tw; dom!caitlyn, dom!vi, f!reader, double penetration, voyeurism, masturbation, pussyfucking, pussyeating, blowjobs, overstimulation, 3some, sex if it was a competitive sport. wc; 1.8k
you are all they can think about. all fucking day. it’s a wonder they could've waited this long, really, to get home and fuck their sweet, sweet darling. by the time the door opens, they’re ready to jump your skin.
“baby,” vi gasps, bulging arms winding tight around your waist and seizing you—lifting you into the air like you weigh nothing more than a china doll. she kisses you, hard. then kisses you again, and again, and again; peppering down your jaw to your neck to your collar. they’re sloppy in their haste, nuzzling into your throat with a hefty amount of neediness.
seriously. you haven’t even put down your tea, yet.
“stop hogging her.” caitlyn complains, as she collapses back onto the couch. she angles her head upwards, and caitlyn kiramman does not pout—but the gleam of her doe-eyes is uncharacteristically sulky.
vi spins you around, much to your disgruntled (though, secretly pleased), “hey!” before she delightedly turns to caitlyn, smirking. “don’t tell me you’re jealous, little ms. dignitary.”
caitlyn scowls.
“you aren't the only person who’s missed her, you know.” she grouses, and vi just grins. “spread your legs, cupcake.”
there’s a beat in which caitlyn wearily glares, like, really? you’re ordering me around? though she concedes, legs unfolding from their elegant cross to fall open, wide and inviting.
vi promptly plops you into caitlyn’s lap.
caitlyn gasps, pupils darkening in an instant as her knees jerk upwards. she grunts, out loud, when your thighs shift—unintentionally—against her bulge. that’s all it takes, before silk is getting torn of your shoulders by pale hands, and vi is tugging the skin of your nape between her teeth, exhaling shakily against your ear. so. they were clearly on edge.
“been thinkin’ bout you all day, princess.”
“understatement.” caitlyn hisses, hips canting upwards to grind shamelessly up against your groin. oh, gods. she’s getting harder by the minute. “i seem to remember your descriptions on the ride home, vividly.”
“what can I say? it got you all hot and bothered.”
“with nowhere to take care of it.”
you swallow, cheeks hot. “do i get a say in this?”
“no. “no.” two voices resound at once, almost unintelligible with the way vi is biting into your shoulder and caitlyn has begun to ravish the expanse of your tits, like they both won’t be pleased until you leave, bruised and marked to oblivion.
hands seize your hips, flipping you easily—back onto the couch. you can’t tell whose. especially when your eyelids squeeze shut the moment a palm cups your quickly slickening cunt, rubbing over your panties.
“hah..”
“ha.” caitlyn’s voice is drill, yet amused. your eyes fly open when your legs are wrenched apart by large, veined hands, and vi grins up at you from between your legs.
your tea, is now unceremoniously spilled all over the floor, porclein in pieces. all in the name of seizing vi’s pink head of hair and smushing her up against your quickly soddening pussy, whining in need. she winks, the asshole, yanking silken underwear down in clumsy movements, and then her rough hands are clamping, spreading you wide open. she’s being beckoned by the heady scent of your cunt; tantalisingly all-consuming. her mouth is watering.
“fuck. been dreamin’ bout this sweet pussy all day.” vi murmurs, hungrily, nose dragging up the insides of your thighs. she marks her way in furious nips, getting sloppier and sloppier; desperate to tongue her way to the prize.
listen. vi wants to work you up—wants to take her time, relish each and every drop that coats your folds in that thickening glisten. it’s just—fuck, princess. d’you have to smell so goddamn good?
“can you not be patient?” caitlyn husks, and annoyance has never sounded so fucking sexy. “i’m trying to enjoy the view.” her legs have slid, to fit over your shoulders, and when your eyes flutter upwards; you’re greeted with the underside of her cock. it arcs above your head, obscuring most of your vision, and it’s enough to draw a needy little whine out of you, hips jerking upwards—right into vi’s waiting mouth.
that’s how it goes. her tongue drags, hot and flat against your swelling, puffy clit, before exhaling into your cunt like a little fucking tease before she dives in.
“who’s fuckin’ pussy is this?” vi growls, mouthing feverishly, one hand pre-occupied with jerking herself, furiously off, whilst the other slides two fingers, stretching you generously open.
“ah-ah—mm—yours.. ow—!
“ours.” caitlyn corrects, twisting your nipple sharply, in reprimand. it’s hard for her to be too mad, when you nose into the wedge of her thighs, apologetically, your hips shaking the couch—like a kitten nuzzling against an outstretched knuckle.
her gaze lowers, black and blue; and your lips part; glossy, plush, and absolutely begging for it. caitlyn can’t resist—her dick sliding its way into your open mouth.
you take her tip like a greedy thing, lips wrapping round and tongue slicking underneath, arching up for more.
“shit, darling.” caitlyn gasps, entire body shuddering, all around you. it takes everything in her not to throat-fuck you right then and there, nails digging into the fabric of the armrest, eyes rolling backwards as you nurse on her cock.
vi laughs, pleased and breathy. each tremor thrums straight to your core. her tongue swirls, panting; hot and heavy, as she pumps her fingers ever deeper, burrowing into your pussy like a woman starved. there are slurping noises, because she’s a messy fucking eater and there’s nothing she loves more than having you smeared all over her chin, her nose, her cheeks—as long as she’s salivating into your pussy. the searing coil in the pits of your stomach winds, tighter and hotter like a spring, overheating.
you can feel vi’s lips curling upwards with every clench of your thighs—hips spasming—bucking heedlessly into tongue. she fucks your head empty. in fact, all you can do is moan into caitlyn’s cock, and that sends shocks of pleasure trembling up caitlyn’s length to her spine; unable to resist pumping herself, deeper, into the warm, wet heat of your throat.
all of sudden, vi thrusts another finger inside, just as her tongue drags upwards and mouth sucks, hard on your clit. she curls, knuckles pulsing against your tight, tight walls. caitlyn seems to approve, because her slow, treacherously-shaky motions begin to stutter into frenetic jerks, breathing harsh. overwhelmed, you let out a mangled croon—back arching off the couch—pinned down two ways, by the cock in your throat and the tongue in your cunt—and promptly cum all over vi’s face.
vi licks it all up. glances upwards from between your legs, smug and pussydrunk, cum dripping from her lips. she makes a show of swiping it with her tongue, though you’re too spoiled by the warm aftershocks of pleasure wracking your body to do too much about it. caitlyn is still fucking you, trying her damndest to remain in control, but her restraint is slipping with every trickle of white that rolls down vi’s throat, and the way you tug her dick deeper into your mouth, like you were made for it.
all you can do, for the moment, is attempt to catch your breath—chest rising and falling in shallow pants as you suck on caitlyn’s cock, suctioning her in, weakly. her hips rock, and in the fuzzy whiteness that’s throbbing your brain you almost don’t realise vi is lifting up off the couch and fisting her own cock in her hands, until your pussy is being splayed open and—ah—fuck!
“hush, baby.” vi coos, almost in awe at the way your pussy gapes, loosened by her fingers and her tongue and wet, wet, wet with her saliva, your pleasure. it yawns open. takes the thick length of her girth so easily. she fucks back into you, smooth and languid, gently tracing fingers up your hips. you’re trembling in overstimulation, sensitive, sore. they always seem to find a way to leave you like that.
“look at you. takin’ me and cait so well.”
look at you, indeed. the outline of vi’s cock pumps in you, along with caitlyn’s own; one raised against your abdomen, the other down your throat. it has the two of them almost dizzy with arousal. vi buries herself inside you—fucking your aching walls in loose, hot drags; biceps tense in fighting the urge to not roughly slam you balls-deep and fuck you into the couch, like some wild animal—lest you choke on caitlyn’s dick. speaking of—
“oh, darling.” caitlyn shudders, as her balls tighten and her thighs clamp down, around you. “i think i’m—ah—“
at the last second, caitlyn jerks herself out from your mouth and aims. her load shoots out—a thick, white arc that splatters against vi’s tits and streams down her torso. there’s a viscous, glossy streak down the line of your body—like a bucket of paint knocked over.
caitlyn pants. vi ceases her motions, momentarily. glancing down at the mess, glistening down the ridges of her abdomen—and then back up at the woman, thighs locked around your head.
she smirks, chest heaving, hips still working. “wow.”
“oh, shut up.” caitlyn slurs, slumping against the armrest of the couch, temporarily satiated. her cock drizzles weakly, as she pumps it lazily in her hand, watching vi fuck you, gentle and slow—hand curling into your hair. her dick twitches.
“next time, you’re swallowing.”
a drop of leftover cum beads, down her length, and splashes on your lip. your tongue drags out, and it’s with a deliberate little arch, you lick it into your mouth. two, twinning inhales; sharp, and shaky. vi’s hips stutter. caitlyn’s eyes meet yours, dark.
tw; cassandra + caitlyn x f!reader, pussyfucking, voyeurism, masturbation, objectification, gagging, being passed around on kiramman cock, mommy issues, family dynamics, no incest unless you count their cum mixing inside you. wc; 2.8k
“my daughter is quite fond of you,” cassandra muses thoughtfully, like you’re not ass-up, pussy-clenched, bent over on the kiramman desk; two, slender, pale fingers elegantly fucking the juices out of your cunt.
while you’d love to engage in mommy gossip over tea, your pretty little head isn’t quite capable of doing more than blindly rut back against gloved fingers. even if your ears perk up at the mention.
