Trigger Warning:
This story includes dark themes such as dubious consent, manipulation, and abuse of authority. Please proceed with caution if these topics are sensitive for you.
This is a work of fiction meant for mature readers (18+). Read responsibly.
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The streets of Piltover are quieter than usual tonight.
The usual hum of late-night traffic and distant clinks of machinery are muffled beneath a thick fog. Streetlights flicker lazily, casting long shadows on the cobblestones. You clutch your coat tighter, your footsteps echoing as you make your way down a narrow side street - the shortcut home you've taken a hundred times before.
Tonight, it feels different.
You hear boots behind you.
Sharp, steady, purposeful.
You quicken your pace, heart ticking up a notch, but the steps behind you don't falter. They close the distance. You barely have time to turn before a gloved hand rests on your shoulder - firm, not rough. Not yet.
"You're out late," a voice drawls behind you, calm but sharp. "Most law-abiding citizens are home by now."
You turn to see her. The sheriff.
Caitlyn Kiramman.
Her uniform is crisp, boots polished, badge gleaming beneath the fog. But her eyes... her eyes are something else. Tired. Cold. Hungry. Not the kind of hunger that needs food - the kind that needs control.
"I- I was just heading home," you say, trying not to tremble.
Her head tilts, amused. "Is that so? What's in the bag?"
You blink. "Books. Just-just books. From the shop."
She steps closer. You catch the scent of her - gunpowder, perfume, something stronger underneath, like alcohol dulled with bitterness. She reaches into the bag without permission, rummages through like she's searching for something dangerous, even though it's obvious she's not.
Her hand lingers longer than it should.
She finds nothing. Still, she doesn't move.
"You look nervous," she says softly, eyes scanning your face. "You know what they say about nervous people? Guilty conscience."
"I haven't done anything wrong," you whisper.
A pause.
Then Caitlyn chuckles - low and humorless. "That's what they all say."
She places one hand against the brick wall beside your head, trapping you between her and the cold stone. Her other hand brushes a strand of hair behind your ear - casual, like it means nothing. Like it's not meant to make you flinch.
You do anyway.
"Tell me," she murmurs, voice barely above the fog, "do you think anyone would believe you if you told them I stopped you tonight?"
You don't answer.
And that, apparently, is answer enough.
Her silence stretches, oppressive.
The wall behind you is unforgiving, the fog thickening like a curtain between you and the rest of the city. No footsteps. No voices. Just you and her.
She leans in, her breath brushing your cheek. Cold leather from her gloves ghosts along your side as she skims your coat.
"No ID," she says absently. "No permit. No reason to be out here."
You open your mouth to protest, but her fingers press lightly against your lips - not forceful, just a quiet command to hush. You do.
"Funny thing about curfews," Caitlyn muses, almost to herself. "They're a little... flexible, depending on who's enforcing them."
She studies you like one might examine a specimen. Detached. Curious. Not cruel, not exactly - but distant in a way that's far more dangerous.
Her hand drops from your face, brushing over your coat again, this time slower. Less clinical.
"Empty bag. No ID. Nervous eyes. Alone."
A beat.
"Bad combination, citizen."
She lets the word sink in - 'citizen' - reminding you that to her, you are no one. Not a name. Just a body in the wrong place. A case she's making up as she goes.
Then, she sighs. A long, theatrical breath.
"Suppose I should bring you in," she says, but doesn't move. "Or..."
The word hangs there. Heavy. Inevitable.
She lifts your chin again, slower this time, her thumb dragging along the edge of your jaw. Her touch is cool, deceptively gentle.
"...I could let this go. If you give me a reason to."
Your heart stutters.
You don't know what she's asking. Or maybe you do. Maybe it's in her eyes - the way she's not even pretending this is official anymore. This is personal. This is instinct.
"No? Nothing to say?" she asks, voice still velvet-smooth, but with a sharp edge beneath.
