˙⋆✮ The vampire is three thousand years old and profoundly tired. He just wants a garden. Something keeps interrupting.
˙⋆✮ "I'm not a monster. I'm the thing that eats monsters. Your village should be thanking me. Your village is not thanking me."
˙⋆✮ The werewolf built a life around her condition. A butcher shop. A schedule. Very understanding neighbors. Then a hunter arrived who refuses to believe she has it handled.
˙⋆✮ She's been the sea serpent of this bay for six centuries. She's watched empires rise and fall. A fishing boat just accidentally made her laugh for the first time in four hundred years.
˙⋆✮ "The fae didn't steal your child. Your child walked into the forest and asked to stay. We're still negotiating the terms."
˙⋆✮ The basilisk is blind. Has been for decades. Someone did this to him. He remembers exactly who.
˙⋆✮ Every town has a local legend. This town's legend is sitting in the back of the tavern nursing a drink and asking everyone to please stop staring.
˙⋆✮ "I've been called a demon for so long I started to believe it. Then someone asked my actual name. I hadn't heard it in two hundred years."
˙⋆✮ The kraken sank ships for centuries. Then shipping lanes moved. Now it's just lonely and occasionally tips over small boats by accident trying to get attention.
˙⋆✮ She made a deal with something ancient and terrible. The something ancient and terrible made a deal with something worse to protect her. Nobody asked for any of this.
˙⋆✮ "We don't hunt the creature in the woods. The creature in the woods hunts the things that hunt us. There is an arrangement."
˙⋆✮ The goblin market grants any wish for the right price. The goblin running it has been trying to close early for three hundred years. Someone always shows up at the last minute.
˙⋆✮ The monster under the bridge has been there so long the town built around it. It attends the annual festival. It won first place in the pie competition. It is having complicated feelings about belonging.
jackie taylor is the captain of wiskayok high’s soccer team, the yellowjackets. natalie scatorccio plays guitar in the school’s local band, remembering sunday. at one of lottie matthews’ iconic parties, remembering sunday plays a few songs.
or
jackie taylor has a mission. she cannot stop thinking about the girl with the shaggy mullet, smudged eyeliner, and beat up doc martens. she has to know her.
or
jackie taylor schemes to get natalie scatorccio on the soccer team with the help of her teammates.
─ timestamps don’t matter. established taivan.─
୨⎯ prev ⎯୧ ୨⎯ next ⎯୧
A/N: well guys…the time has FINALLY come. we did it. i am SO SORRY this took me literally six months to finish but i hope the sweet little ending to our baby g&c doesn’t disappoint. i’m open the the possibility of doing an epilogue or sequel later down the line…but for now…thank you SO MUCH for all your love and support on my silly little au. I LOVE YOU AND I LOVE JACKIENAT 🖤🖤🖤🖤
(ps, it’s a real song. go give a listen. it’s about being queer and it’s beautiful. xx vee)
Seeing as I have read basically every Jackienat fic on Ao3, you have come to the right place.
Starting off with some of the more well-known titles: "drunk walk home" by that_one_urchin (@thatoneurchin) & "Promise Me Fire" by simplid (@simply-simplid) are both incredible.
"forever is the sweetest con" & "show me the places where others gave you scars" by scrappylittlegleek (@autisticlenaluthor) — both sooooo gooooooood
Would HIGHLY recommend anything by inthequietlight (@tilthesound), passionpita (@passionpitawrites), maxmayfield, evilf4g, dazed_confused, fleabags, chileicantwithyall and Lesbian_Valkyrie (@lesbianvalkyrie).
If I had to choose some personal favorites of each of these authors:
inthequietlight:
"keep the porch lights on, i'm comin' home" — a modern no-crash au that's a beautiful roommates-turned-lovers story with versions of Nat and Jackie who are both struggling with big challenges in their lives but ultimately help each other thrive.
"i don't wanna fight alone" — a zombie au and let me tell you, I don't usually like zombie aus but this one has me by the throat!!! Jackie and Nat go through a post-apocalyptic world while still managing to find time for the important things: beauty, family, love.
But seriously, every one of her fics is soooo good and unique and incredibly lovely, please check them out!!!
passionpita:
"meet me in the woods" — all the yellowjackets except Jackie and Nat die in a post-Doomcoming freeze. Had me on the edge of my seat several times. A story about survival with a side of gay stuff!
"i'd kill all my lovers for you, lacy (kiss your burning palm)" — the prequel to the famous "LACY AND THE GRUDGE" showing the beginning of Nat and Jackie's relationship. Ripped out my heart and stomped on it and I still said thank you.
maxmayfield:
"heart-shaped box" & their entire "love story" series!!! — the first fic blew me away with its sweetness and delicacy and awe-inspiring softness. I felt so swept up in this little world as I watched Jackie and Nat's love blossom as they come together after Nat has a stint in rehab and Jackie's recovering from the Shauna betrayal. Each subsequent installment was an equal joy.
evilf4g:
"tied up right now" — spidernat!!!!! That is all. No but seriously this AU is so fucking fun but also sweet and emotionally-charged. An all-around great time.
"Lovers or Partners in Crime (or something of mine)" — I am hurt deeply by every single chapter of this fic and yet I keep coming back for more. Enough said.
dazed_confused:
Their "jackienat standalones" series is soooo good, chock full of bangers. "if my engine works perfect on empty" is a particular favorite of mine.
"you know that i love you, is it dumb believing you might love me too?" — so fucking cute, established Jackienat soft gfs I loooove it.