“what does that—ngh— fuck—“
“language, darling.” cassandra slaps your cunt, hard. you hiss, arching back, traitorous pussy deciding it really fucking likes that, and sending a surge of wetness gushing out and dripping over her palm. you arch back, and the retort making its way out of your mouth is rudely interrupted by the way she deftly folds her fingers into a fist. quelled, you settle down, thighs still stinging.
"and i suppose—mmgh—she didn’t—hah.. tell you?”
“no, but i know.” cassandra hums, index hooking. your eyes roll back, as cassandra continues to muse. or, pretend to muse. you’ve been under her thumb long enough to know every twitch of her expression, every dip in her tone, every curl of her finger—is calculated, and intentional. “her gaze lingers."
“she doesn't mind that her mother takes home girls her own age?” you pant, squirming away from cassandra’s hand as she pinches your thigh.
“girl.” cassandra corrects, gloved hand leisurely grasping you by the chin and pinning it upwards, to face her, unable to squirm away from the steely jade of her eyes. girl, singular. it’s nothing close to ooey-and-gooey affection, but the clarification makes your heart glow nonetheless, heat flooding to every buzzing cell in your body. it also makes you pathetically, impossibly wetter. cassandra smiles as you gush around her fingers, nerves humming under her touch.
“she wouldn’t. so long as i turn a blind eye to the unending stream of conquests she has in and out of her room.” cassandra sighs, flicking against your clit. you arch upwards off of satin sheets, thighs quivering—and cassandra only takes the opportunity to thrust her digits further upwards. you thrash, like puppet thrust upon a stick.
“takes after her mother,” you gasp, and her chuckle is a pinch less poised than usual. “suppose she does, hm?"
you cum all over her gloved fingers, silk soaked to the bone.
to be perfectly honest, you were only half-lucid during that whole affair. can you blame you? one can only concentrate so much when you’re being finger-fucked to oblivion on a councillor’s desk. you hadn’t thought much of cassandra’s words, or caitlyn’s supposed fascination in you. until, well—
“mother, i don't see what could have possibly warranted dragging me out of office just to—”
the moment you come into sight, caitlyn stops, mid-way through flicking the stub of a pen, up-and-down with boredom borne vigour. she’s draped over one of the armchairs in front of the fireplace, head tilted back, elbow lent lazily over the side of the seat. she straightens, gaze flickering between you and her mother.
you stare at caitlyn. she stares back, alabaster-cut cheekbones flushing a dark-hued pink.
cassandra slinks into the other armchair, one leg draping elegantly over the other. “i told you it’d be worth the wait.” she teases, easily, superiority exuding out of her every pore. caitlyn is stock-still; a deer frozen in the headlights, because surely her mother can’t mean—
“look at her, darling.” cassandra beckons you closer, and you fall into step, obedient. her cryptic smile, widens—gloved hand outstretching, to skim the silken fabric up your thighs. her nail drags upwards, and both caitlyn and you visibly shiver. “hot, wet and inviting.”
caitlyn bites her lip, conflict playing out comically over her face, like a gargantuan tent isn’t rising at her crotch. for one, she loathes to concede any victory to her mother. on the other..
(gods, how caitlyn has wanted and wanted. it's shameful. she’s caught glimpses of you, throughout the estate, for the past year. flitting in and out, from her mother’s room—her office, sometimes. the thought should make her nose wrinkle and gaze avert, like it had done so, with all the other women her mother used to bring home. yet, you.
the pull you have is magnetic. perhaps, that’s why she hasn’t seen a single other verdant soul grace her mother’s bedsheets, since you. not that she makes a habit of peeking. it’s just—she’s wondered. she’s wondered, with her hand wrapped her dick and croons muffled by her sheets, how you’d feel around her cock, instead. because she swears that nightgown her mother lent you used to be hers, and the thought of it—skimming up your thighs, dampening against the hot flush of your cunt—
caitlyn is spry, young, quick-witted— and admittedly hormonal. she’s in the prime of her life, and the prime of her libido; too. deathly curious, too, what has made her mother come back to you—over and over and over again. what’s so special about you that you’ve made caitlyn cum into her fist, over and over again, despite never sparing her more than a second glance.)
“you can’t seriously expect me to..” caitlyn splutters, cheeks blooming red. “now? here? in front of you?”
“don’t act all shy, now. for a decorated enforcer, your sleuthing skills are lackluster."
caitlyn burns, bright-red. she's well-aware of the incident her mother is talking about. that was once. besides! she thought someone was being impaled on a stake, in there, for gods' sake. she’d almost brought the guards!
“besides," cassandra rolls her wrist, idly, "you think i’d let you handle precious goods unattended? you could break her.”
both you and caitlyn bristle; you, at the suggestion that you could be broken by this kiramman girl who is certainly fit, mind you—but break? really? caitlyn, at the dig at her self-restraint. through she’d probably smart at any barb her mother threw at her her.
“i can be delicate.” it’s like the implication is the nail in the coffin, and she’s undoing her trousers with exaggerated reluctance, like her fingers aren’t quivering in contained eagerness. “don’t look.” she demands of her mother, like a child slipping into the fitting room. the buckles of her enforcer uniform come undone, and a flash of inky-blue trim sends the hairs raising at the nape of your neck, especially when caitlyn’s fly falls away and her thighs splay open, hand curling around her base and tugging her dick out and—oh.
now, you understand why you might break.
caitlyn is.. well-endowed. (oh, cassandra is rubbing off on you in more ways than one). her length itself clean-shaven, like her mother—and the smooth, erect forth of her cock practically preens under the attention, blue-green veins climbing up its trunk. her tip is flushed a brilliant pink, and for all caitlyn’s feigned nonchalance; precum builds a shiny glaze at its slit, at the precipice of gushing out. she tucks her trousers below her balls, eyes flitting over to meet her mother’s, stare flaring to one of defiance.
caitlyn scowls, but you can't help but notice the shallow pace of her breath—the way her forearms tense, rapid fluttering beating at your chest. can't help but notice the way her cock throbs, tall and aching, and how she can't tear her eyes off of you.
“go on, dear.” cassandra urges, sly, and you startle, because you've almost gotten lost in being a passenger to the kiramman’s family squabbles—forgotten that for now, all you’re sinking onto her daughter’s cock. caitlyn gasps, hips jerking upwards.
she's hesitant, at first; rolling her hips, experimentally, and you suppress a gasp when her cock slips deeper, unintentionally. caitlyn grunts, and when she starts going she starts going, because—fuck—can you blame her? she gets lost in the ocean of your pussy, how it swallows her, and her mother is right. hot, wet, and inviting.
you can't deny you're enjoying this. each moan that caitlyn dislodges from your throat is even more encouragement for her dick to plunge deeper, length to stretch you wider. perhaps it’s unjust—but even as your head falls back and you whine in approval, shivers crackling down your body—you can't help but compare the two, just a little. (cassandra's motions have always been painstakingly controlled. each crook of a finger, curl of a knuckle, thrust of her cock; carefully poised, deliberate, and intentional. caitlyn, on the other hand—is fluid and freestyle and just a little sloppy. her ruts driving with a shaky force, like she's trying her damndest best to keep a rhythm but is trembling with the effort to hold on and not just plow into your cunt like a jackhammer. she's good. you can tell caitlyn has done this before, many times. just, perhaps not as many times, as her mother.)
"darling, posture."
caitlyn freezes, balls-deep. her head lifts in gobsmacked disbelief at her mother's voice, hands remaining clamped down over your thighs, dick twitching. you stifle a mewl at the loss of friction.
"posture?" caitlyn parrots, eyes narrowing, even as her back goes ramrod and shoulders square on instinct, like an automatic response to her mothers’ tone. then, annoyed at her own reaction, caitlyn thrusts, hard, as if to prove a point. the both of them ignore your subsequent whimper. “my posture is just fine, thank you very much.”
cassandra's nails drum against your collarbones, hand still carding through your hair. it takes everything in you not to nuzzle upwards into the offering, because you know cassandra despises your neediness. loves it, too. but you're not quite in the position to test how she feels, today.
“is it just fine, dear one?”
you squeeze your eyes shut, harshly, as caitlyn’s thrusts come in rhythmic slams, the other girl’s pants almost as uneven as your own. “i—nghhm—yes.”
“and is my daughter treating you well?”
caitlyn scoffs, but her hands tighten on your hips, nails digging crescent indents into skin. your eyes flicker open to meet caitlyn’s own, and you’re expecting to find that beautiful, forever, narrowed-eye glare of hers that is so instantly recognisable.
instead, what greets you is fawn-like cerulean; wide and imploring. approval-seeking, under her mother’s scrutiny—under your control. it’s like she’s holding her breath, even as the slams of her hips.
