Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It all started when you happened to take note of the local recruitment. The offer came unexpectedly and suddenly, yet you had never been more certain about something in your life. You enlisted along the coast of Noxus, not far from your family's farm and Noxus Prime. It wasn't for pride or patriotism; it was love wrapped in desperation. Though you'd be lying if you said the Medarda crest didn't sway you just a little. Awe had its own gravity. But need - need was heavier. You and your family had struggled for the last few years. The harvests had been anything but satisfactory. Your father was often sick, though he tried to hide it, and your mother had her own battles. Despite your family's hard work and determination, you were convinced that one of you - if not all of you - would perish, either this winter or the next. And no, that was not something you were willing to risk. Your heart ached and tears threatened to fall when you told your parents your decision. Despite their reluctance to let you leave, they watched you go the next day. A goodbye kiss and the promise to send letters were the only things they would have of their daughter for a while.

Then it truly started. You were recruited and trained. The first few weeks after your recruitment were nothing short of hell. You were no stranger to hard labor, yet it paled in comparison. Nothing could have prepared you for the grueling demands of Noxian training, especially not that of the Medarda's. Day and night, you pushed yourself beyond your limits, enduring blood, sweat, and tears as you fought to keep up. Everything to secure your families health for the coming winter, everything to offer a more stable income for those you held dearest. Family was your priority. By blood or bond. It didn't matter, you'd do anything for them.

And despite the cruelty of the training, you adapted quickly.

It didn't take long for you to garner a reputation among the new recruits. Your determination caught the attention of your commanders, though many ground their teeth at your unruly spirit. Rictus, Medarda's personal bodyguard and right hand, being the one who took you under his thumb in the end. He praised your skills with a blade through personal training sessions and approving nods. He nurtured your talents. Thanks in part to him, you became a formidable soldier. Though it wasn't just your physicality, it was your mind as well, sharp and strategic.

You had proven yourself in the rights of Noxus.

Anyone could prosper here, even a young woman from a background like yours. With your strength of will and your drive to succeed, you had managed to send enough money back home to have your mother and father live through a comfortable winter. Within four months you'd earned yourself a leading position within the scout unit.

You walked a new life now, a different one. One you had never pictured yourself in. And yet here you were. One and a half years of servitude under the Medarda banner. Countless missions and two battles. They hadn't been grand campaigns, no conquests of large scale, but they were brutal in the way all Noxian conquests were, especially under the command of the Warlord herself. Your first kill had come long before that, though, back in the city near your farm. You didn't flinch then, and you don't flinch now. While you watched others lose themselves to the gruesome ways and harsh demands, you never lost your wit, humor, or humanity. However, you did learn to keep yourself in check, especially around your superiors.

At least, most of them.

The Noxian vessel, your current home, loomed like a shadow against the bright skyline of Piltover. The city of Progress. The black iron hull of the massive warship a stark contrast to the gleaming gold and brass towers of the city. Docked in the harbor for several weeks now, its presence served as a constant, unspoken reminder of Noxus's reach and power. It brings with it a sense of unease that isn't necessarily unwarranted. The ship's sails bore the blood-red insignia of the empire, fluttering in the brisk sea breeze.

Piltover’s harbor bustled with life and in vibrant colors. Merchants bartered, dockhands shouted orders, and after recent attacks, enforcers patrolled more frequently. All with wary eyes frequently darting toward the Noxian vessel.

The ship itself was a fortress on water, bristling with defensive weaponry and guarded by soldiers clad in dark armor and red cloth. Their expressions were unreadable, helmets obscuring their identities, but their mere presence was enough to dissuade curiosity.

Above the main deck, was a towering cabin, its windows glowing faintly with the warm light of oil lamps. Inside, the air was warm and thick with the scent of leather, parchment, and the unmistakable smell of steel and power. An office befitting the likes of whom it belonged to. It was both functional and opulent - walls lined with shelves holding maps, books, weapons and scrolls. Records of past conquests and strategies yet to unfold. Towards the back of the room, with the windows at its back, was a large dark oak desk dominating the space. Its surface immaculate except for a few neatly arranged items. Behind it sat a high-backed chair, upholstered in dark leather and hints of red.

