Tags: slow burn, possessive Agatha, power imbalance, academic tension, grief and magic, dark academia, angst and fluff, eventual smut, tags to be updated.
Synopsis: A guarded PhD student is assigned to the mysterious and powerful Professor Agatha Harkness. In their candlelit meetings, secrets unravel, and a slow-burning tension grows between teacher and pupil—where knowledge, desire, and possession intertwine in a dark dance of magic and longing.
Chapter Two: The Unspoken Tongue
🖋️Ch.1 // Ch.3 // Ch.4
The night stretched long and hollow. You lay awake beneath the thin linen, the whispering dark pressing close as though it might unravel your thoughts and scatter them like dry leaves in a wind. The window’s thin glass was cold against your skin, and the faint rumble of distant rain pattered softly, a tentative lullaby that refused to soothe. Hours slipped between the creaks of the old house settling, the scratch of your pen against forgotten pages, and the restless beat of your heart.
Sleep was a stranger, elusive and sharp. Your mind tangled between memories and the weight of new expectations, the strange pull of something you dared not name. Agatha’s voice echoed in your thoughts — clipped, commanding, and yet somehow wrapped in a strange warmth that unsettled you more than comforted.
The days that followed drifted in a haze of quiet tension. Your mornings were a slow crawl through fogged streets, the university’s ancient stones slick with autumn mist. The air was thick with the scent of wet earth and dying leaves, and the hollow echo of footsteps—your own or others—seemed to follow you down every corridor.
You found yourself thinking of Agatha far more than you dared. Not just her words, but the way she filled a room, the slight arch of her brow when she questioned you, and the way her eyes lingered longer than necessary, dark and calculating, like a flame held too close. You scolded yourself—foolish, stupid to let your thoughts stray so freely when you should be immersed in translation, thesis, scholarship. Yet, the ache inside you was stubborn, a quiet longing that refused to be silenced.
When the first pale fingers of dawn touched the horizon, you finally rose — bones aching, mind still tangled. You dressed slowly, the chill of morning seeping through your thin blouse, and checked your inbox one last time.
There, waiting like a sharp breath, was her message:
Dear Y/N,
Be in my office at 10 o’clock sharp. We need to discuss your research.
Professor A Harkness
The note was brief, clipped — no invitation, no warmth, only command. Your heart hammered with a mixture of apprehension and something else you dared not name.
*
The morning of the meeting dawned grey and uncertain, rain softly spattering against the windowpanes as you pulled on your coat, heart fluttering with a mix of dread and anticipation. Each step toward Agatha’s office was measured and slow, your breath visible in the chilly air, thoughts a tangled skein of hope and caution.
The heavy door groaned open beneath your hand, and the familiar scent of old books and faint lavender wrapped around you like a whispered promise. Agatha was there, seated behind her desk with an unreadable expression. Her dark hair was loose about her shoulders, soft waves catching the pale light filtering through the curtains. Her eyes, sharp and unyielding, found yours immediately.
She was dressed in deep plum today. Silken, slightly unbuttoned, with the sleeves rolled to the crook of her forearms. She wasn’t wearing glasses this time, but a pair rested on the open book before her, as though recently discarded.
She didn’t stand. Didn’t greet you. Only watched.
You hesitated in the doorway.
“Are you going to hover all morning?” she asked, not unkindly.
Your legs obeyed before your brain did.
The silence stretched between you — not awkward, but charged. Her gaze skimmed over your frame, not lingering inappropriately, but also not shying away. She seemed to be taking stock. Measuring something you couldn’t quite name.
Then, as she leaned back slightly in her chair, her lips parted — just barely — and her teeth caught her lower lip in a way that made your stomach twist.
She bit her lower lip once, a subtle gesture that betrayed a flicker of something—curiosity? Amusement? You couldn’t tell.
“Sit,” she commanded, voice low and smooth but edged with steel.
