wanda-lizzies

23 | Sʜᴇ/Hᴇʀ This is a side hobby I take requests

[thesvnandthemooon]

𝐠𝐨 𝐠𝐨 𝐣𝐮𝐢𝐜𝐞

18+ MINORS DNI

or: giving natasha head for the first time

part of the short n’ sweet universe

a/n: went back through my short n sweet tag and found this 😋 yes it’s 2am and i just finished this so i decided to just post it. not proofread oops

summary: you suck nat off at a party. that’s literally it

warnings: smut (oral nat receiving/nat has a penis), cum swallowing, alcohol, brief wanda x reader but no feelings involved i promise lmao; if i missed something i apologize

word count: 4.1k

By the time you wake up, the sun has set. There's no light in your room, no sounds aside from the hushed voices out in the hallway.

You're napping, dead to the world. Clad in nothing but soft cotton shorts and a top, you went to bed not expecting anyone — not before later that night, anyway. Not before Natasha gets off her game.

At 9pm, way too early for Natasha to have made it to your dorm, someone barges in. 

You startle and start to scramble up. The hallway lights are flooding your room, highlighting an embarrassing amount of clutter. You sweep a couple unused condoms off the nightstand and peek at the door. 

Auburn hair pulled together into a ponytail, a mini skirt and a black crop top. You groan. 

"What the hell, Wanda?", you complain, flopping back into your pillow. Of course it's her. You only know two people who can't be bothered to knock. "You woke me up."

"No way", she says. "Are you 90? Why are you asleep?"

"Not asleep", you mutter. "Napping. I was tired."

Wanda scoffs. She's walked into your room to tidy up a little. She turns on the lamp on your desk and starts picking clothes off the floor. 

A bra, a pair of heels, a pair of boxers. She lets the latter drop. 

"Haven't been sleeping enough, I'm guessing?"

Whether you want to admit it or not, she got you there. You've been having someone over more often than not. You let out a noise and bury your face in the pillow, only to get a smack to your ass. 

"You're still having sex with her?!"

"Ouch", you complain, lifting your head. "Why so violent?"

Wanda stares at you. She's carrying an armful of clothes and books and holding a rolled up magazine with her other hand. 

"Stop sleeping with her", she just says. "She's not good for you. Or anyone else."

You roll your eyes. You know what they say about her. You know most of it is true. And though your friend's concern may be justified to some extent, Wanda's overreacting. 

You roll around, tucking your body against the wall. "Sure, fine."

"Get up!" She drops the pile of clothes — she has no idea what to do with them either way — and climbs on the bed. "Come on, there's a party."

"Don't care", you mutter, voice muffled. 

There's always some party. A frat party, a house party, tailgates. If you want to go to a party, you can. 

"What?", she says. "Don't do that! I don't want to go alone."

"Ask Daisy!"

"I can't! She's got the flu."

You let out sigh. Her hand grabs your shoulder, slender fingers on soft skin, and she shakes it. 

"It's a dorm party", she adds. "The basketball team won, they just texted us about this. It won't even take that long, I bet Randy will-"

The words 'basketball team' act like a trigger. Your head snaps up, your eyes finding Wanda's widened ones. You can read her thoughts — she screwed up. 

"Actually, I can just-"

"They won?", you ask, propping your upper body up on one arm. "Could've started with the dorm party thing, Wands."

There's no need for you to say it out loud — she knows why you're all ears now. The basketball team will be there, which means Natasha will be there, which serves as the perfect opportunity for more stupid decisions.

"Don't do it", she sighs. "She can't be that good."

You raise your eyebrows. You could go into full detail, but she shakes her head and scoots off your bed again. It's not like she hasn't tried to knock some sense into you before. You might be immune to that.

"Don't knock it 'til you try it."

"Really?" She grimaces. 

"Really." You reach for a makeup bag and start digging. She stands to the side, shifting her weight from one leg to the other. 

"So, you're coming?", Wanda asks lamely. You hum and drop to the floor, cross legged, the full length mirror in front of you.

"Can you look for my heels?", you ask, dabbing some primer onto your face. "The white ones?"

It's all the confirmation Wanda needs. She sighs and turns around, fully aware that — within the next hour — she'll lose your attention to one sweaty basketball player.

. . .

The gym smells like sweat and deodorant. Popcorn has spilled everywhere — on the seats, under the bleachers, a few pieces crunching underneath the players' shoes when they make their way out.

Natasha's somewhere in the middle of the crowd. She's got a towel slung over her shoulders, her face still reddened and her jersey half soaked. 

Even as team captain, she has no reason to complain. They won 72 - 63 against one of the better teams they've been up against so far. They were head to head for most of the match, but absolutely wiped the floor with them during the last ten minutes. 

"Insane shot", Valkyrie comments, slapping her back. Natasha grins and knocks their shoulders together. "You'll be all over the front page."

"I don't need the publicity", she boasts. "People know who I am. Saw those girls cheering me on?"

"Saw them last week, too. Bet they'll be at the party." 

They walk outside, into the darkness of the parking lot that's only illuminated by a couple street lights. Natasha only laughs at Valkyrie's comment — it wouldn't be the first time someone from the audience seeks her up after the game.

'Personal stalkers' you called them once. It's not that she minds. She likes being in the spotlight and having her pick of girls. 

Somehow, they cram the full roster into three small cars. They end up on the other side of campus even sweatier than before.

The preparations inside are in full swing. There's people scattered in random dorm rooms. Girls sit on the carpet, makeup covering every square inch of the floor. One guy is hanging up fairy lights, another is trying to carry a box of booze up the stairs. 

You're a few buildings down the road, still in your dorm, still getting ready. Wanda has given up by now.

"Lipgloss or lipstick?", you ask, turning and twisting in front of the mirror to inspect your backless dress. "I'm leaning lipstick."

"Do lipstick", she says. She's on her back, knees pulled up, staring at the ceiling. 

"I'll do lipgloss", you decide, swiping it across your lips. "Ready to head out?"

In the dormitory's hallway, a guy is giving everyone instructions. Second and third floor, hide in one of the dorms until the coast is clear. Randy going to bed at 10pm is public knowledge, and until then, students have to pretend they don't exist.

You go up the stairs, fingers pinching the fabric of your dress so you don't trip over it. Wanda's aware of where you're trying to lead her, so she quickly steers you past that one door.

"I wasn't going to", you immediately say. "You think I'm that desperate?"

"Hush", she retorts. "We're going to Steve's."

You slip into his room. A few feet down the hallway, Natasha watches an all too familiar silhouette disappear in front of her eyes. She raises her eyebrows before being tugged into her own room.

Once it hits 10pm and you get the confirmation that a) Randy's sleeping and b) they stuffed a blanket in front of his door, the doors open back up. Natasha steps into the crowded hallway, her friends following close behind.

There's a list of rules pinned to the wall — no illegal substances, no partying outside the designated areas, and a bunch of other things Natasha can't bother reading. She skims the list and turns around, her eyes scanning the crowd.

Girls everywhere. Dresses in all colors of the rainbow. She locks eyes with a girl she's seen on campus and almost approaches her, but then you appear. 

You see her, too. The purple of her jersey, the red hair, the slightly swollen biceps. Skin glistening faintly and green eyes zeroing in on you. 

You hold her gaze for a moment, then you turn around. Natasha's eyes drift down your back as you pour yourself a cocktail. 

Clint bumps her side. "Finally leaving the poor girl alone?"

"You wish, Barton."

"Can't help it. I feel bad for her."

She gives him a look. For some reason, he tries to keep her away from girls. If he could, he'd lock her up. "Are you on my side or not?"

He shrugs, slowly sipping on his beer. "Good question. I'm not sure."

"I'm not sure why we're friends."

He laughs. She turns her head, trying to find you again, but you've vanished in the crowd. The hallway is dimly lit to avoid drawing too much attention, with a few fairy lights strung across the ceiling and a lonely desk lamp standing in the corner. 

Oh well. Someone else will do the job, she's sure, so she turns around and finds a different target. 

The next time you see her, she's looking bored talking to some girl. Natasha sucks at hiding her feelings sometimes — if she's doing something she doesn't want to do, she'll make it her mission to let everyone know how strongly she feels about it, and she won't have to say a word to do so.

You roll your eyes and turn back around. There's an ice cold glass in your hand, filled to the brim with homemade margarita. You stir the drink, ice clinking against glass and lime slices poking out of the liquid, when something warm brushes your neck.

"Fancy seeing you here."

You don't flinch. You expected her to come over at some point. She probably saw you lingering, too.

"Couldn't miss out on this", you say, not looking up. Her head is right over your shoulder, her hands on your hips. "Congrats on the win."

"You weren't at the game", she says. "Missed my three-pointer."

"Did I?"

"Mhm. I scored twenty points."

You glance at her, seeing her eyes flit back up. She's not shy about ogling you whenever she can, but the opportunity to see your face is one she'll gladly take, anyway. Her mouth is close enough to let you smell her breath.

"And how many did you miss?", you tease. She rolls her eyes. "Aw, don't make that face."

"I'm in a good mood", she says, stealing the drink from you. "Don't ruin it for me."

You watch as she takes a swig, then hands the glass back to you. She stays close, her body glued against yours from behind, one hand clasped over your stomach. 

Around you, the party keeps moving. People drink, drinks spill. Music plays at a volume that, in any other situation, people would consider way too low. Clint pretends not to notice you as he walks past, and you bite back your laughs whenever Natasha tries to make a joke.

"How's your French going?", she asks. "Survive that test?"

"Barely."

"Aw, need another tutoring lesson?"

You scoff. Last time, you both ended up in the library together — to say you were both studious wouldn't be a lie, but it wasn't French you were so passionate about. 

"Being subtle isn't your strongest suit, huh."

"No", she agrees, sliding her hand up your side until her fingers brush the underside of your breast. "Look where that got me, though."

Arguing against that would be pointless. She's anything but subtle, as relentless and stubborn as it gets. It took her weeks of chasing, but it paid off big time. 

You freeze in her arms when somebody yells for everyone to be quiet. The lights go off, the music dies for a minute, and nobody moves. Somebody heard footsteps, apparently, but once some dude who snuck out returns, it gets announced as a false alarm. 

"So unsafe out here", Natasha mumbles. "We should hide. Your dorm or mine?"

You bat her hand away. She lets out a shit-eating laugh and kisses your shoulder.

The party continues. Randy is asleep, nobody's become aware of you yet, and the clock hasn't even hit midnight yet. You part after a while, when Natasha gets dragged away by two girls, and you start roaming the dorms. 

Every room is different. There's pizza in one, more alcohol in another. Someone brought a Nintendo switch, another guy is hosting a game of beer pong. You slam the door shut when you get a look of someone's naked ass and turn around. 

People are sitting scattered around the room. Natasha's in there, too, watching as two names get drawn from a hat. Two guys get up, exchange a look and then hide in the closet. 

Natasha's not alone. One of the girls is glued to her side, whispering in her ear and trying to achieve god knows what. You lean against the doorway and watch, but when the girl kisses Natasha, and Natasha lets it happen, you turn around again. 

You wander the dorms again. You find Wanda, get another drink, and end up in the seven minutes in heaven-room again. 

Natasha's still there. The girl is gone, inside the closet with none other than Tony.

Her arms uncross when you walk in. She's still in her basketball clothes, the purple jersey now dry but smelling distinctly of her. She shifts in her seat, big hands fidgeting with the fabric of her shorts. 

"Want to play, too?", she finally asks, leaning in a little. "You brought backup. Hey, Wands."

Wanda lifts her hand. You turn your head and give Natasha a curious look. 

"Missing your girl?"

"Eh", she drawls, stretching out and putting her hands behind her head. "Hot but boring."

You press your lips together to stifle a smirk. "There's three more waiting outside, y'know. No need to worry."

"Four", she says. "I'm good here."

"Wouldn't be too sure."

"We're doing spin the bottle while we wait", Carol says. She nods at you. "Want to try your luck?"

You exchange a look with Wanda. Two games, both not innocent in nature. If you were looking for the desperate dorm, you found it. 

You shrug, already reaching for the bottle. It spins once, twice, giving you flashbacks of that first time you kissed. Natasha's eyes stay glued to the bottle, and when it stops on Wanda, her eyebrows shoot up. 

Surely not, she thinks. But you look at Wanda, shrug again, then lean in. Your mouth meets hers, moving slowly, one hand cupping her face.

All Natasha sees are plush, glossy lips, and your eyes closing. Wanda inhales quietly — it's an odd situation, kissing a friend, but it's not unpleasant. 

She's a good kisser. Her lips are soft and warm, and she lets you lead without much resistance. Your mouth opens a little wider to deepen the kiss, but when her tongue brushes yours, you pull away. 

Natasha's frozen in her seat. If there's one wet dream she's bound to have in the next few days, it's this one. Her shorts are tight, her heart is racing, and the thought of dragging you into a more private room is tempting. 

"Not bad", you hum, brushing some lipgloss off the corner of her mouth. "Cuba libre?"

"Two of 'em."

You laugh quietly, fixing her hair before settling in your seat again. Natasha exhales, one hand pressed to her thigh. 

She was half hard before, but she's fully bricked up now. All the blood in her upper body has rushed in between legs, making her dick pulse uncomfortably. You get a glimpse of the situation in her shorts and bite your tongue. 

Maybe you kissed Wanda on purpose, maybe you didn't. You certainly wouldn't have been as eager if it weren't for Natasha being right next to you. 

