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It’s mermay - Monday 🐠🎉

So here is my new piece.

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Drabble as proof of life lmfao

Promise i will try and update Romans V Elephants soon, am very sick!

Love you Ambessa lovers, thinking of you and all the support you give xoxoxo

It had been blissful, filled with intoxicating fun as you had taken the opportunity by both hands, greedy with the promise of it.

Being loved by Ambessa Medarda was like being loved by a burning, bright star. You would orbit around her, caught in the glow. Showered with endless gifts and trips, the apple of her eye, she spared no expense. The sex was mind blowing, her ability to ruin a body shown daily in your weak ankles as you trapesed about Noxus spending the warlord’s money. Only you would hear that tender, real laugh from blood red lips, her heartbeat calm as you drifted off merged against her. Everything was perfect and fresh, even if the violence could be exhausting at times.

Stars, you learnt, burned out before your very eyes.

One day you were dropped like a hot coal, precious possessions of three years love boxed into crates and placed in a carriage. There was a conversation, if you could call it that, in which you were reduced to the very barest, worst parts of yourself. Her voice, as sharp as her blade, had carved wounds that would never heal. You meant nothing, were nothing, that was clear as glass to you now. She had tired of you, a new pretty brunette already already lingering at her feet with the same awestruck eyes as you had once worn. Back to work, her glare had said, back to being a speck of dust beneath my foot.

Sitting in your father’s bakery, long since dormant after your relocation to Ambessa’s manor, you rhythmically shredded the gentle piles of silk. What was truly valuable you would sell, left with no other choice to finance the reopening of the only livelihood you had, but these were hand made, tailored to you specifically and for that they would feel your wrath. Your training clothes were all that remained, the red turning your stomach as you worked yourself into a fit of exhaustion cleaning and resetting the space. Her life of leisure had not allowed you to idle physically, far too stretched and used for that, but cleaning and cooking were skills that had waned. Ambessa’s pity money had gone straight to a charity, and as such you had less than a week before you needed to open again, unless you fancied starving in an abandoned bakery of course.

Each step towards your old life was another flick of her pretty, glimmering blades. Nightmares plagued you, her safety now a drought in your soul. You hated her, more than anything, and that was why you cradled her old cape in the dead of night as your nose sniffed weakly. If you’d done something different, perhaps you'd still be drinking rose tea and rubbing her feet as she told you a silly battle story, a lie about a scar’s origin. Those doubts only lingered in the dark, shattered by the break of dawn. How dare she twist your own mind against you, make you the aggressor in your misery.

This was her cruelty, her bloody slaughter and you would hold her to it even as it burned your weighted lungs.

It had been two months since she had cut you loose and business was good. Your family name still held weight, your father’s recipes etched into your hands as people lamented the break from such precious sweetbread. What a shame you’d gone traveling, they’d say, and how delightful that you were back. What a fucking shame indeed. Life was hard, your aching body a shell of what it once was, as each Noxian soldier that passed through the streets made you want to cut them limb from limb, send a petulant message of your heartache.

Ambessa found herself pondering the decision each day as she retired to bed, eyes sunken as she stroked your old shawl. It would keep you safe, this distance, as she assessed her options. The Black Rose’s ability to slither into where they please made this difficult, sensitive and exhausting. Normally, your safest position was with her, but since garnering their attention pushing you out of her orbit was the clearest bet. Didn’t mean she had to like it, didn’t mean her mind didn’t replay her cutting words and your broken, desperate eyes every time she closed hers. Love was a fickle mistress and she would rather you shattered and safe than carved out in front of her, dead gazed. The bakery was thriving, according to Rictus, and you had mostly stopped getting drunk in bars so the burn in her heart could be allowed to dull into a continual ache

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Quietly losing my mind over the fact that Elon Musk has straight up orchestrated a coup of our executive branch and like....I don't even know what, if any, system we have in place to fix this. Like... He's just taken control of the money and locked out the actual appointed officials. What the fuck.

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i simply cannot with these two

ambessa's novel made this scene more hurtful, ambessa was waiting for her little girl to jump in her arm like she used to and when she didn't??? the pain on ambessa's face ugh😭💔😭💔😭💔 and mel too!!! 😭😭😭 I know it took everything in her to not hug or seek comfort from her mom AAAH

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SHE was a punk. HE did ballet. #woke #truelove

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Wonders Never Cease

i'm writing again, who can believe it lol

knackered but pushing through. Professor Ambessa here I come

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hii r u doing okay?? i’ve been checking in daily for romans v elephants updates but you haven’t posted in a while!! i hope you’re doing well 🫶

hello my angel,

thanks for asking and for being excited about my work! 🫶

I am struggling a lot but hoping to update in a week or so after I’ve finished some assignments.

just disabled girl things lol

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I’m literally actively having a crisis right now and I am still thinking about Ambessa’s thighs like.

Her muscles have dampened my stress response and now I just want to write about her stripping naked every time reader is stressed to soothe her.

Horny idiot.

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Chronic Ill Reader because I’m sick

This is a bullshit Drabble because I’m disabled and pissed off about that today apparently. This sort of very short snippet writing is probably all you’ll see from me for the next few weeks. Love you! It’s shitty and self indulgent soz soz.

