It amused Mel to no end to find out that Jayce takes his morning tea with a copious amount of honey, a dash of lemon juice and a pinch of cinnamon. His mother's invention, he asserted. Mel takes hers with caramelised fruits simmered in Noxian spices, or with milk per Piltovan tradition.

She is no less amused to find out that the man has a terrible sweet tooth for someone of his constitution and that he consumes piggish amounts of food in the morning and for supper, but typically skips lunch if his day is to be spent in the lab, subsisting on the surplus calories of his breakfast, a chocolate bar or a sandwich or two, and the strong, black coffee that he takes—how else?—with a nigh obscene amount of sugar and his trademark pinch of cinnamon.

On the days they spend working together, Mel invites him to take smaller but regular meals with her; they visit renowned restaurants and cafés on the Sidereal Avenue and Mel finds out that he rather enjoys the frivolous, foamy spiced coffees as much as she does, and that his favourite dish is—unimaginatively so—steak in various permutations. Sometimes, though, when she's not feeling up the very real possibility of having to engage in small talk with this business partner or another, she has Elora deliver their meals to her office. She likes those moments best, away from the prying eyes of the public where they can steal food off each other's plates and kiss away the crumbs from their lips, oft accompanied by an amorous interlude. There was a curious sort of thrill to the prospect that someone might come knocking on the door at any moment, catching them in flagrante.

These past few days following the night at the opera have been chockfull of new discoveries.

To start with, Jayce Talis, Mel recounts from the top of her head, has terrible bed manners. He travels the width of the bed at night and hogs blankets in his sleep, snores softly in a way that occasionally makes his nose wheeze, which she thankfully finds more endearing than irritating. But who is she to criticise when her nightmares frequently send her kicking and gasping for air.

His one redeeming quality, Mel decides, is that he prefers to sleep naked, bared for her enjoyment whenever the nightmares prove far too unrelenting for her to find rest. She would curl up on a chaise in the corner of her bedroom and sketch his sleeping form, illuminated by the candlelight. Long moments would pass as she tried to find the exact curve of his lips, to replicate his eyebrow scar just right, or pondered the cut of his cheekbones or jaw until sleep finally claimed her.

Moreover, the man is a portable, self-sustaining heat source; she has but to scoot over and partake in his warmth. A fact which, no doubt, she'd come to appreciate even more come the winter.

She catches herself at that. Winter was still two seasons away and yet here she was, already assuming that she'd spend it by his side. How very presumptuous of me, she scolds herself.

More cons come to mind: he likes to sleep in while Mel herself is decidedly a morning bird. And on the rare occasion that he does wake earlier, he lets her sleep in, wholly upending her routine, much to Elora's chagrin. He compensates by preparing breakfast while she gets ready for her day. Eggs and fried toast, fluffy pancakes and waffles with fresh strawberries and cream. All tried and tested by his mother, he boasts. The kitchen is a catastrophe after his exertions, but Mel is not remiss to note that he is a decent cook even so.

But sometimes, she merely pretends to be asleep, only to watch him stretch his muscles in front of her windows, the sun pooling in around him. She would study the way sunlight caught on his warm skin—glistening like the cast bronze statues on the Academy grounds—and commit the image to memory; to turn into a painting at a later date, perhaps? Or perhaps to merely selfishly revisit later—in the moments of loneliness, or during the dull meetings that dragged on for hours.

One time she wakes to a throbbing pain in the side of her skull and finds his face buried in her hair like it were a pillow. She curses him for being a heavy sleeper—both figuratively and physically—as she tries to roll him over to avoid further tugging. The hurt is lessened the moment he drowsily opens his eyes and gazes at her with the disarming adoration that only he can conjure.

He offers her a thousand apologies in a hundred different ways, and Mel entertains the thought that perhaps procuring a sleeping bonnet for herself might be for the best.

But there were other discoveries that she had made, which wholly outweighed the cons in her mind.

