Summary: Natasha Romanoff has made a lot of mistakes. Leaving you behind was one of them. Regret comes easy. Repairing what she broke may already be impossible.
Warnings: angst
Words: 2108
Natasha peers around the corner of the hangar corridor. Her eyes carefully track the clusters of Avengers Compound personnel moving across the bay. Engineers and techs reorganize equipment cases while visiting SHIELD agents check their tablets and talk in low voices.
Everything looks normal, except for the way Natasha hovers near the shadow of the wall, weight shifting restlessly from one foot to the other.
She scans every face that passes, her breath stilling whenever someone gets too close. Then releases a breath of relief when she sees who they were. Or more accurately, who they are not.
“Who are you looking for?” a voice drawls behind her.
Natasha jumps before she can stop herself and turns to look over her shoulder.
Maria Hill stands there, arms folded and expression carved with amused curiosity.
Natasha straightens at once, face smoothing into a practiced calm.
“Just assessing the agents you brought with you,” she says coolly, crossing her arms.
Maria’s brow arches.
“Mm. And your assessment requires hiding behind a wall?”
Natasha goes to defend herself when the sound of approaching footsteps makes her glance over Maria’s shoulder. She then turns to the wall and lifts a hand to shield her face, staring at the metal plating as if suddenly deeply fascinated by the wall’s infrastructure.
The footsteps pass by without stopping.
Natasha slowly lowers her hand and sighs softly in relief when she sees that it wasn’t anyone familiar.
Maria watches this entire display with open delight.
“Ah,” Maria hums. “So. Who are we avoiding?”
“No one,” Natasha snaps defensively.
Maria raises a brow, giving her a pointed look at her response.
Not wanting to explain herself, Natasha turns to leave, eager to put this whole situation behind her—only to collide with a figure rounding the same corner at the same time.
Her hands act on reflex, steadying you with a firm, sure grip. Only to jolt back the second her brain catches up with her body. She drops her hold on you like she’s been burned, fingers hovering inches from your sleeves.
Your eyes, also wide and startled, lock with hers, recognition flashing across your face before anything else. Then, just as quickly, something colder settles in.
You step back, composing yourself.
“Hey,” Natasha breathes softly, almost tentative in her tone, like a request for a peace offering disguised as a greeting.
You look at her for a lingering second before dismissing her just as quickly. You turn to Maria instead, voice steady and professional.
“I have the reports you asked for, Commander.”
Maria’s lips curl into a grin she doesn’t bother to hide. She takes the tablet from you, glancing pointedly between the two of you.
“Well, hello, ‘no one,’” she says under her breath to Natasha in a singsong tone.
Natasha stiffens before throwing a warning glare at the other woman, but Maria just chuckles in response before gesturing for you to follow her to the conference room.
You walk away without another glance at her.
The rejection lands sharply in Natasha’s chest, but she doesn’t chase it. She watches instead as the door closes behind you, cutting her out.
Natasha shifts her weight, gaze drawn to the narrow pane of glass alongside the door. Inside, you stand across from Maria, already focused on the briefing. As if sensing her, your eyes lift and meet hers through the glass.
No surprise this time.
Only cold acknowledgment.
Then in one smooth motion, you reach up and slide the privacy screen down, shutting her out completely.
A quiet exhale slips past Natasha’s lips. She looks away, jaw flexing once.
You deserve that, she tells herself. You’re the one who disappeared.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
The hum of quiet conversation dwindles as Steve steps forward, tapping the screen behind him to display the layout of a distant Hydra compound. Lights dim. The atmosphere shifts into focus. Everyone directs their attention toward the front.
Everyone but Natasha.
Despite her best efforts, her gaze keeps drifting to the other side of the long conference table to where you are.
You sit upright, attention locked on Steve, eyes deliberately avoiding the left side of the room where she is.
Even from here, Natasha can see the tension in your shoulders, the way your jaw tightens every time Steve mentions the two teams working together.
A low, quiet sigh escapes her before she can stop it. Then a nudge at her elbow draws her attention.
Maria leans slightly toward her, voice pitched just low enough to blend into the shuffling of papers and muted voices around them.
“So,” Maria says, sounding almost casual, but Natasha catches the glint of mischief in her eyes. “Want to tell me what all that was earlier?”
Natasha’s brows pull together. She crosses her arms, posture defensive.
“Not particularly, no.”
Maria huffs in amusement.
“I don’t think you have a choice here,” she says.
Natasha scoffs and shakes her head lightly in disbelief.
“And why’s that?”
Maria holds up a finger.
“One: she’s one of my agents. And I need to know if there’s going to be any problem here.” A second finger. “Two: she had you—Natasha Romanoff—hiding behind walls.” A third finger. “And three: I promised Fury I’d mess with you at least once while we’re here since he can’t anymore. Something about tradition.”
Natasha slowly turns her head to stare at Maria with an unimpressed look.
Maria only smiles.
Natasha exhales sharply through her nose and glances back toward you, only to find your eyes already on her. The contact is brief and immediately electric.
However, your expression hardens on instinct, gaze sharpening into a glare before you turn away, chin lifting slightly in silent dismissal.
The reaction is expected. But that doesn’t make it sting any less.
You used to smile when you looked at me.
That thought makes Natasha lower her eyes to the table, fingers worrying the corner of the mission dossier. She can’t seem to keep them still.
“We…uh…” she murmurs under her breath.
Maria tilts her head, listening patiently.
Natasha’s lips press together. There isn’t a word that feels right. Dating was too small a label. Together too uncertain. Neither of you ever defined what it was.
But the outcome is the same, regardless of the label you two refused to give.
“I don’t know,” she finishes quietly, almost to herself.
Before Maria can respond, Steve’s voice cuts back through the room.
“Alright,” he says firmly, clicking the remote to shift the slide. “We’ll be working in joint units with SHIELD on this one.” He nods toward Maria. “Commander Hill will give assignments.”
Maria stands and moves to the front, clipboard in hand.
Natasha forces herself to sit up straighter, though she can feel dread coiling low in her stomach, a premonition she can’t quite shake.
Names are read. Agents are paired.
She barely registers them until she hears yours.
“Agent Y/l/n,” Maria announces, “you’ll be with Romanoff.”
Stunned silence hits Natasha like a physical force.
Across the table, you stiffen. Your chair scrapes softly as you sit up, eyes snapping toward Maria in immediate protest. Your hand starts to rise, ready to argue, refuse, do anything to prevent this.
But Maria has already moved on.
You slowly lower your hand, fingers curling into a fist on your lap. Then your head turns, not toward Maria, but snapping directly toward Natasha.
The glare you level at her is sharp enough to make her wince.
Behind the raised clipboard, Maria flashes Natasha a discreet thumbs-up.
Natasha groans internally.
It’s not fair. This isn’t even her fault.
But as she risks one more glance at you and sees the fury, the betrayal, and the pain you don’t bother hiding, Natasha knows that whether it’s her fault or not doesn’t matter.
Because she’s the one who ran away first.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
Snow crunches beneath Natasha’s boots with each step, the air growing colder with the silence stretching between you. Frost clings to the dark branches above, and the pale moonlight breaks in fractured beams across your shoulders as you lead the way. The only sound is your steady breathing—measured, controlled,…and entirely devoid of any acknowledgment of her presence.
Your avoidance becomes obviously deliberate to her.
Every time Natasha speeds up, you quicken your pace. Every time she slows, you pull further ahead. It’s not just silence. It’s punishment.
And she deserves it.
But you’re also the only other member of this infiltration team. If you don’t work together, the rest of the Avengers won’t even make it past the perimeter of the Hydra base.
Natasha takes a slow breath, watching it cloud the air before deciding this has gone on long enough.
“We need to work together on this,” she says quietly, matching your pace again. “You can’t avoid talking to me forever.”
You stop so suddenly that she almost walks right into you. Muscle memory kicks in as her hands lift instinctively, hovering inches from your back, her body swaying as she catches herself before making contact. Natasha steps back quickly like she’s burned.
You pivot slowly, eyes sharp at her. Your gaze flicks to her raised hands, then back to her face, disbelief curling your lip.
