The world shrank down to the small circle of light around them. Brushes whispered over Jinx's skin—along cheekbones, across her nose, the light tickle at her brow. Cait's thumb rested at the hinge of her jaw to steady her, cool and firm, and every time Jinx exhaled it ghosted over Cait's wrist.
When Cait leaned in to do her eyeliner, her torso slipped almost between Jinx's knees, the fabric of her jacket brushing bare skin. Jinx went statuesque in a way she never managed when sober, focused on not flinching, not shifting, not doing anything that would make Cait pull back.
At some point, probably accidentally, Cait's other hand slid down to Jinx's thigh, fingers curling just under the hem of the skirt in the name of balance. She didn't move it. Jinx absolutely noticed.
Vi, sprawled halfway along the arm of the chair with her chin propped on her fist, watched with all the subtlety of a cat at a fish tank. "If you two don't kiss by the time she hits highlighter," she said, "I'm filing a complaint with the queer council."
"Shut up," Cait said mildly, not taking her eyes off the line she was drawing.
Jinx's heart did a little kamikaze run against her ribs. "What she said," she added, voice careful, trying not to mess up her own face with vibrations. "About the kissing. For… human rights reasons."
Cait finished the last delicate flick and sat back a fraction, examining her work. Whatever she saw made something soften around her eyes.
"Lip gloss," she said. It sounded a lot like a threat.
She picked up the tube, then stepped back into Jinx's space, close enough that Jinx could see the tiny smear of amber left in Cait's own glass on her lower lip.
"Pucker up," Cait instructed.
Jinx's mouth curled. "Say please."
They stared at each other for a beat, the air between them thick with city glow and bad decisions. Cait's eyes flickered, something sharp and fond overlapping.
"Pucker," she repeated, lower, "up."
Jinx did.
Cait took her time. The applicator slid over Jinx's bottom lip, then the top, slow strokes that forced her to hold still, to breathe shallowly. Cait's thumb was still on her thigh, just a little higher than it needed to be. Jinx's fingers dug into the armrests to keep from doing something stupid like grabbing Cait by the lapels.
From above them, Vi let out a low whistle. "Yeah," she said. "This is definitely community service."
Jinx stood up, finally, in the full look.
Plaid suit, legs out, hair a ridiculous waterfall, makeup sharp enough to count as a concealed weapon. The skirt hit that exact treacherous length where any wrong move turned into a flashing-lights violation, and of course the first thing she did was misjudge it and nearly eat the floor.
Vi's hands snapped to her waist, steadying her.
For a long, stupid beat Jinx was pressed full-body against her—chest to chest, hands on Vi's shoulders, noses a breath apart. Her balance came back way before she pretended it did.
"Wow," she said, smirking up at her. "You really are the muscle."
Vi's gaze did a slow, unapologetic sweep down and back up. "Yeah," she said. "You're all limbs. I could bench-press you for fun."
Jinx's brain blew a fuse for a second.
Cait cleared her throat too loudly—fake polite, very real annoyed—and stepped in like she was physically inserting herself between two bad ideas. She went straight for the lapels, fussing with them, tugging the skirt down half a centimeter, smoothing the hem like she was trying to iron Jinx into something respectable.
Her hands skimmed Jinx's hips, the backs of her thighs, the curve of her ass in quick, efficient passes that were absolutely not necessary for "checking the line."
Jinx, drunk on power and also actual alcohol, did a little spin anyway, letting the skirt flare dangerously. "Look at me," she announced. "Executive nightmare. Girlboss gaslight gatekeep war crime."
Vi whistled, low and appreciative. "You look like you own the bank you're about to rob."
Cait inhaled like she was about to tell them both off, then ruined it by stalling in the middle, eyes dragging over Jinx all slow and betrayed. "You look…" She tried to land on scolding and missed. "Competent. And dangerous. I hate how much it works on you."
Jinx caught that, latched onto it, and leaned in.
