#On the trail we BLAZE

[ememmerson]

⭐ Go stargazing with your muse (Em/Theo, please!)

Em was delighted to find a fellow adventurer in Theo. While Feyre made for excellent company for shorter excursions, he couldnt imagine how ling it would take them to hike the Appalachian Trail at her pace. In his opinion- Not every bug , plant, and critter needed to be catalogued. Though Feyres opinion differed greatly . Because science or whatever. That was fine when you didn't have miles upon miles of hiking ahead of you. As it Turned out Avens brother was the type to document too and managed to encourage Feyre to wait for them with Aven at the cabin that would mark the end of their hike by promising to take photos. Em was certain there was no changing Feyres mind once it was made up but it seemed that Theo was the trick to getting Feyre to agree to just about anything. Emmett chuckled to himself as he worked to set up the tree slung hammock that would be his bed for the night only to have his focus drawn away by Theos call of "Have a look at that." Em had come to learn that Theo wasn't a man of many words so an actual exclamation from the brunette was more than enough to draw Ems attention from the final tie he looped against the tree he stood behind. Emmetts Eyes shifted to Theo and then up into the direction he was pointing. He couldnt help but laugh out loud with pure surprise as he watched the rain of stars streak over the already star flecked wonder that was the unfiltered night sky that only places far from city lights and plumbing had to offer. While Em knew Aven would not have been enthusiastic about the walk and not to mention the moments of climbing-- He would have loved to share this with her. "You should radio the girls- I'm sure they can see this from the cabin." He smiled tenderly at the storm of light flashing across the sky as he fished a blunt from his pocket. "You want to really take a look at the stars?"

[arimabari]

bit of an idea I had at the start of July for a Seb/Hawke daughter who is also a member of the Veilguard! Lettie's a Veil Jumper apprentice under Bellara who ran away from home because she wants to find her mom (11 years post Hawke Sacrifice).

She's the Team Baby

[j-trow-95]

Six Sentence Sunday

It's the first Six Sentence Sunday of 2025 (even though I'm posting this on Monday, shhh, the executive dysfunction kicked in last night as I was typing this post!)! Thanks for the tags @artsyunderstudy @nausikaaa, @martsonmars, @bookish-bogwitch and @mooncello, love seeing what you're all working on.

I haven't written anything new yet for either of my WIPs, but I thought I'd share a little something from both.

First off, The Trails We Blaze. I'm hoping to crack back on with this WIP in earnest in February, once I finish off my three month PaWriCo challenge with ASR. The last few days at work all I've been able to think about is the later plot points of Trails and I'm so excited to get back into this world.

I think this snippet is new, but apologies if not. This is Baz POV, way more than six sentences, and I've redacted one character name for spoilers!

The bedroom door slams shut and I slowly turn to face [redacted] and Fiona, both of whom are glaring at me and blocking my path out of the room. I cock an eyebrow and it sets [redacted] off. “What the bloody hell d’you think you’re playing at?” “Good morning to you too, [redacted].” “You think you can just waltz in here—” “You’re going to answer some questions,” I say, my tone brooking no argument. “Like hell I am.” “Leave it, Baz,” Fiona snaps, standing at [redacted]’s side, hands on hips and a scowl on her face. “Tell me everything I want to know, and I’ll leave.” [redacted] scoffs. “That simple, is it?” I nod. “It is.” “You jumped up little shit.” “Flattery will get you everywhere.” I perch on the edge of the desk, leaning back on it and playing with one of the figurines,

Now, onto the gremlins! I've been deep into ASR rewrites since November, and while I don't think I'll hit my target of a full rewrite by the end of the month or 100k (whichever comes first), I'm still plugging away at it.

In my last post I mentioned the change up in tense and how that's really helped, and I think working on Trails for the last couple of years (my God, it's been 2 years since I started working on that fic 🤯) has been a game changer for me.

Action has always been something I struggle with, but everyone has been leaving such lovely comments on the action scenes within Trails that it's given me a little more confidence when it comes to ASR. ASR is HEAVILY action reliant, and I still don't know why I thought this would be a good idea 😂🤦🏽‍♀️

That being said, read on for a snippet with Lauren being extra stabby.

I slip into another group of scientists who are frantically racing to the opposite side of the lab. No one notices as I slip the already knotted fabric over my head and tighten it. With my face hidden I shuck the lab coat and flick up the hood of my dark coat. Immediately the scientists are reeling away from me, shouting warnings to everyone close to them. They don’t get far. Throwing knives embed themselves in the lower spines of two, my sai plunges through the back of one man’s ribcage and out the other side, and as I’m pulling it from his limp body I sense someone coming up on my left side. The mercenary lunges with his combat knife, the blade whistling past my waist and stomach in a gutting motion; I’m now to the side of him, his momentum keeping him travelling forward as I angle my sai to penetrate his throat. His warm blood gushes down the blade and slicks my hand around the grip, the weight of his dead body threatening to rip the weapon from my hand. The whole thing happens so quickly it’s like the rest of the lab enters slow motion. I watch the light leave his eyes as he crashes to the floor, blood splattering around his head. Then the screams begin in earnest.

Tagging for other WIPs days this week:  @artsyunderstudy @aristocratic-otter @blackberrysummerblog @bookish-bogwitch @cutestkilla

@emeryhall @erzbethluna @hushed-chorus @iamamythologicalcreature @ic3-que3n

@ileadacharmedlife @ivelovedhimthroughworse @letraspal @martsonmars @nightimedreamersworld

@orange-peony @shrekgogurt @theearlgreymage @you-remind-me-of-the-babe 

[panncakes]

it is still so wild to me that the first full thai gl we got was filled with so many different types of kisses and sex scenes and explicit wlw love making i thank the stars every day for freenbecky

[trlblzd]

      "  SOMETIMES,  WHENEVER  SIOBHAN  ISN'T  LOOKING      during my shift down at dreamjolt holstery, i tend to mix weirder stuff like  gunpowder with the heavier drinks to see if it would hit me harder.     i think     ONE     of them accidentally drank an extra shot i made for myself     &     liked it     (  ...  )      now i can't tell anyone i put something like that in drinks.     but it's good, i could whip it up  for you some time.  "

@deadtrail ,, ♡'d

[sagnaevi]

Ah, haha. To be free from the schakles of his unjust life, death is the only answer. Now, wether it was true death or a dream one, didn't matter. In the end, the result of this gamble is the same; freedom. By sacrificing all his chips in one grandeous gamble; his cornerstone, his life, even betraying the trust of the Trailblazer and becoming the villain of his story - could Aventurine archieve that which he had dreamt of all his life: the right to live. It's a shame about his friend, though. That betrayed look in those golden depths - yeah, it stung, funnily enough. It's not like they were actually close, right? He gave the Trailblazer neverending credits, in return he recieved a valuable alliance for this endevour. It was all just a bussiness transaction. Life is a grand gamble, and nothing comes without a price. Aventurine knew this very well; it had been ingrained into his damned soul.

He had always been lucky. By betting all or nothing into this cursed luck of his, he always walked out a winner. If Giathra really had blessed him with boundless luck, then why did he never feel happy? Even now, as he had freed himself from the clutches of the IPC and the Family - and having found his way back to the waking world... All he felt was, empty? No that is not right. Dread gnawed at the corners of his conciousness - reminding him of the consequences left in the wake of his freedom. Caelus. Haha, he probably doesn't want anything to do with him anymore. After all, he had feigned the threat of detonating the stellaron inside his chest. Aventurine sighed as he made his way towards the Express. It's stupid. He could go anywhere he wanted now, and yet he comes crawling back to the Astral Express. For what? Good question. Why does he go back to them? To apologize in hopes of blazing a trail among the stars together with Caelus? Oh, it's a gamble, for sure. Once a gambler, always a gambler.