There was little to be done. It was a matter of rest, recuperation and irreversible change.

Didn’t mean you were taking it well though.

Being bed bound, your mind the enemy as you sifted through fog and noise to understand the outside world, was beginning to grate on you. The furnishings of your prison were luscious and hand crafted, the service impeccable and still each day slow, frustrated tears dripped from tired eyes.

“You think I’m weak,” Statement, not question.

“I think you’re a fool if you believe that,” Ambessa answered, cool damp flannel journeying across your skin at her command.

“I’m like a broken doll,”

“You’re not a toy to me Dearest,” A soft, seductive smile, “Not in the ways that matter at least,”

“Thanks, I’m very reassured,”

“You’re angry and bitter,”

“Because I’m useless now “ Your lip wobbles, the haze is forming again and soon you’ll be too confused to speak, too tired to listen, “A great warrior I am no longer,”

Ambessa paused, large hand resting against your cheek, “You are fighting in your own battlefield, little one, and it is no less real than the bloodied dirt I conquer,”

“What bollocks,” A cough, “No conquering here,”

You were fading again, half in half out, joints aching and crackling like red, dry wood in a fire before it collapsed into ash. She was there, her voice tender as it was only for you, a story of a wolf weaving its way into your mind. Always wolves with her. Your wolf, strong leader of the pack, always caring in the

most unlikely of ways.

Your definition of better had shifted now, it was dynamic and held many tiny strings, but as the darkness overtook your battered mind you knew that you would always have reinforcements from Ambessa Medarda. The greatest, truest love you had ever known.

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not a fic request- hope you're doing well babe. One of my fav writers on here, your stories are just straight up gorgeous <3 Looking at your page every two days to see if you've posted- because those Ambessa fanfictions? Sigh...

Please never stop writing ♡

hello my love.

thank you so much for this, I’m glad people like my words.

Nice to know I’m pleasing the masses haha.

Writing is tricky at the minute, but I’ll try to be back on it soon.

I love you all and miss you lots!

Ambessa Medarda is one sexy lady

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Bard is always worth watching :D

Going to (finally) start livestreaming!!

My plan is to do some writing / game design stuff and just in general to chat with you all! :)

The first stream will be sometime this month or early next month on either a Saturday or a Sunday. I will be answering questions about my fics and making Rabbit (From Vision, Might, & Guile) into a League of Legends champion! This means updating her lore, giving her a bark sheet (voicelines), and giving her abilities tied to the game.

If you're interested, check out the poll below! I'll repost with a link to the Twitch channel when I finish setting it up :)

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Romans V Elephants P.2 3.3K

Hello my loves,

I am very ill and exhausted, so writing has been very difficult so I am sorry it took so long.

I love you all and even though it's not my best, I hope you like it. Hope to update faster next time.

Do you picture me, like I picture you?

It only got worse from there. 

Her scarf a temptress, lingering in your space and corrupting you as you stroked the intricate fabric. 

Her voice was a broken record in your head, as you tapped aggressively on your keyboard. If you were going to have a ridiculous, totally inappropriate crush then you would have something academic to show for it. 

Two essays and half of a clearer thesis outline to show for it, apparently. The weekend had passed in a hibernated blur of writing and bone chilling worry, though it was not enough to remove the scarf from your vicinity at any point. 

Cold beans on toast sat to the left of you as you annotated another resource, the early hours of Monday a somber countdown clock to seeing her again. You could be professional like her, you just needed to exhaust yourself of all excitement. 

You allowed silly fantasies and warm words to swirl in your head, narrated by her, as you dressed and brushed your teeth. You did some Yoga, scarf a shawl as you moved and stretched. Limbs heavy and worn, you grabbed your things and braved the cutting winds. 

It was anticlimactic of course, despite your romanticised fear, and all that really happened was you sat in a chair whilst she lectured and took your notes. Well, that was sort of it. There was the way her eyes seemed to dance back to you more often than before, a soft crinkle in them. Or perhaps you were entering a stage of delusion more severe than you’d realised. 

Your private session heralded more confusion. 

“Hallo, Dear,” She said, her lips upturned, “I saw you got lots done over the weekend,” 

“Felt productive,” You whispered, curling into yourself, “Was too cold for anything else,” 

“So you’ll be keeping that, I suppose?” She gestured lazily to the scarf around your neck, rummaging in her desk

“No,” You cried too quickly, ripping the offending item off reluctantly, “It’s just warmer than mine,” 

Her beautiful face twisted, hand reaching out, “Good, a dark green would suit you better,” 

“It would?” You felt hot. 

“Yes,” An easy, captivating smile, “Would highlight your eyes, Darling,” 

“Well, Thank you for lending it to me,” 

“Anytime,” 

It was a normal interaction. Normal and academic and safe. Yes, her hand lingered as she refilled your tea, and she lay a blanket on you without prompting as your shoulders shivered, but she was a caring educator and these things should be expected. 

“What mental acrobatics are you doing?” 

“Pardon, Professor?” 