“You’re one to talk, Natasha.” You jab a finger into her shoulder. “You ghosted me first.”
Natasha freezes, breath catching. She opens her mouth, a response forming, then failing. The truth stands between you like a wall she built with her own hands.
You huff a quiet, bitter laugh.
“And of all the underhanded tactics…” You gesture vaguely, as if the entire mission briefing is still hovering over your head. “Now you’re forcing me to be with you on this mission.”
Natasha’s jaw tightens. Hands slowly lower to her sides, fingers flexing once before curling into loose fists.
“Hey, this was not my fault,” she says, frowning. “I had nothing to do with this. If it were my choice, I wouldn’t have chosen you—”
You scoff in disbelief, cutting her off and turning your back to her.
“Right. Great talk.”
Realizing how her words landed, Natasha reacts on instinct. She steps forward quickly, boots crunching through the snow as she moves to intercept your path.
The cold air stings her lungs, but not nearly as much as the panic rising in her chest. She lifts her hands to stop you—not yet touching—her fingers splayed in midair as though even the ghost of contact might shatter whatever fragile boundary still exists between you.
“Wait,” she says, voice softer now, no longer the practiced calm of the legendary Black Widow. There’s something raw in it. Something unarmored. “I didn’t mean—”
Her throat works as she swallows, eyes tracing over your features like she’s memorizing them all over again. A flicker of vulnerability slips through her usually unreadable gaze.
“I just meant I wouldn’t have made you put up with me. Again. Given our…history.”
The word falls hesitantly into the space between you. A quiet, unspoken acknowledgment of everything you two used to be. Everything she walked away from.
You stare at her in silence, expression unreadable. Then your gaze lowers to her hands. Suspended between you. A breath away from your jacket sleeve. So close. Trembling.
Natasha tries to hide it, curling her fingers back into her palms, but you already saw.
When you finally speak, your voice is gentle. Soft and devastating.
“What history?”
Natasha’s breath hitches. No enemy’s ever thrown her off the way you do with just two words.
“Last I remember,” you continue, taking a step toward her as if challenging her to deny your words, “You said it was nothing.”
Natasha flinches, not outwardly, but she still feels it like ice through her bloodstream. A familiar shame crawls up her spine, the same shame she felt the moment she said those words to you. Words she didn’t mean. Words she used as armor. Words that did exactly what they were designed to do—create distance.
Except now she has to live in that distance.
Natasha’s gaze falls to the ground as you walk past her, your shoulder brushing so close she can feel the warmth radiating from you in the freezing air. Your footsteps pause beside her.
And when you speak again, your voice is quiet. Barely more than a whisper. But it carries more impact than a shouted accusation.
“Stop acting like it ever meant anything to you, Natasha.”
You continue walking without looking back.
You don’t see the way Natasha stops moving entirely, her lungs forgetting how to draw breath. Her eyes fall closed, lashes trembling. A faint gasp escapes her, not from physical exertion but from the emotional blow she didn’t even try to dodge.
Because the truth is—
It was something to her.
It still is.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
a/n: thank you for reading! I’m back? I think 😅 Took a long break from writing so I’m still trying to figure out where I left off on things and also how to write again, hopefully it’s not too rough
sumary: The last thing Natasha expected was for her one-and-Half-year-old daughter to fall head over heels for the one person on the team who didn’t like kids.
Paring: Natasha Romanoff x fem reader. Natasha Romanoff x platonic!avengers
Word count: 5075
warnings: age gap, light mommy issues if you squirm your eyes, fluffly content, Natasha being the best mom ever, light humor and jokes
Natasha had never been the type to hope for softness.
Not for herself, at least.
She’d made her peace with that years ago—on the rooftops of Budapest, in the sterile hallways of S.H.I.E.L.D., in the long silences between missions where guilt and memory left no room for sentiment. And then came Ana. Not by accident. Not by surprise. By choice. Hers. A deliberate, defiant, I want this, spoken with all the clarity of a life finally claimed.
She never regretted a moment of it. Not the injections. Not the procedures. Not the days spent alone, watching her body change, knowing no one was coming but not needing anyone to. Ana was the best thing she’d ever done. Her softness, her quiet, her stubborn spark—that was Natasha’s legacy now. Not blood. Not missions. Her. Anasthasia Irina Romanoff. She’d chosen Irina long before Ana was even born. It wasn’t a family name, or a tribute to anyone in her past—it was a hope. Irina meant peace, and that’s what Ana was. Her stillness after decades of running. Her soft beginning after a life of sharp edges. Natasha had spent so many years living on instinct, choosing danger over safety, solitude over softness. But Ana was different. Ana meant slow mornings. Shared breakfasts. Laughter in the middle of the day for no reason at all. She gave her the name Irina because, for the first time, Natasha wasn’t surviving anymore. She was living. And Ana was the reason why.And maybe that’s why she was so protective of it—why she kept the world at arm’s length and Ana even closer. This calm, this rhythm she’d built, it was fragile in the way that mattered most. So when new variables appeared—new people, new energies—Natasha never let them close enough to shift the balance.
So she didn’t expect anything to come from your arrival.
Not in the way that mattered.
You were Tony’s daughter, and Natasha had always paid attention to the way people spoke about you—with a mixture of respect and restraint, like they weren’t quite sure what to do with someone who carried the Stark name but none of his chaos. She knew you joined S.H.I.E.L.D. when you were barely old enough to be called an adult, that you’d carved your space without leaning on legacy, and that you’d been stationed in England for the last few years—low profile, high results.
She also knew something more personal. Something quieter.
You didn’t like children.
Not in a cold, heartless way. You weren’t cruel. You were respectful—always. Natasha remembered the way you helped Lila Barton when she scraped her knee during a holiday visit, how you’d stayed still and calm while the girl sobbed against your shoulder. But the moment she calmed, you’d set her down gently and disappeared from the room like your presence had been an accident. You didn’t mock them, or treat them like they were less-than. You just… didn’t want them near. Didn’t invite them close. Natasha understood that. Some people didn’t crave the chaos, the unpredictability, the weight of something small depending on you.
That was fine.
That was expected.
Which is why she didn’t even flinch when she brought Ana to the morning briefing.
The meeting was scheduled in one of the larger lounge rooms—bright windows, low coffee tables, plenty of space for Ana to exist without needing constant wrangling. Natasha had done this dozens of times. Her daughter came with her everywhere now. She didn’t leave Ana behind unless she absolutely had to. The team had long since adapted.
You, however, were new.
She entered the room with Ana tucked against her side, one arm looped around the child’s waist with practiced ease. You were already seated—coffee in hand, face unreadable, posture casual but distant. Natasha didn’t expect more than a polite nod, maybe a glance. And that’s what she got. You didn’t tense. You didn’t retreat. You simply acknowledged her presence and turned your eyes back to the screen.
But Ana didn’t.
Ana saw you. And for the first time since Natasha could remember, her daughter paused.
Not in fear. Not in confusion. In recognition.
It started as a slow shift—her little body repositioning against Natasha’s ribs, eyes locked in your direction, curious and alert. Then the squirming began. Not impatient, not fussy—focused. Ana leaned out of her arms, little hand pointing downward.
Natasha frowned. “What’s going on, kotyonok?” she murmured, brushing her lips lightly across Ana’s hair.
“Down,” Ana whispered.
Natasha blinked.
Ana rarely asked to leave her arms during meetings. And never in unfamiliar rooms. She’d been clingy the last few days—teething, off her sleep schedule, adjusting to so many new faces around the compound again. But now, her little legs were kicking softly, hands gripping at Natasha’s shirt in earnest.
“Down,” she repeated.
Natasha hesitated—glanced at you.
You weren’t watching Ana anymore. You were watching her. Confused. Curious. But not annoyed. Not disapproving.
Natasha could read people down to the smallest twitch of a muscle, and in that moment, she read one thing clearly: you didn’t know what was happening either.
So she shifted forward and lowered Ana gently to the carpeted floor.
Ana’s sneakers touched down. She took one look back—brief, instinctive—then turned toward you like she already knew the path.
Natasha’s chest tightened.
One step. Then another.
You looked up.
There was a breath, the room shrinking around it.