She took one slow step closer, herding Cait back until her shoulders brushed the wall beside the bookshelf. The power flipped so neatly it almost clicked—the catastrophe gremlin suddenly stalking like she knew how to use her legs on purpose.
Jinx tipped Cait's chin up with one finger, mirroring the exact move Cait had used on her earlier. "Careful, officer," she said softly. "You keep looking at me like that, I'm gonna start thinking you're into repeat offenders."
Cait's breath hitched so faintly you had to be staring at her mouth to catch it. Jinx absolutely was.
There was a moment—warm, electric, triangulated—where everything in the room was attraction and static and how far can we push this.
Jinx broke away first, turning toward the full-length mirror. "Okay," she said, half-dreading it, "show me the damage."
She squared herself up, ready to fire off some snark about cosplay and tax brackets, and then actually saw herself.
The room fell away for a second.
The electric blue hair, loose and glossy instead of weaponized braids. The sharp angles of her face finally framed instead of drowned. Tattoos peeking from under the too-fancy jacket and scandalously short skirt, like a glitch bleeding through a corporate skin. The same feral energy, yeah—but now it looked… aimed. Contained. Dangerous on purpose.
"Holy shit," she said. "I look like I'm about to murder my rich spouse for the insurance payout."
Her smile twitched, the joke catching on something real. Softer, almost like she was saying it to the glass instead of them: "I look… really fucking good."
Vi stepped in behind her reflection, appearing over her shoulder in the mirror like some hot butch guardian demon. She slid an arm around Jinx's waist and hooked her chin on her shoulder, pulling her in until their bodies aligned.
"Told you," she murmured, grinning at their combined image. "Hottest war crime in the city."
On Jinx's other side, Cait drifted into frame. She rested her hand lightly on Jinx's bare forearm, thumb tracing a slow, absent pattern against her skin like she'd forgotten to stop touching her.
"Objectively speaking," Cait said, eyes on the mirror and not on Jinx's mouth, which was a choice. "Yes. Disturbingly effective."
Jinx looked at the three of them together in the glass—high femme investigator with her polished edges and hidden fire, butch mechanic radiating raw power and quiet hunger, gremlin goddess in stolen plaid that hugged her curves like a dare—and laughed. It came out bright and unhinged, delighted, laced with the kind of edge that promised she'd drag them both into her chaos without a second thought.
"We look like trouble," she said, her voice dropping into a husky purr that made the words feel like an invitation.
No one disagreed. In fact, Vi's eyes darkened, and Cait's flush deepened, the air between them crackling with unspoken want.
She turned away from the mirror on that high, adrenaline and alcohol fueling her, and went straight for Cait again, riding the momentum like a wave she intended to crash. A gentle shove at Cait's hips—fingers digging into the soft give of her waist—and a firm tug at her wrist angled her down onto the couch. Cait went with it, landing with a faint oof, one knee bent and parting slightly, her tailored skirt riding up just enough to tease the smooth expanse of her thighs. She stayed perfectly composed on the surface, but the flush licking at her throat betrayed her, creeping down to the swell of her breasts beneath her blouse.
There was a beat where Cait could have put a stop to it—could have straightened up, issued a command in that clipped, authoritative tone. Instead, her violet eyes locked on Jinx's with a challenge, and her hands found Jinx's lapels—those same stupid, perfectly pressed lapels—and hauled her down with surprising strength, pulling her into a straddle that pressed Jinx's bare thighs against Cait's hips.
The kiss started sharp, startled, all teeth and "you have got to be kidding me," a clash of dominance that sent sparks through both of them. Jinx made a tiny, shocked sound against her mouth—a needy whimper that vibrated between them—and then melted into it like she'd been waiting her whole life to get pinned to Cait's self-control and shatter it completely. Her tongue flicked out, teasing Cait's lips until they parted, then delved in deep, exploring with hungry swipes that drew a muffled moan from Cait.
