Romanova’swife

They/She | Queer | 22 Please I miss my comfort characters maximovapotts

[romanottsmaximoff]

Hii! This blog will be under construction for a lil while till I can actually find motivation to sort it out and the same with my fanfic section on my other acc!

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[natsaffection]

Skating the Line. Pt3 | N.R

Older!Coach!Natasha × Younger!Skater!Reader

Warnings: Warnings: 18+! MINORS DNI! Age gap (N=31, r=23), human susceptibility, possession, mention of injury, so much sexual tension

Word count: 10,3k

A/N: 👀 Dark secrets? Tension? Lingering eyes? Next chapter will be wild.

Part 2

A few weeks in and you stopped feeling like a guest in her world.

You learned the rhythm of the place the way bodies learn bruises, what Natasha’s different silences meant, how many seconds of arguing you could get away with before the air changed, which comments earned a dry stare and which got you run through jump drills until your thighs shook.

You learned that “again” could mean five more repetitions or fifty. That “good” from Natasha landed harder than applause. That Romanoff girls lived on scraps of approval and sharpened themselves against one another in the spaces between drills.

And Natasha, though she would never say it plainly, had noticed.

You worked. Not in the performative, bratty way Natasha had probably expected from a girl who built half her audience on public-rink backflips and suggestive camera angles. Not in the lazy “I’m talented, someone else can shape the rest” way Natasha had seen in too many beautiful failures.

You listened, fought, yes, but listened. You came back the next day after hard corrections with the mistake fixed or at least hunted down and cornered. You stayed late over edge work when everyone else was dead on their feet. You sulked, you muttered, you rolled your eyes when Natasha turned away but then you did exactly what you’d been told. It was irritatingly impressive.

Natasha had spent enough years in this sport to know the difference between people who liked the fantasy of greatness and people who were willing to be remade by it. You were beginning, slowly, dangerously, to look like the second kind.

That morning, Natasha arrived earlier than usual. The training hall should have been empty, giving her a few minutes of silence before the first girls straggled in half awake and half afraid. Instead, when she opened the outer door, light was already spilling under the rink entrance.

Natasha paused and the sound reached her a second later: steel on ice, someone skating with intention. She pushed through the door and stopped just inside. You were alone on the ice with headphones in, hood tossed onto the boards and black leggings, fitted thermal, hair tied high enough to stay out of your face. No camera set up, no tripod, no little red recording light waiting to be fed.

Just skating.

Natasha stayed where she was, unnoticed. You cut across the center with strong, easy power, not doing jumps yet, just edges and turns and speed. Your body had changed in a few weeks, Natasha saw it immediately: posture cleaner, takeoff prep more economical, less wasted movement in the shoulders. The old tendency to skate outward, toward some imagined lens, had softened into something more internal.

You were learning how to use the rink instead of decorating it.

Natasha folded her arms, your headphones shut you away from the world. You looked almost…soft, in that isolation. No cocky comments, no deliberate defiance..Just breath, blade, body, music only you could hear.

You set up for an Axel and Natasha’s eye tracked the details automatically. Entry controlled, shoulders were better and your left side not dropping as much as it used to. You took off, floated, landed with a crisp, satisfying check..Clean. Not perfect, the exit still had the faintest trace of impatience in it, but it was clean.

Natasha felt something hot and private settle under her ribs. Mine, she thought before she could stop herself. Very dangerous word and she let it sit there anyway for one more heartbeat, then turned and walked away.

Her office door clicked shut softly behind her. Through the glass wall, she could still see you finishing the sequence on the rink. She sat, opened her laptop, and checked the week’s schedule while one corner of her attention stayed fixed on the movement beyond the glass.

You skated another ten minutes till you slowed, coasted to the boards and bent over with your hands on your knees for a breath and reached for your phone. The shift in your posture was immediate.

Natasha saw the way your shoulders tightened a little as the screen lit your face. The tiny stillness that came over you, the thumb scrolling too fast, then slowing. Romanoff Skating had posted the announcement the day before. A clean, cold graphic: Y/N L/N joins Romanoff Skating’s Olympic roster.

It had detonated exactly the way Natasha expected. Followers up, engagement up, figure skating accounts screaming, more fan edits, federation comments, brand interest. Simping, too endless girls online acting like you in a Romanoff jacket were somehow their personal gift from heaven.

And, of course, the other side of it. Jealousy and resentment. Sport had always been full of it. The only thing social media changed was how directly it got delivered. You were too deep in the phone to notice the office door opening. Natasha crossed the short distance in silence, stopping directly in front of you. You looked up and jolted so hard you almost dropped the stupid thing.

“Jesus!” you hissed, one hand flying to your chest. “Do you have to move like that?”

“Yes.” Natasha said.

Your phone disappeared halfway behind your thigh in one suspiciously fast movement but Natasha’s eyes narrowed.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.”

The lie was useless because Natasha held out her hand. “Phone.”

Your chin lifted on reflex. “No.”

Natasha said nothing for one beat, then she repeated, “Phone.”

The difference this time was microscopic and your fingers tightened around the device. “It’s just comments..”

“Then you don’t need to hide it.”

You looked away first but slowly, you handed it over and she took the phone and glanced down. The comments sat in ugly, bright little blocks under the Romanoff announcement and under your latest posts.

Some were expected.

“mother is going to the olympics omg”

“romanoff x y/n is the most insane crossover ever”

“she looks so good in that jacket i need medical assistance”

Natasha ignored those, but the others?

“she bought her spot with tits and followers”

“romanoff’s desperate if this is what she’s taking now”

“pretty face, no technique, she’ll flop live”

“someone snap her legs before she embarrasses the team 😂”

Natasha’s gaze stopped and read that one again and her jaw hardened. She scrolled further and it got worse in places, more personal, more venomous in that spineless way online cruelty often was. Body comments. “Slut in skates.” “Circus girl.” “Let’s see how long before Romanoff breaks this one too.”

The line between criticism and rot had been crossed several comments ago. Natasha closed the app without another word and looked up. You had gone very still, the defiance was there, but thinner. Your face was composed in a way Natasha already knew meant effort.

“You’re not used to this.” Natasha said.

It wasn’t a question..You gave a small, ugly laugh. “I had thirsty weirdos and occasional creepy men in my DMs. Not…” You gestured vaguely at the phone in Natasha’s hand. “Whatever the hell that is.”

Natasha studied you. “No.” you said, quieter now, your eyes fixed somewhere near Natasha’s shoulder. “I’m not used to hate.”

Something unpleasant twisted in Natasha’s chest. She looked back at the locked screen for a second, as if the phone itself had offended her. “Pathetic.” she said flatly.

You blinked. “What?”

“These people.” Natasha lifted the phone slightly. “To wake up and use their fingers like this. To wish injury on someone they don’t know because they are bored and jealous and weak.” Her mouth thinned. “Pathetic.”

One of the comments had been ugly enough to punch through even her own seasoned indifference, and Natasha did not get shocked easily. That annoyed her more than the comment itself. She handed the phone back. “Do not read too much of it.” she said.

You took it, looking unconvinced. “That’s easy for you to say.”

“Yes.” Natasha replied. “Because I am right.”

You almost smiled at that and Natasha saw it. “Attention is part of the job now.” she said. “Praise and filth come together. You take neither too seriously.”

You stared down at the phone. “Working on it.”

Natasha’s gaze sharpened. “No. You don’t ‘work on it.’ You decide. Either strangers online get to touch your head every day, or they don’t.”

The words landed and your throat moved around a swallow. Before you could answer, the outer rink door opened and voices spilled in and girls arriving in pairs, skate guards clacking, the familiar pre practice noise flooding the hall. Natasha glanced toward the entrance, then back to you.

“Enough.” she said. “Put it away and get ready.”

You nodded once and shoved the phone into your jacket pocket. The girls filtered in with their usual mixture of nerves and sleepiness, but there was extra static today. They’d all seen the announcement. They’d all seen the numbers exploding. Some had probably seen the comments too. Natasha did not allow room for it. On the ice, the session began hard and fast again.

The first twenty minutes looked fine to anyone else, good, even. Your jumps were landing, your edge work was strong. You were sharper than you’d been three weeks ago, more efficient and way more powerful. But Natasha saw the problem immediately.

Half a second late on entries, eyes drifting after landings, attention splintering and pulling inward. Tiny hesitation before transitions that normally came instinctively now.

A distracted skater.

Natasha’s mouth went cold. “Focus!” she snapped after you overchecked an exit. “You don’t get to leave your brain in the locker room and skate with the rest!”

Your jaw tightened. “I am focused..”

“No.” Natasha said. “You are pretending.”

A couple of the girls flinched at the exchange and skated harder. The rest of practice ran on. It wasn’t a disaster, which almost made it worse. You were too good for not a disaster. Too newly visible, too newly claimed by Romanoff Skating, too close to being put in front of cameras and judges. Natasha did not build programs around almosts.

By the time they finished, the girls were drenched and limp with relief, skating off in that ragged, boneless way people only did after a hard session under her. You unlaced one glove with your teeth and sweaty hair sticking to your temple. You looked tired and a little too inside yourself.

Natasha waited until the others were halfway to the locker rooms.

“Y/n.” she said.

You looked up. “Office.”

A murmur passed through the nearest two girls and died immediately when Natasha’s head turned. You swallowed, stripped off your guards, and followed. The tension started before the office door even shut.

Natasha could feel it in the way you held yourself: half-ready to defend, half-ready to bolt. She knew that posture now. It was what you did when you were scared and planned to disguise it as attitude.

You stayed standing for a second too long, then dropped into the chair opposite with a stiffness that advertised nerves more than you probably realized. Natasha leaned both palms on the desk and looked at you.

“You were distracted today, and-”

Your mouth opened immediately. “It was just-”

“Don’t interrupt me.” Natasha said and silence.. The effect was instant. Your cheeks went pink, sharp and sudden, like color had been brushed under the skin.

Good. Natasha straightened slightly, still watching you.

“I do not care if strangers online think you are a whore, a fraud, or the second coming of Christ.” she said. “They don’t skate your program. You do. And today, they were in your head.”

You looked down for one second, then back up. “I said I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t ask for sorry.” Natasha’s tone stayed calm. “I asked for your work.”

The quiet hit harder than yelling ever could. Outside the glass, someone laughed in the corridor, then thought better of it and lowered their voice.

“In two weeks..” Natasha continued, “Romanoff Skating joins the Moscow exhibition commission.”

You blinked. “The commission gala?”

“Yes.”

It was not a small thing..It was media and federation heavy. Sponsors in the front rows..the kind of event where one clean performance could become ten articles by morning. Natasha let the significance sit.

“I want you on the ice for it.” she said.

You stared at her. WHAT?!

“Me?!“

“No, the plant in the corner.”

Despite everything, your mouth twitched. “You are going.” Natasha said. “You are skating. People are already talking about you. I would prefer the first time they see you under my name to be controlled.”

Your eyes widened a fraction and beneath the anxiety, something bright flickered..want, ambition, disbelief, all mixed together. But then doubt rushed in to cover it. “That’s… two weeks.”

“Yes.”

“That’s not a lot of time.”

“It is enough if you stop wasting parts of your brain on comments written by idiots with no blade under their feet.”

That landed exactly where Natasha wanted it to. You exhaled slowly through your nose and your fingers tightened on the arm of the chair. “You really think I can do that?”

The question came out lower than the rest had. More honest, definitely not for the room and not for the game. “I do not put people on my ice in public because I hope they survive it.” she said. “I put them there because I expect them to make an impression.”

She leaned forward a fraction. “But I cannot do that with you if your focus is split between me, your edge quality, and whether some anonymous child online wants to rip your face off.” Her eyes locked on yours. “So decide now which world you live in.”

You didn’t move..Natasha could practically watch the thoughts working across your face: fear, resistance and thrill. The awful seduction of being chosen for something bigger.

“Okay.” you said. “Yeah, I get it.” Natasha watched you for another long second, measuring whether you meant it.

Then she stepped back. “Good,” she said. “Tomorrow you leave your phone in here before practice.”

You frowned. “What?”

“In my office on the desk.” Natasha said it like it had already been agreed upon. “You get it back after.”

You opened your mouth, clearly with something sharp ready but Natasha lifted one brow, so you closed it again and the pink in your cheeks deepened.. “Fine..” you muttered.

Natasha allowed herself the smallest curve at the edge of her mouth. Victory didn’t need fanfare. “Good girl.” she said absently, already reaching for the session notes on her desk. The silence that followed was immediate and dense. You went still and Natasha looked up.

Your entire face had changed again. Eyes a little wider, color high in your cheeks hotter this time. Like you hadn’t decided whether to be furious or disappear through the floor.

Interesting. Natasha set the notes down very carefully.

“In case you are confused.” she said, voice smooth as glass, “that was approval. Don’t make me repeat it.” Natasha said. “And you’re dismissed.”

You stood too quickly, almost clipped the chair with your knee and caught it at the last second. You shot Natasha a look full of heat and helpless annoyance and turned for the door. At the threshold, Natasha spoke once more.

“Y/n.”

You paused without turning. “Two weeks.” Natasha said. “I want you clear headed, sharp, and worth the headlines.”

You looked back over your shoulder, eyes still bright from being rattled and nodded. When the door clicked shut behind you, Natasha stayed very still for a moment in the quiet office. Then she looked through the glass at the rink beyond, already emptying and let herself think the truth she would not say out loud yet. The girl was getting under her skin.

The push already worked for the day after. That was the first thing Natasha noticed.

Not the obvious things, though those were there too. But you were arriving earlier, staying later or taking correction with less wasted irritation and more immediate adjustment. The little vein in your neck jumping when Natasha gave you an impossible drill and the stubborn way you did it anyway.

You had stopped skating like you were testing whether this life fit. Now you skated like you were trying to take a bite out of it. It was still only a smaller competition on paper. Not the Olympics or worlds..not even the season-defining event people would build documentaries around. A commission gala, a proving ground, a place where federations, sponsors, judges, and everyone adjacent to power watched from neat rows and pretended they were “just there for the sport.”

But you attacked practice like the medal ceremony was already waiting and Natasha liked that more than she should have.

“Again.” she said on Monday, and you didn’t groan or roll your eyes this time. You just reset your edge and went back into the sequence. The Axel was better and the loop was cleaner. The Lutz still flirted with recklessness on the exit, but less now, less every day. What had once been raw instinct was beginning to shape itself under pressure.

Irritating.

Natasha watched you from the boards. When she corrected Lena’s shoulders in a spin two meters away, she caught herself glancing past the girl’s head to check your edge quality on the other side of the rink. Or when she adjusted Anya’s hands in choreography, her ears were tuned to the sound of your landing behind her, whether it scraped, whether it sang, whether it told her anything useful.

More irritating.

And when you started sensing it because of course you did, because you were far too quick at reading the room for someone who pretended not to care, you got that little look on your face. That satisfied, secretive smile.. The faint upward curve of your mouth when Natasha’s eyes found you and stayed a beat too long. Like you were filing the information away: You’re watching me. Good.

Brat, Natasha thought, and then immediately had to look away before the thought could turn into something different. That, more than anything, was the problem.

The tension had become its own current in the rink. Not visible, not spoken, but there, under everything. In corrections, in silences. In the way Natasha now crossed the ice toward you with more physical precision than she used on the others, because she trusted you not to flinch and hated that she trusted you at all.

“Stop.” Natasha said on Wednesday, cutting through a sequence halfway. “Again from the choctaw.”

You braked, breathing hard, cheeks pink from effort. “It was fine.”

“It was decorative.” Natasha said. “Not fine.”

She stepped onto the ice in her skates and came close enough to smell your sweat under the cold air and clean detergent of the training jacket. “Show me your shoulders.”

You obeyed, just a fraction too slowly and Natasha put one hand on your upper arm and the other flat between your shoulder blades, pressing lightly.

“Here.” she said, sliding her palm down a little, feeling the warm line of muscle under the fabric. “You collapse here because you’re anticipating the turn instead of trusting your edge.”

Your breath caught and Natasha heard it but ignored it..or pretended to. “Lift.” Natasha murmured.

You obeyed and your chin angling higher. Natasha’s fingers moved to your waist, a firm, efficient correction, turning the line of your hips by a few centimeters. The heat of that contact stayed in the air longer than it should have.

“There.” Natasha said, her hand lingering one heartbeat too long before she stepped back. “Again.” The girls near the boards exchanged glances and Natasha didn’t miss that either.

By Friday, your whole body had started to answer faster. Natasha would say “more knee” and it would happen before she finished the sentence. She’d snap “deeper edge” and you would carve the ice harder, stronger, with that fierce little flash in your eyes that said you’d rather die than fail in front of her.

Natasha found herself wanting to see that flash more and more. Again..Dangerous. Very dangerous.

The last week before the commission gala began with a visible change in the air. Pressure always had a smell in Natasha’s halls. Metal and sweat and fear. The girls got quieter, less stupid chatter in the locker rooms and more stretching. You felt it too. Natasha saw it in the way you started arriving before dawn, in the way you tied your skates tighter, in the way you barely touched your phone between sets.

Natasha did what she always did with pressure: She pressed harder.

“Again.”

“No, from the top.”

“You think the audience will forgive lazy transitions because you have pretty eyes?”

“Your landing looked frightened. Fix it.”

“Do it until your body understands before your brain complains.”

And you took it. That was the thing..You took it. There was a kind of hunger in you now that hadn’t been there at the beginning. Not just for skating. For this. For proving. For earning the full weight of Natasha’s attention and surviving under it.

That pleased Natasha in ugly, private ways. On Thursday, you nearly overshot the end of a step sequence because you glanced toward the boards one fraction too long. Natasha stopped you immediately.

“What are you looking at?”

You glided closer, breathing hard. “Maybe I like being watched.”

The line was thrown lightly, the kind of thing old you might have said to a camera but Natasha’s pulse gave one hard, inconvenient beat. She stepped forward and hooked two fingers under your chin, lifting your face just enough to make you meet her eyes.

“Then earn it.” she said softly.

You went still. Color rose slowly, beautifully, into your cheeks. Not from exertion this time. This woman will be the death.. Natasha let go before either of you could make that moment larger than it already was. The girls on the far side of the rink had gone suspiciously silent.

“Again.” Natasha said, turning away. “And this time don’t flirt with the boards. They’re not judging you.”

The laughter that rippled through the hall was nervous and quick. You pushed off with murder in your eyes and something bright, embarrassed and pleased under it. Natasha watched you go and felt very, very tired of being a sensible adult.

Saturday came fast and hard. Water bottles were uncapped, protein bars appeared and someone sat straight down on the rubber mat with a groan and was immediately told by Anastasia to get up before Coach saw and “used it as a metaphor for weakness.”

You sat on the lower bench, unlacing one glove with your teeth, still breathing a little too fast. You’d gotten better at being one of them without fully becoming one of them. They still watched you with curiosity, with jealousy sometimes, with that special wariness reserved for the skater Natasha was currently orbiting most obviously. But they also handed you hair ties now, stole your lip balm, asked for music recs and rolled their eyes in collective misery when Natasha assigned impossible drills.

Lena dropped beside you with a sigh. “I think she’s trying to kill us..”

“She would if it improved edge quality.” you said, taking a gulp of water and it got a few weak laughs. One of the younger girls muttered, “You should’ve seen her three years ago. She’s nicer now.”

You snorted. “Nicer?”

Anastasia, stretching her hamstring against the bench opposite, made a face. “Relatively.”

You leaned back on your palms, looking toward the office where Natasha’s silhouette moved behind the glass. “I’m honestly surprised she hasn’t forced me to perform something insane yet.” You tipped your head. “Like a quad Lutz-triple toe with no warm up, or whatever fresh act of violence qualifies as romance in this place.”

A tiny smile tugged at your mouth. “I mean, with the way you all talk about her, I expected she’d already have me trying one of those ridiculous jump combos no sane person lands under pressure.”

Silence. It happened so fast it was almost funny. The laughter vanished, water bottles stopped midair and the younger girls’ faces changed all at once, like someone had pulled a sheet over the room.

Your smile faded. “…Okay?” you said slowly. “What did I just say?”

No one answered. You looked from face to face. A girl suddenly found the floor fascinating, another one busied herself with her skate laces. Anastasia’s jaw was tight in a way you had only seen when Natasha was one correction from snapping.

“Guys.” you said. “If I accidentally joked about someone’s dead dog, tell me.”

Still nothing. The pressure in the air changed. Not Natasha pressure..something older, weirder, like a memory. You sat up straighter. “Why are you all acting like that?”

Masha opened her mouth- “Don’t.” Anastasia said sharply, not even looking at her. That only made you more alert. “What?” you asked, quieter now. “Anastasia.”

“Nothing.”

“That is such bullshit!”

Anastasia glanced toward the office window. Natasha’s silhouette was still there, bent over her desk, unreadable behind glass. Then back at you.

“Leave it.”

“No.” The answer came out before you could soften it. Curiosity had already sunk its claws in. “Now I really want to know.” you said. “Why did everyone just act like I said a curse word?”

Anastasia pinched the bridge of her nose. “Because you don’t know when to stop pushing..”

You almost said learned from the best, but the mood was wrong now. Lena whispered, “She should know.”

Anastasia shot her a murderous look. “She’s going to hear it from somewhere.” Lena pushed, shrinking slightly even as she did. “And it’s worse if-”

“Hey!” Anastasia snapped.

You looked between them, your pulse climbing for no good reason. “Hear what?”

Anastasia swore under her breath, then checked the office again. Natasha hadn’t moved or hadn’t moved enough to matter. Then, finally Anastasia leaned in, her voice dropping to almost nothing.

“Years ago..” she said, “before you. Before Sofia, even. There was another girl.”

You went still. “She was…” Anastasia searched for the word. “Everything.”

Lena stared at her hands. Another one was listening with wide, miserable eyes.

“No one could touch her.” Anastasia said. “She won everything. Regionals, nationals, Europeans, Worlds. Every time she stepped on the ice, people already knew the order of the podium and just waited to see by how much she’d win.” You felt something tighten low in your stomach.

“She was Romaoffs golden girl.” Anastasia said. “The one. The future Olympic champion. Romanoff built the whole season around her.”

There was no bitterness in her voice. Just old reverence curdled into something uneasy.

“People talked..” Anastasia went on. “You know how they do. Rumors. That she got more time, more attention. That Natasha would’ve skinned any other girl alive for half the mistakes she let that one get away with. Then grosser rumors..That she slept with Natasha. That that’s why she was untouchable.”

Your brows knit hard. “People said that?”

“People say disgusting things when a woman is powerful.” Anastasia muttered. “Especially if she’s beautiful and chooses one skater over another.”

Something ugly flickered through you..recognition, maybe, from the comments you’d read. The internet hadn’t invented rot. It had just scaled it.

“One competition..” she said, “Natasha wanted something no one expected. Some huge technical thing. Not a backflip..” she added quickly, before you could open your mouth. “A real element. Brutal and rare. The kind that changes a score sheet if you land it.” She swallowed. “She told the girl to do it.”

Your breath slowed. “And?”

Anastasia looked at you for a long second. “She landed wrong.”

The words didn’t come dramatically. That made them even more worse. “How wrong?” you asked, though you weren’t sure you wanted the answer.

Anastasia’s mouth flattened. “Bad enough.”

You stared. “Her whole career was over in one second.” Anastasia said. “From what I heard, she didn’t just hurt an ankle or tear something simple. It was…” She broke off, shaking her head. “Enough that she never came back. Never competed again. Never really skated again.”

The rink around you suddenly felt colder. Your mind flashed, involuntarily, to Natasha’s voice on the ice: I have seen it. I will not see it again on my ice.

“Natasha blamed herself.” Masha said in a small voice before Anastasia could stop her. “Like fully. Everyone here knew.”

Anastasia exhaled harshly. “After that, something changed. She was still Natasha, obviously. Still terrifying. But different. Meaner in some ways. More careful in others.”

Your thoughts tangled. “No one talks about this..?” you said. “I’ve searched her for days. Years. I never found-”

“Because there’s nothing to find.” Anastasia said.

The flat certainty of it made you look at her sharply. Anastasia leaned in one last inch, voice now barely a thread.

“Apparently Romanoff Skating buried it.” she whispered. “Money. Lawyers. Federation people. Press quieted down. Families paid off. Whatever had to happen.”

You stared at her. “No news story. No big scandal. No public blame.” Anastasia said. “Just…gone. Like that girl never existed.”

Somewhere down the corridor, a door shut and all of them flinched. You sat frozen, water bottle hanging forgotten from your fingers. Your first instinct was disbelief. That this was locker-room mythology, the kind girls built around powerful adults to explain all the things they didn’t understand.

But it fit too neatly. The way Natasha reacted to risk. The way “spinal injury” in the contract had felt less like legal language and more like a scar. The way she’d said once is enough.

You looked toward the office again. Natasha still stood beyond the glass, profile hard against the light, one hand braced on the desk, head bent over papers. Untouchable and controlled. Feared by the entire sport. And suddenly there was another shape under all that control. Something broken and buried so deep the world had apparently paid to keep it there.

Your mouth felt dry and you didn’t know what to think. Was it true? All of it? Half of it? Some warped version of a real event twisted by years of whispering?

And if it was true..what did it mean that you had signed your name to this woman? That you’d felt flattered by the possessiveness, electrified by the control, warmed by the tiny scraps of praise? That part hit hardest.

Because whatever the truth was, it didn’t make Natasha smaller. It made her heavier. More real..more dangerous. Anastasia sat back first, like she regretted having said anything at all. “Y/n, please forget it.” she muttered. “Seriously. Don’t ask her.”

“Don’t ever ask her.” Lena added quickly.

Masha nodded hard. “Please.”

You looked down at your hands. The skin over your knuckles was red from cold and grip. Little half-moons from your nails dug into your palm. “I’m not going to run into the office and demand a confession.” you said, but your voice sounded distant to your own ears.

You looked up again, toward the office glass, toward the woman inside it. Natasha lifted her head at that exact second. Even through the distance, even through the reflection on the glass, you felt the impact of those eyes finding the group and assessing in one clean sweep.

Everyone around you straightened automatically and Anastasia’s mouth shut. The break was over before Natasha even spoke. You held the gaze for one second longer than you needed to.

When Natasha stepped out of the office and called, “Back on the ice.” her voice sounded exactly as it always did.

You tried to skate it off. That was usually how you dealt with things, put the feeling into your body, let the ice wear it down into something manageable. But this wouldn’t flatten.

A girl. Golden. Untouchable. Built for the Olympics. Gone in one bad landing.

Not just injured. Not “out for the season.” Not the usual horrifying but recoverable list skaters traded like war stories..Gone from the sport entirely. You couldn’t stop hearing Anastasia’s voice in your head. Couldn’t stop layering it over all the things Natasha had already said.

I will not see it again on my ice.

Once is enough.

You do not do a maneuver that can snap your neck on my ice. Ever.

Before, those warnings had sounded like Natasha at full control, possessive, strict, a little brutal, very Romanoff. Now they sounded like something else too.

Fear.

Not the kind Natasha would ever admit to. Not the kind anyone else might even recognize in her. But you had seen enough of the world behind the woman by now to know when a rule had a grave underneath it.

It got under your skin and by the next session, it had followed you fully onto the ice. You should have been in it..You were supposed to be in it. The gala was days away now, not weeks. Natasha had shifted you harder, faster, tighter, more run throughs, more repetition, less room for improvisation. Everything in the rink was bending toward that date.

You knew that and your body knew it. Your nerves definitely knew it. And still, your mind kept splitting off. You’d go into a set-up and, right as your body aligned, the thought would creep in again-

What if it was a Lutz?

What if it was something impossible and she still said do it?

What if Natasha sees that one moment, that one dangerous possibility, and can’t help wanting it because winning matters that much?

What if Anastasia was wrong? What if she wasn’t?

Stupid and dangerous to think about it right now. The exact kind of thinking Natasha would call indulgent and useless. You knew all that, and still it kept happening.

“Again.” Natasha called from the boards. You reset, the edge under your blade bit in deep and clean. You pushed into the entry for the jump, trying to shut every other thought out.

You left the ice and for half a second, right in the air, your brain betrayed you.

Once is enough.

Your shoulders shifted a fraction too soon. You knew it immediately. That awful, instantaneous awareness skaters had when something was wrong before gravity finished proving it. Your center tipped and the landing came at you crooked and too fast.

Your blade touched down badly and the edge slipped. Your right foot shot out from under you and the force yanked the rest of your body sideways. You hit the ice on hip and thigh first, hard enough that white pain flashed up your side and then you were sliding sharp and helpless momentum carrying you in a half-spin across the fresh cut of the rink.

For one ugly second all you could hear was the hiss of your own body against the ice. Several girls gasped out loud and someone near the gate cursed. Natasha was there almost instantly.

You didn’t even see her move from the boards, one second she was across the rink, the next her shadow fell over the ice and a hand was on your forearm, not dragging, just there, “Hey, are you okay?”

The tone threw you off more than the fall had. It wasn’t Romanoff’s public voice..not the one that sliced and judged and pushed. It was lower..like a human. You blinked up at her, your breath knocked strange in your chest.

Great, you thought bitterly. Now she gets to sound gentle and I have to survive that too.

Your hip throbbed, but nothing felt torn, nothing felt catastrophically wrong. Just pain, embarrassment, adrenaline, and the dozen eyes burning into you from every direction. You pushed up onto one elbow. “I’m fine.”

Natasha’s hand stayed where it was. “Stand.”

You took the help because refusing would’ve been more dramatic than you could afford. You got your skates under you, rose too fast, and had to catch your balance when the rink tilted for a second. Natasha’s gaze sharpened immediately.

You straightened, forcing your face into something neutral. “I said I’m fine.”

Natasha looked at you like she was reading through skin and bone. The rink had gone almost completely silent. The younger girls were frozen halfway through stretches. Anastasia stood by the boards with her jaw tight, not moving.

You hated all of it. Hated the attention. Hated that you’d fallen because your brain had been full of someone else’s ghost story and Natasha’s old warning and your own inability to leave anything alone.

Natasha stepped closer..too close and her hand dropped from your arm, but the lack of contact didn’t make the space feel any bigger. If anything, it made it worse. You could smell cold air on her, sharp detergent, coffee under it, and something like leather from her gloves.

“You’re distracted.” Natasha said quietly.

Your spine tightened. “I missed one landing.”

“You were gone before you took off.”

The words landed harder than they should have. Because they were true. You opened your mouth, shut it and tried again. “It was just a bad jump.”

Natasha’s expression didn’t move. She took one more step, backing you instinctively off your own line.

“Days before competition..” Natasha said, her voice low enough that the others couldn’t hear if they weren’t trying very hard, “..and you want to start daydreaming in the air?”

Your pulse kicked. It wasn’t just the words. It was the proximity. The absolute, controlled force of Natasha’s attention focused on you and only you. No one else in the hall existed for that moment.

“I’m not daydreaming.” you said, but the defense came out thinner than you wanted. Natasha’s eyes dropped, briefly, to the way your chest was rising too quickly. Then back to your face.

“You think I don’t know what you look like when your head is somewhere else?” she asked. One more tiny step back and your blades clipped the boards behind you. The impact was light, but enough to remind you you had nowhere else to go.

Natasha followed the movement in, not touching you, not trapping you, but close enough now that you could feel heat from her through layers of cold rink air and fabric.

Damn her.

“You remember our conversation?” Natasha said. “About distraction. About what I can’t have from you right now.”

Your hip still ached where it had hit the ice. Your heart was doing something much less manageable. You tipped your chin up because letting it drop would feel like surrender.

“I remember.”

“Good.” Natasha’s gaze searched your face once, twice, too thoroughly. You had the ridiculous urge to look away and the even more ridiculous urge not to. For one second, you thought Natasha might press harder. Ask what was in your head. Demand it. Peel you open in front of everyone if she had to.

