A/N: Hello! This my first time writing a Maximum Victory (Chasefield) fanfic, ever. It totally took a different turn than I planned, haha, but hopefully it's not too bad and is still enjoyable.
The story is set in an AU where there is no tornado. Whether Max has time powers or not is up to you, it doesn't change anything much.
This might become a two-shot, I'm not sure yet.

Warnings: angst and references to past sexual relationships.

JUST PREY

Victoria Chase is a predator. Popular, rich, gorgeous, sharp, powerful – she takes pride in the multiple assets of her personality and background that make her important. Feared, hatred, admired, no one in Blackwell is indifferent. Especially, everyone likes to gossip, words travelling faster than brains can comprehend.

Victoria Chase is a predator, and Blackwell is her playground. Her disgraceful comrades? Nothing more than mere preys. She only toys with them, be it verbally abusive remarks in the hallways or hormones-induced journeys away from the prying eyes, she makes damn sure that everyone in the school becomes her puppet.

Or, at the very least, she tries.

Truth be told, she isn't as dangerous and fierce as she wishes to be. Victoria is indeed a predator, constantly on the hunt, but not always does she succeed in her pursuits. And it left a goddamn bittersweet taste in her mouth, which is clearly stronger than her Grey Goose vodka.

Her head feels dizzy, her eyes struggling to decipher the mass of dancing bodies surrounding her. Were it not for the heavy beats echoing on every walls, she might have forgot where she is. Scratch that – the sickening smell of vomit proves itself to be a painful, yet effective reminder.

A Vortex Club party. Of course.

She briefly wonders how many drinks she has ingurgitated at this point, but the information seems to slip her mind. She only knows that she served herself a third glass after trying to get into Logan's pants. And failing miserably. She still can't wrap her head around it. Logan would go for basically any girl so long as she can flash him any outrageous piece of skin, and Victoria was quite willing to do so – and more – and yet, it had taken a good thirty minutes until the dude fucking took the hint, and when he finally did… he laughed. He fucking laughed. At her. As if she had just delivered a joke so awful that his drunken brain instantly made it funny. Only after seeing her serious expression did he seriously consider her "offer", but then that idiot managed to somehow stagger on a table and hurt his foot, completely ruining the already severely-damaged moment.

Ah, whatever. If the bastard dares mention it the next day – or the day after, seeing as how quickly their stock of liquor is "evaporating" – she can still blame it on the alcohol. A nice "the idiot was so drunk off his ass that he thought I was serious". Or she can even spread false rumors. "He was hitting on me, so I just played along, no way in hell would I ever do that, ew".

As she ponders the millions of ways she can turn this embarrassing episode in her favor, she slowly makes her way to a nice-looking sofa. It takes a bit of will and a few "watch where you're going, ugh!" before she actually reaches her destination, on which she sits as if it is her reward. Her legs are beginning to ache from standing up for so long – how long? – and her frustration still gnaws at her insides.

Her ego cries as she realizes that she has failed three times in a row. First, Zachary chooses miss blockhead Juliet over her. Then, Mr Jefferson turns her down in the most humiliating way. And now, Logan.

Scowling, she brings her glass to her lips, swallowing the beverage voraciously. It hurts. It hurts her tongue, it hurts her throat, it hurts her stomach, but most of all, it hurts her confidence. She is Victoria Chase, goddammit, boys should be begging for her attention, fighting over her, burying her under compliments, throwing suggestive remarks that she would pretend to ignore because again – she is Victoria Chase.

She is Victoria Chase but right now, she feels so damn fucking worthless. Why is there no one looking at her? No one talking to her? No one trying to get her favors?

Why does no one want her?

Just as her eyes begin to burn – the vodka, certainly – someone does, in fact, approach her.

"Mh, hey, Victoria?"

She looks up, and her – still painful - eyes automatically roll after landing on a certain hipster.

"What is it, Max?" she asks, hostility clear in her tone. And the girl effectively tenses up.

"Oh, it's just that you um… you look upset. Is everything okay?"

"I do not need your pity." But she does. "So please, kindly take that hipster ass somewhere further away from me. Thanks."

The words hurt her throat more than the vodka did. She doesn't want to say this. She does feel somewhat grateful that someone, even Max Caulfield, actually expresses some semblance of concern towards her. Which is probably why she feels a wave of relief travel down her back when Max sits to her left, completely disregarding her insincere request.

"Uh, what are you doing?" Condescending. Always condescending. If there is something Victoria sucks at, it would certainly be honesty.