She steps closer. Her knee brushes yours. The narrow alleyway suddenly feels too small. The street too quiet. She's not rough, not rushed. Every movement is slow. Calculated. Controlled.
"Then don't say anything," Caitlyn whispers, her lips near your ear, you can feel her cold breath.
Without warning, she spun you around. The chill of the stone stealing the breath from your lungs. Slowly, her hands made it's way up to your shoulders slipping it up beneath the collar of your coat as she began to pull it off. Unhurried - deliberate.
The cold air struck your back - sharp, biting - but it was quickly replaced by the slow, creeping warmth of the sheriff pressing in behind you.
"Be good, and I'll pretend this didn't happen," she says.
"Make noise, and I'll make it worse."
Her hand slides inside your shirt. Not for a weapon. Not for your safety.
Just to prove she can.
Her hands roam your body with a predator's patience - claiming, testing, never asking.
She says nothing.
No commands, no threats. Just silence - heavy and deliberate - like even her voice is too generous for you.
You flinch as one gloved hand finds the clasp of your belt. She pauses... not out of hesitation, but control. Then, slowly, her fingers move again.
The sound of metal unfastening echoes too loud in the narrow alley.
Your breath catches.
Still, she says nothing.
Her presence behind you is oppressive - warm where the night is cold, invasive where it shouldn't be. You can't see her expression, but you can feel it in her grip. Calm. Clinical. Like this is routine.
Like you're routine.
She steps back, just slightly - only enough to slip one glove off with her teeth, slow and unblinking. She lets the gloves fall to the pavement with a soft thud - discarded like something unneeded. Then, without a word, her warmth returns behind you, closer this time. Her bare hand entering your unbuttoned pants.
Her middle finger slid between your thighs - slow, deliberate. No urgency, only control.
Caitlyn's head rested on your shoulder, breath hot against your neck, laced with alcohol and something sharper.
Her hand picked up speed. Her movements grew bolder - each shift of her fingers more intrusive, more certain. She adjusted her stance behind you, spreading your legs slightly with her knee, giving herself more room.
You tensed, but she just pressed closer, her body sealing against yours, anchoring you to the wall.
"Stay still," she murmured, voice low and calm - like this was routine. Like she wasn't doing anything wrong.
Her bare hand continued its path, dragging across sensitive skin with the kind of control that said she knew exactly what every reaction meant. Every breath, every flinch, every time your body betrayed you - she took it all in.
The other hand slipped under your shirt, fingers tracing slowly up your torso, stopping just beneath your chest. Her palm flattened, holding you steady.
You're close - too close. Your legs begin to shake, barely able to hold you up as her fingers quicken, relentless and knowing. The pressure builds until it crests, and you come undone, breath hitching as release washes over you, leaving you weak and trembling in her grasp.
Caitlyn steps back, calm and composed, as if nothing had happened - as if this was just another routine encounter on her nightly patrol. She pulls her gloves back on with quiet precision, every motion neat, mechanical, detached.
You're left slumped against the cold wall, breath unsteady, legs weak beneath you. Your body is still reeling, your mind trying to catch up, but she stands above you with that same icy detachment in her eyes - not a trace of guilt, not even satisfaction. Just control.
She leans in slightly, voice low and measured. "Let this be a warning."
A pause. Her gaze flicks down at you, unreadable.
"You may think you've done nothing wrong. But out here, that doesn't matter. No ID, past curfew, no witnesses - you're whatever I decide you are."
You don't respond. You can't.
Straightening up, Caitlyn adjusts her coat with one swift tug, her silhouette sharp against the foggy haze. "Next time, I won't be so lenient."
Her tone carries no threat - only certainty. As if the outcome was already decided.
Then, without another word, she turns and walks away. Her boots echo down the empty alley, fading into the night.
You slowly slide to the ground, chest rising and falling in shallow, ragged breaths. Arms wrapped tight around yourself, you sit there alone - the wall at your back, the cold in your bones, and the weight of her warning lingering like smoke in the air.