always a little funny to me when filmbros are vehemently anti fanfiction but love to discuss film theories. Maybe my theory is that the 2 main guys sucked each other off. And swallowed
when you show up to the met gala you should immediately be faced with a panel of fashion experts and art historians before you even get to the red carpet and you have to explain your outfit choice and why it is on theme for that year’s event like you are defending a phd and if you can’t produce a coherent defence they turn you away at the door and the people of manhattan are allowed and encouraged to throw rotten produce at you as you get back into your car in shame
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: After a tragic incident, Natasha does what she can to make things better.
Word count: 2.7k
Featuring: slow burn, emerging D/s dynamics, mommy kink, praise kink, copious pet names, reader being incredibly naive, Natasha being a secret softie, Wanda being a menace.
A/N: I'm so excited to finally release another b-side! This one is dedicated to @xenaizogie for being my first supporter on ko-fi. Her kind tip meant I could have a free mocha in the cafe while writing this afternoon! Many thanks for your generosity ♡
Natasha was already awake when she heard the soft padding of your feet, crossing the landing and passing their bedroom door. She put down her book quietly, careful not to rouse Wanda before her Sunday alarm, then tiptoed out of the room to find you.
You had already descended the stairs by the time she closed the door behind her. So she followed slowly, not wanting to startle you at this early hour.
Natasha gave a cursory look around the ground floor, but was unsurprised to only see Mayakovsky, lying by the patio door with his eyes closed and tail lightly flicking. She had fed him already, then slipped back into bed to read. Sundays were her slow days, and while she tried to enjoy them, she wasn’t upset to have been drawn out by another early bird.
Descending again, she reached the basement floor, where she spotted movement in the utility room. There you were: crouching in front of the washing machine and pushing a bundle of sheets into the drum with your one hand. You rocked a little on your tiptoes with the movement, like a little rabbit getting ready to leap.
Natasha carefully drew closer, watching you stand up, close the door, then look in the cupboard. You found a detergent and poured it in the drawer, then replaced it back in the cupboard. Then your fingers hovered, selecting another bottle. You opened the lid and lifted it up to your nose, breathing in the scent. She could see just enough of your profile to spot your lips lifting into a contented smile.
Natasha recognised the fabric conditioner as the one Wanda liked to use on her clothes. The realisation made her heart ache a little, as she watched you pout it in the drawer, return it to its place, then start the cycle.
Then you turned, and Natasha didn’t have to plan the smile she gave you. It just broke out when she saw how you lit up at the sight of her. Your genuine delight to see her tugged at Natasha’s lips and made her return your smile with such warmth that even her own cheeks felt aglow.
Natasha recruited you to help with breakfast, and couldn’t help but continue smiling at the way you listened to her instructions with such avid attention. Something about you seemed extra endearing to her today — though perhaps she was still on the post-sex high. Yes, Natasha thought, as she noticed your tongue sticking out slightly as you focussed on mixing the batter and felt her feelings fizzle, that must be it. She ought to be careful today: careful not to cross any lines — or let Wanda run away with her desires. After three days of barely touching, they had both been a little feral yesterday. It was lucky you hadn’t noticed, lucky you hadn’t put the pieces together.
Or maybe not lucky — maybe it was just your nature.
Pilates and laundry day. What a sweet, naive little girl you truly were.
Natasha caught herself with a frown.
Exactly that, she thought, kicking herself internally. That’s exactly the sort of thought you shouldn’t be having.
Feral was certainly the word. And if Natasha felt like that, then Wanda must surely be feeling even less contained.
It didn’t take long for her theory to be proven true. Wanda walked in while you were mixing, and immediately gravitated to you and wrapped her arm around your back. Natasha could see her wife’s almost dreamlike smile. She was definitely still on a high. No wonder, really, given the orgasms Natasha had pulled out from her yesterday. They hadn’t had sex quite that charged in a while. It had been electric. And it seemed to sizzle still.
Wanda moved away to set the table before Natasha felt obliged to intervene. So she walked over to you and handed over a ladle, entrusting you with the job of making the first blini. You seemed nervous, and she reassured you. That triggered a conversation, with you sharing a memory, then asking about her own.