“You look mischievous, like you’ve filled my tea with salt,” Her gaze held yours, “Have you?” 

You giggled, like an idiot, “N-No, just wondering what to have for dinner,” 

What a fucking stupid excuse. 

She hummed, “You’re too nice to cause problems, anyway,” a pause, “Well what did you have for lunch?” 

“A banana, and some peanuts,” You muttered. Nice? Is that all?

“Perhaps something more substantial then?,” Rhetorical and firm, “Pasta is favoured amongst you lot I believe,”. 

“Oh,” That sounded nice, “Okay then,” 

“Oh, fantastic!” She mocked, “You can listen,” 

“When haven’t I listened? You just called me nice!” 

“The past four annotations I’ve made to your thesis outline remain untouched,” 

“Not sure if I agree with them yet,” Your chest filled with conviction about as solid as a limp balloon. 

“I see, perhaps you are a problem,” Her nails tapped against her marking pile. 

“No offence, of course,” Another little laugh, ripped unbidden.

Her passiveness was a trap, you could tell, as she folded her arms over her desk, “Of course, but you are going to change the opening statement,” 

“Well, like I said-”

“Change it,” 

“Okay,” You were weak against her, weak for her. 

“That’s my girl,” Words like silk, “Now, how are you feeling about the general direction so far?”

You don’t remember the rest of the session, a slurry of heat and embarrassment in your heart which made your eyes dazed and mind sluggish. She was a demon surely, or some kind of manifestation of how close you were to failure, to the sharp knife’s edge. 

Or she was just a really attractive middle aged woman. 

She was slower to shove you out this time, she stayed in your orbit or rather allowed you in hers, as the candle was snuffed and the blinds were drawn. 

You removed yourself, weathered bag ripping ever so slightly, as you saluted, “Bye then, Captain Medarda,” 

What the fuck was wrong with you. A panic attack, thick and cloying, sprung forth in your lungs before you’d even finished the sentence. A nickname, really? Based on a throwaway comment said over an hour ago? 

Her red lips laughed. Short and low. “I’ll see you on Thursday, Trouble,”  the heavy key locked the door, “Don’t forget to eat that pasta,”

A shiver. Trouble? You liked the sound of that. 

Ambessa Medarda, in a heavy leather armchair, sniffed her own scarf in amusement. It smelt of you, and the image of you wearing it all weekend long was an easy one to conjure. Doe eyes, clever grin, you were exactly what she’d been looking for. Easy to toy with and with a deliciously built in expiry date, requiring no commitment beyond what she desired. You were a delightful present dropped right into her hands, and you remained blushing and unaware. 

She’d have you then, she decided with a sip of wine. She was untouchable anyway, some girl wasn’t going to change that. 

Her laugh formed solid pathways in your head, as you ate and worked and slept. It was a crush, it was okay to miss her voice and her scent and picture yourself bent over a desk. 

RIght? 

Crushes fade anyhow. 

Sat in your favourite cafe you nursed a cup of tea and your nail beds in equal measure. They were always the first to feel your mind’s pressure, and as the end of the term loomed in a few days, the grinding in your stomach grew noisy and destructive. You’d managed to funnel the noise into productivity once more, but that held a dangerous and addictive edge. It was wrong, but it was a blissful state of calm and intense work. Like Sherlock with his mind palace, you slipped in and out of your head, in and out of her presence, like a serene pool. You were three weeks ahead of schedule as a result, and her praise still stuck to you like treacle, deceptively dark and bitter, though you could not see that. 

Some part of you, an obvious schoolgirl part, bought another tea and a coffee for her. As if you could finance that. But you had, the pleasant ding noise signalling the money sapping from you. Idiot. 

Hot and clumsy, you used your forehead of all things to knock against the door. She welcomed you, but you realised that you couldn’t have opened the door even if you wanted to. Foreheads didn’t have opposable thumbs, you see. 

After a few moments, she opened it for you with a quizzical look. It shifted quickly to delight, and you could have stayed there forever, in that moment, with that look. 

“Thought I’d grab us fuel,” You said, lame grin on your lips. 

“Oh,” She took the cups from your slightly scorched hands, “That was kind of you,”

“Well, I do sort of rinse you of tea three times a week, Professor,” 

“You do like to keep score,” It was a joke, a jab to your soft parts as her lips marked the cardboard cup, “Not that I’m complaining, I love this cafe,”

“Me too,” 

This session was easy. She kept her distance. Her honeyed nicknames still snagged your skin, but you chewed on your biro and kept chugging along. 

A menu, a local Indian, was flicked towards you. “Pick what you like, I’ll be back in a moment,” 

Her phone was up to her ear before you could question. She wandered out quietly. Hated her leaving, loved watching her go. Ugh. Bad line. 

If you were frivolous and rich, you’d order a Chicken Dupiaza and a mound of pilau rice, perhaps even some Naan bread or Roti. As it stood, you were neither and so the menu was of little use to you. 

It took her twenty minutes to come back in the end, face flushed with irritation as the door slammed unkindly. 

“Made your choice?”

“Oh, I’m not hungry,” I’m poor, Ambessa, your mind whined. 

