Chapter Text
Growing up in a brothel meant that you were constantly surrounded by the sight and smell of sex.
The brothel keeper, "Madam," whatever you wish to call her, had tried to keep those innocent eyes away from whatever debauchery took place. The same could be said about the high-ranking concubines that coveted you like their own. After all, you were born of unfortunate circumstance. Your true mother cast aside, as a pregnant concubine has and no longer will have, any use. Though, being that it is a brothel—those eyes of yours would always pick up things, no matter the avoidance the adults tried to maintain.
The smell of alcohol, tobacco, and sex. The sight of drunken men, slipped and tousled collars, and the robes of concubines slipping to tease their "lovely" patrons. The sound of coins jingling in leather bags, the muffled moans from the floors above, the teases that the working women give to coax more money from unsuspecting men—those same, or similar unsuspecting men that argue and shout when they don't get their way, when they've emptied their pockets or don't have enough to rent the body they wished. All of it was committed to memory.
And while sex remained an integral part of your life, being surrounded by it, it rarely phased you—and it certainly wasn't something you'd have physical or emotional interest in enacting. Though, there was a sense of intrigue at the clashing bodies, red marks, and moans of pleasure while one engaged in that sort of intimacy.
Regardless, throughout your life, you had never seen the act up-close, only heard, and only seen grabby hands at slipped, plush robes. But your imagination seemed not to stray too far from the real thing, anatomy books you forced yourself to learn and read only aided your plight.
And when you picked up the familar, comforting paint brush, you've had all your life, you couldn't help but express what your mind conjured onto paper: graphic, carnal desire.
Painting had always been your favorite medium to project your thoughts. From nightmares when you were young, to dreams of a better life for you and your "role models" at the brothel. Now, it seemed only appropriate to express the sexual environment you grew up in. It started with only a man and woman, the brush painting exactly what you saw. Then it transformed into other relationships, as you took in certain dynamics between certain concubines. The way the women whispered and touched each other, the way they giggled and admired each other's forms so closely it would be unlike the "sister" dynamic that previously existed.
Your hands told experiences of the desire between men and women, the erotism of vanilla sex—and the sodomy you knew took place between them. Along with the "forbidden" desire of two women—and the use of toys to stimulate that which a man would.
And beneath a pseudonym, you published these paintings for others to see, hearing the whispers of both excitement and shock around the area.
Those incredulous gasps and those aroused gasps never stopped even when you did—when you set down your paint brush with tears in your eyes and vowed never to paint such forbidden debauchery again.
For a change of environment you traveled, even still seeing purchased books with your pseudonym in the corner of the cover. It was both embarrassing having your paintings so loved, and a reminder of what a sick mind you held to create such things so young and for so long.
Nevertheless, you sit at a local tavern in Noxus—painters bag leaned against the table, an empty cup of alchohol in your hand, and fluttering eyes—it was just that type of day to get drunk.
Your eyes almost fully closed beneath the dimmed lighting of the sun that the tavern's canopy blocked out—until there's a stomp that shakes the wooden platform your table is sat on. "A beautiful girl like you should be more aware that drinking outside is dangerous. Especially when in a country like Noxus," you hear a voice speak, it sounds like a woman, a proper—likely rich—woman at that.
"...hm?" You slowly sit up and rub your eyes, yawning as you come back to reality. Your vision is blurry for a moment as you capture the sight of a large, imposing figures beside you, her body blocking both the sun and the sights behind her.
"Come on," she taps your cheek with two fingers, pushing you to focus on her. "You seem to lack basic survival instincts, little one," she teases, her large hands being placed on her hips. At her words, your eyelashes flutter, you shake your head slightly and focus on the figure before you. Your eyes squint, both from the side effects of the alchohol and the blurry vision that fades. Those eyes of yours rake across her body, noticing her muscular stature unlike a typical woman, the scars that adorn her brown skin, the red and black leather, the hints of silver metal, those tough brown eyes, and finally her wild gray hair.
It takes you a moment before you process her appearance, eyes widening of fear and shock as you come to the conclusion of her identity:
Ambessa Medarda.
"There you are," she coos at the sight of your recognition. A slight whimper leaves your throat as you adjust in your seat, head turning to look back at the warrior who stands behind you, a large beard and face with piercings, his hand on a spear, and his eyes closely watching you.
"Don't worry, Rictus won't harm you, unless you do something unfathomable," Ambessa rolls her eyes, "He's simply protective."
"Ms. Medarda..." you mutter and swallow the lump in your throat. Your wide eyes peer up at her, pupils seeming to shake in fear.
"Would you calm down, girl?" Ambessa snort at your expression of fear, her eyes taking in the adorable sight of your stiff body looking up at her—yet avoiding her eyes, "I only mean to ask a question."
You gulp, nodding as you hesitantly look up at her. She leans down, her stature certainly intimidating you like its supposed to. She slides an open book into your view, the sight on the page making you have a brief, noticiable reaction: a woman, a concubine perhaps, is face down, ass up on a mat—her robes fallen to the middle of her back while another woman, though bigger than the first, has her lips plastered on the first woman's pussy. "Did you paint this?" Ambessa hums, her eyes studying your own, though there's a twitch to her lips...a smirk? as if she already knows the truth, whether you admit it or not.