It surprised Natasha that she didn’t immediately shut down when you asked about her childhood. Usually it was a topic which she avoided at all costs, employing a range of tactics to evade. Wanda was the only person, beyond the people who experienced it with her, who knew. The pain was very private, difficult to explain and share. But somehow, she found that she wanted to answer you, wanted to bestow the same trust and fragility in you, which you so sweetly offered to them.
So she told you a little; how she and Yelena had moved first to the States, then back to their homeland. How young they had been.
Then her throat closed up, and she was glad that you didn’t ask any more, and glad that Wanda stepped in to support you with the blini. It gave Natasha a moment to turn away, a moment to compose herself and bury the memories once more.
She cared about you enough to offer a glimpse. That meant something. Even if she had to close up the shutters and lock them tightly after that brief release.
Natasha took some deep breaths, staring down at the dining table and straightening the utensils to be perfectly parallel.
Then you swept past, and her brain caught up just enough to process the words she had heard in the background before you moved to leave.
She watched you go, trying to interpret the look she had seen on your face as you passed her and accidentally caught her eye. Once you had disappeared down the stairs, Natasha turned to her wife.
“What happened?”
The guilty look on Wanda’s face was enough to cement her suspicions, but she waited for the explanation all the same.
“I’m not sure… I was touching her waist. Nothing inappropriate — she just got flustered, I think.”
“Wanda…”
“I know, I know. I’ll calm it down, my love. I promise.”
“You’d better,” Natasha growled, stepping in and trying not to smile, “or I’ll have to think of a more… effective lesson.”
Wanda’s face flooded with colour and she let out a little moan as Natasha grabbed her by the hips, manoeuvred her around and then pinned her against the kitchen island.
“You’re playing with fire,” Natasha whispered directly into Wanda’s ear.
“I know,” Wanda replied, throwing her head back and allowing her hair to dangle and shine in the morning light. Natasha stared at the pale, enticing skin of Wanda’s neck, and swallowed down the desire to mark it with her teeth.
Instead, she did the only thing which always proved effective in managing her wife’s impulsive behaviour. She stepped away, and smirked when she heard Wanda’s disappointed moan.
“Behave,” Natasha intoned, before turning around and taking over at the stove.
It took a few moments before Wanda’s breathing calmed down behind her; those long shaky breaths were audible to Natasha’s keen ears, even amongst the sounds of the kitchen.. Natasha’s heart was still beating fast too, but she’d trained for years to conceal how she felt inside. It came in handy sometimes. Not that it was in any way worth what the honing of those skills had cost.
She lost herself in making blini after blini for a while, seeking the perfect circle and the most golden colour. A stack gathered on a plate beside the pan, and Natasha lost track of how long it took before you returned. When she heard your shuffling footsteps, it was like Wanda had read her mind; she directed you to sit, just as Natasha had been thinking to instruct. Then Wanda swapped the filled plate for another, giving her wife a quick kiss of greeting. Natasha smirked at the pan, knowing this was Wanda’s attempt to make her forget their little disagreement before. They knew each other so well — too well to get anything past each other.
Breakfast went by with many caring interventions from Wanda, none of which quite crossed the line to deserve a look from her wife. There was plausible deniability for all of it: you truly couldn’t manage to cut your food up with one hand, and it was tricky to reach things on your right side. The help was warranted, certainly. But the comment Natasha heard when she went to get the second plate from the oven… that was pushing it. Even if you couldn’t sense the undertones, Natasha certainly understood what Wanda was insinuating. Messy, indeed.
When Natasha returned to the table, she gave Wanda a single, meaningful look, letting her know that the comment had been heard. Both you and Wanda seemed to avoid each other’s gazes from that point, making Natasha wonder whether you had perhaps noticed something, after all. So she tried to distract from it, talking about the day to come, and enthusiastically adding toppings to her next helping. Slowly, you brightened, and by the time everyone had finished eating, you seemed your usual buoyant self: eagerly helping to clear the table, and smiling happily between them.
Natasha started loading the dishwasher while Wanda took you up the stairs to get changed. She hoped nothing more would happen. Hopefully the threat in the kitchen, and the look at the table, had been enough to quell Wanda’s thrill-seeking.