“Oh shut up,” She huffed, “You’re not paying, what do you want?”

“Well, I-”

“Don’t irritate me, Trouble,” Cold tea was knocked back, as she dialed a number “Either you tell me or I pick for you,” 

You told her, a jumbled slur, as she made her way around the desk to perch directly in front of you. Close enough, in fact, that your knees brushed. Manicured nails snatched the menu, tossing it away, before taking up residence on your cheek. 

A stroke. Rhythmic and soft. 

‘Good girl,’ Those lips mouthed, ‘Was that so hard?’ 

Ambessa placed the order as if she wasn’t feeling your skin heat under her palm, satisfaction licking at her. As if your eyes weren’t a window into your thoughts, the few scattered ones that remained confirming her suspicions (hopes). 

“About forty minutes,” She said, slipping off the desk, “Fancy stretching your legs?”

Was this real? Her tender touch was a phantom on your skin. 

You felt like a tiny, shy dog being tugged about on a fancy leash. She took you to and fro, your own special tour, as your gloves and coat kept the chill at bay. For a moment, between the casual touches and glimmering looks, you sank into the fascination that her words elicited. She knew so much, crafted history so artfully around you, like the world was her canvas and you the silent observer. After what felt like no time at all, she intercepted the takeaway and led you back, tag wagging, to her office. 

It smelt good. Fuck, it smelt orgasmic. A borrowed floral, sharp fork yielded an oasis of flavour. You were ravenous, silent and precise. 

“Sweet, precious quiet,” She dipped a poppadom in lime pickle, grinning at you. 

Rice soared her way. You were not involved. You were getting too bold, too attached. Her choked snort made it worth it, made you yearn to cause it again. 

Your phone interrupted the tentative banter. Matilda, ever your friend and enemy, coaxing you into the outside world.

Coming to drinks later? 

                         K, when?

Charming. Dickhead. 

           Currently knee deep in curry..

Messy. The Maypole, 8. 

                      See you then, will be less oily. X

X

You looked up, as she tidied with a near compulsive fervour. 

Respectful, smitten, whatever, you matched her movements. You never wished to leave a mark on her pocket world, lest she bar you from ever entering again. 

“Right, I have to head off now, Dear,” She sounded reluctant, your blood thrummed, “But I’ll see you on Friday before the end of term,” 

“Y-yes, Miss,” You scooped up your things, “Have a good week,” 

“You too, Darling,” She slipped past you, strong hand squeezing firmly at your hip, amber gaze heady. 

Oh God. 

How you made it to the Pub was beyond you. You sat, reading the trashy romance novel that her presence had possessed you to read, as you focused on the tingle of your hip bone. This idiotic protagonist was spouting loving nonsense, but if you shifted the tone a little to hers then it was the sweetest of poetry. 

Nat and Matilda arrived at the best bit, tongues clashing and moans leaking everywhere, as paranoid fingers slammed the paperback shut. 

“Hi,”

“Hey babe,” They echoed, kissing your cheeks wetly. 

“Drinks?” You choke, ignoring their narrowed eyes as you beeline for the bar. 

You ordered red wine, a type she had mentioned offhandedly last week and savoured each expensive sip. Would it taste like this on her lips? Probably not, hers was more expensive. The chatter was fun for once, Christmas happily lingering as you exchanged cards and small trinkets. You had spent more time than you cared to admit knitting everyone a pair of gloves to their taste, making your small group of friends ecstatic and touchy, as you just nodded awkwardly. Like an emotionally impotent bobblehead. Professor Medarda came up several times, never prompted by you, and each mention had your heart jolting out of your ribs. You were casual, it was casual. Jokes about her attractiveness, her allure, your luck at landing her. You’d like to land her in other ways. 

Nat’s voice cut through the thrumming noise, “Which Curry house did you go to? I wanna order some,” 

“Dunno, it was somewhere Professor Medarda picked,” 

“What?” 

“She’s the one who ordered it,” You say slowly, feeling an impending mistake. 

“She bought you lunch?” 

“I mean yeah, I guess,” 

“The notorious hard ass, who made a girl cry last week just for formatting her essay wrong, bought you lunch?” 

“She’s not a hard ass,” Your cheeks burnt, hands picking at one another, “She’s just particular,” 

“Yeah..” She gave you a look, “Okay, then,” 

You weren’t special. That totally wasn’t the truth. She was nice, and you’re sure she bought her other thesis student lunch all the time. It was just curry. And tea and smiles and a scarf lent to you. She was scarier in lectures though, the warmth somehow sapped out of her, but your mind refused to address that. 

The night ended, and though you felt happy, you were a slurry of confusion once again. 

Somehow you found yourself pacing outside her office like a caged animal, back and forth, fourteen minutes early for your session. She would still be in her meeting, your earliness meant nothing, and yet the wrapped package in your arms, had propelled you to cautiously punctual arrival. As weighty as a brick on your soul, the crinkling Christmas wrapping had you doubting everything. 

“Something bothering you?” 

You flinch, eyes wide and mouth stammering, “This is for you,”

Ambessa took the parcel shoved in her direction with a grin, pushing through into her territory and luring you behind. 

