Love and War - Mel x Jayce Arranged marriage fanfic
𝙅𝙖𝙮𝙘𝙚 𝙏𝙖𝙡𝙞𝙨 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙡𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙘𝙞𝙡 𝙥𝙤𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙘𝙨, 𝙙𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙨 𝙃𝙚𝙭𝙩𝙚𝙘𝙝, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙣 𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙬𝙖𝙧—𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙥𝙖𝙧𝙚𝙨 𝙝𝙞𝙢 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙖𝙣 𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙙 𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙞𝙖𝙜𝙚 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙖 𝙉𝙤𝙭𝙞𝙖𝙣 𝙗𝙚𝙖𝙪𝙩𝙮. 𝘽𝙚𝙩𝙬𝙚𝙚𝙣 𝙙𝙪𝙩𝙮, 𝙙𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙧, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙖 𝙬𝙤𝙢𝙖𝙣 𝙬𝙝𝙤 𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙠𝙨 𝙛𝙖𝙧 𝙩𝙤𝙤 𝙜𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙩𝙧𝙮𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙤 𝙘𝙡𝙞𝙢𝙗 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙥𝙖𝙡𝙖𝙘𝙚 𝙛𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚 𝙞𝙣 𝙖 𝙗𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙜𝙤𝙬𝙣, 𝙅𝙖𝙮𝙘𝙚 𝙞𝙨 𝙖𝙗𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙢𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙗𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙤𝙨𝙩 𝙚𝙭𝙥𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙞𝙣𝙫𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙤𝙛 𝙖𝙡𝙡.
Jayce has been burdened with responsibilities since the very moment he was born. No, scratch that—since the moment his father croaked. That was the precise day the world went, “Congratulations, you’re in charge now, here’s a crown made of deadlines, and please don’t fumble because we will all definitely die.”
Now, don’t get him wrong. Jayce Talis is no stranger to hard work. He thrives on it. If you ask him how he spends his days, he’ll answer with the kind of sigh usually reserved for grandmothers reminiscing about walking uphill both ways to school. Mornings? Oh, just your standard “council meetings discussing war strategies, civilian grievances, and all the other fun things that make him question whether sleep is still a thing that exists.” Afternoons? Locked away in the lab with Sky and Viktor, elbow-deep in experiments that might, hopefully, maybe, please-god-just-work help with the looming war.
Sounds noble, right? Like, if anyone ever writes a ballad about him, this is the good material. The issue is, his brilliant lab partners—oh, they’re wonderful, smart, talented, revolutionary—are also disgustingly into each other. As in, giggling-in-the-corner-while-he’s-literally-drafting-a-blueprint kind of into each other. Whispering sweet nothings over volatile energy cores. Nuzzling like cats on a sunny windowsill while Jayce is trying not to blow himself up.
And the thing is, he doesn’t mind. No, of course not. He’s definitely, absolutely, not jealous. Nope. Not even a little.
Because Viktor and Sky are perfect. Everything is perfect. His life is perfect. Look at him, leading a house, leading a council, leading innovation, leading his sanity straight to the edge of a cliff.
Which is why, when the heavy double doors to his office creak open, interrupting his brooding solitude, Jayce is already primed to unleash a lecture on the sanctity of knocking. He squints against the sudden flood of sunlight—because yes, he has been sitting in the dark too long, thank you for asking, and yes, it’s probably doing things to his retinas.
“Might I remind you that this is—” he begins, already preparing his “I am the Head of House Talis and you will respect this office” face.
Except it’s not some hapless guard standing in the doorway. Oh no. It’s much, much worse.
And she sweeps into the room like she owns the place—which, to be fair, she kind of does, considering the palace was basically hers before she let him have the big chair.
Jayce blinks. His carefully constructed monologue dies somewhere between his throat and the floor. “Mother.”
“Yes, darling?” she replies in the tone of someone who has never once respected a locked door in her life. She glances around his office with a smile that suggests she’s already found at least three things to criticize and five things to rearrange.