Ana stopped at your knees. Her curls were mussed from her mother’s shoulder, her little fox plush dangling from one hand. She tilted her head to look at you properly. She didn’t blink.
And then she lifted both arms toward you.
“Lap.”
You froze.
Not in fear. Not rejection. Natasha saw it—something break quietly across your expression, the way your eyebrows lifted just slightly, like your own body didn’t understand how it was reacting before your brain caught up. There was no mask now. No calm Stark logic, no precise detachment. Just you—and the shock of being chosen by someone so small, so unrelenting, and so certain.
Natasha didn’t move.
She stood where she was, heart pounding quietly behind her ribs, not from fear or worry—but something more intimate. Something that reached the parts of her still holding every shattered version of family she’d ever known. She watched as you stared down at the child who had never, not once, walked into a stranger’s arms. And she waited. Because whatever happened next… would matter.
You didn’t reach for Ana immediately.
Natasha noticed the exact moment your eyes lifted—not to the child now reaching for you with unwavering certainty, but to her. And it wasn’t a question. Not quite. There was no panic in your expression, no discomfort. Just a pause. A stillness that asked without words: Is this alright?
And Natasha, who rarely let anyone past the perimeter of her trust, gave you the smallest, most intentional nod.
You moved like someone reaching into deep water—carefully, gently, aware of the weight of what you were about to hold. Your hands met Ana’s sides, small and secure, and you lifted her with practiced ease, as though this wasn’t the first time, as though her body already knew how to fold against yours. She settled into your lap like it belonged to her.
Like she had always meant to end up there.
Natasha’s breath caught in her throat.
Ana laid her head lightly against your chest, little cheek pressing into the dark fabric of your jacket. One of her hands tucked the fox between your arm and her belly; the other—small, dimpled fingers—reached up to your collarbone and found your hand.
And then she started to play.
Not with toys, not with distractions. Just your hand. Your fingers. One by one she explored them, pressing her thumb into your palm, curling your pinky against her own, dragging the tips along her forehead in idle motion. Her eyes drifted half-closed, calm and curious, while you stayed perfectly still—watching her with that same look Natasha couldn’t read.
It was almost unbearable, the quiet of the moment.
The meeting had technically begun, but Natasha hadn’t registered a single word Steve said. She hadn’t even sat down. She just stood near the door, arms crossed, eyes on the impossible softness blooming in front of her.
Because that’s what it was. Impossible.
You hadn’t flinched. You hadn’t hesitated. You hadn’t done what most people did—smile politely, hand Ana back, or distract her with something shiny so they could pass her off. You were just… there. Entirely present. Letting her settle. Letting her explore. Letting her choose.
And she had chosen you.
The worst part—if she could call it that—was that Natasha wasn’t angry. She wasn’t suspicious. She wasn’t even surprised anymore.
Because looking at you now—back straight, eyes lowered, completely surrendered to the tiny storm nestled in your lap—something made sense in her chest that hadn’t before.
Ana had found something.
Or maybe, someone.
And Natasha wasn’t sure what that meant yet, or how far she would allow it to grow—but for the first time in longer than she could remember, she didn’t feel the need to pull away. She walked slowly to her seat across from you, quiet as a shadow, never breaking the spell. And when she sat down, she didn’t take her eyes off you. The briefing wrapped without fanfare.
Steve’s voice faded into background noise, Bruce gathered his notes, and the others filtered out one by one with practiced efficiency. No one commented on Ana—no one dared. Maybe because they saw the weight of the moment. Maybe because it wasn’t theirs to touch.
The room was almost too quiet now.
Ana had slipped fully into sleep, her tiny hand still curled lazily around your finger, her head rising and falling against your chest like she’d found the safest place in the universe. You hadn’t moved. Not really. Just shifted to make her more comfortable—let her sink deeper into you without hesitation, like her weight belonged there.
Natasha couldn’t look away.
You hadn’t noticed—at least, she thought you hadn’t. You never were one to fidget under attention. But there was something different about you now. Something unguarded beneath all that calm.
“I have to admit,” she said, voice low, “this wasn’t how I pictured our first real conversation going.”
You glanced at her, brow arching just a little. “And how did you picture it?”
Natasha’s lips twitched. “Not with my daughter wrapped around you like a vine.”
You leaned back slightly, careful not to disturb Ana, and gave her that expression—dry, sharp, quietly amused. “You sound jealous.”
Her eyebrow lifted. “Should I be?”
You made a show of glancing down at Ana, then shrugged one shoulder—so subtle it barely moved her. “She’s got good taste.”
The laugh caught in Natasha’s throat before she could stop it. Soft, surprised. God, you were so damn composed, and yet there was something underneath that surface—a spark of something warmer, something playful. She hadn’t expected that. And she was rarely caught off guard.
“I should warn you,” she said, leaning her elbows on the table. “If you let her get used to that lap, you’re going to regret it.”
“I don’t regret much.”
“She’s one and a half. You’ll regret it the next time you try to drink a coffee without someone demanding half of it.”
You smiled—not a smirk, not your usual reserved grin. An actual smile. And Natasha had to look away, just for a moment, because something in her chest pulled taut at the sight.
“And here I thought you brought her to meetings as a distraction tactic,” you said.
She looked back at you with narrowed eyes, playful. “You think I’d use my daughter to throw someone off their game?”
“I think,” you said, gaze darkening just a little, “that if anyone could weaponize a toddler, it’d be you.”
Natasha laughed, this time all the way—low and warm in her chest, real in a way she didn’t usually allow to slip out. She shook her head, leaning back in her chair.
“You’re dangerous,” she muttered.
You tilted your head. “Me? You’re the trained assassin.”
“Exactly.” Her eyes dropped to the sleeping girl between you. “And you’re the one she asked for.”
The silence curled again. Not cold. Not awkward. Just thick with something unnamed.
You looked down at Ana once more, brushing a thumb lightly over her curls where they stuck up against your collar. “Don’t get used to this,” you said, not looking at Natasha. “I’m still not a fan of kids.”
“You keep telling yourself that,” she replied, watching the way you softened around the edges without realizing it.Natasha didn’t argue—she didn’t have to. The proof was already wrapped around your side in cookie-stained pajamas. She just watched you go, a quiet smile tugging at her mouth, the kind that stayed long after you’d left the room.
She knew this wouldn't be a one- time thing.
A few days later, the morning unfolded differently, slower. Late morning sunlight filtered lazily into the kitchen, warm and indifferent. It fell across the countertops, gleamed off metal handles, and lit the soft chaos that was breakfast—or rather, the battle of breakfast.
Ana was seated in her high chair like a tiny queen in revolt, arms crossed firmly, lips pursed in open rebellion. The oatmeal had gone cold fifteen minutes ago. Natasha had tried coaxing, bribing, even threatening to call Bruce if she didn’t eat. Nothing worked. The spoon sat abandoned in the bowl like a white flag.
“You are so lucky you’re cute,” Natasha muttered, scrubbing a hand down her face. “Other people’s kids don’t get away with this.”
Ana remained unimpressed. She glared past Natasha’s shoulder as if expecting reinforcements.
The door creaked open behind them.
Natasha didn’t turn around right away—she was too focused on pretending she wasn’t about to lose a diplomatic war with a toddler. But she didn’t need to look. She could hear it: the shuffle of slow, dragging footsteps, the soft grunt of someone whose soul was not yet awake. Then came the familiar hiss of the espresso machine, followed by the rustling of a bakery bag.
You’d arrived.
She turned.
You looked… awful.
Delightfully awful.
Hair wild from sleep, hoodie half-zipped, mismatched socks peeking out under flannel pants. You were cradling your coffee mug like a lifeline, eyes heavy-lidded, mouth in a petulant line that said you’d only been conscious for five minutes and deeply regretted that fact.
In your other hand: a cheese croissant, still warm, still flaking. You tore off a corner and bit into it like someone performing life-saving triage.
Ana stared, Hard. So damn hard.
Not at Natasha. Not at the bowl of oatmeal she’d rejected like poison. But at you.
You took another bite, chewed, then finally glanced up—and blinked, slow and heavy.