The others keep playing. Carol kisses the guy who sells weed behind the cafeteria. Tony kisses Steve. You add your names to the hat, Carol shakes it before picking the next couple for seven minutes in heaven, and Natasha crosses her fingers. 

Tough luck. Wanda and Steve leave. You look at Natasha again, at the unresolved issue inside her shorts, and press your thighs together. 

Of course it affects you. You're human as well, after all, and after this much alcohol, your libido is in full swing. You give Natasha look. She licks her lips. 

You get up and slip out of the room. Natasha waits for a moment, her hand tapping against her thigh in hopes of the tent in her shorts disappearing. It does, the pressure slowly dissolving, and she gets up to follow you. 

You're on the other end of the hallway. There's another drink in your hand. Your eyes meet hers over the glass, and she takes a quick look around before walking up to you. 

Some EDM song is playing. Everyone around you is sweaty, the air heavy with cologne and alcohol, hot like the dozens of bodies swarming around you. 

"Where are the four girls?", you ask, straw resting against your bottom lip. "Ditched you?"

"Don't give a fuck", she says. "That was one hell of a kiss."

Your lips tug into a smirk — she immediately changed the subject. You tilt your head, studying the look on her face. The kiss hit her like a freight train. You're surprised she's still standing upright. 

"It really was", you hum. "More of a warmup, though."

Her eyebrows furrow. She moves closer, her hand splaying out on your lower back, fingers resting under the thin fabric of your dress. 

"For what?", she inquires. Her thumb rubs your skin. "Got four girls waiting for you too?"

"Just one." 

"Mhm?"

You shift impatiently. She doesn't look like she's doing much better, either. Why she hasn't cracked yet is a mystery. You grab the front of her jersey and watch it click in her brain.

"Take the hint, you idiot", you say. "Kiss me."

Natasha lets out a noise, annoyed and relieved at the same time, and then her hand on your back pulls you in. You reach for her face, cupping it, the drink falling to the floor and shattering. 

Piña colada spills between you. Her lips press against yours, the kiss frantic and hot. You push up against her and get on your tiptoes. 

There's people all around you, but just like the music and the smells and everything else, they fade into the background. You develop selective hearing, Natasha's quickening breaths and quiet grunts the only sounds you pay attention to. 

Mouths collide and hands fumble. Your lips part with wet sounds and knock back together split seconds later. You repeat that over and over again, memorizing her taste until your lips are swollen. 

Your hand slides down her neck, feeling the familiar fabric of her jersey. Your fingers brush the bulge in her shorts, prominent even when she isn't hard. A soft sound leaves you and you cup it. 

Again, you're in public. Nobody seems to care. Natasha groans, her dick starting to swell in her shorts, doubling in size against your palm until the tip pokes against the tight fabric. 

You break apart, a string of saliva connecting your lips. "Living up to your expectations?"

"Fuck", she moans. "Y/N-"

You let out a breathy laugh. Your lips press against hers again, slick and swollen. She grunts, eyes shutting. 

Suddenly, her hands are everywhere. She doesn't know what to do with the energy buzzing around her body, so she puts it all into her hands. They grope and squeeze your sides, paw at your ass, slide up under your dress. Her brain is fabricating scenarios at light speed — you naked, ass up in the air, cunt dripping. You in her lap, bouncing and moaning, nipples puffy and sore.

Through the mess in her head, her brain remembers the existence of her dorm room. You don't resist when she pulls you through the door, and she absently feels the relief of finding it empty and dark. 

The door locks with a click. You tug at her jersey to keep her focus on you, even though it never strayed. 

It's messy, sloppy. You bite her lip and pull on it only to hear her whimper against her will. 

You're not sure how — you're in a haze, too — but you flip her over and shove her against the wall. She fumbles for something, one hand digging through her pocket. 

It's a condom, and she does find it, but at that point, you've dropped to your knees. The condom ends up somewhere on the floor next to you. 

Natasha stares. You're on your knees, hands resting on her upper thighs. This is a new one. 

She was worked up before, but seeing you like this makes it worse. Somehow, more blood rushes south, and she gets harder. She's so hard it hurts, the fabric of her shorts giving you a close view of her twitching. 

"Jesus", she moans, trying to hold it in. She almost came on the spot. "Are you..."

You shush her, tugging her shorts down. "Be quiet and enjoy the show, big guy."

Her shorts pool around the ankles. Natasha, despite the urge to close her eyes, watches you closely. You're on eye level with her cock, lips glossy as you press a tiny kiss to the tip. 

Her knees almost buckle. Your nails rake up and down her thighs as you lick the precum off the tip. It's tangy, a little salty, a little sweet. Your tongue swirls around the head again, then you take more of her into your mouth. 

Wet, warm heat envelops her. Natasha shudders. She's had girls give her head before. She can tell none of them will compare. 

The thick tip hits the back of your throat. You gag softly, nails digging into her strong thighs, and Natasha makes a sound she didn't know she was capable of. 

"Holy shit", she groans. You're greedy, lowering your mouth until she's deep in your tight throat. "Holy shit, baby, I..."

Her hips jerk, her hand flies to the back of your head. She's doing her best not to just start fucking your face — it'd be rude, considering you were nice enough to push your own needs aside in order to pleasure her. It doesn't work, though, not fully, and so her hips start moving on their own accord. 

Your cheeks hollow around her, tongue pressing against the vein running along the underside of her dick. She's heavy inside your mouth, leaking like crazy, and you wrap your lips tighter around her. 

Drool, lipgloss and precum drip down her cock. You move your head up and down at a quickened pace, feeling Natasha panic. 

She's so, so close. You're dimly lit by the desk lamp, tears rolling down your cheeks and lips swollen around her. Everything inside her feels hot, her balls are full enough to burst, and her cock strains inside your mouth. 

The orgasm hits without a warning. Her head drops against the wall and her fingers curl into your scalp. She offloads into your mouth, thick milky ropes of cum spilling into you. 

Salty, sticky white fluid drips down your throat. She twitches against your tongue. When you look up, her face is flushed and sweaty. You release her with a pop. 

"Bet you didn't see that coming", you tease. Natasha's panting. 

"Fuck", she mumbles, struggling to come back to reality. "Where the hell did you learn that?"

You look up at her, fingernails tapping against her bare thighs. "I mean, you're kind of my first."

Her erratic breathing slows, and her eyebrows furrow. Your words managed to pull her out of that hazy afterglow, but they send a feeling of heat through her. "Really?"

A grin forms on your face. She scoffs when she realizes. 

"God, you're so easy it's not even fun anymore."

"Real funny", she mutters. You laugh and get up, sinking into her arms. "Lame ass party. I liked this much better."

You hum and kiss her. "I'm inclined to agree."

She smirks, eyes still drowsy. She kisses you again, lips moving slowly, tongue in your mouth. 

Her half hard length rests against your hip. You reach between you and start pumping her back to full mast. Each touch of the hypersensitive tip sends a shockwave through her. 

The kiss breaks. "I think I'll die if I go another round."

You study her, hand moving eagerly. "Yeah?"

She nods. You pout but let go, adjusting her jersey before stepping back. Natasha watches you get on her bed — you let your dress fall to the floor before you do, and then you climb on. 

What she didn't expect is to see you on your knees, arms folded and head on the pillow, ass up in the air. 

Maybe one more round does sound reasonable.

[giannamrvl]

STAY

Natasha Romanoff x Female Reader

Word Count: ~700

Warnings: None | Fluff | Sleepy reader | Post-mission comfort

Summary: After an exhausting mission, you insist you’re not tired but Natasha sees right through you. When you finally drift off on her shoulder during the flight home, she refuses to move, content to let you rest no matter how long it takes.

Masterlist

Sam was asleep with his head tipped back against the wall. Steve sat across from him, pretending to read the mission report on his tablet even though his eyes had closed at least three times already. Clint was busy picking dried blood from beneath his fingernails with a look of complete boredom.

You had every intention of staying awake.

Really.

It wasn’t that the mission had been particularly difficult it was just… long. Twelve hours of surveillance, a fight that lasted far longer than anyone had planned, and the adrenaline crash that always came afterward.

Your eyelids grew heavier.

Across from you, Natasha watched quietly, pretending not to notice.

“You should sleep,” she said, her voice low enough that only you could hear.

“I’m fine.”

“You’ve said that three times in the last ten minutes.”

“I am.”

“You just blinked for about fifteen seconds.”

A tired laugh escaped you. “Wasn’t that long.”

“It was.”

You opened your mouth to argue again, but another yawn betrayed you.

Natasha’s lips curved into the smallest smile.

“C’mere.”

You frowned. “What?”

She patted the empty space beside her.

Your brain was too exhausted to question it. You shuffled across the narrow cabin until you were sitting shoulder to shoulder.

“Happy?”

“Mhm.”

You leaned back against the seat, determined to prove that you wasn’t actually tired.

Less than a minute later, your head tipped sideways.

It landed gently against Natasha’s shoulder.

You didn’t even notice.

Natasha glanced down at you, expecting you to jerk awake and apologize.

Instead, your breathing slowed, your body relaxed, and within moments you were completely asleep.

She smiled to herself.

Without saying a word, she shifted just enough to make you more comfortable, careful not to wake you.

Across the cabin, Clint looked up.

His grin was immediate.

“Oh,” he whispered.

Steve followed Clint’s gaze, then smiled knowingly before setting his tablet aside.

No one said another word.

For the rest of the flight home, Natasha didn’t move an inch.

Even when her shoulder started to ache.

Even when the quinjet hit turbulence.

Even when Clint quietly offered to swap seats so she could stretch.

She only shook her head once.

“No,” she murmured, never taking her eyes off you.

“She’s finally getting some sleep.”

[w1dowatrace]

FIRST TIME

Summary: Grief and anger tip Wanda and you into a messy, charged first time together where your stepdaughter uses you to cope. And the two of you cross a line that can never be uncrossed.

Pairing: Stepdaughter Wanda Maximoff x Stepmom Reader

Word Count: 1.4k

Tags/Warnings: 18+ fauxcest/stepcest, smut, dubcon-ish, toxic emotional dynamics, grief/loss, parental issues, alcohol intox, harsh and mean Wanda, jealousy, Sigmund Freud and I are having blood compact

Request: How did Wanda and r's first time happen?

Author's Note: This is a compensation because I can't post The Assessment fic just yet, I promise, I am looking for a way. And pls if anyone knows how I can post 14k words here without Tumblr cockblocking it unless y'all don't want this fic to never see the light of the day.

Navigation | Masterlist | Tip jar | Patreon

ᱬ

You repeat it to yourself like a mantra: I'm not gonna bother her anymore. I'm not gonna try to please her, or earn her trust. Never again. It's not working, it's never going to work, and you're tired of hurting both of you.

But the words don't stick. After your husband slapped her, you can't stop thinking about how Wanda flinched, the way she stared at his father like she didn't recognize him. You talked to him that night after and said that what he did was unforgivable. He sighs and says he was just protecting you—that her daughter was out of line.

You tell him you didn't need protection. You'd rather him protect her than you—Wanda's his daughter. And she's hurt, grieving, and he hit her instead of listening. He doesn't say anything back and the silence that settles between you is heavier than any fight. The argument simmers until your husband grabs his keys and says he's going out. You're left alone in your shared bedroom, the half-washed dinner dishes still piled in the sink, and every thought circles right back to your stepdaughter.

You'd told yourself you'd never bother her again, that you'd keep your distance and never try to win her over. But your feet carry you down the hall anyway, your throat tight with worry you can't push down. Your knuckles brush the wood just as you realize the door's already cracked open a few inches, and you push it slow, peering inside. You half expected it to be empty, figured she'd snuck out to the club like the neighbors keep whispering about your stepdaughter who's always out drinking. Instead, she's laying on her bed.

The room smells like her lavender perfume and cheap cigarette smoke. 

Her eyes blaze when she sees you in her doorway, shoulders hunched defensive like she's ready to throw you out. 

"What the fuck are you doing here?" she muttered harshly as she quickly stood.

You hold your hands up slowly, like you're calming a spooked animal and took one small step further into the room, keeping your voice soft. 

"Your dad left. We had a fight. What he did to you wasn't okay, Wanda. And…and I just want to apologize." Your eyes catch her split lip, the faint crusted blood at the corner, and you react without thinking. "Wait, your lip—let me get you some ice."

Before you can step away from her room, she shoves the door closed behind you, pressing her body hard against you to trap you against the wood.

Your breath catches in your throat, your heart hammering so hard against your ribs you can hear it in your ears. You can feel every line of her body pressed to yours, warm and tense, the scent of her lavender perfume and the smell of whiskey in her mouth suffocating you.

"Wanda." You breathe her name, tapping your hands against her chest to push her back, but she doesn't move and just presses closer.

Panic warms your cheeks. Her nose brushes the side of your head, nuzzles past your ear to your cheek, warm breath together with sharp alcohol fanning your skin, then lower, pressing to your pulse point on your neck. Every logical voice in your head screaming this is wrong, she's your stepdaughter, this will ruin everything.

Her green eyes are dark, half-lidded with whiskey and something hungry that makes your knees go weak. Her split lip is still bleeding a little.

She grinds her thigh hard against the space between your legs, making you gasp and smirks when you grab her shoulders to steady yourself. Her breath is hot against your jaw, voice rough and mocking.

"Your husband left, so now you come crawling to me? What would he think if he saw his sweet wife right here, shaking for his daughter?"

Her hands are rough, her words sharp enough to cut, but you can feel the tremor running through her body. Under all the anger and heat, there's this raw, open hurting you can't miss. Your maternal instinct kicks in—you can see the hurt she hides behind the anger and you just want to ease it.