Instead, she just stayed there, immense and terrible and so composed it made you feel messier by contrast.

“I’m fine..” you said again, quieter now. “Seriously.”

Natasha knew you were lying. You could see it in the tiny shift of her jaw, in the way her eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, in the fact that she didn’t move right away. Then, with visible effort, Natasha let it go.

“Fine.” she said.

The word did not mean agreement. It meant temporary mercy. She stepped back at last, and the air rushed into the gap between you. You almost hated the relief of it.

“Again from the entry.” Natasha said, louder this time, for the rink. “And if you fall because you’re thinking instead of skating, I’ll take your music away and make you run edges in silence until you beg.”

A few of the girls exhaled all at once, the spell broken just enough for movement to return to the hall. Someone bent to retie a skate. Someone else looked very determinedly at their own laces. You pushed off from the boards, your face still hot.

You should have been annoyed. Embarrassed. Maybe a little ashamed. You were all of those things. And underneath them, incredibly, was the pulse of something else entirely, the same awful electricity Natasha always seemed to drag out of you when she got too close and too serious and too focused.

What the hell was wrong with you.

You circled back to your starting position, flexed once into your knees, and forced your breathing steady. At the boards, Natasha had already folded herself back into that familiar posture, arms crossed, face unreadable, all softness burned away. But you knew better now.

Knew there were layers under that ice. Old fear. Old guilt. A buried thing with sharp edges. It did not make her less dangerous. It made her more.

You set up again and this time, when you left the ice, you did it with nothing in your head but the jump. The landing came under you clean, the edge solid, the check crisp.

“Better.” Natasha said.

Just one word. Still, it landed like a hand to the sternum. You skated out of it, trying very hard not to look satisfied, and failed just enough that Natasha saw, but of course she saw.

Days later, you tried to stop thinking about it.

About the story in the locker room that had dropped into your life like a stone into black water and never really stopped sinking. You told yourself it was none of your business. Old rumor. Old wound. Something that belonged to Natasha and a version of Romanoff Skating that existed before you ever stepped through those doors.

That lasted maybe half a day. After that, you started searching. You didn’t type Romanoff golden girl career-ending injury scandal into Google like some teenage conspiracy theorist. You were smarter than that, and apparently Romanoff Skating had been smarter too.

Still, over the next days you searched the edges of things. Old competition records. Archived forum posts. Dead fan accounts. An interview here, a vanished competition entry there. You dug through the internet’s dustiest corners with the careful obsession of someone trying not to admit she was obsessed. Nothing useful.

Names half-mentioned and then gone. Competition results with a season abruptly ending. A training photo deleted from one platform but still alive on another in blurry reposts. The shape of a person who had once existed and had then been professionally erased. It bothered you more than you wanted to admit. And underneath all of it sat the other, more immediate thing:

competition.

Not the Olympics. Not yet. Not the impossible mountain. But this was the first time you would step into a real arena under Romanoff’s name. First time in years. First time with cameras and judges and rivals and the whole unbearable machine of attention aimed at you at once.

The day before, Natasha had told you without preamble, “I’m picking you up at seven. Be ready. Eat properly before I get there. I’m not dragging a fainting girl through accreditation.”

You had rolled your eyes on instinct. “So romantic.”

Natasha had just looked at you over the clipboard in her hands and said, “Protein. Carbs. Water. Don’t test me.”

And you, because you’d learned which of Natasha’s tones were decorative and which were law, had muttered, “Yes, Coach.” and actually done it.

Now, the next morning, you sat in the passenger seat of a black Romanoff Skating car with your hands clasped too tightly in your lap and tried not to think yourself into a panic.

The city slid by outside in grey morning blur and Natasha drove. That alone should have been distracting enough. Natasha Romanoff, one hand on the wheel, sunglasses pushed up into her hair, coat immaculate, looking like she could either take someone to a competition or order a hit with the same calm efficiency.

Instead your brain was too loud. The program. The jumps. The media. The announcement. The comments. The fact that by the end of the day, people would have opinions about you that would live online forever.

Natasha glanced at you once at a red light. “You’re chewing through your own thoughts.”

“I know.”

Silence stretched for a minute, the kind of quiet that existed around Natasha naturally, like she bent air around herself until it behaved.

Then Natasha said, “It will be fine.”

You looked back. “You say that like it’s a fact.”

Natasha’s mouth shifted faintly. “It is.”

“There are going to be cameras.” you said. “And reporters. And people who already think I don’t belong there.”

“Yes.”

“And judges.”

“Yes.”

“And other skaters who’ve been doing this nonstop while I was out there making TikToks and-”

“Y/n.” The single word cut through the spiral. Natasha kept her eyes on the road. “Listen to me.”

You did. “The press will be there.” Natasha said. “They’ll shout your name, ask stupid questions, try to photograph you breathing. That is normal. You stay with me and management and they do not get close enough to matter.”

Her hand shifted on the wheel, knuckles clean and steady. “The other skaters are irrelevant until they are on the ice.” she continued. “And the judges will see what I want them to see if you do your work.”

It was such a Natasha thing to say that, under any other circumstance, you might have laughed. Now, it hit you somewhere under the ribs instead. You looked at Natasha’s profile. Strong nose. Mouth set in concentration and somehow that helped more than comfort would have.

“Okay.” you said quietly.

Natasha nodded once, as if that settled it. When you both arrive, people were alresdy outside. Barricades, camera lenses, assistants with lan yards. Staff moving briskly through side entrances, skaters from other teams slipping out of cars with garment bags and anxious parents and expressions carefully blank.

Your mouth went dry. From inside the car, the arena looked enormous. Not because it physically was, you’d seen bigger on TV, but because today it meant something. This was it. This was the point where the story in your head stopped being fantasy and started being visible.

Natasha turned the engine off and looked at you. “Show time.” she said.

No dramatic speech. No you’re ready. Just that and maybe that was better. You nodded, swallowed once, and reached for the door handle. The second you stepped out, the world detonated. Flashes burst white against the morning air, questions came from everywhere at once, overlapping into a wall of noise.

“Coach Romanoff! Over here-”

“Y/N! First competition under Romanoff, how are you feeling?”

“Is the Olympic roster already decided?”

“Can we get a statement-”

“Y/N, look this way-”

Your spine went rigid for one horrifying second and Natasha didn’t even break stride. Two security men and one Romanoff staffer moved around you immediately, clean and practiced, creating a human wedge through the chaos. Natasha’s hand landed briefly between your shoulder blades, not pushing, just there and somehow that was enough to get your legs moving again.

“Eyes forward.” Natasha said under the noise. You passed through a storm of camera flashes and shouted names and speculative nonsense, and then the doors swallowed you and the sound dropped from deafening to merely huge.

Inside, the arena opened around you. And for one pure, ridiculous second, you forgot to breathe. It was brighter than television had ever made it look. Rink staff crossed the floor carrying equipment. Team jackets from federations you’d only ever seen on broadcasts moved in flashes of color. Music drifted faintly from somewhere in the practice area. Overhead, giant screens looped sponsor graphics and event branding. Every part of it hummed with money, expectation, and the kind of polished chaos only high level competition ever had.

Your eyes went wide before you could stop them. There..one of the skaters you’d watched in replay compilations for years, laughing too loudly with her choreographer. There, a national champion you used to mute your TV for because she was so annoyingly good. There, a coach whose technical breakdowns had once ruined your ability to enjoy a clean jump without analyzing the edge. It all existed. Not on a screen. Here.

A hand came down on your shoulder. “Walk.” she said quietly. You realized you’d nearly stopped dead in the middle of the corridor like a tourist. Heat rushed into your face and you moved.

You did two brief interview stops because, apparently, Romanoff Skating never entered a building quietly. Natasha handled most of it, as always. Cool, spare answers and tiny quotable lines delivered with just enough boredom to make reporters scramble harder.

“How is Y/N adjusting to the Romanoff system?”

“She’s still alive.”

A few journalists laughed nervously.

“Do you see her as a serious contender already?”

Natasha’s eyes flicked sideways to you, then back to the microphone. “I don’t bring girls here for decoration.”

That one would absolutely make headlines. You were asked if you were nervous, if this felt surreal, if Romanoff had changed your skating. You answered carefully, your voice steady enough, though your pulse was still trying to claw its way through your throat. Then you were moving again, down into the quieter, colder underbelly of the arena toward locker rooms and athlete-only corridors.

You changed alone. The door clicked shut behind Natasha and the manager, leaving you in a strip lit room with benches, mirrors, and your garment bag hanging from a hook like it was waiting to become something ceremonial.

You unzipped it slowly and, my god, the dress was stunning. Dark at first glance, midnight blue melting into black but when you lifted it into the light, it caught in a scatter of stones that flashed silver and ice-white. The cut was sharp without being vulgar. Strong shoulders, clean neckline and skirt light enough to move like a whisper.

Powerful, not pretty. Natasha’s taste, then.

You stripped out of your travel clothes and slid into it carefully. The fabric hugged where it should, skimmed where it should, and somehow made you feel taller the second it settled onto your body. By the time you fastened the last hook and turned toward the mirror, your throat had closed up.

For a second you just stared. The woman in the glass looked like you. And didn’t. There were still traces of the girl from public-rink videos, mouth a little too expressive, eyes a little too alive with nerves, body too used to joy to ever look entirely manufactured. But under that was something cleaner now. Sharper. More deliberate.

Romanoff had gotten her hands on you, and it showed. You stepped closer to the mirror. Your younger self flashed over the image like a double exposure: thirteen years old, curled up in socks on the couch, watching champions on TV and pretending the future could find you if you wanted hard enough. That girl would have lost her mind at this sight. Would have cried, probably. Would have put her hand over the screen and whispered, that’s me.

Your eyes burned unexpectedly, but a knock broke the moment. “Come in.” you called, too fast. The door opened and Natasha stepped in.

For one heartbeat, neither of you said anything. Natasha’s gaze moved over you slowly, taking in the dress, the way it sat on you, the way you held yourself in it. Not ogling. Not casual either. Assessing, yes, but there was something quieter under it.

“You look.” Natasha said at last, “powerful.”

Your heart tripped. Then Natasha’s mouth curved the slightest amount. “And beautiful.” That one landed lower. You managed, “Thanks..” but the word came out thinner than you wanted. Way too much breath in it.

Natasha heard it immediately. “Sit.” she said, nodding toward the bench. You obeyed before you could decide whether to make a joke out of it. Natasha crouched in front of you and picking up the skates.

Your stomach tightened and Natasha took your left foot gently but without hesitation, guiding it onto the edge of the bench. Her hand was warm even through the tights, broad and firm around your ankle.

“Relax your foot.” Natasha said.

You made yourself do it and the skate slid on. Natasha’s fingers pressed your heel into place, then adjusted the tongue with careful efficiency. It should have felt clinical. It should have felt like coaching. Instead, when Natasha’s hand smoothed down the front of your ankle and lingered there for one extra beat before moving to the laces, it didn’t feel clinical at all.

You stared down at the top of Natasha’s head for a second, at the copper-red strands pulled tightly back, and had the sudden, violent memory of Anastasia’s voice in the locker room.

Rumors. That she slept with Natasha. That that’s why she was untouchable.

You went completely still. The thought struck so hard and so suddenly it made you feel ashamed for having it. For even letting it into the room. But it was there now, alive and ugly and impossible to shove back down.

Natasha’s hands moved with practiced precision, threading the laces, tightening, testing the pressure with her thumbs. Her knuckles brushed the inside of your calf as she adjusted the angle of the boot. A harmless touch but a necessary one.

Still, it stayed too long. Or maybe you were imagining that too. Natasha’s palm slid once, flat and controlled, from just below your knee down the line of your shin to smooth the tights where they’d caught under the boot. It was practical. It was nothing. But it felt like too much and your breathing changed. Natasha noticed and her hands paused on the laces. Slowly, she looked up.

Your eyes met and the room shrank. You should have looked away. Any sane person would have. But the rumor was still echoing in your head, and Natasha was kneeling between your knees, and her hands were still resting on your leg as if she hadn’t decided yet whether to move them.

For one suspended heartbeat, neither of you spoke. Natasha’s eyes narrowed, not in anger. Rather in attention, searching attention, as if she’d caught the exact second your thoughts had gone somewhere they shouldn’t. And that made it worse.

Because suddenly you were sure Natasha could see it. The rumor. The question. The inappropriate, stupid flash of heat under your skin that had absolutely nothing to do with skates. Colour climbed hot into your face again and Natasha’s gaze dropped, only for a second to your mouth, then rose again.

The hand on your shin tightened by the slightest fraction. Not enough to hurt, just enough that you felt it everywhere. Your throat went dry and you didn’t know who moved first. Maybe neither of you did. But Natasha broke the stare by lowering her eyes back to the laces and pulling them tight in one smooth motion.

“Tell me the opening.” she said.

You blinked, still caught in the moment. “W-What?”

“The program.” Natasha said, as if the last few seconds had not happened at all. “Opening section. Tell me.”

You dragged in a breath that felt thin. “Cross cut entry. Diagonal. Triple-triple combo. Exit edge into turns.”

“Good.” Natasha murmured and she tied the skate, checked the knot, then shifted to the other foot. This time, you were hyper-aware of everything. The way Natasha’s fingers curved around your ankle. The pressure of her palm at the back of your calf when she guided the second skate into place. The smooth slide of her hand over the length of your shin as she tested the fit. Every touch felt amplified by the silence, by the dress, by the locked room, by the thought you wished you’d never heard.

Natasha laced slower than she needed to. Or maybe you only thought that because you were now counting every second.

“Middle section.” Natasha said, her eyes on the boot. You swallowed. “Step sequence, then spin. Then the Lutz.”

Natasha tugged the laces tighter. “Ending.”

“Choreo sequence into the final pose.”

“Again.”

You repeated it, steadier this time. Natasha tied off the second skate and stayed there for one beat too long, still crouched before you, one hand resting lightly against the side of your ankle. Then she looked up again.

“You know it.” she said.

You nodded. “I..know.”

And there it was, eye contact, direct and unblinking and much too long to pass for casual. You felt pinned by it. Whatever had almost happened before, whatever you’d imagined, whatever you hadn’t, it hung between you now like a held breath.

Natasha’s face revealed almost nothing. That was the worst part. She was too controlled, too experienced, too good at being unreadable. But there was something in her eyes that didn’t feel purely professional. Something aware. Something that made your pulse stumble. Your mind betrayed you one more time:

Did the other girl look at her like this too?

The thought felt poisonous. Your fingers tightened on the edge of the bench and Natasha rose in one smooth movement, finally breaking the line between you. The air seemed to rush back into the room all at once. She held out her hand, not to help you up, just open-palmed, expectant.

“Come.” she said. As if she hadn’t just knelt in front of you and laced you into a spiral. You stood, your legs suddenly too aware of themselves, and ignored the hand completely on principle.

They waited by the entrance together, just off the ice, watching the skater before you finish. The arena sounded different from this close. Louder. More physical. Applause hit in waves you could feel in your sternum. The ice under the lights looked unreal, bright as a cut jewel.

You stood in your warm-up jacket now, skates laced, fingers flexing once and then stilling. You watched everything. The boards, the judges, the kiss and cry setup. The camera on the rail sweeping for reaction shots.

This is happening, you thought. This is actually happening..

The girl before you hit her final pose. Applause. Music cut. The announcer’s voice rolled over the speakers. Natasha stepped behind you and unzipped the jacket. The fabric slid from your shoulders in one smooth motion. Natasha took it from you and leaned in just enough for you to catch the words meant only for you.

“Breathe once.” Natasha said. “Then take it.”

You did. One breath in. One out. You turned your head the slightest bit and looked at Natasha. Whatever passed between you there was too fast and too private to name. Not tenderness. Not exactly reassurance either. Recognition, maybe.

You know what to do. I know.

Then you stepped onto the ice. Cold bit clean through the soles of your boots and up into your bones. The arena opened around you like a mouth. You skated to your starting position. The noise dimmed at the edges. The boards got farther away. The judges became shapes. The crowd became pressure, then possibility. You took one last breath and the music started.

You were gone. Not disappeared, more like transformed. Every piece of you that had been jangling with nerves a second earlier slid into place as soon as the first note hit.

Your body took over. The opening cut through the rink exactly the way it had in practice, only bigger now, brighter, sharpened by the crowd. You hit the first combination clean, blades kissing the landing with a crisp authority that sent a visible ripple through the front rows. The noise swelled.

Good.

You took it and gave back more. Every beat of the music had somewhere to live in your body. Arms slicing, hips settling into edges, shoulders opening at precisely the right moments. You didn’t skate at the music. You skated through it, with it, because of it.

Halfway through, you smiled. Not for effect. Not because someone had told you perform here. It just happened, joy and ferocity meeting in the same place. The audience felt it instantly. Their reaction rolled over you in another wave, louder this time, feeding straight into the next section.

All the doubt you’d dragged around for weeks vanished. Not because it had been answered. Because it no longer mattered. This was the answer. You were the ice. For these few minutes, that was all there was.

At the boards, Natasha watched like a woman possessed. Her mind ran its own brutal checklist automatically, edge secure, good knee action, shoulders strong, exit cleaner than last week, don’t overcook the next one, yes, yes, keep that speed, hold the line-

But under the analysis, excitement burned hot enough to make her hands curl against the barrier. You were hitting it. Not surviving. Not improvising through nerves. Owning it. The smile, especially, that dangerous smile in the middle of high-level content, as if you were arrogant enough to enjoy yourself and good enough to earn it, did something feral to Natasha’s chest.

Yes, she thought, her eyes fixed and bright. Yes, exactly that.

By the last section, the arena was fully with you. Every clean landing bought louder cheers. Every musical accent you nailed pulled them tighter into your grip. When you hit the final movement and held it, your chest lifting hard, chin up, the applause cracked open around you.

For one second you just stood there in it. Breathing and drenched in noise. Then you turned and flashes exploded from half a dozen directions. The stands were a blur of faces and hands and movement. People were on their feet, actually on their feet!

Your heart slammed so hard it hurt. You came off the ice in a daze of adrenaline and bright, sharp sound. Natasha was already there, one hand out. You took it without thinking.

Natasha’s grip closed around yours, steady and strong, guiding you over the lip from ice to rubber. The touch grounded you just enough to keep the whole moment from floating away.

“Perfect, Y/n.” Natasha said, her voice low enough to cut through the rest.

Perfect.

You almost laughed from the sheer inadequacy of the phrase compared to what was detonating inside you. You wanted to say a hundred things at once: Did you see that? I felt it. They felt it. I know, I know, I know-

Instead you just nodded, still breathing too hard, your face hot, your pulse violently alive in every inch of you. You moved to the side, then to the holding area. Minutes stretched. Other names appeared. Other skaters finished. Scores came up one by one. You stood beside Natasha, still buzzing from the ice, trying to drag your heart back into your ribcage.

Then the board shifted again and your name appeared. For one split second your brain only registered the fact of it, letters, your country, your placement. Then the numbers landed.

Highest score, by far.

Not barely ahead. Not technical tiebreak. A clean, undeniable lead. You stared. The arena made that collective sound crowds made when they understood something at once. Surprise tipping into excitement. Commentary rising in the background. Cameras immediately shifting to find you.

Beside you, Natasha’s mouth curved. Not wide, she didn’t do wide. Just that sharp, satisfied smirk you had first seen from the stands, except now you were close enough to understand what lived underneath it.

That’s it, the look said. I told you.

You looked from the score back to her, your chest still heaving lightly, and felt something huge and impossible settle into place. You had stepped into Romanoff’s world and given it blood.

And it had answered. The chapter of your life before this suddenly seemed very far away.

[natsaffection]

Skating the Line. Pt1 | N.R

Natasha Romanoff built her legacy on precision and control, shaping champions with an unforgiving hand and zero tolerance for chaos. She isn’t searching for new skaters until a viral performance full of raw confidence and reckless charm refuses to leave her mind. You don’t skate for judges or podiums, no, you skate for the rush, the eyes on you, the power of owning the ice. When Natasha offers elite training and a chance at Olympic glory, curiosity pulls you into her orbit, where discipline clashes with defiance. Every session becomes a test of will , heated stares, and moments charged with something neither professional nor safe. As attention grows and stakes rise, competition twists into obsession, blurring the line between rivalry and attraction. She wants control. You want the fire. And neither of you plans to lose because Natasha demands perfection and you refuse to be anything less than irresistible.

Older!Coach!Natasha x Younger!Skater!Reader

Warnings: Warnings: 18+! MINORS DNI! Age gap (N=31, r=23), human susceptibility, possession

Word count: 10,8 k

A/N: I’m very, very proud and excited about this one. To all the skaters out there, if you notice any mistakes, please point them out! I’ve been drowning in TikTok, rewatching Olympic performances and researching figures, rules, and everything else to get it right…so please help me out if something’s off. ❄️

The roar of the arena hit like a physical thing.

Not the polite applause of juniors and local meets, no, this was a real crowd. Flags draped over shoulders, faces painted, hands slapping plastic clappers until the sound bounced off the metal beams of the ceiling. Camera flashes burst in erratic white pops and the ice in the center of it all looked impossibly small, like a square of light in a mouth full of teeth.

“Next to enter the building…Team Romanoff!!”

The announcer barely finished the word before everything shifted. Heads turned toward the tunnel and the noise didn’t get louder..it changed completely. Conversations cut off mid-sentence, and a wave of phones went up like a field of metal flowers, ready to capture.

Natasha Romanoff walked out first.

She wore black from throat to ankles, the kind of black that absorbed light instead of reflecting it. Black coat, black gloves, black boots that clicked on the concrete with measured, unhurried steps. Her accreditation lanyard was tucked away under her coat, she didn’t need plastic to tell anyone who she was.

Around her, the Romanoff team moved in formation, choreographer, physio, assistant coach, all in matching jackets. Behind them, half-hidden, walked the girl everyone was really looking at. Sofia Petrov, nineteen, small and sharp in her team track suit and her mouth was pressed into a brittle line. She was the current European champion. The favorite for this title and the newest weapon forged in Natasha’s camp. The entrance hallway flooded with bodies as soon as they appeared.

“Natasha, over here-!”

“Coach Romanoff, quick statement-”

“Do you feel the pressure tonight?”

“Mademoiselle Romanoff, a word in French-”

Microphones rose and cameras shoved forward everywhere. Security tried to hold the line, but the press surged anyway. They always did when she was in the building, you didn’t get two Olympic champions, four world titles and an entire generation of medalists without paying in attention.

Natasha didn’t flinch, instead she lifted one hand, palm out, stopping her team with a small gesture. Flashbulbs caught on her cheekbones, turning her eyes pale and hard. A mic appeared inches from her lips.

“Coach Romanoff, expectations are very high after Petrov’s short program.” a reporter rattled. “Do you think she can hold off the Japanese and the American skaters tonight?”

Natasha gave the smallest of shrugs, “That’s her job.” she said, accent flattening the English, giving it a clipped precision. “My job is already done.”

A ripple of laughter from the press. They liked that kind of line, “Are you confident in her free skate?” another voice pushed and Natasha’s gaze flickered past the wall of cameras to Sofia, standing just behind her shoulder. The girl’s hands were twisted together in the sleeves of her jacket and her eyes were too wide.

“Yes.” Natasha said, and her tone left no room for argument. “You saw her short. If she skates what she does every day in practice, it will be enough.”

A murmur of approval and a couple of follow-up questions about programs and quads and the “Romanoff school of discipline.” Natasha answered two more in short, dismissive sentences, then cut it off with a nod at security. “That’s all.” she said. “We are late for warm-up.”

They weren’t, she just didn’t care.

Security parted the crowd, and the team moved again. The focus followed them as if dragged on invisible lines. Fans leaned over the barriers, phones stretching, some calling out Sofia’s name, others just “Coach Romanoff! Look here!”

Sofia kept her eyes on the floor, shoulders hunched as if the cheers were physical weight. Natasha waited until they turned a corner and the worst of the noise dropped away. Then she reached back without looking and caught Sofia’s wrist. The girl startled, head snapping up.

“Dyshat (breathe).” Natasha said quietly, switching to Russian.

“I am.” Sofia whispered.

“You are not. You are chewing your heart in front of them.” Natasha’s grip was firm, thumb pressing against the pulse racing under Sofia’s skin. “You wanted this. This is what it looks like.”

Sofia forced in a breath and another. Her eyes flicked up to meet Natasha’s for a fraction of a second. There was fear there, yes, but also something else. The stubborn, desperate hunger Natasha selected them for. She released the girl’s wrist and nudged her forward. “Come.”

The corridor opened onto the rink entrance and the cold hit first. The distant sweep of skates hissed over the boards as the previous group finishing their warm-up. The stands were a mass of color and movement, flags waving, a drum pounding somewhere in the upper levels. On the ice, a girl from Canada attempted a triple flip and two-footed the landing. The crowd made a sympathetic sound.

Natasha watched without emotion. They took their seats by the barrier, the Romanoff team collapsing into their reserved stretch of boards like a well rehearsed piece of blocking. Other coaches were scattered up and down the rinkside, some with clipboards, some with crossed arms, some with anxious chatter.

Natasha simply stood, gloves resting lightly on the rubber edge and watched the last skaters in the current group. A French girl with elegant lines and unreliable jumps and an American who could rotate anything but bled points in components. A Japanese skater with beautiful basics but a program stuffed with safe content. All good but none enough.

Sofia pressed close to her, following her gaze. “She landed the jump in practice.” she murmured, nodding at the Japanese girl.

“In practice.” Natasha echoed. “You do not get medals for practice.”

The Japanese girl went into a triple jump, stepped out and the crowd murmured again. Natasha’s mouth didn’t move, but inside she was already running numbers. Base values, ranges, mistakes, recovery, judges’ tendencies. She’d done this so many times she could feel the scores settling before they went up.

The group ended, applause swelling as the last girl struck her final pose. Scores flashed on the big screen. None of them touched Sofia’s short program total. “See?” Natasha said under her breath. “Our medal is in my pocket. You only have to reach in and take it.”

“Yes, Coach.”

Her hands shook when she bent to adjust the hooks of her boots and Natasha watched for three seconds, then stepped in. “Come here.” she said, dropping to a crouch in front of her. She batted Sofia’s fingers aside and tightened the laces herself with practiced, merciless tugs.

“You left the top hooks too loose.” she said. “You want to break your ankles on the first landing?”

“I- no.”

“Then think. You think about everything. You do not give the ice any advantage.” She glanced up, catching Sofia’s face. “Look at me.”

Sofia dragged her gaze up from the floor and for a heartbeat, the chaos of the arena faded. There was just the girl and the coach, the reflection of bright-white rink lights in both eyes, the echo of distant music thudding through the walls.

“What do we do?” Natasha asked, voice low.

“We skate clean.” Sofia whispered.

“What else?”

“We…we attack the jumps.”

“And?”

“We show them…” Sofia’s voice steadied, almost imperceptibly. “We show them who we are.”

A small nod. “Good.” Natasha stood, fingertips grazing over Sofia’s shoulders, down the line of her arms, correcting the way she held them. “Shoulders down. Neck long. Spine like steel, not like rope. You are not a little girl here. You are the one they fear.”

Sofia’s chest rose on a trembling breath. The ice they fear, Natasha thought, but didn’t say it aloud. Judges, rivals, federations..none of them scared her. Only the ice could. The ice, and the idea of one of her girls making her look like she’d miscalculated.

“Romanoff.” a volunteer called. “Five minutes.”

Sofia bounced lightly on her blades and shaking out her hands. Natasha stood just behind her, close enough that Sofia could feel the heat of her presence between her shoulder blades. On the ice, the warm-up group for Sofia’s flight was finishing. One of the main rivals landed a strong triple-triple combination. The crowd roared and Sofia flinched.

Natasha leaned in, lips close to her ear. “Don’t look at her.” she said. “She is already finished and skated what she can. You haven’t started yet.”

Sofia’s fingers curled tightly around the barrier. The announcer’s voice boomed out over the speakers. “Ladies and gentlemen, representing the Russian Federation…Sofia Petrov, coached by Natasha Romanoff!!”

A different kind of noise rolled through the arena at that, something sharper, more expectant. The cameras swung to the entrance, catching their faces in unforgiving HD on the jumbotron. Natasha saw herself, briefly, in the massive overhead screen: features composed, mouth neutral and eyes completely flat.

The big animal on the edge of the forest.

She put a hand between Sofia’s shoulder blades and pushed. “Go.” Sofia slid through the gate onto the ice. The cold swallowed her and she took her opening laps, as they’d drilled, using the whole rink, stroking deep, feeling the glide in her blades. The crowd applauded politely and somewhere a cluster of her flags waved.

Natasha watched with her arms crossed and expression unreadable.

“She looks calm.” one commentator said over the arena speakers. “We know the Romanoff camp is famous for nerves of steel.”

“The content she has planned is huge!” the other replied. “If she lands everything, the gold is practically locked.”

Music cued and Sofia skated to her starting pose, center ice, back to the judges, head tilted just enough to show the rhinestones along her jawline. There was a beat of silence so complete Natasha could hear her own breathing.

Then the program began and the first few strokes were good. The opening triple jump–triple toe landed clean, the blades making that deep, satisfying thunk against the ice. A chorus of gasps from the crowd and then cheers. Step sequence lit with the right energy and every coaching instinct in Natasha cataloged, ticked off, approved.

Good. This is what we bought all those mornings with blood and tears for.

“Excellent start from Petrov!” the commentator enthused. “She’s on!”

The second jumping pass and Sofia’s entry was strong, but her free arm twitched. Natasha’s eyes narrowed but the landing was okay, the exit was tight though.

She’ll get dinged a little, Natasha thought, But nothing fatal. Keep going.

Sofia kept going, her face was completely set and focus narrowed. She hit the next few elements fine. But the big one came at the halfway mark. Triple jump and loop. High base value, big risk, the kind of combination that separated champions from challengers. Sofia knew it and Natasha knew it too. The entire fucking arena knew it.

Sofia flew into the entry and Natasha saw the mistake before Sofia’s toe pick left the ice. The shoulders closed a fraction and the timing of the arms was half a beat late..the right knee didn’t soften quite enough and fear telegraphed through her body. She took off too cautiously.

The jump went up but not high enough. Mid-air, Sofia panicked and her rotation slowed. She realized she wasn’t going to make it and instinctively untucked early, trying to save the landing.

She couldn’t and came down in a mess of arms and legs, the blade catching awkwardly, throwing her sideways. Her hip slammed the ice with a dull, heavy sound.

The whole arena winced, “Oh no!” one commentator breathed.

Ice dust sprayed as Sofia slid out of the fall. She pushed herself up immediately, eyes huge, shock written clear across her face. For a half-second, she looked straight at the boards, at the exact spot where Natasha stood.

Natasha looked back, face carved from stone. Get up, her eyes said. You finish.

Sofia swallowed and shoved herself upright, forcing her body back into the choreography. The music hadn’t waited for her and the rest of the program yanked her along. She landed the next jump, but shakily. Her spins were a touch off-center and the step sequence lost some bite. The performance was there in outline, but the light had gone out of it.

In the kiss & cry, some coach might have shouted encouragement, clapped, tried to resurrect the fight. Natasha didn’t believe in pretending. She watched the rest of the skate with her arms folded, her expression distant, mind already running numbers again. One fall on a high-value element, under-rotation likely, negative the points…Even with her base program, even with their reputation, the margin on the short was gone.

Cruel for the points. Fatal for the title.

“After that fall, it’s going to be very difficult for Petrov to hold on to gold.” the commentator said, as if they were repeating Natasha’s calculations out loud. “Romanoff will not be happy.”

The final spin ended and sofia held her last position, chest heaving, eyes suspiciously bright. The music cut off and a smatter of supportive applause, a little louder from the Russian section, a little softer elsewhere.

