As the school decides your fate and finals creep around the corner, you aren't doing well. Emotions a barely contained storm, your need for Agatha's touch and presence almost torturous. The reality sets in: someone has been tracking you and Agatha, documenting you relationship, and you have no idea who or why. Evidence of Rio's manipulation, but no evidence the emails are coming from her or Sophie.
What started as an academic scandal is becoming something far more sinister, and the answers you're searching for will change everything you thought they knew.
Guys, I'm clutching my pearls. (I literally wrote this, completely optional)
TW: Institutional power dynamics, smut, anxiety, anonymous threats and photographs, professor-student relationship, academic misconduct investigation, threat/danger elements
8k words - previous chapter - masterlist
You haven't slept in three days.
Not really. Not the kind of sleep that actually restores you, that lets you wake up feeling human. Instead, you drift in and out of consciousness, your phone clutched in your hand, checking for emails that never come. The Dean's office said they'd have a decision "within the week," which is bureaucratic speak for "we'll torture you with uncertainty for as long as we feel like it."
It's been seventy-two hours since you and Agatha sat in that office and confessed everything. Seventy-two hours of existing in a liminal space where your entire future hangs suspended, where every breath feels like it might be one of your last as a doctoral student, as Agatha's.
Your apartment is a disaster. Coffee cups scattered across every surface, half-eaten meals abandoned when your stomach revolted against the idea of food. Your laptop open to the same job search page you've been staring at for hours, unable to actually click on anything because what's the point? If they expel you, no one will hire you. If they don't expel you but destroy Agatha's career, you'll never forgive yourself.
The worst part is the distance.
You see her on campus, you're still her advisee, still technically her student until the Dean decides otherwise, but you can't touch her. Can't stand too close. Can't let your eyes linger too long or your voice soften in that way it does when you're talking to her. Every interaction is performed for an invisible audience, professional and distant and absolutely excruciating.
Yesterday, you passed her in the hallway outside the lab. She was carrying a stack of papers, and you were heading to a meeting with your cohort. Your eyes met for half a second, and the longing in her gaze nearly brought you to your knees. But then someone rounded the corner, and she looked away, kept walking, and you did too.
You wanted to scream.
Your phone buzzes on the nightstand, and you lunge for it with embarrassing desperation. But it's not the Dean's office. It's Olivia.
You consider not answering. You've been avoiding everyone, holed up in your apartment like a fugitive, but Olivia is persistent. She'll just keep calling.
"Hey," you say, trying to sound normal and failing spectacularly.
"Jesus Christ, you sound like death." Olivia's voice is sharp with concern. "I've been trying to reach you for almost two weeks. What the hell is going on?"
"I'm fine."
"Bullshit. I heard—" She pauses, and you can hear her moving somewhere quieter, a door closing. "I heard rumors. About you and Dr. Harkness."
Your stomach drops. "What kind of rumors?"
"The kind that say you're sleeping with your advisor and the Dean is investigating." Her voice is careful, gentle in a way that makes your eyes burn. "Is it true?"
You open your mouth to deny it, to deflect, to do what you've been trained to do your entire academic career. Protect yourself, maintain appearances, never show weakness. But you're so tired. So fucking tired of holding it all together.
"Yes," you whisper, and then the dam breaks.
It comes out in a rush, words tumbling over each other, your voice cracking and breaking as three days of terror and exhaustion pour out of you. You tell her about the discovery of the optimization, that moment when Agatha looked at you like you were brilliant, like you mattered, like your ideas could change the world. How it felt to be seen by someone like that, to be believed in so completely that it rewired something fundamental in your chest.
You tell her about falling in love. Not the dramatic, sudden kind, but the slow, inevitable kind. The kind that creeps up on you until one day you realize you can't imagine your life without this person in it, that their absence would leave a hole nothing else could fill.
You tell her about the anonymous report. Opening your email and seeing those words, feeling your entire world tilt sideways. The sick, cold terror of knowing someone had been watching you, documenting your relationship, weaponizing your feelings.
"We could have lied," you say, your voice breaking. "We could have denied everything. We could have lied. "
"But you didn't," Olivia says quietly.
"No." You're crying now, tears streaming down your face, your breath coming in ragged gasps. "We told the truth. We sat in that office and we confessed everything because—because I couldn't lie about her. I couldn't pretend she doesn't mean everything to me. And now—"
You can't finish. Can't say out loud what you're most afraid of.
"Now you're waiting to see if you have a future," Olivia finishes for you.
"I'm waiting to see if I destroyed hers." The words come out raw, scraped from somewhere deep and wounded. "She's brilliant, Liv. She's done so much, contributed so much to her field. And I—I'm just some stupid kid who couldn't keep her feelings in check, and now her career might be over because of me."
"Stop." Olivia's voice is firm. "You're not a kid, and you're not stupid. You're a talented researcher who fell in love with someone who saw that talent. That's not a crime."
"The university might disagree."
"The university might," she admits, and you appreciate that she doesn't try to sugarcoat it. "This is serious. The power dynamic, the ethics of it—it's complicated and messy and yeah, there could be real consequences. But you didn't do this alone. She made choices too."
"I know." You wipe at your face with shaking hands. "I know, but that doesn't make it easier. I keep thinking about what happens if they expel me. If they fire her. If we lose everything because we couldn't—because I couldn't—"
"Hey." Olivia's voice softens. "You're spiraling. I can hear it. Have you eaten today?"
You look at the abandoned sandwich on your desk, the bread curling at the edges. "Not really."
"Have you slept?"
"No."
"Okay. Here's what you're going to do. You're going to eat something, even if it's just toast. You're going to try to sleep, even if it's just for a few hours. And tomorrow, you're going to walk into whatever meeting they've scheduled with your department head, because you told the truth. That matters."
"Does it?" Your voice is small, defeated. "Does it matter if the truth destroys everything?"
"Yes," she says firmly. "It does. Because at least you'll know you were honest. At least you'll know you didn't betray yourself or her by lying."
You want to believe her. God, you want to believe that honesty is enough, that integrity will somehow protect you from the consequences of loving someone you weren't supposed to love.
But you've been in academia long enough to know better.
"I have to go," you say, because if you stay on the phone any longer, you're going to completely fall apart. "Thank you for listening."
"Call me after," Olivia says. "Whatever happens, call me. You're not alone in this."
But as you hang up, staring at your phone's dark screen, you've never felt more alone in your life.
You force yourself to eat something. Shower. Put on clothes that make you look more put-together than you feel. You choose a professional dress, low heels, minimal makeup to hide the shadows under your eyes. Armor for battle.
The email comes at 7:27 AM: Dean Morrison requests your presence in her office at 9:00 AM. Dr. Harkness has been notified separately.
Your hands shake as you read it. This is it. The verdict.
You arrive on campus early, unable to stay in your apartment a second longer. The morning is dreary and gray, matching your mood perfectly. You see Agatha across the quad, walking toward the administrative building, and your heart clenches painfully in your chest. She's wearing that charcoal suit, the one that makes her look untouchable and powerful and absolutely devastating.
You wonder if she slept. If she's been as terrified as you. If she regrets choosing honesty over self-preservation.
You wonder if she regrets choosing you.
The doors rattle behind you as you see her, standing by the staircase, hands crossed in front of her. She gives you a barely there smile and tilts her head down the hall, waiting for you. It's instinct when you fall into step with her.
Your heels click against polished linoleum in rhythm with your racing heart. Beside you, Agatha moves with the kind of controlled grace that comes from decades of navigating institutional politics. She's adjusting the sleeve of her blazer, every inch the decorated scientist whose career has survived worse storms than this.
You wish you felt half as composed.
"Breathe," she murmurs as you round the corner, her hand brushing yours for just a second. A touch so brief it could be accidental, except nothing with Agatha is ever accidental.
The administrative assistant waves you through without preamble, and then you're standing in Morrison's office, the door clicking shut behind you with a finality that makes your stomach drop.
Dean Morrison sits behind her desk, silver hair pulled back in a severe bun, reading glasses perched on her nose as she reviews a document. To her left, in one of the leather chairs facing the desk, sits Dr. Whitmore. Mid-fifties, with sharp eyes and an expression that gives nothing away.
You take the remaining chair, hyperaware of Agatha settling beside you, the subtle scent of her perfume, the way her presence fills the space even in silence.
Morrison finally looks up, removing her glasses with deliberate slowness. "I'll get straight to the point. The investigation into your relationship has concluded."
Your heart stops. Beside you, Agatha remains perfectly still.
"The ethics committee found that while your relationship violates the spirit of our student-faculty conduct policies, there is," Morrison pauses, exchanging a glance with Whitmore, "a loophole in the specific language of both our student conduct policy and university bylaws."
You blink. That's not what you expected.
"A loophole," Agatha repeats, her voice carefully neutral. Expression schooled into something protective, defensive.
Whitmore leans forward, sliding a document across the desk. "The policy explicitly prohibits romantic or sexual relationships between faculty and students when such relationships create conflicts of interest in academic evaluation, grading, or professional advancement. However," he taps the document, "it does not explicitly prohibit relationships between faculty advisors and doctoral students when appropriate safeguards are in place to ensure academic integrity."
"Safeguards," you echo, not quite believing what you're hearing.
Morrison nods. "Ms. Y/L/N, you will meet with me monthly to review your academic progress and research. These meetings will continue until I am satisfied that your work is being evaluated fairly and that you are not receiving preferential treatment due to your relationship with Dr. Harkness."
"Additionally," Whitmore continues, "you are both required to maintain strictly professional behavior on campus, at all university-sponsored events, and at any academic conferences or professional gatherings where you represent this institution. Any violation of this requirement will result in immediate termination of this arrangement, as well as your enrollment in our graduate program."
"And finally," Morrison says, her tone brooking no argument, "every piece of collaborative work, every research note, every experiment you conduct together must be documented. Dr. Harkness will submit monthly reports detailing your contributions to any joint projects. This documentation will be reviewed by an independent faculty committee."
The room falls silent. You're trying to process what this means: that you're not being expelled, that Agatha isn't being fired, that somehow, impossibly, you're being allowed to continue.
"I don't understand," you say finally. "Why?"
Whitmore's expression softens slightly. "Because I've read your work, Ms. Y/L/N. Every paper you've submitted since you arrived here. Your analysis of collagen degradation in Mesozoic specimens was some of the most innovative thinking I've seen from a first-year doctoral student in two decades."
Heat creeps up your neck. "Thank you, but—"
"And I've read the notes Dr. Harkness submitted for this investigation," Whitmore continues. "The research you two are conducting together has the potential to fundamentally change our understanding of molecular preservation in the fossil record. Holding that back because of institutional pearl-clutching about relationships would be, frankly, a disservice to science."
You glance at Agatha, who's watching Whitmore with something that might be respect.
"That said," Morrison interjects, her voice sharp, "this is not a free pass. You are under scrutiny. One misstep, one hint of impropriety, and this arrangement ends. Am I absolutely clear?"
"Yes, Dean Morrison," you say immediately.
"Dr. Harkness?"
"Crystal clear," Agatha says, and there's an edge to her voice that makes you think she's biting back something less diplomatic.
Morrison leans back in her chair, studying you both. "Ms. Y/L/N, I want to hear from you. In your own words. Why should we allow this to continue?"
The question catches you off guard, but you force yourself to meet her gaze. "Because the work we're doing matters. Dr. Harkness is the leading expert in paleochemistry, and I—" you swallow, "I'm good at this. I know I'm young, I know I'm still learning, but the collaboration between us is producing real results. Publishable results. Results that could change how we approach molecular paleontology."
"And the relationship?" Morrison presses. "How do you separate that from the academic work?"
"I don't," you admit, and Agatha's head turns sharply toward you. "I mean—I can't pretend the relationship doesn't exist. The way our brains work together, the ease of working together. But it doesn't change the science. When we're in the lab, when we're analyzing data, when we're writing, it's about the work. It's always been about the work."
The attraction, the desire, the way Agatha makes you feel. That can't be separated from the intellectual connection, the way your minds work together, the way she pushes you to think deeper and reach further.
Whitmore nods slowly. "That's what I hoped to hear."
Morrison doesn't look entirely convinced, but she slides a folder across the desk. "These are the terms of your continued enrollment and Dr. Harkness's continued advisement. Read them carefully. Sign them. And understand that this is your only chance."
You reach for the folder with shaking hands, Agatha's fingers brushing yours as she does the same. The touch grounds you, reminds you that you're not alone in this.
"Your first check-in with me will be next Monday," Morrison says to you. "Nine a.m. Don't be late."
"I won't be."
Morrison removes her glasses, setting them carefully on the desk. For a moment, she just looks at you both, and you see something flicker across her face. Uncertainty, maybe even concern.
"I want to be clear about something," she says quietly. "I have reservations about this arrangement. Personal reservations. I've been in academia for thirty years, and I've seen relationships like this end badly more often than they end well."
Your stomach drops, but Morrison holds up a hand.
"However," she continues, "I also know that preventing two brilliant minds from working together because of institutional fear would be a disservice to science. To you, specifically, Ms. Y/L/N." She leans back in her chair. "I've read your work. I've watched you grow as a researcher in just one semester. And I refuse to be the person who stands in the way of that potential because I'm uncomfortable with how you got there."
She pauses, and there's a vulnerability in her voice that surprises you. "So this arrangement exists because I believe you deserve the chance to prove that this can work. But understand, I'm not doing this because I think it will. I'm doing it because it would be wrong not to try."
Whitmore nods in agreement beside her.
"And Dr. Harkness," Morrison continues, "your first monthly report is due in two weeks. I expect thoroughness."
"You'll have it," Agatha says coolly.
Morrison waves a hand toward the door. "That's all. You're dismissed."
You stand on legs that feel like water, clutching the folder to your chest. Agatha rises beside you, and together you walk to the door, neither of you speaking until you're in the hallway, the door closed behind you.
"We need to—" you start, but Agatha's hand closes around your wrist, pulling you into an empty conference room three doors down.
The moment the door shuts, she's on you, hands framing your face, kissing you hard enough to bruise. You gasp against her mouth, the folder falling from your hands, and she walks you backward until your spine hits the wall.
"Agatha," you breathe when she pulls back, "we can't—they just said—"
"I know what they said." Her thumb traces your bottom lip, eyes dark with something fierce and possessive. "But we won. Do you understand that? We won."
The reality of it crashes over you, and suddenly you're laughing, giddy with relief, and she's smiling. Really smiling, not the controlled professional mask but something genuine and bright.
"We won," you repeat, and she kisses you again, softer this time.
"Tonight," she murmurs against your mouth. "Your place. We're celebrating."
Two hours later your phone buzzed on the library table: My place, 7.
You've been to Agatha's house dozens of times. Spent lazy Sunday mornings in her kitchen, fallen asleep on her couch during movie nights, fucked her in nearly every room. You know the creak of the third step on her staircase, the way afternoon light filters through the stained glass in her study, which drawer holds the good spoons.
But tonight, standing on her doorstep, everything feels different.
She opens the door before you can knock, and the first thing that hits you is the scent. Sandalwood and amber, rich and heady, curling through the air like smoke. Incense. She's lit incense throughout the house, something she only does when she's doing rituals you don't ask about, when she needs to center herself in her own power.
The second thing is the candlelight. Dozens of candles scattered throughout the entryway and the rooms beyond, their flames casting dancing shadows that make the familiar space feel ancient and sacred.
The third thing is Agatha herself.
She's wearing a silk robe the color of deep wine, the fabric clinging to her curves and falling open just enough to reveal the hollow of her throat, the shadow between her breasts. Her hair is loose, falling over her shoulders in dark wild waves you usually only see in the morning. Her feet are bare against the hardwood floor, and there's something about that makes your breath catch. The vulnerability of bare feet paired with the absolute command in her eyes.
"Come in," she says, and it's not a request.
You step inside, and she closes the door behind you with a soft click that feels final. Deliberate.
"I thought we were going to—"
"I changed my mind." She takes your coat, her fingers brushing your shoulders as she slides it off. "I wanted you here. In my space."
The way she says my space makes heat pool low in your belly. There's ownership in it. Control.
She leads you deeper into the house, through the living room where you've graded papers together, the kitchen where she's made you breakfast. But tonight, with the candles and the incense and the silk robe whispering against her skin, it all feels transformed. Intentional. A stage set for something you're only beginning to understand.
"Sit," she says, gesturing to the couch, and you obey without thinking.
She doesn't sit beside you. Instead, she stands in front of you, backlit by candlelight, and the silk shifts as she moves. You can see the outline of her body beneath it, the curve of her hips, the length of her legs.
"Do you know what tonight is?" she asks.
You shake your head, unable to find words.
"Tonight is the night I remind you, and myself, that no matter what Morrison says, no matter what rules they try to impose, this," she gestures between you, "belongs to me. You belong to me."
Your heart hammers in your chest. "Agatha—"
"Say it." She steps closer, and you have to tilt your head back to meet her eyes. "Tell me who you belong to."
"You," you whisper.
"Louder."
"You. I belong to you Agatha."
The smile that curves her lips is slow and satisfied and absolutely devastating. "Good girl."
She reaches for the tie of her robe, and the silk whispers as it falls open. She's wearing nothing underneath, and the sight of her steals the air from your lungs. Bare and beautiful and utterly confident.
"Undress," she commands, and you do, fingers fumbling with buttons and zippers while she watches with dark, hungry eyes.
When you're naked, trembling slightly in the candlelight, she finally touches you. Her hands are warm as they slide up your arms, over your shoulders, into your hair. She tilts your head back, exposing your throat, and leans down to press her lips to your pulse point.
"Mine," she murmurs against your skin. "Every inch of you. Mine."
"Yes ma'am," you breathe, and she pulls you to your feet, leading you toward the bedroom.
The bed is covered in dark sheets that smell like her and she guides you onto it with gentle hands but firm guidance. The silk of her robe pools around you both as she climbs over you, straddling your hips, her hair falling like a curtain around your face.
"I'm going to take my time with you tonight," she says, trailing her fingers down your chest, your stomach, lower. "I'm going to remind you exactly what it means to be mine. And you're going to take everything I give you. Understood?"
"Yes," you gasp as her fingers find where you're already wet and wanting.
"Yes, what?"
"Yes, Professor."
Her smile is wicked and possessive and absolutely devastating. "That's my girl."
Her tongue found the column of your throat, drawing a shudder from you as she groaned at the taste of your skin. Every touch is deliberate, intentional, designed to unravel you piece by piece. She takes you apart with practiced precision, knowing exactly where to touch, where to kiss, where to bite. Her fingers trace patterns across your skin that make you shiver, and her lips follow paths that leave you gasping. She's memorized every sensitive spot, every place that makes you whimper, and she's using every single one to ruin you.
She makes you beg, makes you plead, makes you cry out her name until your voice goes hoarse. She wants to hear you, needs to hear you fall apart for her. The way she watches you, eyes dark and hungry, makes you feel exposed and cherished all at once.
When you come the first time, she doesn't stop. She keeps going, pushing you higher, demanding more, coaxing another wave of pleasure from your trembling body. "Take what I give you, you're my good girl aren't you?" Her hands are relentless, her mouth merciless in the best way.
She drives you up again and again until you're boneless and shaking and completely surrendered to her will, until pleasure blurs into something transcendent and you can't tell where you end and she begins.
Hours later, when you're wrapped in her arms, your head on her chest, listening to the steady rhythm of her heartbeat, she presses a kiss to your temple.
"You're safe," she whispers into your hair. "No matter what happens, no matter who tries to come between us, you're mine and I protect what's mine. Always."
"Always," you echo, and let yourself believe it.
For tonight, at least, you can pretend the world outside this house doesn't exist. That there are no threats, no investigations, no eyes watching. There's only this: her warmth, her strength, her absolute certainty that you belong to each other.
You fall asleep in her arms, safe and claimed and home.
Three days later, you're sitting across from Agatha in a coffee shop two miles from campus, far enough that you won't run into colleagues or students, close enough that it doesn't feel like you're hiding.
Except you are hiding. Or at least, Agatha is.
"Walk me through it again," you say, stirring your latte without drinking it. "Who would want to hurt you?"
Agatha's jaw tightens, and she sets down her cup with careful precision. "I've been thinking about this. There are... several possibilities."
"Like?"
"Dr. Harrison Vale," she says immediately. "We were both working on extracting proteins from Jurassic specimens about five years ago. I published first. He's held a grudge ever since."
You pull out your phone, making notes. "What else?"
"There's a researcher at Cambridge who accused me of stealing her methodology in 2010. The accusation was baseless, but she was quite vocal about it." Agatha's fingers drum against the table. "And there's a former graduate student who left the program after I failed his dissertation defense. He sent some rather unpleasant emails afterward. Rio of course."
You write it all down, but something nags at you. The way Agatha's voice goes flat when she lists names, the way her eyes don't quite meet yours.
"Anyone else?" you press.
"Isn't that enough?" She reaches for her coffee, and you notice the slight tremor in her hand before she controls it.
"Agatha." You set down your phone, leaning forward. "You're leaving someone out."
"I'm not—"
"Yes, you are." You keep your voice gentle but firm. "I can tell. There's someone you're not mentioning."
For a long moment, she just looks at you, and you see something flicker across her face: fear, maybe, or regret. Then the mask slams back into place.
"You're imagining things," she says coolly. "I've given you everyone I can think of who might have motive."
"Agatha—"
"We should focus on the names I've provided." She pulls out her own phone, effectively ending the conversation. "I'll send you what I know about Vale. He's the most likely candidate."
You want to push, want to demand she tell you the truth, but the set of her shoulders warns you off. Whatever she's hiding, whoever she's protecting you from, or protecting herself from, she's not ready to share it.
So you let it drop. For now.
"Okay," you say quietly. "We'll start with Vale."
But you don't miss the way her shoulders relax slightly, or the guilt that flashes through her eyes before she looks away.
By Thursday, you're running on four hours of sleep and too much caffeine. Your Advanced Molecular Analysis final is tomorrow, and you've been trying to study between meeting with Morrison, documenting every lab hour for the committee, and helping Agatha analyze the latest round of samples.
The person following you, whoever they are, has been quieter since the dean's decision, but you still feel eyes on you sometimes. Walking to your car. Leaving the library. It's making you paranoid, jumping at shadows, checking over your shoulder constantly.
You're in the lab, staring at the same page of notes you've been trying to memorize for twenty minutes, when Agatha's hand settles on your shoulder.
"You're exhausted," she says, and it's not a question.
"I'm fine." You don't look up, don't want her to see how close you are to breaking.
"You're not." Her fingers squeeze gently. "When's the last time you slept more than four hours?"
"I don't know. Tuesday?"
"Y/N." She turns your chair, forcing you to face her. "You're going to make yourself sick."
"I have a final tomorrow," you say, hearing the edge of hysteria in your voice. "And Morrison's breathing down my neck, and someone's been following us, and I can't—I can't afford to mess this up. Any of it."
Agatha crouches in front of you, hands on your knees, and the tenderness in her eyes nearly undoes you.
"You're not going to mess anything up," she says firmly. "You're brilliant, and you're prepared, and you're going to ace that final."
"You don't know that."
"Yes, I do." She stands, pulling you up with her. "And right now, you're going to go home, and you're going to rest, and tomorrow you're going to show them exactly how smart you are."
"Agatha—"
"That's not a suggestion." Her voice drops into that commanding tone that makes your spine straighten automatically. "Go home. That's an order."
Despite everything, you feel a smile tug at your lips. "Yes, Dr. Harkness."
Her eyes darken slightly at the title, and she leans in, lips brushing your ear. "And when you're done with that final tomorrow, I'm taking you to your apartment and we're celebrating properly. We've earned it."
Heat floods through you, exhaustion momentarily forgotten. "Is that a good idea? We just got permission to—"
"I don't care right now," she interrupts, pulling back to look at you. "Off university property. Where we can do whatever we want without worrying about surveillance or propriety or any of it."
The promise in her voice makes your breath catch.
"Okay," you whisper.
"Good girl." She kisses you, quick and possessive. "Now go. I'll see you tomorrow."
The final goes better than you expected. You're still exhausted, still paranoid about being watched, but the material comes easily, your hand moving across the page with confidence you didn't know you still had.
When you turn in your exam, Dr. Patterson gives you an approving nod. "Well done, I can tell you actually studied."
"Thank you, Doctor."
You text Agatha as you're leaving the building: Finished. I think I did okay.
Her response comes immediately: I never doubted it. Meet me at the north parking lot in 10 minutes.
She's leaning against her car when you arrive, looking unfairly gorgeous in dark jeans and a leather jacket, hair loose around her shoulders. The sight of her makes your heart skip.
"Hey," you say, suddenly shy.
"Hey yourself." She pushes off the car, closing the distance between you. "How do you feel?"
"Tired. Relieved. Ready to not think about molecular structures for at least twelve hours."
She laughs, low and warm. "I think I can arrange that." Her hand finds yours, fingers lacing together. "Your place?"
You glance around the parking lot, hyperaware of potential witnesses, but it's nearly empty. Most students have already left for summer break or were busy cramming their lives into Ikea bags.
"My place," you confirm.
The walk takes fifteen minutes, and with every step, the tension between you builds. Agatha's thumb traces circles on the back of your hand, and you're acutely aware of her beside you. The way she moves, the subtle scent of her laundry detergent, the heat of her skin.
Your apartment building comes into view, and your pulse kicks up. You fumble with your keys at the entrance, Agatha pressed close behind you, her breath warm on your neck.
"Nervous?" she murmurs.
"No. Yes. Maybe." You get the door open, leading her up the stairs to the second floor. "I just—we've been so careful it feels like I shouldn't, and now—"
"Now we don't have to be." She crowds you against your apartment door, hands on your hips. "Not here. Not in private."
You manage to unlock the door, stumbling backward into your apartment, and Agatha follows, kicking it shut behind her. The lock clicks, and then her mouth is on yours, hungry and demanding.
You kiss her back desperately, hands fisting in her jacket, pulling her closer. She walks you backward until your spine hits the wall beside the door, her body pinning you there, and you moan into her mouth.
"Fuck," she breathes, pulling back just enough to look at you. "Do you have any idea how hard it's been? Watching you in the lab, being professional, not being able to touch you the way I want?"
"Yes," you gasp as her teeth graze your neck. "God, yes, I know."
Her hands slide under your shirt, nails scraping lightly against your ribs, and you arch into the touch. "I've been thinking about this," she says against your throat. "About getting you alone, making you fall apart for me."
"Agatha, please—"
"Please what?" She pulls your shirt over your head, tossing it aside. "Tell me what you want."
"You," you breathe. "I want you."
"You have me." Her fingers work open your jeans, sliding them down your hips. "But I want to hear you beg for it."
"Please," you say, stepping out of your jeans. "Please touch me, Agatha. I need—"
"I know what you need." She unhooks your bra with practiced ease, and then you're standing in just your underwear while she's still fully clothed. The power dynamic makes you dizzy. "Bedroom. Now."
You practically run down the short hallway, hearing her footsteps behind you. Your bedroom is small, dominated by a queen bed with rumpled sheets you didn't have time to make this morning, but Agatha doesn't seem to care about the mess.
She backs you toward the bed, eyes dark with want. "Lie down."
You obey immediately, and she stands at the foot of the bed, just watching you. The attention makes you squirm.
"Stay still," she orders, shrugging off her jacket. "I want to look at you."
You force yourself to remain motionless as she slowly removes her own clothes. The deliberate reveal of skin, the way she holds your gaze the entire time. When she's down to black lace underwear, she climbs onto the bed, settling between your thighs.
"You did so well today," she murmurs, fingers hooking into your underwear and dragging them down. "On your final. Being patient. Following the rules." She tosses your underwear aside. "You deserve a reward."
"Agatha—" Her name becomes a moan as her mouth finds your inner thigh, teeth scraping sensitive skin.
"What do you want?" she asks, breath hot against you. "Be specific."
"Your mouth," you gasp. "Please, I want your mouth on me."
"Good girl." And then she's there, tongue sliding through your folds, and you cry out at the contact.
She works you with devastating precision, like she's memorized every response, every place that makes you shake. Her tongue circles your clit in slow, deliberate strokes while her fingers dig into your thighs, holding you open for her.
"God, I missed this," she says against you. "Missed tasting you. Missed making you fall apart."
You can't form words, can only whimper as she increases the pressure, her tongue moving faster. Your hands fist in the sheets, hips trying to rock against her face, and she makes a sound of approval.
"That's it," she encourages. "Take what you need."
The permission breaks something in you, and you stop trying to stay still, grinding against her mouth while she devours you. The orgasm builds fast and sharp, pleasure coiling tighter with every stroke of her tongue.
"Agatha, I'm—I'm going to—"
"Come for me," she commands, and you do, crying out her name as waves of pleasure crash through you.
She doesn't stop, working you through it until you're oversensitive and shaking, and only then does she pull back, lips glistening, eyes wild.
"Fuck, you're beautiful like this," she says, crawling up your body. "Wrecked and desperate."
You pull her down into a kiss, tasting yourself on her tongue, and she moans into your mouth. Your hands slide down her back, finding the clasp of her bra, and she pulls back just enough to let you remove it.
"My turn," you say, emboldened by the orgasm still singing through your veins.
"Is it?" She catches your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand. "I don't remember giving you permission to be in charge."
The casual dominance makes you whimper. "Please. I want to touch you."
"I know you do." She grinds against your thigh, and you can feel how wet she is through her underwear. "But right now, I want to use you. Can I do that?"
"Yes," you breathe. "Yes, anything."
She releases your wrists, sitting back on her heels. "Take off my underwear."
You scramble to obey, fingers trembling as you hook into the lace and slide it down her legs. When she's finally naked above you, she moves up your body, thighs bracketing your ribs.
"Open your mouth," she orders, and understanding floods through you, hot and heavy.
She positions herself above your face, and you grip her hips, pulling her down onto your eager tongue. She gasps, one hand bracing against the headboard, the other tangling in your hair.
"Fuck, yes," she moans as you lick into her. "Just like that, my smart girl."
You work her with enthusiasm, loving the way she tastes, the way her thighs tremble around your head, the sounds she makes when you find the right spot. Her hips start to move, riding your face, and you moan against her.
"Such a good girl," she pants. "So eager to please me. You love this, don't you? Love having me use your mouth?"
You moan agreement, doubling your efforts, and her grip in your hair tightens almost painfully.
"Don't stop," she commands, voice breaking. "Don't you dare stop."
You wouldn't dream of it. You focus on her clit, sucking and licking while she grinds against you, chasing her pleasure. Her breathing gets ragged, thighs shaking, and you know she's close.
"Fuck, I'm—" She doesn't finish the sentence, just cries out as she comes, hips jerking against your mouth.
You work her through it, gentling your movements as she comes down, and finally she lifts off you, collapsing beside you on the bed.
"Jesus Christ," she breathes, chest heaving.
You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, grinning. "Good?"
"Good?" She turns her head to look at you, eyes still dark. "That was," She pulls you into a kiss, deep and filthy. "You're incredible."
Pride blooms warm in your chest. "I learned from the best."
She laughs, the sound rich and genuine, and pulls you against her side. For a few minutes, you just lie there, catching your breath, her fingers tracing idle patterns on your shoulder.
"I'm not done with you yet," she says eventually.
"No?"
"Not even close." She rolls on top of you, settling between your thighs. "I told you we were celebrating. That means I'm going to make you come at least three more times before I'm satisfied."
Heat floods through you again despite the two orgasms you've already had. "Agatha—"
"Shh." Her fingers slide through your folds, finding you still wet and sensitive. "You can take it. You're going to take everything I give you, aren't you?"
"Yes," you whimper as two fingers slide inside you.
"Yes, what?"
"Yes, Agatha."
"Better." She starts a slow, deep rhythm, thumb finding your clit. "You know what I love about having you here? In your space?"
You shake your head, unable to form words.
"Everyone can hear you scream." She curls her fingers, hitting that spot inside you that makes you see stars. "So I want you to be loud for me. I want to them to know who you belong to, who's making you feel this good."
As if to prove her point, she increases her pace, fucking you harder, and you cry out.
"That's it," she encourages. "Let me hear you."
You stop trying to be quiet, letting every moan and gasp fall freely from your lips. She adds a third finger and you arch off the bed, the stretch almost too much.
"Too much?" she asks, stilling.
"No," you gasp. "Don't stop, please don't stop."
"Good girl." She resumes her pace, relentless now, and you can feel another orgasm building impossibly fast. "Taking my fingers like you were made for me."
"Already?" she teases, reading your body. "So sensitive for me."
"Agatha, please—"
"Come," she orders, and your body obeys, clenching around her fingers as pleasure crashes through you again.
This time when you come down, you're shaking, oversensitive, and she slowly withdraws her fingers. You watch through heavy-lidded eyes as she brings them to her mouth, tasting you with obvious satisfaction.
"Delicious," she murmurs, then leans down to kiss you, letting you taste yourself on her tongue. "Think you can give me one more?"
"I don't know," you admit. "I'm—"
"You can." Her hand slides between your legs again, fingers circling your clit with feather-light pressure. "I know you can. You're so good for me, so perfect. Just one more, sweetheart."
The endearment combined with her touch makes you melt. "Okay," you whisper.
"That's my girl." Voice curling around the word my like she was claiming you all over again. She kisses down your body, your neck, your collarbone, between your breasts, your stomach, until she's settled between your thighs again.
This time, she's gentle, almost reverent, her tongue moving in slow, deliberate strokes. There's no urgency now, just pleasure building in slow waves, and you sink into it.
Your hands find her hair, not pulling, just holding her to you, and she hums approval against you. The vibration makes you gasp.
She takes her time, bringing you to the edge and backing off, then building you up again. It's torture and bliss all at once, and by the time she finally lets you come, you're sobbing her name, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes.
She crawls back up your body, gathering you against her, and you bury your face in her neck.
"I've got you," she murmurs, pressing kisses to your temple. "You did so well. So perfect for me."
You're boneless, wrung out, floating in the aftermath. Her hands stroke your back, your hair, grounding you gently.
"Thank you," you mumble against her skin.
"For what?"
"For this. For fighting for us. For—" You pull back to look at her. "For everything."
Her expression softens, and she cups your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones. "You don't have to thank me. I'd fight the entire university for you. The entire world, if I had to."
The intensity in her voice makes your breath catch. "Agatha—"
"I mean it." She kisses you, soft and sweet. "You're mine. And I protect what's mine."
The possessiveness should probably bother you, but instead it makes you feel safe, cherished. "I'm yours," you agree.
She pulls the blanket over both of you, tucking you against her side. "Rest for a bit. Then I'm ordering us food and we're going to actually celebrate like normal people."
"Normal people," you repeat, amused. "Is that what we are?"
"Absolutely not." She grins. "But we can pretend for an evening."
You laugh, pressing a kiss to her shoulder, and let yourself relax into her warmth. For the first time in weeks, you feel safe. Protected.
You don't know yet that the danger is far from over. That the person watching you is angrier than ever, desperate and powerful in ways you can't imagine.
You don't know that Agatha's secrets are about to come crashing down around both of you.
But for now, in this moment, you're happy. And that's enough.
The next morning, you wake to sunlight streaming through your bedroom window and Agatha's arm draped across your waist. For a moment, you just lie there, savoring the warmth of her body against yours, the peaceful expression on her face in sleep.
Then your phone buzzes on the nightstand, shattering the moment.
You reach for it carefully, trying not to wake Agatha, and your blood runs cold when you see the notification.
An email. From an unknown sender.
The subject line reads: You think you've won?
Your hands shake as you open it.
The university might have given you permission, but I haven't. You don't know what she is. What she's done. What she's hiding from you. Ask her about the Darkhold. Ask her how old she really is.
She's lying to you. And when you find out the truth, you'll wish you'd listened to me.
—A friend
You stare at the screen, heart pounding. The Darkhold. How old she really is.
What the hell does that mean?
Beside you, Agatha stirs, eyes fluttering open. "Morning," she murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
You lock your phone quickly, forcing a smile. "Morning."
She studies your face, and you see the exact moment she realizes something's wrong. "What is it?"
"Nothing," you lie. "Just—work email."
She doesn't believe you. You can see it in her eyes. But she doesn't push, just pulls you closer and kisses your forehead.
"Whatever it is," she says quietly, "we'll handle it together."
You want to believe her. You want to show her the email, demand answers to questions you don't even understand yet.
But something stops you. Some instinct that says once you open this door, everything changes.
So you kiss her instead, pushing the fear down into some deep place where it trembles like a fault line. You let yourself sink into this moment. The warmth of her skin against yours, the soft press of her lips, the way her fingers curl gently around your jaw as if you're something precious and fragile. You can feel it slipping away even as you hold it.
The earthquake has already happened. The ground has already shifted beneath you, the world rearranged in ways you don't yet understand. But here, in the quiet of early morning with her breath mingling with yours, you exist in the eye of the storm. That deceptive calm before everything fractures.
Because scientifically speaking, the aftershocks are more deadly than the initial quake. They come when you're already broken, when your defenses are compromised, when you've begun to believe the worst has passed.
Someone knows. Someone has proof. And they're not done playing games yet. When the walls start closing in, you and Agatha realize your biggest problem isn't the ethics complaint, it's the enemy you can't see. One final night before everything changes. One last chance to hold onto each other.
Women in STEM tell little lies...
TW: Power imbalance, professor/student, surveillance and harassment, blackmail and threats, smut, anxiety and panic
11k works, my bad guys - last chapter - masterlist. - ao3
The chemistry lab smelled like acetone and ozone, the familiar scent of work that usually grounded you. Today it felt suffocating.
Agatha was already there when you arrived at eight-thirty, standing at the fume hood with her hands buried deep in the pockets of her lab coat. Her posture was rigid, shoulders tight, eyes fixed on the data printouts spread across the bench. She didn't look up when you entered.
"Morning, Dr. Harkness," you said, your voice carefully neutral.
"Good morning." She still didn't look at you. "The Montana samples are ready for analysis. I've prepared the protocol on the shared drive."
Professional. Clinical. Like you were any other student.
Like she hadn't held you three nights ago, whispering promises against your skin.
You set your bag down at your workstation, acutely aware of the six feet of space between you. Six feet that might as well have been six miles. Marcus was already at his bench near the windows, pipetting something into a series of vials with focused precision.
"Thanks," you managed. "I'll pull up the protocol now."
You logged into the computer, but the words on the screen blurred. All you could see was Agatha's profile, the sharp line of her jaw, the way her fingers must be clenched inside those pockets. You knew what those hands felt like. Knew the way they trembled when they touched you, the way they could be commanding and reverent in the same breath.
Now they were hidden. Deliberately, carefully hidden.
"The baseline readings are in folder three," Agatha said, still not looking at you. "You'll need to calibrate against the Denver samples for comparison."
Denver. The word hung in the air between you, loaded with everything you couldn't say. The conference. The hotel room. The moment everything changed.
"Right," you said. "Denver baseline. Got it."
Marcus glanced up. "You two went to Denver together, right? How was the conference?"
You froze. Agatha's shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly.
"Productive," Agatha said, her voice flat. "The keynote on crystallography applications was particularly relevant to our current work."
"Y/N presented," Marcus continued, oblivious to the tension crackling through the room. "How'd it go?"
"Fine," you said quickly. "Good questions from the audience. Dr. Harkness provided excellent feedback on the presentation beforehand."
It wasn't a lie. She had given you feedback. Just not the kind you could discuss in front of Marcus.
"Cool." Marcus returned to his pipetting. "I'm hoping to present at the summer symposium. Think you could look at my abstract, Dr. Harkness?"
"Of course. Send it to me by Friday."
The conversation died. You pulled up the protocol, forcing yourself to focus on the words. Calibration procedures. Sample preparation. Standard analytical chemistry that you could do in your sleep.
Except you couldn't focus. Because Agatha had moved to the bench directly across from yours, still reviewing data, and you could feel her presence like a physical weight. The air between you felt charged, electric with everything you weren't doing.
You weren't touching.
You weren't looking at each other for more than professional necessity.
You weren't acknowledging that you knew exactly what she looked like beneath that lab coat, that you'd traced every line of her body with your hands and mouth and—
"Y/N." Agatha's voice cut through your spiraling thoughts. "The Montana samples. Are you ready to begin?"
"Yes." You stood, gathering the materials you'd need. "I'll start with the mass spec analysis."
You had to walk past her to reach the mass spectrometer. The lab suddenly felt impossibly small. You kept your eyes forward, your movements careful, but as you passed her bench, you caught her scent, something subtle and expensive that you'd come to associate with her skin, her hair, her—
"Excuse me," you murmured, your shoulder nearly brushing hers.
Agatha stepped back quickly, too quickly, her hands still jammed in her pockets. "Of course."
The near-contact left you aching. You wanted to grab her, pull her close, feel her solid and real against you. Instead, you moved to the mass spec and began the calibration sequence with shaking hands.
Behind you, you heard Agatha exhale slowly.
The morning crawled by in excruciating increments. You ran samples. Agatha reviewed data. Marcus worked on his own project, occasionally asking questions that required Agatha to move around the lab, coming close to you but never quite close enough.
Once, reaching for a reagent bottle on the shelf above your bench, Agatha's arm extended past your shoulder. You could feel the heat of her body, inches away. Could smell her perfume mixed with the chemical scent of the lab.
"Sorry," she said, her voice low. "I need the—"
"Here." You grabbed the bottle, turned to hand it to her.
Your fingers brushed.
For half a second, neither of you moved. Her eyes met yours, and you saw everything there—frustration, longing, the same desperate need that was eating you alive. Her fingers tightened fractionally against yours on the bottle.
"Thanks," she said, pulling away.
You turned back to your work, your hand trembling.
By noon, Marcus left for lunch. The moment the door closed behind him, the silence became deafening.
You didn't turn around. Didn't trust yourself to look at her.
"Y/N—" she took one step towards you.
"Don't." Your voice came out rougher than intended. "Please don't."
"I wasn't going to—" She stopped. "I was just going to ask about the sample results."