“ngh, caitlyn—“ you gasp, like a prayer, and the kiramman heir seems to dissolve at the sound of her name on your tongue, wobbling as she clings to your hips like she might just die if she were to be separated.
her throat bobs, and her hips shudder, a low groan wracking her body. and, and—
“don't finish.” cassandra interjects, command rolling off her tongue, firm and declarative, leaving no room for argument. “a little practice in self-control would be good for you.”
“mother,” caitlyn protests, elongated and pleading and irrestrainably whiney, like a toddler throwing a tantrum. her cheeks are blossomed red, flushed to the bone—strings of saliva connecting the plump part of her lips as she ruts into you, grip bruising.
“don’t whinge.” cassandra admonishes, and caitlyn’s hiss is guttural, almost physically pained by the frustration—but she holds herself back nonetheless. “if you think i am having my daughter’s sloppy seconds, you think wrong.”
it’s as if the room has dropped in degrees. caitlyn, livid with the tension of what you can feel, drawn tight against the hot flush of your body. cassandra, whose gaze is as impenetrable and indomitable as ever. the both of them; cut-throat and frigid—like the meeting of stalagmites and stalactites, crashing into one another.
your pussy clenches, because gods, this is hot. caitlyn audibly lets slip a hiss, when your walls tighten around her poor, sensitive dick. it’s almost inevitable when she cracks, first.
it’s that first twitch in her brow that waivers the white flag, and she her jaw tightens and her eyes go wild—before she forcibly wrenches herself out from you, eyes rolling back as her cock squelches free— promptly blows her load all over the carpet.
caitlyn folds to her knees, black-blue eyes peer upwards, both wounded and aggrieved; like the world has done her wrong by not having her cum inside of you. the way she’s positioned is almost heartstring wrenching—if it weren’t for how her hands curl around the base of her cock and she arches back and hisses, shamelessly jerking the rest of her high, off. thick, white spurts of cum splatter, some on the glossy wooden panels—but most on the carpet. carpet, worth some-twelve families’ fortunes and now marred by fat, creamy streaks of white, clinging to filaments that’ll indubitably harden come sunrise.
caitlyn pants, wiping spit with the back of her hand. her eyes meet her mother’s, satisfaction uncoiling in her gut, along with the leftovers drizzling from her tip.
“are you quite done?” cassandra exhales, as her daughter empties herself out over their living room floor.
“yes.” caitlyn says, petulant. her expression is as still as stone—yet anybody could see the smug gleam in her eye.(of course, a day doesn’t go past in piltover nowadays that that kiramman brat isn’t uttered. perhaps, the moniker has more truth to it than you’d thought.)
cassandra seems to torn whether this is the right time to discipline her daughter, though she doesn’t account for you and your incessant neediness, because you’d just been so full and now you’re so empty. it’s burning a hole right in the pits of your stomach, and you need to be filled. you need it. cassandra, for all her patience— has waited long enough.
your pussy opens up to cassandra’s cock with an obscene squelch, walls stretching, thighs quivering outwards as you welcome the familiar girth, and isn't that something? that coming home equivocates to cumming over her cock.
cassandra cants her hips upwards, just barely— and after the (sloppy, but earnest) viciousness of which caitlyn just fucked you; it's not enough.
“more—need—more, cass—“
poor choice of words. you should know better than to throw nicknames around so flippantly, around her daughter, no less. cassandra’s grey-tinged stare turns glacial. if there's anything she's has ever taught you—it’s how to be good.
"and just where did your manners go?” cassandra’s head slants, lips curling, and you know you’re in for it, now.
through glassy eyes and a heavy head—you watch as she peels the glove from her hand and—ah. they’re the ones from earlier. still filthy, drenched in your residue. it brings flush of shame to your cheeks—mouth opening to whine; yet you’re cut off by the way she swiftly stuffs them in your mouth. the salty proof of your lust shoves down the back of your throat. you choke. it stifles your mewling like a charm.
heavens. cassandra is struck by just how much she adores you, as she rocks you on her dick. your gaze; so glossy and starry and bright, tears burning behind your eyes around your gag. she goes slow—lulls you into a false sense of security with the gentleness in her pace—before she viciously drives her hips upwards every so often, and pounds. the push-and-pull is undoing. you gasp around your make-shift gag each and every time, making the most delicious sounds as you do so.
caitlyn has long since sulked back to the armchair at the side, watching the scene with as her dick twitches, still standing tall and proud as your slick glistens, coating its length. cassandra takes her time. not sparing a glance at her daughter, the pace of her teasing out the both of you. caitlyn grouches, grumbling to herself all the whole. the sounds that come out of your mouth are much less becoming.
“take it,” cassandra orders coolly, into your ear, weathered hands clasping your jaw. she twists herself in, and you buck with a gasp when you feel hotness flood through every being. cassandra grunts, and the slip-up is barely decipherable through the cotton in your head, but you can feel the way she pumps you full with her cum with complete clarity, spasming around her cock.
when cassandra finally empties herself–pushes you up, and off of her, her movements are gracious and dignified, as if she didn’t just fuck and fill you full until your pupils slipped back and your cunt oozing with white. by the time she's done, caitlyn has made another mess against mahogony, and the younger is too fucking desperate to even bother with the illusion of control. too desperate to give a single flying fuck about the fact her own mother's cum is pulsing out from your pussy in sticky waves, that the second you're out of cassandra's hands—you're in caitlyn's. she shoves you back on the rug, fireplace licking warmth against your cheeks—though its nothing compared to the roar of sheer, blinding sensation that blazes up your core when caitlyn rams her cock inside you. groaning, girth splitting you open as she mounts you, just like that, in the middle of the living room.
cassandra reclines, back against the armchair, cock hanging between her legs. her lips curve, upwards, and she takes a sip of her tea. she has more to give you, after all.
she'll just have to ensure caitlyn doesn't snap you in two, first.
vi and caitlyn linger at the doorway, to your shared bedroom. patrols are a bitch—and it is not always that they can get home, early. it's never been a problem exactly. except—
“ah..” vi’s mouth waters.
dawn crawls on the horizon. its heralding light seeps in through gossamer curtains, spilling out to bask your sleeping form in an unmitigated glow. your very nude, sleeping form. as if teasing them—you let out the most adorable yawn, in the midst of sleep. your leg curls upwards, covers slipping off.
caitlyn swallows, hard.
the two of them are immediately seized with an irrational jealousy for being so robbed from witnessing you, like this.
“since when does she sleep naked?”
“suppose it’s hot nowadays.” caitlyn answers airly, as if her nails aren't digging into the heel of her palm and the tent in her trousers' isn't stiffening. urgently. since when did she have the libido of a teenage boy?
vi elbows her, voice teasing—if not equally as hoarse. “cupcake. you’re packing.”
"like you're not thinking the same." caitlyn scoffs, and vi can't argue with that. she is thinking the same. if the same, is the idea of hovering over your blissfully relaxed figure, splayed out on the bedspread. tearing off her pants and—
“..perhaps, we could.. indulge.”
“oh, baby. you read my mind.”
you wake, to a burning in your lungs, and your cunt. there's a stuffy headiness enveloping your head, something hot and wet and slippery pressing up against your chin. you open your mouth, only half-consciously, when your tongue meets salt and your eyelids flicker open in sleepy befuddlement. heat, and muscular thighs clamp down on either side of your head. a rough hand twists in your hair.
vi jerks you tongue-first into her cunt.
your, whatthefuckisgoingon??? comes out more like; "mmrmgh?”
"poor baby. can't breathe, huh?" vi only shoves you deeper up the wedge of her thighs, your nose burrowed into the curls of her hot-pink bush and mouth at her sopping pussy.
"oh, right there, princess."
she hisses, wresting you by the hair and rubbing her slickened folds against your face. your hands are scrambling at the mattress, each and every attempt at speech muffled by the squeezing of vi's legs. she pants in pleasure, as you pant in need, into her pussy—choked out by the sheer force of which vi's thighs are coiled around your head.
she eases up, just enough for you to wriggle your mouth to gasp for air, and release a breathy, plaintive whine—eyes sleep-glazed and blinking hard, trying to get your bearings. c'mon, now—get with it; you're being suffocated by your girlfriend's pussy. not four AM on a workday and your chin is coated with slick. vi lets out a petulantly dissatisfied noise when you're gulping air for too long—shoving your head back down with a low growl. "don't—hah—you fuckin' stop."
you're so preoccupied with trying to breathe, head spinning, cogs whirring at a slow, slow pace as it attempts to process the fact you're gasping into your girlfriend's pussy; you almost don't realise the burning in your belly has rescinded to a low simmer. mistake.
"don't tell me you forgot about me, darling."
like caitlyn can sense your distraction, there is a blinding jolt of lightning that crackles through your body as she gives you an idle jerk. something twitches, and you realise, belatedly, there is a cock inside of you.
you tense up, and your walls clench. caitlyn's moan is dizzying.
"ah—ah.. fuck, sweetheart. you feel almost as good as you did, before."
vi presses up flush against your face, groaning as she rocks, grinding picking up the pace. of course, the tighter she holds, the less you can breathe, and your limbs jerk, fingers fisting into the sheets.