Max stays silent, a serious look spreading on her facial features.

"Care to reply, Caulfield?" the Queen inquires.

"I just… don't really want to leave you alone."

Victoria scoffs. "Oh my, does the selfie ho have a crush on me?"

It is only a joke, or at least it is meant to be, but the mere thought somehow makes her heart sting. A part of her, a tiny, tiny part of her wishes for it to be true. The fantasy that someone could crush on her, admire her from a corner, dreaming of her reciprocating – it comforts her, like bandage for her ego. And if she dares to be honest with herself, though she wouldn't, she finds something strangely enticing in that 'someone' possibly being Max. The girl is so innocent, so pure, her crush would be just the same. She wouldn't want Victoria for her legs or her fame. Victoria's heart flutters again and her jaw tightens.

"Victoria, you're drunk as fuck, there's no way I'd leave you alone in such a state."

But of course, haha, Max wouldn't feel that way about her. After all, Victoria does make it her personal duty to turn that waif's life into a living hell. Max is also one of her toys, although she does not belong in the lust category.

"Thanks for your concern, hipster, but I'm good." She throws back.

But she knows Max is right. A sickening feeling is slowly weighing on her guts, and she knows it won't be long before her body can't handle the alcohol any longer.

But she doesn't give a fuck, and empties her glass a bit more anyway. She winces at how the burning sensation swims down her insides.

"Victoria, I'm not kidding, you should stop drinking."

"Are you seriously ord-"

Her head is spinning like a fucking wheel.

"Victoria?"

The sight of a blurry Max-face imposes itself to her view, and she squints her eyes trying to distinguish the details.

She bursts into laugh.

"Wow, when did you get so many freckles?"

The freckled teen furrows her brows in concern.

"I've always had freckles."

Victoria rolls her eyes – crap, her head hurts.

"Gosh Max", she forces the words out. "Fucking chill, will you? This is a party. Didya even drink anything?"

"I'm not… really a drinker."

"You're so boring." She releases a sigh at the end of her sentence, mostly to conceal how sluggish her voice sounds when drunk.

Her vision somehow becoming clearer, she can see a tiny smile curving the small girl's lips up.

"I know, sorry. Parties aren't really my thing, I guess."

"What are you even doing here? Isn't your blue-haired punk friend with you?"

"Well, I figured I had to see what the Vortex Club parties were like, at least once. I asked Chloe if she wanted to come, but she… wasn't too excited for it. So I came alone."

"So, whaddya think?"

She doesn't even know why she asks. The girl probably has something stuck in a certain orifice that prevents her from having any fun. But Victoria is the one who organized this "little" party so well, she guesses she is interested to some extent.

"Heh… there's a lot of puke. And people making out. And more puke. I guess."

Victoria laughs a second time, and it would certainly feel weird if not for the glass she still held tight in her hand. Still, she scrutinizes her surrounding, and can't help but notice that indeed, Max is right in her description. But there is no way she would give her that satisfaction.

"You're too fucking innocent. What are you, twelve?"

"Why? Because sex, drugs and alcohol automatically make you mature?"

"No, they make you feel good, dumbass."

"Cookies also do that, you know."

Well, seems like Max is trying to break the joke record for this night, and now Victoria's ribs hurt. Truthfully, she knows that once again, Max is right – heck, she even stole her cookies, and they were pretty darn tasty.

"Are you serious?" she says instead, forcing a louder laugh to escort her words.

Max shifts slightly under gaze. She looks uncomfortable, certainly ashamed. Victoria grins, triumphantly. She knows she has more experience than her – she may have come home empty from her previous hunts, but it hasn't always been the case.

"Have you even kissed someone? Like, ever?"

She bites back a laugh – she never, ever expected to address such a question to Max. It feels way too prying, but what does she care? She loves the way the girl looks away.

"I have… once…" she mumbles, barely audible.

Oh, this is too hilarious.

"Once? You really are twelve!"

The blonde appreciates the power she still has over the socially impaired, she savors her superiority when it comes to her social life, and she finds that newborn control… intoxicating.

But somehow… that new piece of information strikes a chord in her, sets her curiosity aflame. Max Caulfield kissed someone, huh? She tries to picture it in her drunk, very drunk mind. Did the hipster get to first base? Or was it just a peck? No, impossible. Max is way too innocent for that.
Her mind completely blocks Max's presence out, and drifts further away – would Caulfield even have the guts to go further than a kiss? She tries to imagine it… no. No way. She giggles internally, convinced that the brunette would probably be tomato-red and get completely flustered and her voice would probably be a lot higher and… Victoria gulps.