Your gaze drifted to the high chair. To Ana’s unrelenting eyes. Then to Natasha.
“I take it we’re in the starvation phase of child rearing?”
“She’s being dramatic,” Natasha said.
Ana made a noise like a whimper and kicked her feet, You squinted at her. Then reached forward, broke off a soft piece of croissant, and held it out between your fingers.
Ana took it like it was sacred.
“Traitor,” Natasha muttered under her breath.
You made a sound between a hum and a sigh and dropped into a chair with all the weight of someone being punished by existence itself. “I’ve been up for six minutes,” you mumbled. “I haven’t even looked at another human being yet.”
Ana reached again, You fed her another bite.
Natasha narrowed her eyes. “You know that’s not helping, right?”
“She was clearly starving.”
“I told you—she’s not.”
“She’s got the same face I do when I haven’t eaten,” you said, deadpan. “We understand each other.”
Natasha studied you, the way you slouched, bleary-eyed and nonverbal, croissant in one hand, coffee in the other. She looked at Ana—mirroring your expression almost perfectly, down to the pout and the silent demand for carbs.
She huffed a laugh.
“My God. You’re the same person.”
You gave her a tired glare. “Keep talking. See if I share.”
“You’re both insufferable when hungry.”
“Sounds like someone’s jealous.”
Natasha crossed her arms. “Of what? Your shared standoffish breakfast cult?”
You sipped your coffee slowly, eyes flicking to Ana and back.
“She chose me,” you said, tone flat but triumphant. “I don’t make the rules.”
Ana squeaked with joy, flailing her hands toward the croissant again.
“She betrayed me,” Natasha replied, pointing to the untouched oatmeal. “I gave her life. You gave her cheese.”
You shrugged, already handing Ana another piece. “She’s got good taste.”
Natasha shook her head, lips twitching as she turned away to clean up the bowl of oatmeal. “You’re both ridiculous.”
You yawned, eyes half-lidded as Ana leaned her head dramatically on the edge of the tray, already chewing the last bite like it was a reward for surviving the morning. You were still half-asleep, leaning into your chair like gravity was trying to reclaim you, clinging to that coffee as if it were the only thing standing between you and the grave. You were cranky, antisocial before noon, and notoriously stubborn about food—especially when it was yours.
Which is why Natasha watched with mild astonishment as you rolled your eyes in a perfectly theatrical arc, sighed like a martyr, and wordlessly handed the rest of your croissant to Ana.
She squeaked with joy and took it like treasure, immediately stuffing the larger half into her mouth with both hands.
“Unbelievable,” Natasha muttered, not even bothering to hide her smile.
You ignored her, sipping your coffee in silence like you regretted every decision that had led to this exact moment. Your eyes were dark and tired, but there was no real irritation behind them. Just that quiet resignation you always wore when you knew you were losing a battle you never meant to fight in the first place.
You took another sip, then looked at her across the kitchen—eyes still half-lidded, voice hoarse with sleep.
“Give me the oatmeal.”
Natasha blinked. “What?”
You gestured vaguely toward the abandoned bowl. “She doesn’t want it. And I’m starving.”
A beat of silence stretched between you.
Then, without a word, Natasha reached for the bowl and walked it over, setting it in front of you with a raised eyebrow. You didn’t meet her gaze. You just set your coffee aside and picked up the spoon like someone about to make peace with their fate.
Ana was already chewing noisily beside you, bits of pastry stuck to her cheek.
Natasha crossed her arms, leaning against the counter again. “So let me get this straight,” she said, lips twitching. “You won’t share food with me, but she gets the last of your croissant and your breakfast?”
“She didn’t ask for it,” you said without looking up. “She demanded it with her eyes.”
“Right. So toddler mind control. That’s the explanation we’re going with.”
“She’s persuasive.”
“She’s one and a half.”
You glanced up then, finally, spoon midair. Your expression was blank, deadpan, and yet something in your eyes sparked with mischief.
“So am I,” you said.
And Natasha felt it—that little flicker again. The warmth that was growing far too easily in the quiet spaces between these moments. It settled somewhere under her ribs, soft and persistent.
You looked back down and took a bite of the oatmeal without flinching.
Ana, satisfied and full of croissant, leaned against the side of your arm and let out a sigh so deep it could only have come from the depths of her soul.
Natasha didn’t say anything else.
She just stood there, watching the two of you—both stubborn, both sleepy, both impossible—and thought, this isn’t going to stay simple, is it?
But she didn’t say that either.
She just smiled.And watched you keep pretending like you weren’t already halfway hers.Days passed like that—quiet, unspoken things folding themselves into the rhythm of the compound. You didn’t come looking for Ana, but she kept finding you anyway. And Natasha… well, she kept watching. Kept noticing the way your edges softened more each time.
Then came the briefing.
It had started as a simple mission briefing. Nothing classified, nothing urgent—just a routine strategy session with the new intel team that Natasha absolutely couldn’t reschedule. One hour, tops. Ana would barely notice she was gone.
She was so wrong.
Clint had been her first call. Obvious choice. He knew how to juggle five kids and a mission report without blinking. But the moment Natasha handed Ana over, the girl went stiff in his arms like a statue, then started wailing as if he’d personally betrayed her.
Wanda tried next. Ana let her hold her for a full five seconds before twisting away like a feral cat and screeching “NO!” in a tone that made two agents duck for cover.
Steve, bless him, had approached with his most diplomatic smile and a stuffed bear in hand, only to be met with the full force of toddler disdain. Ana didn’t scream that time—just buried her face in Natasha’s neck and growled.
And Natasha… Natasha was five minutes late to her briefing and dangerously close to losing her mind.
Which is why, when you happened to pass by—coffee in one hand, tablet in the other, clearly heading for the lab and not remotely interested in babysitting—Natasha didn’t think.
She acted.
“Ana, sweetheart?” she whispered, shifting the toddler to her hip. “Do you want to go see her?”
Ana lifted her head.
Wide green eyes blinked once. Then a slow, devilish smile curled across her face.
That was all Natasha needed.
“Catch,” she said dryly.
You turned just in time to fumble and catch the small human now squirming gleefully into your arms like she belonged there.
“Wait—what the—”
“Thanks!” Natasha called over her shoulder, already halfway down the corridor before you could protest.
Ana squealed in delight.
Natasha didn’t look back.
She made it to the meeting just in time. And to her own surprise, she didn’t spend the whole thing worried. Something about knowing Ana was with you—despite the fact you hated children (or said you did)—had her oddly at ease.
By the time she wrapped up and returned to the common floor, it had been almost ninety minutes. The hallway smelled faintly of coffee and cleaning supplies. Bruce’s voice echoed from the open lab door, calm and methodical, talking through some kind of energy recalibration.
And there you were.
One hip leaned against the table, the other supporting Ana, who looked perfectly at home in the crook of your arm.
Your hair was pulled into a haphazard bun, your shirt was half-untucked and absolutely covered in cookie crumbs. Ana’s fingers were dusted with sugar. You were talking to Bruce about vibrational decay patterns in multi-core reactors, as if the weight of a toddler on your hip was completely natural. Your other hand gestured midair, precise, animated, still clutching a small whiteboard marker.
Ana watched your mouth move as if following every word.
Then she gagged—loudly and dramatically.
Not because of anything serious. Just… toddler flair.
You paused mid-sentence, looked down, and sighed. “Rude.”
Bruce snorted. “She takes after you.”
“She has better fashion sense.”
Ana giggled, then burrowed her face into your shoulder.
Natasha stood in the doorway, unnoticed for a second longer, just… watching. The way your body shifted automatically to balance Ana’s weight. The way you wiped her mouth with the edge of your sleeve without looking. The way you didn’t rush to give her back, or seem particularly bothered by the crumbs now stuck to your pants.
She cleared her throat.
You looked up, brows raised. “Hey.”
Natasha raised one eyebrow. “So… is this your new lab assistant?”
You looked at Ana, who blinked at her mother and clung just a little tighter.
“She works for cookies,” you said. “And occasionally heckles my equations.”
Natasha bit back a smile, folding her arms. “Well, she’s my daughter.”