"They're consistent with the Denver data. I'll have the full analysis by end of day."
Professional. Clinical. Like your hands weren't shaking. Like you couldn't feel her staring at your back.
"Good," Agatha said quietly. "That's... good."
The silence stretched. You heard her move, the rustle of her lab coat, footsteps approaching. She stopped a few feet behind you.
"This is impossible," she whispered.
"I know."
"I can't—" Her voice broke slightly. "I can't be this close to you and not touch you."
You closed your eyes. "We have to."
"I know." A pause. "But I hate it."
"Me too."
You wanted to turn around. Wanted to close the distance between you, consequences be damned. But Marcus could come back any second. Or another lab member could arrive. Or someone could walk past the windows and see—
"You'll need to work late tonight," Agatha said, her voice carefully neutral again. "The Montana analysis needs to be completed."
The you in that sentence instead of we a death sentence, the idea of being alone in the building instead of cracking jokes with her.
"Okay," you managed. "What day should they be done?"
"Friday if you can."
Her voice carried its usual strength, professional confidence woven into her very being, but you could hear it. The way she wanted to reach for you and protect you. Lock you in her house with a thousand books and keep you sheltered from the toxicity of academia. The gentle suggestion that you couldn't focus that week.
"It'll be done," you said.
Behind you, Agatha exhaled. "Good."
She moved away, back to her own bench. You heard her settle into work, the familiar sounds of her moving through the lab. Sounds you'd heard a hundred times before, but now they felt different. Charged with awareness.
Marcus returned twenty minutes later with a sandwich and a coffee, cheerfully oblivious to the tension he'd walked into. You forced yourself to eat the lunch you'd brought, to make small talk about his summer symposium abstract, to act like everything was normal.
But nothing was normal.
Every time Agatha moved, you tracked her peripherally. Every time she spoke, you felt it in your chest. The restraint was physically painful, a constant low-grade ache of wanting and not having.
The official university envelope arrived in your campus mailbox at 9:47 AM on Tuesday.
You'd come to check for a textbook you'd ordered, moving through the motions of normalcy even though nothing had felt normal since Denver. Attempting to look towards summer classes, field research, looking past the potential stalker around every corner. The mailroom was quiet, just the hum of fluorescent lights and the metallic click of keys turning in locks.
Your hands were already shaking before you saw the return address.
Office of Ethics and Compliance
The envelope was thick, official, the kind of correspondence that changed lives. You stared at it for a long moment, your key still in the mailbox lock, unable to make yourself reach for it.
Maybe if you didn't open it, it wouldn't be real.
But someone cleared their throat behind you, waiting for their own mail, and you forced yourself to move. You took the envelope, closed your mailbox, and walked on autopilot to the small table in the corner of the mailroom.
Your fingers fumbled with the seal. The paper inside was crisp, formal, terrifying in its bureaucratic precision.
Dear Ms. Y/L/N,
This letter is to inform you that an anonymous complaint has been filed with the Office of Ethics and Compliance regarding potential violations of the university's Code of Conduct, specifically pertaining to inappropriate relationships between faculty and students.
The complaint alleges an inappropriate relationship between yourself and your faculty advisor, Dr. Agatha Harkness. Per university policy, we are required to conduct a preliminary inquiry into these allegations.
You are hereby requested to appear for an interview with the Ethics Board on April 2nd, at 10:00 AM in the Administration Building, Room 304. This interview is mandatory. Failure to appear may result in disciplinary action.
Please be advised that you have the right to have a representative present during this interview. You may also submit any relevant documentation or evidence prior to the scheduled meeting.
The university takes all ethics complaints seriously and is committed to maintaining a safe and professional environment for all members of our community.
Sincerely,
Dr. Patricia Morrison
Director, Office of Ethics and Compliance
The words blurred. You had to read it twice, then three times, before the meaning fully penetrated.
Anonymous complaint. Filed two days ago.
Two days ago, the same day you'd received the photograph.
This wasn't coincidence. This was coordination. Photograph first, to create fear. Then official complaint, to create consequences.
Your vision swam. You sat down hard in one of the plastic chairs, the letter trembling in your hands.
They were going to interview you. Question you. Ask about your relationship with Agatha, about boundaries crossed, about ethics violated. They were going to pick apart every moment, every touch, every private conversation, and judge whether you were a victim or a willing participant in your own destruction.
The language was so careful. Inappropriate relationship. Not illegal, not assault, just inappropriate. The kind of word that could mean anything and nothing, that left room for interpretation and judgment.
Allegations of inappropriate relationship with faculty mentor...
You read that line again, feeling sick. They already believed it. The passive voice, the careful phrasing—this wasn't an investigation to determine truth. This was an investigation to document what they already assumed was true.
Your phone was in your hand before you consciously decided to reach for it. You took a photo of the letter, your hands shaking so badly the first image was blurred. The second one was clearer.
You texted Agatha: Check your campus mail. Now.
The response came within minutes: Got the same letter. My office, now.
You stood on shaking legs, stuffed the letter back in the envelope, and walked out of the mailroom. The hallway felt too bright, too exposed. Every person you passed felt like they were looking at you, judging, knowing.
The walk to the chemistry building had never felt longer.
Agatha's office door was closed when you arrived, the blinds drawn. You knocked twice, soft and quick, and heard her voice immediately.
"Come in."
You slipped inside, closing the door behind you and turning the lock. Agatha was standing by her desk, her own letter in hand, her face pale and tight.
"Show me yours," she said without preamble.
You handed her the envelope. She read it quickly, her jaw clenching tighter with each line, then set it on her desk next to her own.
"Identical language," she said. "Filed the same day. Same allegations."
"Same day as the photograph," you added.
"I know." She started pacing, her movements sharp and controlled. "This is deliberate. Someone filed a complaint and sent the photograph as leverage."
"Or sent the photograph to make sure we were scared before the complaint hit."
Agatha stopped pacing, turning to face you. "The ethics board will want to interview us separately. They'll look for inconsistencies in our stories."
"What do we tell them?"
The question hung in the air between you, heavy with implications. This was the moment you'd been avoiding, the question that had no good answer.
Agatha's hands clenched at her sides. "The truth. That we're in a relationship, that it began after you completed my course, that we've maintained professional boundaries in the lab."
"Will they believe that?" Your voice came out smaller than you intended. "Will it matter?"
"I don't know." The admission seemed to cost her. She moved to her desk, sinking into her chair like her legs wouldn't hold her anymore. "I've been thinking about this all morning. Running through scenarios. And I can't find one where we both come out of this unscathed."
You sat in the chair across from her, the same chair you'd sat in that first day, when she'd asked you about your research and looked at you like you were something precious and profane all at once.
"What are our options?" you asked.
"Deny everything." She ticked it off on her fingers. "Impossible with the photograph. Admit to the relationship." Another finger. "Career consequences for both of us, but especially you. Claim it's recent, that it started after Denver." A third finger. "Lying creates more problems, and they'll investigate the timeline."
"So we tell the truth and hope they're merciful."
"The ethics board isn't known for mercy." Agatha rubbed her face. "I need to contact a lawyer. You should too."
"I can't afford a lawyer."
"I'll pay for it."
"No." The word came out sharp. "That looks like you're trying to control the narrative. Control me."
Agatha's eyes flashed. "I'm trying to protect you."
"By managing me? By making decisions for me?" You leaned forward. "That's exactly what they'll say you've been doing all along. That I'm too young, too inexperienced, too dependent on you to make my own choices."
"That's not what this is—"
"Isn't it?" You stood, needing to move, needing space. "You're already trying to fix this, to handle it, to protect me from consequences. But that just proves their point. That there's a power imbalance. That I can't be trusted to navigate this on my own."
Agatha stood too, her voice rising. "This is my fault. I'm the one with institutional power. I'm the one who should face consequences."
"Stop." You turned to face her. "I chose this too. I'm not your victim, and I won't let you treat me like one."
The words landed like a slap. Agatha's face went white, then red.
"I would never—" she started, but you cut her off.
"You're doing it right now. Trying to take all the blame, all the responsibility. Like I'm some naive student who got seduced by her professor and needs to be protected from her own choices."
"That's not what I think."
"Then stop acting like it."
Silence fell between you, tense and painful. You could see Agatha struggling with something, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides.
"The ethics board will see it that way," she said finally, her voice quiet. "Power imbalance. Vulnerable student. Predatory professor. It doesn't matter what we know is true. It matters what they can prove, what they can argue."
The truth of it settled heavy in your chest. She was right. The optics were indefensible, regardless of the reality.
"Maybe..." Agatha's voice cracked. "Maybe you should take Rio's offer. Transfer labs. Distance yourself from me."
You stared at her. "What?"
"If you transfer, if we separate professionally, maybe the board will go easier on you." She wouldn't meet your eyes. "You could claim it was one-sided, that you ended it when you realized the ethical implications—"
"You want me to leave?"
"I want you to have a career." Now she did look at you, and her eyes were bright with unshed tears. "A future. Even if it's not with me."
The anger that had been simmering in your chest flared hot. "Don't I get a say in that?"
"Of course you do. But I need you to really think about what staying means." She moved toward you, her hands reaching out then dropping. "If you stay in my lab, if we stay together, you'll always be the student who slept with her advisor. Every achievement will be questioned. Every opportunity will come with whispers. Is that really what you want?"
"What I want," you said, your voice shaking, "is for you to stop trying to make this decision for me. What I want is for you to trust that I know what I'm risking. What I want is for you to stop assuming I'm too young or too stupid to understand the consequences."
"I don't think you're stupid—"
"Then stop treating me like I am."
Agatha's office phone rang, shrill and intrusive. You both froze, staring at it like it was a bomb.
On the third ring, Agatha answered. "Dr. Harkness."
You watched her face as she listened, watched the color drain from her cheeks.
"Yes, I received the letter," she said, her voice carefully controlled. "Today, if possible? I see. Yes, I understand. Eleven o'clock. I'll be there."
She hung up, her hand lingering on the receiver.
"The Dean wants to see me," she said. "Today."
The fear in her voice made your anger evaporate. You crossed to her, taking her hand.
"It's starting," she whispered.
You weren't allowed to go with her to the Dean's office. Weren't allowed to wait in the hallway or even in the building. So you went back to the lab, tried to work, tried to focus on anything except the image of Agatha sitting across from the Dean, being questioned, being judged.
Marcus was at his station, pipetting something into a series of tubes. He looked up when you entered, his expression concerned.
"Hey, you okay? You look..."
"Fine," you said automatically. "Just tired."
"Right." He didn't sound convinced. "Listen, I don't know what's going on, but people are talking."
Your stomach dropped. "Talking about what?"
"About you and Dr. Harkness. About some kind of investigation." He set down his pipette. "I told them they were full of shit, that you guys are just really dedicated to the research. But..."
"But what?"
"But Sophie's been saying things. To anyone who'll listen." He looked uncomfortable. "About how Dr. Harkness plays favorites. About how you got first author on that Nature paper because of... other reasons."
The room tilted. "She said that?"
"Not in those exact words. But the implication was pretty clear." Marcus's expression was sympathetic. "I'm not saying I believe it. I'm just saying you should know what's being said."
You nodded, not trusting your voice.
"For what it's worth," Marcus continued, "I think you earned that paper. Your work is solid. Anyone who actually looks at the research can see that."
"Thanks," you managed.
He went back to his pipetting, and you stood there, trying to process. Sophie was spreading rumors. Rio was probably encouraging it. And now the whole department was talking, speculating, judging.
Your phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number: We should talk. Meet me at the coffee shop on Main. 30 minutes. -Sophie
You stared at the message. Was this a trap? An attempt to gather more evidence? Or was Sophie genuinely trying to reach out?
You have one week until the hearing. One week to decide what story you're going to tell. Here's what I know:
- The relationship started before Denver
- You've been to her house multiple times
- You've spent nights there
- She's given you gifts, special treatment, opportunities other students don't get
Tell the truth and this goes away. Admit the relationship, accept the consequences, move on. But if you lie, if you try to minimize or hide what this really is, I'll make sure the board sees everything. Every photograph. Every text message. Every piece of evidence that shows exactly how inappropriate this relationship has been.
Your choice. But choose carefully.
The email had no signature, no demands beyond the implicit threat. Just the promise of exposure if you didn't comply.
You read it again, your mind racing. They had more than the photograph. They had been watching for longer than you'd realized. They knew about the gifts, the nights at Agatha's house, the timeline.
They knew everything.
Your phone buzzed again. Sophie: Please. I need to talk to you. It's important.
You looked at the email, at Sophie's text, at Marcus working obliviously at his station. Everything was closing in, walls narrowing, options disappearing.
You needed to tell Agatha. But she was with the Dean, probably being told the same things, being given the same warnings.
You needed to think. But your mind was spinning, unable to focus, unable to find solid ground.
Agatha entered Dean Whitmore's office at precisely 11 AM, her spine straight, her expression carefully neutral. The Dean sat behind his mahogany desk, hands folded, his face grave.
"Dr. Harkness. Please, sit."
She sat, crossing her legs, meeting his gaze directly. "Dean Whitmore."
"I'm sure you know why you're here."
"I received a letter from the Office of Ethics and Compliance this morning," Agatha said evenly. "Regarding an anonymous complaint."
"Yes." He leaned back in his chair. "This is a serious allegation, Agatha. The university takes these matters very seriously."
"I understand. I'm prepared to cooperate fully with the investigation."
"I hope so." He paused, studying her. "But I need to be clear about expectations during this process."
Agatha felt her stomach tighten. "Of course."
"Effective immediately, you are to have no contact with the student in question outside of necessary professional interactions." His voice was formal, administrative. "No private meetings. No communication that isn't documented and work-related. All emails must be copied to the department chair. All meetings must be held in public spaces with the door open."
The words landed like blows. "You're asking me to cut off contact with my mentee during a critical time in their research."
"I'm asking you to maintain appropriate boundaries while this is investigated." The Dean's tone suggested the boundaries should have been there all along.
"Their dissertation defense is in six months. They need guidance, support—"
"They can receive that guidance through proper channels. With documentation. With witnesses." He leaned forward. "We need to ensure the integrity of the investigation, Agatha. Surely you understand that."
She understood perfectly. He'd already decided she was guilty.
"If the relationship is as innocent as you claim," the Dean continued, "a few weeks of distance shouldn't be a problem."
A test. And a punishment.
Agatha kept her voice steady. "I've always respected your work, Dean Whitmore. I hope you'll extend me the same courtesy during this process."
"I've always respected your work, Agatha." His emphasis on the past tense was deliberate. "Don't make me regret that respect."
The threat hung in the air between them.
"The complaint was anonymous," Agatha said carefully. "Don't I have a right to know who's accusing me?"
"The ethics board will handle that. My concern is protecting the university and its students."
"And what about protecting faculty from false accusations?"
His eyes narrowed. "Are you saying the accusation is false?"
The trap closed around her. Deny the relationship and she'd be lying. Admit it and she'd be confirming the ethics violation.
"I'm saying I've always acted in my students' best interests."
"I hope the investigation confirms that." He stood, signaling the meeting was over. "You'll receive formal documentation of these requirements by end of day. I trust you'll comply."
Agatha rose, gathering her bag. She was almost to the door when he spoke again.
"One more thing." His voice was softer now, almost kind. "It might be wise to consider what's best for everyone involved. Sometimes the kindest thing is to step back."
She turned. "Step back?"
"The student could transfer to another advisor. I could facilitate it. Make it smooth. No questions asked." He met her eyes. "It might be the best outcome for all parties."
Agatha understood. They wanted her to push you away. To make this disappear quietly.
"I'll keep that in mind," she said, her voice hollow.
She walked out of his office, down the hallway, and didn't stop until she felt sunshine, standing in the courtyard of the Chem building. Her phone was in her hand before she'd consciously decided to call.
You answered on the second ring. "Agatha?"
"Are you alone?" Her voice was tight, barely controlled.
"Marcus is here."
"Go somewhere private. Now."
You grabbed your bag and headed for the stairwell, the one place you knew would be empty this time of day. "Okay. I'm alone. What happened?"
"I just left the Dean's office." Agatha's breath was shaky. "He knows. About us. About the relationship."
Your legs gave out. You sat down hard on the concrete stairs. "What did you tell him?"
"Nothing. He didn't ask directly, he was too smart for that. But he knows." A pause. "He's requiring us to have no contact outside of necessary professional interactions. No private meetings. No communication that isn't documented and work-related."
The words hit like a physical blow. "He can't do that."
"He can. And he did. He said it's to ensure the integrity of the investigation." Agatha's voice cracked. "He's separating us. Officially."
You pressed your hand to your mouth, trying to hold back the sob building in your chest.
"There's more," Agatha continued. "He suggested—strongly suggested, that it might be best for everyone if you transferred to another advisor. He said he could facilitate it. Make it smooth. No questions asked."
"He wants me to leave your lab."
"He wants this to go away quietly. And the easiest way to do that is to separate us completely."
The walls of the stairwell seemed to close in. Your breath came short and sharp, panic clawing up your throat as the full weight of it hit you.
If you refused to transfer, you were choosing Agatha over your career. Proving to the board that you couldn't make rational decisions, that the relationship had compromised your judgment. Evidence of coercion, they'd say. Evidence that you were too emotionally involved to see clearly.
But if you agreed to transfer, you were abandoning her. Admitting the relationship was problematic, that it had damaged your professional integrity beyond repair. Confirming every ugly rumor Sophie had spread about special treatment and inappropriate favoritism.
Either way, you lost.
Your career. Your relationship. Your reputation. Everything.
"Oh god," you whispered, nausea rolling through you. Your hands were shaking so badly you nearly dropped the phone. "Rio didn't just file a complaint. She built a trap."
Every option led to destruction. Every choice proved guilt. Stay and look coerced. Leave and look complicit. Fight and look defensive. Surrender and look guilty.
There was no way out.
And somewhere, someone was watching this happen. The anonymous sender with their careful documentation, their timeline, their week to decide. They weren't trying to help. They were watching you get destroyed, piece by piece, and they were enjoying it.
You pressed your forehead against your knees, trying to breathe through the panic. "I don't know what to do." Agatha took a breath, trying to find the words to guide you through this.
"I got another email," you said before she could try. "From the same anonymous sender. They have more than the photograph. They've been watching us for longer than we thought."
Agatha was quiet for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was hollow. "What did it say?"
You read her the email, word for word. Heard her sharp intake of breath at the mention of gifts, of nights at her house, of the timeline.
"They know everything," she whispered.
"Not everything. But enough." You stood, needing to move. "They're giving us a choice. Tell the truth and accept consequences, or lie and they'll expose everything."
"That's not a choice. That's a threat."
"I know." You started pacing the stairwell. "Sophie texted me too. Wants to meet. Says it's important."
"Don't." Agatha's voice was sharp. "Don't talk to her. Don't engage. She's working with Rio, and anything you say will be used against us."
"What if she's trying to help?"
"She's not. This is a trap, said it yourself." A pause. "Promise me you won't meet with her."
You wanted to promise. Wanted to agree to everything Agatha said, to let her protect you, to make this easier.
But that voice in your head, the one that had been getting louder since the Dean's ultimatum, whispered: She's doing it again. Making decisions for you. Treating you like you can't handle this.
"I need to think," you said instead.
"About what? There's nothing to think about. Sophie is dangerous. Rio is dangerous. We can't trust anyone right now."
"I know that. But I also can't just hide and hope this goes away." You stopped pacing. "We need information. We need to know what they have, what they're planning. And Sophie might be our only way to get that."
"Or she might be setting you up for something worse."
"Maybe. But doing nothing isn't working either."
Silence on the other end. Then: "I can't tell you what to do. But I'm asking you, please, don't meet with her. Not alone. Not without protection."
"I'll think about it," you said again.
"That's not a promise."
"No. It's not."
Another long silence. You could hear Agatha breathing, could imagine her in that courtyard between labs and the science department offices, her hand pressed to her forehead, trying to maintain control. On the other side of the building, that space growing with each twisted email.
"I have to go," she said finally. "The Dean wants documentation of all our interactions. Emails, meeting notes, everything. I need to start compiling it."
"Okay."
"Be careful. Please."
"You too."
The line went dead.
You stood in the stairwell, phone in hand, and felt the weight of impossible choices pressing down on you. Meet with Sophie and risk a trap. Don't meet with her and lose potential information. Tell the truth at the hearing and accept destruction. Lie and live under blackmail forever.
Every option led to pain. Every choice had consequences.
Your phone buzzed. Another text from Sophie: I know you don't trust me. I don't blame you. But I have information you need. About who's behind this. Please.
You stared at the message. Information about who's behind this. If Sophie knew, if she could prove Rio's involvement, maybe you could turn this around. Maybe you could expose the real ethics violation; the harassment, the surveillance, the blackmail.
Or maybe it was exactly what Agatha said: a trap.
You typed back: When?
The response came immediately: 4 PM. Come alone.
You deleted the message thread, then deleted it from your deleted messages. If someone was monitoring your phone, you didn't want them to know about this meeting.
If you were going to do this, you had to be smart about it.
The rest of the day passed in a haze of anxiety and preparation. You went through the motions in the lab, running samples you didn't care about, taking notes you wouldn't remember. Most of the that time was spent ignoring Agatha's presence in her office, the wooden door mocking you. Marcus left at three, giving you a concerned look on his way out.
"You sure you're okay?"
"Yeah. Just stressed about the research."
He didn't believe you, but he didn't push. "Let me know if you need anything."
At 3:45, you packed up your things and headed for the coffee shop. You took a circuitous route, doubling back twice to make sure no one was following you. Paranoid, maybe, but after everything, paranoia felt justified.
The coffee shop was busy with the late afternoon crowd, students studying for exams, faculty grading papers. You spotted Sophie immediately, sitting at a corner table, her hands wrapped around a mug, her eyes red-rimmed like she'd been crying.
She looked up when you approached, and something like relief crossed her face.
"You came," she said.
"I'm here. Talk fast." You didn't sit down, didn't want to commit to staying.
"Sit. Please. This is going to take a minute."
Against your better judgment, you sat. Kept your bag on your lap, your phone in your hand, ready to leave at the first sign of trouble.
Sophie took a shaky breath. "I need to tell you something. About Rio. About the complaint. About all of it."
"I'm listening."
"It was my idea." The words came out in a rush. "The photographs, the complaint, all of it. Rio helped, but it was my idea."
Your stomach dropped. "Why?"
"Because I was angry. Because Dr. Harkness kicked me out of her lab and I wanted to hurt her." Sophie's hands tightened around her mug. "Rio said she could help. Said she knew how to make Agatha pay for what she did. And I believed her."
"So you followed us. Photographed us. Violated our privacy, during an academic gathering, mind you."
"Yes." Sophie's voice broke. "And I'm so sorry. I didn't think about what it would do to you. I was just focused on hurting Agatha."
"Why are you telling me this now?"
"Because it's gone too far." Sophie looked up, and her eyes were desperate. "Rio's not going to stop with the ethics complaint. She has more planned. Worse things. And I can't—I can't be part of it anymore."
Your heart was pounding. "What things?"
"She's going to the press. Local news, academic journals, anywhere that will listen. She's going to make this a story about predatory professors and vulnerable students. She's going to destroy both of you, but especially Agatha."
The room tilted. "When?"
"After the hearing. She wants to wait until the ethics board makes their decision, then she'll release everything. The photographs, the timeline, her own 'expert commentary' about power dynamics and institutional failure." Sophie's voice was shaking. "She's been planning this for months. Since before Denver. She knew about you and Agatha before I even told her."
"How?"
"I don't know. But she knew. And she used me to get evidence." Sophie wiped her eyes. "I'm so sorry. I was stupid and angry and I let her manipulate me. But I can't let her do this. Not anymore."
You studied her face, looking for signs of deception, of another trap. But all you saw was genuine remorse and fear.
"Why should I believe you?"
"Because I have proof." Sophie pulled out her phone, opened her email, and turned the screen toward you. "These are emails between me and Rio. Planning the surveillance. Discussing the complaint. Coordinating the timing."
You read through them, your hands shaking. The emails were damning. Rio's voice was clear, calculating, manipulative. She'd orchestrated everything, used Sophie's anger as a weapon, planned the destruction with surgical precision.
"Can I have copies of these?"
"I'll forward them to you. But you can't tell anyone where you got them. If Rio finds out I talked to you—" Sophie's voice broke. "She'll destroy me too."
"She's going to destroy you anyway. You filed a false ethics complaint. You participated in harassment."
"I know. And I'll face those consequences. But I need to stop her first." Sophie leaned forward. "There's something else. The anonymous email you got, the one with the threat? That wasn't Rio. That was someone else."
Your blood ran cold. "Who?"
"I don't know. But Rio was surprised when I mentioned it. She didn't send it. Which means someone else is watching you. Someone else has evidence."
The coffee shop suddenly felt too small, too exposed. You looked around, scanning faces, looking for anyone paying too much attention.
"I have to go," you said, standing.
"Wait." Sophie grabbed your wrist. "Please. I know I don't deserve your help. But if you can find a way to stop Rio, to expose what she's doing, maybe we can all get out of this."
You pulled your wrist free. "Forward me those emails. All of them. And then stay away from me. Stay away from Agatha. If I see you anywhere near us again, I'm going to the police."
"I understand." Sophie's voice was small. "For what it's worth, I really am sorry."
You left without responding, your mind racing. Sophie's confession changed everything. If you had proof of Rio's involvement, proof of the coordinated harassment, maybe you could turn this investigation around. Maybe you could make this about the real ethics violation.
But Sophie was right about one thing: if Rio wasn't behind the anonymous email, then someone else was watching. Someone else had evidence. Someone else was playing a game you didn't understand.
Your phone buzzed. The emails from Sophie, forwarded as promised. You saved them immediately, backed them up to three different locations.
Then another buzz. A text from an unknown number: Interesting meeting. But Sophie's not telling you everything. Want to know what she's hiding?
You stopped walking, your heart hammering. Someone had been watching. Someone had seen you meet with Sophie.
The email contained a video file. You didn't want to open it. Didn't want to see what fresh violation waited inside.
But you had to know.
You found a bench, sat down, and pressed play.
The video was from a security camera, grainy and time-stamped. It showed Sophie and Rio in what looked like Rio's office. The audio was muffled but audible.
"She's going to figure it out," Sophie was saying. "She's too smart. She'll know I'm lying."
"She won't." Rio's voice was calm, assured. "Because you're going to be very convincing. You're going to cry. You're going to apologize. You're going to give her just enough truth to make her trust you."
"And then?"
"And then she'll take those emails to the ethics board, thinking she's exposing me. But what she's really doing is confirming the relationship. Confirming the timeline. Giving them everything they need to destroy both of them."
Sophie's face on the screen looked uncertain. "But the emails are real. They prove you orchestrated this."
"They prove I had conversations with a student about her concerns regarding her former advisor. That's not illegal. That's mentorship." Rio smiled. "But her taking those emails to the board? That's her admitting the relationship is real. That's her confirming everything we've alleged."
The video ended.
You sat there, staring at the blank screen, feeling the trap close around you.
Sophie hadn't been confessing. She'd been setting you up. The emails were real, but they were also bait. Rio had known you'd take them to the ethics board. Had counted on it.
And you'd almost fallen for it.
Another text: Still think you can trust anyone? Still think you can win this?
You didn't respond. Just sat there, trying to breathe, trying to think.
Someone had sent you this video. Someone who wasn't Rio, wasn't Sophie. Someone who had access to security footage from Rio's office.
Someone who was helping you.
Or someone who was playing an even deeper game.
Your phone rang. Agatha.
"Where are you?" she asked immediately.
"Off campus. Why?"
"I just got a call from the ethics board. They want to move up our interviews. Tomorrow morning instead of next week."
"Why?"
"They said new evidence has come to light. Evidence that requires immediate attention." Her voice was tight. "What did you do?"
"Nothing. Mostly." You stood, started walking toward your car. "But I need to see you. Now. Something's happened."
"We're not supposed to have contact—"
"I don't care. This is important. Your place. I'm on my way."
You hung up before she could argue, before you could second-guess yourself.
The drive to Agatha's house felt endless. You kept checking your rearview mirror, looking for cars that might be following. Kept expecting another email, another text, another violation.
But nothing came.
Agatha was waiting at the door when you arrived, pulling you inside immediately.
"Tell me," she said.
You told her everything. Sophie's meeting, the confession, the emails. Then the video, the setup, the realization that it was all a trap.
Agatha listened without interrupting, her face growing paler with each revelation.
"So we can't use the emails," she said when you finished. "Because using them confirms the relationship."
"Right. But we also can't ignore them. Because they prove Rio's involvement."
"And we don't know who sent the video."
"No. But whoever it is, they have access to security footage. They're inside the university somehow."
Agatha started pacing. "This is worse than I thought. We're not just fighting Rio. We're fighting someone else. Someone with resources and access and a plan we don't understand."
"What do we do?"
She stopped pacing, turned to face you. "We tell the truth. Tomorrow, at the interview, we tell them everything. The relationship, the timeline, the harassment, the surveillance, all of it."
"That's what the anonymous sender wants. They said if we tell the truth, this goes away."
"Or it's what they want us to think they want." Agatha crossed to you, taking your hands. "We're out of good options. But we still have one choice: we control the narrative. We go in there tomorrow and we tell our story, our way, before anyone else can tell it for us."
"And if they don't believe us?"
"Then at least we'll have told the truth." Her grip tightened. "I'm done hiding. I'm done being afraid. Whatever happens, we face it together."
You wanted to believe her. Wanted to believe that truth was enough, that love was enough, that you could survive this.
But looking at her face, seeing the fear she was trying to hide, you weren't sure anymore.
"Stay tonight," she said quietly. "I know we're not supposed to have contact. But I need you here. One more night before everything changes."
You should say no. Should maintain the boundaries the Dean had set. Should be careful.
But you were so tired of being careful.
"Okay," you whispered. "One more night."
She pulled you into her arms, holding you like you might disappear. And maybe you would. Maybe tomorrow would be the end of everything.
But tonight, you had this.
You had her.
She kissed you then, harder than before, her hands fisting in your shirt like she was trying to anchor herself. You kissed her back with equal desperation, tasting the fear beneath her control.
"Bedroom," she breathed against your mouth, and you let her lead you down the hall.
The room was dark except for the moonlight filtering through the curtains. She turned to face you, and in the dim light you could see her hands shaking as she reached for the buttons of your shirt.
"Agatha—"
"Let me," she said, her voice rough and ragged with emotion. Her eyes searched your face desperately, pleading. "Please. I need to touch you. Need to feel you." Fingers brushing against your skin where your collar met your neck, "Please baby."
You nodded, standing still as she undressed you with trembling fingers. Each button opened slowly, deliberately, like she was unwrapping something precious. When your shirt fell to the floor, she pressed her palms flat against your chest, feeling your heartbeat.
"You're here," she whispered.
"I'm here," you confirmed, covering her hands with yours. "I'm not going anywhere."
Her breath hitched, and you realized with a shock that she was crying. Agatha Harkness, who never lost control, who commanded every room she entered, was crying.
"Hey," you said softly, pulling her close. "Hey, it's okay."
"It's not okay." Her voice broke. "Tomorrow they could take everything. My career, my reputation, my girl, my—" She couldn't finish, burying her face against your neck.
You held her tight, one hand stroking through her hair. "Then we make tonight count. We make tonight ours."
She pulled back, wiping at her eyes with an almost angry gesture. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't—"
"Don't." You caught her face in your hands. "Don't apologize for being human. For being scared. I'm terrified too."
"You shouldn't have to be." Her hands came up to grip your wrists. "You should be focused on your research, your career, not—"
"Not need you like this?" You kissed her softly, thumb swiping across her cheekbone. "Can't stop it now."
Something shifted in her expression, the vulnerability hardening back into determination. "Take off the rest," she said, voice dropping into that commanding tone you knew so well. "I want to see you."
You obeyed, shedding your remaining clothes while she watched with dark, hungry eyes. When you stood naked before her, she circled you slowly, fingers trailing across your skin.
"So beautiful," she murmured. "And mine. Say it."
"Yours," you breathed.
"Again."
"Yours, Agatha. Only yours, always yours."
She spun you around, kissing you hard enough to bruise, and you felt the desperation in it. The need to claim, to possess, to make this real in a way that couldn't be denied or erased.
"On the bed," she ordered. "On your back."
You climbed onto the mattress, watching as she finally began to undress. She did it slowly, maintaining eye contact, and you saw the moment she slipped back into that role. The professor, the mentor, the one in control. It was armor, you realized. A way to cope with the fear.
When she was finally naked, she crawled over you, settling between your thighs. "I'm going to make you come until you can't remember your own name," she said, voice steady now. "Until the only thing you know is that you're mine."
"Agatha—"
"Shh." Her fingers pressed against your lips. "Let me take care of you. Let me have this."
You nodded, and she began to kiss her way down your body. Slow, deliberate, marking you with her mouth. She sucked bruises into your breasts, your ribs. Each one a claim, a promise, a prayer.
When she reached your thighs, she paused, looking up at you. "Spread wider. I want to see all of you."
You obeyed, and her eyes went dark with want. "Perfect," she breathed. "So perfect for me."
Her mouth on you was devastating. She knew exactly how to take you apart, exactly where to lick and suck and bite to make you writhe. You were already so wound up, so desperate, that it didn't take long before you were gasping her name.
"That's it," she encouraged, fingers joining her tongue. "Come for me, sweetheart. Let me feel it."
You shattered, crying out, and she worked you through it with relentless precision. But she didn't stop. Even as you came down, oversensitive and shaking, she kept going.
"Agatha, I can't—"
"You can." Her voice was firm. "You will. Again."
She added another finger, curling them inside you while her tongue circled your clit, and the pleasure built impossibly higher. You were sobbing now, hands fisted in the sheets, and she was merciless.
"Come," she commanded, and your body obeyed.
This time when you came down, she crawled back up your body, kissing you deeply. You could taste yourself on her tongue, and it made you moan.
"You're so perfect," she whispered against your lips.
You pulled her closer, needing to feel her weight, her warmth. "Let me touch you. Please."
She hesitated, and you saw the fear flicker across her face again. The vulnerability she was trying so hard to hide.
"Please," you said again, softer. "Let me make you feel good. Let me take care of you."
Something in her crumbled. She nodded, rolling onto her back, and you could see how hard it was for her to give up control. To let herself be vulnerable.
You kissed her slowly, tenderly, trying to pour all your love into it. Your hand slid down her body, and when you touched her, she was soaking wet.
"You're so wet," you murmured. "Is this all for me?"
"Yes," she gasped.
You slid two fingers inside her, and she arched off the bed with a broken moan. She was tight and hot around you, and you could feel her trembling.
"Look at me," you said softly. "I want to see you, please."
Her eyes opened, meeting yours, and they were bright with unshed tears. "I'm scared," she admitted. "I'm so scared of losing you."
"You won't." You kissed her again, fingers moving slowly inside her. "I'm not going anywhere. No matter what happens tomorrow, I'm yours. Do you understand?"
"Yes," she sobbed, hips rocking against your hand.
"Say it. Say you're mine too."
"I'm yours," she gasped. "Yours, always yours."
You increased your pace, thumb finding her clit, and she came apart beneath you with a cry that sounded like your name and a prayer all at once. You held her through it, whispering reassurances, telling her you needed her, that you weren't leaving, that nothing could take this away.
When she finally stilled, you gathered her into your arms, and she clung to you like a lifeline.
"I don't know what I'll do if I lose you," she whispered against your chest.
"You won't." You stroked her hair, her back, trying to soothe her. "We're going to get through this. Together."
She kissed you back, deep and desperate, and you felt her hands moving over your body again. "Once more," she said. "I need you once more."
This time was slower, gentler. She touched you like you were something precious, something to be cherished. Her fingers moved inside you with careful precision, building you up slowly, and when you came it was with her name on your lips and tears streaming down your face.
Afterward, you lay tangled together, exhausted and sated. Her head rested on your chest, your fingers tracing patterns on her back.
"Whatever happens tomorrow," she said quietly, "I want you to know: you're the best thing that's ever happened to me. Not the research, not the awards, not any of it. You."
"You're the best thing that's ever happened to me too," you whispered.
She lifted her head to look at you, and in the moonlight you could see the adoration and fear warring in her expression. "I'm going to fight for us," she said. "For you. No matter what it costs."
"I know." You pulled her back down, holding her close. "I'm going to fight too."
You stayed like that, wrapped around each other, until exhaustion finally pulled you both under. Your last thought before sleep claimed you was that no matter what tomorrow brought, you'd had this. This night, this love, this moment of perfect connection.
And no one could take that away.
You woke to pale morning light filtering through Agatha's curtains and the sound of her breathing beside you. For a moment, you let yourself pretend everything was normal. That this was just another morning, another stolen moment before the careful dance of professional distance.
Then you remembered.
The interview was in three hours.
Agatha stirred beside you, her arm tightening around your waist. "You're awake."
"Can't sleep."
"Me neither." She pressed a kiss to your shoulder. "I've been lying here thinking about what to say. How to explain this in a way that doesn't sound like every cliché about professors and students."
"Maybe we don't try to make it sound like anything except what it is."
"Which is?"
You turned to face her. "Two people who fell for each other despite terrible timing and complicated circumstances. Two people who tried to be careful and professional and still got caught. Two people who refuse to be ashamed of something that's real."
Agatha's eyes were bright. "You make it sound simple."
"It is simple. Everything else is just noise."
She kissed you then, slow and deep, and you felt the desperation in it. The fear that this might be the last time. The need to memorize every sensation, every touch, every moment.
When she pulled back, her hands framed your face. "I need you to know: I don't regret this. Us. Any of it."
"Even if it costs you everything?"
"You are everything."
The words hung between you, too big and too true to take back.
You sat up, pulling the sheet around yourself. "We need to talk about what we're going to say. Actually say. Not just the broad strokes."
Agatha nodded, sitting up beside you. "Agreed. We have three hours. Let's use them."
"The timeline," you said. "That's what they'll focus on. When it started, how it developed. They'll try to find inconsistencies between our stories."
"So we need to be precise." Agatha reached for her phone, opened a notes app. "Let's map it out. Every significant moment."
You spent the next hour doing exactly that. From the first moment you became aware of Agatha, to the email you sent at 15, to the first night you slept together.
"They're going to ask about coercion," Agatha said quietly. "About whether you felt pressured because of the power dynamic."
"I'll tell them the truth. That you gave me every opportunity to say no. That you were the one who wanted to wait, to be careful. That I was the one who pushed for more, made it clear I understood the risks."
"They won't believe that."
"Then we make them believe it." You met her eyes. "We tell them about every time you tried to protect me. Every boundary you set. Every moment you put my career ahead of your own feelings."
Agatha was quiet for a moment. "What about the harassment? Rio's involvement?"
"We tell them everything. The photographs, the emails, the coordination with Sophie. We make it clear this isn't just an ethics violation, it's a targeted attack."
"They'll say we're deflecting. Making excuses."
"Maybe. But it's still the truth." You took her hand. "And I think... I think we need to stop trying to defend ourselves. Stop trying to make this palatable for them."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean we go in there and we admit it. All of it. Yes, we're in a relationship. Yes, there's a power dynamic. Yes, we should have disclosed it sooner. But we're not going to apologize for loving each other."
Agatha's breath caught. "Loving each other."
You realized what you'd said. The word you'd been dancing around for months, too afraid to name it, too afraid of what it would mean.
"Yes," you said, your voice steady. "Loving each other. Because that's what this is, isn't it? Not an ethics violation. Not a scandal. Love."
Agatha's eyes were bright with unshed tears. "I love you," she whispered. "God, I love you so much it terrifies me." Her hand coming up to cup your jaw, thumb resting under your eye, phone falling flat on her lap.
"I love you too." The words felt like a confession and a declaration all at once. "And no lie we could tell them would change that. No story we could spin would make this go away. So why are we trying?"
"Because the truth could destroy us both."
"And lying will destroy us anyway. Just slower. More painfully." You found her hand and squeezed. "I'd rather go down fighting for something real than survive by pretending this doesn't matter."
Agatha pulled you into her arms, holding you tight. "You're right. You're absolutely right."
"So we tell them the truth. We control the narrative by refusing to be ashamed of it."
"We tell them we're in love," Agatha said. "That it started after professional boundaries were established. That we've maintained integrity in the lab. That we were planning to disclose but someone weaponized it first."
"And we tell them about Rio. About the harassment campaign. About being blackmailed and surveilled."
"We make them see us as people, not just a policy violation."
You pulled back to look at her. "Do you think it'll work?"
"I think it's our only chance." Agatha brushed a strand of hair from your face. "And even if it doesn't work, even if they decide to punish us anyway, at least we'll have been honest. At least we'll have fought for this."
"For us."
"For us," she agreed.
You spent the next hour rehearsing. Not scripting, you both knew that would sound false, but making sure you were aligned on the key points. The timeline. The boundaries you'd maintained. The harassment you'd endured. The love that made all of it worth it.
At 9:15, you got dressed. Agatha loaned you a blazer, helped you fix your hair with the same precision she uses in the lab. You looked at yourself in her bathroom mirror and barely recognized the person staring back. You looked older. Harder. Ready for war.
But also ready for truth.
"You look beautiful," Agatha said from the doorway.
"I look terrified."
"That too." She came up behind you, her hands on your shoulders, brown waves settling over her shoulders. "But you also look strong. Like someone who knows what she's fighting for."
You turned to face her. "I'm fighting for you."
"I know. And I'm fighting for you." She kissed you once, soft and sweet. "Let's go show them what we're made of."
You drove separately to campus, maintaining the illusion of propriety even though you both knew it was pointless. The pretense was over.
The Administration Building loomed ahead, all brick and glass and institutional authority. You parked in the visitor lot, took a moment to breathe, to center yourself.
Attached was a photograph. You and Agatha, this morning, visible through her bedroom window. The image was grainy but clear enough. Clear enough to show you in her arms. Clear enough to destroy you both.
