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take my breath away

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♡ Collision Course ♡

Chapter 16: I don't know who I am, when I am with you

WandaNat x [innocent, femme] reader

Collision Course – Masterlist Link to full fic (so far) on AO3

Chapter Summary: The three of you sit down together, to discuss your wellbeing and needs. After the intensity of talking about your feelings, Wanda and Natasha make sure to take extra care of you.

Word count: 8.9k (y'all deserve a long one after waiting for over a month 🙈)

Heads Up: This chapter contains passing reference (literally blink and you'll miss it) to self injury and disordered eating thoughts.

A/N: I am so, so sorry for the ridiculously long wait for this chapter. The last month has been insane. I've been super busy in my personal life, so it was a challenge finding time to think about the story, let alone write. Plus, I was struck by ADHD burnout (a long time coming, I suppose) and the worst bout of writer's block I've had in a long, long time. Anyway, writing has been hard, but it's finally here. Thank you to everyone who has waited for this, and to those of you who have left lovely comments and asks about Collision Course. Even if I don't reply straight away, please know that every one warms my heart and gives me a little boost, pushing me a bit closer to the next chapter. I really hope you enjoy this one ♡

As you wait, you feel the cold begin to creep through your skin. It draws you into hiding on the patio beneath the balcony, where you curl up on a wide cushioned seat, draping a blanket awkwardly over your body and tucking your bare feet underneath. 

Worries swell and crash like waves in your head, and you’re consumed by thoughts of being thrown out, driven back to your arid apartment and left to languish alone.

There is no distraction, no reprieve from this. There is only waiting. Only enduring. 

———

You hear the door opening a little wider to your side, and you simultaneously turn and shrink into yourself, body balling up beneath the blanket as if this will somehow hide you from her.

Wanda.

There’s fear, but also something else. A swooping feeling at seeing her, which doesn’t entirely surprise you. You missed her today. And it’s silly; it’s only been hours and you’ve only known her for a few days — but this was the longest you’ve been apart since the accident, aside from sleep. You’ve missed her kindness, her warmth, her touch — but you’re also scared that they’ll be withheld from you now, after everything that has happened today. Although, paradoxically, a small part of you feels like you’d deserve that. That you deserve some kind of punishment for what you’ve done, for how you’ve been. 

But now she is there, sending you a soothing smile as she slips past the door. It doesn’t quite break through the icy shell that has crystallised around you, but it’s warm against your edges. Maybe it will melt you, over time. 

“Hi sweetheart,” she greets you quietly, stepping towards you with care. Your whole body begins to shake, and you’re not sure if it’s a shiver from the cold or a tremble of fear. Wanda sits down on your left side, her face full of concern as she draws her legs up to sit cross-legged, facing into you. She studies you for a moment, resting her elbow on the back cushion and tilting her head to lean into her elevated right hand. Then, very slowly, she reaches out with her other hand. You watch it approach, trying desperately to slow your breathing and still your limbs. She places it on the rise of your knee, easily located despite the blanket that covers you, and she presses down, gentle but firm. Wanda doesn’t seem hesitant or unsure. It’s like she knows you now, knows her touch will ground you though you’re nervous.

She’s right. The small but assured link between her body seems to pull you to safety, like she’s thrown a life-ring out to you and is plucking you out from the waves. They still crash somewhere deep inside you, but your head is above the water now, and you can breathe.

“Nat said you’ve had a difficult day,” Wanda tells you softly. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here to help, myšička.”

The water level rises then, pooling in your eyes. A gentle stroke to your knee with her thumb coaxes out the tears, which begin to trickle silently down your cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” you say, and it comes out in a choked whisper. “I-I didn’t… I wasn’t…”

“Shh…” Wanda soothes, and she reaches out with her right hand to carefully wipe the tears from your cheeks, and tuck a loose lock of hair behind your ear.. “It’s okay, honey. I know. You’re not in trouble.”

“But I lied,” you stammer out. “I sort of knew I might do it… I planned it. And I almost left.”

“Almost,” Wanda repeats, emphasising the word as her fingers find your cheek again, cupping it and very slightly brushing her thumb over the tear tracks. “But you didn’t, did you sweetheart? Instead, you found Nat, just like I asked you to.”

The words seem to seep through your skin; they trickle through your veins, finding the guilt and settling in the same space. Not fighting to overrule. Just there, a silent alternative. Maybe the day wasn’t all bad. Maybe you aren’t all bad.

“Nat only let me use the bike because I pressured her so much,” you tell her, feeling obliged to explain fully, to shoulder the blame. “I just… I couldn’t bear it any more.”

“Myšička, no one is in trouble. Not Nat; not you. Nat explained to me, and I know you needed it.”

There’s a hollow, sick feeling in your stomach, and you can’t understand why. Wanda has told you twice now that you’re not in trouble, but you still feel like there are invisible strings pulling at all your limbs from within, the tension aching and shameful. Your head keeps revolving back to her words this morning, and the way they hooked some unknown chain inside you, like you were always meant to be attached like this. God, you just want to be good. And it’s silly, but you need her to know that. To know that you intended it, and that you still intend it to be true.

You turn your head away from her, forcing her hand to slide off your cheek and instead rest upon your shoulder. You can’t say this while looking at her. 

“I wanted to be good for you,” you whisper, and you count the red bricks on the wall beneath the staircase, mentally tracing the lines like beads of a rosary. The action taps into that ancient habit; it scratches the scab and unearths the urge to repent. 

“And you were,” Wanda assures you, finding your chin and gently redirecting your gaze back to her. It hurts a little, to look at her. You want her reassurance so badly, but it feels sinful, somehow, to accept it. It feels like you are bypassing the confession, skipping past the penance. “I asked you to find Natasha if you needed anything, and you did. You went to her, and you told her what you needed. That was all I asked you to do, hm?”

It’s hard to respond to that, because technically she is right — that is all she asked you to do this morning. But it misses everything else: every implicit expectation that compels you in their house, in their presence. And how can you express those in words? Those urges, those obligations that don’t even seem to originate from a clear source… Maybe it’s just you. Maybe you’ve created this all in your head, a bizarre alternate reality in which your decorum would matter so much to them. Fuck, it’s so confusing. So you just blink dumbly at her, unable to answer at all. And Wanda simply smiles at your stupor, renewing the gentle stroking of your knee and making you feel a little fuzzy in the soft glow of her full attention. 

“I’m proud of you for opening up to Nat, myšička,” Wanda murmurs, her hand brushing some stray hair behind your ear again, then moving behind your head to gently stroke the baby hairs at the bottom of your neck. A shiver runs through your body, triggered by the electric touch of her fingers and the cool sensation of her rings as they brush against your skin; the fluttering feeling finishes in your half-frozen feet, leaving little prickles in its wake. 

Proud. It feels undeserved, but you bat away the doubt and cling to it like another blanket, desperate for the security it can offer you when the rest of you feels so evil, so unworthy. Wanda’s arm feels warm where it rest against your shoulder and her fingers brush against your neck. Would it be so bad to lean in? 

You give in, and the slow descent feels so sweet. Like with every small yielding movement you are rejecting the bad feelings, and replacing them with Wanda’s gentle alternatives. It feels like the longer you stay here, the more you lose yourself. Every part of you is being rewritten. And you can’t always find it inside you to care. Her fingers respond to your movement, moving down to hold your right waist as you lean down to rest your head on her shoulder. Your body tips, bent knees rocking over to rest every so slightly against Wanda’s crossed legs. A part of you wishes you could curl up there, with both of your limbs tangling together. Wanda’s left hand has moved to cup the back of your right knee, and you imagine her using the hold to lift you into into her lap.

You close your eyes, breathing out and letting go of the last little bits of reserve. One more admission. Not from guilt, but from hope.

“I missed you,” you whisper, the statement barely audible as it slips from your lips and catches on the gentle breeze. But she hears it; you know she does, because she hums a little, the sound happy and soft, and she pairs it with a gentle squeeze of your waist. 

“I missed you too, sweetheart,” she whispers back. “I thought about you a lot while I was at work, wondering how you were doing.”

“Really?” you ask, the question slipping out desperately, your need for reassurance no longer contained by shame or reason.

“Really, myšička. I even texted Nat at lunchtime to check how you were doing. And when she said you were having a hard time, I wanted to come right back. But I had two more lectures to give, so I had to stay.”

You sigh a little in her hold.

“That’s okay,” you murmur, “I understand.” You’re not sure why you feel the need to say it. To reassure her? That seems strange. She shouldn’t need to come back to you. She shouldn’t need to explain herself.

“You’ll have me all day tomorrow,” Wanda tells you quietly, giving you an extra little squeeze, tightening the embrace just slightly, so she doesn’t hurt your shoulder. “And then we can figure out the rest of the week, okay?”

“Okay,” you whisper.

You stay like that for a few minutes, your breathing slow as you gaze out to the garden and feel her thumb rubbing gently at the skin between the waistband of your shorts and the hem of your vest top, which rides up slightly because of your sideways lean. 

“In a moment, we’ll head in and sit on the sofa, okay?” Wanda tells you, and you relax a little more when you hear her gentle direction said in such a soft tone. You love it when she tells you what to expect, what to do. It makes you feel safe. “Natty will join us, and we’ll have a little chat together. Just about how you’ve been feeling, and what you need from us. Nothing bad, little one, I promise.”

The prospect of talking — or that nickname, you’re not sure — pulls out a small sound from your throat. A tiny whine, luckily muffled by the way your face is pressed against Wanda’s shirt. You can tell that she hears it though, because her left hand strokes the back of your leg gently, reassuring you with her touch. 

“After we talk, I think a bath would be good for you, darling. You can get into comfy clothes for dinner, and then we can just relax after eating. Maybe we could watch some more She-Ra, hm?”

You make a small sound of consideration, of approval, and Wanda gives you a little kiss on the forehead in response.

“Let’s get you inside, myšička. Your feet are frozen.”

You make no move at first, your fuzzy brain still catching up, still figuring out the fact that you have to move yourself, that Wanda can’t carry you. Then she gives you a soft pat on the back of your thigh. A reminder, a signal. 

You sit up, wiping your eyes with your freed left hand, then using it to unravel the blanket from your body and place it on the side. Wanda keeps her hand around your waist for a moment, then she lets go and moves to stand. She doesn’t say any more, she just holds out her hand, and you take it without hesitation, letting her lead you back inside. 

When Wanda reaches the sofa she lets go of your hand and gestures for you to sidle between the sofa and the coffee table to take a seat in the middle. Once you’re seated, she sits down next to you, on your right, and places her hand on your leg, just above your knee.

“I’m just going to message Nat,” she tells you, pulling her phone out her pocket with her right hand, “to let her know we’re down here.”

In reply, you give a small nod. You like that she explains, that she keeps you informed even when you don’t ask. 

It doesn’t take long for Natasha to arrive. She moves around the left side of the sofa and then side-steps round to sit on the coffee table right in front of you, holding up some fluffy socks.

“Wanda said you might need these. What do you think?”

You look to Wanda, who smiles reassuringly at you. Then you look back at Natasha, her smile gentle, hopeful. Slowly, you nod.

“Yes please.”

Natasha’s smile deepens, and she places one sock on the table next to her, so she can use both hands to open the other up, bundling the fabric so it can be pulled on it one motion. Shyly, you raise one leg, and let her slide the fluffy fabric over one frozen foot. Then you both repeat the process for the other side. The gesture makes you feel a little warmer inside, more from her kindness than the extra clothing. 

“Thank you.” It comes out small but Natasha looks pleased as she stands up, turns, and sits down on your left side, shuffling herself back until she’s situated in the corner of the L-shape and she can see you and Wanda without twisting. Then she lifts her legs up onto 

“I know you’re a bit worried about this, lapushka, but we just want to have a chat with you, now that you’re feeling a bit more like yourself,” Natasha says, but despite her reassuring words and Wanda’s gentle stroking of your thigh, you shrink back into the cushion behind you. 

Do you feel more like yourself? You’re not so sure.

“Wanda and I like having you here, Y/N,” Natasha continues. “And we want you to stay with us for a while. At least until your arm is better, and you can manage things more independently. How do you feel about that?” 

“I’d like that,” you say quietly. “As long as it’s truly okay with you.”

“It is,” Wanda reiterates, moving her left hand to the back of your neck, fingertips playing with your baby hairs again. “We mean it, myšička.”

“Can I give you anything in return?” you ask. “I mean, I feel bad that you’re feeding me, and I’m using your spare room… I could give you some money for food, maybe?”

“No,” Natasha replies, her tone blunt and unequivocal. “This isn’t transactional, Y/N. We don’t need anything in return — not now, not ever, okay?”

You gnaw at your lip. You’ve paid for yourself for years; even when times have been tough and your parents have offered to send you money, you have refused, and found a way. It’s partly a point of pride, but mainly it’s an obligation you have placed upon yourself. Your childhood problems and ailments have cost the world, cost your family enough. In a way, your financial independence is a form of penance. It feels strange, foreign — wrong — to accept help for free. 

“In case you haven’t noticed, darling — we have more than enough space and food to share,” Wanda tells you lightly, leaning forward a little so you can see her playful grin. “We don’t want you to worry about that, okay?”

“Y/N, all we need from you is honesty, okay?” Natasha says, and you turn to look at her again, feeling Wanda place her other hand above your knee, as she continues to stroke your hair in a slow rhythm. “Just let us know how you’re feeling, and tell us if you ever feel uncomfortable. Can you do that?” 

Tears prickle in your eyes. Honesty. It sounds so simple when she puts it like that, but they don’t know what’s going on with you, not really. They don’t know how you’re fighting the feelings and fearing the fall.

You’ve spent so much time, so much energy over the years trying to paste up your cracks and build yourself into something stable, something independent and unbreakable. The scaffolding they have erected to support you is chipping through the cladding, and you fear it will expose the structural damage within, the ugly joins and uneven stitching where you’ve made hasty, inexpert attempts to pull yourself back together. You’re afraid to let them see. And you’re scared that you’ll learn to rely on their help, and then lose them.

“Sweetheart, what’s upsetting you?” Wanda asks, her voice no longer playful. She sounds concerned, sympathetic. Her hand squeezes the flesh above your knee, and the action encourages the tears to flow.

“I don’t wanna be a burden,” you choke out, squeezing your eyes tight shut in an attempt to both stem the tears and avoid their gaze. “And I… I like being here, I like you both so much, but also I… I…” Your words trail off as your thoughts spiral and fail to align in your head. What do you want to say? What do you need to say? It feels like you’re spinning, flung about in space, and you need to still yourself, you need to ground yourself. The fingers of your left hand, which already lays on your lap, tense into claws. When you can’t run, this is what you are reduced to. Small doses of acute pain, to locate your limbs, to reassert your position in space. Even this tiny pinch helps. It helps you centre yourself on the immediate moment, helps you prioritise calming your breathing first, reminds you to wait for the raging winds to pass, before attempting to speak.

They wait for you, their presence heavy at either side, but also equal. Stabilising. 

You find yourself speaking, the words arranging themselves on your tongue.

“I feel like… like I don’t really know who I am, when I am with you.”

The statement surprises you, but you know it’s true. You hardly recognise yourself, at times. So many parts of your personality are gone, with some pieces were left behind in your homeland, and others ripped away in the accident. The only parts of you left are needy, clinging. Not new, just unfamiliar, forgotten. And though it feels nice to lean into it, at times — especially with them — this isn’t all of you. It can’t be. 

You release your grip from your thigh, and wipe your eyes. Then you turn to Wanda. She looks worried: her head is tilted, and her hands are still, frozen against the back of your head and you right leg. When you look into her eyes, you notice that they look a little more shiny than usual. Have you made her upset?

“I’m sorry,” you say quickly, voice panicked and trembling. “I don’t mean to… I’m sorry.”

“You’re not a burden,” Natasha’s voice assures you. “And it’s okay to share how you’re feeling with us. It’s important.”

Reluctantly — because you really want to see her, and make sure she’s okay — you turn away from Wanda, and look to Natasha. She looks serious, and her arms move to cross over her chest, then loosen, and fall to her lap again. 

“Is there anything we can do to help?” She asks, then she pauses, her jaw tightening ever so slightly. One of her eyebrows lifts quizzically as she adds another question. "Or anything you want us to stop doing?”

You look down to your lap again. You don’t want them to stop being that special kind of soft with you, even if it would probably resolve all the confusing feelings it brings. You just maybe need an outlet. A way to balance it out with other pieces of yourself. A way to remind you — and perhaps remind them — that you’re still yourself; still smart and strong and capable.

“You don’t need to stop anything,” you whisper, feeling your cheeks blush at your answer, and all it entails. The admission that you like them at their most gentle, that you like the hugs and the nicknames and even the slight hint of condescension which imbues their affection with an additional dizzying aura. At your words, Wanda resumes her gentle stroking of your hair, and she deepens the pressure above your knee. Like she was waiting for your confirmation. Like she wanted it. 

“Okay,” Natasha acknowledges quietly. “We won’t stop anything. But we want to help, lapushka. Can you think of anything we can do? Or anything you want to do?”

You try to think, fidgeting with the hem of your shorts as you attempt to reorder your thoughts. But nothing comes. You frown at your lap, frustration building. You want to answer her, you want to supply an idea, and please her. But you can’t.

Natasha’s hand finds yours, interlocking your fingers together. You look up at her, and she smiles gently.

“It’s okay,” she reassures you. “I can help with ideas. What about if we think about exercise first? Is that something you need?”

“Yes,” you whisper, grateful for the prompt. 

“Tell us,” Natasha encourages, giving your hand a gentle squeeze. You nod, and take a deep breath.

“I need to get outside,” you say quietly, your words slow at first, but gradually gaining rhythm and confidence as you continue. “At least once a day, for a bit. I need the fresh air, and the movement.”

“Okay,” Natasha agrees, smiling and nodding in a way which bolsters you even more. “What else?”

“Sometimes I might need a bit more,” you admit, biting your lip briefly, but continuing when Natasha continues to nod. “I know I should be resting, but sometimes I just get so overwhelmed, and when I do, exercise is kind of the only thing that helps.” You turn to look at Wanda. She doesn’t seem upset, like you feared she would. In fact, she gives you a little smile. She seems proud. It makes your cheeks feel warm again. 

“Would using the gym help?” she asks you, and you nod shyly, grateful for her understanding.

“Yes please. If that’s okay. I won’t use it without your permission, I promise.”

Wanda nods at that.

“As long as Natasha or I can supervise, then it’s okay with me, myšička. But if you feel like you’re getting to that point, can you talk to one of us, please? I don’t want you struggling on your own, and reaching that point of overwhelm. We need to have other strategies, too.”

You nod, both embarrassed and touched by her request.

“I… talking is hard, sometimes,” you admit quietly. “But I’ll try. I promise.”

“That’s all we ask for,” Natasha tells you, squeezing your hand again. “Even if you can’t find the words, just find one of us, and we can be with you. We can go for a walk, or do something together to distract, if that helps.”

Your eyes fill with tears again, but happy, relieved ones this time. You’ve never felt so seen, so understood. So held.

“Thank you,” you whisper. Natasha smiles at you, her gaze so soft, so far from the stern demeanour you first associated her with. 

“You said being busy helps,” she reminds you. “Do you want to go into college? Do you feel ready?”

You squirm slightly in your seat, a little overwhelmed by the direct question, and the reminder of your meltdown earlier today.

“I think so,” you breathe, biting your lip and looking down at your lap, trying to focus on what you want, rather than what you think they want to hear. “I think it would help, to have something to do. But I maybe need to start with just a little bit, and see how it goes.”

“That sounds sensible,” Wanda agrees, and her accepting tone reassures you enough to look up at her. “Darling, I don’t want to hold you hostage here, or force you to rest. I just don’t want you to overdo it, and hurt yourself.”

“I know,” you whisper, feeling small. Wanda watches you, breathing in deeply through her nose, then releasing it in a slow, silent exhale.

“How about you email your supervisor and see about rearranging that meeting?” she suggests, giving you a smile.

“Are you sure?” you check, and she nods. Her permission means the world to you, and you want her to know that. You wish you could hug her, touch her — but you have no free hand, and you can’t even lean against her in this position, as it would hurt your shoulder. So all you have to offer are your words, your smile, and your grateful tears. “Thank you, Wanda.”

She beams at you, and moves her hand from your neck to wipe your tears away with her thumb. 

“You’re welcome, sweetheart. When you have a time, let me know, and I can make sure to get you there.”

You nod, and your smile has to suffice as thanks this time, because you feel far too choked up with gratitude and relief to speak.

“Is there anything else you want to talk about?” Natasha asks then, and you shake your head. “Okay. We can leave it there for now, then. Thank you for talking to us, lapushka. We appreciate it.”

You feel your body relax a little, making you realise how much tension you were still holding. This conversation has been built up in your head over the last few hours, as some terrifying, earth-shattering thing — but it’s over now, and you feel better, not worse for it. 

“Do you want to take a bath now?” Wanda asks you, and you nod. Words have escaped you. You feel so tired, so spent from all the emotions. 

“Okay,” she whispers, cupping your cheek and squeezing above your knee before standing up and holding her hand out to you. You’ll accept it in a moment, but for now you turn to Natasha. Checking her face, checking for something. She smiles, and gives your hand a squeeze. 

“It’s okay, lapushka,” she reassures you softly. “You go with Wanda, and I’ll finish getting dinner ready. When you’re ready, we can eat at the table, and then come down here to watch some TV before bed. Does that sound okay?”

You nod silently, your lips quirking up into a small smile of relief. You didn’t know what you needed, when you looked to her. But whatever it was, she gave it to you.

Natasha lifts your hand to her lips, and gives it a little kiss.

“Go on, kroshka moya. I’ll see you soon.”

She moves your hand to Wanda’s, facilitating an easy transfer. Wanda helps you stand, guiding you out the narrow channel between the sofa and the table, then out the living room and up the stairs. 

Together, you all the way to your room, where she says something to you. But her words sound muffled, like you’re underwater. You blink at her, lost in a daze. Wanda just smiles adoringly at you, then guides you to sit on the end of your bed. And you watch her find clothes for you, taking them out the drawers. She builds a little bundle, then returns to you and guides you back out, back down the stairs, through her bedroom and into the bathroom. 

It takes a while for your brain to catch up to the movement, to the changes. You watch the water flowing out the taps, mesmerised and missing Wanda’s words. She captures your attention with a hand cupped under your chin, gently turning your head to look at her.

“Myšička?”

You watch her lips move, unable to find meaning in the muffled sound. But you feel her. Taking your hand and squeezing it. Brushing her thumb over your cheek. Her touch, pulling you back to her. 

“Are you okay, sweetheart?” she asks you, her expression wavering between worry and something else, something almost… pleased. 

“Wanda…?” you whisper, wanting her closer, but unsure how to say it. Your lips wobble with the effort, but you can’t produce the words.

“I’m here,” she tells you, looking deep into your eyes, like she’s searching to find out what it is that you want to say.

Everything feels so heavy, and you just want her to take the weight from you, to hold you in her arms and make everything feel better. Your head droops and leans into her, falling to rest on her shoulder, face turning into her neck. Wanda’s arms waste no time in moving to embrace you. Even without words, she knows what you need. 

“It’s okay, little one,” she soothes you, as you whimper in her skin. “You’re safe here. Safe with Mo… with me.”

Her words blur in your head, the sounds melting together, coalescing into something new. You’re too dazed to register it properly, but it settles there, the idea embedding itself in your brain. Stored in your subconscious. Saved for later.

Wanda rocks you slightly in her arms, as she whispers sweet nothings into your ear. You melt into her, your left hand finding her shirt and taking tight hold near the hem. Clinging to this piece of her, scared she’ll let go and set you adrift.

“I’m so tired,” you tell her, and it comes out in a sad little whine.

“I know, honey. Just let me take care of you now, okay? Let me do the thinking.”

“Okay,” you whisper, and the word feels like an exhale, like letting go. 

It feels good to let her. It feels good to give in.