"stop squirming. you're only going to make it worse." caitlyn's pace is leisurely, manicured nails pinching either side of your hips. she rolls her hips forward, teeth biting down at her bottom lip. "it's a shame. you made such a good cocksleeve. all relaxed. pliant."
it feels wrong to hear words so vulgar rolling off her silken tongue, so casually, so early-in-the-fucking-morning, as if you haven't heard filthier come out of her mouth. the shock of it is wearing, giving way to the blazing warmth that so throbs in your pussy that you can't believe you hadn't noticed. though perhaps, that was the whole point.
"you didn't expect me to wait my turn, did you?" oh, caitlyn is definitely smirking. you can hear the smug undercurrent in her voice; even if you can't see a thing, other than the swollen nub of vi's clit and the hastily-cut bristles of her bush as she gets off, chest rising and falling in shallowing breaths. caitlyn, however, is still only working in idle, languid pumps. like she's savouring your sleep-ridden compliancy; how you are, for once, thoroughly silenced by the clench of vi's pussy and vice of her thighs.
"you—mm—do look pretty when you shut up." vi gasps out, and you can feel her cunt pulsing around you, you want to whine, grumble, protest—anything—but the press of your lips only spurs her on, the hand in your hair yanking you deeper. vi's breaths stutter, tensing. "..shit."
vi cums, her weight on your chest shifting, smushing you against the mattress as she squirts, right down your throat. caitlyn barely moves, content to, apparently, continue using you as her personal cocksleeve as vi humps out her orgasm against your face, milky fluid and your own saliva—from having nowhere to go—completely immersed in heat. caitlyn's thrusts are lazy, and vi's grinding vigorous. your chest is tight, thoughts almost nothing in your light-headedness, mindlessly gaping open and simply taking it.
the second vi collapses, thighs finally, finally lifting off your shoulders—caitlyn rams her cock into you. no longer muffled by vi's cunt (though, her cum still dribbling out from your lips), you cry out. you really can't catch a break, can you?
"shh." caitlyn commands, and now, you can see her eyes flicker up at you in annoyance, though beneath the gaze—gleams amusement. she slides herself in, deep, and your own hips rise in instinctive reaction, whimpering, lungs all used up.
you manage to do as caitlyn says, and shut up, chests heaving as you needily gulp in the mercy of fresh air. vi's large hands skim your bare chest, circling your nipples, thumb swiping underneath your breasts. "easy," she husks, voice gravelly, as if you have the energy to go anything but. or perhaps, she's talking to caitlyn. you can't tell, because caitlyn is certainly not going easy—and you are paying the price. in fact, she's begun to jam her hips with vicious force, pace vigorous—pulling out, ever-so-slow, before plunging back in again. there is no longer any restraint; as if she has held herself back, enough, and deserves this. to plow your pussy and drink in each and every broken gasp it elicits.
she thrusts, particularly brutal. you gasp—throat raw—and you unspool all over her cock, body betraying you. caitlyn's pupils dilate, just like that, at the sight of your cum oozing out in thick, creamy bursts around her base, with each slam of her body—has her head falling back, throat baring. her hips falter, before she drives inside you, harsh and hard—one last time—and paints your insides sticky.
tw; overstimulation, breeding kink, spitplay, cumplay, girlcock, she sucks her cum out of your cunt and spits it back in your mouth to make room for another load, cumdump
caitlyn who is fucking in and out of your hole until your thighs are on fire and your cunt is numb and seeping out milky white because you're not physically capable of holding anymore. because cum is pulsing endlessly out of you like goop and gushing a river into the bedsheets and when she can't fuck it back into you anymore because it keeps flooding out the base of her cock. caitlyn gets sick of it. growling and biting into your skin in frustration because why can't you take more? gods know she has more to give. she has needs. for example, the need to fuck you till her balls are wrung dry and you're so full of her til your head is empty your words are gibberish and you can't even feel the thrusts of her cock anymore.
so she's wrenching her cock out and licking hot back down your abdomen, kissing down the taut stretch of your swollen belly and descending on your loose pussy as you cry and thrash and squirm upwards helplessly because you've been fucked and filled to the point where there's nothing you can feel but her fingers and her tongue and the phantom slam of her cock. so empty-headed you barely even realise it when she's sucking her own cum out of your cunt to make room for another load because she doesn't give a shit what your body is telling her or what mewls are coming out of your mouth say. you're not done til she says so. caitlyn's yanking you by the neck for an open-mouthed kiss and spitting her own cum back into your mouth. loves the way it pools in your mouth and you jerk to gulp it in before to choke. loves the way you look, only the whites of your eyes showing as your pupils flutter furiously at the edge of your lids like they’re jammed, like your body is stuttering, like it can't even process what she’s putting it through. how your cheeks and chin are coated with the thick mixture of her cum and saliva and she croons, back arching when she shoves herself back in again. makes it just in time for her to add another hot creamy burst into the mess in your tummy. and your leaking pussy slurps her up so eagerly. so greedily, still, because she’s fucked you so warm and full and stupid it feels wrong to be anything else but caitlyn's pretty little cumdump.
for caitlyn, it wouldn’t even occur to her that she wouldn’t do this. her whole life, she’s had everything she could ever want, at her fingertips. only a whisper of a surname, and she could breeze right through and take, and take, and take. with you? she needn't even do that. she already has you. you’re hers—is it not a given? why wouldn’t she beckon you by the fingers, head bowed over some documents at her desk. orders, “sit, here.” and you don’t even realise where she’s guiding you til’ her arm is hooked around your waist and slipping her fingers up your gown to tug away your panties, sliding you upon her erect cock. doesn’t even thrust. though she does, smile, at the sharp inhale that she can feel along your back, flush against her own chest. twitches, inside of you. your walls tighten around her.
“what? i was cold.” her tone doesn’t shift an inch, not so much as a quiver as she continues writing away. her eloquent cursive is blurry in your vision, for you’re too busy trying not to urgently rut up against her member because caitlyn will drag you over to sit on her cock, yet, refuse to fuck you. she’s cruel, like that.
vi would be a different matter. a product of her supreme lack of self-restraint. she’s just so enamoured with you; so in awe at how a pretty thing like you could be all, all hers—that she can’t help but want to bask it in a little. hugs you from behind and you feel her rub her bulge against your ass, panting softly in your ear. can’t stop herself until she’s yanking your skirt down and burying herself inside. she can’t help it. just wants to feel you. loves the way you always whine, clenching in surprise and choking her cock—whenever she does it like this. murmurs, “god, baby. m’so lucky to have you.” as she nips your ear and groans like a needy thing with each buck of her hips. you can’t even find it in yourself to be mad, when she forgets to pull-out when she cums.
secretly, she’s glad. she’ll lick it out of you, later.
"Noona is so cool!" You mimic, voice pitching either higher or lower, depending on which of the plethora of comments you pick, at your leisure. "Caitlyn’s a CF goddess. Her talents are seriously wasted. Wah, her visuals are really otherworldly. Unnie looks so good I’m creaming my pants—"
Caitlyn fixes you with a flat, unimpressed look, at that last one. “It doesn't say that.”
You grin, like the effervescent angel you are. “Yeah. That was just me.”
tw; dom/sub!caitlyn, brat!reader, idolverse, girlcock, semi-public sex, sex in dance practice rooms, mirror sex, handjobs, handjobs during vlives, voyeurism, mild age-gap, age hierarchy dynamics, use of korean honorifics. idol!caitlyn x idol!reader wc; 5.1k. ao3
notes: set in modern day runeterra. ionia encompasses the entire region of asia in league which i personally find stupid but i dont make the rules. fluff/smut/humour. derivative of korean culture (kpop idol au) + pokes a lil fun at stan culture. no prior kpop knowledge is needed (though it would likely help) the sex is filthy regardless. wrote this after finding caitlyn is only a 1/4 white like hallelujah jesus
CAITLYN looks stupidly good. Like stupid, stupidly good. Her grey sweatpants are slung low on her hips, waistband of her briefs peeking out. Sweat-slickened abs glare back at you, from the floor-to-ceiling mirror. The outline of her bulge is visible. These are all observations that you latch into like an IV-drip hooked-up to your wrist, in order to stay alive—lest you die from the fatigue. And boredom.
“Please,” You grumble, head slumped on your knee as your arm drops to the floor, phone abandoned Candy Crush side, up. “Please, please, please, can we go home?”
“No,” Caitlyn huffs, hands on her hips, looking entirely too good as she takes a momentary (and you mean, momentary) break to swig a sip of water, before she hurls herself right back into it, sweaty and stunning.
The two of you have been trapped in the practice rooms for what feels like eternity. Or, more accurately, Caitlyn has trapped you in the practice rooms for what feels like eternity. You would rather be snuggled up and content in the comfort of your dorms; rather than slogging away in the basement, like you’re still trainees clawing your way up the company ladder inch by inch—rather than the four-time daesang winners, face of Ionia’s girl-groups’, and other innumerable accolades under your belts that seemingly mean nothing to your fearless group leader. At least, at the moment.