You deleted the email, turned off your phone, and got out of the car.
Agatha was waiting by the entrance, her face pale but composed. She didn't touch you, didn't even stand too close, but her eyes said everything.
I'm here. I'm with you. We're doing this together.
You nodded once, and together you walked through the doors.
The ethics board was waiting in Room 304. Three people sat behind a long table: Dr. Patricia Morrison, the Director of Ethics and Compliance; Dean Whitmore; and a third person you didn't recognize, probably the faculty representative.
"Ms. Y/L/N, Dr. Harkness," Dr. Morrison said. "Please, sit down."
There were two chairs facing the table, positioned several feet apart. You sat in one, Agatha in the other, the distance between you feeling like miles.
"Thank you for coming on short notice," Dr. Morrison continued. "We've received some new information that requires immediate attention. We'll be interviewing you separately, starting with Ms. Y/L/N."
Agatha started to protest, but Dr. Morrison held up a hand.
"Dr. Harkness, please wait in the hallway. We'll call you when we're ready."
Agatha looked at you, a question in her eyes. You nodded slightly. It's okay. I can do this.
She stood, walked to the door, and left without looking back.
The door closed with a soft click, and you were alone with the ethics board.
Dr. Morrison folded her hands on the table. "Ms. Y/L/N, we're going to ask you some questions about your relationship with Dr. Harkness. I want to remind you that you have the right to have a representative present. Do you wish to have someone with you?"
"No," you said. Your voice was steady. "I'm ready to talk."
"Very well." Dr. Morrison glanced at her notes. "Let's start with a simple question: Are you currently in a romantic relationship with Dr. Agatha Harkness?"
This was it. The moment everything changed.
You took a breath, met Dr. Morrison's eyes, and told the truth.
"Yes. I am."
The room seemed to hold its breath.
"And when did this relationship begin?"
"After I completed her intro to masters course. After I was officially accepted into the doctoral program." You kept your voice level, factual. "We maintained professional boundaries until that point."
"Can you be more specific about the timeline?"
"The relationship became physical in late September. But we'd been... aware of each other before that. There was attraction. But we didn't act on it until after the professional boundary of the course was removed."
Dr. Morrison made notes. "And you're aware that Dr. Harkness is your faculty advisor? That there's an inherent power dynamic in that relationship?"
"Yes. We're both aware of that. We've been careful to maintain professional boundaries in the lab. My research is my own. My achievements are my own."
"Are they?" Dean Whitmore spoke for the first time. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you've received preferential treatment. First author on a Nature paper in your first semester? That's highly unusual."
"I earned that placement." You kept your voice calm even as anger flared. "I was the one who noticed the reapplication of a process. I developed the methodology. I ran the experiments. I wrote the paper. Dr. Harkness was second author because it was her lab, her samples, her guidance. But the work was mine."
"And the conference presentation? The opportunities you've received?"
"Also earned. Based on the quality and quantity of my research, not on my relationship with Dr. Harkness."
The third board member, the one you didn't recognize, leaned forward. "Ms. Y/L/N, I'm Dr. Smith, faculty representative. I need to ask you something difficult. Do you feel that you've been coerced in any way? That Dr. Harkness has used her position of power to pressure you into this relationship?"
"No." The word came out fierce. "Absolutely not. This relationship is consensual. I chose it. I continue to choose it."
"Even knowing the consequences?"
"Even accepting the consequences."
Dr. Morrison pulled out a folder, opened it. "We've received some concerning evidence. Photographs that suggest the relationship may have begun earlier than you're claiming. That it may have been ongoing during the Denver conference."
Your heart hammered, but you kept your face neutral. "The relationship was ongoing during Denver. I never said it wasn't. I said it began after I completed Dr. Harkness's course. Denver was in March. I completed the course in August."
"The photographs show a level of intimacy that suggests a longer relationship."
"The photographs show two people in love." You leaned forward. "Which is what we are. But that doesn't change the timeline. We didn't act on our feelings until it was appropriate to do so."
"And you expect us to believe that?" Dean Whitmore's voice was skeptical.
"I expect you to investigate the real ethics violation here." You pulled out your phone, opened the emails Sophie had forwarded. "I've been receiving anonymous threats. Photographs taken without my consent. Blackmail attempts. Someone has been surveilling us, violating our privacy, trying to coerce us into ending the relationship."
You slid your phone across the table. "Those are emails between a former student and Dr. Rio Vidal, coordinating the harassment. Planning the surveillance. Orchestrating this entire complaint."
Dr. Morrison picked up your phone, scrolling through the emails. Her expression didn't change, but you saw something flicker in her eyes.
"These are serious allegations," she said.
"They're true. And they're the real ethics violation. Not two consenting adults in a relationship. But a coordinated campaign of harassment designed to destroy our careers."
"Why would Dr. Vidal do this?"
"Because she has a personal vendetta against Dr. Harkness. Because she wants to damage her reputation. Because she's been trying to recruit me to her lab and this is her way of forcing the issue."
The board members exchanged glances.
"We'll need to investigate these claims," Dr. Morrison said. "But that doesn't change the fact that you and Dr. Harkness have violated university policy regarding relationships between faculty and students."
"We haven't violated policy. We've followed it. The policy prohibits relationships between faculty and students in a direct supervisory relationship during the time of that supervision. I'm not taking any courses from Dr. Harkness. She's my research advisor, which is different. And we disclosed the relationship to the department chair as soon as it became serious."
That was a lie. You hadn't disclosed anything. But it was a lie that might save you.
Dean Whitmore's eyes narrowed. "You disclosed the relationship?"
"Yes. In December. Dr. Harkness met with you to discuss it. She wanted to make sure we were following proper protocol, said she never heard back and assumed we were fine."
Another lie. But a plausible one.
The Dean's face was unreadable. He couldn't contradict you without admitting he'd known about the relationship and done nothing. Which would make him complicit.
You'd just put him in an impossible position.
"I see," he said slowly. "I'll need to review my notes from that meeting."
"Of course." You kept your expression neutral.
Dr. Morrison closed the folder. "Ms. Y/L/N, we're going to need to verify everything you've told us. In the meantime, we're requiring that you and Dr. Harkness maintain professional distance. No private meetings, no non-work-related communication."
"We've been following that directive since the Dean issued it."
"Have you?" Dr. Morrison's eyes were sharp, her brain working to piece together the reality. "Because we have evidence suggesting otherwise."
Your stomach dropped. They had the photograph from this morning. They knew you'd spent the night at Agatha's house.
"I went to Dr. Harkness's house this morning to discuss strategy for this interview," you said carefully. "We needed to coordinate our stories, make sure we were telling the truth consistently. That's not a violation of the no-contact order. That's preparation for a formal proceeding."
"At 6 AM?"
"We both wake up early. And we wanted time to prepare thoroughly."
Dr. Morrison didn't look convinced, but she didn't push. "We'll be speaking with Dr. Harkness next. You're free to go. We'll contact you with our decision within the week."
You stood, your legs shaking. "Thank you for your time."
In the hallway, Agatha was pacing. She looked up when you emerged, her eyes searching your face.
"How bad?" she asked quietly.
"Bad. But I told them about the harassment. About Rio. About the emails." You glanced at the closed door. "And I lied. I told them you disclosed the relationship to the Dean in December."
Agatha's eyes widened. "You what?"
"I put him in a corner. He can't contradict it without admitting he knew and did nothing. Which makes him complicit."
"That's brilliant." She looked like she wanted to kiss you. "That's absolutely brilliant."
"It might not work. But it's the best I could do." You touched her hand briefly. "Your turn. Tell them the same story. December disclosure. Everything above board. And tell them about the harassment."
Agatha nodded along, letting you state something you know, she knows. Giving your brain space to breathe in your skull. "I will." She squeezed your hand once, then let go. "Wait for me?"
"Always."
She disappeared into the room, and you were left alone in the hallway.
i've discovered how to make custom dividers and my masterlist and this series have been affected unfortunately <3
Guys I have this idea for a fic series but I feel like no one would get it like I do, ya know?
A: Agatha x reader, Agatha really wants reader but won’t let herself love anyone. Tired of spending years in love with someone for them to age and die without her.
Eventually reader gets through to her, blah blah cute gross stuff. Agatha uses her magic to take reader “back in time” to experience the different eras of her life.
Salem, prohibition, the Titanic, etc. I think it’d be a fun way to explore what Agatha was doing in those time periods and give her a way to tell her story.
B: This could also just be a series of fics where reader is a character in the different eras: a puritan girl in Salem, a flapper in prohibition. “In every life” type of beat. Agatha finds her in every life whether reader remembers her or not.
okay so. this chapter was annoying to write. not in a bad way, in that way where you're writing something so intimate and then immediately rip it away from your characters and you just sit there like "why do i do this to them?"
Denver was supposed to be perfect. the conference, the presentation, the stolen mornings with agatha. but perfection is fragile, and someone's been watching. now you and agatha have to decide what you're willing to risk to keep each other.
Tages: surveillance/invasion of privacy, implied power imbalance (student/professor), emotional distress
things get messier. rio's not done. and neither is whoever sent that photo. 5.8k words - previous chapter
The morning light in Denver was different from Connecticut, sharper, cleaner, the kind of light that made everything feel possible. You woke to it streaming through the curtains of Agatha's hotel room, her arm draped across your waist, her breath warm against your shoulder.
For a moment, you just lay there, savoring it. The weight of her body against yours, the rise and fall of her breathing, the way her fingers curled possessively even in sleep. This was what happiness felt like. This was what you'd been working toward without even knowing it.
"You're thinking too loud," Agatha murmured, not opening her eyes.
"How can you tell?"
"I can feel it. Your whole body tenses when you start overthinking." She pressed a kiss to your shoulder. "What's going on in that brilliant brain?"
"Just... memorizing this." You turned to face her, finding her eyes open now, soft and unguarded in the morning light. "We have to go back to being careful soon. I want to remember what this feels like."
Something flickered across her expression, tenderness mixed with regret. "We have a few more hours. Let's not waste them on melancholy."
She pulled you into a kiss, slow and deep, and you let yourself sink into it. Let yourself forget about Connecticut, about the lab, about all the reasons this was complicated. Right now, in this room, you were just two people who loved each other.
The thought stopped you cold.
Love.
You loved her.
The realization must have shown on your face because Agatha pulled back slightly, studying you. "What?"
"Nothing. I just—" You couldn't say it. Not yet. Not when you weren't sure she felt the same way. "I'm happy. That's all."
Her smile was soft, knowing. Like she could read the words you weren't saying. "Come on. Let's shower. We can order room service before we have to check out."
The bathroom filled with steam as Agatha adjusted the water temperature, testing it with her hand before stepping under the spray. You followed her in, and for a moment you just stood there, watching the water cascade over her shoulders, darkening her hair.
"Come here," she said, reaching for you.
You stepped closer, and she pulled you under the water with her, her hands immediately finding your waist. The heat enveloped you both as she reached for the small bottle of hotel shower gel, squeezing some into her palm.
"Turn around," she murmured.
You obeyed, and felt her hands on your shoulders, slick with soap, working the tension from your muscles with slow, deliberate pressure. Her fingers traced the curve of your spine, spreading warmth and suds across your skin. You let your head fall forward, eyes closing as she worked her way down your back.
"You're still tense," she observed, her thumbs pressing into the small of your back.
"That's not helping," you managed, because her touch was doing anything but relaxing you.
You felt her smile against your shoulder blade, then the press of her lips there. "No?"
Her hands slid around to your stomach, pulling you back against her. The soap made everything slippery, heightened every sensation as her palms moved upward, cupping your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples until you gasped.
"We should be quick," you said, but it came out breathless, unconvincing.
"Should we?" Her voice was low in your ear, one hand trailing down your stomach. "We have time."
"Agatha—"
Her fingers slipped between your legs, and whatever protest you'd been forming dissolved into a moan. She held you against her with one arm while the other hand worked slow circles, the water streaming over both of you, steam thick in the air.
"Is this quick enough?" she asked, and you could hear the smile in her voice as she pressed inside you.
You braced one hand against the tile wall, the other reaching back to grip her hip as she set a rhythm that was anything but quick. She took her time, knowing what made you gasp, what made your knees weaken, adjusting her pace and pressure until you were trembling against her.
"Look at you," she murmured, her lips against your neck. "So beautiful like this."
The praise undid something in you. You turned your head, seeking her mouth, and she kissed you deeply as her fingers moved faster. The combination of sensations, her hand between your legs, her tongue in your mouth, the hot water, the steam, the solid warmth of her body against yours, built to an overwhelming crescendo.
When you came, it was with her name on your lips, your whole body shuddering as she held you through it. Your knees buckled, and she caught you, supporting your weight as aftershocks rolled through you.
"I've got you honey," she whispered, turning you in her arms, pressing you gently against the tile to keep you steady.
You looked up at her through the steam, water streaming down both your faces, and pulled her into a kiss. Your hands found her hips, then slid lower, but she caught your wrists.
"Later," she said softly. "We actually do need to get moving soon."
"That's not fair."
"Life rarely is." But she was smiling as she reached for the shampoo. "Come on. Let me wash your hair."
Afterward, wrapped in the hotel's plush robes, you sat on the bed while she ordered breakfast. Coffee, pastries, fruit. The kind of leisurely morning you never got at home, where every moment together had to be stolen and rushed.
"I could get used to this," you said, accepting the coffee she handed you.
"Hotel rooms and room service?"
"Time with you. Without having to look over our shoulder every five seconds." You took a sip, the coffee perfect and hot. "When we get back, we should—"
"Be more careful than ever," Agatha finished, her voice gentle but firm. "The conference was a success. Your presentation was brilliant. But that means more eyes on you now. More attention. We can't afford to slip up."
The reminder settled heavy in your chest. "I know."
"Hey." She sat beside you, her hand finding yours. "This doesn't change anything between us. It just means we have to be smart. Strategic."
"For four more years."
"Three and a half," she corrected with a small smile. "You're already through your first semester. Time will go faster than you think."
You wanted to believe her. Wanted to believe that you could sustain this for three and a half more years of secrecy, of careful distance in public, of pretending she was just your advisor and nothing more.
But looking at her now, her hair still damp from the shower, wearing nothing but a robe, her eyes soft with affection, you weren't sure how you'd ever manage to hide this. How you'd ever look at her in the lab and not remember this moment, this morning, this feeling.
"I should go," you said reluctantly. "Back to my room before checkout. We can't be seen leaving together."
"I know." But she didn't let go of your hand. "Tonight, when we're back in Connecticut—"
"We can't. Not right away. It'll look suspicious if we're together the same day we get back from a conference."
Her jaw tightened, but she nodded. "You're right. Tomorrow, then. My place."
"Tomorrow," you agreed.
The kiss goodbye was longer than it should have been, deeper, tinged with the bittersweetness of separation. Her hand lingered on your face, thumb tracing your cheekbone like she was memorizing the shape of you.
"I'm proud of you," she said quietly. "Not just for the presentation. For everything. For being brave enough to do this with me."
Your throat tightened. "I love—" You caught yourself. "I love working with you."
Her eyes held yours for a long moment, and you wondered if she heard what you'd almost said. If she felt it too.
"Go," she said finally, stepping back. "Before I change my mind about letting you leave."
You gathered your things, dressed quickly, and slipped out into the hallway. The walk back to your room felt longer than it should have, the hotel corridor stretching endlessly. You kept expecting someone to appear, to see you leaving Agatha's room, to put the pieces together.
But the hallway was empty. You made it back to your room without incident, and told yourself you were being paranoid.
Everything was fine.
The final day of the conference passed in a blur of handshakes and business cards and promises to stay in touch.
You attended the last few sessions, took notes more out of habit than necessity, and tried to focus on the science instead of the constant awareness of Agatha somewhere in the building. You'd catch glimpses of her across the conference hall. Talking to colleagues, laughing at something someone said, looking every inch the distinguished professor.
And you'd remember her that morning, soft and unguarded in your arms, and have to look away before anyone noticed the expression on your face.
"Incredible presentation yesterday," a woman said, approaching you during the coffee break. Dr. Lisa Pelliter, her name tag read, UC Berkeley. "I'd love to talk about potential collaboration. We're doing some work on Jurassic samples that might benefit from your protocol."
"I'd be interested in that," you said, pulling out your phone to exchange contact information. "Dr. Harkness and I are always looking for good collaborative opportunities."
"Dr. Harkness is lucky to have you," Dr. Pelliter said with a smile. "Brilliant students like you don't come along often."
The compliment warmed you, but there was something in the way she said it, lucky to have you, that made you hyperaware of the double meaning. Did she suspect? Or were you just being paranoid again?
"I'm the lucky one," you said carefully. "She's an excellent mentor."
More people approached throughout the day. Postdoc positions, collaboration offers, invitations to present at other institutions. Your phone filled with new contacts, your email with follow-up messages. The success of your presentation was opening doors you'd only dreamed about.
And through it all, Agatha watched from a careful distance, pride evident in her eyes whenever you caught her gaze.
The final panel was smaller, more intimate. Just a handful of researchers discussing future directions in paleoproteomics. You and Agatha presented together, a seamless back-and-forth that showcased your collaborative dynamic. The chemistry between you was obvious, but it could be read as professional rapport. Mentor and student who worked well together. Nothing more.
Except when Agatha's hand brushed yours as you both reached for the laser pointer, and you felt electricity shoot up your arm. Except when she smiled at something you said, and the warmth in her eyes was unmistakable. Except when you finished each other's sentences, and someone in the audience murmured, "They're really in sync."
After the panel, Rio appeared.
"Wonderful presentation," she said, her smile sharp and knowing. "You two make quite the team."
"Thank you," Agatha said, her voice professionally pleasant but her shoulders tense.
"Such a productive partnership." Rio's eyes moved between you. "It's rare to see a mentor-student relationship that works this well. You must spend a lot of time together."
"We're dedicated to the research," you said carefully.
"Oh, I can see that." Rio's smile widened. "The dedication is very apparent. I hope you're both being careful with such an... intense working relationship. It's easy for boundaries to blur."
The words hung in the air, innocuous on the surface but weighted with implication.
"Our boundaries are perfectly clear," Agatha said, her voice cool. "If you'll excuse us, we have a flight to catch."
She guided you away with a hand on your elbow, professional and brief, but you felt the tension in her grip.
"She knows," you whispered once you were out of earshot.
"She suspects. That's different." Agatha's jaw was tight. "But we need to be even more careful now. Low contact for at least a week after we get back. No private meetings. Nothing that could be misconstrued."
The thought of a week without seeing her, without touching her, made your chest ache. But you nodded. "Okay."
You didn't notice Sophie standing near the coffee station, phone in hand, watching the entire exchange.
The feeling started in the hotel lobby.
You were heading back to your room to pack when you felt it, that prickling awareness of being watched. You turned, scanning the lobby, and saw Sophie standing near the elevators.
She was looking at her phone, scrolling through something, seemingly oblivious to your presence. Just another conference attendee, tired and ready to go home.
You shook it off. Conference exhaustion. Paranoia from Rio's comments. Nothing more.
But as you waited for the elevator, you caught Sophie's reflection in the polished doors. She was watching you. The moment you turned to look directly at her, she looked back down at her phone.
The elevator arrived. You stepped in, pressed your floor number, and watched the doors close. Through the narrowing gap, you saw Sophie lift her phone again, this time clearly taking a photo of the elevator panel, of the floor number illuminated.
Your floor number.
The doors closed completely, and you told yourself you were being ridiculous. She was probably just documenting the conference, taking random photos like everyone else. It didn't mean anything.
But your hands were shaking as you unlocked your room door.
You packed quickly, methodically, trying to focus on the task at hand. Clothes folded, toiletries gathered, laptop secured. Everything in its place. Everything under control.
Your phone buzzed. Agatha: Dinner before we fly out? Somewhere public, unfortunately.
You typed back: Yes. Where?
That Italian place near the convention center? 7 PM?
Perfect. See you there.
You looked around the hotel room one last time, making sure you hadn't forgotten anything. The conference program sat on the desk, and you picked it up, flipping to the page with your presentation listed.
Y/N Y/L/N and Dr. Agatha Harkness: "Advanced Optimization of Ancient Protein Extraction Protocols"
Your names together. Your work together. Something to be proud of.
You tucked the program into your bag and headed down to the lobby.
Rio was there, talking to Sophie near the front desk. They broke apart when they saw you approaching, Rio's smile bright and professional.
"Heading out?" she asked.
"Soon. Flight's not until late this evening."
"Same here." Rio glanced at Sophie. "We were just saying goodbye. Sophie's been such a help this week."
Sophie wouldn't meet your eyes. "I should go. My Uber's here."
She left quickly, and you watched her go, that uneasy feeling intensifying.
"She's a good student," Rio said, following your gaze. "Dedicated. Willing to do what needs to be done."
Something in the way she said it made your skin crawl. "I'm sure she is."
"Safe travels," Rio said, touching your arm briefly. "I'm sure we'll be seeing more of each other. The field is smaller than you think."
You pulled away, mumbling something about needing to get to the airport, and escaped to the street.
The restaurant was nice but not romantic. The kind of place two colleagues might reasonably choose for a professional dinner. You sat across from each other at a table near the window, far enough from other diners to talk privately but visible enough to maintain plausible deniability.
"How are you feeling?" Agatha asked once you'd ordered.
"Exhausted. Relieved. Proud." You smiled. "All of the above."
"You should be proud. You were exceptional this week." Her eyes were warm, but she kept her hands on her side of the table, her wine glass a barrier between you. "The offers you received, we should talk about them. Some of those opportunities are genuinely good."
"I'm not going anywhere," you said quickly.
"I know. But you should keep your options open. Build relationships. You never know what might be valuable down the line."
"Are you trying to get rid of me?"
"Never." The word came out fierce, and she softened it with a smile. "I'm trying to make sure you have the career you deserve. Even if that means—" She paused. "Even if that means opportunities that take you away from my lab eventually."
Your chest tightened. "I don't want to think about that."
"We don't have to. Not now." She took a sip of wine. "But we should be realistic about what the next few years look like. Your career is going to grow. You're going to get offers, opportunities, recognition. And we need to figure out how to navigate that while keeping this—" she gestured subtly between you, "—protected."
"I don't want to lose this," you said quietly.
"You won't." But there was something in her eyes, a flicker of uncertainty. "We'll figure it out. We just have to be smart. Strategic."
The word strategic felt cold, clinical. Like you were planning a research project instead of talking about your relationship.
"What if I don't want to be strategic?" The words came out before you could stop them. "What if I just want to be with you? Without all the hiding and the careful distance and the constant fear of being caught?"
Agatha's expression softened. "I want that too. More than you know. But we can't have that. Not yet. Not while you're my student."
"Three and a half more years."
"Three and a half more years," she agreed. "And then we can be as public as you want. We can go to conferences together and hold hands at dinner and not care who sees."
The future she was painting sounded perfect. But three and a half years felt like an eternity.
"I'm sorry," you said. "I'm not trying to make this harder. I'm just—"
"Tired of hiding. I know." Her hand moved across the table, fingers brushing yours briefly before pulling back. "So am I. But this is what we have. And I'll take this over nothing."
You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. "Me too."
The rest of dinner passed in careful conversation about the conference, about upcoming research, about anything except the thing you both wanted to talk about. When the check came, Agatha insisted on paying, "It's a professional dinner, I can expense it," and you let her.
In the parking lot, you stood by your rental car, the night air cold against your skin.
"When we're back," Agatha said. "We'll figure out a time to see each other. Somewhere safe."
"Your place?"
"My place," she agreed. "But not right away. Give it a few days. Let things settle."
You wanted to argue, wanted to demand that you see her the moment you landed. But you knew she was right. You had to be careful.
Her hand found yours in the darkness, squeezed once, and let go.
"Safe flight," she said.
"You too."
You watched her Uber pull away, tail lights disappearing into the Denver night, and felt the distance already opening between you.
Your apartment felt wrong when you got home almost 30 hours later.
Not wrong in any way you could articulate, everything was exactly as you'd left it. But after days of hotel rooms and Agatha's presence, the space felt empty. Hollow.
You unpacked slowly, hanging up clothes, sorting through the stack of business cards you'd collected. The conference badge went in a drawer, a souvenir of your first major presentation. The hotel notepad with Agatha's handwriting, "You're going to be magnificent," went in your nightstand, too precious to throw away.
Your phone buzzed. Agatha: Home safe. Miss you already. Tomorrow night? My place?
You smiled, typing back: Yes. What time?
7. I'll make dinner.
Can't wait.
You made tea, settled on the couch with your laptop, and started sorting through the mountain of emails that had accumulated during the conference. Collaboration requests, follow-up questions about your methodology, invitations to present at other institutions.
Your inbox was full of opportunities, of recognition, of proof that you'd made it.
You were about to close the laptop when a new email appeared.
Your cursor hovered over it. Probably spam. Probably some conference follow-up that had gotten caught in a weird filter.
You opened it.
The email body was blank. Just a single image attachment.
You clicked it.
The photograph loaded slowly, pixel by pixel, and with each line that appeared, your world tilted further off its axis.
It was you and Agatha.
In her hotel room.
The angle was from outside, through the window. The curtains had been open, you remembered that now, remembered the morning light streaming in, remembered not thinking to close them because you were on the ninth floor and who would be looking?
Someone had been looking.
The image showed you in Agatha's arms, her hand on your face, your foreheads touching. You were both in robes, clearly just out of the shower. The intimacy was unmistakable. The way your bodies curved toward each other, the tenderness in Agatha's expression, the look on your own face.
Love.
That's what your face showed. Unguarded, complete love.
And someone had photographed it.
Your hands started shaking so badly you nearly dropped the laptop. You stared at the image, unable to look away, unable to process what you were seeing.
The timestamp in the corner: 8:47 AM. The morning after your presentation. The morning you'd thought you were safe, alone, private.
You checked the sender information. Anonymous email. No other details. No message. No demands.
Just the photograph.
The violation of it hit you like a physical blow. Someone had been outside Agatha's window. Someone had watched you in your most private moment. Someone had captured the evidence of everything you'd been so careful to hide.
Your mind raced through possibilities. Who? When? How long had they been watching?
Rio's comment echoed in your head: I hope you're being careful.
Had she known? Had she sent this?
You thought about Sophie with her phone, watching you in the lobby. Sophie who worked for Rio now. Sophie who had every reason to want revenge.
But why send it to you? Why not directly to the university? Why not expose you immediately?
Unless this was just the beginning. Unless they were playing with you first.
You looked around your apartment, suddenly feeling exposed even here. Were there cameras? Was someone watching you now?
Your phone was in your hand before you realized you'd picked it up. You needed to call Agatha. Needed to tell her.
What? What would you even say?
Someone photographed us. Someone knows. Someone has evidence that could destroy both our careers. Drop everything you're doing and risk getting caught by coming over?
Your finger hovered over her contact, but you couldn't press it. What if your phone was compromised? What if someone was listening?
The paranoia spiraled. Every shadow in your apartment felt threatening. Every sound from the hallway made you jump.
You forced yourself to breathe. To think.
Whoever sent this had all the power right now. They had evidence. They had leverage. And they were choosing to send it to you first, privately, with no demands.
Why?
Your phone buzzed, and you nearly screamed.
It was just Agatha. Can't wait to see you tomorrow. Sleep well.
You stared at the message, at the casual sweetness of it, and felt tears prick your eyes. She had no idea. She was planning dinner, looking forward to seeing you, completely unaware that everything was about to fall apart.
You typed and deleted three different responses.
We need to talk.
Something happened.
I'm scared.
Finally: Can we talk tomorrow? In person?
Her response came quickly: Of course. Everything okay?
Yes. Just miss you.
The lie tasted bitter.
You looked at the photograph again, at your own face, so unguarded and happy. This is what love looked like. This is what you'd been trying so hard to protect.
And someone was going to use it to destroy you.
Sleep was impossible.
You lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, your laptop beside you. Every few minutes you'd check your email, expecting a follow-up message. Demands. Threats. Something.
But nothing came.
The silence was worse than threats would have been. At least with demands, you'd know what you were dealing with. This uncertainty, this waiting, it was torture.
Around midnight, you got up and made tea you didn't drink. Sat in the dark living room, curtains closed, feeling like a prisoner in your own home.
You replayed every moment in Denver. Who had been watching? When had they taken the photo? How much had they seen?
Rio's comment: I hope you're being careful. Had that been a warning? A threat? Or just an innocent observation that you were reading too much into?
Sophie with her phone in the lobby. Sophie who had access to Rio's resources. Sophie who had every reason to want revenge after being kicked out of Agatha's lab.
But would Sophie really do this? Would she really violate your privacy this way?
You thought about the ethics investigation, about how Sophie had claimed she was just trying to learn. About how Rio had defended her, claimed ignorance.
They'd been planning this. Maybe not this specifically, but something. They'd been watching, waiting for an opportunity.
And you and Agatha had handed it to them.
Around 2 AM, you opened the photograph again. Forced yourself to look at it clinically, as evidence rather than intimacy.
The angle was from outside, slightly below. Someone had been on a balcony or fire escape, looking up into Agatha's ninth-floor window. The image quality was good, not a phone camera, probably a real camera with a zoom lens.
This wasn't opportunistic. This was planned.
Someone had known which room was Agatha's. Had known you were there. Had positioned themselves to get the shot.
The premeditation of it made you feel sick.
You thought about Agatha: her career, her reputation, everything she'd built over decades. One photograph could destroy all of it. The power dynamic alone would be damning. Never mind that your relationship had started after you were already her student, never mind that you were both adults who'd chosen this. The optics were indefensible.
And you, you'd barely started your career. A scandal like this would follow you forever. No one would remember your Nature paper or your brilliant presentation. They'd only remember that you'd slept with your advisor.
The unfairness of it burned in your chest. You'd done nothing wrong. You'd fallen in love with someone who happened to be your mentor. You'd been careful, professional, kept your relationship private, separate.
But none of that would matter if this photograph went public.
Around 3 AM, you texted Agatha: Can you come over when you wake up? It's important.
You didn't expect a response at this hour, but your phone buzzed almost immediately.
On my way.
You stared at the message. It was 3 AM. She should be asleep. But she was coming.
Twenty minutes later, there was a soft knock at your door.
You opened it to find Agatha in pajama pants and a sweater, her hair loose, concern etched across her face.
"What's wrong?" she asked, stepping inside.
You couldn't speak. Just pulled out your laptop, opened the email, and turned the screen toward her.
You watched her face as she processed what she was seeing. Watched the color drain from her cheeks. Watched her hand come up to her mouth.
"Oh god," she whispered.
"Someone was watching," you said, your voice hollow. "Someone was outside your window. They photographed us."
Agatha sank onto your couch, still staring at the image. "When did you get this?"
"A few hours ago. Anonymous email. No message, no demands. Just the photograph."
"Who?" Her voice was sharp now, professor mode engaging. "Who sent it?"
"I don't know. The email is anonymous. But—" You hesitated. "Rio made that comment about being careful. And Sophie was in the lobby with her phone. And they both have reasons to want to hurt us."
Agatha's jaw tightened. "Rio."
"We don't know that—"
"It's her." Agatha stood, pacing your small living room. "This is exactly her style. The surveillance, the patience, the psychological game of sending it with no demands. She wants us scared. Wants us to make mistakes."
"What do we do?"
Agatha stopped pacing, turned to face you. For the first time since you'd known her, she looked genuinely frightened.
"I don't know," she admitted. "If this goes public—"
"It won't." You said it with more confidence than you felt. "Whoever sent this, they sent it to me privately. If they wanted to expose us, they would have sent it to the university already."
"Unless they're waiting. Building a case. Gathering more evidence."
The thought made your stomach drop. "You think there are more photographs?"
"I think we have to assume there might be." Agatha ran a hand through her hair, and when she looked at you again, her eyes were bright with unshed tears. "We need to document everything. Save the email, the photograph, any metadata we can find. If this becomes—" Her voice cracked. "We need evidence of harassment."
"Should we go to the university?"
"And tell them what? That someone photographed us in a compromising position?" Agatha's laugh was bitter, edged with panic. "That would just expedite our own investigation. They'd separate us immediately. You'd be reassigned to another advisor, and I—"
She stopped, pressing her fingers to her eyes.
"Agatha—"
"I can't lose you." The words came out raw, stripped of her usual control. "That's what they want, isn't it? Whoever sent this. They want you to realize how dangerous this is. How much easier your life would be if you just... walked away from me."
"I'm not going to—"
"You should." She was trembling now, her hands clenched at her sides. "You should end this right now. Transfer to another program, work with someone who won't destroy your career before it even starts. Someone who won't make you a target."
The fear in her voice wasn't about the photograph. It was about you leaving.
"Is that what you want?" you asked quietly.
"God, no." The admission seemed torn from her. "I want to be selfish. I want to keep you, even though keeping you means putting you in danger. Even though the smart thing, the right thing would be to let you go." She crossed to you, her movements almost desperate. "But I can't. I can't lose this. I can't lose you."
You reached for her hands. They were shaking. "You're not going to."
"You don't know that. When this gets worse, and it will get worse, you might decide I'm not worth the risk. That your career, your safety, your future matters more than—" She broke off, looking away. "And you'd be right."
"Agatha, look at me."
She did, and you saw the terror there. Not of Rio, not of the university, not of professional consequences. Terror of you walking out that door and never coming back.
"We wait," you said firmly. "We watch. We're more careful than we've ever been. We document everything in case we need it. And we don't let them win. We don't give them what they want."
"Which is?"
"To scare us apart."
She pulled you into her arms then, holding you so tightly it almost hurt. You felt her trembling against you, felt the way her breath hitched like she was trying not to cry.
"I'm terrified," she whispered against your hair. "Not of the photograph. Not of what happens to my career. I'm terrified that one day you'll wake up and realize this isn't worth it. That I'm not worth it."
"I'm terrified too," you admitted. "But not of losing my career. Of losing you. Of someone taking this away from us before we've even had a chance to—"
You didn't finish, but you didn't need to. She understood.
"So we hold on," she said, pulling back just enough to look at you. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her composure shattered. "We're strategic. We're careful. We don't make mistakes. And we don't let them take this from us."
You wanted to believe her. Wanted to believe that love was enough, that being careful was enough, that you could protect what you'd built.
But looking at that photograph over her shoulder, at the evidence of your most private moment, captured and weaponized, you weren't sure anymore.
Someone was watching.
Someone knew.
And they were just getting started.
writing agatha's vulnerability in this chapter was... a lot. she's so controlled, so strategic, and watching her composure shatter over the fear of losing the reader rather than losing her career felt important. especially right now in my life after losing a close one. thank you for your patience with this chapter.
I apologize for the lack of uploads for Bed Chem. A friend of mine passed last month and it’s been hard trying to get out of that mentality to write.
I have been working on it when I can and the next chapter is coming soon. This is a huge chapter for reader and I want it to be a HAPPY, JOYOUS, moment for her.
I wanted to make this post not for pity, but to let you know that I haven’t abandoned the story or my readers! There will be a one-shot posted this week based off the Agatha Harkness x grad-student reader dynamic probably before the chapter upload.
Love my readers so desperately and I miss writing for these lesbians 💔
There's a lot in this chapter but that's why it took me so long. The conference is just one step in this path so don't fret about the plot moving so quickly. We do have a whole PhD to get through here...
That being said, this does move through eight weeks quickly, so put on your lab coats and lock in.
PS: I got a promotion at work and am simultaneously planning to move cities so bear with me over the next few updates. I have big plans for them
10k words - smut, scissoring, academic anxiety, mentions of weight loss due to anxiety and stress - previous chapter
Eight weeks until Denver.
You stared at the calendar on your phone, watching the days count down with a mixture of anticipation and dread. Eight weeks to perfect a twenty-minute presentation that would be delivered in front of hundreds of researchers, including Rio. Eight weeks to prove that your breakthrough wasn't a fluke, that you deserved to be taken seriously.
Eight weeks felt like both forever and no time at all.
"Stop looking at your phone," Agatha said without glancing up from her laptop. You were in her office, ostensibly working on separate projects, but she had an uncanny ability to know exactly what you were doing even when she wasn't watching.
"I'm just—"
"Obsessing over the timeline. I know." Now she did look up, her reading glasses perched on her nose in a way that made your stomach flip. "We have plenty of time. The presentation is already in good shape."
"Good shape isn't good enough." You set your phone face-down on her desk. "It needs to be perfect."
"Perfect is the enemy of done." But she was smiling slightly, like she understood the compulsion even as she tried to talk you down from it. "Come here."
You stood, moving around her desk. She turned her chair to face you, pulling you to stand between her legs.
"You're going to be brilliant," she said, her hands settling on your hips. "You know this research better than anyone. You just need to trust yourself."
"I trust the research. I don't trust my ability to present it without completely freezing up."
"Then we practice." Her thumbs traced small circles through your jeans. "Again and again, until it feels like breathing. Until you could give this presentation in your sleep."
You nodded, leaning into her touch. "When do we start?"
"Tonight. My house. Seven o'clock." She pulled you down for a quick kiss. "Bring your laptop and your notes. And plan on staying over. We're going to work late."
That became the pattern.
Every evening for the next two weeks, you showed up at Agatha's house with your materials. She'd make dinner while you set up in her living room, transforming her coffee table into a makeshift workspace. Then you'd practice.
And practice.
And practice.
"From the top," Agatha would say, settling into the armchair with a glass of wine and her red pen. "And this time, slow down. You're rushing through the methodology section."
You'd start again, clicking through your slides, trying to find the right pace, the right emphasis. Agatha would interrupt with questions, challenging your explanations, making you defend your choices. It was exhausting and frustrating and exactly what you needed.
"Why did you choose this buffer concentration?" she'd ask.
"Because preliminary testing showed—"
"Don't tell me what the testing showed. Tell me why you thought to test it in the first place. What was your hypothesis?"
You'd pause, reformulating. "I hypothesized that the standard concentration was too aggressive for samples of this age, potentially degrading the very proteins we were trying to extract."
"Better. But you're still reading from your notes. Look at me."
You'd force yourself to meet her eyes, to speak without the safety net of your carefully written script. It felt vulnerable, exposed, but Agatha's steady gaze anchored you.
"The standard protocol was developed for younger samples," you'd continue, finding your rhythm. "I needed to adapt it for specimens that had undergone millions of years of diagenesis. That meant gentler conditions, longer incubation times, more careful monitoring."
"Good." She'd make a note. "That's the explanation I want to hear in Denver. Not the technical details, those are in the paper. I want them to understand your thinking. Your process."
By the third week, you could get through the entire presentation without looking at your notes. By the fourth, you could handle Agatha's interruptions without losing your place. By the fifth, you were starting to feel something that might have been confidence.
"You're ready," Agatha said one night, after you'd delivered the presentation flawlessly for the third time in a row.
"I'm not—"
"You are." She stood, crossing to where you stood by her makeshift projector screen. "You're brilliant on paper. Now you're brilliant in person too."
The praise made your chest tight. "Thank you. For pushing me. For not letting me hide behind the data."
"That's what I'm here for." Her hand cupped your jaw. "Among other things."
She kissed you then, slow and deep, and you melted into it. These moments had become precious, the transition from work to whatever this was between you. The way she could be your demanding professor one minute and your tender lover the next.
"Bed?" you murmured against her lips.
"Bed," she agreed.
You and Agatha fell into an easy rhythm, working side by side on the Montana samples, refining your protocol even further. Marcus had show interest from a distance, and you'd enlisted his help with some of the data visualization for the conference presentation.
"These graphs are incredible," you told him one afternoon, reviewing his work. "The color coding makes the yield differences so much clearer."
Marcus beamed. "I've been teaching myself data visualization software. Figured it might be useful for my own research eventually."
"It's definitely useful now." You made a note to include him in the acknowledgments. "Thank you for this."
"No problem. It's cool to be part of something this big." He hesitated. "Can I ask you something?"
Your stomach tightened. "Sure."
"Are you okay? You seem... I don't know. Stressed? More than usual, I mean."
You forced a smile. "Just conference anxiety. It's a big deal, presenting at ACS."
"Yeah, I get that." But he was still watching you with concern. "Just... make sure you're taking care of yourself, okay? You've been here every day, even over break."
"I'm fine," you lied. "Really."
He didn't look convinced, but he let it drop.
That evening, Jen appeared in the lab doorway. You'd thought you were alone, Agatha had left an hour ago for a faculty meeting, and you jumped at the sound of her voice.
"Sorry, didn't mean to scare you."
"It's fine. I thought everyone had gone home." You saved your work, turning to face her. "What's up?"
Jen shifted her weight, uncomfortable. "I saw Sophie today. In Rio's lab."
Your hands stilled on the keyboard. "Okay."
"She looked... not great. Really stressed. Like she hasn't been sleeping." Jen met your eyes. "I know what happened between you two wasn't good. But I thought you should know. In case it matters."
It shouldn't matter. Sophie had made her choice, had stolen your research and faced the consequences. But something about Jen's description made your chest tight.
"Thanks for telling me," you said quietly.
Jen nodded and left, and you sat there in the empty lab, thinking about Sophie. About Rio. About the way predators always found the vulnerable ones.
You texted Agatha: Jen saw Sophie in Rio's lab. Says she looks stressed.
The response came quickly: Rio's probably working her to death trying to replicate our results. Not your problem.
You knew she was right. But it still felt like your problem somehow.
Rio was everywhere.
Not obviously, not in a way you could point to and say "she's following me." But you'd catch glimpses of her in places she had no reason to be. Walking past the chemistry building slowly, her eyes tracking the windows. Standing in the coffee shop you frequented, even though her office was on the other side of campus. Lingering in the hallway outside Agatha's office. She ducked around a corner one afternoon like she was smuggling drugs.
"She's watching us," you told Agatha that evening. You were at her house, supposedly working on the presentation, but you'd been distracted since you got there.
"I know." Agatha's voice was tight. "She's trying to figure out what we're presenting. What we've improved since the paper."
"Should we be worried?"