❛ We meet again, friend, but don't worry... I'm not here to instigate any discourse. ❜ The former stoneheart greeted, upon having caught the Trailblazer's eyes. Oh, he does not look happy to see him, which was understandable, of course. Nervosity sank in; dwelling underneath the Gambler's breath. Yet, despite the unfavored situation, he kept a calm appearance. // @iiryoku closed starter.

[ink-of-a-thousand-currents]

Fully scried Mass Hatch kids 10/55, fav scry showcase

Today's notes: #8 is a strong contender for a keeper, I adore that Gaoler scry. Meanwhile, #7 has been designated an Ugly Baby after many scry attempts. Not a fan.

#6 Wine/Sanddollar/Sanguine, Ice Common, Male

#7 Fern/Caramel/Purple, Light Common, Female

#8 Cobalt/Cerulean/Copper, Light Uncommon, Female

#9 Lavender/Sky/Teal, Shadow Uncommon, Female

#10 Black/Carmine/Ruby, Nature Common, Male

[spyglassrealms]

Well I swear we got there last time, but I don't remember how / And the map is lost; the road is gone; what do I do now?

[jinsai-ish]

To cheer me up in shitty days:

Remembering getting sick of our DM pulling stunts and deciding our new characters for a LoTR RP would be:

Tul'i - a female Dwarven rogue with a penchant for (cheating at) gambling (black hair, blue eyes)

Marigold - female hobbit bard, plays the lute (blonde hair, green eyes)

And I can't remember the name but we shall affectionately call him "The'chad" - buff Southerner, Grifter, somewhat scantily clad, with impressive thighs who procures a pair of very tasteful gold earrings.

And the horse from Rohan that joins them: Altivo. He likes apples.

[j-trow-95]

2024 in review

Thanks for the tags @artsyunderstudy and @nausikaaa

Wow. 2024 has been ... a year.

I've spent this last year flip-flopping between periods of intense creativity and intense burnout. I've barely posted anything on here, and even less over on AO3, but I have been writing, and the plot gremlins have been working overtime when it comes to planning out where the WIPs are going.

Object permanence and keeping timelines straight in my head are things I struggle with, so I can't remember exactly when I actually achieved any of these things, but I did, and that's all that matters.

Huge thanks as always to Ashton for the incredible artwork in this fic, and for the beta help along with my editor Zoë, @cutestkilla and @iamamythologicalcreature

I posted one chapter of The Trails We Blaze, my 2023 @carryonthroughtheages fic, which is a SnowBaz/The Road to El Dorado au.

Simon and Baz have been through a lot together. Growing up as criminals on London's streets; surviving the Great War; dealing with a lot of repressed feelings. But after their latest con goes wrong, they're left with nothing but an ancient map, a signet ring of unknown provenance or value, and promises of a city that doesn't even exist.

Thrust into a world of adventure with danger at every turn, they're forced to decide how far they're willing to go for a myth, a fortune, and a chance at love.

This fic is going to be a real labour of love and I have big plans for it going forward. If you haven't started it yet, here's what to expect:

adventure across post WW1 England, France, and Spain

exciting action

political machinations

idiots in love pining for each other

epic romance (when they eventually get their shit together)

I know roughly how this is going to end, and I have a first draft up to the 'It's Tough to be a God' sequence (if you know the original film), but I'm currently trying to rewrite a large section of that draft. Discovery writing has been a massive learning curve for me, but I'm excited to get back to this fic and the characters.

Again, massive thanks to Ashton for the stunning artwork of Lauren. I never stop geeking out over the fact I get to call this incredible woman my friend, and that I get to actually look at my chaos gremlin MC anytime I want!

Most of my time writing this year has been spent on approximately the billionth rewrite of my original novel, A Survivor's Revenge.

I am desperate to get this story into the hands of readers, whether that's though trad or indie publishing, and so far I've had good feedback from my editor and alpha reader on the previous draft. But me being me, I couldn't leave it at that.

So now I'm rewriting the book and completely changing the way it's written. The shift from 3rd person/past tense to 1st person/present tense has finally got things moving in terms of developmental edits; the plot flows more smoothly, character interactions and growth are coming more naturally, and for once the villain motivations and plans are becoming clear! Praise the chaos gods.

Lauren Atkins is many things. Student. Daughter. Friend. But at her core, she’s a survivor. And she has one thing on her mind … revenge.

For the lovers of genre spanning sci-fi, morally grey main characters, full spectrum queer identities, and found family, A Survivor’s Revenge will have you asking, how far are you willing to go to protect the ones you love?

I went back and looked at some super old drafts of ASR a couple of months ago; after a conversation with my alpha reader decided to reinstate an old plot line that I'd shelved, and I am super excited to get back to this one. Lauren has become even more morally grey since I last handled this plot line, so things are going to get very bloody very quickly.

So the last two months have been spend sporadically rewriting this behemoth, and I'll be continuing that into January. Originally I was doing this as part of the PaWriCo writing challenge, but I don't think I'll manage to finish the full draft by the end of January. Currently it's sitting at 27.3k words, and if I wanted to hit par I should've been at 65.2k. So, likelihood of hitting 100k by 31st January is minimal.

This little floof is largely the reason for me falling behind.

Benjamin has been back in the vets consistently since the end of November for scans and surgeries, and now for an ongoing infection following the most recent surgery. It's safe to say my nerves and wallet are strained to the maximum, but he's 100% worth it.

So yeah. 2024 may not have been the most productive year for writing, but things have been happening behind the scenes, and I'm hopeful that I'll be able to share more in the new year.

I've missed interacting with people on here, I'm tired of just lurking. This chaos gremlin is back, baby!

Tagging (sorry if you've already done something like this):  @aristocratic-otter @blackberrysummerblog @bookish-bogwitch @cutestkilla @emeryhall

@hushed-chorus @iamamythologicalcreature @ic3-que3n @ileadacharmedlife @letraspal @orange-peony

@shrekgogurt @skeedelvee @theearlgreymage @you-remind-me-of-the-babe 

[celestial-sword-dance]

✏️ consider, Wraith and Sampo ( @the-trails-we-blaze )

I feel like they’d make each other worse.

[trlblzd]

" MARCH IS TRULY ONE IMPRESSIVE GIRL. she's a lot tougher than what people give her credit for & i, for one, think that she is remarkable for a lot of things that she wants and desires to do. not to mention, hella badass. wielding TWO swords in one go ? she's awesome. i like what she did with her hair too. "

[rivalrosso]

tags update

‘⠀watch me leave my soul to you ( ic )

‘⠀silly kitty ( ooc )

‘⠀what was i made for? ( headcanon )

‘⠀mafia princess ( self )

‘⠀i've got my heart set on anywhere but here ( musings )

‘⠀every step that i take is another mistake to you ( behavior )

‘⠀the trail we blaze ( aesthetics )

‘⠀i whisper in your ear‚ "i want to fucking tear you apart" ( desires )

‘⠀raindrops and purrs of cats ( music )

‘⠀the normal one ( kris )

‘⠀silly kitty ( lyra )

‘⠀stupid casanova ( gold )

‘⠀now please can i kiss him? ( gold x silver )

he is like a cat in the dark then he is the darkness behaviour tag maybe?

[littlelamy]

you were right!

a/n: okay, i know you guys might be tired of me doing these but this is my last one! i hope you all like it 😜 gifs from @rafeyscurtainbangs

The blazing Moroccan sun beats down on Rafe, its intensity mirrored by the firestorm raging in his mind. Dust hangs in the air around him, adding to the harshness of the moment as he stands over the well. Below, Groff coughs and groans, his face contorted in pain, but Rafe barely spares him a second glance. His rage overpowers everything else, even the satisfaction he should feel. He narrows his eyes, voice laced with anger and finality.

“Checkmate, bitch!” he yells down, his words slicing through the hot, tense air. The motorcycle engine he’d used to get out here sits idle a few feet away, rumbling like his frustration.