Jayce sits back in his chair, silently calculating whether it would be politically acceptable to fling himself out the nearest window. Spoiler: it would not.
“Is there a reason you’ve decided to invade my office like some conquering queen?” he asks, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Oh, stop being dramatic. You get that from your father’s side.” She glides across the room and plants herself in the chair opposite his desk, completely unbothered by his scowl. “And honestly, you keep this place so dark, I half expected to find bats roosting in here. Have you been sitting in the shadows again, muttering about responsibility?”
Jayce glares. He has been doing exactly that, but he refuses to give her the satisfaction.
“I was working,” he says, which is only true if you count staring at a stack of council notes and thinking about how Viktor’s hand always seems to just happen to brush Sky’s as “working.”
His mother narrows her eyes. “Working, hmm? Or brooding?”
He wants to argue. He really does. But the problem with mothers is they come pre-packaged with a lie detector that no Hextech could ever replicate.
“I don’t brood,” he lies.
She raises a single eyebrow, the universal motherly gesture for I raised you, boy, don’t try me.
“Fine,” Jayce mutters. “Maybe I was brooding a little.”
She leans back in her chair, perfectly satisfied, as if she’s just won a duel without even drawing her weapon. “That’s better. Now tell me, darling—why exactly are you working yourself into an early grave? You’re young, handsome, brilliant. You should be out there enjoying life. Meeting people. Falling in love. Not hiding in the dark like some sad candle that’s forgotten how to burn.”
Jayce splutters. “Mother—”
“Oh, don’t ‘Mother’ me. You think I don’t notice? Council meetings, lab work, paperwork, repeat. And when you’re not in your lab, you’re locked away in here, waiting for the weight of the world to crush you flat.” She tilts her head, studying him with far too much perception for his comfort. “What is it you’re waiting for, Jayce?”
And just like that, she skewers him right through the ribs. Because truth be told, he doesn’t know. He’s been running so fast for so long that the concept of stopping feels… terrifying. As if pausing for even a moment would let the whole world catch up and swallow him whole.
But he can’t say that to her.
So instead, he leans back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest like a sulky teenager. “I’m not waiting for anything. I’m preparing. There’s a war coming.”
“What is there war without a little love,” his mother says, like she’s casually commenting on the weather instead of dropping nonsense into the middle of his already fragile psyche.
Jayce blinks at her. Slowly. Carefully. Because this is that thing again—that little thing she does where she slips something horrifying into a conversation and then waits, like a predator, for him to react.
“I’m sorry,” he says finally, “are we—are we really doing this? Love. In the middle of war?”
“Yes, darling.” She clasps her hands, all serene and smug, like she’s talking about tea flavors and not his impending emotional doom. “Because what is war without love?”
Jayce leans back in his chair and groans into his palms. “Love cannot bloom in war.” He says it firmly, decisively, like he’s slamming down a council decree. “There’s no time, no space, no—no blooming!”
“Well, it should,” his mother replies sweetly. Then she tilts her head, that deceptively innocent smile tugging at her lips. “Because you’re married now.”
Jayce doesn’t say it like a question. He says it like the world has just collapsed into a singularity around him. Like he has just been told gravity is canceled and air is optional.
“You’re married,” she repeats, cheerfully immune to the way her son is visibly unraveling in front of her desk.
Jayce rockets up from his chair so fast it screeches across the floor, very nearly toppling. “WHAT.”
His mother watches him spiral with the patience of someone who has been raising this man-shaped hurricane for decades. “You’ll adjust,” she says serenely. “Mel is a lovely girl from a noble house in Noxus. The union will strengthen our ties, bring in resources, technology. Exactly what our stagnating kingdom needs.”
Jayce presses his palms flat to the desk and leans in, speaking very slowly, as if logic might finally pierce whatever enchanted armor his mother is wearing. "When is she arriving?"
Jayce stares at her. Blinks once. Twice. His mouth opens and closes like a fish stranded on dry land.
“Here,” he repeats, voice hollow. “Now, as in right this second?"