His mouth was a revelation—it was the sweetest, softest thing she'd known—and his tongue was positively sinful. She is more so delighted to find out that he likes to indulge in a breakfast in bed—as he calls it—with no actual food involved at all. He awakes each morning they spend together filled with desire and eager to please her, and those that they do not are few and far between. It wasn't long before Mel held a monopoly over his nights. Gone were the times of burning midnight oil in the lab, poring over his research, and returning to bed at dawn.

But soon, she'd learned that he liked to apply the scientific method to more than just research.

"A true breakthrough requires time, councillor Medarda." he would say that in husky, deep voice which he reserves for their private moments and Mel is horrified to find herself giggling—how undignified—in response.

True to his word, he was not a quick man in the matters of passion. He applied himself to the task with the same diligence that he affords his every discovery. Caressing and tasting every inch of her skin until he'd found the nerve endings that coaxed the sharpest, most delicious moans from her. Next, he'd dedicate long, torturous moments to the study of her cues—where to apply himself with a bruising force and where a feather touch suffices, where to nibble and where a swirl of his tongue might be preferred.

He asked her a lot of questions as he learned to navigate her body. Mel liked that in a lover. And eagerly reciprocated when she could.

As is the case with most things, this dedication, too, came at a cost. Every minute tryst could turn into an hours-long ritual of worship, not due to any shortcomings on his part, but because of her own inability to let go. He'd always left her greedy for more and there was so little time…

Their passionate vigils take a toll on her work performance. The other day Elora had caught her in her office, asleep over a pot of freshly brewed coffee, all too exhausted to even pour herself a cup.

Had the city not been teetering on the brink of an uprising, Mel would likely entertain the thought of making arrangements for her first vacation in years, just so they could make love day and night, until at last the pain of the years of renunciation would fade, forgotten. They would pause only briefly, to take her meals or wash away the sweat of their sweet exertions, before resuming them promptly.

Alas, there was work to be done, so instead she turns it into a little game.

She would push ever so slightly, only to pull away and leave him wanting. As much as she desired him there and then, it was a distraction she could not afford. It did not help his case in the slightest that his body heated up at her smallest touch, which conveniently lent itself to all manner of mischief.

What's more, she found, teasing spurred him to even better performances. His inventor's mind mulling over the ways to pay her in kind, whispering indecencies in her ear, until at last the hour came to make good on his promises and she'd unravel in his arms, quivering all over. He would lean in for a kiss then, smirking as he did, and Mel would wish there was a way to wipe that smug smile off his face. She was all but helpless to resist smiling back.

"Humour me, dear," she had said on one such occasion. "How did a man who spends most of his days in a lab become this proficient at bedsport?"

"I'm a natural." he responded bashfully, clearly avoiding the answer by the way blood rushed into his face to betray his pathetic attempt at deflection.

Her eyes narrowed, demanding an answer.

"I—" he began with a small sigh. "I attended a lot of conferences."

"I don't follow?"

"Scientific conferences are—forgive the expression—the festivals of fucking." he explained.

Mel merely arched an eyebrow in a do go on way.

"I still remember the first conference Viktor and I went to." he chuckled. "He insisted that we should bunk together to save money from our grant. One thing led to another and he ended up being barred from the room for most of the event. He's never made that same mistake again."

"What did he do?"

"Oh, he's not of that persuasion at all." Jayce started explaining, interpreting her question all wrong. "I think he'd have more fun dissecting a frog than… being social."

Tactfully put, she thought. Nevertheless, she had to clarify: "That's not what I asked." but couldn't help her chuckle at the misunderstanding.

"Oh. Well, uhm… the Great City of Demacia has an extensive library. I'm sure he had fun his way."

A small concurring chuckle from them both.

"So you were quite the philanderer then?" she asked, the curiosity gnawing at her.

The pool of vermilion in his cheeks darkened. Mel smirked at the sight of it.

