The range faded behind them, replaced by the hum of transit and the slow climb toward Cait's apartment. The elevator ride was quiet in the way that meant things were simmering, not settled.
Jinx leaned against the mirrored wall, watching her reflection like it might offer commentary. Vi stood between them, hands in her pockets, presence heavy and grounding. Cait faced forward, posture immaculate, eyes fixed on the rising floor numbers.
When the doors slid open, the city poured in.
Cait's apartment was all glass and clean lines and restrained opulence, Piltover bleeding in through the windows in bands of neon and teeth-bright white. Eighty-seven floors down, the city screamed and sparkled; up here, it was quiet enough to pretend the world wasn't on fire.
Jinx whistled as she stepped inside. "Still looks like a museum someone forgot to staff."
"Shoes," Cait said automatically.
Jinx kicked hers off without breaking stride, boots thudding onto the rug with zero respect for symmetry. Vi followed suit, slower, deliberate, like she was marking territory just by existing in the space.
The night unfolded the way it always did when the three of them shared a room: drinks appeared, tension softened into something looser, more dangerous. Laughter sparked and skittered. The city outside turned from gold to violet to deep, electric blue.
The apartment's ambient lights had dimmed to a sultry indigo, mirroring the city's nocturnal pulse outside the windows. Drinks had indeed appeared—another bottle of that iridescent aurora liquor, this time flanked by Cait's preferred herbal tonic and a suspiciously glowing energy shot Jinx had smuggled in. They were sprawled across the living room: Cait in her violet armchair, legs crossed with that effortless poise, nursing her glass like it was a strategic asset; Vi on the couch, boots finally off, one arm slung over the backrest; Jinx pacing the rug like a caged spark, her cropped jacket half-unzipped, braids swaying with each exaggerated step.
The shooting contest hung in the air between them, unresolved and prickling. No one had outright won, but Jinx's little "enhancement" to her rifle had tipped the scales in everyone's mind. Cheating wasn't losing, exactly—but it wasn't winning, either.
Vi set her bottle down with a deliberate clink, the sound cutting through the low hum of conversation. Her eyes tracked Jinx's restless orbit, that lazy grin curling back into place. "Alright, trouble," she said, voice gravelly and fond, but laced with something firmer. "Time to pay up."
Jinx froze mid-stride, turning on her heel with a dramatic whirl that sent her braids whipping. "Pay up? For what? The contest was a draw! Null and void! Cait even thanked me for turning off the gizmo." She shot a pleading glance at Caitlyn, who merely arched one perfect eyebrow over the rim of her glass.
"A draw because you bent the rules," Cait said coolly, though her violet eyes held a spark of amusement. "Which, in my professional opinion, constitutes a forfeit."
Jinx's mouth dropped open in mock outrage, hands flying to her hips. "Et tu, Cupcake? This is a conspiracy. A hot, oppressive conspiracy." She paced closer, pointing accusatorily between them. "You two just want an excuse to boss me around. Admit it."
Vi chuckled, low and rumbling, shifting her weight on the couch. She patted her thigh once, twice—inviting, but with that undeniable edge of command. "C'mere, Jinx. Loser gets punished, remember? My rules now."
The air thickened, the playful tension coiling into something heavier, more electric. Jinx's cheeks flushed a faint pink under her makeup, but she didn't back down. Instead, she sauntered over, all bravado and sway, stopping just out of reach. "Punished how? Gonna make me reorganize Cait's closet by color code? Or—oh, wait, is this the part where you threaten me with a lecture on firearm ethics?"
Vi's hand shot out, quick as a strike, snagging Jinx by the belt loop and tugging her forward. Jinx stumbled with a yelp, landing awkwardly across Vi's lap—face down, ass up, her long legs kicking once before Vi's arm banded across her back, holding her steady. The position was intimate, exposed, Jinx's cropped jacket riding up to reveal the blue clouds tattooed along her spine.
"Vi!" Jinx squawked, twisting to glare up at her, but there was laughter bubbling under the protest, her body already going pliant despite herself. "This is so undignified. I'm a genius inventor, not a—"
Vi's free hand came down in a firm smack against Jinx's ass, the sound cracking through the room like a muffled gunshot. Jinx jolted, a sharp gasp escaping her lips, her braids spilling over the couch cushion. It wasn't hard enough to hurt—not really—but the sting bloomed warm and immediate, sending a shiver through her.
"Cheaters get spanked," Vi said simply, her voice that perfect mix of teasing and authoritative, her palm lingering to rub the spot she'd just struck. "That's the threat I made at the range. You remember, right? Or do I need to remind you harder?"
Cait watched from her armchair, her posture unchanged, but her fingers tightened around her glass. The flush on her cheeks deepened, violet eyes fixed on the scene with that analytical intensity—like she was cataloging every detail for later review. She didn't intervene, didn't protest; if anything, her lips parted slightly, breath coming a touch quicker. "Consistency is key," she murmured, voice cool but threaded with heat. "She did agree to the terms."
Jinx wriggled, half-hearted, her face buried in the couch for a second before she lifted it, grinning wildly despite the position. "This is abuse of power! Cait, back me up—tell her to stop being such a butch tyrant." But her tone was breathless, playful, her hips shifting just enough to press back into Vi's hand.
Vi smirked, glancing at Cait with a shared look that spoke volumes—fond, conspiratorial, charged. "Nah, I think Cupcake's enjoying the show." She brought her hand down again, another smack, this one landing on the other cheek with a satisfying thud. Jinx arched, a muffled whine slipping out, her fingers digging into the couch fabric. Vi's touch softened immediately after, soothing circles over the denim of Jinx's shorts, her voice dropping to a rumble. "Count 'em, trouble. How many for cheating? Let's say... five. Fair?"
"Five?!" Jinx protested, twisting to shoot Vi a glare that was more flirt than fury. "That's extortion. Make it three, or I'll—ah!" The third smack cut her off, sharper this time, the sting building into a delicious burn that made her thighs clench. She bit her lip, eyes fluttering shut for a beat, the vulnerability peeking through her chaos.
Cait set her glass down with a soft clink, uncrossing her legs and leaning forward slightly, her gaze unwavering. "She's handling it well," she observed, clinical but with that undercurrent of desire. "Though if she keeps squirming, you might need to hold her tighter."
Vi obliged, her arm pressing firmer across Jinx's back, pinning her more securely. The fourth smack echoed, Jinx's gasp turning into a laugh—breathless, unhinged, delighted. "Okay, okay, four! Mercy, you sadist." But she didn't sound like she wanted mercy; her body melted further into Vi's lap, the tension bleeding out into something warmer, more surrendered.
The final one landed with a deliberate slowness, Vi's hand cupping after, squeezing gently. Jinx went still, a soft moan escaping, her face flushed and buried in her arms. The room hummed with the aftermath—the city's distant buzz, their shared breaths, the faint scent of leather and ozone.
Vi helped Jinx up after, pulling her into a proper straddle across her lap, hands settling on her hips. "There," she murmured, brushing a braid from Jinx's face. "Punishment served. Feel better?"
Jinx pouted, but her eyes sparkled, leaning in to bump her forehead against Vi's. "You're the worst," she muttered, no heat in it. Then, glancing at Cait with a wicked grin, "Your turn next time, Sheriff. I owe you for that forfeit call."
Cait's smile was small, sharp, promising. "We'll see," she said, rising gracefully to join them on the couch, her hand finding Jinx's thigh in a light, possessive trace. The night stretched on, the three of them tangled once more in laughter, touches, and the kind of threats that felt a lot like invitations.