gayerthanevertbh

[gayerthanevertbh]

teacher's pet.

chapter vi: the release

n.r masterlist | teacher's pet series

summary: you never thought you'd give in so easily, but you did. especially with the way she looked at you, as if she wanted to take you.

parinings: professor!natasha romanoff x student!reader

warnings minors dni! teacher x student relationship, oral sex (n receiving), dirty talking (from the both of them), g!p natasha, very filthy, flirting (you'll see what i mean), sort of emotional manipulation, age difference (natasha is in her late 30s; reader is in her early 20s), forbidden attraction, dark!natasha, unresolved sexual tension.

note: you've been waiting for this one, haven't you?

The moment Professor Romanoff messaged you, something in your chest fell through the floor. Not violently—no, it dropped like a silk scarf caught in the wind, soft and slow and inevitable. You stared at the name on your screen for a full second longer than necessary, just to feel the weight of it settle. Natasha Romanoff. It still didn't feel real, that she could reach you through a screen, that this version of her—digital, distilled, intimate—was meant for you and you alone.

NATASHA: I'm reading this book called The Queen of Spades. Heard of it?

You didn't. You'd never even heard the title uttered in passing, not once in class, not once in the echo chamber of your literary circle. And yet something about the way she asked made you feel small, like you should have, like you'd already failed an unspoken test. You set your pen down, suddenly hyperaware of the way your fingers trembled and the way your lower lip instinctively tucked itself between your teeth as if your whole body wanted to answer for you.

YOU: no, i haven't. is it any good?

There was a pause—not long enough to calm you, not short enough to ignore—and then her reply came, so casually composed that you could almost hear her voice behind it. That drawl that always held the faintest trace of something foreign. Not quite Russian. Not quite anything. Just her.

NATASHA: Quite getting there, actually. It's late. Why are you still up?

Your throat tightened.

YOU: i have an exam tomorrow

NATASHA: Professor Rogers' class?

There it was. That subtle, almost surgical shift in tone—away from the book and toward you. You didn't know why it made your heart pick up, or why it felt like a touch even though she was nowhere near. You were across campus. Alone in your room. Pages of half-read material sprawled across your desk, the overhead light buzzing faintly above you. And yet—

She felt close.

You stared at the message longer than you should have, your eyes skimming the words again and again, as if there were something hidden in them, something meant only for you, if you could just learn how to read her properly.

You shouldn't be texting her. God, you knew you shouldn't. Not like this. Not after what happened in her office last week—the way her hand had hovered just too long on your thigh, the way her voice had dropped when she told you she was intrigued by you, like the word itself meant something else entirely in her mouth. Something closer to hunger.

Ever since that moment, you haven't been able to stop thinking about her. It wasn't just the way she looked at you—though that alone had the power to keep you awake—but the way her absence had colonized your thoughts. You wonder what would've happened if you hadn't pulled away. If you'd leaned in instead. If she had kissed you.

Would you have told her it was wrong?

Would you have meant it?

You knew the answer. You don't even want to lie to yourself about it anymore. You wouldn't have stopped her. Not because you didn't understand the line between you—but because you wanted her to cross it. Because part of you had been waiting for her to.

And now here she was, past midnight, threading her way into your night like it was nothing. Like it was normal. Like you weren't already holding your breath.

Yearning, you thought. Is that the right term?

"Shit," you mumbled as you got yourself distracted once again and decided to drop your phone and continue reviewing for your exam. By the time the clock hit 12am, you decided to get some sleep. So you turned off your lamp, got into your sweater, and went to bed with the thought of Professor Romanoff in your head. You wanted to look at your phone to see if she had said anything—knowing that she probably did. But the thought of her not saying anything else, that she doesn't need you as much as you needed her, hurts to the core. You sighed heavily under your pillow and watched as the moon rose. It was a cold Sunday midnight, and it felt comforting. 

But what's more comforting is the thought of Professor Romanoff wanting to kiss you again—but this time, on the lips. 

After the exam, you finally went to Peter's party.

You hadn't planned on it—not really. Wanda had invited you the first time, bright-eyed and insistent, and you'd said you were busy. Which wasn't a lie, technically, but it wasn't the whole truth either. Busy meant something else entirely that night. Busy was you curled on the couch with your knees to your chest, phone in hand, texting Professor Romanoff until your eyelids surrendered to sleep and your fingers slackened around the screen.

There had been nothing scandalous about it—just messages, really. Conversations that tiptoed along a line neither of you acknowledged. It wasn't overt. It wasn't confessional. But it lived in that electric hum of silence between replies, in the slow bleed of hours passed just talking. Harmless, maybe. But something about it felt like walking barefoot into a place you weren't meant to be.

Still, you showed up tonight. Not because you wanted to. But because you had to remind yourself—convince yourself—that you still had a foot in this world, that you weren't some ghost flitting through two separate realities.

Wanda was the first to greet you—bright smile, arms outstretched, voice bubbling in that endearing Sokovian cadence. "You came!" she practically beamed. "Finally. Come—have you met Peter yet?"

You offered a noncommittal nod, remembering the brief flash of Peter's face as MJ dropped you off. "He saw me outside, but I don't think we've really met."

Inside, the party was a cacophony of limbs and music and beer breath. Everything felt warm and humid and a little too close. Red cups clinked, someone shouted something incoherent in the distance, and it all made you ache for your phone, like a phantom limb.

"Where can I find some water?" you asked, scanning the chaos for a place to disappear into.

Wanda cocked her head, amused. "Water? Not even one drink?"

"Later," you said, barely audible. "I just need something cold."

The kitchen was marginally quieter, at least less crowded, and you found some comfort in that. Your fingers closed around a chilled water bottle on the counter just as someone stumbled past, jostling you without apology. The bottle slipped—startled from your grip—and you lunged for it too late.

But it didn't hit the floor.

A hand caught it before it could. Firm and steady.

"I've got it," said a voice—warm, gentle, like the start of a Sunday morning.

You turned.

And for a moment, the entire room fell away.

He was tall—ridiculously so—with that effortless, boy-next-door glow, all tousled curls and dimpled charm. There was something wide open about his face. Unthreatening. Like the type of guy who'd apologize for blocking your view at a concert or who said "bless you" every time, without fail.

He smiled, holding the bottle out to you like it was something delicate. "That was a close one. Almost witnessed a tragedy."

You let out a laugh—sharp at first, surprised by it, then softer. "Was it that dramatic?"

"A little," he grinned. "But hey, your hydration journey lives to see another day."

You took the bottle from him, your fingers brushing his. "Thanks."

"I'm Eli," he added, hand now properly extended. You shook it, still a little caught off-guard. 

"I'm—"

"I know," he said before you could finish. "Wanda's told me about you. She says you're smarter than all of us put together."

Your eyebrows arched. "That sounds like something she'd say just to guilt me into coming."

"Maybe. But I believe her. You definitely don't look like someone who enjoys frat basements." he laughed.

You rolled your eyes, but your mouth twitched. "What gave me away?"

"I don't know," he said, squinting like he was studying you. "Maybe it's your... vibe? Is that a weird thing to say?"

"Only a little," you teased.

He grinned again—something bright and sincere in it, the kind of grin that made you want to believe it. You didn't realize it until now, but you were smiling back. You felt it in your cheeks. It had been a while since something like that came without effort.

And maybe that's what made you nervous.

He seemed kind. Genuinely so. Which makes you wonder how dangerous kindness could be in the right—or wrong—hands. Everyone has their own way of being a heartbreaker.

And maybe you were just tired. Tired of chasing shadows, tired of hanging on to every word that came—or didn't come—from someone who made your phone feel like a loaded weapon. Tired of waiting on a woman who never quite said what she meant, who only ever left ellipses where you wanted a sentence.

But Eli was here. Solid. Present. And you did think about Professor Romanoff; you thought that if she messaged now, you would stop talking to this boy and reply to her instead. But you didn't think about her much further and instead smiled at him meekly. 

"You wanna head somewhere quieter?" he asked, gesturing toward a side hallway, somewhere softer than the bass-heavy mess behind you.

And you hesitated—but not long. The pause was there, yes, like a ripple in your chest. But it passed. And when it did, you nodded.

"Yeah," you said quietly. "I'd like that."

Eli led you to the rooftop—up creaking stairs and through a rusted fire escape hatch that protested under his tug—and when you stepped out, the night opened around you like a held breath finally exhaled.

New York unfolded in every direction, lit up like it had something to prove. The skyline blinked and shimmered, an endless sprawl of glass and noise and electricity. It was the kind of view that reminded you that you were a speck in something massive and constantly alive—and for some reason, that thought didn't scare you tonight. Instead, it felt like being gently reminded that you were part of something, even if only briefly.

You stood there for a second, the wind immediately teasing at your sleeves, threading itself through your hair like it had missed you. The air was sharp, cool enough to make you shiver but not enough to move. Somewhere down below, the city went on without you—cars sighing, sirens yawning, laughter rising like bubbles—but up here, it was quiet. Suspended.

Eli set his red cup down on the ledge like it was some kind of offering and glanced sideways at you with a smile that didn't need words. "You look like you've never seen New York before."

You laughed under your breath, pressing your palms to the cold railing. "It's my first time seeing it like this," you murmured, eyes scanning the lights, the miniature world beneath. "It's beautiful."

"Yeah," he said, almost absentmindedly, watching the same cityscape as if it had something personal to say to him. "It really is."

