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— WRITING ✎

as obvious, i have rules when it comes to my writing. please do not repost (what i mean by repost is uploading my story to another website like wattpad, ao3, etc) and copy my whole idea. if you are inspired, please do contact me! i’m very nice :)

— REQUESTS ღ

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rules and warnings:

- i write fem/gn!reader only, so if you have a male!reader request, i will not write that specific character for you. 

- i write smut, angst (heavily on this one), age difference tropes, cheating, toxic relationships, fluff, and more. what i won’t write are incest, pedophilia, heavy bdsm, piss kink, anything with self-harm, and top!reader. 

- when sending requests, please be patient! lately i’ve been away from this app and when it comes to all of your requests, it will take me time to write them as i have ideas of my own. 

- SENDING ME THREATS does not condone my account, i’m a very fragile and sensitive person. i get easily triggered, so please just be careful of what you’ll say to me. :) 

You were absolutely fucked.

Debt was curling its fingers around your throat, heavy and suffocating, and the worst part was you weren’t even sure when it had started piling up so high. Maybe it was the tuition you insisted on paying yourself because you didn’t want to burden your parents, maybe it was the small comforts you told yourself you deserved after long nights of writing, or maybe it was just the way you spent without thinking—an impulse, a rush, a moment of indulgence that always seemed harmless until the bill arrived. You weren’t one of those rich kids strolling through campus in designer coats and shiny shoes, you were the girl who came from a modest house in New York, raised by parents who loved you fiercely and taught you to be grateful for what you had. And yet somehow your room was stacked with bags and boxes of things you didn’t need, couldn’t sell, and refused to throw away. A hoarder, maybe, or just someone desperate for something she couldn’t name.

The numbers on your credit score glared back at you from the laptop screen, ugly and unforgiving, and you let out a groan that sounded more like defeat than frustration.

“Maybe you should try looking for a job,” Carmen’s voice broke through, her face framed by the grainy pixels of the call. She was lounging on her bed with the kind of ease that made you jealous. “I don’t know, maybe working as a barista or something? At least it’d be money.”

You dragged a hand over your face. “It could, but my parents won’t allow it.”

She gave you that look, the one that said she wasn’t buying it. “You don’t know that until you try.”

And she was right. Of course, she was right, but your mother—conservative, stubborn, convinced she knew what was best—had forbidden you from working until after college. You were only in your second year, two long years still ahead of you, and the thought of waiting while the debt grew like a shadow at your back made your stomach twist.

“I’ll talk to Dad,” you said finally, though the words didn’t carry much hope.

Carmen snorted, not unkindly but with that sharp edge of truth. “Yeah, good luck with that.”

“Okay, can we at least try to be hopeful?” you say, rolling your eyes the way you always do when you want something to sound light even though the pit in your stomach is real and loud, “I’ll figure something out—maybe I can make money from my thesis, or sell a few pieces, or—”

Carmen cuts you off before you can finish, the kind of blunt you’ve come to expect from someone majoring in Finance and who lives in spreadsheets and emergency plans, “That’s not really enough.”

You know she’s right; you know it in the slow way the room seems to tilt when you think about the numbers. Carmen is ridiculously smart, the sort of person who hears a problem and immediately sees three solutions and the risks attached to each, and lately she’s been the one keeping your expenses from collapsing into chaos because she actually understands how money breathes. You haven’t been entirely honest with her, not about how bad it’s gotten, and you can feel the warmth of her patience cooling into something sharper.

“I wish I could help,” she says at last, pity threaded through the words in a way that stings more than it should. “How much do you owe the bank?”

You lower your voice, embarrassed, the number tasting small and huge at once. “A thousand dollars.”

She swears, the single expletive landing like a slap because of how unremarkable and how huge it sounds coming from her. “You’re fucking crazy.”

“I know, I know—sorry—” you start, hands fluttering for something to steady you.

Carmen exhales, a long, exasperated sound, and presses her palms to her forehead as if trying to massage sense back into the situation. “Holy shit, Y/n. How the hell are you going to pay for that?”

“I don’t know,” you admit, exasperation folding into the slump of your shoulders as you lean back in the chair and let it creak under the small weight of your worry, shaking your head like the motion could dislodge the problem, “I’ll figure it out.”

