tired lesbian

You were exhausted by the journey back to university. How the workload itself would manifest on your weary bones you had no desire to contemplate. You had a solid idea and festering pig shit to show for it. 

Then there was her. Elephant in the room. Elephant in your research. Elephant on top of you. 

Shit. 

Despite the holiday period, her telltale red remarks had appeared dotted all along the meagre progress you made. Ever present, ever sharp. 

More Detail, Dear. 

Clunky sentence - fix it. 

Poor referencing. Be serious. 

Do you think about our almost kiss too?

Okay. Perhaps not that last one. But she had to. If she wasn’t similarly consumed by the heat of her office, the smell of her candle swirling with your shitty perfume and your stuttered breath then it was just you. You being an idiot. Plausible. Those at Cambridge are not known for their street smarts and emotional intelligence dontcha know. It had been so close, you almost tasted her. 

Southern Rail were fucked again. Reliable public transport was a thing of the past, if it ever even existed to begin with. Heavy suitcase and backpack, your perfect and precious satchel and a dream of being more fit than you were. 

Your room was cold, stone dormant through the holidays as nobody had stayed in your room after all. So it had been packed up for nothing and you would now waste an afternoon reestablishing your life. Papers, the odd picture with friends and the tiny post card Ambessa had gifted every student during the first lecture. A picture of an Acropolis in Rhodes, beautiful and out of reach to you. A reminder of better things, more exciting adventures yet to come. It never failed to make you smile that the only note the postcard held was ‘Don’t Waste My Time,’. 

You missed her like some kind of abandoned warrior’s wife, or perhaps the desperate lovers of ‘The Meeting on the Turret Stairs’ by Frederic William Burton. All forbidden yearnings and stolen moments. Berry tea burned your throat as you stroked your laptop keyboard mindlessly. She was not your sun. Though things seemed bleak without her. You were an idiot. A loud thrum, a noise now conditioned to cause a thrill of hope up your spine. 

As it sometimes did, it followed through. An email. From her. 

Hope you’re settling back in, are you free? 

If so, please come to Room 5C of the Humanities building if you are able. 

Professor Medarda. 

I am fucking able. 

Of course, Professor. See you soon. 

Why she’d bothered to point out the room when it was merely her classroom was beyond you, but you tripped over yourself to appear there all the same. On the way, calves burning from motion, you planned a suave opening line and practiced an eyelash flutter or two. The weather mocked you, clouds spitting rain all over you till you were a frizzy, damp mess. You’d have to let the opening line do the heavy lifting then. Almost stumbling into the main door, your hand grasped the door handle and your practised words began to tumble out before dying a stuttered, premature death. 

The classroom was full of students, undergrads by the look of their fresh faces and judgemental eyes. 

“Ah,” Professor Medarda smiled, “Very prompt,”

“You asked me to come?” You were confused. If she wasn’t summoning you for you, why were you here?

“Yes, to TA. Mindy’s ill,” She smirked, “As per my email,”

Her email, it turned out, had more information than you had absorbed. And now you looked like a sewer rat loser. 

“Yeah exactly,” You sat in the chair she gestured to, feeling like a naughty child, as you processed the list of tasks. 

The lecture passed slowly, like Farrow and Ball paint drying against a popcorn ceiling as you did meaningless jobs and paper grading, whilst you tried to avoid her siren gaze. Professor Medarda was different with the younglings, in many ways less patient as they stammered and stumbled over her syllabus.  They were insignificant in her mind, perhaps you were too. It was hard to tell with her. 

Finally, the students left and you were whistled at like a loyal pup as she strolled into her open office. Her world sat metres away, glistening and special. You lingered at the edge, hair still soggy at your shoulders. 

“Come on Trouble, your tea will get cold,”

Gods, that voice. Criminally delicious, like an expertly made cocktail. 

Ambessa Medarda sat in her chair as if she’d never left. The only difference was the presence of the blanket you had made her. It was as close to her as you’d hoped to be. Her lips were a deeper plum colour, making her eyes spark as she handed you a blanket of your own. 