You weren't sure if he meant the view or you. You didn't ask, you rather feel stupid for even thinking that way.

The wind picked up a little, tugging at your sleeves, and you turned to him, watching the way the city light painted faint gold into the edges of his curls. "Where do you go?" 

"Berkeley," he replied. Then, sheepishly: "I know. I'm one of those guys."

You tilted your head with a half-smile. "So—pre-med?"

"God, no. Math," he says as he lets out a small, almost offended laugh.

"Math?" you raised your eyebrows, surprised but not really. "Honestly... yeah. That makes sense. You look like someone who sees the world in numbers."

He pushed his glasses up, a gesture so casually boyish it made you feel like you were seventeen again. "What about you?"

"I go to NYU, I'm taking Literature."

His mouth tugged into a knowing smile. "Wanda told me."

"She did?"

He nodded, slow and thoughtful, his voice dipping lower with the memory. "She talks about you a lot. The first time I met her—at this tiny coffee shop near East 10th—I thought she was a foreign exchange student or something. I go there all the time, and suddenly there she was. I said hi, and she said she only had one American friend, and it was you."

You blinked. You hadn't known she talked about you like that. Maybe you hadn't expected anyone to mention you when you weren't there—least of all with fondness. Something about it made your throat go tight, like you'd been given something and didn't know how to accept it.

You look at Eli. He had the kind of smile that felt like a confession. Kind, sincere, just a little shy in the way it tugged one side of his mouth more than the other. A movie-star smile, but in an indie film. Not the glossy superhero kind, but the kind that appears in soft-lit cafes and stories about people who love quietly. And yet—maybe because of that—he reminded you of Superman anyway. The glasses, the unassuming charm, the good intentions worn plainly on his face.

But you weren't there for good intentions.

Your phone buzzed quietly in your pocket, a phantom tap that wasn't even real—but it didn't matter. You still feel it. Still hear the way Professor Romanoff's name sounded in your head even in silence. You remember the blue glow of your screen at night, the way her words came in broken lines like poetry too afraid of itself to rhyme. She'd say something sharp, or kind, or impossibly tender—and then stop. She'd always stop.

And yet you couldn't stop pulling at the string she gave you, hoping for something to unravel.

You turned away from the ledge, trying not to let that weight ruin this moment.

Eli was watching you—not too closely, not in that invasive way people sometimes look when they want something from you—but just enough to say, I'm here. That was all.

He nudged your shoulder gently with his. "Wanna sit?" he asked, motioning to a patch of concrete near a potted plant that looked like it hadn't seen water since summer.

You nodded, settling beside him.

"I feel like I'm supposed to be more fun at these things," you said. "But I always end up finding the quiet places."

"I think that makes you the smartest person here," he said, and you didn't know whether to laugh or thank him, so you just smiled and let the silence fall again.

For a while, you sat with him like that. Breathing in the city. Feeling something unfold inside you—not quite desire, not quite peace—but something like the beginning of being seen. Really seen.

And maybe, for tonight, that was enough.

As soon as you got home—praying your mother was already asleep, or at the very least too tired to ask questions—you slipped into your room like a shadow. You closed the door behind you softly, as if sealing in the version of yourself that had danced too close to being normal for one night.

Your phone was face-down on the edge of your desk. It buzzed again as you reached for it, but even before you flipped it over, something in your stomach dropped. Cold, sinking. Like guilt. Or like anticipation dressed in its twin.

Six messages. All from her.

NATASHA: Are you ignoring me?

NATASHA: You haven't replied to any of my messages. Are you okay?

NATASHA: Darling, I'm getting worried. You usually text me before 10 p.m. What happened? Are you okay?

NATASHA: Don't tell me you're at a party.

You stared. Not in the words, really, but in the space between them. You could almost hear her voice. Not angry, but tight. Sharp around the edges. She never used the word darling in person. She would only say this through a text or when you two were alone and she's sort of vulnerable, like she needed the extra syllable to cross the distance.

You hesitated, thumb hovering over the screen. Your fingers were suddenly unsteady, caught between telling the truth and something safer. But what would be safer? Would she rather hear you were home studying? Asleep? Still thinking of her?

And what did it mean that you even cared?

You sat on the edge of your bed, unsure why your chest felt tight. Like you were the one who had done something wrong.

Still, you typed.

YOU: I'm so sorry, I was at a party. Don't worry, I'm home safe now.

I was with Wanda and Pietro. I met a guy there. His name's Elijah, short for Eli. He seems nice.

It only took her a minute to reply.

NATASHA: Nice? Every man is nice until he wants to ruin you. A smile is not a promise, it's a warning. 

But I'm sorry—I shouldn't talk to you that way. Did you have fun?

You blinked at the screen. Her words didn't sting so much as they pressed down on you, possessive in a way she tried to wrap in apology. And still, you felt your heart skip.

YOU: I did! I didn't drink though.

Which was true. You hadn't touched the vodka or the tequila Wanda passed around like some rite of passage. You hadn't wanted to. Not because of the taste or the headache, not even the fear of getting caught coming home drunk.

It was her voice. Soft and steady in your head. Don't drink, she had once said, as she poured you a glass of orange juice during office hours, of all things, her thumb brushing your knuckle as she handed it to you. It'll steal your innocence. You don't want to give that away.

Innocence. Like it was something you wore on your body and didn't know how visible it was. Like she could smell it, as if she'd kill anyone who tried to take it from you first.

Lose your innocence? For what?

You stared at the wall for a long moment, before her name lit up your screen again.

NATASHA: I don't like the idea of other people looking at you, especially when you're flushed  and unsure of yourself. It makes you vulnerable. I don't like imagining what they see when they look at you and know you're untouched.

You inhaled sharply.

NATASHA: Do you know what I mean? I shouldn't say this.

The typing bubble reappeared, then stopped. Then again. She was debating with herself in real-time, you thought to yourself in your head. 

NATASHA: Next time... If you go somewhere like that again...

Pause.

NATASHA: —tell me. Please. Just tell me. I'll pick you up, I'll wait outside. I don't care what time it is.

And there it was—that shift. Not the professor, not the woman who gave you reading lists and midterm advice, but the one who texted you like this at midnight—with raw edges and bold confessions she could only offer through a screen. Possessiveness, cloaked in concern. And under that, something even more dangerous: want.

You didn't reply right away, but you didn't delete her messages either. You read them again, and again. Until you could almost hear her breathing them in.

Until you wanted her to say them out loud.

YOU: okay, I will tell you next time.

You were in her office again.

After the weekend—after everything—the room should've felt familiar. It didn't. The space had turned colder in your absence. You noticed it the moment she opened the door and let you in without a word: the air was a touch too sharp, as though someone had left the window cracked open on purpose, letting the chill inside to punish you. Or maybe it was her, sitting like an omen on the couch, half-swathed in shadow, her silence so heavy it made the walls feel like they were leaning in.

You sat at her desk, your fingers trembling ever so slightly as they gripped the pen. The assignment she had given—an essay on the Freudian undertones of Anna Karenina—was suddenly impossible to focus on, not because it was difficult, but because she wouldn't look at you. She was just there, on the couch, legs crossed, a book in her hand, eyes unmoving. She might as well have been a statue carved out of grief and intellect. Beautiful and terrifying and unreadable.

Still, you felt her. Oh God, you felt her.

Her silence wasn't stillness—it was noise. Loud, screaming silence that rang in your ears and scratched at the inside of your chest.

"Are you okay?" you asked her from across the room, the question coming out far smaller than you intended.

She didn't answer. Didn't even blink. She was as silent as a cat, and you hated it. 

"I mean... you haven't talked to me since I got here," you murmured again, this time less a question than a confession. But you didn't get anything, nothing. No flinch, no flick of her eyes. Just the casual, torturous sound of a page turning between her fingers. She was silent the way a storm is silent before it breaks.

You glanced at her. 

Once. 

Then again. 

"Professor?"

And then she spoke—sharp, detached, a little cruel. "Finish your assignment, Y/N."

"I can't when you're ignoring me."

That made her laugh, and you didn't like the sarcasm within her voice. 

"Ignoring you?" she echoed, soft and bitter. "I'm not ignoring you."

"You can't even look at me."

"That's different from a response."

You stood then. You weren't even sure why—something inside you cracked at the center and sent you walking toward her before you'd thought it through. Your steps were hesitant, but your chest burned with the need to close the distance. When you reached the couch, she finally looked up.

And when she did, her eyes—those usually bright, glinting-green eyes—were darker. Not angry, no. Just... fogged. Like she'd buried something too deep and it had begun to leak to the surface. She looked at you the way someone might look at a bruise they didn't want to admit they pressed too hard into.

"I tried texting you," you said, quiet and almost pleading. "But you barely responded."

"I've been... busy." She closed her book, her tone brittle, her eyes suddenly avoiding yours. She laid the book in her lap, fingertips still on the cover like she needed something to anchor her hands. "Y/N," she said softly. "Don't look at me like that."

"Like what, Professor Romanoff?"

There was a stillness then, something too tender and too tense to name. You watched as her lips parted, but no words came.

You should've stayed still, you should've left. Yet you're here, wishing you've done something but what you did next.

You knelt onto the floor. 

It was instinct, not obedience—this slow, quiet collapse before her knees, not because she demanded it, but because your body couldn't do anything else. She looked down at you like she couldn't believe what she was seeing, like something fragile had broken in the center of her chest and she wasn't sure if she wanted to catch it or let it fall.