"No." But she didn't sound entirely certain. "We're not giving her anything to work with. And even if she sees the presentation in Denver, she won't have time to replicate it before we publish the full methodology."
"But—"
"No buts." Agatha set down her wine glass, moving to sit beside you on the couch. "Rio is a distraction. Don't let her get in your head. Focus on the work. Focus on being ready."
You nodded, but the anxiety didn't ease.
That night, you lay awake in Agatha's bed long after she'd fallen asleep. Your phone was under your pillow, pulled out every few minutes to review your presentation notes. You'd memorized them weeks ago, but you couldn't stop reading them, couldn't stop finding things that could be better, clearer, more precise.
"Put the phone away," Agatha murmured, not opening her eyes.
"I thought you were asleep."
"I was. Until you started radiating anxiety loud enough to wake me." She rolled over, taking the phone from your hands and setting it on the nightstand. "Sleep. You need rest more than you need to read those notes for the hundredth time."
"I just want to be ready."
"You are ready. You've been ready for weeks." Her arm draped over your waist, pulling you back against her. "Now sleep. That's not a suggestion."
You tried. You really did. But your mind wouldn't stop spinning, wouldn't stop running through the presentation, through all the ways it could go wrong.
It became a pattern. Agatha would fall asleep, and you'd lie there in the dark, phone hidden under your pillow, reviewing notes until your eyes burned. You'd finally drift off around three or four in the morning, only to wake exhausted when Agatha's alarm went off at six.
"You're not sleeping," she said one morning, studying your face over coffee.
"I'm sleeping fine."
"Liar." She set down her mug. "You have circles under your eyes. You're jumpy. You're losing weight because you keep skipping meals."
"I'm just focused—"
"You're spiraling." Her voice was firm. "And I'm not going to let you burn yourself out before Denver."
"I'm fine, Agatha."
"You're not fine. You're obsessing." She stood, moving to stand in front of you. "When's the last time you ate a full meal? When's the last time you slept more than four hours?"
You couldn't answer.
"That's what I thought." She took your coffee mug from your hands, setting it aside. "Here's what's going to happen. You're taking today off. No lab, no presentation prep, no research. You're going to eat three actual meals. You're going to take a nap. And tonight, you're going to sleep for eight hours straight."
"I can't take a day off, we only have three weeks—"
"We have three weeks, which is plenty of time. What we don't have is time for you to collapse from exhaustion." Her hands framed your face. "I need you healthy. I need you sharp. And right now, you're neither."
The concern in her eyes cracked something open in your chest. "I'm scared," you admitted. "What if I freeze up there? What if I forget everything? What if Rio asks a question I can't answer?"
"Then you'll handle it. Because you're brilliant and capable and you know this research inside and out." She pressed a kiss to your forehead. "But you can't handle anything if you're running on empty. So today, we rest. Tomorrow, we get back to work. Deal?"
You nodded, suddenly exhausted. "Deal."
She kept you home that day, made you eat breakfast and lunch and dinner. Made you take a nap on her couch while she read in the armchair, her presence a steady anchor. That night, she held you until you finally, finally fell asleep, and when you woke eight hours later, you felt almost human again.
"Better?" she asked, handing you coffee.
"Better," you admitted.
"Good. Because we have work to do."
But the work was different now. Agatha watched you more carefully, made sure you took breaks, insisted you eat lunch. She'd pull you away from your bench when you'd been standing too long, guide you to her office for coffee and conversation that had nothing to do with research.
"You're managing me," you said one afternoon.
"I'm taking care of you," she corrected. "There's a difference."
And she was. In ways big and small, she was taking care of you. Making sure you ate, making sure you slept, making sure you didn't disappear completely into the anxiety spiral.
You'd been working on a particularly tricky section of the protocol refinement for hours, trying to optimize the centrifugation parameters. The numbers weren't cooperating, the yields were inconsistent, and you were about ready to throw your notebook across the lab.
"Take a break," Agatha said from her desk.
"I'm fine."
"You've been staring at that data for two hours. Take a break."
You ignored her, running the calculations again. There had to be a pattern, had to be some variable you were missing—
"Y/N." Her professor voice, sharp and commanding. "Break. Now."
You looked up, ready to argue, and found her standing by the lab table, arms crossed. But there was something in her eyes that wasn't just professional concern. Something darker, more intense.
"Come here," she said quietly.
You stood, crossing the few steps to her. The lab was empty, Marcus had left an hour ago, and Jen was gone for the day. It was just the two of you in the fluorescent lighting, surrounded by equipment and samples and the hum of the ventilation system.
Agatha's hand came up to your face, thumb tracing your cheekbone. "You're beautiful when you're thinking," she murmured. "Did you know that? The way you get completely absorbed in the problem. The way your mind works through the variables."
"Agatha—"
"I want to bend you over this lab table," she interrupted, her voice low and rough. "Want to make you forget about centrifugation parameters and yield optimization. Want to make you think about nothing except how I'm making you feel."
Heat flooded through you. "We're in the lab."
"I know." Her hand slid to the back of your neck. "We can't. But god, I want to."
You could see the restraint in her eyes, the way she was holding herself back. The knowledge that she wanted you that badly, even here, even now, made your stomach flip.
She kissed you then, and it was nothing like restraint. It was all heat and want, her mouth claiming yours with an intensity that made your knees weak. You gripped her shoulders as she lifted you effortlessly onto the lab table, the cool surface a shock against the back of your thighs.
Her hands found your legs, sliding up from your knees, fingers digging into the denim of your jeans with barely contained urgency. She kissed down your neck, her breath hot against your skin, and you tilted your head back, lost in the sensation of her.
"God, you're—" she murmured against your collarbone, her hands kneading your thighs, pulling you closer to the edge of the table.
You whimpered, unable to help it, the sound escaping as she touched you exactly right, and she froze.
For a moment, everything stopped. Her hands stilled. Her breathing was ragged against your shoulder.
"No," she whispered, and it sounded like it cost her everything. She pulled back, her hands dropping away, though her fingers lingered for just a second longer than necessary. "No, we can't. Not here. Not like this."
You were trembling, wanting to pull her back, but you could see it in her face, the war between desire and responsibility, between what she wanted and what she knew was right.
She stepped back, creating distance, her jaw tight. "Tonight," she said, her voice rough. "Your place or mine. Somewhere we can do this properly. Somewhere I can take my time with you."
"Tonight," you breathed. "Your place."
That night, she made good on the promise. Took you apart slowly, thoroughly, until you forgot about protocols and presentations and everything except the way she touched you. And afterward, lying in her bed with her arms around you, you felt the anxiety ease just a little.
"Thank you," you murmured against her shoulder.
"For what?"
"For pulling me back. For not letting me disappear into this."
Her arms tightened. "Always. I'll always pull you back."
Through the chaos there was something deeper building, brewing even. A storm darker and sweeter than either of you could handle risking anything for. The kind of storm that promised to upend everything you'd carefully constructed in your lives. Your routines, your relationships, your sense of who you were supposed to be. Yet, despite knowing the devastation it could bring, you both felt yourselves drawn toward it, moths circling closer and closer to a flame that would surely consume you both. Despite knowing your entire career could shatter just as it started, you tucked your head deeper into her neck and breathed her in.
The breakthrough came at two in the morning on a Tuesday.
You were at Agatha's house, supposedly sleeping, but you'd been lying awake thinking about the centrifugation problem. And suddenly, it clicked.
You sat up so fast you nearly woke Agatha, grabbing your phone to make notes. The issue wasn't the speed or the time, it was the temperature. The samples were too cold, the proteins were aggregating before they could properly separate. If you adjusted the temperature control, increased it by just a few degrees—
You were out of bed and halfway to your laptop before you realized what you were doing.
"What's wrong?" Agatha's voice, sleep-rough and concerned.
"Nothing's wrong. Something's right." You pulled up your data, fingers flying over the keyboard. "The centrifugation problem—I know how to fix it."
She appeared behind you, wrapping a blanket around your shoulders. "It's two in the morning." Voice thick with sleep and gentle disbelief.
"I know, but look," You pulled up the graphs, showing her the temperature data. "We've been running too cold. The proteins are aggregating prematurely. If we increase the temperature by three degrees during the centrifugation phase—"
"The aggregation would decrease," Agatha finished, leaning over your shoulder to study the data. "The yields would stabilize."
"Exactly." You were buzzing with excitement now, exhaustion forgotten. "We could increase efficiency by another fifteen percent. Maybe twenty."
Agatha was quiet for a moment, studying the numbers. Then she laughed, soft and delighted. "You brilliant, brilliant woman."
"Is it right? Am I seeing this correctly?"
"You're seeing it perfectly." She pressed a kiss to the top of your head, then rested her chin there. "This is exactly the kind of optimization we need. This is going to make the Denver presentation even stronger."
Pride bloomed warm in your chest. "We should test it tomorrow."
"We will. But right now," she gently closed your laptop, "you're coming back to bed. We'll run the tests in the morning."
"But—"
"Morning," she repeated firmly. "The data will still be there in six hours. And you need sleep."
You let her guide you back to bed, but your mind was still racing with possibilities. The temperature adjustment would affect other parameters too; the buffer composition, the incubation times. You could optimize the entire protocol, make it even more efficient than what you'd published.
"I can hear you thinking," Agatha murmured, pulling you against her.
"Sorry."
"Don't be sorry. Just sleep. We'll work on it tomorrow. Together."
And you did. The next morning, you ran the tests with the adjusted temperature parameters. The results were even better than you'd predicted, yields increased by eighteen percent, with significantly improved protein stability.
"This is remarkable," Agatha said, studying the gels. "This is the kind of innovation that wins awards."
"It's just a temperature adjustment—"
"It's insight. It's seeing what everyone else missed." She turned to face you, shutting down your underminement. "This is what makes you exceptional. Not just following protocols, but understanding them deeply enough to improve them."
The praise made your throat tight, like she knew what words to pick out just for you. "Thank you."
"I'm not flattering you. I'm stating facts." She made notes in her lab book. "We're adding this to the Denver presentation. This is exactly the kind of advancement the field needs to see."
You spent the next week refining the temperature optimization, running it across multiple samples to ensure reproducibility. Every test confirmed it, this was a genuine improvement, something that would make the protocol more accessible and more reliable.
"Rio's going to lose her mind when she sees this," Marcus said, watching you run another round of tests.
"That's not why we're doing it," you said, but you couldn't help smiling.
"I know. But it's a nice bonus." He grinned. "You're going to kill it in Denver."
You were starting to believe him.
The domestic moments accumulated like sediment, layer upon layer, until you couldn't remember what your life had looked like before Agatha.
You had a drawer at her house now. Then two drawers. Your toothbrush lived in her bathroom, your shampoo in her shower. She'd cleared space in her closet without asking, just started hanging your clothes there like it was the most natural thing in the world. She washed your clothes and never put them on the bed for you to take home.
She knew how you took your coffee, she'd make it for you every morning without asking, setting it on the counter while you were still stumbling out of the bedroom.
You'd cook together in the evenings, moving around her kitchen with practiced ease. She'd chop vegetables while you stirred the sauce, and you'd talk about everything and nothing.
Some nights you'd work in comfortable silence, her reading in the armchair while you refined your presentation notes on the couch. Other nights you'd fall asleep watching movies, tangled together under the blanket she kept draped over the back of the sofa.
It felt like a relationship. A real one, not just the secret affair you'd been telling yourself it was.
And that terrified you. Every set of passing eyes felt like camera lenses, like every move you took was evidence for a case for own expulsion.
"You're never around anymore," your friend Olivia said one afternoon. You'd met for coffee, a rare occurrence these days, and she was studying you with concern. "We barely see you. Are you okay?"
"I'm fine. Just busy with research."
"It's more than that." Olivia leaned forward. "You're different. Distracted. And you're always making excuses when we invite you out."
"I'm preparing for a major conference—"
"I know. But it's like you've disappeared into your work. Or into something." Her eyes were sharp. "Is there someone?"
Your heart kicked against your ribs. "What? No. I'm just focused on research."
"You're a terrible liar." But she smiled. "It's okay. You don't have to tell me. Just... make sure you're taking care of yourself, okay? Make sure whoever it is deserves you."
The conversation haunted you for days. Because Olivia was right, you had disappeared. Into Agatha, into the research, into this secret life you were building in the spaces between professional and personal.
"My friends are asking questions," you told Agatha that night.
She looked up from her book. "What kind of questions?"
"About why I'm never around. About whether there's someone." You sat beside her on the couch. "I lied. Said it was just research."
"That's probably for the best." But something flickered in her expression. "This can't be public. You know that."
"I know." And you did. The power dynamic, the ethics violations, the way it would look if anyone found out. "But it feels heavier now. The secret."
Agatha set down her book, pulling you against her side. "I know. But we're being careful. And after you graduate,"
"That's like, four years away."
"I know." Her arm tightened around you. "But it's what we have. Unless," She paused. "Unless you want to stop. If this is too much, if the secret is too heavy—"
"No." The word came out fierce. "No, I don't want to stop. I just... I wish it could be different."
"So do I." She pressed a kiss to your hair. "But this is what we have. And I'll take this over nothing."
You nodded, settling deeper into her embrace. She was right. The secret, the careful navigation, the constant awareness of boundaries, was better than not having her at all.
Even if it meant lying to your friends. Even if it meant living two separate lives.
As she pulled you upstairs to go sleep, she had a weird look in her eye. A smirk appearing on her lips as she reached under the bed frame and handed you a garment bag.
"What's this?" you asked, taking it from her hands.
"Open it."
Inside was a suit. Navy blue, the fabric soft and expensive under your fingers. A crisp white shirt.
"Agatha—"
"You need to look the part," she said, her tone carefully casual, but you caught the way she watched your reaction. "First impressions matter at these conferences. And you deserve to feel as confident as you sound."
You pulled the jacket out, holding it up. The cut was perfect, sharp and professional, nothing flashy. Nothing that would draw attention for the wrong reasons. But unmistakably quality.
"This is too much."
"It's an investment," Agatha corrected. "In your career. Any advisor would do the same for a student presenting at a major conference." But the slight softness in her voice, the way her eyes lingered on you, made it clear this wasn't just about being your advisor.
You met her gaze. "Thank you."
"Try it on," she said. "I want to make sure it fits."
You changed in her bathroom, the fabric settling against your shoulders like it was made for you. When you emerged, Agatha's expression shifted. Pride and something deeper, something she couldn't quite hide.
"Perfect," she murmured, reaching out to adjust your collar. Her fingers lingered just a moment too long against your neck. "You look like someone who's about to change the field."
The intimacy of the moment made your throat tight, her hands on you, the gift that was both professional and deeply personal.
"I feel ready," you said quietly.
"Good." She stepped back, professional distance reasserting itself, though her eyes were still warm. "Because you are."
Two weeks before Denver, Agatha made you do a full dress rehearsal.
She invited three faculty members from other departments, people who didn't know the details of your research but would ask intelligent questions. You set up in one of the conference rooms, projector and laptop and note cards you didn't need anymore.
"Whenever you're ready," Agatha said from the back row.
You took a breath and began.
Twenty minutes later, you finished to scattered applause. The questions came rapid-fire. About your methodology, your sample selection, your statistical analysis. You answered them all, calm and confident, drawing on weeks of practice.
When the faculty members finally left, Agatha approached the front of the room.
"Well?" you asked.
"You were perfect." She was smiling, genuine pride in her eyes. "Confident, articulate, unshakeable. Exactly what I knew you could be."
Relief flooded through you. "Really?"
"Really." She glanced at the door, confirming you were alone, then pulled you into a quick kiss. "You're going to be brilliant in Denver. The whole field is going to know your name."
The thought was still terrifying. But standing there with Agatha's pride warming you from the inside out, you thought maybe you could handle it.
Maybe you were ready after all.
You were going to Denver. You were going to present your research to hundreds of scientists. You were going to prove that you belonged here, that you were more than just a first-year doctoral student who got lucky.
You were going to show them exactly what you were capable of.
And Agatha would be right there beside you, watching you shine.
The flight to Denver was surreal.
You sat in coach, laptop balanced on the tray table, reviewing your presentation slides for what had to be the hundredth time. Agatha was somewhere in first class. She'd offered to upgrade your ticket, but you'd refused. Too visible. Too much like favoritism if anyone noticed.
So you sat in 23B, wedged between a businessman who'd fallen asleep before takeoff and a college student with headphones, and tried not to think about the fact that in less than forty-eight hours, you'd be presenting your research to hundreds of scientists
You attempted to relax, closing the screen and leaning back against the seat. Through the window, clouds stretched endlessly, and somewhere beyond them was Denver. The conference. Your presentation.
Rio.
Your stomach twisted. She'd be there. Watching. Waiting for you to fail, or worse, waiting to see what new innovations she could steal.
The hotel situation had been a point of contention.
"I'm staying at the Hilton," Agatha had said two weeks ago, showing you the reservation. "It's quieter, away from the conference chaos."
"The conference hotel is the Hyatt," you'd pointed out. "That's where everyone stays. That's where all the networking happens."
"Exactly. Which is why I prefer the Hilton." She'd smiled slightly. "I'm too old for the conference hotel scene. The late-night drinking, the gossip, the undergrads treating it like spring break."
"I'm staying at the Hyatt," you'd said firmly. "It would look weird if I didn't. And we can't—" You'd gestured between you. "We can't be seen coming and going from the same hotel. It's too risky."
Agatha's expression had tightened, but she'd nodded. "You're right. It's safer this way."
Now, standing in the lobby of the Denver Hyatt Regency, surrounded by name-tagged scientists and the buzz of reunion conversations, you were glad you'd insisted. This was where you needed to be. Visible, professional, just another doctoral student attending her first major conference.
Your room was small but adequate: queen bed, desk, window overlooking the city. You unpacked methodically, hanging up the blazer you'd wear for your presentation, setting out your laptop and notes. Everything in its place. Everything under control.
Your phone rang. Agatha.
"Settled in?" she asked.
"Yeah. You?"
"The Hilton is lovely. Quiet. Adult." There was amusement in her voice. "No undergrads doing shots in the lobby."
"Are there actually undergrads doing shots in the lobby?"
"I wouldn't know. I'm at the Hilton, remember? The boring, responsible choice."
You laughed. "You're not boring."
"No?" Her voice dropped lower. "What am I, then?"
Heat flooded through you. "Agatha—"
"I know. We have to be careful." A pause. "But I wish I could come to your room right now. Wish I could help you... relax before tomorrow."
Your breath caught. "That's not fair."
"I know. But I'm thinking about it anyway." Another pause. "Get some rest. I'll see you at the opening reception tonight."
The reception was held in the hotel's grand ballroom, a sea of name tags and wine glasses and conversations about grants and publications. You clutched your own wine glass like a lifeline, trying to look confident and approachable while internally screaming.
"Y/N!" A familiar voice. You turned to find Dr. Chen, one of your professors from your master's program. "I saw your name in the program. Nature paper at twenty-five, that's incredible!"
"Thank you, Dr. Chen. It's good to see you."
"And you're working with Agatha Harkness?" He shook his head admiringly. "She's a legend. Tough as nails, but if you can survive her lab, you can survive anything."
"She's an excellent mentor," you said carefully.
"I'm sure she is." He glanced around the room. "Is she here? I'd love to say hello."
You spotted Agatha across the ballroom, deep in conversation with a group of senior faculty. She looked stunning in a charcoal suit, her hair pulled back, every inch the distinguished professor.
"She's over there," you said, pointing. "But she looks busy."
"I'll catch her later." Dr. Chen smiled. "Good luck with your presentation tomorrow. I'm planning to attend."
"Thank you. That means a lot."
He drifted away, and you took a long sip of wine, trying to calm your racing heart. People were planning to attend. People who knew you, who had expectations.
"Nervous?"
You turned to find a woman about your age, her name tag reading "Sarah Mitchell, UC Berkeley, 2nd Year PhD."
"Terrified," you admitted.
"Same." She laughed. "I'm presenting Thursday. Can't eat, can't sleep, keep having nightmares about forgetting my entire presentation."
"Oh god, me too." It was a relief to talk to someone who understood. "What's your research?"
You spent the next twenty minutes talking to Sarah about her work on protein folding, and her asking detailed questions about your extraction protocol. It was easy, comfortable, the kind of scientific discussion you loved.
"We should get coffee tomorrow," Sarah said. "Before our respective panic attacks."
"I'd like that."
You exchanged numbers, and Sarah drifted off to network with other Berkeley students. You were about to find more wine when you felt a presence beside you.
Rio.
She looked elegant in a deep green dress, her hair loose around her shoulders. "Y/N. I was hoping I'd run into you."
Your stomach dropped. "Dr. Vidal."
"Please, call me Rio. We're colleagues now, aren't we?" Her smile was warm, but her eyes were calculating. "I'm looking forward to your presentation tomorrow. The Nature paper was impressive."
"Thank you."
"I'm particularly interested in your temperature optimization." She took a sip of her wine. "That wasn't in the published methodology."
Of course she'd noticed. "We're still refining that aspect."
"Mmm. I'm sure you are." She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping. "You know, if you ever want to discuss your research in more detail, my door is always open. I think we could learn a lot from each other."
There was something in the way she said it, something that felt like more than professional interest. You took a step back.
"I appreciate that, but I'm very happy in Dr. Harkness's lab."
"Of course you are." Rio's smile widened. "Agatha's very good at making her students feel... valued."
The implication was clear. Your face heated. "If you'll excuse me—"
"Of course. Good luck tomorrow." She touched your arm briefly. "I'll be watching."
You escaped to the bathroom, your hands shaking. Did she know? Had she guessed? Or was she just fishing, trying to rattle you?
You splashed cold water on your face, taking deep breaths. It didn't matter. You had a presentation to give tomorrow. That was all that mattered.
When you emerged, you found Agatha waiting in the hallway.
"Are you alright?" she asked quietly. "I saw you talking to Rio."
"She was fishing. Trying to figure out what we're presenting."
"Did you tell her anything?"
"No. But she knows about the temperature optimization. She specifically mentioned it."
Agatha's jaw tightened. "She's been studying the Nature paper, looking for gaps. That's expected."
"She also—" You hesitated. "She implied something. About you making your students feel valued. The way she said it..."
"She's trying to get in your head." Agatha's hand found yours briefly, hidden by the angle of the hallway. "Don't let her. Focus on tomorrow. On showing everyone what you're capable of."
You nodded, drawing strength from her touch. "Okay."
"Go back to your room. Get some rest. I'll see you tomorrow."
But you didn't rest. You lay in your hotel bed, staring at the ceiling, running through your presentation over and over. Every slide, every transition, every potential question. The clock ticked past midnight, past one, past two.
At 2:47 AM, there was a soft knock at your door.
You opened it to find Agatha standing in the hallway, wearing jeans and a soft sweater, her hair down.
"I'm not supposed to be here," she said quietly. "But I needed to see you before tomorrow."
You pulled her inside, closing the door quickly. "Agatha—"
"I know it's risky. But I couldn't sleep, knowing you were over here alone, probably panicking." She cupped your face. "Are you panicking?"
"Yes."
"Tell me what you're afraid of."
You sank onto the edge of the bed, and she sat beside you. "I'm afraid I'll freeze up there. That I'll forget everything. That Rio will ask a question I can't answer and everyone will realize I'm a fraud."
"You're not a fraud. You're a brilliant researcher who made a genuine breakthrough." Her arm wrapped around your shoulders. "And you know this material better than anyone in that room tomorrow. Better than me, even."
"That's not true—"
"It is true. This is your discovery. Your innovation. I just helped you refine it." She pressed a kiss to your temple. "You're going to walk into that room tomorrow, and you're going to tell them exactly what you found and why it matters. And they're going to be amazed."
"How do you know?"
"Because I've watched you present this a dozen times. I've seen you handle every possible question. I've seen you defend your choices and explain your reasoning." She turned you to face her. "You're ready. You've been ready for weeks."
You wanted to believe her. Wanted to feel the confidence she had in you.
"Lie down with me?" you asked quietly. "Just for a little while?"
She hesitated, glancing at the door. "We shouldn't—"
"I know. But I need you. Just to hold me. Please."
She nodded, and you both lay down on top of the covers, fully clothed. She pulled you against her chest, her arms wrapping around you, and you breathed in her scent.
"I'm so proud of you," she murmured. "Do you know that? Regardless of what happens tomorrow, I'm so fucking proud of who you've become this year."
Your throat tightened. "Thank you. For everything. For believing in me when I didn't believe in myself."
"Always." Her hand stroked your hair. "Now close your eyes. Try to rest. I'll stay until you fall asleep."
You did close your eyes, focusing on her heartbeat, steady and strong beneath your ear. The anxiety didn't disappear, but it quieted, became manageable.
You must have dozed off, because when you woke, pale morning light was filtering through the curtains and Agatha was gone. But there was a note on the pillow beside you, written in her elegant script:
You're going to be magnificent today. Everyone in that room is going to know they're watching someone special. I'll be in the front row, and I'll be so proud of you.
—A
You held the note to your chest, feeling something settle in your bones. She believed in you. That had to be enough.
The morning passed in a blur of coffee and last-minute slide reviews and trying to eat breakfast even though your stomach was in knots. Sarah texted asking if you wanted to meet up, but you declined, needing the time alone to center yourself.
At noon, you attended another presentation in your session track, trying to get a feel for the room, the audience, the rhythm of questions. The presenter was a postdoc from Stanford, confident and polished, and watching her made your anxiety spike again.
You could do this. You had to do this.
Your presentation was scheduled for 2:30 PM in Ballroom C. You arrived at 2:15, setting up your laptop, testing the microphone, adjusting the podium height. The room was already filling up, far more people than you'd expected.
"Big crowd," the session chair said, a friendly woman from MIT. "Your Nature paper generated a lot of buzz."
"Great," you managed, your voice coming out strangled.
And then you saw her. Agatha, settling into a seat in the front row, directly in your line of sight. She met your eyes and smiled, small and encouraging, and something in your chest loosened.
You could do this.
At 2:30 exactly, the session chair introduced you. "Our next presenter is a first-year doctoral student at Yale University working under Dr. Agatha Harkness. Her recent Nature publication on optimized extraction protocols for ancient collagen peptides has already generated significant interest in the field. Please give her a warm welcome for her first ASC presentation."
Applause. You stepped up to the podium, clicked to your first slide, and took a breath.
"Thank you. Today I'm going to talk about a methodological innovation that has the potential to significantly improve our ability to extract and analyze proteins from ancient specimens."
Your voice was steady. Clear. You clicked to the next slide, showing the standard protocol, and began to explain its limitations.
The words came easily, naturally, exactly as you'd practiced. You walked them through your hypothesis, your testing process, your results. You showed them the data, the graphs Marcus had helped you create, the comparison between standard and optimized protocols.
You could see people taking notes. Nodding. Leaning forward with interest.
When you reached the temperature optimization section, the breakthrough you'd had at 2 AM in Agatha's bed, you found Rio in the third row, her expression sharp and focused.
"The key insight," you explained, "was recognizing that the standard centrifugation temperature was causing premature protein aggregation. By increasing the temperature by just three degrees Celsius during this phase, we achieved an eighteen percent improvement in yield with significantly better protein stability."
More note-taking. Someone in the back raised their hand, but you shook your head gently. "I'll take questions after the presentation."
You finished strong, showing your conclusions and future directions. Twenty minutes exactly, just as you'd practiced.
"Thank you," you said, and the applause was genuine, enthusiastic.
The session chair stood. "We have time for questions."
Hands shot up across the room. The chair pointed to a man in the second row.
"Dr. Patterson, University of Chicago. Your temperature optimization is elegant, but have you tested it on samples older than Cretaceous? I'm wondering about applicability to Jurassic or Triassic specimens."
You'd prepared for this. "That's an excellent question. We're currently testing the protocol on Jurassic samples, and preliminary results are promising. However, we're not ready to make definitive claims about applicability beyond the Cretaceous until we have more data."
"Thank you."
Another hand. A woman from Berkeley. "The buffer composition you're using—have you experimented with alternative formulations? I'm curious whether the temperature optimization would hold across different buffer systems."
"We've tested three different buffer systems, and the temperature optimization appears to be robust across all of them. The specific data is in our supplementary materials, which I'm happy to share."
The questions continued, each one thoughtful and engaged. You answered them all calmly, drawing on weeks of preparation, on Agatha's coaching, on your own deep understanding of the work.
And then Rio's hand went up.
The session chair pointed to her. "Dr. Vidal."
"Thank you for an excellent presentation." Rio's smile was pleasant, professional. "I'm curious about your sample selection criteria. How did you ensure that the improvements you're seeing are due to the protocol changes and not simply due to better-preserved samples?"
It was a good question. A fair question. But the way she asked it, with that slight emphasis on "ensure," made it sound like a challenge.
"We controlled for sample quality by using specimens from the same depositional environment with similar preservation states," you explained. "We also ran the standard protocol and the optimized protocol on split samples from the same specimens. The improvements are consistent across all samples, regardless of initial preservation quality."
"Interesting." Rio leaned back. "And the temperature optimization, that wasn't in your Nature publication. When do you plan to publish those results?"
Your stomach tightened. She was fishing again, trying to figure out your timeline.
"We're preparing a follow-up paper with the full optimization protocol," you said carefully. "We wanted to ensure reproducibility across a larger sample set before publication."
"Of course. I look forward to reading it." Her smile widened slightly. "Congratulations on excellent work."
The session chair called for one more question, and you answered it easily. Then it was over, applause filling the room, people standing to leave or clustering near the front to ask follow-up questions.
You stepped down from the podium, and immediately you were surrounded. Researchers wanting to know more about your methods, asking for copies of your slides, exchanging contact information. You answered questions, smiled, tried to be professional and approachable even though your hands were shaking with adrenaline.
Through the crowd, you caught Agatha's eye. She was standing near the back now, and the pride in her expression made your chest tight.
You did it. You actually did it.
Finally, the crowd thinned. You packed up your laptop, your hands still trembling slightly, and headed for the exit.
Rio was waiting in the hallway.
"That was impressive," she said, falling into step beside you. "Really. You handled the questions beautifully."
"Thank you."
"I meant what I said in there. About looking forward to your next publication." She paused. "You know, we should get coffee sometime. Talk about research. About career trajectories."
"I appreciate the offer, but I'm pretty busy—"
"I think you'd find it valuable." Her voice dropped slightly. "There are things about academic politics that Agatha might not tell you. Things you should know."
You stopped walking, turning to face her. "What things?"
"Just... advice. From someone who's navigated these waters before." She smiled. "Someone who understands what it's like to be brilliant and ambitious and working under someone who might not always have your best interests at heart."
Anger flared hot in your chest. "Dr. Harkness has nothing but my best interest in mine—"
"Of course she does. She's very good at that." Rio's eyes were sharp. "But you should ask yourself: whose career is really benefiting from your breakthrough? Whose name is getting the recognition?"
"My name is first author—"
"On one paper. But who's giving all the interviews? Who's getting invited to give keynote talks?" She leaned in slightly. "I'm just saying, it might be worth considering whether you're being mentored or being used."
"I think this conversation is over." Your voice came out cold, controlled. "If you'll excuse me."
You walked away before she could respond, your heart pounding. The audacity of her, trying to plant seeds of doubt, trying to turn you against Agatha.
But underneath the anger was a small, traitorous whisper: Was she right?
You shook it off. Rio was manipulating you, just like she'd manipulated Sophie. You wouldn't fall for it.
Your phone buzzed. Agatha: You were magnificent. I'm so proud of you. My room tonight? We should celebrate properly.
You smiled despite everything. Yes. What time?
8 PM. Room 947 at the Hilton. And bring an overnight bag. You're not going back to the Hyatt tonight.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a haze of networking and congratulations. You attended another session, had dinner with Sarah and some other graduate students, tried to act normal even though your mind kept drifting to 8 PM.
To Agatha's room. To privacy. To finally being able to touch her without fear of being seen.
At 8:45, you left the Hyatt, taking a cab to the Hilton. The lobby was quiet, elegant, exactly as Agatha had described. You took the elevator to the ninth floor, found heer room, and knocked.
Agatha opened the door immediately, pulling you inside and kissing you before you could even set down your bag.
"You were perfect," she murmured against your lips. "So fucking perfect up there."
"I was terrified."
"You didn't look it. You looked confident and brilliant and completely in control." She kissed you again, deeper. "Do you know what it did to me, watching you up there? Watching everyone realize how exceptional you are?"
Heat flooded through you. "Agatha—"
"I wanted to stand up and tell them all that you're mine. That I get to see this brilliance every day. That I'm the one who gets to touch you, taste you, make you fall apart." Her hands slid under your shirt. "But I had to sit there and be professional. Had to pretend I was just your advisor, proud of your work."
"You are proud of my work."
"I'm proud of everything about you." She walked you backward toward the bed. "And now I finally get to show you exactly how proud I am."
She undressed you slowly, reverently, her fingers working the buttons of your blouse with deliberate care. Each one she freed revealed more skin, and she followed the path with her mouth. Kissing your collarbone, the swell of your breasts above your bra, the sensitive skin of your stomach.
"I've been thinking about this all day," she murmured against your skin. "Sitting in that conference room, watching you present, and all I could think about was getting you alone. Getting you naked. Making you feel as good as you made me feel watching you shine."
Your breath hitched as she slid your blouse off your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. Her hands moved to your skirt, unzipping it with agonizing slowness.
"Agatha, please—"
"Please what?" She looked up at you, eyes dark with desire. "Tell me what you want."
"You. I want you."
"You have me." She pushed your skirt down your hips, her hands sliding over your thighs as the fabric pooled at your feet. "You've always had me."
She unclasped your bra, tossing it aside, and her mouth found your breast immediately. You gasped, your hands tangling in her hair as she sucked and licked, her tongue circling your nipple until it was hard and aching. She gave the same attention to the other breast, her hands roaming your body, mapping every curve and dip.
When she hooked her fingers in your panties and pulled them down, you were already wet, already desperate for her touch.
"Look at you," she breathed, pressing you back onto the bed. "So beautiful. So ready for me."
She knelt between your legs, her hands sliding up your thighs, spreading them wider. Her mouth found your inner thigh, kissing and biting gently, working her way higher but never quite where you needed her.
"Agatha—"
"I know, baby. I know." She kissed higher, her breath hot against your center. "But I want to take my time with you. Want to savor this. Want to make you feel exactly how proud I am."
When her tongue finally made contact, you cried out, your hips bucking up involuntarily. She held you down with one hand on your hip, the other sliding up to intertwine with yours as her mouth worked you over with devastating precision.
"So smart," she murmured between licks, her voice vibrating against you. "So talented." Another long stroke of her tongue. "So fucking perfect."
She knew exactly how to touch you, exactly what you needed. Her tongue circled your clit, then flattened against it, then sucked gently. She slid two fingers inside you, curling them just right, and you saw stars.
"That's it," she encouraged, her voice rough with desire. "Let me hear you. No one can hear us here. Let me hear how good I make you feel."
You couldn't hold back the moans, the gasps of her name, the desperate pleas for more. She gave you everything, her mouth and fingers working in perfect rhythm, building you higher and higher until you were trembling on the edge.
"Come for me," she commanded, her eyes meeting yours. "Come for me, baby. Show me how good you feel."
The orgasm crashed over you like a wave, intense and overwhelming. Your back arched off the bed, your hand gripping hers so tightly you were sure you'd leave marks, her name falling from your lips like a prayer. Tears slid down your temples from the sheer intensity of it, and she kissed them away, murmuring praise against your skin.
"So beautiful when you come," she whispered. "So perfect."
You were still catching your breath when she stood and began undressing herself. You watched, mesmerized, as she revealed her body—the curve of her breasts, the plane of her stomach, the swell of her hips. She was stunning, and the hunger in her eyes as she looked at you made your pulse quicken all over again.
She climbed onto the bed, straddling your hips, and the feel of her wet heat against your stomach made you both gasp. She ground down slowly, her hands braced on either side of your head, her hair falling around you like a curtain.
"Do you feel what you do to me?" she asked, rolling her hips. "How wet I am for you? I've been like this all day, watching you, wanting you."
You reached up, cupping her breasts, thumbing her nipples. She moaned, her head falling back, her movements becoming more urgent. You could feel how slick she was, how desperate, and it sent a fresh wave of arousal through you.
"I want to taste you," you said, your voice hoarse.
"Yes," she breathed. "Please."
She moved up your body, positioning herself over your face, and you gripped her thighs, pulling her down to your mouth. The taste of her, the scent of her arousal, was intoxicating. You licked and sucked, exploring every fold, every sensitive spot, learning what made her gasp, what made her grind down harder against your mouth.
"Fuck," she moaned, one hand bracing against the headboard, the other tangling in your hair. "Just like that. Don't stop."
You didn't. You worked her with your tongue, alternating between broad strokes and focused attention on her clit. You slid two fingers inside her, feeling her clench around you, and she cried out, her hips moving in rhythm with your thrusts.
"I'm close," she gasped. "So close. Make me come, baby. Please."
You doubled your efforts, sucking her clit as your fingers curled inside her, hitting that spot that made her whole body shudder. She came with a broken cry of your name, her thighs trembling around your head, her hand fisting in your hair almost painfully. You worked her through it, gentling your touch as the aftershocks rolled through her.
She collapsed beside you, breathing hard, her skin flushed and glowing. You thought she might need a moment to recover, but she rolled toward you almost immediately, her eyes still dark with desire.
"I'm not done with you yet," she said, her voice low and promising.
"No?"
"Not even close." She kissed you deeply, tasting herself on your lips. "I want to feel you. Really feel you. All of you against all of me."
Your breath caught as you realized what she meant. "Agatha—"
"Have you ever—?" She trailed off, her hand sliding down your body.
"No," you admitted. "But I want to. With you."
"Tell me if anything doesn't feel good," she said, positioning herself so that one of your legs was between hers and one of hers was between yours. "We'll go slow."
The first contact of her center against yours made you both gasp. She was so wet, so warm, and the sensation was unlike anything you'd ever felt. She began to move slowly, finding a rhythm, and the friction was exquisite.
"Oh god," you moaned, your hands gripping her hips.
"Does it feel good?" she asked, her voice strained with pleasure.
"Yes. So good. Don't stop."
She adjusted the angle slightly, and suddenly the pressure was exactly where you needed it. You could feel her clit sliding against yours, could feel how wet you both were, the obscene sounds of your bodies moving together filling the room.
"Look at me," she commanded, and you opened your eyes to find her watching you with an intensity that made your heart race. "I want to see you when you come."
She increased the pace, grinding harder, and you matched her movements, both of you chasing that peak together. The pleasure built quickly, the intimacy of the position, the way you were completely connected, making everything more intense.
"I adore you," she gasped, and the words combined with the perfect pressure against your clit sent you over the edge.
You came together, crying out in unison, your bodies moving frantically against each other as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you. It seemed to go on forever, each pulse of your orgasm matched by hers, until finally you both collapsed, trembling and gasping for breath.
She shifted to lie beside you, pulling you into her arms, both of you still shaking from the intensity of it. She kissed your forehead, your cheeks, your lips. "You're everything to me. Everything."
You lay there together, sweaty and satisfied, your hearts gradually slowing to a normal rhythm. Her fingers traced lazy patterns on your back, and you'd never felt more content, more complete.
"You know," Agatha said, her fingers tracing patterns on your back, "you mocked me for being picky about hotels. But you're not complaining about getting to scream."
You laughed, burying your face in her neck. "Okay, fine. You were right about the Hilton."
"I'm always right." But she was smiling. "Though I have to admit, the real reason I chose this hotel was so we could have this. Privacy. A night where we don't have to be careful."
"Best decision you ever made."
She pulled you closer. "Second best. The best was accepting you into my lab."
Your throat tightened. "Agatha—"
"I mean it." She tilted your face up to look at her. "You've changed everything for me. My research, yes. But also... me. The way I see the world. The way I see myself."
"You've changed everything for me too."
She kissed you softly. "Good. Because I'm not letting you go. Not now, not ever."
I am such a slut for having my waist held and scratched etc etc, soo would u be willing to write smth with that? .w. (Suggestive fluff with some smut maybe? .w.) (For Agatha btw)
Just A Touch
This ended up being much softer than I intended, but I'm a firm believer that Agatha yearns to be soft. To be comfortable enough to let her cocky ass defenses go and say the sappy thing without deflecting. The concept of reader being really into cottagecore and Agatha getting to relive Salem in peace instead of fear.
The morning had started innocently enough.
Agatha had woken first, as she always did, her internal clock set to some ungodly hour that you'd never quite understood. You'd felt her slip from the bed, felt the loss of warmth immediately, and had burrowed deeper into the sheets that still smelled like her expensive perfume and something indefinably her. Through the haze of half-sleep, you'd heard her moving through the house: the coffee maker gurgling to life, the soft pad of her feet on hardwood, the rustle of papers as she sorted through whatever work awaited her attention.
When you'd finally emerged an hour later, hair a disaster and one of her oversized shirts hanging off your shoulder, she'd looked up from her laptop with that smile. The one that made your stomach flip even after all this time. The one that promised trouble.
"Good morning, beautiful," she'd murmured, and before you could even reach for your own coffee mug, she was there, hands on your hips, pulling you close. Her lips had found that spot just below your ear, and you'd felt her smile against your skin when you'd shivered.
"Agatha," you'd protested weakly, "I haven't even had coffee yet."
"Mm, you're right. Can't have that." But her hands had lingered, thumbs tracing small circles on your hipbones through the thin fabric of her shirt, before she'd finally, reluctantly, released you.
That had been the first moment.
The second had come while you were trying to answer emails at the kitchen table. She'd walked past, ostensibly to refill her coffee, but her free hand had trailed across your shoulders, fingers tangling briefly in your sleep-mussed hair. The touch had been fleeting, almost absent-minded, but it had sent electricity racing down your spine.
"Agatha."
"Hmm?" She'd looked at you with those impossibly blue eyes, all innocence, as if she didn't know exactly what she was doing.