He turns on his heel, muttering a curse, fists clenched. As he stalks away from the well, he pulls out his phone and dials Sofia’s number, his chest tight with the realization that everything he thought he knew was a lie.

Sofia answers after two rings, her voice as casual as if he hadn’t just found out about her betrayal. “Hey, babe, what’s up ?”

Rafe’s voice is steely, cold. “Is it true? Is it true, what Groff just told me? Is it?”

The silence on her end is all he needs. He can practically hear her scrambling for words, but she never manages to answer. His face twists in anger.

“Pack your shit. Get out of my house,” he snarls, a final, unforgiving edge in his voice. “God, after everything I did for you? We’re done. Done.” He hangs up before she can say another word, shoving his phone back into his pocket with a bitter scoff. Betrayed, twice over—and he’d ignored the only person who saw it coming.

He stands there, baking in the Moroccan heat, his mind racing back to a month ago in Kildare, when you and he had argued over Sofia. You’d warned him that she wasn’t who she seemed. He’d brushed you off, accusing you of jealousy—knowing damn well that there was more to it. You were his best friend, but it was complicated; that line had already been crossed too many times, with late-night kisses and tangled sheets. But you two hadn’t spoken since that fight, since the way he’d brushed you off had hurt deeper than either of you cared to admit.

Taking a breath, he pulls out his phone again, fingers hovering over your name. He hesitates, swallowing his pride, before finally pressing call.

The phone rings, and you pick up after a few moments, your voice tight with annoyance. “What, Rafe?”

Your tone makes him pause, but the way you sound almost comforts him, even with the irritation clear in your voice. You’re there—back in Kildare, probably sitting cozy in your little apartment. Meanwhile, he’s out here under the scorching sun, alone, trying to piece together his pride.

He clears his throat. “Hey… princess,” he says, voice softened, the pet name slipping out before he can stop it. He can almost feel you rolling your eyes on the other end, but he presses on, the words weighing heavy on him. “I—uh… Look, I’m sorry. You were right.”

There’s a surprised pause, and he hears you shift in your seat as if you’re debating whether to hang up or let him speak. When you do answer, your tone is a bit softer, cautious.

“What happened?”

Rafe lets out a dry, humorless laugh. “Turns out Sofia was exactly who you said she was. A snake. And here I was, thinking you were just being… petty. But I guess I’m the idiot, huh?”

You breathe out, and he can picture you shaking your head, lips pressed together. “You wouldn’t listen,” you say quietly, as if the words hold more hurt than anger.

He sighs, running a hand through his hair, the frustration evident in his voice. “I know. I was so damn sure you were just jealous. I mean—” He pauses, grappling with how to say it. “Hell, I thought you were jealous because you… I don’t know. I thought you didn’t want me with her because we…” His voice trails off, but the implication lingers between you.

“Yeah,” you say softly, almost to yourself. “I get it.”

Rafe bites his lip, letting the words sink in. “Can I see you? I’m done here in a few days, and I could be back in Kildare very soon. I could stop by, explain… properly.”

A beat passes, and when you finally speak, it’s careful, guarded. “After everything you said last time, why should I?”

He laughs softly, almost self-deprecating. “Because I think you might be the only person I can trust right now. And… I miss you.” His voice drops, laced with a warmth he can’t help. “Even if you’re just going to gloat and rub it in my face.”

You chuckle, and he smiles, savoring the sound. “I don’t know if I miss you or if I just feel sorry for you,” you tease, but the playfulness is back in your tone, if only faintly.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, amusement lacing his words. “Act like you don’t care. But come on, you miss me. Admit it.”

A small silence follows, and he imagines the way your lips twitch into a smile. Finally, you relent. “Maybe a little. But you’re bringing wine. Good wine.”

“Oh, don’t worry, baby,” he says, the flirtation back in his voice. “Only the best for you.”

You scoff, but he hears the hint of a laugh. It’s the closest thing he’s had to a good moment in a long time. He takes a breath, savoring the thought of leaving this mess behind and getting back to Kildare—back to the only person who knew him well enough to call him out, and care anyway. As the call ends, he puts his phone in his pocket, a grin spreading across his face, motivating him to get that crown and go to his princess.

taglist: @namelesslosers @princessslutt @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @starkeysprincess @sixrosberg @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @kissrotten @rafesangelita @sstargirln @rafedaddy01 @soldesole @bakugouswaif

[cadelinhadaromanoff]

𝐊𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 | 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟑

Sumary: When Natasha finds herself missing your presence, she realizes just how much her life has changed. What once felt like an afterthought now feels essential. She never imagined how much she’d come to need you, and how much better life is with you by her side.

Paring: Natasha Romanoff x Reader, Natasha Romanoff x Platonic!Avengers

Word count: 7410

Warnings: A very soft Natasha, bad Mood, Dry jokes, saudades. +18 content.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

Author’s Notes: Part three is finally out!! Thanks for all the love you guys are sending to this work. Feel free to send me an ask so we can talk about our mini family—please do, I’m dying for this 😭😭😭

゛ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 𓂃𓈒𓏸 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ᥫ᭡ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ༝ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ˚₊ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 🍼 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ୨♡୧ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ᡣ𐭩 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ꩜　₊ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ✧ 　　 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ˚　　 ૮₍ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ₎ა ‎ ‎ ‎ ₊ㅤ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ୨୧ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ⁺ 　　 　˳ 　 　⸝⸝⸝♡　　⁺　　୨୧　　　₊　 　 ˚₊

There were worse things than waking up happy. Natasha just wasn’t used to this version of it—the soft kind. The kind that came in slowly, quietly, like sunlight slipping through half-drawn curtains. It didn’t blaze or demand. It settled.

You’d already come and gone that morning—something about Stark needing a schematic review—but you’d left behind your usual trail of affection: still-warm coffee in the red mug she always pretended wasn’t hers, a brown paper bag with her favorite pastry, and the faintest trace of your perfume clinging to the pillow beside hers. She didn’t need any of it. She wasn’t the kind of woman who needed. But damn if it didn’t make her want more.

Ana was still asleep in her little bed across the room, curled under the corner of Natasha’s old hoodie, breathing soft and even. Natasha sat at the table barefoot, coffee in hand, half-smiling to herself without realizing it. This wasn’t a fairytale. It was better. It was real.

You hadn’t said anything official, neither had she. But somewhere between the flowers once a week and the lazy mornings on her couch with your head in her lap, something had clicked into place. A silent agreement. You were hers. She was yours. And neither of you were going anywhere.

You were at her apartment almost every day now. Sometimes just to nap. Sometimes just to exist in the same space. But most nights, after Ana was asleep, it turned into something more—long, drawn-out kisses on the couch, tangled limbs in the low glow of the TV, your mouth on her skin like you were trying to learn her by heart. Natasha didn’t let many people get close. But you didn’t try to break her walls down. You just made her feel safe enough to lower them on her own.

There were still moments when it hit her hard. When she’d glance across the room and see you with Ana—sharing snacks, playing with puzzle pieces, carrying her on your hip like she belonged there—and Natasha’s chest would tighten in a way that almost hurt. Because this wasn’t a dream. This was real. And somehow, it was hers.

She’d never imagined she’d get this. Not the child. Not the quiet mornings. Not you. And yet, here she was. Drinking her favorite coffee, in her apartment that didn’t feel lonely anymore, with the sound of her daughter breathing peacefully in the background and the ghost of your kiss still lingering on her lips.

Natasha Romanoff, international spy, ex-assassin, former Avenger… was in love.

And for once in her life, it wasn’t complicated. It was just right.

Natasha had never planned on falling in love. Especially not with someone younger. Much younger.

She told herself that in the beginning. Repeated it like a prayer, like a defense: you were twenty-three. Brilliant. Reckless. Overflowing with the kind of fire she thought only existed in people who hadn’t been broken yet. And yet—you chose her. You chose them.

