Archive of Our Own

Technically, she had been obligated to have a moment. You were in one of her lectures, had every right to show up to her office hours. Even if you hadn’t been, she enjoyed talking with students. The look of surprise on your face when she calls you by your name and confirms your class is endearing.

You’re endearing, she realizes. There’s an ease to talking to you despite your obvious nerves. You’d explained your situation as professionally as you could, and Rebecca’s soft smile had twisted to something knowing.

“Tired of people messing with your stuff, huh?” She cut you off in the middle of your (too polite, too generous) explanation. Relief rounded your shoulders and melted through your formal expression.

“Yes,” you sighed, exasperated. “Someone nearly threw out six months of my work the other day. I had labeled it and everything. I’m scared someone’s gonna set me back months. I know it’s a lot to ask, but if you have room in your lab could I move in there?”

How was she supposed to say no to that? She felt your pain. There was nothing worse than people getting their hands all over your work, messing with it- god forbid, throwing it out. The fit she would throw if that happened would have been legendary. From what she’d seen of your lab habits, the two of you wouldn’t clash. There was no harm in helping a student out of a tricky situation.

She’d gone so far as to help you move your things over. It was equal parts kindness and nosiness. She’d looked over your work as she moved you across the hall, peppering you with questions about your goals, the thought process behind your experiments, what you’d hoped to achieve.

That first day had been enough to pique her interest. She’d leaned in to look over your numbers, shoulder brushing against yours, chalked the way your speech had faltered up to nerves. You held your own. That frightened little lamb look you’d first rolled into her office with was nowhere to be seen once you started talking science. You were quick, considering her questions fully before you answered.

She didn't normally take on graduate students. She was picky. It was a lot of time and energy to invest into someone when you did it right. She had to make certain that you were worth it, that you were cut out for this. Your work was solid. No doubt about it. 

A month into sharing a lab with you and she was sure of your character as well. What she’d initially interpreted as an almost pathological need to people please had given way to consideration. She’d only been ready to steal you away once you’d stood up for yourself, defended your process to her when she had poked holes at every turn.

She was sold on you for certain when she had eviscerated your thesis (per your request) and your only reaction had been to ask her to repeat that last part verbatim, that you hadn’t quite gotten it down yet. The awkwardness that would linger after a critique was absent. You’d taken it in stride, took note of her remarks, and asked what her weekend plans were.

You flourished with attention. Even the small things made you light up. For the first few weeks she’d been carefully plotting her lab time around yours, trying to ensure you stayed out of each other’s way. That quickly fell by the wayside. It was natural to be next to you. There was a familiarity in dancing around each other. A hand between your shoulder blades as she passed behind you, your knuckles ghosting against her hip to draw her attention - normal. All of it.

One day you’d showed up to lab with two coffees in hand. Rebecca had flitted over to you, hand hovering back and forth between the cups.

“Which one is which?”

“They’re both the same,” you’d shrugged. “I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.”

There it is again - so endearing. Her stomach flips. Just happy to have coffee, she’s sure. She takes a cup in hand with a satisfied smile, eyes gleaming behind her glasses. She waits for you to take yours, to join her.

Your face pinches on the first sip. You try to keep it together. Bless your cute little heart. Rebecca giggles.

“So?”

“That’s sweet,” you say, diplomatic. “Really sweet.”

Her giggle blooms into a laugh. She drops onto her stool, spins full circle, head tipped back.

“You don’t have to finish it.”

“No, no – I didn’t say it was bad.”

“Just sweet.”

“Yeah.”

“Really sweet.”

“Like, an above average amount.”

She picks you up your normal beverage on her way back from lunch. You pass her the remains of your sugary coffee and gulp mouthfuls of your new drink, throat bobbing.

Yeah. You’re gonna be hers.

Rebecca has her plan outlined. Your future could be secure in her hands. Stonebriar might have a contact with the CDC, but does he work directly with the BSAA? No. Of course he doesn't. He hasn't done anything close to cutting edge since the 80's. Stonebriar is riding that tenure til he keels over.