“I didn’t know any other way to make you see me,” you murmured, your voice catching somewhere between guilt and desire. Your hand crept onto her thigh—tentative, reverent—fingers splayed like you were afraid she might shatter beneath your touch. You let your palm linger, trailing upward toward the heavy metal of her zipper, drawn by gravity and something darker, something magnetic.

Professor Romanoff turned her head and looked at you then—not startled, not quite surprised, but solemn. As if she’d been waiting for this, dreading it, needing it all at once. Her fingers slid into your hair, and then tightened—slowly, deliberately, with just enough pressure to make your scalp tingle. She held you like that, suspended, as if daring you to move.

You didn’t know what you were doing, not really. You weren’t trained for this—this game, this weight, this heat. But you also didn’t want to stop. You didn’t want to run. You didn’t want to regret it later, lying in your bed with your knees curled and your hands empty.

You saw the outline beneath the fabric then—thick, defined, unmistakable. And God, something inside you uncoiled. You bent forward, slow as a prayer, and pressed your lips against the zipper. The fabric was warm from her body. The gesture was almost absurd in its reverence.

She let out a sound—low, guttural, like something she hadn’t meant to give away. A strained moan. A break.

“You don’t have to do this,” she whispered, and there was something genuine in it—something caught between guilt and longing.

“But I want to,” you replied, barely breathing.

And you did.

You moved again, this time with less fear, your hands grazing the soft inside of her thighs, feeling the way her breath hitched, how she almost leaned into it. Still, she didn’t touch you. She didn’t guide you or stop you. She just watched—quiet, waiting, trembling with restraint.

Her legs parted slightly, and then more. A slow invitation. Her fingers moved to her waistband, and she pulled the zipper down with practiced ease, her pants sliding over her hips and down to her thighs.

And then she was there—undressed, exposed, the tension of restraint finally cracking.

Her cock sprang free, heavy and flushed, no longer confined. And you, kneeling before her now, felt the moment stretch—dangerous, electric, sacred. Like everything had changed and could never go back.

And there it was.

The faint outline of her cock under the waistband of her trousers—angry, veiny, and hard. It made your breath catch. You didn't realize how big she was, how much your mouth watered from the way her tip was leaking of pre-cum. Her cock was glistening in arousal, and you wished that you thought about this first—but she felt it, and you knew it. 

Her hand drifted down, fingers brushing your cheek with something that felt like regret.

"You're still wearing your uniform," she said softly, her thumb grazing your lower lip. "Good girl."

You looked up at her, seeking one last moment of hesitation. Her eyes only said please. You wrapped your hand around her length and pulled down. 

"F-Fuck," she muttered as she fisted her other hand, biting into her knuckles. "Fuck—baby, you're going to kill me..."

You leaned forward, mouth parted, and kissed the head of it first—soft, reverent. Her body responded instantly, her hand sliding into your hair, gripping just tight enough to make you feel owned. There was no turning back now, you knew that. As soon as you felt the tip in your mouth, you thought how warm it was. It was too big for your mouth, but you wanted to take it. You closed your eyes as you went a little deeper, and you could feel Professor Romanoff's hips twitching. 

It wasn't about the size or the shape or the speed. It was the weight of it—the act itself. The quiet desperation, the closeness even. The way she exhaled through her nose, trying not to break. You hollowed your cheeks and sucked slowly, carefully, letting her hips rock just a little in time with your rhythm.

"God," she whispered. "You look so—"

She didn't finish.

She just watched. One hand in your hair, the other fisted tight in the couch cushion. Her jaw was slack, head tilted slightly back. You could hear her breath changing. Every soft sound she made—a gasp, a whisper, a low curse—felt like it went straight through you, like you were feeding off the way she unraveled.

"You shouldn't be so good at this," she whispered like it was only meant for her to hear as she sat up straight, her hand not leaving your hair. You pull away from her length as she watches the string of your saliva connected to her tip. 

You start stroking her fast. 

"You like my cock?" Professor Romanoff asked as her chest rises, her other hand suddenly now on your jaw as she pushes the tip back into your lips. "You like this, doll? Hm? Come on, take my cock, sweetheart..."

You pulled back slightly, letting your tongue trace along her veiny length, your voice feather-soft. "I'm only good because it's you."

Her hips bucked—just slightly, involuntarily as you hear her breath choke.

"You're dangerous," she muttered, pulling your head down again, a little rougher this time, but still with that same trembling reverence. "So sweet and so dangerous."

"You're dangerous," she muttered again, breath hitched and eyes half-lidded with something between awe and heat, "so fucking sweet—too fucking sweet."

Your mouth opened wider for her, lips stretched, spit pooling down your chin as you took more of her in, your throat working to accommodate her. She was thick, heavy, pulsing hot on your tongue, and the moment she bottomed out against the back of your throat, your eyes fluttered shut, your hands clutching at her thighs to steady yourself.

Her fingers tangled deeper into your hair and tightened, making your scalp burn just the way you needed it to. "Look at you," she hissed. "On your knees for your professor like a good little fucktoy. My good girl."

A groan tore from her chest as you bobbed your head slowly, swallowing around her with careful, needy rhythm. You were trying to impress her. You wanted to impress her. You wanted to be ruined by her.

She lets her head fall back against the couch with a thud, hips bucking slightly into your mouth. "So fucking eager," she moaned, eyes closed as her breath started to stutter. "Did you think about this all weekend? Huh? Did you touch that little cunt thinking about my cock in your mouth?"

You whimpered around her, your nails digging into the fabric of her slacks as your thighs pressed tightly together, aching. You took her deeper, feeling yourself gagging as you felt the tip of her cock hitting the back of your throat. The truth is, you did think about this moment. But you never, ever, touched yourself for it. Not because you didn't want to, but because you knew that it was wrong. 

"Oh, baby," she gasped, almost laughing, wrecked by the sight of you. "You're fucking soaked, aren't you? All wet and needy in your little uniform, like the filthy little academic slut you are."

You moaned shamelessly and muffled with a whimper.

"That's it," she growled, her hips rolling forward in small, slow thrusts. "Gag on it a little—good girl, yes, just like that."

Tears sprang in your eyes as she fucked into your throat, shallow but firm. You weren't choking—but you wanted to. You wanted the mess, the praise and the way she's unraveling. You wanted to break yourself apart on her and make her forget every other goddamn thing in her life.

She pulled you back by the hair with a wet pop, your spit clinging to her cock in long strings. You were panting, lips swollen, tongue out, desperate.

"Stroke it," she ordered. "Look at me and fucking jerk it, baby."

You wrapped your hand around her again, twisting your wrist, slick and tight, the way you hoped she liked. You glanced up through your lashes. Her chest was heaving now, one hand dragging down her own throat, the other squeezing your jaw hard enough to bruise.

"You like it?" she sneered, voice breaking. "You like Professor's cock?"

You nodded as you furiously jerked off her length. "I love it."

"Yeah? Say it, baby. Say you love my cock."

"I love your cock, Professor," you breathed, licking from the base up to the tip again. "It's so big—too big, I can't—"

"You can," she growled. "And you fucking will."

With that, she pushed herself back into your mouth again, this time with abandon. Her hand guided your rhythm now—harder, faster, like she was chasing something she knew would destroy her if she ever reached it.

"That's it, my perfect little mouth," she hissed, her thighs tensing on either side of your head. "I should keep you under my desk like this, suck me off while I grade your fucking papers. Would you like that, baby?"

You moaned around her, tears running down your face now, wetting your lashes, your lips bruised from how hard you'd been sucking her. You thought about how she would want you under her desk, your mouth wrapped around her cock as she graded your papers. You could feel your core tingling as you thought about it. 

"I bet you'd love it," she groaned. "Being used. Being owned."

Your hands are trembling now, one still working the base of her shaft, the other clawing uselessly at her thigh. She was getting louder, breath hitching, voice cracking as her composure crumbled.

"Fuck, you're gonna make me cum," she warned, her voice ragged, broken. "Fuck—baby—where do you want it? Huh?"

You whimpered again, pulling off with a gasp, pumping her now with both hands. She leans her torso close to you as she removes your hand from her shaft, her hand now jerking her cock. 

"In my mouth, please—Professor!"

"Oh, fuck—" she grunted, one hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping the arm of the couch as she tipped her head back and came.

Hot and thick and endless, spilling her cum across your tongue and down your throat. You swallowed greedily, tears still streaming down your cheeks, moaning as you cleaned her up with your mouth, worshipfully. You didn't think about the time you had to go home, you didn't think about Wanda or Eli in your head. You knelt there, swallowing her cum like it was a job—an assignment. She moans under you as she keeps your head in place, her cum still spilling out from her tip furiously. 

When she finally stilled—her entire frame slack with release, the tremors in her thighs ebbing like the last aftershocks of something cataclysmic—she stared down at you with an expression that made your lungs stall. It wasn’t lust, not entirely, though that still lingered like a pulse between you. It was reverence, perhaps. Or disbelief. The kind of look one reserves for the aftermath of miracles, or for things one knows they’ll never quite recover from. Her breath stuttered, her skin damp with sweat, and yet she looked almost shattered in the most exquisite way, as though undone by something too sacred to name.