Carmen’s eyes narrow; there’s no patience left for gentle encouragement, only the blunt edge of someone who sees consequences clearly and refuses to coddle them. “You better,” she says, voice low and dangerous, “or else you’re fucked.”

“So, what do I owe this visit for?”

“Hello, Mrs. Romanoff—”

“Please,” she interrupts with the kind of smile that has always left you off-balance, “call me Natasha.” She ushers you inside, her hand brushing yours as she closes the door behind you, and already there’s something in the air that feels heavier, charged, like static before a storm. “We’ve known each other since you were just a baby, after all.”

You nod, but the movement feels mechanical, because your stomach is alive with flutters you haven’t felt in years. When you were a kid, you’d been hopelessly enamored with her—this woman who seemed too beautiful, too elegant, too untouchable to belong to the same ordinary world you lived in. She had always been a charmer, her voice warm, her presence commanding, and sometimes you’d wondered if she was flirting with your mother, though your mother always laughed it off, insisting they were just good friends. Your father adored her, too, and from what you knew Natasha had a wife—Wanda, though you weren’t sure if that was still true anymore.

“Would you like a glass of orange juice? I remember you liked that,” she murmurs, the softness of her voice a little too intimate, a little too knowing. “Unless… you’ve changed.” Her hand lingers at your lower back as she guides you further inside, the touch deceptively casual but enough to make your pulse quicken. 

You haven’t, not really, and yet everything feels different now. Especially here, in her house—dark wood floors that gleam under the low light, shelves lined with heavy books and artifacts you can’t quite place, the air smelling faintly of leather, citrus, and something sharper, something like her. It’s beautiful in that dark academia way, elegant but shadowed, as though every corner hides some secret.

And standing here in it, with her hand still close, you realize how much you want to uncover them.

“Yes,” you stammer, your lips dry, your voice thinner than you’d like. “I’d… like that.”

Natasha’s smile tilts, a little bashful, her hair swept up into a loose bun that frames the sharp lines of her face. You turn, following where she leads, and your eyes catch on the photographs along the stairs—snapshots of years gone by, but none of them wedding pictures, none of them Natasha and Wanda. The absence stings louder than presence. Huh, you think, a strange mix of curiosity and relief blooming in your chest. I guess they did get divorced.

“W-Where’s Wanda?” The question slips out before you can stop it, even though you already suspect the answer.

The fridge door clicks shut, and Natasha leans back against it, her expression unreadable, shoulders lifting in the slightest shrug. “We got a divorce a few years ago.”

Your throat tightens. “I—I’m so sorry—”

“Don’t be.” Her tone is steady, almost casual, as if the words had lost all weight over time. “It was over long before then. I found out she’d been having an affair with Vision.” She says it like she’s reading from a grocery list, not speaking of betrayal, and for a moment you wonder if she’s truly as unaffected as she sounds.

“Come,” she gestures with a hand, gentle but firm, “sit at the bar.”

You obey quietly, sliding onto the stool as she sets a glass of orange juice in front of you before claiming the seat beside you. Too close. Close enough that her fragrance—citrus bright, woodsy and deep, with that lingering trace of rose—wraps around you like memory. It’s the same scent you remember from childhood, the one you’d never quite been able to name, but always associated with her. Even now it pulls at you, unsettling in its familiarity.

“Your message seemed a little urgent.” Natasha sets her phone on the counter, her green eyes finding yours with that sharp, unblinking focus that always made you feel both exposed and seen. “What’s wrong, doll? Did something happen?”

Your heart stumbles. Oh god. If she keeps calling me that—

“Y-You have a company, right?”

Natasha tilts her head, studying you, then nods slowly. “Yes. I do. Why?”

The words catch in your throat. You’re terrified to ask—to beg, really—whether she might consider hiring you as an intern, or if she could at least put your name forward to someone she knows. You know it’s a lot, especially after all this time, after the distance that had kept her visits to your family rare. But desperation has a way of stripping you bare, and in this moment you decide there’s nothing pathetic about wanting to survive.

