𝐂𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐈𝐬 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐨𝐨𝐫𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐃𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐫𝐞 {𝐈}
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
One would think that an arranged marriage with a popular Noxian warlord would result in quite a few things, both good and bad. One would think that after some amount of time, the bad starts to outweigh the good.
Those people would be wrong.
It’s bad. Irritating. Isolating. Exhausting.
Until you start to realize just how sexy your wife is.
Then it becomes bad. Irritating. Isolating. Exhausting.
And hot.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
RATING/CONTENT: EXPLICIT; G!P Ambessa Medarda; Virgin Reader; Chubby Reader; Fem!Reader; Slowish-burn; Multi-chap; Arranged marriage; SMUT-CENTRED; ~12.7K
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
The wedding was extravagant. Divided between an indoor soiree and a balcony oasis, every wall, every corridor, every spot the eyes could look carried a certain air of Noxian finery. It wasn’t because of the decor, as splendid and gleaming as it all was, and it wasn’t because of the band or the staff, draped in uniforms of crimson and black, and it wasn’t because of the atmosphere, with its tastes of perfume, fresh meals, and money. No, no, above all else, what gave the event its spark of Noxian authority, of undeniable privilege, of the truest kind of worth, was the brand.
Medarda.
The sigil was pressed into napkins, into displayed weaponry, into suits of armour and even the silverware. Banners hanging from the main room’s walls were meticulously crafted with perfectly centred crests. Not the newer version, altered by a modern approach, but the original two-diamond sleeve with its centre star. They faced each other like mirrors, like hangings of blood, and set the tone with ease for the manor’s guests as they trickled through the front entrance. Remember your place, the sigil mocked, and do not forget where you are now. Not only a call for respect from allies, but a reminder—a threat—to those who thought they could swoop in under the veil of festivity and wreak havoc. Like a well-crafted blade, that was just another facet of a Medarda wedding. Beautiful and lethal all at once.
Guards stood at every door, patrolled every hall, watched over every room—even the ones that wouldn’t see a glimpse of sunlight all day. To Ambessa Medarda, it didn’t matter. She was too clever to allow herself a moment of respite. If an enemy dared a strike at her careful plans, they would find themselves dared against the edge of her katar. Not one guest batted an eye. But was that such a surprise? No. It was Noxus of course, such behaviour was expected, encouraged, and appreciated. The people marveled at seeing the Medardian interior, the dark woods and the clean irons and the impressive stonework. They loved the carpeting, the tall ceilings, the glory of the main hall and the ceremony room, and they nodded their heads at the armoured soldiers while they gorged themselves on liquor. In fact, the only one who truly found the underlying aura of a threat to be unsettling was none other than the bride herself: you.
It was by far the most stressful thing you’d ever had to endure. Despite the marvelous sunset and the grand day and the delicious food and reassurance of loud laughter, anxiety did not dissipate easily even in the face of a jovial atmosphere. Rather, it coiled inside you, bubbled like a scalding fire, and was one of the reasons why you wanted to (many times) rip the golden dress from your body and jump off of the nearest ledge. There was a slight chance that you could have gotten away with it too… if it weren’t for the fact that your new wife was the most perceptive, observant, well-trained creature you had ever met in your entire life.
Amber eyes followed you like a drakehound’s snout with a trail of blood. Unrelenting, quick, and sharp. It didn’t matter how many tall, muscular people stood between you and her, or how dark the corner that you tucked yourself into was, if she could catch even a sliver of your body, you were being watched. Tracked. Not with something soft, either. Not with lust or care or curiosity, as if she’d ever look at you like that, but rather with possession, with suspicion, with a fascinating elixir of strict acknowledgement and amusement. Like it was secretly the funniest thing in the world to watch you try your best at charming the strangers you called guests or at trying to keep yourself entertained until the evening was through. Suffice to say, it did not take a genius to gauge just how bored and exhausted you were despite the fact that you hid it well enough. Ambessa Medarda could sniff it out in a heartbeat because that’s just who she was, but everyone else… well. Apparently, it did take a genius. Or at least a very intelligent warlord. Because everyone else was so certain, quite suddenly, that you were itching to slip away from the celebration of your blooming marriage and tumble off somewhere to go have sex with your new wife.
Such a preposterous idea spread in the form of little whispers, laughs, and glances, but it all swiftly graduated to sly remarks. Warriors and esteemed house leaders, even well-known names from foreign lands and a few ambassadors, traveled around the main room making connections, doing their own rounds of the floor to greet your wife, sharing stories and watching one another like hawks. They chatted and laughed and poked fun and made thinly-veiled threats just before running over the ridge and coming to you. The fresh meat. The flower on display. The real show. Their smiles were all a bit too wide, like they knew something you didn’t, and they looked down at you (for you were one of the shortest people in the room, standing at 5’ something rather than above 6’2”) like you were the answer to all of their problems. What you could possibly do for them? You hadn’t the slightest idea. Although many did sneak in a comment here or there about ‘speaking’ to Ambessa on ‘their behalf’. You often had to muffle the sarcastic snort that built up so frequently within your throat. Like you’d ever speak to your ‘new wife’ about anything even similar to politics or trade. Like you’d ever speak to her at all. Please. After that day, you planned to keep to yourself for as long as physically possible. But they didn’t know that and they didn’t have to. It was none of their business. And yet… a vast majority of the room was quite certain that the restlessness of your soul existed purely because you were constantly battling the urge to cross the large richly-decorated hall, take a big flying leap, and jump Ambessa Medarda’s bones.
“But I suppose you’re eager for some time alone with your newly wedded wife, yes?” Some snobby motherfucker in a Piltovan jacket cooed.
“Oh I’ve got no doubt. She’ll take good care of you.” A half-drunk warrior grinned.
“I’m surprised the two of you haven’t run off to your chambers already.” One of the two Demacian ambassadors teased.
“You have much promise for Clan Medarda. Ambessa was right in picking you, I can tell. You will give her family tree life once more.” The other Demacian said, totally serious, and knocked the nail into the coffin when they nodded at you and uttered, before fucking off somewhere else: “The children will be strong.”
The children.
You slipped out of the nearest door after that and placed your drink on the floor, not bothering to finish the heady depth of Noxian wine. It wasn’t sweet like the familiar liqueurs from Ionia. In fact, nothing was like the sweet familiarity of Ionia. There was no nature, there was no freedom, there was no community, no trust, no smiles that didn’t hold ulterior motives, no laughter that wasn’t tinged with irritation, no camaraderie or kindness, no fresh air or green vines or natural springs, no merchants who would give passing traders food for free, no weavers who created shoes for the village children, no selfless creatures, no families with new babies who kept to themselves and didn’t force their ideas of motherhood onto you. There were no lovers who didn’t have blood staining their hands. There were no wives who hadn’t slaughtered entire cities. There were no doors that didn’t have soldiers posted at every fucking angle.
You huffed when you nearly tripped over one of their steel boots and turned to stomp down the hall. Like statues, they were still and strong and didn’t bother turning their heads to meet the glare you sent them over your shoulder. Like brutes. Listening to their leader like dogs called to heel. A harsh scoff scraped the back of your throat as you rounded the corner, feeling the blooming twinge of overstimulated anger in your gut, and you bunched your fists up into the buttery fabric of your dress. The staff had been so helpful earlier, remaining silent and respectful as they slid the golden fabric over your skin, practicing patience while trying not to crease it. During the few times you met their eyes, you swore you could see pity, but it was so fleeting, like spooked birds, that you couldn’t really tell. What was there to pity anyway? Your arranged marriage to a fearsome warlord so as to avoid the industry of your people falling under the iron chains of complete Noxian reign? Your lack of choice regarding the decision because if you didn’t marry Ambessa Medarda then your people would definitely suffer? The expectation of children that you weren’t quite aware of until that exact moment in the celebration hall when strangers started speaking about how beautiful your heirs would be? The fact that if you did have children, they wouldn’t even be your heirs but rather hers?