You obeyed, sliding into the chair across from her. The distance between you felt charged, the room narrowing until it was just the two of you, caught in a quiet war of gazes and unsaid words.
She pushed a folded sheet of paper toward you, the edges crisp and clean. Your fingers trembled slightly as you unfolded it to reveal a text — precise, rigid, unyielding in its structure.
“I want you to translate this,” Agatha said, eyes never leaving yours. “It’s for a lecture I’m preparing. Next week, you will teach it.”
The weight of the responsibility settled on your shoulders like a mantle—heavy, thrilling, terrifying.
Her gaze softened briefly, a flicker of something almost tender, before hardening again. “Perfection, precision, command. That is what I expect from you.”
You swallowed hard, heart pounding in your throat. Agatha’s eyes roamed over your face, sharp and assessing, as if measuring how much of yourself you were willing to give.
You hesitated. Teaching a lecture for Professor Harkness was no small responsibility. It was both a compliment and a test. You weren’t sure which you preferred.
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “You may decline, but I don’t recommend it.”
There was an unspoken weight beneath her words. You felt it deep in your chest, the slow burn of something dangerous.
“I’ll do it,” you said, voice steadier than you felt.
Agatha’s gaze lingered, the faintest curve tugging at the corner of her lips.
“Smart girl,” she said softly. “Now, I suggest you get started on that translation. I want to see your progress by the end of the week.”
You nodded, the parchment heavy in your hand as you rose to leave.
As you reached the door, Agatha’s voice stopped you.
“Don’t keep me waiting, little scholar.”
You glanced back, catching her watching you with an intensity that sent an unbidden shiver down your spine.
*
The next days were spent in the library.
Mornings bled into afternoons, afternoons into the kind of dusky twilight that made the stained-glass windows burn with colour. You hardly noticed the passing of time — only the quiet ache in your shoulders, the faint smudge of ink on your fingers, and the rhythmic scratching of your pen against paper as you translated word after stubborn word.
You camped out at a corner table beneath a vaulted archway, away from the bustle of the main reading hall. The air there was still, suspended — as if it, too, were holding its breath. You liked it. Or maybe you didn’t. Maybe it was just the only place where you could still feel her eyes.
The parchment Agatha had given you lay open in front of you each day, carefully weighted with smooth stones to keep the edges flat. The ancient Occitan script was a forest of curves and lines, its grammar archaic and elusive, but its intent sharp. The further you read, the more you realised it wasn’t simply a ritual text — it was a record of survival. Not spells, but instructions passed down through the voices of midwives, heretics, daughters. Hidden knowledge, pressed between prayers. You were certain Agatha already knew that.
And you couldn’t help but wonder why she had chosen it for you.
Some lines felt too pointed, too intimate. A passage about sacrifice. Another about devotion masked as duty. You caught yourself rereading the same stanza over and over again, your mind wandering not through syntax, but into darker territory — the curve of Agatha’s mouth when she was amused, the way her voice folded around the word perfection like silk around a blade.
It unnerved you, how easily she occupied your thoughts. And more than that, it infuriated you.
You were smarter than this. You knew better.
You weren’t some naïve undergraduate nursing a doomed crush on a sharp-tongued professor. You were a scholar, and this was supposed to be about language. Text. Scholarship.
So why did you find yourself, on more than one occasion, brushing your thumb across the edge of the parchment and imagining her hands had done the same?
You tried to shut it down. Tried to let the structure of the language — rigid, ancient, rational — override the heat curling in your belly every time you thought of her voice saying little scholar like a secret.
*
Your fingers paused above a line you’d nearly deciphered, your thoughts halfway between a metaphor about milk and blood, when you heard it — a voice too close.
“Still at it, then?”
The tone was light. Familiar. Too familiar.
You blinked up.
A figure leaned against the carved bookcase near your table — tall, backlit by golden afternoon light, with the casual confidence of someone who knew they were being watched. Julian, another doctoral candidate in the department. His thesis had something to do with the socio-political implications of 17th-century witch trials — and he always said it like you were in one.
