yourssubbyy - Tumblr blog

yourssubbyy · 20 days ago

Text

Am I allucinating or is my fav author back?

teacher's pet.

chapter iii: favoritism

n.r masterlist | teacher's pet series

summary: you open up to professor romanoff about your family, revealing you're an only child and haven’t seen your father in years. she listens closely, even placing a hand on your knee, sending your thoughts spinning. before you leave, she gives you her number—offering help with your writing and hinting at future opportunities. you’re left wondering what her real intentions are, and why it feels like more than just mentorship.

warnings: a bit of a sexual tension, but very small. other than that, nothing much, age difference.

pairings: professor!natasha romanoff x student!reader

note: did you miss me

Careful. You don’t know whether or not she will ruin you.

But were you ever that careful?

Lying to yourself would be easy—safer. You could pretend this is just an academic arrangement, nothing more than words and books and mentorship. But if you’re being honest?

You liked the attention.

You liked the way she looked at you—sharp, unsparing, deliberate. No one has ever looked at you like that before. Not your parents, not your peers, not the boys you’ve kissed in passing or the friends you’ve tried to keep. Not like they saw you. But she did. From the moment you walked into her classroom, sat in the second row, trying not to fidget with your pen—she saw you.

And it’s too soon, much too soon, but you think you would do anything to keep being seen.

Still, the thought sneaks in: Has she done this before? Given a favorite book to someone else? Watched another student unravel with quiet fascination? You imagine her saying the same things in that same velvet-and-ice voice, smirking at someone else’s trembling hands.

You’re probably not special. Not to her.

But god, you want to be.

The book lies open in your lap now, the dorm dim except for the desk lamp casting an amber glow across your blankets. The School for Fools. The title alone feels like a warning, or maybe a dare.

You run your fingers down the fragile spine, then return to the page you’d dog-eared. The boy in the novel has no name. Or maybe he has too many. He speaks in tangled riddles, losing himself in time, in memory, in voices that echo like ghosts. He is always both himself and not.

He adores his teacher. Or fears him. Or both.

Sometimes he calls him “psychiatrist,” sometimes “father,” sometimes... something else entirely.

And you read a line—casual on the page, but it guts you:

“...and I lived in a dream where he loved me, or I only dreamed that he loved me, which is just as dangerous.”

It lands like a whisper and a wound all at once.

You read it again.

And again.

Because it feels like it’s talking to you. No—about you. Like the words knew you were coming. Like Professor Romanoff knew this would happen.

Could it be true? Could she have known that this book would find something inside you and drag it out into the open?

Your fingers clutch the edge of the pages. The air grows denser, like it’s pressing down on your chest. The corners of the room pull closer, shrinking, or maybe it’s you—dissolving into the moment, into the book, into her. That feeling you had when she handed you the novel—her fingers grazing yours, that quiet hum of contact—you swore it passed from her skin into your bloodstream, a current sparking something electric. And it’s back now. That heat. That pulse.

It hasn’t left, really. You’re not sure it ever will.

You should stop reading. You know that.

You should mark the page, turn off the light, be a normal daughter with a normal life and an untouched conscience. You should let it go before it pulls you under.

But you don’t.

You turn the page. Then another.

Then another.

Let it undo you, she said. Let it unmake you. You think maybe it already has.

Because the moment she handed you the book—no, the moment she looked at you—you started unraveling.

You close the book gently, as if it’s something sacred. And maybe it is. You rest it against your chest, feel your own heartbeat against the spine like it’s trying to echo the rhythm of her voice. You close your eyes.

You see her smirk again—that subtle, knowing smirk from earlier today, the one she wore like a private joke only you were invited to understand. You hear her voice in your head, the exact way she said, “It’s one of my favorites,” like a secret she wasn’t supposed to share but did anyway.

Could it be possible she sees you like that?

Could you ever be someone’s favorite?

“Y/N?”

You jolt, eyes flying open.

Your mother’s voice—soft, familiar, unwelcome—seeps through the crack in the door.

You move fast. The book vanishes beneath your pillow like contraband. You smooth your hair with trembling fingers, trying to steady your breath as you sit upright, legs folding neatly beneath you like nothing’s wrong.

The door creaks open. Your mother peeks in, her smile gentle. Her gaze travels around the room, lingering on your face.

You hope she didn’t see.

You hope it wouldn’t matter even if she did.

But still—your hands are sweating.