Even if this messy, wrong thing is the only way she'll let you.

"It's okay. I'm here…I'm not going anywhere."

All of a sudden she rears back and slaps you hard across the cheek, the sting blooming hot across your skin. Her eyes are glistening with unshed tears and her voice cracks when she snarls at you. 

"Don't you dare say shit to me. You have no fucking right to talk."

She yanks your shirt down to expose your breasts, sucking one hard between her lips while her other hand shoves two fingers deep inside you. She doesn't slow down, keeps pumping them fast even after you cum, rubbing your clit until you're shaking and sobbing. She only pulls back when she feels your knees giving out before pushing you to the bed.

Your stepdaughter was set out to break you that night and you let her. She bit until you cried, pulled your hair until your scalp stung, dug her nails into your skin hard enough to leave marks that would still be there when her father got home. Well, she didn't care, it wouldn't be her to explain why'd you have such weird marks all over your body like you were fucked like an animal.

You let her break every soft, stupid boundary you'd set, because you could feel how badly she needed to break something and you'd rather it be you than what's left of her broken heart.

The next morning, you wake up in the same bed you fell in last night. You don't remember falling asleep, not after everything your stepdaughter who's missing right now did to you—your whole body throbs, every muscle soft and sore, the faint bruises against your skin. You didn't even know if you fell asleep or you passed out.

Your husband was always gentle. A big man who's vanilla in bed, nothing that left you aching like this. What you got from his daughter though was nothing soft, nothing gentle—rough, desperate, raw, a kind of intensity you'd never felt before, one that still hums under your skin even when she's gone. Something that you didn't know a woman can do.

You spot your crumpled clothes scattered across her room, you bend to grab them one by one. You should be wondering if your husband is home now since he left last night after your fight. But instead you're thinking where possibly your stepdaughter could be.

And speaking of, turning to the kitchen you find Wanda walking just inside the house. You swallow hard, forcing your voice steady and a little desperate.

"Hi. Are…are you hungry? What do you want? I am gonna make pancakes."

She leans against the doorframe, eyes dragging slow over your hurried turtleneck. Her lips twitch into that cold, sharp smirk. She completely used you, fucked you so stupid you could barely stand last night, and here you are, still being sweet, asking if she's hungry.

Pathetic.

Wanda pushes off the doorframe, already stepping toward you, maybe to finger you while you prepare breakfast or spank you out right there on the counter. But the front door clicks open before she can reach you and his father's boots thud down the hall, straight into the kitchen.

He walks straight to you, wrapping an arm around your waist and apologizing for last night, for leaving, for fighting with you and hurting Wanda. 

"I'm sorry, baby…I'm sorry." He slurs, his hot breath smells like beer.

Erik tilts your chin up and you didn't mean to not look away from Wanda standing by the doorway as her father kisses you—you are as shocked as she is. 

Her jaw clenches so tight her muscles jump under her skin. 

Your husband pulls back, still murmuring apologies for letting things get so out of hand last night and you can't make yourself answer him.

Your stepdaughter still watches from the doorway, jaw still tight as you lift a hand to cup her father's cheek, your voice soft and steady when you speak. Your eyes are now on him, attention now on him as you repeat the same words you said to her last night, right there in front of him, and she can't look away.

"It's okay. It's okay, I'm here…I'm not going anywhere." You say softly to your husband that seemed so close to spiraling.

Wanda's nails dig into her palm and she swallows hard, the bitter taste of something she won't name climbing up her throat.

[giannamrvl]

premium service

natasha romanoff x paramedic!femreader

FLUFF / SLIGHT HURT/COMFORT

summary: Working as a paramedic in Manhattan means you're used to chaos, but you didn't expect to pull the Black Widow into a quiet alleyway mid-invasion. Natasha is bleeding out and defensive, but when you're the only one steady enough to anchor her through the pain, a localized alien attack turns into an incredibly unexpected connection.

authors note: this is a draft so ntm

masterlist

________________

The flashing red and blue lights of the ambulance cast long, frantic shadows against the shattered concrete of the overpass. The Chitauri leviathan had been brought down blocks away, but the collateral damage was everywhere.

You snapped your purple nitrile gloves into place, pulling a roll of gauze from your jump bag as you knelt beside a civilian with a nasty laceration. Sirens wailed in the distance, a constant, droning backdrop to the chaos of Manhattan.

"Keep pressure right here, okay?" you told the man, guiding his trembling hand to the wound. "You're doing great. Deep breaths."

"Hey! Medic!"

You looked up at the shout. A fellow paramedic was gesturing wildly toward an alleyway fifty feet away. Through the settling dust, you caught the unmistakable gleam of dark tactical gear.

An Avenger.

Leaving your patient in the capable hands of a triage rookie, you grabbed your trauma kit and ran toward the alley. As you got closer, the figure materialized. Black suit, red hourglass belt buckle, crimson hair dusted with grey ash.

Natasha Romanoff.

She was slumped against a brick wall, one leg bent awkwardly out in front of her. Her breath came in shallow, ragged hitches, and her hands were pressed firmly against her left side, dark blood seeping through her fingers. Despite the injury, her green eyes were sharp, scanning the alley like she was still waiting for a threat.

"Don't move," you said, dropping to your knees beside her. Your voice was calm, a stark contrast to the adrenaline hammering in your chest. You didn't care if she was a world-class spy; right now, she was just a patient bleeding out on your pavement.

Natasha’s head snapped toward you. A low, defensive growl started in her throat, her hand instinctively twitching toward the empty holster at her thigh.

"Easy, Black Widow," you murmured, gently but firmly catching her wrist. "I'm just a paramedic. Let me look."

She stared at you for a tense, agonizing second, testing your grip. Something in your steady demeanor must have convinced her, because the tension bled out of her shoulders and she let her head fall back against the brick with a sharp hiss. "It's... just a graze. I'm fine."

"Right. You look incredibly fine," you replied dryly, already slicing through the side of her tactical suit with trauma shears to expose the wound.

The "graze" was a deep, jagged puncture from a piece of flying shrapnel, bleeding heavily.

"I need to pack this, and it's going to hurt," you warned, pulling out a package of hemostatic gauze. "Ready?"

Natasha offered a grim, bloody smirk. "Do your worst, doc."

You didn't hesitate. As you pressed the gauze into the wound to stop the hemorrhaging, Natasha’s entire body went rigid. Her fingers dug into the fabric of your uniform shirt, her knuckles turning white as she squeezed her eyes shut, a muffled gasp escaping her lips.

"I know, I know. Stay with me," you coaxed, using one hand to keep pressure on the wound while using your free hand to gently squeeze her shoulder. "Look at me, Romanoff. Keep your eyes on me."

She forced her eyes open, blinking through the pain, locking her intense green gaze onto yours. There was a raw, striking vulnerability in them that you were definitely not prepared for. For a moment, the sounds of the burning city seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you in the cramped alley.

"You have... terrible bedside manner," she breathless, a weak attempt at a distraction.

"Hey, I'm saving your life. You get the premium service for free," you shot back, a small smile tugging at your lips as the bleeding finally began to slow. You quickly wrapped a pressure bandage around her torso, securing it tightly. "There. That'll hold until we get you to a trauma bay."

Natasha let out a long, shaky breath, her grip on your shirt loosening, though she didn't entirely let go. She looked down at your neat handiwork, then back up at your face, a look of genuine curiosity replacing her usual guarded mask.

"What's your name?" she asked, her voice low and raspy.

You told her, checking her pulse one last time. It was fast, but stabilizing. "We need to get you on a gurney. Can you stand if I anchor you?"

"Yeah." With your support, she managed to hoist herself up, leaning heavily against your side. She was shorter than you expected without her boots, but she felt like solid marble.

As you guided her out of the alley toward the waiting ambulance, Tony Stark’s Iron Man armor streaked overhead, but Natasha didn't look up. Her eyes remained fixed on you.

"You're pretty good under pressure," she noted as you helped her sit on the bumper of the rig.

"Occupational hazard," you replied, handing her a clean bottle of water. "Stick around Manhattan long enough, you get used to the alien invasions."

Natasha took a sip, a genuine, amused smile breaking through the ash on her face. She reached into a small, intact pocket on her vest and pulled out a sleek, black earpiece, dropping it into your palm.

"Keep that," she murmured, her fingers lingering against yours for a second too long. "Next time the sky opens up, give me a call. I'll make sure I'm your personal security."

Before you could respond, a S.H.I.E.L.D. transport vehicle screeched to a halt nearby, and a couple of agents rushed over to escort her. Natasha let them lead her away, but she threw one last, lingering look over her shoulder, leaving you standing by your ambulance with a pounding heart and a direct line to the Black Widow.

[giannamrvl]

faint of heart

natasha romanoff x fem!reader (Highschool AU)

FLUFF

summary: For three months, Natasha Romanoff has been your cold chemistry partner who clearly detests you. But when a stormy Friday detention forces a confrontation, her "mean girl" facade completely shatters revealing that she isn't actually trying to murder you. She’s just hopelessly bad at dealing with a massive crush.

authors note: first story ^^

masterlist

_____

The rain is drumming a steady, relentless beat against the school laboratory windows, matching the exact rhythm of the headache forming behind your eyes. It’s 4:00 PM on a Friday. The final bell rang an hour ago, the hallways are entirely empty, your friends are already gone to spend their friday night somewhere, and you are trapped in AP Chemistry with Natasha Romanoff.

Which is basically a psychological death sentence.

Natasha sits on the stool next to yours, her black leather jacket slung over the back of the chair. She’s gorgeous, she’s intimidating, and for the last three months, she has made it painfully clear that she detests you.

Every time you try to make small talk, she gives you a flat, one-word answer. If your hands brush while reaching for a box of filter paper, she flinches away like you’re radioactive. Right now, she’s supposed to be helping you rewrite the failed titration report from Tuesday a failure that was mostly your fault because you had been too busy staring at her side profile to notice the acid overflowing but instead, she’s just staring out the rain streaked window, tapping a green pen against the black countertop.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

It’s driving you insane. You pull your sweater sleeves down over your knuckles, staring at the messy data columns in your notebook.

"You know, if you're just going to sit there and breathe aggressively, you could at least pass me the rubric," you mutter, not looking up.

The tapping stops instantly. The sudden silence in the room feels heavier than the storm outside. You feel her intense, unblinking gaze land on the side of your face.

"I don't breathe aggressively," Natasha says. Her voice is smooth, low, and completely devoid of warmth. It’s the tone she uses when she’s dismissing a teacher or shutting down a guy or girl trying to flirt with her in the hallway.

"Could’ve fooled me," you snap, finally tossing your pen down. The frustration that’s been simmering all semester suddenly boils over. You're tired, you're missing your weekend, and you're exhausted from being treated like an inconvenience by someone you secretly look at when you think she isn't noticing. "Look, Natasha, if you hate me this much, just go. Seriously. Pack your bag and leave. I'll lie to Mr.... (i dont know couldn’t think of a name) on Monday and tell him you did half the calculations. Just stop looking at me like I’m a piece of garbage you stepped on."

You finally turn your head to look her right in the eye, expecting a sharp retort, a biting insult, or at the very least, a smug, dismissive smirk.

Instead, Natasha is just staring at you. Her green eyes are wide, her lips slightly parted in a look of genuine, unadulterated shock. The terrifying, "mean girl" facade she wears like a shield every single day suddenly looks incredibly fragile, cracking right down the center.

"What?" she asks, her voice strangely quiet, losing all of its usual sharp edge.

"You heard me," you say, crossing your arms tightly across your chest and leaning back against the lab bench. "You hate me. It’s fine. The whole school knows you’re elite and detached, but you don't have to make it so obvious that my presence is a chore."

"I don't hate you," Natasha says immediately. She sounds almost offended that you’d even suggest it.

"Oh, please," you huff, letting out a bitter, disbelieving laugh. "You literally look like you want to murder me every time I open my mouth. You won't look me in the eye. Last Wednesday, I asked you if you had a spare paperclip and you stared at me like I asked for a kidney. You barely even speak to me! If we weren't forced to be partners, you wouldn't even exist in the same airspace as me."

Natasha blinks, and then, right before your eyes, something impossible happens. A dark, sudden flush creeps up her cheeks, staining her sharp cheekbones a brilliant, unmistakable crimson. THE Natasha Romanoff is blushing.

She looks away, staring down at the black countertop, her fingers suddenly twisting the cap off her pen, then putting it back on. Over and over.

"I don't look you in the eye because..." She clears her throat, completely losing her usual terrifying composure. She swallows hard, looking everywhere in the room except at you. "Because you're distracting. And I don't talk to you because every time I try, I feel like I'm going to say something completely stupid."

You freeze. The words bounce off the tiled walls of the empty classroom. You trace the line of her tense jaw, trying to process if you heard her correctly. "What?"

Natasha groans, a sound of pure frustration. Her shoulders lose their rigid, perfect posture, slumping slightly as she lets out a defeated sigh.

"You're very oblivious?" she mutters, a self deprecating edge to her voice. "I don't think you're garbage. I think you're... terrifying. You're smart, and you're funny, and you don't even have to try. Everyone likes you. Last Wednesday, I didn't glare at you because of a paperclip. I glared because you smiled at me when you asked for it, and my brain completely short circuited. I forgot how to use human words, so I just froze."

Your brain is scrambling to recontextualize the entire last three months. The short answers weren't anger they were panic. The flinching away wasn't disgust it was nerves.

"You... you have a crush on me?" you ask.