…Perhaps there was a lot to pity. Perhaps you had to give yourself more credit. Perhaps you had to tear through the nearest set of windows, break your body through the glass, and end it all before anyone else could expect something of you.
Perhaps you could manage it, too. Considering how far you were from a certain pair of prying eyes…
Your footsteps slowed, tempering to a drag against the red carpet beneath your heels, and when you finally stopped in the middle of a corridor—a place you were not yet familiar with—you found yourself turning to face a slim pane of glass. It was set into the stone wall, placed perfectly between identical windows, and beyond your immediate view sat a deep orange horizon. It was fading into a blue-black, into a midnight scene, and slowly, breaking through thick evening clouds, you could catch the twinkles of far away stars. They waved at you, cheered at you, and sent pangs of sadness through your heart.
In Ionia, you could see them almost all the time. They were like friends—brighter there, shining even past the sun because of the clear skies, and they followed you wherever you went.
Even to Noxus, it seemed.
Even to your wedding day.
Even to the bed chambers you found yourself wandering toward after you tried to clear your head and walked away from the window.
There was no use trying to escape. Ambessa Medarda never made any guarantee that should anything happen to you, she’d give your people another chance. You were most likely the only thing standing in the way. The symbol of peace. The connecting saviour. And your family still thrived, still ate and drank, still loved their work, and no doubt missed you more and more each day… you could not ruin the likelihood of getting to see them again.
So suck it up, your thoughts hissed as you scoured the halls, desperately looking for the familiar emblem upon blood-red doors, and push on.
And push on. Because there was nothing else left to do. So push on. Embrace some of the Wolf and push on. Ignore the laughter from the celebration of your hopeless marriage and push on. Ignore the shining helmets of the statued guards and push on. Ignore the theme of war clinging to the Medardan bedchambers and push on. Ignore your heart, your mind, your instincts and your morals, and push on.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
It had been a blur of time between the moment you left and the moment she found you. It could have been an hour, it could have been five, it could have been thirty minutes, it didn’t matter. Your ass was numb from sitting on the settee for so long. The hearth was dark and empty. The room was coated in silence. Only the stars and the moon glimmered through the wide windows, but they didn’t offer much light or comfort. They simply sat in their positions, hoisted into the sky, to watch freely while you stared at the floor, at your feet, at the fabric of your dress, and wallowed.
The stone walls were silent. The stone floor didn’t speak. The huge rug in the centre of the room, made from the pelt of a white Frejlordian animal, didn’t whisper a word. The plush charcoal duvet from atop the tall, wide bed, kept quiet. The polished display of weapons arranged above the hearth glared like enemies. The great double doors held their breath. The clean windows straightened up. The expensive pillows beside you looked the other way. The bar in the corner of the room smirked without a sound. The wine didn’t even blink.
It was an oasis of your breathing and your thoughts, buzzing like the insects found in Ionian swamps.
And then it was shattered—because that’s what Noxians did. They stomped through the swamps and they stole you from your peace.
“I will admit… I’m a bit disappointed I have to reprimand you so soon,” her voice, despite sounding like liquid silver and powdered power, sent shadows of frustration racing through your heart. She sounded just as she said: disappointed, but you also sensed a distinct lack of surprise. Like she knew you were going to run from the party even before it began. Was that surprising? No. Not really.
She decided not to finish her sentence yet, leaving you in a very purposeful well of suspense while she began moving about her bedroom and fiddling with her outfit. The wedding armour produced light clinks and scrapes as it was rearranged or taken off—you didn’t know because you didn’t bother facing her—and each sound that broke the quiet set your nerves ablaze. You’d seen her get-up enough times already throughout the day, you’d practically memorized the stitching, and as much as it infuriated you to even acknowledge her presence, you were (unfortunately) not an idiot.
Yes, you still had eyes.
And yes, so did she.
A very impressive set, in fact. Far better than any other in all of Noxus (and Ionia, you figured). Amber and mahogany set behind an aureate film, shaded by dark lashes, constantly sparkling with knowledge—as if she knew everything all the time. Knowledge or hubris? Who could tell? She used them like she used her weapons. With precision. With intention. And her face, blessed by some God or another, only amplified the destruction. Damn her sort of beauty. It was actually quite strange for a warlord, hardened through battle and bloodshed, through murder and espionage, to look so… so… you didn’t even have a word scornful enough. The line of her side profile alone was frustratingly striking. Smooth dark skin inset with graceful age, jaw cut sharp enough to slice stone, delicately shelled ears, thick red lips, strong chin, the curves of forehead and nose gentle, bridge not quite hooked, thin severe grey brows set low over those honeyed eyes, and three peach-healed scars drawn taught across the left side of her face. Curling like a jagged bolt of lightning from the jaw up over the cheekbone, kissing a smoother line from the chin into the lower lip, sharply painting a right-curving hook along the forehead from the careful root of a grey widow’s peak.
When you saw her speak for the first time back home, through the swift gaps of her mouth, fast and steady as she introduced herself, razor-edged cuspids glinted like diamonds. And clenched within them, pressed into the perfect rows of those sparklingly white teeth, was a promise.
I am going to get what I want.
And that is exactly what happened.
The beauty certainly helped, sure, but that’s not how she struck her deal. It was the cunning, the guile, the might, the vision that illuminated her path to political victory and threw shadow upon your new walk of doom.
But it could be worse.
Yes. It could be worse. She could be ugly instead.
“If you are going to last in this position,” her voice was hard and sharp, just as sudden as a wolf’s bite, “then you must wear the face of this house with honour. I do not tolerate disrespect.”
The sound of something thumping against cloth—the duvet, you assumed—was the only indication that she was unwinding. Her tone, on the other hand, suggested that the fire in her soul was just sparking to life. You weren’t really in the mood to push it, to argue and trade barbs, especially not with the woman you wanted to slap straight across the face, but it appeared that she was giving you no option. If you stayed quiet, you’d either be viewed as obedient or apathetic, and if you spoke up, you’d either be viewed as a problem or a crybaby. And if you tried to walk out, there was no guarantee that you could reach the door before she stopped you from escaping what was apparently a very important conversation. Your first one yet. Already starting off ‘marriage’ like professionals.
You shifted on the settee, feeling pins and needles in your lower back, and both felt and heard the shudder in your breath when you sighed. Exhaustion ran rampant, tugging at your eyes, your lips, your scalp, and the dress’s fabric was beginning to scratch at your skin, and Ambessa Medarda’s overwhelmingly weighty presence (combined with her building anger) did your tired body no favors at all. Perhaps if you had more time to wallow, to think, then you would’ve felt better about being forced into marriage, and could have had more than an ounce of patience, but she came in too early. So what else was there to do aside from stand up and adjust the too-tight fabric around your hips as a means to distract yourself from the eventual consequences of your exasperation?
“How, exactly, did my exit disrespect you?” Said with yet another sigh and a slow hanging of your head, you refused to meet her gaze.
“Listen well, child.”