“She’s very opinionated,” you said dryly, adjusting her on your hip. “She gagged at my thesis. I’m considering it a peer review.”
Ana giggled again, tucking her head against your collarbone.
Natasha stared at the two of you for another second, then finally stepped forward, brushing a few crumbs off your shoulder. Her fingers lingered a little longer than they needed to.
“You’re a mess,” she murmured.
You smirked. “I could be Your mess.”
She looked at you. And the words stuck somewhere behind her teeth, She didn’t say them.
Not yet.
Instead, she stepped forward, reaching her arms out gently. “Alright, peanut,” she said softly. “Come here.”
Ana blinked up at her mother, expression unreadable for a split second… then, without protest, reached out. You transferred her easily, and the little girl immediately curled into Natasha’s hold like she’d been waiting for it all along—her thumb going straight to her mouth, her head resting against the curve of her mother’s neck.
Warm.
Quiet.
Home.
Natasha’s hand rubbed small circles against her daughter’s back, and for a second, she just breathed her in. The scent of cookies, and your cologne, and a hint of vanilla shampoo clinging to soft hair.
“She’s full of sugar and attitude,” you said, brushing a crumb off your shirt.
Natasha glanced at you over Ana’s curls. “She’s exactly where she gets it from.”
You tilted your head, already sipping the coffee you’d left to cool. “You sure about that?”
Her smile curved lazily. “Keep telling yourself that.”
Then she walked away—Ana heavy and content in her arms, safe, sleepy, and smiling like someone who had everything she wanted in one place. Natasha had gone to her apartment at the Tower —just late enough for the city to fall into a quieter rhythm, just early enough that Natasha hadn’t had time to put up her usual walls.
Ana was half-asleep on her shoulder, cheek pressed against her collarbone, and Natasha held her like she was made of something finer than glass. There was oatmeal in her hair. Cookie crumbs on her onesie. A smudge of ink on her tiny palm, and no one knew how it got there.
But Natasha had seen it.
She had seen it.
She’d walked into that lab expecting chaos—Bruce hunched over a console, a loose wire sparking somewhere, maybe you arguing with JARVIS about protocols. But instead she found you standing still in the middle of it all, with Ana on your hip and your shirt covered in evidence of breakfast bribery.
You didn’t even pause the conversation with Bruce. You just kept talking about cellular decay patterns, as if you hadn’t realized Ana was happily gnawing on a pencil and gagging every time you used the word “neurotransmitter.”
And that sound you made—that little laugh when she fake-gagged for the third time?
It rewired something in Natasha.
Now she sat at the edge of Ana’s bed, staring down at the little culprit like she’d committed an unforgivable act of treason.
“You traitor,” she whispered.
Ana, half-asleep and blissfully unaware of her crimes, blinked lazily at her mother, thumb already in her mouth.
Natasha sighed, brushing a loose curl from her daughter’s cheek.
“You did this on purpose.”
Ana made a content hum and reached for her blanket.
“Don’t play innocent now,” Natasha murmured, tucking the soft fabric under her chin. “I was fine. You hear me? I had balance. I had boundaries. I had one thing—one tiny, simple rule that I lived by.”
Ana blinked again. Unbothered.
“Don’t fall for anyone.”
Natasha exhaled through her nose, quiet and helpless.
“You were supposed to be the only love of my life, peanut. You. I planned for you. I fought for you. You were the only thing I ever let myself want.”
She leaned down, pressing a kiss to Ana’s hair.
“I walked into that room today and you were hers. Just—completely and shamelessly hers. You were giving her orders like a little general and she was just taking it. And smiling. She never smiles like that.”
Ana giggled softly, maybe in her sleep. Natasha narrowed her eyes.
“Is this part of your long con? Huh? Were you trying to get yourself a stepmama? Because listen—if that’s your endgame, we need to have a serious strategy talk.”
Ana rolled a little, settling deeper into the mattress. Her small hand rested against her chest, and Natasha just… stared.
“She doesn’t even like kids, you know,” she continued, as if trying to justify this to someone who hadn’t been there. “She’s the one who leaves birthday parties early. She practically hisses when Clint brings his brood around. You sneeze near her with a juice box and she’s gone.”
She paused.
“But not with you.”
A slow breath pushed from Natasha’s lungs.
“She picks you up like you weigh nothing. She lets you shove half your breakfast into her mouth and doesn’t even blink. And I saw her yesterday—reading with one hand while you chewed on the other. I don’t even think she noticed.”
Ana’s breathing started to slow again, thumb slipping lazily from her mouth.
“And the worst part?” Natasha whispered. “She makes it look easy. Like maybe… maybe this whole thing isn’t a fluke. Like maybe she could actually stay.”
The confession hung in the dark like a sigh caught midair.
Natasha leaned down, resting her forehead against Ana’s tiny one.
“I didn’t see it coming. I didn’t want to see it coming. But you… You threw her right into the center of our orbit like it was nothing.”
She kissed her daughter again, voice teasing even as her chest ached.
“You couldn’t have picked someone older? Someone predictable? Someone who’s not Tony Stark’s daughter, for god’s sake?”
Ana didn’t answer.
Didn’t need to.
Natasha ran a slow hand down her back, feeling the weight of love settle over her like a soft storm.
“You’re trouble,” she murmured. “But the best kind.”
Then she stood, brushing her fingers one last time across Ana’s cheek.
“You really couldn’t wait for me to fall first, huh?”
She flicked off the light.
Behind her, Ana slept soundly.
And Natasha stayed frozen in the doorway for just a moment longer… shaking her head to herself.
“Keep telling yourself that,” she muttered, her voice low and wry—aimed at the girl down the hall who had no idea what she’d just done.
sumary: The last thing Natasha expected was for her one-and-Half-year-old daughter to fall head over heels for the one person on the team who didn’t like kids.
Paring: Natasha Romanoff x fem reader. Natasha Romanoff x platonic!avengers
Word count: 5075
warnings: age gap, light mommy issues if you squirm your eyes, fluffly content, Natasha being the best mom ever, light humor and jokes
Natasha had never been the type to hope for softness.
Not for herself, at least.
She’d made her peace with that years ago—on the rooftops of Budapest, in the sterile hallways of S.H.I.E.L.D., in the long silences between missions where guilt and memory left no room for sentiment. And then came Ana. Not by accident. Not by surprise. By choice. Hers. A deliberate, defiant, I want this, spoken with all the clarity of a life finally claimed.
She never regretted a moment of it. Not the injections. Not the procedures. Not the days spent alone, watching her body change, knowing no one was coming but not needing anyone to. Ana was the best thing she’d ever done. Her softness, her quiet, her stubborn spark—that was Natasha’s legacy now. Not blood. Not missions. Her. Anasthasia Irina Romanoff. She’d chosen Irina long before Ana was even born. It wasn’t a family name, or a tribute to anyone in her past—it was a hope. Irina meant peace, and that’s what Ana was. Her stillness after decades of running. Her soft beginning after a life of sharp edges. Natasha had spent so many years living on instinct, choosing danger over safety, solitude over softness. But Ana was different. Ana meant slow mornings. Shared breakfasts. Laughter in the middle of the day for no reason at all. She gave her the name Irina because, for the first time, Natasha wasn’t surviving anymore. She was living. And Ana was the reason why.And maybe that’s why she was so protective of it—why she kept the world at arm’s length and Ana even closer. This calm, this rhythm she’d built, it was fragile in the way that mattered most. So when new variables appeared—new people, new energies—Natasha never let them close enough to shift the balance.
So she didn’t expect anything to come from your arrival.
Not in the way that mattered.
You were Tony’s daughter, and Natasha had always paid attention to the way people spoke about you—with a mixture of respect and restraint, like they weren’t quite sure what to do with someone who carried the Stark name but none of his chaos. She knew you joined S.H.I.E.L.D. when you were barely old enough to be called an adult, that you’d carved your space without leaning on legacy, and that you’d been stationed in England for the last few years—low profile, high results.
She also knew something more personal. Something quieter.
You didn’t like children.