"Not really, no." he said by way of dismissal, but when Mel's inquisitive gaze would not flinch he was left with no choice but to continue: "The rakish lifestyle didn't suit me. There's only so much sex with strangers you can have before the excitement wears off. After a while I felt like an automaton. These people didn't care about me; they just saw an opportunity to read their name in the papers the next morning."—here he mimicked quotation marks with his fingers—"The latest conquest of the Jayce Talis."

Mel knew the feeling all too well. Growing up in Noxus, she had been taught that there was always a catch to affection. A trade. A political favour or a divulged secret, or worse yet, a search for a flaw ripe for exploitation. Piltover isn't so different in these matters, she found, merely less deadly. It was still brimming with all sorts of players who had a political itch to scratch and were willing to prostitute themselves—or their values—in return.

All except Jayce, she reminded herself. He had a particular talent for either antagonising people with his honesty, or winning over their hearts. There was not a single ulterior motive bone in his body.

He came to her with the desire to be with her—nothing more, nothing less, merely pouring his gentle, worried heart into her lap. At times it still felt too good to be true. The scepticism of her upbringing gnawing at her heart.

"So, I stopped." he continued. "Then, after a long break and a lot of goading about grandchildren from my mother, I tried dating. It never worked out."

Settling into his warmth, she decided to probe further, "How so?"

"Because you were the one I really wanted." he said so casually, as he did with all of his confessions. By his tone, you'd think that he was merely asking for a glass of water to wash down his supper with.

A pause followed. Her eyelids fluttered as if chasing some uncomfortable speck of something from her eyes.

"Surely you're exaggerating." she asserted perhaps too forcefully, trying to keep the pooling weakness she felt within from penetrating her voice.

"Oh no, I was ready to resign myself to staying a bachelor for the rest of my life," he shrugged, sitting up to prop his back against the headboard of his bed, the blanket covering his naked body slipping to his waist. "But then suddenly my wildest dream came true. You're here." At that, he pulled her to his chest, as if punctuating the statement.

She nestled her head in the crook of his neck, hiding her expression from him, but her lips were smiling against his skin.

No matter how hard she tried to dismiss this as mere entertainment—for his sake as well as hers—there was a pull to what they had that she could not deny. He made her feel lighter, like a teenager experiencing her first great romance.

"I could spend a lifetime doing this." he said then, calloused fingers drawing lazy circles on her hip as he stroked her side.

"Procrastinating in bed?" she chuckled lightly.

"So long as you're with me," he pressed a kiss on her temple as he spoke, fingers skipping across her skin as his hand sought hers, until at last they intertwined with hers.

Mel has never felt more grateful that her complexion didn't betray a blush easily.


But there are yet other facets to consider, beyond the way their bodies seem to meld together perfectly, or that he likes to joke in bed and has somehow never failed to make her laugh once. For instance, how quick he is to validate her in almost every matter and yet it always catches her unawares. Or the way they sought each other in every room, long before they became lovers.

Lovers, she repeats to herself, rolling the word on her tongue as one would a fine vintage.

Jayce Talis is her lover. The words still taste strangely to her, but somehow right. It's a terrifying thing, to be sure, this feeling soaring inside of her chest when he's near, yet somehow he makes the surrender so easy.

The two of them settle into a domestic routine so quickly that it feels like they've spent those years together and not just yearning from afar, circling each other like vultures. They brush their teeth together, bathe or take showers together—on which occasion they waste a deplorable amount of water as they make love underneath. Mel notices that after a wash, Jayce's hair is almost as curly as that dark patch of hair trailing down his abdomen. She likes to thread her fingers through it before he pomades it into place, eagerly awaiting her next opportunity to muss it up.

More than anything else, however, he belongs like no other lover she has had before; life is emptier without him. And inexplicably, every moment with him feels like home.

These are the thoughts milling about Mel's mind one morning as she sits with Jayce on the balcony of her estate, basking in the gentle heat of the morning sun, their breakfast of fruits, cheeses, pastry, tea and a jar of marmalade laid out on the tea table between them. They're neither dressed nor wholly naked—for the benefit of the staff rather than themselves. She, in a translucent white nightgown sewn of delicate spider-silk Ionian lace, falling just past the curve of her arse; him, in a pair of gold-embroidered, maroon red undershorts.