And before you could blink, there she was, carried swiftly by long legs right up to your body, standing as tall and unwavering as the stronghold of Basalich. The last thing you wanted upon facing a warrior like her was to find yourself on the other side of a mean taunting gaze, so you kept your eyes forward and stared at the wall of her broad chest instead. The plating from her bridal outfit was gone, leaving the crimson armour of her corseted shirt bare to your eyes. She was warm despite standing a foot away, radiating a natural heat that drew you in and repelled you all at once. You could feel her staring holes into your forehead.
“A Medarda never cowers.” Her voice was husky, commanding, you felt the timbre of it shake your soul. That type of conviction was untouchable—like iron in her grasp. There was no room for contention. “We endure.” She announced like a queen.
Yes. Endure and take. You are the ones people cower, run, and hide from. Silly me. How could I forget?
“If you want to stay a Medarda and honour the terms of our arrangement,” a soft threat swam beneath her words, amplified only by the subtle lean of her body toward your own, “then you will remember this the next time you’re struck with… discomfort.” She said it with such a strange amount of disgust that the irritation swirling in your gut quickly flared into something overwhelming.
Discomfort?
Oh you’d show her discomfort.
Your head went shooting up so fast you felt dizzy. There was a mean look in your eyes, you knew it, but even the sight of her standing so tall—nearly two feet higher than yourself—didn’t dissuade you of your anger. She was being rude. Callous. Before you even arrived in Noxus, you promised yourself that you would not allow your marriage to be a burden worse than it already was. If you could be civil until death, that was the best course of action. If you had to run away in the future and could actually manage it, even better. But as it stood, you had the rest of your years ahead of you and you had to spend them forced into the shadow of a warmongerer. A blood-thirsty, wolf-adoring, pride-obsessed, stupidly-observant, infuriatingly-intelligent, terribly-alluring, beautiful woman who also had a lot of money.
But it could be worse.
She could be ugly.
Unfortunately, she wasn’t. And that was one of the greatest, most annoying issues. When you glared up at her, having to crane your neck a bit too much (a gesture that will forever be a reminder of your status), you had to violently, internally, swiftly reject the urge to look away again. She was so unbelievably smug and confident that it made you sick. And you didn’t have to see a smirk on her face to know it—she said it all with her eyes alone.
Test me, little one. See what happens.
When you were young, you never had trouble keeping your mouth shut. Yes, you were sarcastic and yes you were a bit sassy, but your settlement knew you to be a generous helper. A staple of connection. A daughter of the family sector that handled the trades. Upstanding in an Ionian fashion. That hadn’t really changed over the years. You were chaste at 18, rebellious at 21, a philogynist at 23, a writer at 24, an authoritative figure at 25, and then you hit 26 and Ambessa Medarda decided to swagger her way along Ionia, looking for a productive village large enough to provide her with exotic crops. The kind used for elixirs and poisons. Apparently, she’d been thinking of the idea for over a decade—she just never had the time to follow through. Until she did. Maybe you never stood a chance at all.
Your sass, however, seemed to flare up quite a lot whenever you were forced into intense political marriages. So when she towered over you like that and placed her big hands on her strong hips and flexed her muscles in the dim light of the room (not intentional, you were sure), then you didn’t quite feel like fighting the instinct that told you to speak up. In fact, you wanted her to know just how pissed she’d made you. You wanted her to recognize that you wouldn’t be a pawn she could push around on her little Noxian chess board. You wanted her to realize that there was war in you too. A different kind of war, but war nevertheless. You weren’t going to be one of the training mats she could walk all over, you weren’t going to be a servant she could boss around, you weren’t going to shut up and sit down and take it. Maybe if she were kinder, if the circumstances were different, if you didn’t feel the panic of being in her shadow itching beneath your skin, buzzing in your ears, then you would’ve been nicer. But she was suffocating, flustering, and you gave her the response she was looking for without even realizing.
“Let me remind you, I never wanted to become a Medarda in the first place.” Your voice came out like a hiss and your face, for you could feel the tightening and shifting of your skin, screwed itself up into a snarl. You must’ve looked righteously livid. “So do not speak to me as if I don’t understand the concept of responsibility. Today has been stressful and isolating. I am very far from home, and the very last thing I need right now,” your voice rose, fueled by injustice, “is a woman so self-involved in her own crimes against humanity that she can’t even bear to spare a spot of empathy for her new wife.”
“Relax your fists, child.” She clipped the edge of your sentence, drawling like her tongue was doused in honey, and you watched, burning with indignation, as she tilted her head ever so slowly, slightly, to the left, and glanced down at your hands.
Fists?
You blinked, going warm from embarrassment of all things as you followed her gaze and found that, indeed, your fingers had curled themselves into the meat of your clammy palms. You were also leaning toward her, nearly on the tips of your toes (which were bare because you kicked your heels off somewhere by the animal carpet when you stormed in earlier), too driven by scorn to realize that you were acting, at least physically, quite hostile. To a warlord, that is. And such behaviour was unacceptable. If you were anyone else, like one of her soldiers, she would’ve struck you as soon as your voice rose. But as her wife, she had no choice but to turn the other cheek as best she could without allowing you, of course, to think that you had any control. Because you didn’t. In fact, you were so far removed from control that it was almost laughable. You were merely a political tactic, a bold move, a bargain, and it was your job to be arm candy, to be a face for her brand, to be a supporter and encourager, to smile and hang onto her arm and contain your emotions and take care of your appearance so that the world could know just how far Ambessa Medarda would go to get what she wanted. As far as taking a wife.
Could you do that if you disliked her so intensely? Probably not.
And clenching your fists wasn’t going to get you any further onto her good side—which was really, ideally, where you needed to remain for your own sake.
So your hands went slack and your shoulders drooped, successfully doused by the chilly waters of her subtlety.
Again. Do not test me.
But it was so hard not to when she- well when she looked like that and spoke like that. With arrogance.
“You are upset. Rightfully so,” she started diplomatically, schooling her expression into something more relaxed, more exhausted, more… placating. Her eyes, however, were still just as sharp. “But you knew what you were getting into. Crumbling after a binding contract has been made and sealed is unwise.” Your heart twinged, quickly growing familiar with the punch of her apathy. And when she took a small step forward, those big hips sauntering the tiniest bit, your heart twinged and then leapt. You struggled to keep it down. Ambessa didn’t seem to notice; her voice was made of steel. “If you do not get a hold of these feelings soon,” a silver brow ticked up, “then I fear your experience will be more intolerable than you’ve imagined.”
“How do you know I’ve imagined anything?” You growled as best you could, scrambling to keep your mask of anger glued to your face.
Her shadow quite literally swallowed you, enforced with all of her might, and you felt your bones weaken beneath the weight of it.
But you couldn’t falter. You wouldn’t falter.
Even if her smirk was unfortunately jaw-droppingly sexy.
“What do you believe to be your real purpose here?” It might’ve been a genuine question, despite spawning in from nowhere, but suspicion told you that she already knew your answer.
People talked, after all, and Ambessa Medarda was very intuitive. Connecting the dots was no difficult task. The word on most people’s lips that entire day had been ‘heir’ and the second most popular had been ‘children’. Because entering into an arranged marriage for the sake of trade alone didn’t seem to exist anymore. No, no. Heirs, at least in the Noxian empire, were all anyone desired. A proper legacy. A name to last throughout the ages. Another generation to spit fire. And that’s exactly what the Medardas needed. Ambessa had her children but they were not born with their mother’s desire for bloodshed. Rather, as you heard, they strived for peace and understanding. A position never fit to last long in Noxus.