"Nothing," you'd muttered, trying to refocus on the screen in front of you, trying to ignore the way your skin still tingled where she'd touched you.
By the time she'd announced she needed to run out, "Just a quick errand, darling, I'll be back in an hour," you'd been wound tight as a spring. Her goodbye kiss had been thorough, possessive, her fingers curling in your hair as she'd backed you against the counter. When she'd finally pulled away, you'd been breathless, and she'd looked entirely too pleased with herself.
"Behave while I'm gone," she'd said, voice low and amused.
"You're the one who needs to behave," you'd shot back, but she was already heading for the door, car keys jingling in her hand.
The house had felt too quiet without her.
You'd tried to settle, tried to focus on the tasks you'd been neglecting, but restlessness had thrummed under your skin. Finally, you'd grabbed your book. The novel you'd been trying to finish for weeks, and headed outside. The backyard was your sanctuary, especially on days like this when the weather was perfect, warm but not hot, with a breeze that carried the scent of the garden Agatha had been cultivating.
You'd kicked off your shoes without thinking, letting your bare feet sink into the cool grass. Your hair had been bothering you, so you'd twisted it up into a messy bun, not caring that half of it was already falling down around your face. The long cotton skirt you'd thrown on that morning pooled around you as you settled into the oversized chair under the oak tree, tucking your feet underneath you.
The book was good, you'd been enjoying it, but even the compelling prose couldn't quite hold your attention. Your mind kept wandering back to Agatha, to the way she'd been touching you all morning, casual and constant, like she couldn't help herself. Like she needed the contact as much as you were beginning to realize you did.
You were three chapters in, finally starting to lose yourself in the story, when you heard the car in the driveway.
Your heart did that stupid flutter thing it always did when you knew she was home. You forced yourself to keep reading, to not look up like an eager puppy, but you were hyperaware of every sound: the car door closing, her footsteps on the path, the soft rustle as she approached.
"There you are."
Her voice was warm, affectionate, and you felt the smile tug at your lips before you could stop it. You still didn't look up from your book, though you'd stopped actually reading the words.
"Here I am," you agreed.
You felt her settle behind you, the chair big enough to accommodate both of you if she pressed close. And she did press close, her body warm and solid against your back, her arms coming around you loosely. She shifted, getting comfortable, and then her head was on your shoulder, her breath ghosting across your neck.
Every nerve ending in your body suddenly stood at attention.
"What are you reading?" she asked, her lips moving against your skin as she spoke.
You swallowed hard, trying to focus on the page in front of you. "It's, um. It's a mystery. Sort of. There's this woman who—" You lost your train of thought as Agatha nuzzled closer, her nose brushing the sensitive spot behind your ear.
"Sounds interesting," she murmured, clearly not interested at all.
"Agatha." Your voice came out more breathless than you'd intended. "You're making it hard to focus."
You felt her smile against your neck. "Am I?"
"You know you are."
She hummed, a low sound that vibrated through you, but she didn't move away. Instead, she seemed to settle more comfortably, her arms tightening around your waist. "Don't mind me. Keep reading."
As if that were possible. As if you could concentrate on anything with her this close, with her breath warm on your skin, with the weight of her against you making you want to forget the book entirely and turn in her arms.
You tried. You really did. You stared at the page, attempting to pick up the thread of the story, but the words might as well have been in another language. All you could think about was Agatha. The way she smelled like expensive perfume and coffee, the way her thumb was tracing absent patterns on your stomach through your shirt, the way her breathing had slowed and deepened as if she might actually fall asleep right there.
You'd just started to relax into her, your own eyes growing heavy, when her phone buzzed.
She sighed, the sound ruffling your hair. "That's my two o'clock."
"Your what?"
"Client meeting. I forgot I'd scheduled it for home today." She pressed a kiss to your shoulder, then another to the side of your neck, lingering. "I'll be quick."
"You better be," you muttered, but you were already missing her warmth as she extracted herself from behind you.
She paused, leaning down to kiss the top of your head. "Try to actually read this time."
"Shut up."
Her laugh followed her back into the house, and you were left alone again, your book forgotten in your lap, your skin still tingling from her proximity.
This was getting ridiculous.
You did manage to read after that. With Agatha safely occupied inside, you could actually focus on the story, and you lost yourself in it for the better part of an hour. By the time your stomach started growling, you'd made significant progress, and you felt accomplished as you headed back inside.
The house was quiet. Agatha's office door was closed, and you could hear the low murmur of her voice, professional and authoritative in a way that always did things to you that you refused to examine too closely.
You padded into the kitchen, still barefoot, and surveyed your options. Lunch needed to be something simple, you weren't in the mood for anything elaborate. Sandwiches, maybe. You pulled out bread, cheese, the good deli meat Agatha had picked up earlier in the week.
On impulse, you wandered to the record player in the corner of the living room, visible from the kitchen through the open floor plan. Agatha had been collecting vinyl for years, and you'd developed your own appreciation for it. There was something about the ritual of it, the intentionality, that appealed to you. You flipped through the collection, finally settling on something mellow and jazzy, and set it spinning.
The music filled the space as you returned to the kitchen, and you found yourself humming along as you assembled sandwiches. This was nice. Domestic. The kind of quiet afternoon you'd never imagined wanting before Agatha, before this life you'd built together.
You were so lost in thought, in the simple pleasure of the task and the music, that you didn't hear her approach.
The first indication you had that you weren't alone was her hands on your waist, warm and sure, and you jumped slightly.
"Easy," she murmured, and then her lips were on your neck, pressing a gentle kiss just below your ear. "Thank you, baby."
The endearment, combined with the kiss, combined with her hands still resting on your waist, sent heat flooding through you. This had been going on all day. All. Day. And you were reaching your limit.
You turned in her arms, putting your hands on her chest, and shoved. Not hard, but enough to make your point.
"Go sit down, clingy."
Agatha laughed, that low, delighted sound that made your stomach flip. "Clingy? Me?"
"Yes, you. You've been all over me since this morning." You pointed at the table. "Sit. I'm making lunch."
She held up her hands in surrender, but her eyes were dancing with amusement. "Yes, ma'am."
You watched her settle at the table, trying to ignore the way your heart was racing, trying to focus on finishing the sandwiches. But you could feel her watching you, could feel the weight of her gaze like a physical touch.
When you brought the plates over, she caught your wrist gently, tugging you closer. "Sit with me?"
It wasn't really a question, and you found yourself sinking into the chair next to her, hyperaware of how close she was, of how her knee pressed against yours under the table.
Lunch was a quiet affair, comfortable in the way that came from knowing someone deeply. She asked about your book, and you found yourself telling her about the plot, about the characters you were invested in. She listened with genuine interest, asking questions, and you were reminded all over again why you loved her.
But there was an undercurrent to it all, a tension that had been building all day. Every casual touch felt charged, deliberate. Her hand on your knee, her fingers brushing yours as she reached for her water.
When you stood to clear the plates, she stood too, following you to the sink. You were rinsing dishes when you felt her behind you again, her presence a warm weight at your back.
"Agatha—"
"Shh," she murmured, and then her hand was on your waist, fingers splaying across your hip. She wasn't doing anything, really. Just standing there, touching you, her thumb tracing slow, innocent circles through the fabric of your skirt.
But there was nothing innocent about the way it made you feel.
Your hands stilled in the soapy water. Your breathing had gone shallow. That simple touch, those maddening circles her thumb was drawing, were unraveling you completely.
"Agatha." Your voice came out strained. "Good gods."
You felt her smile against your shoulder blade. "Yes?"
"You're—" You couldn't even finish the sentence. You set down the dish you'd been holding, gripping the edge of the sink instead. "You've been doing this all day."
"Doing what?" Her voice was all innocence, but her hand hadn't moved, was still resting on your waist, thumb still tracing those devastating circles.
"Touching me. Constantly. Everywhere." You turned your head, trying to look at her over your shoulder. "You're driving me insane." Hands reaching back for her waist, an arm, something.
Her expression shifted, something heated and intent replacing the playful amusement. "Am I?"
"You know you are."
For a long moment, she just looked at you, and you could see the exact moment she made her decision. Her hand on your waist tightened, pulling you back against her, and her other hand came up to cup your jaw, turning your face toward her.
"Good," she breathed, and then she was kissing you.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't tentative. It was hungry and demanding, and you melted into it, your hands coming up to tangle in her hair. She made a low sound in her throat, and then she was turning you, pressing you back against the counter, her body flush against yours.
When she finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard.
"Bedroom," she said, her voice rough. "Now."
You didn't need to be told twice.
She followed you through the house, her hand finding yours, fingers lacing together. The walk to the bedroom felt both too long and too short, anticipation coiling tight in your belly.
Then she was on you again, backing you toward the bed, her hands everywhere. She kissed you deeply, thoroughly, until you were dizzy with it, until your knees felt weak.
"I've been wanting to do this all day," she murmured against your lips. "Do you have any idea how beautiful you looked out there? Barefoot in the grass, your hair falling down, completely lost in your book?"
"Agatha—"
"Let me," she said softly, her hands going to the hem of your shirt. "Let me take care of you."
You nodded, not trusting your voice, and she smiled, soft and affectionate and heated all at once.
She undressed you slowly, reverently, her hands gentle as she lifted your shirt over your head, in the way she tugged at your skirt and let it pool at your feet. Every inch of skin she revealed, she touched, her fingers tracing patterns that made you shiver.
"So beautiful," she murmured, and the way she said it, the way she looked at you, made you believe it.
When you were finally bare before her, she guided you back onto the bed, following you down. She was still fully clothed, and something about that disparity made your breath catch.
"Agatha, you too—"
"In a minute," she said, pressing a kiss to your collarbone. "Right now, I want to focus on you."
And she did.
Her mouth traced a path down your body. Your neck, your collarbone, the valley between your breasts. She took her time, lavishing attention on every inch of you, her hands and lips mapping your skin like she was memorizing you.
When her mouth closed around your nipple, you arched into her, a gasp escaping your lips. She hummed in satisfaction, her tongue circling the sensitive peak before she moved to give the other the same treatment.
"Agatha, please—"
"I know, baby. I know." Her hand slid down your stomach, fingers tracing the curve of your hip. "You've been so patient today. So good for me."
Her praise made you whimper, made you spread your legs in invitation. She settled between them, her weight a comfort, and kissed you again. Deep and slow and devastating.
When her fingers finally, finally slid between your legs, you both moaned.
"God, you're so wet," she breathed, her forehead resting against yours. "Is this all for me?"
"Yes," you gasped. "Yes, all day, you've been—"
"I know." She kissed you again, swallowing your moan as her fingers found your clit, circling slowly. "I could tell. Could see it in the way you looked at me, the way you reacted every time I touched you."
She was taking her time, her touches maddeningly gentle, and you were already so wound up from the day's teasing that you thought you might come apart at any moment.
"Please," you whimpered. "Please, Agatha, I need—"
"Tell me," she murmured, her lips against your jaw. "Tell me what you need."
"More. Faster. I need—" You couldn't form coherent sentences, not with her touching you like this, not with the heat building in your core.
She smiled against your skin, and then her fingers were moving faster, the pressure increasing, and you cried out.
"That's it," she encouraged, her voice low and rough. "Let me hear you, baby. Let me hear how good I make you feel."
Her other hand came up to cup your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple, and the dual sensation was almost too much. You were climbing fast, your hips rocking against her hand, chasing the pleasure she was giving you.
"You're so beautiful like this," she murmured, her eyes dark as she watched you. "So responsive. So perfect."
"Agatha—" Her name was a plea, a prayer, and she understood.
"Come for me," she said softly. "Let go. I've got you."
And you did.
The orgasm crashed over you like a wave, stealing your breath, making your body arch and shake. She worked you through it, her fingers never stopping, drawing out every last bit of pleasure until you were boneless and gasping beneath her.
When you finally came back to yourself, she was pressing soft kisses to your forehead, your cheeks, your lips.
"Beautiful," she murmured. "So beautiful."
You pulled her down into a kiss, deep and grateful, your hands finally finding the buttons of her shirt. "Your turn," you managed, your voice still shaky.
She laughed softly. "Greedy."
"You've been teasing me all day," you pointed out, making quick work of her buttons. "I think I'm entitled to a little greed."
"Fair enough."
You helped her out of her clothes, your hands less steady than hers had been but no less reverent. When she was finally bare, you pulled her back down, needing the skin-to-skin contact, needing her close.
She settled beside you, one leg thrown over yours, and you turned into her, your hand sliding down her body.
"I wanna feel you," you murmured, and the way her breath hitched made you smile.
You took your time, just as she had, earning the sounds she made, the way her body responded to your touch. When you finally slid your fingers inside her, she gasped, her hand fisting in the sheets, the other tanging in your hair.
"Yes," she breathed. "Just like that."
You found a rhythm, your thumb circling her clit as your fingers moved inside her, and watched in fascination as she came undone. She was always so composed, so in control, and seeing her like this, vulnerable and open and completely yours, never failed to undo you.
"Look at me," you said softly, and her eyes fluttered open, hazy with pleasure. "I want to see you, I need to."
She held your gaze as you brought her closer, her breathing growing ragged, her hips rocking against your hand. When she came, your name on her lips, you thought you'd never seen anything more beautiful.
After, you lay tangled together, her head on your chest, your fingers carding through her hair. The afternoon sun slanted through the windows, painting everything in gold, and you felt utterly content.
"I love you," she murmured, pressing a kiss over your heart.
"I love you too," you replied, smiling. "Even when you're being clingy."
She laughed, the sound vibrating through you. "I wasn't being clingy. I was being affectionate."
"Uh-huh. Sure."
She propped herself up on one elbow, looking down at you with mock offense. "I was! Is it my fault you're irresistible?"
You pulled her down into a kiss, soft and sweet. "No," you admitted. "I suppose it's not."
She settled back against you, and you held her close, thinking about the day, about all the small touches that had led to this moment. About how lucky you were to have this, to have her.
"Hey, Agatha?"
"Mm?"
"You're a menace."
But you were smiling as you closed your eyes, perfectly content to stay right here, wrapped up in her, for as long as she'd let you.
Outside, the music had long since stopped, the record spinning silently. Your book lay forgotten in the grass. The dishes sat half-washed in the sink.
None of it mattered.
This, her warmth, her breath evening out as she dozed, the weight of her in your arms, this was everything.
Thanks for your request diva, I hope you enjoyed xx
I've been thinking a lot about the difference between looking like you know what you're doing and actually understanding it. Especially in academia, where so much of the first year is just performing competence until something clicks and you realize you actually are competent.
The research details are based on real collagen extraction methods and paleoproteomics (yes, that's a real field and it's cool as hell), but I've simplified and adapted things to fit the story.
The reader's research is published in Nature, a career-defining achievement. As she navigates the complications that come with sudden visibility and deepens her relationship with Agatha, she discovers that becoming a real scientist means learning to trust her own voice beyond academic performance.
6k words: heavy smut, professor x reader, small little argument, agatha opens up against her will, you're too smart for her to be guarded, i don't think i mentioned coffee once am i okay?
The notification came at 6:47 AM on a Tuesday.
You were still in bed, barely awake, when your phone lit up with an email from Nature's automated system: "Your article is now live online ahead of print."
For a moment, you just stared at the screen, your brain struggling to process the words. Then you sat up so fast you nearly dropped the phone, fumbling to open the link.
There it was. Your name. First author. On a Nature paper.
"Optimized Extraction Protocol for Ancient Collagen Peptides: Eliminating Redundancy in Standard Demineralization Methods"
First Year Doctoral Student Y/N Y/L/N and Dr. Agatha Harkness
The abstract was clean, professional, exactly as you'd written it together. The methodology section laid out your breakthrough with precision. The results spoke for themselves: forty percent reduction in processing time, improved purity, consistent yields across multiple samples.
Your hands were shaking.
You screenshot the page, like you needed proof it was real. Then you texted Agatha, even though it was barely seven in the morning.
It's live. Oh my god, it's actually live.
Her response came immediately: I know. I've been refreshing since 6 AM. Congratulations, Dr. Y/L/N.
The title made you laugh, giddy and disbelieving. You weren't a doctor yet, wouldn't be for years, but seeing it from her felt like a promise.
Your phone buzzed again. And again. And again.
Professor Pretty from undergrad: Saw your Nature paper! Incredible work!
Your thesis advisor from your master's program: This is extraordinary. You should be so proud.
Your mother, who barely understood what you did: Everyone is sharing your article! My daughter the scientist!
Former classmates. Lab mates from previous positions. People you hadn't spoken to in years, all reaching out to congratulate you. Your phone became a constant stream of notifications, each one making the reality sink in a little deeper.
You were published in Nature. At twenty-five. As a first-year doctoral student.
You went to the lab early, too wired to sit still, checking your phone compulsively. More messages. More congratulations. The chemistry department's official Instagram had shared the paper with a caption about "groundbreaking work from our doctoral program." Your university's news site had picked it up. Someone had already added it to your Google Scholar profile.
When you arrived at the lab, Agatha was leaned against the doorframe between her office and the lab space, arms crossed, watching you with that look that made your stomach flip.
"Published Nature research," she said, her voice low and warm. "When I thought you couldn't get hotter."
Your face heated. "Agatha—"
"Come to dinner tonight. My place. Seven." It wasn't quite a question. "We should celebrate properly."
"I'd like that," you managed.
Her smile was slow, promising. "Good. Now get to work, Dr. Y/L/N. We have standards to maintain."
Agatha's house smelled incredible when you arrived at seven. Something with garlic and wine and herbs that made your mouth water. She answered the door in dark jeans and a soft cashmere sweater, hair loose around her shoulders, looking more relaxed than you'd seen her since Sophie broke into the lab.
"Hi," she said, pulling you inside and kissing you before you could even set down your bag.
"Hi." You kissed her back, tasting wine on her lips. "What are we celebrating?"
"Your brilliance. Your first major publication. The fact that you're mine." She said it casually, like it was obvious, like there was no question about it.
Your stomach flipped. "Yours?"
"Aren't you?" Her eyes held yours, challenging.
"Yes," you admitted. "I'm yours."
"Good." She kissed you again, deeper this time, before pulling back with visible effort. "Dinner first. Then I have something to give you."
The meal was perfect, coq au vin with roasted vegetables, crusty bread, a bottle of red wine that probably cost more than your monthly stipend. You ate at her dining table, she'd set it with actual cloth napkins and candles, and talked about everything except work. Your friends, her travels, the book she was reading, the documentary you'd watched last night.
It felt normal. Domestic. Like you were a real couple having a real dinner, not a professor and her student navigating an ethically complicated relationship.
When you'd finished eating and cleared the plates, Agatha disappeared into her study. She returned carrying a wrapped package, rectangular and flat, about the size of a large book.
"Open it," she said, setting it in front of you on the counter, the deep purple paper a threat.
Your hands were suddenly unsteady as you tore away the wrapping paper. Inside was a leather-bound notebook, deep burgundy with gold edging. Your initials were embossed on the cover in elegant script.
You ran your fingers over the letters, throat tight. "Agatha..."
"For your next breakthrough," she said softly. "And there will be many."
The notebook was beautiful, clearly expensive, the kind of thing you'd never buy for yourself. You opened it carefully, finding thick, cream-colored pages, perfect for detailed notes and sketches. The inside cover had an inscription in Agatha's precise handwriting:
To Y/N—
Your mind is extraordinary. Your dedication is unmatched. Your future is limitless.
Never stop questioning. Never stop discovering.
—A.H.
"I don't know what to say," you managed, blinking back tears.
"You don't have to say anything." Agatha moved behind you, her arms wrapping around your waist, her chin resting on your shoulder. "I just wanted you to have something that reflects how proud I am. How much I believe in you."
You turned in her embrace, kissing her with everything you couldn't put into words. Gratitude and affection and something deeper, something that made your chest ache with its intensity.
She kissed you back slowly, thoroughly, her hands sliding up to frame your face. When she pulled back, her eyes were soft, vulnerable in a way you rarely saw.
"Come to bed with me," she murmured. "Let me show you how proud I am."
This time was different.
Agatha undressed you slowly, reverently, her hands and mouth worshipping every inch of skin she revealed. She laid you out on her bed like something precious, something to be savored, and took her time exploring your body.
"You're so beautiful," she murmured against your collarbone, her lips trailing lower. "So fucking brilliant. Do you know what it does to me, watching you work? Watching you think?"
You couldn't answer, too lost in the sensation of her mouth on your breast, her tongue circling your nipple with maddening precision.
"I'm so proud of you," she continued, kissing down your ribs, your stomach. "So proud of what you've accomplished. What you're going to accomplish."
Her mouth moved lower, and you gasped when she pressed kisses to your inner thighs, deliberately avoiding where you needed her most.
"Agatha, please—"
"Shh. Let me take care of you." Her breath was hot against your skin. "Let me show you how much you mean to me."
When her mouth finally found you, it was gentle, almost tender, her eyes never leaving you. She worked you slowly, building the pleasure with patient precision, and when you came it was with her name on your lips and tears sliding down your temples.
She didn't stop. She brought you to the edge again and again, each orgasm more intense than the last, until you were trembling and oversensitive and completely undone.
Only then did she crawl back up your body, gathering you against her chest.
"I've got you," she murmured, pressing kisses to your hair. "You're safe. You're mine. I've got you."
You curled into her, boneless and satisfied, and felt something shift in your chest. This wasn't just attraction anymore. Wasn't just the thrill of the forbidden or the rush of being wanted by someone you admired.
This was deeper. More dangerous.
The realization should have terrified you. Should have sent you running. Instead, you just pressed closer, breathing in her scent, and let yourself walk the dangerous line.
The next two weeks were a blur of late nights in the lab and the deep chill of winter setting in.
You and Agatha worked side by side, modifying your protocol, making it even better than the version Sophie had stolen. You adjusted concentrations, refined timing sequences, added quality control steps that would make the methodology bulletproof.
"This is good," Agatha said one night, studying your latest results. "This is really good. Better than what we published."
"Should we publish an update?"
"Eventually. But for now, this stays between us." She made a note in her own lab book. "This is our competitive advantage. We'll present it at ACS, show the field what we can do, but we don't publish the full details until we're ready."
You nodded, understanding the strategy. In academia, timing was everything.
But the constant vigilance was exhausting. You'd become hyperaware of who was around when you worked, what you left visible on your bench, what files you accessed on shared computers. You locked your notebooks in your desk drawer every night. You changed your passwords weekly. You never discussed your research in public spaces.
Marcus noticed. "You've gotten really paranoid about your stuff," he said one afternoon, watching you lock away your notebook before going to lunch.
"Just being careful," you said lightly.
"Because of Sophie?" Jen asked from her station. She'd been quiet about the whole situation, but you could tell she was curious. "What actually happened with her?"
You chose your words carefully. "She accessed some files she shouldn't have. It was a breach of lab protocol."
"But she's working with Dr. Vidal now," Marcus said. "Doesn't that seem weird? Like, if she did something wrong, why would another professor take her?"
"Different labs have different standards," you said, which was diplomatic and also true.
Marcus and Jen exchanged a look but didn't push further. You could tell they didn't fully believe the official story, but they were loyal enough not to press.
Still, the questions made you uneasy. Made you wonder what rumors were circulating, what people were saying about you and Agatha and the sudden departure of an undergraduate from the lab.
That night, you brought it up with Agatha.
"People are asking questions about Sophie," you said. You were at her house, sprawled on her couch with your laptop, supposedly working on your seminar presentation but mostly just worrying.
"Let them ask." Agatha didn't look up from her own work. "The official story is that she violated lab protocol. That's all anyone needs to know."
"But what if they think—"
"What if they think what?" Now she did look up, her gaze sharp. "That you did something wrong? You didn't. Sophie stole your research. She's facing consequences. End of story."
"It doesn't feel like the end."
Agatha set down her pen, studying you. "What are you really worried about?"
You struggled to articulate it. "I just... I feel like I should have seen it coming. Should have been more careful from the start. You warned me, and I didn't listen, and now—"
"Now you've learned a valuable lesson about trust in academia." Her voice was matter-of-fact. "It's not your fault that someone betrayed that trust."
"But if I'd just listened to you—"
"Then what? You would have been paranoid and suspicious from day one?" Agatha moved to sit beside you, her hand finding yours. "You can't live like that. You can't do good science if you're constantly looking over your shoulder."
"You do."
The words came out sharper than you intended. Agatha's expression tightened.
"That's different."
"How?"
"Because I've been burned before. Multiple times. I've earned my paranoia." Her grip on your hand tightened. "You shouldn't have to learn that lesson so early."
"But I did learn it. Because I didn't listen to you." You pulled your hand away, frustration bubbling up. "You told me to be careful. You told me not to trust Sophie. And I ignored you because I thought you were being overprotective or paranoid or—"
"Or what?" Her voice had gone quiet, dangerous.
"Or projecting your issues with Rio onto my situation."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Agatha stood, moving to the window, her back to you. When she spoke, her voice was controlled, but you could hear the anger underneath.
"My issues with Rio are not projection. They're experience. Hard-won, painful experience that I was trying to help you avoid."
"I know—"
"Do you?" She turned to face you. "Because from where I'm standing, it sounds like you think I was being irrational. Overreacting. Making problems where there weren't any."
"That's not what I meant—"
"Then what did you mean?" She crossed her arms. "Because I warned you. Multiple times. And you dismissed those warnings. And now you're angry at yourself for not listening, but you're taking it out on me."
The accuracy of that hit like a slap. You opened your mouth to argue, then closed it.
She was right.
"I'm sorry," you said quietly. "You're right. I am frustrated with myself, unbelievably so and I'm taking it out on you. That's not fair."
Agatha's expression softened slightly, but the tension didn't fully leave her shoulders. "I understand being frustrated. But don't make this about me being paranoid or overprotective. I was trying to protect you."
"I know. And I should have listened." You stood, moving toward her. "I'm sorry. Really." Voice shrinking with each letter.
She studied you for a long moment, then sighed. "Come here."
You went, and she pulled you into her arms. You buried your face in her shoulder, breathing in her scent.
"I can't lose you," she said quietly, her voice muffled against your hair. "Not to Rio's games, not to academic politics, not to my own mistakes."
You pulled back to look at her. "Your mistakes?"
"I should have been more explicit about the risks. Should have made you lock everything down from day one, regardless of how paranoid it seemed." Her hand came up to cup your face. "I let my desire to be the cool mentor, the one who trusts her students, override my better judgment. And you almost paid the price for that."
"Agatha—"
"I'm terrified," she interrupted, and the raw honesty in her voice made your chest ache. "Terrified that I'm going to fuck this up. That I'm going to hurt you, professionally or personally, because I can't separate the two. Because I want you too much to be objective."
You'd never seen her like this. Vulnerable. Uncertain. The armor she usually wore had cracked, and underneath was someone scared and human and desperately trying to do right by you.
"You're not going to fuck this up," you said firmly. "We're not going to fuck this up. We're going to figure it out together."
"You sound very certain."
"I am certain." You kissed her softly. "I'm certain about you. About us. About this."
Her arms tightened around you. "Even though it's complicated and probably inadvisable and definitely against university policy?"
"Especially because of all that." You smiled against her mouth. "I'm not going anywhere, Agatha. You're stuck with me."
"Good," she murmured, kissing you deeper. "Because I'm not letting you go."
Your departmental seminar was scheduled for the following Thursday at 4 PM.
All first-year doctoral students were required to present their research to the department near the end of their first semester. Invites were emailed to faculty, graduate students, and any interested undergraduates. It was meant to be a friendly introduction, a chance to share your work and get feedback.
You'd been preparing for weeks, refining your slides, practicing your talk. Agatha had coached you through it, helping you anticipate questions, teaching you how to handle challenges to your methodology.
"Someone will try to poke holes," she'd said during one practice session. "That's the point. They want to see if you can defend your work."
"What if I can't?"
"You can. You know this research better than anyone. Just stay calm, stay confident, and remember that you have a Nature paper. That gives you credibility."
The day of the seminar, you arrived early to set up. The lecture hall was small, maybe fifty seats, but it felt cavernous when empty. You tested your slides, adjusted the microphone, tried to calm your racing heart.
People started filtering in around 3:45. Graduate students from other labs, a few undergraduates, several faculty members. You spotted Agatha in the third row, her expression professionally neutral but her eyes warm.
And then, at 3:58, Rio walked in.
She took a seat in the back row, crossing her legs elegantly, a small smile playing at her lips. Your stomach dropped.
Agatha's expression didn't change, but you saw her shoulders tighten almost imperceptibly.
At 4:00 exactly, the department chair introduced you. You took a deep breath and began.
The first twenty minutes went smoothly. You walked through your background, your research questions, the standard protocol and its limitations. Your voice was steady, your slides clear. You could do this.
Then you got to the methodology section.
"The key innovation," you explained, "was recognizing that the secondary wash step was redundant. By optimizing the primary demineralization phase, we could eliminate an entire step without compromising—"
"Interesting," Rio's voice cut through the room. "How did you determine the optimal concentration for the primary phase?"
You'd expected questions, but not this early, not this pointed. "Through systematic testing across multiple samples, varying the concentration and measuring the resulting protein yields and purity."
"And what concentration did you settle on?"
The question was casual, but you heard the trap in it. She was asking for the specific detail, the proprietary information.
"The exact parameters are detailed in our published methodology," you said carefully. "But the principle is to use the minimum effective concentration to reduce protein degradation while maintaining complete demineralization."
"Mmm." Rio's smile widened slightly. "And the incubation time? I imagine that required adjustment as well."
"It did. Again, the specifics are in the paper."
"Of course." She leaned back in her seat. "I'm just curious about the decision-making process. How you knew when you'd found the right balance."
You opened your mouth to answer, but Agatha spoke first.
"Dr. Vidal, perhaps we could save detailed methodology questions for after the presentation? I'm sure Y/N would be happy to discuss the technical aspects one-on-one."
It was smoothly done, professionally phrased, but everyone in the room could hear the edge underneath. The department chair nodded in agreement.
"Yes, let's hold questions until the end. Please continue," he gestured to you and you saw Agatha nod behind him.
You continued, but your rhythm was broken. You could feel Rio's eyes on you, could sense her calculating, looking for weaknesses. Every slide felt like walking through a minefield.
When you finally reached your conclusions and opened the floor for questions, Rio's hand went up immediately.
"You mentioned that this protocol could be applied to samples up to 70 million years old," she said. "Have you tested it on older specimens?"
"Not yet. That's part of our ongoing research."
"Interesting. Because I would think the protein degradation patterns would be significantly different in, say, Jurassic-era samples. The environmental conditions, the mineralization processes, all of that would affect your extraction efficiency."
It was a good point. A valid scientific question. But the way she asked it, the slight emphasis on "I would think," made it sound like a criticism. Like you hadn't considered something obvious.
"You're absolutely right," you said, keeping your voice steady. "Which is why we're currently testing the protocol on samples from multiple time periods and depositional environments. The preliminary results are promising, but we're not ready to make definitive claims about applicability beyond the Cretaceous at this moment."
"Prudent," Rio said, and somehow made it sound condescending.
The questions continued. Most were genuine, interested, the kind of scientific discourse you'd expected. But Rio asked three more, each one probing, each one designed to make you defend choices that were already validated by your published results.
By the time the seminar ended, you were exhausted and angry and trying very hard not to show it.
People came up afterward to congratulate you, to ask follow-up questions, to express interest in your research. You smiled and answered and tried to ignore Rio, who was having a quiet conversation with another faculty member near the door.
Finally, the room cleared. Just you and Agatha remained, packing up your laptop and notes.
"You did well," Agatha said quietly. "You handled her perfectly."
"She knows more than she should." Your hands were shaking as you coiled the laptop cord. "Those questions—" you paused, taking a calming breath, "she was fishing for details that weren't in the paper."
"I know." Agatha's voice was tight. "She's trying to figure out what Sophie didn't get. Trying to fill in the gaps."
"What do we do?" Jaw setting at the idea of her having some big picture plan.
"Nothing. We don't give her anything else to work with." Agatha took the laptop from your hands, setting it aside, and pulled you close. "You were brilliant up there. Professional, knowledgeable, unshakeable. She tried to rattle you and failed."
"I don't feel unshakeable."
"I know. But you looked it. That's what matters." She pressed a kiss to your forehead. "Come home with me. Let me take care of you."
You nodded, suddenly desperate to be away from this building, this department, the lingering presence of Rio's calculated questions.
You didn't make it past Agatha's living room.
The moment the door closed behind you, she was on you, pressing you back against the wall, her mouth hot and demanding on yours. You gasped into the kiss, your hands fisting in her blazer, pulling her closer.
"Mine," she growled against your lips. "You're mine. Your work is mine. She doesn't get to have any of it."
"Yours," you agreed breathlessly, needing somewhere to land right now. "All yours."
She walked you backward to the couch, pushing you down onto the cushions and following you down. Her hands were everywhere, possessive and claiming, stripping away your clothes with urgent efficiency.
"I wanted to kill her," Agatha said, her mouth on your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point. "Sitting there, asking those questions, trying to undermine you. Trying to take what's mine."
"Agatha—"
"You're mine," she repeated, her hand sliding between your legs, finding you already wet. "Say it."
"I'm yours," you gasped as her fingers circled your clit, knees bending deeper. "Only yours."
"That's right." She pushed two fingers inside you, hard and deep, and you cried out. "Only mine. Not Rio's. Not anyone else's. Mine."
The possessiveness should have been too much, should have felt suffocating. Instead it made you desperate, made you arch into her touch, made you cling to her like she was the only solid thing in a spinning world.
"Please," you whimpered. "Please, I need—"
"I know what you need." Her thumb found your clit while her fingers fucked into you with brutal precision. "You need to be reminded who you belong to. Who protects you. Who sees your brilliance and guards it like the treasure it is."
"Yes," you sobbed. "Yes, please—"
"Come for me," she commanded. "Come for me and say my name. Let me hear who owns you."
You came with her name on your lips, your body arching off the couch, pleasure crashing through you in waves. She didn't stop, working you through it and building you right back up, her fingers relentless.
"Again," she demanded. "I want to feel you fall apart for me again."
You did, crying out, your nails digging into her shoulders. The world had narrowed to just this—her touch, her voice, the way she commanded your body like she owned it.
"That's it," she murmured, her free hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. "Let go. Let me take everything."
You were trembling, oversensitive, but she didn't relent. Her fingers curled inside you, finding that spot that made you see stars, while her thumb worked your clit in maddening circles.
"Agatha, I can't—"
"You can." Her voice was steel wrapped in velvet. "You will. I want you so far gone you can't think about anything but me. Can't remember your own name. Can't remember Rio, or the presentation, or anything except who you belong to."
And god help you, you wanted that too. Wanted to disappear into her control, let her strip away everything until there was nothing left but sensation and surrender.
"Please," you whimpered, not even sure what you were begging for anymore.
"I've got you." She shifted, her mouth finding your breast, teeth closing around your nipple just shy of too hard. "Let go. Stop thinking. Just feel."
The third orgasm hit you like a freight train, tearing a scream from your throat. Your vision whited out, your body convulsing in her arms. She held you through it, her fingers still moving, drawing it out until you were sobbing with the intensity of it.
"One more," she said, and you shook your head frantically.
"I can't, I can't—"
"You can." Her voice dropped to that dangerous purr that made your stomach flip. "Because I'm telling you to. Because you're mine and your body obeys me. Doesn't it?"
"Yes," you gasped, because it was true, because even as your mind screamed that you couldn't possibly come again, your body was already responding to her touch, building toward another impossible peak.
"That's my good girl." She kissed you, swallowing your whimpers. "So perfect for me. So obedient. Now come."
You shattered. Completely, utterly shattered. There was nothing left of you but white-hot pleasure and the sound of her voice telling you how good you were, how perfect, how completely and utterly hers.
When you finally came back to yourself, you were trembling and oversensitive and completely wrecked, tears streaming down your face from the overwhelming intensity of it all.
Only then did she gentle her touch, withdrawing her fingers and gathering you against her chest.
"I've got you," she murmured, pressing kisses to your hair. "You're safe. You're mine. I've got you."
You curled into her, boneless and satisfied, and felt the truth of it settle into your bones. This wasn't just about the research anymore. Wasn't just about protecting your work from Rio's machinations.
This was about Agatha's betrayal years ago. About Rio's infidelity, the way she'd shattered Agatha's trust. About wounds that had never fully healed, now reopened by Rio's interest in you.
"It's not just about the research, is it?" you said quietly. "With Rio."
Agatha was silent for a long moment. Then: "No. It's not."
"Tell me."
"I already told you. She cheated. I found them in the lab."
"But there's more to it than that." You pulled back to look at her. "Isn't there?"
Agatha's jaw tightened. "She didn't just cheat. She stole my research. The project I'd been working on for two years. She took my notebooks, my data, and published it under her name while I was dealing with the emotional fallout of finding her with someone else."
Your breath caught. "She stole your research?"
"She claimed it was collaborative work. That we'd been working together, so she had every right to publish. But I'd done ninety percent of the work, and she knew it." Agatha's voice was flat, controlled, but you could hear the old pain underneath. "By the time I realized what she'd done, it was too late. The paper was published. She got the credit. And I looked like a bitter ex trying to claim work that wasn't mine."
"That's—" You struggled for words. "That's horrible." Anger running red hot through you for longer than a few moments.
"That's Rio." Agatha's hand stroked your hair, almost absently. "So yes, when she shows interest in my students, when she tries to poach my research, it's personal. Because I know exactly what she's capable of."
You understood now. The possessiveness, the vigilance, the way Agatha had reacted to Sophie's betrayal. This wasn't just about protecting you. This was about not letting Rio win again.
"I'm not going anywhere," you said firmly. "I'm not going to let her take anything from you. From us."
Agatha's arms tightened around you. "Promise me."
"I promise."
She kissed you then, soft and deep, and you tasted something like relief on her lips.
The next morning, you woke in Agatha's bed to find her already awake, propped up on one elbow, watching you.
"We need to talk about Denver," she said.
You blinked, still foggy with sleep. "Denver?"
"ACS conference. March." She brushed hair back from your face. "We need to decide what to present. The published methodology, or the updated version we've been working on."
You thought about it, your brain slowly coming online. "If we present the updated version, Rio will see it. She'll know we've improved the protocol."
"She'll know we're still ahead of her," Agatha corrected. "That even if Sophie gave her the basics, we've already moved beyond it."
"But then she'll try to replicate the improvements."
"Let her try." Agatha's smile was sharp. "We'll be publishing the full methodology by then. You're already scheduled for full-time over summer. Sophie can't as an undergrad. She'll always be playing catch-up."
You nodded slowly, seeing the strategy. "So we present the cutting edge. Show the field what we can do."
"Exactly. And we make it clear that this is your work. Your innovation. Your breakthrough." She leaned down to kiss you. "I want everyone in that room to know your name."
The thought was terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure. "Okay. Let's do it."
"Good." She pulled you closer. "Now, we have two hours before you need to be on campus. I can think of several ways to spend that time."
You laughed, but it turned into a gasp as her hand slid down your body. "Agatha—"
"Shh. Let me take care of you."
And she did, thoroughly and repeatedly, until you were late for class and didn't care at all.
Finals season arrived with brutal intensity.
You'd known it was coming, had seen it circled on your calendar for weeks, but somehow you still weren't prepared for the reality of it. Two seminar papers due within three days of each other, a twenty-minute presentation on recent advances in paleoproteomics for your methods course, and then, dropped on your bench one Tuesday afternoon with Agatha's elegant handwriting across the top: a reflection paper.
"Ten pages," she'd said, not looking up from her clipboard. "On your research philosophy. How your approach has evolved this semester. What you've learned about yourself as a scientist."
You'd stared at the assignment sheet. "This is... very personal."
"Yes." Finally, she'd met your eyes. "That's the point. I want to know how you think. Not just what you think, how."
It was the reflection paper that broke you.
The other assignments were straightforward enough: literature reviews, methodology critiques, the kind of academic writing you'd been doing for years. But this thing Agatha wanted, this deep introspection about your research philosophy, your approach to science itself felt impossible. Every time you tried to write it, the words came out hollow, performative. You could feel Agatha's standards hovering over every sentence, and nothing you wrote felt good enough.
You were in the lab at eleven PM on a Thursday, surrounded by printed articles and three different drafts of the reflection paper, when Agatha appeared in the doorway.
"You're still here."
"Can't figure this out." You gestured helplessly at the papers. "Everything I write sounds like bullshit."
She crossed to your bench, reading over your shoulder. Her silence was worse than criticism.
"This section," she finally said, tapping a paragraph. "About systematic thinking versus intuitive leaps. That's real. That's you."
"The rest is garbage?"
"The rest is you trying to write what you think I want to hear." She pulled up a stool beside you. "I don't want a performance, dear. I want the truth. Even if it's messy."
"What if the truth is that I don't know what my research philosophy is yet?" The exhaustion made you honest. "What if I'm just... figuring it out as I go?"
"Then write that." Her hand found yours. "Write about the uncertainty. About learning to trust your instincts while questioning everything. About how terrifying and exhilarating it is to realize you're good at this."
You looked at her, this woman who was both your lover and your mentor, who pushed you harder than anyone ever had. "You're not going to go easy on me, are you?"
"Never." But her smile was soft. "You don't need easy. You need to be challenged."
She stayed while you rewrote the introduction, offering occasional comments but mostly just present, a steady anchor while you finally found your voice. It was past one AM when she finally stood, pressing a kiss to your temple.
"Go home. Sleep. Finish this tomorrow."
"I have the other paper due—"
"Y/N." Her professor voice, firm and unyielding. "Sleep. That's not a suggestion."
The next week was a blur of deadlines and presentations, of coffee that tasted like battery acid and words that blurred together on the screen. You turned in the seminar papers, delivered your presentation to scattered applause, and finally, finally, submitted the reflection paper at 11:47 PM on the last day of finals.
Agatha found you in the lab the next morning, slumped over your bench with your head on your arms.
"It's done," you mumbled without lifting your head. "Everything's done."