You gave him a polite nod. “Still at it.”
Julian grinned, stepping closer. “You’ve barely moved from this table all week. I’ve started to worry you’ve fallen under some kind of bibliomantic curse.”
You laughed, a small thing, polite. “Maybe I have.”
He took the chair beside yours without asking.
You stiffened slightly, eyes flicking back to the manuscript as if it might shield you.
“I heard you’ve been working on something special,” he said, lowering his voice just enough to feign intimacy. “Something from Harkness herself.”
You didn’t respond immediately. The instinct to protect whatever thread existed between you and Agatha — tenuous, unspoken, dangerous — flared like a reflex.
Julian didn’t seem to notice your silence. “She doesn’t give out material like that often. Must trust you.”
You offered a tight smile, eyes scanning the same sentence for the fifth time.
He leaned in a little further, forearm brushing against yours. “Listen, I’m giving a talk next Thursday. Thought you might want to come. Might be nice to see someone in the audience who isn’t asleep.”
You opened your mouth to politely decline — to say you were busy, to say anything — but then you felt it.
The prickle at the back of your neck.
You didn’t need to turn around. You knew.
Across the mezzanine, in the shadow of the upper gallery, Agatha stood between the shelves — half-shrouded in gloom, her coat still on as though she’d just arrived.
But her eyes were fixed on you.
Unmoving.
Unblinking.
The air changed. Heavier. Sharper.
Julian didn’t notice. He continued talking — about lecture halls and critical theory and some poorly veiled compliment about your “intensity” — but you didn’t hear him.
You smiled despite yourself, the tension easing just a little. For a moment, it was just two students—two scholars—sharing a quiet corner of the ancient library.
But then, beneath the archways and carved wood, you felt the shift.
Agatha’s gaze had not wavered. She watched every movement, every glance exchanged, every falter in your composure. Her lips pressed together, just so, as if she were biting back a warning—or perhaps a claim.
Julian continued, oblivious or uncaring of the silent storm brewing behind you.
“I can come by after the seminar tomorrow. We’ll crack this puzzle together. No distractions, no interruptions.”
You wanted to say yes. You wanted to believe in the simplicity of collaboration.
But Agatha’s eyes—dark, unyielding—held you captive.
Her presence was a shadow pressing closer, a silent demand you could not ignore.
Julian’s fingers brushed yours once more—an unspoken invitation.
You withdrew, heart pounding.
Agatha didn’t approach. She didn’t interrupt.
She watched.
That was worse.
Her expression was unreadable — but her jaw was set, and her mouth was drawn tight in a way that made your breath catch.
As though this — Julian’s proximity, his lean, his smile — was an offence.
As though you were hers.
And for a moment, you wanted to be.
Your phone buzzed suddenly, the screen lighting up with a message that made your breath catch:
Meet me in my office. Now.
No sender name, just her unmistakable sharpness.
You swallowed, heart already quickening. “I—I have to go. Now.”
He frowned but nodded, clearly not wanting to press. “Right. I’ll catch you later, then.”
You hurried from the quiet sanctuary of the library, footsteps echoing softly as you moved through the ancient corridors toward Agatha’s office. The air felt suddenly thicker, charged with something you couldn’t name — anticipation? Unease? Desire?
Reaching the heavy wooden door, you hesitated a moment, catching sight of Agatha through the narrow glass pane.
She was standing perfectly still, the light outlining her dark hair in a halo that seemed almost otherworldly. Her lips pressed together, biting down hard on her lower lip — a flicker of impatience or something deeper, something more possessive.
When she caught your eye, there was a sharpness in her gaze, an unspoken claim that made your breath hitch.
You stepped inside.
Agatha didn’t move to greet you but let the door close behind you with a soft click.
Her eyes followed you with a weight that was almost tangible.
Without a word, she simply said, “Sit.”