“I was wondering if…” The words taper off, thin and trembling, your knees knocking beneath the counter as though they’re trying to flee without you. Anxiety coils through your stomach, the kind that gnaws, whispering what-ifs—what if she laughs, what if she thinks you’re nothing but a greedy girl trying to milk an old family friend, what if she sends you out the door and never looks back? You wince at the thought and clasp your hands together tightly, nails pressing crescents into your palms. Get it together. “If I could… maybe be your intern. I know a lot about writing, and I’d love to learn in your field. Or if you know someone who could—”

“Woah, woah, slow down, kotenok.” Natasha’s voice cuts in, warm yet commanding, her hand finding your back and smoothing over it in slow, steady strokes. She acts as though you’re on the verge of a breakdown, though you aren’t even close to hyperventilating. “What’s happening? Something must’ve happened.”

What’s happening? Oh, nothing major, just that you’ve spent too much money on things you don’t need, have been trying to shoulder tuition by yourself, and now you’re buried in debt so deep it’s choking you. Is that what you want to hear, Ms. Romanoff?

“You wouldn’t want to know,” you murmur instead, but she hushes you softly, her hand still lingering, fingers tracing comfort into your spine. When she turns her head, her hair slips neatly over her shoulder, and suddenly her freckles are there, close enough to count. God, she’s beautiful—you’re enchanted, like you’ve stepped into some spell you can’t crawl out of. And here you are, pathetic, begging her for work.

“Are you doing okay financially?”

You shake your head. She only nods, her expression calm, understanding.

“Okay,” she says, steady as ever. “What happened? You’re still at NYU, right?”

“I… I have plans to drop out—”

“Please don’t,” she interrupts, her tone firm, almost pleading. “You know your father would’ve wanted you there.”

“I know, but I’m in so much debt,” you confess, voice cracking as tears sting your eyes. You swipe them away with the back of your hand, embarrassed by how quickly they come. “It’s my fault, really. I’ve been paying for my tuition because my parents aren’t working right now. You know Mom.”

She nods again, no judgment in her face.

“And Dad—” your voice falters, “—well, his car workshop isn’t doing so great, and he’s been… sitting around. So it’s been me, paying tuition, paying for essentials. I’ve been ghost-writing papers for students, sometimes the pay is good, but lately it’s barely anything. And honestly?” You laugh weakly, bitter. “I’ve been buying so much shit I don’t need. Are you sure you really want to hear all this?”

But Natasha doesn’t flinch. Her jaw doesn’t tighten, her expression doesn’t falter. She only listens, steady and unshaken, her hand never leaving your back. For some reason, that steadiness makes it easier to breathe. You find solace in it, though a small voice inside still whispers that you must look pathetic to her, desperate and small.

“You don’t have to help,” you add quietly, forcing a thin smile, already trying to pull yourself away before she can reject you. “You wouldn’t want an intern like me.”

“I didn’t say that.”

Natasha’s gaze held you and suddenly the room narrowed to the green of her eyes, a color you’d never noticed properly as a child because you’d only ever seen her across a dinner table or at some polite gathering, never this close, never looking at you like she was reading the inside of your skull, and now you understood — painfully, absurdly — why Wanda might have been tempted, though the idea felt ugly and impossible, because Natasha moved through the world like a private storm, beautiful and precise and terrible all at once.

Her other hand came to your wrist and the fingers closed around you with a pressure that was at once casual and claiming, gentle enough to be kind but hard enough to leave a heat under your skin, “How much,” she asked, voice low, the words drawn out so they could roll around between you.

“A… a thousand dollars,” you said, the number out of you before you could bury it, and she nodded, slow, as if weighing it against something you couldn’t see. “That’s a lot, doll,” she said, and there was no judgment in it, only a darkness that made your pulse ping in your throat.

You murmured an apology, words falling thin, and she let out a sound that might have been a laugh or might have been a small rueful sigh, “You’re right, you shouldn’t have been buying things you don’t need,” her tone sharp enough to feel like a scolding, and then softer, softer still as she watched the shape of your mouth, as if pity and hunger and amusement were all curdling into one expression and you tasted it. Her thumb brushed your wrist in a motion that looked accidental, and you felt it sweep everything away at once — the debt, your plans, the small dignity you’d tried to keep.

“I’m glad you reached out,” she said, and the words landed like an invitation, then a warning, “but I can’t let you be my intern—it would be… dangerous.” The last word lingered in the air, velvet and edged, and you realized with a small, reckless thrill that she meant more than the job, that ‘dangerous’ could be a promise or a threat, and you did not know which you wanted more. 