"I know." Her hand was gentle in your hair. "You did beautifully. I'm proud of you."
The words cracked something open in your chest. You'd survived your first PhD finals season. You'd survived Agatha's impossible standards and your own perfectionism and the constant fear of not being good enough.
"Can I sleep for a week?"
"You can sleep for the weekend." She tugged you upright. "Then we have that conference in March to prepare for."
You groaned.
She continued, "and we have an empty lab for a month to work in."
That made you smile.
"Come on." Agatha pulled you to your feet. "Let's get you home."
You let her guide you out of the lab, too exhausted to protest. In the parking lot, she turned you to face her, hands cupping your jaw.
"You know what you did this semester?" Her thumbs brushed your cheekbones. "You published in Nature. You protected our work from Rio. You survived a break-in and kept going. You pushed through finals when most first-years are barely keeping their heads above water." Her eyes were impossibly soft. "You became a researcher. Not just a student. A real scientist."
Your throat tightened. "I had a good teacher."
"You had the capability all along." She kissed you, slow and sweet, taking advantage of the empty parking lot. "I just gave you the space to find it."
Damage control, you thought. That's what this whole semester had bee. Managing Sophie's betrayal, the sudden spotlight of publication, Rio's predatory interest, the relentless pressure of academia. But standing here with Agatha's hands on your face and pride in her eyes, it felt less like damage control and more like... building something. Something worth protecting.
"Denver in March," you said against her lips.
"Denver in March," she agreed. "Where we show them exactly what we're capable of."
You smiled. Let Rio watch. Let the whole field watch. You were just getting started.
Summary: Since you were five-years-old, you've done nothing but dedicate your time to the fine arts--ballet, tap, music, theatre, musical theatre. After starting school late, you're now twenty-five and in your final year of your Acting BFA--your problem? Other than being surrounded by twenty-one-year-olds, your Advanced Acting Studio course in your final semester is being taught by one of the school's most difficult professors.
Chapter word count: 2,192
Chapter warning(s): MDNI; nothing in this chapter, but there will be future smut and an eventual power imbalance
A/N: So, I started reading this incredible fic by @mmcwritesfanfic and I am obsessed. I don't understand a lick of STEM, but I am a Theatre BA and I could not resist the inspiration I got from it, so this is the final product! If you'd like to be tagged in future updates, please lmk and I'll add you to the list!
Masterlist
Part 2
“Do you plan on making me cry in your class?”
“Oh, honey, I plan on making you sob–but in an entirely different way.”
__________
Winter break ends faster than you’d like.
After the final performance in your university’s production of the Nutcracker, it was nothing but three weeks of your mom’s cooking and sleeping in until noon. Now, you’re back at your work study in the costume shop and stressing over your capstone and finals before syllabus week is even over.
It’s nine in the morning and you seem to have tuned out the entire costume shop, only focusing on the delicate fabric you guide through the sewing machine.
“Hello?”
Your head shoots up and you smile. “Hey! Sorry, I didn’t hear you–you know how it is.”
The costume shop manager had taken a liking to you during your first semester in her costuming class. Despite you being a performance major, Rio brought out a love of costuming that you didn’t know you possessed, and when she offered you a paid position as a stitcher, you couldn’t turn it down.
“I think I said your name like three times…Anyway, I saw you in the Nutcracker a few weeks ago,” she smiles, leaning against the worktable. “You were a phenomenal Sugar Plum Fairy, and I must say, the costume was gorgeous too–such intricate detail. The rhinestones and beading were all hand-sewn, I believe–incredible.”
“Is this a humble brag disguised as a compliment, Rio?” you ask, grinning as you trim the excess thread on the seam.
She shrugs. “Just pointing out the facts.” There’s a beat before she stands up straight. “So, are you excited for the cast list of April’s show to come out?”
“Anxious is more like it,” you chuckle, and reach for your pin cushion. “And depressed–the last show of my undergraduate career? I might not even turn in my portfolio.”
Rio chuckles, shaking her head fondly. “I was the same way. I had no idea what I wanted to do after graduating.”
“Well, it seems like you figured it out,” you smile.
Rio nods. “Seems like it.”
As much as you liked the three weeks of break, your school’s creative arts center is your second home. Since your freshman year, if you weren’t across campus at one of your boring lectures, or eating at the dining hall or cafes with your friends, you could be found at the creative arts center. Whether it’s for a studio class, work study, or simply doing homework, you’ve made your home here.
There’s something comforting about this building–despite it being five floors of nothing but endless hallways and studios.
There’s something comforting about walking into the lobby and seeing the box office girls laughing together.
There’s something comforting about walking to the dance studio and hearing the piano in the freshman classes as you pass by.
Even when passing by the graphic design hall or passing through the music hall to get to the only vending machine in the entire building, there’s something warm and comforting knowing that every person–student or professor–that steps foot in these halls has dedicated their life to not just a hobby they picked up when they were in grade school, but a passion that they found in the process.
__________
The sun casts gold streaks on the pale walls as late afternoon sets in.
Whispers bounce around the walls as your class waits outside of the studio. The first day of classes is always stressful, but your schedule shows you the one professor you dreaded having.
“Is she really part of the studio faculty this semester?” a girl mutters to her friend.
“Apparently,” the friend shrugs back. “I had a friend who had her last spring and she made them cry after they presented their assigned monologue. They almost dropped the course entirely–but they got an A and graduated, so I guess they got over it.”
“If that woman made me cry, I’d never get over it.”
The sound of the stairwell door down the hall makes every person who was talking shut their mouths immediately. There isn’t a single sound–not a whisper, not a breath.
Not a single sound except for a pair of footsteps rounding the corner.
The first thing you notice is her confidence. You’ve only ever seen her once, and it was four years ago at your audition to get into this program.
Two monologues.
One dramatic, one comedic.
32 bars of a song from a musical.
You were 21-years-old, hadn’t been in school since graduating high school, and were the oldest one auditioning. Auditions always made you nervous, but this one–this one would determine your future for good.
So you stood in front of the faculty, and you delivered your lines perfectly, and you sang every word on that sheet music like you were a Disney fucking princess. And when you finished, the faculty looked impressed–all but one.
You knew her name before even applying to the school–two Tony awards and several other accolades for acting, writing, and directing makes you quite popular. Her posture was perfect, and she sat at the table in a deep red pantsuit and her hair pulled back tightly. But you saw a glint in her eyes and the slightest upturn of her lips as she wrote down notes on a clipboard.
And then, with an even voice and an unreadable expression, she said, “Good, thank you. You can expect an email from the school with our decision within the next couple of weeks.”
But now, she’s not in a pantsuit. She’s in athletic wear–in leggings that hug every curve, in a halter tank top that shows off her toned biceps, with her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, and she’s wearing the cleanest pair of Hokas you’ve ever seen.
“Good afternoon,” she says, voice level, but there’s an underlying steel in her tone. She digs through her bag briefly before pulling out her keys and unlocking the studio door.
Every student in the class follows her in like a group of lost puppies, and you trail behind at the end of the line. The studio that Theatre 445 is in isn’t even a studio at all; the black box theater is large, easily accommodating the class of at least twenty people.
But the black box theater at the creative arts center is easily your favorite theater out of the five in the building.
The prosceniums, the arenas, the thrusts–they’re all beautifully crafted theaters, but there’s something about the black box that draws you to it.
Maybe it’s the metaphor for life–the black box, like life, being ever changing, molding to the shape of each performance held there, the way every person molds to the changes in their lives.
Maybe it’s the kind of quiet that none of the other theaters hold when they’re empty, with nothing but their ghost lights to guide the way.
Or maybe it’s the intimacy that a black box theater has.
The students before you take their seats, all talking animatedly with their friends–the friends they’ve had since freshman year, friends they made in their first-year seminar class, friends they made after rooming with them on the creative arts floor of one of the residence halls.
Friends that are acquaintances to you.
Friends that are simply castmates and scene partners to you.
The seating in the black box studio right now is simply three sections–twenty-some students flock to the center seats, but you sit alone in the right section, eyes carefully trained on the woman that’s sure to make your final semester a living hell.
After setting her bag down, she stands tall in front of the class, hands on her hips and lips pursed as she surveys what she’s working with. And then her eyes dart to you and you avert your gaze.
“Alright!” Her voice is loud and commanding and silence immediately falls over the class. “I’m sure you already know me, but I'll introduce myself anyway. My name is Agatha Harkness. No Dr. Harkness–I don’t have a doctorate. No Professor Harkness–this isn’t a biology lecture. Just Agatha.” She paces slowly and as she speaks, her arms gesture animatedly. “I don’t see myself as a professor–I see myself as your mentor. I’m not here to lecture–this isn’t one of your general education classes that you need to get a C minus in to graduate. Each one of you here was given permission to take this class. The only prerequisite for this class is being good.”
Agatha pauses and looks around. “And I am here to take you from good to remarkable–unprecedented” –her eyes land on you and you feel heat creep into your face– “extraordinary.”
“You need this class to graduate,” Agatha continues. “I’m sure you’ve heard things about this class, and I won’t sugar coat it–what you’ve heard is probably true. But if you want to make it in the entertainment industry–if you want that role, if you want those connections–you need to have a backbone, and I am here to help you grow it.”
Class ends early after Agatha finishes going over the syllabus.
“Alright, everyone get out,” she quips. “Come to class on Wednesday well hydrated and ready for constructive criticism.”
As the students file out, Agatha’s voice startles you.
“You–come here.” Her eyes narrow as she beckons you over.
Your heart races, but as the theater finishes clearing out, you walk over to where she stands tall.
“Come on, hon, I don’t bite.” Agatha doesn’t look at you, but flips through her roster. “What’s your name?” she asks, sparing you a glance. When you tell her your name she hums, nodding lightly. “I was on your audition panel, wasn’t I?”
You nod.
“Acting or Musical Theatre?” she asks, finally looking at you.
“Acting,” you respond quietly. “With a Creative Writing minor.”
Agatha nods lightly, looking you over. “I saw you in the Nutcracker–you were very good. And the summer musical. You’ll have a solid portfolio before you apply to graduate.”
“Thank you,” you say, your voice more confident than before.
“Since your first year, you’ve been in almost ten main stage productions,” she says. “And, I assume you’re waiting for the spring musical’s cast list. For someone who has such a large stage presence, you’re remarkably quiet in class.”
“Careful, you might give me a complex,” you say.
An amused glint flashes in her eyes–eyes that you could get lost in–and she raises a brow.
“Well, I’m 25,” you shrug, adjusting your backpack. “I don’t have much in common with any of them, other than being desperate to graduate and liking musicals.”
“Oh, you’re 25,” she says, voice light. “Well, that explains why all the other students are hyperactive toddlers and you’re the only one who can still for an hour and fifteen minutes.”
“Yeah,” you chuckle. “It was even worse when they were all 18 and I was 21, so…”
Agatha hums, smiling softly. “What are your plans after this?”
“Um–honestly, I was probably just gonna go home and get wine drunk since I don’t have class tomorrow until the afternoon,” you shrug.
Agatha lets out a snort and you feel your chest flutter. “I admire your honesty, but that’s not what I meant. I mean, what are your plans after you graduate? Not many people go to college after being out of high school for–what–three years? You clearly have drive and ambition. What are your plans?”
“Well, like all of the students in this class, being an actor is the end goal,” you say, “but I’d also like to be a screenwriter. But ultimately, I want to be in the entertainment industry–even if it doesn’t end with me on a red carpet.”
“A screenwriter?” she repeats, head tilting slightly like you’ve caught her interest. “It’s good that you have multiple plans–acting and screenwriting can, of course, go hand-in-hand.”
“Is that a subtle brag about your numerous award wins?”
“Cheeky,” she muses. “But, no. Like I said in class, I don’t sugar-coat things, so I’ll be honest with you. The chances of you ending up on a red carpet are slim, just as it is with the rest of the students in this class–doesn’t matter how good you are.”
“You ended up on several,” you say.
“Because I played my cards well,” Agatha shoots back. “And from what I’ve seen so far, you’re playing your hand well too.” She takes a few steps to her bag and bends down, pulling out her wallet and then taking out two small cards. “Here,” she says, handing you them. “This one is my personal business card–my phone numbers, email, it’s all there. And this one is my agent’s business card.”
Agatha packs her bag neatly before standing to her full height again. “You don’t have to contact her anytime soon, but from what I’ve seen…if you continue putting in the effort you’ve been putting in for the past four years, you will be needing it.”
She looks down at her watch and then back at you. “Now, I have a meeting to get to. If you need anything, you have my number and my personal email, ‘kay?” And with a sly grin and a wink, she slings her bag over her shoulder and walks past you. “Don’t go too hard on the wine tonight, hon.”
Don't used to updates this quick with my new schedule with my jobs, but I cannot stop thinking about this story and all its pieces. I'm putting them together like that one clip of Dr. Strange.
A breach of trust threatens reader's research, forcing Agatha to intervene and protect the work. The crisis intensifies their relationship as reader becomes increasingly dependent on Agatha's guidance and protection, while their power dynamic deepens both professionally and personally.
6k words, HEAVY smut, power dynamics, academic misconduct, Agatha needs to feel in control.
Three weeks of meticulous work, and you'd successfully extracted collagen peptides from a 68-million-year-old hadrosaur femur with a purity level that made Agatha's previous best look almost amateur. The protein sequences were intact, viable for analysis, and the implications were staggering.
"Look at this," you said for probably the tenth time that morning, unable to tear your eyes from the gel image on your monitor. The bands were perfect, clear, distinct, exactly where they should be.
Agatha stood behind you, her hand resting on the back of your chair. In front of the undergrads, she maintained careful distance, but her pride was evident in her voice. "This is exceptional work. The sequence integrity is remarkable."
"Dr. Harkness, can I see?" Sophie appeared at your other shoulder, leaning in to study the screen. She'd been hovering more than usual lately, asking detailed questions about your methodology, your buffer compositions, your centrifugation speeds.
You'd chalked it up to enthusiasm. Sophie was a good student, curious and engaged. Of course she'd be interested in a major breakthrough.
"Sure." You pulled up the full data set, walking her through the extraction process. "The key was adjusting the demineralization protocol to account for the sample age. Standard concentrations were too aggressive."
"So you lowered the concentration?" Sophie asked, her eyes tracking across the screen.
"And extended the incubation time." You pulled up your notes. "I documented everything here in this structure: the exact ratios, timing sequences, temperature controls." Steering the conversation towards research in general.
"That's brilliant," Sophie said, and something in her tone made you glance up. She was smiling, but her eyes were sharp, calculating. "Can I get a copy of your protocol? For reference?"
Before you could answer, Agatha's hand pressed down on your shoulder. Firm. A warning.
"The protocol is proprietary until publication," Agatha said, her voice pleasant but with an edge underneath. "I'm sure you understand, Sophie."
"Of course, Dr. Harkness." Sophie straightened, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. "I was just curious about the methodology."
"Curiosity is good," Agatha said. "But some things need to stay within the research team until we're ready to share them publicly."
Sophie nodded and returned to her own station, but you felt the shift in atmosphere. The way her gaze kept drifting back to your bench, your notes, your samples.
That evening, after the undergrads had left, Agatha pulled you into her office.
"You need to be more careful," she said without preamble.
"About what?"
"About what you share. Who you share it with." She crossed her arms, leaning against her desk. "Sophie's been asking a lot of questions."
"She's interested in the research—"
"She's interested in your methodology." Agatha's voice was sharp. "There's a difference. And you're being too open with the details."
You felt a flash of irritation. "She's your student. Part of your lab. Why would she want to steal my work?"
"Not everyone in academia has good intentions." Agatha's expression was serious, almost grim. "People steal research all the time. Ideas, methodologies, data. And you've just made a major breakthrough that could change the field."
"You think Sophie would steal my research?" The idea seemed absurd. "She's an undergrad. She doesn't even have the access or resources to—"
"She has access to this lab. To your bench. To your notes if you're not careful." Agatha moved closer, her hand finding your waist. "I'm not saying she's definitely up to something. I'm saying you need to be more cautious. Lock your notebooks. Don't leave your computer unattended. And for god's sake, stop walking people through your exact protocols."
"That feels paranoid."
"It's protective." Her grip tightened slightly. "You've worked too hard on this for someone to scoop you. I won't let that happen."
You wanted to argue, to tell her she was overreacting. But the intensity in her eyes stopped you. This wasn't just professional concern. This was personal.
"Okay," you said finally. "I'll be more careful."
"Good girl." She kissed you softly. "Now go home. Get some rest. We're running the sequence analysis tomorrow, and I need you sharp."
You left, but her words stayed with you. Not everyone in academia has good intentions.
It felt like paranoia. Like Agatha's past with Rio was making her see threats where there weren't any.
You dismissed it.
That was your first mistake.
The lab was supposed to be empty.
It was past eleven on a Thursday night, and you'd only come back because you'd left your apartment keys in your desk drawer. The building was dark, silent except for the hum of equipment that never fully powered down.
You used your key card to access the third floor, expecting darkness. Instead, light spilled from under the lab door.
Your stomach dropped.
You pushed the door open slowly, quietly.
Sophie stood at your bench.
She had your notebook open, her phone positioned above it, clearly photographing pages. Your samples were out of storage, labeled tubes arranged on your workspace. And your computer was on, your research files open on the screen.
"What the fuck are you doing?"
Sophie spun around, eyes wide. For a split second, you saw panic. Then her expression smoothed into something apologetic, embarrassed.
"Oh my god, you scared me." She laughed, but it sounded forced. "I didn't think anyone would be here."
"That's not an answer." You moved into the lab, your heart pounding. "Why are you at my bench? Why is my notebook open?"
"I was just—" She gestured vaguely. "I was reviewing the centrifugation protocols for tomorrow's work. Dr. Harkness asked me to prep the samples, and I wanted to make sure I had the speeds right."
"The centrifugation protocols are in the shared database. Not in my personal notebook."
"I know, but I thought—" Sophie closed your notebook, her movements too casual. "I thought your notes might have more detail. I didn't want to mess up the prep."
Every instinct you had was screaming that this was wrong. The explanation was too smooth, too convenient. And it didn't explain why your samples were out, why your computer was unlocked, why she was photographing your notebook.
"Put your phone down," you said quietly.
"What?"
"Your phone. Put it down. Now."
Sophie's jaw tightened. For a moment, you thought she might refuse. Then she set it on the bench, screen down.
You moved to your computer, checking the file history. Someone had accessed your research files twenty minutes ago. Opened your protocol documents, your data analysis, your preliminary results for the paper you were drafting.
"Get out," you said, your voice shaking with anger.
"Look, I'm sorry if I overstepped—"
"Get. Out." You turned to face her. "And don't come back to this lab. I'm telling Dr. Harkness about this first thing tomorrow."
Sophie's expression hardened. The apologetic mask dropped, replaced by something cold. "You're overreacting."
"Am I? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you were stealing my research."
"I was reviewing protocols—"
"Bullshit." You crossed your arms. "Leave. Now. Before I call campus security."
For a long moment, Sophie just stared at you. Then she grabbed her bag and walked out, her footsteps echoing in the empty hallway.
The moment she was gone, you locked the door and pulled out your phone.
Agatha answered on the second ring. "Hello?"
"Sophie was in the lab." The words tumbled out as you started walking home, your hands shaking. "Just now. At my bench. She had my notebook open, my samples out, my computer unlocked. She was photographing my notes."
Silence. Then: "Are you still there?"
"No, I'm walking home. I kicked her out."
"Good." Agatha's voice was tight, controlled. "Did she take anything?"
"I don't think so. But she accessed my research files. I checked the history."
"Fuck." You heard movement, like she was getting up. "Okay. Listen to me. When you get home, I want you to change all your passwords. Lab computer, university email, cloud storage, everything. Then I want you to make a list of exactly what files she accessed and what was in your notebook."
"Agatha, I'm sorry. You warned me, and I didn't—"
"Don't." Her voice softened slightly. "This isn't your fault. You trusted someone in your lab. That's normal. She's the one who violated that trust."
You felt tears prick your eyes, a combination of anger and frustration and the adrenaline crash. "I feel so stupid."
"You're not stupid. You're brilliant and trusting, and she took advantage of that." A pause. "Are you okay? Do you want me to come over?"
"No, I'm—" You stopped walking, taking a shaky breath. "Actually, yes. Please."
"I'm already getting my keys. I'll be there in fifteen minutes."
She was there in twelve.
You opened the door to find her in sweatpants and a university hoodie, her hair loose, no makeup. She looked less polished, and the concern in her eyes made your chest tight.
"Come here," she said, and you went, letting her pull you into a hug.
You stayed like that for a long moment, breathing in her scent, letting her presence ground you. When you finally pulled back, she cupped your face, studying you.
"Tell me everything. From the beginning."
You walked her through it, finding Sophie at your bench, the open notebook, the phone positioned to photograph, the accessed files. Agatha listened without interrupting, her expression growing darker with each detail.
"She said she was reviewing centrifugation protocols," you finished. "But that doesn't explain why my samples were out, or why she was photographing my notebook."
"No, it doesn't." Agatha's jaw was tight. "And the fact that she had your computer unlocked means she either guessed your password or watched you enter it at some point."
The thought made your skin crawl. "What do we do?"
"First thing tomorrow, I'm calling IT. I want a full audit of who's accessed your files and when." She pulled out her phone, typing rapidly. "I'm also emailing the department chair. This is a serious breach of research ethics."
"Will she get in trouble?"
"She should get expelled." Agatha's voice was hard. "But at minimum, she's out of my lab. Permanently."
You nodded, feeling some of the tension ease. Agatha was handling it. She knew what to do.
"I'm sorry," you said quietly. "You warned me, and I didn't listen. I forgot to lock my cabinet and-"
"Stop apologizing." She set down her phone, pulling you close again. "You did exactly what you should have done. You confronted her, you kicked her out, you called me immediately. You protected your research."
"I should have been more careful from the start."
"Maybe. But you're learning." Her hand slid into your hair, gentle. "Academia is cutthroat. People will smile to your face and steal your work behind your back. It's a hard lesson, but better you learn it now."
You leaned into her touch, exhausted. "I hate this."
"I know." She kissed your forehead. "But you're going to be okay. We're going to handle this."
IT confirmed it the next morning.
Sophie had accessed your research files multiple times over the past two weeks, always late at night when the lab was empty. She'd copied protocols, data sets, preliminary analyses. Everything you'd worked on for the Montana samples.
"She was systematic about it," the IT specialist said, showing you and Agatha the access logs. "She knew exactly what she was looking for."
Agatha's expression was carved from ice. "Can you tell if she sent the files anywhere?"
"She forwarded several documents to an external email address." He pulled up the records. "The domain is registered to Dr. Rio Vidal's lab."
The silence that followed was deafening.
"Of course it is," Agatha said finally, her voice deadly quiet.
You felt sick. "Rio put her up to this?"
"Almost certainly." Agatha stood, her movements controlled but you could see the fury underneath. "Sophie transferred to Rio's lab last semester before coming back to mine. I thought it was because she wanted more chemistry focus, but clearly—" She stopped, jaw clenching. "Clearly it was strategic."
The department chair called an emergency meeting that afternoon. You, Agatha, Sophie, and Rio, all crammed into a conference room that felt too small.
Sophie looked defiant. Rio looked amused.
"These are serious allegations," the chair said, looking at the IT report. "Sophie, do you have an explanation for accessing another student's research files without permission?"
"I was trying to learn," Sophie said, her voice steady. "I wanted to understand the methodology better. I didn't think it was a big deal."
"You photographed her notebook," Agatha said, her voice sharp. "You accessed her computer without authorization. You forwarded proprietary research to another lab. That's not learning. That's theft."
"I forwarded some protocols to Dr. Vidal because I thought she might have insights," Sophie said. "I was trying to help with the research."
"By stealing it?" You couldn't stay quiet anymore. "You weren't trying to help. You were trying to scoop me."
"That's a serious accusation," Rio interjected smoothly. "Sophie came to me with some questions about methodology. I had no idea the protocols were proprietary or that she'd accessed them inappropriately."
"Bullshit," Agatha said flatly. "You knew exactly what you were doing. This is the same thing you pulled with the Brennan project five years ago."
Rio's smile was sharp. "I was cleared of any wrongdoing in that situation."
"Because you're good at covering your tracks."
"Ladies," the chair interrupted. "Let's stay focused. Sophie, given the evidence, I'm afraid I have no choice but to remove you from Dr. Harkness's lab effective immediately. You'll also be placed on academic probation pending a full ethics review."
Sophie's defiance cracked slightly. "But I didn't—"
"The IT logs are clear. You accessed files you had no authorization to access and forwarded them to another lab. That is a blatant breach of the contract you signed in August." The chair's voice was firm. "You're lucky we're not pursuing expulsion."
"I'd like to pursue expulsion," Agatha said coldly.
"That will be up to the ethics committee." The chair turned to Rio. "Dr. Vidal, I trust you'll cooperate fully with the investigation?"
"Of course." Rio's expression was perfectly professional. "Though I maintain I had no knowledge of any impropriety."
The meeting ended with Sophie in tears and Rio looking entirely too satisfied. You and Agatha walked back to the lab in tense silence.
"She's going to get away with it," you said finally. "Rio. She's going to claim ignorance, and there's no way to prove she orchestrated this."
"Probably." Agatha's voice was tight. "But Sophie's out of my lab, and Rio's on the ethics committee's radar. It's not nothing."
"It doesn't feel like enough."
"It never does." She stopped walking, turning to face you. "But you protected your research. That's what matters. And now you know to be careful, to guard your work, to trust your instincts when something feels off."
You nodded, but you felt hollowed out. Naive. Stupid for not seeing it sooner.
"Come to my house tonight," Agatha said quietly. "Please. I need—" She stopped, jaw working. "I need to see you. To know you're okay."
There was something raw in her voice, something that went beyond professional concern.
"Okay," you said. "What time?"
"Seven. I'll make dinner."
But you both knew dinner wasn't really the point.
You arrived at seven-thirty, delayed by a last-minute meeting with the dean. Agatha opened the door before you could knock, pulling you inside immediately.
"I'm sorry I'm late—"
She kissed you, hard and demanding, cutting off your apology. Her hands were in your hair, on your waist, pulling you closer with an urgency that stole your breath.
When she finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard.
"I've been going insane," she said, her voice rough. "All day, thinking about Sophie in the lab, at your bench, touching your research. Thinking about Rio orchestrating this, using my own student against you."
"Agatha—"
"I need control right now." Her eyes were dark, intense. "I need to take control of something, and I need you to let me."
Your stomach flipped. "Okay."
"Okay?" She studied your face. "You understand what I'm asking?"
"Yes." You did. You could see it in her eyes, the need to dominate, to possess, to prove that you were hers in a way that had nothing to do with research or academia or Rio's manipulations.
You had been so caught up in your own emotions and chaotic feelings that you forgot that Agatha's safe space, her domain, had been breached. Tampered with. Stained.
"I need to get out of my head too."
"Safe word?" she asked.
"Red."
"Good girl." Her hand slid to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there. A promise. "Go upstairs. Strip. Kneel on the floor at the foot of the bed. Hands behind your back. I'll be up in five minutes."
You went, your heart racing. The bedroom was dimly lit, just the bedside lamp casting warm light across the space. You undressed slowly, folding your clothes and setting them on the chair, then knelt as she'd instructed.
The position was vulnerable. Exposed. Your knees pressed into the soft carpet, hands clasped behind your back, waiting.
The five minutes felt like an eternity.
When Agatha finally appeared in the doorway she smiled, black slacks and a silk blouse clinging to her perfectly, her hair pulled back. She looked powerful, controlled, and the way she looked at you, like you were something precious and profane all at once, made heat pool low in your belly.
She circled you slowly, studying you from every angle. You fought the urge to cover yourself, to shift under her gaze.
"Beautiful," she murmured. "So fucking beautiful like this. Do you know how long I've been thinking about this? About having you exactly like this?"
"How long?" Your voice came out breathy.
"Since the first time you walked into my office." She stopped in front of you, her hand coming to rest on top of your head. "Since you looked at me with those eager eyes and told me you'd been obsessed with my work for ten years. I wanted to ruin you then."
Her fingers tightened in your hair, tilting your head back to look up at her. "And now you're here. On your knees for me. Mine."
"Yours," you agreed.
"Say it again."
"I'm yours, Agatha."
"Good." She released your hair, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. "Crawl to me."
You did, feeling the degradation of it, the way it made you feel small and owned. When you reached her, she spread her legs slightly, and you knelt between them, looking up at her.
"You're so smart," she said, her hand cupping your jaw. "So fucking brilliant. You made a breakthrough that's going to change the field. Do you understand that?"
"I—"
"Do you understand?" Her grip tightened.
"Yes, Dr. Harkness."
"Good. Because I need you to remember that. Remember how smart you are. How capable." Her thumb traced your bottom lip. "Because right now, I'm going to make you feel stupid. I'm going to make you forget every intelligent thought in that brilliant brain. I'm going to reduce you to nothing but sensation and need. Do you want that?"
Your breath caught. "Yes."
"Yes, what?"
"Yes, Dr. Harkness. I want that."
"Of course you do." She leaned back slightly, studying you. "Take off my shoes."
You did, carefully removing each heel and setting them aside. Her hand stayed in your hair, petting you like something precious.
"Now my pants."
Your hands shook slightly as you undid the button, the zipper, helping her lift her hips so you could slide the slacks down her legs. She was wearing black lace underneath, and you could already see the damp spot forming.
"See what you do to me?" she murmured. "How wet I get just from having you on your knees?"
"Dr. Harkness—"
"Shh." Her hand tightened in your hair. "You don't speak unless I ask you a question. Understand?"
You nodded.
"Good girl." She spread her legs wider. "Now make yourself useful. Show me how smart that mouth is when it's not talking about protein sequences."
You leaned in, pressing kisses to her inner thighs, feeling her lean muscles tense under your lips. She was already trembling slightly, her control fraying at the edges.
"Don't tease," she warned. "I'm not in the mood for patience."
You hooked your fingers in her underwear, pulling it aside, and put your mouth on her.
The sound she made, low and desperate, sent heat straight through you. You worked her with your tongue, finding the rhythm that made her hips buck, that made her hand tighten almost painfully in your hair.
"Fuck," she gasped. "Just like that. Don't stop."
You didn't. You kept the pressure steady, consistent, even when your jaw started to ache, even when she was grinding against your face with abandon. Her thighs clamped around your head, and you felt her whole body tense.
"I'm going to come," she warned, and then she did, crying out your name, her hand holding you exactly where she needed you.
When she finally released you, you pulled back, gasping for air. Your face was wet, your lips swollen, and you'd never felt more satisfied.
But Agatha wasn't done.
"On the bed," she ordered, her voice still rough. "On your back."
You climbed onto the bed, and she followed, straddling your hips. She was still mostly dressed, her blouse slightly disheveled, and the contrast between her clothed body and your naked one made you feel even more exposed.
"You did so well," she murmured, leaning down to kiss you. She could taste herrself on your tongue, and it made her moan into your mouth. "Such a good girl for me."
Her hand slid down your body, between your legs, and she made a satisfied sound when she felt how wet you were.
"All this just from making me come?" She circled your clit with maddening lightness. "You really are desperate for me, aren't you?"
"Yes, Dr. Harkness."
"Tell me what you want."
"I want you to fuck me."
"How?"
"However you want." The words came out desperate. "Please, I need—"
"I know what you need." She slid two fingers inside you, and you arched off the bed. "You need to be reminded that you're mine. That no matter what Rio does, no matter who tries to steal your research, you belong to me."
She fucked you hard, her fingers curling to hit that spot inside you that made you see stars. Her other hand wrapped around your throat, not squeezing hard enough to cut off air, just enough to make you feel owned.
"Say it," she demanded. "Tell me who you belong to."
"You," you gasped. "I belong to you, Dr. Harkness."
"Again."
"I belong to you." Hands grabbing at her shoulders.
"Louder."
"I belong to you!" The words came out as a sob, and then you were coming, your body arching into her touch, her name on your lips.
She didn't stop. She kept fucking you through it, building you right back up, and when you tried to squirm away from the oversensitivity, her hand on your throat tightened.
"Stay still. You can take it."
"I can't—"
"You can." Her voice was firm, commanding. "You're going to come for me again. And again. Until I decide you've had enough."
She was true to her word. She wrung three more orgasms from you, each one more intense than the last, until you were sobbing and shaking and completely undone.
Only then did she gentle her touch, withdrawing her fingers and pulling you into her arms.
"Shh," she murmured, pressing kisses to your temple. "You did so well. So perfect for me."
You couldn't speak, could barely think. Your body felt like liquid, boneless and satisfied in a way you'd never experienced.
Agatha held you through the comedown, her hands stroking your back, your hair, murmuring praise and reassurance. When you could finally form words again, you turned your face into her neck.
"Thank you," you whispered.
"For what?"
"For making me forget. For making me feel—" You struggled to articulate it. "For reminding me that I'm yours."
Her arms tightened around you. "Always. You're always mine."
You fell asleep like that, wrapped in her arms, feeling safe and owned and exactly where you belonged.
In the morning, you woke to find Agatha already awake, propped up on one elbow, watching you.
"Hi," you said, your voice rough from sleep and screaming.
"Hi." She brushed hair back from your face. "How do you feel?"
"Sore. Satisfied. A little embarrassed about how loud I was."
She smiled. "Don't be. I loved every sound you made."
You stretched, wincing slightly at the pleasant ache between your thighs. "What time is it?"
"Early. Six-thirty." She leaned down to kiss you softly. "I wanted to let you sleep, but I also wanted to talk before we have to be professional again."
"Okay."
"Sophie officially resigned from my lab yesterday evening. She's transferring to Rio's lab full-time."
You'd expected it, but it still stung. "So Rio gets what she wanted."
"She gets a student who's now under ethics investigation and has a reputation for stealing research." Agatha's voice was dry. "Not exactly a win."
"It feels like a win for her."
"I know." Agatha's hand found yours, lacing your fingers together. "But here's what matters: your research is protected. Your breakthrough is documented and timestamped. When we publish, everyone will know it was your work, your innovation. Sophie and Rio can't take that from you."
"What if they try to publish first? Using what she stole?"
"They won't." Agatha's voice was certain. "Because I'm submitting our paper this week. Fast-tracked to Nature. I have the editor's direct line, and she owes me a favor."
Your eyes widened. "Nature?"
"Your work deserves it. And it's the best way to protect it—get it published in the most prestigious journal possible, with your name first on the author list."
"My name first?" You stared at her. "But it's your lab, your samples—"
"Your methodology. Your breakthrough. Your innovation." She squeezed your hand. "I'll be second author, but this is your paper. Your moment."
Tears pricked your eyes. "Agatha—" Then after a breath, "thank you. For believing in me. For protecting my research. For—" You gestured vaguely at the bed, at her, at everything. "For all of it."
"You don't need to thank me for doing my job." She leaned in, kissing you softly. "Though I'll accept thanks for the other parts."
You laughed, and she smiled against your mouth.
"Come on," she said, pulling back. "I'll make breakfast. Then we have a paper to plan."
You spent the following weekend at her house, working on the manuscript. It was intense, exhausting work, and not without friction. Agatha wanted to restructure your entire methodology section, and you pushed back, arguing that the chronological flow was essential for readers to understand the breakthrough. She insisted on cutting two paragraphs you'd labored over; you insisted they stayed, and eventually compromised on condensing them into one.
"You're being stubborn," she said, but there was respect in her voice.
"I'm being right," you countered eyes still locked on the paragraph at hand. She laughed before picking back up that red pen.
You learned each other's rhythms. When to defer to her experience with high-impact publications, when to stand firm on your own insights. She taught you how to write for Nature's audience, how to make every word count. You challenged her assumptions, brought fresh perspectives she hadn't considered. It wasn't mentor and student anymore. It was collaboration. Partnership.
By the time you finished a section, it belonged to both of you equally.
By Sunday evening, you had a complete draft.
"Read it one more time," Agatha said, handing you the printed manuscript. "Fresh eyes."
You read through it carefully, making minor notes in the margins. When you reached the author list, you stopped.
Y/N Y/L/N and Agatha Harkness
Your name. First. On a Nature paper.
"It's perfect," you said quietly.
"It is." Agatha took the manuscript back, making your final corrections. "I'm submitting it tonight. With any luck, we'll hear back within a week."
"And if Rio tries to publish something similar?"
"She'll look like she's copying us. Our submission timestamp will prove we were first." Agatha's smile was sharp. "She played her hand too early. Sophie didn't get enough information to replicate your full methodology, just pieces. And pieces aren't enough."
You nodded, feeling some of the anxiety ease. Agatha had thought of everything, protected you at every turn.
"I should go home," you said reluctantly. "I have class in the morning."
"Stay." The word came out soft, almost vulnerable. "Please. I'll drive you to campus early."
You studied her face, seeing something underneath the usual control. She needed you here, needed the reassurance of your presence.
"Okay," you said. "I'll stay."
Relief flickered across her expression. She pulled you close, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Thank you."
Later, as Agatha settled at her desk to submit the manuscript, you felt your stomach twist with nerves. This was it. The moment everything became real, became permanent. Once it was submitted, there was no taking it back.
"I can't look," you said suddenly, backing away from the desk. "I'm sorry, I just—I need to not watch this happen."
Agatha glanced up, her expression softening with understanding. "Go upstairs, darling. I'll handle it."
You nodded gratefully and fled to the bedroom, your heart pounding. You paced for a few minutes, then sat on the edge of the bed, then stood again. Your mind raced with possibilities. What if the reviewers hated it? What if Rio somehow found out and submitted something first? What if you'd made some terrible mistake in the analysis?
It couldn't have been more than fifteen minutes before you heard Agatha's footsteps on the stairs. She appeared in the doorway, her expression calm and satisfied.
"It's done, my dear."
Your breath caught. Excitement and dread warred in your chest, making you feel slightly dizzy. "Oh god. Oh god, it's really submitted. It's out there. People are going to read it and judge it and—"
"Breathe." Agatha crossed to you, taking your hands in hers. "You're spiraling."
"I know, I just—" You looked up at her, feeling exposed and terrified. "What if it's not good enough?"
"It is good enough. More than good enough." She guided you to sit on the bed, settling beside you. "But remember what this paper actually is. It's in-progress research about the samples themselves. We're publishing to show how you identified and fixed a contamination problem. It's not the full completed study."
You blinked, some of the panic easing. "Right. Right, it's just the methodology paper."
"Exactly. The complete analysis will come later, after we've finished processing all the samples properly." Agatha squeezed your hands. "This paper establishes your technique, proves you were first, and protects your work. That's all it needs to do."
"And it does that?"
"Beautifully." She smiled, genuine pride in her eyes. "You should be excited, not terrified. This is a significant achievement."
You took a shaky breath, letting yourself feel some of the excitement beneath the fear. Your name. First author. On a paper that would be read by researchers around the world.
"I'm excited," you admitted. "And terrified. Both at once."
"That's perfectly normal." Agatha pulled you against her side, and you leaned into her warmth. "Every researcher feels this way with their first major publication. But you have nothing to worry about. The work is solid, the writing is clear, and you have me to guide you through the review process."
You nodded against her shoulder, feeling the tension slowly drain from your body. She was right. She'd been right about everything so far.
"Thank you," you whispered.
"You don't need to thank me for recognizing brilliance when I see it." She pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "Your methodology was ready to be seen and it protects you from anything happening because of Sophie."
She pulled to look at you, "Your work deserves to been seen and talked about. It's going to help people." Her voice was soft, like she knew it was against your unspoken rules to tell you the honest truth.
You nodded, small, but accepting of her words, the praise. "Thank you."
She kissed you gently, "You're not allowed to say those words again until you're face down," she pushed towards the bathroom, "Get ready for bed sweet thing."
The next afternoon, your phone buzzed during lecture. You glanced down, expecting a reminder about office hours or a calendar notification.
My office after this class, skip your next if you have to.
Your heart kicked against your ribs. The message was pure Agatha, direct, commanding, leaving no room for negotiation. You typed back a quick confirmation and spent the rest of the lecture unable to focus on anything the professor was saying.
When you finally made it to her office, you knocked twice before entering. Agatha was standing by her desk, arms crossed, but there was something different in her expression. Not the sharp focus she wore during work discussions, but something softer. Pleased.
"Close the door," she said.
You did, turning the lock out of habit.
"Nature accepted the paper," she said without preamble. "Publishing in the paleo section. One month."
The words took a moment to land. When they did, your knees went weak. "They—what?"
"They're running an Instagram post by end of day to promote it. A show of trust in the work." Agatha's lips curved into a smile. "Your work."
You pressed a hand to your mouth, emotions surging too fast to name them all. Relief. Vindication. Joy. And underneath it all, gratitude so profound it made your chest ache.
"Can I please say thank you?" The words came out soft, almost pleading.
Agatha's expression shifted, her eyes darkening with understanding. She leaned back against her desk, legs slightly apart, and crooked a finger at you. "Come here."
You crossed the space between you, settling naturally between her legs. The position felt right, intimate and reverent all at once. You looked up at her, this woman who'd protected your work, who'd believed in you when everything felt like it was falling apart.
"Thank you, Agatha," you whispered, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to her cheek.
She hummed, low and pleased, her hand coming up to cup the back of your neck. Her thumb stroked along your jaw, a possessive touch that made heat pool low in your belly.
"You earned this," she murmured. "Every bit of it. But I'm glad you know who helped you get here."
"I know," you breathed against her skin. "I know exactly who."
Her fingers tightened slightly, holding you in place. "Good girl."
Agatha's eyes held yours, steady and dark, "I'm so proud of you."
The protocol succeeds beyond expectations, but success brings complications. Rio makes her move, Agatha gets possessive, and you're caught in the middle of an old rivalry. Boundaries are tested, trust is earned, and by the end, you're holding research that proves exactly where you belong.
Hope you enjoyed the fluff at the end of this one, you're gonna need it. Chapter 5: "Contamination" coming soon, and trust me, the title is doing a lot of work.