"Don't make it sound so weird" she mumbles, though the blush on her face is only worsening, reaching the tips of her ears. "I'm not good with feelings.' I didn't know how to act around you, so I just stayed quiet and tried to keep my distance. I didn't mean to make you think I hated you."

The heavy, suffocating tension that had filled the room for weeks suddenly evaporates, replaced by something warm, dizzying, and completely electric. You look at Natasha really look at her and notice the way her fingers are trembling slightly against the cover of her spiral notebook.

A slow, involuntary smile tugs at the corners of your lips. The sheer absurdity of it all hits you, and the fear you’ve carried all semester completely vanishes.

"So," you say softly, leaning your elbow on the counter and tilting your head to force her to look at you. "The great Natasha Romanoff isn't actually a mean girl. She's just a massive coward."

Natasha's head snaps up, her eyes narrowing, but the mean spark in them is entirely playful now. "I am not a coward."

"You spent three months letting me think you wanted to shove me into a locker just because you got nervous over a smile?" You let out a soft laugh, sliding your lab stool a few inches closer to hers. The metal legs screech against the floor, but neither of you cares. "Yeah. Definitely a coward."

"Shut up," she says, but there's a tiny, smile tugging at her own lips now the first genuine, unforced smile you’ve ever seen from her. It changes her whole face, making her look incredibly soft.

"Make me," you tease.

Your heart does a sudden, violent flip in your chest as Natasha doesn't pull away this time. Instead, she holds your gaze, her green eyes bright and entirely unguarded. She leans in just a fraction of an inch, her voice dropping back into that low, smooth cadence, but this time, it’s filled with a warmth that makes the freezing rain outside feel a million miles away.

"Maybe I will," Natasha murmurs, a stray lock of red hair falling into her face. "But only if you let me help you finish the titration report first. I don't want Mr......... giving my future girlfriend a C-minus."

[graveyarrdshift]

women's thighs. you agree. reblog.

[wandas-lizzies]

Chapter 2: The Proof of Life

Pairings: Cheerleader!Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Yearbook Captain!Reader

Tags | Warnings: High School AU, Enemies to Lovers, Slow Burn, Heavy Tension, Intimidation Tactics, Emotional Vulnerability, "I see through you."

a/n: To be honest, I completely forgot about this. I’ve been proper busy, but I’ve just got back to the UK for break. (its a bit short i apologise in advance)

---------------------

The heavy steel door didn’t just open; it hit the rubber stopper with a violent clang that vibrated through the concrete floor. The sound was a declaration of war.

Natasha Romanoff stood in the threshold, framed by the dim light of the hallway. She was still in her red-and-white cheer shell, her skin glowing with the faint, salt-licked sheen of a three-hour practice. To anyone else, she looked like a victory lap. To you, she looked like she was vibrating at a frequency that could shatter glass.

"Out," she rasped.

It wasn't a suggestion. Your junior editor, a sophomore who had been mid-sentence while complaining about a corrupted file, didn't even look at you for permission. He scrambled, grabbing his bag with such haste he nearly tripped over the threshold, vanishing into the hallway as the door clicked shut behind him.

The silence that followed was heavy, pressurized by the hum of the server fans and the rhythmic ticking of a clock that suddenly felt too loud. Natasha didn't pace. She didn't have to. She moved toward your desk with that terrifying, predatory grace, her sneakers silent on the linoleum. She stopped when she was close enough that the scent of her—expensive peppermint, laundry detergent, and the metallic tang of adrenaline—overwhelmed the smell of stale coffee.

She slammed a manicured hand down on the edge of your desk, leaning over your workspace. Her knuckles were white.

"You were at the gym," she stated. Her voice was low, a jagged edge that cut through the basement air.

"I’m the Captain, Natasha," you said, forcing your voice to remain level. You didn't pull away. You didn't blink. You met that emerald gaze with the clinical, unblinking stillness that you knew drove her insane. "I go where the content is. It’s my job to document the school's 'shining stars.'"

"I saw you through the glass," she hissed, ignoring your sarcasm. She leaned lower, her hair falling like a curtain of fire around her face, pinning you into your seat. "I saw the way you were holding that camera. Your finger was on the shutter for ten minutes, but I never heard the click. Why?"

This was the glitch. This was the moment the mask slipped. Usually, Natasha was angry because people saw too much of her. Now, she was spiraling because you had seen her when she was human, and you hadn't turned it into a commodity. To her, your silence was more invasive than a hundred flashes. It meant you weren't looking for the flyer; you were looking for the girl underneath, and that girl was a secret she guarded with a razor-wire tongue.

"Because you were failing," you said softly.

The word hung between you like a physical weight. Natasha’s pupils blown wide, her lip curling in a defensive snarl. "I don’t fail. I am the highest-scoring athlete this school has seen in a decade."

"You were failing yourself," you countered, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, though your expression remained a mask of iron. "You were doing back tucks for forty-five minutes after the squad was dismissed. Your landing on the last three was heavy. You were shaking, Natasha. You looked... exhausted. It wouldn't have made a good photo for the 'Ice Queen's' legacy."

The silence stretched, agonizingly thin. You watched the way her jaw worked, the way the tiny pulse in her neck throbbed. For the first time, you saw the tiny, human imperfections she worked so hard to hide—the slight smudge of eyeliner in the corner of her eye, the way her breath hitched just once.

She hated you. She hated you because you were the only person in a building of three thousand people who wasn't afraid to describe the shape of her exhaustion. You didn’t worship the institution; you archived the person, and that made you the most dangerous person in her world.

"You think you’re so observant," she whispered, her voice dropping into a register that was dangerously intimate. She shifted her weight, her hip brushing against the arm of your chair. "You sit down here in your little bunker, collecting your digital files, labeling everyone like they’re specimens in a jar. You think you have me figured out?"

"I think you’re lonely," you said, the honesty of it feeling like a betrayal. "And I think you hate that I'm the only one who isn't impressed by the performance."

Natasha flinched as if you’d slapped her. The air between you was electric, a non-verbal conflict that felt more like a collision. Her gaze dropped to your lips for a heartbeat—a flickering, desperate moment of curiosity—before snapping back to your eyes with renewed venom.

"I am the performance," she spat, but her hand stayed on your desk, her fingers curling into the wood as if she were trying to ground herself. "There is nothing else. And if a single one of those 'honest' photos ever makes it onto a drive, I will ensure your four years at Midtown become a living hell."

"They're not on the drive," you said, your voice a mere breath. "I didn't take them. Some things are meant to stay off the record."

The tension broke, but it didn't dissipate; it just shifted. Natasha pulled back slowly, her movements uncharacteristically stiff. She looked at you—truly looked at you—and for a second, the predator was gone. There was just a girl who had finally been caught, and she didn't know whether to run or stay.

She turned on her heel, her red hair swinging like a pendulum. She made it to the door before she paused, her hand gripping the cold metal handle. She didn't look back, but the rigid line of her shoulders finally dropped.

"Fifth period tomorrow," she said, her voice barely more than a rasp. "Don't be late. And bring the long lens. I’m practicing the full-twisting layout."

The door shut with a soft click this time. You sat in the dim light of your monitors, your hands finally beginning to shake. You reached for the mouse and opened the Athletics_Cheer_Spring folder, but you didn't look at the photos of the statue. You looked at the empty space on your desk where her hand had been, feeling the lingering heat of the girl who was finally, terrifyingly real.

taglist:@charleeeesworld @chibilauren @caitviers @littlelonelylesbian

[wandas-lizzies]

Blood & Bergamot | N.R

SHIELD!Medic!Fem!Reader × Black!Widow!Natasha Word count: 12.4k Warnings: !!18+!! MINORS DNI! Sexual tension, medical scenarios, blood, pining, heavy "stuff" reaching a breaking point. A/N: This has been in my drafts collecting dust.

----------

For months, the air between you and Natasha had been tuned to a frequency only the two of you could hear. It wasn't anything official—SHIELD had enough paperwork as it was—but it was in the way her eyes lingered on you a second too long during mission briefings, and the way you always seemed to find her favorite brand of tea stocked in the communal kitchen.

There was a gravity to her that pulled you in, a silent understanding that grew every time you patched up a split lip or a bruised knuckle. You had convinced yourself it was just the bond of the field—until the touches started getting more deliberate. A hand on the small of your back to guide you through a door; her fingers brushing yours as she handed over a report. Each time, your heart would hammer against your ribs, and she would track the pulse in your throat with a knowing, cat-like smirk.

Tonight, the "stuff" finally reached its breaking point.

The door to Natasha’s private quarters hissed shut, locking with a finality that made the quiet of the room feel heavy. The lighting was dim, casting long, amber shadows across the floor. Natasha was perched on the edge of her desk, her tactical suit half-undone, looking less like a super-spy and more like a fallen angel—if that angel carried a 9mm and a grudge.

"You’re late," she said, though there was no heat in the accusation.

"I had to grab the high-grade antiseptic from the vault," you replied, your voice steadier than you felt. You set the black medical kit down on the desk beside her hip. "You told the strike team it was a 'minor graze.' You’re bleeding through your suit, Nat."

"I’ve had worse," she shrugged, but she didn't move as you stepped into the space between her boots.

As you snapped on your gloves, the clinical sound seemed loud in the silence. You moved to peel the fabric of her suit away from the jagged cut along her hip bone. The skin there was pale and hot, the blood a stark, dark contrast against the white of her skin.

You began to clean the wound, your movements precise and practiced. But as you worked, you could feel her gaze not on the wound, but on you. She was studying the way your brow furrowed in concentration, the way your fingers were careful, almost reverent, as they moved over her.

"Is that why you didn't go to Med-bay?" you asked quietly, dabbing the area. "Because you've had worse?"

"No," she murmured. Her hand reached out, not to stop you, but to catch your wrist. Her grip wasn't tight, but it was absolute. "I didn't go to Med-bay because the doctors there are efficient, but they're boring. They don't get a hitch in their breath when they touch me. They don't look like they’re trying to memorize the map of my body."

Your breath did exactly what she said it hitched. You looked up, and the professional distance you’d been maintaining shattered. Her eyes were dark, dilated, and fixed entirely on your mouth.

"We've been dancing around this for a long time, haven't we?" she whispered, her thumb beginning to rub slow, rhythmic circles into the underside of your wrist, right over your racing pulse. "I think it’s time we stopped dancing."

The antiseptic wipe in your other hand felt suddenly flimsy, useless. Your professional armor was gone, stripped away by her words and the insistent pressure of her thumb on your wrist. You were just you, standing between her thighs, with the scent of her skin and blood and something uniquely, intoxicatingly Natasha filling the space between you.

"Then what do we do now?" The question was a breath, barely audible. You felt it more than heard it, a vibration in your own chest.

She answered by tightening her grip on your wrist just enough to make you set the wipe down. Her other hand came up, her fingers cool and calloused as they cupped your jaw, tilting your head back. Her thumb brushed your lower lip, a slow, deliberate exploration that sent a jolt straight through you.

"This," she murmured, and then she closed the remaining inches.

It wasn't a tentative, questioning kiss. It was a conclusion. It was the end of months of silence, of glances, of near-misses. Her lips were firm and demanding, tasting faintly of iron and mint. She claimed your mouth with the same authority she took a room, but with an undercurrent of a desperate, long-held hunger.

You kissed her back, your free hand coming up to tangle in her hair, dislodging the neat tie and letting the red silk spill over your fingers. The kiss deepened, growing messier, more frantic. Her grip on your wrist loosened, and she used her now-free hand to grab at the hem of your shirt, pulling you flush against her. The hard line of the desk dug into your hip, but you barely registered it. All you could feel was her the heat of her skin through your shirt, the solid muscle of her thighs bracketing your hips, the way she arched into you with a soft, breathy moan.

She pulled back just enough to rest her forehead against yours, her breathing ragged. She was still holding your jaw, her thumb stroking the kiss-bruised skin there.

"See," she breathed, her lips brushing yours with every word. "Much more interesting."

You answered by kissing her again, this time with a kind of ferocity that surprised even yourself. It was a kiss of release, of a dam finally breaking. All the suppressed longing, the quiet observations, the fantasies nursed in the dead of night all of it poured into the space between you. You bit her lower lip, not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to make her gasp, to give you an opening to deepen the kiss, to explore the warmth of her mouth with a possessive sweep of your tongue.

Her response was instantaneous, a matching fire. Her hands, which had been resting at your waist, slid down to cup your ass, pulling you hard against her. The move was pure Natasha efficient, powerful, and utterly designed to unravel you. A low, involuntary sound rumbled in her chest, a vibration you felt straight through your own sternum. The hand that had been in her hair slid down, tracing the elegant line of her spine, your fingers pressing into the muscle there, feeling the tension and the strength coiled within her.

"Natasha," you breathed against her mouth, the name a prayer and a plea.

She pulled back, her lips swollen and glistening, her eyes two dark, glittering emeralds in the dim light. She looked at you with an expression that was half-wonder, half-victory. "Say it again," she commanded, her voice a low purr.

"Natasha."

She leaned in, this time not for a kiss, but to press her lips against your throat, just below your ear. "I've wanted to hear you say my name like that for a year." Her teeth scraped against the sensitive skin, and you shuddered, your hands tightening on her hips. "I want to hear you scream it."

The promise in her words was a physical force. She shifted beneath you, her movements fluid and athletic. With a surge of strength that was as thrilling as it was effortless, she pushed off the desk, taking you with her. Your back hit the wall with a soft thud, the impact barely registering past the dizzying rush of her. One of her thighs slid between yours, pressing up with devastating precision against the sudden, throbbing ache there.