Sofia bowed and when she came off the ice, the cameras pounced, tracking every step. Her blade hit the rubber mat and she almost tripped, legs suddenly unstable without glide. Natasha stepped forward at the last second, a hand closing around her upper arm, steadying and stopping her from colliding with the barrier.

Up close, Sofia’s eyes brimmed. “Mne zhal' (I’m sorry..)” she choked, in Russian. “I-”

“Look at me.” Natasha said, very quietly. Sofia forced her eyes up and there were tears clinging to her lashes. Her chest hitched because humiliation vibrated off her in waves, knowing the world had heard that fall, seen the slow-motion replay, read the commentators’ disappointment. Knowing she’d just thrown away what everyone had already called hers.

Natasha’s grip on her arm eased a fraction, thumb rubbing once over the muscle as if to test its tension, its reality. “You fell.” she said. “It happens. You got up.”

“It’s over..” Sofia whispered, voice fracturing. “The gold, it’s-”

“Yes.” Natasha said. There was no cruelty in it, no comfort either. Just fact.

Sofia flinched like she’d been slapped. “You breathe now.” Natasha went on, tone still mellow enough for the boom mics hovering near them to register it as calming. “You sit. You smile for the cameras. You do not fall apart where everyone can see it. Understood?”

Sofia’s throat worked. “Y-Yes.”

Natasha steered her toward the kiss & cry. The Romanoff team fell in behind them, a silent, disciplined shadow. They sat and Sofia clutched a tissue someone pressed into her hand so tightly it shredded at the edges. Natasha rested one hand on her knee, light as a weight and heavy as a shackle.

The score box flashed on the screen and the number dropped into place below the leader’s. The crowd made that low, collective sound they saved for disappointment. The commentator filled the silence with practiced regret.

“…and that fall on the jump–loop combination really cost her. She drops to third, with several strong skaters still to come. A huge blow for Team Romanoff.”

Sofia stared at the board like she could force the digits to rearrange by will alone. One tear escaped, sliding hot and unwanted down her cheek. Natasha’s hand tightened on her knee for half a second. “Not here.” she murmured, head dipping closer so only Sofia could hear.

Sofia bit down on her lip so hard it went white. The cameras drank in the shot: the ice queen coach and her broken protégé, the cruel poetry of almost. Natasha sat very still, face composed, media mask flawless. But inside, the ledger was already updating. She had built Sofia for gold and it had slipped away. There would be other competitions, other chances on paper. Sponsors would still call and the federation would still support..for now.

But Natasha knew and Sofia knew, underneath the shock and misery. This was a crack that did not heal clean. Deep down, past the hand on the knee and the soft word in the ear, past the cameras and the pitying commentary, both of them already felt it: For Sofia Petrov, under Natasha Romanoff, something had just ended.

2 Years later:

By the time the next season rolled around, the medals didn’t matter.

They glittered in glass cases along the rink lobby: World titles, Grand Prix golds, coaching awards, a lifetime achievement plaque the federation had practically thrown at her feet. Parents took photos of their daughters in front of them, pointing at the names engraved under Coach: N. Romanoff like they were touching a shrine.

But there was a space in the middle where an Olympic gold should have been.

Every time Natasha walked past that gap, something cold and ugly shifted in her chest. Sofia had quit four months after that fall. There had been meetings, statements, gentle phrases like “mental health” and “re-evaluating priorities” and “stepping away from competition.” Contracts were torn up, sponsors pivoted, the federation whispered.

Natasha didn’t whisper. She watched her most recent near-Olympic champion walk out of the rink with her skates in a bag and her shoulders hunched like she was fleeing a crime scene, and she filed it away. Weakness she had not broken early enough.

Now, a new generation panted on her ice. “Again.” she said, and six girls pushed their exhausted bodies through the edges whether they wanted to or not.

The morning session had started at five. It was barely eight, some were still in high school; one had homework in her locker, they all had knees that ached like old women’s and Natasha did not care.

“Lena.” Her voice cracked across the rink. “Your free leg is dead, show me the Axel.”

Lena picked up speed, arms pumping but at the entry she hesitated, just a breath, just a blink but Natasha saw it. The jump went up and came down crooked, scraping into an ugly step-out.

“Stop.” Natasha said.

Lena coasted to a halt. Natasha pushed off from the boards and glided to her without putting skates on. She didn’t need blades to move like she owned the ice; her boots slid just enough on the surface to carry her. It was the kind of thing that broke every safety rule in the book. She came to a calm stop in front of Lena and stepped close, close enough the girl could see the pale green of her eyes under the harsh rink lights.

“Show me your arms.” Natasha said.

Lena lifted them shaky. Natasha’s hands landed on her elbows and she lifted, rotated, forcing them into a cleaner line. “This is commitment.” she murmured. “You go into the air like this. Not like a frightened animal that has already decided to run away.”

Lena’s lips parted. “Yes, Coach.”

Natasha slid one hand down to the girl’s ribcage, fingers digging very lightly into muscle. “And here, hold it. You collapse before you leave the ice, you collapse when you land. Again and again until something tears.”

She pushed, engaging Lena’s core, forcing the posture long, “You want to tear something?” she asked, voice soft as velvet and twice as suffocating.

“N-No.”

“Then you breathe here. You hold here. You don’t let fear move you.” A slight squeeze, then she let go. “Again. From the entry, now.”

Lena nodded and pushed away, fighting tears and terror and the desperate need to impress. Natasha glided backward, turning her attention to the others. “You want what Sofia had?” Natasha asked. “The attention, the contracts, the way people stood up when her name was called?”

A few of them nodded before they could catch themselves. “Then you have to want what Sofia did.” she said, voice going very soft. “Every fall. Every morning. Every day she chose this over anything else.”

The reminder sat sharp between them and no one breathed. One girl, Anya, looked like she might actually throw up. Natasha exhaled, a small, controlled sound. “Break. Ten minutes. Do your stretches, eat something that is not sugar.”

They scattered, fleeing the intensity like animals let out of a cage. But even in retreat, even slumped on benches and untying gloves, they orbited her. She was the center of their universe and they knew it. They also knew that, for now, none of them wore the crown.

Natasha checked her watch, three more hours of on-ice. Off-ice conditioning after. Video review later. She’d already watched four junior competitions from abroad that week, scanning for new blood, kids with lines she liked, aggression she could weaponize. No one had caught that nerve in her chest. Not like- She cut the thought off, jaw tightening.

“Oh my god, she posted again-!”

“Show me, show me!!”

“Wait, I want to seeeee!”

“No, scroll back, that transition-”

Natasha didn’t look right away. She just leaned over, opening her bag and taking out her water bottle with all the patience of a predator digesting. The voices kept going, too quick, too excited for a normal meme or a stupid dance trend.

“…she did the thing with the arms..”

“Stop, I’m obsessed.”

“A BACKFLIP-”

That did it. Natasha straightened slowly, capped her water untouched and turned her head. A knot of girls sat on the lowest row of bleachers, huddled around a phone. Even off the ice they moved like skaters, legs folded carefully so they didn’t bang their blades together, backs instinctively straight. But their faces were pure teenager: wide eyes, bitten lips, blushing at something on screen.

None of them noticed her coming until her shadow fell over their hands. “Anastasia.” Natasha said mildly, addressing the oldest of the group without raising her voice. Four heads jerked up at once and Anastasia almost dropped the phone.

“C-Coach!” she stammered, back straightening so fast it was almost audible. The others scrambled to follow suit, hands folding in their laps like schoolchildren nabbed passing notes. Natasha let her gaze drop deliberately to the phone, then back to the girls. “I didn’t realize watching videos was on today’s training plan.”

“N-No, Coach, it’s just..just break.” one of them blurted.

“Mm.” Natasha stepped closer with slow strides. Even off the ice she moved like a predator at rest, “Show me.”

The girls exchanged panicked looks and Anastasia tried to lock the phone, but Natasha’s hand was already there, palm open. “Phone.” Natasha said simply. There was a heartbeat of hesitation, then Anastasia surrendered it and fingers brushing nervously against Natasha’s ones.

The video had already started over, looping soundlessly and Natasha’s world narrowed. The video was vertical, a TikTok. Grainy quality, and Lights buzzing overhead, boards scarred and taped. She knew the rink the second she saw the warped “S” on the sponsor banner in the corner. She’d coached three competitions there. She could walk those corridors blindfolded.

In the middle of the frame, a girl flew. Black leggings, oversized plain sweatshirt, hair yanked back in something that would be a bun if she’d bothered to pin it properly. No costume, no number and no coach in sight. Just a body on ice that looked like it had never known anything else.

The first seconds of the clip were almost banal, strong edges, musical movement, the kind of natural dance sense that made Natasha’s own girls fidget with jealousy just watching. Then, without set-up anyone with a sensible federation would allow, the girl punched off the ice and went for it.

Backflip. Full, unapologetic, no cheat in the takeoff, no fear in the air. Her body curved over itself, legs split wide, arms pulled tight just enough to keep her rotation clean. She spotted the landing mid flight and came down on both feet, blades kissing the ice with a clean, sharp slice, no hands, no stumble.

The cheap rink exploded in the background audio. Somebody screamed and someone else shouted something that was mostly profanity and awe. The girl just laughed and threw her arms up. Then, she took another stroke like she’d casually defied gravity and rules and common sense and all of it meant nothing because the ice was hers.

Natasha felt her pulse kick hard, one feral beat. Her jaw worked once. “Who’s that?” she asked, without looking up.

“She’s..she’s just, um…” Anastasia swallowed. “Her username is @y/n_on_ice. She…posts. A lot. Skating, for fun.”

“For fun.” Natasha repeated, like it was an insult.

“She used to compete!” another girl blurted, because teenagers were pathologically incapable of staying quiet under that gaze. “People found old videos. She had a coach but then she stopped. Now she just…I don’t know. Do you see the views?”

Natasha flicked her thumb, calling up the TikTok interface. The number under the little heart icon was obscene. Millions. Comments racing upwards faster than her eye could track.

“THE BACKFLIP??? SIR THIS IS ILLEGAL”

“if she dies she dies but I’d watch it live”

“I can’t believe a random tiktok girl is the best skater I’ve ever seen”

“federations are SLEEPING ON HER”

"I'd let her break my ankles and say thank u"

"my gay panic is doing triple axels rn"

Federations sleeping on her? Somewhere out there, in a rink she could drive to in twenty minutes, a girl with edges like a champion and a backflip like a middle finger to the rulebook was skating for hearts and likes. For fun.

Natasha zoomed in on a paused frame. The girl’s face came into focus. Eyes bright, mouth open in a wild grin, sweat dampening the hair at her temples. Young and strong, totally comfortable in her own skin. Her thighs looked like they could snap boards.

Natasha’s eyes went very, very quiet. Inside them, something feral turned over and opened its eyes.

“Coach?” Anastasia whispered. “We..we know it’s stupid, we’re not going to try a backflip, we swear, we just-”

“You will not.” Natasha said. “Anyone throws their body backward like that on my ice, I break their legs myself before the fall does it.”

A chorus of nervous, strangled laughs. No one doubted she meant it. She let them squirm a second more, replaying the moment of takeoff in her mind. That unteachable boldness..that abusive familiarity with risk. That want.

Not as many technical mistakes as her own girls. Not even close. No formal program, no choreographer, no team behind her and still, her blade carved more honest, fearless lines than anyone on Natasha’s roster.

“Who follows her?” Natasha asked.

Silence, but then six hands went up. “Of course.” she said. “You watch her, you dream about being her, you cry because you are not.”

Their faces burned. “You think she is free.” Natasha went on, eyes still on the frozen backflip frame. “You think she has no coach, no one yelling, no one demanding. You think this is better.”

No one dared nod, because no one dared deny it. Natasha finally looked up, pinning them in place. “There is no ‘free’ on ice.” she said softly. “There is trained and untrained. Controlled and uncontrolled. Surviving and dying.”

Her gaze dropped for one more heartbeat to the girl in the video. Then she handed the phone back.

“Break is over.” she said. “Back on the ice.”

They bolted and as they scrambled to pull on gloves and step through the gate, Natasha reached into her own pocket and took out her phone with unhurried precision. She reopened the TikTok on Anastasia’s phone for a second, raised her own, and snapped two screenshots. One of the girl mid-flip, body curved against the cheap rink lights. One of the profile username, follower count, tiny circular icon with her face half-smiling at the camera.

In three taps, she sent them to a contact.

Hill.

Find her.

She hesitated, then added:

@y/n_on_ice. Druzhba side hall. I want name, age, everything. Former coach. Why she stopped. Who let this talent rot on public ice.

Her thumb hovered over the send icon. Out on the ice, Lena launched an jump with unusual aggression, slamming into the landing but staying on her feet. Anya hit her rocker like she was trying to carve through the rink and into the concrete below. The energy had shifted; seeing someone outside their world do something so wild had knocked something loose in them.

Good, Natasha thought and pressed send. Her phone vibrated once with the confirmation. She slid it back into her pocket, eyes on the ice and mind already moving. Sofia’s Olympic gold had been lost. The empty spot in the case still mocked her every day. But now there was a girl doing backflips in her city like gravity and regulations and coaching didn’t exist?

Her mouth curved, just barely, into something that wasn’t a smile and wasn’t not. The sport was still hers. The city was still hers. And if this girl thought she belonged to nobody but herself and a few million strangers on the internet..she was wrong.

——

The ice was half-melted and ugly and you loved it. Public session at Druzhba meant screaming kids, rental skates, and “NO HOCKEY STOPS” signs no one respected. But the side hall was mostly empty this early; you’d timed it that way. Just a couple of older guys practicing turns at the far end and a girl in a pink jacket clinging to the boards like they’d save her from drowning.

You had the center and your phone was propped up on the boards in a cheap tripod clamp. Music leaked from the speakers and today’s sound: something with a heavy bass and a lazy, sensual vocal you could hit edges to.

You pushed off and deep stroke, knee over toe, blade biting just enough. You let the first measure bleed into a long, fast glide, every line loose but controlled: shoulders rolling with the beat, arms trailing behind you like you’d forgotten they existed. On the downbeat you threw a double toe loop just because it felt good, landing soft, knees absorbing the shock, immediately flowing into a body roll and backward crossover sequence.

Your lungs started to burn in that pleasant, familiar way. You let the song drag you through another thirty seconds, then killed your speed and coasted to the boards, sliding to a stop just before you slammed into your own phone stand. You leaned your forearms on the top of the boards, chest heaving, and laughed.

“Okay..” you muttered to yourself, breath fogging the glass. “That’s content.”

You tapped your phone, saving the clip into your drafts. The screen was already cluttered with little video thumbnails, spins, jumps, stupid dances you’d mashed up with footwork sequences. Your follower count at the top sat at a number you still didn’t quite accept as real.

Suddenly, your phone buzzed in your hand.

Kat 🐍:

EY CHECK YOUR NOTIFS RIGHT NOW!!!

ARE YOU DYING??? BECAUSE I’M DYING

You snorted and thumbed over to your notifications. There were the usual things: likes, comments, a DM request from someone with a name like skatebootfetish (absolutely not). Then you saw it.

@romanoffskate liked your video.

You blinked, “What?”

Kat 🐍:

NATASHA. FUCKING. ROMANOFF.

THE natasha. the hellbeast. the QUEEN.

SHE LIKED YOUR BACKFLIP VIDEO

Your first instinct was to roll your eyes. Yeah, sure. People made fake “big name” accounts all the time. You’d had “Katy Perry Official” follow you once, with two posts and a profile pic that was just a blurry screenshot. Kids with too much time and no creativity.

So, you tapped the username and the profile loaded. No posts, just a black and white photo of blades on ice, the bio in clipped English and Russian:

Official account of Romanoff Skating.

Verified checkmark sat next to the name like it had every right to be there. Your heartbeat stuttered and scrolled. Like a reflex, a buried part of you, the fourteen-year-old who’d watched the Olympics on a shitty TV with a blanket wrapped around your knees flashed to life.

You remembered sitting on the floor, cereal gone mushy in the bowl beside you, watching a tiny Romanoff girl carve impossible jumps into perfect ice while the commentators said her coach’s name like it was a spell: Natasha Romanoff. Romanoff’s system. Romanoff’s girl.

You’d lain awake that night imagining what it would be like to be “Romanoff’s girl.” The cool hand on the shoulder at the boards. The camera cutting to you because she was behind you. The certainty that someone like that believed you were worth building. Then life happened. Growth spurts, injuries, federation politics, a coach who burned you out like a cheap candle. Rumors about Romanoff’s camp had trickled into locker rooms: weigh-ins, punishing schedules, girls disappearing with bad backs and bad hips.

The dream had faded, replaced by something messy and yours. Now the name you’d once half-prayed to had a little “liked” under your backflip video.

Your phone buzzed again.

Kat 🐍:

SHE LIKED THE BACKFLIP

THE BACKFLIP VID

NATASHA “I EAT NERVES FOR BREAKFAST” ROMANOFF

DO I SPAM? 😃

You barked a laugh despite the knot in your stomach and you typed:

probably an intern or she sneezed while scrolling

You locked your phone, shook your head as if that would shake off the weird buzzing under your skin and clipped it back into the clamp.

“Okay, one more.” you told the bored-looking plexiglass. “Then stretching and coffee.”

You hit record, pushed off and glided backward, letting yourself slip into the easy autopilot of movement. You were halfway through the first line when the air in the rink changed. It wasn’t sound at first. It was…pressure. Like the room had adjusted itself slightly around a new center of gravity.

Your eyes flicked automatically toward the entrance and two figures stood just inside the door from the lobby. The rink manager, in his eternally-zippered puffy jacket, shoulders hunched and beside him- For a heartbeat, you thought you were hallucinating. Or that someone had turned on the TV somewhere with a competition replay.

Natasha Romanoff looked exactly like every broadcast and interview you’d ever half-watched and totally different at the same time. On screen, she was always framed: the tight shot of her face, the cutaways at the boards. Here, she was just there, three-dimensional and sharp, coat falling perfectly over her shoulders, red hair twisted back in that no-nonsense knot. Up close she was…gorgeous, in a way that felt dangerous. All angles and control, pretty, yes, but more than that..imposing. Like a statue that might move if you blinked wrong.

Your edge wobbled and you killed your speed before you could actually eat ice in front of her. Your phone kept recording, pointed at empty space now. The rink manager half waved, half flapped his hands. “Y/n! Could you, uh, come here? Please?”

Your heart was pounding now. Not because you were some fangirl about to swoon..you’d grown past that version of yourself. But there was something about seeing a myth step into your crappy local hall that got into your bones. You coasted to the boards and pulled yourself up, sliding guards onto your blades with fingers that felt slightly too big.

By the time you reached them, the manager already looked like he regretted every life choice that had led to this moment. “Y-Y/n..” he said, voice thin, “this is-”

“Natasha Romanoff.” you cut in, because you couldn’t stand the awkward build-up, “I know.”

Those pale green eyes landed on you fully. Being looked at by her felt like stepping under a bright rink light after time in the dark. “So you know me.” Natasha said. Her English was smooth, still edged in places.

You huffed out a breath that might have been a laugh. “I used to fall asleep to your replays. Kinda hard not to know who you are.”

Your gaze snagged just for a second on the lines of Natasha’s face. There was a time, years ago, that just standing this close would’ve fried your brain. Now, under the admiration, there was something flatter: awareness. Of what came with this woman.

Natasha reached into her coat, pulled out her phone, tapped and turned the screen. Your own face looked back at you, blurry from motion, hair mid-whip, body arched in that illegal backflip over the familiar shitty ice.

“This is you?” Natasha asked.

You swallowed and your mouth tasted like metal. “Yeah.” you said. “That’s me.”

“You are talented.” Natasha said with no smile. Just words, “And very foolish.”

You almost smiled at that. “You’d know.”

The manager made a choked sound and took a strategic step away, mumbling something about needing to check the office. In a blink, he was gone, leaving them alone on the rubber, public session chaos humming distantly around them. And suddenly it hit you..how many nights a younger version of yourself had lain awake, staring at the cracked ceiling of your bedroom, imagining this exact moment. Imagining Romanoff turning up at some rink, eyes sharp and assessing, saying you. I choose you..

Now, with Romanoff actually here, the reaction was…different. Your pulse jackhammered, sure. There was a hot, sharp pride unfurling in your chest, she came here for me, but under that was something steadier. The life you’d built instead. The account, the teaching gig, the late-night fries with friends instead of late-night weigh-ins.

You weren’t that kid anymore and Natasha seemed to read some of that on your face. “I will be direct.” she said. “I do not like to waste time.”

“Honestly?” you said before you could stop yourself. “Same.”

A breath. Was that the ghost of amusement on those lips? Maybe.

“I watched your videos.” Natasha continued, as if you hadn’t said anything. “Not just the backflip. The edges, jumps and the way you move. You have something very few have.”

She slid the phone away and stood a fraction taller. “I can make you a champion.” she said, like she was stating the weather. “The champion. If you train with me, you will not just be some girl on TikTok doing tricks in a public hall. You will stand on podiums. World Championships. Olympics.”

The word hung there very heavy.. “I have two Olympic golds.” she added. There was something like a bruise under that sentence, Sofia’s ghost but her tone didn’t crack. “I know what it takes. I see it in you.”

Your throat closed for a second. There it was. The speech. The kind of thing that lives in a teenager’s back brain, filed under impossible fantasies. Natasha Romanoff saying you have it..saying I will build you. A picture flashed behind your eyes: yourself in a sleek competition dress under bright lights, cameras panning, commentators saying Romanoff’s new star. Your phone blowing up. Your mother crying in the stands. Gold hanging heavy around your neck. You’d wanted that so fucking badly once. Wanted it enough to swallow bullshit and pain and coaches’ moods like medicine.

Natasha’s gaze didn’t blink. “Under me.” she said quietly, “you will have ice, choreographers, physical therapists. Real schedules. Real work. No more throwing yourself around with no plan. You jump like that without support, you will break something. You keep skating for likes, you will fade away. With me, you will last. And you will win.”

The way she said under me did a weird thing to your heartbeat. It wasn’t sexual. It wasn’t tender. It was…ownership. The same way commentators said under Romanoff when they listed someone’s victories. For a heartbeat, the pride won. Heat flooded your chest. She chose me. She came here. She is offering. Me.

And then, equally strong, came the quiet, stubborn voice that had pulled you out of a bad coaching situation years ago. The memory of standing on a scale in a freezing locker room while someone clucked their tongue. Of icing an injury alone because your coach said it “builds character.” Of crying in the shower so no one would see.

You knew what Romanoff’s miracles cost. Maybe not every detail, but enough. You were twenty-three now. You had friends. You had a body that still worked. You had the insane freedom of deciding, every day, what skating was for you. The girl in you who had once whispered please, let her see me was sobbing with wanting. The woman you’d become reached over and put a hand on that girl’s shoulder.

It’s okay. We made a different life.

You realized Natasha was still watching you closely, like a judge waiting for a jump to land. “I’m… honored.” you said and you really meant it. The words felt too small, but they were true. “Like, really. Twelve-year-old me is having a stroke right now.”

Natasha’s jaw relaxed by a millimeter.

“But… no.”

The temperature in the little patch of rinkside air seemed to drop. “No.” Natasha repeated, like she’d never heard the syllable applied to herself before. You nodded and your palms were damp inside your guards, but your voice stayed steady. “Yeah. No. I’m not interested in going back to that kind of life.”

Natasha went utterly still and for a second, genuinely still. Not the composed, calculated stillness she put on for cameras, but the blank shock of someone who’s had a script ripped out of their hands. “You are throwing yourself away.” she said finally, “You understand this?”

The words should have stung, but weirdly, they didn’t. “A few years ago?” you said. “Yeah. I would’ve believed that. That if I didn’t kill myself for medals, I was wasting something. Stripping the sport’s sacred altar or whatever.” A ghost of a smile tugged at your mouth. “But I like my life. I like my stupid posts and my students and being able to eat fries at two in the morning without picturing my coach’s face.”

“You think I starve my girls and beat them for eating?” Natasha’s voice cut like thin ice. “Is that what you think of me?”

“I think you build champions.” you said softly. “And I think that kind of building isn’t gentle. I think you expect everything. All the time. Every part of them, every day. I’ve seen your girls on TV. They look at you before they look at the scores. Like the number doesn’t matter unless it makes your eyes happy.”

Your gaze didn’t waver. “I know what it’s like to have a coach be god. I don’t…want another one.”

Something ugly and hot flashed behind Natasha’s eyes. Her hand flexed once at her side, like she wanted to grab you by the shoulders and shake some sense into you. “No one says no to me.” she said. Not arrogant, just stating history. “Girls, parents, federations, everyone begs me to take them. To take their children. To give them what I have given others.”

And you decline, you thought. You choose. You play god.

You shrugged carefully. “Cool. Then you’re having a new experience.” The silence stretched, taut as fresh ice. You half-expected Natasha to turn on her heel. To hiss something like fine, rot here and walk away. Instead, the coach stepped closer, invading that last pocket of personal space. Up close, her eyes were even paler, tiny gold flecks around the pupil.

“You are proud to refuse me.” Natasha said slowly. “Proud to say no to the one chance girls kill for.”

You held her gaze and vulnerability scraped your throat raw, but you kept going. “I’m proud that I get to choose.” you said. “You’re…incredible. I’m not blind. You’re beautiful, and terrifying, and you make legends out of scared kids. Part of me will always wonder what that version of my life looked like.”

Your chest hurt and you didn’t let the feeling show anywhere but your words. “But I built another version.” you said. “And I like her. I like me. I don’t want to hand her over, even for medals. Even for you.”

Natasha’s lips parted, like the idea itself hurt her teeth. “You are a fool.” she whispered.

“Maybe.” you agreed. “But I’m my own fool.”

The muscle in Natasha’s jaw ticked and you could see the arguments lined up behind her eyes: numbers, protocols, success stories, the girl whose banner still hung a little too far to the side in her own rink, but she swallowed them.

“You will regret this.” she said finally, no theatrics or curse. Just cool conviction. “When your back hurts and you cannot land your little backflip anymore, when the likes stop coming, when you are twenty-eight with nothing but old videos and what-ifs, you will regret it.”

Your throat bobbed because the picture hurt. “Maybe.” you said again. “And maybe some Romanoff girl will wake up at thirty with gold medals and no idea who she is without your voice in her head and she’ll regret that too.”

Natasha’s nostrils flared. For a long, suspended moment, they simply looked at each other..two completely different answers to the same question:

What is life on ice worth?

Finally, Natasha exhaled, “You are not afraid of me.” she said and you thought about it. Terrified? No. Intimidated? Hell yes. Your body was humming like you’d downed three energy drinks and jumped straight into a free skate.

“A little.” you admitted. “You’re…a lot. But I’m more afraid of losing myself than I am of you.”

Something like respect flickered in Natasha’s eyes at that, “I do not accept your no.” she said quietly. “I hear it. I do not accept it.”

Your laugh came out softer than you meant it to. “That’s not really how that works.”

“You will change your mind.” Natasha said. “You will call. Or you will show up at my rink. When the… ‘freedom’ you love so much starts to feel like a cage of its own.”

Her mouth curled but not a quiet smile. “I am patient.” she added. “Champions are not built in one day. And I have already waited years for someone like you to appear.”

She took a step back at last, the coil of her presence easing just enough that you could take a full breath. “Keep skating.” Natasha said, almost an order. “Do not hurt yourself. Do not get lazy.” She turned and walked toward the exit. The rink manager reappeared like a nervous rabbit, opening the door for her with fumbling hands and she stepped through without another look back.

You stood there on the rubber, knees suddenly weak inside your tights, heartbeat loud enough you could hear it in your ears and your phone buzzed again

Kat 🐍:

I SAW HER CAR

Y/N, I SAW HER CAT

I MEAN CARRR

Y/N DID SHE TALK TO YOU

STOP IGNORING ME

You stared at the screen, at the door where Natasha had disappeared, at the junky, beloved ice stretching out in front of you. A younger version of yourself howled quietly in your chest. The rest of you opened your mouth anyway and typed.

You:

She did and i said no

Kat 🐍:

You’re lying..🙂

You:

I’m really not, lol

The world snapped back in around you. The rental kids, the buzzing lights, the faint ghost of a legend’s perfume still clinging to the rubber by the boards. You knew, with a bone-deep certainty, that saying no to Natasha Romanoff was maybe the bravest, stupidest thing you’d ever done.

And it turned out saying no to her did not mean she left you alone. If anything, it was the opposite. You woke up with her voice in your head you are throwing yourself away and fell asleep replaying the way Natasha had stood in your crappy little rink like she owned the building and the street and maybe the whole damn city.

Your feed did not help either. Accounts you followed reposted Romanoff girls. Interviews with her popped up in “recommended.” Some journalist did a long thread about “the Romanoff system” and every other slide had a slow-mo of Natasha at the boards, hand on a girl’s shoulder, eyes welded to the ice. You’d scroll past and then scroll back.

Mute the sound and watch her mouth form sharp, precise English. Zoom in on her expression beside a crying skater and try to read if it was pride or disappointment or both. Even in the rink, you wasn’t safe.

Some mom mentioned “you know, Romanoff was here last week, can you imagine?” while tying her kid’s rentals. Teen skaters whispered about her in the locker room. Someone played an edit of Romanoff and giggled about how “hot and terrifying that woman is” until you threw a towel at them. You pretended it was annoying..But it wasn’t just annoying. Natasha had offered you the childhood dream and you’d said no. Your brain did not know where to file that, so it turned it over and over like a stone in a pocket.

It was Kat who sent the link one day.

Kat 🐍:

They added a gala day to the Rostov Cup program and a girl from romanoffs team is debuting a show program apparently.. u knooowww who’s gonna be there 😏

A stupid part of you had checked the event page before you even finished reading. Rostov Cup. Mid level senior competition but the gala always pulled people. And yes: Romanoff Skating listed in the line-up. New senior, first big season. The fandom had been buzzing for weeks.

You stared at the “buy ticket” button for longer than you’d like to admit. It wasn’t about Natasha, you told yourself. It was about watching good skating live. You loved skating..that’s all. You bought a seat in the mid-tier section, not too close, not nosebleed. Threw the confirmation email into a folder and went back to editing a TikTok about blade care. But the night before the gala, you dreamed you were on bright competition ice, music blaring, and when you turned out of a jump, Natasha was standing on the center circle instead of at the boards, arms crossed and waiting..

The next day, you found your seat in the middle rows and sank down, tugging your hoodie up around your ears. You’d worn a cap just in case, but it didn’t do much; your hair was still obvious and your face was exactly the one you used for every thirsty story post.

The pre-show chatter buzzed around you and kids were shaking flags, adults rustling programs, the hum of expectation. Big screens looped highlight reels between ads. You flicked your gaze up, recognizing everything instinctively: takeoffs, landings, the way a skater’s shoulders telegraphed panic.

A tap on your arm made you look over. “Sorry..” A girl maybe sixteen, face half-hidden in a scarf, stared at you with eyes like saucers. “Are you… sorry, are you Y/n? From TikTok?”

You’s stomach dipped but you forced a smile. “Depends. Is she famous for something cool or something cringe?”

The girl made a strangled noise. “The backflip? And the…uh…the one where you did footwork to Beyoncé in, like, pajama pants? That’s you, right?”

“Guilty..” you said.

The girl lit up. “Your skating is so cool! You make it look fun. My coach hates your account..” she added in a conspiratorial whisper. “She says you give us… ideas.”

“She’s not wrong.” you said. That earned a delighted laugh. A couple of seats down, another teenager leaned over. “Wait, seriously? That’s her?” Soon there was a small cluster of them, asking for a selfie, babbling about how they tried to copy your moves at public sessions.