You’ve long slunk to the floor, sleepy eyes tracing the way sweat rolls down Caitlyn’s nape as she re-runs the movements for about the zillionth time. Her shoulder-blades flex through the thin fabric of her shirt, sweat dampening into a darkened pool in a way that should be gross, but on her, it just looks sexy. The ache in your muscles has simmered to a low burn, by now. Jeez, your eyelids are slipping. Thank God you have your sweet leader to ogle. The sight of Caitlyn’s bulge peeking through those sweatpants is practically your sole motivator in keeping your eyes open.
“You know,” After what feels like a decade, you pipe up again, because time has begun to melds together. “You’ve got it. Seriously.” The swig of water that sluices down your throat is lukewarm and unsatisfactory. Fuck, you’re thirsty. “The stage is a week away. You’ll be fine.”
Caitlyn’s eyes narrow at you through the mirror, incredulous.
“When in the world has fine ever been good enough?”
Okay, sure. Caitlyn’s right. But she’s more than fine. Almost-perfect, actually—and come seven days—her dance moves will indubitably be heaven-sent and her ending fairy will probably trend #1 on three different social media platforms, and you will most definitely tug her ear endlessly about it, like the benevolent, supportive junior you are.
Seven days prior, however—and all you are is tired, grouchy, and maybe just a little bit horny.
“I crave the sanctity of my blankets.” You lament, hand falling over your forehead as you languish on the floor, because the sun has probably set by now and you are seriously contemplating the possibility of dying of old age in this godforsaken practice room. (Not that that would be so bad, if Caitlyn were with you).
“You can go home, you know,” Caitlyn sighs, twisting around to face you, sneakers squeaking on the glossy wooden floors.
“How am I supposed to sleep without my favourite member as a bolster?” You pout, snatching on the chance to act a brat, immediately. Caitlyn just rolls her eyes, but her lips twitch upwards, so negligible that if you weren't so tuned in to all-things-Caitlyn, you might’ve missed it.
“Clingy.” She mutters, like she doesn't love it. Loves being your favourite. Not that it matters, because the glimmer of hope that flickers in your chest when Caitlyn crouches down in the direction of her bag—is immediately quashed when she only taps her screen, and the speaker rewinds all the way to the start.
You’re really starting to hate this song.
“Are you serious? That’s not enough to rouse your cold, dead, heart?” You whine, because usually Caitlyn would've caved to your grabby-hands and doe-eyes by now (especially with the way you look; lips parted and shining with spit, water trickling down your chin down the column of your throat, from the leftover rivulets of your water-bottle.) Not that Caitlyn doesn't notice. She’s just really, really determined to get this right.
Desperate times call for desperate measures.
“You work yourself too hard.”
You stretch to a stand, elongated and cat-like before you slink over and sling yourself dramatically along Caitlyn’s back. Her expression contorts into exasperation. She attempts to turn her head, to face you—to no avail. Not when you’re pushing her up against the mirror and the pinning her down against glass with the power of aggressive spooning on your side. Her hand shoots out to brace against the mirror, as your fingers hook the hem of her sweats, and Caitlyn stiffens under your thumb, lips falling open against her will.
“Darling,” She inhales, in that addictive, throaty accent of hers. Caitlyn sounds almost pained, as she catches your wrists—though she neither takes them in or wrests them away. The both of you have full view of the rising tent in her groin.
“What?” You smirk, teeth grazing the shell of her ear, like the sneaky little bastard you are. “Don’t tell me you’re planning to practice with a boner, unnie. That must hurt.”
Caitlyn’s breath hitches, and her knees almost buckle, if it weren’t for the way your arms tighten around your waist and squeeze the growing problem at her crotch. Your fingers twine with the string of her trackpants, loosening them under slim, deft fingers.
“Honorifics? Really?” Her voice is tight. She’s screwed. You only ever whip those out when you want something, seeing as how you've been speaking informally to your technical senior since your very first meeting, in trainee days, (an accident she so loves to recount on variety shows. “It’s not my fault you just looked so young and pretty, unnie.” You’d fumble in defense, eyes wide and doling out the extra sparkle for the cameras as they zoomed-in on your frantic apologies, laugh track sure to be edited in. “What was I supposed to think?”
“You’re lucky I was too kind to scold you,” Caitlyn sighs, and—in a dramatic show of theatricality—flips the inky-blue curtains of her hair behind her shoulder, much to the hosts delight. “I can be really mean, baby.”
That had been a hit. Probably because of the way her drawl had lilted playfully and she’d cupped your jaw in the most egregious display of fan service you’d ever seen. Caitlyn’s always known how to wrap the media around her pretty fingers; and your stammer and ensuing blush had mercilessly crowded your feed for at least two weeks, afterwards.)
That’s in public, though. In private?
Caitlyn is a puddle to the graze of your fingers along her hipbone, and the glide of your breath up her neck. Dark eyes meet hers, hooded and intent, reflected in the pane of metal in front of you. It’s certainly a sight to behold. The two of you are both dripping in sweat, Caitlyn’s cheeks flushed, bare-faced and glowing—hair tangled up in that loose ponytail that you've always found so much hotter on her, than any amount of hours in the styling chair could ever produce.
“I really need to..” Caitlyn’s protests sound weak even to her own ears. Especially when heat pools in hot, throbbing waves that rush straight to her dick, and she's cut off by her own gasp when you nuzzle in the nook between her shoulder-blades and your hands—beautiful, cunning hands—ghost over her crotch and squeeze. Her entire world lurches into a haze, body spasming upwards.
“Unnie,” You breathe, sweet and soft, like the devil in her ear, “please fuck me.”
Just like that, Caitlyn can’t take it any longer. A low, strangled noise rips from her throat, eyes fogging over and black eclipsing blue. Lithe hands coil around your wrists, and flips your positions entirely—thrusting you right up against the glass.
Her muscles are throbbing, hours of dance practice flaming up her bones; but she pins you down with the strength of a woman possessed, all the same. As far as Caitlyn’s concerned, she’s like a sleeper agent to your bedroom voice, and the fact could never shine with more clarity, than now (other than the time you’d done a Lola Shark impression in an interview and she’d gotten, to her horror, embarrassingly hard underneath the blanket thrown over her lap. She’d had to call in a bathroom break, to take care of it—much to your smug, haunting amusement).
In the mirror, you watch as Caitlyn’s breathing shallows into pants, tongue licking hot up the stretch of your neck to under your jaw. Neither of you miss the brief, smugly satisfied spark to your eyes and glowing hot between your thighs, even as both squeeze shut when you arch up against Caitlyn’s bulge. She grinds down against your ass, and you moan, so brazen she almost can’t believe it.
“Shit. You're so shameless,” Caitlyn mutters, breaths rushing harsh against your shoulder as she fumbles with the knot at your sweats, rutting hopelessly into the coil of your figure. The moment thread slips free, pants pooling to your ankles as you bend over, head thrown back—Caitlyn’s brand-name briefs soak with a splurge of pre so intense she almost thinks she’s come early.
“You want my fingers?” Caitlyn asks, just to be a bitch. Your eyes squint open to glare at her through blurry vision and through an even blurrier visage.
“Don’t joke,” You spit, voice hoarse with want. It's meant to sound demanding, but all it comes out is whiney, and Caitlyn’s laugh sends shivers down your nape.
There’s a millisecond in which your mind empties completely, and it's almost cruel how you can only see the reflection of Caitlyn’s cock curving upwards from her underwear rather than the real deal.
Caitlyn’s grasp is like steel around your neck. She thrusts you forwards, your flushed cheeks smushing against the cool surface of the mirror as your stuttered breaths puff in grey clouds of condensation. A groan wrangles itself out of your throat from being manhandled like that, knees wobbling the moment you feel something hot, thick and so, so wet press insistently against the backs of your thighs. Arousal has already begun to drip down your legs, running down in rivulets and moistening the floor under your feet. Yours or Caitlyn’s—you don’t have the eyes to know.
“Unnie,” You breathe, shakily, voice raw. Your fingers are slippery against glass, and you whimper when the familiar stretch of two fingers sinks into your cunt. You slide open, just like that, and Caitlyn temporarily wrenches you back so that you can see your fogged-up reflection in all its full, filthy glory.
“S’not enough,” You pant, back arching and ramming urgently against her digits she’s spreading you wide, with—so eye-wateringly slow. Maybe it’s the fact that you've been working yourself up, blatantly eyeing her down, for hours since your head checked out of training and your brain devolved into its most primitive urges in coping with your mind-numbing boredom.
“Not enough?” She grins, sharp-toothed and devastating, adoring the upper-hand. “What? You need a third finger, baby?” The noise that tears out of you is almost like a wounded animal, and you'd be embarrassed if you weren't so overcome with need and prolonging this teasing sounds like torture.
So, you answer with the obvious, “Your cock.” You hiss through gritted teeth, because Caitlyn loves it when you beg for her dick and you’re too hare-brained and empty to do anything more than push back, impossibly deeper into her fingers. They sink to her knuckles of entirely your own volition, without her having to do so much as twitch.
Caitlyn’s laugh is practically a goad in itself. The lush curtain of her lashes are lowered, irises swallowed up by the deep dilation of her pupils. Still, though, she takes her time in playing with you, just a little longer. Revels in the way you thrash around her fingers, fucking yourself back, desperate.