You eased into the chair, still caught in the whirl of hurried footsteps and hurried thoughts that had brought you here. Agatha’s gaze didn’t waver, pinning you with an intensity that made your pulse quicken.
“I don’t suffer fools, little scholar,” she murmured, voice low and intimate, “and I don’t take kindly to having my time wasted. Especially not when it’s mine I’m giving you.”
You opened your mouth to ask, but the words faltered, swallowed by the weight of her gaze.
Agatha’s eyes narrowed, the shadows in the room deepening with the weight of her words. “I have high expectations for you. This isn’t some leisurely pastime — it’s your work, your future. I expect you to be working, not dawdling.”
You blinked, a flush creeping to your cheeks. “But I have been working, Professor. I’m nearly done with the translation. I’ve barely had time for anything else.”
A slow, almost predatory smile curved her lips. “Oh? Is entertaining Mr Delacroix part of your research now? Because from what I see, that’s not quite what I’d call dedication.”
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Fumbled. “He— he offered help. That’s all.”
“Did he.” Her gaze flicked down to your lips — just for a moment. “How generous of him.”
Agatha let out a sharp breath through her nose — not quite a laugh, not quite a scoff. Her eyes, however, told another story entirely. They flared with something unmistakable: not anger, but something far more dangerous. A storm not yet spoken aloud.
She stood abruptly, the wooden legs of her chair creaking against the stone floor. Her heels clipped sharply as she took a step toward you, arms folded tight across her chest. The very air around her seemed to bristle.
“Oh, I’m sure he was trying,” she said, tone brittle, voice curling around the words like silk wrapped around steel. “Trying to sit close enough to touch your hand when you pointed at the parchment? Trying to look down your collar while pretending to care about your footnotes?”
Your breath caught.
She was still moving — slow, deliberate, like a shadow sliding closer. “Don’t play naïve with me. I saw him. I saw the way he looked at you — like he thought you were available.”
The final word dropped like a stone between you. Agatha’s voice lowered further, almost a growl.
“You think he wanted to help?” She tilted her head, eyes gleaming. “That excuse of a human doesn’t even know what the bloody text is about. But you—”
She stopped just short of you now, her presence overwhelming. You could smell her perfume — something dark and heady, like incense in an ancient cathedral. Her gaze raked over you, and you felt it like a touch.
“You’re mine to instruct,” she murmured. “Mine to teach, to shape, to guide. Not his. Not anyone else’s.”
Your heart thudded in your chest like a warning bell, but you couldn’t look away. The words stung and soothed all at once. You didn’t know what to say — or whether you even wanted to say anything at all.
Agatha seemed to sense your hesitation, the confusion in your expression. She leaned in, voice barely above a whisper now.
“If I ever see him hovering over you like that again,” she said, lips brushing the air near your ear, “I’ll make sure he understands how deeply inappropriate that is.”
You stared at her, stunned. “You can’t be serious—”
“Oh, I’m rarely anything but serious,” she said, straightening again. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Especially when it comes to what’s mine.”
“I—” you tried again, but it was hopeless.
Agatha studied you, gaze flicking to your parted lips, the way your hands gripped the edge of your chair.
Then, just like that, she turned away.
The shift in energy was abrupt, almost cruel. She moved to her desk, rifling through papers as if the moment hadn’t happened. As if she hadn’t just undone you without lifting a finger.
She spoke without looking at you. “Finish the translation. Bring it to me tomorrow.”
Her voice was clipped, her accent crisp. Back to the version of her the department knew — efficient, brilliant, unreachable. The door between you slammed shut again.
You rose on uncertain legs, the back of your neck hot. You wanted to demand something — clarification, apology, anything. But all you could manage was a quiet, “Yes, Professor.”
As you reached for the door, her voice stopped you.
“Oh, and one more thing,” she said.
You turned.
Agatha finally looked up, something unreadable in her expression. Her mouth curved, just slightly.
“Don’t disappoint me, little scholar.”
