The Yandere Babysitting Plan

Kara woke up to the smell of coffee and the faint hum of tension in the air.

Her eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the soft morning light filtering through the curtains of her S.H.I.E.L.D. guesthouse. She stretched, feeling the familiar warmth of her growing power beneath her skin. Teleportation was getting easier. Her heat vision felt sharper. And she was pretty sure she could bend the entire bedframe into a pretzel if she really wanted to.

But the real surprise wasn't her powers.

It was the sight of Natasha Romanoff standing in her kitchen, brewing coffee, wearing her tactical gear like she was ready to storm Normandy Beach.

Kara blinked. "Good morning to you too… Did you sleep in my bushes last night?"

Natasha glanced over her shoulder, eyes cool but lips twitching in amusement.

"You don't need to know where I slept."

Kara smirked, sitting up. "So, in the bushes then."

Natasha didn't dignify that with a response, but Kara caught the subtle flush on her cheeks.

She was starting to get used to this dynamic—flirting with a deadly assassin first thing in the morning. It was weird. But good weird.

Kara stood, yawning as she approached the counter.

"Please tell me you didn't sneak in to poison me."

Natasha slid a mug toward her. "If I wanted you dead, you wouldn't have woken up."

Kara raised her eyebrows. "Hot."

Natasha coughed into her coffee.

As they sat across from each other—Kara sipping her coffee, Natasha pretending she wasn't monitoring every possible exit—the Black Widow laid out the new rules.

"All future trips outside will be authorized by me. No exceptions."

Kara raised a brow. "Not even for pizza?"

Natasha didn't blink. "Especially not for pizza."

Kara snorted. "God, you're strict. What's next? A curfew?"

Natasha's silence was too long.

Kara stared. "Wait… seriously?"

"You'll be back here by 8 PM sharp," Natasha continued, voice even. "And… I've reassigned most of the agents who were working near you."

Kara leaned back, eyes narrowing slightly—but not in anger.

"Oh… I get it now."

"Get what?"

Kara grinned. "You're marking your territory."

Natasha stiffened. "That's not—"

Kara leaned in, lowering her voice.

"It's okay. I don't mind. It's kind of hot."

Natasha opened her mouth—then closed it again, face turning noticeably red.

Later that day, Natasha's phone buzzed with the one name she couldn't ignore.

Nick Fury.

She answered with her usual professionalism, but his voice was already gravelly with suspicion.

"Romanoff… Did you reassign half my female field agents because of the Kryptonian?"

Natasha straightened in her chair. "Security adjustments."

Fury sighed. "Look, I don't care if you date her. Just keep her from leveling Manhattan."

Natasha almost choked. "It's not like that—"

The line went dead.

She stared at her phone, mortified.

Date her?

The thought had crossed her mind before—in those late moments when Kara's teasing lingered in her head like a song she couldn't shake.

But hearing it from Fury made it feel real.

And worse? It didn't sound bad.

Over the next few days, Kara noticed it more and more.

Every time she stepped out, Natasha was right there—like a red-haired shadow with guns and emotional issues.

The female agents who used to stammer when they brought her coffee? Gone.

The nurse who blushed every time she checked Kara's vitals? Transferred.

Kara saw how other women flinched when Natasha was nearby, and she connected the dots quickly.

Her first instinct had been concern.

But her second?

She liked it.

There was something exhilarating about being wanted so fiercely.

Powerful women fighting over her?

She could get used to that.

The pheromone effect was still alive and well.

Female cashiers blushed when handing her change, and one barista spelled her name wrong three times because she was too distracted staring at Kara's midriff.

Men, on the other hand, remained immune.

One guy literally handed her coffee with a "Thanks, alien lady," and walked away like she was a vending machine.

Kara found it hilarious.

Natasha did not.

One night, Kara sat alone on the guesthouse balcony, looking over the city.

She thought about Natasha—protective, deadly, blushing whenever Kara teased her.

And then she thought about Wanda—intense, dangerous, promising freedom with every word.

Both women wanted her. But for different reasons.

And the weirdest part? Kara liked both.

She felt powerful in a way that had nothing to do with her strength.

That night, Kara dreamed.

She was floating through red mist, the air warm and intoxicating.

Then Wanda was there—draped in crimson, her hand brushing over Kara's cheek.

"You deserve more," Wanda whispered, her voice like silk. "Power is freedom."

Kara's heart raced.

"You'll understand soon… and you'll come to me."

The dream lingered on the edge of pleasure and danger.

When Kara woke, she felt flushed—breathing hard, heart pounding.

She touched her face, half-expecting Wanda to still be there.

"God… what is happening?"

She stumbled to the kitchen, grabbing a slice of pizza from the fridge.

Cold pizza was the universal solution to emotional confusion.

While Kara slept, Natasha sat outside the guesthouse, gun resting on her knee, eyes scanning the street.

Her mind raced—replaying every look Wanda had given Kara.

She couldn't let that woman get close again.

She couldn't let anyone get close.

Kara was hers to protect.

Hers to guard.

Hers.

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