Wanda hugs you for a few moments longer, then unravels you from her arms, placing one hand under your chin, and the other on your vice-like grip of her shirt, stroking it and coaxing you to release her. 

“Let’s get these clothes off,” she murmurs, smiling reassuringly at you, then moving both hands behind your neck, to release the sling. It’s no more sore than usual, but you feel so sensitive right now, and you wince and whimper as she removes it from your arm. “I know it hurts, baby; I’m sorry,” Wanda coos sympathetically, and it makes you feel a bit better, hearing her words. Just a little. 

Wanda carefully takes your tank top off, sliding your good arm out, taking it up over your head and then sliding it bit by bit down your bad arm, which she holds carefully at the same right-angle. She has become your sling, your protector. 

She sighs sadly, and you look up at her in worry, afraid that you’ve done something wrong.

“Oh sweetheart — I shouldn’t have let you choose this bra this morning. Your poor shoulder must be so sore from the tension…” 

Your lip wobbles, and you open your mouth to apologise again, because you feel so awful, and it’s all your fault, not hers…

But Wanda’s free hand takes your chin quickly, and she presses her forefinger against your lips in a shushing gesture.

“You don’t need to apologise,” she tells you, her voice back to calm, rather than regretful. “I know for next time — I won’t let you wear it for the whole day. Just if you need to exercise, okay?” Her finger brushes down over your lips, and your breath catches a little as you stare up at her avid gaze, your eyes flickering down to her own lips, which press against each other in a very small rolling motion, then curl into a smile. You look away, afraid that she’s noticed your wandering gaze and the heat in your cheeks. “Hold your arm steady for me, please,” she directs you gently, and you obey, staring down and trying to avoid glancing at her chest as she comes a little closer to reach the bra clasp on your back. When she unlatches it, the relief is immediate. Your skin prickles in the place it has left, and you realise, too late, that you’ve been overstimulated all day, the tension of your sports bra a constant drain on your energy and resilience since Wanda helped you put it on this morning. All these things about yourself, that you never notice. The reminder of your uselessness pokes at you, the jabs of self-loathing so prominent in your mind that you barely register your half-naked state. 

Wanda takes hold of your bad arm again, then reaches to turn the taps off. You glance over and see there is a thick layer of bubbles on the surface, enough to cover you completely once you’re in.

“Let’s give your shoulder a proper rest, tonight,” Wanda says, cupping your cheek with her right hand and tilting her head slightly as she speaks to you. “We'll leave the swimming costume, and the shower. Just a bath, and then I can get you straight into some pyjamas, hm?”

You blink at her, the words sinking in slowly, and meeting no resistance inside your mind. So you nod, and are rewarded with her smile. 

“Good girl,” Wanda praises, making you smile back happily. “Can you take your shorts off for me, sweetheart? Then I can get you in.”

You blush when your brain catches up, but still you don’t feel scared or uncomfortable at the prospect. It makes sense, to save time and pain and pressure on your shoulder. Wanda’s already seen so much of you, and she’s never stared or acted weird around your body. So what does a little more skin matter, really? You trust her. 

You move your left hand to the top of your shorts and tug them down, pushing the elasticated waistband down your thighs until it meets no more resistance and the shorts fall down to your ankles. You step out carefully, then push the fabric with your foot to meet the crumpled bundle of your vest top and bra on the floor, followed by the socks which you pry off with your toes. Your shorts have built-in briefs, so you’re entirely bare now, no fabric nor willpower left to hide any part of yourself from her.

“My beautiful, brave girl,” Wanda whispers, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to your forehead. She keeps her gaze on your face, never straying to your naked body. It calms you. It makes it feel natural to be like this, with her. “Let’s get you in now.”

You let her take hold of your left hand and guide you to step into the bath. The water is pleasantly warm, not too hot that you’re hesitant to sink in. You crouch down and then sit, feeling the water lap against you and the bubbles press and burst at your edges. It’s a relief to be engulfed like this. Although the exposure was brief and Wanda entirely discreet, you still have enough grip of your faculties to know you ought to be embarrassed, even if you don’t exactly feel it branded on your skin right now. 

Wanda moves to the shelf and finds a hairbrush, then returns to your side, crouching down so she’s not looming over you. 

“I’m going to brush your hair out first, myšička,” she explains, her voice soft and soothing. You nod pliantly, unconcerned. She could probably say anything right now, and you’d agree. 

Wanda brushes your ponytail first, holding the bunch near the top to prevent pulling. She works out the tangles, then takes the hair bobble out and continues to tease out the remaining tangles, starting with small strokes at the bottom, then working up until she’s brushed it all the way through. You feel your eyes drooping, the repetitive strokes against your scalp lulling your deeper into the haze. 

“I’m turning the shower on now, sweetheart,” Wanda tells you, and you just hum in recognition. You hear it turn on, feel the water splash behind you as she tests the temperature. “Okay. Lean back for me, honey.”

Wanda rinses your hair, then massages in the shampoo, making your eyes flutter shut in contentment. 

“Keep your eyes shut for me, sweetheart, while I wash out the shampoo,” Wanda advises, before turning the shower on again and rinsing out the suds. You keep your eyes tight shut until you hear her turn the shower off, and feel her hand squeeze your left shoulder gently. “All done.”

You open your eyes and turn to see her. She smiles at you with such sweetness in her eyes. So kind, you could almost call it loving. 

“Let me get your loofah, and I’ll help you with your arms and back,” she says quietly, standing up and walking away. You frown, your brain seeing her leave before you’re able to process her words, the panic overriding your comprehension. Don’t go, you think desperately. Don’t leave me. Wanda walks to the shower cubicle and slides open the door, reaching in. Her arms returns holding the pale-green loofah she bought you. Her other hand slide the door shut again, and then she turns back to walk towards you. Your body relaxes in relief, and she tilts her head as she approaches, her lips curling up as she considers you. 

“Did you think I was leaving?” she asks you, her nose scrunching up with amusement as she crouches down at the side of the tub and gives your nose a gentle boop with her finger.

“Nuh-uh…” you protest, looking away and blushing at your stupidity. Wanda chuckles quietly, and you poke at the bubbles on the water with your left hand, embarrassment washing over you and spilling out in petulance. Wanda stops laughing then, and brushes her thumb against your cheek.

“I’m not leaving you, miláčik,” Wanda assures you, the mirth gone from her voice, leaving only her heartfelt words. “I promise.”

You breath out, the action halfway between a huff and a sigh of relief. Your hand settles on the surface of the water, your movements slowing and shifting from destructive to explorative on the foam.

“Will you let me wash your back and arms?” Wanda asks, the first real question in a while. She waits patiently for your response, clearly wanting an honest answer this time.

“Okay,” you whisper, after considering. You glance up at her, see her soft smile, then turn back to the bubbles. You’re caught between the realistic need for consent, and the desire for her to just take control — because it’s easier, then. You prefer it when you don’t have to think, don’t have to perform the charade of handing over your control every time. In truth, you’d let her control just about any part of your life without question. If she gave you a direction, you would follow it. Happily. When she asks your permission, it just draws attention to your yielding nature, and makes you doubt if she wants it. 

Wanda moves to the end of the bath again, soaks the loofah in the water behind you, then starts to wash the back of your shoulders. It feels a little scratchy against your skin, but she’s gentle, and the warm water is doing a little to soften the rough texture. Still, the coarse sensation seems to awaken you, and unearths a niggling doubt inside you.

“W-Wanda?” you ask quietly, nibbling at your lower lip as you wait for her response. She stops what she is doing at once, moving back round to the side of the bathtub and crouching down so she can see your face. 

“Yes, darling?”

“Is — is it weird for you?” you ask, voice wobbling. “Having to help me like this?” You try to look at her, but have to alternate between her eyes and the water, because her gaze is too intense, too attentive for you to meet.

“Not at all,” she tells you, and when you look back at her you see the worry has melted from her eyebrows, and her lips have curled into a smile. She reaches out with her free hand, cupping your cheek and stroking her thumb over your cheekbone. “Honestly, little one… I really like it. I like looking after you. I like when you let me.”

“Really?”

“Really really.”

You consider her words, watching her for a while, like you might see a crack in the act. But she holds your gaze, maintains her smile. She means it. You can see that she’s telling the truth. But that doesn’t mean that you understand. 

“But… why?” you ask, struggling to accept it, struggling to believe that she’d want to do all this for you. 

“Because I care about you,” she says simply, never stopping the soothing motions of her thumb against your cheek, “and I like to look after the people I care about, myšička, and make them feel safe, and happy.” She studies you as you take this in. “Do you like it when I look after you?”

You blush, because the answer is obvious, and yet she wants you to say it.

“Yes,” you whisper shyly, holding her gaze even though you want to hide. Wanda smiles.

“Then that’s all that matters,” she says quietly. “Okay?”

You nod in her hold, and she leans forward and presses a kiss against your forehead.

“Good girl.”

And with that, she moves to the end of the tub again, and continues to wash your back. You slide your feet towards your body, raising your knees and pressing them together. Beneath the water, you ache.

Wanda washes your arms and carefully wipes your underarms, then hands the loofah to you and directs you to wash yourself while she readies the towel. You do, blushing and staring resolutely down at the water, feeling thankful for the staying power of the bubbles tonight. Once you’ve cleaned yourself all over — as much as you can, with one arm available for use and one pinned painfully beneath your chest — you squeeze out the loofah, and place it on the rim of the tub. 

“Finished?” Wanda asks, and you nod shyly. She smiles, and raises the towel with both hands, ready to cover you. “Can you stand by yourself?” 

You nod again, glad she’s allowing you to do so, and preparing to preserve your dignity as swiftly as possible when you rise. With your left hand pressing against the rim, you push yourself up to stand, and let Wanda wrap the towel around your body, placing it over your right shoulder and under your left armpit, to keep your bad arm safely compressed and your good arm free. 

“Not too tight?” she checks, and you shake your head. “Alright, let’s get you out safely.” She keeps hold of the towel with one hand, and takes your free hand in her other, helping you step out onto the bathmat. The change in temperature makes you shiver, and Wanda, noticing, doesn’t waste any time in trying to get you dry. She’s careful of your arm and she makes sure not to linger too long or too close in certain areas, but overall she’s clinical and efficient. When she’s done, she rearranges the towel in the same way, so she can clasp it together at your front with one hand. She leans down to pick up the socks from the floor, then gives you a gentle tug with the towel, moving you two steps towards the shelf to add the bundle of clean clothes she picked out to the pair of socks in her hand. The she leads you towards the door, out into her bedroom, where she gently guides you to sit on the edge of her bed, and moves your left hand to replace her grip of the towel. You stare at her expectantly, brain completely blank and waiting for instructions. Your hair drips onto the towel, and your shoulder feels sore from the strain of holding it up without the sling, but you can’t find it within you to care or complain. All you can think of is Wanda, because she crouches in front of you, sliding your dangling feet through the holes of your underwear, and gently sliding the fabric up over your knees. Then she does the same with a pair of pyjama shorts, and finally she replaces the fluffy socks from before. 

“Pull these up, baby,” she tells you, giving you a little pat on your knee. Every time she uses that nickname, it makes you feel so flustered and needy. But it’s a nice feeling, somehow. You wouldn’t trade it for the world. 

You stand up slowly, and fumble awkwardly to shuffle the underwear and shorts up beneath the towel. When you finish,  she smiles praisingly and takes over holding the towel again. She readies the sling behind you on the bed, then holds up one of your oversized t-shirts and gives you a moment to process, before unwrapping the towel from around you and placing it down on the floor. She’s quick to cover you, sliding your bad arm through the sleeve then letting you wriggle your other in before slipping it over your head. The feeling of the soft, loose t-shirt calms you. You’re covered, but not compressed. After a day of emotional upheaval and physical tension, this is what you need.

Wanda carefully pulls your hair out where it’s been tucked beneath the t-shirt, then she starts putting your sling back on. It’s a relief when it’s over, and you can relax your arm muscles again. 

“Now, my darling — I’m going to get changed out of my work clothes and into something comfy too. Would you like to go downstairs and see if dinner is ready?”

You stare at her. She’s worded it as a question, and it confuses you. If she’d given it as an instruction, you would have obeyed, albeit reluctantly. But she’s asked you, and your honest answer would be no. 

Is that even okay? For your answer to be no? 

“C-can I stay?” you ask meekly. Then, realising that this sounds weird and intrusive, you amend your request with haste. “Or — can I wait outside for you? Please?”

Wanda smiles, that nose-scrunching smile that tells you she’s happy, amused. She takes your hand and gives it a little squeeze.

“Of course you can stay, my love. Take a seat and I’ll be quick.” With her hold of your hand, she pushes you back a little until your thighs touch the edge of the bed. You sit, staring at her and mourning the loss of her touch as she lets go of your hand, picks the towel up from the floor and moves to her walk-in closet. When you look down at your lap, you feel that same ache inside. Along with a dampness between your legs, that you can’t entirely blame on the bathwater.

Wanda emerges a minute later in a plain blue t-shirt and light grey joggers, holding a small, thin towel in her hand. 

“For your hair,” she tells you quietly, as she sits down on the bed beside you. “So you don’t get cold, during dinner.” She wraps your hair in it, then gently dries it off. At one point, you feel her chest press against your shoulder as she leans to reach the other side of your head. You bite the inside of your cheek, willing your body not to betray you, but feeling the warmth and the ache blooming anyway.

“Good enough, I think,” Wanda decides, standing up again and walking to the bathroom you watch her walk in and hang the bathmat over the side of the tub, before picking up your running clothes. She brings them and the towel back to her closet, where you assume she must have a laundry basket. “Okay,” she says then, offering her hand as she approaches, “let’s go down and see Natty. Dinner must be ready by now.”

———

When you reach the kitchen, the table is already set, and Natasha is already standing up from her stool at the counter, smiling in greeting.

“Ready when you are,” she says warmly.

Wanda guides you to sit in your usual seat, but then she sits down on the chair at the end, not her usual place opposite you. Natasha doesn’t seem to bat an eye at this, she just rearranges the place settings, moving the plate, glass and cutlery from where she normally sits, to the space in front of Wanda. Then she sits down in Wanda’s usual seat, and smiles reassuringly at you. She doesn’t seem bothered by Wanda’s closeness to you. In fact, she seems happy. It undoes the knot of worry before it can tug itself tight.

You don’t feel hungry at first, and you expect to struggle through even the small plate Natasha serves you, but find yourself pleasantly surprised by your appetite, once you start eating. The food is good, really good, and it’s perhaps also going down better tonight, because you actually did a bit of exercise today. Whenever you look up, Natasha seems to be pleased. And though Wanda doesn’t draw attention to your improved appetite with her words, she grants you an affectionate touch every so often, conveying her approval with a stroke of your hair, or a light squeeze above your knee. 

When you finish your plate, you nibble your lip and look up. Natasha watches you for a moment, still chewing. 

“Would you like some more?” she asks once she’s swallowed. Her voice is neutral; her smile is soft and unassuming. You do want more, but there’s that familiar tug in your brain, holding you back. Natasha tilts her head, but her expression doesn’t change. You know she’s figuring you out, though. She’s good at reading you. Maybe even better than Wanda, at times. “You know, I gave you a small portion to begin with,” she says casually. “Just to see if you liked it. It’s okay to have more, if you want.”

You look down at your plate, thinking. Fighting. 

“Yes please,” you say quietly, looking back up at her and feeling the tension ease in your chest as you breathe out. She nods, her face unchanged apart from the smallest little twitch at the left corner of her lips. A tiny, hidden smile. A smile she’s containing, so she doesn’t put pressure on you. Knowing that makes it seep in through your skin, warm like a hug.

After dinner, the three of you move downstairs to the sofa, and Wanda presses play on the next episode of She-Ra without pre-amble or discussion. You tuck your feet up beneath you for a bit, your left hand lifting to your mouth and the fingernail of your forefinger pressing against your lips until you notice the habit and move your hand back to your lap. You feel so tired but also there’s still that familiar, constant buzzing in your body that won’t still. The longer you spend around them, and the more comfortable you feel in their presence, the harder it is to hide. You cross your legs and shuffle back against the cushions. But that stance only lasts for a minute, before you have to try another, sliding forward to dangle your legs over the edge again. 

“Y/N, would you like me to braid your hair again?” Natasha asks. You turn to face her, sitting cross legged in the corner and waiting patiently for your response. You nod.

“Yes please.”

“Alright,” Natasha says, with a smile. She reaches forward, and pulls a hairbrush out from the shelf beneath the coffee table. Then she opens her legs into a V, placing her feet flat on the cushions at either side so her knees can lift up and form a clear space for you to sit. She pats the empty spot expectantly, and you stand up, left arm curling around your stomach as you approach. You sit down, and she gives you a gentle squeeze on your good shoulder.

“Same braid?” she asks you, and you nod. “Alright. Just focus on the screen to keep your head straight. If it hurts, let me know, okay?”

“Okay,” you agree.

There’s a pause, in which you curl your fingers a little deeper into your waist, trying to contain the buzz, and the urge to move. Natasha seems to be considering something, considering you.

“Can you hold this for me?” she asks, holding something out in her left hand, and forcing you to unravel your anxious hold of your torso to accept the hair tie she holds out to you.

Natasha starts brushing your hair then, and you look back to the screen. You roll the hair tie between your fingertips, twisting and stretching it subconsciously as you tune back in to the episode. The combination of watching the show, fidgeting with the hair tie, and feeling Natasha’s fingers pull your hair into a tight braid — it settles you, muffling the buzz like a weighted blanket, until finally it fades away completely.

A/N: Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed this, and I wish you well ♡

Taglist: (comment below if you'd like to be added to this) @nessheartnat ; @valerie-lexi ; @bishovapls ; @redheadsinmybed ; @electric-guillotines ; @naominanuq ; @alpalpym ; @dreaming-potato ; @snowazul ; @deathbylesbianwitches ; @queen-of-chaotic-surprises ; @loverluzer ; @methealt ; @theslutoflasignora ; @godhatesgoodgirls ; @absolutelyregal

[alpalpym]

the person who realised you could rearrange the letters in gossip girl to read “go piss girl” truly one of the great minds of our generation, madam your legacy

[alpalpym]

Collision Course

Chapter 15b: Interlude [Part 2]

WandaNat x [innocent, femme] Reader

Collision Course – Masterlist Link to full fic (so far) on AO3

Chapter Summary: While you wait in the garden, Natasha and Wanda have a conversation about you upstairs, in which their feelings come to the fore.

Word count: 3.7k

Featuring: Sapphic women yearning and second-guessing their actions (basically the theme of the entire fic tbh). Mention of sub-drop and domme-drop.

A/N: This follows on directly from Chapter 15 of Collision Course and Part 1 of Chapter 15b. It's dialogue-heavy and I've been fairly consumed by doubt about it this week, but the writing is now a lot cleaner after the wonderful assistance of @bishovapls , who very kindly beta-read this for me. Her encouragement and corrections have been invaluable in getting me to the position of feeling comfortable to post this ♡ (If you're not already following her you need to do that now; she writes the most incredible WandaNat and Bishova content).

When Natasha heard the click of the front door opening, her first instinct was to move to the window and check on you. But there was no sign of you nor Mayakovsky anymore when she looked out to the garden. Most likely, you were beneath the balcony, sitting on one of the patio chairs as she had instructed. If not, you’d be hiding out in the living room downstairs.

“Hey,” Wanda called out, her cheerful voice ringing through the house. 

“Through here, dorogaya moya,” Natasha replied, prying her eyes from the window and moving to the sink to wash her hands. She could hear Wanda’s footsteps approaching, even through the sound of the flowing water.

“Hello, my love,” Wanda murmured close to her ear, as she propped her chin on Natasha’s shoulder and wrapped her arms around her wife’s waist from behind. Natasha turned off the faucet and twisted round in Wanda’s hold to capture her lips in a kiss.

“Good day?” Natasha enquired, fumbling with her left hand behind her back to try and locate the hand towel which hung beneath the sink.

“Mm. It was okay. How was yours? How is myšička?”

Natasha turned round to dry her hands, and Wanda let her go. Only once her hands were dry and the towel was replaced did she answer.

“It was… interesting. She’s been a bit all over the place, emotionally.” Natasha paused. She knew that she would probably regret voicing the thought which was burning at the tip of her tongue, but she threw caution to the wind and said it anyway. “I think she missed you.”

Wanda’s face wasn’t hard to read. Natasha knew her wife well, and noticed the concerned quirk of her eyebrows, as well as the slightest scrunching of her nose, which was only ever evident when Wanda was truly delighted by something. 

“Where is she?” Wanda asked, obviously eager to reunite and shower you with affection.

“Out on the patio,” Natasha replied, “but we need to talk first, Wanda.”

“Okay. What do we need to talk about?” Wanda queried, looking a little fraught. Natasha nodded towards the dining table, and followed Wanda over once she caught on to the suggestion. Wanda sat down at the end of the table, and Natasha took the seat alongside, turning the chair to face her wife.

“She’s had a difficult day,” Natasha admitted, with a sigh. “I knew it would be, really; she obviously didn’t sleep well last night, but also it was the longest time she’s been without you since the accident. I think that hasn’t helped. I mean, of course I tried, but I’m not the same. She’s attached to you, Wanda.”

Wanda nodded, with a slightly sad smile. 

“Yes, I suppose she is.”

“You know how I feel about that,” Natasha said plainly, leaning to the side slightly to rest her elbow on the table. 

“I do,” Wanda agreed. 

There was a pause then, as they both contemplated the impasse. 

Eventually, Natasha broke the silence with a sigh.

“She came to find me this morning,” Natasha began, feeling it was important to be frank about what had happened that day. Their household had always operated on honesty; there was no need for this to change just because you were currently residing there too. “And she told me she was about to go out for a run.”

Wanda frowned at this, her cheeks paling slightly.

“You didn’t let her, did you?”

“Of course not,” Natasha protested, only just managing to contain a sigh of indignation. She might not be as all-in with affection as her wife, but that didn’t mean she was apathetic about you, or your safety. “No; I highlighted the risks, and when that didn’t put her off, I made her consider how you would feel if you came home and found out that I’d let her go for a run.” Natasha raised an eyebrow at Wanda, unable to restrain a small smirk that tugged at her lips. “It was a little too effective, honestly.”

“How did she react?” Wanda asked, leaning in with concerned curiosity. 

“Well, she sort of surrendered at that point, but she wasn’t happy. I tried to suggest we go for a walk, but she wasn’t having it; she just said she needed to go for a run. I managed to get her to explain a little, though. She said she needs to exercise, Wanda. I think she’s used to doing a lot, and she’s going a little crazy being so stationary.”

“But she has to rest,” Wanda fretted, fiddling with the rings on her fingers. “It’s not even been a week and… it was so bad.” She whispered the last part, her voice cracking as she recalled the accident.

“I know,” Natasha soothed, reaching out and stroking Wanda’s forearm. “But she’s a strong little thing, really. And she told me today that it’s not her first broken bone — turns out she’s always been a bit of a liability!” She turned her tone playful at the end, grinning at Wanda until she elicited the desired little huff of laughter that meant she was breaking through the worry. "I think we need to be more careful of her mental health, rather than the physical, lyubov moya. She opened up to me when I asked her about it. Just a little, just enough for me to know that it’s how she copes with things.” Natasha paused, knowing the next part may elicit some dissent. “So we compromised. I let her use the spin bike in the gym, just for half an hour, with my supervision.” She could see Wanda opening her mouth to quibble, but she ploughed on. “And I said I’ll continue to let her, when she needs. But only if she asks, and only if I’m there.”

Wanda closed her mouth again, and Natasha wondered whether her extra detail had quelled some of the arguments in her mind. She was silent for a while, still spinning the rings, but the revolutions were slower now. More contemplative than ruminative in nature. 

“Did it help?” Wanda asked finally, her voice rather small, like it pained her to consider it. 