You let your head rest against the soft inside of her thigh, chest rising and falling in shallow waves as you tried to find your breath again. Her cock, still glistening and twitching against her lower abdomen, throbbed with the last shreds of sensation. Above you, her fingers moved through your hair—slowly now, reverently—petting, stroking, like you were something breakable. Something owned.

“Look at me,” she said.

Her voice had gentled, but it carried weight. And because it was her, you obeyed.

Your eyes met hers. Your lips were parted, slick and aching, the taste of her still pooling thickly on your tongue. Your pupils were blown wide, eyes fogged in that post-surrender daze that made everything feel liquid, timeless. You were shaking slightly, not from fear but from the sheer immensity of it all—her voice, her want, the ghost of her still inside you.

“I should punish you,” she whispered then, her gaze hardening just enough to make your blood turn warm again, your thighs clench. “You walked in here knowing exactly what you were doing. You came here wanting this, you wanted me.”

You nodded—barely, but it was there. And then, wordlessly, you shifted your weight, rose from the floor and curled up beside her on the couch. You leaned in, not quite touching, your lips close enough to catch the quiet tremor in your own breath.

“I needed it,” you murmured.

And she—God, she smiled.

But it wasn’t a smile meant for comfort. It was twisted in some places, haunted around the edges. A smirk built of conflict, as though some part of her regretted what she’d allowed to happen, and yet another part—stronger, darker—ached for more. Her eyes dropped to your mouth like it was a sin she’d chosen willingly. “That mouth,” she said, voice threadbare, almost reverent. “It’s going to ruin me.”

Then her hand lifted again, slow and deliberate, fingers curling lightly around your throat—not to hurt, not to scare, but simply to remind you. Of what you are to her now. What you’d become. What she’d allowed.

You lean into it.

She inched closer, her lips brushing against the side of your neck. When she kissed you there, it wasn’t gentle. It was a sound—her moan—that reached through your spine and rooted itself there, made you shiver against her grip as you gasped, trembling.

“From now on,” she murmured, each word pressing into your skin like a mark, “you come here. Every day. You come here and you let me have you, again and again. Until you don’t know where your body ends and mine begins, until I’ve ruined you.”

Her other hand cupped your jaw now, firm, possessive. Her forehead touched yours, a closeness that felt more intimate than anything she'd done to you earlier.

“You can’t tell anyone,” she said.

She didn’t need to say that. You’d known it from the moment you sank to your knees in front of her. You’d known the moment her fingers tangled in your hair and held you there. And still, you didn’t care. You didn’t care if this ended badly. You didn’t care if it ended at all. Because for now, you were here, with her. You were in it. And that was enough.

“I won’t,” you whispered.

And that made her smile again—that dangerous, almost unhinged smile. Like she knew just how much power she had over you now.

Like she planned to never give it back.

taglist: @aru-son@ihartnat@blackwidowbabe@snowdrop1026@m4ddie3@ciaoooooo111@mrsrushman @mviswidow @slutforabbyanderson @loch-nesia

[gayerthanevertbh]

would you like to see natasha’s perspective in teacher’s pet?

[gayerthanevertbh]

i just know zora bennett has a big dick

[gayerthanevertbh]

Somebody's spoiling us

😝

[gayerthanevertbh]

nothing beats

[gayerthanevertbh]

teacher's pet.

chapter v: the touch of your hand, the mouth on my neck

n.r masterlist | teacher's pet series

summary: you were in her office again, but this time professor romanoff makes a huge turn.

parinings: professor!natasha romanoff x student!reader

warnings minors dni! teacher x student relationship, suggestive content (from natasha), sort of emotional manipulation, age difference (natasha is in her late 30s; reader is in her early 20s), forbidden attraction, dark!natasha, unresolved sexual tension.

note: you will enjoy this chapter.

"You seem very quiet."

You could hardly meet your mother’s eyes as you took small, mechanical bites of your dinner. The food was warm, familiar, and something you’d usually love—but it might as well have been cardboard. Outside, rain was tracing frantic lines down the windowpane, a soft percussive tapping filling the silence between you both. It had been raining for days—an unending deluge that made the world feel soggy, grey, and slightly off. You wondered when the sun would come back, when warmth would settle again across your skin and your bones.

You told yourself it was just the weather. Just a season. But something in you can’t help but feel that the rain was reflecting more than climate—something internal. Maybe the storm mirrored that complicated ache inside your chest, the one that started every time Professor Romanoff looked at you too long or not long enough.

But then you shake the thought away like water off a raincoat. It was too much. Too dramatic. Too... revealing.

Still, your silence stretched long enough for your mother to glance at you again. “Are you okay, honey? You’ve been quiet lately.”

You force a tiny smile, eyes fixed on the blurred cityscape outside. “Just kind of tired,” you said, keeping your voice casual, shrugging like it didn’t mean anything. “I’ve been focusing a lot on my subjects.”

Technically true, and rather technically safe. 

She hummed softly, concern lacing her tone. “I don’t want you to burn out, sweetheart. Yes, NYU is important, but it’s not worth drowning yourself over. I wouldn’t want you to push until there’s nothing left in you.”

“I’m not drowning,” you replied too quickly, then softened it. “It’s just the class I have. I don’t know. I feel like I’m failing, or... like I’m not doing enough.”

“Why would you say that?” she asked, her brow knitting with the same gentle worry she always wore. “You’ve never failed at anything in your life. You’re too smart for that; you always have been.”

You looked down at your plate, the compliment hitting like a pebble in a well—disappearing into something deeper. Was that all she saw when she looked at you? A bright girl? A diligent one? Someone who couldn’t possibly fall apart quietly in a seminar room while a red-haired woman with sharp eyes and a voice like velvet dissected Tolstoy and left you trembling in your seat without ever touching you?

Did she know you were reading Anna Karenina not for the syllabus but to learn her language? Did she know you were memorizing the curve of Natasha’s sentences the way some girls memorized love songs, just in case she ever asked what you thought?

You wanted to tell her. You want to say: There’s this professor, and I think she knows the parts of me I haven’t even named yet. But how do you explain that to your mother, who still packed you apples for long days and kissed your forehead like you were still ten? How do you explain a longing that doesn’t have a name, only a shape—the shape of a hand brushing yours in a car while rain fell hard outside?

Instead, you scraped the last of your dinner with your fork and said, “I’m just struggling.”

It was the safest version of the truth.

She nodded sympathetically, reaching over to squeeze your arm, and you leaned into it just enough to keep her from asking more. Then you stood, grabbing your tote bag from the floor. You kissed her cheek the way you always did before retreating to your room. “I’ll be fine, Mom. Don’t worry.”

And you meant it. At least, you wanted to.

Behind your bedroom door, the weight of the day pressed against your spine. You leaned against it, letting out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, your thoughts still drifting back to the way Natasha had said goodbye—not with words, but with fingers slipping between yours like a secret she almost wished you would keep.

Outside, thunder rolled again. You couldn’t stop smiling.

You went to check your phone.

And for a moment, you weren’t just a girl with an essay due. You were something else. You were becoming a prey to someone's predator. 

Were you the teacher’s pet?

Maybe.

But tonight, that didn’t feel like a bad thing at all.

----

She did not look at you today.

It’s only been thirty minutes into her class, and still—nothing. Not even a flicker of eye contact. Not even that quiet, almost imperceptible smile she used to offer when your answers surprised her. Not even a nod when you slid into your usual seat, two rows closer than you needed to be.

You kept glancing at her anyway, like a fool begging for scraps. Maybe if you breathed a little louder, maybe if you shifted in your chair, maybe if you answered too quickly when she asked something rhetorical—maybe she’d glance over. Maybe something in her jaw would soften. Maybe you’d be seen again.

But she was ice today. And not in the way she usually was—sharp, elegant, and slow to melt. No, this was something else. This was withdrawal. Pure fucking withdrawal.

But lo and behold, Professor Romanoff kept her composure cold and didn’t even look at you.

She stood at the front of the room, tall and severe in black slacks and a navy blouse, her red hair tied back as if she couldn’t be bothered with softness today. She moved with her usual elegance, her hand slicing the air with each thought, chalk clicking delicately against the board, her words fluid and clipped and sure. She spoke of Tolstoy today—The Kreutzer Sonata—and how passion, when left unchecked, can rot into something monstrous. How love can masquerade as obsession. How destruction often comes dressed in devotion. Her voice was steady, professorial, and absolute, like nothing in the world could shake her—but you felt the shift, the difference. The subtle way she refused to even glance in your direction. Like you were radioactive now. Like the memory of you lived in her throat, and she was holding her breath.

It stung. It wasn’t just cold—it was clinical. A refusal of acknowledgment. You could’ve been a stranger, someone who hadn’t sat across from her in her office for hours on end, dissecting lines from Nabokov like secrets you both knew too well. Someone whose hands she hadn’t dared to touch in the dark, whose voice she hadn’t once said she found “oddly comforting.” All that tenderness, buried under her perfectly measured detachment.

You sat in your usual seat, front row, slightly to the left. You had chosen it because it was close to her, because from there, you could hear the undercurrent of warmth in her voice when she answered your questions and could feel the way her attention lingered just a little longer than it should have when you spoke. But today, it felt like you were invisible. Not even invisible—untouched, unwelcome, a name on the roster she was trying to forget how to pronounce.

She didn’t call on you, not once. Even when you raised your hand slowly, subtly, pretending like it was just a reflex. She ignored it and pivoted to another student. Some guy from the back row mumbled something half-baked about how passion is destructive, and she smiled at him. Smiled. It wasn’t the smile she used with you—it wasn’t the one she’d worn in the car that night, the one that flickered like she was afraid of how real it felt—but it still made your jaw clench, your pen tighten in your grip.