It was…nice and easy. This was a kind of attention you could handle: messy, enthusiastic, no pressure beyond “please post another stupid video.” The lights dimmed and the announcer’s voice rolled out:

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Rostov Cup gala…”

The kids settled and clutching their programs like holy texts. You sank back with your popcorn, letting the buzz sweep you up. First came the local darlings, tiny girls in sparkly dresses doing exaggerated spirals to pop songs. Then the serious skaters, lower-ranked seniors with big hearts and medium jump content, giving the crowd what they had. You clapped, winced professionally at a bad landing here and there, appreciated the ones with genuine musicality.

For a while, it was just skating. The way it had always been, the part you loved because it asked nothing from you but attention and appreciation. Then the screen flashed the logo you’d been trying not to anticipate: Romanoff Skating.

“Up next, representing the Romanoff school…” the announcer said, and the cheers prickled the hair on your arms. “Please welcome Anastasia Volkova.”

The name had been everywhere on skating Twitter for the last month. Romanoff’s new jewel. Clean technique and deadly consistency. “The next big one.” The arena shifted and people sat up with a wave of phones up their hands. Your hand tightened around the popcorn tub.

The house lights on the ice cut, replaced by the softer, theatrical track lights. Anastasia glided out to her starting position in a sleek black costume, the kind designed to show off every line and nothing else.

Your gaze flicked instinctively to the boards. Natasha leaned on the barrier like she was settling in to watch a game she’d already rigged. Black coat over a fitted turtleneck, hands shoved in her pockets, weight shifted onto one hip. She wasn’t stiff. She was relaxed, which somehow made it worse.

A predator at ease..The lion that knows the herd isn’t getting away.

The music started andsomething dramatic but modern, strings over beats. Anastasia moved and you had to admit it: the hype wasn’t empty. Her edges were textbook. Every turn snapped into place like it had been cut out with a knife. The first jump sequence was seamless, triple-triple, no hesitation, straight into an intricate transition that would’ve sent half the field sprawling.

Her arms were trained and every angle rehearsed. There was no wasted movement. No casual sloppiness that you let yourself get away with in your videos. The program unfolded like a demonstration of control. Your trained eye caught the tiny things, the subtle grit of effort behind the flawless landings, the way Anastasia’s expression flickered microseconds before a difficult entry, the hint of relief after each completed element.

But there were no outright mistakes. Not one. It was as if someone had taken the idea of a “clean skate” and ironed it flat. The crowd ate it up, gasps on the big jumps, cheers roiling around the arena as the music built. Phones followed Anastasia across the ice in glowing arcs.

You chewed mechanically on popcorn, gaze flicking down every few seconds to Natasha. Natasha didn’t move, she just stood at the boards, fingers resting lightly on the top, eyes locked on Anastasia. She didn’t flinch at jumps, didn’t nod at spins. Her attention didn’t waver for a heartbeat. The girl might as well have been performing for that look alone.

On your other side, one of the teen girls sucked in a breath. “If she pops anything, she’s dead.”

“Shut up!” her friend hissed, though she didn’t sound like she disagreed. “Don’t jinx it. Not with Romanoff here.”

“She’ll murder her in the kiss and cry..” a third girl whispered. “You saw what happened to Petrov last season. I swear I had a panic attack watching that free skate.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt. God, the cult of Romanoff. The awe and fear..The weird thrill people got picturing how awful it must be, as if that made the medals somehow shinier. You couldn’t even say they were wrong. You’d felt that same mix for years. You still did, a little.

On the ice, Anastasia carved through footwork with sharp, exact brutality. Every turn was placed, nothing wasted. But it wasn’t mechanical. That was the Romanoff trick, wasn’t it? Drill them until their bodies forgot how not to be perfect, then squeeze out just enough performance on top to make judges think it was artistry and not obedience.

Your gaze kept flicking between girl and coach. Anastasia took off for a difficult entry triple loop. It wasn’t even a scoring program tonight, but the content was brutal. Gala or not, this was a message.

The audience tensed as one and the girl next to you breathed, “Please don’t fall, please don’t fall, please don’t-”

She didn’t. Perfect rotation and clean edge. Tiny, smug step on the exit that screamed Romanoff choreography. The arena went nuts and down at the boards, Natasha’s mouth curved just a fraction. Not proud-mom beaming, more like a chess player amused that the move landed exactly where she put it.

You felt a weird jolt in your chest at that expression. Playful. That was the word. Not soft, god, no. But there was a cat-with-a-toy satisfaction there, a glint that said yes, do it again, show them we can. It made the whole thing scarier. This wasn’t some rigid, joyless tyrant, this was someone who enjoyed the game.

Every time Anastasia went into a big element, the stands murmured. Don’t mess up. Don’t mess up. Not in front of her. You could feel it: the hope was partly for the girl, partly because everyone wanted to see Romanoff satisfied, not…whatever she was when disappointed. Your stomach twisted. People weren’t just scared of letting themselves down, they were scared of letting her down. And Natasha? She basked in it. Owned that fear without even having to move.

Anastasia hit her last spin and it was perfectly centered, “Killer!” one of the teens breathed. “I’d sell my soul to skate like that!”

“And then Romanoff would own it..” her friend muttered.

You shoved a fistful of popcorn into your mouth to stop yourself from saying something out loud. On the ice, Anastasia pushed upright and coasted toward the exit, riding the applause. Sweat gleamed at her hairline but her smile was wide and a little unhinged.

Natasha stepped forward just before the gate, as if drawn by some invisible tether. She didn’t just offer a hand. She extended it into Anastasia’s space like a command. Anastasia didn’t hesitate and took it with both of hers.

Natasha braced her with an easy, practiced grip, guiding her over the tiny lip of ice-to-rubber like she’d done it a thousand times. Up close on the jumbotron, the moment lasted longer: Natasha’s hand firm around Anastasia’s wrist, the brief squeeze, the bend of her head to say something low into her ear.

The camera caught the flash of Anastasia’s reaction, somewhere between relief and the high of being praised by a god.

Your teeth ached and the teen girls next to you were beside themselves. “Did you see that?” one whispered. “She looked at Romanoff before she even waved at the audience.”

“Yeah, because if Romanoff wasn’t happy, the whole thing doesn’t count..” another said, half-joking, half not.

You knew that feeling..Waiting for a coach’s face to tell you if the jump you’d bled for was “real” or fake. As if the actual flight and landing hadn’t happened until it was reflected in someone else’s eyes. You’d promised yourself you were done chasing that look.

Anastasia and Natasha turned away from the ice, walking along the boards toward the tunnel. Coaches crowded the area, clapping shoulders, handing out towels. Romanoff walked through the chaos like it parted for her which you realized, it actually did. People shifted, glanced, made space.

Queen among kings.

Then, midway to the tunnel, Natasha’s shoulders changed. A subtle straightening, like a wolf catching an interesting scent. Her head turned and went up. You felt the contact like someone had put a hand flat in the middle of your chest and pushed.

From halfway around the rink, those pale eyes found you. Of course she sees me, you thought wildly. She probably clocked my seat the second I walked in.

For one heartbeat, you couldn’t move. Your brain fizzed and every instinct screamed: look away. Don’t give her anything.

But you refused and held the look. The arena roared and rustled around them, another skater’s name booming over the loudspeakers, music swelling for the next performance. In the middle of all of it, the two of them might as well have been behind glass.

Natasha’s mouth quirked in a distant smile. This one was sharp, curved like a blade. It said: There you are.

There was amusement in it. Something smug that implied she’d fully expected you to be here, front row to the Romanoff show, despite her grand speech about choosing a different path.

Your pulse hammered in your ears. The easy response would’ve been to shrink. To look down, fiddle with your phone, pretend you hadn’t noticed.Instead, you leaned back in your seat, let a slow, unhurried smile spread across your own face, and deliberately popped a piece of popcorn into your mouth.

Unbothered and unimpressed. Nice skate. I’ve seen worse and done different.

Even from far away, you saw Natasha’s eyes narrow a fraction. The smirk sharpened and deepened. Not in anger but in interest. A cat noticing the mouse was baring tiny teeth. Then Anastasia tugged on Natasha’s sleeve, saying something excitedly and the coach’s attention snapped back down to her skater. She said something back, hand brushing briefly down Anastasia’s back in a pseudo comforting, pseudo-possessive line and they disappeared into the tunnel.

The spell broke. The arena rushed back in. The teens beside you started arguing about whether Anastasia’s third jump had enough height. The next program’s music kicked in and you stared at the ice for a few seconds without really seeing it.

Your heart was still doing weird gymnastics. Around the flailing embarrassment and the thrill of being noticed, something else was crystallizing. Watching Anastasia, you’d felt a twisting kind of envy, not of the medals, not exactly, but of that level of polish. Of being able to slam down a program like that in front of this many eyes and know you’d done everything you were told to do.

Watching Natasha watch Anastasia, you’d felt something darker. A pull.. The old adolescent hunger: what would it be like to be on the other side of that stare?

And now, after that split second of eye contact and the cocky little smirk…it shifted again. In the way Natasha looked at you now, like a problem to solve, a challenge issued and not yet answered you felt a different kind of want rise. Not the old wanting: please choose me. Something newer, harsher.

Watch me.

Not as your girl, you thought, pulse syncing to the dull thud of music still echoing in the rafters. Not under your rules, or on your schedule, or with your hand on my shoulder at the boards.

On my terms. In my way. But right in front of you.

You wanted Natasha to see exactly what you’d said “no” to. Wanted to skate something in a place like this that wasn’t blessed or mapped out by Romanoff and still left the woman with nothing to say. The realization landed with the weight of a landing edge.

On the ice below, the next skater was announced. The crowd’s attention shifted. Anastasia and Natasha disappeared into the tunnel, swallowed by the arena’s backstage. You leaned back in your seat, pulse finally starting to slow, fingers damp against the greasy cardboard bucket.

Yeah, you weren’t stupid. You’d been thinking about Natasha Romanoff since the moment she’d walked into Druzhba like a storm in a coat. That wasn’t changing. But for the first time, the obsession wasn’t just defensive, wasn’t just what if I made the wrong choice.

It was a direction.

Natasha Romanoff wanted to build champions and own them. You suddenly, fiercely wanted to become something she couldn’t own and make her watch anyway.

-

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[milfsloverblog]

Of COURSE AO3 would go down again right as I get in bed to read my bedtime stories….

[milfsloverblog]

Deadly Nightshade

Burlesque dancer!Larissa Weems x fem!reader

A/N: *cough cough* let’s act like I have not been MIA for the last few months, shall we? This popped up in my head late at night a few weeks ago and made me want to get back into writing, so I did! I hope you’ll enjoy it <3

The club has been open for hours, but it doesn’t feel like the night has started yet. Not really. Not with the way everyone keeps glancing toward the back entrance, as if willing the door to open and deliver the reason the place is overbooked, overlit, overpolished.

They keep saying her name. Not the real one, most of them don’t seem to remember she has one, but the one printed in looping silver script on the sandwich board outside the front door, on the flyers stapled to telephone poles around the block, on the hastily relettered marquee.

Nightshade.

You straighten another line of lipstick tubes on the crowded vanity, aware that your hands are already too precise to be casual. The dressing room smells of powder and hairspray and the faint, sharp tang of nerves. You’ve been here long enough that the usual chaos backstage has a rhythm, a predictable tide. Costumes half-zipped, jokes thrown across the room, someone swearing about a missing stocking.

Tonight, though, there’s a softness underneath the noise. A waiting.

You hear when she arrives before you see her, the hum dipping and rising, voices shifting into something almost reverent. Footsteps move down the corridor, the stage manager’s tone pitched just a little higher than usual, as if he’s trying too hard not to sound impressed.

The door opens.

She is taller than any of the pictures let on, tall enough that the doorway seems too small for a moment, the frame cutting a clean line across her shoulders as if the room has to make space for her. The overhead light catches in her hair—platinum turned to white fire—and somewhere beneath the sleek coat and the high collar you can see the suggestion of sequins, a shimmer every time she takes a breath.

“Good evening,” she says, and the room exhales.

Her voice is lower than you expected, smooth but not soft, each word placed with the same care you’d use to set a rhinestone. She looks around once, taking in the dressing tables, the racks of costumes, the cluster of half-dressed performers trying not to stare. Her gaze slides past you at first, and your shoulders loosen without permission. You’re not ready to be seen yet.

The stage manager clears his throat. “Nightshade, this is—”

You don’t hear what he calls you, not really. You’re focused on the way she shrugs out of her coat, the easy roll of her shoulders, the way the fabric slips down her arms and reveals the first glimpse of the gown beneath. It’s not the one she’ll wear on stage—not yet—but it’s still too much. Midnight blue, cut close at the waist, the line of it making a quiet promise of everything it doesn’t show.

Her eyes find you then. Blue, yes, but sharper than any photograph, thoughtful rather than cold. She considers you for a beat that stretches longer than it should.

“So,” she says, “this is my assistant for the evening?”

You manage to nod. “Yes. I—if you need anything, I’ll…” You trail off, annoyed with yourself, because that’s not a sentence and you know it.

One corner of her mouth lifts, just enough to say she noticed but isn’t going to be unkind about it. “Anything,” she repeats, taste-testing the word. “That’s generous.”

The stage manager gives you a look that’s meant to be encouraging and only succeeds in making you more aware of your own posture. You straighten instinctively.

“You can hang that up,” she says, slipping the coat from her shoulders completely now and offering it without looking.

You take it carefully, the wool still warm where it touched her. You hang it on the stand by the door because it’s something to do that doesn’t involve staring at the long, clean line of her neck or the way the blue silk moulds to her back when she leans forward.

She turns toward the mirror, lowering herself into the chair with a grace that feels rehearsed and yet somehow entirely natural.

“Do you prefer Nightshade?” you ask, after a moment. Your voice comes out quieter than you intend, swallowed by the soft buzz of the bulbs.

She meets your gaze in the mirror. “You may call me Larissa.”

It sounds like a concession, like something she doesn’t offer often. You tuck it away, unsure what to do with it yet.

Her makeup case is already open on the vanity, a compact little universe of colour and shadow. You move to her side, hands hovering for a second above the array of brushes. You know this part, you do this for the regular dancers, the girls who come in late and leave earlier than they should. But somehow, under this gaze, with this name in your mouth, the simple act of reaching for a mascara wand feels like stepping onto a tightrope.

“What do you usually go for?” you ask.

She tilts her head, considering her reflection. “Classic. Glamour with restraint. I leave spectacle to the costume.” Her lips curve slightly. “And to the way I take it off.”

The comment could be crass in someone else’s mouth. From her, it’s almost academic, a statement of method. Still, you feel heat rise to your face and are grateful she’s watching herself instead of you.

You work slowly, because that is the only way you know how to be steady. Foundation smoothed along the high planes of her cheekbones, the faintest deepening of contour beneath. You blend until there are no edges, only the illusion of shadow where you want it to be.

“Your hands don’t shake,” she observes.

“I do this a lot,” you say.

“Do you?”

You’re close enough now that you can see the tiny flecks of darker blue in her irises, the way her lashes are naturally long even before your brush touches them. You focus on the work: the sweep of liner, the precise angle of a wing that elongates her gaze into something feline, predatory.

When you move to do her lips, she watches you more directly.

“Red, I assume?” you ask.

“Anything else would be dishonest.”

You choose the shade without thinking, the one you’ve seen in print ads and still photos, that perfect knife’s edge between scarlet and wine. You steady her chin with your fingers, thumb resting very lightly at the hinge of her jaw. The contact is minimal, professional. It feels like standing too close to a candle anyway.

She parts her lips just enough to let you trace the bow, the careful curves. She holds utterly still.

“You’re very focused,” she murmurs, when you’re almost done.

“So are you,” you reply, before you can stop yourself.

That earns you a quiet, low laugh. “Touché.”

You finish, step back, and for a moment the two of you simply look at the image in the mirror. Larissa Weems, Nightshade, all polished poise and crimson mouth, every line of her composed. It feels strangely intimate to know you had a hand in this final version, that the woman they’ll see on stage will be wearing your precision.

“Hair?” you offer.

She inclines her head. “Please.”

Her hair is heavier than it looks when you unpin it, the pale strands sliding over your knuckles like water. You comb through gently, careful not to tug, dividing and smoothing, coaxing it into soft, controlled waves. She closes her eyes once, briefly, and you have to force yourself not to let your fingers linger too long at the nape of her neck, where the skin is warm and bare.

“You’re trying very hard not to look,” she says eventually, eyes still closed.

You freeze. “Look at what?”

Her lashes lift, and there is amusement there now, unhurried and certain. “Me.”

You swallow. “I’m looking right at you.”

“Mmm.” Her gaze dips, travels slowly from your eyes to your mouth and back again. “That’s one way to put it.”

Heat crawls up your throat, but you hold her stare because you refuse to flinch in front of her. “I’m working.”

“I know.” She smiles, small and knowing. “You’re doing it very well.”

It shouldn’t sound like a caress, but it does.

The stage manager’s voice filters through the thin door, announcing the first act call. The usual lineup will warm them up before Nightshade takes the stage, but everyone knows who they’re here for. The noise from the club drifts in—low jazz, the swell of conversation, glasses clinking, the occasional rough laugh. Beneath it all is something else, a hum of anticipation you can feel even back here.

“Costume, then,” Larissa says, rising. The gown she wore in crashes and blues is replaced by something far more deliberate when you unzip the garment bag: a corseted bodice heavy with black sequins, the light catching on each tiny facet. A split skirt overlay, sheer and dark, falling over stockings attached to suspender clips that gleam faintly in the lamplight.

You help her into it piece by piece. The lacing at the back of the corset is intricate, a pattern of pulled silk running down her spine. You stand close behind her, threading the ribbon through the eyelets, tugging gently to bring the boning snug against her curves.

“Tell me if it’s too tight,” you murmur.

“I’ll tell you if it’s not tight enough,” she counters.

You feel the laugh more than hear it, the faint shake of her shoulders under your hands. You pull a little firmer, the muscles in your forearms flexing with the effort. Her waist narrows as the fabric draws in, the shape of her body becoming even more defined. It’s an almost obscene privilege to be the one doing this, watching the transformation from backstage reality to onstage myth.

You’re aware the whole time of where your fingers are. Grazing the smooth, bared skin at the base of her spine, brushing the sides of her ribs, briefly steadying at her hip when she shifts her weight. Each contact is fleeting, excusable, and yet you can feel the imprint of them lingering in your own body.

“You’re holding your breath,” she observes quietly.

You exhale, surprised. “Am I?”

“Yes.” She looks at you over her shoulder, eyes half-lidded. “It’s unnecessary. I’m not going to break.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” you say, mostly under your breath.

Her smile turns slow. “Aren’t you.”

You finish with the laces, tying them off neatly at the base, the bow resting just above the swell of her backside. You step back, letting your gaze travel up, because you’re allowed to check your own work. That’s all this is. You tell yourself that twice, maybe three times.

The stockings come next, though she does most of that herself, sitting on the edge of the vanity chair with one leg extended. The line of her calf, the curve of her thigh as she rolls the sheer fabric up, the snap of the suspender clip fastening against the stocking top—it’s all measured, efficient, nothing like the slow, performance-ready tease you know she’ll give the audience. And still your throat dries watching it.

“You’ll be in the wings?” she asks, as she slips her feet into heels that seem almost architectural.

“If you want me there.”

“I do.” She stands, testing the balance, one hand resting on your shoulder momentarily. The weight of her is brief but undeniable, grounding and dizzying at once. “I like knowing where my constants are.”

You echo the phrase silently—my constants—as if it might mean more than it should.

When she leaves the dressing room, the backstage corridor feels smaller behind her, the space she occupied still humming with her presence. You follow a minute later, after you’ve remembered how to move, slipping along the familiar path to the side of the stage.

The club is dim beyond the curtain, the main room lit in pools: warm amber on the bar, soft gold across the tables, the stage a brighter, expectant glow. The audience is restless in the way of people who think they’re sophisticated but are still susceptible to wonder. Laughing too loudly, clapping too early, craning their necks whenever there’s a flicker of motion near the stage.

From your vantage point in the wings, you can see everything and be seen by no one. You hold onto that anonymity like a talisman as the house lights dip further and the band slides into a languid, sultry number.

Her introduction is almost unnecessary—they already know—but the emcee gives it anyway, voice booming. “Gentlemen, ladies, and all creatures of the night… be sure your hearts are in working order. Please welcome to the stage… Nightshade.”

The applause hits you before the light does, a wave of sound that seems to push the curtain inward for a second. And then she steps through.

Larissa doesn’t burst onto the stage, she arrives. There is a difference. She takes her time, each step a statement, the line from her throat to her toes an unbroken command of attention. The sequins on her corset catch the spotlight, sending a scatter of reflections into the dark like a private constellation.

She doesn’t move much at first, just stands and lets them look. She knows precisely how long they can stand it before the need for motion becomes palpable. When she finally lifts one gloved hand, the small shift feels monumental.

The act is classic burlesque, but she inhabits it with a sort of quiet intelligence. The gloves come off first, of course. She toys with the edge of one as the band leans into a bluesy run, tracing the seam with a fingertip that suggests more than it reveals. When she finally peels it away from her wrist, inch by inch, the fabric clinging before yielding, the crowd’s noise tightens, condensing into whistles, low appreciative murmurs, the occasional shouted endearment.

She uses them, those sounds. Plays them like another instrument.

When she turns in profile, you see the curve of her waist against the cinched corset, the flare of her hip under the sheer overskirt. She drags the glove slowly up her own arm before flicking it out into the darkness, a single long strip of satin that disappears into eager hands.

Her gaze sweeps the room, collecting faces one by one, and then, deliberately, she lets it drift to the wings. To you.

Even from here, you can feel the weight of it. She doesn’t smile immediately, there’s a beat where she just look at you, as if taking inventory, as if reassuring herself that yes, you are where she left you. Then the faintest curve of lips, a small, private acknowledgement no one else would notice over the roar of attention.

Your breath catches on that moment and doesn’t quite right itself.

She moves more now, the choreography a seamless blend of slow hip rolls, graceful turns, teasing dips. The overskirt loosens under her fingers, unfastened with an absent-minded precision that belies the deliberate nature of each reveal. She drops it like a curtain, the sheer fabric pooling at her feet, leaving her in high-cut panties and stockings that gleam faintly under the lights.

The crowd surges again, applause and cheers crashing against the stage like a storm. You think about the way you saw those same stockings rolled up in the quiet yellow light of the dressing room, the way her shoulder felt under your hand when you steadied her. It feels… illicit somehow, to be remembering the backstage softness while she gives them this sharpened, elevated version of herself.

Her hands travel down her own sides, over the boning of the corset, pausing suggestively at the busk. The choreography asks for the idea of unhooking it, the slow, almost-but-not-quite reveal. She obliges, letting her fingers linger on the catches without actually undoing them. She’s not here to strip, she’s here to tease, and you have never understood that word so clearly until now.

When the act hits its peak—the band swelling, her body arched in a pose that offers the illusion of vulnerability without surrender—the room seems to hold its breath. She lets the silence stretch, suspended on the edge of something that will not come, because this is her story, and she decides how far it goes.

Then she releases it, the tension, the pose, the air itself, letting it all dissolve into a sly bow, a slow sweep of her arm that sends another cascade of applause rolling over her.

You don’t realize your hands are clenched until they ache.

She exits cleanly, stepping through the curtain with the same unhurried grace, the persona peeling away in infinitesimally small layers as she crosses the threshold back into the realm of backstage hum. There’s a flush high on her cheekbones now that makeup didn’t put there, a fine sheen of sweat at her temple.

You’re there, already moving, the glass of water in your hand an excuse more than a necessity. She takes it, fingers brushing yours, and this time the touch lingers, her thumb grazing the side of your index finger as if by accident.

“You watched,” she says, as though there was any chance you wouldn’t have.

“You told me to.”

“I did.” She studies you over the rim of the glass as she finally drinks, her throat working with each swallow. When she lowers it, there’s a hint of a smirk. “You were very intent.”

You think of all the ways you could deny that, dismiss it, laugh it off. None of them feel honest, and dishonesty would sound ugly in this room, with her eyes on you like that.

“You’re… difficult not to watch,” you admit, forcing the words out slowly, measured.

Her gaze warms, just a fraction. “Is that so?”

“You know it is.”

“Yes,” she agrees softly. “I do.”

She sets the glass down, close enough that you smell the faint tang of citrus from the water, layered over the jasmine of her perfume and the salt of her skin.

“You were trying so desperately not to stare earlier,” she continues, drawing out the words, “and yet onstage, you looked at me like you’d forgotten anyone else existed.”

Your mouth goes dry. “I was concentrating. On the performance.”

“Mmm.” She steps closer, until you have to tilt your chin up just slightly to keep her in focus. “On the performance.” Her hand lifts, fingers ghosting over the front of your blouse, not quite touching, tracing the line of a button. “And which part held your attention the most, I wonder?”

You don’t answer. She doesn’t seem to expect you to.

“Don’t worry,” she says instead, voice dipping into something that feels like a secret. “I like it.”

“Like what?”

“Being watched. Properly.” Her smile turns thoughtful. “There’s a difference between being seen as an object and being witnessed as a person performing an object. You understand that, I think.”

You do, though you’re not entirely sure how she’s pulled that admission out of you without you having said a word.

She reaches up, then, and very gently tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear. The contact is light enough to dismiss and careful enough that you know she doesn’t intend for you to. Her fingers linger a heartbeat longer than they need to, her knuckles brushing the curve where your jaw meets your neck.

“You’re flushed,” she notes quietly.

“So are you,” you answer, because you refuse to be the only one laid bare here.

Her lips part, surprised amusement flickering across her face. “You’re bolder than you pretend.”

“Not bold,” you say. “Just… present.”

“Present,” she repeats thoughtfully. “I could use more of that.”

There’s a commotion further down the corridor—another act hurrying to change, someone complaining about a missing prop—and the spell thins a little, though it doesn’t break. Larissa glances past you, then back, recalibrating.

“You’ll be here tomorrow as well?” she asks.

You hadn’t thought that far ahead. She’s only booked for two nights at your club, on her way through to the next city, the next stage, the next set of hands lacing her into some other costume. Your schedule flashes through your head—yes, you’re on the roster, but that could change, it often does—yet the word that comes out is simple.

“Yes.”

“Good.” She reaches for a silk robe hanging nearby, sliding it over her shoulders, the deep plum fabric obscuring some of the sparkle without dulling her presence. “I like consistency on tour. Familiar faces. Hands that already know how tight my corset should be, how I prefer my liner drawn.”

She ties the robe loosely, fingers deft. Then, almost as an afterthought, she looks back at you, expression unreadable.

“If I ever decide to take on a constant assistant,” she says, voice still level, almost casual, “someone to travel with me rather than a new face at each club… I’ll think of you.”

The words land with more weight than their tone suggests. You feel them slot into place somewhere low in your chest, like a promise and a temptation and a challenge all folded together.

You search her face for any hint of a joke, some sign she’s teasing you past your limit, but there’s only that same composed amusement, that same thoughtful curiosity.

“You barely know me,” you manage, because it’s the only protest you can find that doesn’t sound like begging.

Her gaze drifts over your features, lingering just briefly at your mouth before returning to your eyes. “I know enough for now,” she says. “The rest… can be learned.”

She moves past you then, the hem of her robe whispering against your leg as she goes. As she reaches the door, she pauses, looking back over her shoulder.

“Oh,” she adds, as if the thought has only just occurred to her, “and next time, don’t fight it so hard.”

“Fight what?”

“The urge to look.” Her smile is small and devastating. “After all, I’ll be looking for you.”

The door swings shut behind her with a soft click, leaving you alone with the warm impression of her touch on your skin and the echo of that almost-offhand promise. Out in the club, the band starts up again and the audience’s chatter swells, hungry for whatever comes next.

You stand still in the dressing room, surrounded by powder and perfume and the faint glint of sequins on the floor, and realize that for the first time since you started working here, the rest of the night feels like an intermission.

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[milfsloverblog]

howdy, friend. now what do you think about this idea for hurt/no comfort?

reader, a raven psychic, is in an established relationship with larissa. wondering about a bruise larissa has on her body, reader touches it and has a vision of larissa cheating on them with morticia, seeing the part where morticia leaves that "bruise" (perhaps a hickey) on larissa. bonus points if readers nose starts bleeding. mega bonus points if reader thought they were a normie, and this was their first vision.

love, kisses and hugs!

🐈‍⬛

Marked

Larissa Weems x Fem!Reader

A/N: “What do you think about this idea for hurt“ IMMEDIATELY YES. I left the ending fairly open, so you guys can imagine what happens next…Good or bad. I hope you’ll enjoy what I did with your idea, thank you for the request!! <3

You don’t notice it first. What you notice is the way Larissa fills a room. How she makes the doorway into a stage and herself into the necessary scene. You notice the velvet of her voice when she says hello, the low snow-bright hush of Nevermore settling around the windows. You notice that you missed her in the ordinary ways, the ways that aren’t dramatic, the shape your day makes when it leans toward her.

Only when she shrugs off her coat does silk shift and a red bruise rises on her neck, small as a coin and just as undeniable.

You stop with the grocery bag halfway to the counter. Apples thunk and bump like clumsy hearts.

“What happened?” Your voice aims for light and lands a shade too careful.

“Door,” Larissa says quickly. “I walked into it.”

You smile because that is what the script asks. “The door won?”

“It was very persuasive.” She’s already coming to you, already soft and smiling and threaded with warmth you have trained your days around. She kisses the corner of your mouth, then your mouth, and the week empties out of you like you accidentally set it down.

But the bruise sits there, ripe and wrong, and every time you remember to not look at it your whole face tries to look anyway.

“Big day?” you ask against her shoulder. Perfume and silk and the small contained power of her.

“Endless. Budget, board, parents.” Her fingers find the back of your neck like kindness that’s memorized the route. “I thought about you when someone misquoted Shakespeare.”

“Which play?”

“All of them,” she says, and you laugh into her collar, but the bruise is a third presence. It waits.

In the bedroom the lamplight is generous and the curtains are a rumor of storm. Larissa starts on her buttons with that priestess efficiency you love her for. It has always felt like being let into something sacred, the ritual of it. You step in, reach for the last pearl because helping is how you say devotion. As you push the fabric from her shoulders, your thumb grazes the edge of red.

The world undoes its laces and spills.

No up, no down, just the sensation of being pulled through warm gold. The air tastes like a match right after it dies. A room resolves around you that is not the bedroom. You are not standing anywhere so much as existing inside the hinge of a moment that isn’t yours.

Larissa is there. Laughing, lit from the throat. The earrings you picked in Verona catching the light. Her head tips back because someone’s words are close enough to touch her.

Morticia Addams steps into the frame like she’s been summoned by the idea of a shadow. Tall. Dark. A practiced ease that looks like history preserved under glass. She leans in. Her mouth is red in the ritual sense of the word. She says something you don’t hear because you feel it instead, an ache under your breastbone. Larissa’s mouth parts on a small sound you haven’t heard from her, and Morticia’s lips close over the soft hollow at the base of Larissa’s throat. The press holds. The color rises. The bruise is made while you are there to witness the making.

Your body returns as if dropped. Knees on carpet. Hands catching ground. The lamp’s gold crashes back like an insult, and your face goes hot, then wet. Your nose is bleeding, fast, an alarming ribbon.

“Darling?” Larissa is on her knees, her command shortened into care. “Hey—look at me. Breathe.”

You look. Her hands are steady, her eyes are not. She tips your head, packs a tissue against your nose with a practiced, ridiculous gentleness, and you think: I touched the bruise and it opened a door.

You try not to say anything. For one long, dragging minute, you try to be the person you thought you were—sensible, ordinary, the kind of lover who would joke about doors and clumsiness and help tuck the blouse away. But the truth in your chest is an animal that will not be domesticated by kindness.