“It’s for Christmas,” 

“I’d guessed, Sweetness,” Her words melt you as she plops the parcel on the desk, “That was too kind of you,” 

“I hope you like it,” You were a set of responses today, not a person, brain mush. 

“I will,” Her hands passed a matte red gift bag to you, “I hope you like yours “ 

“M-mine?” 

Ambessa nodded, sitting in her plush chair, “Yours,” 

“Thank you,” 

“Don’t thank me yet, give it an open,” She’s all suave and appealing and you’ve realised you’re wearing moth-eaten odd socks. 

The wrapping paper probably cost more than the to-go coffee you’d just drunk, your hands fidgety and slow as the tape (branded obviously) snap, snap, snapped away to reveal a leather Cambridge Satchel. Not much then, a small token, a £300 bag. 

“Wha-” Wide eyes took in the stiff fabric, the satchel wide and well crafted with a cherry red stain. Your initials, printed in gold, sat neatly in the corner. 

“I give you priceless books, and you put them into that,” She pointed disdainfully at your backpack, fabric faded and one strap fastened on with safety pins, “So I had to fix it,”

“That’s, I-”

“Nice to see you speechless,” 

A shaky nod, fingers grasping your treasure. 

“Though do close your mouth Dearest, you’ll catch flies,” 

“Your turn then,” Your presents felt lame now and you almost snatched it back from her, throwing it into the presently unlit hearth of the fire. 

Ambessa unwrapped the present savagely, almost like a small child, fingers landing on softness. 

A neat, ornate blanket fell open against her lap. Handmade by yours truly, a mammoth project that had subtly dominated your every free moment. It was also, coincidentally, how you had gotten into audiobooks. She had a habit of giving her blankets to you in your long study sessions as you always seemed to freeze, and you wanted her to have something for her. Far too poor to buy anything of her standards, you hoped the lov-care you had poured into it would suffice. 

“It’s so you can be warm when we work, too,” 

She was silent, eyes dark as she turned over the stitches in her hands and took deep breaths. Something hot and desperate boiled in her, temptation and tenderness pressing on her ribcage. 

Finally, she looked to you, “This must have taken you a long time,”

“Y-yes uh, there should be something else in the wrapping paper too,” 

Turning it over, a quiet thud as your other creation emerged. A tiny, knitted wolf head ornament for her Christmas Tree. With little red button eyes and a small loop to hang it from, it looked unassumingly at her. 

“I love wolves,” It was slightly breathless. 

“I know,” 

“Well, aren’t you special?” She muttered to the ornament. 

“Thank you,” You said, realising your error too late. You might die, spontaneous combustion right there. 

Ambessa’s laugh cut through you, eyes sparkling at your embarrassed pout, “Oh darling, you’re important too,”

“Don’t,” 

“It’s very nice handiwork, exquisite even,” 

“Glad you like it,” 

She stood, stalking over to you and resting her hand on your shoulder. She was touchier recently, as you’d observed, and you weren’t talking it too well. Gulping, gasping, generally behaving like a twat. 

“Was too kind, truly,”

“You bought me a three hundred pound bag,” You quipped. 

“Don’t you know it’s gauche to talk money?” 

“I can cope with being considered gauche,” 

A squeeze to your shoulder, “As long as you still use it, I meant it when I said it was for the books,”

“Well, I’m not just going to sit staring at it Professor,” 

“Good girl,” 

The room was really hot, maybe the fire had ignited itself. 

You didn’t get much done, didn’t have the capacity for coherent thought at the end of term as you listened to her input and nodded vaguely in time with her sentences. Tired and tense with a bubbling lust, you relished in her tell tale hum calling an end to the meeting. You chucked stuff haphazardly in your bag, grabbed the gift bag and turned to Professor Medarda who was substantially closer than you’d accounted for as you stepped out of the door.

Your hand brushed her hip as you turned in a sweeping motion, heat bursting as you took in her gentle grin and quizzical look. 

“Rushing off,”

“Sorry,” You look up at her, “Tired,”

“And here I thought you were running away,” Her face was closer, wasn’t it? Breath on your cheek, body leaning towards you. 

You shook your head, gaze on her lips more often than her eyes. “Not from you,” 

She was so close, her smell more concentrated than the echoes of the scarf that your mind remembered, lips crimson and soft looking. Maybe it wasn’t all in your head. Her coy words, sly glances and squeezes led to this. She was going to kiss you, she must be, so close and warm and sweet and-

“Enjoy your Christmas holidays,” Ambessa said, mouth an inch from yours. 

“Y-You too,” 

Then she was gone, a swish of expensive fabric and perfume, leaving you kissless in the dust. 

The dark green scarf, identical to her own, folded in tissue paper hidden in the inner pocket of your satchel softened the disappointment slightly when it was discovered. Just your colour, as she’d said. 

You would have taken it personally, chastised yourself endlessly with violent thoughts and midnight pity parties, and initially you did. Then, like a beacon of light and hope and romanticised arousal, amidst the chaos of Christmas morning your phone dinged. 

Merry Christmas, Trouble x

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Romans V Elephants - Professors AU 2.9K

Here it is my loves, part one of my modern Professor x Student AU.