And in it, sat no other than the Warlord, General Ambessa Medarda herself. A woman, a warrior, a mother. An impossible imposing figure of immense strength and brutal elegance. A woman you bowed to. A woman you fought and killed for. A woman you'd give your life for.

After you stated your business in the hallway, the guards let you in. As you stepped into Ambessa's office and the door closed softly behind you, you proceeded to your usual spot.

Ambessa didn’t immediately acknowledge your presence. Her eyes remained on the document in her hand, her expression a mask of quiet intensity. You had quickly learned the unspoken command: wait until she addresses you.

It was in moments like these where you allowed yourself to forget yourself. Loosened that tight grip on the soldier’s mask just enough to let your gaze wander - shooting a few unnoticed glances at the woman who had a grip on you the moment you witnessed her in full force. And yes, you were naïve enough to believe she hadn't noticed.

Your eyes drew over her, first slow, then quicker, the way they always did when you let yourself have this much. It was practiced indulgence. And every time, you told yourself you only looked for a second, but seconds had a way of stretching around her.

Her posture, as ever, perfect — broad shoulders relaxed, yet ready. You knew that stance. You'd seen it in battle, in quiet, in moments where she hadn't known you were watching.

And now you were watching again.

You let yourself linger one heartbeat longer than you should have.

Then you looked away.

Even indulgence had its limits. And you knew better than to test them.

You forced your attention back to the center. Straightened your spine. Slid the mask firmly back into place - just in time.

She set the paper down and leaned back in her chair, her gaze lifting to meet yours. Her dark eyes sharpened as they locked onto you, quickly taking in your stance, your composure, and the purpose in your step as you took it for permission to approach her.

"Report," she said simply, her tone even yet laced with expectation. "You wouldn’t disturb me unless it was important."

Your boots had made the wood groan as you stepped even closer to her desk, handing over a stack of papers, your revised reports. A routine you'd grown accustomed to. You had stopped just short of her desk, keeping your eyes cast forward. Her sharp gaze fixed on you more intently, an unyielding force that demanded you to not waste her time, and get on with it. You felt it sear into you, and like always, your heart jumped a fraction, loving her attention just a little too much.

''General Medarda,'' you began, keeping your voice steady despite the faint tremor of nervous energy she always elicited in you. How you continued to manage so professionally in her presence, was beyond you. ''I bring news regarding your daughter. It seems she's become... involved with one of Piltover's scientists. Jayce Talis.''

Ambessa's expression didn't waver, your words no news to her, she suspected as much, she had send her daughter to Piltover for many a reason, one of which was to secure a hold on the Council. And yet, her honed instincts told her there was more to it. Her composure was only betrayed by the slightest narrow of eyes, an ounce of interest flickering in them.

"Jayce Talis," she repeats, voice low and deliberate. She remembered the boy. Bright, if unseasoned. Ambitious. He might prove a useful tool, provided he understood the weight of what he held. Hextech, they called it. A clever invention, one she came to Piltover for. But it was still untested, just like its creator. He was not strong. Not yet. And certainly not fit for her daughter. She leaned back in her chair, the leather creaking faintly. "My Mel. Involved with him?"

A pause. Then, colder: "And what makes you so certain of this... entanglement?"

You squared your shoulders, feeling her scrutiny press against you like a physical weight. There had always been a certain heat in her presence - steady, smoldering - something you learned early on had far too much of an effect on you. The way she carried power was sex to your eyes. The command in her voice, the precision of her words, the immovable authority in every motion. Gods.

You’d heard of her long before you stepped into her ranks, every Noxian had. You grew up with stories of her ruthlessness, her triumph, her legend. And when you'd enlisted and finally met her, seen her with your own eyes, heard her speak with that low, measured certainty... you’d known you were done for. And yet, somehow, in your own twisted way, it had proven useful. You quickly knew that you wanted to be more than a mere foot-soldier. And the higher you rose, the more money you could send back to your family - that was the less horny justification. Still, the thing you'd developed back then was something..., something inconvenient, but steady, and entirely yours. A hunger you never dared give form to. You kept it buried, mostly. Let it show only in stolen glances and brief lapses in your composure, cracks you masked quickly. But despite the pull — despite how easy it would be to fall, especially after hearing about the playthings she took — you’d vowed to never let her see the effect she had on you. Not now, and hopefully not ever.

You cleared your throat.