But not her. Rebecca could get you on the ground floor for some of the most advanced research in the country. She’s fully prepared, even in the case you gave her the bleeding heart response - I have a moral opposition to working under military contractors, Dr. Chambers. No problem. It wasn’t like she was pushing you to work with Lockheed Martin. If the BSAA wasn't your style, she already had TerraSave in her pocket.

Her plan is set. She knows your skill set, your interests, has tailored her speech to show you how she could help you grow. The real catalyst behind all of this is fear. You’re too trusting. She’d realized it quickly. The wrong mentor would slap their name on top of your work without a second thought. She’s protecting you. That’s all.

“Could you hang back for a minute?” Rebecca asks, catching you before you can slip into the stream of students flowing out of the lecture hall. She doesn’t look up from her computer, logging her last few notes from her lecture. Don’t screw this up, she tells herself. Keep it cool. Remember your talking points, Rebecca.

You toddle right up to her podium, hand tucked into the pocket of your jeans, thumb curled through your belt loop. Casual with her in a way that had been absent at the beginning of the semester.

“What’s up?” You chirp.

You keep looking at her with those big eyes and she keeps staring. She must not be smiling - you shift your weight from foot to foot, lean a little closer.

“Would you ever consider switching advisors?” She blurts out, her plan burning in her hands.

“Oh, for sure.”

“I know that it’s asking a lot.”

“Dr. Stonebriar is a nice guy and all but–”

Rebecca holds up a hand, trying to catch up. “Hang on– did you say yes already?”

You tip your head to the side. “Yeah. I can be yours, right?”

A thrill rattles up her spine. You shouldn’t have said it like that. Her thoughts skid to a stop, veer down some forbidden side street. Not going there. She turns that car right around, puts it back on the tracks. She steps around the podium. Keep it cool. Keep it professional.

“You’re already in my lab,” she says. “Let’s make it official.”

Rebecca doesn't know how you got here. 

Physically, yes, she knew the path that you took. She's certain you came in through the back entrance like you usually did. You would skip the elevator because it was slower than just walking to the second floor and you would trot up the stairs and around the winding hall until you got to her office, where you would knock twice for courtesy, peek through the little slat of a window, and badge your way inside. You're a creature of habit. It's endearing, if not predictable.

But she’s not sure how you got here, on your knees in the middle of her office, voice muffled by her cunt. She doesn't have the sense to feel bad about it, not with the way you press your fingers inside of her, slow and deep. She stuffs a fist into her mouth, leaving half-circles in her skin and still her noises slip out.

You reach up, hand tugging at her wrist. Your eyes are glued to her face, tongue laving over her in broad swipes, lips closing around her clit to suckle. Her body twists into a throb of pleasure. Her hips jut against your face, your moan vibrating through her pussy. She buries a hand in your hair, tells herself not to pull - and in her desperation not to, she pets over your hair awkwardly, stilted and too fast. You smile against her, tongue curling and eyes crinkling. Finally, you've managed to pry her hand away from her mouth and the exaggerated, high-pitched 'oh god' that floats out of her when her head arches backwards only seems to spur you.

“My neck hurts,” you mumble, and she wishes that she cared. Her hand wraps around the base of your skull, urges you back to her pussy. Your breath fans over her when you laugh, close enough to her that your nose rubs against her clit when you shake your head.

You shuffle on your knees, wedging her backwards. There’s not far to go, but her pants around her ankles have her making shuffling baby steps. The small of her back hits her desk and she hoists herself onto it. She doesn't need to be directed to throw her legs over your shoulder. It takes a moment, quiet giggling while you figure out the right angles. Her hips shift down, you hunker a little lower, head twisted at an awkward angle - but when your mouth is on her again, her arms shake.

How is she supposed to keep herself sitting up when you're going at her like that? She can hardly believe those sounds are coming from her body, the obscene slurping from your mouth has to be exaggerated.

Her hands paw at your hair, tugging and pushing, can’t figure out whether she wants you closer or whether it’s all too much. You nuzzle closer, burying your nose into her, your hands wrapped around the tops of her thighs to lock her in place.

“I'm gonna –” Her hips rock against your face, grinding her clit against your nose.

“Gonna what? Cum on my face?”