A new child, however, could solve that problem; could lengthen the amount of time her family name spent in the folds of history, could succeed her own death whenever her mortal chase ended, could expand her own mini-empire. Perfectly plausible. All she needed was a breeder. A political figure, most preferably, who wouldn’t cause drama or conflict, who would know her place and understand her duties, who would give her something in return (aside from her womb of course) that would bolster her power. Not an idiot, not a fool, not a naïve girl, and not a harbinger of trouble.
Motherly, too. With the instinct and all.
It was a pity for her then that you were no mother.
Not really, at least.
If a baby were thrust into your arms and you had the means to provide for it without hassle, then sure, but otherwise a child of your own? With your blood? It had never been a consideration. And after an arranged marriage with a fearsome, narcissistic, self-involved, manipulative warlord?
Absolutely not!
And yet?
That is what they wanted from you.
That is what she wanted from you. And by the Gods did that make your blood boil.
“I think I’m to be your breeding stock. To give you children so you can spread your war-addicted ideologies.” You spat, glaring up with all your might. Honeyed eyes stared back at you, totally unmoved. Her disinterest only served to piss you off more. “And let me tell you something. If that’s what you think this is going to be, I’ll let you know right now that it’s not. I am not your little pregnant wife, I am not your baby mother, I will have nothing to do with procreating. Not now, not ever. And if you even try to change my mind, I’ll run out of here so fast you won’t be able to blink before I’m gone! Do you understand me, Ambessa Medarda?”
“Oh I do.” She hummed, darkly, and poured all of her attention over your body like liquid metal. It came in the form of a lingering gaze, flickering over your shoulders, your chest, your waist, your hips, your legs, your feet. Up and down, catching at the dips of your figure, caressing your body with only a glance, contemplating something before wandering back up to your eyes. You couldn’t exactly tell what was there—in her expression, behind that amber look, skulking and melting and waiting—but you got the sense that it was patient. She was patient. When she wanted to be, at least. You’d heard a story or two of her battles; how intricate her plans were, how long she played the game. A wolf with battle strategy, that is one of the most dangerous things a creature could be.
And as she took a step back, one, two, turning her body toward the bedroom door once more, languid and glimmering with a mix of amusement and venomous anger, half draped in shadow and glory, you saw it all in a quick flash. That danger. Alluring and terrifying in equal measure.
Her lips parted.
“You must stick to your conviction, child,” announced in that haughty way of hers, accompanied by the sanguine maroon of her smirk, “but be prepared to abandon your own assumptions. For others and for yourself.”
You didn’t even have a chance to respond before the doors closed behind her, definitive and heavy and concluding with their gentle bang and cutting end.
By the time she’d returned that evening, you were fast asleep on the farthest edge of the bed, totally uninterested in acknowledging her words, her existence, her presence, your marriage, or the fact that you’d genuinely never slept upon anything softer.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
Over time, as most things did, it got easier.
Neither of you mentioned the one-sided argument from your wedding night. There was no discussion of pregnancy or children or motherhood, and no expectations had been set—none that you knew about, at least.
So for the longest time, it was all quite… civil. Surprisingly.
You became familiar with your staff, with certain ambassadors and political figures that were too important to avoid, you’d explored the Medardian compound, their main home within Noxus, and had even found a favourite Noxian dessert and main course. Drake-hounds had also become an interest, a thing you discussed with some sellers and owners in the markets, who spoke to you despite the intimidating flank of soldiers at your sides, and to fill most of your time, you’d taken to painting and writing. In the beginning, it was gradients and complaints, then at some point it had shifted to nature and poetry, and after that, still-lifes and ponderings.
Simple, regardless of the region, and without much stress, regardless of your wife.
In fact, you didn’t see her all that often. Ambessa did her own thing, tended to her own knitting, went about her scheming and planning and spent many hours in her study pouring over maps and documents with Rictus at her side and a few other important faces lingering over her shoulders. It was impactful, the work she did, and although you had your reservations about it, the lingering simmers of betrayal, outrage, and hurt, you were also struck with a confusingly distinct spot of admiration. She was what some would call a ‘war-pig’, yes, and definitely cruel in similar ways, yes, but it was not senseless. There always seemed to be a viable reason, tinged with self-serving desires, but not overrun with selfishness. Her family, at the very least, was a testament to her strength. She did all that she did for and because of them—you could understand that even without a rare conversation.
And lucky for you, in some roundabout way, you’d become part of that family as well. Not as her flesh and blood, never as that, but rather as a close ally. A necessary thing to protect.
That’s how it was for half a year.
Six months of civility. Unspoken compromise. Peace.
Until one fateful evening after you’d just gotten dressed, fresh from the warm waters of a bath.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
It was a bit hotter than tepid by the time Ambessa walked into the bedroom, her head held high but expression dull and exhausted. The hearth was comforting, drawing dark shadows along the orange walls while you potted around and got ready for bed. The warlord was quiet as she took the time to unclasp the usual stylish (but useful) armour of her clothing, and you only interrupted her to ask, gently because you weren’t looking for an anxious talk, “The bath is full. Would you like it re-warmed? It’s still pretty hot.”
Your back was turned to her as you sat on the edge of the bed, facing the moonlight through the windows, sipping your usual before-sleep tea. It was a ritual you’d continued from your childhood, a warm cup of herbal tea before slumber—you didn’t plan to skip out on that regardless of where you lived. And so the rustling of cloth and thuds of various accessories, plus her boots hitting the bed and the floor, faded into the background for but a moment. Your focus had shifted, briefly, calmly, to observe the nightly appearance of the city. The shining fires of Noxus. The dark of the sky. A thing to marvel at, even if you didn’t always like the thought of being there.
“No, thank you,” was all she said, rumbly and warm, unknowingly tugging you back to yourself, and because you were a good person and a kind soul, trying to continue the peace of the recent months, you turned around to give her a soft quick smile.
And proceeded to choke—hard—on your tea.
Wondering about how Ambessa Medarda got her children was not a thing you did. You just assumed, like most, that her husband at the time, Azizi, had been given the honour and permission. You’d never actually met her during that span of a few years, so you didn’t know that she’d never been the one pregnant with the child but rather her lover. A woman, of course, because men couldn’t bear children and because Ambessa Medarda didn’t actually have the facilities to give birth with in the first place.
Instead, from what you could grasp of your very intense (and accidental!) five-second moment of staring, was that in the same place as you had your parts, Ambessa Medarda had hers. And the sight of it caused one wild bolt of fire to spark beneath your skin.
It was big. Proportional, naturally, like the rest of her. Long, too. Thicker in the middle. It seemed… heavy. Even when relaxed, with a slightly thinner base darkened by a smattering of onyx curls and veins that you could only see the shadows of when she straightened to her full height. It had no visible curve or lean, it dangled just as any other did, but you didn’t find it as crude, as disgusting, as it seemed to be on men. Possibly because the scene that came before it; firm, chiseled abs and weighted breasts with husky peaks, enticed you more than the usual flat chests of the male sex. You’d seen too many of those; stocky bodies with no soft curvature, no alluring heaven between their legs, no protective fat to their bellies or the tops of their thighs, and though nudity was allowed in the bathing houses of your community, and some young girls found that tantalizing, you never joined the fun. Because you weren’t interested in admiring. But all of your time spent there listening to their giggling gossip did pay off somehow because you’d come to know what ‘cut’ and ‘uncut’ meant, and in that five-second moment, it became very clear that Ambessa Medarda was the former. Blessed with a marginally smaller tip, a deep umber colour, and an unnecessary amount of raw sex appeal.