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.
You stepped out into the corridor, the door clicking shut behind you like the end of a sentence. But your body still hummed with tension, and Agatha’s voice echoed in your skull like a spell.
Mine.
The word followed you all the way back to the library, and settled somewhere deep in your chest.
*
The sun had long since dipped behind the spires of the old campus, but its afterglow still haunted the streets — a bruised violet bleeding into amber, like the ghost of a fire refusing to die. The day had slipped through your fingers in a quiet sort of frenzy. You’d spent hours hunched over the manuscript, eyes skimming dense lines of Occitan script that blurred the longer you stared.
It was nearly done — not perfect, but close. The translation scrawled across your notebook in hurried margins, ink pooling like little moons where your pen had paused in hesitation. The words were older than you’d expected, layered with hidden meaning, softened by time, and still sharp enough to cut. You should have felt accomplished. Instead, you felt… stuck.
As if something still didn’t sit right beneath your ribs.
Agatha had given you no further instruction. Just the text, the deadline, and her gaze — cool and lingering, like she already knew what you’d uncover. Like she was waiting for something. From you.
That thought had haunted you all day. The pressure of her expectations, the strange intimacy of being singled out, her clipped words, her narrowed eyes when she’d seen you speaking with Julian. The possessiveness — unspoken, but unmistakable.
And beneath it all, the worst part: your own ridiculous, unwelcome feelings. The way her voice echoed in your mind far too often. The way her praise, sparse as it was, felt like a spotlight you hadn’t asked for. You hated that. Hated how much space she took up in your head.
You exhaled sharply and tied your apron at the waist, pushing it all down — translation, tension, and her — as you stepped into the warm bustle of the restaurant.
*
Candles flickered low on each table. Soft music curled around the clatter of cutlery and clinking glasses. This place was a kind of escape, if you let it be. You moved through it all with easy familiarity, taking orders, refilling water, offering wine suggestions in your softest, most serviceable voice.
You’d nearly settled into the rhythm when the hostess caught your eye, nodding discreetly toward the back of the room.
Corner table. Shadowed alcove. Two women seated across from each other, their silhouettes half-lit in gold.
Your breath caught — not sharply, not dramatically — just enough to falter your next step.
Agatha.
Hair swept up, a deep navy coat draped over her shoulders like armour. Her lips moved slowly as she spoke, eyes fixed on the woman opposite her — tall, striking, severe. You didn’t recognise her outright, but she looked familiar in the way certain professors did: all composed elegance and deliberate silence. She reminded you of something elemental — the ocean, maybe. Or a storm about to break.
Professor Rio Vidal. You’d only seen her twice — once at an academic mixer, once passing through the Department of History. Her reputation preceded her — arcane history, post-war reconstruction theories, brilliant and a little bit cruel.
You stared for a beat too long.
Agatha didn’t look at you. Not yet.
But then — a pause in her conversation. Her head tilted, her gaze drifting lazily toward the front of the restaurant.
And found you.
There was no surprise on her face. No flicker of recognition. Only a slow, unreadable blink — and then something sharper, quieter, settled behind her eyes.
You turned away, pulse quickening, throat suddenly dry.
She’s not here for you, you reminded yourself.
She’s not thinking about you.
And yet.
*
You spent the rest of your shift avoiding the back corner, hovering instead near the bar, near the kitchen, anywhere her presence felt less immediate. You caught snatches of her voice — low, deliberate — though never loud enough to parse. The woman with her rarely spoke. Whatever their exchange was, it didn’t sound casual.
More than once, your eyes betrayed you — flickering toward her table, only to find her already watching.
Not openly. Not obviously. But with the quiet focus of someone who noticed everything.
You dropped a tray of glasses when Julian called your name.
“Hey—sorry!” he said, ducking to help you gather the scattered stems. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
You muttered something about nerves and bent down beside him, cheeks burning.
“You okay?” he asked, brushing a shard of glass into the dustpan. “You looked a little… somewhere else.”