Not in a cold, heartless way. You weren’t cruel. You were respectful—always. Natasha remembered the way you helped Lila Barton when she scraped her knee during a holiday visit, how you’d stayed still and calm while the girl sobbed against your shoulder. But the moment she calmed, you’d set her down gently and disappeared from the room like your presence had been an accident. You didn’t mock them, or treat them like they were less-than. You just… didn’t want them near. Didn’t invite them close. Natasha understood that. Some people didn’t crave the chaos, the unpredictability, the weight of something small depending on you.
That was fine.
That was expected.
Which is why she didn’t even flinch when she brought Ana to the morning briefing.
The meeting was scheduled in one of the larger lounge rooms—bright windows, low coffee tables, plenty of space for Ana to exist without needing constant wrangling. Natasha had done this dozens of times. Her daughter came with her everywhere now. She didn’t leave Ana behind unless she absolutely had to. The team had long since adapted.
You, however, were new.
She entered the room with Ana tucked against her side, one arm looped around the child’s waist with practiced ease. You were already seated—coffee in hand, face unreadable, posture casual but distant. Natasha didn’t expect more than a polite nod, maybe a glance. And that’s what she got. You didn’t tense. You didn’t retreat. You simply acknowledged her presence and turned your eyes back to the screen.
But Ana didn’t.
Ana saw you. And for the first time since Natasha could remember, her daughter paused.
Not in fear. Not in confusion. In recognition.
It started as a slow shift—her little body repositioning against Natasha’s ribs, eyes locked in your direction, curious and alert. Then the squirming began. Not impatient, not fussy—focused. Ana leaned out of her arms, little hand pointing downward.
Natasha frowned. “What’s going on, kotyonok?” she murmured, brushing her lips lightly across Ana’s hair.
“Down,” Ana whispered.
Natasha blinked.
Ana rarely asked to leave her arms during meetings. And never in unfamiliar rooms. She’d been clingy the last few days—teething, off her sleep schedule, adjusting to so many new faces around the compound again. But now, her little legs were kicking softly, hands gripping at Natasha’s shirt in earnest.
“Down,” she repeated.
Natasha hesitated—glanced at you.
You weren’t watching Ana anymore. You were watching her. Confused. Curious. But not annoyed. Not disapproving.
Natasha could read people down to the smallest twitch of a muscle, and in that moment, she read one thing clearly: you didn’t know what was happening either.
So she shifted forward and lowered Ana gently to the carpeted floor.
Ana’s sneakers touched down. She took one look back—brief, instinctive—then turned toward you like she already knew the path.
Natasha’s chest tightened.
One step. Then another.
You looked up.
There was a breath, the room shrinking around it.
Ana stopped at your knees. Her curls were mussed from her mother’s shoulder, her little fox plush dangling from one hand. She tilted her head to look at you properly. She didn’t blink.
And then she lifted both arms toward you.
“Lap.”
You froze.
Not in fear. Not rejection. Natasha saw it—something break quietly across your expression, the way your eyebrows lifted just slightly, like your own body didn’t understand how it was reacting before your brain caught up. There was no mask now. No calm Stark logic, no precise detachment. Just you—and the shock of being chosen by someone so small, so unrelenting, and so certain.
Natasha didn’t move.
She stood where she was, heart pounding quietly behind her ribs, not from fear or worry—but something more intimate. Something that reached the parts of her still holding every shattered version of family she’d ever known. She watched as you stared down at the child who had never, not once, walked into a stranger’s arms. And she waited. Because whatever happened next… would matter.
You didn’t reach for Ana immediately.
Natasha noticed the exact moment your eyes lifted—not to the child now reaching for you with unwavering certainty, but to her. And it wasn’t a question. Not quite. There was no panic in your expression, no discomfort. Just a pause. A stillness that asked without words: Is this alright?
And Natasha, who rarely let anyone past the perimeter of her trust, gave you the smallest, most intentional nod.
You moved like someone reaching into deep water—carefully, gently, aware of the weight of what you were about to hold. Your hands met Ana’s sides, small and secure, and you lifted her with practiced ease, as though this wasn’t the first time, as though her body already knew how to fold against yours. She settled into your lap like it belonged to her.
Like she had always meant to end up there.
Natasha’s breath caught in her throat.
Ana laid her head lightly against your chest, little cheek pressing into the dark fabric of your jacket. One of her hands tucked the fox between your arm and her belly; the other—small, dimpled fingers—reached up to your collarbone and found your hand.
And then she started to play.
Not with toys, not with distractions. Just your hand. Your fingers. One by one she explored them, pressing her thumb into your palm, curling your pinky against her own, dragging the tips along her forehead in idle motion. Her eyes drifted half-closed, calm and curious, while you stayed perfectly still—watching her with that same look Natasha couldn’t read.
It was almost unbearable, the quiet of the moment.
The meeting had technically begun, but Natasha hadn’t registered a single word Steve said. She hadn’t even sat down. She just stood near the door, arms crossed, eyes on the impossible softness blooming in front of her.
Because that’s what it was. Impossible.
You hadn’t flinched. You hadn’t hesitated. You hadn’t done what most people did—smile politely, hand Ana back, or distract her with something shiny so they could pass her off. You were just… there. Entirely present. Letting her settle. Letting her explore. Letting her choose.
And she had chosen you.
The worst part—if she could call it that—was that Natasha wasn’t angry. She wasn’t suspicious. She wasn’t even surprised anymore.
Because looking at you now—back straight, eyes lowered, completely surrendered to the tiny storm nestled in your lap—something made sense in her chest that hadn’t before.
Ana had found something.
Or maybe, someone.
And Natasha wasn’t sure what that meant yet, or how far she would allow it to grow—but for the first time in longer than she could remember, she didn’t feel the need to pull away. She walked slowly to her seat across from you, quiet as a shadow, never breaking the spell. And when she sat down, she didn’t take her eyes off you. The briefing wrapped without fanfare.
Steve’s voice faded into background noise, Bruce gathered his notes, and the others filtered out one by one with practiced efficiency. No one commented on Ana—no one dared. Maybe because they saw the weight of the moment. Maybe because it wasn’t theirs to touch.
The room was almost too quiet now.
Ana had slipped fully into sleep, her tiny hand still curled lazily around your finger, her head rising and falling against your chest like she’d found the safest place in the universe. You hadn’t moved. Not really. Just shifted to make her more comfortable—let her sink deeper into you without hesitation, like her weight belonged there.
Natasha couldn’t look away.
You hadn’t noticed—at least, she thought you hadn’t. You never were one to fidget under attention. But there was something different about you now. Something unguarded beneath all that calm.
“I have to admit,” she said, voice low, “this wasn’t how I pictured our first real conversation going.”
You glanced at her, brow arching just a little. “And how did you picture it?”
Natasha’s lips twitched. “Not with my daughter wrapped around you like a vine.”
You leaned back slightly, careful not to disturb Ana, and gave her that expression—dry, sharp, quietly amused. “You sound jealous.”
Her eyebrow lifted. “Should I be?”
You made a show of glancing down at Ana, then shrugged one shoulder—so subtle it barely moved her. “She’s got good taste.”
The laugh caught in Natasha’s throat before she could stop it. Soft, surprised. God, you were so damn composed, and yet there was something underneath that surface—a spark of something warmer, something playful. She hadn’t expected that. And she was rarely caught off guard.
“I should warn you,” she said, leaning her elbows on the table. “If you let her get used to that lap, you’re going to regret it.”
“I don’t regret much.”
“She’s one and a half. You’ll regret it the next time you try to drink a coffee without someone demanding half of it.”
You smiled—not a smirk, not your usual reserved grin. An actual smile. And Natasha had to look away, just for a moment, because something in her chest pulled taut at the sight.
“And here I thought you brought her to meetings as a distraction tactic,” you said.
She looked back at you with narrowed eyes, playful. “You think I’d use my daughter to throw someone off their game?”
“I think,” you said, gaze darkening just a little, “that if anyone could weaponize a toddler, it’d be you.”
Natasha laughed, this time all the way—low and warm in her chest, real in a way she didn’t usually allow to slip out. She shook her head, leaning back in her chair.
“You’re dangerous,” she muttered.
You tilted your head. “Me? You’re the trained assassin.”