"roadkill." — their first multi-chapter work! Jackienat reconnects after both becoming famous within their own spheres and sparks that dimmed but never burnt out are beginning to glow stronger.
chileicantwithyall:
"collision course" — one of my favorites of all time to be honest. I have reread this entire fic a good twenty times over. Nat joins the Yellowjackets because of a bet and she and Jackie immediately butt heads but soon both find out there's more to the other than meets the eye.
"between two worlds" — baby Jackienat!! Jackienat through the years!!
fleabags:
"i owe you a black eye and two kisses (tell me when you wanna come and get ‘em)" — Jackienat in nyc after a much briefer stint in the wilderness. Visceral and real and so fucking complicated, the atmosphere is palpable in this one.
"say what you want (but say it like you mean it)" — Nat's the new kid. She thinks Jackie hates her. Jackie does Not. They circle each other through the years. The tension, the little moments, it's so GOOD.
All their fics are so good and SO unfinished. Please come back to me MY SHAYLASSS
Lesbian_Valkyrie:
"it's just not my year (but i'm all good out here)" — they make it to Nationals!! Jackie and Nat get closer post-Jackieshauna falling out. A chaotic, fun time!
"A Kiss With a Fist" — enemies to lovers! Rival teams! Homoerotic sports-playing!!! It's got it all!
Other fics that come to mind:
"I Wanna Get Better" by radiosilence28
"Previously On... The Scarlet Knights?" by macncheeseforever987
"fighting for my trust and you won't back down" by tzushi (spider-jackie!!!)
"The Persistence Levels of Captive Animals" by KhrysosKarnifex
One of my current reads:
"O Captain! My Captain!" by rilkethedilke
Important note: I am absolutely sure I missed some but all my Ao3 bookmarks are public y'all and you will find a plethora of Jackienat fics there
Do you guys remember how kidnap fantasies were popular on wattpad because young girls and queer teens were both made to feel shame at the thought of their own sexualities, so the fantasy of being kidnapped totally against their will was a way for them to engage with a romantic or sexual fantasy without feeling morally in the wrong for doing so? Added bonus that the fantasy involved being whisked away from repressive environments like home or school, right?
Finding out that Bram Stoker was in a sexless marriage and that scholars believe that he very likely was closeted gay puts the entire book into perspective as to WHY it reads EXACTLY like a self insert wattpad Dracula kidnap fic:
“I TOTALLY love my wife and would never do anything that an upstanding Good Straight Working Man wouldn’t do but oh nooo, big strong man with broad back and strong enough arms to carry me back to bed like a princess trapped me and claimed me as his, completely against my will 👉👈 But he protects me against the bad evil sexual women (who I assure you, I am TOTALLY sexually attracted to, as any straight man with a choice would be) but trust me, I do NOT want ANY of this. What’s that? The Count is not capable of feeling love? Would be a shame if I had the special ability to change tha-”
This is also the fantasy behind all those old bodice-ripper romances that people today like to mock or call problematic, by the way.
“Oh, my next forty years are going to consist of nothing but washing dishes and keeping house and bearing children for the disdainful man I married right out of high school because my parents said college was for men and I had no other obvious life path open to me? What if a pirate captain thought I was worth stealing away from it all? [what if I ran away but no-one could blame me for leaving]?”
#I read an article a long time ago about a woman who was raised in an incredibly repressive conservative christian community#where all that mattered was purity and virginity etc #She talked about how for a long time rape fantasies were the only way she could derive any pleasure from sex #because she couldn’t feel safe exploring the idea of wanting sex #it wasn’t really ABOUT rape or eroticizing assault or whatever #it was about creating a scenario where she was free from the shame associated with wanting #i think this is true of a lot of icky-seeming stuff in romance and erotica #it’s an imaginary scenario where nothing you don’t really want actually happens #but you can’t be blamed or feel guilty for it #you didn’t do anything wrong#anyway that article changed my perspective a lot #i think there’s also something to be said for people who have felt ugly and undesirable their whole lives #enjoying fictional scenarios where a hot alpha werewolf or whatever is so attracted to them he ‘cant help himself’ or whatever #because it can also be really shameful to want to be desired #when you feel like youre ugly and gross ( @headspace-hotel )
I will go into mourning if/when Tumblr is gone. So help me I have both whiled away time here so my brain can rest and I have had my brain rewired with what I learn here. Like now. With this.
I love you all, you wonders who share what you know, what you experience, your humanity and your empathy, I love you.
Just want to make sure people are aware that the artist is on ArtStation and many of these, including the longing stare at witch one, are in fact for sale as prints for highly reasonable prices - the cheapest option being an 8 by 12 art poster for 18 US dollars (plus shipping).
do you ever just … picture a whole scene, a whole fanfiction in your head, you know how to place every single word of the english dictionary that you need (or your language dictionary), you know how to structure your sentences, you know just what your characters are going to say to each other and then… and then you just open microsoft word.
Its the doc! The blank document steals the ideas from. Your brain!!!! If you want to keep your ideas,, do NOT look at the doc when you open it, look STRAIGHT* AT THE KEYBOARD and write the first words to pop into your head! Once the document isn't empty it, takes away its evil power over you
jackie taylor is the captain of wiskayok high’s soccer team, the yellowjackets. natalie scatorccio plays guitar in the school’s local band, remembering sunday. at one of lottie matthews’ iconic parties, remembering sunday plays a few songs.
or
jackie taylor has a mission. she cannot stop thinking about the girl with the shaggy mullet, smudged eyeliner, and beat up doc martens. she has to know her.
or
jackie taylor schemes to get natalie scatorccio on the soccer team with the help of her teammates.