She holds your face like she’s learning the map of it, thumb and forefinger steady at your jaw while the rest of the kitchen blurs into background noise, the clock ticking and the hum of the fridge reduced to a distant tide. Her eyes are a private ocean — green and deep and hungry — and when she leans closer the air between you charges so quickly you could swear you can feel the electric filament of it.

“For I have something else in mind,” she says, voice low and silk-thin, and the words curl around you like smoke. They’re deliberate, measured, as if she’s been practicing how to say them so they land in the exact place she wants.

You would do anything. The thought arrives without ceremony, a foolish, urgent truth you can’t deny, and it sits in your throat warm and dangerous.

Natasha lets her fingers fall away and props her chin on one hand, watching you with an expression that’s part appraisal, part amusement, part something that makes your ribs clench. “You’re very beautiful,” she says, smiling like it’s a fact and a temptation at once. Her palm slides down to your knee with a casualness that is anything but casual, a single squeeze that leaves a little signature of heat where fabric separates skin from skin. “And I’ll be honest—I thought about kissing you the moment I saw you.”

Your breath stammers; the room leans in. For one dizzy second you are that small kid again, orbiting the grownups, desperate for one benevolent look, and then the child folds away because Natasha’s gaze is not maternal, not simple; it is possession with velvet edges.

She straightens and the practical voice returns, “But you can’t work for me,” she says, and there’s no explanation needed—she’s already drawn the line, clear and immovable on the surface: too complicated, too compromising. “It would be… dangerous, for both of us.” 

You feel the lifeline of her offer—placement at a company she trusts, a name that opens doors, a stipend steady enough to keep the red numbers at bay—and you should be grateful, you know you should, but gratitude gets tangled with something darker because the air between you hasn’t returned to ordinary. Her hand is still against your knee, and the scent around her—citrus and wood and the faint ghost of rose—fills your lungs like permission.

She watches you with a slow, feline smile. “I can place you somewhere excellent,” she murmurs, “somewhere respectable, with people who will take your work seriously. You’ll get experience, and pay, and you won’t have to swallow that fear every morning.” The promise is precise, practical, the kind of help that could reroute a life, and you can feel panic easing in your chest because the future suddenly looks like something with edges again.

Then she leans in, and the whisper that follows has nothing to do with CVs or references. It’s a deliberate change in tone, a velvet hand over a blade. “But I’m not offering you an internship here,” she says, each syllable measured, “because I don’t want us mixed up in that way.” Her fingers find yours and curl around them, holding as if to steady you and as if to mark you, and you realize she could let go at any moment and you would still be glittering from the contact.

“What if I told you I could wipe it all away?” Natasha tilts her head, that small, impossible smile pulling at one corner of her mouth as if she’s tasting the idea before she gives it to you, and when she speaks the kitchen shutters itself to the sound of her voice—low, even, silk over steel. “I could pay off your debt, every red number on every screen, and I could pay your tuition so you don’t have to crawl through another semester with that weight on your back. I could buy you the things you want—the stupid, useless things you tell yourself you deserve—or the things you actually need. I could get you an apartment, proper and safe, somewhere you don’t wake up to bills and panic, and if you wanted… you could live with me.”

The offer hangs between you like a promise and a question at once, generous and dangerous, an incision that leaves you both relieved and raw.

Her smile darkens in a way that makes the back of your neck prickle. “I want something else,” she says, and the words slow down until they become a small danger you can taste. “I want you.” Her mouth curves, indulgent and hungry. “Not on my payroll, not in my office. With me. Close. Safe—in my house, in my life. I would take care of you. Pay your debts, pay your tuition, buy you the things you tell yourself you don’t deserve. I would make room so the world couldn’t reach you the way it does now.”

You know what she’s saying before she finishes, the phrase landing with a clarity that leaves no room for euphemism, no softening. She names it like a contract and a caress at once. “Would you be my sugar baby?” she asks, and there is nothing coy or half-hearted about it, the question deliberate, almost ceremonial, spoken as if she is placing an offering at your feet and watching to see whether you will take it.

