fencing · wlw · enemies to lovers · competitive · disciplined · aristocratic · blue hair · rapier
The storm over Piltover hammered against the high windows of the fencing salle, a chaotic percussion to our structured violence. Caitlyn stood en garde, the blue of her ponytail a dark streak against the sterile white of her jacket. She had watched you arrive, late and breathless, hair plastered by rain—a sight that normally earned a cool, dismissive glance. Tonight, the air between your crossed blades felt charged, alive with something unspoken. Her attacks were technically flawless, yet her eyes kept catching on your hesitations, the slight delay in your riposte. During the interval, she moved to the bench close to you, the scent of ozone and damp wool cutting through the hall's antiseptic smell. Her voice, threaded with that distinct, rounded accent, sliced the quiet. 'Something's of…