You suckle her clit again, swirling your tongue just to feel the scrape of her nails against your scalp. Rebecca whines. Her hands clasp around your head, keep you held just where you are as her body flops back against her desk. Back arched, pussy clenching, heartbeat in her clit. She cums when you plunge your fingers back into her, when she grinds her clit against your nose, when you moan into her cunt.

Rebecca bites down on her moan, keeps it locked behind clenched teeth while she writhes through the pleasure. Electricity in her veins makes her fist a hand in your hair, yanking you close, suffocating you and she swears to god she heard you whimper.

The pleasure seesaws back to too much, all that fire in her veins suddenly singing her nerves. The same hand that sealed your mouth against her pussy urges you back, fingers trembling.

“Sorry, sorry,” she pants, hand stroking your cheek in apology.

You didn’t say a word. Her legs hung limply at your shoulders. You caressed her calf softly, the wetness of your hand not lost to her even when she’s coming back to her senses. Had she cum all down your forearm? Jesus, that makes her thighs twitch.

Rebecca props herself up on her elbows. She looks down at you just in time to catch you swirling your tongue around your lips, savoring every taste of her. Your hand loops up to your mouth and you lick at your palm - a flat, broad swipe that she can feel the ghost of against her pussy, that makes her clench against phantom sensation.

She shuffled off her desk and you stayed on your knees, hand stroking her pale thigh. She doesn't know whether to apologize or to kick you out, but you laugh like you're pussy drunk, your nose crinkling. It turns into a snort. She wants to be annoyed, disgusted, anything to distance herself from you - but it's cute. You're cute. Has she always thought you were cute, ever since you walked into her office? Was it attraction, not ambition that had led her down this path?

No. Nope. Don’t go there, Rebecca.

"What?" She'd asked, defensive, wishing you'd get off your knees even if the view is pretty from up here.

"You, uh --" Your words bubble with your laughter, eyes narrowed to cute crescents. You massage your thumb into her hip and reach behind her to peel a paper off of her ass.

She's mortified, her face flushing red. She doesn't want to think of the mess that she's made of her desk, usually kept neat and tidy, in and out trays properly stacked now thrown askew.

"It's just Cady's report," you say, skimming the page. "Just toss it, give her a hundred. She needs the bump anyway."

That's so unethical. She takes the paper back from you, and the soiled feeling sinks into her core. This was wrong. All of this was wrong. Rebecca should chide you for being so callous about student work, about their grades - even though you're sort of right. Cady does need the leg up.

Rebecca sets it back on her desk. She shakes her head.

"That shouldn't have happened."

That gets you up off of your knees. Your smile drops off your face and amongst the shame Rebecca feels a sharp stab of regret. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

"Right. Yeah. Sorry. I just thought..."

You look at her with those wet puppy dog eyes, and her jaw clenches. She keeps her groan locked behind her teeth. She's immune to these tactics. She knows how to hold her ground. Doesn't mean she doesn't feel guilty. She can tell that you were waiting for her to interject, waiting for her to cut in, hoping for some gentle words.

"It can't happen again. This was– inappropriate doesn't even begin to describe what–"

There you go again. She's seen that look before when she had been critiquing your proposals, picking at your thesis and poking holes - too soft for it all underneath that cool exterior. She feels like she's reprimanding a puppy, like she’s got to rub your nose in – nope. Not going there.

Rebecca folds her arms across her chest tightly, tiny tits pressed together. She looks down at herself, only just now realizing that she's still exposed. She huffs, tugging her button-up closed and searching around for her panties. She ducks under her desk to search for them, her knees hitting the cold tile. 

When she rises, you’re holding something out to her. Her panties, crumpled in your palm, wet–

Good God, you really are a puppy. She stares for a moment, her body flushed with another wave of heat. You’d just been rocking against your fist, her panties clenched tight between your fingers the whole time you had your face buried in her pussy?

Why is that making her clit throb again?

“This can’t happen again,” she repeats firmly. She steps back into her panties, your own wetness settling cool against her heated, sensitive cunt. Was she just going to wear these the rest of the day? She should have just put her pants back on, let you keep that as a souvenir. (Jesus - no, not that either. What the hell is wrong with her?)