You stayed. Through all the chaos. Through Ana’s tantrums and midnight wake-ups. Through Natasha’s silences, her scars, her tendency to shut down instead of open up. You brought flowers when she was having a bad week and didn’t want to say it out loud. You brought chocolate when Ana was teething and neither of them had slept in two days. You brought yourself—unapologetically, completely.

The first time you left, Natasha barely flinched.

Three days. That was the length of your mission. A simple extraction, routine enough that even Fury hadn’t been concerned. She hadn’t made a big deal of it—kissed your temple before you left and made some half-hearted joke about bringing her back something interesting. And that was it. She’d spent the first evening watching cartoons with Ana curled up on her chest, the second one organizing files in the quiet of her room, and by the third morning, you were back, carrying pastries and that tired grin you always wore when you pushed yourself too far.

She remembered thinking it was fine. She didn’t miss you. Not really. Not in any way that was abnormal.

But then it happened again.

A month later, another three-day mission. Longer distance this time. Minimal contact. She told herself it wasn’t a big deal again. She’d survived years without attachment—three days without you shouldn’t even register. And yet…

This time, there was a shift.

Nothing dramatic. Nothing worth naming. But the silence felt heavier at night. She lingered longer by her phone, her thumb hovering over your name more often. She still had Ana—her anchor in everything—but there was an odd, persistent restlessness underneath her skin. She snapped at the coffee machine one morning when it jammed. She cursed a little louder when she stubbed her toe. Nothing big. Not enough to call it anything.

She didn’t realize it for what it was. Not then.

She thought she was just tired. She told herself she’d been too used to sharing space with you, that maybe you’d spoiled her by being around so much. That was all. Nothing serious.

But then came the third time.

Present day. And this time?

It was bad.

You were gone. Again. And everything felt off. Off-kilter. Wrong. The apartment felt colder, and Ana—sweet Ana—was crankier than usual, refusing naps, pushing her food around on her plate, clearly missing you in her own small way. Natasha tried to hold it together, but this time it wasn’t just silence—it was absence. It was the absence of your coffee cup in the sink. The lack of your music humming from the bathroom. No sarcastic quip about her black ops hoodie or shared glances over Ana’s head when she did something ridiculous.

Natasha was fraying. Worse—she knew it.

And she hated that awareness.

She tried to channel the frustration into something useful. Clint had agreed to run combat drills with a new batch of recruits, and Natasha threw herself into it with the kind of sharp, violent precision she hadn’t leaned on in years.

She didn’t hold back.

The gym floor was already slick with sweat, and the sound of fists hitting pads echoed like thunder between the high ceilings. The new recruits—bright-eyed, fully trained, and supposedly ready for fieldwork—were scattered across the mats like a massacre had just taken place. Natasha paced in front of them like a wolf in black leggings, half-sane from too many hours of sleep deprivation and too few texts from you.

“Again,” she ordered flatly, and a collective groan rose from the group.

One of the girls—Elena, maybe? Or Eliza? Natasha didn’t bother remembering—wobbled to her feet and tried to correct her stance.

“You’re favoring your left. You do that on a mission, you’ll lose a kneecap.”

“I—uh—okay, Agent Romanoff.”

“‘Okay’ isn’t gonna regrow your kneecap, sweetheart.”

Clint snorted from the corner, arms crossed, chewing on a protein bar like this was the best entertainment he’d had all week.

“You know,” he said casually, “some people call this mentoring.”

Natasha arched an eyebrow, looking entirely unimpressed. “Some people have standards.”

Clint raised his hands in surrender. “Hey, no judgment. I just don’t think Stark’s daughter would’ve survived your version of boot camp.”

“She wouldn’t have whined this much,” Natasha shot back, already circling the next recruit—tall, cocky, abs for days, too much gel in his hair. She jabbed at his shoulder with two fingers. “You flinch like that again, and I’m gonna have Steve run you through shield drills until you cry.”

“I—I’m not flinching.”

Natasha stared him down. “You blinked when I said ‘Steve.’ That counts.”

Clint laughed outright now, leaning against the wall. “You’ve been extra scary lately, Nat. Should I be worried?”

“Just bored,” she muttered, even though they both knew that wasn’t the truth.

“Bored?” Clint raised a brow. “This is your version of bored? I can’t wait to see what happens when you’re in a bad mood.”

She shot him a dark look that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Keep talking and I’ll put you on the mat.”

“Oh no, anything but that,” he said, hand on his heart, mock-fear in his voice. “Whatever will I do if my bestie breaks my spine in front of Gen Z?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Barton. I’d let one of them do it.”

One of the recruits whispered, “We can hear you,” and Natasha turned just enough to give them a slow, feral grin.

“Good. Maybe it’ll motivate you.”

They looked like they wanted to cry, She didn’t care.

Because if she stopped moving, stopped teasing, stopped being this barely tethered version of herself—then maybe the ache in her chest would start catching up.

And she couldn’t afford that.

Not yet, You were still gone.

Natasha Romanoff was a force in the training room. Everyone knew that. But even she had her rhythms — the way she sized someone up, tested their footing, let them learn through a bruise or two without destroying what little confidence they had. But not today. Today, she was sharp. Clinical. Unforgiving. Every correction came with a hit, every mistake was pointed out with the flick of her staff or the slam of a mat.

By the end of the session, half the recruits were limping and the other half were trying not to look like they were on the verge of crying. They weren’t rookies. All of them were somewhere in their early twenties, eager and just green enough to think they had something to prove. Normally, Natasha would break them down with precision, then build them back up.

Today, she left them scattered across the floor like discarded chess pieces.

“Alright, go,” she finally said after a bit more of torture, waving a hand like she was shooing pigeons instead of a group of elite S.H.I.E.L.D. trainees. “You’re all free to cry in the showers. Debrief’s in two hours. Don’t be late or I’ll actually try.”

The room cleared out faster than a fire drill.

Clint, who’d spent most of the session leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and his mouth shut, finally raised his eyebrows.

“Well,” he said. “That was brutal.”

Natasha rolled her eyes. “They’re fine. They signed up for this.”

“They signed up for basic tactical sparring, not full-contact therapy.”

She gave him a look, but there was no venom behind it.

Clint stepped forward and offered her a bottle of water, which she took without a word.

“You wanna tell me what’s going on or should I wait until you start decapitating punching bags?”

“I’m just tired.”

“You’re always tired. This is different.”

She stayed quiet. Long enough that Clint didn’t think she was going to answer. Then—

“I’m not used to being alone anymore.”

That surprised him. Not the words, maybe, but the way she said them. Flat. Matter-of-fact. Like it was a diagnosis she didn’t quite know what to do with.

“I mean, I can do it,” she added quickly, like that mattered more. “I’ve done it most of my life. I know how to keep Ana on routine, I know how to make sure the bills are paid, I know how to function—”

“But you’re not sleeping.”

Natasha glanced at him.

“I know that look,” Clint said. “You’ve got it under control on the outside, but inside you’re counting every creak in the apartment.”

She didn’t answer, which meant he was right.

He softened his tone a little. “This the third time?”

Natasha nodded. “First time was fine. Just a three-day recon. Ana missed her, I missed her, but I kept busy. Second time was about a month later. Same length. But it hit differently. I was irritated all the time, couldn’t explain why.”

“And now?”

“I’m snapping at everyone,” she muttered. “I haven’t been able to fall asleep without checking the door three times. I wake up every hour thinking I heard something. My body feels like it’s stuck in defense mode.”

Clint tilted his head. “She make you feel safe?”

Natasha let out a dry laugh. “Isn’t that ironic?”

Clint smiled gently. “Maybe. But not surprising. You’ve spent your whole life being the safe one. The one with backup plans and exit routes and eyes on every angle. No one ever stuck around long enough for you to want safety.”

She didn’t deny it.

“I didn’t even notice,” she said after a moment. “That it was happening. I just… slept better. I rested. When she was around, I wasn’t bracing all the time. I started drinking my coffee while it was still hot. I didn’t flinch every time Ana made a noise in the middle of the night.”