Herself is one thing. Her dick can only take so much, however. The ache becomes too much, too soon, and the second she runs her glossy head against the drenched, hot pulse of your hole—she can’t not shudder, knot in her throat, before her fingers slip out of your pussy and your consequent whimper is interrupted by the plunge of her cock.
“Hah, baby..” Caitlyn whimpers, eyes fluttering back as she fucks you against the mirror, nails dragging up your hips and digging into supple flesh. Never has Caitlyn felt so at home, submerged in the deep, velvet ocean of your cunt.
“Unnie—” You gasp. It’s the one word, echoing over and over, like an all-consuming siren song throughout your head—with each gasp that comes with every thrust of Caitlyn’s hips, motions growing sloppier as the exhaustion of hours of tireless exertion catches up to the both of you. She nips at your ear, then down the curve of your nape, to the unblemished skin of your upper back. Teeth grazing, pads of her fingers leaving scorching trails as she gropes up your body—your mind a jumbled, fuzzy mess. Her cock plunges in and out, still guided, though she never slips out more than mid-way; bodies sticking together like gum. Like she can’t bear to be apart from you for even a moment—even if it is to pummel your cunt until you can hardly take it anymore.
It’s only when the pumps and rolls begin to slow into simple, gentle rocks, to absolutely nothing but a twitch—that your mind clumsily clasps onto a semblance of clarity, hasty and brief, like you know it’ll slip away and out of reach, soon. “Wha..?” You rasp, half-slurred, even if what you really want to whinge is; What’s goin’ on? Why’d you stop? And, please, please, please. Don’t stop. Keep goin’. Fill me up. Please, don’t ever stop— and other half-baked nonsense that you’ll be glad your tongue was too thick and heavy in your mouth to spill.
“I can’t mark you,” Caitlyn grunts, and your eyes sharpen, just a little. Her tongue peeks out from her lips as her expression looks disproportionately distraught, like it’ll be the end of the world if she doesn’t stake some sort of physical claim on you, eyes darting downwards to your unblemished shoulders with a low growl of frustration.
Distantly, that part of you is still clinging onto reality, knows she’s right. That your comeback is in a week’s time and risking a hickey or a bite-mark or worse (because Caitlyn is stronger and sharper and rougher than her delicate figure should ever have been allowed to be), is a bad, bad idea.
But the larger part of you—the part of you that is currently being railed by her unnie’s cock and trying desperately not to squirt cum all over the practice room mirror—rasps out a reckless, ragged, “Who cares?”, and that’s all the permission Caitlyn needs.
Caitlyn pulls out, and slams herself in again, grip on your waist, bruising. Your hands go sliding, uselessly against the steamy surface of the mirror, long fogged-up under the slick tangle of your bodies. She’s mouthing slurred nonsense into your ear, the music speaker knocked over by one of your ankles and emitting distant sounds from where it's rolled, to the other side of the room. Neither of you could give a single fuck.
Not the least, when Caitlyn’s hand is sliding up your throat and thumbing over your gaping lips. It feels as if a pink-hued fuzziness has descended the room and become a thick veil over everything, and when her fingers slip into the hot, wet gasp of your mouth—it's only right for you to take the digits in your tongue and suck.
“Ahnngh—Cait—”
“When did I say you could speak informally to me?” Caitlyn husks, fingers pressing deeper into the roof of your mouth. In your reflection, you can see the razor angle of Caitlyn’s jaw as she nuzzles into your ear. The obscene glisten of your spit, coating her fingers and coasting down your chin as her digits languish between your parted lips. You look every bit like her precious fuckdoll, right now.
“Unnie—”
“Ah-ah.”
“Sunbae.”
“Mm. That’s better.”
Her free hand skims up your shirt, slipping up the taut lines of your body and flicking idly at one nipple. You whine, garbled around the gag of her hand, and Caitlyn lets out a moan of content when your pussy tightens around her shaft.
“Fuck,” She pants, teeth sinking down into your shoulder and you buck, even though the pain barely registers with how Caitlyn barrels her cock in you, deeper, and your eyes roll back into your skull. Your thighs are shaking. “M’gonna—hfgh—”
Her hips draw upwards, and Caitlyn cums like a faucet. All of it, inside you. Outside of you. Dripping from your still-leaking cunt and droplets getting fucked out with each, desperate thrust as she moans, guttural. “Take it—fuck—” Caitlyn groans, harsh and insistent as she pounds, your pussy squelching—so wonderfully wet—as your fingers scramble against the glass, her fingers cramming deep inside your mouth.
“Ah-ah—fuck!”
The two of you go crashing down, sliding down against the mirror and onto the floor with a twinning, indecipherable slew of obscenities, a boneless, panting heap, still moving in tandem.
You both slump, slippery and sticky. The song on the speakers re-starts, yet again, from the other side of the room, though it's the first time it's even pierced your ears in the past forty minutes. Caitlyn groans, pushing her nose into the crook of your neck, arms tightening around your waist. The mirror is splattered in both your cum.
“We’re gonna have to clean this up, aren’t we?”
“..Probably.” You sigh, still leaking around her cock as you angle your head, the two of you slotting together like missing puzzle pieces.
Twenty-four hours and countless Kleenex wipes later (and really, cleaning your own cum from floor-to-ceiling mirrors—with two half-guilty reflections staring right back at you—is an uniquely humbling experience); it was totally worth it to see Caitlyn appropriately red, after the crash of post-nut clarity.
It’s your one, blissfully empty day before comeback promotions launch you all into full-throttle. You intend to enjoy it while it lasts.
“Your latest Lotte CF went viral,” You pop behind her, totally innocously if weren’t for that familiar, impish glint in your eyes. Caitlyn sighs, not even glancing up from the stove, completely nonplussed. Probably because Caitlyn could record herself taking a piss and it would chart #1 on Melon.
“The seonjiguk is simmering.” She ignores you. You ignore her right back.
“Look at those dimples,” You beam like a little shit as you wave the video in her face. “Maybe you should go into acting. The GP would go crazy.”
“No thanks,” Caitlyn snorts, hand lifting upwards to stifle a brief yawn, sleeves coming up all the way to her knuckles. “been there, done that.”
“Oh, right. All your Piltovian film connections.” You hum, idly tracing the underneath of Caitlyn’s elbow as you lean over her shoulder to watch her cook. She’s markably improved from her humble beginnings of blackened, bubbling slag (what was once instant Buldak), or the scotchmarks that still hail the kitchen tiles, to this day.
“Mhm. I was almost poached. My mother wanted me to—what was that? Follow in her footsteps.”
“Well, I’m grateful that you didn't,” You hum, into her shoulder. You poke her side, grinning. “Then you wouldn't have met me, and wouldn't that be tragic?”
Caitlyn scoffs, but you feel her sink a little deeper into your embrace, eyes flitting to settle onto the top of your head, as you nudge into her. You both, really are grateful.
You’re pretty sure Ionia is grateful, too.
Whatever the day, it always feels like Caitlyn’s name has taken up a permanent residence in the nation’s newsites. ICE PRINCESS. AI VISUALS. ATTITUDE PROBLEM. Her quarter Piltovian and subsequent accent injects an ‘attractive exoticism’ (or whatever management had stapled to your files, at the dawn of debut), that had made Caitlyn internationally explosive, too.
The Kiramman surname certainly helped. Caitlyn’s debut was like, the biggest plot-twist in nepotism, ever. It was like if Nicole Kidman’s kid suddenly became Hatsune Miku. Not to mention the fact the Kirammans are the largest benefactor of Hextech, whose global rollout of leading-edge tech has gone unmatched. Of all careers for the Kiramman’s mysterious, devastatingly attractive daughter to take—this is the one that took the entire globe off-guard. Including the great and glamorous, Cassandra Kiramman.
Of course, the initial shock long lapsed underwater, with the constant roil of the media waves. Caitlyn’s fame, however, has not.
“Noona is so cool!” You mimic, voice pitching either higher or lower, depending on which of the plethora of comments you pick, at your leisure. “Caitlyn’s a CF goddess. Ah, her talents are seriously wasted. Is she an angel? Her visuals are really otherworldly—”
“Get that away from me.” Caitlyn swats your phone away with a scowl, pretty pink flush glowing on her features.
“Don’t act all coy,” You prod her so-highly-lauded cheekbones as Caitlyn huffs in annoyance, though begrudgingly leans against the touch anyways. You squish. “We all know you’re preening inside.”
“I am not!”
“Ooh, sexy. I love it when your accent comes out like that.”
Caitlyn groans, because you’re impossible, and just twists so that she’s facing you, back against the kitchen counter. You reach behind her to switch off the stove.
She hooks her fingers into the hem of your pyjama shorts, thumbing over familiar cotton. She sighs outwardly, propping her head up on your shoulder and slumping forwards to rest the cold press of her nose into the crook of your shoulder. Her fingers skim up your shirt, absently rubbing circles into the plane of your stomach.
“You know I hate it when you read those.”
“About how you look like an eepy bunny when you’re sleepy? Or that you have moles in the shape of a giraffe on your nape.” You arch a brow, looking past her as you flick through the blurs of text in various degrees of capitalisation, on your phone. A subtle smirk lifts your lips. “Hey. Is that true? Let me check.”