"Oh," you gasped, your head falling back against the cool wall.

She chuckled, a dark, smug sound that vibrated against your neck. "Oh," she mimicked, her hands sliding under your shirt, her palms hot against your skin. "There's so much more." She rolled her hips, a slow, deliberate friction that made your vision blur. "I've been thinking about this. About what you'd look like pressed against my wall. About the sounds you'd make."

She was making good on every fantasy. Her hands mapped your torso, her thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. She found the hem of your bra and traced the line of it, a maddeningly light touch that made you arch into her. All the while, her thigh remained a constant, pulsating pressure against your core.

Her kisses trailed down your throat, pausing to lavish attention on your collarbone. She was marking you, leaving a constellation of stinging little bruises that you knew would be a challenge to hide tomorrow. Right now, you didn't care. You only wanted more.

"Tell me you want this," she demanded, her voice raw as she pulled back to look at you. Her hands were still, waiting. It was the last check-in, the final offer to retreat.

In answer, you grabbed the hem of your shirt and pulled it over your head in one smooth motion, tossing it aside. You saw her breath catch, her eyes darkening as they took in the sight of you your bra, the goosebumps on your skin, the flush on your chest.

"Convinced?" you asked, your voice husky.

A slow, predatory smile spread across her face. "Perfectly."

She descended upon you again. This kiss was different deeper, messier, all-consuming. Her hands were everywhere, skimming your sides, squeezing your breasts, digging into your shoulders as if to anchor herself. You were lost in the sensation of her, the scent of her filling your lungs, the taste of her on your tongue. You hooked a leg around her waist, pulling her closer, needing to feel more of her. The hard planes of her stomach against yours, the heat radiating from her skin, the powerful muscles in her back flexing under your touch.

She reached behind you, fumbling for a moment with the clasp of your bra before it sprang free. She didn't pull it away immediately. Instead, she slid her hands around to your front, her palms covering your breasts, her thumbs stroking your nipples through the thin fabric. They hardened instantly, aching peaks that she teased with slow, torturous circles.

"Natasha," you gasped, your hips bucking involuntarily against her thigh.

"Patience," she murmured against your lips, but her smile suggested she had very little of her own.

Finally, she slid the straps from your shoulders, letting the garment fall away. She pulled back just enough to look, her gaze heavy and appreciative. "Perfect," she breathed, and then she bent her head, taking one nipple into her mouth.

The heat and wetness of her mouth sent a jolt straight to your core. You cried out, your hands tangling in her hair again, holding her to you. She was relentless, her tongue swirling, her teeth scraping gently, sending waves of pleasure coursing through you. She gave the other breast the same attention, her hands never still, stroking and squeezing and exploring.

You were a bundle of nerve endings, every touch magnified, every movement sending you closer to the edge. The world had narrowed to this room, this wall, this woman. You could feel the tension coiling low in your belly, a tight, hot spring that was wound to its breaking point.

"Natasha," you panted, "I… I can't…"

She lifted her head, her eyes gleaming with triumph and something softer, something that looked suspiciously like awe. "Yes, you can," she said, her voice a low command. "Let go."

As if to help you along, one of her hands slid down your stomach, her fingers dipping below the waistband of your pants.

Then you woke up.

[wandas-lizzies]

Chapter 1: The Lens and the Mask

Summary: Natasha Romanoff is the untouchable "Ice Queen" of Midtown High, and you are the Archivist who sees too much. While the school bows to her, you're the only one who notices when her mask slips and she hates you for it.

Pairings: Cheerleader!Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Yearbook Captain!Reader

Tags | Warnings: High School AU, Enemies to Lovers, Slow Burn, Bitchy!Natasha, Observational Angst, Tension, Non-verbal Conflict.

a/n: I need to stop starting new series.

-----------

The Yearbook Room was tucked away in the basement of Midtown High, a windowless bunker that smelled of ozone, stagnant coffee, and the frantic energy of a looming deadline. To anyone else, it was a cramped storage closet. To you, it was a vantage point.

From your dual-monitor setup, you held the entire social hierarchy of the school in a series of digital folders. You saw the athletes when they tripped, the drama club when their makeup smeared, and the teachers when they thought no one was looking. But mostly, you saw Natasha Romanoff.

It wasn't a crush—at least, that’s what you told yourself as you scrolled through the Athletics_Cheer_Spring folder. It was a professional frustration.

Natasha was a glitch in your system. In every photo taken by the junior staff, she was a statue of perfection. She didn't have "bad angles." She didn't blink when the flash went off. She moved through the crowded, chaotic hallways with a terrifying, silent grace that made everyone else look like they were moving in slow motion.

She was the captain of the cheer squad, but she wasn't the girl who did spirit fingers and high-pitched chants. She was the flyer—the one who stood at the top of the pyramid with a cold, predatory gaze that seemed to challenge the very laws of gravity. She was the "Ice Queen" of the varsity wing, a girl who used her popularity like a shield and her sharp tongue like a scalpel.

You watched her now through the glass partition of the gym during fifth period. You were supposed to be capturing "student life," but your lens kept drifting.

Natasha was practicing a tumbling pass. No music, no crowd, just the rhythmic thud-thud-snap of her hands and feet hitting the blue mats. Even from a distance, you could see the tension in her shoulders. She was a perfectionist to a fault, repeating the same back tuck over and over until her face was flushed a deep, angry red that matched her hair.

She was a "bitch"—that was the consensus in the yearbook office. She had personally rejected the last three layout drafts because she didn't like the "font choice" for the cheer page, and she’d made your lead designer cry by simply pointing out a typo in her last name. She didn't ask for things; she demanded them, her voice a low, cool rasp that made people scramble to please her just to get out of her line of sight.

You, however, were the only person who didn't scramble.

You were the Archivist. You saw the way she checked her watch every ten minutes as if she were waiting for a signal to escape. You saw the way she sat alone in the library during lunch, not reading, just staring at a blank notebook with an expression so hollow it made your chest ache.

To the school, she was the untouchable center of the universe. To you, she was a girl who was performing a role so convincingly that she’d forgotten who she was when the lights went out.

You adjusted the focus on your camera, the mechanical whir loud in the empty hallway. You caught her in the frame just as she finished a routine—sweat dripping down her neck, chest heaving, a momentary look of pure, unadulterated exhaustion crossing her face.

It was the only honest thing you’d ever seen her do.

You didn't take the photo. Not yet. Taking a photo of Natasha Romanoff when she wasn't ready was like poking a sleeping tiger with a very short stick. You knew the rules: she controlled the narrative. You just printed it.

But as you turned to head back to your bunker, you felt a prickle on the back of your neck. You didn't look back, but if you had, you would have seen Natasha standing still on the mat, her green eyes fixed on the retreating shadow of the girl with the camera.

The dynamic was simple: she was the spectacle, and you were the observer. And as long as you stayed behind the lens, you were safe.

---------------

To the three thousand students at Midtown High, Natasha Romanoff was not a person. She was an institution.

She was the sharp, red-headed blur at the top of a pyramid, the girl whose silence was more terrifying than most people’s screaming, and the undisputed architect of the school’s social climate. Her dynamic with the student body was simple: Total, Unfiltered Submission. She moved through the halls like a predator in a petting zoo—efficient, bored, and untouchable. She wore the cheerleader uniform not as a sign of school spirit, but as a suit of armor. If she was the loudest, brightest, most perfect thing in the room, no one would look close enough to see the hollowed-out girl underneath the glitter.

She was a "bitch" because kindness was a luxury she couldn't afford. In Natasha’s world, being liked was fickle, but being feared was permanent. She kept the world at a ten-foot radius with a razor-wire tongue and a gaze that could make a senior linebacker forget his own name.

Then there was the You.

Her relationship with you was a glitch in an otherwise perfect system.

While the rest of the school was a blur of worship and fear you were a constant, irritating Static. Natasha felt a simmering, low-grade fever every time she caught the you watching her through that massive DSLR lens. It wasn't a crush Natasha didn't "do" crushesit was a territorial dispute.

You were the Archivist. You were the only person who didn't look at Natasha’s curated mask; she looked at the cracks.

Every time the shutter clicked, Natasha felt like a piece of her skin was being peeled away. She hated the way you didn't flinch when Natasha snapped at her. She hated the way the your eyes stayed calm, clinical, and observant while everyone else was busy scurrying out of Natasha’s way.

[wandas-lizzies]

ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴇɪɢʜᴛ ᴏꜰ ɢʀᴇᴇɴ ᴇʏᴇꜱ: ᴘᴀʀᴛ 3

Avenger/Mom! Natasha Romanoff x Fem! daycare teacher

Summary: : Natasha chooses to drive herself rather than letting Happy take them, needing the quiet of the car to settle her nerves before seeing the woman who "made the air in the room feel lighter".

a/n: im back after my disappearance heh...

Part One Part Two _________________________________________

_________________________________________

The sun hadn’t even started to peek over the horizon when I found myself standing in front of the open closet doors, the silence of the Compound feeling heavy and expectant. Usually, my morning routine was a mechanical process—black tactical gear, boots, hair pulled back tight enough to be a weapon. But today, my hand lingered over a hanger holding a charcoal blazer.

"It’s just a preschool, Natasha," I muttered to the empty room, my voice sounding rough in the early morning quiet. "Not a gala. Not an interrogation."

I pulled the blazer on, the fabric feeling stiff and foreign against my shoulders. I caught my reflection in the full-length mirror and immediately frowned. I looked too... put together. Like I was trying. I reached for a pair of dark jeans and a simple top, trying to find that razor-thin line between "functioning member of society" and "woman who can break your radius with two fingers."

"Mama? Is it time?"

I turned to see Cora standing in the doorway, her red curls a tangled mess from sleep, clutching the spider drawing to her chest like a shield. She was already wearing her backpack over her pajamas.

"Almost, malyshka," I said, kneeling to pull her into a hug. She smelled like sleep and that waxy crayon scent that seemed to be taking over my life. "Let's get you dressed first. We have to make sure the Hunter is ready for his big debut."

By the time we made it down to the kitchen, the rest of the house was starting to wake up. The smell of burnt toast and expensive espresso filled the air. Tony was hunched over the counter, staring at a holographic display with bleary eyes, while Steve was already nursing a protein shake.

"Whoa," Tony said, his eyes flicking from his screen to my outfit. He did a slow, exaggerated double-take. "Where’s the funeral? Or are we finally buying that tech firm in Osaka?"

"Drop-off, Tony," I said, heading for the coffee pot and ignoring the smirk I could feel growing on Steve’s face.

"Right, right. The preschool," Tony grinned, leaning back against the marble. "The place where Happy got his ego bruised by a woman with a lanyard. I heard she told him his badge looked 'cute' but he still couldn't park in the yellow zone."

"She told him it was a fire lane," I corrected, taking a long, scalding sip of coffee.

Steve let out a soft chuckle. "I still think it’s good for him. Builds character. Though I’m surprised you're the one going in today, Nat. Usually, you’re halfway to the training room by now."

"I have a delivery to make," I said, nodding toward Cora, who was meticulously checking the edges of her drawing.

"The Hunter," Clint announced, strolling into the kitchen with his hair standing up in every direction. He hopped onto a barstool next to Cora. "Big day, kid. You sure that teacher is ready for this? Spiders can be pretty intimidating."

Cora looked up at him, her expression dead serious. "Ms. Y/L/N isn't scared. She has a magnifying glass."

Clint looked at me, his eyebrows dancing. "A magnifying glass, huh? Sharp. Sounds like she’s got the tactical gear covered. You sure you don't want me to tag along? I could do a perimeter check. See if the finger-paint stations are up to code."

"Stay in the building, Barton," I warned, but there was no real heat in it.

I spent the next twenty minutes navigating the chaos of a four-year-old’s breakfast—wiping jam off the "Hunter" drawing with the precision of a bomb tech and trying to ignore the way Steve and Clint were whispering behind my back. I knew they were betting. I knew they were waiting for me to slip up and admit that I was actually looking forward to seeing the woman who made the air in the room feel lighter.

As we finally headed for the garage, the weight of the blazer felt a little more natural. I didn't let Happy drive. I wanted the steering wheel in my hands. I wanted the quiet of the car to settle my nerves before I had to walk into that classroom and pretend I wasn't affected by a woman who remembered favorite colors.

"Mama?" Cora asked from the backseat as we pulled out of the Compound gates. "Will she stay all day?"

"She'll be there, Cora," I promised, catching her emerald gaze in the rearview mirror. "She's not going anywhere."

"Good," Cora whispered, looking back down at her drawing. "I like it when she stays."

I gripped the wheel a little tighter, my mind drifting to the way you looked when you were kneeling on that alphabet rug. "Yeah," I murmured to the empty car. "Me too."

The drive from the Compound was a blur of early morning traffic and my own racing thoughts. I kept checking the rearview mirror—not for tailing vehicles, but to make sure the "nice" blazer didn't have any stray red curls or jam fingerprints on it. Beside me, Cora was vibrating with quiet anticipation, her small fingers tracing the edges of her drawing.

When we pulled up to the daycare, the usual morning chaos was in full swing. Minivans were unloading, toddlers were dragging backpacks larger than themselves, and parents were rushing to make it to work on time. I parked the car, took a deep breath, and unbuckled Cora.

"Ready, malyshka?" I asked, smoothing down her hair.

"Ready," she said firmly, clutching her masterpiece.

The daycare lobby smelled of apple slices and floor wax. As we reached the door to her classroom, I felt that familiar prickle of nerves—the kind I usually reserved for high-stakes extractions. I pushed the door open, and the world immediately felt warmer.