“Must be weird.”

“It’s terrifying,” Natasha said, but there was a hint of a smile there now. “Because I didn’t think I was missing anything. I wasn’t unhappy. I had Ana. I had work. Everything was fine.”

Clint didn’t interrupt. He could see the thoughts still arranging themselves behind her eyes.

“She’s young,” Natasha said eventually. “Bright, loud, stubborn. She walks into a room and everything wakes up. And then… when she leaves, it’s like the apartment forgets how to breathe.”

Clint grinned. “Wow. You’re really down bad.”

She smacked his arm.

“I’m just saying,” he teased. “That sounds like someone who’s trying real hard not to use the word love.”

“I’m not saying it to you.”

“But you’re saying it.”

Natasha looked away, then back, then sighed.

“She’s only been gone for a week” she muttered. “And I already feel like my skin’s too tight.”

“Yeah,” Clint said softly. “That’s love, Nat.”

She didn’t reply. Just stood there with her arms crossed, jaw tight, like she was trying to keep the storm in her chest from spilling out across the floor.

And Clint didn’t push her.

Because he knew her. And she’d say it when she was ready. But until then, he’d be there. And maybe, if the world played fair for once, she would be back soon too.

She just left without saying a word to him and wandered to the kitchen, chasing the illusion of calm in a cup of coffee. A desperate attempt to reset, to claw her way back to something that resembled her usual mindset. Useless? Absolutely. But still a valid attempt.

She used what little spare time she had to chip away at the paperwork piling up on her desk, going through the motions while her brain begged for a break, but she couldn't bring herself to stop

When the clock finally pushed her toward the inevitable, she made her way to the meeting room. It was still quiet—mercifully so—and she let herself enjoy the silence for what it was: the last moment of peace before the incoming storm of idiocy.

Clint arrived not long after.

“Ready to deal with them again?” she sighed, barely turning her head to look at him. “It can’t get worse, right?”

It did.

After snapping through training drills and watching half the recruits nearly cry from a simple sparring critique, Natasha thought she’d reached the peak of her frustration. She thought the fire had burned out enough that she could sit through something as low-stakes as a mission planning session without needing a punching bag. She was wrong.

They were in the meeting room, a stack of files spread across the table, and the only thing more painful than their blank stares was their awful strategy logic. It wasn’t even an actual op—they were just meant to propose a plan, something clean and professional, basic protocol. But somehow they managed to turn it into the most chaotic, disjointed mess she had seen since Clint tried to microwave a steak.

One of them suggested a twelve-person infiltration team for a two-man job. Another thought a decoy explosion in a civilian area was a “good distraction.” Natasha stared at that one for a long time. Said nothing. Just let the silence hang until he cleared his throat and tried to backpedal.

It was hell.

They were hell.

And the worst part was, she couldn’t even find the energy to get mad anymore. She just wanted to be anywhere else.

She found herself thinking about your hands.

How they moved when you spread files across her table. How you always started a plan from the middle and worked backwards like it made more sense that way. How your theories were messy, but your execution was precise. How your dumb croissants always left flakes on her floor, but your coffee? Always perfect.

God, she missed you.

These newbies were making her feel ancient.

And somehow… you never did.

Which, in that moment, made her realize something even worse, She wasn’t just used to your presence. She had started to rely on it.

And now? With your chair empty across the room and a dozen voices talking over each other like toddlers playing spy?

She’d never wanted to quit a debrief so badly in her life.

She sat back in her chair, arms crossed, lips pressed in a flat line as she watched one of the recruits confidently draw a completely backwards tactical map on the whiteboard. The entrance and exit points were the same. The safe zone was placed inside the potential combat perimeter. And their plan to extract intel involved “grabbing the briefcase and hoping for the best.”

Natasha blinked. Slowly.

She didn’t interrupt. Didn’t scoff. Didn’t laugh.

She just watched. With the dead-eyed stare of someone whose soul had left her body approximately five minutes ago.

Clint was sitting to her right, trying—and failing—to stifle his amusement. She caught the edge of his grin in her periphery and didn’t bother to hide the glare she shot back.

“You’re enjoying this,” she muttered under her breath.

“Immensely,” Clint whispered, taking a casual sip of his water. “This is the most fun I’ve had all week.”

She let her head fall back against the chair with a quiet groan. “I’ve trained toddlers with better tactical awareness.”

Clint chuckled. “You did train a toddler. Yours has better instincts than these guys.”

She exhaled sharply, the corner of her mouth twitching despite the ache behind her eyes. “Don’t remind me.”

They watched another recruit stand up to add on to the plan, immediately contradicting the first half of it. Natasha let her eyes close, counted to ten, reopened them, and still nothing made sense. The files were sitting right there, everything they needed laid out in plain detail—but they weren’t reading, they weren’t thinking, they weren’t you.

You would’ve solved this in five minutes flat. Coffee in one hand, smug grin on your lips, and a completely insane but functional plan in front of her before she could even finish skimming the brief. You made chaos look elegant.

And you were so damn good at what you did.

Not just in the field. But with Ana. With her. With everything.

She missed the way you filled the space beside her. Missed the balance of it. The peace of knowing you were close enough to lean on, even when she pretended not to. She hadn’t realized how much calmer she’d become until you left—and now every breath felt too loud. Every second dragged.

You made things quiet. Inside her head. Inside her chest.

And without you there, she felt like her entire body was clenching around silence. Like she couldn’t relax. Couldn’t trust the stillness.

The room buzzed with voices again, someone suggesting parachutes in a low-rise recon op. Natasha stood up sharply, scraping her chair back.

“All of you,” she said flatly, “out.”

A beat of silence. Then chairs shifting, people scrambling, a few mumbled apologies.

Clint didn’t even try to hide his laugh now.

“You’re brutal.”

“They were parachuting into a building with three floors, Barton.”

“Bold,” he agreed, nodding.

Natasha rubbed her temple, tiredness dragging across her features like the weight of three sleepless nights. She didn’t say anything at first. Just stared at the table, at your empty seat, at the untouched coffee cup across from her that she’d placed there without thinking.

And Clint watched her. Quiet now.

“You okay?”

She let out a breath. “No.”

His brow furrowed slightly, but he waited.

“I’m tired,” she said, not looking at him. “Not physically. Not really. Just—on edge. All the time. Like I’m waiting for something to go wrong and I don’t even know what it is.”

Clint watched her carefully, but she didn’t return the look. Her fingers tapped against the file in front of her, slow and bitter. She wasn’t trying to sound dramatic. She was trying not to sound like she was one sleepless night away from losing it.

“And don’t start with the maybe-you-just-need-a-break crap,” she added, her voice dry as dust. “I swear to God, Barton, if one more person tells me to go meditate or do yoga, I’ll throw someone off the balcony just to feel something.”

Clint raised his hands, surrendering with a little whistle. “Wasn’t gonna say a word.”

“Good.” She closed the file with a hard snap. “Because the only thing I’m doing is going back to my apartment, taking a damn hot shower, and snuggling with my daughter until the tension in my spine lets go or I pass out trying.”

“You sure you don’t want to join the rookies for round two?” Clint teased, watching her sling her bag over her shoulder with the kind of aggression that suggested something—or someone—was about to be strangled.

Natasha shot him a look that could peel paint. “Those idiots wouldn’t know a mission plan if it hit them in the face with a blueprint and a crayon.”

“Sounds like a no.”

“It’s a hell no.”

She pushed the chair in with a sharp movement and started toward the door. She was already picturing it—Ana’s small body curled under her arm, the smell of baby shampoo still lingering in her hair, the weight of something real and safe grounding her. The apartment would be warm. Familiar. You wouldn’t be there, but Ana would. And maybe that would be enough to stop her from unraveling further.

“I’m going to go cuddle my toddler,” she muttered as she walked away, mostly to herself. “In an attempt to soothe my fucking nerves before I kill someone.”