An innocent little Max having an innocent crush on her is somewhat appealing in its own cute way. Alright.

But an innocent little Max blushing and moaning as she experiences all of the four bases, for the first time, with her… it's another thing entirely. And were it not for the alcohol, it would be infinitely awkward to justify the red spreading all over her face.

"Victoria?" she hears.

She turns her head, her eyes trying as hard as they could to focus on her new prey.

"Sorry, I got lost trying to imagine who in the world would ever kiss you."

Oh shit, definitely not the way to go. Although… she can definitely use this.

"Let me guess… is it the punk?"

Even drunk, she finds Max way too easy to read – what with her eyes widening suddenly, and her stupid face losing all its colors before turning crimson.

"Bullseye, huh." She smirks.

The brunette tries to conceal her blush with her hand, to no avail. Too late, hipster.

"How disappointing, you got one kiss and it wasn't even from a boy!" Okay, no, that was definitely not the right way to go.

"Hey, it doesn't change anything, it was still a kiss!"

Woah, so defensive. Victoria wants to argue that she wouldn't know unless she tried to actually kiss a boy, but she chokes down the remark, along with a bit of vodka. There isn't much of it left, unfortunately.

"So, what, are you into, like, girls?"

That reminds her, she has never kissed a girl herself. She has always seen girl-on-girl action as a pathetic way of trying to get the boys' attention. Oh, she doesn't doubt that some people are actually homosexuals, but she has always felt as if the matter was a distant one, one that would never concern her. And she feels downright stupid now.

"What if I am?"

There is a certain boldness to her reply. A silent "so, what are you gonna do about it?" The doe is trying to challenge her, and she can't help but find it adorable. In a strange way.

The huntress raises her left elbow, positioning it on the back of the couch, inching it slightly closer to her prey. She rests her hand behind her own head, twiddling with a wild strand of blonde hair, while her other fingers still clutch tightly to her nearly finished drink.

She ponders her options for a while, brain processing slowly, before finally replying.

"I'd say you're an idiot for telling me of all people."

Max is the one to scoff now.

"What? Are you gonna bully me? Blackmail me?" she pauses. "I've seen you all over Logan earlier. It was quite the sight."

Oh shit. Thank God she has prepared for that.

"So what, he was too drunk to…"

What was it again?

"Too drunk to?" Fucking Caulfied presses with a grin.

With a fucking grin. On her face. As if she just owned her. How dares she?

She tries to think of a comeback, she really does, and damn, she usually excels at this game. But the Grey Goose is emptying her mind of all the logical thinking she most definitely needs. That stupid grin on that stupid face just sets her off.

Fuck, she's losing her control now.

"If anything, you're the one who's too drunk." Max suddenly says, in a voice that gives way more pity than Victoria wants. Although, the blonde still feels grateful that Max broke the silence, saving her from the hassle of finding a decent comeback to save face.

"I'm not too drunk, you're just too sober."

Woah, she doesn't know where that one came from, but she is slightly proud that her messed up soul actually managed to think of that.

She inches a little closer, unable to conceal her smirk – her face just wouldn't respond anymore. She lazily raises her glass up, trying her best not to let it slip. She wants to mutter a "want to finish it?", or even a "c'mon?", but no sound escapes the barrier of her lips. So she just taunts her prey with her eyes, or at least tries to.

Time seems to run a little bit slower. She's not sure, she's fucking drunk, but she feels her patience running low. Fortunately, the nerd does, although still very cautiously, reach to grab the drink, brushing her fingers against Victoria's – she, fucking, did, that, and Victoria somehow can't wrap her mind around it, her heart thumping against her ribs as if it were trying to break through.

Time also seems to slow as she observes the girl's lips approach the glass and softly press against it. Victoria doesn't see clearly enough to know whether or not she put her mouth exactly on the spot where hers was, but she likes, she really likes to think it was the case. Imagining that their lips did indirectly connect sends a wave of warmth consume her body, claiming control over it… or maybe it is simply the alcohol.

She doesn't know, but Max is still too damn slow. The way she tastes the vodka, how she tries hard to refrain from wincing at the strong taste, and woah – did she just lick her lips?