"The narrator believes that love is a form of ownership," she said, gesturing toward the quote scrawled in cursive behind her. "'She belonged to me,' he says, as if love gives us that right. As if intimacy erases autonomy." She paused, eyes moving from left to right, skipping right over you like a scratch on a vinyl record. "This is what Tolstoy feared—that obsession disguises itself as romance, and society lets it."

You stared at her hands. Obsession, you thought. Was she pointing out the fact that you have grown obsessed with her presence? How could she possibly know? 

She paused, letting the silence stretch, eyes moving from left to right, skipping right over you like a scratch on a vinyl record. “This is what Tolstoy feared—that obsession disguises itself as romance, and society lets it.”

You stared at her hands. Obsession, you thought. Was that her message? Was she pointing out the fact that you had grown obsessed with her presence? How could she possibly know? Maybe she didn’t. Maybe she did. Maybe she felt it, like a mirror fogged up from the inside.

You looked away because you knew that was safer. Her hands were always careful when she spoke—elegant, expressive. They were hands that had touched yours not long ago, when the rain was howling against the car windows and she told you to stay safe like she meant something else entirely. You thought of the way her fingers had lingered, how she held your hand like it was something she wasn’t supposed to want. How she’d let go too fast, and how it still didn’t feel like she really had.

“The language is deliberate,” she continued, pacing slowly in front of the whiteboard. “She belonged to me. Not ‘she was with me,’ or ‘she loved me.’ Belonged. It's the way one might talk about a watch, or a gun.”

A hand shot up near the middle row. Some boy—fresh-faced, probably a business major taking Lit for extra credit. She gave a clipped nod. “Yes?”

“I mean,” he said, shrugging, “isn’t it kind of romantic though? The narrator clearly loved her. I think it’s just intense passion. It’s dramatic, yeah, but that’s what love is sometimes.”

Something in Natasha’s jaw twitched. She smiled—that dangerous kind of smile that doesn’t reach the eyes. It was thin, almost surgical. She does not like his opinion, you thought. And heck, you wanted to laugh even. But you sat there, keeping your mouth shut. 

“Romantic,” she repeated slowly, like she was trying the word on her tongue and finding it sour. “Interesting.”

The room shifted with tension as you held your breath.

“Tell me,” she said, walking toward the center aisle now, that smile still tugging unnaturally at the corner of her mouth. “When someone tells you that you belong to them, do you find that flattering? Would you call that love?”

The student faltered. “I mean, I guess it depends—”

“No,” she cut in, her voice firm now, no softness left in it. “It doesn’t. Obsession is not love. Control is not care. There is no romance in possessiveness—there’s just fear. And fear has never been a substitute for love, not in life, and certainly not in literature.”

The room fell quiet. She turned back to the board like she hadn’t just peeled the skin off the moment before. But her movements were tighter now, her writing sharper, almost angry. You didn't want to see that version of her, you winced.

The lecture dragged on like a punishment. Your eyes traced the way she moved, how her heels clicked softly across the floor, and how her gaze floated past you over and over again like a border you weren’t allowed to cross. You didn’t ask a question, even when you wanted to. You didn’t say a word. If she was building a wall, you weren’t going to throw stones at it—you were just going to sit there and wonder what the hell had shifted since that night, since the warmth of her palm wrapped over yours like a secret.

When she dismissed the class, she didn’t look up—and you didn’t stay. You just walked out like a shadow slipping from its body—and yes, it hurt—but who were you to her? No one. Just a student. She’s a professor—composed, older, probably seeing someone who fits into her world—and you? You were the mistake she never made. Too young, too out of reach, and rather too much. You knew it. You did. Still, with every step toward your next class, something ached so badly inside you it almost buckled—and you wished, just for a second, that the ground would split open and take you whole.

Your class ended before you even realized it. The professor’s voice was just a blur by the final five minutes, and your eyes were already scanning the clock, timing your exit to catch the next bus.

Wanda had been beside you earlier, tugging at your arm, all bubbly energy and warnings: “Don’t be late for Peter’s party, okay? I’ll swing by your apartment around seven.” You smiled and agreed without hesitation. But walking alone now, you wondered—shouldn’t you be the one picking her up? Wanda always seemed to be darting from one borough to the next, like she’d swallowed the whole of New York and was still hungry.

You stood by the waiting shed, the late afternoon light settling over everything like a sigh. You were zoning out, staring down the street where your bus should’ve appeared by now, when your phone buzzed in your pocket. You didn’t expect much—maybe Wanda again. But when you pulled it out and saw the name on the screen, your heart shifted strangely in your chest.

NATASHA: I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you today in class, I've been having a rough day.

Where are you?

You stared at the message for a second too long. You hadn’t expected anything from her. Not today, especially the way she avoided your eyes the entire lecture. But there it was—her reaching out again. Like she always seems to do right when you are about to let go of the string between you.

You type quickly, your eyes flicking down the road again.

YOU: Just waiting for my bus. And that’s okay, I understand.

She replied almost immediately.

NATASHA: Do you want to stop by my office? Just for an hour. I have a meeting later tonight, but I’d like to see you.

You held the phone in your hand, hesitating. An hour. One hour. That’s all she was offering. You told yourself it was innocent, it's just her being kind. She didn’t owe you anything—you were just a student, a name on her head—a girl she sometimes smiled at too long. I want her to look at me like that again.

Still, the mention of a meeting stuck to your ribs like cold water. You wanted to ask: With who? But you didn’t. You wouldn’t. That wasn’t your place. Instead, you turned from the bench and began walking back to the building, your pace light, but your stomach fluttering.

Just an hour, you whispered to yourself.

When you walked into her office, the door clicked shut behind you. The room felt warm in the way only her spaces did—dim lighting, that constant smell of cinnamon and coffee beans, papers stacked in controlled chaos. There were papers everywhere on her desk, like it's been touched and untouched. And somehow, you found it peaceful.

“I made coffee,” she said softly, stepping around her desk with a mug in each hand. Her voice was calm, but something about her eyes—dark, tired—felt more raw than usual. “I wasn’t sure if you’d like it.”

You took the mug gratefully. The scent hit you before the heat did—strong, bitter. You peeked inside: no milk, no sugar. Not your thing at all. Still, you brought it to your lips, taking a cautious sip. The bitterness sliced across your tongue and made your jaw twitch, but you tried not to show it.

She chuckled under her breath. “You hate it.”

“I don’t—” you coughed gently. “I mean, it’s just… not what I’m used to.”

“I ran out of sugar, I'm sorry. It’s fine if you don’t want to finish it.”

“No, I’ll drink it,” you said quickly, like you were trying to prove something. “It’s good. Just… adult-tasting.”

She smiled at that, her lips curving in that slow, quiet way that made you want to hide under a blanket. “Adult-tasting, huh? So you like everything sweet?”

You nodded slowly, still holding the mug close to your chest. “Sugar makes me happy,” you murmured, almost embarrassed. “I guess people your age like it bitter.”

Her smile didn’t waver. She took the seat across from you, curling one leg beneath her, like she wasn’t your professor at all—just someone you liked talking to. “That’s a little stereotypical,” she said, “but fair.”

For a moment, the room went quiet, save for the occasional clink of your mugs and the low hum of the building’s air conditioner. You let yourself glance at her face as you noticed the shadows under her eyes, the slightly smudged mascara, the way her fingers tapped against the ceramic like she was holding something in. She looked so beautiful, yet underneath all of that persona—you don't know whether she is a real person or not. 

“Did you have a long day?” she asked finally, her voice darker than usual—you could feel your stomach churning from that voice. 

You nodded. “Had to do three group reports. It was... draining.”

She made a soft noise of sympathy as she placed her hand on your knee, like she would always do whenever you two were alone.

 “Poor thing.”

You looked down at her hand, barely brushing your knee, and something inside you fluttered—no, sank. Not because it hurt, but because it felt too good. You wanted her to press it down, to claim you in some silent, discreet way that said: I know. You were begging for it without saying a word, the way people beg when they know asking out loud might make the thing vanish altogether. In your head, something trembled. The thought of telling her—God, if you did, would she laugh? Smile politely? Call it what it is: inappropriate, foolish, immature. But the thing inside you kept blooming, uninvited. You imagine leaning in and saying, I think I’ve always liked you. Not just admired you, not just looked up to you—liked you. You imagined her turning away, and yet you longed for that moment anyway. You needed her hand, not just resting but holding. Because you were already held in ways you couldn’t explain, already undone by every accidental graze. Wanting her was like thirst you refused to name—it lived at the bottom of everything.

Then she added, quieter this time, “Smart girl.”

It slipped from her lips like a breath she hadn’t meant to take, the kind that startles you with how alive it feels the moment it leaves. A whisper—not just quiet, but confessional, unguarded, like something that had been waiting in the hollow of her throat for too long. You looked up, jolted—not by the volume but by the intimacy of it, the way it wrapped around the space between you two like steam rising from something too warm, too sudden.

She blinked, as if hearing her own voice for the first time, as if her mouth had outrun her mind. And you watched her, frozen, caught in that liminal moment when something has been said and you don't yet know what it means—if it’s a mistake, a doorway, or a cliff.