“I saw something,” you say, voice raw. “When I touched you.”

Larissa stills. Not theatrically, but in the tiny, decisive way a whole sea stills when the wind drops. “You fainted,” she says, and she is trying to be kind.

“I saw Morticia.” The name is fire in your mouth. You swallow anyway. “I saw her mouth. Here.” You point, shaky, to the place the bruise blooms. “I saw her leave that.”

The tissue goes redder in her hand. She doesn’t let go of your face. She doesn’t reach for a lie fast enough to save either of you.

“Larissa,” you say, and it’s almost a plea, and also a verdict.

Her lips part. A hundred versions of her—principal, survivor, queen—sort themselves behind her eyes and step aside for the one that can do this without shattering the furniture. “Yes,” she says, plain. “Morticia was here. This afternoon.”

The room narrows. Your blood is too loud. You nod because your body needs to do something that resembles an answer.

“She was here,” you echo, “and she—”

“She kissed me.” Larissa’s voice doesn’t beg. It doesn’t explain yet, either. It just says the thing. “I let her.”

Everything in you that can tear does.

You pull back, tissue limp in your hand. The lamp is suddenly too polite, the bed intrusive, your own name a poor fit. “I touched you and saw it,” you say, as if that’s the strangest part, and maybe it is. “I think—Larissa, I think I’m a raven.”

Something like awe, grief, and recognition passes over her, quick as an eclipse. “Of course you are,” she says softly, like she’s placing a crown you didn’t know you’d earned. “That explains so much.”

“Don’t.” Your laugh is brittle. “Don’t make it pretty.”

“I’m not.” She folds her hands together to keep from reaching. “You deserve truth, not dressing.”

“Then give it.”

A beat. Two. Larissa inhales like she’s stepping into an auditorium. “It was—foolish,” she says. “Selfish. She came to discuss alumni donations. We had wine. We talked about old things that know how to sound like safety. I felt… lonely on a crowded day. I wanted to be wanted without instructions. She is very good at asking for what she wants.”

“And you are very good at saying yes.” Your mouth tastes like iron and the word disappointment.

Her flinch is an elegant, controlled thing—blink and you miss it. “Sometimes,” she admits. “I am good at many things I wish I wasn’t.”

The blood has slowed. The throbbing hasn’t. You sit up, wipe your lip with the back of your hand, and the sheer ordinariness of the gesture scrapes something raw. “How long would you have let me believe a door did that?”

“I hadn’t decided.” She’s honest. It makes it worse and better. “I wanted to tell you. I wanted not to ruin the one uncomplicated thing I have ever allowed myself.”

“Uncomplicated?” You let out a sound you don’t recognize as yours. “You let Morticia mark you and came home to me.”

“I came home to you,” she says, and it lands messy and true.

You stand because sitting feels too defenseless. “I can’t—” You hold your hands out, helpless in the space between fury and grief. “I can’t unknow it. It’s in me. I touched you and it lives in my head now.”

Her gaze glances towards your hands—as if she can feel the echo too—and she nods, small, as if taking notes in a language she hasn’t used in years. “I’m sorry,” she says, and there’s nothing ornamental on it. “For doing it. For letting you find out like that. For all of the above.”

You want to wound her with words, and you also want to lay down on her chest and listen to her heart and give this a different ending. Both wants are true, both wants are terrible.

“Do you love her?” you ask, low. You don’t know which answer would be worse.

“No.” No hesitation. “Not like I love you.” She steps once closer and stops, as if the carpet has a line painted on it. “But I love what she reminds me of. A girl who wasn’t always careful. A woman who believed wanting made her invulnerable.”

“And me?” Your own voice breaks into the question. “What do I remind you of?”

“Home.” The word lands so softly you almost miss the damage it does. “You remind me that I survived. That I don’t have to audition in my own life.”

You close your eyes because tears would be too much. The bruise lives behind your lids anyway. When you open them, your hands are steadier, which feels like betrayal to your hurt. “So what now? Do I pretend a door did it? Do I nod at parents meetings when she walks by and I know what her mouth did?”

“No.” Larissa’s answer is savage with certainty. “You owe nobody that.”

“Avoid her. Build a moat.” It comes out meaner than you mean.

“If a moat would save us, I’d build it in a night.” Her mouth twists. “But she’s the mother of a student. Soon two. A ghost with a seat at the table.”

“So am I.” You aim a small, rueful smile at the floor.

Larissa almost smiles back, then doesn’t, because today does not believe in mercy. “Tell me what you need,” she says instead, and there is a softness in the command that undoes you more efficiently than shouting could.

You let silence push against both of you until it hurts. You try out a dozen answers in your head and watch each one fail. Finally: “I need you to be done with her.”

Larissa exhales through her nose like she’s swallowing glass. “I can promise to not see her privately again,” she says, and the qualifiers in the sentence clings hard enough to bruise. “I can move meetings, insist on public spaces, refuse wine. I can make it so there’s no room for… this.”

“It already happened.” Your voice is small and, somehow, colder. “It will keep having happened.”

She closes her eyes. When she opens them, the blue is steady. “Then let me spend the rest of my days making sure it is the worst thing I do to you.”

You hate that your heart lurches towards that vow like a dog towards a familiar whistle. “I don’t know if I can forgive you,” you say, and it’s the truest thing you’ve ever said, and the most insufficient. “Not yet.”

“I will not ask you to hurry.” She lifts her hands and—slowly, like a tide negotiating with rocks—sets them back down at her sides. “I won’t touch you unless you ask. I won’t explain myself into your mercy. If you want me gone, I will go. If you want me to sleep on the sofa, I will fold myself obediently into repentance.”

The tenderness in her choosing obedience for you is so naked it makes anger feel like cruelty. You look at the bed, the lamp, the bruise. “I want the truth,” you say, hoarse. “All of it. No theatre. No editing for my comfort. If we try to patch the hole with pretty, it’ll just sink slower.”

“Truth,” she repeats, as if swearing in a church you built together. “You have it.”

“And I don’t know what we will be tomorrow.”

Something cracks at the edges of her composure. Not much. Enough that you see the woman under the principal. “We’ll be whatever you can bear,” she whispers. “If that is strangers, I will learn your face again from across a hallway. If that is… not yet, I will be not yet until my bones ache with it.”

Your nose twinges like a memory. You wipe it, your fingers come away clean. The bleeding stopped. The hurt didn’t.

“Okay,” you say finally, and it is not forgiveness, not even a reprieve. It is a boundary at the edge of a cliff. “One week. No Morticia. No wine. No pretending. We talk or we’re silent, but we don’t lie. I… need to see if I can breathe in here.”

Larissa nods once, again, as if counting off measures. “One week,” she says. “I’ll rearrange the earth if that buys us another day.”

“Don’t,” you say quickly, because you know her. “Don’t perform miracles at me. Just—be simple.”

She huffs a laugh that isn’t a laugh. “I don’t know if I remember how.”

“Learn,” you say, and it’s almost gentle.

She looks at you like a vow she plans to keep even if it kills her. “I will.”

You should leave. Or stay. You put the groceries away because it feels like something a person does when the ground gives under their feet—find a small surface and make order. Larissa stands at the counter with quiet hands, not touching, not instructing, not filling the silence with anything you didn’t invite. Every once in a while you feel her looking at you and it is a relief and a wound.

When you head for the door, she doesn’t follow. She has learned enough in one evening to let you be the one who moves or doesn’t. You stop. Your hand on the knob. The suite smells like tea, dust, and the first snow. The red coin on her neck is blazing.

You turn back. “I keep seeing it,” you admit, barely audible. “The room. The light. Her. You.”

“I know.” Larissa’s voice is soft enough you almost don’t hear it. “Then let me change the end, at least. Tonight, I am alone in this room. Tomorrow, I am alone. And the day after, and the day after, until the picture in your head grows bored and leaves.”

“That’s not how memories work,” you say.

“I’m stubborn,” she says, and something like a smile ghosts her mouth. “I might win.”

You shake your head. The ache doesn’t lighten, but it becomes bearable enough to walk with. “I’ll text,” you manage. “About… breakfast. Or not.”

“I’ll be here.” She stands straighter, as if bracing for weather. “Whatever you decide.”

You open the door and the corridor’s cold takes a small bite out of your cheek. You step through before you can change your mind. A minute later, you’re halfway down the hall and your face breaks without witnesses. You hold the banister, breathing like you’re learning a new set of lungs.

Somewhere outside, a raven drags a cry across the winter evening—complaint, omen, song. You don’t know which. Maybe all three. You whisper to the bird or to yourself, you can’t tell which: “I hear you.”

Behind you, in her lamplight, Larissa stands still and does not chase. It hurts in a way that feels like love trying hard enough to resemble penance.

One week, you think, and the thought is equal parts promise and threat.

You keep walking.

————————————————————————

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[milfsloverblog]

Is It Casual Now ?

Larissa Weems x fem!reader

A/N: To whoever requested this from me, your request was anonymous so I can’t tag you and for some reason Tumblr wouldn’t let me answer directly to your ask 🥲 I hope you’ll enjoy what I did with your request, I’ve had Casual stuck in my head for days now hahaha!

You never meant to stay this long.

It was supposed to be one night. Maybe two. A private indulgence. A whispered secret between silk sheets and stolen time. Larissa made it easy to pretend—her words velvet-soft, her hands knowing, her body impossibly warm in the quiet dark.

You told yourself you wouldn’t linger. And yet, here you are again, weeks later, lying in her bed while dawn tries to crawl its way through the blackout curtains.

She’s still asleep. Or pretending to be.

Your head rests against her shoulder, eyes fixed on the steady rise and fall of her chest. You breathe her in—something expensive and floral with a trace of vanilla—and wonder if it clings to all her lovers, or just you.

She shifts beneath you, her arm instinctively pulling you closer. The movement is gentle, practiced. Comforting. And yet, you can’t tell if it means anything.

You want it to.

“I should go,” you whisper, though you don’t move. You say it every morning. It's become part of the ritual, like the quiet sex and her occasional smirk when you stumble over your words, trying not to sound too eager.

Larissa hums, eyes still closed. “Mmm. Why rush?”

There’s that voice. Satin and command in equal measure. You’d do anything to hear it say something real—something just for you.

“I’ve got class in an hour,” you murmur, letting yourself linger just a little longer. You never mean to, but she makes it so easy to stay. You tuck your face into the crook of her neck. “I think the other teachers are starting to notice I’m always tired on Tuesdays.”

A faint smile curves her lips. “Let them wonder.”

You laugh, a small sound, but there’s something fragile beneath it. You don’t want to wonder. You want to know. You want to ask questions you don’t have the right to ask.

Do you sleep like this with everyone?
Do you think of me when I’m not here?
Is this more than nothing, or am I just pretending it is?

But you don’t ask. You never do.

Instead, you press a soft kiss to her throat and let her hold you like you matter. Like you’re more than warm skin and temporary comfort. Like maybe—just maybe—she wants you here too.

You let the silence stretch. You pretend it means something.

The warmth of Larissa’s bed still clings to your skin when you step into the halls of Nevermore, but reality is already cooling it.

You tell yourself not to expect anything. That it’s fine—normal, even—that she hasn’t texted. That she didn’t kiss you goodbye when you left her office this morning. That she only ever kisses you in private.

Still, when you catch sight of her at the end of the corridor, a quiet, nervous kind of anticipation stirs in your chest. Will she look at me? Will she smile?

You don’t expect her to rush to your side or whisper something meant only for you. But maybe—maybe—she’ll acknowledge you with something softer than professionalism.

But Larissa Weems is all business now. Immaculate in her pressed suit, clipboard in hand, speaking in hushed tones to a board member.

She doesn’t even glance your way.

You try to ignore the sting of it. The way it makes you feel like last night was something you imagined, like the weight of her hands on your skin, the sigh of your name in the dark, meant nothing at all.

You swallow it down.

You’re an adult. You knew what you were getting into.

Still, something bitter settles under your tongue when she turns slightly, offering the board member that smile—the poised, charming one, full of effortless grace. The kind that makes people feel special.

It shouldn’t bother you.

Except it does.

The board member laughs, and Larissa places a hand on his arm in that effortless, casual way she has, a gesture so smooth it might as well be instinct. You wonder if she even realizes she does it. If she touches everyone like that.

If she’s ever touched you like that outside of her bedroom.

Your stomach twists.

She’s not doing anything wrong. Not really. You remind yourself that whatever this is between you—whatever it isn’t—has no rules. No promises. You’re the one who stayed, the one who crawled into her bed again and again, the one who let hope creep into your ribs like a sickness.

Still, when Larissa finally walks past you, eyes skimming over you without even a flicker of recognition, it feels like a slap to the face.

And the worst part?

You don’t even think she notices.

You don’t bring it up right away.

You tell yourself it was nothing—just a moment. A busy morning. She probably didn’t see you. She probably wouldn’t want to seem unprofessional in front of a board member. It’s not personal.

You repeat that to yourself all day.

But it keeps echoing.

She looked right through me.

Later, back in her office, the air is different. Quieter. Dimmer. The curtains are drawn and the fire crackles softly. She’s taken off her heels. Her hair is down.

Here, you’re not a stranger.

Here, she looks at you like she knows you.

She pours two glasses of wine and hands you one, brushing her fingers along yours in that way she always does. She’s graceful about it, as if affection is something she gives you in curated, elegant doses.

You watch her sink into the couch, legs crossed, wineglass balanced delicately in her hand. Her eyes flick to yours. “You’re frowning.”

You hadn’t realized you were.

“I saw you today,” you say, quiet.

Larissa raises a brow. “Yes?”

“In the hall. You walked right past me.”

A beat.

She tilts her head, feigning thought. “I must have been preoccupied.”

You nod slowly. Sip your wine. Pretend it doesn’t sting. “You were talking to the board.”

“Yes.” She says it like a full stop. No elaboration. No apology.

You set your glass down, fingers tightening on your knee. “Do you ever think it’s strange? That we act like we don’t know each other at all during the day?”

Her gaze flickers, just briefly. “I assumed you preferred it that way.”

You blink. “Why would you assume that?”

She shrugs, ever so slightly. “I thought you valued discretion.”

“I do,” you say, a little too fast. “But discretion’s not the same as pretending we’re strangers.”

Larissa leans back against the cushions, studying you now—calm, unreadable. “What is it you want from me, exactly?”

You freeze.

It’s not the question itself—it’s the way she asks it. Like you’re the one who’s overstepping. Like this is a negotiation and you’ve just asked for too much.

“I don’t know,” you admit, softer now. “Something that doesn’t make me feel... invisible.”

She sighs—tired, not annoyed, but not gentle either. “You knew what this was.”

You nod. You did.

But that doesn’t make it hurt less.

You don’t go to her that night.

Or the next.

It isn’t some grand, dramatic decision—you don’t throw your phone into the sea or draft a final message you’ll never send. You just stop reaching out. You sit with the ache. Let it settle in your ribs like something dull and heavy.

And she does nothing.

No text. No knock at your door.

Maybe you were wrong to think she’d notice. Maybe this was always how it was meant to be—you, orbiting her, mistaking gravity for something reciprocal.

But on the third day, there’s a knock at your door.

Your heart stutters.

You consider pretending you’re not home. You consider waiting, letting her leave, letting yourself believe she was never really here at all.

But you open the door.

She’s standing there, one hand resting on the frame, looking as put-together as ever. But there’s something softer in her expression, something almost hesitant.

“I haven’t seen you in a few days.” Her voice is smooth as ever, but there’s a question in it.

You swallow. “I’ve been busy.”

She hums, tilting her head slightly. “Too busy for me?”

Your throat tightens. “I thought you might appreciate the space.”

“Space,” she repeats, like it’s a foreign concept.

Like she never once considered that you’d pull away first.

She steps inside without waiting for an invitation, her perfume enveloping you, and suddenly it feels like every ounce of distance you put between you has collapsed in a breath.

Her fingers trail along your wrist—not grabbing, not holding, just there. A tether.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she murmurs. “Give me space.”

Your stomach twists.

Because she says it so softly, like she means it. Like it’s you who created this distance, like she would have reached for you if only you had let her.

Like this is still something real.

You shake your head, trying to clear it. “Larissa—”

She lifts your hand, pressing it to her lips. The kiss is barely there, the kind that makes you want to chase it.

“Stay,” she says simply. A single, quiet request.

You can’t stay quiet anymore.

You don’t even mean to say it—it just comes out. The words tumble from your mouth like they’ve been waiting behind your teeth for far too long, desperate to escape.

“I can’t keep doing this,” you say, your voice tight. “I can’t keep pretending this is fine.”

Larissa’s eyes narrow slightly.

“You’re making something out of nothing,” she says, like this is just another one of your moods, another one of your moments that will pass when she’s done with it.

But you can’t let it go. Not this time.

“You know what you’re doing.” The words hit the air between you like glass shattering. “You’ve been playing with me—using me—and I don’t even know why I let it go on this long.”

Her expression remains unreadable, but the flicker of something dangerous moves through her eyes. You’ve seen that look before—when she’s about to shut you down.

But you’re not backing down this time.

“You’ve made it clear that I’m just… convenient for you,” you spit out, your breath catching in your chest. “And I’ve been stupid enough to believe that I meant more to you than that.”

Larissa doesn’t flinch. Her gaze is cool, calculating, almost too calm. “You’re overreacting.”

“No,” you snap. “You don’t get to tell me that. You don’t get to pretend like this means nothing when I can feel it. I can feel the way you pull me in, and then push me away. Every damn time.”

Her jaw tightens. She moves slowly, deliberately, her movements sharp and controlled. “I never made any promises to you.”

You laugh bitterly, the sound harsh in your ears. “And I never asked for any. But I was stupid enough to think that this—” you gesture between the two of you, “—was something real. That you cared. That I meant something.”

Larissa’s gaze hardens. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Oh, I know,” you retort, feeling the sharp edge of her words cut through you like a blade. “I know. I thought this was casual—no strings attached, right? But I was wrong. I’m not some passing moment for you, am I? You wanted me to be casual—just another distraction—while I fell for you.”

Larissa’s face tightens at the implication. She steps toward you, her presence overwhelming. But you’re not backing down.

“I was the one who didn’t know any better, right?” you continue, your words growing more heated with every beat. “You’re the one who’s never been clear about what you wanted. Casual, right? That’s what you told me over and over. But I should have known that was just the line you fed me to make it easier to walk away when you were done.”

The words feel like acid in your throat, but they burn with truth.

“You were never casual, Larissa,” you say, a sudden intensity rising in your chest. “I thought I was—thought I was just another face you’d forget. But I’m not. Not now. Not when I’ve let you twist everything I thought we were.”

Larissa doesn’t respond immediately, and for a moment, it’s like she’s frozen in place. There’s a shift in the air, something almost imperceptible, as though she’s finally seeing you for the first time in this whole mess. But it’s too little, too late.

You take a step forward, the anger building in your chest, but it’s mixed with the sting of realization. “You never cared about me the way I cared about you. You were always so damn careful to not care. I was never more than a moment, wasn’t I? You were never going to be mine, Larissa. And you let me believe I could have you.”

Her lips press together tightly, but she still doesn’t say anything.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” you dare her. “Tell me this was just casual for you. That it was just some game you were playing with me.”

Her eyes flick to the side briefly—then back to you, her gaze sharp and cold. “It was never a game. But you made it more than it was.”

“I didn’t make anything,” you bite out. “You used me, and I let you. You told me to keep it casual, but I wasn’t the one who needed it. You were. And now, it’s me who’s left holding all these pieces, trying to make sense of what the hell happened.”

She takes a step back, crossing her arms over her chest, and her voice is icy. “It’s your fault for reading into something that was never there.”

“Is that it?” you ask, laughter bubbling up bitterly. “Is that all I was? Just someone you could use when it was convenient? You really don’t care, do you?”

Larissa opens her mouth to respond, but you can’t hear it anymore. The words you’ve been too afraid to admit are crashing through your thoughts, unrelenting. You’ve been fighting so hard to convince yourself that this wasn’t a mistake, that maybe she cared about you even just a little. But now—now you see the truth, clear as day.

“I see it now,” you say quietly, stepping away from her, the words breaking your heart as you speak them. “I was just a distraction. And you don’t even have the decency to tell me I’m wrong. You let me fall for you, and when I finally do care, when I finally say enough, you’ll just turn away like you always do.”

Her face is unreadable now, but you know her well enough to see the tiniest flicker of something—guilt, maybe? But it’s gone in an instant.

“You don’t get to make me the villain here,” she says, the edge of her voice cutting through your chest like a jagged knife.

“Maybe I don’t,” you reply, “but you sure as hell made me feel like one. You made me feel like I was too much, too needy, like I was asking for too much. And I was—I was asking for something real. But you were just… playing with me, weren’t you?”

Her eyes flicker, and for a second, just a second, you think she might say something. Apologize, maybe, or at least try to explain herself.

But then she looks away. “I’m not sorry.”

And that’s it.

The final cut.

She turns on her heel, walking out without another word. The silence that follows is deafening, suffocating, and you can feel your chest tighten with every step she takes away from you.

The letter you write that night isn’t long.

You don’t see the point in making it poetic. You’ve said everything already—screamed it, cried it, bled it out on the floor of your quarters. This isn’t about drama now. It’s about survival. About reclaiming the parts of yourself that she tried to keep casual.

No, that’s not fair.

You were the one who believed her when she said it.

Still, you leave the resignation letter on her desk the next morning. Just a single sheet of paper folded neatly in half. Your name signed at the bottom with a shaking hand.

You pause for a moment in her office, the silence thick with everything unsaid. Her perfume lingers faintly in the room, floral and cold, like a memory that won’t wash off.

You don’t look around. You don’t need to. You know this place too well—its perfection, its elegance. The way she kept everything beautiful and just out of reach.

Kind of like her.

You take the long way out of Nevermore. Past the classrooms, past the rows of windows that once glowed warm when she waited for you. Past the hallway where she used to pull you aside with a smirk and a whisper, asking if you could stay a little later.

You remember the butterflies. The heat. The way she’d kiss you like you were the only thing that mattered—until the morning after, when you were nothing again. Just someone she kept in the dark, hidden beneath carefully measured glances and vague promises.

You walk past it all, and for once, you don’t stop.

Not even when you see her.

She’s standing at the top of the stairs, spine straight, arms crossed in that perfectly controlled way she always carries herself. Her eyes find yours, sharp as ever, unreadable. And for a split second, time stalls.

She knows.

Of course she knows. She’s already read it. Or maybe she hasn’t yet, but she always knew this was coming. She just didn’t care enough to stop it.

You hold her gaze for a heartbeat longer than you should, hoping—desperately, foolishly—that she’ll say something.

Anything.

But she doesn’t.

She just watches you. Stoic. Cold. Silent.

Like you were never more than a passing moment. Like none of it mattered.

And maybe that’s the truth you needed.

You turn without a word.

No dramatic exit. No tears. Just the quiet click of your shoes on the stone floor as you leave it all behind—her, Nevermore, the hollow ache of wanting something that was never yours to begin with.

Outside, the sky is heavy with clouds, the kind that feel like they’re holding something back. You don’t bring an umbrella. Let it rain. Let it soak through your coat and into your bones. Let it feel like something.

Anything is better than the numbness.

You don’t look back.
You’ve already done that too many times.

————————————————————————

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[lowkeyerror]

Instant Attraction

Wanda Maximoff x Reader

Word Count: 11.5k

Notes: Stepmom!Wanda, pining, masturbation, kissing, thigh riding, cheating, mommy kink, lmk if there's anything else,

Summary: Your dad calls you home from college unable to afford for you to dorm. He doesn’t let you know that in the time you were gone, he had gotten married. When you meet his wife Wanda, you're instantly attracted to her. That attraction doesn't seem so one sided.

An: Could be persuaded to write another part... after I finish my request

Masterlist

You grew up in a single-parent household. Your dad spent most of his time at work, trying to provide you a better life. You could never hate him for that. Your mother, she decided that motherhood wasn’t for her when you were around 5. She left one night and never came back.

You weren’t a very social kid. You had a few friends, but no real affinity for going out. There was a preference on your side of things to stay in, watch movies, and play games. Even when you grew your interest stay the same.

There were times were your father nearly forced you out of the house, just so he could see the sun touch your skin.

You weren’t the smartest kid, but you weren’t an idiot either. You took your average grades and went to community college securing yourself a general AA before you decided to transfer to a Cal State University. Though your father originally paid for you to dorm, he mentioned that it was a bit expensive.

So next semester you’d be commuting between home and school. Honestly, you’d only dormed because your father had pushed for it in the first place. He’d thought it’d be a good opportunity for you to branch out.

Your roommate, Kate was pretty cool, but in actuality she was a bit of a loser just like you were.

“Back so soon Y/n L/n?”

The thick accent made a smile tug at the ends of your lips, “What can I say, I missed the scariest neighbor on the block. Who’s going to tarnish your hardcore image if it’s not me, Lena?”

You and Yelena had grown up together, she’d been your neighbor for as long as you could remember. One of the few people that you’d let into your social circle.

“I’m back to stay. My dad told me dorming was too expensive, so I get to come back home.”

Yelena laughs lightly, “I bet it’s out of his range now since he’s caring for a woman and her children .”

You look at her dumbfounded. Slowly the laughter stops and the smile disappears from her face.

“What are you talking about?”

“Do you not know?”

Her eyes are wide as she stares at you.

“Know what Yelena?”

She begins to sputter, “Holy shit, what kind of father doesn’t tell his daughter this things?”

You grab her by the shoulders and shake her a little, “What kind of things, Yelena? Would you just tell me?”

“Y/n… you’re father. Sometime near the beginning of your semester, he got married.”

Your eyes bulge out of your head, “He did what?!”

“Her name is Wanda, she’s got 2 sons, twins.”

You open and close your mouth a few times. Laughter builds from inside of you and before you know it, it’s spilling out, “Good one Lena, you almost had me there. My father, married. Jesus Christ, this is why I don’t have too many friends.”

“Y/n, I’m serious.”

“Sure you are, now help me take some of this in the house, since you’re here,” you grab a bag from your trunk, shoving it into the blonde’s hands.

You don’t fumble around looking for your keys, instead opting to ring the doorbell. You told your dad you were coming this weekend, and he said he’d be home to let you in.

“Y/n, I’m really not lying about the marriage,” Yelena nudges you as you wait for the door to open.

You roll your eyes, “Even if I did believe you, what poor woman would marry my father?”

You ring the doorbell again, becoming impatient with waiting.

“Red head, green eyes, mother of 2 kids but you can’t tell from her body. She honestly a really attractive woman, don’t know how he did it,” Yelena goes into the details.

You laugh a little more, “This hypothetical woman sounds like my type. Maybe I could steal her from him.”

Yelena joins in on the laughter, “Not with your inability to speak to women.”

You glare at her, “Not funny.”

Finally the door opens, except it’s not your dad. It’s a woman with red hair, green eyes, a body that definitely doesn’t look like she had two kids. You can’t help but gawk at her.

“You must be Y/n, I’m Wanda. Your father told me to welcome you in, he’s working, but he’ll be back soon.”

“Hi, Mrs. Maximoff,” Yelena spoke with a smirk on her face.

“Yelena, it’s good to see you again. Helping Y/n with her bags?”

Yelena nods, “She needs all the help she can get.”

You shove the blonde while maintaining your gaze on the redhead, “You married my dad?”

She laughs at the disbelief in your voice, “Yes, I did sweetheart. Is that alright with you?”

You’re at a loss for words when you hear her call you sweetheart, “I um… I’m going to head to my room.”

You rush into the house and up the stairs past the red head. Yelena offers the woman a bright smile as she trails behind you a much slower pace.

When the blonde enters your old room she finds you pacing back and forth. Your teeth are sinking into one of your knuckles as you try to get your thoughts going.

“So…”

“You weren’t lying,” you whisper, more to yourself than her.

“I was not.”

You keep pacing, “She has two kids?”

“Yup,” she pops the ‘p', taking a seat on your bed.

You pull out your phone to call your dad. The phone rings, so long that you almost hang up.

“Hey kid, what’s going on?”

You feel your anger growing at his relaxed tone, “ I just got home… and there’s a woman in our house. A woman that Yelena told me that you are married to! Dad, what the fuck? When did you get married? Who is this woman? When did you start dating? She has kids?”

“One question at a time Y/n, please.”

You scoff over the phone, “No, you’ve been lying to me for months now, possibly longer. I deserve the truth.”

You hear him sigh over the phone, “You’re right. I wanted to tell you, but I just didn’t know the right time. Wanda and I had been dating for almost 2 years, I didn’t want to introduce you two before I was sure she was the one.”

“Well technically you still haven’t introduced us. You were supposed to be here today.”

He sighs again, “I know kid, but work called last minute. I know I should’ve been there for this, and I’m fucking it up, but I swear Wanda is amazing, you just have to get to know her.”

“When did you get married?”

“A week after you left, it was… spontaneous. We ended up at courthouse and next thing I know, I’m Mr. Shawn Maximoff.”

You furrow your brow, “You took her last name?”

“It sounds cooler,” he concedes.

It does sound cooler so you don’t argue with him.

“I can’t believe you kept this from me. We’re supposed to be in this together. Thick as thieves, I have your back and you have mine, but you’re lying to me about things this important,” you sit on your bed next to Yelena.

“Y/n, I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to I promise. How about I come home right now, and we can talk about it in person?”

“That’s a start,” you relent.

“Alright, I’ll see you soon, love you.”

You let out a sigh of your own, “Love you, bye.”

When you hang up the phone, your head lands on Yelena’s shoulder. She pulls you into her side, rubbing your shoulder for comfort.

“There, there my friend. I’m sure everything will work out fine between you and your father. If not, you could always go with the plan of stealing Wanda away from him.”

You push her away from you, “Not funny.”

Yelena raises her hands in surrender, “It was just a suggestion.”

“Help me unpack,” you begin to unload your belongings.

Yelena deflates, but helps you regardless. When you’re done you can hear a car pull up in the driveway.

“Looks like your dad’s home.”

“Great.”

Yelena starts making her way to your bedroom door, “I love you, but I am not staying for whatever talk is about to transpire.”

“Fair,” you follow her to the front door.

“Last thing, will you be calling her mommy because-"

You open the door and push her through it, “Goodbye, Yelena.”

Your dad walks into the frame, chuckling at the scene. He waves to your friend, “Goodbye Yelena.”

She waves back, “Bye Shawn, bye Y/n.”

He closes the door behind him. Your dad turns to you and opens his arms. As upset as you are with him, you can’t deny him the hug. You wrap your arms around him, and he squeezes you tightly.

“Believe it or not, I really missed you kid.”

“Enough to get a whole new family,” you shot back him.

“That’s fair, let’s talk in the back.”

You agree, but you don’t make it to the backyard before running into Wanda again.

“Honey you’re home early,” Wanda strides past you and kisses your father.

The sight is strange to you. You knew that your father had dated after your mother, but he never brought anyone home. You had never seen him be intimate with anyone, it felt weird. At least that’s what you think the feeling is.

“I am, I owe Y/n an explanation for some things . So I thought it was best to come home and straighten things out.”

Wanda seems to understand what he’s alluding to, “Alright, while the two of you talk how about I get dinner started.”

They kiss again, and this time you turn away.

“Sounds good, let’s go kid.”

You follow your dad through kitchen and to the backyard. He stops for a second in the kitchen to grab two beers, before continuing outside. The two of you sit on the patio chairs, facing out towards the yard.

He opens both the drinks and hands you one wordlessly. You hate beer, but you’re not turning down this moment with your dad.