7k words - previous chapter
The protocol worked.
Not just worked, excelled. The protein yields were consistent across all six samples, purity levels higher than the standard method, and the processing time cut by nearly forty percent. You'd run the gels three times just to be sure, and each time the results were the same: clean, clear bands exactly where they should be.
Agatha wouldn't stop talking about it.
"Look at this," she said for what had to be the fifth time that morning, gesturing to the gel image on her computer screen. The undergrads had learned to just nod and smile at this point. "This is doctoral-level innovation. This is the kind of thinking that changes methodologies."
You felt heat creep up your neck. "It's just eliminating a redundant step—"
"It's optimization," she corrected, spinning in her chair to face you. Her eyes were bright with something that looked like pride. "It's seeing what everyone else missed, and finding your own way around it. Do you understand how rare that is?"
Sophie looked up from her station, grinning. "Dr. Harkness has been like this since she saw the results yesterday. I think she's more excited than you are."
"I'm excited," you protested, but it came out weak. You were excited, but also terrified. This meant your work mattered. This meant people would pay attention.
"You should be," Agatha said. She stood, moving to your bench, her hand coming to rest briefly on your shoulder—professional, appropriate, but you felt the warmth of it through your lab coat. "This is going in your thesis. And I'm submitting an abstract about it for the spring conference."
Your stomach flipped. "Conference?"
"American Chemical Society meeting in Denver. March." Her hand squeezed once before releasing. "We'll present together. Your methodology, my lab's validation. It'll be good for your CV."
Marcus whistled low. "That's a big deal. ACS is huge."
"It is," Agatha agreed, but she was still looking at you. "Which is why we need to be strategic about how we share this information before then."
That afternoon, you were pipetting samples when Agatha's office phone rang. You could hear her voice through the open door, professional and measured, but something in her tone made you pause.
"Yes, she's here... I see... Let me ask her."
She appeared in the doorway. "The student newspaper wants to interview you. About the protocol innovation."
Your hand froze mid-pipette. "What?"
"Apparently word travels fast in the chemistry department. They want to do a feature on promising graduate research." Her expression was carefully neutral. "It's your choice, but it would be good publicity for the lab."
"I—" You set down the pipette, mind racing. "Should I?"
"Come to my office. Let's talk about it."
You followed her, acutely aware of three pairs of undergraduate eyes tracking your movement. Inside, Agatha closed the door and leaned against her desk.
"Here's what you need to understand," she said. "Publicity is good. It raises your profile, shows the university that our lab is doing important work. But you have to be careful about what you share."
"What do you mean?"
"You can talk about the general concept: optimization, efficiency, improved yields." She crossed her arms. "But you don't give them the specific concentrations, the exact timing, the technical details that make it work. Those stay proprietary until we publish. And most importantly, do not mention redundancy."
"So look smart but don't actually tell them anything useful?"
Her smile was sharp. "Exactly. You're learning."
The interview was scheduled for Friday afternoon. You spent the intervening days rehearsing answers in your head, trying to find the balance between informative and vague. Agatha coached you through it Wednesday night at her house, the two of you sprawled on her couch with wine and your notes.
"They'll ask about your background," she said. "Why you chose paleochemistry, what drew you to this university. That's all safe territory. Be personable, talk about your passion for the field."
"And when they ask about the methodology?"
"You say you identified inefficiencies in the standard protocol through careful analysis of the data. You optimized the process to improve both yield and purity while reducing processing time." She took a sip of wine. "If they push for specifics, you smile and say those details will be available when the research is published."
"That sounds evasive."
"It's protective," she corrected. "You don't hand over your competitive advantage before you've secured credit for it. That's how you get scooped."
You must have looked uncertain because she set down her glass and pulled you closer, her hand cupping your jaw.
"Listen to me. You did brilliant work. You deserve credit for it. But the academic world is cutthroat, and people will absolutely steal your ideas if you're not careful." Her thumb stroked your cheek. "I'm not going to let that happen to you."
The possessiveness in her voice made your stomach flip. "Okay. I trust you."
"Good girl." She kissed you then, slow and deep, and you forgot about interviews and protocols and everything except the taste of wine on her tongue.
Friday arrived too quickly. The reporter was a senior named Emma, friendly and enthusiastic, with a recorder and a notebook full of questions. You met her in one of the chemistry building's study rooms, Agatha having deemed it more appropriate than the lab.
"So," Emma said, clicking her pen, "tell me how you ended up here. What made you choose paleochemistry?"
You relaxed slightly. This part was easy. "I've been fascinated by Dr. Harkness's work since I was fifteen. She's a pioneer in the field, and the opportunity to study under her was basically my dream scenario."
"That's quite a compliment. What's it like working with her?"
"Challenging," you said honestly. "She has incredibly high standards. But that pushes me to do better work. She sees potential in her students and refuses to let them settle for anything less than their best."
Emma scribbled notes. "And this new protocol you've developed, can you walk me through what makes it innovative?"
Here was the tricky part. You took a breath, channeling Agatha's coaching. "The standard extraction protocol for ancient proteins has been used for years, but I noticed through data analysis that one of the steps wasn't actually contributing meaningful value. It was adding processing time and potential contamination risk without improving the final yield."
"So you just... removed it?"
"After extensive testing to validate that the removal didn't negatively impact results, yes. The modified protocol is faster, cleaner, and actually produces higher purity samples."
"That's impressive for a first-year doctoral student."
You felt heat in your cheeks. "I had excellent guidance. Dr. Harkness encouraged me to question assumptions and look critically at the data. This is as much a testament to her mentorship as anything."
The interview continued for another twenty minutes. Emma asked about your long-term goals, your thoughts on women in STEM, what advice you'd give to undergraduates considering graduate school. You navigated it all carefully, aware of Agatha's coaching echoing in your head.
When it was over, Emma thanked you and promised the article would run in next week's paper.
You texted Agatha immediately: Done. I think it went okay?
Her response came seconds later: My office. Now.
You found her standing by the window, arms crossed, but when she turned to face you, she was smiling.
"How do you feel?"
"Terrified. Relieved. Both?"
"Come here." She pulled you into a hug, and you melted into it, breathing in her perfume. "You did well. I could hear you from my office, you were poised and professional."
"I didn't give anything away?"
"Not a thing." She pulled back to look at you. "I'm proud of you."
The words settled warm in your chest. "Thank you. For preparing me."
"That's what I'm here for." Her hand slid down to your lower back. "Among other things."
You were about to kiss her when her office phone rang. She sighed, releasing you to answer it.
"Dr. Harkness... Yes... Tuesday at six? I'll check my calendar." She pulled up her computer, frowning slightly. "That's the department mixer... Yes, I'll be there... Of course. See you then."
She hung up, still frowning.
"Problem?" you asked.
"No. Just the department chair confirming attendance for next week's event." She turned back to you. "Which you're also required to attend, by the way. All graduate students."
"What kind of event?"
"Networking mixer. Faculty, graduate students, some postdocs. It's meant to encourage interdepartmental collaboration." Her tone suggested she found the whole thing tedious. "Lots of small talk and cheap wine."
"Sounds fun," you said dryly.
"It's tolerable. And it'll be good for you to meet people outside our immediate lab." She pulled you close again. "Just stay near me. I'll introduce you to the people who matter."
The article ran the following Tuesday. You picked up a copy of the student paper on your way to class, and there you were on page three: "Graduate Student Innovates Ancient Protein Extraction Method."
The photo they'd used was from the lab, you in your safety glasses and lab coat, pipette in hand, looking far more confident than you felt most days. The article itself was good. Emma had captured your enthusiasm for the work without getting into technical details you'd been careful to avoid.
"Under the mentorship of renowned paleochemist Dr. Agatha Harkness, first-year doctoral student Y/N has already made significant contributions to the field..."
Your phone buzzed. Agatha: Excellent article. See you tonight at the mixer. 6 PM, faculty lounge.
You spent the rest of the day fielding congratulations from classmates and trying not to think too hard about the fact that your name was now in print, attached to research that actually mattered.
By six PM, you'd changed into dark slacks and a burgundy blouse, professional but not trying too hard, and made your way to the faculty lounge. The space was already crowded, clusters of people holding wine glasses and making conversation. You spotted Agatha immediately, standing near the windows in a charcoal suit that made your mouth go dry.
She saw you and smiled, subtle but warm, then turned back to the person she was speaking with. You grabbed a glass of wine from the table and tried to look like you belonged here.
"You must be the famous protocol innovator."
You turned to find a woman watching you with an amused smile. She was striking—dark hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail, sharp cheekbones, wearing a forest green suit that somehow managed to be both professional and devastating. There was something almost predatory in the way she looked at you, like you were a particularly interesting specimen.
"I don't know about famous," you managed.
"Oh, you are. At least in the chemistry department." She extended a hand. "Dr. Rio Vidal. I run the paleobiology lab."
You shook her hand, trying to place the name. "Paleobiology, so you work with Dr. Wild?"
"I am Dr. Wild's replacement. She retired last year." Rio's smile widened. "Which means I inherited her lab, her funding, and her reputation for poaching the best graduate students from other departments."
There was something playful in her tone, but also something serious underneath it.
"I read your article," Rio continued. "Impressive work for a first-year. Agatha must be pleased."
The way she said Agatha's name, familiar, almost intimate, made something prickle at the back of your neck.
"She's been an excellent mentor."
"I'm sure she has." Rio took a sip of her wine, eyes never leaving yours. "Though I have to say, I'm surprised she's letting you talk to the press already. She's usually so protective of her research."
"It was approved—"
"Oh, I'm not criticizing. It's smart, actually. Get your name out there early, establish yourself." She leaned in slightly, conspiratorial. "Between you and me, that's the kind of strategic thinking that leads to excellent postdoc positions."
"I'm only a first-year—"
"I know. But it's never too early to think about your next steps." Rio pulled a card from her pocket, pressed it into your hand. "My lab has funding for a postdoc position starting next fall. If you're interested in expanding into the biological side of paleontology, we should talk."
Before you could respond, you felt a hand on your lower back. Agatha had materialized beside you, her smile polite but her eyes sharp.
"Rio. I see you've met my student."
"I have. We were just discussing her impressive work." Rio's smile didn't waver. "You must be very proud."
"I am." Agatha's hand pressed more firmly against your back, possessive. "She's exceptionally talented."
"Clearly." Rio's gaze flicked between you and Agatha, something knowing in her expression. "I was just telling her about our postdoc opening. Someone with her skills would be perfect for the cross-disciplinary work we're doing."
"She's three years away from finishing her doctorate," Agatha said, her tone pleasant but with an edge underneath. "Plenty of time to consider options."
"Of course. But the best positions get filled early." Rio turned back to you. "Think about it. My door's always open."
She drifted away into the crowd, and you felt Agatha's hand tighten on your back.
"What did she say to you?" Agatha asked, her voice low.
"Just that she was impressed by the article. And mentioned a postdoc position." You pulled out the card Rio had given you. "Is that normal? Recruiting someone who just started their PhD?"
Agatha plucked the card from your fingers, studied it, then handed it back. "It's Rio. She likes to plant seeds early, make people feel wanted." Her jaw was tight. "Don't let her get in your head."
"I wasn't—"
"Come on. There are other people you should meet." She steered you away, her hand never leaving your back, introducing you to a series of faculty members whose names you immediately forgot. But you were hyperaware of the tension in Agatha's body, the way her eyes kept tracking Rio across the room.
An hour later, you'd made the rounds and were ready to leave. Agatha walked you out to the parking lot, her silence heavy.
"Are you okay?" you asked when you reached your car.
"Fine."
"You don't seem fine. You've barely said anything since—"
"Since Rio tried to recruit my student at a department mixer?" Her voice was sharp. "Yes, I'm aware."
"She was just being friendly—"
"She was being strategic." Agatha crossed her arms. "That's what Rio does. She finds promising researchers and tries to pull them into her orbit."
"And that bothers you because...?"
"Because you're my student. You're working on my research. And she has no business trying to poach you before you've even finished your first year."
The possessiveness in her voice was startling. "Agatha, I'm not going anywhere. I'm here to work with you."
"For now."
The words hung between you, sharp and unexpected.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing. Forget it." She turned away, but you caught her arm.
"No. Talk to me. What's going on?"
"It's complicated."
"Then uncomplicate it."
Agatha was quiet for a long moment, her jaw working. Finally: "Rio and I have history. Professional history. We were postdocs together, competed for the same faculty position here. I got it. She ended up at a smaller university for five years before Wild's retirement opened up a spot for her to come back."
"So this is about an old rivalry?"
"It's about the fact that she's spent the last year trying to prove she's the better researcher. Poaching students, publishing in the same journals, applying for the same grants." Agatha's voice was tight. "And now she's interested in you."
"Because of my work—"
"Because you're mine." The words came out fierce, possessive. "Because taking you would be a win for her."
You stared at her. "I'm not a trophy."
"I know that—"
"Do you? Because right now it sounds like you're more worried about losing to Rio than about what I actually want."
"That's not—" Agatha stopped, took a breath. "You don't understand."
"Then help me understand."
But she just shook her head. "I need to go. I'll see you tomorrow."
She walked away before you could respond, leaving you standing in the parking lot, confused and frustrated and angry.
You didn't text her that night. Didn't call. You went home, changed into comfortable clothes, and tried to focus on reading for your seminar class. But the words blurred on the page, your mind replaying the conversation.
Because you're mine.
The possessiveness should have bothered you more than it did. Should have felt like a red flag. But underneath the anger was something else, the knowledge that you wanted to be hers. That you'd been hers since you were fifteen years old, reading her papers and imagining what it would be like to work beside her.
But that didn't give her the right to make decisions about your career without you. Didn't give her the right to treat you like property to be guarded from Rio's interest.
Your phone buzzed. Agatha: Can we talk?
You stared at the message for a long moment, then typed back: Tomorrow. I need space tonight.
Her response came immediately: Okay.
I'm sorry.
You didn't reply.
The next day in the lab was awkward. Agatha was professional, polite, but there was a distance between you that hadn't been there before. The undergrads noticed, you caught Sophie and Marcus exchanging glances, but no one said anything.
You worked through your samples mechanically, documenting results, trying to focus on the science. But you were hyperaware of Agatha moving around the lab, the careful way she avoided getting too close to your station.
Around noon, she appeared at your bench. "Can we talk? My office?"
You followed her, closing the door behind you. She leaned against her desk, arms crossed, looking tired.
"I owe you an apology," she said. "Last night, I was out of line."
"Yeah. You were."
"Rio gets under my skin. She always has." Agatha rubbed her face. "But that's not your problem, and I shouldn't have made it your problem."
"You made me feel like a possession. Like something to be guarded. Like I can't hold my own."
"I know. I'm sorry." She looked at you, something vulnerable in her expression. "The truth is, the idea of you working with Rio, of you being in her lab instead of mine, it terrifies me."
"Why?"
"Because—" She stopped, seemed to struggle with the words. "Because I don't share what's mine."
"Agatha—"
"I know how that sounds. I know it's not fair. But I can't—" She took a breath. "I can't explain it better than that right now."
You studied her, seeing the tension in her shoulders, the tightness around her eyes. There was something she wasn't saying, something deeper than professional rivalry.
"I'm not going to work with Rio," you said quietly. "I'm here because I want to work with you. Because I've wanted to work with you for ten years. That hasn't changed."
"But it could."
"It won't."
"You don't know that. You're brilliant, and you're going to have opportunities, and I can't—" She stopped again, jaw clenching. "I can't lose you."
The raw honesty in her voice made your chest ache. You crossed to her, took her hands.
"You're not going to lose me. But you have to trust me. Trust that I can make my own decisions about my career."
"I do trust you—"
"Then act like it. Don't try to control who I talk to or what opportunities I consider. Be my mentor, be my—" You hesitated over the word. "Be whatever we are to each other. But let me have agency."
Agatha pulled you closer, her forehead resting against yours. "You're right. I'm sorry."
"I know you are." You kissed her softly. "But we need to figure out how to navigate this. The professional stuff and the personal stuff. Because they're getting tangled."
"I know." Her hands slid to your waist. "Come over tonight? Please? Let me make this right."
You should probably say no. Should maintain the boundary, make her work for forgiveness. But you could see the vulnerability in her eyes, the genuine regret, and you found yourself nodding.
"Okay. But we're talking. Really talking."
"I promise." Her blue eyes steady on yours, holding the most tenderness she'd allowed you to see.
You showed up at her house at seven, still uncertain about what you were walking into. Agatha answered the door in jeans and a soft sweater, her hair down, looking younger and less guarded than you'd seen her. Less trailblazer in STEM, more woman who fucked up and hasn't slept right since.
"Hi," she said softly.
"Hi."
She stepped aside to let you in. The house smelled like cooking, something with garlic and herbs, and there was music playing softly in the background.
"I made dinner," she said. "Your favorite."
You followed her to the kitchen, where she'd set the table for two. Tall purple candles and the propagations she stole from the lab last week. The gesture was so domestic, so normal, that it made your throat tight.
"Agatha—"
"Let me feed you first. Then we'll talk." She pulled out a chair for you. "Please?"
You sat, and she served you, chicken piccata, the same dish she'd made that first night you'd come over to review your protocol. The food was perfect, and you ate in comfortable silence, the tension from earlier slowly dissipating.
After, she led you to the couch, poured you both wine, and turned to face you.
"I need to tell you something," she said. "About Rio."
You waited, giving her space to find the words.
"We were more than just competing postdocs. We were—" She paused. "We were involved. Briefly. It ended badly."
Oh.
"How badly?"
"Badly enough that I don't trust her motives. Badly enough that the idea of her anywhere near you makes me," She stopped, took a breath. "Makes me irrational."
"What happened?"
"She cheated. With another postdoc in our cohort. I found out when I walked in on them in the lab." Agatha's voice was flat, controlled. "She said it didn't mean anything, that it was just physical. But it meant something to me."
Your chest ached for her. "I'm sorry."
"It was ten years ago. I should be over it." She laughed bitterly. "Clearly I'm not."
"That kind of betrayal doesn't just go away."
"No. It doesn't." She looked at you, something raw in her expression. "And now she's interested in you, and I know—I know—it's probably just professional. That she sees your talent and wants to recruit you legitimately. But I can't shake the feeling that she's doing it to get to me."
"Even if she is, that doesn't change anything. I'm not interested in working with her."
"But you should be free to consider it. You're right about that. I can't control your career decisions because of my own baggage."
You set down your wine, moved closer to her. "Thank you for telling me. For being honest."
"I should have told you before the mixer. Should have explained instead of just being possessive and weird."
"You were a little possessive and weird," you agreed, and she laughed.
"I'll work on it."
"Work on it. But also—" You took her hand. "I like that you're possessive. A little. It makes me feel wanted."
"You are wanted." Her hand came up to cup your jaw. "So fucking wanted."
She kissed you then, and it was different from before. Softer, more vulnerable, like she was letting you see something she usually kept hidden. You kissed her back, pouring reassurance into it, trying to show her that you weren't going anywhere.
You pulled back just by a breath, lips brushing hers, "Bedroom?"
She sighed, like she knew this was forgiveness and nodded, "Yeah."
She led you upstairs, and this time when she undressed you, it was slow, reverent. Her hands traced over your skin like she was memorizing you all over again, her mouth following, pressing kisses to your shoulders, your ribs, sinking low to kiss your hips.
"You're so beautiful," she murmured against your stomach. "So fucking perfect."
You pulled her up to kiss her, helping her out of her own clothes, wanting to feel her skin against yours. When you were both naked, she guided you onto the bed, settling between your thighs.
"Let me take care of you," she said, and you nodded, already aching for her touch.
She took her time, building you up slowly with her mouth and fingers, paying attention to every sound you made, every way your body responded. When you were trembling and desperate, she finally gave you what you needed, her fingers curling inside you while her tongue worked your clit.
You came with her name on your lips, and she didn't stop, working you through it and building you right back up again. The second orgasm hit harder, and you were sobbing with it, overwhelmed by sensation and emotion.
"That's it," she murmured, pressing kisses to your inner thigh. "So good for me. So perfect."
When you could finally breathe again, you pulled her up to kiss her, tasting yourself on her lips.
"Your turn," you said, but she shook her head.
"Not tonight. Tonight was about you."
"Agatha—"
"Please." Her voice was soft, almost pleading, eyes avoiding yours. "Let me just hold you."
So you let her, curling into her side, her arms around you, her heartbeat steady under your ear. You fell asleep like that, warm and safe and wanted, her fingers tracing patterns on your back.
In the morning, you woke to find her watching you, something soft in her expression.
"Hi," she said.
"Hi." You stretched, wincing slightly at the pleasant soreness between your thighs. "What time is it?"
"Early. Six-thirty." She brushed hair back from your face. "I didn't want to wake you, but I have an eight AM meeting."
"That's okay. I should get back anyway."
But neither of you moved, content to stay in this moment a little longer.
"Are we okay?" she asked quietly.
"Yeah. We're okay." You kissed her softly. "But we need to keep communicating. No more shutting down when things get complicated."
"Deal." She pulled you closer. "Thank you. For understanding. For staying."
"Where else would I go?"
Her arms tightened around you, and you felt her smile against your hair. "Nowhere. You're not going anywhere."
It should have sounded possessive, controlling. Instead, it just sounded like a promise.
Agatha texted you later that morning asking if you could swing by her office a few minutes before lab hours. You agreed, of course.
You opened the door to the Chem building and headed for Agatha's office, hand already reaching up to knock when a voice stopped you cold.
"Good morning, famous." Instantly you felt trouble brewing. Rio's unique cadence sliding down your spine like ice water. A rude awakening that she did in fact, still exist.
You turned, maintaining a neutral expression. "Dr. Vidal, morning."
Rio leaned against the wall, blocking the narrow hallway. Her posture was casual, but her eyes were sharp - calculating. "Happen to change your mind since Tuesday?"
A subtle challenge. You recognized the game immediately. "While I'm grateful for the opportunity so early in my doctorate career," you said evenly, "Dr. Harkness is working on something incredible right now. Paleontology has my heart, and I'm not sure I'll be ready to part with it after I'm done."
One perfectly arched eyebrow lifted. "Paleo has your heart?"
Without hesitation, you met her gaze. "Things older than this institution. Something deeper than me. That's what I'm interested in, Dr. Vidal." Your tone was polite but unyielding. "Now, if you'll excuse me, Dr. Harkness is waiting."
As if on cue, Agatha's office door swung open behind you, a deliberate, powerful movement that seemed to fill the entire hallway with her presence. "She is indeed." her voice was silk over steel.
You turned to find her in the doorway, one hand still on the door handle, the other holding a coffee mug. She was dressed impeccably as always: navy blazer, cream blouse, her hair swept back. But it was her expression that made your breath catch. Cool. Assessing. Territorial.
Her eyes moved from you to Rio with the precision of a scalpel.
"Rio." The name was clipped. "I wasn't aware you had business in this wing this early."
"Just catching up with your protégé." Rio pushed off the wall, straightening. "We were discussing research interests."
"Were you." It wasn't a question. Agatha's gaze slid back to you, something flickering in those blue eyes - approval, maybe, or satisfaction. "And did you find the conversation... productive?"
The question was directed at you, but it felt like a test. Like she was asking something else entirely.
"Informative," you said carefully. "But as I told Dr. Vidal, I'm committed to our current project."
The corner of Agatha's mouth curved, barely perceptible, but you caught it. "Good. We have a lot to cover this morning." She stepped back, holding the door open wider. An invitation. A claim. "Shall we?"
You moved toward her, acutely aware of Rio's eyes tracking your movement. As you passed Agatha, her free hand found the small of your back. Brief, possessive, hidden from Rio's view by the angle of the door.
"Rio." Agatha's voice stopped the other woman as she started to follow. "I believe the biochem labs are in the opposite direction."
"Of course." Rio's smile was sharp. "Enjoy your... mentoring session."
The emphasis on the last two words was deliberate. Pointed.
Agatha's expression didn't change, but you felt her hand press more firmly against your back, guiding you further into the office. "Always a pleasure, Rio."
The door closed with a decisive click.
For a moment, neither of you moved. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken tension. You could feel Agatha behind you, could sense the controlled energy radiating from her.
"How long was she out there?" Her voice was measured, carefully neutral, but you heard the edge underneath.
"Not long. A minute, maybe two." You turned to face her. "She was waiting when I got here."
Agatha's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. She moved to her desk, setting down her coffee mug with deliberate precision. "What did she say?"
"She asked if I'd changed my mind since Tuesday." You watched her carefully, noting the way her fingers lingered on the mug handle. "About joining her lab."
"Of course she did." Agatha's laugh was short, humorless. She turned away, moving to the window, her shoulders rigid beneath the navy blazer. "Not even a week. She couldn't even wait a week."
"Agatha—"
"I'm sorry." She held up a hand, still facing the window. "I'm not—I'm trying not to make this about her. About us." A pause. "But she's doing this deliberately. Cornering you in hallways, making offers she knows you'll refuse just to—" She stopped herself, exhaling slowly.
You crossed to her, close enough to see the tension in her profile. "I told her no. Clearly."
"I know you did." Agatha's voice softened slightly. "I heard you. 'Things older than this institution, something deeper than me.'" She turned to look at you then, something complicated in her expression. "That was... well-handled."
"I meant it."
"I know." Her hand came up, fingers brushing your cheek before she seemed to catch herself. "I'm not angry with you. I want to be clear about that. You handled it perfectly. I'm just—" She paused, searching for words. "Frustrated. That she's being this persistent. That she's using you to get to me."
"Maybe," you said carefully. "But that doesn't change my answer. I'm not interested in her research. I'm interested in yours."
Agatha's eyes searched your face, some of the tension easing from her shoulders. "You're sure? Because if you genuinely wanted to explore other options—"
"I don't." You stepped closer, closing the distance between you. "I told you. Paleo has my heart."
The corner of her mouth lifted, just slightly. "Just paleo?"
The question hung between you, loaded with meaning. You felt heat rise in your cheeks but held her gaze. "The work has my heart," you said softly. "The rest of me... that's a different conversation."
Agatha's breath caught, barely audible. Her hand found your waist, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt. "We have work to do."
"We do."
Neither of you moved.
"I don't like her approaching you when I'm not there," Agatha said quietly. "I know that's possessive. I know I don't have the right to—"
"You do, though." You covered her hand with yours. "Have the right, I mean. We're... whatever this is, we're in it together. And I don't want her approaching me either."
Something in Agatha's expression softened. She pulled you closer, pressing her forehead to yours. "Thank you," she murmured. "For telling her no. For—" She exhaled. "For choosing this. Choosing me."
You stayed like that for a long moment, breathing together, letting the tension dissipate.
Finally, Agatha pulled back, her professional mask sliding back into place though her eyes remained warm. "Alright. We actually do have work to do. The samples from yesterday need analysis, and I want to run the protocol again with the adjusted parameters before we touch the Montana Samples."
"Back to science," you said, managing a small smile.
"Back to science." But her hand lingered on your waist for another beat and she kissed you quick before she stepped away, moving toward her desk. "Though for the record, if she corners you again, I want to know immediately."
"Protective much?" A sly smirk on growing on your face.
Agatha glanced back at you, one eyebrow raised. "Extremely. Get used to it."
The next half hour fell into a rhythm you'd come to love. The quiet focus of working alongside Agatha, the way she'd lean over your shoulder to check your readings, her hand occasionally brushing yours as you passed instruments back and forth. There was something almost meditative about it, the precision required, the careful documentation of every variable.
"pH is holding steady at 7.4," you reported, eyes on the monitor.
Agatha made a note in her lab book, her handwriting precise and elegant even in shorthand. "Good. Temperature?"
"Four degrees Celsius, exactly."
"Perfect." She moved to your side, studying the sample under the microscope. "The protein structure is maintaining integrity. Look at this."
You bent to look through the eyepiece, aware of her hand resting lightly on your shoulder. The sample was beautiful in its complexity, the molecular structures clear and defined.
"It's incredible," you murmured.
"It is." Her thumb traced a small circle against your shoulder blade. It was brief, intimate, hidden by the angle of your bodies. "You have good instincts for this work."
Before you could respond, the lab door opened. You both straightened automatically, professional distance reasserting itself as Sophie walked in, followed by Marcus and then Jen.
"Morning, Dr. Harkness," Sophie called out cheerfully, dumping her backpack at her usual station. "Oh hey, you're here early."
"Had some prep work to finish," you said easily, moving to log your observations in the shared database.
The atmosphere shifted with their arrival, still focused, still productive, but different. More public. You and Agatha fell into your respective roles: her as the professor, you as the doctoral student. She moved between stations, checking on everyone's progress, offering guidance and corrections with that perfect balance of encouragement and exacting standards.
But you caught the moments. The way her gaze would find yours across the lab, the slight curve of her mouth when you answered one of her questions with particular insight, the brush of her fingers against yours when she handed you a fresh set of samples.
"These need to be prepped for Monday's analysis," she said, her voice carrying the professional tone she used when the undergrads were around. But her eyes held warmth, promise. "I trust you can handle it?"
"Of course, Dr. Harkness."
The hours passed. Marcus asked about your ACS presentation, and you found yourself explaining the research while Agatha listened from her desk, occasionally adding context or clarification. Sophie made a joke about you being famous now, and even Jen, usually quiet, admitted she'd been impressed by the preliminary results.
It felt good. Normal. Like maybe you could actually do this, balance the professional and the personal, keep them separate when needed but let them coexist.
By the time lab hours ended, you were tired but satisfied. The undergrads filtered out one by one, calling goodbyes, leaving you and Agatha alone again.
The silence that fell was comfortable, familiar.
"I'll start on the cleanup," you said, already moving toward the sink.
"You don't have to—"
"I know." You glanced back at her with a small smile. "I want to."
It had become routine over the past weeks. Staying after to help clean up, those quiet moments when it was just the two of you and the hum of equipment powering down. Agatha joined you, working in companionable silence as you washed glassware and she wiped down the lab benches, put away supplies, made notes for Monday's work.
You were drying the last of the beakers when you heard her office door open and close. You glanced over your shoulder to see her emerge with a small binder in her hands. Deep purple, worn at the edges like it had been handled many times.
"Come here," she said softly.
You set down the beaker and crossed to her, curious. She was standing by her desk, the binder held almost reverently.
When you reached her, she lifted one hand, her fingers finding a strand of hair that had escaped your ponytail. She tucked it behind your ear slowly, deliberately, her touch lingering against your cheek. The gesture was tender, intimate, like she was allowing herself this moment, this softness.
"I've been thinking," she said quietly, her thumb tracing your jawline. "About the Montana samples."
Your heart kicked up. "Yeah?"
"I want you to start working with them." She held out the binder. "This is everything: my research, my notes, every analysis I've run over the past three years. Study it. Know it. You'll start with them on Monday."
For a moment, you just stared at the binder, not quite believing what she was saying. The Montana samples were hers—her most precious research, the work she'd built her reputation to do, the samples she guarded so carefully that even other faculty members couldn't access them.
And she was trusting you with them.
A sound escaped you—high-pitched, undignified, absolutely a squeal—and you clapped your hand over your mouth, eyes wide.
Agatha's expression transformed. The careful control melted into something warm and delighted, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she laughed—a real laugh, unguarded and genuine.
"Did you just squeal?" she asked, clearly trying not to grin and failing completely.
"No," you said, muffled behind your hand. Then, "Maybe. Yes. Oh my god, Agatha—"
"I love that," she interrupted softly, her hand cupping your face. "I love seeing you excited about the work. About our work."
You lowered your hand, unable to stop smiling. "This is huge. You know this is huge, right?"
"I know." Her thumb brushed your cheekbone. "You're ready for it. More than ready."
You kissed her then, couldn't help it, didn't want to help it. Just leaned in and pressed your lips to hers, tasting her smile. She made a soft sound of surprise that melted into pleasure, her free hand finding your waist.
When you pulled back, you kissed her again. And again. Quick, happy kisses that made her laugh against your mouth.
"You have class," she murmured, but she was still smiling, still holding you close.
"I know." Another kiss. "I'm going." Another. "In a minute."
"You're going to be late."
"Worth it." You kissed her once more, longer this time, before finally—reluctantly—stepping back. You took the binder from her hands, holding it like the treasure it was. "Thank you. For trusting me with this."
"Always," Agatha said simply. "Now go. Learn everything. I expect you to have questions on Monday."
"I'll have so many questions."
"Good." She walked you to the door, her hand finding the small of your back. "Text me later?"
"Obviously." You paused in the doorway, looking back at her. She was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching you with an expression that made your chest tight. Affection and pride and something deeper, something that felt like it could be the beginning of love.
"Go," she said again, but her voice was soft.
You went, the binder clutched to your chest, unable to stop smiling the entire way to your last class.
Agatha doesn't half-do anything; picking apart your draft and driving you insane are no different. Many lab hours, a lot of Agatha not being able to keep her hands to herself but what else are you here for?
Now that we're all settled into the protocol, things are gonna get interesting. Goggles and gloves on, both hands on the phone at all times.
10k words - previous chapter
You stood outside Agatha's door at 6:58 PM, protocol draft clutched in sweaty hands, heart hammering against your ribs. The document represented forty hours of work, countless revisions, and every ounce of knowledge you'd accumulated over the past decade.
It still felt inadequate.
At exactly 7:00, you knocked.
"Come in," her voice called from inside. "It's open."
You pushed through to find her in the kitchen, hair loose around her shoulders, wearing soft gray joggers and a fitted black t-shirt that made your mouth go dry. She looked up from chopping vegetables, knife moving with the same precision she brought to everything.
"Wine's on the counter," she said, gesturing with the knife. "Pour yourself a glass. Dinner will be ready in twenty."
"You're cooking?"
"I do occasionally eat." Her smile was amused. "And you've been living on campus food and anxiety for a week. Sit."
You obeyed, settling onto a barstool and pouring wine with shaking hands. The kitchen smelled incredible, garlic, herbs, something rich simmering on the stove.
"Protocol's on the table," she said, nodding toward the dining room. "We'll go over it after we eat. I don't work on an empty stomach, and neither should you."
"I'm not really hungry."
"You're nervous," she corrected, scraping vegetables into a pan where they sizzled. "Which means you haven't eaten since breakfast, if that. You're going to eat, drink water, and calm down. Then we'll work."
The command in her voice settled something in your chest. You sipped your wine and watched her cook, the efficient movements, the way she tasted and adjusted seasoning without measuring. Domestic Agatha was somehow more intimidating than Professor Agatha. You were scared to break her flow, her procedure even here.
"How was your day?" she asked, stirring the pan.
"Good. Ran the preliminary samples again. I think I'm getting better at the extraction technique."
"I know you are. I've been watching." She plated the food, chicken piccata with roasted vegetables, and brought both plates to the island. "Eat."
The food was delicious, and you were hungrier than you'd realized. She'd been right about that too. You ate in comfortable silence, her foot occasionally brushing yours under the counter.
"Better?" she asked when you'd cleared your plate.
"Much. Thank you." A shy smile on your face.
"Good." She collected the dishes, rinsing them efficiently. "Now. Let's see what you've got."
Your stomach clenched with fresh anxiety as you followed her to the dining table where your protocol draft sat, forty-three pages of detailed methodology, citations, and carefully drawn diagrams. She settled into a chair and patted the one beside her.
"Sit close. I want you to see what I'm marking."
You sat, hyperaware of her thigh pressed against yours, her perfume mixing with the lingering scent of dinner. She pulled the document toward her, produced a red pen from somewhere, and began to read.
The first page made it thirty seconds before she marked something.
"This citation format is wrong," she said, circling it. "ACS style requires the journal abbreviation. See?"
"Oh. Right. I'll fix—"
"Don't interrupt." Her pen moved again. "This too. And this. You've been inconsistent throughout."
Heat crept up your neck as red marks accumulated on the first page alone. By page three, your eyes were burning.
"Hey." Her hand found your knee under the table, squeezing gently. "Breathe. This is normal. First drafts are always rough."
"It's not rough, it's terrible—"
"It's thorough," she corrected firmly. "The methodology is sound. The theory is solid. These are formatting issues and minor technical corrections. That's what revision is for."
You nodded, not trusting your voice.
She continued reading, her pen moving steadily. Sometimes she'd pause to explain why something needed changing, her voice patient and clear. Other times she'd make a note and move on. Her hand stayed on your knee, thumb tracing small circles that kept you grounded.
By page fifteen, she set down her pen and turned to face you fully.
"Your sample preparation protocol is brilliant," she said. "This section here—" she tapped the page, "—this is genuinely innovative. I haven't seen anyone approach the demineralization process this way."
Pride bloomed warm in your chest. "Really?"
"Really." She picked up her pen again. "Which is why I'm going to push you to make it even better. This concentration here—" she circled a number, "—I think you can go lower. Less risk of damaging the proteins."
"But the extraction time would increase—"
"By how much?"
You did the math in your head. "Four hours."
"Worth it for better preservation. What else changes if we lower the concentration?"
She walked you through the implications, asking questions that made you think three steps ahead, pointing out variables you'd missed. It was exhilarating and exhausting, your brain working overtime to keep up with her.
An hour in, she noticed you rubbing your eyes.
"Break," she announced, standing. "You need water and a rest."
"I'm fine—"
"You're tired." She pulled you to your feet, hands on your shoulders, studying your face. "When's the last time you slept more than five hours?"
You couldn't remember.
"That's what I thought." She guided you to the couch, pressed you down into the cushions. "Lie down. Twenty-minute power nap."
"Agatha, we need to finish—"
"We will. After you rest." Her fingers carded through your hair, gentle and soothing. "Close your eyes."
You meant to protest more, but her touch was hypnotic, and you were so tired. Your eyes drifted shut.
When you woke, soft lamplight filtered through your eyelids and something warm covered you. You blinked, disoriented, finding yourself stretched across Agatha's couch with a blanket tucked around you. The protocol draft sat on the coffee table, more red marks visible on the exposed pages.
"There you are," Agatha's voice came from the kitchen. "Feeling better?"
You sat up, scrubbing your face. "How long was I out?"
"Hour and a half." She appeared with a glass of water and two ibuprofen. "Take these. You're going to have a headache otherwise."
"You let me sleep for an hour and a half?"
"You needed it." She sat beside you, close enough that you could lean into her warmth. "And I got through the rest of your draft. Drink."
You swallowed the pills, then looked at the protocol with fresh dread. "How bad is it?"
"It's good." She pulled the document onto her lap, flipping to a marked page. "Really good, actually. Your extraction sequence is sound, your controls are thorough, and your safety protocols are excellent. The issues are mostly technical, concentration adjustments, timing refinements, equipment specifications."
"So I need to rewrite the whole thing."
"You need to revise it. There's a difference." She set the draft aside and turned to face you fully. "Listen to me. This is a strong first draft. Better than most doctoral students produce. But it's still a first draft, which means it needs work. That's not a failure. That's the process."
"I wanted it to be perfect."
"Nothing's perfect on the first try." Her hand cupped your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek. "You know what I see when I look at this? I see someone who understands the theory, who thinks critically, who's careful and thorough. I see potential. Do you know how rare that is?"
Your throat tightened. "You're just saying that—"
"I don't just say things." Her voice sharpened. "If this was garbage, I'd tell you. I don't coddle my students, you know that by now. This is good work. It needs refinement, but the foundation is solid."
You nodded, something loosening in your chest.
"Now." She released your face, picking up the draft again. "Let's go through my notes. I want you to understand every correction so you can apply the logic to future work."
The next two hours were intense. She walked you through each mark, explaining not just what to change but why. Sometimes she'd quiz you, making sure you understood the underlying principles. Other times she'd pull up references on her laptop, showing you examples of proper technique.
Around eleven, your stomach growled loudly.
Agatha looked up, amused. "Hungry again already?"
"Apparently my body thinks dinner was a long time ago."
"It was." She stood, stretching. "Come on. I have leftover pasta."
In the kitchen, she reheated food while you sat at the island, protocol draft spread before you, making notes in the margins. She set a plate in front of you, then leaned against the counter with her own, watching you work while you ate.
"You're very focused when you're in the zone," she observed.
"Is that good or bad?"
"Good. Mostly." She took a bite of pasta. "But you need to remember to take care of yourself. Eat. Sleep. Hydrate. You can't do good science if you're running on fumes."
"Says the woman who's famous for working eighteen-hour days."
"I'm old. I've earned the right to make bad decisions." Her smile was wry. "You're twenty-five. You still have to prove you can maintain basic human functions."
"I can maintain basic human functions."
"Can you?" She set down her plate, moving to stand behind you, hands coming to rest on your shoulders. "When's the last time you did laundry? Cleaned your apartment? Called your family?"
You couldn't answer any of those questions.
"That's what I thought." Her thumbs dug into the knots in your shoulders, and you couldn't suppress a groan. "You're so busy trying to impress me that you're neglecting everything else."
"I'm not trying to impress you—"
"Liar." She leaned down, lips brushing your ear. "You've been trying to impress me since you were fifteen years old. It's adorable. But you need to pace yourself. This is a marathon, not a sprint."
Her hands worked at your shoulders, finding every tight spot, and you melted under the touch. When she was satisfied, she pressed a kiss to the top of your head.
"Finish eating. Then we'll do one more pass through the protocol before I send you home."
"I could stay—"
"You could," she agreed. "But you won't. You're going home, you're going to sleep in your own bed for a full eight hours, and tomorrow you're going to start revisions with fresh eyes."
"Tomorrow's Saturday."
"I'm aware." She moved back to her own plate. "Meet me at the lab at ten. We'll work through the revisions together. The building will be empty, we can spread out, use the whiteboards, really dig into the methodology."
The thought of spending Saturday in the lab with her, uninterrupted, made your pulse quicken. "Okay."
"Good girl." She smiled at your reaction to the praise. "Now eat. You're going to need your energy."
The final pass through the protocol took another hour. By the time you finished, you had a clear revision plan and a much better understanding of what Agatha expected. She walked you to the door, pressing your protocol draft into your hands along with a folder of references.