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. I should never have let this go so far.”

“Are you mad?”

Yes. No. Jesus, she can’t think when you’re in the same room.

Rebecca fishes your shirt up from the floor, coaxes you to lift your arms and helps you get it back over your head.

“I’ll see you tomorrow. Let’s discuss your thesis some more. Maybe in a study room, or…”

The train of thought is clear. Not in her office. Not again, not after this. She’s going to be plagued by this memory for a long time. Oh, god, it probably smells like sex in here. She’s got more meetings today.

You nod meekly. It’s the smallest she’s seen you since you became her assistant. You shuffle out of her office without so much as a wave goodbye.

She can't get it out of her head.

It's a full week later but the image of your lips, shiny with her slick, is burned into her mind. Every time she blinks she's flashbanged by the remembrance of your tongue circling your mouth and chin to lick it all up - to lick her up, your eyes far away, pupils huge. You wipe your mouth with the heel of your hand and then lick that up too, and she crosses one leg over her knee and squeezes.

It’s enough sensation to make her moan. She drops her forehead against the steering wheel of her car.

This is unbearable. It’s immature, and she knows it, but she’s been taking lunch in her car ever since you’d fucked in her office. The  tension between the two of you was unbearable. Easy conversation, quiet, giggly gossip, all of it was stilted or non-existent now.

Twenty minutes left in her lunch. She can’t live like this anymore. She wants her favorite graduate assistant back. She wants to stop hiding in her car, to stop second guessing every word that comes out of her mouth.

Rebecca scrolls through her contacts until she finds the one person she knows will have lived experience with this sort of thing.

“Leon, hey! Are you busy?”

For her? Never.

She dances around the topic like she’s meant for it, lobbing prying questions at him until he grows sick of her obvious deflection.

“Rebecca,” Leon sighs. “This is great and all. Why'd you call?”

It all comes spilling out, picked at the scab and it started bleeding.

“I had sex with my graduate assistant,” she says in a rush. “In my office. On top of lab reports. I had to throw away student work. I couldn't just grade it and give it back to them.”

Silence. Tense, awkward silence. She shouldn’t have called. Oh, god, he definitely thinks she’s a creep and a pervert and he’s going to report her, and –

Leon laughs. Long and loud, like she hasn't heard from him in years. 

“Good for you.”

“What– Leon! This is serious!” She hisses.

“I am serious.” She can imagine him kicking his boots up on his desk. God, he's unbelievable. “What's the big deal? You fucked a grad student. Don't all the professors do that?”

Rebecca stumbles over her words, blubbering for a moment.

“You watch too much porn.”

“It beats what I was doing.”

“I can't believe I have to agree with that.”

“I’m serious,” Leon says. “Don't you have tenure? That's basically the same thing as diplomatic immunity.”

“Those aren't even remotely the same. And no, I don’t. The ‘big deal’ is that it’s wrong. It’s a total abuse of my position as her advisor.”

“Christ, Rebecca. She’s not some undergrad. You’re not out here banging Freshmen.”

“I’m in a position of authority over her. She’s a student.” Rebecca repeats slowly.

Leon must be pinching the bridge of his nose. He takes a moment, lets out a long sigh. It seems to have clicked for him that the purpose of this call is to talk her off the ledge.

He lays it out for her plainly. Check her faculty handbook for potential repercussions, consider finding another member of faculty to take over your advisement if this is something she’s serious about pursuing. It seems simple when he lays it out like that - but the idea of someone else being your advisor, of packing your things up and moving you out of her lab, makes her sick to her stomach.

Maybe it’s what’s best. For you. For her. For the both of you.

“Hey,” Leon says before she can end the call. “Why'd you call me?”

“Well…” The truth dies on her tongue. She knows the reason. It just seems so mean to say out loud. “I knew you wouldn't judge me.”

Leon hums. “Because I have experience fucking people I shouldn't.”

“I didn't say that!”

“Don't have to,” Leon laughs. “All right, doc. Go get your freak on. Let me know how it goes.”

He hangs up before she can chew him out.