Inside you, panic and hope collided like waves on a sharp shore. Did she mean it? Did she regret it already? Were you supposed to pretend it hadn’t happened, or—worse—were you supposed to answer it? Something in you wanted to reach for her, to say, I heard you. I’m still here. But something else—something smaller, more cowardly, more sixteen years old than you’d like to admit—held you back. Because what if this was the moment that ruined everything? What if this wasn’t a gift, but a fracture? What if she hadn’t meant to let you see her at all?

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, her voice roughening. “About earlier. I should’ve said something in class. I didn’t mean to ignore you.”

You shake your head, brushing it off. “It’s okay, you don’t have to explain anything.”

“I do,” she said, more firmly. “I think I owe you that.”

You don’t know what to say to that. You don’t know what she owed you, if anything. But hearing her say it still made your chest tighten with something unspoken.

You took another sip of the coffee—still terrible, still bitter—and forced a smile.

“At least it’s warm,” you said.

She laughed gently. “That’s the best I can offer right now.”

But you knew that wasn’t true. She was offering more than warmth—she always was. Every look, every message, every time she pulled you back in—even when it would’ve been easier to let you drift.

You leaned back on the couch and stared at the space between you, wondering how far you’d have to reach before it would no longer feel like crossing a line. Professor Romanoff looks at you deeply with her eyes, and her hand grazes up on your thigh, like she did a few days ago when you were in her office. She leaned close, and you could feel her breath on your collarbone. She wasn't too close, but the distance was no longer there.

"I'm intrigued by you," she said that almost felt like a confession. "You—I don't know, I can't even explain it myself. There's something about you that I want to crack open, something that I want to know more of. Do you know what I'm talking about?"

You swallowed, unsure if the breath caught in your chest was fear or desire. Maybe both. She tilted her head slightly, her gaze sharpening—not just curious, but ravenous in that restrained, clinical way only someone like her could manage. As if she were watching something flutter against glass and deciding whether to set it free or press harder until it stopped moving.

"You're too quiet around me now," she added, almost bitterly. “You think I haven’t noticed? You think I don’t see the way you’ve started to flinch when I look at you?”

She leaned in, just a fraction more, just enough for the scent of her perfume—clean, cold, almost metallic—to pull you into her orbit. You didn’t move—heck, you didn’t even breathe. She hadn’t touched you again, not yet, but every part of her felt like it was looming, circling.

“I should stop,” she murmured, and yet her fingers brushed your thigh like a dare. “I should pretend none of this ever happened. Should lecture you about boundaries.” A smile tugged at her lips, small, cruel, self-deprecating. “But all I keep thinking about is that night. The way your hand felt in mine. The way you looked at me like I was something sacred and dangerous all at once.”

You stayed silent, because what could you say that wouldn’t make things worse? Or better? Or both? You remember that night perfectly well when she took your hand, like it was a sacred prayer, until she let you go because it has gotten that obvious. You wanted to ask if there was something between you two, but you were far too scared to even open up about that discussion. You keep your mouth shut as you imagine her hand going higher until you come undone. 

“Do you know what I think about?” she said, voice quieter now, nearly confessional. “I think about pulling you into my lap, asking why the hell you looked at me like that. I think about grabbing your chin, telling you or rather asking what this is. You are so interesting, darling. So special.’”

Your breath caught.

“I’m too old for this,” she added, almost laughing. “And yet here I am, thinking about you like I’m twenty again. Like I don’t know better—I don’t have anything to lose.”

Her hand finally rested on your thigh again—fully this time. Possessive, almost. And the look in her eyes had changed. She wasn’t just intrigued. She was losing her grip on all the polished distance she’d kept like it was eternity.

“I shouldn’t want you,” she said, and it sounded like a prayer and a threat. “But I do, not just like this. I want to haunt you—I want to be the reason you stop seeing the world clearly.”

You looked at her then, and you saw it—the crack. The thing under the surface. Not a professor, not even a woman, but something older, more starved. Something that had held too many students too far away for too long and was now wondering what it felt like to finally touch one who didn’t run. You wanted to fall under her touch and ask her to kiss you, to become this desperate girl that has never been touched in her life—you wanted everything, but you were risking a lot.

You whimpered as she squeezed your thigh, moaning softly as her lips landed on your neck, giving it a small kiss.

"Professor—"

"Fuck," Professor Romanoff pulled away immediately as she removed her hand from your thigh. No, please. Don't do this. "Fuck, I’m—I'm sorry, Y/n. I just—"

She swallowed hard. Her hand hovered midair like she couldn’t decide whether to reach for you again or hide it forever.

"I’ve wanted to touch you for weeks,” she whispered as her voice was trembling now. “I think about you at night. I tell myself to stop—God, I try to stop—but you’re just… always there. In my head, in my fucking hands.”

Your breath hitched, the words sinking into your chest like heat.  "Professor Romanoff," you whispered, as there was no breath left in your throat, your hands aching to grab her hand and guide it right back to you, to where you needed her most. "I don't—"

But her eyes snapped shut like she was ashamed of what she’d let slip, of what she was still imagining.

“I need you to go,” she said suddenly, her voice now cold and distant, as though she’d rebuilt the wall in a single breath. “Now, before I forget who I’m supposed to be.”

And you stood, trembling slightly, unsure whether the shaking came from fear or the echo of something you’d wanted all along. You wanted to stay—desperately. You wanted to tell her this wasn’t wrong, that you wanted it too, that you weren’t scared of her. But nothing came out of your mouth. Nothing at all.

You watched as she fixed her hair with unsteady hands, placing her palm on her forehead like she had touched something sacred and ruined it. You wanted to kneel on the ground and tell her that she didn't do anything wrong, that this wasn't wrong. But you had no courage to. 

As you opened the door, she spoke—barely a whisper, like a secret meant only for the air between you. “Come back tomorrow, please.”

You didn’t look back.

You didn’t need to.

The line had already been crossed, and you don't know whether if she was more dangerous or you were. 

taglist: @aru-son@ihartnat@blackwidowbabe@snowdrop1026 @m4ddie3 @ciaoooooo111 @mrsrushman

[gayerthanevertbh]

I don't typically interact much with writers, maybe out of shyness or something deeper, lol, but your writing has touched me. I feel every breath and movement in your words. You're meant for big things, truly. Thanks so much for your work. I'm sorry to hear you've had to go through such a similar experience as "teachers pet". My DMs are always open for anything serious or anything silly. :)

thank you so much for your kind words, this actually made me feel like i can write again despite not writing all the time. and don’t worry, im no longer in that sticky situation so this is why im writing this story. and i will definitely give you a message if i do need something a little silly, yet again thank you so much for saying those words—i needed it. 💙

[gayerthanevertbh]

your teacher's pet series hit a bit too close to the home for my liking, if you want my opinion 🫠

but it is so beautifully written that i forgive you 💛

…hey! do i still need your forgiveness for not posting over a month? :(

and thank you, i think you and i have a lot in common then 🥲

[gayerthanevertbh]

teacher's pet.

chapter iv: my special girl

n.r masterlist | teacher's pet series

summary: you realized that maybe your interactions with your professor is getting a little too intimate, yet you don't mind. because in her eyes, you are special to her.

parinings: professor!natasha romanoff x student!reader

warnings minors dni! teacher x student relationship, sort of emotional manipulation (from natasha), sexual tension, suggestive themes (touching on the thigh), age gap (natasha is in her late 30s while reader is in her early 20s), and power imbalance.

note: i am so sorry for the delay... but i'm trying to write again! i will be updating today again because i can't wait for this story to unravel. enjoy and let me know if you guys like it :)

You haven’t moved in nearly an hour, the pressure in your skull now something between a throb and a fog, as the blank page continues to taunt you from your laptop screen. The cursor blinks with maddening consistency, like it’s daring you to write something—anything—before the night eats you alive. You tap your pen beside your wrist in a twitchy rhythm, a poor substitute for real progress. The prompt is clear. The deadline looms. But your brain feels like cotton, your chest like it’s full of static.

The essay is supposed to be on The Kreutzer Sonata, the Tolstoy novella Natasha dissected in class last week with surgical precision. You remember how her voice dipped into something darker when she read the line about possession masquerading as love, how her expression didn’t change when the narrator admitted to murder. She’d leaned back in her chair, one brow raised, and asked the class, “So what happens when love becomes entitlement?”

You hadn’t answered. You were too busy watching the way her fingers curled slightly against the armrest, like she didn’t trust her hands.

You glance at your phone. Her name is there in your contacts list, glowing softly like an invitation you’re too afraid to open. You hover, your body aches, but you don’t press send. What would you even say? Help me? You can already imagine her response: clinical and unimpressed. That tone she uses when students disappoint her. You’re more capable than this, she’d say, then probably close her door.

“I can do this,” you whisper to yourself like a prayer.

But your faith is wearing thin.

You blink at the screen, and suddenly it’s 2 a.m. Your eyes sting, your body lurches with exhaustion, and every cell in you begs for sleep. Just ten minutes, you tell yourself. Just a break. But no—you made a promise. Not to her. Not really. To yourself. You’d finish this essay, even if it kills you. Because letting her down—letting yourself down—feels worse than failing.

So you push through another hour, barely functioning, letting your fingers move over keys like they’re grasping for something real. By the time you collapse into bed, the words are still incomplete, fragmented, but you don’t have the strength to care.