I hope you like it, hoping for it to be around 3/4 parts.

No smut in part one as its just the set up, but boy oh boy is it coming.

Let me know!!

tag list: @nikaachuuuu @shinyshayminflower @chocolate-quotes @fruitfulfashion @wolfessa @lia-winther @ivorydevil @borderline-fixated

https://archiveofourown.org/works/61817521/chapters/158064463

She's Got A Wicked Smile, Angel Eyes:

Gentle summer sun lingered on the autumn winds as you slipped through the ancient cobbled halls with a steady thwack thwack thwack. 

Cambridge was as imposing and beautiful as you’d hoped. It spoke for itself, history resting tenderly in every crack and crevice. You didn’t belong yet, but you were determined to pretend. You deserved your place here and each morning waking up in a tiny, poorly insulated room you reminded yourself of that. 

There was an odd balance here of knowing you were privileged to learn in such hallowed halls and rolling your eyes at the insensitivity of your comfortable, rich classmates. Each night out at a fancy pub had to be budgeted, beans instead of mince in your dinner, as they racked up tabs higher than your monthly food budget in an hour and then failed to turn up to their lectures. Still you smiled and nursed a cider, nodding as you discussed your latest charity shop find. That was cool here, trendy and sustainable, just as long as you pretended to have a Barbour coat and signet ring to wear with your £2.50 jumper. 

One such evening had drained you of all energy and thus you had overslept, curled obviously under a thick gingham duvet set. Now, as penance, you were dashing as fast as you could to your first lecture at half nine. It was naturally with your most important Professor. 

Professor Medarda was a legend. Her presence lingered around the Humanities buildings as some kind of God. A Professor of History, with a specialisation in Ancient Rome, she had seen more of the world and knew more of its jaded growth than you could ever hope to. She was precise, exacting and unforgiving. That’s to say, lateness to her was as much a sin as murder. 

You knew this theoretically, but feeling her amber eyes cut into you as you slipped into the room at 9:03 was entirely different. 

“You’re late,” Her gruff voice froze you in place, halfway to your seat. 

“I-Im sorry, I”

“And now you’re being disruptive, sit down and be quiet,” It was a command, wrapped in a sardonic smile. 

You sat, hands trembling in your lap, trying to absorb literally anything she said. 

Her classroom, distinct in its opulent furnishings and softer lighting, offered little comfort. Matters were made worse by your jittery, illegible notes and her closing statement. 

“Now, as I’m sure you know, I only accept two thesis proposals a year, and the other nine of you will have to work with the other Professors in the department,” Professor Medarda spoke plainly, deft fingers slamming a book on her desk shut, “I expect to have all of your proposals in my inbox by four o’clock on Friday,” 

It was Wednesday, and you had somehow missed this memo. You needed her as your thesis advisor. She was the best and you hadn’t fought this far just to settle for less than at the final hurdle. So the whole being late thing was great, you’d really put yourself on the map, really pissed her off. Your body grew tenser, as you mutely packed up and left the room amidst the throng of perfume and dark academia pinterest. 

Hours slipped by meaninglessly as you stared at your battered Dell laptop. You had direction, you had purpose and you had a boulder of anxiety blocking the flow of anything else. 

Romans V War Elephants. 

That’s all you’d written so far. You knew it was a good idea, with a rich pool of resources to rely on, and yet. There was always a yet with you. A crumbling Nature Valley bar made a sandy blanket on your lap. Your tea was cold and your mind was empty. 

Friday morning came and you had poured your soul into a Thesis proposal you were certain was not going to earn you a spot with your dream Professor. Her lecture was eleven am, and at no point did she even acknowledge the prospect of making a choice. You would know when you knew, it seemed. 

Tuesday, bleak as summer recessed into the fickle British memory and autumn summoned brutal winds. You were halfway through a disappointing panini, essay mostly written, when a gmail ding made you jump. Sriracha spilled down your front, clumsy hands mopping it with a tea towel. Onto Mount Laundry it went, as your eyes darted over this new email. 

Three times and still the words would not compute. 

‘..consideration, I am pleased to extend an offer to be your Thesis advisor,

Blah blah blah scheduling hours blah blah resource allowance blah

Professor Medarda’ 

Lukewarm ham and cheese forgotten, sharp and unsure breaths rattled against your laptop screen. Somehow, fuelled by Lidl energy drinks, you’d done it. She was yours and that almost guaranteed major success. 

Your email was redrafted nine times, as you sought to teeter on the edge between ass kissing and nonchalant. Three times a week you would spend time with her, learning as much as you could, crafting a paper you could be proud of. You needed to invest in a better alarm clock immediately. 

Cambridge was well and truly orange now, leaves and litter scattered everywhere as you fought to keep your hat on your head. Your next lecture was with Professor Medarda, and after that came your first supervision session. New stationary, thick ringed notebooks from your sister back home and a lipsticked smile, you could almost pretend that you were confident and prepared. Almost. Pale skin and twitching limbs gave it away. Quarter past twelve, and your wobbly knees lingered. 