"No," you swallow, "I never painted that."
"This isn't yours?" Ambessa hums with slight amusement. She closes the book and turns it to the cover is facing you, "That isn't your pseudonym?"
"No."
A low hum leaves Ambessa's throat, her head tilting as she studies you. Every twitch, every micro-expression, the gloss of your eyes, all under her scrutinizing gaze.
You swear for a moment she'll kill you. That she caught you in your lie and now she'll seperate your head from your body like you've heard her do before. And it seems the other customers of the tavern, or the environment in general, seem to share the same sentiment—movement stopped, eyes focused on the incident, and bated breath. The woman relishes in your expression, after a beat, her still expression changes, her lips growing into a smirk as her eyes narrow. "I swear, I thought your pants would become alight," she jokes, standing up straight. Her eyes glance at her environment, amused at the nosey people, before they trail to Rictus.
"...Take the girl," she hums the command, watching your face turn to shock and anxiety, confused as to why the gaurds hook their arms under yours and lift you from the seat.
Ambessa grabs the lonely painter's bag from the table and tosses a few coins onto the wooden table, knowing that probably won't end up with the actual staff. Nevertheless, she walks with a small smile at your stumbling feet against the concrete as they escort you to the Medarda estate.
Somewhere along the way, something was tied around your head to cover your eyes. Your ears were the only things you could rely on they treated you like a ragdoll, dragging you without care to the household. There's shuffling, grunts, and commands, the sounds of doors opening, and the clanging of metal. After a moment, you're dumped into a chair, hands tied behind the wood, and the cloth yanked from your eyes. You wince as you adjust to the dim lighting, panic settling in your chest, and tears pooling in your eyes. You suck in breaths, your bottom lip caught behind your teeth as you try not to make too much noise.
Anxiety racking your frame, you try and calm down by observing the room. It's a bedroom, a large one at that. There's very few lighting fixtures on the wall, the small fires burning an orange-yellow in their glass cages. There are pieces of red fabric draped against the wall in patterns, the symbol of Noxus plastered on one of the walls, sitting above a shelf for a weapon (said weapon is missing) and a brown dresser. The bed is seemingly in the middle of the room, headboard peeking from behind a long, wooden red room divider—a sheer red canopy hanging above the bed.
That side of the room, blocked by that room divider, you assume carries the intimate details of whoever lives here. It could be Ambessa for all you know. Your eyes drift to in front of the wooden room divider, a couch sits there upon a large mat. The shape is similar to those tradional therapist couches, but its much larger and wider, possibly fitting 3 or 4 people on it at once. You wonder the activites that go in here, a large couch seperated from the bed and a large, soft mat to cover some more area in front of the couch?
Nevertheless, taking in the sight of the bedroom seemed to calm you down. At least, for a brief moment until the silence aided the dread that set in.
You sit alone for a while, sobs racking your frame, and hands twisting at the restraints. It isn't until you hear the door open do you stop momentarily. You hiccup, watching Ambessa walk through the doorway.
At the sight of your tear-stained face, Ambessa fake pouts, grasping your cheeks softly in one of her large palms and pushing your head up to meet her eyes. "Aw, why so many tears, child? I haven't done a thing."
"I don't- I don't know why I'm here," you sniff and hiccup, "What do you want from me?"
Ambessa hums, her thumb brushing against your cheek. "I only want one thing from you, your talent. I don't want anymore lies between us, girl, I know you painted them—the bag was enough. But, the doodles on your napkin, stupid girl? Brushstrokes so similar to those erotic ones underneath that pseudonym, do you take me to be an idiot?"
"No!" You swallow and sniff, quickly shouting and denying her question, fearing for your life, "No, ma'am."
Ambessa smiles at your enthusiastically fearful denial. "Then why lie, hm?" She doesn't wait for an answer, the question being rhetorical. She reaches behind you and unties the restraints of your hands. "You'll receive housing, food, and the best painting supplies. I'll even pay you if you so wish. In return, I ask that you paint for me. Is that an acceptable compromise?"
She waits for a moment, allowing for you to answer, though when she's met with silence, her eyes observing a teary-eyed, fearful gaze, she chuckles and assumes the answer. "Good. Now stand up," she orders in a strangely soft tone, "This one will show you where you will stay." She gestures to a servant waiting patiently in the doorway.
You hesitantly follow her command, walking past her and towards the door. You keep looking back, much to her amusement, before you reach the doorframe.
"Oh," she calls, setting her signature weapon on the empty shelf above of the dresser—her hands starting to undo the items that hang on her body, essentially undressing, "Come back to this room at 11pm, yes? The supplies will be set here. If you have any questions, ask Amara." She nods towards the servant girl.
"Yes, ma'am," you nod and wipe the stray tears falling down your cheeks, quickly following after the servant to get out of her presence.
"How cute," Ambessa muses.