Victoria instinctively presses her body a little closer – just a little. Damn, get a hold of yourself! She closes her eyes briefly, trying to force control and reason into her brain, but her efforts soon find their way out as Max turns to her, a sheepish smile stuck to her face.

"What's getting you all smiling, loser?" she mutters, although her voice doesn't hold any hostility whatsoever.

"Hehe, I've never had vodka before. 'tastes weird."

Victoria giggles. Oops, little moment of weakness. She hopes Max doesn't notice.

"What, you already drunk?"

"No I'm not!"

"Admit it, you like it."

"Fuck no, it burns like hell!"

"But you still have a shit eating grin."

The girl only hums in reply, apparently content with keeping her smile. Victoria's gaze linger on it, her eyes retracing its slight curves, and she really tries to ignore the crazy backflip her heart just did.

It is so tempting.

Despite her miserable state, she knows how fucked up the situation is. Max is just an attention-seeking hipster with a hero complex overflowing with naivety and awful tastes. She is merely a toy, perhaps a slightly more valuable one considering she is her photography nemesis, after all. And she is, well, she is a she.

Victoria is damn well aware of all of this, and it only makes it worse. It's new. It's risky. It's exciting.

She glances at the drink in the girl's hand. It's empty. Swallowing hard, she leans over, grabbing it, and enjoying the way Max's fingers feel so close to her own – giving her a taste of her own medicine. She places the drink on the nearby table, and she swears she thinks she is going to fall over before she feels a hand wrap around her arm, keeping her still.

She strengthens her posture, trying to use the momentum to get a bit closer, yet again. And damn, she is close. Closer than she has ever been in the past. She almost wishes that she wouldn't be so drunk, as she honestly can't see Max clearly. She positions her hand on her own lap, not feeling quite bold enough to touch Max. Yet.

They both stare at each other. Her heart skips a beat.

She leans in.

Only slightly. She still has the decency to stop midway, willing her brain to decipher the freckled teen's reaction. So close to her, she can witness her eyes widening. Did she seriously not expect it? But she makes no move to distance herself. Does this mean she has permission to kiss her? Should she ask anyway?

She just wants to close the gap and kiss the life out of her, right there, right now. She wants to, she truly does. Her body begs, craving for it. The adrenaline rushes faster in her veins, beating in a strong, fast, constant rhythm, as if her own blood is hammering "do it" into her skull. She barely even hears the music anymore.

They are so damn close, she can smell vodka on her breath, but at this point she doesn't care anymore. Heck, hers probably isn't any better.

She feels dizzier, and she swears the room is whirling, like a fucking tornado.

Crap, she has never felt this nervous for a simple kiss. Because it's just what it is, right? Simply a kiss. She has kissed before. It's no big deal. She thinks she is rather skilled at it. There is no way it can go wrong, is there? She just needs to be more confident. Most importantly, she needs to show Max that she is in control of the situation.

She reminds herself of what she is – a predator. Max is her prey. She needs to catch her. She repeats these words quite a few times, enough for them to sink in.

She can do this, yes. She absolutely can.

She slowly raises her hand, which accidentally bumps against Max's shoulder, before her fingers finally find their way to her cheek, which she caresses tenderly – what even for? She sees Max swallowing.

She doesn't know.

She doesn't know what to do.

But Max smiles. She rests her hand on Victoria's, right above her cheek. She grabs it gently, lowering it to her own lap.

"I don't think we should…" she mutters.

What?

But fucking Caulfield is still smiling, and she dares distance her lips from the blonde's.

No!

She wants it – she really does – she really, really does – and damn, if her body weren't frozen for some reason she can't fathom, she would absolutely grab her shoulders and do it.

This can't be happening. Not again.

"Are you seriously… turning me down?"

Her mouth feels sore, which she finds hilariously ironical considering she didn't get the chance to use it the way she had intended.

"I am not… It's just… it's just not right, you know? You're way too drunk…"

"Save your lame fucking excuses." She snarls.

Four. Four times. She has been turned down four times in three days.

She just can't believe it.

Snapping her hand away from Max's, she uses the couch for balance in order to get on her feet.

"Wait, Victoria, where are you going?"

She doesn't grant her the honor of a reply, her head fucking hurts and she just wants to get the hell out of here, far away from those revolting teenagers. Away from Max.

So she walks off. She staggers, bumps into two – or five – people in the way, the fiends.

But a hand grabs her wrist, forcing her pathetic journey to a stop.

"Victoria, stop. You're too drunk to get back on your own."

"Leave. Me. Alone."