She gathered her things silently, tucking them under a muscular arm and strolling into her adjourning office. A pause, rustling and the bounce of curls reappearing. 

“Do you wish to use your time or not?” 

Shit. “Yes, of course,” You fell over yourself to follow her, the elusive space suddenly enveloping you. 

Walls filled with aged wood shelves, perfectly varnished and housing more books than you could hope to own. Leather Bound tomes, first editions, signed copies. All amazing, all pretentious, all very Cambridge. A spiced scent lingered in the air, oaky and deep, as your gaze flicked to a dancing flame. 

“I thought you weren’t allowed candles in these buildings, just in case,” You regretted it before you’d even finished speaking. 

She snorted, her gaze set on yours, “Going to tell on me, child?” 

“Course not,” 

“Can be our secret then,” She passed you a small, china cup of tea, “Sugar?”

You shook your head, taking the black murky tea and adding a drop of milk.

It was like a warm blanket, soft and tender. Oh. So she could be nice. You nodded your thanks, and took a scalding sip. The heavy door clicked shut at her bidding, sealing you away into a little pocket world with her.  

“So,” Her strong voice commanded the room, “Show me why you’re worth it, Dear,” 

Not why the topic mattered or how sound your research was, why you were worth it. The room narrowed, as did your windpipe. Selling yourself was part and parcel of the academia world, but to her? You’d already used that energy for a babbled report. 

Still, smooth and confident words left your mouth, a dance and proposition in one. Your eyes had cleared, a dissociation sailing you through the initial conversation. Your charm bled through, thick and false, as the need to succeed overtook the doubt. As it always did. You were here after all. 

“Well, I suppose  this will be of use then,” She grinned, a haphazard throw landing a gilded book in your lap, relishing in your gasp. 

“This is impossible to source,” It was a book you’d seen snippets of, and nothing more, “I didn’t realise the University had one,” 

“It doesn’t,” The clink of a cup on a saucer, “I do,”

“T-That’s amazing,”

“Read it, make notes and write me a list of other resources you need but cannot find,” a thick stack of papers, essays presumably, “Whilst you do, I shall mark these,”

“Now?”

“Do you suggest some other time?” Her eyebrow raised, “This is rather the point of this time,” 

A laugh, high and choked, as you nodded. “Yes, I’ll get on it,”

Professor Medarda cleared a part of her desk for you to rest your possessions and you tugged the heavy chair forward against the patterned carpet so that you could read and type at the same time. You worked silently, as she laughed and rolled her eyes at the papers that red pen seemed to reduce to shreds. She seemed totally used to you, as if you were another little trinket in her space, and though she was still stern, eyes focused, her charismatic nature was potent here. Constant tea, biscuits and an apple when you wrinkled at the fourth bourbon cream. 

You tilted your head, taking the royal gala from her grasp. 

“First piece of fruit you’ve had since moving here?” 

“Well,” A slight giggle, “I had dried mango yesterday,”

“Big spender, expensive stuff,” 

“Not at Lidl,” A slight cringe in your soul. She was Waitrose through and through. You idiot. 

“Not at Lidl,” She repeated, smirk on her face, “Thanks for the tip,”

When your allotted time finished, you folded yourself away back into your satchel and thrust the book towards, with a slip of paper on top, “That’s the list, only managed to read half today,”

She crossed her arms, jewellery twinkling prettily, as she snatched one and handed back the other, “Finish it for Monday, we can discuss where it will fit in your thesis then,”

“You’d let me take it?”

“Is this your way of saying I shouldn’t trust you?”

“Of course not, Professor,” A gulp, “It’s just so precious,”

She was ushering you out with a smile, hand on your shoulder,”Then treat it as such, see you on Monday,”

The door shut. Pop. The bubble of her pocket world shattered around you, leaving a magic book and a grumbling stomach. 

When you’d told your mother that at Cambridge you wouldn’t be allowed to work, that it was against policy because of the shortened terms and immense workload, she had laughed in your face. No help from me, she had reminded you again and again. You’re on your own. Laughable, as if you hadn’t been fending for yourself for years. Now, as you bundled in your bed with a packet of crisps, you wished she was somebody she was not, somebody with endless money and kind words. You had your waitressing job, which had worked you into the ground, and now you lived off the pittance you had been able to save and a maintenance loan that left your account for rent before you’d even noticed it. 

In short, it was lunch OR dinner, and this time lunch had won out. Dinner was aforementioned crisps and a good helping of tap water, mixed with the nurturing words of your newest book. 

Weeks slipped by under the iron thumb of Ambessa Medarda, your workload heavier than ever as she steered you as if you were a little remote control sailboat. It was a wonder she managed to see any other students, you seemed forever in her office listening to her dulcet tones or cataloguing research papers. Sometimes, on less busy days, she lets you hang around to study rather than forcing you to go to the library. She seemed to read you as easily as her books, amber eyes welcoming and dangerous. 

“Some of the best places in the world to study,” Her voice started one wednesday, “and yet here you stay,”

“Bit too much noise for me,” You muttered half into a textbook, “Too many of Daddy’s credit cards,”

Her barked laugh brought you back, “Well, feel free then,”

You hadn’t meant to say that, not at all. You resembled a tomato, “Just prefer the quiet,”

A knock at the door saved you. Her Chinese food had arrived. It smelt divine, and you let out a little sigh. 