“Thank you for helping me today,” She said, custard cream in her grasp, “I trust you had a pleasant holiday?” 

“As pleasant as Christmas ever is,” You sighed, “I’m not massively into chocolate and family so I get overwhelmed,” 

A snort, “Your favourite biscuit is a bourbon cream?” 

“An exception to the rule,” You said, “You seem to like them too, judging by the state of the jar,” 

“Hate them, always taste pastey, they’re solely for your benefit,” 

That was oddly touching. So very British. She was the sexiest woman you had ever seen. That last bit wasn’t really spurred on by the biscuits though. 

“How was your Christmas, Professor?” 

She smiled then, warm and intimate like it was just for your benefit, “My children ran me ragged and I may never financially recover,” 

“I find that hard to believe,” You giggled, mirroring her smile. 

“You think I'm prone to hyperbole?” 

“Aren’t all History Professors?” 

“What a terribly dangerous question, my dear,” 

“I don’t mind a dangerous question or two,” 

Where the fuck had that come from. Clearly some alternate, distant hell in which you were flirtatious and stupid. 

“Is that so?” 

A spluttered gasp lodged in your throat, your expression contorting to save face as she looked you up and down. Her grin made you ache, tiny crumbs of biscuit on those plum lips making her so very human. So very yours, for you could kid yourself that it was only you who saw her like this. Unguarded, playful, alluring. 

“What did you think of my work?” A lame cop out, but if she kept staring you down you’d melt to a begging puddle at her feet. 

“Acceptable,” She said, “Perhaps I’d even venture to say good,” 

“High praise then,” 

“Definitely, though you are rather flowery, Dearest,” 

“Flowery? It’s a historical thesis,” 

“Exactly my point,” She snorted, “Less of the waxing lyrical and more evidence please, though I would feel inclined to believe whatever you put to paper,”

“Really?”

“You’re just ever so convincing,” Ambessa poured herself more tea, “Assertive,” 

“I try not to make statements I can’t support,” 

“Why’s that?”

“History is subjective to some, but I wish to explore the experiences of others as faithfully as possible,” 

“Oh, you are ever so good,” Ambessa pulled the blinds down, banishing the miserable grey in favour of a soft amber glow, “Are you sure Academia is for you?”

“Yes,” You bristled, “I’m more than capable enough,”

“Well, you say you don’t mind questions, support that statement,” She leaned forward, “I feel I want to know you better,” 

“What, like twenty questions?” 

“If you want to make it juvenile, then yes,” 

“I’m not sure I have much to say,”

“I’ll give you fifty pounds for every question answered,” 

You choked on your spit, a cartoonish gasp trapped, “Okay,” 

It started tame, more specific details on your upbringing and your tastes. Making fifty pounds off of a preference for salt and vinegar crisps seemed obscene but each answer seemed to make her happier. You admitted that you still slept with your childhood teddy and that you’d never been on a rollercoaster. Speed dating was a more appropriate title for the time you spent together, with an occasional answer from her. She preferred red wine, loved ski holidays and hated polyester bedding. You did point out, laughing, that you could have told all of that from the price of her watch alone. It was intimate in its casualness and you longed to be closer to her. Her look was odd, as if you’d failed and passed the same kind of test. She made it easy to forget you were prey in a wolf’s den until she had her teeth in your neck. 

“Have you missed me?” She had moved to sit on her desk, head tilted. 

“Very much,” Fifty pounds joined the pile, it softened your embarrassment at such an easy admission. 

“What have you missed?” 

“Our conversations,” You muttered, “You challenge me,” 

“Sweet,” Her free hand tucked your hair behind your ear, teeth gleaming “I’ve missed this look,” 

“What look?” 

“The desperate, needy one you’re wearing,” She said, each word a taunt as sharp nails traced down your neck, “It’s ever so precious,” 

“I-” 

“But the dangerous question is, what are you desperate for?” 