It's quiet, except for the pleasant white noise of rustling leaves and the singsong chirping of birds perched high in the branches of the arboretum below. The city has not yet awoken from its slumber.

Mel sips her tea from a gold-rimmed saucer and ponders the next strokes of paint she plans to add to the painting that would appear finished to everyone but her. She is one of those artists that are driven to exasperation by the imperfections in their work. Any minute divergence from her vision. But her motivation to pick up her knives is waning—one must be in a certain headspace to paint a place so desolate and full of pain as Noxus, and her life does not lack for happy distractions.

Speaking of…

There is an orange stain on her otherwise pristine white shift that she cannot describe as other than loud—evidence of one such happy distraction. He was feeding her morsels of his croissant smothered in orange jam when the sugary substance decided to plop onto her neckline. Mel dismissed his apologies with a soft chuckle, simply wiping off the offending substance with her finger and smearing it across his lips, just so she could lick it off them.

Now the perpetrator is sat on her many kneeling pillows, his long legs bent under him. His eyes are skimming the latest issue of the Bluewind Court Tattler intently, brows knitted in some unspoken fury as she rarely saw them. He huffs like an angered bull and the paper crumples slightly as his right hand balls up into a fist.

"Anything of interest?" she inquires softly, curious what could trigger such a display.

Wordlessly, he flips the paper over so she can read the title for herself, while he visibly struggles to get ahold of his temper.

MAN OF PROGRESS CAUGHT IN A WEB OF INTRIGUE
THE COUNCIL'S MOST RECENT APPOINTEE, JAYCE TALIS, REPORTEDLY ENGAGED IN A LIAISON
WITH COUNCILLOR MEDARDA. WHAT DOES NOXUS STAND TO GAIN FROM PILTOVER'S GOLDEN BOY?

Oh.

"Does it bother you that they know?" she says after a second or two of musing, careful keep any note of uncertainty from her voice.

"No, of course not," he breathes out somewhat defensively. "There's nothing shameful about us being together. I'm proud to be your partner. I'm only bothered by what they say about you."

It takes Mel several solemn seconds to process what he had just said. It was not the lack of discretion, or shame as she had feared—she chastises herself for having doubted him, even if that doubt lasted but a moment—no, the only indignation he felt was on her behalf. With a sigh and a small blink, she chases away the emotion threatening to spill over just then.

"This reporter—" he scoffs. "Has the nerve to stress that you're a foreign element on the council as if you haven't done more for Piltover in less than a decade than the rest of those clowns have in generations."

She had steeled herself against these types of venomous remarks long ago, but she'd be lying if she were to claim that his exasperation did not feel like flattery. He trusted her unconditionally.

She was not a vain woman, despite her appearance, and yet there was no denying that his righteous anger at the world that sneered at her accomplishments and made snide insinuations provided comfort she has never been afforded before, and that the fire dancing in his amber eyes stirred a heat between her thighs.

"I haven't been in a fight since my Academy days, but I'll be damned if I don't want to sock this Augustus Clutterbuck in the face."

"As amusing as that would be," she gives soft chuckle. "I strongly advise against going through with it."

Instead of rearranging a hapless reporter's face, he settles for a minor catharsis of flinging the tabloid across the balcony where it stops just shy of the edge.

"Conflict of interest my ass." he mutters. "We're all interest and no conflict."

"Where did you even get this… news source?" she questions. It was certainly not the type of periodical she would typically keep in her home, or hold onto.

"Elora gave it to me." came the admission.

Mel frowns. Of course she did. The shadow of her homeland ever tethered to her heels.

She scoots in closer, straddling his thigh. Her slender fingers brush against his hand, then sweep upward along the brazen skin of his arm, until at last she rests her hand on his shoulder, the other on his thigh, stroking him reassuringly.

"Nothing they print can ever change the truth."

"But if my mother reads it—" he protests, voice filled with worry.