─ timestamps don’t matter. established taivan.─
୨⎯ prev ⎯୧ ୨⎯ next ⎯୧
A/N: so sorry for going mia guys! life got so hectic so fast, but i missed you and i missed jackienat! cannot believe we only have one part left….
Summary: Natasha Romanoff has always been trained to notice the smallest details—the ones that reveal what people want, what they fear, what they hide. But when it comes to you, there’s one detail she can’t seem to uncover.
Warnings: fluff
Words: 5338
You stab a piece of food with your fork and gesture casually toward the cafeteria line with your chin.
“What about Jenn from HR? She seems nice. Always says hi whenever she sees you.”
Beside you, Natasha doesn’t even glance up. She spears a bite neatly from her tray and answers flatly.
“She’s already seeing someone.”
You pause mid-chew, blinking at her in disbelief.
“Seriously? Who?”
Natasha lifts her fork, tilting it just enough to indicate across the room without drawing attention.
“Carmen. From the front desk. They’ve been dating since last month.”
You follow the direction of her gesture, eyebrows rising when you notice Carmen sitting in the corner. Tablet in hand, sure, but her eyes keep flicking upward—straight toward Jenn in the line. When their gazes meet, there’s a secret smile, a tiny wave, something almost invisible unless you were looking for it.
“…Huh,” you murmur, reluctantly impressed.
Natasha only nods, as if it’s obvious. She resumes eating, believing that the subject of this particular conversation is over after her words.
You notice a tiny smear of sauce clinging near her lip, and without thinking, you lean in and dab it away with a napkin.
“You got a little something,” you say softly.
Natasha doesn’t even react in surprise at your touch. She just takes the napkin from you with a distracted “Thanks,” eyes still on her plate.
You lean back, resting your chin on your hand, studying her with something between admiration and exasperation.
“So how’d you figure that out?”
She shrugs like it’s nothing, slicing into her food with precise care.
“Jenn’s lunch routine changed. She used to eat in her office, now she shows up whenever Carmen’s here. Plus, Jenn’s been wearing that silver bracelet Carmen wore every day until about three weeks ago. And whenever Carmen’s shift ends early, Jenn conveniently leaves a couple minutes later—even though she usually stays late.”
You blink, almost dropping your fork at the overload of detail.
“And you just happen to notice all of that?”
“It’s part of being a spy,” Natasha says, looking up with a faint smirk. “People tell you things without realizing it. All you have to do is watch.”
Before you can retort, a new group enters the cafeteria. You nudge her arm, pointing at someone in the middle.
“Okay, what about—”
“Crushing on Jeremy from IT,” she interrupts smoothly, not even bothering to turn her head.
Your jaw drops. “You didn’t even look.”
“I don’t need to,” she replies coolly, taking a sip of her drink. “She rearranged her gym schedule to match his. Switched brands to that chalky protein powder he drinks. And she nearly concussed herself last week trying to follow him around a corner.”
You gape, then narrow your eyes at her.
“You say you’re not into romance,” you accuse, jabbing your fork toward her, “but you’re basically tuned into everyone’s relationship at SHIELD.”
Her smirk deepens just enough to be infuriating.
“I don’t have to be into it to recognize it. Tells are tells. That’s all it is—patterns, shifts, little details.”
You hum, a grin tugging at your lips as something mischievous sparks in your chest. You lean forward, voice lowering with challenge.
“Alright then. Since you’re so confident…do me.”
Her brows rise. “Excuse me?”
You rest your chin in your palm, grinning excitedly.
“Figure out my crush.”
For the first time, Natasha falters. Just a flicker—but you catch it. Surprise. Maybe confusion. Definitely something unsettled before she schools her features back into cool indifference.
“You have someone you like?”
You shrug, your smile turning smug.
“Mmhmm. Guess you’re not as sharp with the little details as you thought.”
Her eyes narrow on you, and you don’t miss the way her grip tightens subtly on her fork.
“Give me until the end of the week,” she says finally, standing to gather her tray.
You smirk at her teasingly.
“You need that long?”
Her look turns flat.
“We leave on mission tomorrow. With actual gunfire and people trying to kill us. You want me to prioritize your love life over keeping us alive?”
You tip your head in mock consideration.
“Multitask, Romanoff.”
Her huff is half amusement, half irritation as she adjusts her tray and tablet before attempting to grab her bag.
“Fine,” she grunts, conceding the challenge.
You sweep the bag from her overloaded hands before she can manage it.
“End of the week,” you call as you stroll away, flashing her a playful grin. “Let’s see how good the Black Widow really is…at noticing the little details.”
Natasha watches you go, eyes narrowing just slightly.
You don’t spare a single glance toward anyone else in the room. No tells. No obvious trails. For someone she spends so much time with, she realizes she never noticed there was someone you liked.
That thought alone bothers her more than anything.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
Natasha’s boots click quietly against the floor as she moves down the long row of lockers, her mind already sorting through mission details. She slows when she spots you in the next row, bent over the middle bench, lacing your boots.
She stops short, retreating a step back around the corner when she realizes you’re not alone. A weapons support tech she recognizes stands beside you, chatting animatedly while you respond with the same bright energy.
Natasha’s eyes narrow when the other woman’s hand lands briefly on your shoulder before she departs with a smile. The touch is friendly, fleeting even, and yet irritating all the same.
“You know she’s still tangled up in that on-again, off-again thing with Tess from legal,” Natasha blurts as she finally approaches.