You were right where I expected you to be: kneeling on the rug, helping a little boy zip up his sweater. You looked up as the door clicked, and for a second, the room seemed to go silent. Your eyes traveled from Cora to me, lingering on the charcoal blazer for a heartbeat longer than usual.

"Good morning, Cora! And good morning, Natasha," you said, standing up with that effortless, calm grace. "You look... very professional today."

"I thought I'd try to match the authority level in the room," I replied, my voice a little lower than I intended. I leaned against the doorframe, trying to look casual while my pulse thudded in my ears. "Cora had a delivery she wouldn't let me forget."

Cora marched forward, holding the drawing out like a sacred text. "For the science wall. It's the hunter’s house."

I watched as you took the paper, your expression shifting from professional to purely genuine. You didn't just glance at it; you pointed out the specific shades of green and asked Cora where the spider liked to sleep.

"This is exactly what our science wall was missing," you whispered to her, before looking back up at me. Your smile was small, but it reached your eyes, and it made the blazer feel a lot less like a costume. "I think it deserves the center spot. Don't you, Natasha?"

"I think the hunter would be honored," I said, a smirk finally breaking through my mask.

The morning rush was picking up, and other parents were starting to filter in, but you didn't rush us. You stayed in that small circle of space with us, and for a moment, the Compound, the missions, and the "Black Widow" felt like they belonged to someone else.

"I’ll see you at five?" you asked as I started to back toward the door.

"Five sharp," I promised.

As I walked back to the car, I caught my reflection in the glass of the lobby door. Clint was right—I was definitely wearing the "nice" jacket. And as I reached for the door handle, I realized I didn't care about the five dollars Steve was about to win.

TAGS: @ciaoooooo111 @nataliaromanovaismywife

[wandas-lizzies]

ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴇɪɢʜᴛ ᴏꜰ ɢʀᴇᴇɴ ᴇʏᴇꜱ: ᴘᴀʀᴛ 2

Avenger/Mom! Natasha Romanoff x Fem! daycare teacher

Summary: A night at the Compound with Cora is interrupted by Clint and Steve teasing Natasha about Cora’s teacher—forcing Natasha to realize she’s looking forward to Monday far more than she should.

a/n: Natashas POV.

Part one Part Three

_________________________________________

_________________________________________

It was Saturday evening, and the quiet of the Compound usually felt like a sanctuary, but tonight it felt like a cage. I was sitting on the floor of the common area with Cora, the low hum of the ventilation system the only sound filling the room. It was one of those rare nights where the world wasn't ending, and I was actually home long enough to see the sun go down.

Cora was sprawled out on her stomach, red curls messy and wild as she focused on the paper in front of her. She’d been working on the same drawing for twenty minutes, her little brow furrowed in a way that looked far too much like mine.

"You're making the legs too long," I murmured, leaning back against the couch and watching her.

"Spiders have long legs, Mama," she countered without looking up, her voice small but firm. "This one is a hunter. He needs to run fast."

"A hunter," I repeated softly, my eyes tracing the jagged black lines she was scratching onto the paper. "Well, make sure he has a home, too. Even hunters need a place to sleep."

Cora didn't respond immediately, her tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth as she switched to a dark green crayon. The waxy scritch-scritch of her coloring was the only peaceful thing in the room before the heavy automatic doors hissed open, letting in the reality of the Compound.

The quiet was shattered by the heavy thud of combat boots and the low, rumbling debate of two men who clearly didn't know how to turn it off for the weekend.

"I’m telling you, it’s the footwork. You’re overthinking the pivot," Clint’s voice echoed through the common area, sharp and energetic as always. He strolled in, tossing a stray tennis ball into the air and catching it without looking.

Following behind him was Steve, looking far too put-together for a Saturday night in a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He stopped when he saw us on the floor, his expression immediately softening into that "Captain" look of concern and warmth.

"Sorry, Nat," Steve said, his voice dropping a few decibels. "We didn't realize you two were... busy."

"It's a very important mission, Rogers," I replied without moving, though I felt my guard prickle instinctively. "The spider needs a house."

Clint wandered over, peering over the back of the couch at Cora’s masterpiece. "A green house? Bold choice, kid. Most spiders go for the classic 'dusty corner' look."

Cora didn't look up, but her small shoulders tightened. She wasn't used to the noise yet, even if these men were the closest thing she had to uncles. "It’s a secret house," she muttered.

Clint chuckled, dropping onto the edge of the sofa. "Fair enough. Keep your secrets." He looked at me, his eyes searching mine for a second—checking to see if I was actually 'off the clock' or just pretending. "You look like you've been staring at a wall for three hours, Nat. You okay?"

I ignored the question, focusing on Cora as she added a thick green line. The chaos of the Compound was back—the boots, the training talk, the smell of sweat and coffee. It was familiar, but as I looked at Cora’s drawing, I realized it wasn't the kind of world I wanted to talk about with her tonight.

"Mama?" Cora sat up, ignoring the guys as if they were just part of the furniture. She held out the paper. "Is this a good house?"

I took it, my thumb brushing over the green circle. "It’s perfect, malyshka."

"I want to show Ms Y/L/N ," she said firmly. "She likes green."

"Ms. Y/L/N, huh?" Clint leaned forward, as he eyed the drawing with newfound interest. "Is that the same teacher Happy was grumbling about last Friday? Something about her 'radiating authority' and making him wait by the curb?"

I felt a sharp pull of protectiveness in my chest. I didn’t like the way Clint’s voice held that edge of amusement I didn’t know why I didn’t like it.

"Happy did say she was... impressive," Steve continued, leaning back in the armchair. "Said she didn't even blink when he tried to give her the whole security talk. Apparently, she just looked him in the eye and told him he was blocking the fire lane."

Clint let out a snort, nearly dropping his tennis ball. "I like her already. Anyone who can boss Happy Hogan around without even flinching is a hero in my book. So, come on, Nat spill. Is she actually that cool, or is Happy just getting soft in his old age?"

I rolled my eyes

"She's fine, Clint," I said. "She’s patient. She’s smart. And most importantly, she doesn't freak out when Cora brings home a pocket full of rocks."

"She has a quiet voice," Cora added, digging through her crayon box with the intensity of a bomb technician. "And she remembers which purple is my favorite. She doesn't yell like Uncle Tony does when he loses his remote."

Clint raised an eyebrow at me, looking way too amused for his own good. "High praise! Sounds like you finally found someone who isn't scared of the big, bad Romanoffs. Is she cute? Is that why Happy’s so flustered?"

"Clint," Steve groaned, though he was clearly hiding a grin behind his hand.

I stood up, scooping Cora into my arms before the teasing could get any worse. I wasn't about to admit to them that my own heart had done a weird little hop when we made eye contact earlier that ¨week. "She’s a teacher, Barton. Leave it alone. And it’s way past someone's bedtime."

"I'm not tired!" Cora announced, immediately followed by a giant, face-stretching yawn that betrayed her completely.

"Clearly," I laughed, kissing her temple and feeling the soft tickle of her curls.

As I headed down the hall, I could hear Clint and Steve already whispering behind me.

"Five bucks says Nat wears the 'nice' jacket on Monday," Clint whispered loudly. "Ten bucks says she wears the lipstick," Steve countered.

I reached Cora’s room and tucked her in, but as I looked at that green-circled spider drawing resting on her nightstand, I realized I was actually looking forward to Monday morning, too. I caught my reflection in the window—a soft, expectant look I didn't recognize.

"Fuck, Natasha, snap out of it," I hissed to the empty room, rubbing my face. It was just a teacher. A very organized, very calm, very... distracting teacher.

[wandas-lizzies]

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚆𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝙶𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝙴𝚢𝚎𝚜

Avenger/Mom! Natasha Romanoff x Fem! daycare teacher

Summary: As a new teacher winning over skeptical preschoolers, your morning rhythm is interrupted by the arrival of Natasha Romanoff, who is dropping off her daughter, Cora

Warnings: Slow burn, Intimidating Natasha

a/n: might be a start of a series

Part 2 _________________________________________

_________________________________________________

The air in the classroom always felt a little lighter once the morning rush ended, but today, being the new lead teacher, the silence felt like a held breath. You were organized, your lesson plans were flawless, and you’d spent the last hour winning over a group of skeptical four-year-olds that miss their old teacher. You could feel their eyes on you with every move you made—tiny, discerning judges waiting for you to slip up, to prove you weren't the one they wanted.

You were just beginning to settle into the rhythm of the morning, kneeling to help a boy with a stubborn zipper, when the heavy front door clicked open.

It wasn't the frantic, apologetic entrance of a late parent. It was silent. Methodical. The temperature in the room seemed to drop by a few degrees as a shadow stretched across the alphabet rug. You didn't even have to look up to know that the dynamic of the room had just shifted entirely.

Slowly, you stood, brushing the dust from your knees.

Standing by the door was a woman who radiated a quiet, dangerous kind of competence. She was dressed in dark tones that suggested she didn’t want to be noticed, yet she was impossible to ignore. Her red hair was pulled back, sharp and sleek, framing a face that was as beautiful as it was unreadable.

She didn't move toward you. She stood perfectly still, her green eyes performing a slow, clinical sweep of the room. She noted the exits. She noted the height of the windows. Finally, those eyes landed on you, and for a moment, it felt like the oxygen had been sucked out of the room.

Clinging to her hand was Cora. The little girl was a mirror image of the woman’s intensity, her red curls the only soft thing about her as she stared you down with a guarded, emerald gaze.

You felt a jolt of recognition, followed immediately by a wave of confusion. You knew Cora—you’d spent the last two weeks winning her over, coaxing smiles out of her with stories of spiders and offering her the "quiet corner" when the other children became too loud. But you hadn't met her mother.

Usually, the morning drop-off was handled by a man named Happy. He was a broad-shouldered, no-nonsense guy in a black suit who looked like he’d be more comfortable guarding a vault than a preschooler. Every time you tried to make polite conversation or ask about Cora’s home life, he’d give you a short, clipped nod and the same rehearsed line: "Her mother’s tied up with work. Long hours. Very important."

You’d assumed she was some high-level executive at Stark Industries, someone far too busy with spreadsheets to deal with a toddler’s separation anxiety.

But as the woman stood before you now, you realized Happy hadn't been lying about the "important" part. He just hadn't mentioned that her mother looked like she could take down a room full of men without breaking a sweat.

She didn't move toward you immediately. She stood perfectly still, her green eyes performing a slow, clinical sweep of the room. She noted the height of the windows and the distance to the emergency exit before her gaze finally landed on you. In that moment, it felt like the oxygen had been sucked out of the room.

"You’re the new one."

It wasn't a question. Her voice was a low, smooth rasp a velvet edge that made the small hairs on the back of your neck stand up. She began to walk toward you then, her movements possessing a lethal, effortless grace that felt entirely out of place among the plastic blocks and finger paints.

"I am," you said, forcing your voice to stay grounded even as the sheer weight of her presence pressed against you. You offered a small, professional smile—one that didn't quite hide the fact that you were being measured by a woman who clearly didn't miss a single detail. "And you must be Natasha. I’ve heard quite a bit about you from Happy, though I think he left out a few descriptions."

Natasha stopped just a few feet away, her posture relaxed yet coiled, like a spring held under tension. Up close, the intensity in her green eyes was even more striking. They weren't just checking you out they were peeling back layers.

"Happy is paid to be discreet," she murmured, her voice losing a bit of that icy edge and shifting into something more human—weary, even. "But he’s also a bit of a dramatic. I’m sorry I haven't been the one to bring her in. Work has a way of... dragging me into things that are hard to walk away from."

She looked down at Cora then, and the transformation was almost jarring. The cold, calculating stare vanished, replaced by a gaze so soft and full of an aching, fierce love that it made your throat tight. She ran a hand over Cora’s red curls, her fingers lingering at the nape of the girl’s neck.

"Did you tell your teacher about the spider we found on the porch this morning, malyshka?" she asked softly.

Cora, who had been stoic until that moment, gave a small, jerky nod. She looked from her mother to you, her tiny hand tightening its grip on Natasha’s thumb. "It was a jumper. He had fuzzy legs."

"A jumping spider? That’s impressive, Cora," you said, kneeling so you were on the little girl's level, intentionally taking the focus off the intimidating woman standing above you. "We actually have a magnifying glass over by the science table. Maybe you can draw him for me later?"

Cora’s eyes brightened, a tiny crack appearing in her guarded shell. She looked up at Natasha, seeking permission. Natasha nodded, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corner of her lips—a look that made her look less like a ghost story and more like a woman who just wanted her daughter to be happy.

"Go on," Natasha urged gently. "I'll be right here for a minute."

As Cora trotted off toward the science table, Natasha’s eyes followed her every step. Only when the girl was safely occupied did she turn her attention back to you. The "mom" mask didn't slip, but the "protector" was still very much there, simmering just beneath the surface.

"She likes you," Natasha said, her voice dropping to a low, confidential level. "She doesn't usually talk to people she’s only known for two weeks. Happy says you have a 'way' with her."

"She's a special kid," you replied simply, standing back up. "She just needs to know she’s being heard. I make sure she knows she has a safe place here."

Natasha stepped a fraction closer, invading your personal space in a way that felt less like a threat and more like a test of your resolve. You could smell the faint scent of leather and a hint of rain clinging to her.

"I have very high expectations, Y/N," she said, her green eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that felt like a physical weight. "I know I’m not around as much as I should be, which means the people I leave her with... they have to be the best. I don't settle for 'adequate' when it comes to her."

"Neither do I," you countered softly, refusing to be the first to break eye contact.