“I was lonely for a long time when your mom left Y/n. I wanted to unpack those feelings, but there was one feeling that I felt more than loneliness and that was fear. Fear that I wouldn’t be able to take care of you and that someone would take you away. There was nearly 10 years that I pushed those feelings of loneliness down, to focus on you, on us. It was what I supposed to do and I don’t regret it. I know I wasn’t always there for you in the way you needed me to be, but just know I was always thinking about how I could be better for you.”

He stops to take a swig of his beer, “Eventually, once I thought that you were old enough, I started dating. Nothing really stuck until I met Wanda. It was a chance encounter at some coffee place, she’d just had finalized her divorce. I wasn’t sure about it, but I also just couldn’t let her go without giving it a shot. Low and behold a shot turned into 2 years.”

You take a large gulp of beer, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was scared. I didn’t know how you’d react. We don’t really talk about your feelings about your mom, I just didn’t want you to think- that I was trying to put someone in that spot for you."

“I understand that feeling, but I would’ve like to meet her before you know, you got married.”

“It was so just such a quick decision. That we were already married before I realized that I fucked up. There wasn’t a ceremony or anything,” he explains.

You drink some more, “But it’s been months dad. You know I thought Yelena was lying to me in the driveway when she was saying something about a wife and 2 kids.”

He looks into his lap, “The longer I waited, the harder it got. I felt like a kid who was going to get scolded, I didn’t feel like I had the right words. I still don’t think I do. ‘Hey sport, so I’ve been seeing someone for 2 years and I got married how’s your first week of college going’.”

You laugh, “I guess I can see where you’re coming from, but I don’t want to be left in the dark like this ever again.”

“Yes mam,” he salutes you. “So how was your first semester? Get into any trouble, join any clubs, get a girlfriend maybe?”

You stop him there, “Pump your brakes, I still have questions about… your marriage. Like where are the two kids?”

“They’re at their father’s house. They usually do two weeks there, two weeks here. I think they might be spending more time with him this summer. Billy and Tommy are great kids, I think you’d get along with them pretty well. They’re into games and stuff like you. You’ll meet them. ”

“I’m assuming they’re younger.”

“15.”

Your eyes go wide, “She has two 15-year-old kids?”

Your dad chuckles, “Yes, she does. Wanda is actually older than me.”

“Bullshit,” you say in disbelief.

“Swear to god, I’m serious. She’s a really cool person once you get to know her.”

You hum, “Well she’s already in the family, so I don’t really have a choice, do I Mr. Maximoff?”

He gets up from his seat, beer bottle empty, “Isn’t your generation supposed to be the progressive one?”

You follow his lead, downing the rest of your drink, “You’re the one giving it negative connotation.”

“Whatever kid, I'm going to change out of my work clothes. How about you see if Wanda needs any help in the kitchen?”

You take in a deep breath, “I’ll do my best.”

He places a hand on your shoulder, leading you back inside, “She’s a nice woman Y/n, she’s not going to bite your head off or anything.”

Once you’re back inside, your dad heads upstairs, while to go towards the kitchen.

“It smells really good in here,” you say entering the space.

“Thanks, I’m trying something new today. Your dad said you’re a bit of a picky eater, but I hope you’ll like it.”

“Between us, I’ve always just said that because dad only knows how to cook 3 things,” you joke, and find yourself smiling harder when you hear Wanda laugh.

“Let me guess, burger, steak, salmon?”

“You survived eating the salmon?”

She laughs even harder, covering her mouth, “There were a few bones, but it was an honest attempt.”

“Is there anything I can help you with?” You ask, but you can see that she’s about done with everything.

“Could just get the plates for me, I know they’re right by me, but I have to keep stirring or-”

“It’s no problem, Wanda.”

You cut her off politely. The plates are stashed right above the stove. You come up behind Wanda, who is stirring the food in the skillet. You are taller than her so reaching above her is no problem. The only thing that you are unsure about is standing so close behind her.

Your front is only centimeters away from touching her back. When you reach over her, you think you hear her curse to herself.

“Is everything alright?”

“The food just got me a little, all good.”

You grab the plates and sit them on the counter next to her.

“So Y/n I hear you’re an English major.”

You nod, “I am.”

“I was too back in my day.”

You can't help but shake your head, “You look like you could still be in college.”

You see her blush at your words turning off the stove. You don’t know why seeing her blush makes you feel smug, but it does.

“Oh stop it,” she looks away from you.

“I’m serious, Wanda. I would’ve never guessed you were a mother let alone to two teenagers,” you continue to compliment her.

“A lot of people are surprised when I tell them how old I am,” she admits. “They all say that I look good for my age.”

You catch her gaze, “They should just tell you that you look good. Age is irrelevant.”

“You’re quite the charmer Y/n. I don’t blame them, I’m nearly 50.”

Your eyes go wide, “Wanda, I don’t believe you.”

She laughs, “It’s true, I’m 45.”

“I’d believe you if you said 25,” you’re serious when you speak.

The compliment flusters her, “Could you help me take the plates to the table?”

You grab 2 of the 3 plates sitting them at the table. You would’ve thought that Wanda would’ve set her plate next to your dad, but instead she sits next to you.

“You can dig in when you’re ready, no need to let the food get cold waiting for your dad.”

You take her words to heart and begin eating. After the first bite you find it impossible to stop. It tastes as good as it smelt while cooking. You could cry at the home cooked meal. Ramen packets and fast food could not compare. You had been prepared for a burger that your dad made or to go out for dinner, but this was better than you could’ve expected.

“I take it, you like it,” amusement present in her voice as she watches you devour the food.

“I haven’t had a home cooked meal in a long time and if I’m bring honest they never tasted like this.”

“Do you cook at all?”

You nod, “You’re looking at the family chef. I didn’t want to always eat steak, burger, and spaghetti. “

“How could I forget about the spaghetti? He’ll literally eat it all week.”

“Now you see why I was surprised when I found out he was married.”

Your dad finally makes an appearance, “What’s wrong with my spaghetti?”

“Nothing its good spaghetti, but all week dad?

“Well if it’s good, then I don’t see the problem.”

The three of you sit and chat through dinner. It comes surprisingly easy as you find yourself enamored by Wanda. You hang on every word she says, there’s this twinkle in her eye when she speaks. Her expressions are right there on her sleeves.

You don’t miss the way she bites her lip while she’s thinking, or the small hint of an accent in certain things she says. It makes you wonder more about how your dad could ever manage a woman like this.

When everyone is done eating, you stand up and begin to collect the dishes.

“I’ve got it Y/n,” Wanda tries to take them from you, but you stop her.

“No, it’s alright, you cooked it’s only fair I do the dishes.”

She smiles, giving your father a pointed look, “Maybe someone else should take notes.”

He gives you a playful glare, “Home for a couple hours and already making me look bad.”

You start on the dishes, taking the moment to yourself to gather your thoughts. No matter how many subjects you tried to shift through, the one your mind kept falling back to was Wanda.

She was truly one of the most beautiful women you had ever seen in your life. She was a virtual stranger to you, so there was nothing wrong with finding her attractive. You’d only just met her, it would take some time to get used to seeing her as your dad’s wife.

“I think that one is clean.”

Wanda’s voice startles you a bit causing you to jump lightly. Heat fills your face as embarrassment sets in.

“You caught me lost in thought,” your nerves are still high as you speak.

“What’s got you so far away sweetheart?”

You make the mistake of looking into her eyes. The genuine curiosity behind them paired with a gentle worry conveyed by the small furrow in her brow. You’re gawking again, your focus returns to the dishes.

“It’s just been me and my dad for long time.”

“I understand that , I know that you’re just meeting me-"

You stop her, “You’re lovely, Wanda. I’m not- I don’t have concerns about your relationship with him. I just… I don't know where I fit into all of this. With me moving back home, I feel like a stranger.”

Wanda takes the dish out of your hands and sits it in the rack. If she cares about the moisture level of your hands, she doesn’t say anything. She takes them in her own and looks into your eyes.

“This is your home Y/n. You will never be a stranger in it. It’s a lot to get used to, especially when it’s sprung on you so quickly and I'm sorry for that. Consider it my goal to make you feel at home.”

You don’t know when your eyes dropped to her lips, but it was abundantly clear they had when she stopped speaking.

“Sweetheart?”

You blink a few times regaining your awareness, quickly pulling your hand from hers, “Sorry, long day. I think I’ll turn in for the night, but thank you Wanda… for the food and the talk.”

You rush upstairs and close yourself in your room. What you never noticed was the faint blush on Wanda’s cheeks. She had seen you focus in on her lips while speaking. Honestly, she was finding the way you were looking at her hard to ignore. There was such a wanting in them. She was trying to ignore it, while still getting to know you, but that task was beginning to seem difficult.

She decided to wipe up the kitchen area. Her thoughts wander to when she opened the door for you. The way your eyes traveled the length of her body, the way your mouth stayed agape when she spoke.

You didn’t look a lot like your father. Wanda noted that you were tall and sort of lanky like he was, and you had a lot of his mannerisms, but physically she assumed you looked like your mother. You had soft features, that might have clashed a little with your urban aesthetic.

You presented yourself much how your dad described you. A bit shy, but truly a good mannered, funny kid. Wanda expected a little more social ineptitude, but she was surprised with how chatty you ended up being.

She wondered if it had anything to do with the way you perceived her. Truth be told she felt sorry for you, your father should’ve told you about this a while ago. She had heard about you and pressed to meet you, but he always had some excuse to why you couldn’t meet.

“So, what do you think?”

“I wish I would’ve met her a little earlier but she seems like a good kid,” Wanda turns to face her husband.

The man frowns, “I’m sorry, seeing you both interact made me realize that I could’ve done this much sooner.”

“How do you think she’ll interact with the boys?”

He smiles, “Y/n is basically one of the boys. You’ll see that side of her eventually. She’ll be in that room for the foreseeable future, until Yelena or someone else drags her out.”

“I could take her out for a girl’s day,” Wanda suggests.

Shawn laughs at her, “I’ve never known her to be into any of that stuff, but if that’s something you want to do, let me know. I’d probably have to convince her to agree.”

Wanda shakes her head, “I think I can get her to go all on my own.”

“Alright, don’t say I didn’t warn you. I’ll see you upstairs.”

The man makes his way upstairs to the bed. Wanda on the other hand, stays finishing up some minor things in the kitchen, before heading up herself.

She heads straight for the bathroom, ready to get the smell of the kitchen off of her. She wasn’t paying much attention on her way, looking at her phone. That’s how she found herself running straight into you. She would’ve fell if it weren’t your strong grip on her hips.

She went to apologize, but the words died on her lips as she saw water droplets falling from your skin. Her hands pressed against your slightly damp pajama shirt, in order to stabilize herself.

The shirt was thin enough, for her to feel your abdomen through it. She found herself at a loss for words.

“Are you alright Wanda?”

She nods meekly, “Sorry sweetheart, I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going.”

“It’s no biggie, as long as you’re ok,” you help her fully upright, hands not leaving her side.

“All good, thanks to you,” Wanda struggles to meet your eyes.

You are about to squeeze her sides when you remember who this woman is. Your hands fall to your sides quickly. Nervous laughter build up in your throat, “I’ll see you tomorrow then?”

“Y/n I was wondering if you'd be interested in having a girl’s day with me, before my boys come. I think it’d be good to have some bonding time.”

“I um- I’ve never really had a girl’s day,” you scratch the back of your neck awkwardly.

“Well, it’ll be my treat?”

You nod, “Ok, like tomorrow or…”

“Tomorrow is perfect.”

You give a thumbs up and make your way to your room, while Wanda goes into the bathroom.

You plop straight into your bed, slapping your hand on to your face, “Really Y/n, a girl’s day. What were we thinking?”

You knew exactly what you were thinking. Alone time with Wanda, piqued your interest. The feeling of her in her hands felt like it was etched into your memory. The way she was looking at you made your heart pound in your chest.

As you lay in bed, your mind begins to paint vulgar images in your head. Ones that you had yet to experience due to your introverted lifestyle. The farthest you had gone with another girl was some lackluster dry humping.

That didn’t stop you from imagining your hands on Wanda’s body. The way she softly gasped when your hands stopped her from falling. The feeling of her fingers against your abdomen, blessed for the thing material of your shirt. The addictive color of her lips, and how they could move against yours.

You couldn’t sleep with her on your mind and the wetness pooling between your legs. You sit up in your bed, leaning back against the headboard. It’s only a moment of contemplation, before you stick your hand under the band of your pajama pants.

Your fingers are determined as they draw tight fast circles around your clit. You want to expedite the experience as much as possible. There couldn’t be anytime to dwell on who you were thinking about.

With your eyes closed you could see her taking her shirt off. Her skin soft and cool under your fingertips. A trail of goosebumps in your wake. You could see her craning her neck as you sucked on the exposed skin, marking her as your own. You could feel her hands tugging at your hair, moaning your name as you tasted her.

“Fuck, Wanda,” you came with a grunt. Your eyes still closed as your fingers stilled against the mess you made of yourself.

On the other side of your bedroom door, Wanda was standing there in shock. She had heard some sounds coming from your room after exiting the bathroom. When she realized what the sounds were, she thought she should leave. Yet the sound of her name being whispered on your tongue along with the sound of you playing with yourself, kept her in place.

She found herself worked up after her shower. Wishing that she would’ve cracked the door to see you, touching yourself with her in mind. Simultaneously scolding herself for having thoughts like this running through her head.

She married your father, she liked your father, he was a decent man. He was good to her and her boys. So what if he was always working, who cares that he hid their entire relationship from the most important person in his life, and does it even matter that he hasn’t ever really given her an orgasm. This was her new husband and she shouldn’t be thinking about his daughter in this way.

Maybe asking for a girl’s day, wasn’t a good idea. Being closer to you seemed like a dangerous game, lines that Wanda couldn’t allow herself to cross.

It was hard for her, knowing your young prying eyes were on her. From what she had heard, you already wanted her. The token of a youthful want and desire, it went right to her core.

When she finally made her way back to her room, she had decided that she needed some relief. She was going to seek it from your father, but the man already laid snoring. She shook him a couple of times in hopes to wake him up, but her attempts were met with swats of her hand and incoherent grunting.

Wanda huffed with irritation sliding into her side of the bed. She let herself get off to the thought of you that night unable to think herself guilty.

Your father was out of the house before Wanda or yourself had woken up in the morning. Wanda hated waking up to an empty bed, but it had become her new normal.

She didn't bother getting ready for the day yet. She simply stretched some, before brushing her teeth, and heading downstairs for breakfast. She was surprised to find you in the kitchen, cooking.

You hadn’t recognized her presence yet, too caught up in breakfast. Music played lowly through the kitchen and you hummed along. You thought it’d be a nice gesture to make breakfast since Wanda had cooked dinner last night.

The older woman watched you in somewhat of a trance. Your movements were a little clumsy, but it was clear that you had been doing it like this for a while. She could see herself coming up behind you and wrapping herself around you as you cooked for her.

Her muscles twitched at the thought. She took in a deep breath before she finally announced her presence, “Good morning.”

You turn away from the stove to smile at her, “Perfect timing, I'm almost done with breakfast.”

“You didn't have to do all of this, your dad’s not even here to enjoy it.”

You shrug your shoulders, “I figured he’d be at work anyway. Consider this a thank you for dinner."

You bring her a plate along with some coffee before getting your own.

“Y/n, this is amazing,” Wanda praises you.

You grow bashful, “It’s nothing really. So, what’s on the agenda for our girl’s day?”

Wanda ponders for a moment, “How about you tell me some things you like to do and we’ll go from there?”

You stumble a bit, “I uh- I don't really like to do much. Dad and I never really did anything more than like going to a park and sometimes fishing.”

“What about the mall? People your age are into shopping, right?”

You laugh, “I’ve only really been back to school shopping.”

Wanda shakes her head, “Today, I guess I’m going to introduce you to some of life’s little luxuries. I’m going to need you to trust me.”

You give her a small smile, “I trust you.”

You say it so earnestly that it nearly scares her.

“Good, so we’ll head out after we’re done eating and getting dressed.”

After cleaning up and getting dressed you regrouped in the living room. You tried your best to not let your eyes linger over Wanda’s attire. She wore a simple yellow sundress, it wasn’t anything extravagant but it looked good on her. It almost made you want to change out of your t-shirt and jeans, feeling a little underdressed.

“Ready?”

You answer her, and soon you’re in the passenger seat of her car with no idea where you’re going. You both make pleasant small talk, not really feeling the need to fill the silence. The only thing you make conscious effort to do is not stare at her cleavage in the dress.

It hard to erase the images that you pictured last night, but for your own sake you try.

The first place Wanda takes you is a nail shop. You had been before, but it had honestly been years. She opted for a manicure and pedicure, while you just got a manicure. You were usually a clear coat type of girl but today you decided to get black paint.

After your nails, Wanda decides to take you to the mall.

“Ok, whatever you want in here, is on me today,” she says as you enter the shopping center.

Your eyes go wide, “Wanda, I couldn't ask you for that.”

“Good thing you didn't ask sweetheart,” she responds and you feel yourself melt a little.

“I’m not even good at shopping, I don't really know what looks good on me,” you admit to the woman.

She pauses her steps to give you a once over. Her eyes dragging slowly across your body, as if she was personally undressing you then and there.

“Honey, you should've never told me that. Now, I’m afraid you're going to have to indulge me through these stores.”

“What does that mean?”

Wanda’s tone is playful, “Don’t worry your little head about it sweetheart, I’m going to help you find some clothes.”

It's not a second later that she’s grabbing your wrist and pulling you into a clothing store. She starts grabbing clothes and holding them up to your body, trying to see what looks good. She had a pile of clothes in her arms that she was shoving into your hands.

“Try these on,” she pushes you to the dressing rooms.

A lot of the stuff she had was stuff you’d never grab for yourself, but it did all look good on you. There were a few pieces, particularly crop tops, that you weren’t too sure about.

“I think I look weird,” you come out in the crop top.

You have something of a jacket over it. You look down at your exposed stomach before looking up at Wanda. There’s something in the way she’s looking at you.

“It looks good,” her tongue swipes across her bottom lip. “But if you’re uncomfortable then you don’t have to get it.”

“Do you really think it looks ok?”

She stands from her spot and makes her way over to you. Her hands fiddle with the end of the shirt. She adjust the waistband of your jeans. With a few quick tugs, she has you seeing the outfit in a different way.

“I do.”

You nod, “Ok, I see it.”

“You should wear it out,” she suggests and you comply.

You thought it’d be over after the one store but Wanda takes you into 3 more clothing store, racking up a whole new wardrobe. At the end you practically had to beg her not to spend any more money.

“Do you want to go in there, your dad mentioned you’re a big gamer?”

She nods her head to the video game store that you admittedly had been eyeing since the last store you went in.

You shake your head, “You’ve already spent so much and games are like $70 now.”

“ So I’m going to take that as a yes,” she starts walking ahead into the store.

You groan, but follow her in anyway, “Wanda, can I ask what you do for work?”

She laughs, “Why, so you can feel a little better about me spending the money?”

“Maybe,” you say browsing through a few games.

“Well, I used to work in real estate and now I do editing for major publications books, magazines, things like that.”

“That seems like a big jump,” you point out.

She nods, “It is, but I’m much happier editing than I was selling houses. The real estate did give me a good standing to be able to chase and finance my dreams. It’s honestly given me more money than I know what to do with. So I usually just don’t do anything with it.”

“Does my dad know?”

Wanda adverts her eyes, “No, he doesn’t. Your dad really enjoys being a provider. He wants to be the breadwinner and bring home the bacon. He doesn’t even let me pay for dinner. I pay for some of the bills at home and he doesn’t even want me to do that. I’ve been trying to coerce him into letting me do more but-”

“He’s a stubborn guy,” you finish her thoughts. “When I was in high school, I got a job at the movie theater to help out with some things around the house and for college. Dad was really…insecure about letting me help. He wanted to prove he could do it on his own.”

Her eyes soften, “Oh wow."

“Yeah, I think it has something to do with my mom walking out on us, but I don’t know. We never really talked about it,” you say picking up a game.

Wanda knew this topic to be sensitive to your dad. He had mentioned it, but never went into detail. When Wanda tried to press for information, he'd either shut down or get irritated, she wonders if he was the same with you.

“No pressure, but if you ever want to talk about it or vent, I’m here for you.” She takes the game from your hands, “I know it’s not your dad’s favorite topic and I know I don’t have the answers you’re probably looking for, but I don’t mind listening to you.”

You look at her for a long moment. Your eyes are watering against your will. You blink back the tears and nod silently. You never really talked about your mom, truth be told you never unpacked those feelings yourself.

“I- I’ve never really talked about it with anyone. I don’t know how I feel about it, I mean I was only 5.”

Wanda thinks of her words carefully, “Do you remember her?”

You laugh lightly, still pretending to browse the games, “Of course I do, she was my mom. She brushed my hair, tucked me in, put band aids on my scrapes and cuts, and she never got mad when I got grass stains on my clothes.”

Wanda keeps quiet as she senses you have more to say.

“She was a stay-at-home mom, so I spent most of my time with her. I don’t- I wish I remembered what she looked like more. I look like her, I know I do, but… I don’t know it’s not enough.”

Wanda rests her hand on your back. Rubbing small circles bringing you more comfort than you thought you needed. You place your hand in her other hand, sighing deeply.

“I wish I knew why she left. Dad never told me, I just know that one day I woke up and she wasn’t there. He told me she wasn’t coming back. I never wanted to ask him, he was already doing so much to prove that he could be enough. I’m grateful for that, for him… but in the back of my mind I can’t help but wonder, you know.”

A teardrop falling onto your cheek, pulls you quickly out of the moment. You wipe your eyes with your sleeve and take a step back from Wanda.

“Y/n-"

“I’ve heard really cool things about that game. I’ve been wanting it for a few months now,” you pivot topics, clearing your throat.

“Then it’s yours sweetheart.”

You were grateful that she just let it go.

After that you both decide to call it a day and head back home. You bring all of your new clothes to your room and begin to put them away. You decide to take a quick shower and change into more comfortable clothes before heading down to the living room. Usually you’d keep to yourself in your room, but you were secretly hoping Wanda would join you.

“What’re you watching?”

“Back to the Future, it’s one of my favorites,” you make room for her on the couch next to you.

She takes a seat, “Mine too.”

You perk up, “Really?”

She nods, “Me and my brother used to watch it all the time when we were younger.”

The two of you sit in silence as you watch the movie. Unbeknownst to either of, the space between you grows slimmer by the minute. You take a peek at the woman to find her eyes fluttering, before they finally close. She had already nearly been laying on the couch. Her feet are up, bent to lay over each other. She had been holding up her head in her hand. Now as she fell unconscious her head had drops into your lap.

You feel your heart rate pick up. The movie suddenly becomes uninteresting. You don’t want to move, unwilling to wake the woman. She looks peaceful in her sleep. You notice how she twitches lightly and though you shouldn’t your fingers begin to comb through her hair. She hums in your lap, but you don’t still. Your fingers work gingerly to bring her comfort.

She stops twitching and you refocus on the movie with your hand still in her hair. Eventually you find yourself dozing off as well.

“Well, well, well looks like girl’s day was a success,” it’s your father’s voice that wakes both you and Wanda.

The red head becomes alert first, she notes her position in your lap and your hand in her hair and immediately bolts up right. You’re slower to come to stretching widely before open your eyes.

“Yeah, it was pretty fun,” you say while yawning.

“I see some nail polish Y/n, that’s new.”

You shrug, “It’s not the first time.”

“I know but it’s been a while, having another girl around the house is nice, isn’t it?”

You let out a huff of irritation, completely aware of what he was insinuating. For the most part your dad was in support of your sexuality. However, there were some jokes he just couldn’t let go of. The “gay” thing was fine with him, but he still believed that you could stand to be more ladylike. Which was completely rich coming from the man that raised you on fishing trips, Miller Lite, and WWE.

“So, ladies what’s for dinner?”

Wanda goes to answer but you speak over her, “Honestly dad, I was hoping for some of your burgers tonight.”

Your father beams with excitement, “Will do kiddo, just let me shower first and I’ll be in the kitchen.”

You both watch as he wanders up the stairs.

“You didn’t want to cook, did you?”

“No, not really. Thank you for the save and for letting me nap on you,” she adverts her gaze as she speaks to you.

“I’m happy to help in any way I can,” you say to her, not noticing the undertone of your statement.

Her eyes become dark as she looks at you. The lust filled look in her eyes has you reeling at what you said. There’s no point in taking it back now. You swallow thickly under her gaze, but don't make any motion to move away from her. Instead, you find yourself compelled to lean in closer.

Wanda let’s you get within a few inches of her face, before breathlessly letting your name fall from her lips, “Y/n.”

You close your eyes, “You can’t just say my name like that, Wanda.”

“You can’t make statements like the one you made,” she fires back.

Both of you give leeway to how you’re actual feeling. You go to move closer to her, but her hand on your shoulder keeps you away. It honestly breaks you from whatever pulled you in, in the first place

The tips of your ears heat up as you stand abruptly, “Sorry, I- I’ll see you at dinner.”

Much like when you were a teenager you lock yourself in your room. Wanda picks up a pillow from the couch putting it over her head, pretending to scream into it.

You send a quick text to Yelena. Something along the lines of saying you should hang out tomorrow. She is in disbelief at the fact that you want to do something out of the house, but is equally as excited. She says she’s taking advantage of this and keeping you out all day.

You needed to get out of the house. You stayed in it so much because you deemed it as a safe space. However, with Wanda around… you didn’t know if you could truly call it safe. It had only taken two days for you to almost kiss her.

There wasn’t a bone in your body that was used to moving this quickly. It had taken you years to develop your first crush and even longer before you acted on any such feeling. Yet with Wanda everything felt different. You weren’t a believer in love at first sight, you wouldn’t call what you were feeling love. This attraction… for lack of a better term just felt intense.

It was almost as if every interaction had a double meaning to it. It was something that the other woman was clearly also aware of. Neither of you should be acting on it and technically you hadn’t done anything. The problem was that you wanted to, and you didn’t see those feelings going away anytime soon. It was only the second day and you had the rest of your life to go.

One day out with Yelena became a couple days of the week out with her. You even had started texting your former roommate to see if she’d be down to hangout as well. So save for the first two days, you spent every day out and about.

You had similar plans for the next week too, but they came to a halt quickly when your dad mentioned Wanda’s kids coming back from their dad’s. He made it clear that he wanted you to be there to meet them so your plans of avoiding home, became a little more complicated.

So once again you were stuck in your room. The doorbell ringing is the only reason you had left the space. You knew that your dad was out and Wanda was working in her office at the time, so you were the only option.

It rang one more time, before you got to it. When you open the door, you are met by two teenage boys and an older looking man. You stare at them and they stare back at you.

“Is Wanda in? I would like to have a talk with her,” the man in the middle speaks.

“She’s working right now.”

He rolls his eyes, “And who are you exactly?”

Something about his tone makes you jaw twitch, “I’m Y/n, Shawn’s kid.”

“Right, the one he was hiding away.”

“Dad-”

Dealing with stuck up assholes was unfortunately nothing new to you, “Billy, Tommy you guys can head on in.”

They look from their father to you before quickly making the decision to go inside. The man trues to go in behind but you block his entry.

“They live here, you don’t. I suggest you try talking to Wanda again sometime next week…” you smile at him.

“Jarvis,” he says through gritted teeth.

“Goodbye Jarvis,” you slam the door in his face.

You clap your hands together as you turn around. You slightly startle at the presence of the teen boys behind you. There’s an awkward silence as you stare at each other.

“So, your mom said you guys are gamers?”

That’s all it took for the three of you to hunker down in the living room and start gaming. From Mario Kart to Mario Party to Mortal Kombat, the three of you rotted the day away. You end up ordering some pizza and junk food, which is essential for all gaming marathons.

“I love your style by the way,” Billy says grabbing a slice of pizza.

You raise an eyebrow at him, “You might as well just ask me if I'm gay.”

Tommy laughs at this, which earns him a slap in the arm from Billy.

“Well… are you?”

“Yep.”

“Girlfriend?” Tommy asks.

“Nope, how about you two?”

Billy smiles, “I have a boyfriend.”

He goes on telling you some details. You genuinely feel happy for the boy. To be young, out, and dating is really cool.

“That’s really cool Billy.”

“Thanks, I wish my dad thought so too.”

Tommy jumps in the conversation, “Dad is fucking stupid, what does he know about any kind of relationship.”

You agree with Tommy, “I mean he did fumble your mom.”

They both laugh, but Billy brings the conversation back, “I just wish he was more accepting.”

“He’s either going to come around because he loves you or keep showing you who he really is. Either way you still have your mom, your bother, your boyfriend, and even me to rely on. So just cause your dad isn’t accepting doesn't mean you aren’t accepted,” you tell him sincerely.

“He wanted to talk to mom about Billy’s boyfriend. He thinks it’s… inappropriate,” Tommy spills.

“Well I don't think it's any of his business, and even if he did tell your mom she’d have your back,” you say like it’s obvious.

“If who told me what?”

Wanda comes out from her office and her kids greet her. She’s surprised to see you downstairs with them, but doesn’t comment on it.

“Dad doesn't approve of Billy’s boyfriend,” Tommy says again earning an agitated look from his brother.

“Yeah, he was going to talk to you, but Y/n kicked him out,” Billy says awkwardly.

You keep your focus on the game, “I didn’t kick him out… I slammed the door in his face.”

“Y/n!”

“It was well deserved. He asked who I was, I told him. Then the asshole has the audacity to refer to me as ‘the one he was hiding' when trying to get into my house. I think the fuck not.”

Wanda walks in front of your TV blocking the game. You pause it and look up at her to find an unexpected fury in her eyes.

“What did he say to you?”

You meet her eyes, urging her to calm down, “I handled it.”

She takes the hint, moving out of your way, “I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

She then focuses on talking with her children, recapping the week that they had. Billy also goes into some less than nice details of what his father had to say about his boyfriend.

Wanda’s hand presses against her brow line hearing the details. She’s clearly irritated with the twin’s father.

“I’ll talk to him, and you tell me if he says anything else. I have no issue coming to get you guys if he makes you uncomfortable,” Wanda says hugging the boys.

You take this moment between the family to go upstairs. You breath in the minute to yourself. The twins were nice, and it was cool to have people in the house to game with. They’d seem like people who’d you befriend at their age.

“Thanks for hanging out with my kids and for the stuff with their dad,” Wanda stands in your doorway.

You give her a small nod, “Billy and Tommy are cool. Their dad… less cool. So it was my pleasure to slam the door in his face.”

Wanda chuckles, “Jarvis is an asshole.”

You join in on her laughter, “Yeah, I definitely can’t see you with that guy.”

“I was young and naïve. If I knew then what I know now, I wouldn’t have stayed for so long.”

“How young?”

Wanda sighs, “18. He was older, more appealing back then.”

You can’t hide your reaction, “Oh.”

“Yeah, but that asshole gave me my kids. So I guess he was good for something.”

You disagree with her, “Just cause a guy is good for something, doesn’t mean he’s good for you.”

“Where were you when I was in my prime, Y/n?” her words have a double meaning.

You look at her, more serious than a heart attack, “I’m right here, and your prime is far from over.”

She shudders under your look, “Y/n.”

“I wish you could feel how hard it is for me to do the right thing, Wanda. I hate leaving the house, but I know if I was here all day with just you, I’d lose it.”

You’re lying on your back in bed. Your eyes cut from Wanda to the ceiling.

“Y/n, I’m married to your father.”

“He doesn’t even fuck you,” you say with a bored tone.

“Y/n!”

You don’t return her reaction, “I’ve been waiting to see if I’d have to plug my ears, or move downstairs so I didn’t have to hear. But it hasn’t happened yet. Probably too tired from work.”

“Y/n my kids are downstairs.”

Your head falls into your hands, “I’m sorry. I-I’m going to head out for a bit.”

You get up and go for your door. Wanda doesn’t move out of your way. She stands still in your doorframe.