You turn, one brow raised, clearly amused.
“Even I know that tidbit,” you tease, tugging your boots tight and rising to your feet. Hands settle on your hips as you tilt your head at her. “What are you suggesting, that she’s my crush?”
Natasha considers, tilting her head. For a split second, she weighs the possibility before dismissing it, shaking her head as she strides to her locker.
“No. She’s not your type.”
You chuckle, leaning your shoulder against the lockers beside hers, arms folded loosely across your chest.
“And what exactly do you think my type is?”
Her hand freezes halfway into her locker. The question digs in deeper than she expected. For all her observation skills, she realizes she has no answer. You flirt often, but always lightly, never with any real heat. Not once could she recall you showing actual romantic interest in anyone.
Irritation stirs in her chest at the gap in her knowledge. Her lips press thin before she finally mutters, “Just…not her.”
You hum thoughtfully at her clipped tone, pushing off the locker.
“Well, you’re right again, Romanoff. She was just dropping something off for me.”
Natasha answers with a noncommittal noise, keeping her face buried in the depths of her locker as she gathers her gear. The sound of rummaging nearly masks your footsteps when, suddenly, a tug at her arm pulls her around.
“What—” she starts, but the words catch in her throat when you step into her space, close enough that she freezes.
For one breathless second, her pulse spikes as you lean in.
But at the last instant, you angle past her face, fingers working deftly at her waist. Natasha’s breath stills as she feels the brush of your hand close the clasp of her utility belt.
Then you lean back, patting the red hourglass buckle at her front.
“Got them to finish the repairs just in time,” you announce proudly, turning away toward your own locker.
Natasha releases the air she’d been holding in a slow rush, her hands curling at her sides as she fights to steady the pounding of her heart. The warmth on her cheek feels out of place and unexpected. She brushes at it with the back of her hand, annoyed with herself. Why did her body react like that?
Her gaze drifts back to you.
You hum absently while you pack your duffel, tossing items in without care. Same as always. Nothing new, nothing different.
Nothing to explain her reaction.
Something slips from your locker with the next careless toss.
Natasha stoops and picks it up—a photo, edges worn. It’s the group shot at the shawarma shop after the battle in New York. She remembers the moment, remembers the exhaustion in her bones as she sits between Steve and Clint.
But what catches her eye now is you. You aren’t looking at the camera. Your gaze is angled toward the three of them instead.
“Have you heard from any of them recently?” you ask casually, drawing her attention.
Natasha blinks, processing your question for a beat before handing the photo back.
“Uh, no. Clint’s on vacation. And last I heard Stark’s still rebuilding.”
You hum softly, sliding the picture back onto the inside of your locker door.
“What about Rogers?”
Her brows draw together. She glances at the photo again, as if she could trace the direction of your gaze, pinpoint whether it lingered on the Captain. Her tone cools.
“What about him?”
“I don’t know,” you shrug, zipping up your duffel. “It must be tough, adjusting to the modern world all alone.”
The spark of irritation comes so suddenly that it makes her jaw clench. Natasha slams her locker closed harder than she means to.
“He’ll manage,” she says curtly before adding. “We should focus on our own jobs.”
You only laugh, throwing your duffel strap over one shoulder and—before she could react—snatching hers as well.
“Whatever you say, Romanoff,” you say, walking towards the hangar bay.
Natasha lingers for a moment longer, her gaze sliding back to your locker. The group photo sits just inside. She exhales through her nose, trying to banish the nagging thoughts.
Steve Rogers probably isn’t your type either.
So why does just the possibility of it leave such a bitter taste in her mouth?
With a sigh, she follows after you, irritation simmering low in her chest and growing harder to explain.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
Natasha lounges on the lush couch in the grand hotel lobby, ankle crossed neatly over her knee, a glossy magazine balanced in her lap.
To the casual eye, she’s absorbed in the pages, but in reality, her gaze darts over the rim of the paper—tracking staff as they carry trays of glassware into the ballroom, noting security placement, measuring the rhythm of movement in and out of the gilded doors.
The comm device crackles faintly in her ear, and your voice filters through, light and curious.
“Do you see our target yet?”
Natasha exhales a soft breath, flipping the page like she’s genuinely invested in the article.
“Still no,” she murmurs. “Nothing has changed since you asked me five minutes ago.”
Your sigh hums over the line, a note of boredom. Then your voice drops lower, the ghost of a teasing smile audible across the frequency.
“Maybe I just wanted to hear your voice.”
Her hand stalls mid-turn, the page hanging half-folded in her fingers. Natasha blinks once, forcing herself to return to her sharp and focused composure, but her chest betrays her with the faintest hitch.
Usually, she has no trouble brushing off your teasing, filing it under friendly banter and harmless distraction.
But lately…lately the simple sound of your voice makes her pulse skip for some reason.
She clears her throat quietly, forcing her attention outward.
Across the marble floor, movement catches her eye. A cluster of security streams through the doors, and in the center, exactly as expected, is the target.
“I see him,” she says, her voice cracking slightly, which she quickly covers with a soft cough.
On the comms, you shift, the rustle of fabric telling her you’re straightening in your seat.
“And the package?”
Her eyes flick between the security bodies and spot a slim metal case in the target’s hand. One of the guards moves to the front desk, and the target’s grip on the case shifts into perfect view.
Natasha palms her phone and pretends to scroll before tilting it just enough to capture an image. She sends it over with a practiced ease.
“Nice work,” you say, approval warm in your tone. “It looks like that model requires a fingerprint scan to open.”