''One of my men has been keeping a close eye on him,'' you replied swiftly. ''He reports personal meetings, for weeks now – intimate ones. He claims their involvement goes beyond mere professional collaboration.''

That was indeed news to her. Her Mel, harboring feelings? Ambessa tilted her head slightly, her gaze flickering with a mix of curiosity and something colder. She knew her daughter had always been the softer kind, though smart and cunning, she never got rid of that pesky thing called empathy. Ambessa leaned forward now, resting her elbows on the desk.

''Personal meetings,'' she mused, the words lingering in the air for a second. ''I didn't realize Mel had time for... distractions. And with a man like Talis, no less...'' There's a brief pause as her eyes narrowed further, jaw tense as thoughts raced. This might bring complications I did not expect.

Relieved and disappointed in equal measure when her scrutiny left you, you bowed your head slightly. ''How do you wish for me to proceed, General?''

For a long moment, Ambessa was silent, her mind clearly working through the implications and possibilities of this revelation. Her gaze hardened when she spoke again, tone cold and decisive.

''Continue monitoring the Talis boy. I want to know his intentions, his plans. His hextech project. This... dalliance with my daughter may proof useful, but, if he poses a risk to her, or to our interests, he must be dealt with.''

Words final, you gave a crisp nod, snapping into a sharp Noxian salute, fist bumping against your chest.

"As you command, General."

You turned to leave — and then didn’t.
There was still one matter left. One last thing you’d been asked to convey, and you cursed yourself for not getting it over with sooner. It should’ve been simple: just another message, just another errand passed along the chain. But the words sat heavy in the back of your throat, simmering beneath the surface, waiting for clearance that would never come.

You hesitated.

Only for a fraction of a second — but in her presence, that was an eternity.

Ambessa’s eyes lifted. She caught your glance without effort, her gaze steady, piercing, like she’d known it was coming all along. One brow arched in quiet amusement.

"You have something on your mind, soldier," she said smoothly. Her hand lifted, gesturing for you to speak, and her lips curled with the barest hint of a knowing smirk. "Speak your piece. I won't bite..."

Oh, damn it.

The tease — light, easy, directed at you — landed with devastating precision. Heat crawled uninvited up your neck, blooming across your cheeks before you could will it down. Sometimes you feared you were just a little bit too gay to be working for a woman like this. Well... You cleared your throat, attempting to gather what little composure you had left before it abandoned you entirely.

You'd seen her smirk before. At enemies. At fools. At generals twice your rank who thought they could outmaneuver her.

But you had never seen her smirk like that - and certainly never at you.

"I... well, the Councilors have requested your presence at tonight’s memorial service," you began, steady enough to feel a flicker of pride. "There’s to be a ball afterward. In honor of those who fell during the rebel’s attack."

Formal. Clean. No stammer. Good fucking job. A pat on the back was in order, you hero!

Ambessa let out a low, sardonic chuckle, rich and sharp. Her smirk deepened, something predatory glinting behind her eyes. She leaned back, one hand drumming thoughtfully on the desk.

"A ball to honor the fallen," she repeated, voice laced with disdain. "How... traditional."

She paused, gaze drifting — amused, detached, already dissecting the political usefulness of the evening. Then she sighed and waved a hand. You recognized the gesture: a sign her day's duties had ended, her mind already moving elsewhere.

"Very well. I'll attend." A pause. "I suppose it’ll be... entertaining to see the Council squirm." Her voice darkened, not in threat, but in pleasure. Maybe there will be something worth brokering from their vulnerability, she mused.

You nodded quickly, surprised. You hadn't expected her to accept — and certainly not with anything bordering on interest. You were still processing that shift when your thoughts ambushed you: unbidden, unprofessional. You pictured her there, dressed not in the armor she wore like second skin, but in one of her formal military uniforms, ones you had only caught glimpses of before. Immaculate. Severe. Stunning.

And then, like a dagger slipping from its sheath, the disastrous lesbian broke through:

"Would you like me to accompany you, General?"

Silence.

Your breath caught, your blood froze. You realized, immediately, what you'd said. The tone. The implication. The overstep.

Oh.

Oh no.

Oh fuck no.

Gods, what had you done?

Your eyes went wide in horror, the words echoing in your ears.

"O-or perhaps someone else," you added quickly, too quickly, panic bleeding into every syllable. What was happening? What were you doing?