She braced one hand on the couch beside Cait's head, trapping her in place, while the other slid up into that perfectly styled hair and immediately messed it up, fingers threading through the silky strands and tugging just enough—hard enough—to arch Cait's neck and draw a quiet, traitorous noise from her chest, a gasp that turned into a low, throaty groan as Jinx nipped at her lower lip.
Vi watched for exactly three seconds, her smirk curling wider with each heartbeat, her gaze heavy with approval and arousal. She could see the way Jinx's skirt hiked up in the straddle, exposing the curve of her ass and the thin fabric of her boyshorts, and the subtle grind of hips that had Cait's breath hitching.
"Unbelievable," Vi muttered—but she sounded proud, her voice rough with desire.
Then she dropped onto the couch beside them, easy and heavy, her broad frame radiating heat at Jinx's side. Her hand found Jinx's shoulder first, calloused fingers tracing the exposed skin where the jacket had slipped, then slid lower along the line of her jacket. With a practiced little tug, she peeled the jacket off one shoulder, then the other, baring more skin to the room—the pale expanse of Jinx's back, her tattoos swirling like invitations. Vi leaned in, her breath hot against Jinx's ear, and pressed her mouth to the curve of Jinx's neck, right where her pulse was doing parkour, sucking lightly at first, then grazing with teeth that made Jinx shudder.
Jinx broke the kiss on a gasp, her body arching involuntarily, caught between Cait's mouth—now trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses down her jaw—and Vi's teeth sinking into her neck with just enough pressure to mark, to claim. Ridiculous plaid and electric blue hair everywhere, the three of them a tangle of breath and laughter and "this is a terrible idea" they were all very happy to have, the kind of terrible that made Jinx's core throb with need.
A tangle of limbs and half-choked laughter followed, someone's knee—Cait's, probably—knocking an empty bottle off the table so it thunked and rolled, scattering a puff of stray glitter from the rug like the universe was throwing confetti at their terrible life choices. The glitter stuck to sweat-damp skin, sparkling under the dimming lights.
Jinx shifted, hungry for Cait's mouth again, grinding down into her lap with a deliberate roll of her hips that drew a sharp inhale from Cait. The skirt rode up higher, exposing thighs so creamy and thick it should be criminal, the boyshorts beneath damp and clinging. Cait's fingers, usually so adept at datapads and case files, were now clumsy with want, fumbling with her own buttons, desperate to shed the barriers. Jinx slapped them away with a wicked grin, taking over, popping the buttons open one by one with eager, impatient tugs that revealed Cait's lacy bra, the swell of her breasts heaving with each breath, nipples hardening visibly under the thin fabric.
Vi's undershirt was next, Jinx's hands bunching it up with Vi's help, revealing a strip of taut muscle and old scars over her ribs, the kind that spoke of battles fought and won. The room went silent for a moment—just heavy breathing and the distant hum of the city—before Cait's palm glided over the scars, warm and gentle, covering them like a pledge rather than a question, her fingers tracing the ridges with reverence before dipping lower, brushing the waistband of Vi's pants.
Vi let out a low, surprised laugh, sounding almost relieved, her abs flexing under the touch. Then she immediately pulled Jinx back in by the waist, her grip firm and possessive. "Okay, okay," she panted against her ear, words tangled with the next kiss—a deep, claiming one that had Jinx moaning into her mouth—"this is officially the best bad idea we've ever had." Her free hand slid under Jinx's skirt, fingers teasing the edge of her boyshorts, dipping just inside to brush against slick heat.