“Love that for you,” Clint called after her, smirking. “Tell Ana I said hi.”

But she didn’t answer. She just kept walking—jaw clenched, back stiff, heart pounding louder than it should.

And maybe that was the part that scared her the most.

It was getting harder to calm down without you.

She should’ve gone to her own apartment. She meant to. But in the elevator, her finger pressed your floor instead of hers. She stared at the button, thought about fixing it—and didn’t.

It wasn’t on purpose. Just muscle memory, maybe. Or something quieter. Something she wasn’t ready to name.

She ignored the unspoken rules of social decency—the ones about personal space, about waiting until you’re invited, about not letting yourself into someone else’s apartment when they’re not home. But rules had never done much for her. Not when her chest felt like it was pulled too tight, not when every inch of her skin ached to be somewhere that felt less.

So she walked in like she belonged. Because maybe she did.

The scent hit her first. Your perfume, soft and clean, still lingering in the air like you’d left only minutes ago. Her shoulders relaxed before she even realized it. The knot in her back didn’t go away, but it loosened, just enough for her to breathe. She scoffed under her breath, irritated with herself. This is ridiculous.

She wasn’t supposed to be the kind of woman who felt safe just because of a smell. That was something for romance novels and bad TV dramas. And yet here she was, sinking into it like it was the only thing keeping her upright. Pathetic.

But she didn’t leave.

Instead, she walked to your bathroom, peeled off her clothes, and stepped into your shower. The water pressure was—of course—better than hers. Much better. The kind of steaming hot that instantly blanketed her skin, wrapped around her ribs, and made the world feel like it could fade for a few minutes. She let her forehead press to the tile and made a mental note: Have her install one of these in my apartment. Perks of being your… something.

Natasha let herself fold. The heat hit her hard, softening the edges of her muscle, but not the ache underneath. That, only you could reach.

She braced a hand against the tile, eyes shut, water cascading over her back. Her other hand moved across her body, every touch of her own hands washing away the grime taking deep sighs and low whines come out of her mouth... she is a needy mess. the week, the endless static of a life too sharp lately. But it wasn’t right. It wasn’t you.

Her fingers stilled at her collarbone, and all she could think about was your hands—gentler than she expected, steady, unhurried. The way you touched her like you had all the time in the world. The way your thumb had traced her hipbone once without even noticing, and it had made her breath catch like a damn teenager.

She wanted that.

God, she wanted you.

Not just your mouth or your body or the heat of your skin against hers—though she wanted that too, badly—but the presence. That anchoring calm you carried, the ease in your laugh, the way you never flinched when Ana clung to your chest or Natasha woke up gasping in the middle of the night. You were steady. You were safe.

And she missed you like hell.

The water rushed down her back as her palm curled against the tile. Her breath hitched—not from the steam, but from the ache in her chest. This wasn’t just about the day. Or the week. This was you, absent in a way she hadn’t let herself admit she wasn’t handling well.

She needed your hands. Your weight behind her. Your mouth pressed to her shoulder whispering sweet things on her ear... bringing her to a lazy orgasm, your fingers trusting inside her exactly how she likes it, that type of orgasm that made her bones melt. She needed to feel claimed—wanted—in the way only you managed to make her feel.

She let the water run until her skin turned pink and her legs felt a little less steady. But not weak. Just—softer.

She wrapped herself in your towel, tucked her hair behind her ear, and looked at her reflection. She felt ridiculous—needy in a way that made her wince. Two years spent living something close to celibate, and now she couldn’t make it through a week without you.

“Pathetic,” she muttered under her breath. And yet, she didn’t leave.

She wasn’t ready to leave.

Not when everything in this apartment smelled like you.

Not when your presence lingered in the sheets and the steam and the air she breathed like a promise.

Not when her skin still craved you more than the water could soothe.

Wrapped in your robe—still warm from where it had hung by the bathroom—Natasha felt like she was wearing a secret. The collar smelled like you. The sleeves hung past her wrists just enough to feel wrong on her body and right in every other way. The plush fabric swallowed her frame, soft where her skin was still pink from the shower, grounding her like only you managed to do.

She padded barefoot into your bedroom, towel-drying her hair lazily as she reached for your phone. You weren’t home, but she didn’t need permission. Not anymore. Not after the way you’d held her the last time she’d fallen apart. Not after the way your hands had memorized her.

She dialed the tower’s daycare.

It rang twice before someone picked up. “Hello—Avengers Tower Child Services, this is—”

“I need Ana.”

There was a pause, just long enough to signal the woman on the other end had recognized her voice. “Oh—are you coming down to pick her up?”

“No,” Natasha cut in, her voice low and dry. “Have someone bring her to Ms. Stark’s apartment.”

Another pause. Sharper this time.

Natasha didn’t usually pull rank. She didn’t like making people uncomfortable if she could help it, didn’t like reminding people of who she was unless she had to. But today? Today she didn’t give a fuck.

The silence on the other end of the line cracked into a gasp—the kind someone makes when they choke on air but try to hide it. “Ms. Stark’s apartment?” the woman repeated, barely managing to keep her voice steady. “But she’s—uh—she’s currently away on mission—”

“Exactly,” Natasha replied, cool and calm as ice. “I’m in her apartment.”

She hung up before the woman could recover, before she could come up with something else polite to say. The truth was already in the air. No taking it back now.

And maybe Natasha liked that a little more than she should.

Still barefoot, she wandered into your kitchen and opened the cabinet where she knew you kept the coffee mugs—second shelf, left side, tucked behind that one chipped one you never threw away. She picked your favorite, poured the last of the hot brew into it, and cradled it between her palms like it might warm her deeper than the robe already had.

She looked down at herself. She was wearing a pair of your pajama bottoms—soft, a little too big, cinched at the waist with a lazy knot. your robe, draped over it. She smelled like your shampoo. She moved like someone who belonged in your space.

When the elevator dinged, she didn’t rush to meet it.

She walked slowly, casually, letting the scent of your coffee cling to her like another layer of you. She opened the door just as the delivery woman was adjusting Ana on her hip.

And the look on her face?

Priceless.

Natasha didn’t smile. Not really. But her mouth did twitch in a way that let the woman know she’d seen it. That she understood exactly what this looked like. And that she wasn’t about to explain herself.

She reached for Ana, who immediately threw her arms around her mother’s neck, cheek pressed into her shoulder with a tired little sigh.

“Thank you,” Natasha said, expression unreadable but voice polite.

The woman mumbled something in return, eyes flicking once more to Natasha’s clothes—your clothes—before she stepped back into the elevator.

And that was that.

Natasha smiled to herself, something smug curling in her chest, her mood instantly lighter—as if claiming you, even in a silent, indirect way, had flipped a switch in her head. The robe still smelled like you. The coffee was yours. The space was yours. And now, so were they.

She looked down at Ana, who was content and warm in her arms, still sleep-dazed with her cheek pressed to her shoulder. “Mama made it pretty clear,” Natasha murmured, voice full of dry satisfaction. “She’s ours.”

Ana made a little sound—a soft gag, half-laugh, half-yawn—like she agreed in her toddler way, and Natasha huffed out a quiet chuckle. “Exactly,” she said, brushing her lips over the crown of Ana’s head. “I didn’t even have to say it out loud. That poor woman nearly fainted.”

Ana mumbled something incoherent and tucked herself in tighter, her small fingers wrapping into the edge of Natasha’s robe.

Natasha carried her toward the bedroom, her hand cupping Ana’s back instinctively. She still had her coffee in the other hand, warm and familiar. “You know,” she said softly, talking more to fill the quiet than anything else, “you and I—we make a good team. I don’t even have to say what I want, and you go ahead and make me look all possessive.”

Another little sleepy gag came in response, and Natasha smirked.

They reached the bed.

