Hello, this is my masterlist for the fics I've written. If you'd like to request something specific, I'd be open to it! I write for Wanda Maximoff, Natasha Romanoff, and Wandanat.
Natasha Romanoff
The Color Red: Natasha hates the color red. All she needs is a change in perspective.
Wanda Maximoff
You Bury Me: A hope that one will predecease another because of how unbearable life would be without them.
Wandanat
In Trouble: A night of drinking lands you in jail with your girlfriend, Natasha. What will Wanda have to say about it when she finds out?
Lonely Days: It's normal to go a few days or weeks without seeing Wanda or Natasha. After all, your girlfriends are Avengers, off saving the world. But, they always come back to you... Right?
Peeling Back the Skin: One mission changes your life. (TW: story centers around dealing with sexual assault) Requested.
Summary: After the Scarlett Witch gets in her head and forces her to relive some of her Red Room trauma, Natasha finds comfort in you.
The cutest request in the whole wide world (that I definitely didn’t make as fluffy as I initially planned)
Author’s note: Set during that one scene in AoU. There's dissociation and a panic attack described.
Natasha finds herself walking down a grand staircase, or at least, she thinks she does. Everything looks vaguely familiar, in a haunted sort of way, and when she finishes her descent, she’s staring through a window with Madame B. at her side. Other students, younger students, ones still waiting to be broken, perform the same routine, over and over until their feet bleed in their ballet shoes. They’re numb to the pain now.
“You’ll break them,” Natasha murmurs worriedly.
“Only the breakable ones. You are made of marble. We’ll celebrate after the graduation ceremony,” Madame B. replies.
The words echo through her head as she floats away, a sense of detachment that isn’t peaceful taking over.
The world shifts.
She’s holding a gun; she’s shooting. Her aim is precise, perfect as it always has to be as she hits her mark with every bullet.
The target transitions into a man, his head covered. He’s whimpering.
“What if I fail?” Natasha asks.
“You never fail,” Madame B. reminds her.
She doesn’t hesitate. A shot rings out.
Her scenery changes again, and then there’s an arm around her throat. Natasha grunts as she struggles against the grip only to tap out, breathing heavily from exertion.
“Sloppy. Pretending to fail,” Madame B. says, disappointment blatant in her words.
Everything sounds as though it’s muffled, as though Natasha’s hearing it from underwater, or through a thick pane of glass.
“The ceremony is necessary for you to take your place in the world,” Madame B. continues.
“I have no place in the world.”
“Exactly.”
Colors are muted, washed out, desaturated.
Natasha’s being wheeled down a fluorescently lit hallway, the bright lights blinding her as she is forced to remain awake but immobilized, as she’s taken to her final procedure.
It’s okay. They’ll celebrate after.
She’s abruptly jolted out of her thoughts, her dissociation, by your voice, firm and grounding, a tether in the midst of whatever spell the Scarlett Witch cast upon her and tried to drown her in.
“Natasha, tell me five things you can see.”
Her eyes are unfocused at first, blurry and glassy with unshed tears, but at your prompt, she tries her best to glance around the Quinjet, tries to survey her surroundings, to catalogue, but everything feels as though it’s spinning. Her head hurts, her chest is tight, and her breathing begins to turn ragged when she realizes that nothing is making sense. It shudders through her body as panic replaces the now-growing-distant haze of memories.
Her heart feels like it’s slamming against her ribs so hard that her bones ache; her heart rate is spiking too high. She’s well acquainted with panic attacks, but knowing the signs isn’t doing her any good right now to help stop the one she’s currently struggling through.
Your hand moves to gently cup her cheek, trying to center her. “Natasha,” you murmur her name again before repeating your request, “Tell me five things you can see. You can do it.”
It takes a few moments—her throat feels scratchy, like it’s closing in, like she can’t form words—but you’re patient; you don’t pressure her.
“L-lights,” Natasha finally stutters out in between shaky breaths, eventually seeing the blinking coming from the control panels on the ceiling. She looks around again weakly. “Cockpit.” There’s another pause as she searches for anything else whose recognition will break through the continuous pull of disorientation. “Clint, w-window, you.”
“Good,” you praise, “Now, four things you can touch.” Your thumb rubs soothing circles along her cheekbone.
“Th-the seat, the wall, m-my suit, you.”
“Three things you can hear,” you prompt next, wanting to keep her speaking.
Natasha strains to hear, attempting to focus, attempting to listen to anything besides the way her heartbeat is thumping loudly in her ears. It’s hard, but she manages. “Engines, Tony and Steve t-t-talking, you.” Her voice trembles over her words.
You press on. “Two things you can smell.”
She takes in an attempt at a measured breath through her nose, and the action further steadies her uneven breathing, her heaving chest. “Metal,” she mumbles, and when she inhales again, she gets a whiff of your shampoo, soft and subtle, comforting. “You.”
“You’re doing so well,” you respond to her softly, giving her a hopefully reassuring smile. “Last one, Natasha. One thing you can taste.”
She falters. One thing she can taste? There’s no true taste in her mouth. Nothing but…
Her breathing quickens once more as the walls of the jet seem to suddenly be both tilting and creeping closer at the same time. She swears that she can still taste the metallic tang of blood, splattering across her lips, from the different people she'd killed while she was in the Red Room; she’s positive that can still taste the chemical bitterness that the smell of antiseptic layered on her tongue when they rolled her to her procedure. She remembers it all too vividly.
“I can’t-” Natasha whimpers out.
You interrupt her gently. “You can, you can. Breathe, Natasha. What’s one thing you can taste?”
There’s more hesitation from her, more fear and feeling like she’s small and back there again.
Her mind clouds over with desperation. She needs something to take it all away; anything. And you’re the constant—not just right now but always. You’ve always been there for her. You’re the sight, the touch, the sound, the smell… and Natasha can’t help but think that you should be the taste too. Then she’s acting without considering whether or not it’s a good idea.
Her lips are on yours.
You make a surprised noise in the back of your throat at the sudden and unexpected touch before your hand shifts to gently cradle her jaw and hold her to you as you kiss her back.
You pull away after only a brief second, not fully understanding and not wanting to push or make things worse for the woman who you know is crumbling before you, who’s becoming unglued in a way that you hope will still allow for you to help put her back together.
“One…” you trail off, faltering temporarily, still trying to gain your bearings after the kiss. “One thing you can taste,” you try another time.
what is with this new wave of short ass drabbles with porn and zero plot what happened to yearning?? what happened to build up?? what happened to the character being absolutely down bad for reader?? what happened to the 10k words fics?? screaming crying and throwing up i miss it
Natasha romanoff deserved her own trilogy. There so so so much to say about what she lived before and during the red room. Even after it, during her defection at S.H.I.E.L.D. she deserves to be seen as much as the other OG 6 and I will die on this hill.