A metal clink echoed as Vi's belt hit the floor, followed by the rasp of zippers and the whisper of fabric shedding. The couch groaned under their weight as all three tumbled back onto it, limbs entwined, hands roaming with increasing urgency—fingers hooking into waistbands, pulling down pants and shorts, exposing heated skin to the cool air. Mouths met in a blur of plaid scraps, denim discarded, and bare skin pressing together: Jinx's pert breasts freed from any remaining constraints, nipples pebbled and sensitive as Cait's lips latched onto one, sucking with a swirl of tongue that made Jinx keen; Vi's hand sliding between Jinx's thighs, fingers curling inside her with a slow, deliberate pump that had her hips bucking; Cait's own panties pushed aside as Jinx's clever fingers found her clit, circling with teasing pressure.
They broke apart only for air, gasping names and curses, then dove back in, not entirely sure who they were kissing, and not caring—Vi's mouth on Cait's breast, Jinx's teeth grazing Vi's thigh, hands everywhere, stroking, pinching, delving. The scent of arousal filled the room, mingling with leather and liquor, bodies slick and grinding in a rhythm that built toward ecstasy.
Heat blurred the edges of everything. Jinx could feel nothing and everything at once—Cait's hot breath at her throat, nipping and licking a path down to her collarbone; Vi's laugh pressed against her shoulder, vibrating through her as Vi's fingers thrust deeper, thumb pressing insistently against her clit; fingers—whose? It didn't matter—tracing the lines of her tattoos like they were reading a map, like they were memorizing her, slipping lower to tease her entrance before joining Vi's, stretching her deliciously.
Cait arched beneath them, her composure shattered as Jinx's mouth found her core, tongue flicking with chaotic precision, drawing out whimpers that turned to cries. Vi growled low, positioning herself to grind against Jinx's thigh, her own wetness smearing hot trails, while her hand worked Cait's breast, pinching the nipple until Cait bucked.
The city outside kept humming, oblivious, as the lights inside dimmed further, erasing the details while the three of them happily stopped caring about lines, rules, or who had technically been "punished" first. Orgasms crashed through them in waves—Jinx first, clenching around invading fingers with a shattered cry; Cait following, thighs trembling around Jinx's head; Vi last, grinding hard and fast until she shattered with a guttural moan.
The last clear thing was Jinx's voice, rough and wrecked with giddy disbelief, as they collapsed in a sweaty, sated heap: "We are never talking about this sober—"
The sun was rude.
It came spearing in through the floor-to-ceiling windows like it had a personal vendetta, turning Cait's living room into a crime scene in glorious HD, highlighting every sticky, incriminating detail.
The apartment looked worse, which Jinx would've sworn wasn't possible last night. More bottles, some tipped and leaking remnants of liquor, some stacked in that precarious "drunk engineering" way that now seemed like a monument to their debauchery. The rug looked like a battlefield: glitter clinging to dried spots of... something better not examined closely, crumbs from late-night snacks, someone's earring tangled in a discarded bra strap, a lone false lash stuck to the edge of the coffee table like it had tried to escape and failed. In the corner, the shattered Cho vase still sat exactly where it had fallen—carefully cordoned off by a ring of coasters like forensic markers. Cait had refused to let the drone touch it, even in her post-orgasm haze.
Jinx woke up facedown on the couch, tasting cotton and regret-flavored vodka, her body aching in places that brought back vivid flashes
of hands and mouths. Her back arched on a groan, the kind that started in her spine and worked its way out, sending a twinge through her sore thighs and a pleasant throb between her legs.
The plaid skirt was still on her, twisted around her waist like a badge of honor—or shame. That registered first. Her jacket was gone. Her shirt was… also gone, along with her boyshorts, leaving her bare beneath the skirt. Someone had draped a blanket over her at some point, but one leg was hanging off the edge, bare thigh on cold air, marked with faint bruises from eager grips and bites. Her hair had gone from "weaponized aesthetic choice" to "lion's mane of tangled blue that had definitely seen some things," matted with sweat and other fluids. Around her wrist, one of Cait's silk scarves was still loosely knotted, soft and incriminating, a reminder of how it had been used to bind her hands at one point, leaving her at their mercy.
She squinted at it, a lazy smile tugging at her lips despite the hangover.