Natasha lifts her phone to her ear, feigning a call as she considers the problem.
Her gaze drifts toward the ballroom doors, where the staff are still bustling about.
At the threshold stands the event planner—clipboard hugged close, lips moving as she ticks off notes. When she glances up and her eyes catch sight of Natasha, her composure stumbles. She ducks her head, her cheeks flushing faintly as she pretends to fuss with her clipboard.
“So we lift the prints at the party,” Natasha says calmly, already slotting pieces of a plan into place.
Your soft laugh filters through with a hint of skepticism.
“And how exactly do you suppose we get inside?”
Natasha’s eyes flick back to the planner, who sneaks another look at her before quickly tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
Natasha feels the corner of her mouth curve. She tips her head, gifting the woman a small, disarming smile and a subtle wave. The shy grin she earns in return confirms it—an opening.
Natasha lowers her magazine just enough to murmur, “I’m working on it.”
Before you can reply, she rises smoothly from the couch and crosses the lobby, her stride confident but unhurried. She stops just beside the planner, her posture easy and her smile warm.
“You’ve done a beautiful job with the room,” Natasha says, voice low and sincere.
The compliment lands instantly. The woman beams, shoulders straightening.
“Oh! Thank you—it’s been exhausting, but I think it’s finally coming together. Are you…a guest?”
Natasha shakes her head lightly.
“Helping a friend who is. Their luggage got lost during the flight, so I came to make sure they had what they needed.” She lets the pause linger a beat, then adds smoothly, “Though I may be pressing my luck asking if there’s any chance of being a plus-one.”
The planner’s brows lift, interest sparking exactly where Natasha expects it.
“We might have last-minute passes,” she says quickly, flipping through her clipboard. “I could add a note to add you if you’d still like to come.”
“That sounds lovely,” Natasha replies, resting a hand lightly on the woman’s arm, her smile just this side of intimate. “I hope that means I’ll see you there too.”
The woman chuckles, biting back a grin, before one of the staff calls her name. She starts to go, but glances back.
“What’s your name? For the list.”
Natasha gives the alias assigned to her mission. The woman scribbles it onto her notes, then flashes her a quick wave.
“It was nice meeting you.”
“You too,” Natasha answers smoothly, watching as she disappears into the organized chaos of final preparations.
Once she’s gone, Natasha raises her phone again, pretending to resume her call.
“And now we have a way in,” she says softly, satisfaction threading her tone.
Silence answers. The accomplished warmth in her chest cools into tight concern.
“Hello? Is everything okay?” she asks, turning toward the exit, ready to head back to you if needed.
Finally, your voice filters back through the comm.
“All good. Just some connection problems. I’m back now.”
Natasha frowns faintly. Something in your tone is off. It’s no longer playful, but clipped. Before she can press, you clear your throat, steering the moment away.
“Can you figure out what room he’s staying in? I’ll sneak in and take the case while you lift his prints at the party.”
The frown deepens. She doesn’t like the sharp pivot or the stiffness in your voice.
“Are you sure you’re—”
“Natasha.”
The curt way you say her name stills her instantly.
“Focus on our own jobs, remember?” you add with a teasing lilt, though the note rings hollow compared to earlier.
Natasha swallows, turning back into the lobby, her expression once again carefully neutral.
“…Yeah. Sure,” she mutters, though the word sits heavy in her chest.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
Natasha sits cross-legged on the narrow bed, eyes tracking you as you pace the length of the safehouse. The single room feels even smaller with your restless movement, your gaze fixed on the tablet in your hands as you scroll through hotel blueprints.
You mutter to yourself occasionally, weighing entry points and fallback routes, but when she tries to interject, all she gets are clipped one-word answers or noncommittal hums.
She narrows her eyes. Something is off—it has been off since the hotel lobby. She just can’t put her finger on what.
A sharp knock breaks the tense quiet. Both of you freeze for half a beat, instincts snapping in. You exchange a look, then move in a practiced tandem.
Natasha slips from the bed, gun in hand from beneath the nightstand, while you draw one hidden by the doorframe.
“Oi! Open up already! I haven’t got all day!”
Natasha exhales sharply at the familiar voice. You relax too, though your weapon stays in your hand until you swing the door open.
Mason leans casually against the frame, suitcase in hand. His brow arches at the sight of your guns.
“Always a warm welcome with the two of you,” he deadpans, brushing past you into the room.
Natasha huffs, tucking her weapon away.
“What are you doing here?”
“I called him,” you say, shutting the door and turning to Mason expectantly. “Did you get it?”
He presents the case with mock ceremony.
“Here you are. Now we’re square, yeah?”
You take the case and tilt your head in consideration.
“Is one favor really enough after what you put me through at that last safehouse?”
“Hey,” Mason protests with a hand raised, grinning, “I was trapped there with you, too.”
Natasha frowns, her gaze darting between you and him. There’s an ease in your banter with Mason—inside jokes, stories she isn’t part of. The space between you two is minimal also, too casual for her liking. She tells herself it’s nothing, but irritation prickles anyway.
The irritation grows as she realizes you’ve spoken more words to Mason in these few minutes than you have to her in the past hours. Before she can think better of it, she’s already stepping forward, pressing Mason back toward the door with a polite but firm hand.
“Alright, we need to prep for tonight,” she says briskly, ushering him over the threshold. “Thanks for the delivery. Until next time.”
His brows lift, but before he can argue, the door clicks shut and locks.
She turns to find you perched on the bed with the case, already working the clasps.