You glanced toward Agatha’s table. She was still there, unmoving.
“Just tired,” you said.
Julian smiled softly, standing. “You’ve been working nonstop lately. On that translation, right? Need help?”
The question was kind. Innocent, even. But it grated.
“No,” you said, too fast. Then softer, “No. It’s almost done. Just… complicated.”
Julian didn’t take the hint. “Well, if you change your mind — I don’t know much Occitan, but I know enough Latin to spot false friends. You’d be surprised how often that trips people up.”
You nodded absently, barely hearing him.
When you dared another glance toward the back — Agatha was still watching.
Expression unreadable. Posture relaxed, almost bored. But her eyes were fixed on Julian.
You looked away quickly, heart hammering.
*
Julian lingered longer than he should have.
You stood with the dustpan still in hand, your fingers stiff around the handle, knuckles tight. He was speaking again — something about a mutual seminar, a professor who’d gone entirely off-script in their last lecture, his voice warm, eager, almost sweet in its attempt to draw you into familiarity.
And part of you wanted to let him. To lean into the simplicity of his presence, the uncomplicated kindness of someone who didn’t look at you like you were a problem to be solved, or worse — an answer they were too afraid to name.
But then you felt it again — the weight of a gaze threading itself through the air like static.
You turned, subtly.
Agatha was still seated, half-turned in her chair now, the line of her body elegant and predatory in equal measure. Her elbow rested lazily on the table, chin perched on her knuckles. That smirk remained — curled at the corner of her lips, knowing and sharp, a blade disguised as amusement.
As if she’d heard every word Julian had said. As if she already knew you were about to disappoint him.
You took a shallow breath and offered Julian a thin smile. “I should get back. The kitchen’s running behind and I’m on double shifts.”
He looked like he wanted to protest — his brows lifted, mouth parted — but you were already stepping back, already moving.
You didn’t see it, but Agatha’s smirk deepened. Just barely.
The rest of the shift blurred.
You moved from table to table on autopilot, offering polite smiles and carefully recited specials, all while your thoughts tangled into themselves like thread drawn too tight. You weren’t proud of how it felt — the sharp satisfaction in Agatha’s expression, the way your dismissal of Julian seemed to register with her more than any translated page ever had.
By the time the dining room quieted and the final candles guttered in their holders, your head ached. The air inside was thick with warmth and perfume, and you needed to breathe something that wasn’t expectation.
You slipped out the back door with your apron still on, hands shoving deep into your coat pockets. The alley behind the restaurant was empty, save for a single rusted bin and the hum of distant traffic. A cold wind pushed down the narrow corridor between buildings, threading through your hair, tugging at the edges of your clothes like fingers made of fog.
You tipped your head back, staring at the bruised clouds above. The night sky was bloated and heavy with London’s glow — stars swallowed whole by light pollution and your own exhaustion.
You hated that you were still thinking about her.
Even here. Even now.
That smirk. That look. The tension that had coiled itself around your spine the moment you’d stepped into her orbit.
You’d done everything right — hadn’t you? The translation was nearly done. You were on time, respectful, careful with your tone and your boundaries. You weren’t flirting. You weren’t even interested—
Liar.
You closed your eyes, your head pressing lightly to the cool brick wall behind you.
*
You didn’t hear her footsteps.
Only the feeling—thick and sudden, like the air had changed its shape.
You turned, and she was already there.
Agatha.
Leaning against the alley’s mouth, arms crossed, wrapped in a silhouette of cool indifference. Her presence was the kind that filled a space without trying — effortlessly powerful, like stormclouds gathering before rain. Her gaze met yours, sharp and unsparing, the kind of look that made your lungs tighten.
She said nothing at first. Just watched you.
Not like a professor watching a student.
Not like anything safe.
Your breath hitched before you could stop it. “Professor Harkness.”
Her name came out quieter than you meant. Reverent. Accusatory. Both.