She cups his jaw gently, forcing him to lift his eyes to her face and he looks at her as if her hazel eyes hold the answers to the universe.

"Whose judgement will she trust? Yours or theirs?" she asks emphatically.

He puffs out his cheeks, letting out all of his frustration with a single long exhale.

"You're right." he assents.

Mel couldn't bear to see him like this—his sunshine dwindling under the raincloud overhead. She lowers his face to her lips then and kisses the crease between his brows.

Forehead pressed against his, she murmurs: "Let's see if we can't make this morning a little better, hmm?"

She starts with peppering his face with kisses, from the bridge of his nose, across his cheeks and along his jawline until at last her lips arrive at his own. A little habit she's picked up from the man smiling into her kiss, who absolutely insists on gracing each and every one of her golden freckles with a peck, every time. He licks into her mouth eagerly, their tongues entangling in a sultry dance, drawing ragged breaths from them when they part momentarily, her teeth grazing his bottom lip. They both taste of that accursed orange marmalade, she notes, suppressing a chuckle tickling inside her throat.

His skin erupts in shivers as she drags her nails across his chest, tracing the shapes of his muscles as she makes her way down to the sensitive spot near his abdomen. He lets out a delicious groan when her fingertips flit against it and Mel mouths a silent thank you that Jayce Talis is not the kind of man who's shy about vocalising his pleasure. She steals the hurried breaths off his lips, revelling in the taste of his sighs against her tongue.

Jayce stares at her in awe, desire hazing his amber eyes, when she angles her hips just so, rubbing the pooling wetness between her legs against the taut muscle of his thigh. It takes but a split second for his body to respond in kind, fostering in her a sense of pride that is wholly unbecoming. Her lips curl into a smirk as she repeats the move… once… twice… three times… A soft moan escapes her and his face turns to crimson.

The blush paints his cheeks such a pretty colour, Mel observes, taking a moment to memorise it.

Her hand slips downward, leaving the sweet spot that he assures her only she knows about, and brushes against the well-trimmed strip of black hair trailing from his navel to the band of his underwear. Breath catches in his throat and Mel decides to linger there for a moment, running her fingers through the coarse hair, teasing him until he lets out a frustrated huff. Chuckling lightly, she hooks a finger under the band, pulling his underwear down with a practiced motion.

At last she grabs his cock, tracing its length with her nails in the way she knows he likes, and watches as his eyes lid at the sensation. It's a heady sort of feeling, having a man at her mercy like this and she stretches the moment for what seems like an eternity, her thumb circling the sensitive head of his cock until he bucks into her hand with a sheepish smile.

Somehow, he's both greedy for her touch and yet boyishly shy, even though she has worshipped him with nearly every part of her being. Mel supposes that it's because of all those lonesome moments over the years when he had to substitute her hand for his own. She can sympathise; she, too, has thought of him an embarrassing number of times when alleviating her own loneliness.

"Spit," she instructs him, extending her hand for the purpose, and he follows with the eagerness of a boy entering his favourite candystore.

She returns her attention to his cock, her hand wrapping around the base, smearing his juices along the hot flesh as she gives him a tentative pump, coaxing yet another delicious moan from him.

He leans in, planting a soft kiss just below her ear, and whispers in that low, aroused baritone of his: "I see you have a firm grip on the situation."

The remark has no business to make her laugh as much as it does, but it comes out a shrill sound, loud and unladylike, reverberating through her body so that she has to steady herself against his shoulder, shaking all over with laughter.

"You're ridiculous." she says once she finds her breath again.

"More than the billboards with my face plastered all over?" he retorts with an impish look in his eyes.

"Just about." Mel smirks, rolling her hips, slick cunt grinding against his thigh.

Jayce clenches the muscles on his thigh as much as he can—almost painfully so—to let her ride him more easily, even as the sweet friction of her hand against his cock turns every cell in his body into jelly. His hands, cupping her arse, guide her rhythm with gentle nudges as she rubs against him, calloused fingers digging into her silky skin. She allows him to set a pace that suits them both, the pumping of her hand in time with the brushes of his skin against her clit. Their frantic breaths coming out in unison.