It rings off a threat, her rage clearly resonating under her tone. She wants to be alone. Alone. Bury her face in her pillow while she cries away all the disgust she feels.

But the hand around her arm doesn't let go.

"No."

She turns her head to meet the girl's gaze, and the determination she sees in her eyes somehow twists something in her guts.

"I don't care how pissed you are at me, I won't leave you alone like this."

"M-"

"We don't have to speak, Victoria, but at least let me walk you to the dorm."

She is boiling internally. She doesn't want to be ordered around by this lame hipster trash – who fucking had the guts to reject her advances, mind you. She certainly doesn't need to be stuck with her freckled face so reminiscent of her fourth failure…

She wants to tell her to go fuck her selfie, thrash her reputation right there, write her name down on the Vortex Club's blacklist, with her blood if needs be.

But she can't. She feels weak, both physically and psychologically.

Nodding, in this situation, felt like tearing out her own skin, crushing her persona and stepping on it vehemently. Certainly not a pleasant experience.

So she lets the smaller teen drag her out of the swimming pool and into the streets. The night sends a chill down her spine, but the liquor in her blood keeps her body warm. She can hear the wind blowing in the distance, the noise consumed by the cicadas' soft chirping. It feels somewhat relaxing, compared to the deafening party music.

Max opens the door to the dormitory, and they're welcomed with the building's heating system, which they are both silently thankful for. The freckled teen assists her in climbing the stairs despite her protests, preventing Victoria from making a nasty fall.

Eventually, they arrive to their rooms. Of course, they had to live literally in front of each other. Victoria doesn't believe in karma, but if such a thing exists, she sure hates it now. As Max lets go of her hand, they fall into this uncomfortable, tenacious silence, begging to be cracked. And Victoria sure doesn't want to be the one burdened with the task.

"Victoria, I, um…"she paused, biting her lip. "I just… I'm sorry, for, you know… it's not…"

And she sure doesn't want to talk.

"Forget it, Max." she cuts in, her voice dull and dreary. "Forget… all of it."

Pain flashes across the hipster's features, her lips still parted – those damn lips Victoria could have tasted if she hadn't been such a wuss – and ready to protest.

But the Queen is pissed. She is so pissed. So she uses that burning strength to turn on her heels and get to room, completely ignoring the lost doe she left behind. She has nothing to feel guilty about. Nothing.

As soon as the door is closed behind her, she throws herself on her bed.

She doesn't care about the strong scent of vodka still lingering on her clothes. She doesn't care about the painfully bright light. She doesn't care.

She wishes she doesn't care.

But the aching in her heart is horrendous. She clutches at her chest desperately, pleading for the pain to stop, chocking on her tears. It is salty. Salty and bitter, and no amount of liquor can erase this awful taste.

She buries her face into her pillow, tries to bury her entire being. She feels so ashamed. So ashamed of herself. Worthless, pathetic, miserable, that is all she is.

No matter how many snarky remarks she has thrown, no matter how many teenagers blinded by lust she has banged, no matter how many times she has bullshitted herself into believing she can control everyone, at the end of the day, it's only… a lame gimmick.

They fear her for her money, hate her for her words, love her for her legs.

Because she has nothing more to give.

And she has nothing more to receive.

…

Except for Max.

Max doesn't care for all of these things.

Victoria can't quite figure out whether the girl is hopelessly naïve or exceptionally tough – but even when she covers the loser with a waterfall of insults and humiliations, that idiot doesn't hate her guts. Or maybe she does and is incredibly skilled when it comes to hiding it, but Victoria likes to believe she is a good judge of character – at least when it's not about herself.

She remembers her eyes, her freckles, her scent, her mouth, her smile… and her heart painfully reminds her of what she could have done. Of what she couldn't get.

She can't accept it.

She might be drunk off her ass, but she can tell that this time was different. This time was not about seeking someone's approval.

Blame it on the alcohol if you wish, but this time, she was truly excited. She actually wanted to kiss Max, urgently, not because she was trying to validate her existence through someone's consent, but simply out of desire.

And even now, she still craves for her touch. She wishes she can go back, just rewind time and take the chance – or perhaps she would let Max explain herself, for once. She wishes she can get another chance to seduce her, to caress her cheek with her hand, her lips with hers, pouring into a kiss all the emotions her tongue otherwise fails to express.

She wants Max. She wants Max, because she has more to offer than what she gave to any other.

And she swears that Max will be hers.