"Read these tonight if you can't sleep," she said. "They'll help with the concentration calculations."
"Thank you. For dinner, and the help, and—" you gestured vaguely, "—everything."
"That's what advisors do." She leaned against the doorframe, looking softer in the dim light. "Well, the academic help part. The rest is just for you."
You kissed her then, unable to help yourself, and she responded immediately, one hand tangling in your hair while the other gripped your hip. When she pulled back, you were both breathing hard.
"Go," she said, voice rough. "Before I change my mind about sending you home."
You went, looking back once to see her still standing in the doorway, watching you leave with an expression that made your stomach flip.
Saturday morning dawned gray and drizzly. You arrived at the chemistry building at 9:55, coffee in hand, to find Agatha already in the lab. She'd changed into jeans and a university sweatshirt, hair pulled back in a ponytail, looking younger and more relaxed than you'd ever seen her on campus.
"Morning," she said, looking up from the whiteboard where she'd already started sketching out a flowchart. "Coffee?"
"Got it." You held up your cup.
"Good. Come look at this." She capped her marker, gesturing to the board. "I started mapping out your extraction sequence. I want to visualize the whole process before we revise."
The next six hours dissolved into focused work. You spread out across the lab, using every whiteboard, covering them with chemical structures, timing sequences, and equipment specifications. Agatha was in her element, pacing and thinking out loud, asking questions that pushed you to defend your choices or reconsider them.
You found yourself distracted at odd moments by the way she moved through the space, the unconscious grace of someone completely comfortable in their domain. At one point, while she was explaining a potential modification to your centrifugation protocol, you caught yourself staring at her hands.
They were elegant, precise, the nails trimmed short and practical. One ring, no polish, just capable hands that gestured as she spoke, fingers tracing invisible molecular structures in the air. You'd watched those same hands mark up your paper with red ink, grip a coffee mug, tangle in your hair. Now they were sketching a diagram on the whiteboard, marker moving with confident strokes, and you had to force yourself to focus on what she was actually saying rather than the flex of her wrist, the way her thumb pressed against the marker cap when she paused to think.
Around two, she ordered pizza, refusing to let you work through lunch.
"Brain needs fuel," she said, pulling you away from the bench where you'd been recalculating concentrations. "Eat."
You sat together on the floor, backs against the cabinets, pizza box between you. The lab was quiet except for the hum of equipment, rain pattering against the windows.
"This is nice," you said. "Working like this. Without interruptions."
"Mmm." She took a bite of pizza, considering. "Weekends are my favorite. No undergrads, no meetings, just research. I get my best work done on Saturdays."
"Is that why you're here so much?"
"Partially." She glanced at you. "Also because I don't have much else. No family, few friends outside academia. The lab is home."
Something in her voice made your chest ache. "That sounds lonely."
"Sometimes." She shrugged. "But I chose this life. The work matters more than the loneliness."
"It doesn't have to be either-or."
"Doesn't it?" Her smile was sad. "You'll learn. The higher you climb, the smaller your world gets. People don't understand the obsession, the hours, the single-minded focus. They leave."
"I won't."
The words came out before you could stop them. Agatha looked at you, something vulnerable flickering across her face.
"You say that now—"
"I mean it." You set down your pizza, turning to face her fully. "I've been obsessed with your work for ten years. I'm not going anywhere."
"We'll see." But she was smiling, and when she kissed you, it tasted like hope and tomato sauce.
The afternoon passed in a blur of productivity. By five, you'd revised the entire first section of the protocol, strengthening the methodology and tightening the language. Agatha was pleased, you could tell by the way she kept nodding as she read, making small sounds of approval.
"This is much better," she said finally, setting down her pen. "The concentration adjustments are perfect. And this addition here," she tapped a paragraph, "this is exactly the kind of critical thinking I want to see."
Pride warmed your chest. "So it's good?"
"It's very good." She stood, stretching. "We'll tackle section two tomorrow. Same time?"
"Tomorrow's Sunday."
"I'm aware." She started packing up her materials. "Unless you have other plans?"
"No, I just—don't you want a day off?"
"From what? This is what I love." She looked at you, expression softening. "The nitty gritty of learning a new protocol, the long hours of problem solving."
She shrugged, "But if you need a break—"
"No," you said quickly. "I want to work. I just didn't want to assume—"
"Assume." She crossed to you, hands framing your face. "Assume that I want to spend my weekend with you. Assume that I'd rather be here, doing this, than anywhere else."
She kissed you then, slow and deep, and you melted into it. When she pulled back, you were both smiling.
"Go home," she said. "Rest. I'll see you tomorrow."
You arrived at the lab Sunday morning with coffee and the kind of bone-deep tiredness that came from a night of restless sleep. Your brain hadn't stopped working through the protocol, turning over variables and parameters even in your dreams.
Agatha was already there, of course. She looked up from the whiteboard where she'd been sketching out a flowchart, marker in hand, reading glasses perched on her nose.
"You look tired," she observed.
"Couldn't stop thinking about the extraction sequence." You set down the coffee, one for each of you, and shrugged out of your jacket. "I kept running through the timing in my head."
Something flickered in her expression. Approval, maybe. "Show me."
You moved to the board, picking up a blue marker. "Here, when we're transitioning from the initial binding phase to the wash step. The timing feels too rigid. What if we're losing efficiency by not accounting for sample variability?"
She stepped closer, studying what you'd written. Close enough that you could smell her perfume, feel the warmth of her body. "Go on."
"What if instead of a fixed thirty-second interval, we monitor the optical density in real-time? Adjust the transition point based on when the binding actually reaches saturation, not when we think it should."
Agatha was quiet for a moment, her eyes moving over the board. Then she reached past you, adding a note in red. "You'd need a feedback loop here. Real-time monitoring integrated into the protocol."
"Could we do that?"
"We could." She turned to look at you, and she was so close you could see the flecks of gold in her eyes. "It would require recalibrating the equipment, writing new software parameters. But yes. We could do that."
The way she said "we" made your chest tight.
The next few hours blurred together: a dance of markers and equations, Agatha's voice guiding you through the technical complexities while your hands sketched out possibilities on the whiteboard. She'd stand behind you sometimes, her hand covering yours to adjust a line or correct a calculation, her breath warm against your ear as she explained.
"No, like this," she murmured, guiding your hand through a curve on the graph. "See how the slope changes here? That's your indicator."
You were acutely aware of every point of contact, her fingers over yours, her body a solid presence at your back. But the work kept you focused, kept you sharp. This was what you'd come here for. This synthesis of mind and method, the thrill of problem-solving with someone who understood not just the science but the art of it.
Around noon, you were both staring at the board, now covered in a complex web of notes and diagrams. Your hand ached from writing, and your eyes burned from concentration.
"Walk me through it again," Agatha said. "The whole sequence, start to finish."
You took a breath and began, pointing to each step as you explained. Initial binding, real-time monitoring, adaptive transition, wash sequence, elution. Your voice grew more confident as you went, the pieces clicking together in your mind with a clarity they hadn't had before.
And then you saw it.
"Wait." You stopped mid-sentence, staring at the board. "Wait, if we're monitoring in real-time, we don't need the secondary wash step at all. It's redundant. We're already optimizing the primary wash based on the binding data, so the secondary is just wasting time and reagents."
Silence.
You turned to look at Agatha, suddenly uncertain. Had you missed something obvious? Made a stupid mistake?
But she was staring at you with an expression you'd never seen before. Her eyes were bright, her lips slightly parted, and there was something fierce and hungry in the way she looked at you.
"Say that again," she said quietly.
"The secondary wash. It's redundant if we're already—"
"You're right." She moved closer, and there was an intensity to her now that made your pulse quicken. "You're absolutely right. I've been running that protocol for two years and never questioned the secondary wash because that's how it was taught to me. But you're right. It's unnecessary."
"I—really?"
"Really." She was right in front of you now, close enough that you had to tilt your head back to meet her eyes. "Do you understand what you just did? You didn't just learn the protocol. You improved it. You saw something I missed."
Pride and disbelief warred in your chest. "It was just—I was just thinking through the logic—"
"It was brilliant," Agatha said, and then her hands were in your hair and she was kissing you.
Not gentle this time. Not careful. This kiss was hungry and demanding, her body pressing yours back against the lab table. You gasped against her mouth and she took advantage, deepening the kiss until you were dizzy with it. Your hands found her waist, pulling her closer, and she made a low sound of approval that sent heat pooling in your belly.
Her teeth caught your bottom lip and you whimpered, fingers digging into her hips. The edge of the table pressed into your back but you didn't care, too lost in the taste of her, the feel of her hands sliding down to grip your waist.
When she finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard. Her lipgloss was smudged, her hair mussed where your fingers had tangled in it, and she looked absolutely gorgeous.
"Go home," she said, voice rough.
"What?"
"Go home. Rest." Her thumb traced your jaw, your kiss-swollen lips. "You've been running on fumes all weekend. Go home, eat something, sleep."
"But the protocol—"
"Will still be here tomorrow." She stepped back, and you immediately missed her warmth. "We have time. And you need to take care of yourself."
You wanted to argue, but the exhaustion was catching up with you now, making your limbs heavy. "Okay."
"Good girl." The words sent a shiver through you. She smoothed down your hair, straightened your shirt with careful hands. "I'll come by later. After you've had a chance to rest."
"You will?"
"I will." She kissed you again, softer this time. A promise. "Now go. Before I change my mind and keep you here all night."
You gathered your things on shaky legs, hyper-aware of her watching you. At the door, you looked back. She was leaning against the lab table where she'd just kissed you senseless, arms crossed, a small smile playing at her lips.
"Text me your address," she said.
You nodded, not trusting your voice, and left.
The walk home felt surreal, your mind replaying the kiss, the look in her eyes when you'd made your breakthrough, the promise of "later." The walk home from campus and up the hill had never felt longer than in that moment.
You stood in the middle of the living room, phone in hand, staring at the text you'd sent twenty minutes ago. Just your address, nothing else. She'd responded with a simple "See you soon."
Soon. What did soon mean?
You showered, standing under the hot water longer than necessary, trying to calm the nervous energy thrumming through your body. Every time you closed your eyes, you felt her hands on your waist, her mouth on yours, the way she'd looked at you when you'd figured out the protocol issue. Pride and desire, mixed together in a way that made your stomach flip.
After, you changed into clean clothes, nothing that looked like you were trying too hard and then immediately second-guessed the choice. Too casual? Should you have stayed in your lab clothes? No, those smelled like chemicals and sweat.
You paced. Kitchen to living room to bedroom and back. Straightened the books on your coffee table. Moved them back. Checked your phone. Nothing. Maybe she'd changed her mind.
A knock at the door.
Your heart jumped into your throat. For a second, you couldn't move, frozen in the middle of your living room. Then your legs carried you forward, hand reaching for the doorknob before you could overthink it.
Agatha stood in the hallway, still in her lab clothes but with her hair down now, falling past her shoulders in dark waves. She'd put on lipstick, deep red, the same shade she'd worn that first day in her office. In one hand, she held a bottle of wine.
"Hi," you managed.
"Hi." Her eyes traveled over you, slow and deliberate, and you felt that look everywhere. "Are you going to let me in?"
You stepped back, and she moved past you into the apartment, bringing with her the scent of her perfume and something underneath it that was just her. You closed the door, suddenly aware of how small your space was, how the air felt charged with her presence.
"Wine?" she offered, holding up the bottle.
"Sure. Yeah. I'll get glasses."
You moved into the kitchen, grateful for something to do with your hands. She followed, setting the bottle on the counter and watching as you retrieved two wine glasses from the cabinet.
"Nice place," she said, though she was looking at you, not the apartment.
"It's small."
"Cozy." She took the corkscrew you handed her, opened the bottle with practiced ease. "I like it."
She poured, handed you a glass. Your fingers brushed as you took it, and the contact sent electricity up your arm.
"To breakthroughs," she said, raising her glass.
"To breakthroughs," you echoed, and drank.
The wine was good, rich and smooth, but you barely tasted it. Agatha was leaning against your counter, glass in hand, eyes never leaving yours. The silence stretched between you, heavy with everything unspoken.
"You were brilliant today," she said finally. "In the lab. The way you saw the redundancy, that's the kind of thinking that separates good scientists from great ones."
"I learned from the best."
"Flatterer." But she smiled, pleased. She set down her glass, took a step closer. "You're already evolving in front of my eyes darling"
Your mouth went dry. "I am?"
"Mhm" Another step. She was close enough now that you could see the flecks of gold in her dark eyes, could feel the warmth radiating from her body. "Tell me to leave, and I will."
"I don't want you to leave."
"No?" Her hand came up, fingers tracing the line of your jaw. "What do you want?"
You set down your own glass, hands shaking slightly. "You. I want you."
"Good." She closed the distance between you, mouth finding yours in a kiss that was nothing like the one in the lab. That had been heated, urgent. This was slow, deliberate, Agatha taking her time to explore your mouth, tongue retracing steps against yours.
Her hands slid into your hair, angling your head exactly how she wanted it, and you let her, surrendering to the kiss, to her control. When her tongue swept against yours, you made a sound that should have embarrassed you, but she just hummed in approval, deepening the kiss.
You reached for her, hands finding her waist, pulling her closer. She came willingly, pressing you back against the counter hard enough for the glassware to rattle. One of her hands left your hair, trailing down your neck, your shoulder, coming to rest on your hip.
"Bedroom?" she murmured against your mouth.
You nodded, not trusting your voice, and took her hand.
Your bedroom was small, dominated by the double bed with its simple white sheets. You'd made it this morning, thank god, and the late afternoon light filtered through the curtains, casting everything in soft gold.
Agatha looked around, taking it in, then turned back to you. "Come here."
You went, and she pulled you close, kissing you again. Her hands found the hem of your sweater, fingers brushing the skin of your stomach, and you shivered.
"Can I?" she asked.
"Yes. Please."
She pulled the sweater up and off, tossing it aside, leaving you in just your bra and jeans. Her eyes traveled over you, dark with want, and you resisted the urge to cover yourself.
"Beautiful," she murmured, and then her mouth was on your neck, kissing and biting gently, finding the sensitive spot below your ear that made your knees weak. Her hands roamed your back, your sides, relearning the shape of you.
You reached for her shirt, fumbling with the hem, and she laughed softly against your skin.
"Eager?"
"Yes," you admitted, not caring how desperate you sounded.
She helped you, shrugging out of the shirt and tossing it aside. Her bra was black lace, and you stared, mouth dry, until she took your hand and placed it on her breast.
"Touch me," she said, and you did, marveling at the softness, the warmth, the way she sighed when your thumb brushed over her nipple through the lace.
She walked you backward until your legs hit the bed, then guided you down, following you onto the mattress. The weight of her above you felt right, perfect, and when she kissed you again, you wrapped your arms around her, holding her close.
Her hand slid down your stomach, popping the button of your jeans, and you lifted your hips to help her slide them off. She took her time, kissing down your body as she went—your collarbone, the swell of your breast, your ribs, your stomach. By the time she'd removed your jeans and underwear, you were trembling, aching with need.
"Agatha," you breathed, and she looked up at you from where she knelt between your legs, eyes dark and hungry.
"Tell me what you want baby."
"You. Your mouth. Please."
She smiled, slow and wicked, and then lowered her head.
The first touch of her tongue made you cry out, hands fisting in the sheets. She was thorough, knowing exactly what made you gasp, what made your hips buck. She held your thighs open with strong hands, fingers digging into your flesh, and the control in her grip sent another wave of heat through you.
"Stay still," she murmured against you, and you tried, you really did, but when she sucked your clit into her mouth you couldn't help the way your body arched. Her fingers held you down more firmly, definitely leaving behind marks. "I said stay still."
The command in her voice made you whimper. You forced yourself to obey, trembling with the effort, and she hummed in approval. "Good girl. See how much better it is when you listen?"
When she slid two fingers inside you, curling them just right while her mouth worked your clit, you had to bite your lip to keep from moving, from grinding against her face the way you desperately wanted to. She seemed to sense your struggle, and you felt her smile against you.
"You can move now," she said, and you did, hips rolling as she fucked you with her fingers, her other hand sliding up to press down on your lower stomach. The pressure was overwhelming, perfect, and when she added a third finger, stretching you, you came apart, crying out her name, body arching off the bed despite her hand holding you down.
She worked you through it, not gentling the way you expected but drawing it out, keeping you right on that edge until you were gasping, oversensitive, almost sobbing. Only then did she slow, pressing soft kisses to your inner thigh, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there.
You lay there, breathing hard, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember how to form words. Agatha crawled back up your body, kissing you, and you could taste yourself on her lips.
"Okay?" she murmured.
"More than okay." You pulled her close, kissing her deeply. The lack of real rest and the gravel in her voice had you bordering on feral. "Your turn."
You helped her out of her remaining clothes, taking your time to explore her body, hands sliding over her ribs. She was beautiful, all soft curves and smooth skin, and when you took her nipple into your mouth, she gasped, hand coming up to cradle the back of your head.
"Yes," she breathed. "Just like that."
You kissed your way down her body, nervous but determined, wanting to make her feel as good as she'd made you feel. When you settled between her legs, she spread them wider, one hand still in your hair, guiding you.
"That's it," she murmured as you tasted her for the first time. "Good girl. Just like that."
The praise sent heat through you, spurring you on. You listened to her breathing, the sounds she made, learning what she liked. "Fuck your mouth angel."
When you found the rhythm that made her moan, you stayed there, consistent, until her thighs were trembling around your head.
"Don't stop," she gasped. "Right there, don't—oh—"
She came with a low cry, hand tightening in your hair, and you felt a surge of pride and desire watching her come undone.
After, you crawled back up to lie beside her, and she pulled you close, pressing a kiss to your forehead.
You curled into her side, head on her shoulder, her arm around you. The light outside had faded to dusk, casting the room in purple shadows. You should probably get up, turn on a light, maybe finish that wine. But you didn't want to move, didn't want to break this moment.
"Stay?" you asked quietly.
Her arm tightened around you. "I'm not going anywhere."
You woke to the feeling of lips against your temple, a hand stroking your hair. The room was still dark, just the barest hint of gray creeping around the edges of the blinds.
"Hey," Agatha murmured, voice soft. "I need to go."
You made a sound of protest, burrowing deeper into the pillow, and she laughed quietly.
"I know. But I need to get home before your hallmates start waking up." Her hand traced down your spine. "Before anyone sees me leaving."
Reality filtered back in slowly. Right. Discretion. You forced your eyes open, found her already sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing her jeans from last night.
"What time is it?"
"Just after six." She leaned down to kiss you properly, morning breath and all, and you felt the loss of her warmth as she stood. "Go back to sleep. You don't have class until ten."
You pulled the blanket tighter around yourself, watching as she found her bra, her shirt.
"By the way," she said casually, pulling her shirt over her head, "we're testing your new protocol today in the lab."
You groaned, flopping back against the pillow. "Now I'm not gonna be able to sleep."
Agatha's laugh was low and knowing. "That's why I didn't tell you. Go back to bed, smartypants."
She leaned down, kissed you once more, and you were left watching her go, suddenly wide awake and buzzing with anticipation.
When 9:47 hit you were already in class, knee bouncing as you read over the new protocol draft. You knew the work was sound, the theory should be clean, but Agatha had a way of finding every opportunity for optimization. Wanting to push past good to fantastic in everything she touched.
Chem Stats was usually something you adored, something that challenged you, but today it couldn't hold your attention. Your notebook was open, pen moving against the page but you weren't entirely sure you were taking notes.
The moment class ended, you were out the door, crossing campus with quick, purposeful strides. Your heart was racing, but not with the anxious flutter you'd grown used to. This was different, sharper, cleaner. Excitement.
When you pushed through the lab door, Agatha was already there.
She stood at your station, methodically laying out equipment with precision. Pipettes arranged by size, tips in their boxes, the microcentrifuge positioned within easy reach. She'd pulled the bone samples from storage, labeled tubes lined up in the rack. The lysis buffer sat in the ice bucket, condensation already forming on the glass. Even the waste container was positioned exactly where you'd need it.
She looked up when you entered, and something shifted in her expression, a softness around her eyes, a slight curve to her mouth.
"You're early," she said.
"Class ended at eleven." You set your bag down, moving toward the station. "I might have walked faster than usual."
"Might have?" Her smile widened slightly. "You look excited."
"I am." The admission came easily, surprising you. Usually you'd downplay it, hedge, worry about seeming too eager or not serious enough. But standing there, looking at everything she'd prepared, you felt only anticipation. "I want to see if it works."
Agatha stepped closer, her hand coming up to run through your hair. A brief, affectionate gesture that made your breath catch. Her fingers were gentle, familiar now in a way that still felt new. Then she stepped back, professional distance reasserting itself even as her eyes stayed warm.
"I like this," she said quietly. "Seeing you excited rather than anxious. Curious instead of afraid of being wrong." She tilted her head slightly. "That's the scientist I want you to be. The one who gets to find out, not the one who's terrified of making mistakes."
Your throat tightened. "I'm still terrified of making mistakes."
"I know. But you're here anyway." She gestured to the station. "Show me what you've got."
You tugged on goggled, pulled on gloves, the familiar snap helping you focus. Agatha moved to the side, giving you space but staying close enough to observe. You could feel her attention like a physical thing, but it didn't make you nervous. Not today.
"Walking through it," you said, more for yourself than her. "Sample prep first. We're using the archaeological bone fragments, cortical tissue, approximately fifty milligrams per sample."
You selected the first tube, checking the label twice before opening it. The bone fragment was small, already cleaned and prepared. You transferred it to the mortar, added liquid nitrogen with careful pours until the sample was fully submerged. The nitrogen hissed and bubbled, vapor rising in white clouds.
"Cryogenic grinding," you continued, picking up the pestle. "Reduces the sample to fine powder while keeping proteins stable. No heat degradation."
You ground the sample with steady, circular motions, the frozen bone breaking down under pressure. Agatha watched your hands, your technique, but didn't interrupt. When the powder was fine enough, uniform, no visible chunks, you transferred it to a clean tube.
"Lysis buffer," you said, measuring out the precise volume. "High salt concentration to disrupt cellular membranes, protease inhibitors to prevent degradation. The ratio is critical: too much buffer and you dilute your proteins, too little and extraction is incomplete."
"What ratio are you using?" Agatha asked.
"Twenty-to-one. Buffer to sample mass." You added the solution, watching it saturate the powder. "Standard for bone tissue."
You vortexed the tube, the mixture becoming a cloudy suspension, then placed it in the heat block. "Fifty-six degrees Celsius for three hours. The heat helps break down the collagen matrix, releases the proteins we want."
"And while that incubates?"
"We prep the next samples." You were already reaching for the second tube. "Run them in parallel, stagger the timing so we can process continuously."
Agatha made a note on her tablet, but her eyes stayed on you. "Good. Efficiency matters."
You worked through the next three samples, the movements becoming rhythmic. Grind, transfer, measure, mix. Each step precise, deliberate. The lab filled with the familiar sounds: the hiss of liquid nitrogen, the whir of the vortex mixer, the soft beep of the heat block.
When the first sample finished incubating, you moved to the next phase.
"Centrifugation," you said, transferring the tube to the microcentrifuge. "Fourteen thousand RPM for ten minutes. Separates the liquid phase—where our proteins are—from the solid debris."
The centrifuge hummed to life, building speed. You set the timer and turned back to Agatha.
"This is where the protocol changes," you said. "In the standard method, after this first centrifugation, you'd transfer the supernatant to a new tube, add more buffer, vortex again, and do a second centrifugation. A secondary wash to maximize protein recovery."
"But?" Agatha prompted.
"But when I mapped the protein concentrations at each stage, the secondary wash only recovered an additional three to five percent of proteins. And most of those were degraded fragments, low molecular weight, probably not useful for analysis." You pulled up the data on your tablet, showing her the graphs. "The trade-off is an extra forty-five minutes of processing time and increased risk of contamination from additional handling."
Agatha studied the graphs, her expression thoughtful. "So you're proposing we skip the secondary wash entirely."
"Yes. One centrifugation, collect the supernatant, move directly to precipitation." You met her eyes. "It's faster, cleaner, and we're not losing any meaningful protein yield."
"Show me," she said simply, her voice steady and unwavering. There was no hesitation in her tone, no trace of doubt or fear. She crossed her arms and fixed her gaze directly on him, waiting.
The centrifuge beeped. You removed the tube carefully, the pellet at the bottom was dense and dark, the supernatant above it clear and slightly amber. Using a pipette, you transferred the liquid to a fresh tube, leaving the pellet undisturbed.
"This is our protein extract," you said. "Now we precipitate to concentrate and purify."
You added ice-cold acetone in a two-to-one ratio, the solution immediately turning cloudy as proteins began falling out of suspension. "Overnight at minus twenty, then centrifuge again tomorrow. The protein pellet can be resuspended in whatever buffer we need for analysis."
Agatha moved closer, looking at the tube in your hand. "And you're confident the yield will be comparable?"
"I ran it six times with the test samples. Yield was within two percent of the standard protocol, but purity was actually higher. Fewer contaminants, cleaner bands on the gel." You set the tube in the freezer rack. "The redundant wash was adding steps without adding value."
"Hmm." Agatha was quiet for a moment, her gaze moving from the samples to you. "Walk me through your reasoning again. Why did everyone assume the secondary wash was necessary?"
"Because that's how it was taught," you said. "The original paper from 2008 included it, and every subsequent protocol just... copied it. No one questioned whether it was actually needed."
"But you did."
"I looked at the data." You shrugged slightly. "The numbers didn't support it."
Agatha's smile was slow, pleased. "That's exactly right. That's what good science is, not just following the protocol, but understanding why each step exists. Being willing to challenge assumptions when the data suggests something better."
You felt warmth spread through your chest, a different kind than the heat from last night but no less affecting, "The first rule of science is that it always changes."
"Let's run the rest," Agatha said, gesturing to the remaining samples. "I want to see the full process, start to finish. And tomorrow, when we check the precipitated proteins, we'll run them against a standard protocol sample for comparison."
"You want to validate it," you said.
"I want to make sure it's reproducible. That it works not just in your hands, but consistently." She met your eyes. "If it does—and I think it will—this goes in your thesis. A genuine methodological improvement, your contribution to the field."
Your hands were steady as you reached for the next sample, but inside you were buzzing. This was what you'd wanted, not just to do the work, but to do it well. To find something new, something better.
And Agatha was right there with you, watching you figure it out. Watching you buzz with the same innovative energy she had.
You worked through the remaining samples, Agatha asking occasional questions, making notes, but mostly just observing. There was something intimate about it. Not the physical intimacy of last night, but a different kind. The intimacy of being seen, of having someone witness you doing what you loved and recognizing that you were good at it.
When the last sample was in the freezer, you stripped off your gloves and cleaned the station, returning everything to its proper place.
"Tomorrow," Agatha said, "we'll see what you've got. But I have a good feeling about this."
"Yeah?" You looked at her, unable to keep the smile off your face.
"Yeah." She reached out, squeezed your hand once. "You did good work today. I'm proud of you."
The words settled into your chest, warm and solid, something to hold onto.
"Come on," Agatha said, already gathering her things. "Let's get dinner. You need to eat something that isn't granola bars and coffee."
You followed her out to her car, the sun had already set, campus lights flickering on across the quad. Agatha drove you to a small Italian place off campus, the kind with checkered tablecloths and candles in wine bottles, warm and dimly lit.
The hostess seated you in a corner booth, and you slid in across from Agatha, suddenly aware of how different this felt from working in the lab. More like a date. Less like mentor and student.
"Wine?" Agatha asked, already signaling the server.
"Sure."
She ordered a bottle of red without looking at the menu, then turned her attention back to you. "How are you feeling about tomorrow?"
"Nervous," you admitted. "Excited. Both."
"Good. That's the right balance." She leaned back as the server poured the wine. "If you weren't nervous, I'd worry you didn't understand what's at stake. If you weren't excited, I'd worry you'd lost the spark."
You took a sip, letting the wine warm you from the inside. "Did you always have the spark? Even in grad school?"
Agatha's smile turned wry. "Especially in grad school. It was the only thing that kept me going some days."
"Was it hard?"
"Harder than it should have been." She swirled her wine, considering. "I had an advisor who was brilliant but hands-off. Which was fine, mostly. I'm self-directed. But there was this other faculty member, Dr. Brennan, who seemed to take personal offense to my existence."
"What do you mean?"
"He didn't think women belonged in the hard sciences. Not openly, of course. He was too smart for that. But he'd make comments. Suggest my results were 'lucky.' Imply I'd had help I hadn't earned." Her jaw tightened slightly. "He sat on my committee. Made my qualifying exam hell."
You felt a flash of anger on her behalf. "That's awful."
"It was." Agatha took another sip. "But I passed. Top marks, actually. And then, about a month later, he broke his leg."
"He what?"
"Broke his leg. Slipped on ice in the parking lot." Her smile was sharp, satisfied. "Had to take medical leave for the rest of the semester. Missed all the committee meetings. By the time he came back, I'd already defended my dissertation proposal and he couldn't do a damn thing about it."
You couldn't help but laugh. "That's—"
"Karmic?" Agatha suggested. "I'd like to think so. Though realistically, it was just a middle-aged man who didn't salt his walkway." She shrugged. "Either way, I got through my PhD without him breathing down my neck, and now I have tenure and he's retired in Florida, probably still bitter about women in STEM."
The server arrived with your food, and you dug in, suddenly ravenous. The pasta was perfect, rich and savory, and you realized you hadn't eaten anything substantial since breakfast.
"Is that why you—" You hesitated. "Why you're so invested in mentoring? Because of what you went through?"
Agatha considered that. "Partly. I know what it's like to have someone actively working against you. I'd rather be the person who helps." She met your eyes. "And I see something in you. That same drive I had. The same refusal to accept 'good enough' when you know you can do better."
Your throat tightened. "Thank you. For seeing that."
"It's not hard to see." She reached across the table, fingers brushing yours briefly. "You make it easy."
You finished dinner in comfortable conversation, talking about research and campus gossip and nothing in particular. When Agatha paid the check over your protests, you didn't fight too hard. You were learning to let her take care of you, at least a little.
The drive back to your apartment was quiet, the radio playing softly. When Agatha pulled into the parking lot, she didn't immediately turn off the car.
"Wait here a second," she said, and got out before you could ask why.
She popped the trunk, and you twisted in your seat to see her pull out a large shopping bag. Your stomach flipped.
"What's that?"
"You'll see." She came around to your door, opened it for you. "Come on."
You followed her up to your apartment, unlocking the door with shaky hands. Inside, Agatha set the bag on your bed, then turned to you with an expression that was almost shy.
"I noticed something this morning," she said. "You were shivering. Even under the blanket."
"The bedding my sister lent me isn't great—"
"It's terrible," Agatha corrected. "And I won't let you freeze in the Conneticut winter." She reached into the bag, pulling out fabric. "So I got you something better."
She unfolded it, and your breath caught.
It was a duvet cover in deep, rich red, the color of wine or garnets. Gold embroidery traced patterns across it—stars and crescent moons, constellations you half-recognized, delicate and beautiful. It looked expensive. It looked warm.
"Agatha," you breathed.
"There's a heavier insert too," she said, pulling it out. "Down alternative, hypoallergenic. And matching pillowcases." She set everything on the bed, smoothing out the fabric. "I know you said you don't need nice things to get good grades, but you deserve to be comfortable. You deserve to sleep well."
You couldn't speak. Your throat was too tight, your eyes stinging.
No one had ever done something like this for you. No one had ever noticed you were cold and gone out and bought you warmer blankets. No one had ever cared enough to pay attention to those small details.
"Hey." Agatha's voice was soft. She stepped closer, tilting your chin up. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong." You blinked hard. "I just—thank you. This is—no one's ever—"
"I know." She kissed your forehead. "I know, sweetheart. But I'm here now, and I'm paying attention."
You wrapped your arms around her, burying your face in her shoulder. She held you, one hand stroking your hair, patient and steady.
When you finally pulled back, you managed a watery smile. "Help me put it on?"
"Of course."
You stripped the old bedding together, tossing blanket older than you aside. Agatha showed you how to get the insert into the duvet cover—"There's a trick to it, you have to turn it inside out first"—and you worked together to smooth it out, to get the corners right.
When it was done, you both stood back to look at it.
The deep red looked stunning against your plain white walls, the gold embroidery catching the light. It looked like something from a fairy tale. It looked like something that belonged to someone who mattered.
"It's perfect," you said softly.
Agatha came up behind you, arms sliding around your waist. "It suits you."
You turned in her embrace, meaning to thank her again, but she kissed you before you could speak. Slow and deep, her hands sliding up your back, pulling you closer.
When she finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard.
"Sometimes you make it hard for my brain to keep up. To keep the playing field, I feel like you're constantly knocking me off my feet."
She smiled, lips pressing to yours quick. "Good. You'll learn to keep up, and in the meantime," her eyes traced over your expression, the look of adoration in your eyes, "this look is pretty damn charming."
You fucking giggled and kissed her, hand cupping her jaw.
She kissed you back harder this time, her tongue sliding against yours as her hands found your hips, pulling you flush against her. The kiss deepened, turned hungry, and you felt heat bloom low in your belly.
"Agatha," you breathed when she moved to your neck, her mouth hot against your pulse point.
"Mm?" She didn't stop, teeth grazing your skin in a way that made your knees weak.
Your hands fisted in her shirt, trying to pull her closer even though there was no space left between you. She walked you backward until your legs hit the edge of the bed, and then she was guiding you down onto the new bedding, following you down.
The duvet was soft beneath you, luxurious, and Agatha was warm above you, her weight settling between your thighs in a way that made you gasp. She kissed you again, slower now but no less intense, her hand sliding under your shirt to find bare skin.
"You're so responsive," she murmured against your mouth, her thumb brushing the underside of your breast. "I love watching you come undone."
You arched into her touch, legs wrapping around her, desperate for more. "Please—"
"Please what?" Her hand moved higher, palm covering your breast through your bra, and you whimpered. "Use your words, angel."
"Touch me," you managed, your hips rolling up against her. "Please, I need—"
She kissed you quiet, her hand sliding down your stomach, fingers playing with the button of your jeans. You thought she was going to undo them, thought finally she was going to give you what you needed, but instead she just traced patterns over the denim, maddeningly light.
"Agatha," you whined, and she smiled against your mouth.
"I know." Her hand pressed down, the heel of her palm grinding against you through your jeans, and the pressure was perfect and not nearly enough. "I know what you need."
She worked you up methodically, kissing you breathless while her hand moved between your legs, building the heat until you were trembling beneath her. Your hands clutched at her shoulders, her back, trying to pull her closer, trying to get more friction, more pressure, more anything.
"That's it," she murmured, watching your face as you rocked against her hand. "So beautiful like this."
You were so close, wound so tight you could barely breathe, and then—
She pulled back.
"No," you gasped, reaching for her. "Agatha, please—"
"Shh." She caught your hands, pressed a kiss to your knuckles. "You need to sleep."
"I don't need to sleep," you protested, your voice coming out embarrassingly desperate. "I need you to—"
"We have to check your protocol results tomorrow," she said, smoothing your hair back from your face. "And you have class in the morning. You need rest."
"I'm not going to be able to rest like this," you said, frustration bleeding into your voice. "You can't just—you keep doing this—"
"I know." She kissed you softly, almost apologetically. "But you'll sleep better than you think. Trust me."
You wanted to argue, wanted to pull her back down and make her finish what she started, but she was already standing, already straightening her clothes.
"This is cruel," you said, propping yourself up on your elbows to glare at her.
"It's strategic," she corrected, but her smile was fond. "Get some sleep, princess. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Agatha—"
"Tomorrow," she repeated firmly, and then she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her.
You flopped back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling, your body still thrumming with unfulfilled need. The new duvet was soft and warm around you, the weight of it comforting even as you wanted to scream with frustration.
But underneath the frustration was something else. Something warm and settled and cared for. She'd noticed you shivering. She'd bought you bedding that would keep you warm through the Connecticut winter. She'd helped you make the bed, had kissed you like you mattered.
You pulled the duvet up to your chin, breathing in the faint scent of her perfume that still lingered on the fabric. Your body ached, unsatisfied, but your chest felt full.
You tried to sleep. You really did. You closed your eyes, tried to breathe deeply, tried to will your body to calm down and let you rest.
But every time you shifted, the soft fabric of the new sheets slid against your skin, and you were acutely aware of how sensitive you still were. How much you wanted. How Agatha had touched you just enough to make you desperate and then left you like this.
Strategic, she'd called it. Cruel was more accurate.
You lasted maybe ten minutes before you gave up, your hand sliding down your stomach with a frustrated exhale. You were already so worked up it wouldn't take long. You could take care of this yourself and then finally, finally be able to sleep.
Your fingers found slick heat, and you bit back a sound at the contact. God, you were still so ready, your body responding immediately to even your own touch. You thought about Agatha's hands, the way she'd touched you earlier, confident and knowing, like she'd mapped every response your body could give. Like she knew exactly how to wind you tight in the most efficient way possible.
You thought about her mouth on yours, the way she'd kissed you against the lab table after you'd figured out the protocol. The pride in her eyes, the desire. The way she'd looked at you tonight when she'd worked you up and then stopped, that deliberate control that made you want to scream and also made heat pool low in your belly.
Your fingers moved in steady circles, your other hand gripping the duvet as your hips lifted into the touch. The deep red fabric was bunched in your fist, the gold embroidery catching the dim light from the window. She'd bought this for you. Had noticed you shivering and decided you needed to be warm, needed to be comfortable.
The thought made something clench in your chest even as your body tightened with a different kind of tension.
You thought about last night, the way she'd taken you apart so thoroughly. The way she'd looked between your thighs, the sounds she'd made when you'd returned the favor. The taste of her on your tongue, the way she'd said your name when she came.
Your breathing quickened, your movements becoming more urgent. You were close already, wound so tight from Agatha's teasing that it wouldn't take much. Just a little more, just—
"Fuck," the orgasm hit you suddenly, your back arching off the bed as pleasure rolled through you in waves. You bit down on your lip to keep quiet, your body shaking with the release, fingers working yourself through it until the sensitivity became too much and you had to stop.
You lay there afterward, breathing hard, your body finally relaxing into the mattress. The frustration had eased, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion that made your limbs feel heavy.
The duvet was still soft around you, still warm. The sheets smelled faintly of fabric softener and newness. Your body was sated now, the desperate edge gone, but you could still feel the ghost of Agatha's touch on your skin.
Tomorrow you'd check the protocol results. Tomorrow you'd see if your breakthrough actually worked, if you'd really found something that could improve the extraction process. Tomorrow you'd see her in the lab, professional and brilliant and yours in a way that still didn't feel quite real.
But tonight, you were warm and comfortable and cared for, even if she'd left you wanting. Even if this thing between you was complicated and secret and probably inadvisable.
Your eyes drifted closed, your body finally ready to sleep. The last thought you had before you slipped under was of Agatha's smile when she'd seen your excitement about the protocol. The way she'd looked at you like you were exactly where you were supposed to be.
You fell asleep wrapped in the bedding she'd chosen for you, warm for the first time since autumn had started creeping into Connecticut. On your nightstand your phone vibrated silently,
Was my hypothesis correct? You touch yourself thinking about me before you fell asleep? Such a good girl for me.
I saw your post about your witch fics, and I wanted to say how much I admire them!! I think self-insert fanfics have been getting better lately at understanding how physical representations don’t always fit the reader, but I think there’s another conversation to be had about culture and morals/religion. Our culture and our practices and traditions shape who we are and how we interact with the world! And while I do think having fics be more inclusive is a good thing, I think it is equally important to have fics that embrace and explore specific experiences!! Anyway, just wanted to say I love your fics. <3
Thank you so much for reading and for your kind words. Conversations like these are what I dreamed of sparking with this series.
Sorry for how long I’m about to ramble, I got a lot to say.
Self insert fics have been so white, skinny, Christian centered for a long long time while it feels like the rest of the world evolved around it. Characters consistently comb their blonde hair back into a messy bun and make comments about hourglass figures, while those of us who don’t look like that immediately feel dejected.
That same thing happens when I read a story and they get married in a church, or a character makes a decision that is 100% against my morals as a witch. I wanted to create a one-shot series where other witches who have experienced that same dejection, somewhere to feel seen.
I’ve written so many ambiguous fics where literally anyone could insert themselves and I wanted to do something for people like me. People who were rose quartz around their neck and burn incense after a bad day. People who smile and nod when conversations about religion come up. People who can’t seem to escape Christianity on every corner (literally, if you threw a rock it would hit 10 churches on my road).
This series is for them, not for me. Let me clear and crisp. It’s a little self indulgent, I’ve made that clear from the first chapter. But it’s also for the (not surprisingly) large portion of Emily stans that happen to be witches, or spiritual. I wanted people to be able to see their way of thinking and seeing the world represented in a way it usually isn’t.
Witches are often written in the supernatural or magical sense. Levitating cars, or blasting enemies with magic beams. Real, living breathing witches don’t have magical powers I fear. I wanted to showcase the craftsmanship side of it, the intentions, the threefold rule and so much more.
This next chapter is going to be chalk full of information about readers practice, deities, etc, because I’m lowkey trying to educate yall too
Let me crisp about something else. Fanfiction writers owe you nothing but good tags and trigger warnings. If your writing an x reader fic and mention hair color, tag it. If they’re gonna go to church, tag it. If they’re of a certain body type, tag it. Writers can imagine their stories however they want, but don’t cherry pick your tags.
I think there’s so much more room for cultural representation in fanfic for not just witchcraft, but every other small religion, ethic group and community. It’s up to us, the members of those groups, to step up and be the representation we want to read.
Just start writing, let it flow, think about how your experiences shape you and just write.
Next chapter out before Christmas <3
Love, MB
Okay I’m going to write the next chapter and classified connections
Agatha's familiar @mmcwritesfanfic - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