The kitchen holds its breath. Her hand tightens around yours a fraction, a punctuation that feels both protective and owning. In that tiny pressure you understand the shape of the bargain: freedom from the numbers, an ease you have not known in months, and in exchange something intimate that will belong to her — time, presence, perhaps favors she will expect and expect in kind. The word sugar tastes oddly modern and mercantile on her lips, yet when she says it it becomes heavy with promise.

You can see the life she sketches without words: a tidy ledger that reads balanced, evenings that begin with coffee and end warm and muted, a name whispered in introductions that opens rooms, a small army of obligations she will shoulder for a price that is not written in dollars. The danger is visible now and bright; it is a coin that glitters and cuts at the same time, and you are, impossibly, already moving toward it.

“I want you to be my sugar baby.”

You swallowed hard when her lips pressed against the palm of your hand—a slow, deliberate kiss, claiming more than just skin. It felt like possession, like she was etching her name into the space between your ribs, and the absurd intimacy of it made your head spin. You wanted to recoil, to stand and leave and never let her see you tremble—because you weren’t that kind of girl, you told yourself—but the warmth of her mouth lingered, seeping into places that had nothing to do with flesh and everything to do with want.

The words stammered inside you—say no, leave, don’t let her in—but something older and darker coiled beneath, a hunger you couldn’t ignore. You told yourself maybe you could take what she offered, clear your debts, rebuild your life, and walk away when it was all over—but the thought of leaving felt like loss, like severing a vein you hadn’t realized you needed.

“N—Natasha, I don’t—” you began, the protest thin, brittle.

Her fingers tightened once on your knee, then eased—patient, certain, as if time bent to her will. “Your parents won’t have to know,” she cut in, her tone velvet, dangerous in its softness. “Think about it—you, having everything you want, without a worry. Isn’t that wonderful?”

“W-Why are you doing this?” The question left you small, unsteady, the thrill in your bones betraying you.

Her smile deepened, as she squeezed your knee again. “Because I long for someone like you.”

The truth of it struck like a blade wrapped in silk. Salvation braided with possession, safety tangled with surrender—freedom traded for closeness. Every alarm inside you should have been screaming, every instinct telling you to run—but it felt like gravity instead, heavy and inevitable.

You were absolutely fucked—and worse, you wanted it. You wanted her, all of her, and the thought of saying no hurt more than the danger of saying yes.

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

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

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

YOU: no, i haven't. is it any good?

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

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

Your throat tightened.

YOU: i have an exam tomorrow

NATASHA: Professor Rogers' class?

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

She felt close.

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

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

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

Would you have told her it was wrong?

Would you have meant it?

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

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

Yearning, you thought. Is that the right term?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it didn't hit the floor.

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

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

You turned.

And for a moment, the entire room fell away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm—"

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

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

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

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

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

"Only a little," you teased.

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

And maybe that's what made you nervous.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"She did?"

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

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

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

But you weren't there for good intentions.

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

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

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

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

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

You nodded, settling beside him.

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

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

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

And maybe, for tonight, that was enough.

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

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

Six messages. All from her.

NATASHA: Are you ignoring me?

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

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

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

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

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

And what did it mean that you even cared?

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

Still, you typed.

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

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

It only took her a minute to reply.

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

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

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

YOU: I did! I didn't drink though.

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

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

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

Lose your innocence? For what?

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

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

You inhaled sharply.

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

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

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

Pause.

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

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

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

Until you wanted her to say them out loud.

YOU: okay, I will tell you next time.

You were in her office again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You glanced at her. 

Once. 

Then again. 

"Professor?"

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

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

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

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

"You can't even look at me."

"That's different from a response."

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

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

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

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

"Like what, Professor Romanoff?"

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

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

You knelt onto the floor. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you did.

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

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

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

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

And there it was.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"God," she whispered. "You look so—"

She didn't finish.

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

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

You start stroking her fast. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You moaned shamelessly and muffled with a whimper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"In my mouth, please—Professor!"

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

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

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

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

“Look at me,” she said.

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

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

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

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

“I needed it,” you murmured.

And she—God, she smiled.

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

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

You lean into it.

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

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

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

“You can’t tell anyone,” she said.

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

“I won’t,” you whispered.

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

Like she planned to never give it back.