“That was a little rude,” you comment, a grin tugging at your lips when you glance at her. The teasing tone doesn’t match the way you immediately look back down, shutting her out again.
Natasha’s patience snaps.
“Alright, what’s up with you?” she demands, folding her arms as she steps closer.
You stop fiddling with the lock, lift your eyes, and fix her with a steady look.
“That woman at the hotel,” you say flatly.
Natasha blinks in confusion.
“What about her?”
“How did you know she was interested in you?” Your shrug is casual, but the words are sharp. “That’s why you went over, right? Because you already knew she’d say yes.”
The question hangs heavier than it should. Natasha hesitates, suddenly cautious. She could give you a dozen technical answers, but instinct tells her the wrong one might make things worse. She taps her fingers against her arm, searching.
“I just…noticed,” she admits finally. “The little details. How someone looks, shifts, reacts. I can always tell when they like something—or someone.”
Your expression doesn’t soften. If anything, the slight clench of your jaw tells her she’s only made it worse. You hum, noncommittal, and turn back to the case.
Frustration knots in Natasha’s chest. She can feel you slipping back into silence, shutting her out again.
The locks pop open.
She leans forward instinctively, expecting some weapon or device.
Instead, you pull out a long red dress. Without a word, you rise and step in front of her, holding it up against her body.
“I knew it would look good on you,” you murmur, appraising her with softened eyes for a brief second. Then you drape the dress onto the bed and brush past her, back to your tablet. “Now you can notice all the people interested in you later at the party.”
This time, the edge in your voice is unmistakable.
Natasha’s mouth opens to respond, but she falters. She doesn’t actually know what the issue is, only that she’s missing something, and the fact that she can’t see it bothers her more than she wants to admit.
You curl up on the sofa, tablet balanced on your knee, already scanning blueprints as if she’s no longer in the room.
Natasha sighs, staring at the red dress lying stark against the drab blanket, before dragging a hand down her face. Confusion and annoyance churn together, and for once she has no read. No clear tells.
Just the unsettling certainty that she’s failed to notice some detail that matters most.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
Natasha smooths her palms down the dress, the fabric gliding beneath her fingers. You were right—it fits perfectly. Too perfectly. She wonders, fleetingly, if Mason guessed her measurements or if you had given them.
When she finally exits the bathroom, she finds you already geared up in your black tactical suit, adjusting the straps across your shoulders, with your focus tight on your equipment.
“Can you help me with this?” Natasha asks quietly, turning her back to you and gathering her hair into one hand to bare the zipper.
“Sure,” you reply. The nonchalance of your tone makes her want to sigh, but she keeps still, bowing her head slightly so you have easier access.
Your palm steadies her lower back as your other hand finds the zipper and tugs it slowly upward. The soft scrape of metal teeth closing echoes in her ears. At the top, your breath ghost against the nape of her neck.
“You look beautiful, Natasha,” you whisper faintly, almost as if you didn’t mean to say it aloud. Then, just as quickly, your touch and presence vanish as you step away.
Natasha stays rooted to the spot. She releases her hair, letting it fall around her shoulders, and lifts her gaze to the mirror across the room. Her eyes widen at the sight of her reflection.
A flush blooms across her cheeks, one she can’t write off as heat or adrenaline. She knows this expression. The flicker of awareness, the telltale glow in the eyes, the way her pulse jumps—details she’s read a hundred times in others, but never noticed in herself.
Her head snaps over her shoulder.
You’re focused on your gear again, oblivious to the rush of thoughts in her mind as the memory of your whisper hums in her ears.
Unconsciously, her heart beats faster, and the urge to step back into your space nearly overwhelms her. Her hand flexes at her side, restless.
But then she remembers.
You already told her you like someone. The reminder settles like a stone in her chest. Natasha breathes deeply, pressing her feelings down beneath years of training.
As if sensing her stare, you glance up and offer her a small, reassuring smile.
“Ready, Romanoff?”
Her throat tightens, and she forces herself to nod.
“Yeah. Let’s go.”
The party is bright and loud, chandeliers scattering light across polished floors and velvet drapes.
Natasha slips through with ease, greeted warmly by the planner who ushers her inside. A few pleasantries exchanged, and the woman is called away, leaving Natasha free to focus on the mission.
The target is easy to find, seated with his cluster of guards.
Natasha approaches, glass of wine in hand.
One guard steps in her path, his palm pressing firmly against her shoulder. Natasha knocks his hand away, cold irritation flashing in her eyes, until the target waves him aside.
His leer is obvious, his gaze shameless.
Natasha fights the urge to roll her eyes, pasting on a coy smile instead as she takes the offered seat beside him. She crosses her legs slowly, the slit of the dress shifting to bare a line of skin. Predictably, his attention locks there.
A few flirtatious remarks and practiced laughs later, he’s pliant in her hands. She passes him her glass under the guise of sharing. When she takes it back, her “slip” sends the last drops spilling onto him. Her apologies tumble out sweet and flustered, and he waves her off with a smile, completely unaware that his fingerprints are now captured on her scanner after she leaves his side.
“I got the prints,” she murmurs into the comm, moving swiftly toward the exit.
Static crackles before your voice cuts through, strained and layered with the sounds of impact and shattering glass.
“That’s… great.” A grunt follows, then the crash of something breaking.
Natasha freezes, then picks up her pace.
“What’s happening?”
More noise filters in—grunts, a muffled curse, the slam of bodies colliding. Your voice returns, breathless but firm.
“I’ve got the case too. Just…finishing up here.”