Natasha lingered for a heartbeat, her gaze traveling over your face as if she were searching for a lie.

Finding none, she finally let out a breath, her shoulders dropping an inch. The "interrogation" vibe vanished, replaced by the look of a mom who was just genuinely relieved her kid wasn't crying.

"Good," she said, and this time, a small, lopsided smile actually reached her eyes. "Because Cora is a tough critic. If she didn't like you, I would've heard about it the entire car ride here."

She reached out, but instead of some intense soul-reading grip, she just gave your arm a friendly, lingering pat. "I'm serious, though. Thank you for being patient with her. I know she can be a handful when she’s being 'observant.'"

With that natasha leaves through the door i stand for a moment thinking about the tap on my arm huh...but im cut outof thought by one of the kids yelling "Ms Y/L/N Justin keeps bothering me"

With that, Natasha offered one last lingering look at Cora before slipping through the door as silently as she’d entered. I stood there for a moment, my skin still humming where her hand had rested. My mind was a mess of questions—mostly wondering how the "busy executive" Happy described turned out to be a woman who looked like she could handle a riot and still have perfect hair.

That was... interesting, I thought, looking down at my arm.

But my moment of reflection didn't last long. The quiet of the room was shattered by a loud, indignant wail from the block corner.

"Ms. Y/L/N! Justin keeps bothering me! He’s knocking down my tower!"

I snapped out of my daze, the ghost of Natasha’s touch fading as I switched back into teacher mode. "Alright, alright, I'm coming! Justin, let’s use our gentle hands, please!"

[wandas-lizzies]

ɴᴇᴄᴇꜱꜱᴀʀʏ ᴄʜᴀᴏꜱ

Avenger Natasha Romanoff x Criminal Fem!Reader Summary: You break into a weapons vault to destroy dangerous tech, only to run into Natasha Romanoff after a short conversation you esacpe but not before she slips a tracker into your pocket. Now she’s found you, and left a mysterious invitation.

a/n: another draft. I might just start spamming drafts.

You don’t call yourself a villain. Villains enjoy hurting people. They enjoy stealing, and they enjoy chaos. You’re all of those things except for the killing part.

The rooftop is too quiet when you land. No guards, no cameras, no alarms. That’s your first warning, but you move anyway. The building used to belong to a weapons dealer connected to half the world’s problems, and tonight you’re here to erase what’s left of his work.

You kneel in front of the vault door, pulling out your tools, when a voice behind you starts talking.

“Well,” a woman says calmly, “you’re either very brave or very stupid. I’m leaning toward the really stupid part.”

“Romanoff,” you say, keeping your voice steady even as your heart hammers against your ribs. “You’re a long way from the Tower. Don’t the Avengers have a world-ending threat to be punching right now?”

Natasha tilts her head, her eyes scanning you with clinical, terrifying precision. She doesn’t look angry; she looks bored, which is infinitely more dangerous.

“The world is doing just fine tonight,” she says. “It’s the local neighborhood nuisances I’m worried about. You’ve been busy. Three vaults in two weeks? You’re getting cocky.”

“I’m getting results,” you counter, gesturing at the heavy steel door. “This vault is filled with prototype pulse-rifles. If I don’t wipe the drive and fry the hardware, they’ll be on a boat to Madripoor by sunrise. I’m doing your job for you—just without the flashy press conference.”

She steps closer, straight into your personal space. She’s shorter than she looks on TV, but she feels like a thunderstorm compressed into a human body. You catch the scent of ozone and something faintly floral.

“Is that what you tell yourself?” she asks, her voice dropping to a dangerous purr. “That you’re the hero? I’ve seen your bank accounts. You don’t exactly live like a martyr.”

“Hey, a girl’s gotta eat. And you like nice boots.” You shift your weight, searching for an opening—but she mirrors you instantly. “Besides, you don’t call yourself a hero. You just hate the chaos.”

“Maybe you wanted to be found,” you say, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

The silence that follows is heavy. Natasha’s expression changes—less amused, more focused. She steps even closer, so close that if you reached out, you’d touch the tactical mesh of her suit.

“Well,” she whispers, her breath warm in the cold night air. “You found me. Now the question is… what are you going to do about it?”

She doesn’t reach for a weapon. She doesn’t try to cuff you. She just stands there, daring you to make the next move.

“What am I going to do?” you repeat softly. A reckless grin spreads across your face. “I’m going to take the stupid option.”

You don’t go for your belt. You don’t throw a punch. Instead, you grab the small, palm-sized EMP device you set on the floor earlier.

You hold her gaze for one heartbeat longer than you should. She thinks she’s won. She thinks she has you cornered.

Then you slam the device into the vault’s keypad.

Crrr-ack.

A blinding blue spark explodes, and the building’s entire grid dies. The floodlights go out, plunging the rooftop into darkness. In that half-second of blindness, you hear the hiss of her Widow’s Stings activating, their blue glow slicing through the shadows—but you’re already moving.

“Nice try,” Natasha calls out, her voice much closer than it should be.

You don’t run for the stairs. She’d catch you before the first landing. Instead, you sprint for the edge.

“Stop!” she commands, all professionalism now.

A hand brushes the back of your jacket—just barely. It could’ve ended the night right there. You twist, slipping free, and hit the parapet without looking down.

You know this building. Twelve feet to the next roof. Three stories straight down.

You jump.

For one second, you’re weightless. Wind tears past your face, adrenaline turning your blood to fire. You hit the gravel hard, roll, and come up moving before the pain can settle.

You glance back.

Natasha stands at the edge of the other roof, moonlight framing her silhouette. She hasn’t followed—not yet. A tracker rests in her hand, but she doesn’t throw it. She just watches you.

Even from fifty feet away, you feel those green eyes locked on you. She isn’t angry.

She looks intrigued.

You give her the finger, sharp against the moon, then dive over the far ledge and disappear into the city.

Adrenaline carries you six blocks. You cut through alleys, hop a chain-link fence, and slip into a crowded subway station just as a train pulls in. You blend into the late-night commuters, resting your head against the cool glass and waiting for your heart to calm down.

Back at your safehouse a cramped but clean studio over a bakery you don’t turn on the lights. You peel off your gear in the dark, muscles aching.

When you reach into your jacket for your phone, you feel it.

Something cold. Metallic. Something that wasn’t there before.

You step closer to the window, letting the streetlamp illuminate your palm. A small, sleek silver disc Stark-tech. A bug. But it’s not active. The light blinks a soft, steady green.

Passive mode.

She slipped it into your pocket when her hand brushed your jacket. She could’ve taken you down. Instead, she let you go.

You flip the disc over.

Scratched into the metal are coordinates and a time.

22:00. Tomorrow.

“Damn it,” you whisper, pressing your forehead to the glass.

She didn’t just find you.

She invited you out.

And the worst part?

You’re already thinking about what you’re going to wear.

[wandas-lizzies]

𝒜 𝓇𝑜𝑜𝓂 𝒻𝓊𝓁𝓁 𝑜𝒻 𝓈𝓉𝓇𝒶𝓃𝑔𝑒𝓇𝓈.

𝑜𝓁𝒹𝑒𝓇! 𝒩𝒶𝓉𝒶𝓈𝒽𝒶 𝑅𝑜𝓂𝒶𝓃𝑜𝒻𝒻 𝓍 𝒻𝑒𝓂! 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

𝓐𝓾𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓻'𝓼 𝓝𝓸𝓽𝓮: First ever story ;( I hope you enjoy it anyway!

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎: You go to a party on the Upper East Side, trying to stay unnoticed like you always do. That’s when you see her Natasha Romanoff. She doesn’t need to speak to command the room; everyone around her adjusts without realizing it. And then she notices you. Her gaze lingers, low and persistent, pulling you in before she even says a word. When she finally introduces herself, you realize you can’t look away and you don’t want to.

𝓌𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉: 4k

𝓟𝓻𝓸𝓵𝓸𝓰𝓾𝓮

The address led me to the Upper East Side.

I remember checking it twice, standing across the street with my phone in my hand, making sure I hadn’t mixed up the numbers. The building was tall and clean and guarded by a doorman who looked like he’d seen everything and cared about none of it. I hesitated for half a second before walking inside.

I always did that. Paused. Prepared.

The elevator ride was quiet. Soft music played from somewhere above my head. I fixed my jacket in the mirror and smoothed my hair, telling myself I looked fine. Not impressive. Just fine. That was usually enough.

The apartment was on a high floor. When the doors opened, I was met with voices and warm light and the low hum of music I didn’t recognize. Someone laughed—deep and easy—and I felt that familiar pull in my chest. The feeling of stepping into something already in motion.

A woman I barely knew opened the door. She smiled like she was genuinely glad I came.

“Hey! You made it,” she said, taking my coat without waiting for permission.

I stepped inside.

The apartment was beautiful in a way that felt intentional. Everything had a place. Neutral colors, soft textures, art that probably cost more than my rent. The windows showed the city stretched out below us, all lights and movement and distance.

I took it in quietly.

People stood in small groups, wine glasses in hand. Conversations overlapped but never got loud. This wasn’t the kind of place where anyone raised their voice. Everyone looked comfortable. Like they belonged there.

I recognized maybe two faces.

I drifted toward the kitchen, because that’s what I always did. The kitchen was safe. There was something grounding about standing near food and pretending you were just there to refill a drink.

I accepted a glass of wine I didn’t choose and leaned against the counter, listening. Travel stories. A story about a charity event. Someone complaining about a board meeting.

I nodded when it felt right.

That’s when I noticed her.

composed everything about her suggested control. A few loose strands of hair caught the glow of the city outside. She wasn’t talking. She was watching. Not casually, but like she was reading the room, taking it all in, noting everything and noticing me too.

When her eyes found mine, I felt it in my chest first. A subtle pull, low and persistent, like the room had shifted in that instant. I looked away quickly, suddenly very interested in my glass and the wall

Get a grip, I told myself.

I focused on my breathing. On the cool glass in my hand. On the steady rhythm of conversation around me. Anything except the awareness curling under my skin.

It didn’t fade.

Her attention stayed, a low hum I couldn’t shake. Not heavy. Not invasive. Just there. Like she had decided I was worth holding in her awareness.

A few minutes passed. I could still feel her looking at me.

I didn’t turn right away. Pride, maybe. Or fear of confirming what I already knew. Instead, I shifted my weight, took a slow sip of wine, let my gaze wander anywhere but her.

It didn’t help.

When I finally looked up again, she hadn’t moved. Still by the window. Still composed. Still watching me with an expression that gave nothing away. No smile. No curiosity made obvious. Just intent.

My pulse skipped, irritated with itself.

Across the room, someone was speaking too loudly, gesturing wildly about some minor annoyance, and she didn’t even flinch. Instead, her eyes narrowed slightly, just enough to make the other person falter mid-sentence, their confident posture wobbling for the first time that night.

A sharp tilt of her head, a subtle arch of her brow and suddenly the room felt smaller. People straightened. Laughed quieter. Shifted uncomfortably in their heels.

She wasn’t cruel. Not exactly. But she had that way of noticing the cracks in people’s confidence and pointing them out, effortlessly. I caught the corner of someone’s mouth twitching nervously, like she’d punctured their confidence without raising her voice.

Then she looked back at me. Not in judgment, not in mockery, but like she’d just reminded herself that there was something or someone worth holding her attention.

My stomach did that flip again. I wasn’t part of the little scene she’d just commanded, and yet being outside it made me acutely aware of her power. The pull wasn’t just her presence. It was the way she moved the room without trying, the way she could make people shrink and straighten with nothing more than a glance.

I looked down at my glass again, trying to hide my reaction, but the warmth of her gaze felt like it was resting right over my shoulder, whether I wanted it to or not.

Then, without a sound, she started moving toward the center of the room. People instinctively stepped aside, subtly but noticeably making space for her. She walked with that same controlled precision, her steps quiet, deliberate, impossible to ignore.

And yet when she passed me, her eyes flicked just slightly in my direction, a ghost of a smirk tugging at her lips, as if she knew I’d been watching her too.

I realized I didn’t want her to leave my line of sight.

Even if she was terrifying.

She stopped a few feet away, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating off her, but still just outside the polite social bubble. Her eyes swept over me briefly, like she was assessing, weighing.

“You’ve been watching me,” she said, voice low, controlled, a hint of amusement in the edge.

I blinked. “I… maybe?”

She tilted her head, smirk tugging at one corner of her lips. “Maybe?” she repeated, emphasizing the doubt in my voice.

I swallowed. “I… don’t know what you mean.”

Her lips quirked. “You do.”

She didn’t look threatening. Not exactly. But she had that way of saying something that made you hyper-aware of yourself without ever raising her voice. I could feel my own pulse in my ears. And her being hot didnt help with anything at all.

Her eyes flicked to me again, just briefly, and I caught the smallest smirk tug at her lips, like she knew exactly the effect she was having.

I tried to look away again to focus on my glass, the wall, anything that wasn’t her. But the second I did, I felt it again her attention, like a low hum in the room, following me wherever I shifted.

“Do you come here often?” she asked casually, her voice calm, neutral, but measured in a way that made you listen.

I blinked, caught off-guard by the directness. “Not… really,” I admitted. “I get invited sometimes.”

She nodded once, approvingly, as if that explained enough. Then her gaze drifted across the room again, observing, always observing. A subtle shift in her shoulders, a slight turn of her head, and even without speaking she made everyone in her vicinity pay attention.

I sipped my glass again, trying to act casual, but I couldn’t shake it—the way the room bent around her without effort, the way her presence made everything else feel smaller.