"Oh," she croaked. "Right."
There was a groan from the floor.
Vi lay on her back beside the couch, using a couch cushion as a pillow like she'd lost the will to move halfway through fixing it. She was wearing Cait's button-down, only half buttoned, sports bra visible underneath and pushed askew, her collarbone painted with faint teeth marks, hickeys blooming purple, and glitter embedded in the sweat-dried skin. One mechanical gauntlet was still on her left arm, limp across her stomach, like she'd passed out mid-threat—or mid-caress. Her pants were nowhere in sight, leaving her in just boxers that rode low on her hips, revealing more scars and the shadow of arousal's aftermath.
She blinked slowly up at the ceiling. "Ow," she announced to nobody, her voice hoarse from moans and commands.
From down the hall, socked footsteps. Cait emerged in an oversized t-shirt from some old museum exhibition—stretched thin over her breasts, nipples still faintly visible through the fabric—and silk pajama shorts that clung to her hips, riding up from restless sleep. Her hair was blown out in all directions like she'd fought a wind tunnel and lost, strands sticking out wildly. Her eyeliner had migrated south in a very dramatic raccoon arc, smudged further by tears of pleasure from the night before. Faint red lines—nail marks—trailed down her neck and disappeared under the shirt.
She stopped dead when she saw them.
Jinx on the couch in the skirt, scarf on her wrist, legs splayed indecently. Vi on the floor in her shirt and one gauntlet, half-naked and marked. Glitter where glitter should not be physically capable of existing—stuck to inner thighs, smeared across chests. The rug. The bottles. The vase corner. The faint scent of sex still lingering in the air.
For a second, they all just stared at each other, hungover and horrified, pulses quickening with recalled heat.
Then the memories hit in a wave. You could see it—tiny micro-flinches in three faces as specific flashes slotted into place. Hands delving deep. Mouths sucking, licking, biting. The jacket hitting the floor. The sound Cait made when she came—high and broken, begging for more.
Jinx squeezed her eyes shut like that would help, throwing an arm over her face, but it only made the mental images sharper. "Did we…?" she asked, voice hoarse, though she knew damn well they had—multiple times.
Vi stretched, every muscle protesting with a delicious ache, and rolled onto her side with a wince, her hand absently brushing over a bite mark on her hip. "If we didn't," she said, "the bruises I'm feeling are lying. And the stickiness between my thighs is a hallucination."
Cait made a soft, strangled sound that might have been a cough. Or a laugh. Or a prayer. Her thighs pressed together subtly, as if remembering the stretch.
She cleared her throat, lifting her chin like she could physically drag herself back into dignity, though her nipples tightened under the t-shirt. "For the record," she said, enunciating a little too carefully, "all parties were extremely vocal about consent. Repeatedly. In full sentences. And... positions."
Her ears were pink, her thighs still faintly slick. "I am not ashamed," she added, though her voice wavered with a mix of defiance and lingering arousal. "I am… profoundly hungover."
Jinx lowered her arm, squinting at her through one eye, her gaze lingering on Cait's disheveled form. Then a slow, vicious grin crawled across her face, wicked and unrepentant.
"So what I'm hearing," she said, shifting so the skirt hiked higher, teasing a glimpse of her bare sex, "is that I broke a priceless antique and got laid—fucked senseless, really—in the same night. Statistically? That's a win."
Cait pointed at the carpet without missing a beat, her eyes dipping to Jinx's exposed skin before snapping back up. "You're still cleaning the rug," she said. "Whatever eldritch glitter ritual happened here—complete with bodily fluids—is your responsibility."
Vi had apparently located a pizza box from somewhere under the coffee table, the lid sticky with... glitter? She cracked it open, found a cold slice, and bit into it without even sitting up, her free hand absently adjusting her boxers. "She keeps the skirt, though," she said around the mouthful, nodding at Jinx's legs with a leer. "That thing's illegal. In a good way. Makes me want to bend her over again."
