no resistance.

Vi’s on her in a second.

Her mouth claims Caitlyn’s; teeth and tongue, rough and hungry, all the patience and restraint of earlier burned to ash. She kisses like she’s starved, hands everywhere: gripping her hips, dragging her closer, yanking her panties aside without a second thought.

Caitlyn barely has time to gasp before Vi dives.

She buries her face between Caitlyn’s thighs and groans like she’s been handed salvation. Tongue hot and relentless, she licks deep, wide, messy strokes that leave Caitlyn bucking and crying out, hands flying to Vi’s hair like she can survive this pace if she just holds on.

But Vi doesn’t slow.

She devours her. Like it’s revenge. Like it’s worship. Like she’s waited hours, days, years for the right to be here; mouth full of Caitlyn, arms wrapped around her thighs, owning her in a way words never could.

Caitlyn is a mess in seconds.

Moaning. Writhing. Cursing through clenched teeth as Vi fucks her with her mouth, with fingers gripping tight enough to bruise. She lifts her hips, chases every flick of Vi’s tongue like it might disappear.

Vi doesn’t let up.

She wants Caitlyn to come undone. Wants to ruin her.

And when Caitlyn’s thighs start to shake again, when her cries turn frantic and her nails dig hard into Vi’s scalp, Vi just growls against her — rough and low — and says, muffled:

“You taste even better than I imagined.”

Caitlyn shatters.

Comes with a sound that’s equal parts scream and sob, her entire body seizing beneath Vi like she’s being unraveled thread by thread.

And Vi? She doesn’t stop until Caitlyn’s twitching.

Doesn’t let go until she’s wrung her dry.

Only then does she crawl up, hovering over her, lips slick, breath ragged, arms braced on either side.

Caitlyn stares up at her, wrecked. Hair wild, eyes glassy, chest heaving.

Vi grins.

“You let me go,” she says. “That’s on you.”