“It did,” Natasha admitted. “She was a lot brighter after. For a bit, at least. We ate lunch, and she seemed relaxed while eating. And then we went for a walk to get some buns, and she was really chirpy on the way there. That’s when I learned about all her injuries. She was happy, talkative.”

Wanda seemed saddened by this, more than anything. But Natasha understood. Wanda’s protective instincts prioritised rest, and keeping you safe at home. The success of Natasha’s tactics seemed to directly contradict her own approach, making her efforts and affections appear futile in comparison. Natasha kept one hand on Wanda’s forearm, but moved her other to rest upon Wanda’s hand. The next part she needed to share may come as a blow. But it was necessary to explain it all. Wanda needed to understand.

“She was fine until we came out of the bakery, and our discussion moved to college. I asked if she wanted to start going in, and she panicked then. Because she seems to think that you wouldn’t want her to.”

Wanda looked up from her hands, meeting Natasha’s gaze with a rather startled expression. 

“We haven’t even talked about it… I - I don’t know why she would think that.”

“Well… Would you want her to go, if she asked to go in tomorrow?” Natasha asked, trying to keep her tone gentle rather than accusing. Wanda swallowed, then released a small admission.

“No — I’d say it’s too soon.”

“And she knows that, lyubov moya, because she’s practically joined at your hip, and absolutely desperate for your approval.” Natasha’s heart clenched as she saw her wife’s eyes begin to glisten with tears. This was why it was necessary to have this conversation now, just the two of them, before having a discussion with you too. Wanda wasn’t much more enlightened than you were about the nature of your relationship together. Sure, she had her hopes and a history of wanting something specific, but at the same time Natasha was sure that a lot of her behaviour was being enacted on pure instinct. Wanda didn’t even seem to know what she was doing, half the time. She was just feeling, being. And it was up to Natasha to see, to understand on behalf of both of you. 

“Did something happen between the two of you this morning?” Natasha asked, needing to know what she had missed. Something seemed to register and flicker in Wanda’s eyes, and Natasha knew then that her instincts were correct. There had been something.

“I might have got a bit carried away,” Wanda whispered, her face flushing with colour. “Maybe I was too dominant… I don’t know. I just instructed her to tell you if she needed anything, and then I… I asked her to be good for me, while I was away.”

Natasha suspected that some details might be being omitted, but she didn’t press for them. She could assume how it must have happened, how Wanda slipped into her dominance and soothed you into submission. There would no doubt have been copious pet names and physical touch involved too, all of which would have intensified the experience for you. And, inconveniently, this all transpired right before Wanda left for the day. 

“She mentioned that,” Natasha shared. “She’s pretty cut-up about it actually, scared that she’s not been good for you, and that you’ll be disappointed in her.”

“I’m not,” Wanda murmured. “I’m worried.”

“Me too,” Natasha said simply. “I’m worried for the both of you. This whole thing… it seems to be spinning out of control rather quickly.”

“We can make it work,” Wanda asserted, rather desperately. “I know we can. I’m sure about this, about her, Natasha.”

Natasha took a deep breath. She needed to be honest, the voice of reason.

“I know you’re sure, lyubov moya, but I’m not. And I don’t think she’s capable of being sure of anything, at the moment.” She watched as a single tear trickled down Wanda’s cheek. Not able to bear it passing untouched, unrecognised, Natasha reached out and brushed it away with a careful stroke of her finger. 

“Wanda, I love you to the moon and back many times over, but I think you’re losing yourself a little. You can’t just push the poor girl into subspace whenever it takes your fancy. She’s not ours; she’s just our guest. And she’s vulnerable. Even if you do think it could work, we can’t introduce it now — she’d probably freak out and run away, and even if she did agree to it, we couldn’t really characterise it as free consent, could we?”

“I know,” Wanda agreed quietly. “I just… It’s hard to know where the line is. I keep losing sight of it, I suppose.”

“Me too,” Natasha admitted, prompting Wanda to look up in surprise. Natasha gave her a small, rueful smile. “You’re not the only one who’s struggling there. I think I’ve crossed the line a few times too. It is hard.”

They sat in silence for a while then, with Natasha contemplating her mistakes, and Wanda no doubt doing the same. It was so complex, the situation they’d ended up in. A good deed, somewhat corrupted by increasingly complicating feelings.

“I think — and I may be wrong; it’s just a suspicion — but I think she’s been experiencing sub-drop, at times, over the last few days.” Natasha posed her theory lightly, interested to hear Wanda’s take on it. When there was no immediate response, she elaborated. “I mean, it certainly seemed like it this afternoon. She missed you, and she was worried about what you thought of her, and what you had said. And the only thing that seemed to help was just being with her, and holding her, and reassuring her a lot.” Natasha chewed at the inside of her mouth, remembering the times she hugged you, and the way it had felt. That detail was unnecessary, however. She had to keep her own feelings detached, to protect the both of you. She had to remain objective.

“She likes you a lot, you know,” Wanda breathed, looking up into Natasha’s eyes with tearful sincerity. “I see the way she looks to you: always checking how you’re feeling, what you’re thinking about her. And you must see how she relaxes when you smile, and when you’re silly with her. She’s attached to you too, Nat. Just differently.”

Natasha swallowed, trying to contain the emotion that swelled inside her, a rising tide of euphoria that Wanda’s words provoked. Her defences were slightly delayed, but they sprung up then, providing an alternative, protecting her from the feelings.

“It’s just because I’m the gatekeeper to you, really. I think she knows — even if it’s just subconsciously — that I’m the one who will call this, in the end. So she wants to know that I’m still happy with her being here, and happy with the two of you becoming so close. I think she’s scared I’ll put a stop to things, all of a sudden, based on something she has done.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Wanda rejected, very quietly. “Because if that were the case, that she only cared about my affection and your permission, then she wouldn’t have admitted any of that to you, today. She’d be holding it inside, scared it would make you end this.” Wanda paused, then leaned forwards and gave Natasha a gentle kiss. “She trusts you, Talia. You just don’t trust yourself.”

Natasha stilled in her seat, letting Wanda’s words seep into her very soul. That nickname — from the real name — had a sacred place in their relationship. Wanda knew the power it held over her, and she used it sparingly, respectfully. She only pulled it out to highlight moments and mark meaning. So her use of it now gave every word extra weight, making them settle heavy inside Natasha’s body, burying the arguments that may otherwise have clawed up through her chest. The name had a way of stripping her down, chipping away her armour and revealing what lay beneath. And today, her armour seemed thin. It simply melted away like salt in the rain, sharp crystals dissolving to nothingness. Without it, her shoulders seemed to narrow and droop — like she had lost her exoskeleton, and now had to face the world more feeble.

“What’s going on with you, my love?” Wanda asked, moving her hands to interlock fingers with Natasha’s own. When Natasha made no move to answer, Wanda gave a further prompt. “I already know what you think, Talia. Right now I want to know how you feel.”

The question tugged at Natasha’s composure, unpicking her at the seams. At some point in this conversation, the power had shifted. She had thought she was in control, but now she felt on the back foot, spinning without direction. She clung to Wanda’s hands, trying to anchor herself, and return to shore.

“Talk to me, láska moja,” Wanda encouraged, “just one word will do.”

And she found it: the feeling sinking deep inside her. 

“I just feel… guilty,” Natasha breathed, and it seemed like the words cut through her last defences like a knife. Wanda was watching her avidly, reading her like a book, and Natasha couldn’t help but continue turning the pages for her, showing her every piece of what she was feeling. “I’ve been trying all this time to find the balance — but if I hold back while you are being soft with her, I feel like I’m being cold. And if I let myself be soft with her too, it feels wrong… like we’re manipulating her somehow. It makes me feel dirty.” The words were spilling out without a plan, tumbling unvetted from her lips. “But then, when I asked you to pull back, it clearly hurt her. And I don’t want that. I care about her too. It’s just… I’m scared. And I don’t know what to do anymore.”

Wanda seemed to inflate then, taking account of the slight wobble in Natasha’s voice and seeming to come fully back to herself to address it.

“We do what you’re doing right now,” Wanda said fervently. “We communicate. To each other, and to her.”

Natasha nodded wordlessly, swallowing down the lump in her throat. She hated feeling like this. Unsure. Afraid. It wasn’t like her, and she didn’t want it. She was used to comforting, not being comforted. She was used to being in control.

Wanda slid out a hand and cupped Natasha’s cheek, continuing her soft assurances.

“And I think we just try our best. Not too much, not too little. We can find the sweet spot together, and we can ask her too.” Wanda’s hands moved to capture each of Natasha’s, and she entwined their fingers together. “We’ll figure this out, hm?”

Natasha took a long, shuddering breath in through her nose. And then she released it, in a slow exhale through her mouth, her lips parted into a small O.

“Yes. We will.”

Wanda smiled at her then, her eyes still a little shiny but holding warmth rather than sadness now. It never ceased to amaze Natasha, how her wife could be buoyed by the opportunity to soothe another. She came alive when people were upset, and not in a malevolent way. Wanda just truly lived for others, lived for the chance to help and to heal. 

Sometimes Natasha felt guilty for rarely needing that kind of help from her wife. It felt like something she couldn’t provide, a failure on her part. Your arrival had placed that fact into stark relief. You provided something which Natasha could never give, something which Wanda craved with the deepest part of her soul. And Natasha desperately wanted her wife to have it. But she was scared that it wouldn’t work, scared that Wanda would invest too much, only for her dream to fall apart. Natasha would give Wanda the moon, if she could. But she couldn’t give her you. That decision was yours alone, a choice that couldn’t be meddled with, if it were to be true and free. 

They remained quiet for a while, which was just what Natasha needed. When she felt this way she just needed two things. Time and touch; just enough to decompress. 

“You know,” Wanda said quietly, stroking Natasha’s cheek with her thumb and gazing into her eyes with a steady kind of certainty, “myšička may not be the only one having a drop today.”

Natasha let out a small breath of mirth, half-defensive, half-surrendered. Perhaps Wanda was right. Perhaps it could explain this strange concoction of emotions she was feeling — guilt, confusion, and a little panic too. 

“Maybe,” she admitted, though she didn’t want to linger on this. So she summoned her intentions again, fumbling for the thread of the task at hand. “We really do need to talk to her.”

“Yes,” Wanda agreed, dropping her hand from Natasha’s cheek, and settling it on her lap instead. “What do you propose, my love?”

Natasha was grateful for the way Wanda handed back the reins, grateful for the way her wife knew when to pause, and when to progress. 

“I think you ought to get her, and give her some reassurance first,” Natasha directed, feeling her body recharge with resolve as the emotional discomfort ebbed away to the background. “I told her she’s not in trouble, but I think she needs to hear it from you, too.”

“Okay, I can do that. And then shall I bring her up here?”

Natasha considered the suggestion, then shook her head. 

“The table will feel too formal. Perhaps the sofa downstairs?”

“That sounds good. I’ll chat to her outside, and then bring her in.” Wanda tilted her head then, obviously preparing a new question. “How do we go about this?”

“I think we just have to keep it simple. Reassure her that we want her here, and she can stay until she’s better. Then ask her what she needs from us — college, exercise… we can prompt her, if need be. Whatever it is, we can figure out compromises, together.”

“And what about… everything else?” Wanda asked, and Natasha knew what she was referring to. “Do we explain, even just a little?”

Natasha sighed, overwhelmed by the impossibility of employing perfect ethics in this situation. To be completely honest would mean accosting you with a rather intense premise, at a time when you had no clear alternative. And to withhold it would mean deceiving you, entrapping you in a situation you hadn’t been able to consent to. 

“We tell as much of the truth as we can,” she determined, speaking her decision slowly, checking each word as it came. “Like the truth that we like having her here, and we want her to stay until she’s better. And the truth that we need her to communicate with us if she’s uncomfortable.”

Wanda nodded along, taking it in with a fervent expression. 

“I’ll let you take the lead, my love.” She frowned a little then, obviously considering something else. Natasha gave her a little nod of encouragement to continue. “I know you want me to be careful, to hold back a bit more… but I think she’ll need me tonight. And you too. She’ll need us to be gentle.”

“I know,” Natasha assured her. “And for tonight, I think we give that to her. But don’t lose yourself, lyubov moya. Just be Wanda, with her. Please.”

“Sľubujem,” Wanda committed, her promise quiet but steady, intent. 

They kissed then, long and slow, exchanging breaths, regrets and resolve. When they broke apart, Wanda leaned her forehead to rest against Natasha’s own. They stayed like that a moment, skin touching, Natasha’s eyes dipped and Wanda’s closed. 

“Go now,” Natasha whispered gently, giving her wife a final peck of the lips. “Our little mouse will be growing cold.”

Wanda leaned back, her smile radiant in the slightly fading light of the early evening. And in the warm glow of her wife’s joy, Natasha couldn’t even summon any regret at the slip of her words, at the possessive pronoun that had snuck past her reticence and settled into the secret space between them.

A/N: Thank you for reading, and sorry again that this took so long!! It was a bit scary taking a step back from Tumblr/writing for the last week, but I do feel a lot better now and ready to write and share more. I hope you all have a lovely weekend ♡

Taglist: (comment below if you'd like to be added to this) @nessheartnat , @valerie-lexi , @bishovapls , @redheadsinmybed , @electric-guillotines , @naominanuq

[alpalpym]

Thank you for all the likes/reblogs/replies on the second part of Chapter 15b!

I should say also that I’ve learnt my lesson about the schedule function: Tumblr did something super weird last night and the post disappeared from the queue and was stuck in some limbo for about ten minutes. I thought it was gone forever so I scrambled to remake the post, only for tumblr to publish the original version when I was almost done with the new one 🙄 So from now on I’m going to schedule things for ten minutes before the time I advertise!

I have a couple of chores to do today and I also hope to go bouldering, but I’m going to do some more writing in the times between and also attempt to tick some things off my writing to do list. Idk why I’m showing you it but I guess maybe to highlight how many small bits of admin are involved in keeping this up (and also maybe there is a tiny bit of me that just wants to show off my favourite pen again) 🙈.

I hope you all have a lovely day ♡

[alpalpym]

Do you have any headcanons of redline!natasha, if so what are they? 🤔🤔

(I just really love the redline fics so much 💖💖)

-✨️

Ohh, I love!! SFW and NSFW below: 🏎️🏁

SFW:

Natasha doesn’t just manage your career, she manages your chaos. From your aggressive driving to your reckless instincts, she’s the only one who can pull you back from the edge with one look.

When the press asks about your relationship, she deadpans: “I manage her. I also love her. Neither’s easy.”

She’ll never say “good luck” before a race, she says “Don’t you dare get hurt.” And you always know that’s her version of I love you.

When you crash, or even just take a risky move, she doesn’t sleep that night. Stays up watching race footage, fists clenched, replaying it over and over, whispering: “What were you thinking, baby…”

Her arms are always crossed in the paddock, jaw tight, sunglasses on, but the second your car crosses the finish line safe, she softens like gravity let go.

She’s the one in your ear on the comms, voice low and calm, telling you: “You’re okay. Engine’s holding. Push on lap 13, then let off. I’ve got you.”

You argue constantly about strategy, she’s cold, calculated; you’re emotional, gut-driven, but deep down, you’d never trust anyone else to call your race.

After every race, win or lose, she waits in the garage for you, arms open if you need comfort, silence ready if you need to rage.

NSFW - MINOR DNI!!

You’re usually too wired after racing to relax, so she fucks the adrenaline out of you, slow, demanding, with one hand over your mouth as she whispers: “You’re going to come down, baby. Right here. With me.”

You once stormed out mid-race strategy meeting, she found you in the team trailer, locked the door, and took you apart on the couch. Said it was about “discipline” but it felt a hell of a lot like love.

When you win, she’s possessive. Grabs your fire suit by the collar in the garage, pulls you in with a smirk, and growls: “That podium’s yours, but you are mine.”

Garage sex is absolutely a thing. Late night. Oil-streaked hands. Tension from a fight turned into something primal, back pressed to the hood, her fingers digging into your thighs.

She’s a control freak in bed but only because she wants to memorize every sound you make, every way you unravel for her. You once joked about putting a mirror on the ceiling. She actually did it so she could watch you fall apart under her. (Ups..)

[alpalpym]

Chapter 15b: Interlude [Part 2] WandaNat x [innocent, femme] Reader

Collision Course – Masterlist Link to full fic (so far) on AO3

Chapter Summary: While you wait in the garden, Natasha and Wanda have a conversation about you upstairs, in which their feelings come to the fore.

Word count: 3.7k

Featuring: Sapphic women yearning and second-guessing their actions (basically the theme of the entire fic tbh). Mention of sub-drop and domme-drop.

A/N: This follows on directly from Chapter 15 of Collision Course and Part 1 of Chapter 15b. It's dialogue-heavy and I've been fairly consumed by doubt about it this week, but the writing is now a lot cleaner after the wonderful assistance of @bishovapls , who very kindly beta-read this for me. Her encouragement and corrections have been invaluable in getting me to the position of feeling comfortable to post this ♡ (If you're not already following her you need to do that now; she writes the most incredible WandaNat and Bishova content).

When Natasha heard the click of the front door opening, her first instinct was to move to the window and check on you. But there was no sign of you nor Mayakovsky anymore when she looked out to the garden. Most likely, you were beneath the balcony, sitting on one of the patio chairs as she had instructed. If not, you’d be hiding out in the living room downstairs.

“Hey,” Wanda called out, her cheerful voice ringing through the house. 

“Through here, dorogaya moya,” Natasha replied, prying her eyes from the window and moving to the sink to wash her hands. She could hear Wanda’s footsteps approaching, even through the sound of the flowing water.

“Hello, my love,” Wanda murmured close to her ear, as she propped her chin on Natasha’s shoulder and wrapped her arms around her wife’s waist from behind. Natasha turned off the faucet and twisted round in Wanda’s hold to capture her lips in a kiss.

“Good day?” Natasha enquired, fumbling with her left hand behind her back to try and locate the hand towel which hung beneath the sink.

“Mm. It was okay. How was yours? How is myšička?”

Natasha turned round to dry her hands, and Wanda let her go. Only once her hands were dry and the towel was replaced did she answer.

“It was… interesting. She’s been a bit all over the place, emotionally.” Natasha paused. She knew that she would probably regret voicing the thought which was burning at the tip of her tongue, but she threw caution to the wind and said it anyway. “I think she missed you.”

Wanda’s face wasn’t hard to read. Natasha knew her wife well, and noticed the concerned quirk of her eyebrows, as well as the slightest scrunching of her nose, which was only ever evident when Wanda was truly delighted by something. 

“Where is she?” Wanda asked, obviously eager to reunite and shower you with affection.

“Out on the patio,” Natasha replied, “but we need to talk first, Wanda.”

“Okay. What do we need to talk about?” Wanda queried, looking a little fraught. Natasha nodded towards the dining table, and followed Wanda over once she caught on to the suggestion. Wanda sat down at the end of the table, and Natasha took the seat alongside, turning the chair to face her wife.

“She’s had a difficult day,” Natasha admitted, with a sigh. “I knew it would be, really; she obviously didn’t sleep well last night, but also it was the longest time she’s been without you since the accident. I think that hasn’t helped. I mean, of course I tried, but I’m not the same. She’s attached to you, Wanda.”

Wanda nodded, with a slightly sad smile. 

“Yes, I suppose she is.”

“You know how I feel about that,” Natasha said plainly, leaning to the side slightly to rest her elbow on the table. 

“I do,” Wanda agreed. 

There was a pause then, as they both contemplated the impasse. 

Eventually, Natasha broke the silence with a sigh.

“She came to find me this morning,” Natasha began, feeling it was important to be frank about what had happened that day. Their household had always operated on honesty; there was no need for this to change just because you were currently residing there too. “And she told me she was about to go out for a run.”

Wanda frowned at this, her cheeks paling slightly.

“You didn’t let her, did you?”

“Of course not,” Natasha protested, only just managing to contain a sigh of indignation. She might not be as all-in with affection as her wife, but that didn’t mean she was apathetic about you, or your safety. “No; I highlighted the risks, and when that didn’t put her off, I made her consider how you would feel if you came home and found out that I’d let her go for a run.” Natasha raised an eyebrow at Wanda, unable to restrain a small smirk that tugged at her lips. “It was a little too effective, honestly.”

“How did she react?” Wanda asked, leaning in with concerned curiosity. 

“Well, she sort of surrendered at that point, but she wasn’t happy. I tried to suggest we go for a walk, but she wasn’t having it; she just said she needed to go for a run. I managed to get her to explain a little, though. She said she needs to exercise, Wanda. I think she’s used to doing a lot, and she’s going a little crazy being so stationary.”

“But she has to rest,” Wanda fretted, fiddling with the rings on her fingers. “It’s not even been a week and… it was so bad.” She whispered the last part, her voice cracking as she recalled the accident.

“I know,” Natasha soothed, reaching out and stroking Wanda’s forearm. “But she’s a strong little thing, really. And she told me today that it’s not her first broken bone — turns out she’s always been a bit of a liability!” She turned her tone playful at the end, grinning at Wanda until she elicited the desired little huff of laughter that meant she was breaking through the worry. "I think we need to be more careful of her mental health, rather than the physical, lyubov moya. She opened up to me when I asked her about it. Just a little, just enough for me to know that it’s how she copes with things.” Natasha paused, knowing the next part may elicit some dissent. “So we compromised. I let her use the spin bike in the gym, just for half an hour, with my supervision.” She could see Wanda opening her mouth to quibble, but she ploughed on. “And I said I’ll continue to let her, when she needs. But only if she asks, and only if I’m there.”

Wanda closed her mouth again, and Natasha wondered whether her extra detail had quelled some of the arguments in her mind. She was silent for a while, still spinning the rings, but the revolutions were slower now. More contemplative than ruminative in nature. 

“Did it help?” Wanda asked finally, her voice rather small, like it pained her to consider it. 

“It did,” Natasha admitted. “She was a lot brighter after. For a bit, at least. We ate lunch, and she seemed relaxed while eating. And then we went for a walk to get some buns, and she was really chirpy on the way there. That’s when I learned about all her injuries. She was happy, talkative.”

Wanda seemed saddened by this, more than anything. But Natasha understood. Wanda’s protective instincts prioritised rest, and keeping you safe at home. The success of Natasha’s tactics seemed to directly contradict her own approach, making her efforts and affections appear futile in comparison. Natasha kept one hand on Wanda’s forearm, but moved her other to rest upon Wanda’s hand. The next part she needed to share may come as a blow. But it was necessary to explain it all. Wanda needed to understand.

“She was fine until we came out of the bakery, and our discussion moved to college. I asked if she wanted to start going in, and she panicked then. Because she seems to think that you wouldn’t want her to.”

Wanda looked up from her hands, meeting Natasha’s gaze with a rather startled expression. 

“We haven’t even talked about it… I - I don’t know why she would think that.”

“Well… Would you want her to go, if she asked to go in tomorrow?” Natasha asked, trying to keep her tone gentle rather than accusing. Wanda swallowed, then released a small admission.

“No — I’d say it’s too soon.”

“And she knows that, lyubov moya, because she’s practically joined at your hip, and absolutely desperate for your approval.” Natasha’s heart clenched as she saw her wife’s eyes begin to glisten with tears. This was why it was necessary to have this conversation now, just the two of them, before having a discussion with you too. Wanda wasn’t much more enlightened than you were about the nature of your relationship together. Sure, she had her hopes and a history of wanting something specific, but at the same time Natasha was sure that a lot of her behaviour was being enacted on pure instinct. Wanda didn’t even seem to know what she was doing, half the time. She was just feeling, being. And it was up to Natasha to see, to understand on behalf of both of you. 

“Did something happen between the two of you this morning?” Natasha asked, needing to know what she had missed. Something seemed to register and flicker in Wanda’s eyes, and Natasha knew then that her instincts were correct. There had been something.

“I might have got a bit carried away,” Wanda whispered, her face flushing with colour. “Maybe I was too dominant… I don’t know. I just instructed her to tell you if she needed anything, and then I… I asked her to be good for me, while I was away.”