Jinx looked down at herself—crumpled plaid barely covering her, bare knees parted invitingly, silk scarf still looped on her wrist like a kinky souvenir—and wiggled her toes, the motion making her breasts bounce slightly. "Evidence has to stay with the primary suspect," she agreed solemnly, her voice dripping with innuendo.
Cait pinched the bridge of her nose, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her, curling into a reluctant smile as her gaze lingered. "Fine. Keep the skirt," she said. "But if you wear it to interrogate someone, I'm charging hazard pay. And if you flash me like that again, I might have to... investigate further."
Ten minutes and two glasses of water later, they'd migrated into a more functional heap on the couch, though the air still hummed with residual tension. Cait had brought out a bowl of crackers, two kinds of painkillers, and a lecture about hydration that she interrupted herself to yawn through, her t-shirt riding up to expose the curve of her ass as she bent over. Vi had claimed the middle spot, legs sprawled wide, still in Cait's shirt that gaped open to reveal her sports bra and the marks beneath; Jinx was half draped across both of them, plaid skirt hitched up scandalously high, blanket thrown over the worst of it but doing little to hide the way her hand rested possessively on Vi's thigh.
They picked through the night in bits and pieces, trading half-remembered details with grins and blushes.
"Okay, but who knocked over the lamp?" Vi asked, her hand sliding under the blanket to trace Jinx's inner thigh absentmindedly.
Jinx raised her hand, squirming at the touch. "In my defense, you moved—right when your fingers were... you know."
"You tried to give the quantum prototype a safeword," Cait said, glaring over her mug of coffee, though her eyes sparkled. "Its response was to overheat my entire kitchen. Much like how you overheated me later."
Jinx snorted, then winced at the way it made her skull throb—and her core clench in memory. "And yet, nobody died. Again: net positive. Though I did see stars when you two tag-teamed me."
They bickered gently about who had kissed who first (consensus: Jinx, with her tongue leading the charge), who had suggested "test-driving" the skirt (consensus: absolutely Vi, with her hands already under it), and whether Cait had, in fact, said the phrase "repeat offenders get better rates" into Jinx's mouth while fingering her (consensus: she had, Cait denied it anyway, her blush giving her away).
"Next time," Cait said eventually, trying for stern and landing closer to fond, her hand brushing Vi's knee suggestively, "no glassware near the dance demonstrations. And we establish a safe word for glitter. And maybe for when things get... too intense."
Vi raised her slice in salute, her eyes hooded. "I vote 'photosynthesis,'" she said. "No one's yelling that by accident. Unlike 'harder' or 'don't stop.'"
Jinx nudged her knee, her foot sliding up Cait's calf. "Bold of you to assume there won't be a next time," she said, her voice low and teasing.
Cait looked at the two of them—floor-gremlin engineer in her stolen plaid, half-armored gearhead in her shirt, glitter in her very expensive rug (and elsewhere), her antique still in shards in the corner—and sighed, though it came out more like a contented hum.
"We are never," she said, "telling anyone in Internal Affairs about this. Or about how I begged for it."
Jinx grinned. "To chaos, order, and everything between?" she offered weakly, raising her water glass, her free hand dipping under the blanket to tease Vi.
Cait clinked her mug against it. Vi bumped her pizza slice to both, her hips shifting subtly under Jinx's touch.
They collapsed back into the cushions, a pile of blankets and bad decisions and the soft certainty that, somehow, none of them regretted a thing. Outside, Piltover hummed along. Inside, the three of them lay tangled together, already renegotiating rules and planning theoretical "hypothetical" next times—ones that involved fewer clothes and more explicit commands.
The rug would get cleaned. The vase would be dealt with. The glitter would never truly leave—much like the marks they'd left on each other.
The consequences, apparently, included brunch. And maybe a new kind of equilibrium, one where boundaries blurred deliciously into pleasure.