“Where are you going?”

“I don't know, Lena’s if she’s home.”

Wanda frowns hearing this, “You don’t have to-”

You lock eyes with her’s, “I do.”

Wanda’s hand caresses your cheek. You lean into her touch. You hear her take an unsteady breath.

“You make this so hard for me.”

She slowly removes her hand, only to replace it with her lips. It’s enough to ignite a fire in your body. They linger, much longer than they should.

“Be safe,” she fixes your clothes a little, before finally clearing your path.

“Wanda-"

“I’ll see you back for dinner,” she says walking away from you.

When you think she can't see you anymore, you touch your cheek. The spot where her lips had been. You slip out of the house and make your way to Yelena’s.

You knock on the door and wait for her to answer. When she does, you don't let her say anything. You drag her upstairs to her room. You lock her door, before you start pacing in her room. She sits on her bed watching you.

“So… are you going to tell me what this is about?”

“I need this to be a judgement free zone.”

Yelena tilts her head, “Then why come here?”

“Yelena, I’m serious.”

She raises her hands in surrender at your snappy tone, “Fine, what is it?”

“I’m attracted to Wanda, and I think… she’s attracted to me.”

Yelena laughs as you stare at her. The laughter goes on for minutes before she realizes that you aren't laughing.

“Y/n, are you being serious?”

You close your eyes, “Lena there’s this tension. I just thought it was in my head. I almost kissed her, I don’t know what’s going on. I’ve been going out, and stuff just to stay away from her. She’s driving me insane.”

“You tried to kiss her!”

“She gave me this kiss on the cheek. She said I was making it hard for her. Yelena I’ve never felt like this for anyone,” you tell your best friend.

“Dude you’re fucked,” is all that she says.

“I know.”

“She’s your dad’s wife.”

“I know.”

“She has 2 kids.”

“I know.”

“Did I say she’s your dad’s wife already?”

You groan joining her on the bed, “I- I don’t know if I care about it. I mean I do, but he doesn’t even treat her that good. It could be worse, but it’s not great.”

“And you think you can do better?”

“I’d worship her.”

Yelena shakes her head, “I can’t believe you right now. You’re trying to get with your dad’s wife, she’s like almost 30 years older than you.”

“Can you blame me, you’ve seen her? It’s not my fault. If I would’ve met her before, maybe it would be different. It’s just like I come home and there’s this undeniably attractive woman in my house. She doesn’t feel like my dad’s wife to me."

Yelena nods along, “That’s fair, but Y/n this is insane.”

“I don’t know what to do.”

“Let’s go to a club.”

Your eyes widen, “A club?”

“Lots of attractive people who are closer to your age and eligible,” she reasons with you.

“I’m not even supposed to be out right now. My dad says I have to be home to get acclimated with Wanda’s kids. They leave in a week.”

She claps her hands together, “Alright then, next week we’re going clubbing.”

You get a text from Wanda saying your father is on the way home. You know it’s her way of saying you need to be back soon.

“What should I do in the mean time?”

Yelena searches for an answer before landing on, “Act like she’s your mom.”

You gag at the thought, “Ew.”

Yelena reacts gleefully, “Exactly.”

You pause before exiting, “Technically… she is a milf though.”

“Y/n L/n get a fucking grip,” Yelena says with amusement.

“I’m trying, but she won’t let me,” you whine.

“You having a thing for older women makes so much sense. No wonder you had a crush on Natasha.”

You send her a playful glare, “We do not talk about the dark ages.”

“It’s alright, I forgive you. I don’t know if your dad will be as forgiving as I am.”

You shrug, “I’ll test it out and let you know.”

She leads you to her front door, “Think about the club. Focus on it, breathe it in. Dream about it. Do not think about fucking your step mom.”

“Too late for that,” you shrug again.

“Just get out already, I’m running low on things to say back.”

“Bye Lena,” you say as she basically pushes you out of her door.

You make it back just before your dad gets there. It’s interesting seeing him interact with Billy and Tommy. It’s clear to you that he favors Tommy a little more. It’s just in the way he speaks. It bothers you a bit and you make sure to include Billy any time that you can in conversation.

You can feel Wanda’s eyes on you throughout the dinner, but you keep your attention with the boys and your dad.

“So I have a bit of an announcement to make,” your father says, gathering everyone’s attention. “I have an opportunity to get a promotion at work.”

“That’s great honey, we’re so proud of you,” Wanda gives him a quick kiss.

You try your best to hold back any malice with a fake smile on your face.

“Well, the thing is I’d need to go out of town for a bit to secure the position,” he says and you feel Wanda’s mood shift.

“For how long dad?” you ask, taking a sip of your drink.

He winces, “At least a month, maybe more.” He begins to pile on in an effort to make it seem less drastic. “It’s really a once in a lifetime opportunity, I've been working there for so long it feels overdue, but with this money our lives could change dramatically. We could move, Y/n you could go back to dorming, it would be-”

“You already accepted it didn't you?”

Wanda’s tone is guarded as she speaks. It's clear that she's unhappy and you don't blame her.

You sigh pushing yourself away from the table, “Congratulations dad, I’m going to head up to my room now.”

“Wait.” Wanda’s voice stops you in your tracks. “How do you feel about this Y/n?”

“I uh-”

“Don’t drag my kid into this.”

Wanda starts gesturing with her hands, “I’m not, she’s bound to have an opinion. She lives here, she’s your daughter, and she came back home because of you. Now you’re bailing.”

“It’s not a big deal. I’m used to him being busy,” you try to mediate.

Your dad throws his hands up, “What is that supposed to mean?”

You give him your honest opinion, “It means you’re busy. You were late to my graduation because of work. You missed my award ceremonies. There wasn’t any point in me signing up for extracurriculars because you’d never take me or show up anyway. It’s nothing personal dad, it’s just the truth.”

“I was providing for you,” he throws it back in your face.

Your shoulders drop, “I know and I’m grateful, but-” you stop yourself. Instead you just head for your room. You hear him call after you, but you don’t respond.

It’s not soon after that you hear footsteps coming up the stairs. There’s a soft knock on your door. You don’t say anything as Billy and Tommy slip into your room.

“They’re still going at it,” Tommy announces.

“Do they… do this a lot?” You ask the boys.

Billy answers, “When any sort of quality time is involved.”

You scoff, “Classic.”

Tommy places a hand on your shoulder, “We get it you know.”

“Sometimes you just wish they were there for you,” Billy finishes the sentence.

You feel yourself breaking down but refuse to let the tears fall. Tommy pulls you into a hug and Billy joins in soon after. You center yourself in their embrace. It’s not a comfort that you’re used to experiencing, you appreciate it immensely.

At some point during this moment the voices downstairs escalate to yelling. It quickly grabs your attention and has you realizing that you are the only other adult present in this moment. It feels like your responsibility to try to shield them from this, even if they are on the older side of things. Teenagers are still kids. Hell you still feel like a kid in your early twenties.

You place a hand on Billy’s head and the other on Tommy’s, “Thanks kids. I’m going to go handle downstairs, you stay up here.”

Tommy interjects, “I think-”

You stop him, “I’ve got it, trust me. They’re going to get noise complaint if things keep going.”

You steel yourself as you go downstairs to find Wanda and your father in the middle of a heated argument. They’re both standing, yelling in each other’s faces.

“SO WHAT SHAWN YOU LEAVE FOR OVER A MONTH AND DON’T EVEN THINK TO RUN IT BY ME FIRST?”

“RUN IT BY YOU FOR WHAT WANDA? YOU AREN’T MY MOTHER.”

“I AM YOUR WIFE, OR HAVE YOU FORGOTTEN THAT? TOO BUSY WORKING TO EVEN ACKNOWLEDGE ME.”

“WHEN DID YOU BECOME SUCH A NEEDY BI-“

“ENOUGH,” you cut your father off in the middle of his sentence. The couple looks at you, and you can feel the anger simmering in their gazes. “It’s late, you’re going to get the police called with all of your arguing.”

“Well if-”

“Stop. The conversation is going nowhere because you aren’t having a conversation, you’re just screaming at each other,” you tell them.

“Y/n, you should stay out of this,” your father glare at you.

“I would love to, only we can all hear you upstairs. You either need to table this conversation for another time or go somewhere else to talk. Neither of you should be acting like this in front of your kids. I don’t care who started it, if you both plan on staying here tonight it’s over right now.”

Wanda is the one to take in a deep breath. She looks between you and your father. There’s something behind her eyes but you’re focused on the task at hand.

“You’re sleeping on the couch tonight,” she walks away from the table, past you, and disappears up the stairs.

You muster up all the disappointment you possibly can as you take in your father’s appearance, “She has a right to be upset with you. It seems like you keep hiding these really important, life altering things from her. You have to be more upfront, more honest with her.”

“How was I supposed to know she’d react this way?”

You level with him, “You had to have expected something like this, it’s why you didn't tell her in the first place.”

“Maybe I did, I just… I really want this,” he says slumping down on the couch.

“Wanda doesn’t seem like the unsupportive type. It’s all in your delivery. You need to apologize, before you leave. When are you leaving?”

“In 3 days.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, “Christ dad.”

“I know, I know. I’ll take her out tomorrow and we'll talk it out there.”

You nod, turning to go back to your room.

“Kid wait.” You pause at his call. “What were you going to say back there, before you went to your room?”

It takes you a moment to respond, “Sometimes I just wanted someone to be there for me. My dad, my mom, just someone. You were always busy with work and I was always alone.”

You don’t give him a chance to say anything else as you go up the stairs. His eyes follow you until you disappear. He sighs, leaning back into the couch, feeling like he could scream. He was failing, and he had 3 days to fix it.

When go back upstairs the boys are passed out on your bed. You think about waking them up, but decide against it. You settle on going into their room. It’s not until you shut the door behind you, that you notice the red head sitting on one of the beds in the room.

You take a seat on the bed that she’s not sitting on. The silence is heavy as you stare at each other. You can see the emotions running through her eyes. The anger, the frustration, and the lust. Your heart beat is steady as you look back at her.

“Do you think I’m in the wrong?” her voice is small when she asks.

“No, I just don’t think you know what kind of guy you married. He’s never going to be around enough and he’s never going to pick you over work. I’m not trying to be an asshole, it’s just the truth,” you speak bluntly.

“If you-" Wanda stops her sentence in its tracks.

“Honestly if I were him, I’d turn it down. I wouldn’t want to leave you for a month, but he's not me.”

“No, he isn’t,” she breathes out.

There’s another silence. Then it happens, so suddenly that you nearly freeze. Wanda’s lips are on yours. Her hands are planted in your hair and yours rest on the dips of her hips. Your back lays flat against the mattress.

Your tongue slips into her mouth causing you both to moan. Her hips roll on your lap and you grunt at the sensation. Your lips leave her mouth only to kiss down the side of her neck. As much as you want to leave a hickey you don’t. It’s not until your tongue runs across the top of her breast that she partial breaks from the trance.

“Y/n,” it’s a whine from her lips. The sound is entirely to intoxicating.

You begin to guide her hips against your thigh. Her sundress not leaving much fabric between her cunt and your sweats.

“Y/n we shouldn’t,” her hips follow your movements though her words tell you different.

“Just let me make you cum, please. Please Wanda, get off on my thigh,” your words are low as you beg her.

“Fuck,” Wanda watches the way your eyes don’t move from where she grinds on your thigh.

She lifts the sundress slightly so you can have a better view.

“Oh god,” you groan at the sight of the dampness of her panties. It turns you on even more.

Wanda finds herself grinding down harder, chasing her orgasm. You hold her firmly, helping create more friction. You find yourself getting off on the image before you.

“Fuck, use me. I know he can’t do it, so let me be useful. Fucking use my thigh. You’re so hot, shit I wish I could have you like this every night. I’m so desperate for you. I’m going to cum just from having you on me, fuck mommy.”

Wanda’s body completely falls into your arms. She shakes as she cums, leaving a mess on your sweatpants. She’s trying and failing to catch her breath as you hold her upright. Her head lolls into your shoulder.

“Did you really cum?” she says lips brushing against your ear.

You nod dumbly.

She moans again, “That’s so fucking hot.” She places a kiss right below your ear. “And what did you call me?”

Your chest heaves as you breathe out a response, “Mommy.”

She purrs in your ear before pulling away some. She grabs a fistful of your shirt pulling you into a searing kiss.

“We’re doing this again. Do you understand sweetheart?”

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes mommy.”

She kisses your head one last time before getting off of your lap. You don’t miss the way her legs shutter as she gets up. You whine at the loss of contact.

“Don’t worry detka, we’ve got a little time to ourselves coming up. Mommy will let you go as far as you can handle, and maybe a little more than that.”

Next part

[lowkeyerror]

Instant Attraction pt2

Wanda Maximoff x Reader

Word Count: 9.8k

Notes: StepMom!Wanda, cunnilingus, fingering, strap-on sex, intoxication, fluff, angst, mentions of abuse with minimal descriptions of physical acts of violence towards children

Summary: Your dad left, the twins went with Jarvis leaving you and Wanda with some alone time, but it doesn’t seem to last too long.

An: It took awhile but I got it up. If I decide to continue writing for this I'm ngl it seems like something I'll update monthly, because it's just kind of a lot to write but realistically I only see like 1 to 2 more parts happening. Thanks for the love and all the request for a second part hope I delivered 🫶.

Previous Part | Masterlist

Seven days. You had waited seven long days to have Wanda to yourself. Whatever apology your dad offered hadn’t placated the woman. There was still tension in the house up until the day he left. Everything was calm after that.

You spent more time with Billy and Tommy, further strengthening your bond. Wanda had been working a lot, but still made time to spend with the three of you together. Seeing the intensity of her workload, you had taken on cooking, not minding if it gave her one less thing to stress over.

You didn’t think you’d be so reluctant to let Billy and Tommy go their father’s, but when the day came you couldn’t help but fuss over them.

“Listen, I know your mom told you to call if her happened, but you can call me too. I’ll come get you guys, it’s no problem. Any time for any reason alright?”

“Thank you Y/n,” Billy speaks sincerely.

You tussle his hair, “It’s nothing.”

Tommy gives you a side hug, “Take care of our mom.”

“Will do, I’ll see you guys soon,” you chuckle.

Wanda walks them out to the car. You watch as Jarvis gets out when the boys get in. You can see him running his mouth, but it’s quite clear to you that Wanda isn’t having it. She begins chastising him in the street. The way he can’t refute her puts a smile on your face.

The asshole deserves to be treated that way. You can see the way his shoulder slump as he gets back in the car.

Anticipation builds as you see Wanda heading back to the door. This is the moment you had been waiting for. As soon as the door closes, you’re on her. Your body towers over her’s, slightly trapping her between you and the door.

You look down at her, with lustful eyes. Her hand cups the side of your face and you lean into her touch. Her gaze falls at a snail’s pace from your eyes to your lips.

“We're alone.”

“And what do you plan to do about that?”

Instead of answering the question verbally, your lips bare down on her’s. Her back hits the door with a soft thud due to your intensity. Yet she doesn't want you to slow down. Her arms lock behind your neck as her legs try to hook onto your waist. You’re quick to hold her under her thighs, supporting her with eases.

It's your sign to take her upstairs. There’s no hesitation as you head straight for the master bedroom. She giggles against your lips as you lay her onto the bed. Your kisses create a path from her lips down the side of her face to her neck. You’re careful to suck lightly, even though you wish to mark her. Your teeth glide over her skin animalistically.

Her hands roam freely under your shirt, the skin feels as though it's burning with desire. Her fingers are cold against you, but you love the contrasting sensation.

Her eyes are dark when they meet yours again, “You want to take it off for me baby?” Wanda tugs at your shirt a little and you’re eager to comply.

She slips her shirt over her head at the same time. The swells of her breast call to you immediately. The soft mounds of perfection, held up by a lace bra that left little to the imagination. Her perky nipples peak through and you can tell they’re stiff.

You can feel your hands twitching, eager to feel them, but waiting patiently for her consent.

Wanda laughs at the dumb look on your face. You’re practically drooling over her.

“Come here,” Wanda calls for you to invade her personal space and you oblige. “Unhook my bra,” her eyes dare you.

Your hands are steady as the reach behind Wanda. You undo the clasp and you can you feel yourself instantly dampen. The way your hands crave contact with the supple flesh strikes your core.

You reach for one, focusing on the soft gasps you hear from Wanda as your thumb cascades over her nipple. You rub the already stiff peak between your fingers before making a show of licking over it all the way up to the sweet spot of her neck.

An open mouth kiss lingers where your tongue stops. It’s then that you look to her. The slight swelling of her lips, the desperate looking her eye, the sweat of her brow. She was perfect and with no one around she was yours to claim.

Your eyes drop from her face down her chest to the jeans she had on.

“Ask me,” she whispers.

“I need to see it up close, please mommy,” you beg her earnestly.

She nods her head, chest already heaving lightly. Your hands reach for the top button of her jeans when your phone goes off. You ignore it the first time, but it continues to ring.

Wanda sighs thinking that you would take the call, instead she’s surprised when you simply turn off the device. With a new frustration in your movements you slide her pants down her legs.

“You aren’t going to get that?”

Your fingers toy with the elastic of her panties, “You think I’d answer the phone with you in front of me like this?”

Wanda looks away in shame, “Well-"

“He’s a fucking idiot,” you pull her panties to the side.

You lay on your stomach so that you’re eye level with her wet pussy. You’re tongue barely slides through her folds before you hear your doorbell repeatedly ringing as someone pounds on the door.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” you say in frustration.

You throw your shirt back on and rush to the door. Wanda is hot on your tails with her jeans half on and her shirt in hand. You yank the door open to find Yelena standing there with a smirk on her face.

“What do you want?” You do your best not to yell at her.

Yelena holds her hands up in surrender, “I know you are, how they say, a little pent up as of late, but don’t be going and yelling at me.”

“Sorry, I was just… in the middle of something.”

“Your games can wait, tonight we club.”

You had completely forgotten.

“Right, right, the club,” you run a hand through your hair.

“I know technically she’s your friend, but I invited Kate Bishop to come with us, it’s going to be a night to never forget.”

“And when are we leaving?”

“Hmmm come over at 8, we’ll pick up Kate Bishop, and go from there.”

You nod a few times, “Cool, I’ll be over at 8.”

Yelena put a hand on your shoulder, “Don’t worry, this will definitely help you with your… situation. And please don’t dress like a 12-year-old boy, you are hot, stop hiding it.”

With that Yelena leaves and you close the door.

“You’re going to a club?” Wanda’s voice startles you, you had almost forgotten that she was there.

“I guess so. I agreed to go a week ago, but it slipped my mind.”

Her eyes narrow, “And what situation is she referring to?”

You stride towards her, and place your hands on her hips, “You know, just the whole being attracted to my step mother thing. I’m supposed to go clubbing to distract me from her.”

Wanda’s cheeks get rosy, “I got you so worked up that you told the neighbor about it.”

“First of all she’s my best friend. Secondly, we had almost kissed and were trying to do the right thing. At the time the right thing was going out and having fun with people my age.” You lean in so your lips touch her ear, “But now I think I just want my mommy.”

With much effort Wanda speaks up, “It’s almost 6, you should start getting ready.”

You frown, “I don't want to go.”

“Too late, your friends are expecting you. Yelena literally almost broke the door down. Besides if you don't go tonight, she'll just try for another day. Anything to help you get over your dad’s wife, right?”

Your hand fumbles with her jeans. She doesn't stop you as you pull them down, or when you drop to your knees, “At least let me make you cum. I’ll get ready right after. I promise.”

“Y/n,” she tries to hold strong.

You nudge her legs slightly apart. Just like before your tongue swipes through her folds. This time you suck lightly on her clit before looking at her innocently.

“Want to make you cum so bad mommy, please.” you beg her, reveling in the way she tastes.

Wanda wasn’t used to this at all. Before you came it had been too long since Wanda felt attractive. She was truly astonished by the way you wanted her. In this moment denying you felt like denying herself.

Carefully her hand threaded through your hair. Her grip wasn’t tight, but you were controlled by it nonetheless.

“Go ahead baby, show me how much you need me.”

You were more anxious this time than in the bedroom. Something about this being your first time going this far with anyone finally started to rattle around in your brain. You had to make her cum, that's what you focused on.

So with your hands on her thighs and her hand in your hair, you surge forward a bit. Your tongue dips into her folds, at first dragging back and forth between them. Her taste on your tongue makes you moan. Your tongue swirls her clit before taking it into your mouth.

“You’re such a good girl for me. Flatten your tongue a little.”

You do as she says and the grip on your hair tightens slightly. She moves your head back and forth as you keep your tongue pressed against her.

“That’s it baby, get that tongue inside of me,” Wanda’s eyes are closed and her head is thrown back.

Your tongue prods against her slit trying to make its way inside of her. You move her hands to the back of her thighs pulling her closer to you. She’s as close as she can be when your tongue slips into her warm cunt. It doesn’t go in far, but it’s just enough to have her moaning your name.

“Fuck, look at me while you tongue fuck me,” she uses your hair to tilt your head up a bit.

You’re drunk on her at this point. You feel like you’re in a state of euphoria, as her juices slide down your chin.

The small pants from Wanda only spur you on. What was a slow, explorative pace turns into something fast and unhinged. You begin to fall in love with the sound of your tongue swiping through her. The sloppiness of it all feels delicious.

“I’m going to cum on that pretty little face,” it’s airy when she says it, her knees buckle.

Her hold on your hair loosens as she cums. The increase of the amount of wetness makes you want to keep going, but the shaking of Wanda’s knees make you slow. You stand, placing your hands on her hips, to help steady her.

“You taste so good mommy,” you lick your lips, keeping eye contact with the woman.

She pulls you into a deep kiss. She has a fistful of your shirt, making sure you don't pull away from her before she’s ready. Her tongue explores your mouth trying to capture every last taste of herself lingering on you.

“You did so well for me,” she pecks your lips once more.

The way your ears heat at the compliment has Wanda chuckling.

“You’re so bashful when I compliment you, pretty girl,” her hand brushes over your face.

You know that the tips of your ears are bright red by now. You burry your head in the woman’s shoulder, “It’s my first time doing anything like that.”

Wanda doesn’t believe you, “There’s no way.”

“I’m serious, the farthest I’ve gone is dry humping, this…” you pull your head out of her shoulder to motion between the two of you, “will be my first time, going past that.”

You see the look dances in her eyes, “Are you telling me, that no one has got to experience you like this before?”

“Only you mommy,” you fall into her fantasy seamlessly.

“How do you feel about that?”

Her hands subconsciously slide up and down your body. Her lip fits in-between her teeth, pulling slightly as her eyes find yours.

“I want you to take everything you want from me,” you tell her seriously.

Her fingers are cool against your skin, “You’re going to give it to me?”

You take her hand guide it down your torso and into your pants. She gasps when she feels how wet she’s made you, “Anything you want.”

“I want you… to go get ready for your night out,” she says, placing her fingers into her mouth.

She pushes you away from her playfully. You whine her, “Wanda.”

“Come on, I’ll even pick out your outfit,” she starts walking upstairs.

With your head dropped you reluctantly follow behind her, unable to stop yourself from mumbling, “Should be undressing me, instead."

“What was that?” Wanda’s sharp eyes hit yours.

You straighten your posture, “Nothing, nothing. I was just saying I can't wait to see what you pick.”

Wanda laughs, “Careful detka, I’d hate to have to give you a punishment.”

Your mouth hangs open at the thought, saliva pooling with desire.

Wanda shakes her head, grabbing you by the upper arm. She leads you to the bathroom. She shoves you inside, “You’re going to need a cold shower, to get your mind out of the gutter. While you do that, I’ll get your clothes ready.”

You try to decompress as the cold water runs down your body. Every time you take a deep inhale all you smell is Wanda on your face. You close your eyes and you see her urging you to be good for her.

You rest your head on the shower wall trying to get a grip. Your focus shifts to the way water feels against your skin. It’s cold, rigid, grounding. After you finish showering you do your skin care and brush your teeth as well.

When you make your way to the bedroom, you find Wanda sitting on your bed next to some of the clothes she had gotten for you. The towel that you had around you seems to garner a lot of her attention.

You can’t help but tease her, “You still want to help me get ready, or you just want to stare?”

She rolls her eyes, “Whatever, put these on, quickly so I can do your makeup.”

“I don’t really-"

“Trust me,” she bats her eyelashes at you.

You scoop up the clothes, “Fine.”

You drop the towel and she watches as you dress yourself. When you’re done, she stands and adjusts your clothes to how she likes them. You had apparently pulled the jeans up too high and she was quick to unbutton a large portion of buttons on the shirt. You had the shirt all the way tucked in and she pulled it so that one end of the shirt hung out.

You watch in your mirror, as she worked over your clothes. The shirt now plunged into a low V, which is something you never would have done on your own.

“Perfect, now get on the bed.”

You lay with your back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling pretending to be uninterested in the things Wanda is gathering in her hands. When she has the things she needs, she sets them on the bed next to your legs. The makeup is not entirely foreign to you, but you’re definitely no expert in it.

Wanda the straddles your waist, her hair dangles down as she studies your face. You feel your nerves picking up under her gaze. She was truly one of the most breathtaking people that you had ever laid your eyes on.

“Stop looking at me like that,” it’s not until she speaks that you notice her blush.

You look away, but her fingers grip your chin gently moving you back to the original position, “Sorry."

“It’s not going to be too much, I promise,” she begins applying some light make up to your face.

“Wanda, have you… done this before?”

“Makeup?”

You want to shake your head but you stop yourself because of your current predicament, “No, like been with a woman.”

“A few,” she answers nonchalantly.

“Oh.”

She doesn’t stop working, “Does that matter to you?”

“No, I was just curious.” You pause for a long moment before saying, “Like in college or?”

“Close your eyes,” she commands and your eyelids shut. “ In high school, in college, out of college, I’ve found my way around.”

“So it’s common for you, to um date women?”

Wanda nods, “Well yes, I like women, they’re pretty. Don’t you agree?”

“Yes, I just- where does my dad come into the picture?”

“Cause he’s a man?”

“Well…”

Wanda chuckles to herself, “Sweetheart I like men too, maybe just a little less.”

You choke a bit, “Oh yeah, duh.”

She finishes with your eyes, “Can I ask you something, Y/n?”

“Anything.”

“Have you ever dated?”

You sputter for an answer, “ I mean- unsuccessfully, yes. Like I’ve been on dates, but they’ve never really progressed.”

“You said you dry-humped.”

You feel yourself growing embarrassed, “I did, but I never said she was my girlfriend. I’m not… people don’t really date me. I’m not exciting or adventurous or anything like that. I’ve got average looks, but I’m so socially inept that it just kind of-"

Wanda stops your rambling with a kiss, “I think you’re a catch. Now sit up so I can do your lips.”

A nasty thought swirls in your head, you try to keep it down, but it’s out of your lips before you can stop it, “I think you’re just saying that because I can make you cum.”

Wanda’s eyes look into yours, it feels like she’s staring into your soul, “I’m not. I’m saying it because you’ve shown it to me. You’re attentive, you’re dedicated, you’re kind, you know when to take charge, and you’ve got a good head on your shoulders. You’re charming, and funny, the fact that you can make me cum is just the icing on the cake. I was drawn to you before we even became intimate.”

“How can you see all that in such a short time?”

Her hand slips into yours, her thumb cascades over your knuckles, “It’s impossible not to see, Y/n.”

You clear your throat, “Sorry, I’m just not used to the um praise I guess.”

“Don’t apologize, I don't have any problems reassuring you whenever you need it. You deserve it, pretty girl,” Wanda places one more quick kiss on your lips.

She finishes up with your look. When you see yourself, a wide smile spreads across your face. You look amazing, you feel a strange sense of confidence burst through you.

“Thank you, for helping me get ready.”

“I couldn't let you go out without a little help. Now, you look good enough to eat. I hope you're prepared to keep the crowd off of you tonight.”

You reach for her and she lets herself enter your grasp, “I only have eyes for you.”

“You say that now, but it’ll be harder when some sweet young girl is pulling you onto the dance floor,” her gaze drops.

“I’ve never really had a thing for girls my age. I’ve always liked them older. Not to mention you’re the perfect woman.”

“Nobody’s perfect, Y/n,” she tries to escape your hold.

“I thought that same thing, but then I saw you and I knew I’d been lied to.”

She blushes and you let her go, “You’re so corny. I think it’s time for you to go to Yelena’s. Wouldn’t want her to come breaking down the door again.”

“And you'll be waiting for me when I come back?”

She throws you a smile over her shoulder, “ I’ll be right here.”

You send her one back. You start to head to the front door, but you turn back half way. It was impossible for you leave without giving her one last kiss.

“I’ll see you later,” you say walking away one last time.

You exit the house and head for Yelena’s, when you knock she answers quickly.

“You look amazing, I never knew this was possible for you.”

You roll your eyes, “Shut up, and let's go get Kate.”

“Do I not get a compliment?”

You huff, “You look great, can we go now?”

“You’re so mean to me,” she says stepping out of her home.

She flashes her keys and you hop in the passenger seat of her car. During the drive you catch up on more that you missed while you were at school. Not just neighborhood gossip, but specifically what had been going on in Yelena’s life. When the topic shifts back to you she asks about Wanda.

“So how've you been holding up?”

You weigh your options briefly. Tell the truth or lie to Yelena. It made sense to say nothing had changed, but that's complete bullshit that Yelena would see right through.

“Things are still complicated, but it’s different now,” you say uncertainly.

“What does that mean?”

You look out of the window, “My dad’s on this trip for work, he’ll be gone for a month, maybe longer.”

“So it’s you, the kids, and Wanda?”

“Not exactly, the kids left this morning. So it’s just me and Wanda.”

Yelena whistles, “You poor soul. Just you and your forbidden fruit right there for the taking.”

You sink down in your seat, “What if I did?”

“Did what?”

“Take it; what if I crossed that line?”

Yelena laughs, “I don't think you have a shot Y/n.”

“But if I did, would it be wrong? You should've seen how they fought Yelena. My dad didn't tell Wanda about his work trip until 3 days before he was supposed to leave. She blew up on him, but well deserved. The guy hasn't changed, never there for the people that need him the most.”

She sighs, “I think morally it’s wrong. That's your dad’s wife… but if you're asking me if I'd judge you for it, then I would not. She’s an attractive, kind, woman who, let’s be honest, is too good for your dad.”

“Ok.”

“Any particular reason you are asking me this?”

You clear your throat, “Well, I- we…”

“No way,” Yelena turns to you fully.

“THE ROAD, LENA LOOK AT THE ROAD.”

She readjusts her hands on the wheel and looks forward, “Y/n did you fuck your stepmom?”

“Technically no… but maybe she came on my thigh and I ate her out,” you say it so fast Yelena almost doesn’t understand.

“Oh my god! How did this happen? What did you do? I thought we were putting distance not full sending?”

“I told you she was arguing with my dad. I kind of had to take charge of the situation. The kids were there so we went upstairs. I came back down to like be an adult and end their argument it worked. The boys fell asleep in my room so I went to theirs. She was in there… she asked me if I would leave, I said no. One thing led to another.”

“WITH THE WHOLE FAMILY THERE?!?!”

“It was the heat of the moment. We waited until the twins left before it happened again but then I was nearly cock blocked by a blonde psycho banging on my door.”

She looks at you again, “I can’t believe this. What about your dad?”

“I don't know, but I’m not giving her up without a fight,” your tone is stubborn as you speak.

“So… new plan for tonight. You’re getting wasted enough to forget the consequences of your actions.”

“Sounds good to me.”

When you pull in front of Kate's place, you go to text her, but Yelena stops you. She gets out of the car and goes up to the girl’s door. When Kate opens the door, you watch them converse.