It was still unmade from your morning rush—covers half thrown back, your pillow slightly indented. Natasha settled in like muscle memory, stretching out with a soft sigh as she adjusted the blankets over them both. She took one last sip of coffee before setting the mug on your nightstand.

Ana curled on her chest, tiny limbs draped naturally over her like she belonged there. Natasha’s hand moved up and down her daughter’s back in a rhythm she didn’t think about.

Everything smelled like you.

Everything felt like you.

And wrapped in your robe, in your bed, with Ana’s heartbeat against hers, Natasha let herself close her eyes for the first time that day and just breathe.

This—this was hers. And she wasn’t sharing.

Ana fell asleep fast—unfairly fast, in Natasha’s opinion. One minute she was blinking slow against her chest, the next, completely knocked out, tiny fingers still curled in the fabric of Natasha’s borrowed robe.

Natasha looked down at the peaceful little traitor and sighed through her nose. “Such a simp,” she muttered, mock-scolding, brushing her knuckles gently against Ana’s red hair. “You know that, right? One whiff of her and you’re out like a light. No standards.”

Ana didn’t respond, of course. Just let out a soft snore, drooling slightly onto Natasha’s chest.

“Gross,” Natasha added affectionately, then shifted with a little grunt of effort, sliding out from under her daughter with the practiced ease of a mother who’d done this dance too many times. She tugged the robe off her shoulders, tossing it to the chair by your desk, then pulled the duvet up to cover them both. It smelled heavenly. Like you. Of course it did.

She rolled her eyes—at you, at herself, at this whole situation she never thought she’d be in.

“Great,” she muttered as she settled in beside Ana again, tugging the duvet tighter around them. “She has turned both Romanoffs into complete idiots. Well done.”

The bed was warm. The room was quiet. Ana’s breath was slow and steady, pressed into her side now. Natasha tucked her arm around her daughter and let herself relax.

It didn’t take long before she was out too.

Simp, indeed.

It was, without a doubt, the best sleep she’d had all week. No tossing, no restless half-wakes at every small noise. Just warmth. The kind that wrapped around her bones, settled into her skin. The kind that whispered safety without needing to say a word.

Natasha was sleeping like a log, dead to the world. But even as she stirred, something felt different. Not wrong—no, not at all—but new. Or rather… familiar in a way she was beginning to crave.

There was an extra weight draped over her waist. Not heavy, but grounding. And then the scent—yours—undeniable, curling around her like a second blanket. It was the only reason she didn’t jolt upright like usual, the only reason her muscles stayed loose instead of tensing on instinct. She blinked, adjusting to the low light filtering through the room, and looked down.

Your hand.

Delicate, sure. But firm in its claim, wrapped around her as if she were something fragile and rare, something to be protected. Treasured. As if you knew what she tried to hide and wanted to shield her from it anyway.

She didn’t know how to breathe for a second.

She didn’t feel weak. She didn’t feel small. She felt… like yours.

Carefully, quietly, she rolled onto her side, slow enough not to disturb Ana, still asleep by her side. Her eyes met yours. Warm. Soft. Tired in the same way hers were.

You leaned in first. Or maybe she did. It didn’t matter.

Your lips brushed hers in a slow, unhurried kiss—lingering just a second too long to be casual, just deep enough to say I missed you without either of you needing to say a word. There was something sacred in the silence. Something steady in the pull between your mouths.

Longing and relief, tangled together in the stillness.

The kiss faded slowly, not because either of you wanted it to, but because the moment demanded breath—words. Familiar rhythm. Something to tether the weight of the morning to something more manageable. You stayed close, noses brushing, your hand still resting over her waist.

“God, you look terrible,” you whispered, the corners of your mouth tugging into a sleepy grin.

Natasha let out a soft huff of amusement, half-heartedly rolling her eyes. “Thanks, printsessa. Nothing like brutal honesty to start the day.”

You blinked at her, incredulous. “Day? Darling, it’s fucking 22:00. How did you manage to destroy your biological clock like this?”

You brushed a strand of her messy red hair off her cheek, your fingers deliberately slow, teasing. “No, really. Hair like a bird nest. Dark circles. You look like someone tried to cosplay insomnia.”

She smirked, biting back a laugh that might wake Ana. “I’ve been busy not murdering anyone this week, thanks to someone disappearing again.”

“I was working,” you said, mock-defensive, shifting just a little so your leg hooked around hers. “Some of us have very important things to do, you know.”

Natasha scoffed. “Right. And I’m sure the fate of the world depended entirely on your ability to drink five espressos and ignore my texts.”

You grinned, nose brushing her temple. “Six espressos, actually. And I wasn’t ignoring. I was… emotionally unavailable.”

That earned a soft laugh from her—real and unguarded. She tilted her head back just enough to meet your gaze fully, her expression still dry, but touched with affection. “You’re insufferable.”

You grinned wider. “And yet here you are. Wrapped in my sheets. Wearing my clothes. Sleeping in my bed.”

She pressed a quick kiss to your chin, her voice lower now, almost fond despite her teasing. “Yeah. Must be losing my edge.”

You pulled her closer again, arms snug around her waist. “Nah. You just found better edges to soften against.”

She didn’t say anything. Just let herself melt into you, breathing easier than she had in days.

She was quiet at first, her body still heavy with sleep as you brushed your fingers lazily down the slope of her waist. Her hair was a mess, sticking out in all directions, eyes half-lidded and unfocused as they slowly adjusted to the light.

You let your hand slide up, resting it on her ribs. “A little bird told me you weren’t exactly… thriving this week.”

She stilled slightly. “Clint?”

“Mmhmm. Said you almost impaled a trainee for calling you ma’am.”

“They earned it.”

You grinned. “You told one of the analysts she had the tactical sense of a door.”

Natasha grunted.

You snorted softly. “You’ve been stomping around the tower like a sleep-deprived dragon.”

There was a long pause before she finally sighed, low and quiet. “I don’t sleep well without you.”

You didn’t tease her for that one. Not this time.

Instead, you shifted closer, curling around her a little more, letting her breathe you in. Her shoulders softened. Just a little.

“I mean, if this is you at thirty-three, I can’t imagine the chaos when you’re sixty,” you said gently, your lips brushing her hair. “You’ll be throwing people out of windows for breathing too loud.”

Natasha let out a tired, amused sound. “That’s optimistic. I’ll be worse.”

You kissed her jaw. “Cute.”

“I’m not cute.”

“You’re so cute when you’re cranky and secretly in love with me.”

She turned her face into your neck, mumbling something unintelligible, but you could feel the smile there.

Natasha was still tangled in the last traces of sleep, Ana’s little body sprawled by her side, her scent mingling with the faint sweetness of your perfume that lingered on the pillows. The calm wouldn’t last, she knew that. It never did. But for now, she allowed herself to rest in it—until you stirred beside her and she felt your fingers brushing her side softly.

“I have some news,” you said, voice low and close to her ear, carrying the weight of something important, but softened with warmth.

Natasha’s body tensed the smallest bit. It was instinctive, like a defense mechanism. That tone—it meant change. She shifted, careful not to wake Ana, and met your eyes. “What kind of news?”

You sat up slightly, propping yourself on your elbow, and smiled. “Good news, I swear.”

Still, she didn’t smile back. Not yet. She just waited, studying your expression. She’d learned to read people deeply, and you—God, you were the only person who ever made her forget how.

You reached up, brushing a few strands of hair from her face. “Fury said I’m not necessary here in the Avengers anymore, so I can go back to England.”

Natasha blinked, just once—but it was enough. That word again.

England.

It was always there—hovering like a shadow behind your name, your work, your laughter. The place that could take you back. The place that wasn’t here.

Her throat tightened just a bit. “So… you’re leaving?”

You heard it. You always did. The tension behind her words. The shift in her breathing.

You leaned closer, your forehead nearly touching hers. “But I’m also not necessary in England either. So I chose to stay here.”

Natasha blinked, unsure. “Wait, what?”