“I made you some breakfast for tomorrow,” she says. “It’s in the fridge. Your favorite—overnight oats.”

You swallow and nod, a little too quickly. “T-Thank you.”

The stammer slips out before you can stop it. You want to grip your throat and squeeze the words back inside. You imagine she sees it on your face—that guilt, that heat. That something.

“It’s late,” you add, as if she needs reminding.

“I know,” she replies. “I just wanted to check up on you.”

“I’m fine. Just reading. On my phone.”

A beat of silence. Then her gaze shifts toward your wall. Posters and Polaroids and magazine clippings. Pictures of you with friends. MJ’s smile frozen in one of them. There’s a flicker in her eyes—soft, something like nostalgia, or maybe suspicion. It’s hard to tell.

She tips her head. “Alright then. I’ll leave you to it.”

Her footsteps retreat as the door clicks softly shut. You exhale all at once, your body sinking back into the mattress like your bones gave out. You press your hands over your face and breathe in deeply, willing your heartbeat to slow.

Thank God. Thank something.

You fish the book out from beneath your pillow, cradling it against your chest like it’s both weapon and shield. What would you even say if she had caught you? “Oh, nothing—it’s for class,” you’d lie. Just Russian Literature. Required reading. Nothing strange about that. You’d repeat it until you believed it yourself.

Because if you didn’t—if you dared to speak the truth, even just to yourself—you’d have to admit that what you’re feeling isn’t normal. That the way your professor looks at you, the way you look at her, isn’t just admiration. That you’re no longer reading for credit.

You’re reading for her.

And worse—you think you might be falling through the pages straight into her hands.

The class was winding down, a low buzz of students flipping pages and muttering about weekend plans filling the room like background noise. You sat in your usual seat—third row from the front, second from the left—trying not to let your eyes drift toward her desk. You told yourself to stay focused, to stay small. Blend in. Be good. Be smart.

Then she returned the papers.

A crisp stack passed down the row, your own assignment soon finding its way into your hands. You stared at it for a moment, unsure if you were relieved or disappointed by what you saw. The faint red scratch of a C-minus had been blotted out and replaced with a neater, more forgiving B+.

A B+. You blinked at it, heart dipping slightly. You’d wanted an A.

No—wanted wasn’t the right word. Expected. You had worked for it, re-written the entire essay from scratch after her note about it lacking feeling. You tried, didn’t you? You felt things. But how were you supposed to put them into words when you didn’t even know how to name them?

There were no margin notes. No real feedback. Not even a single underlined sentence to hint at whether she had liked a line or found it lacking. Just the grade. A quiet verdict that left your chest hollow.

You sighed and flipped the paper over so you wouldn’t have to look at it anymore. It’s fine, you told yourself. You’ll do better next time.

“Hey, what grade did you get?” a voice asked from behind. You turned and found Wanda leaning forward in her seat, her face hopeful, almost conspiratorial.

“A B,” you murmured, then hesitated. “It was a C-minus. Before. She changed it.”

Wanda winced. “I got a C.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “Really?” A twinge of confusion bloomed in your chest. How did I get graded lower than her on the first draft?

And just beneath that confusion, something sharper—jealousy.

Wanda rolled her eyes at your reaction, smirking. “See? You’re doing better than me already. Not bad—for an American.”

You laughed, though it sounded more like a breath than a real sound. “I do my best to get the best grade.”

That was it, wasn’t it? That was who you were. An overachiever. Always had been. Your worth had always been measured by test scores and academic praise, and you clung to that identity like it was a life raft. If you weren’t exceptional, then who would ever remember you?

When you were a kid, you’d live for the moments a teacher smiled at you or singled you out in front of the class. Once, your senior year advisor called your mom to say you were top of his class. Your mother hugged you so tightly that day you could barely breathe. She said maybe—just maybe—you had a shot at NYU.

And here you were. You’d made it.

But lately, it felt like the weight of being here was crushing you. Like the standards were higher, and the praise harder to come by. Especially from her.

Professor Romanoff.

It was as if she saw right through you—through your careful words and articulate observations—to the vulnerable mess beneath. And it made you want to prove yourself to her more than anyone else. You didn’t just want her approval. You craved it. The thought of disappointing her made your stomach turn.

After class, you lingered near the door, waiting for her to acknowledge you with that subtle nod that meant you were allowed to follow. She led you through the near-empty corridors, up the quiet stairwell, her boots clicking softly against the stone steps. When you reached her floor, she unlocked the office door and held it open for you.

