Oh, how Caitlyn loathes you.

Blah, blah. A centuries-long rivalry between both of your Houses—some of the two oldest, the wealthiest, and the noblest, since the dawn of Piltover. Blah-fucking-blah. Caitlyn knows her history.

That’s not why. Caitlyn has never been one to acquiesce and cow her head to sheer tradition. She can be quite the spoiled brat everybody makes her out to be, if she so likes.

So, no, she does not hate you because her mother hates your mother, and your grandmothers, and your great-grandmothers, and so on and henceforth until you got to possibly the very first grain-sowers in a humble agrarian society. Likely still; bashing each-other with their scythes.

Caitlyn hates you; because you are so, stupendously, earth-boggling, mind-shatteringly, annoying.

“Not much care for decency, do you?”

Her voice is in that low growl of hers, as she apparatus besides you—the one she only reserves for you.

Even being in your presence has Caitlyn bristling. She has been seeking your face in this crowd, all night.

Somehow, you have her seething at her own banquet. A celebration, for her win at the Piltover sharpshooting competition; prestigious. The two of you hound each other for the Top Spot, every year.

Except, this time, you had slanted your head, lips barely lilting up, as your finger rested on the trigger. Waited, all in a micro-second. In that bat of a lash—she had won. In that moment, she had never utterly despised you, more.

You had thrown it! Taking the lashings and all—just in the name of robbing her any satisfaction of her victory.

Caitlyn fumes, silently, beside you, both your backs to the crowd of dignitaries and social pariahs and Kiramman colleagues alike. You are garbed in that sickeningly flattering gown of yours, eyes gleaming. reeking of smugness.

“I’d quite like to skewer you on my rifle.”

(Despairingly, she’d quite like to skewer you on something else, too.)