She scowls, and then almost looks offended that you don’t know that already (You do. Caitlyn also has a darkened, heart-shaped birthmark indented in the crook of her inner thigh—but that’s just for you to know, thank you very much).
Your voice raises a pitch. “Unnie looks so good I’m creaming my pants!”
Caitlyn fixes you with a flat, unimpressed look. “It doesn't say that.”
You grin, like the effervescent angel you are. “Yeah. That was just me.”
Oh, now Caitlyn’s cheeks go red. You push valiantly past the triumphant flutter in your heart, in favour of continuing your teasing. Hey—there’s no schedule today, the dorms are all to yourselves—and you’re on a roll.
“Look. They wanna steal your eyes and put them in a boba drink.”
Thoroughly fed-up with your antics, Caitlyn snatches the phone out of your hand, and you immediately squirm, to lunging for it. Caitlyn’s ridiculous height advantage has the one-up on you, though, and you puff out an aggrieved yelp of protest when she dangles it above your head, like a dickhead.
“Hey, what the fuck?” You complain, like your comeuppance wasn't exactly what you were hoping for. Except you were more aiming for a pin-you-against-the-fridge, fuck-the-insides-out-of-you type of comeuppance. Not a sordid reminder that you need a stool to reach the top of Caitlyn’s head. “Don’t lord your freakish Frankenstein genetics over me!”
Caitlyn laughs, eyes flickering down. “Are you on your tip-toes right now?”
Your eyes narrow, because you do not appreciate having the tables turned on you. Your hand shoots up to cup her jaw, tilting it upwards. Caitlyn softens, putty in your hands, adorable furrow in her brow melting away along with her pride as she sinks into your palm with a soft sigh, arm falling to her side.
There we go.
“It’s not my fault you avoid socials like the plague. I’m just doing my duty to take care of my leader’s PR. Your fans are starving.”
Caitlyn grumbles, “Well, let them starve.” though it comes out pinched between smushed lips, cheeks squishing like a dumpling. So heartless, like she’s not the industry’s princess and probably makes up a total of 50% of the company’s annual income. You know exactly why, as you cradle her face in her palms and watch as she leans upwards because no matter how disgruntled Caitlyn acts, or how shockingly humble she is under that front of aloof, arrogance–she definitely preens under attention.
Just. Only yours.
“Hey, you know what? We should go live right now.”
“What—?” Caitlyn stammers, flabbergasted by the sudden change in direction, “Don’t—“
Too late. Within seconds, you’ve swiped your phone back from her limp hands and flipped the vlive on. Recording. Like, now. Damn, you're speedy.
“Ah..” Caitlyn’s expression smooths over to that charming, impeccably gorgeous grin of hers that shows off the sharp curves of her cheekbones and has won her the hearts of a nation.
You pull her to the couch, and under the scrutiny of the camera—Caitlyn acquises with little more than a subtle elbow to your ribs, when the both of you go thudding into the cushions with a low oomph.
Then, you flop against her chest, and the stream of hearts that ensue are absolutely incredible, comments rolling in faster than you can read them. There’s a reason why the two of you are the most popular pairing in the group.
“Hm. Is it on?” You muse, faux confusion tugging on your pretty features. Knitted brows and a plush little pout always do the job, especially when you add a sneak of tongue. No doubt to be screenshotted and re-uploaded countless times, within the next hour. “Hello? Can you guys hear us?”
Which is, you know, the perfect time to grab Caitlyn’s dick through her pants.
A choked noise resounds beside you, and you don’t glance over, for you’re too busy fiddling with the phone and the settings and all other kinds of bullshit that is really just an excuse for you to focus your attention on snaking a hand down Caitlyn’s waistband, just out of view of the camera. “Oh! It’s working. Did you miss us?” You beam, as Caitlyn struggles not to either sock you in the stomach or throw her head back and moan.
If anybody notices Caitlyn’s pupils are suspiciously blown, it doesn’t come up. What does come up, is her ever traitorous cock that lilts immediately into your touch. Fuck. Fuck, fuck.
“Aw, little Caity’s missed me, too,” You croon, as your sneaky fucking fingers stroke idly along her girth, underneath the veil of her sweatpants and just over the thin fabric of her underwear. Caitlyn visibly bristles, because, 1. You’re jacking her off. 2. She hates that your coo instigates a flood of love-bombing so intense, that the hearts on the screen almost completely obscure the both of you. 3, and the most important one; you just gave her dick a nickname!
“Cait.” You tease out, eyes glittering, not even bothering to conceal your amusement as Caitlyn’s hips buck upwards, her fingers pinching against your sides, lips completely shut mum, for fear she’ll let slip a moan on camera. “C’mon. Say something. You missed them too, right?”
Gods. Caitlyn hates you. She really, really hates you. Just—not enough to not shove your hand away when it starts to peel away the waistband of her underwear. If only because the feeling of precum soaking its seat, sticking to her skin, and not because she’s itching for the sweet relief of your hand around her cock.
“..Hi,” Caitlyn forces her winning, boxy grin, and the years of practice make it an admirably unstrained effort. Maybe she really should go into acting. “Mm. Long time no see, hm?”
“Unnie’s being awkward, today.” You snark, all sly, and Caitlyn shoots you a glare. She’s rewarded by the sudden, fervent warmth of your hand wrapping around her dick, and then the harsh tug of your fist that has her knees jerking upwards and her dastard slit spurting out a shiny, hot glob of precum. She swallows back a low, strangled whine, like a dry pill. Oh, Gods. She’s supposed to say something.
“Ah, just..—we’ve—ah—”
In a rare show of mercy (because apparently, you’re not out to throw both your careers to the dogs), you swipe the phone back with the most cherubic, triumphant grin to adorn your face, literally ever. Catilyn lets slip a barely-audible hiss as your fingers coil, just a little tighter, stroking up and down—thumb running back over the swollen, gloatingly shiny cockhead.
“We just had a long time in the practice rooms for our comeback, yeah? So we’re pretty tired. Right, unnie?”
Oh, you're really pushing it, now.
“Mm. We’ve been—working. Really hard.” She has to lean out of the screen to release a silent, desperate gasp, nails digging into the back of the couch as she tries to rut up into your hand in a way that doesn't obviously send the sofa, trembling. You idly thumb over her slit, smearing the thick, embarrassingly copious amounts of pre down her length. It twitches in your palm, as you ramble on about schedules and the comeback and spoilers and other things that have long become white noise in Caitlyn’s ears. Her hips chase your touch, brazenly, now. She barely even realises when you’re calling it quits; early, too. Because obviously, this was all just to fuck with her.
“Caitlyn,” You sing-song—smirking (supremely unsubtly), at the camera. “Say bye-bye.”
She only just registers the comment. Barely. “Bye.” Caitlyn’s voice is a low croak, hips arching upwards off the couch just as you end the live. Just in time, too, because—
“Oh, fuck.” Caitlyn releases the longest moan of her life, cum spilling over your fist, and she collapses back into the couch. Your phone falls from your hand, and you’re practically shaking with laughter.
(“Little Caitey,” Caitlyn grumbles, after the fact, with your head nestled between her thighs in apology, “That’s preposterous. What’s so little about her?” Nothing. But there’s no fun in that, is there? At the slow, sly smile spreading on your face, Caitlyn groans. “What?”
college fuckgirl!caitlyn hcs (+ basketball star) who is totally whipped for u and doesn’t know what the hell to do about it
fuckgirl!caitlyn, hardtoget!reader, sub!caitlyn, for once not pure jerkoff material, she likessssss you.
▸ not the notches in her bedposts type; caitlyn doesn’t brag about her conquests. she’s classy like that. she does strut about the halls, exuding a casual sort of elegance that has girls falling over their feet. remembers all their names. grasping her solo cup between slim fingers like a wine glass and smiling over the rim. cryptic and beautiful and so utterly entrancing that she’ll have girls’ who were cursing her name two moments ago bent over the bathroom sink, with just a drawl of their name, followed by a “right?”, even if they know they’ll be discarded like yesterday’s trash.
▸ excellent in bed. obviously. charm isn’t everything. she also has a talented tongue and fingers and the stretch of her cock. priorities the girls’ pleasure because good manners have been beaten into her since she was born and she likes the way it feels to fuck into a pussy sopping in cum, gliding in the silky trenches of fiercely clenching folds as they scramble into the sheets and moan her name, fucking the nerves out of them.
▸ and then; you. she wants to fuck you so bad it’s driving her insane. caitlyn doesn’t brag. she doesn’t have sex for the sake of having sex. she just does—often. and she does it well—which has had her gain a teensy-tiny reputation for it. that doesn’t mean she’s a complete ass! doesn’t know why you hold it against her. she’s not some meathead jock trying to get her dick wet. she’s the star of the team, top of (most) of her classes, and shoe-in for valedictorian. plus, she’s rich. and pretty. and just—totally fuckworthy. everyone knows it!
▸ decorated basketball player. plays shooting guard like she was born for it; all lean limbs and sinew as she glides about the court like a koi fish in the water. oh, and she’s a show-off, too. avoids saying corny shit like “this is for you,” even if she really, really wants to—but when she spins on the court and hurls a three-pointer—and her eyes flick up right to you in the stands, intense and focused. that’s when she mouths. “that was for you.”