You were a furnace, aching and dizzy, as words melted on your tongue in favour of dodgy breaths. She was so close, her spiced scent drenching your common sense, as her lips drifted ever closer to your ear. Did she know this was what had worn out your poor wrist in the late hours of the night? Her presence, heavy and demanding, as you whimpered and gasped against fingers too small to satisfy as hers would. She must know, must relish in it, if her surgical and immediate approach was anything to go by. Ambessa became your fantasies so effortlessly that her hot breath was the only anchor to reality. 

“Answer me, Trouble,” Her lips kissed the skin behind your ear, “I promise I won’t tell,” 

“You,” You said, almost pathetic, “Always you,” 

“Little old me?”

“Yes, I-,” You hiccuped, “Please, Professor.”

Ambessa dropped to her knees, spreading your willing legs. Her touch was certain and firm, suddenly everywhere as she snared your gaze with hers. 

The wolf emerged from the shadows, bloody grin triumphant, “Well, I supposed I mustn’t deprive you of a well rounded education,"

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AN:

Hi…

My body sort of gave up on me and I couldn't move, let alone type for most of this year. I wish I could say that I'm better but nono I am worse lol.

I love you all, everyone who checked on me and sent me well wishes. I'm sorry I couldn't respond, but know I adore you.

I intend to write one more chapter with heavy smut and then a sort of coherent ending, but in case I can't here's a shorter round off so it's not completely unfinished.

Monty wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting. It hadn’t been this. Cherry tobacco danced through the space, an odd caricature of the life he’d been a part of once. The place echoed with Comfrey’s madness, each scrawl and scrap of paper showing the steps she’d taken away from the woman he’d known. It was pointed. Sharp and matter-of-fact, her assessment of all he’d given and all they’d shared ripped the novelty of all the pulp novels he’d written to ribbons. Distantly, he noticed there was no bitter taste in his mouth, no resentment and fury. Just an ache. Just a sigh.

He’s not a real adventurer, he never was.

Some years ago, with sky-eyes and a younger heart he would have cracked at such a statement. But this was now, and Comfrey MacLeod’s favour was not his most coveted prize. Monty’s concerns were his friends, those he had profited from and neglected in ways he was not proud of. Van, arm tensing and steaming, worried him. Eisengiest lingered like a bad smell. Van had called her reckless, and it had been in his head since then. These papers, haphazard and vague, only fed such concerns. How like Comfrey to withhold all facts about the dangers her friend would face from the prosthesis and all it contained. Whether it was true or not, Vanellope was in Zood and she was reaping the consequences of the Professor’s silence. A cut photograph caught his eye. Marya, bright eyed with contentment, stared back at him. His hands shoved the papers into his pack, Little One sniffling through the doorway, though he took care with the photo as it slotted between the rest of his possessions. The note about himself stayed where he had found it, though for a brief second he considered offering it to Pappy for target practice. Not that the old bastard needed it.

Marya had reacted oddly, Ludmila her constant shadow. Vengeance came easily to the Captain, a fog she was constantly encased in. They had no answer for why the Professor would have cut the picture, and still Junker spat and cursed. Comfrey was a blight on her memory, on the memory of her crew. The thought that the Professor should have just let her die was as ingrained in Junker now as the need to breathe. Constant, systematic, certain. Marya just hoped that Gotch and Olethra would see that before adventuring exacted its price from them too.

Pappy sat in an odd pool of his own grief. Had he dropped the ball? It hadn’t felt like it at the time, her breathless chaos having the audacity to try and cage him. He may have been getting up there in age but as she did the same she showed no signs of stopping. He felt like Ghost Dog, resigned to sleeping his days away as he held down the fort whilst she had all the fun. Was it jealousy? Frustration? Either way it ate at him now. The worst question of all lingered as a slight silver chain wrapped around his weathered fingers. Would this have happened if he’d stayed? It was always Comfrey for him, his perfect, cloudward love. He’d abandoned that and now Olethra floated at his side like a ghost. The granddaughter he could have, should have had.

Comfrey MacLeod was the linchpin of their ragtag group in many ways and yet each member of the crew bore a wound from either her neglect or overindulgence.

Pappy and Monty locked eyes as they reboarded the Zephyr, aioli stinking up their senses. Each stop on this adventure led them towards the same dark and sour forgone conclusion.