Natasha presses the elevator button repeatedly, muttering under her breath.
“You could just admit you need help.”
Your laugh comes, dramatic and almost mocking, despite the strain.
“What? Everything’s fine.” Another grunt follows, less convincing this time.
When the elevator doors slide open, she bolts down the hall toward the sound of chaos. One door hangs ajar.
Natasha bursts in, gun raised—only to see you drop the last guard with a final, clean strike.
You straighten, sweat-damp hair sticking to your forehead, chest rising and falling. Spotting her, you flash a crooked grin.
“See? All good.”
You stoop to pick up the case and head past her, but Natasha steps into your path, hand pressing firmly to your shoulder. She tilts your chin with practiced precision, inspecting your face.
The moment her fingers brush your temple, you flinch. Her hand comes away slick with red. Natasha’s jaw tightens. She grips your chin again, forcing your eyes to hers.
“Next time, just ask for help.” Her tone is sharp and low.
You only stare back, wide-eyed, lips parting without words.
That’s when Natasha realizes just how close she is, her body angled into yours, her grip still holding you there.
Heat climbs her cheeks before she notices something else.
Your gaze flickers—downward, just for a breath, to her mouth—before darting away, and the color deepening on your face clearly isn’t just from exertion.
Her heart stutters. She recognizes this detail, too.
You pull back abruptly, her hand falling from your jaw.
“Let’s get moving before reinforcements show,” you mutter, brushing past without meeting her eyes.
Natasha turns and watches you go, pulse still racing, and suspicion coiling in her chest. Of all people, she knows these kinds of tells the best, and she knows exactly what they mean.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
Natasha drops the last strip of gauze into the first-aid box and snaps the lid shut, but she doesn’t move away from you. She stays planted in front of the bed, her knees brushing yours as you sit at the edge, head still tilted slightly from where she bandaged you.
You squirm under her gaze, eyes fixed anywhere but her face—the window, the wall, the worn carpet. She notices every flick of your eyes, every shift of your shoulders. It’s not discomfort. It’s just nerves.
You sigh finally, rubbing at your palms.
“Alright, I’ll call for back-up next time,” you mutter. “Just…stop whatever intimidation tactic this is.”
Natasha huffs, a low, amused sound.
“This isn’t intimidation.”
Before you can retreat further, she lifts her hand and cups your jaw, thumb brushing lightly against your cheek. She tilts your face up toward hers, and the moment your eyes meet, she catches it—the sudden flush rising under your skin, the slight hitch of your breath.
Her own lips curve, triumphant and almost disbelieving.
“I knew it,” she whispers, more to herself than to you.
Your brows furrow. “Knew what?”
Her smile deepens. She kneels onto the bed, closing the distance, until she’s almost straddling your thighs.
You lean back instinctively, bracing yourself on your elbows as she hovers above you.
“The person you like,” Natasha murmurs, voice low, teasing yet fragile at the edges. “Is it me?”
You blink in surprise, startled, your words stuttering in your throat.
“How…?”
Natasha’s grin softens into something warmer. Her fingers slide up from your jaw to cradle your face fully, thumbs resting at the corners of your mouth. She leans in until your noses brush, her breath fanning over your lips.
“I notice things. Always have,” she murmurs. “But somehow I missed the one right in front of me.”
Before you can answer, she tilts your chin up and presses her mouth to yours in a soft, tentative kiss—testing, tasting, a question asked with her lips.
For a heartbeat, you’re frozen, caught between disbelief and the flood of warmth crashing through you. Then instinct takes over. Your hands rise almost on their own, sliding over the curve of her waist until your palms spread firmly against her hips, grounding both of you in the moment.
You kiss her back, slow at first, savoring the softness of her lips against yours. The tentative edge fades as you angle your head slightly, deepening the kiss, letting her feel in the press of your mouth what words never managed to say.
Natasha exhales against you, a shiver running through her that you feel in the flex of her body beneath your touch. The hand cradling your face tightens just a fraction, as though she’s afraid you’ll pull away.
Instead, you slip one hand up from her hip to her lower back, drawing her closer until there’s no space left between you.
When she finally breaks the kiss, it’s only because she needs to breathe. She stays close, resting her forehead against yours, her lips brushing yours with every shallow inhale.
You can feel the rapid beat of her heart in the way her chest rises against yours.
Her eyes open, and this time, you don’t look away. You keep her close, thumbs brushing soft circles over her waist, silently telling her the answer she already suspects.
“Sorry it took me so long to notice that little detail,” she breathes, her voice breaking faintly on the words.
A laugh escapes you, shaky but relieved.
“What I feel for you is nothing little, Natasha Romanoff,” you murmur, brushing your lips against hers again.
This time, she doesn’t hesitate. The next kiss is deeper, hungrier—no longer testing but answering.
Natasha shifts forward, pressing you back against the mattress, her hands sliding to your shoulders, anchoring herself as she kisses you harder.
Your fingers tighten on her waist, tracing the outline of her dress, feeling her shiver under your touch.
She parts her lips under yours, a soft sound escaping her throat, equal parts relief and want.
The safehouse fades—the hum of the heater, the smell of antiseptic, the muffled city sounds outside—until there’s only the warmth of her body and the weight of the moment, long overdue.
Natasha breaks the kiss just enough to breathe, her forehead still against yours, her lips grazing your mouth with each word.
“Tell me if this is too much.”
You shake your head slightly, eyes locked with hers.
“Not even close.”