You seemed lucid enough when you came back downstairs and joined Natasha on the sofa. Wanda poked her head in a few minutes later and bid the two of you goodbye with a mere wave and a smile — far more appropriate. Overall, things seemed to be improving. You seemed more settled, and Wanda was slowly becoming more responsive to reminders about her decorum.
It was all going so well. Natasha played a video game, while you curled up in the opposite corner of the sofa, scrolling on your phone and then tapping away at the screen, seemingly messaging someone. Possibly your new friend?
The washing machine beeped, and you sprang up. Natasha offered to help, but didn’t push when you declined. It was important that you had some freedom and independence. Especially when your injury — and sometimes Wanda’s approach — limited your options in that realm.
In her periphery, Natasha could see you placing down a basket, then crouching down at the washing machine and opening the door. You kept moving as expected, pulling stuff out the machine — when suddenly all movement stopped. Natasha paused her game and turned her head a few degrees, so she could see you more clearly, without staring front on.
You seemed frozen, staring at the basket. Then the freeze began to thaw into a tremble — and Natasha knew that something was wrong, even before you stood up and began to run. Her instincts were so jumbled — should she call after you? Follow? Wait?
She was beginning to notice that your feelings seemed to bring out her own in a terrifying, uncontrolled way. The slightest hint of your panic registered in her chest, like a mirror. And she seemed to lose herself and any sense of what to do when you were like this.
Wanda always knew what to do to help in the moment. But Wanda always lived in the moment, never thinking about consequences. Natasha couldn’t let go of strategising and weighing up odds. It was her automatic nature, and usually felt so easy. But with you? She just couldn’t predict it; she couldn’t see the future with any clarity at all.
It scared her.
At a loss of what to do, she resorted to basics.
When in doubt, assess. Take stock.
She stood up, and walked over to the washing machine. Something there had spooked you, had made you run away. What on earth could it be? A spider? A stain?
Natasha carefully lifted layers of fabric until she felt something strange between her fingers. Something heavy, furry, and soaking wet. She unearthed it and stared at the dark grey, dripping object. It had long floppy ears, glassy black eyes and a black stitched nose and smile. A little rabbit. No doubt this was the cause of your upset: an unexpected stowaway, not meant for the washing machine.
Natasha stood up, still staring at the soft toy. For a few seconds, she felt a flickering in her brain as the memory fought to resurface.
Ohio.
Yelena.
A pink pony.
Natasha’s legs began to wobble, and she slid to the floor before she could fall.
She remembered now, how Yelena had run to grab the toy before they left in such a hurry. Eleven year-old Natasha — older, harder — had grabbed a photo. But little Yela had grasped onto that pink stuffed creature, just as tightly as Natasha clung to her sister, trying to protect her from the world.
What became of that pony? Was she ripped away from Yelena, just as the two of them were ripped apart that day?
Something wet trickled down Natasha’s cheek.
Wanda would tell her that it wasn’t weak to feel.
Feelings hurt, though.
Natasha allowed herself a minute to cry. She timed it, counting out the seconds in her head and keeping note of the four tears which trickled down in that time. Enough.
She stood up, holding the rabbit in one hand as she found a dry towel to swaddle it in. Then she moved back to the sofa, picked her phone up off the coffee table, and began to investigate.
How to dry a stuffed toy after washing.
Of all the things in her search history, this had to be the biggest, oddest outlier.
She read through various pages and discussion threads, absorbing information like a sponge. Then she followed the most reliable instructions: pressing out the water with paper towels, trying not to twist or squeeze too much. She worked on one bit at a time, starting with the ears, which were lined with a pretty blue floral fabric. Then she worked on the head, which seemed terribly fragile, wobbling on the body as if the washing machine had broken its neck. The head took a while to do safely. Then the arms, and the legs, and the squishy tummy and fluffy tail. It took a lot of paper towels, which gathered in a mound of moisture on the table. Then she used the soft hand towel, repeating the same process. After that came the hairdryer, blowing from a few inches away, on the lowest setting.