Natasha suspected that some details might be being omitted, but she didn’t press for them. She could assume how it must have happened, how Wanda slipped into her dominance and soothed you into submission. There would no doubt have been copious pet names and physical touch involved too, all of which would have intensified the experience for you. And, inconveniently, this all transpired right before Wanda left for the day. 

“She mentioned that,” Natasha shared. “She’s pretty cut-up about it actually, scared that she’s not been good for you, and that you’ll be disappointed in her.”

“I’m not,” Wanda murmured. “I’m worried.”

“Me too,” Natasha said simply. “I’m worried for the both of you. This whole thing… it seems to be spinning out of control rather quickly.”

“We can make it work,” Wanda asserted, rather desperately. “I know we can. I’m sure about this, about her, Natasha.”

Natasha took a deep breath. She needed to be honest, the voice of reason.

“I know you’re sure, lyubov moya, but I’m not. And I don’t think she’s capable of being sure of anything, at the moment.” She watched as a single tear trickled down Wanda’s cheek. Not able to bear it passing untouched, unrecognised, Natasha reached out and brushed it away with a careful stroke of her finger. 

“Wanda, I love you to the moon and back many times over, but I think you’re losing yourself a little. You can’t just push the poor girl into subspace whenever it takes your fancy. She’s not ours; she’s just our guest. And she’s vulnerable. Even if you do think it could work, we can’t introduce it now — she’d probably freak out and run away, and even if she did agree to it, we couldn’t really characterise it as free consent, could we?”

“I know,” Wanda agreed quietly. “I just… It’s hard to know where the line is. I keep losing sight of it, I suppose.”

“Me too,” Natasha admitted, prompting Wanda to look up in surprise. Natasha gave her a small, rueful smile. “You’re not the only one who’s struggling there. I think I’ve crossed the line a few times too. It is hard.”

They sat in silence for a while then, with Natasha contemplating her mistakes, and Wanda no doubt doing the same. It was so complex, the situation they’d ended up in. A good deed, somewhat corrupted by increasingly complicating feelings.

“I think — and I may be wrong; it’s just a suspicion — but I think she’s been experiencing sub-drop, at times, over the last few days.” Natasha posed her theory lightly, interested to hear Wanda’s take on it. When there was no immediate response, she elaborated. “I mean, it certainly seemed like it this afternoon. She missed you, and she was worried about what you thought of her, and what you had said. And the only thing that seemed to help was just being with her, and holding her, and reassuring her a lot.” Natasha chewed at the inside of her mouth, remembering the times she hugged you, and the way it had felt. That detail was unnecessary, however. She had to keep her own feelings detached, to protect the both of you. She had to remain objective.

“She likes you a lot, you know,” Wanda breathed, looking up into Natasha’s eyes with tearful sincerity. “I see the way she looks to you: always checking how you’re feeling, what you’re thinking about her. And you must see how she relaxes when you smile, and when you’re silly with her. She’s attached to you too, Nat. Just differently.”

Natasha swallowed, trying to contain the emotion that swelled inside her, a rising tide of euphoria that Wanda’s words provoked. Her defences were slightly delayed, but they sprung up then, providing an alternative, protecting her from the feelings.

“It’s just because I’m the gatekeeper to you, really. I think she knows — even if it’s just subconsciously — that I’m the one who will call this, in the end. So she wants to know that I’m still happy with her being here, and happy with the two of you becoming so close. I think she’s scared I’ll put a stop to things, all of a sudden, based on something she has done.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Wanda rejected, very quietly. “Because if that were the case, that she only cared about my affection and your permission, then she wouldn’t have admitted any of that to you, today. She’d be holding it inside, scared it would make you end this.” Wanda paused, then leaned forwards and gave Natasha a gentle kiss. “She trusts you, Talia. You just don’t trust yourself.”

Natasha stilled in her seat, letting Wanda’s words seep into her very soul. That nickname — from the real name — had a sacred place in their relationship. Wanda knew the power it held over her, and she used it sparingly, respectfully. She only pulled it out to highlight moments and mark meaning. So her use of it now gave every word extra weight, making them settle heavy inside Natasha’s body, burying the arguments that may otherwise have clawed up through her chest. The name had a way of stripping her down, chipping away her armour and revealing what lay beneath. And today, her armour seemed thin. It simply melted away like salt in the rain, sharp crystals dissolving to nothingness. Without it, her shoulders seemed to narrow and droop — like she had lost her exoskeleton, and now had to face the world more feeble.

“What’s going on with you, my love?” Wanda asked, moving her hands to interlock fingers with Natasha’s own. When Natasha made no move to answer, Wanda gave a further prompt. “I already know what you think, Talia. Right now I want to know how you feel.”

The question tugged at Natasha’s composure, unpicking her at the seams. At some point in this conversation, the power had shifted. She had thought she was in control, but now she felt on the back foot, spinning without direction. She clung to Wanda’s hands, trying to anchor herself, and return to shore.

“Talk to me, láska moja,” Wanda encouraged, “just one word will do.”

And she found it: the feeling sinking deep inside her. 

“I just feel… guilty,” Natasha breathed, and it seemed like the words cut through her last defences like a knife. Wanda was watching her avidly, reading her like a book, and Natasha couldn’t help but continue turning the pages for her, showing her every piece of what she was feeling. “I’ve been trying all this time to find the balance — but if I hold back while you are being soft with her, I feel like I’m being cold. And if I let myself be soft with her too, it feels wrong… like we’re manipulating her somehow. It makes me feel dirty.” The words were spilling out without a plan, tumbling unvetted from her lips. “But then, when I asked you to pull back, it clearly hurt her. And I don’t want that. I care about her too. It’s just… I’m scared. And I don’t know what to do anymore.”

Wanda seemed to inflate then, taking account of the slight wobble in Natasha’s voice and seeming to come fully back to herself to address it.

“We do what you’re doing right now,” Wanda said fervently. “We communicate. To each other, and to her.”

Natasha nodded wordlessly, swallowing down the lump in her throat. She hated feeling like this. Unsure. Afraid. It wasn’t like her, and she didn’t want it. She was used to comforting, not being comforted. She was used to being in control.

Wanda slid out a hand and cupped Natasha’s cheek, continuing her soft assurances.

“And I think we just try our best. Not too much, not too little. We can find the sweet spot together, and we can ask her too.” Wanda’s hands moved to capture each of Natasha’s, and she entwined their fingers together. “We’ll figure this out, hm?”

Natasha took a long, shuddering breath in through her nose. And then she released it, in a slow exhale through her mouth, her lips parted into a small O.

“Yes. We will.”

Wanda smiled at her then, her eyes still a little shiny but holding warmth rather than sadness now. It never ceased to amaze Natasha, how her wife could be buoyed by the opportunity to soothe another. She came alive when people were upset, and not in a malevolent way. Wanda just truly lived for others, lived for the chance to help and to heal. 

Sometimes Natasha felt guilty for rarely needing that kind of help from her wife. It felt like something she couldn’t provide, a failure on her part. Your arrival had placed that fact into stark relief. You provided something which Natasha could never give, something which Wanda craved with the deepest part of her soul. And Natasha desperately wanted her wife to have it. But she was scared that it wouldn’t work, scared that Wanda would invest too much, only for her dream to fall apart. Natasha would give Wanda the moon, if she could. But she couldn’t give her you. That decision was yours alone, a choice that couldn’t be meddled with, if it were to be true and free. 

They remained quiet for a while, which was just what Natasha needed. When she felt this way she just needed two things. Time and touch; just enough to decompress. 

“You know,” Wanda said quietly, stroking Natasha’s cheek with her thumb and gazing into her eyes with a steady kind of certainty, “myšička may not be the only one having a drop today.”

Natasha let out a small breath of mirth, half-defensive, half-surrendered. Perhaps Wanda was right. Perhaps it could explain this strange concoction of emotions she was feeling — guilt, confusion, and a little panic too. 

“Maybe,” she admitted, though she didn’t want to linger on this. So she summoned her intentions again, fumbling for the thread of the task at hand. “We really do need to talk to her.”

“Yes,” Wanda agreed, dropping her hand from Natasha’s cheek, and settling it on her lap instead. “What do you propose, my love?”

Natasha was grateful for the way Wanda handed back the reins, grateful for the way her wife knew when to pause, and when to progress. 

“I think you ought to get her, and give her some reassurance first,” Natasha directed, feeling her body recharge with resolve as the emotional discomfort ebbed away to the background. “I told her she’s not in trouble, but I think she needs to hear it from you, too.”

“Okay, I can do that. And then shall I bring her up here?”

Natasha considered the suggestion, then shook her head. 

“The table will feel too formal. Perhaps the sofa downstairs?”

“That sounds good. I’ll chat to her outside, and then bring her in.” Wanda tilted her head then, obviously preparing a new question. “How do we go about this?”

“I think we just have to keep it simple. Reassure her that we want her here, and she can stay until she’s better. Then ask her what she needs from us — college, exercise… we can prompt her, if need be. Whatever it is, we can figure out compromises, together.”

“And what about… everything else?” Wanda asked, and Natasha knew what she was referring to. “Do we explain, even just a little?”

Natasha sighed, overwhelmed by the impossibility of employing perfect ethics in this situation. To be completely honest would mean accosting you with a rather intense premise, at a time when you had no clear alternative. And to withhold it would mean deceiving you, entrapping you in a situation you hadn’t been able to consent to. 

“We tell as much of the truth as we can,” she determined, speaking her decision slowly, checking each word as it came. “Like the truth that we like having her here, and we want her to stay until she’s better. And the truth that we need her to communicate with us if she’s uncomfortable.”

Wanda nodded along, taking it in with a fervent expression. 

“I’ll let you take the lead, my love.” She frowned a little then, obviously considering something else. Natasha gave her a little nod of encouragement to continue. “I know you want me to be careful, to hold back a bit more… but I think she’ll need me tonight. And you too. She’ll need us to be gentle.”

“I know,” Natasha assured her. “And for tonight, I think we give that to her. But don’t lose yourself, lyubov moya. Just be Wanda, with her. Please.”

“Sľubujem,” Wanda committed, her promise quiet but steady, intent. 

They kissed then, long and slow, exchanging breaths, regrets and resolve. When they broke apart, Wanda leaned her forehead to rest against Natasha’s own. They stayed like that a moment, skin touching, Natasha’s eyes dipped and Wanda’s closed. 

“Go now,” Natasha whispered gently, giving her wife a final peck of the lips. “Our little mouse will be growing cold.”

Wanda leaned back, her smile radiant in the slightly fading light of the early evening. And in the warm glow of her wife’s joy, Natasha couldn’t even summon any regret at the slip of her words, at the possessive pronoun that had snuck past her reticence and settled into the secret space between them.

A/N: Thank you for reading, and sorry again that this took so long!! It was a bit scary taking a step back from Tumblr/writing for the last week, but I do feel a lot better now and ready to write and share more. I hope you all have a lovely weekend ♡

Taglist: (comment below if you'd like to be added to this) @nessheartnat , @valerie-lexi , @bishovapls , @redheadsinmybed , @electric-guillotines , @naominanuq

[alpalpym]

apologies to anyone who ever thought i was cool and reached out to me only to discover i am just a weird little hermit who can't carry on a conversation to save my life

[alpalpym]

i never stop blogging even when im really upset i just sit there sobbing hitting buttons and reblogging everything

[alpalpym]

Jurassic Lovers

Jurassic Park Au! Natasha and Black Fem Reader (just a drabble)

You pushed through the leaves, mosquitoes biting at your ankles, cursing under your breath as you tried to keep up with Natasha's pace. This summer was turning out to be a bummer. You had been forced by your parents to come on this dinosaur expedition on what was supposed to be a cool island. One thing led to another, and you'd somehow been separated from the group, and stuck with your arch nemesis (despite only knowing her for less than two days), you had been walking for what seemed like hours now. You could not believe you were lost.

"This is your fault," you snapped, swatting at your leg. "You said the trail was marked."

Natasha, a few steps ahead, didn't even flinch. "It was. Until you stomped off the path like a spoiled Shetland pony with a trust fund."

You narrowed your eyes at her back. “Wow. You’re so charming when you’re condescending. Must be why you live alone with your fossil collection.”

She stopped then, abruptly, and you bumped into her.

Natasha turned, deadpan. “Better company than a walking liability in five-hundred-dollar boots.”

“They’re vintage,” you hissed, stepping back dramatically. “And this ‘walking liability’ funded half this dig, so maybe try saying thank you instead of acting like a National Geographic reject.”

Natasha’s eyes flicked down to your boots, then up to meet your gaze. She leaned in slightly, smirking.

“Tell you what, princess, if a raptor drags you off, I’ll be sure to catalog your remains with full credit.”

Your breath caught.

“You’re such a bitch,” you muttered.

She smiled wider. “I know.”

"I can find my own way," You grumbled, annoyed. You began to step forward, but Natasha blocked you, one arm raised.

"Stay here," she commanded.

"What? Why?" You attempted to push past her, and she gripped your arm tightly.

“Because,” she hissed, nodding toward the underbrush ahead, “those ‘rocks’ you were about to step on? Not rocks. Nesting site. Velociraptor.”

You blinked. Then looked again.

“Oh.”

“Oh,” Natasha echoed mockingly, her voice dripping with exasperation. She was so done with you. “Yes, oh. God, do they even teach basic survival at whatever castle you grew up in?”

You yanked your arm back. “Do they teach people skills in the lab you crawled out of?”

Her jaw ticked, but she said nothing. Just stared at you for a moment, really stared, then turned and muttered, “Follow me. Quietly.”

You hesitated, watching her move with calm precision through the thick underbrush, ponytail swaying, gun clipped to her belt like she actually knew what to do with it.

You sighed. Then followed.

But not without whispering, “Still not saying thank you.”

Natasha didn’t look back. “Didn’t ask for it.”

"You know, I'm sure I could set you up with someone to get all of that tension out," You offered after a beat of silence. "Peace would make you a little more attractive."

"I thought I asked for silence," Natasha rolled her eyes.

"Right. No problem," You nodded.

It lasted all of a minute.

"So do you like girls or guys? I can't really tell your vibe," You motioned to her body. What a nice body it was.

"You don't need to know my sexual preferences," Natasha replied.

"Come on, it's just a question," You pressed.

"No, it's none of your business," Natasha shot back.

"Well, you don't have to be mean about it." You crossed your arms.

"Oh my god," Natasha sighed, turning around.

"What?"

"Just stop. Stop talking. Please. We'll die before we even make it out of here," She turned around, her face red with frustration.

"Well, maybe I wouldn't talk if you were less mean."

"How are you this childish?" Natasha huffed.

"Because," You shrugged. "I am."

"You're unbelievable," Natasha muttered.

"And you haven't been able to stop looking at my tits since I stepped off the plane but I thought I would humor you," You grinned.

Natasha's jaw dropped. "Excuse me? I have not!"

"Have so. But it's alright. I have a great rack."

"Shut up," Natasha turned, her face a lovely shade of crimson.

"Make me."

Natasha froze.

Then she turned back, and she was looking at your lips.

"I'm here for work," She said. "I am not looking to be some conquest or project or whatever the hell you were thinking."

"Who says it has to be a conquest? Maybe I like the thrill of the chase," You smirked, stepping closer.

Natasha eyed you carefully, then took a step closer.

"I can assure you," She murmured, her voice low, "you would not like the chase."

You tilted your head, letting your smirk linger just a second longer. “You sure about that? You seem pretty invested in stopping me.”

Natasha’s eyes flashed, but she didn’t move.

“I’m invested in getting us out of this alive,” she said, voice clipped but her gaze lingered, sharp and burning.

You leaned in just enough to blur the line between playful and provoking. “So… no to the tits, but yes to the glaring and territorial arm-grabbing?”

“I was protecting you.”

“I was fine.”

“You were about to walk into a raptor nest.”

“And now you’re blushing.”

Natasha scowled and turned again storming off a few paces but not before you caught the tiniest twitch of a scowl.

You followed, ducking under a low branch. “For someone so committed to staying professional, you sure have a lot of feelings about my rack.”

She stopped again, head tilted in disbelief.

“You’re insufferable.”

You grinned. “But you’re still not walking away.”

She didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

You had won this round.

[alpalpym]

★ group grocery run

[alpalpym]

teacher's pet.

chapter iii: favoritism

n.r masterlist | teacher's pet series

summary: you open up to professor romanoff about your family, revealing you're an only child and haven’t seen your father in years. she listens closely, even placing a hand on your knee, sending your thoughts spinning. before you leave, she gives you her number—offering help with your writing and hinting at future opportunities. you’re left wondering what her real intentions are, and why it feels like more than just mentorship.

warnings: a bit of a sexual tension, but very small. other than that, nothing much, age difference.

pairings: professor!natasha romanoff x student!reader

note: did you miss me

Careful. You don’t know whether or not she will ruin you.

But were you ever that careful?

Lying to yourself would be easy—safer. You could pretend this is just an academic arrangement, nothing more than words and books and mentorship. But if you’re being honest?

You liked the attention.

You liked the way she looked at you—sharp, unsparing, deliberate. No one has ever looked at you like that before. Not your parents, not your peers, not the boys you’ve kissed in passing or the friends you’ve tried to keep. Not like they saw you. But she did. From the moment you walked into her classroom, sat in the second row, trying not to fidget with your pen—she saw you.

And it’s too soon, much too soon, but you think you would do anything to keep being seen.

Still, the thought sneaks in: Has she done this before? Given a favorite book to someone else? Watched another student unravel with quiet fascination? You imagine her saying the same things in that same velvet-and-ice voice, smirking at someone else’s trembling hands.

You’re probably not special. Not to her.

But god, you want to be.

The book lies open in your lap now, the dorm dim except for the desk lamp casting an amber glow across your blankets. The School for Fools. The title alone feels like a warning, or maybe a dare.

You run your fingers down the fragile spine, then return to the page you’d dog-eared. The boy in the novel has no name. Or maybe he has too many. He speaks in tangled riddles, losing himself in time, in memory, in voices that echo like ghosts. He is always both himself and not.

He adores his teacher. Or fears him. Or both.

Sometimes he calls him “psychiatrist,” sometimes “father,” sometimes... something else entirely.

And you read a line—casual on the page, but it guts you:

“...and I lived in a dream where he loved me, or I only dreamed that he loved me, which is just as dangerous.”

It lands like a whisper and a wound all at once.

You read it again.

And again.

Because it feels like it’s talking to you. No—about you. Like the words knew you were coming. Like Professor Romanoff knew this would happen.

Could it be true? Could she have known that this book would find something inside you and drag it out into the open?

Your fingers clutch the edge of the pages. The air grows denser, like it’s pressing down on your chest. The corners of the room pull closer, shrinking, or maybe it’s you—dissolving into the moment, into the book, into her. That feeling you had when she handed you the novel—her fingers grazing yours, that quiet hum of contact—you swore it passed from her skin into your bloodstream, a current sparking something electric. And it’s back now. That heat. That pulse.

It hasn’t left, really. You’re not sure it ever will.

You should stop reading. You know that.

You should mark the page, turn off the light, be a normal daughter with a normal life and an untouched conscience. You should let it go before it pulls you under.

But you don’t.

You turn the page. Then another. 

Then another.

Let it undo you, she said. Let it unmake you. You think maybe it already has.

Because the moment she handed you the book—no, the moment she looked at you—you started unraveling.

You close the book gently, as if it’s something sacred. And maybe it is. You rest it against your chest, feel your own heartbeat against the spine like it’s trying to echo the rhythm of her voice. You close your eyes.

You see her smirk again—that subtle, knowing smirk from earlier today, the one she wore like a private joke only you were invited to understand. You hear her voice in your head, the exact way she said, “It’s one of my favorites,” like a secret she wasn’t supposed to share but did anyway.

Could it be possible she sees you like that?

Could you ever be someone’s favorite?

“Y/N?”

You jolt, eyes flying open.

Your mother’s voice—soft, familiar, unwelcome—seeps through the crack in the door.

You move fast. The book vanishes beneath your pillow like contraband. You smooth your hair with trembling fingers, trying to steady your breath as you sit upright, legs folding neatly beneath you like nothing’s wrong.

The door creaks open. Your mother peeks in, her smile gentle. Her gaze travels around the room, lingering on your face.

You hope she didn’t see.

You hope it wouldn’t matter even if she did.

But still—your hands are sweating.

“I made you some breakfast for tomorrow,” she says. “It’s in the fridge. Your favorite—overnight oats.”

You swallow and nod, a little too quickly. “T-Thank you.”

The stammer slips out before you can stop it. You want to grip your throat and squeeze the words back inside. You imagine she sees it on your face—that guilt, that heat. That something.

“It’s late,” you add, as if she needs reminding.

“I know,” she replies. “I just wanted to check up on you.”

“I’m fine. Just reading. On my phone.”

A beat of silence. Then her gaze shifts toward your wall. Posters and Polaroids and magazine clippings. Pictures of you with friends. MJ’s smile frozen in one of them. There’s a flicker in her eyes—soft, something like nostalgia, or maybe suspicion. It’s hard to tell.

She tips her head. “Alright then. I’ll leave you to it.”

Her footsteps retreat as the door clicks softly shut. You exhale all at once, your body sinking back into the mattress like your bones gave out. You press your hands over your face and breathe in deeply, willing your heartbeat to slow.

Thank God. Thank something.

You fish the book out from beneath your pillow, cradling it against your chest like it’s both weapon and shield. What would you even say if she had caught you? “Oh, nothing—it’s for class,” you’d lie. Just Russian Literature. Required reading. Nothing strange about that. You’d repeat it until you believed it yourself.

Because if you didn’t—if you dared to speak the truth, even just to yourself—you’d have to admit that what you’re feeling isn’t normal. That the way your professor looks at you, the way you look at her, isn’t just admiration. That you’re no longer reading for credit.

You’re reading for her.

And worse—you think you might be falling through the pages straight into her hands.

The class was winding down, a low buzz of students flipping pages and muttering about weekend plans filling the room like background noise. You sat in your usual seat—third row from the front, second from the left—trying not to let your eyes drift toward her desk. You told yourself to stay focused, to stay small. Blend in. Be good. Be smart.

Then she returned the papers.

A crisp stack passed down the row, your own assignment soon finding its way into your hands. You stared at it for a moment, unsure if you were relieved or disappointed by what you saw. The faint red scratch of a C-minus had been blotted out and replaced with a neater, more forgiving B+.

A B+. You blinked at it, heart dipping slightly. You’d wanted an A.

No—wanted wasn’t the right word. Expected. You had worked for it, re-written the entire essay from scratch after her note about it lacking feeling. You tried, didn’t you? You felt things. But how were you supposed to put them into words when you didn’t even know how to name them?

There were no margin notes. No real feedback. Not even a single underlined sentence to hint at whether she had liked a line or found it lacking. Just the grade. A quiet verdict that left your chest hollow.

You sighed and flipped the paper over so you wouldn’t have to look at it anymore. It’s fine, you told yourself. You’ll do better next time.

“Hey, what grade did you get?” a voice asked from behind. You turned and found Wanda leaning forward in her seat, her face hopeful, almost conspiratorial.

“A B,” you murmured, then hesitated. “It was a C-minus. Before. She changed it.”

Wanda winced. “I got a C.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “Really?” A twinge of confusion bloomed in your chest. How did I get graded lower than her on the first draft?

And just beneath that confusion, something sharper—jealousy.

Wanda rolled her eyes at your reaction, smirking. “See? You’re doing better than me already. Not bad—for an American.”

You laughed, though it sounded more like a breath than a real sound. “I do my best to get the best grade.”

That was it, wasn’t it? That was who you were. An overachiever. Always had been. Your worth had always been measured by test scores and academic praise, and you clung to that identity like it was a life raft. If you weren’t exceptional, then who would ever remember you?

When you were a kid, you’d live for the moments a teacher smiled at you or singled you out in front of the class. Once, your senior year advisor called your mom to say you were top of his class. Your mother hugged you so tightly that day you could barely breathe. She said maybe—just maybe—you had a shot at NYU.