Your thoughts won’t stop spinning. Not when they drag you back to her office, two days ago, when the rain was just beginning to smear itself against the windows. Natasha had smiled at you then—not the polite kind, but the kind that curled slowly, like she knew a secret. Her eyes had been fixed on your face, sharp and unreadable. She’d listened when you talked about Tolstoy, asked you what you thought about the narrator’s madness, his obsession. And when you faltered, she didn’t interrupt. She just reached out, placed a steady hand on your knee, and left it there—like she could ground you through contact.

And then—her number. She’d said it casually, like it wasn’t the most intimate thing anyone had done for you in months. In case you need advice, she had murmured, like it was nothing. Like you were just another student.

You haven’t used it. Not yet. But you think about it constantly. Your fingers itch to text her, to ask her if she meant it, if she’d still answer this late. But you’re afraid. Afraid of seeming desperate. Afraid of being ignored.

So you turn your face into your pillow, heart hammering too fast for someone so tired, and pretend the silence isn’t loneliness. You pretend you’re not waiting for her voice to return to you in a message that never comes.

You pretend you’re not writing all of this—for her.

"I'm very impressed with your essay," Professor Romanoff murmured, her voice low and even, the kind that didn’t just comment on a paper but seemed to weave itself around your ears like silk, the kind that lingered long after the words themselves had faded.

The classroom was empty now, save for the two of you. The chairs stood still and crooked like they’d just woken from a storm, the lights overhead humming softly, as though conscious of how thick the silence had become. The final few students had left ten, maybe fifteen minutes ago, their laughter now a memory echoing somewhere down the hallway.

You stood there, your hands lightly curled around the edge of her desk, your body half-leaning against it in a way you hoped looked casual but wasn’t—nothing about your presence around her ever felt casual.

She handed your essay back to you with a glance that wasn’t quite direct but not dismissive either, her fingers brushing yours as she let the paper go. It wasn’t accidental, not really, but it wasn’t purposeful either. Somewhere in between. That maddening in-between.

You look down.

There it was: a bright red B, circled. Not sloppy, not cruel. Deliberate.

Something inside you tightened, a ribbon pulled too tight around a gift you weren’t sure you wanted anymore. You tried to hide it—tried to look pleased—but disappointment bloomed warm and undeniable across your face, like the rising of a fever.

“I really tried,” you said, and it came out too quickly, too earnestly, a confession instead of a statement. “I stayed up all night. I—”

“That’s not an excuse,” she said, the interruption cool, clipped, not harsh but final in that way she always spoke when she was drawing a line and refusing to explain why it was there.

You flinched before you could stop yourself, your hand retreating instinctively to your side, and you hated how easily she could make you feel like this—small, young, undone.

And just as quickly, something in her changed.

Her face softened—not in an obvious way, but in a way that made her seem tired all at once, like the weight she was carrying pressed down on her shoulders again the second she noticed your reaction. Her gaze dropped, and she ran a hand down the side of her coat, unclasping the belt in a practiced motion that felt strangely vulnerable, as if she was letting go of armor.

“My apologies,” she said, quieter now. “It’s been a long day.”

You hesitated, torn between wanting to say something meaningful and wanting to disappear.

“Are you okay?” you asked finally, the question shaky but sincere, and it filled the space between you like something too fragile to hold.

She didn’t answer right away. She slipped the coat from her shoulders, revealing a midnight blue blouse tucked into high-waisted slacks, the top two buttons undone, just enough to make your breath catch. Her red hair had come partially loose from its earlier twist, strands falling around her face in soft waves, and for a moment, you imagined reaching out, just to touch the end of one curl, just to see if it felt like it looked—warm and soft and endlessly real.

“I have a headache,” she said eventually, her fingers resting against the side of her temple. “I’ll rest in my office. Hopefully before the rain starts.”

You glanced toward the window. The sky had darkened since class began, clouds rolling over each other in a low, brooding swirl, like something was building and didn’t know where to go.

You nodded, unsure of what else to say, unsure whether to stay or go, unsure why your feet refused to move even as the silence stretched between you again.

Then, as she turned to pick up her bag, her gaze slipped lower.

It landed on your legs.

Your breath hitched.

You were wearing a skirt today, the one you don't usually wear. One you haven’t worn all semester. A little too short for the weather, a little too soft in the light. You didn’t wear it for comfort. You wore it because something in you, though you’d never admit it aloud, wanted to be seen. Not by just anyone. Not by the boys in the hallway or your classmates or Wanda with her always-knowing eyes.

Just her.

“What a lovely skirt,” Natasha said, her voice almost gentle now, her eyes lingering longer than they should have. Her mouth curving into that barely-there smile that never gave too much away.

You blinked fast, pulse fluttering.

“I—I don’t have any more clean pants,” you blurted, and you immediately wished you hadn’t, the words hanging there like a confession no one had asked for.

She tilted her head, and you could feel her seeing through you—not in a cruel way, but in that unbearable, knowing way she had, like she was cataloguing every crack in your voice, every flicker in your eyes, and every secret you hadn’t yet learned how to hide.

She didn’t say anything more.

Instead, she stepped back toward the door, her hand resting lightly on the knob, and she paused—just for a moment—before saying, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Ms. L/n.”

Her voice wrapped around your name in a way that made your stomach twist, and then she was gone.

Just like that.

The door clicked softly behind her, and you stood there with your B and your skirt and your whole face on fire, wondering what the hell just happened and why it felt like the only part of the day that was real.

The rest of the day dragged on in a quiet haze of deadlines and digital clutter, but your thoughts were elsewhere—somewhere between syllabi and the phantom silhouette of Professor Romanoff. You wondered, more than once, where she might be now. Was she in a faculty meeting? Sitting alone in her office, her fingers grazing the spines of Russian novels like old friends? Or maybe, you thought with a slight ache, she had already gone home, leaving the campus without a trace. The idea felt oddly hollow.

After your class with Professor Rogers—who could never hold your attention the way she did—you checked the time obsessively, eyes flickering to the clock every five minutes. Four o’clock couldn’t come soon enough. That was when you usually visited her office, when you let the door creak open to a private world no one else seemed to enter. You told yourself it was just academic consultation. It was safer that way.

Dismissal found you slouched beside Wanda on the worn wooden bench near the courtyard, the two of you watching the end-of-day chaos unfold. Students moved like leaves in the wind—some laughing, some rushing, all trying to escape the grip of school as fast as possible. You couldn’t focus on any of them.

Wanda unwrapped her sandwich and took a thoughtful bite before speaking through a half-chewed mouthful, “I heard Peter’s throwing a party tomorrow night.”

You turned your head, eyes narrowed. “A party?”

“Mm-hmm,” she nodded. “Pietro and I are going. You should come.”

Your instinct was to decline, to politely retreat behind the warm cocoon of solitude that sounded infinitely more appealing. The mere thought of noisy music, sweaty bodies, and red solo cups made your skin itch. Why would you choose that when you could be curled up in bed, quietly turning the pages of the Russian novel Natasha had handed you like it was a secret between you and her alone? That, to you, was the dream—silence, warmth, and her ink on the margins.

But instead, your lips betrayed you.

“Sure,” you said before you could stop yourself, the word slipping out like a mistake. “I’ve never been to a party before.”

Wanda blinked, stunned. “Wait, seriously? You? An American girl? Never?”

You raised a brow at her tone, lips twitching into a dry smile. “Do you have a thing for Americans or something?”

She burst into laughter, the sound bubbling from her like champagne. “No, no—it’s just… weird. Pietro and I grew up in Sokovia. We were always at parties—birthday parties, garden parties, street festivals. It was our way of surviving, you know? Escaping everything.”

She paused to wipe her fingers with a napkin, her expression softening a little. “I even had a boyfriend there. James. It didn’t last, though.”

You couldn’t help but laugh gently. “That name sounds suspiciously American.”

Wanda groaned, rolling her eyes like she’d just bitten into something sour. “He was. Trust me.”

“Then I stand by what I said,” you teased, giving her a sly glance. “You totally have a thing for Americans.”

Wanda laughed, a quick burst of warmth in the thinning light. The breeze picked up as the sky shifted—clouds thickening like bruises across the horizon. She crumpled her sandwich wrapper and tossed it neatly into the trash bin, brushing her hands off on her skirt with finality.

“You joke,” she said, nudging your shoulder with hers. “But maybe you’re right.”

You didn’t know what she meant, not really. Her smile lingered too long. Her eyes flicked somewhere behind you, to the building where your professor's office sat quietly above the quad like a shadow waiting to move. You didn’t ask her anything else. You just stare at your hands, folded neatly on your lap, as if they could give you any answers at all.

By 3:53, you couldn’t sit still.

Wanda didn’t ask where you were going. She just said, “Text me,” and disappeared into the crowd like she always did, effortlessly, without leaving a trace.

The halls were quieter than usual. The kind of quiet that makes your heartbeat sound louder than it should. You walked with your books hugged to your chest, the Russian novel Natasha had lent you pressed against your ribs like something sacred. The edges were worn already—thumb-smudged and loved—though you hadn’t even made it halfway through. A Hero of Our Time. Lermontov. A man broken by his own disillusionment, peeling himself apart across the Caucasus. You didn’t know why she gave it to you, but you knew she meant for you to find something in it. And you were trying. You really were.

At exactly 4:01, you stood in front of her office door. You hesitated—not because you were afraid of her, not exactly—but because every time you walked in, you came out feeling changed in ways you didn’t have the language for. You lifted your hand to knock. Before your knuckles could touch the wood, the door creaked open from the inside.