“I never should have called him.” She smiles to herself, tossing her phone back into her purse.

You come to her before she can call you to her. You linger in the doorway of her office.

“I don't like hovering,” she reminds you, her voice sing-song. Your gulp is audible.

“Sorry. I just, uh–” You lean out into the hall, glancing around. “They don't have cameras in the offices, right?”

She can't blame you for asking. She had thought the same thing after your first encounter, had even dug through the faculty handbook and made up excuses to discuss the cameras with maintenance.

What she can blame you for is acting all suspicious in the middle of the day, with students milling about and faculty hosting office hours. Rebecca sighs. Her glasses slip down the bridge of her nose, leaving her to peer at you over the top of them. She doesn't miss the way your eyes flit up from her chest. Christ - you're insatiable. She wants to be exasperated, but her stomach churns with a gush of heat instead.

Rebecca waves you in with a curl of her fingers. You're not having this conversation with the door open. It's like your sense of self-preservation was just completely shot. You nudge the door shut, pointing back at it with a question mark tilt of your head.

“We should talk.”

You nod stiffly, eyes steeling over. Oh, you’d prepared yourself for this. She knew that look well, the same one you’d get before she would start poking and prodding at your theories. You draw a chair up to her desk. It kills her to see you looking so serious, but this is necessary. You need to clear the air once and for all.

But neither of you know who to speak first. The silence between you grows. Rebecca’s mind spins with all the things she should say, all the things that she needs to say.

“Let’s find you another advisor.”

Hurt pulls over your features in a flash. Of all the things she could have said, she never should have led with that.

“What?”

“It’s for the best.” Shit, she shouldn’t have said that either. “I’m not–”

“This is retaliatory. It’s bullshit.”

Rebecca fumbles. It is, you’re right, but you’re not supposed to call her on it. You’re supposed to nod, your brow furrowed, to jot down her observations the way you always do.

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” she counters. She can feel her hackles rise, can feel the defensiveness creeping up.

“Well, you are. I don’t want another advisor. I want to talk this out.”

“We can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because it never should have happened in the first place.”

“It did, though,” you snap. “You can’t just pretend it didn’t.”

She can. She can pretend her way through anything. That’s how you belong - you pretend until you’ve got everyone convinced. Why doesn’t it work with you?

“If it’s going to happen again, then you can’t be my graduate assistant.”

Rebecca’s heart stops. Your shoulders pin back, eyes flitting every which way. She can’t believe she said that - you can’t believe she did either, clearly. She hates the silence, wishes you would fill it again, wishes for your knuckles against your hip, for you to hum idly, for your little signs of life.

You stand from your chair. Rebecca mimics the movement, hand itching to reach out and catch your wrist, to keep you there. You’re going to leave, she’s sure of it. She doesn’t care for her reputation, for tenure - she’s losing you and it’s tearing her apart.

But you reach for her. Your fingers tremble when they trace their way up her arm. She steps around her desk and into you. You dip to kiss her, lips hovering inches from hers. Afraid to close that gap, afraid it’s the wrong thing to do. Maybe it is.

It doesn’t feel like it, though. She cranes her head, seals her mouth with yours. The caution gives way to desperation when you realize she’s not stepping back. Your hands tug at her dress shirt, untuck it from her slacks. You walk her backwards, back towards her desk - and she almost wants to laugh at how you’ve gotten this way again.

“Not on the desk.” Rebecca digs her heels in, voice firm. She flattens a palm against the back of your neck and loops a finger through your belt loop, pulling you with her as she navigates around her desk by muscle memory. 

You trot after her obediently. The moment before she plops into her chair, you catch her wrist. Carefully, you spin your way into her chair. Your hands curl on her hips and drag her to straddle one of your thighs. Her cunt drags against your leg, her toes pointed to the ground. Your hands curl at her hips, moving her back and forth against your leg. Once she’s found a rhythm on her own, you fumble with the buttons of her shirt.

Rebecca knows there’s students milling about - it’s not quite after hours. You could get caught at any moment. The other faculty are already gone for the day, but that doesn’t mean the risk is zero. It spurs her hips a little faster, excitement pooling in her stomach. Your other leg bounces erratically as you shove her shirt down her arms. 