Draped in a half-golden light. Her outline all curves and muscle. Temptation in one woman.
Bested by the sight of her body.
Your eyes flew so wide, so quickly, they hurt, and any desire to be discreet about your surprise was immediately shot out of the window, along with your dignity, as your eyes watered and your throat spasmed, scrambling to right itself from its tea debacle. To any other wife, you had no doubt that it wouldn’t have been an issue or a problem or even a shock because Ambessa Medarda either slept in a thin cover-up or in the nude, but for you, who was usually asleep by the time she retired for bed and who was still asleep by the time she woke up for her day, it was something very unexpected. The woman was already touched by the Gods—you weren’t aware that anything about her could be more alluring than her hair or her eyes, which you tried not to pay all that much attention to anyway because you still held a grudge, but apparently you were wrong.
In fact, you had no idea.
No idea whatsoever.
And then, all at once, accidentally, you did.
And it proved to be a very big idea.
One that other wives—other women— would probably (and definitely did) salivate over. One that other wives and other women would probably (and did) throw themselves over the bed for. One that other wives (but not other women) most likely knew of the very evening of their wedding day because they weren’t too upset or angry or mildly scared to touch her. That was the expectation after all. Get married, fuck that same night, and go at it like rabbits forever.
But you just couldn’t do it the easy way, could you? You couldn’t save yourself the trouble. So instead you caught a glimpse of her sex while she was changing and suddenly your face, your body, your hands burst into one glorious mixture of flushed embarrassment and sweaty surprise.
She walked around with all of that tucked into her trousers?
“Drink more. It will soothe your throat.” She spoke calmly from behind you, unaware of your conundrum, instantly worsening the effects of what you’d seen. To distract yourself, you did as told and quickly poured another cup with shaking hands, and while it eased the odd feeling of choking, the damned tea did nothing for your sabotaging thoughts.
Turn around.
What?! No! Absolutely not. No turning around. You couldn’t.
Turn around. See.
See what exactly? There was only so much to look at!
Turn around.
No. No no no. That was exploitative, voyeuristic, and wr-
Do it.
Oh dammit all you wanted to! You wanted to so bad. You’d never seen one on a woman before and your eyes itched to see and understand, skirting along the waters of curiosity. That’s all it was. Curiosity. Born out of intrigue. Just to look, to ponder over a few questions, . To , to stare and to see indeed because no, you’d never seen one on a woman before- but out of a desperate grab for decorum and self-respect and to cover up your shame, you kept yourself firm, clearing your throat, burning with a million feelings as you faced the window.
“Thank you.” It was a soft croak, a lunge for normalcy, and when you heard the pad of footsteps walking away and a soft responding hum thrown over her shoulder, you finally began to relax.
You’d slipped into bed soon after, intent on forgetting all about what you’d seen, and quickly decided that it didn’t matter that you were her wife—your mind still scoffed at the sight of her sometimes, and you still overflowed with rage when you thought too hard about the circumstances of your marriage, so the whole ‘married’ ideal within itself was nothing beyond an altered last name and a hesitant new spot in her life. Which is why you never questioned her business either. No warlord was without a vice, after all, and for someone so openly hedonistic… well you had no doubt that she had dalliances, she was just clever enough to hide them well. She had had many years of practice, you were sure.
And thus—many years of pleasure.
That was the last thing your subconscious whispered before it faded off into dreams, drowning your warm room in shadows and your flushed body in sleep.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
That moment, as it turned out, was fated to become a catalyst for a very sudden, terrifying, brutally embarrassing, borderline obsessive bout of utter insanity.
You’d gone to bed shocked, unsettled, and curious, but otherwise alright. And you’d woken up confused, intrigued, and awed, but possessed.
There was no other way to describe it.
You only thought of her when necessary beforehand (which was actually quite often, but when your entire life revolved around the schedule of your new wife, it was quite hard not to), at the moments when you had to wonder if your plans were going to interfere with hers or if you were going to be late to one of her meetings or peacocking parties. That is to say, you still had your own agenda, which was what made all of it—the change, the adaptation, the learning, the passing time—somewhat tolerable. As opposed to what you assumed your behaviour was going to be in the beginning, you didn’t glare your head off or keep yourself deathly silent or snap back with a little more than a spoonful of attitude. Peace was a surprising outcome, but better than most others—and that’s how it went on for months on end.
Until that chilly evening when you couldn’t keep your eyes to yourself.
When you saw what you weren’t supposed to, which was a silly thought because you were quite literally married to her, but there was no initiation or passion or desire in that room. It was only the sin of your eyes, your mind, and your body that had gone and mucked it all up. She was only getting undressed, something you knew she did before bed, but never something you cared to pay attention to. By the Gods, Ambessa was gorgeous, even the blind could sense it, but your pride stood just as tall and unwavering as her muscular body. Even if it was hard to temper your irritation with her—because quite honestly, it was difficult to be continuously exhaustingly angry with someone when they peered down at you with heavy chocolate eyes and revealed new graceful lines of age in their face whenever their expression shifted while hearing you talk—you still clawed for any bit of sense you could pull back into yourself.
No, it wasn’t fair for a warlord to look that attractive, but there was nothing to be done about it. Your wife was sexy and terrible, you were chained and free, the world kept spinning, the stars kept burning. Nothing new.
Until something slammed into the walls of your routine and your peace, your hesitant relationships and your comfort, your beliefs and your feelings, and crushed it all to ash.
A something that buzzed behind your ears, that itched beneath your fingernails, and threw punches at your heart. A pounding, overwhelming, dizzying something that you couldn’t name ever in your life before that moment, never in its entirety, never with such certainty.
Like a poison.
Like a craving.
Like pure, raw, desperate desire.
You woke up the next morning after that night, alone in the big bed, smelling the distinct scents of her skin, her lotion, her hair product, her oils, her perfumes, her soap. There was a time when you thought it was obnoxious how good she smelled. It made your nose wrinkle for most of the first month, bringing a sour look to your face each morning, until the scents gradually faded, became familiar, and only popped back into your head when you noticed a change in product. There was no recognizable change that morning when you sat up in bed; the smell was just as strong as it always had been. But something in you was different. You sat there for a little bit, rather than getting up like usual, and stared at Ambessa’s unmade sheets. It was probably no longer warm. Just a creased red silken heaven. One that smelled very good. That held the imprint of her body, strong as it was. Hard and soft as it seemed. A space you felt the sudden urge to roll into, to curl up in, to drown upon, but instead, to distract yourself, you inhaled with big shuddering heaves and the spice, leather, and cinnamon of her scents all filled your lungs like the glowing Shimmer manufactured in Zaun. Intoxicating enough to send a shiver down your spine.
The howling creature chained to the back wall of your heart screamed at you to lean down to her pillow, to bring it to your face, to shove your nose into its softness and close your eyes with bliss, to lose yourself in the sudden realization that maybe, perhaps, possibly— you were physically attracted to your wife.
But you hadn’t gone mad, not yet, so rather than put the demon at ease and fill your hands with her pillow and your nose with her scent, you staggered out of bed and got dressed for the day.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
And from that moment onward, you became someone else.
A reserved soul caught in the lurch of your own confusing interest. Walking around with a furrowed brow, with filthy thoughts, with a burning heart.
You couldn’t meet her eye anymore. You couldn’t quip or banter or argue. You couldn’t lie down in bed at night without thinking about the fact that she’d be beside you, still strong, still capable, still beautiful, still powerful, and you couldn’t do anything about it. Couldn’t turn to her and talk, couldn’t curl up to her side, couldn’t sneak your hand down the hard plains of her stomach and explore.