(jogs up to you afterwards, sweat dripping off her brow and down the long stretch of her neck, as she airs out her jersey with that cockily arched brow. can’t resist the grin on her face. 21 points to her name—meeting your eyes everytime. it falls at the unimpressed look on your face.
“you had to wait til’ after you made the shot?”
“well, i’m not gonna dedicate a losing shot to you. that’s lame.”
“you are lame.”
“objectively untrue.” caitlyn frowns, ball still curled under her arm as she paces after you, as you stride off the bleachers, and if there’s a little whine in her voice there isn’t. “you know, there isn’t a girl on this college who wouldn’t be dying to get under me.” she says it so matter-of-fact, in that irritatingly attractive accent of hers, and even though it’s true it doesn’t make her sound any less like an asshole.
“i wonder why.”
“darling.” whiney, whiney, whiney.
“dickhead.” and if you sound just a little smug that you have caitlyn kiramman wrapped around your finger, that’s just for you to know.)
▸ caitlyn just doesn’t get it. how can you possibly not like her? or at least find her attractive enough to at least want her a little bit. she certainly wants you. she’s at a loss. usually, a bat of her lashes, a whisper of her name is enough to get anyone’s legs splayed wide open for her. when you don’t, she has no fucking clue how to work you. starts lingering just a few desks from you at the library, to catch glimpses of you studying (and yeah? caitlyn looks a little cute like that; glasses perched on the tip of her nose as her brows furrowed in concentration, tongue poking out as she thinks about the pretty lilt of your jaw whenever you fix her with that im-so-sick-of-you look.. the way your arm muscles stretch behind your head when you yawn like a cat arching it’s back up for a scratch.. the way your voice sounds a touch raspy whenever you’ve been staying up super late studying and grant her the mercy of your husky, velvet undertones telling her to fuck right off… has to release a deep, long, wistful sigh just thinking about it)
▸ it goes on like that, for what feels like forever. caitlyn niggling her way into your day-to-day life as you begrudgingly entertain her. following you around like a lost puppy to the point where it starts rumours.
(she’s been sitting three seats away from you on the table for the past half-hour. sneaking glances every so often as she rereads the same paragraph over and over again, before she clears her throat and asks, chin held high. “so.. what’d you get in that test?”
shit. did her voice just crack?
the so-called legendary mystique of caitlyn kiramman really wears off when you realise how hopelessly awkward she can be.
you take pity on her, lips quirking as your gaze slides to meet hers, exasperated. yet, you answer her anyways. “92%.”
she hums, fingers drumming against the table. “uh—nice.” oh. now she’s blushing. you can also tell it’s taking everything in her not to let her own 100% bubble up and out of her lips, because she doesn’t want you to think she’s conceited. you know she’s totally itching to say it, though. wants you to know. it’s almost cute.
a sigh. you move the bag off the seat next to you. “c’mere.”
caitlyn’s head snaps up, and her eyes are really so very beautiful, all wide and starry in disbelief. “what?”
“hurry up, superstar. don’t make me regret it.”
caitlyn straightens, and then hurries to take the spot beside you, cheeks burning. she squirms a little in her seat, and the gleam of amusement only makes her want the ground to swallow up because god, she’s never acted like this with anyone. she’s caitlyn kiramman! cool, composed, collected; an energy that takes up the most space in the room, makes girls’ knees buckle, has boys stammering with just a smile. and yet, you have her melting in a puddle with the barest glimpse of your attention.
..fine. maybe she doesn’t just want to fuck you.
"don't piss your pants, kiramman." you say, without missing a beat, pen still scrawling away notes. "i don't bite."
caitlyn splutters for a response, and.. hey! that's her line!
giving fuckgirl!cait (+basketball) the best head of her life (she still doesn’t know what the hell to do about it)
sub!caitlyn, blowjobs, caitlyn cums in approx 2 seconds and is then humiliated, smut n fluff, ohhh she’s definitely in love with you
fuckgirl!cait who is just a little needy. the first time you ask her she’s all wide-eyed and her mouth is dry and suddenly she’s nervous for the first time in her life. which makes zero sense because (“not to sound like a dickhead—“ “prefacing that everytime doesn’t make you any less of a dickhead, cait.”) she’s been bobbing her cock down willing girls’ throats since she hit puberty. to destress or for fun or if she felt like it. whatever. the point is; she’s well-versed in this.
so, why her palms are suddenly sweating and her cheeks are glowing she has no idea. croaks. “uhm. are you sure? because you really don’t have to—“ like she hasn’t been harassing you for the past couple months and even if she’s had countless fantasies of this moment; imagining you, and your plush, soft lips wrapped around her cock as she splatters her load against the shower wall or a tissue or her dedicated cumsock (ok, sometimes she is just a jock. sue her. she’s a busy woman! and she, admittedly, no longer has a maid waiting on her beck and call.)
you laugh, all deep and throaty and it makes caitlyn want to sink between your couch cushions and die.
“what’s with the deer in the headlights look?” you’ll never grow tired of teasing her, even if you no longer think of her as the arrogant basketball prick who pads around you like a lost puppy and instead; now, something closer to an.. acquaintance with benefits.
(caitlyn has no clue how she made it this far with you. it’s like you just randomly decided to give her a shot one day, on a whim, and she desperately doesn’t want to blow it. even if acquaintance-with-benefits is a title that disgruntles her, at the very least. hurts, at the very most. like, very very most, okay?)
“i just..” caitlyn lets out a quiet whine when your fingers curl against the hem of her basketball shorts and—ah, shit. and now she’s hard. “now look what you’ve done.” she hisses, though she’s not quite sure what she expected when you texted her for netflix and chill like it’s still the 2010s.
“there’s that pretty thing.” you completely ignore her in favour of continuing your blasted teasing, fingers snaking underneath her waistband and pulling, guiding the shorts down the sharp v-line at her crotch and eyes travelling down the fine, inky lines of her happy trail to the spring of her cock, over the edge; half-glazed and all pretty and pink.
“you really want to..?” she doesn’t know why she keeps backtracking, like she hasn’t been talking and talking about how fucking good she’d be. and now that it’s really happening she’s getting cold feet, of all things.
“it’s just a blow, cait.” you roll your eyes.
right. just a blow. like she’s done, a million times before. god. god. she doesn’t know where the fuck this performance anxiety has suddenly arose from (pun unintended). she’s (gracefully and intentionally) bruised countless girls’ throats, for fuck’s sake. twisted her hand in the hair and yanked them sharply with each forceful snap of her hips, and told them to swallow without so much as a blink.
except you—you—
“mmgh—“ caitlyn throws her had back, as she lets out an exceedingly unflattering grunt, with the gusto in which you take her into her mouth. your tongue swirls, along her tip, and—hah—her mind melts to butter. her eyes are all cloudy, head spinning. “wait—mmf—i didnt—“
caitlyn’s hips buck, heedlessly, into your mouth. fuck. she usually has more rhythm than this. more—control. but then your tongue is sliding underneath and your hand running over to curl around her base and she’s rutting upwards aimlessly, like some stupid teenage boy who doesn’t know what the fuck she’s doing. only that—shit—she’s never felt this good in her life and this is not just a blow—this is the most beautiful, nirvana-inducing, mind-shattering experience she could’ve ever—ungh.
oh.
oh, nononono. nono— no. she didn’t just—
your mouth hangs open, still, as you stare up at her with wide, surprised eyes; throat bobbing as if you were preparing to maybe do that really hot vacuum-type motion again except there’s kind of no fucking point because her dick is twitching uselessly as it slips out of your mouth and she watches in horror, as cum drizzles down your chin.
you swallow. caitlyn dreads that glimmer in your eyes, already.
“i usually—i last longer than that!” caitlyn’s cheeks are beet-red and she’s blinking up at you with those big, sad blue eyes and you’re laughing. crawling on top of her stomach as her dick presses flush and sticky against your lower torso and you’re laughing at her plight. ok, that’s it. it’s over. her reputation that she’s fought and fucked so hard for is dead and gone. she’s got to pack her bags, move countries, and start over.
she buries her face into the crook of your neck. surprisingly, you don’t push her away. “you can’t tell anyone.” she orders, petulant. she’s fucking humiliated.
“why would i tell anyone?” you snort. she whines.
“i don’t want you to think—“ caitlyn digs her short-cut nails into palms, looking frustrated; brows knit and cheeks still flushed, stray strands of hair a mess against her forehead. “i didn’t come over just for a blow.”
“i know, cait.”
caitlyn doesn’t know how much you know, frankly, because she doesn’t know how much she knows—considering she’s just had the most earth-quaking orgasm of her life in all but two seconds like some lame loser virgin and not the cool, suave playgirl that caitlyn kiramman is so known to be; but you’re sinking back into her arms and letting her keep leaking leftover dribbles into your couch as she clings and maybe, she doesn’t care. just wants to stay like this for a little while, and blink the spots out of her vision.
“i’m normally really very good.” she insists, words spilling out in an accented rush against your skin, half-slurred. “seriously.”