And here you were. You’d made it.

But lately, it felt like the weight of being here was crushing you. Like the standards were higher, and the praise harder to come by. Especially from her.

Professor Romanoff.

It was as if she saw right through you—through your careful words and articulate observations—to the vulnerable mess beneath. And it made you want to prove yourself to her more than anyone else. You didn’t just want her approval. You craved it. The thought of disappointing her made your stomach turn.

After class, you lingered near the door, waiting for her to acknowledge you with that subtle nod that meant you were allowed to follow. She led you through the near-empty corridors, up the quiet stairwell, her boots clicking softly against the stone steps. When you reached her floor, she unlocked the office door and held it open for you.

You stepped inside. It felt strange, how familiar her office had become. Like stepping into a memory you hadn’t finished processing. The couch was still slanted at an angle, the same stack of literature journals leaning precariously on the corner of her desk. It had only been a few days, but it felt like ages since you were last here.

“Are you happy it’s Friday?” she asked, voice warm behind you.

You jumped slightly, not having realized she was that close. She raised her hands in mock surrender, smiling. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I get startled easily,” you mumbled, your voice barely above a whisper. Your heart thudded in your ears. “Your office is cold.”

“Yeah. Must be the way this building was built.” She moved toward the worn couch and sat, gesturing casually. “You can sit next to me if you want.”

You hesitated. Was she being kind—or was that something else? You nodded anyway and sat beside her, not too close, but not far enough to be impersonal. You pulled the novel from your bag and handed it to her.

“You finished it?” she asked, genuine surprise flickering in her expression as she took the book from your hands. Her fingers brushed yours for half a second too long. “Looks like you actually read it.”

“I did,” you said, nervously. “I... I liked it.”

A soft, knowing smile pulled at her lips. “You liked it?”

You nodded again. “He fell in love with his teacher.”

“You’re right. He did.”

There was a pause—tense, unspeakable. You wanted to ask her: Why did you give me this? What were you trying to say? But your voice stayed stuck in your throat. You told yourself it meant nothing. It was just a book. Part of the curriculum. She was just curious about your reaction.

Still, something about it felt deliberate.

“What stood out to you?” she asked, voice hushed, like she didn’t want to interrupt your thoughts.

You looked down at your hands. They were clasped tightly in your lap, cold and fidgety.

“That maybe...” you said slowly, surprising even yourself, “people feel more than they admit. And they hide it. Even from themselves. Until it’s too late.”

You weren’t sure where the words came from. You just knew they were true.

She stared at you for a moment, then gently turned a page of the book in her hands. “Yes,” she murmured. “That’s true.”

The silence after felt thick. Not uncomfortable, just… aware. You could hear your pulse in your ears. Feel the chill in the room again, or maybe it was just the way your body responded to being near her. You turned to her slowly, eyes drawn to the way the light from the blinds cut across her profile—soft shadows beneath high cheekbones, a faint line between her brows, like she was deep in some thought she wouldn’t share.

“Why did you want me to read it?” you asked quietly, finally. Why on earth would you ask that now? You hated yourself. 

She didn’t answer right away. Her eyes lingered on the open book in her lap, fingers still resting against the worn pages as if the weight of the story might offer her something to hold onto—an excuse not to speak, not just yet. You could see the flicker of thought behind her stillness, the careful calculation she always seemed to carry. A woman who measured her words like they were weapons. When she finally looked up, her gaze met yours with a quiet intensity, sharp and unreadable. It felt like being studied—peeled back layer by layer without her ever needing to say a word. Like she already knew what you were thinking, what you were feeling, even the parts you hadn't dared to name.

Her expression didn't soften, but it didn’t harden either. It just stayed still, observant. The silence stretched between you like something deliberate—like she was deciding how honest she wanted to be. A part of you felt exposed beneath her stare, as though she'd seen past the nerves and performance, past the eager student facade you tried so hard to maintain. There was a tension in the room that hadn’t been there before. Not discomfort, not exactly. Something quieter. Heavier. Like the edges of a conversation you hadn’t yet earned. When she finally spoke, her voice was low, almost careful, as though she'd broken some unspoken rule just by meeting your gaze for that long.

“Because you don’t write with feeling,” she said. “And I thought… maybe this would help.”

You swallowed. “And did it?” why were you doing this to yourself? Did you want her validation? Of course, you do—you admit to it. You wanted to hear her say that she likes you for who you are, that she is fond of you. But the both of you only know each other for a week, this isn’t something to be irrational about. 

“I don’t know,” she said honestly—as if tempting you. “Did it?”

You wanted to say yes. You wanted to tell her how your chest ached reading certain passages. How your heart raced when the protagonist finally admitted his feelings. How you thought of her when the teacher in the story brushed a hand across a shoulder. How it felt like a secret between the pages. A quiet confession she never said aloud.

But instead, you shrugged. “Maybe.”

Her lips curved, just slightly. “Maybe’s a start.”

You weren’t sure what she meant by that—if she was still talking about your paper, or the book, or something else entirely—but you didn’t press. Instead, you sat beside her in the silence, knees almost touching, and tried not to think about the weight of everything unsaid. Because the truth was, sitting there in her office on a Friday afternoon, the world quiet outside, it felt like something was shifting. Something irreversible. Like a string had been pulled, and now it wouldn’t stop unraveling.

Professor Romanoff’s voice was quiet but curious as she tilted her head and asked, “How many are you in your family?” It caught you off guard—not because it was a difficult question, but because it was so unexpected. You blinked, your breath catching for a moment as you stared at her, unsure if you’d heard her correctly. She wasn’t grading you now or dissecting your prose; she was looking at you like a person. For a beat, you didn’t answer. You weren’t used to being asked things like that—especially not in this room, under her gaze, where everything usually felt calculated and academic. She noticed your silence and chuckled, low and self-aware, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Sorry,” she said, her lips quirking up. “I tend to want to get to know my students.”

You bit your lip, sensing the sincerity in her voice. Maybe that’s all it was—a professor wanting to make a connection. Still, your voice dropped to a softer register as you replied, “I’m an only child.” You hesitated, then added, “My father... he’s gone—”

Her face softened instantly. “I’m so sorry.”

You shook your head quickly, almost defensively. “No, I mean—he didn’t die or anything. He’s just... in Europe. Germany, actually.” You paused, unsure why the words felt heavier than usual, like something you hadn’t spoken aloud in a long time. “My parents separated when I was five. They haven’t talked since.” You shrugged, trying to make it sound like it didn’t matter, like it was something far behind you now. “It’s fine. Really. I’m close with my mom, she’s everything. We do almost everything together—she’s always been there, and I appreciate her so much.”

Then, like the topic was too fragile to linger on, you pivoted. “And I have this best friend, MJ. We’ve known each other since preschool. She’s kind of like me—clever, funny, sharp when she wants to be. But if you upset her, she’ll go full silent treatment. And I mean for weeks.” You let out a laugh, small but genuine, the memory of MJ’s stubborn streak bringing warmth to your voice.

You glanced up and found Romanoff watching you—not just politely, not just because she had asked, but like she was genuinely listening. Her expression wasn’t something you could easily interpret, but it was attentive, present. You realized, belatedly, that you’d been speaking too freely. You flushed, eyes flickering down, embarrassed by how much you’d just shared. And that’s when you felt it—her hand, resting gently on your knee. Not moving, not pressing, just there. You froze, heart thudding wildly as if the warmth of her skin had traveled straight through you.

“I like the way you talk,” she said softly, like it was something she’d been thinking for a while. The compliment made your pulse quicken, though you weren’t sure if she meant your cadence or your content—or if it was something else entirely. Still, you managed a smile, albeit a nervous one, as she added, “I’m sorry about your dad.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” you said quickly, your voice almost trembling with the effort to keep things steady. You didn’t want to talk about your father anymore. The air felt too fragile, too charged. You needed a distraction. “Shall I write you something?”

You didn’t dare look down at her hand still resting on your knee. You were afraid if you did, the moment would break and she’d pull away, apologize for the unspoken intimacy of it. But then she sighed lightly, the movement brushing through her red hair, and withdrew her hand anyway. You nearly reached out, absurdly, to stop her.

“No, it’s fine,” she said, her tone shifting back into something cooler, more professional, though not unkind. “I’ll think of something tomorrow. For now...” She reached into her pocket, retrieving her phone. “I’d like to give you my number. You could tell me what you’re working on. I can help. Think of it as an offer.”

You stared at her. Your eyes widened a little, your brain stumbling over the moment. Was she being serious? You fumbled for your phone and handed it to her, your fingers trembling slightly. “I-Is this—”

“I see something in you,” she interrupted, her voice low but unwavering. The words knocked the air out of you. “I don’t want you to waste this opportunity. When you’re ready—when your writing is ready—I can help you find work. Real work. For the future.”

She typed quickly and then handed the phone back. You looked down. Her name—her number—was there, saved, real. You felt something electric in your chest, a thrill that you weren’t sure was pride or danger or both.

“I appreciate this,” you murmured, looking up at her again, trying to meet her gaze and failing because of the heat crawling up your neck. “Thank you, Professor Romanoff.”

“You’re welcome, Y/N,” she said, and for a moment, it sounded less like a formality and more like something else. Something personal.

taglist: @aru-son@ihartnat@blackwidowbabe@snowdrop1026

[alpalpym]

༄ `. 𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐒𝐄𝐒 & 𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 — 3

summary : raised in the heart of the countryside, you, Y/N Langford, has always known the rhythm of ranch life—early mornings on horseback, sun-drenched vineyards, and a quiet kind of freedom carved into the land passed down through generations. however, your father's recent colleague is interesting enough.

genre : country!au, countryside life.

warnings : beefy!nat, top!nat, gp!nat, sub!reader, fluff included but mostly smut �� let's say this chapter's just showing how nasty the two are.

words count : 4.7k || masterlist

an : i promise im not as freaky as this shot might be 🙈

𖦹 part one 𖦹 part two 𖦹 part three 𖦹 part four 𖦹

HORSES & ROMANCE :

— Every Inch Of Dawn

📍 Langford's Estate,

Clare Valley, Southern Australia

You stirred first.

Body aching in pleasant ways. A dull, stretched soreness that reminded you just how intense the night before had been.

Natasha was still asleep, lying on her stomach, one arm under the pillow and the other loosely draped over your waist. The blanket barely covered her, and the sun gave her shoulders a warm glow. Her back moved in slow, steady breaths, muscles relaxed, hair messily tumbling around her face.

She looked peaceful—something you didn’t think she let herself be often.

You let yourself watch her a little longer than you probably should’ve, committing the sight to memory of her here in your bed, your space.

You could still feel her on you—her mouth, her fingers, the way she had whispered your name like it was something sacred.

As you brushed the hair from her face, her lashes fluttered—lips parting into the hint of a smile.

“You watching me sleep?” She mumbled, voice low and scratchy.

“You snore,” You teased.

She opened one eye. “You’re lying.”

“Little bit.”

Natasha stretched, her body warm and heavy against yours. “Gonna put me to work today?”

“Thought about it,” You said, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. “You owe me for eating the last of the pie yesterday at the fair.”

“You said I could have it.”

“You used that voice.”

She grinned lazily, then rolled on top of you, pinning you to the bed with nothing but her weight and that wicked smirk. “What voice?”

“That voice where I know I’m about to let you do whatever the hell you want.”

Cockily, she rose a brow. “You mean the one that gets me pie and laid?”

You laughed. Loudly. Honestly.

She kissed you quiet — slow and affectionate, not leading anywhere this time. Just there. Warm. Real.

Neither of you moved right away. There was no panic, no rush to explain, no awkward reaching for clothes. Just a long moment suspended in the quiet.

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” she said after a while, her fingers brushing lightly along your hip under the sheet.

“I didn’t either,” You replied. “But I’m glad we did.”

Her brow arched faintly. “Yeah?”

You nodded, your voice soft. “Yeah.”

Natasha leaned in, brushing her lips over your bare shoulder—a small kiss, nothing demanding. Just acknowledgment, making you smile.

She exhaled, a shaky breath, and tucked her face against your neck, like she needed the anchor. You held her without speaking.

After a few minutes, her stomach let out a quiet growl.

You laughed softly, pulling back just enough to see her face. “Hungry?”

“Starving,” She muttered, eyes closing again.

“You stay here,” you said. “I’ll make coffee. And eggs if the hens liked me enough yesterday.”

She cracked a sleepy grin. “You’re kind of perfect, you know.”

You kissed her once more—light and lingering—before slipping out of bed, wrapping yourself in a worn flannel shirt. She watched you go, propping herself on one elbow, and thought of how lucky she was right in that moment.

You made it to the kitchen— barefoot, coffee in hand, standing in the kitchen with your hair a mess and your flannel slipping off one shoulder.

You heard her before you saw her — soft steps on the floorboards, followed by that husky voice that always managed to make you feel seen, even when you weren’t looking.

“Looks like the hens didn't appreciate you today.” She commented.

A soft hum, in agreement, came from your lips. “I was thinking toasts would do the drill instead.”

“Help yourself to the coffee.”

“I didn’t come for the coffee.” She murmured.

Her hand slid to your hip, the other brushing the hair from your shoulder. She bent down, lips grazing your neck, slow and deliberate. “I came for you.”

You didn’t stop her.

Didn’t want to.

The mug was forgotten somewhere on the counter as she kissed you — not rushed this time, not needy. Just full. Thorough. Like she was trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, the way you tasted first thing in the morning. Her hands found the hem of your flannel, sliding under it, dragging over bare skin with reverence.

Her picking you up with no warning made you gasp in surprise, then smile at yourself right after as she attached her lips back on yours —hands dropped over your sides— then it shifted.

Your smile turned into full giggles as she attacked you with kisses. Your lips, eyes, cheeks, neck, jaw—all while your bodies being glued to the other's.

“You always look like this in the morning?” The Russian asked. “Or is it just for me?”

“Depends. I'd do the honor to say that it's just for you.”

With a low hum while nipping your jaw, she added, “Remind me to never underestimate you again in bed.”

You raised a brow. “You underestimated me?”

She tilted her head, eyes gleaming now. “Just a little.”

You laughed softly, but your fingers stayed at her back, moving in slow strokes. “Do you regret it?” The question slipped out quieter than you meant it to.

Natasha stilled. Her eyes searched yours, serious now.

“No,” She said finally. “Not even close.”

You nodded, exhaling. “Good.”

She rested her forehead on yours, the edge of a smile tugging her lips as she pecked your lips repeatedly. “I liked waking up next to you.”

You smiled back, “I liked falling asleep next to you.”

The redhead's hands glided down to your thighs, fingers grazing over them in a soothing motion.

“You're sitting there, hot and all, and I hate to say that I'd have to leave soon.” She stated. “Got work to do.”

You nodded. “It's alright. I gotta check on Bramble, anyway. But you're not leaving without eating first.”

Of course, she wasn't. One thing she knew about your family and the constant time she'd spent with you — breakfast was priority here.

“How’s he, by the way?”

“Spooked by the gate slamming a day ago, but calmed down fast. That’s progress.”

“I’ve seen grown men recover slower.”

🪵 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 𖦹 🪵

(Few days later.)

It had rained the night before, a steady, rhythmic downpour that soaked the soil and cooled the summer air. By morning, the clouds had scattered, leaving the fields glistening under soft light.

The barn on your property stood tall and weathered, its red paint faded by time and sun, and just beyond it, your horse was stuck in the mud. Again.

You stood ankle-deep in it, boots sinking into the thick mess as you muttered curses under your breath.

The rope tugged sharply in your hands as the mare resisted, stubborn as ever. You were halfway to cursing her ancestors when you heard a whistle — low, slow, and unmistakably amused.

Natasha leaned against your fence like she’d been summoned, sleeves rolled up, tank top sticking to her damp skin. She didn’t say anything right away. Just watched you with that crooked grin, arms folded across her chest, muscles flexing as if she wanted to remind you she was built like sin and salvation all at once.

“You look like you’re auditioning for a country song,” The redhead finally spoke up.

You shot her a glare. “Unless you’re offering to help, Romanoff, shut it.”

With deliberate slowness, she climbed over the fence, boots landing in the mud with a satisfying squelch. She came to your side, took the rope without a word, and gave one firm tug.

The mare moved forward with ease. You blinked.

Natasha tossed a smug glance your way. “What? She's got a thing for redheads.”

You snorted, “So does her owner.”

“Well,” She murmured, “Guess we have something in common.”

You looked away, hiding your smile but she saw it anyway.

By the time the two of you got the mare back in the stable, your jeans were a mess, and your hands were streaked with mud. Natasha wiped her palms on her thighs and gave the horse a soft pat before turning to you.

She helped you finish up without being asked — sweeping out the barn, fixing the bent gate hinge, and repairing a broken step on your porch.

The way she worked, methodical and focused, told you she wasn’t new to hard labor. But she never complained. She just moved beside you like it was natural.

Later, while fixing a loose hinge on the chicken coop, you caught her staring again. Not with heat, but with softness. Like she was trying to hold the moment in her palms.

“What?” You asked, hands on your hips.

She stepped closer, slipping behind you, arms wrapping around your waist.

“You’re dangerous,” She murmured into your ear.

“How’s that?”

“Because I could stay here,” The redhead whispered. “And forget who I was before.”

You turned in her arms, meeting her gaze. “Maybe that’s the point.”

🪵 ✈︎   𖦹   ✈︎   𖦹   ✈︎   𖦹   ✈︎   𖦹   ✈︎   𖦹   ✈︎  𖦹  🪵

The storm had passed, but the air hadn’t cooled.

It was thick, charged with something heavier than just humidity. You could feel it in the way Natasha looked at you across the dinner table — quiet, unreadable, but her eyes told a different story.

You were barefoot, wearing her flannel — nothing underneath. You’d slipped it on after your shower, thinking she wouldn’t notice.

She noticed.

“Stand up,” She said, voice low.

“Why?”

Natasha tilted her head, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Because I said so. Come on.”

You rose slowly, your heart thudding as her chair scraped back against the floor. The second you reached hsr, she hooked her fingers into the hem of the shirt and lifted it just enough to see your bare skin beneath.

“Fuck,” She muttered, more to herself than to you.

You leaned into her with teasing smile. “Something wrong?”

She chuckled, “Yeah. I’m trying really hard to be a decent woman right now.”

In a swift mouvement, she gripped the back of your thighs and pulled you down on her lap, your bodies slamming together like you’d been craving it all day.

You let out a breathless moan as you landed right on her hard cock, her hands were everywhere — gripping, guiding, greedy.

“I dreamt about this,” She murmured against your throat. “Woke up hard and aching and mad because I wasn’t inside you.”

Her hand was already sliding beneath the shirt, finding your heated core. “You’re already wet, baby. You waited for me.”

Her fingers slipped inside your cunt with maddening ease, her palm pressing just right. Your body arched into hers as she whispered filth into your ear, every word soaked in desire and dominance.

“You like being ruined in your own kitchen?” She rasped, her fingers moving relentlessly inside of you. “Want me to fuck you on this counter with your legs wide open like you’re mine?”

“Please,” You gasped, barely holding on.

That did it.

She lifted you with ease, set you on the counter, and yanked the shirt wide open — not caring about buttons, not caring about anything except seeing you sprawled, flushed, trembling for her.

She didn’t waste time and dropped to her knees again, tongue dragging a slow, sinful line up your thigh before she reached your dripping heat, devouring you like she’d been starving.

You broke apart in seconds, hips jerking, hands tangled in her hair, voice lost to the walls and fields and the wide-open night outside.

And even after she stood, breathless and wild-eyed, she didn’t stop. She kissed you deep — claiming you — and lifted you off the counter.

“We’re not done,” She growled, carrying you down the hallway like you weighed nothing. “Not even close.”

Moments later sometime after midnight, the room smelled like sweat and skin and summer rain still lingering on the breeze.

Your legs were tangled with Natasha’s, her hand resting low on your stomach, thumb tracing slow, lazy circles against your bare skin. The sheets were kicked halfway down the bed. Her body was still half on top of you, heavy and warm — grounding.

You could feel the rise and fall of her chest. Steady. Safe.

“I didn’t mean for it to go like that,” She mumbled, lips brushing your temple.

You turned your head, eyes still hazy. “You didn’t like it?”

The redhead huffed a laugh. “I loved it. But I meant… I wasn’t planning on losing my mind the second I saw you in my shirt.”

You smiled. “Then it’s my fault.”

She shifted onto her side, brushing a damp strand of hair from your cheek. “It’s your fault I’ve been walking around all week trying to be respectful, meanwhile thinking about bending you over every fence on this damn property.”

Oh.

You laughed softly while she leaned in again, this time slower, her kiss gentle. Not hungry. Not desperate. Just soft.

“I like how quiet it is here,” She whispered. “But I like you more.”

You tucked your face into her neck, smiling against her skin. “You’re gonna make me fall for you.”

Natasha held you tighter. “Too late. Already fallen.”

🪵 ✈︎   𖦹   ✈︎   𖦹   ✈︎   𖦹   ✈︎   𖦹   ✈︎   𖦹   ✈︎  𖦹  🪵

The day hadn't even ended and Natasha's mind was running wild with thoughts of you.

It started with the damn shorts.

You’d worn them on purpose — cut-off denim that barely passed for legal and a tied-up flannel that left very little to the imagination.

You knew exactly what you were doing when you bent over in front of the fence (said fence she'd mentioned just last night), pretending to check the wire right across from where Nat worked, arching your back just enough.

The sun was hot. The sky was cloudless. And you could feel Natasha’s gaze sear into you from halfway across the field.

You'd thought it was a great idea to toy with her today, not even bothering to stop when she was in the presence of your dad.

You were always passing around, teasing, all acting innocent.

You didn’t have to look to know she was staring. You felt it like pressure on your skin.

“You’re really testing me, sweetheart,” Her voice came from behind — low, strained, full of warning, making you smirk.

As you straightened, slow, cocky, to face her, you feigned pure innocence. “I’m just working.”

Natasha didn’t buy it for a second.

The second you turned around, she was there, grabbing your hips, walking you backward until your back hit the wood of the fence with a dull thud. Her breath was hot, heavy, and furious against your cheek.

“You think I didn’t notice?” she growled. “Those shorts, that shirt. Bending over like that. What are you trying to do to me?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Wrong move.

Her hand shot to your throat — not squeezing, just holding. Commanding. The other slipped under the hem of your shorts, fingers pressing into the soft, warm skin of your ass.

“Nat—”

She silenced you with a kiss that left no room for teasing — open-mouthed, tongue, teeth, all hunger and pent-up frustration. She kissed like she was claiming territory, biting at your bottom lip as her fingers pushed past the denim, past your underwear, past your composure.

“You get off on this?” She rasped, voice rough in your ear as you panted, a pleased grin on your lips. “Getting me worked up in the open, where anyone could see?”

“You mentioned taking me over the fence some days ago.” You replied, already breathless, as she fiddled with the zipper of her pants. “I'm just helping your wish to come true.”

She tugged your shorts down just enough, lifting one of your legs to hook around her hip. The fence creaked behind you, the wood rough at your back. But you barely noticed — not with the way she slid her dick inside you in one motion, slow and thick, one hand braced beside your head and the other gripping your thigh tight enough to bruise.

“Fuck,” Natasha groaned, thrusting deep. “So wet. Were you waiting for this?”

You clawed at her shoulders, gasping as each roll of her hips sent heat spiraling through your body.

“For what do you think earlier's show was ?”

She was relentless — thrusting hard enough to shake the boards, grounding you with her strength, her body, her voice.

“You tease me like that again,” She hissed as she pounded hard into you , “and I’ll take you right here every time.”

Her pace quickened, the slap of skin against skin muffled only by your moans and the wind. It was messy. Hot. So damn risky.

And you were addicted.

She pulled out of you and before you could even have time to complain, you were turned around, bent over and her cock was back inside of you.

If it weren't for her hands holding your hips tightly, you would've been face down the grass by now due to your knees that'd almost gave up.