“Exactly.” Her eyes dropped to the sleeping girl between you. “And you’re the one she asked for.”
The silence curled again. Not cold. Not awkward. Just thick with something unnamed.
You looked down at Ana once more, brushing a thumb lightly over her curls where they stuck up against your collar. “Don’t get used to this,” you said, not looking at Natasha. “I’m still not a fan of kids.”
“You keep telling yourself that,” she replied, watching the way you softened around the edges without realizing it.Natasha didn’t argue—she didn’t have to. The proof was already wrapped around your side in cookie-stained pajamas. She just watched you go, a quiet smile tugging at her mouth, the kind that stayed long after you’d left the room.
She knew this wouldn't be a one- time thing.
A few days later, the morning unfolded differently, slower. Late morning sunlight filtered lazily into the kitchen, warm and indifferent. It fell across the countertops, gleamed off metal handles, and lit the soft chaos that was breakfast—or rather, the battle of breakfast.
Ana was seated in her high chair like a tiny queen in revolt, arms crossed firmly, lips pursed in open rebellion. The oatmeal had gone cold fifteen minutes ago. Natasha had tried coaxing, bribing, even threatening to call Bruce if she didn’t eat. Nothing worked. The spoon sat abandoned in the bowl like a white flag.
“You are so lucky you’re cute,” Natasha muttered, scrubbing a hand down her face. “Other people’s kids don’t get away with this.”
Ana remained unimpressed. She glared past Natasha’s shoulder as if expecting reinforcements.
The door creaked open behind them.
Natasha didn’t turn around right away—she was too focused on pretending she wasn’t about to lose a diplomatic war with a toddler. But she didn’t need to look. She could hear it: the shuffle of slow, dragging footsteps, the soft grunt of someone whose soul was not yet awake. Then came the familiar hiss of the espresso machine, followed by the rustling of a bakery bag.
You’d arrived.
She turned.
You looked… awful.
Delightfully awful.
Hair wild from sleep, hoodie half-zipped, mismatched socks peeking out under flannel pants. You were cradling your coffee mug like a lifeline, eyes heavy-lidded, mouth in a petulant line that said you’d only been conscious for five minutes and deeply regretted that fact.
In your other hand: a cheese croissant, still warm, still flaking. You tore off a corner and bit into it like someone performing life-saving triage.
Ana stared, Hard. So damn hard.
Not at Natasha. Not at the bowl of oatmeal she’d rejected like poison. But at you.
You took another bite, chewed, then finally glanced up—and blinked, slow and heavy.
Your gaze drifted to the high chair. To Ana’s unrelenting eyes. Then to Natasha.
“I take it we’re in the starvation phase of child rearing?”
“She’s being dramatic,” Natasha said.
Ana made a noise like a whimper and kicked her feet, You squinted at her. Then reached forward, broke off a soft piece of croissant, and held it out between your fingers.
Ana took it like it was sacred.
“Traitor,” Natasha muttered under her breath.
You made a sound between a hum and a sigh and dropped into a chair with all the weight of someone being punished by existence itself. “I’ve been up for six minutes,” you mumbled. “I haven’t even looked at another human being yet.”
Ana reached again, You fed her another bite.
Natasha narrowed her eyes. “You know that’s not helping, right?”
“She was clearly starving.”
“I told you—she’s not.”
“She’s got the same face I do when I haven’t eaten,” you said, deadpan. “We understand each other.”
Natasha studied you, the way you slouched, bleary-eyed and nonverbal, croissant in one hand, coffee in the other. She looked at Ana—mirroring your expression almost perfectly, down to the pout and the silent demand for carbs.
She huffed a laugh.
“My God. You’re the same person.”
You gave her a tired glare. “Keep talking. See if I share.”
“You’re both insufferable when hungry.”
“Sounds like someone’s jealous.”
Natasha crossed her arms. “Of what? Your shared standoffish breakfast cult?”
You sipped your coffee slowly, eyes flicking to Ana and back.
“She chose me,” you said, tone flat but triumphant. “I don’t make the rules.”
Ana squeaked with joy, flailing her hands toward the croissant again.
“She betrayed me,” Natasha replied, pointing to the untouched oatmeal. “I gave her life. You gave her cheese.”
You shrugged, already handing Ana another piece. “She’s got good taste.”
Natasha shook her head, lips twitching as she turned away to clean up the bowl of oatmeal. “You’re both ridiculous.”
You yawned, eyes half-lidded as Ana leaned her head dramatically on the edge of the tray, already chewing the last bite like it was a reward for surviving the morning. You were still half-asleep, leaning into your chair like gravity was trying to reclaim you, clinging to that coffee as if it were the only thing standing between you and the grave. You were cranky, antisocial before noon, and notoriously stubborn about food—especially when it was yours.
Which is why Natasha watched with mild astonishment as you rolled your eyes in a perfectly theatrical arc, sighed like a martyr, and wordlessly handed the rest of your croissant to Ana.
She squeaked with joy and took it like treasure, immediately stuffing the larger half into her mouth with both hands.
“Unbelievable,” Natasha muttered, not even bothering to hide her smile.
You ignored her, sipping your coffee in silence like you regretted every decision that had led to this exact moment. Your eyes were dark and tired, but there was no real irritation behind them. Just that quiet resignation you always wore when you knew you were losing a battle you never meant to fight in the first place.
You took another sip, then looked at her across the kitchen—eyes still half-lidded, voice hoarse with sleep.
“Give me the oatmeal.”
Natasha blinked. “What?”
You gestured vaguely toward the abandoned bowl. “She doesn’t want it. And I’m starving.”
A beat of silence stretched between you.
Then, without a word, Natasha reached for the bowl and walked it over, setting it in front of you with a raised eyebrow. You didn’t meet her gaze. You just set your coffee aside and picked up the spoon like someone about to make peace with their fate.
Ana was already chewing noisily beside you, bits of pastry stuck to her cheek.
Natasha crossed her arms, leaning against the counter again. “So let me get this straight,” she said, lips twitching. “You won’t share food with me, but she gets the last of your croissant and your breakfast?”
“She didn’t ask for it,” you said without looking up. “She demanded it with her eyes.”
“Right. So toddler mind control. That’s the explanation we’re going with.”
“She’s persuasive.”
“She’s one and a half.”
You glanced up then, finally, spoon midair. Your expression was blank, deadpan, and yet something in your eyes sparked with mischief.
“So am I,” you said.
And Natasha felt it—that little flicker again. The warmth that was growing far too easily in the quiet spaces between these moments. It settled somewhere under her ribs, soft and persistent.
You looked back down and took a bite of the oatmeal without flinching.
Ana, satisfied and full of croissant, leaned against the side of your arm and let out a sigh so deep it could only have come from the depths of her soul.
Natasha didn’t say anything else.
She just stood there, watching the two of you—both stubborn, both sleepy, both impossible—and thought, this isn’t going to stay simple, is it?
But she didn’t say that either.
She just smiled.And watched you keep pretending like you weren’t already halfway hers.Days passed like that—quiet, unspoken things folding themselves into the rhythm of the compound. You didn’t come looking for Ana, but she kept finding you anyway. And Natasha… well, she kept watching. Kept noticing the way your edges softened more each time.
Then came the briefing.
It had started as a simple mission briefing. Nothing classified, nothing urgent—just a routine strategy session with the new intel team that Natasha absolutely couldn’t reschedule. One hour, tops. Ana would barely notice she was gone.
She was so wrong.
Clint had been her first call. Obvious choice. He knew how to juggle five kids and a mission report without blinking. But the moment Natasha handed Ana over, the girl went stiff in his arms like a statue, then started wailing as if he’d personally betrayed her.
Wanda tried next. Ana let her hold her for a full five seconds before twisting away like a feral cat and screeching “NO!” in a tone that made two agents duck for cover.
Steve, bless him, had approached with his most diplomatic smile and a stuffed bear in hand, only to be met with the full force of toddler disdain. Ana didn’t scream that time—just buried her face in Natasha’s neck and growled.
And Natasha… Natasha was five minutes late to her briefing and dangerously close to losing her mind.