Conversation was hard.
Catching glimpses of her in the hallway was hard.
Looking at her was like dipping your body into a pool of liquid metal.
Even painting became a nuisance. The draw of portraits grew to be lacklustre after observing the Noxians and recognizing that virtually no one in the city was anything but thin or muscular or thin and muscular. Despite being a welcoming place for the toughest foreigners, Noxus’ people, no matter the species, seemed only to be made of those in the most athletic shape or those past their prime, who were still, naturally, quite athletic. It was disheartening, recognizing that among the strong and wiry, you were a creature of supple flesh and bad stamina. That is why you stopped just as quickly as you started after trying to advance in your anatomical sketches—you simply didn’t want to be mocked by your own canvas.
Until you sat down at it again, some days after that fateful night, and found your mind taking backward steps into oblivion. Re-entering the memory of smooth veins, a gentle downward slope, an umber tip, soft mahogany skin, alluring scars, dark hair and darker shadows, a body fit for war and pleasure. For battle and sex. For blood and cum. You felt your hand spread across the page, all phantom movements and whispered brushes of paint, so desperate to capture her countenance… her strength… the two sloping lines of her groin, the thick muscle of her legs, the sweet hourglass of her waist… oh to have it drawn before you, free for admiring… for fantasizing…
It was the first paint brush you broke. The wood splintered the very moment you tossed it, smashed it, across the floor of the balcony. And when you turned away from the remnants, looking back at your canvas, five well-placed lines greeted you with sultry hellos, marking the very beginning of a thick erotic figure between walnut thighs.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
You watched her train two weeks later.
Sweat decorated her torso, her temples, her ankles. Tight red fabric ran wet with the salt of it. The bottoms of her feet were dusted with fine orange sand. Her grunts and growls of effort made her chest heave.
At first you weren’t sure why you were there, lurking in the shadows with an advisor rambling off at your side, watching your warlord wife like a stalker rather than a partner, but when she flipped a male warrior over her shoulder and tossed him to the ground without breaking form or stumbling, recognition finally flashed through your thoughts. Of course. It was a self-test. That’s why your feet had taken you to the outdoor training grounds. That’s why you were studying her so closely.
It was an unconscious grab for reassurance.
Am I genuinely attracted to her? Or just intrigued by what’s under her pants?
Ambessa kicked a man’s spine so hard he tripped forward and didn’t get back up.
Ambessa dodged a punch, deflected another, and elbowed the side of a woman’s head with such speed and force that she caved, groaned, hit the dust, and didn’t get back up.
Ambessa straddled another’s waist, headbutted them before they could flinch, and shoved their weak reaching arm aside. They didn’t get back up.
But she did.
She did. Every time.
With a short breath and a tense expression on her face, she did. Unfolding and standing to her true height. Beautiful skin, naked shoulders and biceps, all bared to the scorching sun. Her scars glittered. Her braids swung wildly against her back. Her hold on a deep red-wooded staff loosened. Then she passed it off to a soldier who ran up to her side and turned to address the collective wounded pride of the fighters at her feet.
“No matter the position you are in, no matter the grip of your enemy or the state of your body, you never take your eyes off of your opponent. Even if you must twist your neck or strain your shoulders, you face them. Force them to see your fire. Your determination to succeed, even in death. Am I understood?”
An echoed response, “Yes, General Medarda”, spread through the grounds, from everyone nearby, those training, those waiting, and you swallowed at the sound of it. A steady collection of voices bowing to her will, addressing her by title, acknowledging her authority. It was, in its purest, most recognizable form, the very essence of power.
And you then, in its most recognizable form, were the very essence of lust.
Your hurried fleeing steps meant nothing to your advisor, but they spoke so many truths to you at once.
You’d found your answer, and were all the more doomed for it.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
“You’ve been terribly quiet these days.” When she entered the room later that evening, some hours after you fled the training grounds to hide your blushing face and burning loins in the privacy of your chambers, her voice was low and inquisitive. Almost… amused?
Not terribly surprising—she always seemed to be vaguely smug or entertained by one thing or another, usually at someone else’s expense, so you figured it was residue from whatever she’d been doing before returning to the bedroom that night. However, her blunt acknowledgement, holding an air of expectant confrontation, set your heart racing.
Does she know?
What a silly question. Born from paranoia.
She couldn’t. She wasn’t a mind reader, she couldn’t possibly make that inference, and ever since you found out about her not-so-little secret, you’ve been quite strict about keeping your eyes to yourself. No wandering gazes. No hypnotized stares. Barely even glancing. Except when she didn’t know you were there. Or when she just so happened to be looking somewhere else. Or was too busy to pay much attention to her surroundings. Either way, she couldn’t possibly have known. But that didn’t stop you from tugging the book you were reading up further to shield your face and hide your nerves. Ambessa Medarda could sniff out anxiety, fear, weakness like a bloodhound. Caution was necessary, imperative, if only to save you from your own mortifying embarrassment.
Though what could you say to get her off your trail if she’d found your scent?
“There hasn’t been anything to talk about,” accompanied by a shrug and a soft sigh, your tone was as falsely relaxed as it could be. It threw a flimsy veil over the tension coiled in your body beneath the sheets; already you were feeling the familiar anxious sensation of itchy ankles and restless limbs, quite suddenly aware that you were now stuck in the same room as a decorated warlord. One that was known for her proficiency in manipulation. And making threats. Lucky you. Lucky lucky you.
“No?” A pause. “I would’ve thought you’d found the approaching art festival to be… inviting.” Ah. So she was in a very playful mood, walking around with an obvious smirk dancing across her charming lips, using that bouncy, teasing bell-ish tone she undertook when something was amusing. If you weren’t suspicious, some part of you would’ve found it almost… cute. But you were drowning in anxiety. What a strange thing she said. Why did she mention an art festival? You weren’t aware one even existed in Noxus. Was it true? Was it a veiled accusation? Bait? A test?
Had she- oh gods. Had she seen the painting?
Your fingers twitched and tightened around the covers of your book. She couldn’t have. She… well you hadn’t actually gotten rid of it, had you? It wasn’t a very detailed piece, a bystander with an untrained eye couldn’t even begin to fathom what it was, what it would become, but you swore some of the artworks hanging around the compound walls had been made by her. And if that was true, then she had an eye for art. And if she had an eye for art… well. Your heart sang murder in your ears.
How fucking maddening. Was it on purpose? The clever way in which she set you on edge while strutting about and taking off her clothes? The easy sway of strong arms didn’t seem strategic, but why would it be? She was masterful. Throwing the layers over the back of the chaise, leaving the armour on the duvet, drawing your eyes like a greedy kitten to milk. The stained lamps beside the bed were lit low, painting the room in reds and oranges. They cast smaller shadows, leaving her body on display. And you couldn’t help but stare like a woman in a museum. Your depraved eyes traced the path of her legs while you answered her, hoping in the back of your mind that your words would distract her from your wandering thoughts.
“I- well I simply didn’t know Noxus had an art festival. I wasn’t aware you… well… I suppose I was just too busy to notice.” You bailed out of your sentence, switched your mind half way through, and tried to recover. It was hasty. Clunky. So revealing of some secretive thing that you didn’t want to share.
You would never do well in war.
And she seemed to agree. Her shaking head, muffled scoff, and jump of her shoulders said enough without saying anything at all. But you didn’t particularly care. You were too busy resuming your admiration of the clean dark undercut peaking out beneath her braids.