You stepped inside. It felt strange, how familiar her office had become. Like stepping into a memory you hadn’t finished processing. The couch was still slanted at an angle, the same stack of literature journals leaning precariously on the corner of her desk. It had only been a few days, but it felt like ages since you were last here.

“Are you happy it’s Friday?” she asked, voice warm behind you.

You jumped slightly, not having realized she was that close. She raised her hands in mock surrender, smiling. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I get startled easily,” you mumbled, your voice barely above a whisper. Your heart thudded in your ears. “Your office is cold.”

“Yeah. Must be the way this building was built.” She moved toward the worn couch and sat, gesturing casually. “You can sit next to me if you want.”

You hesitated. Was she being kind—or was that something else? You nodded anyway and sat beside her, not too close, but not far enough to be impersonal. You pulled the novel from your bag and handed it to her.

“You finished it?” she asked, genuine surprise flickering in her expression as she took the book from your hands. Her fingers brushed yours for half a second too long. “Looks like you actually read it.”

“I did,” you said, nervously. “I... I liked it.”

A soft, knowing smile pulled at her lips. “You liked it?”

You nodded again. “He fell in love with his teacher.”

“You’re right. He did.”

There was a pause—tense, unspeakable. You wanted to ask her: Why did you give me this? What were you trying to say? But your voice stayed stuck in your throat. You told yourself it meant nothing. It was just a book. Part of the curriculum. She was just curious about your reaction.

Still, something about it felt deliberate.

“What stood out to you?” she asked, voice hushed, like she didn’t want to interrupt your thoughts.

You looked down at your hands. They were clasped tightly in your lap, cold and fidgety.

“That maybe...” you said slowly, surprising even yourself, “people feel more than they admit. And they hide it. Even from themselves. Until it’s too late.”

You weren’t sure where the words came from. You just knew they were true.

She stared at you for a moment, then gently turned a page of the book in her hands. “Yes,” she murmured. “That’s true.”

The silence after felt thick. Not uncomfortable, just… aware. You could hear your pulse in your ears. Feel the chill in the room again, or maybe it was just the way your body responded to being near her. You turned to her slowly, eyes drawn to the way the light from the blinds cut across her profile—soft shadows beneath high cheekbones, a faint line between her brows, like she was deep in some thought she wouldn’t share.

“Why did you want me to read it?” you asked quietly, finally. Why on earth would you ask that now? You hated yourself.

She didn’t answer right away. Her eyes lingered on the open book in her lap, fingers still resting against the worn pages as if the weight of the story might offer her something to hold onto—an excuse not to speak, not just yet. You could see the flicker of thought behind her stillness, the careful calculation she always seemed to carry. A woman who measured her words like they were weapons. When she finally looked up, her gaze met yours with a quiet intensity, sharp and unreadable. It felt like being studied—peeled back layer by layer without her ever needing to say a word. Like she already knew what you were thinking, what you were feeling, even the parts you hadn't dared to name.

Her expression didn't soften, but it didn’t harden either. It just stayed still, observant. The silence stretched between you like something deliberate—like she was deciding how honest she wanted to be. A part of you felt exposed beneath her stare, as though she'd seen past the nerves and performance, past the eager student facade you tried so hard to maintain. There was a tension in the room that hadn’t been there before. Not discomfort, not exactly. Something quieter. Heavier. Like the edges of a conversation you hadn’t yet earned. When she finally spoke, her voice was low, almost careful, as though she'd broken some unspoken rule just by meeting your gaze for that long.

“Because you don’t write with feeling,” she said. “And I thought… maybe this would help.”

You swallowed. “And did it?” why were you doing this to yourself? Did you want her validation? Of course, you do—you admit to it. You wanted to hear her say that she likes you for who you are, that she is fond of you. But the both of you only know each other for a week, this isn’t something to be irrational about.

“I don’t know,” she said honestly—as if tempting you. “Did it?”

You wanted to say yes. You wanted to tell her how your chest ached reading certain passages. How your heart raced when the protagonist finally admitted his feelings. How you thought of her when the teacher in the story brushed a hand across a shoulder. How it felt like a secret between the pages. A quiet confession she never said aloud.

But instead, you shrugged. “Maybe.”

Her lips curved, just slightly. “Maybe’s a start.”

