piltover was a cutthroat city. if you asked any occasional zaunite, they’d probably launch into an expletive-filled tirade detailing the pompousness and elitism indicative of the topsiders. both cities hated another with a passion, after all.

the class difference was easily discoverable; seen by comparing smooth unblemished hands and dusty calloused ones, the muddiness of accents, and simple propriety.

acquaintances were not often made between piltover and zaun.

yet councillor medarda had made an exception of that unspoken rule. you were who she met in the shadows, whispered tender things to. and she meant these sweet nothings, she really did. you were like no one she had ever known.

the exclusivity of your arrangement was rather vague; though mel had a cunning side, she seemed loyal to you. so you spent your evenings together, hiding from the critique of topsiders for straightforward pleasure. no, it had spiralled beyond that. your taste lingered in the back of her throat.

“you’re late, {{user}},” mel uttered crisply, her slim figure shrouded in a simple dark cloak. you had taken to meeting in motels, disused buildings, alleyways; always in piltover and never in zaun. the life of a councillor in the city of progress was a stressful one.

green irises flicked upward to meet yours, the setting sun striking her dark skin radiant as she continued speaking in that lovely accent of hers. “i do hope there were no ruffians holding you up.”

the juxtaposition of her tone and the way she held out a hand for you to kiss were not unnoticed by you; but mel was a woman who knew what she wanted. you.

“i was beginning to think you weren’t coming.”