“Fuck, yes, j-just like that..”

You moaned, your hands gripping the border of the fence to anchor yourself. Natasha took you, just like you wanted.

You came with a sob, body trembling as she drove you through it, holding you tight, whispering dirty promises into your ear even as she lost herself in you.

When she finally stilled, still inside you, breathing hard against your neck.

“Think the whole damn field heard us,” She muttered, grinning as she kissed the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then the underside of your jaw.

“Serves you right,” You whispered back, teasing. “You’re the one who couldn’t keep it in your pants.”

Her teeth sank lightly into your shoulder, and you yelped.

She laughed. A real, bright, completely unguarded laugh.

But then — a voice cut through the air like a crack of thunder.

“Y/N! You out there, darlin’?”

It was your father.

Natasha’s body locked against yours like stone, her eyes wide. You slapped a hand over your mouth, biting back a curse.

“In the back pasture, fixing the gate!” you shouted, trying to sound casual, like you hadn’t just been railed against a wooden fence by your dad's dangerously hot co-worker.

The Russian, still very much inside you moments ago, looked like she was reconsidering every life decision that had brought her to this exact moment.

Boots crunched in the distance — your father’s. Getting closer.

You shoved at Natasha’s chest. “Go. Go!”

She practically dove into the nearest row of tall grass, tucking herself out of sight behind the shed. You yanked your shorts up in record time, yelping as the zipper caught your sensitive skin.

Your father appeared just over the ridge. “You okay?”

You forced a smile, “Yeah! Gate’s a little stubborn.”

He eyed you. “Your face’s all red.”

“Hot out,” You blurted.

He narrowed his eyes, then shrugged. “Well, come on back soon. We’re firing up the grill.”

“Be right there.”

He turned and walked away with a nod.

You waited until his footsteps were gone before the tall grass rustled — Natasha emerging like a gorgeous fox. Her shirt was unbuttoned, face smug.

“That was close,” She murmured.

You glared at her. “I hate you.”

She smirked, pulling you back into her arms. “No, you don’t.”

She kissed you again — sweet, lazy, full of trouble.

And you let her, even as you muttered, “You owe me so bad.”

“Good,” Nat whispered against your lips. “’Cause I was planning on working up an appetite before dinner anyway.”

🪵 ✈︎   𖦹   ✈︎   𖦹   ✈︎   𖦹   ✈︎   𖦹   ✈︎   𖦹   ✈︎  𖦹  🪵

The sun was dipping low, casting the ranch in gold as smoke curled lazily up from the grill. Your dad was manning it like it was a battlefield, spatula in hand, cowboy hat slightly askew.

Your grandmother had set out the side dishes on the porch table, chatting with your aunt while your younger cousins chased each other barefoot across the grass.

And then there was Natasha — washed, changed, and acting like she hadn’t just had you gasping against a fence an hour ago. Her hair was damp from a quick shower, slicked back, revealing cheekbones sharp enough to cut. She wore worn jeans and a black tank top that clung just right, and when she smiled politely at your mom, you could almost believe she was innocent.

Almost.

You were standing beside the lemonade table when she sidled up next to you. Her hand brushed yours — deliberately, slow — and she didn’t look at you when she said, “Still sore?”

You choked on your drink.

Natasha chuckled under her breath and took a sip of her sweet tea like she hadn’t just whispered sin. Your aunt, Diane, turned toward the sound and smiled. “Natasha, how do you like ranch life so far?”

Nat didn’t miss a beat. “I’ve never been more… satisfied.”

Your face burned.

Your dad called everyone over for burgers, and Natasha stepped in like she’d always belonged, passing plates, laughing at your uncle Pete’s jokes, helping your little cousin tie her shoelaces. But every time she looked at you — that spark in her eye, the ghost of a smirk — it was a silent, unspoken promise: I’m not done with you yet.

Later, after dishes were cleared and the sky turned indigo, she tugged you by the hand toward the barn with a whispered, “Come on.”

The barn was quiet, cloaked in shadows and the warm hush of summer night.

The soft glow of old fairy lights strung above the rafters cast golden patterns over everything — the hay bales, the tools, the dust motes swirling in still air.

You didn’t even get a word out before Natasha pushed you gently against the barn door and kissed you like she hadn’t had her fill — like the entire day had just been foreplay for this.

Her hands were rough with callouses now —weeks on the ranch had seen to that— and they gripped your sides.

Her mouth moved from yours to your neck, then down, lips dragging across your collarbone with intent.

“Slow down, I'm not going anywhere, you know?” You chuckled.

“Thought about this all through dinner,” She murmured, pulling your shirt up and over your head in one smooth motion. “You, in that tight little tank top. Acting like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing.”

“And you, pretending to be sweet in front of my family. You’re evil.”

She grinned against your stomach. “You liked it.”

She kissed you then — not gentle, but needy. Desperate. All tongue and teeth and hands that couldn’t stay still. Your shirt was yanked up and over your head, tossed somewhere into the shadows, and her mouth was on your collarbone, your chest, biting just enough to make you shiver.

You moaned as her hand slid past the waistband of your underwear, finding heat and slick with a confident ease that made your knees weak.

“F-fuck…”

“I’ve got you,” she said low, her voice pure gravel, pure promise.

She turned you then, guiding you toward the nearest hay bale, and before you could fully process it, you were bent over it, fingers gripping the edge. Her body was flush against yours, and her other hand was already working open her belt, her breath hot against your neck.

“You sure you can stay quiet, sweetheart?” she whispered.

You nodded, barely.

Then she slid her dick into you — slow, sure, deep.

You bit your lip so hard it almost bled, a sharp cry caught in your throat. Her hands gripped your hips, anchoring you to her, guiding the rhythm. She rocked into you, the angle perfect, dragging pleasure through you in waves.

The sounds were obscene — wet, gasping, skin on skin — muffled only slightly by the barn’s thick walls.

She leaned over you, lips brushing your ear. “Still wanna tease me tomorrow? Wear those little shorts again?”

You whimpered, trembling under her.

She grinned, nipping your earlobe. “Didn’t think so.”

Her pace didn’t falter. She thrust deeper, rougher, but gentle, until you were bracing hard against the hay, your body a mess of sensation, clenching around her.

When you came after she did, it hit fast — a quake that left you breathless and shaking. She held you through it, still moving, coaxing every last wave out of you until you collapsed forward with a groan.

Natasha kissed your shoulder, then your neck, slowing down only after she’d chased her own high with a soft, broken growl against your skin.

You both stayed there for a moment — pressed together, panting, tangled up in sweat and heat and everything unsaid.

“Feel better?” You asked with a dazed smile.

She chuckled, pulling you close, her voice a velvet rasp. “You’ve got no idea.”

🪵 ✈︎   𖦹   ✈︎   𖦹   ✈︎   𖦹   ✈︎   𖦹   ✈︎   𖦹   ✈︎  𖦹  🪵

You should’ve moved. You knew you should’ve moved — back to the house, to a bed, to the rest of the world waiting outside that old barn. But Natasha’s hand was drawing lazy circles on your lower back, her bare thigh tangled between yours, and you didn’t want to go anywhere.

Her voice broke the quiet, low and satisfied. “How do you always manage to look this good, even after i’ve wrecked you?”

You smirked, eyes fluttering shut as you nuzzled into her collarbone. “Modest this morning, aren’t we?”

She kissed your temple, lips grazing tenderly across your hairline. “I’m not wrong.”

“No,” you whispered, tracing your fingers along the edge of her ribs, “but if you keep talking like that, I’m never getting off this haystack.”

“That’s the plan.”

Natasha shifted, rolling you onto your back again with that effortless strength of hers. She leaned over you, her body warm and solid, her eyes dark but soft. She looked at you like she’d been starving and had finally been fed — but still wanted another bite.

"Slept nice?"

“I don’t think I've ever really slept,” You murmured, your voice low, teasing. “Someone kept me busy.”

Natasha chuckled, low and smug, her hand sliding over your waist, fingertips brushing a bruise she’d left near your hip. “You kept moaning my name like it was the only word you knew. You think I could sleep through that?”

You blushed, but you didn’t pull away—eyes tracing the mess of red hair, the way the morning sun lit her skin in amber. She looked devastatingly good like this — rumpled, content, still hungry in her gaze.

“You’re not sore?” You asked, quirking a brow.

The Russian smirked, “Baby, I can handle a few rounds in the hay.”

You rolled your eyes and laughed, then winced slightly as you moved. “God, we really didn’t stop.”

“Nope.” She stretched a little, groaning, then leaned down and kissed the inside of your thigh. “Not my fault you’re irresistible in denim shorts and mouthy comebacks.”

You tangled your fingers in her hair, tugging her closer. “We should probably go inside before someone finds us out here.”

“I want to see you again,” she said, voice rougher now, “feel you again. Slow this time. We’ve got time now, don’t we?”

Your breath hitched. “I thought you wanted peace and quiet on this farm.”

Her lips ghosted over your throat as she leaned back up. “I’ve got peace. You’re the quiet I like.”

Your heart did something traitorous then — flipped, full, needy. But there wasn’t time to process it, because her mouth was on your chest again, kissing every bruise she left the night before like a silent apology — or maybe a vow.

And then she sank down your body, slow and reverent. No teasing this time. No need. Just the heat of her breath against your thigh, her hands holding you like you were something sacred.

You arched as her tongue found you, already pulsing and tender, but eager for her again. Her name spilled from your mouth like prayer. She licked you slow, deep, thorough — drawing it out, savoring it, like she was determined to memorize every sound you made under her.

You came undone again, this time with a whimper and your fingers tugging tight in her hair. And even as you trembled, even as your vision blurred, she didn’t stop — didn’t let go — only kissed her way back up your body, wrapping herself around you again.

“I could die happy right here,” She whispered into your neck.

“Not yet,” You murmured, dazed. “I’m not done with you.”

She laughed then, low and rough and so turned on. “Then don’t be, baby.”

And the barn stayed quiet — except for the sounds only the two of you made, as the sun climbed higher, and morning became something entirely your own.

➪ next part.

[alpalpym]

Sharing is caring

Summary: Natasha doesn't like to share.

Natasha Romanoff x F!R

A/N: Thank you to @jujuu23 for reading this before I posted :)

Natasha wanted to have a good day.

But then recruits were stupid, Steve was being annoying about paperwork. And now, this.

Her favorite mug. Gone.

“Did you do this?” is the first thing she says to Sam as he enters the kitchen.

“No, I like the idea of keeping all my fingers”

And precisely then, you walk in.

Newest addition to the team, top of your SHIELD class, expert in weapons, languages and the most delicious desserts. Steve had to enforce a rigurous meal plan when even Bucky gained a good five pounds.

Natasha likes your easy smile, beautiful eyes, and those full lips that can be both alluring and mysterious.

That perfect mouth that is now sipping from none other than Natasha’s mug.

Sam crosses his arms, expecting the Russian to say something. But she stays glued to her spot.

As you enter the room, you feel two sets of eyes on you. The attention makes you falter, but you push through. There’s no place for shyness when you’re an Avenger.

“Hey. How’s it going?”

“Real nice” Sam says, and you nod, considering if it’s a good idea to address Natasha directly. You still haven’t quiet figured her out. 

“Do I have something on my face? You’re staring”

“No” Natasha rushes to say, before Sam can tell you that you’re holding her mug, the one that made her rip Barnes’ arm off when she saw him using it.  

“You sure? Dirt? Chocolate?”

“Your face is perfect” she hurries to say, and Sam has to cough to hide his laughter 

“Smooth, Romanoff”

“Ok, then. I made coffee and added a little nutmeg. Wanna try it?”

You offer her your mug and she takes it, smiling. 

“This is really good!”

“Finish it. I have to train. I don’t mind sharing” you wink at her, and Natasha has to keep from smiling. She doesn’t like new people knowing she can go soft.

“Can I have some?” Sam steps in.

“No” Natasha cuts him off and you laugh, waving goodbye. 

—

Heroes can save the day, but forget to bring out an extra chair when doing mission debriefings. 

This is the first time the entire team has been on a mission together since you joined, and now the conference room is crowded. There’s no place to sit, except for a small sofa in the back of the room.

That’s where Natasha usually sits, because it gives her a view of everyone. She can read their expressions, guess what they think, take that information to asses what needs to be refined in their team dynamic. 

Right now, though, she’s one of the last people in. The minute she looks at her spot, she sees you, leaning against the sofa, your hand discreetly holding your side.

“Rookie, you’re in Red’s spot” Tony says, walkign right after Natasha. 

She shoots him a murderous glare, but all you do is laugh, trying to stand up without anyone noticing you’re injured.

But Natasha notices.

“We can both sit here” she rushes to say, and you nod, knowing your voice would be strained if you thanked her out loud.

Mission debriefing goes by in a blur, your breathing heavy. 

Natasha is ready to tell Steve to can it, but Tony steps in, and everyone leaves the room.

Everyone except you. 

Natasha can’t leave either, worried about your condition.

“It’s nothing major” you say, knowing why she’s still sitting next to you.

“What is?” she tries to play dumb, but that makes you laugh. You wince after a second, though. “You should go to the Medbay”

“Cracked ribs, that’s all. The doctors won’t be able to fix that either way” you smile at her, but make no effort to move. Natasha stays put too, and you know she’s patient enough to wait it out. “Fine. I’m going”

You expect Natasha to leave for her room once you promise to get checked out. But instead, she follows you.

“Just in case you need something”

The doctors confirm what you already know. Rest, painkillers, no training for a couple of days. What you had missed were a couple of cuts, since you didn’t even change out of your suit until now. A nurse cleans them up and patches you up, but you’re left in nothing but a tank top and your tactical pants. 

Why is the Medbay so damn cold?

When you open the door, Natasha is already waiting, a hoodie in her hands.

“I’ve told them to fix the damn AC a thousand times” is all she says, and you smile, grateful. You struggle when you have to slide the hoodie down your body, and Natasha’s hands are quick to pull the fabric down gently.

“Thank you, Nat”

“Come on, you need your rest” 

Walking back to the living quarters, you can’t help but wonder if she’s being nice out of pity or something else. Whatever it is, you just hope she doesn’t see you as the rookie that screws up during their first group mission.

“You know where to find me, if you need anything” 

You nod, waiting until she walks into her own room to get inside.

The first thing you do in the privacy of your room is enjoy the fact her hoodie is soft, and smells just like Natasha.

You might not give it back to her.

—

Tony’s idea of a party is shut down the next morning. You can guess that Steve is aware of your injuries, as the doctors are required to submit a report.

Still, Stark insists on some team bonding activity and by a miracle, Natasha gets him to agree to movie night.

That’s how you end up in the entertainment room. There’s popcorn, soda, pizza and chocolate. 

Once again, and unbenknowst to you, you end up sitting on the couch Natasha takes up for herself.

“Hey” she walks up to you, vaguely aware that the rest of the team is waiting to see if Natasha asks you to move. “Mind if we share?”

“Not at all!” you say, moving to the side so she can sit. It’s hard to pretend you’re not excited about Natasha’s request. 

Considering she’s always keeping her distance, sharing the couch during movie night seems like a big deal.

“Everyone settled?” Tony asks, his gaze lingering on you two. Natasha glares, so he turns around and starts the movie.

After a couple of minutes, you reach forward to open the pack of M&M’s that no one seems to want. You can’t help the laugh when Natasha reaches for them at the same time.

“We can share these too” you say, handing them to her.

Natasha is trying to pay attention to the movie, but you’re shifting in the couch, sometimes your knee brushing against hers. 

“You’re not eating the green ones” she notices, leaning close to you to not interrupt the movie.

“Oh, shit” you laugh, somehow sensing that Natasha wants to know why. “My brother and I would agree to leave those for last, and then split them. Stupid”

“Wouldn’t want to mess with tradition” she says, separating them. You watch her, holding back a smile.

—

“Y/N’s all packed up and ready to go, right?” Steve says, reading over a file. 

“Yeah, she walked by like five minutes ago. Medics gave clearance” Sam says. “It’s just a recon mission, either way”

They’re going back to reviewing the team’s schedule when Natasha sprints past them.

“Yo, what’s going on?” Sam says, hoping there’s no threat to deal with. Steve is about to walk out as well, when he hears Natasha’s words.

“I’m going with Y/N! How could you be so irresponsible to send her away when she just recovered?”

Captain Rogers decides to hide behind the door, Natasha’s anger making him feel small.

“Alright, have a good one” Sam gives her a thumb up, and the redhead just rolls her eyes. He sighs, going back inside.

Steve stays silent for a second.

“The safe house only has one bed” he says, considering if it’s worth telling Natasha that. "Should we tell her?"

“No, thank you”

—

Recon missions suck. 

There, you said it. Unfortunately, those are the most frequent ones for you, as the newest member of the team and being practically unknown to the general population.

You’re walking to your car, hoping the mission can be done quickly. It’s a day and a half and being alone makes it specially boring. As soon as you open the driver’s door, you find Natasha sitting, smiling up at you.

“Jeez! What are you doing here?”

“Backup. Cap asked me to come last minute” 

“Oh” you get quiet, nodding.

Natasha tries to stay neutral when she notices how your face falls. Did she read into the situation? A part of her thought you liked being around her.

Either way, she can’t back out now. Once you’re settled in the car, Natasha drives out of the Compound, to the small office you’re meant to infiltrate.

“Is… did…?” you mumble a couple of times. Natasha keeps a poker face, waiting for you to speak again. With a sigh, you finally let it out. “Did Steve send you to babysit me? He thinks I screwed up because I got injured, doesn’t he?”

“No, it’s nothing like that” Natasha says, mentally kicking herself for rushing to join you. She didn’t even consider your feelings, too eager to spend time together. “I just didn’t like the idea of you going alone”

“Oh” you say again, this time blushing. Natasha can sense something shifts from your tone alone, so she turns to look at you. Your eyes meet hers and you smile. “Yeah, I was actually thinking how boring it was going to be. So, I’m glad you tagged along” 

“I’m glad too” she says, trying not to smile.

“Let’s see if you keep saying that after I put on my roadtrip playlist”

“Bring it”

Natasha tries to enjoy the songs, though she’ll never tell you that pop music isn’t really her thing. What she does enjoy are the gummies you offer. In your words, road snacks are key to the trip.

As you park close to the safe house, you leave your bag in the living room and then go down to around the corner, checking you have everything you need in your jacket pockets. 

“Wanna go over the plan?” Natasha says, trying to keep calm. It’s just a recon mission. You’ll be fine.

“Bug the conference room for the meeting happening tomorrow. Hack into Russo’s computer and download everything. In and out, easy peasy” 

Natasha nods, and you wink at her.

“If I finish in under 10 minutes you buy me dinner”

“Deal” Natasha says, and she wishes she could tell you she’ll buy you dinner no matter what happens.

You finally go, walking up to the building, strolling casually. As you’re about to reach the doors, a man leaves the office and you snatch his ID to get past the gates.

That’s the easy part. Unfortunately, there’s a lot of people in the hallways still, and the office you’re supposed to infiltrate is at the end of the long corridor.

The conference room should be close to the elevator, so you decide to take a look around. As you approach, you hear voices inside.

It will be difficult to bug a room with other people in it.

Looking around, aware that you’ll be suspicious if you just stand there, you think of a way out.

And then you spot the distraction you need.

Well, whatever it takes to get the mission done.

—

Natasha finds a cafeteria that is across the office, and she gets to sit by the window, looking out as you skilfully snatch the ID from someone who’s leaving.

Standard time for a mission like that should be under fifteen minutes. Unfortunately, the man whose ID you stole is coming back exactly five minutes later. 

Natasha’s not sure if he forgot something, or if he noticed he was missing his ID and decided to return for it. The fact of the matter is that if someone notices you used it to get inside, you’ll be in trouble.

She suddenly wishes you had a comm with you so she could help out. Hell, if the man keeps talking to security, Natasha will find a way to make a scene and distract them long enough to get you out.

Just as she’s about to stand up, one of the cleaning staff walks out and hands over the ID. Did you notice what happened and dropped it? Were you still inside? You didn’t need the ID to exit the building, but still.

The man takes his ID, and walks back inside. 

It’s been nine minutes. Natasha will give you five more before she intervenes.

She’s so focused on looking out the window that she misses the moment you step inside the restaurant, and sit in front of her.

“What…? “ the redhead does a doble take, and you take great pride in that.

“Janitor’s closet, grabbed one of their uniforms. Nobody questions cleaning staff”

You pass her the USB, smiling at her shocked expression.

“And you gave him back his ID, as if you weren’t the one who took it”

“All under ten minutes. You know what that means?”

“Of course. Let’s check the menu” Natasha says, smiling at you.

After ordering a couple of cheeseburgers, you read over the desserts.

“We could share a brownie” you say, holding back a smile. You’ve noticed Natasha has a sweet tooth, and is less than inclined to share her food, especially if it’s a dessert.

“Sure” she says after a beat, and you clear your throat, speaking after the waitress leaves.

“You know, I can handle rejection”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m the youngest of three. I’m used to people telling me to leave their things alone” you say, smiling at her. “If I’m bothering you…”

“I don’t mind sharing” she cuts you off, her shoulders tense. It’s a bit uncomfortable for her to be vulnerable like this. “Not when I’m sharing with you” 

“Oh” you blush, biting your lip. The way her words affect you make Natasha regain some of her confidence. 

“How come you didn’t want to do a recon?”

“I don’t know. I like group missions. Or at least going with someone else. Like I said, I have siblings and I guess being around the team makes me feel like at home”

“Well, I like them because I can take a break from everyone. But that’s just because I’ve been dealing with those boys for years now” she laughs.

“Yeah, I get it. It can feel like a frat house sometimes. Let’s have girls night, no boys allowed” you joke, but perk up a second later. “Wait! That actually sounds fun. Oh my Gosh, we could go to the movies, or a museum, or dinner…”

“Sounds like a date to me” Natasha interrupts your rambling, pleased when you play with your hands.

“Yeah. That could be a date” 

Once the food arrives, you eat and chat. Natasha does agree to sharing dessert, which makes your heart melt a little at the gesture.

The last part of the mission is supposed to happen tomorrow, when a couple of shady businessmen meet at the building you infiltrated. All you have to do is sit and take pictures of whoever walks in, so intelligence can run background checks.

After dinner, you head back to the small apartment. For the first time since you arrived, you walk past the entrance to check the space.

“What’s wrong?” Natasha asks when you come back, fiddling with your hands.

“There’s only one bed”

“Oh”

“You can totally take it, the couch looks fine…”

“No, you’re still recovering, I’ll sleep on the couch”

Natasha and you speak over the other for a few minutes until your voices die down and you stare at each other.

“We could share?” you suggest.

“Ok” Natasha nods, trying to pretend it’s not a big deal.

But when you change into an oversized t-shirt (no shorts because you truly thought you’d be alone here), and lie down in the small bed, your heart is practically beating out of your chest. 

“You ok?” Natasha says, trying not to move.

You give up with a sigh, turning on your side and moving closer, until you’re inches apart.

“Just need to sleep on my side. And I usually hug a pillow. Don’t ask me why, I just do”

“Well… here” Natasha moves even closer, taking your arm. She places it around her waist, and pulls you closer. Your breath hitches for a second, but Natasha smiles reassuringly. “Is this better?”

“Yes”

As a matter of fact, it’s the best sleep either one of you has gotten in years.

—

You’re not in the mood for parties.

But that’s never stopped Tony before.

After waking up cuddling Natasha, (and barely completing the mission because you didn’t want to leave bed) you were eager to ask her out, or have her ask you out. Whichever was fine by you.

But as soon as you parked the car, Cap was waiting with a frown and a big file.

“We leave in an hour” he said, only to Natasha.

Apparently, this was going to be a very demanding mission, and Cap didn’t want you pushing yourself.

So, Natasha, Sam and Steve had been gone for a few days now.

Tony was mildly disappointed, but this was Pepper’s birthday party and he wasn’t about to call it off for a few working Avengers.