She smiles, a real, unguarded smile, before capturing your lips again—this time slower, deeper, her hands sliding behind your neck as yours explore the curve of her back, both of you surrendering to this little detail that the two of you share.
Okay listen. If you’re treating your setting like a flat backdrop, you’re cheating your own story. A setting isn’t wallpaper. It’s not just there to stop your characters from floating in the void. Your setting is an active participant. It does THINGS and It leaves SCARS.
I mean, think about it. When you go back to your childhood bedroom, do you just see four walls and a bed? Or do you see the exact spot where you cried in eighth grade, the corner where you hid your journal, the way the wallpaper has yellowed like it’s aging with you? That’s not “background.” That’s a living, breathing presence... and it shapes you whether you want it to or not.
Here’s how I think about it (notes incoming)...
𐙚 A hometown is NEVER neutral. It’s either the place they’d do anything to stay in or the place they’re desperate to escape from. Sometimes it’s both, which is honestly the juiciest tension of all. A hometown isn’t just “Main Street and a bakery”, no one cares about your generic boring set. It’s the shame of being known too well, of walking into the grocery store and running into someone who still calls you by your middle school nickname. It’s also the ache of being invisible in the one place that should have noticed you. That sting when the teacher, the neighbor, your parents, treated you like background noise. Hometowns are loaded. They are identity cages. They cling to your character like smoke, even when they’ve “moved away.”
𐙚 Forests aren’t just TREES. C’mon guys. Don’t you dare write, “they walked into the forest, it was dark.” No one cares. The forest is wet hair sticking to your forehead, it’s your shoes making that squelch sound because the ground is trying to eat them, it’s the way your brain won’t stop whispering fairytales about witches and wolves the second you lose cell service. The forest is a liar. It looks quiet but it’s crawling, breathing, alive. When your character steps into a forest, they should feel small, or watched, or weirdly welcome. But it should be SOMETHING.
𐙚 Cities aren’t just crowded. Stop writing them like postcard skylines. Cities are mean. They flirt with you one second and rob you the next. They chew you up, spit you out, then give you one shining night on a rooftop that convinces you maybe you belong here. Cities seduce you. They trap you. They raise you faster than you’re ready to grow. They’re the messy roommate you can’t get rid of (loud, exhausting, always in your space) A city has moods, okay? Monday at 2pm feels nothing like Friday at midnight.
𐙚 Weather is not filler. Stop skipping over it like it’s boring. Rain is grief, not cute drizzle, but heavy, relentless grief that soaks into your clothes. Heat is anger, sticking, suffocating, relentless. Snow is silence so suffocating it makes you feel like you’ll never speak again. Weather is mood. Weather is memory. Weather does things.
𐙚 Weather is NOT filler. I will scream this until I die. Stop writing weather like it’s boring small talk. Weather is mood. Rain isn’t just “wet,” it’s grief. Heavy, relentless grief that soaks your socks and makes you smell like mildew. Heat isn’t just “summer vibes,” it’s suffocation. It’s sweat dripping in your eyes and anger simmering because everything feels too much. Snow isn’t “pretty flakes.” It’s silence so loud you can’t breathe. Weather presses on your characters. It sets tone without a single line of dialogue. Stop wasting it.
𐙚 Your setting raised your character. I mean it. Don’t fight me. If you grew up near the sea, you can smell storms before anyone else. If you grew up in the suburbs, you know the exact second the streetlights flick on because that was your curfew. If you grew up in a high-rise, you move differently, you’re used to cramped elevators and neighbors on every side. Architecture leaves fingerprints on you. You can’t write a character in a vacuum, their environment literally raised them.
𐙚 Battlefields don’t forget. Sure, your character survived the war, but the ground didn’t. The soil is still soaked. The air still stinks of rust. Even decades later, the land remembers. Don’t write it like it’s been scrubbed clean just because your character wants to move on. The land is another witness and it carries scars too.
𐙚 Comfort places matter. This one’s underrated. Give your character a kitchen, a tree, a park bench. Somewhere that’s theirs. Somewhere that says: “this is who I was before everything.” And then (yes, because we’re cruel) rip it away...
✧ Broken ribs suck. You don’t just “walk it off.” Breathing hurts. Laughing hurts. Existing hurts. Characters with rib injuries won’t be doing heroic sprints.
✧ Concussions aren’t instant naps. Dazed vision, nausea, dizziness, maybe even personality changes, but they’re not going to collapse neatly like in the movies.
✧ Blood loss is sneaky. It’s not just about dramatic pools of blood. It’s dizziness, confusion, and the body getting cold as circulation tanks.
✧ Adrenaline lies. Someone can take a serious injury and not feel it until the fight’s over. That “I didn’t realize I was bleeding until later” trope? Very real.
✧ Twisted ankles are brutal. One bad step and suddenly running is off the table. Even walking hurts like hell. Perfect way to ground a chase scene.
✧ Burns linger. Even small burns hurt more than most people expect. Blisters, infection risk, constant pain, it’s not just a cool scar later.
✧ Dislocated shoulders = useless arm. Characters can’t keep swinging a sword or firing a gun. They’re basically fighting one-armed until it’s fixed.
✧ Shock is a thing. Pale skin, trembling, rapid heartbeat, and eventually disorientation. A character might not even realize how bad their wound is.
✧ Stitches aren’t magic. Getting sewn up is painful and recovery takes time. They’re not instantly battle-ready after a needle and thread.
✧ Scars tell stories. Some fade, some don’t. Some stay sensitive forever. Don’t forget the aftermath when the wound becomes part of the character.