You take note of how Yelena continuously seems to fluster Kate. You’re starting to think you know why Yelena invited the brunette in the first place.

“Hi Katie, glad you could join us.”

“I don't think I had much of a choice Yelena basically said it was for the greater good and that I needed to come for your sake.”

You give the blonde a light glare and she raises her hands in defense, “Don’t be mad at me for caring.”

“I’ll explain on the way.”

So you do just that on the way to the club. Kate’s reactions were hilarious making the blonde woman in the driver’s seat last. You had just finished when you guys arrived at the club.

“We should’ve pre-gamed harder,” Kate says when you finish telling the story. “Y/n this is quite literally the craziest thing you’ve done in your life.”

“By far,” Yelena adds on.

“I’m aware, but I can’t bring myself to regret it or feel guilty. For the first time in my life I feel like I’m doing something for myself.”

Yelena parks the car as you get close to the destination. You all get out and begin walking to the club.

“You know what? Fuck yeah, Y/n,” Kate pulls you into her side.

Yelena puts her hand on your shoulder, “And when this inevitably goes wrong or gets super complex, we’ll be here for you irregardless.”

“Regardless,” Kate corrects her.

“Same thing.”

You wrap your arms around both of them, “Enough talking, tonight we drink. To being young, wild, and reckless.”

As you enter the building the music is blasting at max volume. It’s packed, as people dance to the beat of the song. Bodies are everywhere and the only lights are the colorful splotches that move across the room.

“I thought you hated the club?”

“I do, but hopefully drinking will change that,” you scream over the music.

Yelena takes charge leading the three of you to the bar. There’s two seats so you stand as the other two sit down. The blonde has already ordered a round of shots for you to down.

She reaches her hand out to Kate who takes it curiously. Yelena pulls Kate into her lap, and your former dorm mate yelps in surprise. Your neighbor keeps the smile on her face as she looks at you, “Sit.”

You eye them, “Is there something I should know about?”

Kate turns a deep shade of red, “Uh um.”

Yelena just chuckles, “No, but I am working on it. Are you opposed to this Kate Bishop?”

“Well, no,” she cautiously meets Yelena’s eyes.

“Perfect, I’ll drink to that,” Yelena picks up one of the shots.

You two follow suit, immediately as she orders another round. It takes about 4 shots before you feel the nerves that you had settle.

Guess by Charli XCX and Billie Eilish starts to play in the club.

“I fucking love this song, let’s dance,” Kate gets off Yelena’s lap and pulls her to the dance floor.

You follow the pair feeling the beat of the song travel through your body. Your dancing consist of a lot of jumping as you scream the lyrics along with the rest of the club.

You’re in your own world so you don't notice a girl dancing behind you until you almost turn into her.

“Hi,” she shouts over the music.

“Hi,” you don't stop dancing.

Your movements cause a smile to spread across her face, “I like the way you dance.”

“Thanks, it’s the alcohol.”

“I’m Cass, do you mind if I dance with you?”

In the moment you thought nothing of it, “Sure, I'm Y/n.”

You dance with the brunette. There are a few times when her hands brush against your body, but you think it's tight space, that makes it impossible to be anything but close to her. You end up being pushed up against each other. She stumbles into your arms. You grab her shoulders so she doesn't fall.

“You good there?”

“You’re really pretty, and oh your arms are pretty buff too,” she looks up at you through her eyelashes.

It sobers you up a bit, “You here alone Cass?”

She shakes her head, “No I came with my friends.”

“Let’s help you find them.”

She grabs on to your shirt, “But I like it here, with you.”

You take her hand in yours and off of your shirt, “That's nice, but what if your friends are worrying about you?”

“You’ll keep me safe won’t you,” her hand moves to swipe some hair behind your ear.

“Y/n, there you are… who is this?”

“This is Cass, she needs to find her friends,” you look at them for help.

She pouts, “Why, when the girl of my dreams is right in front of me?”

Kate interjects, “Don’t you want to introduce her to your friends?”

Cass's eyes sparkle and she grabs your wrist, “Eli and America will love you.”

She begins dragging you through the club while both of your friends do their best to keep up.

“Cassandra Lang, we've been looking for you, “ another girl comes up and pulls the blonde from you.

“America, this is Y/n the love of my life,” Cass throws her arms around her friend.

Her friends raises an eyebrow as she looks at you. You shake your head.

“I’m not the love of her life. I found her on the dancefloor and thought I'd try to get her to her friends,” you explain.

Cass frowns, “But I thought we had something?”

A man approaches and ruffles her hair, “You have had too many drinks. Sorry about her.”

“It’s alright. Well I’m going to get another drink. It was nice dancing with you Cass,” you send her polite smile.

“I love you, Y/n,” she says as you walk away.

“She was pretty cute, Y/nn,” Kate says as you wait for another drink.

“Kate Bishop remember she’s whipped by the red headed milf,” Yelena reminds her.

You nod as you sip your drink, “Damn right.”

You pull out your phone and see you have a couple missed calls from your dad. He calls again while the phone’s in your hand. You pick it up even though you can barely hear it in the club.

“Hello!”

“Kid where are you at? I’ve called you and Wanda and I haven’t-”

“I’m clubbing, Wanda’s home. I’ll talk to you later,” you hang up on him before he says anything else.

You down your drink and get another after that.

“You don’t want to slow down?” Yelena watches you.

“Nope.”

You don’t slow down. Having a few more drinks before hitting the dance floor again. You’re definitely a little more than buzzed. The more you start to realize how intoxicated you are, the more you want to go home.

Your mind starts to wander to Wanda. Her body, her lips on your neck, her voice in your ear. You start to picture her riding you, but not your thigh this time. She’s fully naked bouncing on your lap and your mouth is occupied sucking on her nipples.

“Fuck,” you mumble to yourself.

You see Yelena and Kate dancing in the corner. It looks like they’re caught up with each other. As much as hated to interrupt them you did it anyway.

“Lovebirds, I’m going to get a Lyft home,” you shout at them.

“You don't want me to take you, I haven’t had anything since we came in?” Yelena says.

“Nah, you two have fun, ok?”

Yelena nods, “Let us know when you make it safe.”

“Will do.”

The Lyft ride is a little hazy. By the time you get to your house, it feels like you’re in full heat.

You attempt to open the door but the key keeps slipping through your fingers. Your hands are shaking as you attempt to get in. The door swings open causing you to drop they keys.

You crouch down to get them off the ground. When you raise your head, you see Wanda looking down at you with her arms crossed.

A silk robe adorned her body and it left little to the imagination.

“Your dad called me, he’s mad I let you go to a club,” she says.

“Oh.”

She tilts her head to the side, “Are you going to say down there all night?”

You stand up quickly, nearly dropping the keys again. When you step into the house, Wanda closes the door behind you.

“How’d you get home?”

You stare brute answering, “Lyft.”

“Where’s Yelena?”

“She stayed with Kate at the club. I wanted to come home. I missed you,” you step into her personal space, hands playing with the bottom of her silk robe.

“We have to talk about what your dad said,” Wanda tries to grab your attention.

“I don’t want to talk about him. I want to show you how much I missed you,” your warm hand closes over her cool one.

You slide her hand into your pants. Her fingers brush in-between your fold barely grazing your clit as she pulls her hand away.

“You’re drunk,” Wanda says it more to herself than you.

“And horny. So definitely not the time to talk about my dad. Especially when all I can think about is mommy.”

Wanda visibly sigh before taking your hand in hers and pulling you up the stairs. You finally think you’re getting what you need, until she directs you towards the bathroom.

Once you’re in there you sit on the counter top.

“Y/n you need to- what’s that?”

Your brows furrow, “What?”

“That on your chest,” Wanda’s jaw clenches as she speaks.

You try to look down at your chest failing to see what she’s talking about, “My boobs?”

“There’s lipstick on you,” she swipes her thumb across it raising up so you can see the pink color coating it.

“Oh, it must be from Cass.”

“Who’s Cass?”

Your eyes close as you try to recount the story, “There was this girl at the club, she was dancing with me and saying that I was like the love of her life or something? She was so drunk she fell like into me. We found her friends though, and then I got more drinks. She was kind of pretty but like my friends said I’m whipped by this red headed milf that lives in my house. Whoops sorry I said milf.”

Wanda went through a lot of emotions as you were speaking. The thought that some girl from the club tried to claim you made her jealous. Some girl putting her hands on you, her lips on you, saying you were the love of her life just made her furious. However she thought it was cute that you said you were whipped for her. She also didn’t hate being called a milf.

“Y/n let’s get you cleaned up,” Wanda turns on the shower.

“If I take my clothes off, will you fuck me?”

She snorts, “No, because you’re drunk.”

You pout, “This fucking sucks.”

Wanda kisses your forehead, “If you can get yourself clean and ready for bed, we can kiss a little.”

That’s all it takes for your clothes to come off and you to rush into the shower. While you’re in the shower Wanda picks out some pajamas for you and takes them back into the bathroom. She decides to wait for you to finish in your room. She makes herself comfortable on your bed.

Around 10 minutes later she hears your feet padding along the hallway floor. Soon you’re opening the door and falling face first into the bed, the alcohol making you sleepy.

“So too tired to kiss?”

She doesn’t expect a response, but she finds it adorable when you scoot closer to her. Your legs tangle with her and you drape an arm over her. Lastly you lift your head, with your eyes still closed, puckering your lips.

She gives you a soft kiss and you tuck your head into her shoulder. You mumble a ‘goodnight’ and it seems you’re out in an instant.

When you wake up the next morning the bed is empty. There’s hardly any light peeking through your curtains, but the little light that is makes you squint your eyes. Your head is throbbing and you groan recounting how much you drank last night.

When you sit up in the bed you notice the water and what you assume to be Advil on your bed side table. You gulp down the water and take the pills without hesitation.

You check your phone and your eyes widen as you see that it is 2pm. The time shocks you but doesn’t make you move any faster. You change into some sweats before brushing your teeth and heading downstairs.

“I didn’t think I’d be seeing you until the sun went down again,” Wanda calls from the kitchen.

You follow her voice, seeing her wash dishes. You move with confidence, hugging her from behind and resting your head on top of hers.

“I’m never going clubbing again,” you kiss the top of her head.

“Do you remember anything from when you came home?”

You frown, “Something about my dad.”

She turns in your arms, “Yeah, he called me pretty upset because someone hung up in his face.”

“Well what was I supposed to do? I could hardly hear him. Plus he only called me because you weren’t answering,” you explain to her.

“I told him you were old enough to make your own decisions and that I wouldn’t be stopping you “

“Good.”

“I also told him you’d call him back today…”

You separate from her begrudgingly, “Fine, I’ll get it over with now.”

The call to your dad was nothing special. He tried to scold you a little bit, but you reminded him that you were an adult that could do what you wanted. Then he turned the conversation into just wanting to make sure you’re safe and that home is safe. He asked about if you knew what Wanda was up to while you were gone which threw you for a loop.

He was extra curious about her whereabouts and activities since she was home alone. You told him you didn’t know. With the boys gone and your night out it was seeming like he was stressing about what she could’ve been doing.

“I just want to make sure that you know there’s nothing strange going on while I’m away,” he says towards the end of the conversation.

“What you think she’s having someone come over or something?”

He pauses, “No, I just- sometimes when Jarvis stops by, I get a little territorial you know, like this is mine and-”

“You don’t own her dad and I’ll have you know she actually just laid into him yesterday about what he’s been saying to Billy.”

“I wasn’t saying I owned her. It’s just Wanda is an amazing woman and I just don’t want to lose her.”

You roll your eyes, “Well that’s what conversation is for. Talk to her, communicate your feelings, and trust her.”

You hear him click his tongue, “I see what you’re saying. I gotta go kid, I’ll talk to you soon. Love you.”

When he gets off of the phone you’re annoyed with him. However it’s a little funny that he has every right to be worried. He doesn’t know the person he’s worried about is you.

“So what did he want?”

“To make sure you weren’t inviting anyone over while no one else was home because, and this is a direct quote, he gets a little territorial and you are his.”

She ponders, “Well I am his wife.”

You disagree, “His wife not his property. He doesn't own you.”

“And if we were married instead?”

“If we were married you would be mine but I would be yours too. I’d trust you and your judgement. There’s no way I’d ask my kid to keep tabs on you,” you say without skipping a beat.

“He’s got you all worked up, sweetheart,” Wanda gets behind you and starts rubbing your shoulders. “You’re too young to be this tense, go sit on the couch for me.”

Shortly after you sit on the couch Wanda stands behind you, continuing to put a subtle pressure on your shoulders.

A moan drips from your mouth as she works the knots in your shoulders, “Oh god.”

“You know I was thinking last night about how you've made feel good and I haven't returned the favor. I think it would really get some of this tension off of you baby.”

You tilt your head back to stare up at her. She pecks your lips once, twice, three times before your hands rests on her face holding her in the upside-down kiss.

Her hand reaches to tug at the bottom of your shirt. You eagerly pull it over your head. She takes the time to rid herself of her shirt as well. She comes over to the other side of the couch so she’s facing you.

Almost like you did yesterday she gets on her knees. She pulls your sweats and you help her get them off.

She kisses up your thighs, your legs tremble with excitement. It causes her to giggle against you but she doesn’t stop with her kisses.

When she reaches your underwear she makes eye contact with you, “Are you sure?”

“Please mommy, I want to cum,” you say not breaking eye contact.

She rids you of the underwear and spreads your legs a bit. Just from a small make out and shoulder rub, you’re wet.

Wanda plays with idea in her mind of what she wants to do first. She decides to slide one of her fingers inside of you. She watches the way your hands squeeze the couch cushions.

“You’re so tight and warm. I don’t think your pussy would even give me my finger back,” she watches as your cunt sucks in her finger.

Her pumps are slow at first to allow you to adjust but soon she picks up the speed.

“More, I need more please,” you say with your eyes screwed shut.

“Look at me,” Wanda commands.

You do as you’re told and she slips in another finger at your compliance. Your head falls forward and your breathing intensifies as you watch her finger fuck you.

“That’s it pretty girl, open up for me,” she starts spreading you with her fingers.

Her thumb makes light contact with your clit. You almost arch off of the couch, but she keeps you grounded.

“So sensitive baby, could you handle it if I-” she cuts herself off, deciding to stroke your clit with her tongue. It’s sensual as she takes it into her mouth, sucking lightly. Her fingers continuing to pump into you.

“I- fuck, I’m going to cum,” you mewl, gripping onto the couch with all of your strength.

“Cum for mommy,” Wanda looks up at you briefly before refocusing on your pussy.

Her teasing pace becomes more solid as her fingers and tongue work in tandem to bring you to your climax.

The heat builds inside of you, unlike anything you've experienced by yourself, and soon it’s seeping out of you. Your body convulses as you cum with Wanda’s mouth on your clit and fingers buried inside you.

Your eyes are wide and breathing is short as she slowly works you through your orgasm. When she senses you’ve come down, she climbs up into your lap. Her lips capture yours in a sweet kisses.

She’s gentle as your tired lips attempt to keep up with her’s. Your hands finally leave the couch cushions to rest on her lower back, unwilling to put any distance between the two of you.

“You did so well for me detka,” she strokes your hair, kissing you on your forehead.

“I’ve never felt anything like that in my life,” you say breathlessly.

Wanda takes your earlobe in her mouth playfully, “Get used to it.”

She attempts to get out of your lap, but you don’t let her, “What about you?”

“I have to get back to work.”

You plead, “I can be quick.”

The desperation in your tone only makes her more wet than she already is. She ponders over what to do. Then she realizes, that perhaps, she could do both.

“Follow me, leave your pants off,” she taps your shoulder twice, slipping out of your hold.

She throws her shirt back over her head and walks upstairs. You follow her, naked and on slightly unsteady legs.

She leads you into the main bedroom. She has her work equipment set up on the desk in the corner. You watch as she goes into the closet, anxious to see what the woman was planning.

When she comes back she has a shoe box in hand. She sits it on the bed and beckons you closer before opening it.

“You’re going to fill me up while I work,” She holds up a harness, and you feel yourself getting warm at the thought.

She helps you put it on, attaching what you believe to be a slightly larger than usual dildo. She lubes it up before passing you to her office chair. She lightly pushed you down on top the seat.

You watch as she makes quick work of removing her pants. You lick your lips when you notice the wet spot she had in her panties.

Her hands hold the arm rests of the chair while you take her hips in your hand helping lower her on to the strap.

You focus on the way her breath hitches as she takes more and more of you. Once you’re all the way in she slowly rides you. The way her pussy opens around the cock has you mesmerized. You test your luck thrusting lightly into her, eliciting a light whine.

“I love the way you feel inside me,” she rolls her hips again.

Your hand move to rest on her stomach, while your head rests on her shoulder. You peer at the computer screen in front of you, vaguely posing attention to what she's working on.

“Are you going to be able to finish, like this?”

“The work or…”

You kiss her shoulder, “Both.”

She nods, “I think so. I just need you to move for me, slowly almost the same pace as your breathing. Build me up so I can cum on your fat cock. Can you do that for mommy?”

You carefully thrust inside her, “I can do that. “

You watch as she edits the document before her, following the pattern that she set. Soon it just becomes mindless as you push into her. She’s making a mess all over your thigh, but staying completely composed at the same time.

You have no idea how long you've say for when she finally finishes with the document. Her breathing becomes shallow and her head rest on the desk.

The change gives you a small concern, “Wanda?”

She maneuvers so that she’s facing you, the cock still buried inside of her waterfall of a cunt. Her eyes are closed as her forehead rests against yours.

“Fuck me,” she pleads. “Hard, fast, and sloppy.”

You lift her a but to give you some leverage. She takes a deep breath and that's when you begin pounding her pussy.

The rapid change in movements has the woman screaming into the room. The sound o of your skin slapping together, with the stickiness of her juices is delicious.

“Don’t stop, don't you fucking stop.”

Your breathing pick us as well, “You’re so hot like this mommy. Full of me, begging for more. I wish you could sit on my cock all day. I love having your pussy leaking all over my lap.”

“Oh shit,” she says as you begin to fuck her faster.

You take initiative forcing her to stand, before pushing her head down against the desk. Your legs are a little numb, but you know she's close so you fuck her into the table.

“That’s it baby, make mommy cum all over your cock. Make me your little cock slut. I'm yours baby, mommy’s all yours.”

It's unexpected when you feel yourself release at her words. The stutter in your movements is enough to send Wanda over the edge too. You can almost feel it as her cunt pulses on the dildo.

You move to take it out of her but she stops you, “Not yet, baby.”

You stay inside of her, placing scattered kisses over her skin. She eventually signals for you to pull out. She shutters at the empty feeling. You turn her around so you can kiss her properly.

Your lips find hers with a sensual passion. It’s slow and methodical when you nip at her bottom lip. She hold your face in her hands tenderly as you kiss.

“You’re so good to me,” she says with one final peck to your lips. “I want to take you out.”

“Like a date?”

“Ideally yes,” she plays with the hairs on the back of your neck.

You kiss her forehead, “Sounds good.”

The rest of the day passes by blissfully. You spend it with Wanda, just relaxing. The two of you talk and get to know each other better. She finally tells you about her childhood, which is where you find out where she’s from. The slip of her accent finally being explained. She tells you about her parents and her brother.

Before you could see what kind of person Wanda was, but now you felt like you actually knew her. It felt like more than just a physical attraction before, but now, you were sure.

Wanda knew a few things about you from what your father had told her, but not necessarily anything meaningful. You told her about your upbringing with a single father. The woes of navigating life semi-independently at such a young age. Your struggle with socialization and how Yelena was really there for you whenever you needed her.

You shared positive things too. The little pieces of mischief that you and Lena had got into as children. The fleeting, but bright memories you had of your mom. You talked about your passion for literature and meeting Kate at college.

It was nice having someone be interested in your life for once. Wanda also felt this was the first time someone had cared to know more about her in what seemed like an eternity. You both found yourselves enthralled with one another.

Similarly to your first outing together, you both fell asleep on the couch while something played on the TV. The only thing that woke you up was your phone ringing.

You reach to for it groggily with your eyes still closed.

“Hello?”

“Y/n, d-do you think you could come get us?”

Your eyes shoot open immediately. You check the time and it’s nearly 2am. Wanda is laying somewhat across your lap.

“Yeah Tommy, just send me the address and I’ll be there as soon as I can. What happened?”

You stealthily move from the couch, careful not to wake Wanda.

“Billy and dad got into a huge fight. It got physical and I tried to step in, but I didn’t know what to do and-”

“He hit you?” It’s a challenge to keep your voice down as you head for the front door.

“No, but he hit Billy. It was a proper fight I had to get in between them."

You feel your jaw twitching, “Where’s Billy now?”

“He’s asleep, I just… I don’t know if we’re safe here. I know we just left but-”

You stop him, “Tommy, I told you to call me, didn’t I? I don’t care if you were still on the block, I’d come get you and it wouldn’t be a big deal. I’m glad you called me.”

“Thank you, I’m sending the address now.”

You type it into your phone, “I should be there in 20 minutes alright? Make sure you have your stuff and your brother’s stuff too. Do you know if your dad is still awake?”

“I think he’s asleep, but he’s a light sleeper. We should be able to get out though,” Tommy says.

“Good, I'm on my way. I’ll see you soon.”

The call ends after that. You take off, following the directions to the address. The speed limits seems more irrelevant by the minute.

You honestly can’t believe that Jarvis got into a fight with Billy, after he had just been scolded by Wanda. If he didn’t enjoy that, whatever happens after she finds out about this is going to be 10 times worse.

Honestly you wanted to get your hands on the man yourself. Who did he think he was putting his hands on Billy?

When you pull in front of the house you text Tommy. He responds saying they'd be right down. You keep the car running, watching the front door. You don’t wait too long before you see Billy and Tommy come out. They make it halfway through the lawn before the front door opens again.

“Where do you think you’re going at this hour?”

You get out of the car, calling to Tommy and Billy, “Boys get in.”

They hurry to the car with their father chasing after them. You rush onto the lawn, blocking his path, while they hop in the car.

“What’re you even doing here? You can’t just take my kids, I’ll-”

“You’ll what? Call the police? I’d bet they’d love to know that you’re hitting your kids.”

“How I discipline my son, is none of your business,” he glares at you.

Your jaw twitches, “Maybe it’s not my business, but we’ll see what Wanda thinks of all of this.”

He grabs a handful of your shirt, “You little unwanted shit.”

You shove him hard and he falls to the ground. You can’t resist the urge to kick him while he’s down. With one strong kick to his gut, you leave in his lawn, getting back in your car.

You don’ waste time driving away from his house. It’s quiet, with no one saying anything. When you catch a red light you look in the back, and gaso as you see Billy. He has a cut above his eyebrow and his right eye has swelling. Your grip on the steering wheel tightens.

“He did that to you?”

“I got him pretty good too and I’m sure he’s feeling that kick you gave him,” he says smugly.

You crack a small smile, “Your mom is going to be pissed.”

“Do you think-”

“We have to tell her. Besides she’s going to see you, Billy. I wouldn’t be surprised if-”

Your phone starts ringing in the center console. You know it’s Wanda, you can just tell. You tell Tommy to answer the phone.

“Hi mom. Yeah, I called Y/n. Look can we just explain when we get there, it’s only like 5 minutes. Love you too, bye.”

He hangs up the phone.

“I was going to say I wouldn’t be surprised if she was awake,” you finish your sentence.

“Do you think she'll be mad we didn't call her?”

“No, I don't think that matters here. As long as your safe she would never be mad at you,” you level with both boys.

You can tell the boys are nervous when you park the car. The silence is loud and it has little to do with the fact it’s a little past 3am.

You don’t have the words to comfort them in the moment, but you’re certain everything will be ok. When you unlock the door, both boys try to rush upstairs. You grab both of them by the backs of their shirts.

The timing lines up to when the light turns on. Wanda doesn’t get a word out before Billy’s face is in her hands.

“Mom I’m fine,” he says as she pulls his face in multiple directions.

“What happened to you?”

Tommy speaks in his place, “Dad happened.”

“Jarvis did this to you?” There’s a slight disbelief in her voice.

“We got into a fight over my boyfriend and things escalated. Then when Y/n came in got us he tried to fight her too.”

Wanda has fury in her eyes and you take that as a sign to intervene, “Why don’t you guys go upstairs and get some rest? I think it’s best to talk about it when everyone is well rested.”

They look at their mother for conformation and when she nods they hurry upstairs.

“You, kitchen, now,” she says leading the way and you follow behind her. She waits for you to explain, her arms folded over her chest.

“Tommy called me and asked me to come get them. He said that things got physical between Billy and Jarvis. So I obviously went to pick them up.”

“Did he try to get physical with you too?”

You put your hand on your forehead, “I don’t know. He snatched me up by the shirt and I pushed him down, then kicked him in the stomach. I mean he could’ve just been trying to scare me off.”

“I’m going to have to call my lawyer. There’s no way I’m letting him anywhere near my kids again.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t wake you up, it just seemed so urgent. I wasn’t even fully awake when I was talking to Tommy.”

“No, it’s fine. Thank you, for going to get them.”

The shift in her moods is understandable, but you’re still unsure of how to properly navigate it.

“I’m going to bed, maybe you should too. Lawyers aren’t typically taking calls this hour,” you give her a tight-lipped smile, leaving the kitchen.

“ Wait,” she stops you in your tracks.

You turn to face her and hardly have any time to process it as she wraps her arms around you in a strong hug. You hold her just as tight, rubbing soothing circles on her back. You kiss the top of her head.

“He’s okay. Everything’s going to be ok,” you mumble into her hair.

She takes a shaky breath, reluctantly leaving your arms, “Let’s go."

When you reach the top of the stairs, you let out a sigh. Now that the boys are back, you need to be more careful. That means you sleep in your room and Wanda sleeps in her’s.

With emotions running high both of you could use someone to lay with tonight, but it’s not in the cards.

Wanda kisses your cheek, “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” you watch her disappear into the master bedroom before heading to your own.

You get in tour bed, trying to stop your mind from racing. You think about Wanda, her kids, Jarvis, and your own father. It’s finally starting to hit you that you might be in over your head.

You shake the thoughts away, knowing only one thing to be true; Wanda was worth all of the hardship to come.

[lowkeyerror]

I Wish I Would’ve

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Word Count: 2438

Warning: Angst. Happy ending.

Translations: moya lyubov= my love | moy svet= my light

An: I genuinely feel like this is one of the best things I’ve ever written. There’s so much raw emotion in this and I literally almost cried writing it. Reblogs and comments on this one inparticular would mean so much to me. I really hope you guys like this one. ALSO I JUST HIT 600 FOLLOWERS THANK YOU SO MUCH 💜💜💜.

Masterlist

“ You can’t do this to me Nat”

You and Natasha stood there, on the cliff. Natasha was going to jump, but you weren’t going to let that happen.

“ Y/n it has to be one of us. You have so much life to live, my love. A good life”

“ Fuck that Nat. It can’t be a good life without you there”

Natasha caressed your face,“ There are millions of people suffering; families, children, our friends”

“ There has to be another way, Nat”

She transitioned, so she had you in a choke hold,“ There isn’t.”

Keep reading

[romanottsmaximoff]

I wish I could read this again. Oh my goodness this is so incredibly beautiful and sad an gut wrenching and I will never stop talking about it.

[lowkeyerror]

I Wish I Would’ve

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Word Count: 2438

Warning: Angst. Happy ending.

Translations: moya lyubov= my love | moy svet= my light

An: I genuinely feel like this is one of the best things I’ve ever written. There’s so much raw emotion in this and I literally almost cried writing it. Reblogs and comments on this one inparticular would mean so much to me. I really hope you guys like this one. ALSO I JUST HIT 600 FOLLOWERS THANK YOU SO MUCH 💜💜💜.

Masterlist

“ You can’t do this to me Nat”

You and Natasha stood there, on the cliff. Natasha was going to jump, but you weren’t going to let that happen.

“ Y/n it has to be one of us. You have so much life to live, my love. A good life”

“ Fuck that Nat. It can’t be a good life without you there”

Natasha caressed your face,“ There are millions of people suffering; families, children, our friends”

“ There has to be another way, Nat”

She transitioned, so she had you in a choke hold,“ There isn’t.”

Keep reading

[romanottsmaximoff]

I’m absolutely sobbing. I’m not okay

[slavery]

[macbethz]

Fuck I’m at a fencing tournament and literally a minute after I reblogged this my dad told me that he talked to the point people and I’m probably going to win a medal.

[seananmcguire]

BURN BAGEL BURN

[gothiccharmschool]

OH WHY NOT?

[harukami]

I need to follow up to say I reblogged this last night, and this morning I got some of the best news of my life, like, a life dream come true news thing.

Bagel what are your powers

[acabosetotal]

FUCK, I though it was just another lucky meme but LISTEN. Since a week ago I was waiting a phone call to confirm me if I got a job or not in my university. I reblogged this yesterday’s night “just for fun and because I don’t want any bagel to be mad with me”, and today’s afternoon, while I was losing my time as always, the professor I was supposed to work with called me and asked me for my personal information to start working with her.

THE BAGEL POWERS ARE WAY TOO MUCH FOR THIS WORLD

[token-white-friend]

I GOT A JOB THE DAY AFTER MY QUEUE POSTED THIS THE FIRST TIME AND I JUST REALIZED IT WHEN I SAW IT AGAIN HOLY GOD

[noodle-dragon]

The bagel hasn’t let me down yet!

[tentacles-and-coffee]

Let’s see what you can do bagel

[emositecc]

I need your luck, bagel

[danineedshelp]

….. Bagel?

[sunsetsandsunshine]

Bagel.

[doodlemeariver]

Roasted bagel

[themunflower]

Why the Hell not, Bagel, please help, my package is late.

[jtranageder1]

it’s here so why not see if it’ll do anything

[arorea]

[genericpuff]

was literally thinking the other day that i could really use one of those lucky golden potato posts right about now

this is obviously a burning bagel and not a golden potato but i suppose it’ll do LOL

[liongrl321]

lol yes

[the-real-ecosia]

Well I can’t really retweet is because this is tumblr 🙃

[realsafari]

kinda need this rn.

[totallycirclek]

please bagel

[ravewing]

hi bagel please help me out with #rares on #animal jam thanks

[angst-is-yumyumm]

Pls babel

[edsrosetattoo]

This is the best idea in the history of film.

[mrgaretcarter]

tfw you hate your mother-in-law (for hurting your wife)

[willowpotatox]

HERE YOU GO AGATHARIO FANS HERES THE CLIP

[classycookiexo]

[capricorn-born]

Oddly specific. Got a deposit for 6,837 today

[weaselle]

fuck it, i never ever do those “reblog for X, this one really works!” posts, but this one doesn’t have any of that BS, this is just straight up wishing us good things; and then the comment doesn’t even say any of that either. Zero claims on this post, all positive vibes

May you end this week feeling ever more certain of a future you’ll love

[vmohlere]

May you end this week feeling ever more certain of a future you’ll love

[aru]

Tumblr Code.

[geekishchic]

If I ever see any of you in public, the code is “I like your shoelaces”

that way we know we’re from tumblr without revealing anything

I’m just going to say this to strangers until i find a tumblr person

must keep reblogering!! Im going to be so suspicious if any one tells me this now!

Remember the answer is: I stole them from the president.

always reblog tumblr identification

[ty-bayonet-betteridge]

good god this just crossed my dash in the year of our lord 2023

[jeremysknoxes]

I LIKE YOUR SHOELACES??? IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 2024??

[asteroidtroglodyte]

Let’s take it to 4 million, folks!

[alt-menu]

almost there!

[sociallyodd260]

TO 4 MILLION!!!!!!!!!

[snarky-wallflower]

THE ORIGINAL SHOELACES POST?? ON MY DASH IN 2024??

[monarchtrix]

More likely than you think!