Which is why, when you happened to pass by—coffee in one hand, tablet in the other, clearly heading for the lab and not remotely interested in babysitting—Natasha didn’t think.
She acted.
“Ana, sweetheart?” she whispered, shifting the toddler to her hip. “Do you want to go see her?”
Ana lifted her head.
Wide green eyes blinked once. Then a slow, devilish smile curled across her face.
That was all Natasha needed.
“Catch,” she said dryly.
You turned just in time to fumble and catch the small human now squirming gleefully into your arms like she belonged there.
“Wait—what the—”
“Thanks!” Natasha called over her shoulder, already halfway down the corridor before you could protest.
Ana squealed in delight.
Natasha didn’t look back.
She made it to the meeting just in time. And to her own surprise, she didn’t spend the whole thing worried. Something about knowing Ana was with you—despite the fact you hated children (or said you did)—had her oddly at ease.
By the time she wrapped up and returned to the common floor, it had been almost ninety minutes. The hallway smelled faintly of coffee and cleaning supplies. Bruce’s voice echoed from the open lab door, calm and methodical, talking through some kind of energy recalibration.
And there you were.
One hip leaned against the table, the other supporting Ana, who looked perfectly at home in the crook of your arm.
Your hair was pulled into a haphazard bun, your shirt was half-untucked and absolutely covered in cookie crumbs. Ana’s fingers were dusted with sugar. You were talking to Bruce about vibrational decay patterns in multi-core reactors, as if the weight of a toddler on your hip was completely natural. Your other hand gestured midair, precise, animated, still clutching a small whiteboard marker.
Ana watched your mouth move as if following every word.
Then she gagged—loudly and dramatically.
Not because of anything serious. Just… toddler flair.
You paused mid-sentence, looked down, and sighed. “Rude.”
Bruce snorted. “She takes after you.”
“She has better fashion sense.”
Ana giggled, then burrowed her face into your shoulder.
Natasha stood in the doorway, unnoticed for a second longer, just… watching. The way your body shifted automatically to balance Ana’s weight. The way you wiped her mouth with the edge of your sleeve without looking. The way you didn’t rush to give her back, or seem particularly bothered by the crumbs now stuck to your pants.
She cleared her throat.
You looked up, brows raised. “Hey.”
Natasha raised one eyebrow. “So… is this your new lab assistant?”
You looked at Ana, who blinked at her mother and clung just a little tighter.
“She works for cookies,” you said. “And occasionally heckles my equations.”
Natasha bit back a smile, folding her arms. “Well, she’s my daughter.”
“She’s very opinionated,” you said dryly, adjusting her on your hip. “She gagged at my thesis. I’m considering it a peer review.”
Ana giggled again, tucking her head against your collarbone.
Natasha stared at the two of you for another second, then finally stepped forward, brushing a few crumbs off your shoulder. Her fingers lingered a little longer than they needed to.
“You’re a mess,” she murmured.
You smirked. “I could be Your mess.”
She looked at you. And the words stuck somewhere behind her teeth, She didn’t say them.
Not yet.
Instead, she stepped forward, reaching her arms out gently. “Alright, peanut,” she said softly. “Come here.”
Ana blinked up at her mother, expression unreadable for a split second… then, without protest, reached out. You transferred her easily, and the little girl immediately curled into Natasha’s hold like she’d been waiting for it all along—her thumb going straight to her mouth, her head resting against the curve of her mother’s neck.
Warm.
Quiet.
Home.
Natasha’s hand rubbed small circles against her daughter’s back, and for a second, she just breathed her in. The scent of cookies, and your cologne, and a hint of vanilla shampoo clinging to soft hair.
“She’s full of sugar and attitude,” you said, brushing a crumb off your shirt.
Natasha glanced at you over Ana’s curls. “She’s exactly where she gets it from.”
You tilted your head, already sipping the coffee you’d left to cool. “You sure about that?”
Her smile curved lazily. “Keep telling yourself that.”
Then she walked away—Ana heavy and content in her arms, safe, sleepy, and smiling like someone who had everything she wanted in one place. Natasha had gone to her apartment at the Tower —just late enough for the city to fall into a quieter rhythm, just early enough that Natasha hadn’t had time to put up her usual walls.
Ana was half-asleep on her shoulder, cheek pressed against her collarbone, and Natasha held her like she was made of something finer than glass. There was oatmeal in her hair. Cookie crumbs on her onesie. A smudge of ink on her tiny palm, and no one knew how it got there.
But Natasha had seen it.
She had seen it.
She’d walked into that lab expecting chaos—Bruce hunched over a console, a loose wire sparking somewhere, maybe you arguing with JARVIS about protocols. But instead she found you standing still in the middle of it all, with Ana on your hip and your shirt covered in evidence of breakfast bribery.
You didn’t even pause the conversation with Bruce. You just kept talking about cellular decay patterns, as if you hadn’t realized Ana was happily gnawing on a pencil and gagging every time you used the word “neurotransmitter.”
And that sound you made—that little laugh when she fake-gagged for the third time?
It rewired something in Natasha.
Now she sat at the edge of Ana’s bed, staring down at the little culprit like she’d committed an unforgivable act of treason.
“You traitor,” she whispered.
Ana, half-asleep and blissfully unaware of her crimes, blinked lazily at her mother, thumb already in her mouth.
Natasha sighed, brushing a loose curl from her daughter’s cheek.
“You did this on purpose.”
Ana made a content hum and reached for her blanket.
“Don’t play innocent now,” Natasha murmured, tucking the soft fabric under her chin. “I was fine. You hear me? I had balance. I had boundaries. I had one thing—one tiny, simple rule that I lived by.”
Ana blinked again. Unbothered.
“Don’t fall for anyone.”
Natasha exhaled through her nose, quiet and helpless.
“You were supposed to be the only love of my life, peanut. You. I planned for you. I fought for you. You were the only thing I ever let myself want.”
She leaned down, pressing a kiss to Ana’s hair.
“I walked into that room today and you were hers. Just—completely and shamelessly hers. You were giving her orders like a little general and she was just taking it. And smiling. She never smiles like that.”
Ana giggled softly, maybe in her sleep. Natasha narrowed her eyes.
“Is this part of your long con? Huh? Were you trying to get yourself a stepmama? Because listen—if that’s your endgame, we need to have a serious strategy talk.”
Ana rolled a little, settling deeper into the mattress. Her small hand rested against her chest, and Natasha just… stared.
“She doesn’t even like kids, you know,” she continued, as if trying to justify this to someone who hadn’t been there. “She’s the one who leaves birthday parties early. She practically hisses when Clint brings his brood around. You sneeze near her with a juice box and she’s gone.”
She paused.
“But not with you.”
A slow breath pushed from Natasha’s lungs.
“She picks you up like you weigh nothing. She lets you shove half your breakfast into her mouth and doesn’t even blink. And I saw her yesterday—reading with one hand while you chewed on the other. I don’t even think she noticed.”
Ana’s breathing started to slow again, thumb slipping lazily from her mouth.
“And the worst part?” Natasha whispered. “She makes it look easy. Like maybe… maybe this whole thing isn’t a fluke. Like maybe she could actually stay.”
The confession hung in the dark like a sigh caught midair.
Natasha leaned down, resting her forehead against Ana’s tiny one.
“I didn’t see it coming. I didn’t want to see it coming. But you… You threw her right into the center of our orbit like it was nothing.”
She kissed her daughter again, voice teasing even as her chest ached.
“You couldn’t have picked someone older? Someone predictable? Someone who’s not Tony Stark’s daughter, for god’s sake?”
Ana didn’t answer.
Didn’t need to.
Natasha ran a slow hand down her back, feeling the weight of love settle over her like a soft storm.
“You’re trouble,” she murmured. “But the best kind.”
Then she stood, brushing her fingers one last time across Ana’s cheek.
“You really couldn’t wait for me to fall first, huh?”
She flicked off the light.
Behind her, Ana slept soundly.
And Natasha stayed frozen in the doorway for just a moment longer… shaking her head to herself.
“Keep telling yourself that,” she muttered, her voice low and wry—aimed at the girl down the hall who had no idea what she’d just done.
˙⋆✮ 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.
