natasha romanoff x fem!reader one-shots

𝐦𝐚𝐦𝐚'𝐬 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥

a/n: (requested) you and nat have a baby that's very much a nat's girl (don't know how to describe this, but pure fluff)

don't know if this is what you had in mind but i think it turned out cute

When Natasha was younger, she wasn't anyone's favorite.

No warm arms clung to her to keep her in bed for just a little longer. There was no fight for her attention, no onslaught of morning kisses, and certainly no tiny voice declaring "mine!" with a ferocity that rivals her own.

What she knew was loneliness. Cold beds, cheeks that felt rough with dried tears, a harrowing feeling of isolation that she slowly learned to accept. It became part of her. She didn't dare hope for anything better. Part of her believed she didn't deserve it.

The Red Room numbed her to the point at which she thought it would never change. She'd made peace with the fact that she'd never have a place in this world.

Now, it's different. Everything is.

Mornings are warm and slow. You roll over and bury your face against her back, breathing her in. She smells familiar, like the laundry detergent you use. Her hand snakes over her side, finding yours. You barely manage to place a kiss on her shoulder blade before little feet patter against the hardwood floors.

A sleep-warm body joins you in bed, plopping down between you and Natasha. Red curls frame your daughter's face. Her smile is a carbon copy of the one you fell in love with years ago.

Noticing the presence of another, smaller person, your wife rolls over. She smiles sleepily when she sees Daria.

"Hey, Dasha", she coos, placing a kiss on the toddler's forehead. "Did you sleep well?"

The girl curls into Natasha's embrace like second nature, creating a human barricade. You catch Natasha's eye and smile faintly when she nods at your daughter pointedly.

It's been like this for a few weeks now — Daria is going through a Natasha-phase. No matter where she is or what she's doing, she's doing it with her mama.

Her little hand clings to her bigger one constantly.

During lunch, she's sitting on her lap.

Bedtime reading? Also done by Natasha.

You don't mind any of that, really. You're the one who carried and birthed Daria. She was your tiny shadow for over two years. Now, it's Natasha's turn.

You tilt your head up and quickly kiss your wife's cheek. A risky move, but you decide that one kiss can't hurt. Just as your lips brush against her skin, a small hand separates you.

"No", Daria says firmly, her hand shoved against your mouth. You kiss her palm before gently pulling it away.

"'No'?", you echo, raising your eyebrows. Your daughter pouts at you, her cheek snugly pressed against Natasha's chest.

"My mama", she declares. You reach out to tickle her side, making her giggle. Then she quickly puts on a scowl again. "No!"

"I got two cute girls fighting over me", Natasha muses. "Lucky me."

"Funny", you deadpan. You teasingly boop Daria's nose. "I can't kiss my wife?"

As expected, she shakes her head. Her fingers grasp Natasha's shirt tightly, making sure her mama won't escape from her.

You sigh and concede — for a moment. As soon as Daria's pout has softened into a content smile, you suddenly lean forward and plant a kiss on Natasha's lips. Your daughter's mouth falls open in shock.