And when she finally glanced back at me, there was a flicker of something I couldn’t name. Focused, deliberate… controlled.

I realized, quietly, that this was just her being herself. And even standing still, saying almost nothing, she was impossible to ignore.

She shifted slightly, closing the small distance between us—not too close, but close enough that I felt the warmth radiating from her. The faint hum of her presence made the rest of the room fade into the background.

Then she looked at me directly, eyes steady, unblinking, as if she had already measured me from every angle.

“I’m… Natasha Romanoff,” she said finally, her voice calm, deliberate, and neutral. Not flashy, not performative—just precise. The syllables carried weight, though she didn’t need to make them heavy.

“I’m Y/n....Y/n Y/l/n,” I said, a little too quickly, aware of how loudly my own pulse seemed to echo in my ears.

She nodded once, just a small, subtle motion, like she was noting something important. “Y/n,” she repeated, letting the name settle in the space between us.

Her gaze lingered longer than necessary not teasing, not questioning, just observing. And I felt it again that pull, quiet but insistent, like the air between us had subtly shifted.

Even saying her name had a gravity to it. It wasn’t boastful, it wasn’t meant to impress anyone else it just was. Natasha Romanoff. The name alone made the room feel slightly different, though she barely moved.

Then, almost imperceptibly, she let her attention drift across the room again, scanning, assessing, always in control. Even standing still, introducing herself, she made the space around her bend.

The address led me to the Upper East Side.

I remember checking it twice, standing across the street with my phone in my hand, making sure I hadn’t mixed up the numbers. The building was tall and clean and guarded by a doorman who looked like he’d seen everything and cared about none of it. I hesitated for half a second before walking inside.

I always did that. Paused. Prepared.

The elevator ride was quiet. Soft music played from somewhere above my head. I fixed my jacket in the mirror and smoothed my hair, telling myself I looked fine. Not impressive. Just fine. That was usually enough.

The apartment was on a high floor. When the doors opened, I was met with voices and warm light and the low hum of music I didn’t recognize. Someone laughed—deep and easy—and I felt that familiar pull in my chest. The feeling of stepping into something already in motion.

A woman I barely knew opened the door. She smiled like she was genuinely glad I came.

“Hey! You made it,” she said, taking my coat without waiting for permission.

I stepped inside.

The apartment was beautiful in a way that felt intentional. Everything had a place. Neutral colors, soft textures, art that probably cost more than my rent. The windows showed the city stretched out below us, all lights and movement and distance.

I took it in quietly.

People stood in small groups, wine glasses in hand. Conversations overlapped but never got loud. This wasn’t the kind of place where anyone raised their voice. Everyone looked comfortable. Like they belonged there.

I recognized maybe two faces.

I drifted toward the kitchen, because that’s what I always did. The kitchen was safe. There was something grounding about standing near food and pretending you were just there to refill a drink.

I accepted a glass of wine I didn’t choose and leaned against the counter, listening. Travel stories. A story about a charity event. Someone complaining about a board meeting.

I nodded when it felt right.

That’s when I noticed her.

composed everything about her suggested control. A few loose strands of hair caught the glow of the city outside. She wasn’t talking. She was watching. Not casually, but like she was reading the room, taking it all in, noting everything and noticing me too.

When her eyes found mine, I felt it in my chest first. A subtle pull, low and persistent, like the room had shifted in that instant. I looked away quickly, suddenly very interested in my glass and the wall

Get a grip, I told myself.

I focused on my breathing. On the cool glass in my hand. On the steady rhythm of conversation around me. Anything except the awareness curling under my skin.

It didn’t fade.

Her attention stayed, a low hum I couldn’t shake. Not heavy. Not invasive. Just there. Like she had decided I was worth holding in her awareness.

A few minutes passed. I could still feel her looking at me.

I didn’t turn right away. Pride, maybe. Or fear of confirming what I already knew. Instead, I shifted my weight, took a slow sip of wine, let my gaze wander anywhere but her.

It didn’t help.

When I finally looked up again, she hadn’t moved. Still by the window. Still composed. Still watching me with an expression that gave nothing away. No smile. No curiosity made obvious. Just intent.

My pulse skipped, irritated with itself.

Across the room, someone was speaking too loudly, gesturing wildly about some minor annoyance, and she didn’t even flinch. Instead, her eyes narrowed slightly, just enough to make the other person falter mid-sentence, their confident posture wobbling for the first time that night.

A sharp tilt of her head, a subtle arch of her brow and suddenly the room felt smaller. People straightened. Laughed quieter. Shifted uncomfortably in their heels.

She wasn’t cruel. Not exactly. But she had that way of noticing the cracks in people’s confidence and pointing them out, effortlessly. I caught the corner of someone’s mouth twitching nervously, like she’d punctured their confidence without raising her voice.

Then she looked back at me. Not in judgment, not in mockery, but like she’d just reminded herself that there was something or someone worth holding her attention.

My stomach did that flip again. I wasn’t part of the little scene she’d just commanded, and yet being outside it made me acutely aware of her power. The pull wasn’t just her presence. It was the way she moved the room without trying, the way she could make people shrink and straighten with nothing more than a glance.

I looked down at my glass again, trying to hide my reaction, but the warmth of her gaze felt like it was resting right over my shoulder, whether I wanted it to or not.

Then, without a sound, she started moving toward the center of the room. People instinctively stepped aside, subtly but noticeably making space for her. She walked with that same controlled precision, her steps quiet, deliberate, impossible to ignore.

And yet when she passed me, her eyes flicked just slightly in my direction, a ghost of a smirk tugging at her lips, as if she knew I’d been watching her too.

I realized I didn’t want her to leave my line of sight.

Even if she was terrifying.

She stopped a few feet away, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating off her, but still just outside the polite social bubble. Her eyes swept over me briefly, like she was assessing, weighing.

“You’ve been watching me,” she said, voice low, controlled, a hint of amusement in the edge.

I blinked. “I… maybe?”

She tilted her head, smirk tugging at one corner of her lips. “Maybe?” she repeated, emphasizing the doubt in my voice.

I swallowed. “I… don’t know what you mean.”

Her lips quirked. “You do.”

She didn’t look threatening. Not exactly. But she had that way of saying something that made you hyper-aware of yourself without ever raising her voice. I could feel my own pulse in my ears. And her being hot didnt help with anything at all.

Her eyes flicked to me again, just briefly, and I caught the smallest smirk tug at her lips, like she knew exactly the effect she was having.

I tried to look away again to focus on my glass, the wall, anything that wasn’t her. But the second I did, I felt it again her attention, like a low hum in the room, following me wherever I shifted.

“Do you come here often?” she asked casually, her voice calm, neutral, but measured in a way that made you listen.

I blinked, caught off-guard by the directness. “Not… really,” I admitted. “I get invited sometimes.”

She nodded once, approvingly, as if that explained enough. Then her gaze drifted across the room again, observing, always observing. A subtle shift in her shoulders, a slight turn of her head, and even without speaking she made everyone in her vicinity pay attention.

I sipped my glass again, trying to act casual, but I couldn’t shake it—the way the room bent around her without effort, the way her presence made everything else feel smaller.

And when she finally glanced back at me, there was a flicker of something I couldn’t name. Focused, deliberate… controlled.

I realized, quietly, that this was just her being herself. And even standing still, saying almost nothing, she was impossible to ignore.

She shifted slightly, closing the small distance between us—not too close, but close enough that I felt the warmth radiating from her. The faint hum of her presence made the rest of the room fade into the background.

Then she looked at me directly, eyes steady, unblinking, as if she had already measured me from every angle.

“I’m… Natasha Romanoff,” she said finally, her voice calm, deliberate, and neutral. Not flashy, not performative—just precise. The syllables carried weight, though she didn’t need to make them heavy.

“I’m Y/n....Y/n Y/l/n,” I said, a little too quickly, aware of how loudly my own pulse seemed to echo in my ears.

She nodded once, just a small, subtle motion, like she was noting something important. “Y/n,” she repeated, letting the name settle in the space between us.

Her gaze lingered longer than necessary not teasing, not questioning, just observing. And I felt it again that pull, quiet but insistent, like the air between us had subtly shifted.

Even saying her name had a gravity to it. It wasn’t boastful, it wasn’t meant to impress anyone else it just was. Natasha Romanoff. The name alone made the room feel slightly different, though she barely moved.

Then, almost imperceptibly, she let her attention drift across the room again, scanning, assessing, always in control. Even standing still, introducing herself, she made the space around her bend.

And I realized, quietly, that being near her was enough to make the world feel different.

[wandas-lizzies]

𝓟𝓻𝓸𝓵𝓸𝓰𝓾𝓮

𝑜𝓁𝒹𝑒𝓇! 𝒩𝒶𝓉𝒶𝓈𝒽𝒶 𝑅𝑜𝓂𝒶𝓃𝑜𝒻𝒻 𝓍 𝒻𝑒𝓂! 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

𝓐𝓾𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓻'𝓼 𝓝𝓸𝓽𝓮: This is a draft from a year ago that my friend helped me write. I’m probably not going to do anything with it I just made it look better.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2 ?

I was twenty-three and living in New York, which felt important at the time.

Not because I was doing anything remarkable, but because surviving there felt like proof that I could. I had a small apartment with windows facing another building and by that i mean the view of a brick wall, a job that paid just enough, and a life that looked better from the outside than it felt most days.

I learned early how to move through certain rooms quietly. How to listen more than I spoke. How to dress just right. How to make myself palatable without ever fully disappearing. My mother used to call it being aware. I called it survival. In New York, it worked.

Most of my friends were older. Not by accident. Older people didn’t ask many questions. They didn’t look at me like I was temporary. They took me seriously in a way people my own age rarely did.

They had money. Real money. Apartments with doormen, kitchens bigger than my entire living space. Dinner parties instead of pre-games. Wine instead of shots. They talked about travel and investments and people I’d never met but somehow was expected to know.

I fit in well enough.

I always did.

Sometimes I wondered if they noticed the way I stood out or if they were polite enough not to say anything. Either way, no one ever made me feel unwelcome. Just… observed. Like I was interesting in a quiet, almost curious way.

I liked that they invited me.

It made me feel chosen.

My life moved in small routines. Morning coffee from the same place on the corner. Late nights doom scrolling through my phone, half listening to the city outside my window. I spent a lot of time alone, but not lonely. There’s a difference, I think.

I liked people. I just liked distance more.

Being around older, richer people came with an unspoken rulebook. You didn’t overshare. You didn’t reach too fast. You let things happen to you instead of asking for them. I learned that quickly.

I was good at it.

That’s probably why no one questioned it when I started getting invited to things that didn’t really have anything to do with me. Dinners hosted by friends of friends. Gatherings where I didn’t quite belong but wasn’t asked to leave.

I showed up. I smiled. I listened.

I didn’t know then that one of those nights would matter more than the others.

At the time, it was just another invitation. Another address sent to my phone. Another evening where I would sit on someone else’s couch, glass in hand, pretending I wasn’t cataloging every detail of the room.

I didn’t know I was about to meet someone who would quietly shift the way I understood connection.

I didn’t know anything at all.

Not until I met a woman with red hair and green eyes...

[wandas-lizzies]

𝒞𝐸𝒪! 𝒩𝒶𝓉𝒶𝓈𝒽𝒶 𝑅𝑜𝓂𝒶𝓃𝑜𝒻𝒻 𝓍 𝒻𝑒𝓂!𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

𝒮𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎: You just started working for Natasha Romanoff, a powerful CEO who always notices you and remembers the little things. She quietly looks out for you, and over time, late nights at work turn into something more. Even though you both say you won’t mix work and feelings, the tension between you makes it clear that something is growing.

𝒞𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓈: CEO x employee dynamic, Slow-burn relationship, Unspoken feelings.

𝒜𝓊𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓇'𝓈 𝒩𝑜𝓉𝑒: I’ve never written one of these before, so let me know if you want more like this.

Natasha Romanoff is the kind of CEO people respect and whisper about.

Not because she’s ruthless though she can be but because she remembers everything. Names. Preferences. The way people take their coffee.

Including yours.

You learn this the first time she called you into her office.

The Romanoff Industries sits high above the city, glass and steel and money. Her office is quiet, immaculate. Natasha stands by the window, suit perfectly tailored, red hair pulled back, city lights reflecting in her eyes.

“You’re late,” she says calmly and smooth.

Your stomach drops. “I’m sorry, Ms. Romanoff.—”

“Natasha,” she corrects, finally turning. “And I know you’re not late because you’re careless. You’re late because the subway stalled. Again.”

You blink. “How do you—“

“I pay attention,” she says simply.

Natasha always does.

From then on, it’s little things.

She schedules meetings later on days she knows you struggle to get in early. Your favorite tea appears on your desk. When you work late, she stays later not hovering, just *present*

One night, past midnight, you find her unbuttoning the top buttons on her button up shirt, sleeves rolled up, exhaustion finally cracking through the armor.

“You should go home it’s late,” you say softly.

She looks at you for a long moment. “So should you.”

Neither of you move.

The city below hums. The tension between you is familiar now, unspoken but heavy.

“I don’t mix business with emotions,” Natasha says at last.

You nod. “Neither do I.”

Her mouth curves into a small smile. “Liar.”

She steps closer not too close, never crossing a line she wouldn’t let you cross first.

“You’re good at what you do,” she says. “Brilliant, actually. I won’t compromise that.”

Your voice is steady. “I wouldn’t let you.”

That’s when she reaches out, gentle, deliberate, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear like it’s the most natural thing in the world...