Agatha’s head tilted slightly, the shadows catching the fine angles of her jaw.
“You’re far from campus,” she said at last. Her voice was a study in composure. But her eyes—her eyes were anything but.
“I work evenings,” you replied, your voice steadier than you felt. “Part-time.”
“So I see,” she murmured, gaze drifting briefly down your apron before returning to your face. “Interesting choice, for someone supposedly buried in translation.”
“I’m still working on it,” you said, a touch too quickly. “It’s nearly finished.”
There was a twitch at the corner of her mouth. Not quite a smile. Not quite disapproval either.
A pause stretched between you — thick, loaded, impossible.
You opened your mouth to speak again, to fill it, but Agatha’s eyes flicked over your shoulder, toward the front windows of the restaurant. Her expression shifted, just slightly. You followed her gaze.
Inside, through the low gleam of candlelight and glass, you spotted her.
Rio Vidal.
Seated at one of the corner tables, posture loose, fingers wrapped around a wine glass. She looked elegant, casually so, as if expensive things had always made room for her. Her expression was unreadable, but her attention was clearly focused on the seat across from her.
Agatha’s seat.
You felt your stomach dip.
“You’ve got… company,” you said, before you could stop yourself.
Agatha’s eyes didn’t leave yours. “So I do.”
“Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You didn’t,” she said — too fast, too flat. She was studying you now, carefully. Like she was trying to read between the lines of your expression. “She’s an old colleague. Nothing more.”
You didn’t ask. You hadn’t meant to care.
But something in her tone felt… defensive. Barely. Like she’d anticipated your reaction before even you did.
Agatha’s gaze dropped to your mouth. For a second too long.
The air between you grew heavy — not warm, not safe, but sharp, like the moment before a thunderstorm. The kind of silence that begged to be broken by something reckless.
But then — footsteps.
Heels, brisk and confident.
A second figure emerged from the kitchen door, brushing past the bins with all the ease of someone used to stepping into forbidden places.
“Ah,” said Rio Vidal, her tone dry and amused. “There you are. I was beginning to think you’d ghosted me.”
You felt it instantly — the way Agatha shifted, just slightly, stepping back from you but not away. She rolled her shoulders, her expression unreadable now, cool and closed like a slammed book.
“I said I’d only be a moment,” Agatha replied, her voice clipped.
Rio looked between you both. Something in her glance lingered — a subtle curiosity, the kind that cut. “Didn’t realise you were mentoring students outside office hours now,” she said with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
Agatha gave a small scoff. “This one’s stubborn. Hardly knows when to quit.”
The words shouldn’t have stung. But they did.
Your throat went dry, hands curling slightly at your sides.
“I’ll leave you to it, then,” you said, stepping away. “Good night, Professor.”
Agatha didn’t respond right away. Just looked at you. Not like a professor. Not like anything polite.
Like something claimed.
Then Rio placed a hand lightly on Agatha’s elbow. “Shall we?”
Agatha hesitated — just long enough to wound — and then nodded, turning away with a sweep of her coat.
You watched them disappear down the alley, voices low, heels echoing on wet stone.
And all that was left was the press of the night and the echo of what might have been.
You breathed out slowly, stomach twisted, heart heavy.
She had no right. No claim.
And yet you burned.
_____
Hi all, I hope you liked this one! Please let me know what you think!
What We Grow in the Shadows 🌹
I can’t show anything new due to constant blackouts caused by russia’s genocidal attacks on the Ukrainian energy sector, so here’s one from 2024 that I never posted. Made especially for the Ukrainian Magic Academy art book - vampiric professors of magical ecology, Yan Hirskyi and Maksym Pidhirnyi.
I’ve spent more than 48 hours without electricity and still have no heating in my home, while temperatures drop as low as −17 °C at night. Please don’t ignore the humanitarian catastrophe happening here. The fact that this is being done to a European city of ~4 MILLION people and is barely making the news is heartbreaking and so, so unfair.