“Right on time,” Professor Romanoff said.

She looked tired. Beautiful, but tired. Her coat was off, draped over the back of her chair, and her blouse—crisp and wine-colored—was slightly rumpled at the sleeves like she’d been tugging at them. Her hair, usually coiled or pinned with intention, fell loose over her shoulders. She looked… real, suddenly. Less like the untouchable figure behind the lectern and more like a woman who hadn’t slept well in days.

“Come in.”

She shuts the door behind you with a gentle thud, and you instinctively settle into her leather couch, the books you’d been clutching pressed to your chest now carefully lowered onto the cushion beside you—though not for long. Professor Romanoff catches the gesture, wordlessly steps forward, and scoops up the stack before you can speak.

"It’s alright," she murmurs, her voice calm as rain, placing them instead on her desk. Then she turns back to you, book still in hand—the one she lent you—and as always, she lowers herself onto the couch, beside you, close enough for your shoulders to sense each other’s warmth.

"You’ve read it?" she asks, lifting the corner of the book with a flick of her thumb.

“Two days,” you say with a half-laugh, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear, trying not to seem too proud of how fast you devoured it. “I liked it. A lot.”

“Yeah?” Her lips twitch upward. “What about the other one?”

You freeze—realization crashing over you like cold water—and your fingers fly to your mouth. “Oh no...” you whisper, eyes fluttering shut. “I forgot it. I left it in my room. I’m so, so sorry—”

“Darling, it’s alright,” she says, gently cutting off your spiral as her hand finds your knee again, her touch a mixture of reassurance and something else—something that makes your breath catch. You drop your hand to your lap, and the faint scent of her perfume—something dark, something like burnt cedar and aged red wine—drifts around you. You can’t place the notes, but somehow, it’s addicting, like warmth on a cold day. You replay the word she just called you over and over in your head, that lullaby-sounding nickname, wanting her to say it again, craving it.

Tucking your legs beneath you and wrapping your cardigan over them, you accept the glass of orange juice she offers with a soft “thank you,” eyes dropping to your lap. She smiles—not a performative, polite smile, but the rare kind, the kind you’re beginning to suspect she only reserves for you.

“I thought about texting you the other night,” she says suddenly, her tone dipped in something huskier than usual—something that curls your toes in your shoes.

You glance at her, startled by the confession. “I-I wasn’t busy,” you murmur, your voice small, hopeful.

She smirks, just slightly. “Oh yeah?”

“I would've wanted you to text me.”

She pauses, then exhales with a shake of her head. “I didn’t want to nag you.”

“You could never nag me,” you say quickly, and she seems to accept this, nodding with a softness in her eyes you can’t quite read. You notice her hand—opening, closing—a nervous tell you’ve only just started to pick up on. You try to study her face, but she remains enigmatic, her expression unreadable as always, as though her thoughts were behind glass.

Then her voice drops. “You’re the only student who reads the things I care about,” she says, quieter now, almost as if she’s confessing something with weight. “Or… maybe the only one who really sees me in that way. I’ve never had a student like you, Y/n. You’re soft around the edges, yes—cautious, even a little afraid—but there’s something about you that’s... pulling me in.”

You swallow hard, fingers tightening around the glass, the chilled rim pressing into your palm, grounding you as your heart kicks violently against your ribs—and then her hand, warm and certain, finds your knee once more, but this time she doesn’t stop there.

Her touch is slower now, not hesitant, but deliberate, as if this moment had been circling her mind for days and she’s only just allowed herself to act on it. Her palm trails upward, curiously, softly, like she’s learning you with her fingertips, like maybe she’s giving herself permission to feel. Your breath stutters halfway out your lungs, caught between disbelief and something far more dangerous.

There’s something different in the way she looks at you now—her gaze less guarded, more vulnerable, the iron professor mask loosening at the edges. Her shoulders aren’t pulled back in defense like they usually are. Her voice had trembled earlier, even if just barely, and now her touch carries weight, intent, not just casual comfort but something that borders on craving.

And though your mind races with what this might mean, with how wrong this could be, all you can think of is how she didn’t pull away.

She’s opening a door. Not all the way. But just enough to let the light spill through.

“Do you lend your books to other students?” you manage.

She shakes her head without hesitation. “I don’t let people in that easily.”

“So...” you hesitate, unsure if you should even say it. “Does that make me special?”

It feels dangerous, the way the question leaves your lips—like you’ve just opened a door you can’t close. You can’t explain why you need her attention, why her approval makes your skin buzz, why you ache to be called that pet name again. You never even thought about girls that way—you weren’t supposed to. But her? She was different. She made you rethink what you were and what you wanted.

Professor Romanoff turns her head to you, eyes searching yours, and for a moment, time slows down. “You are special, detka,” she says finally.

The word lingers in the air like incense—foreign, melodic, intimate. Detka. You want to know what it means. You want to know why she says it with so much care. Your heart drums inside your chest like it’s trying to break free.

Then, thunder growls low outside the window. You rise from the couch instinctively, peering outside.

“I-I have to go. My bus—”

“I’ll drive you.”

You blink. “Professor, I—I can take the bus, really, I don’t want to trouble—”

“It’s dangerous out there.” Her voice is firm now, no room for protest. She grabs her coat and keys with graceful efficiency. “Go on ahead. I’ll be right behind you.”

The car ride is quiet. Outside, the storm lashes against the windshield, the wipers moving like metronomes, and still — silence. Not awkward, but heavy. Thick with what neither of you can bring yourselves to say. She drives slowly, one hand on the wheel, the other massaging her temple, maybe trying to forget or remember something.

She flicks on the radio, and a song plays. She leans toward you slightly. “Have you heard this one?”

You listen. It’s unfamiliar. You shake your head.

A small chuckle rumbles from her chest. “One of my favorites. If you can figure out what it is by tomorrow, I’ll lend you another book.”

You smile shyly. “You’re spoiling me.”

She hums, not disagreeing, her gaze flickering to you in the corner of her eye.

“I-I don’t think you should keep lending—”

“Darling,” she cuts you off, soft but certain. “It’s not a problem. I like seeing you read what I love.”

When she pulls up in front of your building, you linger. Your fingers wrap around the door handle, but you don’t pull. You don’t want to go. You want her to say something else—anything.

You glance at her. “Thank you... really.”

She looks at you again, her expression unreadable, and then her hand returns—first to your thigh, then to your hand. She slips her fingers between yours, holding them like a secret, like something stolen. Then, just as quickly, she lets go, turns away.

“Stay safe, Y/n,” she says, almost too quietly. “And good luck with your essay.”

The rain has softened by the time you step out. It patters gently against your coat, the streetlights painting little halos on the wet pavement. You stand there for a second, just a second, watching her headlights fade, trying to figure out how to hold this feeling without letting it slip through your fingers.

Upstairs, the scent of dinner still lingers in the air—soy, garlic, something comforting. Your mother looks up from the kitchen, a dish towel over her shoulder, her eyes narrowing slightly as she takes in the droplets clinging to your hair.

“Where have you been? It’s raining hard outside.”

You shake your head and take off your shoes, trying to calm the way your chest is still fluttering. You can’t stop the grin tugging at your mouth, no matter how much you try to bite it back.

Once inside, you closed the door softly behind you, the hush of your room wrapping around you like a long-held breath. You leaned your back against the wood, eyes fluttering shut, trying to memorize the feeling still tingling at your fingertips — the echo of her hand in yours, brief but impossibly intimate.

You told yourself you wouldn’t — that it would be foolish — but still, your fingers drifted to your phone like they had a will of their own, guided by a quiet ache in your chest.

And there it was.

NATASHA: I meant every word I said earlier. You’re a very special girl, Y/n. I hope I didn’t leave that unclear.

You stared at the message, blinking once, twice. You could’ve asked for more. You wanted more — more certainty, more warmth, more reason. But that was all she gave you. And still, it was enough to make your pulse quicken again, enough to make the corners of your mouth twitch upward in something almost like wonder.

You didn’t respond. Not yet.

Instead, you stared at the words, letting them settle into the marrow of your thoughts, feeling the question rise — quiet and electric — the kind that you wouldn’t dare ask aloud, not even to yourself.

Were you the teacher’s pet?

taglist: @aru-son@ihartnat@blackwidowbabe@snowdrop1026

[gayerthanevertbh]

trust me, teacher’s pet!natasha isn’t someone you want to fantasized about 🙂 but we can’t help ourselves, can we? (you know that one sabrina carpenter song manchild? that’s literally her but make it womanchild).

[gayerthanevertbh]

omg your writing is INCREDIBLE like i genuinely cannot put into words how beautiful it is im literally so obsessed

thank you so much!! i think i made the biggest comeback yet 😆

[gayerthanevertbh]

NAMO TE FILO KA PALA

yes hehehehe

[gayerthanevertbh]

happy pride month:)

- natasha's wife

happy pride month, love! #loveyourselfguys

[gayerthanevertbh]

pls don't disappear 💔

so sorry i had a crisis baby :(

[gayerthanevertbh]

TAPOS SABI NA EH, BIGLA KA NAWALA 🙄🙄

ETO NA NGA

[gayerthanevertbh]

MISS U 😘

i miss u too!! :(

[gayerthanevertbh]

hi everyone! will be updating today. don’t worry, i haven’t ghosted you guys 😝