“Of course not. Because you are of the belief that warriors are incapable of entertaining anything other than battle.” Now that was an accusation if you’d ever heard one, stated with blank amusement and an air of scorn.
How wonderful a talent she had for fanning the flames of your irritation. It sparked back to life the very second you heard her tone—definite and factual. A claim you were not going to stand for. In only a blink, she reversed that momentary strike of attraction that clenched around your soul and replaced it quite easily with a flare of overwhelming anger.
“I never said that.” To accompany your harsh growl of a statement, you yanked your book down to rest on your lap, still held open but cast to another corner of your mind as you glared at the back of her head.
Ambessa continued to undress, totally unbothered, either not caring that she’d pissed you off or somehow not noticing. It was definitely the former.
“You did not have to,” she shrugged, “it’s obvious.”
Obvious?!
Your brow furrowed so hard, so fast, you must’ve looked a little funny.
What in the world was she going on about? She didn’t have one clue about what you thought of Noxians. You were well aware that there was more to them than their precious military state. They were human too, after all. Well most of them. Either way, their culture was admittedly quite fascinating—even if you hated it sometimes. Even if you wanted to literally be anywhere else when you had to be present at 90% of the meetings. But apparently your new wife thought you were barbaric and hateful.
“Obvious?!” You barked, spluttered, and gave her a wide-eyed offended look. “You have no idea-”
Apparently she didn't care much to explain because Ambessa Medarda, warlord, strategist, temptress that she was, chose that very moment to undo her hip-guards, fling off the red sash around her waist, and shove her grey trousers down over the swell of her ass and thighs with a swift final whoosh. Done before you could blink. One second they were there, the next they were gone. And in their place? A whole lot of smooth, scarred, dark skin. Absolutely drool-worthy.
You would have been mad to just ignore it. You couldn’t even if you tried. And you didn’t. You didn’t try at all. What kind of wife would you be anyway if you didn’t admire the curves of her calves or the chorded muscle of her thighs, the balance of her steady legs or the shape of her knees, the bones in her ankles or the…
The bulge.
Of fucking course.
The fucking bulge.
Clothed in deep scarlet fabric, pressed generously against a high waisted pair of panties. It was pushed off to the side, forced into a gentle curve, so thick it could barely be contained–and yet it was. Somehow. Maybe the Gods were holding it up or something. The simple shape of it left a deliciously obvious print you could trace with your eyes.
The very picture of tantalizing eroticism. Flexing inner thighs. Abdominals rippling. Scars bared to the light. Muscular forearms easily bigger than your hands, reaching up to take off her undershirt. Not for show, not even with much intent, but so excruciatingly sexy nonetheless.
As soon as your gaze caressed the outline of firm balls and your mind was suddenly reacquainted with the knowledge of Ambessa Medarda’s dick, a shocked gasp fell from your lips and your head spun around so quickly it nearly went toppling off onto the floor. Oh you couldn’t help but act like it was a crime–a sin–a trespassing–to ever see your wife unclothed. Like a virgin stepping foot into a whorehouse for the first time. A mortifying ordeal, one you couldn’t seem to avoid, especially when the first scandalized words out of your stunned mouth were:
“Have you no decency?!” Flustered, loud, embarrassing, and high-pitched, you’d unexpectedly transformed into a nervous student with a schoolboy crush.
It didn’t help that your cheeks and chest were slowly growing blotchy with a dark blush, or that you felt like you were on fucking fire, easily growing hot and sweaty beneath the summer sheets. And she didn’t even have to do anything. Barely even showed anything!
Just stood there… so tall… sculpted… soft…
Only the brief sight of her covered cock had you spiraling. Why? You’d seen them before. You knew how they looked flaccid and otherwise, though the latter was only a one-time thing that never went anywhere. Regardless. They were not especially pretty or interesting. Maybe it had to do with the person? No. Well- yes. It definitely had to do with the person.
You desired the one you loathed most. Wasn’t that how the story always went? You wanted what you couldn’t have or what was seen as taboo or what was seen as restricted. Some form of primal self-torture. And it didn’t help to be aware of such a sentiment when married to one of the most coveted, breathtaking, infuriating warlords in all of Noxus. Maybe even the whole world. Nothing about it was strange or taboo enough to evoke such an odd response… and yet? She was Ambessa Medarda. And you were you. And that wasn’t odd because you had a wedding band around your finger with her family crest sculpted into the gold. And you slept beside her at night. Just a quick roll-over away from a broad back and veiny hands and huge biceps and a beast of what you were sure was insurmountable pleasure. You didn’t know if you wanted to want her, but there didn’t seem to be a choice. Something in you claimed it as instinct. Something else said it was inevitable. Another thing said that it didn’t matter what it was and that you should just give in anyway. Which one to listen to? One? All? Neither?
You swallowed hard, feeling your hand shake as you pressed it to your cheek and tried to block your peripherals even though your entire face was already turned to the wall.
Such fluster and confusion. All because you were curious. All because you wanted to know.
What did Ambessa Medarda taste like? Sweat and metal? Spices and leather? Sweet? Salty? What did she feel like? Was her body soft? Warm? When you pressed against her muscles, were they really as rock-hard as they seemed? Totally unyielding? Were her scars sensitive? Were even the smallest ones healed into silky peach lines?
Did the paradise between her thighs smell like her? Her body oils? Her soap?
Did she ever caress it, imagining a warm tongue lapping at her desperately? Dragging her between soft palms, with gentle tugs and quiet moans?
Would it feel like silk against your lips? Slipping across your cheek? Pressed to the back of your throat? You’d need to be trained… Taught how to take her and all of her twitching and throbbing and thrusting without causing too much of a scene. Both hands shoved into your hair, pulling your mouth close close close…
It would be so big inside. So full. You didn’t have to have it in you to know it would take some adjustment. Some… stretching, Gods…
You were too busy getting lost staring at a spot on the wall, picturing her in your head, falling into your own thoughts, to see the strange inquisitive look, raised brow, and head tilt that Ambessa was directing at your back.
“In Noxus,” she spoke indulgently, her voice smoother than honey, “nudity is not a prospect built upon shame and judgment, but rather the liberation of embracing strength. And vulnerability.”
Great. Another lecture from the brilliant General Medarda. All fucking hail.
You knew Noxian customs were different. They didn’t walk around naked, no, but their public bath-houses and hot springs were common and safe. Designed for the relaxation of the soldier’s body. Gods, she probably thought you were stupid. Or a child. Or a prude! Which only served to worsen your irritation because you were actually none of the above. Seeing other people nude was fine (barring the exception of your wife), and yes it was hard coming to terms with your own body at times, but you weren’t riddled with shame. It was only a matter of personal preference to cover up and not bare the meat of your shoulders and torso as much as the Noxians did. You were fatter than them–simply the truth–but it had nothing to do with humiliation. Only decency. Only the way bodies were made. And anyway, what did she know about judgment? Her body was a sight more glorious than the peak of Targon slicing through a gold-pink sunrise.
You huffed.
“I didn’t say that because I think-”
“It is imperative to trust your body. To cherish it. To hone it and know it. Shying away from flesh will only result in failure at the most crucial moment—when you will need that trust the most.” You hated how important and wise she sounded. How much sense she made. You just wanted to turn around, lunge at her, and scrabble, fight, grapple until her entire body was painted in big red scratches. That would teach her. Yeah. A little pain. Her body, her back, stained with your marks, a sign of your anger, your hatred, your deep ruinous passion.
Yeah. She’d look good like that. Roughed up. Sweaty. Heaving. Shivering.