You weren’t sure what she meant by that—if she was still talking about your paper, or the book, or something else entirely—but you didn’t press. Instead, you sat beside her in the silence, knees almost touching, and tried not to think about the weight of everything unsaid. Because the truth was, sitting there in her office on a Friday afternoon, the world quiet outside, it felt like something was shifting. Something irreversible. Like a string had been pulled, and now it wouldn’t stop unraveling.

Professor Romanoff’s voice was quiet but curious as she tilted her head and asked, “How many are you in your family?” It caught you off guard—not because it was a difficult question, but because it was so unexpected. You blinked, your breath catching for a moment as you stared at her, unsure if you’d heard her correctly. She wasn’t grading you now or dissecting your prose; she was looking at you like a person. For a beat, you didn’t answer. You weren’t used to being asked things like that—especially not in this room, under her gaze, where everything usually felt calculated and academic. She noticed your silence and chuckled, low and self-aware, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Sorry,” she said, her lips quirking up. “I tend to want to get to know my students.”

You bit your lip, sensing the sincerity in her voice. Maybe that’s all it was—a professor wanting to make a connection. Still, your voice dropped to a softer register as you replied, “I’m an only child.” You hesitated, then added, “My father... he’s gone—”

Her face softened instantly. “I’m so sorry.”

You shook your head quickly, almost defensively. “No, I mean—he didn’t die or anything. He’s just... in Europe. Germany, actually.” You paused, unsure why the words felt heavier than usual, like something you hadn’t spoken aloud in a long time. “My parents separated when I was five. They haven’t talked since.” You shrugged, trying to make it sound like it didn’t matter, like it was something far behind you now. “It’s fine. Really. I’m close with my mom, she’s everything. We do almost everything together—she’s always been there, and I appreciate her so much.”

Then, like the topic was too fragile to linger on, you pivoted. “And I have this best friend, MJ. We’ve known each other since preschool. She’s kind of like me—clever, funny, sharp when she wants to be. But if you upset her, she’ll go full silent treatment. And I mean for weeks.” You let out a laugh, small but genuine, the memory of MJ’s stubborn streak bringing warmth to your voice.

You glanced up and found Romanoff watching you—not just politely, not just because she had asked, but like she was genuinely listening. Her expression wasn’t something you could easily interpret, but it was attentive, present. You realized, belatedly, that you’d been speaking too freely. You flushed, eyes flickering down, embarrassed by how much you’d just shared. And that’s when you felt it—her hand, resting gently on your knee. Not moving, not pressing, just there. You froze, heart thudding wildly as if the warmth of her skin had traveled straight through you.

“I like the way you talk,” she said softly, like it was something she’d been thinking for a while. The compliment made your pulse quicken, though you weren’t sure if she meant your cadence or your content—or if it was something else entirely. Still, you managed a smile, albeit a nervous one, as she added, “I’m sorry about your dad.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” you said quickly, your voice almost trembling with the effort to keep things steady. You didn’t want to talk about your father anymore. The air felt too fragile, too charged. You needed a distraction. “Shall I write you something?”

You didn’t dare look down at her hand still resting on your knee. You were afraid if you did, the moment would break and she’d pull away, apologize for the unspoken intimacy of it. But then she sighed lightly, the movement brushing through her red hair, and withdrew her hand anyway. You nearly reached out, absurdly, to stop her.

“No, it’s fine,” she said, her tone shifting back into something cooler, more professional, though not unkind. “I’ll think of something tomorrow. For now...” She reached into her pocket, retrieving her phone. “I’d like to give you my number. You could tell me what you’re working on. I can help. Think of it as an offer.”

You stared at her. Your eyes widened a little, your brain stumbling over the moment. Was she being serious? You fumbled for your phone and handed it to her, your fingers trembling slightly. “I-Is this—”

“I see something in you,” she interrupted, her voice low but unwavering. The words knocked the air out of you. “I don’t want you to waste this opportunity. When you’re ready—when your writing is ready—I can help you find work. Real work. For the future.”

She typed quickly and then handed the phone back. You looked down. Her name—her number—was there, saved, real. You felt something electric in your chest, a thrill that you weren’t sure was pride or danger or both.

“I appreciate this,” you murmured, looking up at her again, trying to meet her gaze and failing because of the heat crawling up your neck. “Thank you, Professor Romanoff.”

“You’re welcome, Y/N,” she said, and for a moment, it sounded less like a formality and more like something else. Something personal.

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

350 notes · View notes