Not her, that’s for sure, some cursed part of your mind whispered, teasing and vicious. You mentally slapped it into silence. Like that would help...

This wasn't just a slip. It was a breach. A major fuck up. Something that could easily cost you your life. Especially infront of her. 

You waited for the rebuke. The cold stare. The dismissal. Or worse.

But instead...

Her eyes returned to you — slow and deliberate. A smile curved her lips. Not cruel. Not kind. Just sharp enough to cut skin. You couldn't look away.

Wow, you thought, nearly breathless.

The sight did things. Unruly, treacherous things.

"Do you think I need an escort, commander?" Her voice was silk over steel. Amused. Controlled. But her eyes, those damn eyes, remained locked on you, unblinking. "I'm more than capable of handling myself among these Piltovan fools."

The words were your undoing. Not because they put you in your place, but because she hadn’t. Because you were still standing. Because she let the moment breathe, let you squirm beneath her gaze, her voice, that smile so sharp it might as well have been a weapon.

And somehow, that was worse than being struck down.

You felt it then — that old spark. The one your early commanders tried so hard to stamp out. The one you'd learned to sheath beneath obedience, to hide behind the picture-perfect mask. The one you'd never let slip in front of her.

Until now.

And just like that, it flared back to life: sudden, sharp, impossible to ignore. Like she'd poured oil on kindling with nothing more than a smirk and a dare.

Your mouth stayed shut. For one heartbeat.

Then another.

Your self-preservation barked at you — smooth it over, shut your mouth, bow, apologize, leave — before you ruin everything. Or worse: Before she ruins you.

You could feel the words rising anyway, hot and uninvited.

Don't do it. Beg forgiveness, you idiot.

Stop. Stop.

But you didn't.

Gods help you — you didn't. You just couldn't.

A faint smile tugged at the corner of your lips. The part of you you'd kept buried, the part that still remembered how to be more than a soldier, leaned forward. Stepped into the fire.

"Of course not, General. But perhaps my company could make the evening... less tedious."

She raised a brow, amusement flickering unmistakably across her face.

"Is that so?" she drawled, voice slow and rich with mockery. She leaned forward, gaze locked onto yours like a lion narrowing in — not to strike, but to watch.

Then:

"Fine." A pause, deliberate, heavy. "Provided you can manage to behave yourself in public. I'd hate to have to discipline you during the festivities."

Her voice dipped low on discipline, and it shouldn’t have sent heat crawling up your spine the way it did. But it did.

And fuck, if that wasn't the exact moment you knew you were well and truly ruined.

A soft laugh slipped out — involuntary, betraying you completely. You tried to stifle it, but it was too late.

"For you, General," you said, clearing your throat, "I'll be on my best behavior."

The fire crackled. You felt bold. Reckless. And a little bit drunk on adrenaline. You gave her a crisp salute, your voice just a hair too light:

"I'll ready our attire. Or is there anything else I can do for you, General?"

The audacity. Ambessa thought.

You just couldn't stop yourself, could you? Her eyes gleamed, catching on your insolence with rare warmth behind them. Her mouth returned to its usual calm line, but the corners still quirked — faint, telling.

Leaning back, she let the silence stretch a beat.

"Just one thing, little one," she said, voice pitched lower now — silken, knowing. "Make sure you wear something befitting of my presence."

You swallowed. Hard.

The shudder you barely suppressed gave you away, as did the grin trying to climb your face. You bit your lip and gave a final salute — sharper this time, to cover the trembling edges of your own absurd joy — and turned on your heel.

You didn't mean to. Truly, you didn't. But with every inch of you alight and alive, a little sway worked its way into your step as you walked out the door.

It clicked shut behind you. Your heart thundered.

Had you really said all of that? In front of her?

You didn't know whether to congratulate yourself or find the nearest Piltovan canal and let it take you.

Behind the door, Ambessa's gaze lingered, sharp and thoughtful. A smirk played across her lips as she leaned back into her chair, fingers drumming along the carved wood of the armrest.

Not annoyance. Not even amusement. Something else.

"Curious," she murmured to herself. Her tone was low, rich with something like intrigue.

The fire you'd shown — the foolish, fleeting flicker of personality — had not gone unnoticed.

Far from it.