Your hands are chilly against her flushed skin but your mouth is warm on her chest. You tug her bra down, push the cups aside just to latch onto her nipple. Your tongue swirls, flicks, teeth scraping experimentally, trying to figure out what will make her arch.

Can she cum like this? Both of you must be wondering. Her breath comes quick, her hips stuttering. No way. There’s no way.

Rebecca plants a hand at the base of your neck before you can find out. Proper experimentation can come later. She wobbles off of your leg, trying to ignore the way her pussy is practically dripping.

“What’s wrong?” You say, managing to pull your language processing together.

“I want your mouth again,” she pouts.

She’s never seen you move so fast. Your hands settle on her hips, flexing impatiently. You whirl her around, settle her into the chair you’d just been in, and crater to your knees. She has half a mind to ask if that hurt, but the scent of your arousal, or hers, or both, has her feeling lightheaded.

“Good girl,” Rebecca breathes out, her head smacking back against her cabinet. Your eager hands wiggle her slacks down. She strokes your hair as you prepare her, adjusting her limbs as needed. Her eyes slip shut, trying to catch her breath before you steal it from her again.

You bury your face between her thighs, nosing a stripe along her panties. Her legs tighten around your head. You lap at her through the cloth, moaning at the faintest taste, your thumbs digging into her hips.

You look up at her, dumb with lust. You’re pleading to take these off her, to lick your way between her folds. She lifts her hips and you dive in, all the permission you need to rip these off of her. You wad them in your palm, your hand disappearing into your pants. Heat flares through her, need pulsing. She’s already wet, already so ready.

Rebecca's fingers grip your hair tight. There's a surprising amount of strength in her hold, keeping you away from her pussy. It’s torture for the both of you, but the delay, the way you’re looking up at her - fuck, that’s hot.

She's unrecognizable, looking down her nose at you, pretty pink lips parted slightly. Her grip in your hair slackens and you surge forward.

You lick and such your way into her, hands roaming her skin. There’s nothing reserved to your movements, not like the first time. You make out with her pussy, devouring every inch you can reach. Rebecca cries out, high-pitched, needy. She stuffs her fist into her mouth, head smacking back into the cabinets hard. Her stomach spasms, pleasure curling her toes and rippling up through the rest of her body. Your palm splays against her, pats her tummy - the only bit of control, of reasoning that either of you have left.

You flatten your tongue against her and shake your head from side to side. Her back arches, each pass of your tongue stoking the fire in her belly higher. It spreads down her limbs, tingles in her finger tips.

“Wait, wait, wait–” Rebecca babbles, tugging your head closer, her hips rutting against your face. 

The kindling in the pit of her stomach expands, singes through her limbs. She cums, gushing into your mouth, down your chin. Your mouth closes over her, drinking down everything she gives. You keep circling her clit - harder, not faster - pulling everything she has to give from her body until she spasms in her chair, her thighs clamping tightly around your face.  Her body curls over you, forearms bracketing your head, muscles twinging.

The come down hits hard. She’s pulled muscles she wasn’t even sure it was possible to pull. She has got to stop letting you eat her out in these uncomfortable chairs (but it’s hard to argue with results).

Finally, when she manages to pull all her bones back together, she rolls her chair back just enough so she’s not smothering you. Though from the pitiful look in your eye when she pulls away, from the way your hand reaches out to her, you might have preferred if she didn’t.

“Don’t make me go.”

Your voice is soft. Rebecca shuts her eyes, allows herself this risky moment of peace. Her hand strokes your forehead gently.

“We’ll work something out,” she concedes.

“Really?”

“Yeah. Really.” It’s not smart. She should be saying no, that this was a mistake again. 

She can’t. You would never forgive her. It really would be exploitative of her to go through all of this, to cum in your mouth and then leave you to find someone else, as if this meant nothing.

“I knew you’d cum around.”

You grin, lips shiny with her cum. Rebecca groans. A joke about throwing you out dies before it leaves her lips. Your tongue laps at your bottom lip, almost shy in the movement. Oh, god - she made the right choice, all right.

“Don’t make me regret this.”