He stops her just shy of his climax, "Together." he says, and the expression on her face at that moment can't be described as anything less than silly. Silly and so, so in love.

Yes, in love, she finally admits to herself, against her better judgement. In spite of the danger it puts him in.

"Let me help you."

One of his hands leaves her arse, muttering a little breathlessly: "Hate to let you go," as he squeezes it gently, fingers travelling across her thigh in a tickling motion, eliciting a quiet, almost musical titter from Mel.

He slides his thumb into her folds, slicking it with her juices and then up up up, strumming her clit gently like it's a delicate instrument capable of producing the loveliest of tunes. And so it does. Mel moans, her eyes fluttering shut as the pleasure takes her, her focused strokes wavering.

A grasp on her chin brings her out of her reverie.

"Look at me." Jayce says, his tone firm and hoarse but not unkind.

Mel likes this side of him, needy and domineering. But not overly so. Not so much as to put her off. She makes a mental note to explore that in the foreseeable future.

His hand nestles on the curve of her rear again, but not before stopping to pinch her nipple through the gossamer fabric along the way, coaxing a faint hiss out of her. He resumes their tempo, timing their strokes with precision. Mel briefly wonders if that particular talent stems from the scientist in him or the former rake. That train of thought is soon interrupted by an especially delightful swipe of his thumb on her cunt, eliciting a breathless whimper from her, nails digging into his shoulder drawing just the tiniest bit of blood.

Their eyes remain tethered to one another as they ride out their orgasms, mouthing their pleasure.

He comes in hot spurts, hips jerking into her hand just as she falls over the edge, collapsing in his arms in a sweet abandon, his name on her breath.

"Incredible," he murmurs, sweeping a stray lock of hair from her face. Mel beams back at him, a shine in her eyes that is of bliss and adoration and everything in between.

Using a convenient discarded napkin he cleans himself then wipes her hand, bringing it to his lips reverently, kissing away the remnant stickiness. They fall back onto the pillows, a tangle of limbs, happy and spent.

Mel catches herself giggling—of all things—when she speaks: "I knew my years of horse-riding would come in handy."

"Did you just call me a stallion? I'll take it as a compliment about my size." Jayce chuckles, a slight cockiness to his voice that Mel would presently rather not encourage. "Of my thighs, of course." he adds quickly.

A hand over his mouth clamps it shut before he can make any more smart comments.

"If you start neighing, I'm kicking you out of bed." she warns, only half-serious.

"Noted." he laughs, but in his eyes Mel can already see a plan hatching—to catch her off-guard when least expected. "Although… technically… we're not in bed right now." he points out, brazen as ever.

She issues yet another warning at that: "Jayce Talis, don't you dare." and to emphasise her point, she arms herself with a pillow, ready to strike.

Hands raised in front of his face in defence, he hastily promises: "I won't! I won't! Have mercy."

She only relents when he clasps her hand in his, calloused and warm. She settles against his chest, caressing the wet heat of his body with delicate fingers. Tilting her chin, Jayce smiles at her—not with the perfectly practiced, pearly grin of his PR persona—really smiles, a bit goofy and a little bit lopsided, but as lovable as could be. He traces her lips with the thumb which, Mel notes, tastes still a little bit like her, kissing off the little beads of sweat off her forehead as he does, before bringing his lips to hers, drinking her in like she is everything he'll ever need to survive. It feels like he's pouring out all of his love when he moans into her mouth, unhurried, but with a promise of more lust later.

Here, in his arms, splayed on the cushions and a sun-warmed marble floor of her balcony, Mel is overcome with a warmth that no fire, desert or volcano in Noxus could ever afford. Only a singular blacksmith's son.

"So," Mel eyes him curiously when they part, eyebrow arched in anticipation of the answer. "Is it a good morning?"

"It's perfect," he murmurs, pressing another kiss on her forehead. "But so is every morning I begin with you."