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If you want to support me and my art - my tip jars are HERE along with links to trusted foundations to support Ukraine.
VALORANT college professor au! These two are always bickering that their students love them more 🙄. A quick something instead of drawing actual important things….uh…
Hello dear people of Aziraphales library, may I ask if you know a few good fics with both Aziraphale and Crowley as teachers/professors? I can't seem to find any, and I really am in love with this trope) Thanks in advance, I greatly appreciate what you do for the community/ fandom, this isn't urgent, please don't overwork yourselves and take your time!
(English isn't my first language and I wrote this without the translator, sorry in advance for any mistakes I may have made)
Hi! We have a #professors tag which includes all kinds of fics in which they teach. Here are more to add...
the epic highs and lows of trying to make your coworkers fall in love by moonandsunlight (G)
“Did all of you think that Crowley and I were a couple?” Aziraphale asked.
“Yes,” all the teachers said, almost in complete unison. Muriel was a little impressed.
Aziraphale’s mouth fell open. Crowley huffed, stood up, and left without another word. Aziraphale watched him leave with a look on his face that Muriel couldn’t read.
—
OR: When Muriel — the new teaching assistant at their old school — makes the whole staff realize that the old married couple Aziraphale and Crowley are, in fact, not married, Muriel makes it their mission to finally make Aziraphale and Crowley get together.
Featuring: a few (failed?) attempts at matchmaking; Muriel giving disabled and trans students the help Muriel wished they’d gotten when they went to school; and two old arospec kind-of-men trying to figure out what their relationship is, as well as what it could be.
They Don't Teach This In School by Rozavie (T)
Aziraphale has been working at Berwick Academy for a very long time, and he could never ask for anything more. Feeding young minds, sharing the beauty of the English language and the written word. He doesn't need anything else. On the first day of the new school year, the instructor meets the new science teacher Crowley, and something about him is very strange, if not eerily familiar. The two strike up a quick friendship, despite their starkly different approaches to teaching, and something a bit more might be striking up between them as well.
Varsity Blues by Leaderleader (M)
Tadfield Public School is a prestigious school in the English countryside. The school is fortunate to have a dedicated, intelligent and compassionate Teacher like Aziraphale. However, in his twenty years teaching there he has been ostracized and belittled by his colleagues and administration.
The hiring of botanics teacher Crowley brings forward new horizons. Aziraphale finally has someone on his side.
Together they take on the administration on their new corrupt and unfair venture, but not without any fallout.
you got me jumping like a crazy clown (stupid cupid) by goldenfences (E)
Crowley doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve this, but he’s been sentenced to a hellish torture by his conniving boss. Part of his punishment, it seems, is collaboration with a being who seems to be angelic in nature. So, of course, Crowley takes it upon himself to torment him with diabolical plans.
Or, a Human AU where Crowley and Aziraphale are teachers assigned to help plan the Tadfield Secondary School Valentine’s Day dance. Crowley thinks he’s an evil genius and Aziraphale is just happy to be there.
Lessons in the Humanities by Greenathena (M)
Aziraphale Fell teaches English at Eden Midtown Academy. His new co-worker, Anthony Crowley, is a bit of a wild card, who doesn't mind ruffling a few feathers. Over the course of the school year, their friendship seems to be growing into something more.
That is until Aziraphale is offered a high-stakes job, overseeing state testing for the whole of the Massachusetts Department of Education.
They're in love, your honor. Possibly. Probably. It's ineffable complicated.
Share My Stars by mothdogs (E)
Astrophysicist Anthony Crowley is halfway into his first year at a new university when disaster strikes, and he and the rest of the science professors are forced to relocate their offices. Crowley, who’s eager for a second chance in the world of academia, wants nothing more than to keep his nose clean and work on his research projects. However, his new office neighbor, a bright and inviting English professor named Dr. Ezra Fell, may be about to upset all of Crowley’s carefully-laid plans.