She sat eating, composed and methodical. Several times she had prompted you to eat your own lunch, until you meekly admitted you had none. Narrowed eyes pinned you in place. 

“Why?”

“More of a dinner perso-” A loud, unavoidable grumble from your torso. 

“Your stomach doesn’t seem to be,” Her chair creaked as she chucked you a small bag, gaze straight back at her things. 

It was a hot, slightly greased bag. Spring rolls. Twelve of them, warm and crunchy, begging to be eaten, “Are you sure, Professor?”

“Eat,” was the only word she gave you. 

Winter crept up on you, frozen air a shock as you walked back with groceries. Somehow you’d been in Cambridge for nearly two months and spent most of that time with Professor Medarda or curled on your plastic desk chair. Still, the magic of Christmas began to loom in the early November air. It came sooner and sooner, as did the expenses. That’s why you sat once again in the pub, this time with mulled wine and a mince pie, chattering away with your tiny circle of friends. 

“So,” Matilda asked, focusing directly on you,“Any developments? Any new friends? Cheap dinner deals?”

Fabulous, an audience to make you feel like a lifeless loser, “Not really, just been work work-”

“Work,” Nat interrupted with a giggle, “We know babe,” 

“At least you’ve got that sexy Professor to while away the days, I could climb her” Matilda continued, sipping her beer. 

You were a tableau, brows crinkled in confusion. “Climb who?”

“Professor Medarda, you tit,” Her eyes rolled, “Who else? Professor Daniels, the seventy-six year old?”

“I-I don’t, I mean she’s pretty I guess,” You stammered, “I don’t really see her like that,”

“Then you’re fucking blind,”

You laughed. Forced. Was Professor Medarda hot? You guessed her face was nice, all angular and sharp, with soft edges that made her seem inviting. She did have that towering frame, honeyed voice, plush curves. You were warm. It was not because of the wine. You pushed that confusing train of thought into a distant, long since abandoned station.

Something about that night had set you off balance, mind muddling over old interactions with a new rosy hue. She was nothing but professional, considerate and gentle, a guiding hand to your education. But her words, her voice, were they suggestive? Fuck. You hated your friends, they made everything confusing. That was why you were cold, that was why you were suffering. They had made you forget your scarf and gloves. It had nothing to do with finding your Professor attractive. 

She was late which was unusual. You were anxious, which was not. When she wandered in, a small bag in hand, your eyes met and you felt a jolt that had not been there a few days before. Was the golden glimmer brighter now? More alluring? You couldn’t tell. 

“Come on in then,” She muttered, key clicking pleasantly to unlock the office, “I grabbed us some pastries,” 

You beamed, taking the brown paper bag she offered, as you situated yourself in your chair. 

There was nothing majorly different and yet everything had changed. 

She was a beautiful, majestic thing and you felt like a lump of neglected, sprouting potatoes. If she noticed your repetitive glances she did not comment on them, merely continuing to offer feedback on your work and provide advice on what to explore next. You had a lot more than Romans V War Elephants written down now. 

The croissant was perfect, its flakiness distracting you for mere moments, before you fixated on a tiny bit of pastry attached to her red lips. A practiced tongue darted out to steal the offender, wetting her lips as she scrawled down words. Your stomach clenched. This nonsense was not going to end well. 

Finally, mercifully, the day’s session ended, and with it did the proximity that made your mind fuzzy.

It was bitter now, as she walked with you out of the Humanities building, colder than perhaps any other day yet. You murmured nonsense, distracted replies to her conversation and all at once she stopped you, abrupt and calculating. 

“You forgot your scarf today,” It wasn’t a question. 

“Y-yes,” You nodded, cheeks already red from wind burn, “Was in a rush,” 

“You have a twenty minute walk ahead of you,” She frowned, a ghost of concern and something else in her eyes, “Whereas my car is a few steps ahead,”

“I don’t-” Heated cashmere fabric collided with you, as her hands deftly wound her own scarf into a knot on your neck. 

“There you are,” She cooed, tucking it into your coat, “Can’t have you getting cold, Sweet Pea,”

“Thank you, Professor,” You almost slurred, mind fixated on something else, “I’ll give it back when I next see you,”

“No rush,” With that, she was climbing into her car with a wave. 

It was all you could think, smell, understand. Honey, loose leaf Earl Grey and the woodiness from the office candle.

Numb, dazed feet dragged you home, where you curled into sheets, scarf still on.

You were drowning in the smell of her. You wanted to bottle it, choke on it forever. 

Proper crush on your thesis advisor? Tick. 

Professor Ambessa Medarda was the most gorgeous woman you had ever met, and you were the shittiest, stupidest cliche. 

[1920sladydectective]

Hey I just wanted to let you know that I saw someone using your best friend’s mother fic for an ambessa chat ai bot. If you’re not cool with that I’ll dm you bc a shiver ran down my spine I couldn’t believe it

Ahhh

Hello love, would you be able to DM me a link to this?

Thank youuu