She wondered, all the while, how you must be feeling upstairs all alone. Were you crying? Sleeping? Curled up in a hopeless ball?
There was no point going up to see you, not until she had resolved it. What comfort could she give if your rabbit was ruined? Just say sorry? Surely that wouldn’t be enough. Would it be appropriate, in that situation, to offer to buy another? Or would that be offensive somehow, suggesting it was replaceable?
No; better that I am here, Natasha thought. This I can do.
Natasha’s capacity for precision and patience paid off at this point; it was a long process. She wouldn’t be doing it for just anyone, or anything. But it was clear how much the rabbit meant to you. And as she dried it, she realised quietly that this must mean that you meant quite a lot to her already too.
“Hello!”
Natasha turned to find Wanda, her smile slowly shifting to confusion and then concern as she took in the scene. Natasha, alone, drying a stuffed toy.
“She put her sheets on to wash this morning,” Natasha explained, “and when she took them out… well, she was very upset. She ran upstairs, and I found this in the basket.”
“Oh dear,” Wanda sighed, her face crumpling. “Poor thing.”
Natasha merely nodded, then turned back to the hairdryer, continuing with her mission.
“Have you been up to see her?” Wanda asked, making Natasha turn back.
“No. I’ve been trying to dry the rabbit.”
Wanda looked a little exasperated, which surprised her.
“What?”
“How long has she been up there, Nat?”
“I’m not sure… maybe an hour or so?” Natasha checked her watch. “Ah. Okay, almost two hours.”
“Oh my god… I love you, my darling — but you are so very Russian sometimes.”
“What is that supposed to…?”
“Never mind. I’ll go up, you carry on resurrecting the rabbit.”
“Right.” Natasha frowned. “Was I supposed to go up?”
Wanda laughed lightly, then approached and gave Natasha a kiss.
“Next time, yes,” she said, eyes sparkling with mirth. “Sympathy, then solutions, my love.”
A/N: Thank you so much for reading! Please let me know what you think, it will help motivate me to write more 🥹
Tip Jar: https://ko-fi.com/whisperofaflame
Taglist: (comment below if you'd like to be added to this/if I've missed a previous request!) @nessheartnat ; @valerie-lexi ; @redheadsinmybed ; @electric-guillotines ; @naominanuq ; @alpalpym ; @dreaming-potato ; @snowazul ; @deathbylesbianwitches ; @queen-of-chaotic-surprises ; @loverluzer ; @methealt ; @theslutoflasignora ; @godhatesgoodgirls ; @absolutelyregal ; @ciaoooooo111 ; @marvel-posts ; @twentyonetornmyheart ; @mamaslostlittlebunny ; @sevikasoneandonlywife ; @yelldontwhisper
"don't assign human morality to non human things" is so true except when it comes to printers. they know what they are, they understand dilemmas and ethics and morality. they choose to be how they are, they choose to be evil, at their very core they are rotten
they made the argument about how since fan art is drawn from a piece of media that isn't the artist's own property then why should they have to credit since it's stolen property.
...people really are kind of...stupid, y'know? because by that logic, if you write a fic and i plagiarise it then it's not wrong for me to do because you wrote a fic based on someone else's intellectual property. 🤷🏾♀️ so it's not yours. 🤷🏾♀️
and avoiding to put credit because it'll "ruin the aesthetic of your post" is childish stinky aura highschool behavior. grow up. credit these artists, or don't use their art at all.
bastard sounds great in an irish accent. if an irish person calls you a 'daft bastard' it just feels right
the welsh have the monopoly on things ending in hell. fuckin hell and bloody hell hit different in a welsh accent. its like music to my ears
the scots have piss and shite for sure. "its pishin it doon out there" "this is a load of shite" absolute poetry
if i may speak for the english i think we do penis related words very well. dickhead, knobhead, twat, etc.
and for all the shit we give them, you gotta admit that no one can deliver a 'goddamn' quite like an american. theres a certain weight to it that you just cant achieve in other accents. when an american says goddamn you know shit just got real
& you know what it actually IS lifechanging to smile at strangers & say please & thank you & goodmorning & compliment someones outfit & help someone in need & be more accepting of loving other people just because they are other people!!!
