Caitlyn is on the cusp of fucking losing it.

Even with handing over the Kiramman's seat to Sevika, and relinquishing her role as General (eagerly, earnestly; for she has much to atone for and that felt like the most preliminary of steps). Her duties as Piltover's Sheriff take priority. Even despite grappling still with the ever-present weight of her sins and her grief and all the blood she shall never wash.

Her sole saving grace? You.

Fuck. She’s been dreaming of the sweet release of your embrace for what feels like eons, though what has really only been some gruelling twelve-hours of paperwork and needless bloodshed and petty disputes in the run-off of the war.

She just—fuck. She needs you. Always feels like she needs you, these days. (Fantasising during patrol, at her desk, on the clock. You subsume all the spare thoughts she has).

So, when she finally announces her arrival home with a careless slam of the grand Kiramman doors and the kicking off her boots, so unlike the careful, elegant grace of all her movements that is usually fine-tuned into her; you know you’re in for a sweetly bruising night.

“Darling.” Caitlyn all but growls, gasps, groans. You don’t even have time to greet her before Caitlyn is pinning you up on her desk, movements sIoppy and fervent in their urgency. She inhales, deep, breathing you in as her teeth scrape your collar. “My perfume.” She swallows, harsh, your back digging into the edge of the desk.

Caitlyn closes her eyes, lost, just like that. When she opens them, her eyes are black with want. Almost feral. “Baby..”