“Mother.” His voice climbs into a near squeak. “Where exactly is ‘here’?”
“In the palace garden waiting for you."
Jayce has no choice but to follow along with his mother’s schemes.
And honestly, doesn’t that just sum up his entire life? Born, crowned, burdened, and now apparently wed without so much as a “by your leave, son.” He tries to argue, of course. He insists he has things to do—schematics to review, meetings to attend, wars to prevent. He tries to pull the classic “I’m the Head of House Talis, you can’t order me around” line, but his mother just gives him that look. The one that says, Yes, dear, you may think you’re a grown man, but I wiped your nose when you sneezed porridge onto the Chancellor at age three, so sit down.
And Jayce sits down. Because he has survived council debates, failed experiments, and near-political coups, but he has never survived his mother’s look.
So when she tells him to “go meet your bride,” he obeys. Against his better judgment. Against every fiber of his being screaming run away and build a robot wife instead. Which is how he ends up wandering the palace gardens, looking like the world’s most overdressed lost puppy.
The gardens are, admittedly, beautiful. All neat hedges and winding paths, with fountains that burble like they don’t know the world is teetering on the brink of war. Jayce trails down the gravel path, scanning left and right, half-expecting a dramatic introduction. Maybe the Noxian bride will descend a marble staircase, wind sweeping through her hair, with a choir of birds singing in harmony. Something suitably ominous.
But no. There is no bride or dramatic entrance. Just… empty gardens.
Jayce stops by a fountain, stares into the water, and scowls at his own reflection. “She’s not even here,” he mutters. “Mother’s probably laughing herself sick right now. This is exactly the sort of trick she’d—”
Jayce freezes. Slowly, he turns his head toward the hedge wall. Something—or someone—is definitely moving. Branches sway, leaves tremble, and there’s a distinct grunt, followed by a whispered curse.
His heart jumps. Cautious but curious, Jayce follows the sound around the bend, and then there is Mel, his supposed bride. And she is not sweeping down marble steps like some carefully rehearsed courtly vision. No. She is halfway up the garden fence, in a gown so outrageously puffy and gold-trimmed it looks like someone crossbred a cake with a sunbeam.
Jayce’s jaw nearly unhinges.
The gown alone is enough to short-circuit his brain, but then his eyes catch on the rest of her: the golden markings etched along her arms, glowing faintly against her sun-deep skin, curling intricate patterns that disappear under the fabric and reappear along her exposed back.
She is perfect. She is majestic. She is trying to escape.
Jayce watches Mel currently dangling like a very sparkly cat stuck in a curtain, muttering furiously at the fence. Jayce slaps a hand over his mouth, wanting to laugh at the thought of his new bride attempt to jailbreak herself from the palace gardens on day one.
“Need a boost?” he calls out, because apparently his mouth has no survival instincts whatsoever.
Mel freezes. Her head whips around so fast he’s surprised it doesn’t spin right off her neck. She stares at him with wide, sharp eyes, caught like a thief mid-crime.
“I was just… getting some air.”
“Is that a problem?” she snaps.
Jayce spreads his hands, all innocence. “Not at all. Personally, I find it refreshing. Most noblewomen just stroll politely through the gardens. You, however, you scale fortifications.”
The corner of her mouth twitches, like she’s fighting a smile and absolutely refusing to lose. “Well. Someone has to test them.”
Jayce grins. Because despite the sheer absurdity of the situation, despite the panic clawing at his ribs and the overwhelming knowledge that his mother has single-handedly detonated his life, he feels… lighter. Almost amused.
“Then let me help,” he says, stepping closer. “Boost you over. Or, if you’d rather, I can call for a ladder. Or a siege tower. We keep one around for emergencies.”
She stares at him, caught between horror and laughter. Finally, she snorts—an unladylike, utterly genuine sound that makes Jayce’s grin widen into something real.
“Fine,” she says at last. “A boost. But if you drop me, Lord Talis, I swear on all the gods of Noxus, I’ll—”
“Relax.” He crouches, clasping his hands together in an offered step. “I don’t drop things I plan on keeping.”