Still, you try to cheer up and put on a good face, mainly for Pepper. You’re not sure she really wanted this big of a party, but she seems happy enough.

Most of the people attending are from Stark Industries, so you try to blend in and speak to some of them.

“Hey, do you work in legal?” a young blonde asks when you go get another drink.

“Oh, no, definitely not”

“Thought I knew you. I’m in HR”

“Fun” you say, but the tone you use makes her laugh. Before you can do anything, she changes seats and moves closer to you.

“I’m Sasha”

Reluctantly, you give your name. Even after the bartender hands over another glass of Chardonnay, Sasha keeps talking to you, though she doesn’t really care if you work at Stark Industries or not. After your third glass of wine, you begin to relax, and say a couple of jokes that make her laugh a little too loud.

She’s definitely flirting.

“Wanna take this conversation somewhere else?” she asks and you look around.

“I think I need some air…”

“We could…”

But she doesn’t get to finish her sentence, because Natasha is by your side in an instant. Little drops of water wet your shoulder as she approaches you, having rushed from the shower to see you.

“Hey, detka. Having fun without me?”

“You’re home!” you shout, excited at seeing her again.

“I am. Come on, let’s go to the balcony” she says, taking your hand. You’re halfway there when you remember Sasha, and try to turn back to say goodbye.

“I don’t want to be rude”

“And I said I like to share with you, not share you” 

“Oh” you blush at that, and stay silent as Natasha drags you out of the party. 

“Was that too much?” she asks when you finally get to the balcony.

“No. I just drank too fast and I’m happy to see you” you say, your hands going around her shoulders. 

As if it’s the most natural thing in the world, Natasha holds your waist and pulls you closer to her.

“I’m happy to see you too” she leans her forehead against yours. “And about that date…”

“Yeah, I’m up for it” you confirm with a nod. Your faces are inches apart, and Natasha  can tell you’re sneaking small glances at her lips.

“As for other stuff…” 

“Mhm” you hum, aware that she’s leaning forward. You let her lips meet yours, and the kiss is short but tender. “Will this date have more of these?”

“Hell, yeah” she nods, making you laugh.

“Tomorrow, then?”

“Can’t wait” she nods, kissing you again.

Unfortunately, you’re interrupted by Sam, who is sporting a shit eating grin.

“Anything you two wanna share with the team?”

“No” you answer at the same time.

Some things, are meant to stay between you two. 

[alpalpym]

♡ Collision Course ♡

Chapter 15b: Interlude [Part 1]

WandaNat x [innocent, femme] Reader

Collision Course – Masterlist

Link to full fic (so far) on AO3

Chapter Summary: Natasha prepares for a difficult but necessary conversation with Wanda, on her return. Wanda walks home from work, caught in a spiral of regret for and justification of her actions.

Word count: 2.9k

A/N: This follows on directly from Chapter 15 of Collision Course. I've been absolutely swamped lately with work and other commitments so I've not been nearly as productive as I'd like, but I thought I could at least give you something by splitting this bonus chapter into two parts. This first bit delves into their perspectives a little. I hope it's okay -- and I'm sorry to give you so little after so long!

Natasha hovered by the kitchen window, watching you pace barefoot on the grass like a wild animal trapped in a too-small enclosure. She could see from your hasty, repetitive movements and the way your clutched at your torso that you were stressed. It pained her to see you like this, but she knew the only way to resolve it was to do the thing you dreaded, and actually talk all together about what was going on. Realistically, they wouldn’t be able to explain it all today. And, more than that, they really shouldn’t. It wouldn’t be fair to you to throw you in the deep end so soon, and it would be risky on their part. Even if Wanda was already convinced; even if you seemed to slip into the state Wanda craved so perfectly at times. The ethics — or lack, thereof — of the situation concerned Natasha greatly. At times, she worried they were being coercive. That the kindness they offered to you was merely increasing your vulnerability, and making you feel obliged to meet their every whim. And despite her repeated warnings to Wanda, and reminders to take it easy on you, her wife continued to push you into that submissive headspace, without thinking of how it would impact you when she inevitably had to retreat. 

It had been a strange day. You’d been wobbly this morning, worried and withdrawn. Perhaps from something Wanda said or did in the brief window of Natasha’s absence — she wasn’t sure. You’d hidden yourself away, and then almost disappeared without telling them. 

It wasn’t all bad, though. After Natasha’s compromise, you had brightened considerably. Exercise obviously helped you, and being outside seemed to do wonders for your mood too. On the walk to the bakery you’d been relaxed and cheerful. Natasha had enjoyed your company then, enjoyed seeing a little spark of the personality that seemed so often otherwise to be hidden beneath your anxieties. 

But then you’d crumbled again, at the prospect of upsetting Wanda. Over something so small too: the mere suggestion of starting up your course proper at college. Natasha knew her wife was a big believer in rest and relaxation, but she hadn’t anticipated that Wanda’s views on recovery would be dictating your thoughts to such a degree. You shouldn’t be so constrained by what Wanda might think, not when you had only just met each other, and there had been no communication about roles or expectations. In many ways, Wanda was acting like there was already an established dynamic between the two of you. And you, in turn, had been responding to that. Falling prey to her dominance. Submitting. Dropping.

Looking at it that way, your distress this afternoon made perfect sense. In Wanda’s absence, you had plummeted into sub-drop, scared of upsetting her, embarrassed by your predicament. Without Wanda there to reassure you, Natasha had had to step up. She wasn’t the best person to comfort you — it had been a while since she had been obliged to look after someone in that kind of way, after all — but she did her best. And in your need, you had clung to what was made available to you, even though Natasha had sometimes hesitated and second-guessed the affection she could offer. She hadn’t been quite sure whether to offer physical affection — could it, too, count as coercion? — but your eagerness to accept a hug, and the way you relaxed in her hold, seemed to point to it being appropriate in that situation. And it had been kind of nice, Natasha had to admit. Nice to feel needed, nice to feel nurturing and warm. But she had to stay objective. Her desires couldn’t come to the fore, couldn’t be allowed to dictate her actions. Especially not when Wanda was struggling to contain her own emotions around you. Someone had to be sensible.

Perhaps the note and the nickname were too much, in retrospect. It was difficult to judge how much affection to give, how much aftercare was appropriate after Wanda crossed yet another line. In general aftercare really ought to be proportionate to the scene that precipitated it, but then did that mean the aftercare too would be implicated in the case of consent (or rather, the lack of it)?

Natasha noticed you pause in your pacing of the garden, your gaze turning to focus on the bushes. A streak of white appeared in explanation, and she watched you crouch to greet Mayakovsky. The immediate bond between the two of you was rather sweet. Unfortunately, you undeniably had a lot in common. Plucked from the street by Wanda’s eagerness to heal. But you weren’t a cat they could keep without question. You couldn’t just be fed and conditioned into comfort in this home. Sometimes, Natasha worried that Wanda forgot that fact. Hence that awful comment she had made in the dead of night, which she would probably regret forevermore. Pet project. She still believed it a little, still believed that Wanda was working her magic to mould you into her vision, but it didn’t justify her speaking it aloud when you were plausibly within earshot. 

So many regrets already, Natasha considered. So many mistakes, so many messy feelings. And it hadn’t even been a week since you entered their lives. Was it really reasonable to hope that all this could be resolved neatly? 

Perhaps not all at once. Tonight would just be about smoothing over, and creating a foundation from which you could all consider possibilities. Basic boundaries needed to be drawn. Consent and communication needed to be established. Maybe that was all that was required just now. A necessary springboard, should you all choose to revisit it.

Natasha peeled her eyes away from your distant, crouching form, and turned to the kitchen island. Pulling out her notebook from beneath the dog-eared book she had nearly finished, she flicked to a new page and slid the ballpoint pen out of the loop at the side. She jotted down some abbreviated notes, her writing still neat but not quite as intentional as the careful letters she penned in her note to you earlier. 

Withdrawn.

Almost run → spin bike. 

Lunch → fine, not much. 

Bakery → good, then upset. 

She paused, spinning the pen between her fingers as she pondered on what she wanted to discuss, after relaying the events of the day. Then she added two queries she wished to bring to Wanda, alone. 

Sub-drop? 

Columbia?

Natasha set her pen down beside the notebook, which she closed over just in case you came in prematurely. It helped her to have the words written down, even if she didn’t refer to them later. The act of recording her thoughts in such a way always helped resolve the niggles and hone down her intentions.

Wanda would be back within half an hour, Natasha supposed. They’d have to chat first, to bring Wanda up to speed and hash out any differences of opinion before bringing you into the fold. And then they ought to have the conversation with you straight after, to save you from the agony of waiting and anticipating what could be said. All in all, it could take anywhere between twenty minutes and an hour, Natasha supposed. She rolls her fingers on the counter, nails tapping rhythmically against the marble. You’d probably need some downtime after their chat, she considered. Dinnertimes hadn’t always proved to be peaceful for you, so perhaps it would be better if Wanda took you up for a bath before dinner, since you’d probably want one anyway after the cycle.

After estimating all the notional timings in her head, Natasha decided to make a start on the chopping, at least. She wasn’t making anything too fancy — just mushroom stroganoff and a beetroot salad — but preparing the ingredients now would both give her something to do and ease the actual cooking process later, when she may be a little distracted in the aftermath of the conversation. 

Natasha found the dried mushrooms in one of the lower cupboards and set the packet on the counter. She was about to start boiling the kettle to rehydrate them when she hesitated. The last thing they would need after a tricky, emotional conversation would be a difficult dinnertime. She really ought to check if you were okay with the ingredients, since the peppers debacle had proven you were not entirely forthcoming with dislikes.

She slid open the balcony door and stepped out. You immediately looked up at the noise, eyes wide and nervous. You were probably wondering if Wanda had arrived back. 

“Just a quick question,” Natasha told you calmly, leaning both hands on the railing and smiling down to reassure you. “How do you feel about mushrooms and beetroot?”

Mayakovsky rolled over beneath your now stationary hand, and gave a petulant meow of displeasure at the neglect, before stalking away from you and heading back to the bushes. You seemed momentarily distracted by his departure, watching him stalk behind the foliage before turning back to Natasha and beginning to answer her enquiry.

“I like them,” you said, smoothing your shorts over your thighs. “I… thank you for asking.”

Natasha gave you a simple nod, and started to turn before realising something, and spinning back to face you.

“Aren’t you cold?” she asked, frowning down at your bare legs crossed over on the grass.

“I’m okay,” you replied quietly, the fingers of your left hand leaving your lap and finding the blades of grass beside you. “I think I want to stay outside for a bit, if that’s alright?”

“Of course,” Natasha assured you, giving another nod to emphasise her agreement. “If you get cold there are blankets on the patio chairs — or if not there, in the basket.”

You sent a small smile back up to her, seemingly relaxing at the prospect of her permission. 

“Thank you.”

“Wanda or I will come and get you when we’re ready, okay?” 

“Okay.”

Natasha hovered a moment longer, then pressed away from the railing with a push of her hands. She wondered about leaving the door slightly open, but supposed you might feel watched if she did so. So she closed it over behind her, separating the two of you in this time between. 

Wanda seemed a world away right now: apart from the chaos she had instigated, yet still somehow pulling the strings from afar. Even in her absence there were echoes, her words and touch felt by both of you in memory, dictating feelings and guiding intentions with implausible ease. And you too felt far away, despite there being only a pane of glass and a couple dozen feet between you.Your physical proximity contrasted with the emotional distanced you maintained, whilst you processed the past and protected yourself for the future. 

The three of you were disparate, but seemingly bound to meet in the middle somehow. Like three shooting stars, each set on a course to collide.

—————

As she walked back home, Wanda resumed the questioning that had plagued her all day. She wondered if she had pushed things too far. Perhaps she had gotten a little bit carried away this morning, when she’d doted over you during breakfast… She had a tendency to lose herself, she realised, when she saw the flush of your cheeks and that slightly glazed look in your eyes. It propelled her to press harder, to tease a little more. 

If Natasha had been there, she would have held back a little. That alone was proof enough that she had maybe taken it too far. Wanda knew that Natasha wouldn’t have approved, and that it would have prompted raised eyebrows and hushed warnings if witnessed in person. 

But Natasha wasn’t there, in that moment this morning. And Wanda had just let herself slide into that rather blissful, almost hypnotic state of focussing in on you, and attending to your every need. 

Even as she thought it, Wanda could hear her wife’s voice in her head. 

But really, whose need are you meeting? Hers? Or yours?

Who could tell, really? When you, too, seemed to slip into that sweet state which had Wanda’s insides go a little giddy? She saw it; she saw you. She noticed the way your breath hitched, and the times when your eyes lingered a little too long in intimate places. She spotted the squirm of your body, the ducking of your head to hide heated cheeks. She saw everything. And she knew.

Natasha knew too; she could tell. But Natasha was holding back, holding herself hostage to logic and reason, as she was always wont to do. The contrast between them was one of the reasons they worked so well together. Wanda’s passion and impulsivity balanced out Natasha’s reserve and precision. They’d always been able to marry the two perspectives together, to connect the truth between them and find the suitable course of action. But in the past few days, they had experienced more minor quarrels than they had in perhaps the last two years. 

No, not quarrels exactly, Wanda reasoned. Just… differences of opinion. And a delay in reaching agreement.

Natasha had urged her many times over to tone it down, to lay off you and stick exclusively to the roles and responsibilities of hostess to a guest.

In contrast, Wanda had petitioned Natasha to relax, to let things unfold naturally without holding back or putting up walls. 

In many ways, Wanda was winning; Natasha’s resolve to remain appropriate and aloof was clearly waning. She’d started to let slip some pet names in Russian, and she had admitted this morning upon waking to comforting you after your nightmare, to taking you back to bed and staying with you until you slept. To her shame, Wanda had felt not just elation at their new connection, but also a little jealousy too. How she would have loved to be the one to ease your worries and settle you to sleep last night. But alas, she was a sound sleeper, and her wife could hear a leaky tap two floors below even whilst in the depths of REM.

Maybe — just maybe — that small sting of jealousy might have fuelled some of her behaviour this morning. Wanda had been a little worried when waking you, scared to find you distant and withdrawn again, just like at dinner last night. But you’d leaned in and let her help you, let her dress you and guide you downstairs. And yes, maybe she then got a little carried away. But the way your cheeks flushed and your eyes went wide at her praise and teasing… it stoked a fire within her; it fuelled the flames. 

Wanda had always been somewhat turned on by vulnerability. 

Something about being needed, being completely relied upon… it did things to her. Natasha hardly ever presented such moments, though on the rare occasion she did, Wanda valued the opportunity to care for her immensely. 

But you… You were different. Open, wanting. Automatically accepting of affection, even if you sometimes second-guessed it, and tried to hide. You needed the care, the reassurance, the praise. And God… Wanda was more than willing to give it. She’d give it forever, if you’d let her. 

Fuck, she though suddenly, gripping the strap of her bag a little harder. She shouldn’t be thinking like this. Because although Wanda had the greatest love of her life safely at home awaiting her return, she had also learned, early and repeatedly, that to love is to lose. Natasha was an exception, not a rule in her life. Aside from her wife, all Wanda knew was loss. Family, friends, relationships, dreams…

She could get caught up in the whirlwind of passion sometimes, and forget the fear. But Natasha always remembered, on her behalf. She held the grief for her, kept it steady until Wanda was ready to confront it again, and attempt to process the pain a little more. Natasha was her rock and her reason. And yet, Wanda never seemed to remember to pay heed to her wisdom. 

Natasha wasn’t always right, though, Wanda’s brain warred. Like with Mayakovsky: she’d been downright aghast at the adoption of the stray, as if his mere presence was an omen of something awful yet to come. But then she begrudgingly fell in love with him (though she’d never admit to it as such) and no dreadful thing ever came to pass. They hadn’t lost him, or been hurt by him. The worst he had done was vomiting on Natasha’s shoes.

However…

Natasha had good reason to be wary, and Wanda knew this too, despite her desperate attempts to bury the knowledge to the back of her mind. They had been hurt before, by someone Wanda fell for. Natasha had called it, over and over again… but Wanda hadn’t seen it until it was too late, and by then the emotions were spilled. Even though Natasha had foreseen it, Wanda knew it hurt her too. Perhaps more, because she always took on Wanda’s emotions too, like she harboured sole responsibility for the fallout. It was understandable that she didn’t want to repeat the same mistakes again, but Wanda could feel in her bones that this was different. You weren’t the sort to take advantage. You’d fallen into their lives, not orchestrated your way in. 

Natasha always saw what could go wrong.

Whereas Wanda always saw what could go right.

And she clung to that conviction, as she turned onto their street. She was almost home: to the place, the feeling, the people.

A/N: Chapter 16 is on its way, I promise! And I'll post part 1 of Chapter 15b here as soon as it's done too (god, I've made this complicated). Thank you for reading, as always ♡

[alpalpym]

Do you know how hard it is to live with a cat that has the intelligence level of literally like a 3 year old but the pure chaos of a high ranking demon?

He’s learned to open the lazy Susan and won’t stop clawing open the flour and rolling in it like a little chinchilla

[alpalpym]

♡ Collision Course ♡

Chapter 4: Reason Over Romance

WandaNat x [femme, innocent] Reader

Collision Course – Masterlist

Link to full fic (so far) on AO3

Story Summary:

After moving to New York, a collision while cycling sends you flying into the lives of Wanda Maximoff and her wife, Natasha Romanoff. Together, they teach you a new way of belonging and being loved.

Chapter Summary: You spend an evening with Wanda and Natasha, watching a movie. In the morning, you and Natasha have a chance to get to know each other a little better.

Word Count: 6.3k

It takes you an age to finish your dinner; you’re so restricted by the sling, the pain, and the fear of spilling your food in such sophisticated company. By the time your plate is clear Natasha has already finished her second helping, and you’ve long since stopped looking at Wanda since her encouraging smiles make you feel flustered — and therefore more at risk of missing your mouth. 

“Thank you for dinner, Wanda,” you say, looking up from your plate finally. “It was really delicious.”

“You’re very welcome, darling,” Wanda replies, with a warm smile. “You did a good job getting through it; I know it can’t be easy with your shoulder.”

You bite your lip and nod, grateful that she understands. 

Natasha stands up and starts stacking plates. You spring up too, eager to help. 

“Don’t worry, Y/N,” Natasha tells you gently. “I’ve got it.”

“Please,” you murmur. “I’d like to help.” 

You hate being injured, not just because of the need to rest (which you’ve never been very good at), but also the way it makes you feel useless. You want to be helpful. You need to feel helpful. 

“Let her, Nat,” Wanda advises, and you blush at the shared look between them.

“Alright,” Natasha relents. “You can take the glasses, Y/N. Thanks.”

So you do. It’s silly really, since Wanda insists you take them one at a time again, and this makes it a slow, laborious process which Natasha could have easily averted by taking them herself. But she thanks you when you place the third glass by the sink, where she is filling a washing up bowl with warm water and bubbles.

“Is there anything else I can do?” you ask her, pivoting your feet on the shiny floor.

“Hmm…” Natasha considers, glancing between you and her wife. “You could take Wanda downstairs and pick a movie for us to watch. Just be warned: she will try to choose a rom-com and I’m trusting you to convince her otherwise.”

You can really feel that your head has been knocked today, by the amount of time it takes to process her words. When they finally sink in, you giggle quietly.

“Okay,” you whisper, and you feel your chest flutter when Natasha gives you a proper smile and a conspiratorial wink. 

You feel like skipping back to Wanda, but you walk sensibly instead. She’s wiping the table, even though you don’t remember seeing any spillages. They’re so diligent, the two of them. The easy domesticity makes you feel strangely comforted. Like you fit in to their daily routine, without disruption. But then, maybe that’s just the mark of good hosts. Making the difficult seem easy.

“Um, Natasha says we should go downstairs and choose a movie,” you inform Wanda shyly.

“That’s a great idea,” Wanda hums, finishing wiping the table and gesturing with the cloth to tell you she’s just going to put it away. You watch her bring it to the sink, murmur something to Natasha as she leans in to rinse her hands, then return to you. “Alright,” she smiles, “let’s head down.”

Wanda glances back every few steps, checking you’re okay. You feel a little lighter, now that Natasha seems to be opening up and there’s a clear plan for the evening. It’s good that you won’t have to talk much; you like being able to spend time with people without the pressure of chatting all the time. Especially now, when your thoughts can’t seem to form proper sentences.

You hover by the sofa downstairs, wanting Wanda to sit first so you can gauge where you ought to go. But she seems to be waiting for you.

“Do you want to sit on that side again?” she asks, nodding towards the far right end, where you fell asleep earlier. You shrug noncommittally, sort of wishing she would make the decision for you, so you wouldn’t have to think.

“Okay, well I think you should sit there,” Wanda ponders aloud, “because it seemed to be better for your shoulder before, hm?”

You hesitate, then nod in agreement. 

“You know, sweetheart, it’s okay to tell us what you think, and what you prefer,” Wanda tells you quietly. You blush, and shrink in on yourself.

“I - I know,” you stammer. You’re staring at the floor but still, you can feel Wanda analysing you.

“Is it just hard, at the moment?” she asks gently.

Your teeth take hold of your bottom lip, stopping it from wobbling. You nod. 

“Hey, that’s okay,” Wanda approaches, and places a hand on your good shoulder. “We can help you out, then. You just let us know if you’re ever uncomfortable, alright?” With her free hand, she cups your chin and adds a gentle upwards pressure, encouraging you to look up. When you do, you see her expectant face, soft and watchful. You sense that she wants you to respond, to demonstrate you have understood.

“Okay,” you whisper. “I - I can do that.”

She beams at you. “Good girl. Now, let’s get comfy and choose something to watch before Natasha comes down and has chance to take over.”

You sit at the same time as her, head reeling from her soothing praise and the way she moved on so swiftly, preventing it from truly landing. She’s sitting so close to you too, and she’s moved her right hand to take your left, while she presses on the remote with her other hand. You watch in a daze as she pulls up Netflix and navigates to her list. 

“Anything you suggest?” Wanda asks, turning to you intermittently. “These are all films I haven’t seen yet, but want to watch.”

Your eyes strain to make out the images and words. Wanda must see you squinting, because she slows down her scrolling to allow you to process the options. When you see a film you know and like, your eyes must show recognition, because Wanda stops her button-pressing and tilts her head at you. 

“This one?”

You look between her and the TV screen, fidgeting slightly at the realisation she can read you so easily. 

“I like it. It’s a bit sad, though… The director, Joe Wright — he made Pride and Prejudice and Hanna too.” The words come out easily, without pre-planning or any kind of filter. You blush at the unintended monologue, when a simple nod could have sufficed. 

“Was that the Pride and Prejudice with Keira Knightley?” Wanda asks, and this time you manage to contain yourself to a nod. “Oh, I love that film! I’ve not seen Hanna though, is that good too?” 

Again you nod, but you’re smiling now, feeling a little safer after her enthusiastic response. 

Wanda pulls up Atonement, but makes sure to pause it so that Natasha won’t miss any. She’s stroking your hand gently with her thumb, and it’s making you sink into the cushions behind you, finally relaxing again.

“So, who’s in Hanna?” Wanda enquires, keeping the conversation going easily, despite your reticence. You swallow, and focus on both locating the answer in your brain, and refining it into a measured response. 

“Saoirse Ronan and Cate Blanchett,” you say quietly, leaving out the other names which popped into your head. “It’s like, an action-y spy thriller.”

You shut down then, feeling you’ve said too much as a product of the concussion and the painkillers. You’re probably not even talking as coherently as you think. Wanda’s interested expression and conversational openers were most likely just polite gestures to pass the time in your company.

Natasha appears in the doorway, a welcome distraction from your ramblings. 

“Picked something?” she asks as she swans in and launches herself onto the sofa on Wanda’s other side. 

“Yes,” Wanda says, opening her arm and wrapping it round Natasha’s shoulders. Their bodies entwine effortlessly, like they’re drawn together with magnets. “Y/N recommended this one.”

