Mama Natasha One Shots

Normal's Overrated

Age: 15

Plot: quick shot of y/n's days as a Romanoff

A/N: kinda test n2, so 🤞and hope for the best

Y/N's POV:

Being a Romanoff isn't easy, and whoever thinks it is, they're dead wrong - like, seriously off the mark. And I'm speaking from real-life experience here, man. It's like living in some never-ending soap opera.

Trust issues hit a whole new level - you never know if someone's hanging with you because you're cool or just because your last name is Romanoff. And that's some messed-up crap.

They might as well be plotting to off you! It's like 'Stranger Danger' on steroids for your whole life. Come on, folks, can't you see the massive red flag waving?

But, listen up, it's not all gloom and doom. Picture this - having a mom who's an absolute badass, and not just any badass but THE Black Widow. And you know what's wild? She's not just out there saving the world; she's also acing the mom game, showering me with love. Plus, she's not just my mom; she's practically my best friend. Yup, you heard me correctly, I'm the daughter of the legendary butt-kicking Avenger.

Said so, sometimes I wish I could just be ordinary. No superhero fuss, no constant "Is she as ... as her mom?" chatter, no nasty "comments" about my mother and/or my family, and above all no to all these fake people trying to get close to me just because of my fucking last name!

So, here I am, your not-so-average New York teen, with a super-hero background.

The alarm decides to play hide and seek with me this morning. FRIDAY didn't warn me, and I'm three minutes away from being fashionably late for school.

Cue the morning chaos - wash, dress, eat, and get out. And my cargo pants decided to act up today. "Ugh, STICK IT IN!" I argue with my rebellious pants.

Note to self: get pants that cooperate.

After I slap those on, I grab the shoes, shirt, and yarn in the bathroom real quick. "Сука!" that stupid shirt doesn't want to go in, that's all we're missing. A quick rinse, backpack grab, and I'm outta there. Mom's on my case about breakfast, but who has time for that when you're about to be fashionably late for school? The answer, no one.

I enter the kitchen and place my backpack on a stool. Everyone is there, at least those who are already awake even though everyone should be. "I'm running away, I'm in a hurry, see you later, I love you!" I shout running away with my backpack on my shoulder after grabbing an apple. I hear some muffled replies as I dash towards the elevator to the garage, where I know that mom is already waiting for me, hopefully with the engine already running.

"Four minutes and fifteen seconds, new record" I mumble checking the clock, impatiently waiting for the elevator. When the elevator doors open with a soft 'ding', I rocket off towards my mother's car, my heart pounding with urgency.

I slide into the car seat, and mom gives me that look, you know, the classic 'running late again' gaze. I shoot her a smirk, blaming FRIDAY for the alarm malfunction. Seriously, AIs need to up their game.

"What happened to your hair, darling?" she questions, attempting to suppress a smile. I run my fingers through the tangled mess and panic, I forgot to fix my hair. Seeing my terrified eyes and also my hair, she leans over the console to pick up a hair tie and hands it to me. "Oh my gosh, mama you're a lifesaver!" I say, quickly snatching the hair tie. Crisis averted.

When she turns on the engine, the familiar hum of the engine and the city rushing by soothe the chaos in my head for a moment.

As we speed through the crazy New York traffic, mom shoots me this concerned look. "Everything cool, sweetheart?" she asks in that warm Russian accent. I give her the "just regular teenage chaos" response, trying to play it off like it's a breeze. But she sees through it, always does.