And the words are out before he can stop them,Jayce’s heart stutters just seeing the sight of his new wife, who's cheeks flushed from exertion, eyes glinting with something sharp and alive. Dammit, she’s gorgeous. Jayce swallows hard. He can’t stop staring. And worse, she notices.
Her lips curl. “Are you going to stand there gawking, or are you actually going to boost me up like you said?”
Jayce’s brain short-circuits. He meant “boost” as in “hands cupped, step up, goodbye princess.” She, apparently, has other ideas.
“Oh. Uh.” He clears his throat, tugging at the collar of his coat as if it might buy him time. “Yes. Right. Boost. That’s… that’s what I said.”
“Good.” She crosses her arms, expectant. “Well?”
Jayce takes a step closer, then another. And then his treacherous brain decides this is the moment to realize just how close close is. She smells faintly of wildflowers and steel—soft sweetness with a dangerous edge. Her gown glitters faintly in the garden light, gold embroidery catching on the faint glow of the Hextech lanterns.
And then there are her arms. Golden markings coiling like sunlight captured in ink, glowing faintly across her skin.
Jayce sways. He might faint. He definitely shouldn’t faint. That would not be a strong start to his married life.
“Lord Talis?” she says, arching a brow. “Did you malfunction?”
“No! No, perfectly functional!” Jayce blurts. His voice cracks. He coughs to cover it. “Just, ah, strategizing the most efficient… boost angle.”
“Boost angle,” she repeats.
“Yes.” He nods vigorously, because apparently embarrassment is contagious. “Very important. Can’t rush these things. One wrong move and, poof! Skirt disaster. Possibly death.”
She smirks. “And here I thought you were supposed to be the great innovator of Piltover. Can’t even figure out how to lift a girl in a dress.”
Jayce feels heat crawl up his neck. His pride, his honor, his very manhood demand action. “I’ll have you know,” he says grandly, “that I have carried heavier, more dangerous loads than—than—” He gestures vaguely at her gown. “Than this.”
“Prove it,” she challenges.
Before his nerves can stage a rebellion, Jayce steps in, slides one arm behind her back, the other beneath her knees, and lifts her bridal style.
For one suspended moment, the world narrows down to this: the weight of her in his arms, warm and solid, her skirts cascading over his elbow in an avalanche of silk and gold. Her eyes lock on his, and suddenly Jayce realizes they’re not just brown. Not just green. They’re both—flecks of each swirling together like someone bottled forest and earth and sunlight and said here, good luck surviving this.
Jayce forgets how to breathe.
Mel mouth parts, like maybe she’s about to say something sharp, but the words don’t come. Instead, she stares back at him, equally caught, equally trapped in whatever spell has taken hold.
Jayce’s heart hammers. He is the Head of House Talis. He is supposed to be the voice of reason, the embodiment of strength, the man who faces war with unflinching resolve. And yet here he is, ready to collapse because a girl smiled at him while wrapped in twenty pounds of silk.
“Well then,” Jayce says, voice a little hoarse, “why don’t we skip the fence and head straight to the altar?”
Her eyes widen a fraction, then narrow with something that looks suspiciously like intrigue.
“You don’t even know my full name,” Mel says.
“I’ll risk it,” he says, smiling helplessly.
For a long moment, she studies him, as though weighing the sincerity behind his words. Then, finally, her lips curve—not into the sharp smirk she’s been using like armor, but into something real. Something soft.
“Very well, Lord Talis,” she says, voice like silk drawn over steel. “Take me to the altar then, but be warned i'm not like those other girls that act like a doormat in the face of a lord."
"Then you'll get along well with my mother."
Mel eyes flickers at him, and Jayce swallows, adjusts his grip, and starts walking. And for the first time in weeks—months, maybe years—he doesn’t feel the crushing weight of duty pressing down on his shoulders. He feels… lighter like maybe, just maybe, war won’t be the only thing that blooms.
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