Natasha leans forward to meet your gaze. 

“Rom-com?” she asks, raising her left eyebrow meaningfully. Your lips quiver into a smile as you shake your head adamantly. “Good,” Natasha sighs, then she gives you another subtle wink.

Wanda presses play and leans back, continuing to stroke your hand very gently. You try to steady your breathing and ignore the touch and the tantalising closeness of your bodies, as well as the gentle display of affection between Natasha and Wanda’s connected forms.

It’s strange, watching a film you’ve seen before in their company, and getting to witness the way they respond. Wanda is overt in her reactions: sharp intakes of breath, furrowed eyebrows and scandalised glances at you whenever there is a twist. You only see Natasha in brief glimpses, since she’s mostly obscured by Wanda. But she seems, predictably, impassive throughout. That is, until the long-take scene of Dunkirk beach.

You’re set off, as always, by the horses being shot. Wanda turns to you and squeezes your hand sympathetically when she spots the silent tears. She joins you soon enough, affected by the swelling music and the scenes of destruction. But it’s not until it cuts to inside, when Natasha clears her throat, that you get to see the effect on her.

“I’ll go and make drinks,” she announces, and Wanda pauses the film in acknowledgement. “Y/N, do you want anything?” 

You look up and see that her cheeks remain dry, but her eyes look a little misty. You wriggle your hand out of Wanda’s so you can wipe the tears out of your own.

“Um, I’m okay, I think. Thank you though.”

Natasha cocks her head and scans you, like she’s deciding for herself.

“Are you sure? I’m going to grab myself a beer, and make a peppermint tea for Wanda…”

“Yes please, my love,” Wanda cuts in gratefully. Natasha smiles cockily at her, seemingly proud of her intuition.

“…so it’s no bother. I could also get you a juice, or soda?” Natasha gives these options easily, but it’s hard for you to process, let alone make a choice. You’ve never been good at making decisions at the best of times, so it’s really no wonder you’re struggling now. Wanda strokes some hair out your face and tucks it behind your ear. It’s a sweet gesture, but it makes you blush and stops your brain computing for an additional couple of seconds.

“Maybe, could I get a peppermint tea as well, please?” you ask finally. 

Natasha nods.

“Of course. You relax ladies, I’ll be back with you momentarily.” She gives a little bow before she leaves, and you giggle at the unexpected silliness coming from such a serious-seeming person as Natasha. 

“She always does this…” Wanda tells you confidentially, as Natasha disappears into the little pantry adjoining the living room, “…leaves when she catches feelings during a movie. Nat tries her best to hide it, but she’s really a certified softie.”

You let out a tiny giggle at the disclosure, and pull your feet up onto the sofa, crossing your legs beneath you. 

Wanda turns on the sofa, mirroring your movements so she’s sitting cross-legged next to you, regarding you with a studious look.

“How are you doing, sweetheart?” she asks, serious all of a sudden. “Is this okay for you, us all sitting together and watching a movie? It’s not too much, is it?”

Looking at Wanda’s eyebrows slightly knitted together, it occurs to you that she’s worried, concerned that she’s approaching this all wrong. You don’t want her to feel bad or guilty about anything she’s doing, because although your head spins from the kindness and their close way of interacting with you, you wouldn’t reject it in your wildest dreams. Keen to assuage her worries, you shake your head quickly. Then nod ever so slightly, confused about which question you are answering, and which gesture is required. Realising your non-verbal response is only intensifying the frown she wears, you force yourself to find words amongst the fog in your head.

“I’m okay. It’s nice, being with you. I feel…” you search for the right word, somewhat regretting the sentence you’ve set up, since you now need to identify a description which is the right level of honest in depicting how you are feeling. Finally, you settle on one word; truthful and all-encompassing. “Safe.”

Wanda reaches out with both hands and encases your left hand between her palms, wrapping her fingers protectively around you. 

“I’m glad,” she replies, her voice hushed, her lips curled in a smile of relief. “I want you to feel safe here. Just… let me or Nat know if it gets too much, if you need space. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?”

You nod earnestly, glad you can give her this confirmation, this commitment in return. But really, will it ever be too much? Despite everything they’ve already done for you, there’s a shameful part of you that’s still left wanting, yearning for more. 

Natasha returns with a mug in each hand. When she spots your positions, facing each other on the sofa with Wanda’s hand wrapped around yours, there’s an odd expression that comes over her face. Something, you think with trepidation, rather like suspicion. Under the guise of preparing for the tea, you tug your hand gently away from Wanda’s grasp and start turning your body around. She lets you go at the first hint of your movement, making you wonder if she, too, feels a little caught by Natasha’s prompt return. When Natasha places a mug on the coffee table in front of you, you murmur a thanks without looking up, too ashamed to show her the colour of your cheeks. 

“Just be careful,” she warns. “It’stoo soon to be drinking it just yet.”

You glance up, and see that she’s not looking at you, but instead at Wanda. Fixing her with a meaningful look which has you worried, scared that you’ve crossed a line. But Wanda sees you looking, and smiles reassuringly at you as Natasha returns to the pantry. You bite your lip and stare at your knees, waiting self-consciously for Natasha to bring her beer back and enable the film to proceed, and everyone’s attention to leave you. 

It takes longer than you expect, but you persist in your determined downward gaze. When Natasha re-emerges, you listen to her footsteps approach, anticipating the sound of her body sinking into the sofa. But instead, the next sounds you hear are of multiple hard objects being placed on the coffee table. You flicker your eyes up slightly, to see her beer on the far side of the table, a big bowl of popcorn in the middle, and a stack of bowls beside.

“Popcorn?” Natasha asks, leaning forward once she’s sat down so she can catch your eyes. You look up sheepishly, scared to meet her gaze but more afraid of appearing rude. She seems curious rather than annoyed; when you hesitate, she continues calmly, as if trying to put you at ease. “It’s a mix of sweet and salty. I hope that’s okay.”

“Excellent,” Wanda says approvingly, setting an example by shuffling forward to the edge of the sofa and grabbing a bowl. “Do you want some, Y/N?”

“Yes please,” you whisper, shuffling forward too. “Thanks, Natasha,” you add, forcing yourself to look over at her again to give her a grateful smile, which feels rather wobbly on your lips. She smiles back though, making you feel a little better.

“You’re welcome. Dig in.”

Wanda passes a bowl to you, which you set in your lap before reaching for the popcorn. She lifts the big bowl closer to aid you, letting you grab a measured handful closer to your bowl, reducing the risk of spilling. Once Natasha has grabbed some too, Wanda checks both of you at her side, then presses play. You shuffle back to lean against the sofa cushion again, feeling your heart thudding through your chest, heartbeat still not settled since the strange moment when Natasha returned from the kitchen. You try to distract yourself with the film and the tea and the popcorn, but it takes ages to redirect your attention from the anxious thoughts. At some point, Wanda’s hand moves to rest on your bouncing knee, calming it with a gentle touch.

“Sorry,” you whisper, embarrassed by your fidgeting.

“It’s alright, sweetheart,” she reassures you. “Do you need anything? I can pause the film if you like?”

Your embarrassment intensifies at this, her unspoken implication of what you might be needing, but not expressing.

“No, it’s okay — I just fidget sometimes, without realising. I’ll stop.”

Wanda opens her mouth to reply, but then closes it again. She gives your knee a gentle pat, then removes her hand back to her lap. You feel like your leg has been staked into the ground now; you daren’t move it again for fear of further assumptions.

Eventually you fall back into the film, getting caught in the plot and the passive enjoyment of sneaking glances at Wanda and Natasha’s reactions to the twists, to the drama of it all. Wanda blurts out her emotions, letting out strangled sounds when it gets too much, whereas Natasha merely becomes more stern-looking and tense in her seat, like she’s trying not to react to the gut-wrenching events of the film.

When it finally finishes and the credits begin to roll, there’s a silence amongst the three of you. You wait, nervous to know how your recommendation was received since you feel responsible for the emotional rollercoaster it has put them through.

“Well, I’ve got to give it to you, kid,” Natasha says, looking straight ahead and running a hand through her hair. “That was the opposite of a rom-com.”

You watch her, trying to see her face and ascertain whether this is a joke, or a veiled criticism of your film choice. You’re relieved when she turns and gives you a wry grin, one eyebrow raised. 

“I enjoyed it, Y/N,” she tells you, perhaps seeing the worry in your expression. “Good choice.”

You smile back shyly, squirming a little at the attention and the positive feedback.

“Yes, it was good,” Wanda agrees. “But I think I’m owed something feel-good next time, Natasha. No more influencing Y/N to pick sad movies — my heart can’t take it.” She clutches her chest dramatically at this, but grins at you too so you can see she harbours no ill feelings over the film choice either. 

Settling back into the sofa cushions, you watch as Wanda finishes her tea and Natasha grabs another handful of popcorn. They chat a little more about the film, sharing their observations, but you’re only half listening as your body relaxes and emits a yawn.

Wanda turns to you, and smiles in a particularly soft way.

“Hmm, I think it’s time someone gets ready for bed,” she suggests gently, checking her watch. “You’re due some more painkillers around about now too, sweetheart. I’ll come up with you and help you get sorted.”

You don’t argue, because you do feel exhausted and it would be good to get some painkillers in now, before the rising pain begins to swell. So when Wanda stands up and offers her hand, you take it without hesitation and let her help you up. 

“Goodnight, Y/N,” Natasha says, looking up as she grabs the remote for the TV. “Oh — it might help to have a pillow on your side, to stop you rolling over that way. It saved me a lot of bother with my collarbone when I figured that out.”

You blink, trying to comprehend this but struggling to understand the mechanics of what she is describing in your tired state. 

“Don’t worry, darling,” Wanda reassures you. “I know what she means; I’ll sort you out.”

You nod at Wanda, then give Natasha a bashful smile.

“Goodnight,” you whisper. She smiles back at you, then turns to the TV, changing the input source and grabbing a PS5 controller from the shelf beneath the coffee table.

Wanda leads you out and up the stairs, her gentle pull against your hand an anchor in this strange scenario. Your exhaustion is making you process everything a little differently; maybe now that the day is nearing an end you are finally able to reflect on it properly, and realise how bizarre recent events have been. Today you’ve been hit by a truck, had your bike destroyed, broken your collarbone, and basically been adopted into the care of two kind, generous — gorgeous — older women. Everything has moved so fast and so slow all at once. 

“Are all your toiletries in the bathroom already?” Wanda asks, pulling you out of your thoughts. You find yourself on the landing of the top floor, Wanda hovering outside the door to the bathroom. You nod, not feeling able or willing to speak just now. She smiles at you, almost knowingly, but doesn’t move for a few seconds. You’re not sure why. She’s not letting go of your hand, and you certainly don’t want to let go of hers. 

“Okay,” she whispers, almost to herself. And then she leads you in, guiding you to sit on the edge of the bath. You sit without question — or even confusion. You’re just there, now. Listening to her movements. Waiting for her next instruction. She seems to be taking her time. Or maybe that’s you, struggling to keep up with the concussion? You’re not sure. 

“Darling, can I help you wash your face?” Wanda asks, placing a hand on your left shoulder. You tilt your head sleepily to the side, then nod. She responds to this with a gentle squeeze, then she moves away to the sink, retrieving a facecloth from the cabinet and wetting it with liquid from some bottle.

She’s so gentle, wiping away the makeup and dirt that remains on your face, and warning you before reaching your chin that it might hurt there, where it is grazed. It stings a little, but her gentle hushing sounds makes it easier to tolerate. 

Your eyes feel droopy now, and you let them flutter, not bothering to hide your exhaustion. You want to lean against Wanda’s arm but she withdraws, making you open your eyes to see where she is gone. She’s holding your toothbrush out to you, toothpaste already squeezed on it, and she encourages you to brush your teeth a bit. You do, even though you hate it, and would gladly forego this part of the routine tonight. The texture feels worse when you are this tired, and you feel the goosebumps spreading down your arms at the sensation of the bristles bending and scraping against your teeth and gums. Disgusting as always, but you’re doing it for Wanda tonight. 

When you can bear no more, you step over to the sink and spit out the toothpaste, trying not to look at your bedraggled reflection in the mirror. 

“Good job,” Wanda praises you, turning the icy shivers into warm tingles. “Now, I’m going to go get your medication and a glass of water to wash it down. Can you go to the toilet, and meet me in your room when you’re ready?”

You’re past the point of being embarrassed now, so you just nod pliantly at her request, like it’s the most normal thing in the world to be directed like this.

Wanda smiles, gives you a pat on your good shoulder, then leaves. 

It shouldn’t take long to go to the toilet and return to your room, but the process is such an upheaval now with only your non-dominant hand and your wobbly state of consciousness that by the time you’ve finished and made it across the landing, Wanda is already waiting in the doorway of your bedroom, holding the pill bottle and a glass of water. As you come in, she places the glass on the wall shelf and then shakes one pill out the bottle, before handing it to you. You take it, drop it in your mouth and push it to the back with a swallowing motion, readying it to be washed down with the glass of water she hands to you next. You gulp down some water — and with it the medication — grimacing despite your best efforts. Wanda takes the glass from you then, and delivers it to the bedside table so it’s there if you need it in the night. She also places down the pill bottle, leaving the lid unscrewed and balancing on top.

“Don’t take any more unless you wake up after three, and need another,” she tells you. But then she studies your face, and seems to doubt your reliability. “If you’re confused, you can come downstairs and get me. Anytime of the night, wake me up if you need. Natasha too. We’re here for you.”

You smile serenely at this, not really paying it much heed. You’re so ready to collapse into bed now. 

“Do you want to change into anything else?” Wanda asks, observing your clothing. You’re still in the joggers you put on earlier and the t-shirt Wanda helped you into. This will do fine. You’ll shimmy off the joggers under the covers once Wanda is gone. You can’t bear to wear anything other than underwear on your legs at night, but you’re not quite gone enough that you’ll strip in her presence. So you shake your head and focus in on trying to undo your watch from your left wrist, attempting to undo with strap with the fingers of your right hand without jarring your shoulder. Wanda intervenes at once, gently taking over, removing it from your wrist then placing it on the bedside table.

“Okay,” Wanda smiles. “Let’s get you sorted then, and try out Nat’s trick.”

She opens the duvet cover to let you slide in, and you manoeuvre with some difficulty into the bed with one arm. Once you’ve slid over, responding to Wanda’s gestures, she positions a cushion to your right side, so there’s a barrier preventing you rolling onto the sling. 

“There,” she says. “Comfortable?” 

Not really, you think. Wearing the sling is horrid, and you wish your joggers were off already, but this will do for now. So you nod amicably, and let her gently drape the duvet back over you. 

“Well, goodnight, Y/N,” Wanda says quietly. “Sleep well. And get me if you need anything, okay?”

You nod again, since she seems to need the reassurance more than you. Your eyes are fluttering so much that you doubt you’ll wake at all before morning, once you’ve drifted off. Even the ache in your collarbone is nothing to the exhaustion settled into your skeleton.

“Goodnight,” you whisper, as she leaves. She gives you one last smile as she closes the curtains over, then she turns the light off and closes the door over, not quite fully.

You let a few moments pass, hearing the receding sound of her footsteps, before you wriggle your joggers off and kick them down the bed. Now, at last, you are ready to sleep.

———

The night slips by with nothing of note to report; you remember no dreams when you wake, and you know only the stabbing pains in your shoulder and the throbbing ache throughout your body that let you know the painkillers have well and truly left your system. You groan as it overwhelms you, like a morning song of pain, it commandeers your senses entirely. Dragging yourself into a seated position, you grab the pill bottle beside you and shake it out onto the duvet cover over your lap. You take a pill from the spillage and throw it into your mouth before gulping water from the glass and swallowing it down so hastily that you splutter. 

Once it’s swallowed and the pressure in your throat recedes a little, you tidy up the mess by balancing the bottle in the recession between your legs and returning the poured out pills into their receptacle. Then you place it back on the bedside table, leaving the lid balancing on top just as Wanda did. 

You remember her guidance suddenly, and you grab your watch from the side to check the time. Twenty four minutes past six. Okay. You just need to remember that now, for calculating the doses later. Maybe you can manage that. You feel a little clearer than yesterday already. Particularly compared to last night. You shudder, trying to ward away the memories of how you behaved before bed, too scared to examine them. Trying to distract yourself, you focus on 

Maybe you should head downstairs? You’ve run out of water and you can still feel the acidic burn of the pill in your gullet. Something to eat or drink would help a lot, right now. 

You faff about a while, changing your underwear but pulling on the same joggers from yesterday, since you’d rather wear something comfy than clean at this point. Also, you feel a bit gross from the lack of showering and clean trousers won’t resolve that issue. And besides, you have no hope of changing your t-shirt with one functioning arm and half of your torso rigid with self-protective stiffness. So this dishevelled getup will have to do. 

You briefly visit the toilet before heading downstairs, though you decide to delay brushing your teeth until later. Small blessing, today. 

The floor below is very quiet, and though the door to Wanda and Natasha’s room is slightly ajar, you can’t tell whether this means they are awake, or if it was simply left open in case you needed to call upon their assistance during the night. So you don’t linger; you head down one more flight, making for the kitchen.

When you reach the bottom of the next set of stairs, you are greeted by a soft, warm presence that wraps around your legs familiarly. 

“Hey, Mayakovsky,” you whisper, stooping down with difficulty, resolving to endure the pain in order to greet him as he deserves. You are careful to offer him the same hello as yesterday, extending a closed fist with one outstretched finger for him to boop and rub against, before attempting a stroke. He lets you, purring loudly and meowing his acceptance. “It’s good to see you too,” you tell him, feeling his purrs disarm some of the pain coursing through you.

Mayakovsky gives you one last firm rub of his head against your leg, before walking over to the kitchen, turning round and meowing to maintain your attention. You see Natasha leaning over the kitchen counter, elbows resting on the marble and a steaming mug cupped between her hands. She’s watching you intently, apparently pondering your appearance. You cringe slightly at the realisation that she’s witnessed the whole interaction, seen you chatting to her deaf cat and grimacing in pain as you contorted to stroke him.

You follow Mayakovsky a little hesitantly now, greeting Natasha with an awkward smile. Her hair looks damp, like she’s just had a shower, but she’s in comfy clothes, which you assume isn’t what she will wear to work today (if, indeed, she is working today — you’re too shy to ask her any details about this).

“Good morning,” you murmur, feeling like you’re walking in on her private time, disturbing her peace.

“Morning,” she says, sipping her coffee then allowing you a small smile. “Did you sleep okay?”

You nod. “Yeah, I slept through, actually. I think I was pretty tired.”

“No wonder,” she says, lifting her elbows off the counter and standing up to her full height. She lets go of her mug with one hand and slides a document of a few A4 pages across the counter towards you. “Here, for you.”

You step forward cautiously, then spin the paper to face you. The title reads “Broken Collarbone Rehabilitation”, and you see a chunk of text, followed by an image with a description of a particular shoulder movement. 

“It’s just some exercises which helped me recover when I broke mine,” Natasha explains offhandedly. Then she leaves her mug on the counter, and begins to turn, throwing a question over her shoulder. “Coffee?”

“Thank you,” you say, looking up and smiling gratefully. Her thoughtful offering touches you, makes you feel seen and — in part — accepted. “And, um, yes please. To coffee.”

She nods neutrally, and makes her way to the coffee machine in the corner. You pull out a stool and start to sit down, before Mayakovsky’s plaintive meowing distracts you. 

“Ignore him,” Natasha advises. “He’s just hoping he can convince you to give him a second breakfast.”

You smile, and regard Mayakovsky with an apologetic look as you sit down. He quickly gives up when you turn your attention to the exercises Natasha has printed out, and scurries off towards the staircase, heading down when he reaches it. You see the door to the balcony is closed and assume he’s off to use the cat-flap downstairs, in the hopes of finding more food outside. 

The exercises Natasha has printed out are sorted into stages, with the first set being advised to start from a few days post-accident. Still, you give the first an attempt, a gentle  neck roll to the side of the injured collarbone. You hiss as you try it, finding it a lot more painful than you hoped. 

“Easy,” Natasha chuckles, turning round to see you. “If I knew you’d be so gung-ho about it, I would have saved it until next week. Wanda will kill me if she thinks I’m encouraging you to exert yourself.”

You grin bashfully, sliding the paper away a little to show you’re going to hold off for a little while longer.

“Are you always up this early?” you ask, surprising yourself a little by the sudden confidence.

Natasha nods. “I like to get up early to train. Also, I’m kind of stuck with it now - that menace of a cat has realised it’s possible to get his breakfast at 5:30 and he will not stop meowing outside our door if I’m even five minutes late for his lordship.” 

You giggle, imagining Natasha berating Mayakovsky for his manners in the morning, when they’re all alone. 

“Espresso or Americano?” Natasha asks, reverting back to the coffee chat.

“A-americano please,” you request, still finding it difficult to keep up with her tendency to swing between her serious, task-oriented self and her more silly, humorous side. She nods, and presses another button on the machine, prompting more hot water to dribble out into the mug. 

“What are you training for?” you ask, hoping this is a good question to ask to get Natasha to open up a little more.

“Nothing in particular,” she says, still watching the mug. “Partly I need to stay fit for work, partly I just enjoy it.” You’re just wondering whether it would be appropriate to ask what she does for work, now that she’s brought it up, when she diverts the conversation again. “Milk?”

“Um, a little, yes please.” There’s something about the efficient way she moves the mug to the counter and takes the milk out the fridge that makes you think that any more work chat has been relegated to off-limits again. So you don’t say any more, until she passes the mug of coffee over to you. “Thank you.”

Natasha nods in lieu of a “you’re welcome”, a habit of hers you’re beginning to pick up on. Like she feels uncomfortable being thanked, and prefers to move on swiftly.

“Do you cycle a lot?” she asks, surprising you a little that she is initiating further conversation with you. Maybe she does just find new people a bit challenging, like Wanda said? You resolve to try not to let her stiffness get to you today, and to notice the warm moments rather than the chilly ones.

“Just to commute, really. I did some mountain biking with my Dad as a kid, but I’ve never really got the chance to do any as an adult. I’d like to, though.”

“Hmm, yes, it seems like it could be fun,” Natasha considers aloud, returning to her spot but pulling out a stool this time so she can sit. 

You sip your coffee, holding back from asking more questions, or adding more detail to your answer. You want to fit in with Natasha’s morning as much as possible, not disrupt it. 

“Do you do any other sports?” she asks, tapping her nails quietly on the side of her mug. Your instant thought is that she’s bored, but then you try to re-examine your interpretation, and remind yourself not to jump to conclusions today.

“I run a bit,” you say shyly, deciding to keep it vague. Natasha nods approvingly.

“Have you ever done any martial arts?”

You frown, wondering if this is the kind of training she does. Shaking your head honestly, you tilt your head in the hopes she’ll offer more information. You’re in luck.

“You should learn how to fight, when your shoulder is better. It will help strengthen it. Boxing, or Muay Thai, they’d be good for rehabbing it later on.”

“Could you teach me?” you blurt out, immediately regretting your boldness, even before Natasha fixes you with a particular look. You feel the blush overcoming your face, and dart your eyes down to your coffee. “Sorry, I…”

“Maybe,” Natasha says, very quietly. When you look up, mainly to determine whether you actually heard that word or if she’s still staring at you in that discerning way, you see she’s standing up again, making her way to the cupboard. But just when you feel the temptation to run back upstairs taking hold of your legs, she turns back to you, looking calm and entirely unperturbed. 

“Hungry?” she asks, and you feel relief wash over you at the welcome diversion, the opportunity to distract from your impulsive thoughts spoken aloud.

Author's Note: I really hope you enjoyed this! I'm slowly adding the chapters to Tumblr but I'm very behind - at present (1st June 2025) I have 15 chapters published on AO3 but I'm only just posting this on Tumblr. If you have access to AO3 and don't want to wait, you can read more here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62001889/chapters/158556517

Thank you for reading! ♡