“I said I had good news,” you cut her off gently, your thumb brushing the corner of her mouth. “You’re looking at the newest member of the Avengers. Apparently one Stark wasn’t enough, so now they get to deal with two.”

That earned you a blink of surprise—and then, slowly, a breath of relief. Natasha didn’t smile, not quite. But the way her shoulders eased, the way her fingers curled slightly tighter around Ana, spoke volumes.

Still, you could tell her mind was spinning.

“So… you’re staying here?” she asked quietly, as if she didn’t quite trust the answer yet.

You nodded. “Fury said I could go back if I wanted. But I don’t. I want this. I’ll be living here. In the Tower. With you. With Ana.”

And that was the moment everything shifted.

You weren’t just dropping in and out of her life anymore. You weren’t a fleeting miracle or a reprieve between the chaos. You were staying. Permanently. Part of the team. Part of them.

A breath she didn’t know she’d been holding left her lungs all at once, and she couldn’t help the way her hand slid up to cup your cheek, holding you close as if anchoring herself to reality.

“You’re serious?” she asked.

You grinned. “Completely. They’re stuck with me now.”

She let out a dry laugh, shaking her head slightly. “Poor bastards.”

You tilted your head. “That wasn’t very supportive, Romanoff.”

“Oh, I’m supportive,” she said, leaning forward to kiss your jaw. “I’m just also a realist.”

You chuckled, but even you couldn’t hide how full your chest felt—because you knew. You knew what this meant to her. To all of you.

“I missed you too, you know,” you added after a moment, a little softer now. “Don’t think you were the only one close to losing your shit. They paired me with this guy in his thirties—had more field experience than me but didn’t even know how to operate an advanced interface system. Almost blew up the whole thing trying to sync it.”

Natasha raised a brow. “Seriously?”

You nodded. “At one point I had to take over and told him to step back before I sent him to basic training again. I’m pretty sure I growled.”

She smirked, drawing circles against Ana’s back absentmindedly. “Sounds like you were channeling me.”

You smiled and leaned down, resting your forehead against hers. “I think I just missed home.”

That word hit. Home.

And somehow, this—you, her, Ana, this bed—had become exactly that.

Natasha sighed, curling her fingers in the hem of your shirt. “Well… I hope you like shared showers and stolen hoodies.”

You chuckled. “It’s part of the contract.”

She smiled against your mouth. Finally. And maybe this wasn’t perfect. Maybe the world would keep throwing chaos their way. But at least for now, there was one solid truth Natasha could finally hold onto:

You were home. And you weren’t going anywhere

[senualothbrok]

A Tight Fit

Summary: You and Gale are trapped in a locked room, with no space to move. Inspired by @daisyofwaterdeep 's juicy post which I just couldn't resist writing about.

Set early in Act 1, before the tiefling party. Featuring matchmaker Karlach and chaos gremlin Astarion.

Disclaimers: 18+. Mildly smutty. Gale x female Tav/reader.

Word count: 1k

AO3 link

*****

“Well, this is a tight fit, isn't it.”

Crushed between the wall and Gale's heaving frame, you cannot avoid his warm breath on your cheek. You speak into his beard, desperate for space.

“Serves me right, for wandering straight through every door I see.”

Gale's chest is flush against yours. His arms flinch in an awkward attempt to avoid your waist and rear. Your own hands are fatefully sandwiched between your bodies. You curl them into yourself, trying frantically to ignore the groove of his groin.

It is not that you have not imagined how it would feel. In the darkness, you have wondered about the taste of Gale's touch, the lilt of those lithe fingers. But only for fleeting moments, sheepish and stolen. You are almost strangers, after all, fledgling friends. And never beyond your wildest dreams would you have imagined this, much less wished for it.

“Your curiosity is one of your most a-door-able traits.” You can feel his smirk on your skin. “One might even say it's the key to your success.

Your groan is muffled amongst his hair. “I'm glad to see being trapped in a coffin with me brings out your comedic genius.”

“Just getting a handle on the situation.”

Despite the levity, each word of his seems more choked. His ribs jostle against yours. You are surprised by the lean edges of his frame, the force of muscle beneath his robe. As if he senses your attention, he swallows, his eyes darting around you in a frenzy.

You grunt as you manage to wrench one hand free, only to realise in horror that it is cupping the curve of his ass. You cannot help but notice how firm it is. How full. When he jerks at the contact, his leg wedges between yours. Your hand dangles ominously below his hipbone.

“Sorry!” He fumbles, his features twisting. “Sorry. Gods, I'm sorry–”

“Karlach?” you cry. “Astarion? Are you out there?”

The responding thump on the door rocks the entire room. Gale's thigh spasms into yours. He winces sharply.

“Can you get us out please?” Gale blurts. “Now?”

“Hang on, soldiers.” Karlach sounds annoyingly relaxed, even chipper. “The door locked behind you, and we don't have the key. We can't break it down either, tough bastard.”

“Oh look.” The glee in Astarion’s voice is undeniable. “We've run out of lockpicks. Best go hunt for some more.”

You try and fail to punch the door. A flush has spread from Gale's neck to his cheeks. His blushed earlobe hovers just before your mouth. You can feel his heat on your skin, the rasp of his stubble.

“Hurry up,” he pleads. “Please.”

Gale clears his throat. As he shifts and fidgets, the taut muscles of his chest rub against your breasts. His juddering breaths are hot against your ear, and you are mortified by the ripple through your core, the peaking of your nipples. He wriggles his leg, trying in vain to move it out of the range of danger. But his knee grinds into you instead. You chew your lip.

“This is simply” – he stammers, his throat bobbing – “This is most– I'm terribly sorry–”

He trails off, burbling incoherently. You have never seen Gale so out of sorts. As you writhe clumsily against each other, sweat beads on his brow. You can smell the bittersweet tang of it, layered within the fog of sandalwood and leather, book dust and soap. You wonder if he feels as dizzy as you do. You no longer think it is from the lack of air in the room.

“I should be sorry,” you manage. “I haven't bathed for a week.”

You were hoping for a chuckle, a break in the stiffness between you. But instead, there is a glimmer on Gale's chest. A faint stain of indigo flashes and then deepens. He is glowing. You stare at his blazing orb scar in alarm.

“Gale…”

Gale is coughing. Sputtering. As he twists, pointlessly seeking escape, you feel an unmistakable hardness against your hand. Your eyes widen. Clasped between your hips and his, jerking your hand away only nestles it further in. Your fingers bear down against his bulge.

Gale's eyelids flutter. He bites his lip.

“Stop moving,” he chokes, pained. “Please stop moving.”

For a moment, you do. Your chests rise and fall against each other’s. Strands of his hair drift over your face as you meet his gaze. His lips are swollen red, parted as he pants.

You are acutely aware of the point of his knee. It surges, ever so slightly, against your cleft. His eyes are dark and desperate, like you have never seen before. You are drunk on the rhythm of his leg, trembling against the pulse of your desire. You stifle a gasp, your nerves unravelling, his breaths catching as you quiver into him. Your fingers move of their own accord, following the thrumming of his need, flickering along his throbbing length.

He moans. You feel it like a wet hot flare through you, his searching mouth lingering over yours.

“Please,” he whispers.

His hardness twitches towards your touch as you grind against each other. He is groaning, grunting, and you can taste the salt and sweetness of his breath as his nose grazes yours and your lips open to his…

You tumble backwards as the door swings open, crashing hard against the ground. You lie there for a while, swollen, dazed. Karlach and Astarion loom above you with triumphant grins.

“Look at you, all flushed and breathless.” Astarion’s fangs flash.

Karlach pulls you up with a flourish. “It's a good job you didn't pass out.” She beams.

Stumbling, burning, you look back into the room. You have a brief glimpse of a tented robe, a guttering purple glow, before Gale lurches away, shutting the door behind him.

“I think he needs a minute,” Astarion chortles.

*******

Read the sequel, A Generous Portion

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