It was a shame that even in fantasy, you couldn’t hold your own against her. Not in any way that mattered, at the very least. So you spat fire instead.
“It’s not me I’m concerned with.” Your hands clutched hard at the sheets, having already forgotten your book a while ago, “and will you stop interrupting me? Not everything has to be a learning experience, Ambessa. I just wasn’t- I mean I- you- I’m simply not familiar with it all! Still becoming accustomed.” It was as diplomatic as you could get and as far from embarrassing as you could stand. Even with the false starts. And squeakiness.
The soft padding of bare feet told you that Ambessa took a walk toward a dresser near the hearth, across the room, far from your trembling figure, and while her back was turned, you took a deep steadying breath. How interesting it was that doing that became easier when she was some feet away. Like her presence was so intense it hurt your lungs to work.
“Six months is not long enough?” A joke laced her tone, warming it like melting sugar, and you licked your lips nervously.
Six months was enough. Then I saw too much. And now you have me half convinced that I’ve gone mad. Or been drugged. Somehow seduced by your body.
“I guess not,” you shrugged, then went quiet, and waited for the sound of a drawer sliding shut to finally speak again. “You mentioned an art festival?”
“I did.”
Interesting. What could that have possibly looked like in Noxus?
Conjured images of golden battlefield paintings, house crest embroideries, and market stalls of tender meat floated into your mind. Travelers, most from surrounding areas, and weaponsmiths displaying new designs of blades, bows, and armours. Red, black, and silver colour schemes. An air of authority and threat, with eyes always watching and hands always ready to reach. A stifling place, quite unfit for the gentle serenity of your preferred paintings, of pastels and flowers.
Your brow furrowed. Driven by a sudden bolt of intrigue, you decided to ask. Just to create conversation. To get her as far away from the previous moment as you possibly could.
No more thinking about her body. Just speak.
“What is that like?”
There was some rustling happening behind you, very brief, before her footsteps faded away.
“Wait,” was all she said, a firm command, before the washroom door closed.
You were left in silence.
Left to stew. Left to stare at the wall. Left to try and gather yourself.
Damn her. Damn her. Damn her. Damn her.
A few minutes later, the door opened again and steady footsteps grew near. When the bed dipped on her side, shallowly felt because you sat so close to the opposite edge, your body fell tense. Rigid. All you could do was freeze as she settled in, like a rabbit half-convinced that if they didn’t move, the lioness wouldn’t see them.
But your lioness was a bit smarter than that, and she must have been truly exhausted after her day because there was never a time in which you both sat in the same bed, awake, engaged in conversation, without animosity. You simply expected her to have gotten out casual clothes like her training garbs, then tell you about the festival, then fuck off to her office or the kitchens or the courtyard again to stretch with Rictus like she usually did, leaving you in peace. But no. Instead, that big warm body of hers slid into the silk sheets beside you, so close but so far, and you felt her presence instantly, like an oncoming storm, and still you stared at the wall as though the very sight of her would send you spiraling again (which it probably would—hence the avoidance). And since you had no sensible excuse to get up and scramble away, to escape the danger of untrodden territory, you were trapped. With the lioness. No way out. Only Ambessa.
“The annual art festival is a celebration of Noxian history, strength, and culture.” She either hadn’t noticed the strangeness of your situation or simply didn’t care. Her tone gave away nothing, it held no edge, no tease, no belittlement, no manipulation, only the pleasant desire to inform. And you actually found it quite… well… momentarily pleasing. Neutrality suited her well. When she indulged in truth, it seemed as though you didn’t mind listening. Your hands moved to put your book away, eager to find something to do, as she continued. “Artists of all kinds, local and otherwise, line the streets. Most gravitate toward the blacksmiths and weapon crafters, for personalization purposes. Some find themselves in front of menders and seamstresses as clothes have a propensity for getting… snagged… in battle. Regardless of which vendors attend, it always draws a heavy crowd.”
When you heard her extinguishing the flame beside the bed, and saw the light in the room dim, you finally allowed yourself to turn and see her throw the covers over bare legs. Shadows cradled the curves of her biceps and forearms, kissed the veins and shifting muscle, and you sent a quiet thank you up to any gods listening that she decided to wear a slip. It hugged her body, fell like silky water, and still covered all the skin that made you dizzy.
It matched the same deep red of the soft bonnet she had stretched protectively over salt and pepper braids, off-setting the bare canvas of her skin. You couldn’t help but allow your wandering eyes to roam free. No tint to her full lips, no shadow atop her eyelids, no darkening of her lower lashline. Only the cheekbones, the scars, the wrinkles, the colours. Natural. Somehow… softer, but not by much. And looking at her like that, from where you sat by her side, seeing the framing of her lips and brow against shadow, you were struck with a sudden bolt of… endearment? A gentle embarrassing warmth and adoration that tickled your heart. When she sat with her broad back against the headboard and looked at you, chocolate eyes and bare skin shining in the light of the lamp over your shoulder, face weary with the want for sleep but her gaze no less sharp, focused, wearing a protective covering for the hair she did take so much pride in, smelling of oils and spices and that unique scent… no condescension… no threats… well she could have almost—almost—been a woman you loved. A woman you married. Happily. With no political intent. With a genuine smile and willing hands. Content. Honoured. Joined together on a beautiful wedding day followed by a beautiful wedding night.
Perfection rather than convenience.
Desire rather than obligation.
Freedom rather than entrapment.
Then she opened her mouth - and you were swiftly reminded of why you were so reluctant to ‘marry’ her in the first place.
“It is a tactic used to build morale, but is ultimately a waste of time and resources.” A waste of time? An art festival? You stared at her, feeling your lips part slowly in realization, disgusted awe, and disbelief. “I plan my visits to smaller territories beforehand so I can miss the commotion. Rebellions do not care for celebrations and they will take any existing distraction as an opportunity for rallying.” She spoke with such conviction, you wondered if you were the mad one for believing festivals were harmless.
“So you just… don’t go?” A silly question you already knew the answer to, but what else was there to say? Arguing with Ambessa Medarda was like arguing with the mirror—you’d somehow lose every time.
She tilted her head, slowly, casting jagged scars into the light, and somewhere in the back of your mind, past the part that seemed razor-focused on her beauty, something whispered that you were edging into dangerous territory.
“I already have access to all I need,” she hummed. “What else would I find? A new weapon? Armour?” A smirk curled across dark lips, patronizing and arrogant. “Perhaps a painting?” She paused, eyes burning into your skull.
Nowhere to run, nowhere to go.
“Or a pretty little thing to sample?” It came out as a purr. Low and sinful. Indulgent and wicked. Spoken from between sharp white canines and sanguine lips. Your skin went hot. Images flashed through your mind. Bodies against bodies and mouths against mouths and the idea of her eyelashes fluttering beneath the weight of pleasure. If she noticed the sudden glaze of your eyes, she said nothing. Only gave you an austere look, powerful and righteous, with a slight lift of her chin.
“They have nothing to offer me.” The indulgence was gone, replaced by steel. And when she cast her mocha gaze down the expanse of your body, hidden underneath sleek bedding, she drew imaginary fire over your curves. “Nothing I do not already have.”
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This was my momentary return... I want to eat her up. She is my everything. Thank you for reading. Please remember that just because she has a penis doesn't mean she is masculine, male-adjacent, or framed that way. This is a LESBIAN fic. Be civil.
P. S. I see the asks in my inbox and they make me happy. I might get to work on some of those requests but no promises. - Rip x
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