૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა PEOPLE I WILL WRITE FOR: Wanda Maximoff, Natasha Romanoff, Kate Bishop, Agatha Harkness, Carol Danvers, Possibly others if requested ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა
૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა THINGS I WILL WRITE FOR: Legal age gap, Mommy/Daddy kink, smut, fluff, AMAB/intersex (only for characters not reader), pregnancy, breeding kink, praise kink, degration kink, thigh riding, dark fics, sensitive topics, cnc, lactation kink, anal play, ABO, will only write sub reader, and more just to name a few ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა
૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა PLEASE IF REQUESTING A CHARACTER WITH A PENIS PUT AMAB, INTERSEX, OR PUT THAT THAT JUST HAVE A PENIS. THE OTHER TERM USED CAN BE OFFENSIVE PLEASE IF REQUESTING A CHARACTER WITH A PENIS PUT AMAB, INTERSEX, OR PUT THAT THAT JUST HAVE A PENIS. THE OTHER TERM USED CAN BE OFFENSIVE ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა
૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა THINGS I WILL NOT WRITE: Incest, pedophilia, men x reader, male!reader, amab/intersex reader, underage, dom reader, and more that I can't think of ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა
Taken Emojis 🐾🦝🍓🐨🐭🐺🦈
૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა THIS IS AN 18+ BLOG! MINORS DNI! AGELESS OR BLANK BLOGS WILL BE BLOCKED! ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა
If I'm uncomfortable with your ask I will probably delete it.
And if you don't like what I write don't read it.
All warnings will be in the fics, I may miss some but anything that could be triggering will be stated.
Summary: You have a chronic illness that wrecks havoc on your body. This means spending time in the ED, but it's not so bad when the love of your life is the attending.
word count: 929
Warnings: chronic illness flare, hospital setting, medical procedures, IV insertion, blood draw mention, pain episode, hospitalization themes, medical anxiety, emotional hurt/comfort, caregiving dynamics
Authors note: Here is the first chapter of my series that you guys voted for! I'll be getting it set up so Fridays is when the chapters will post! Also I'm a chronic illness girl but I will be keeping things vague so everyone can enjoy
7:00 a.m. – 8:00 a.m.
The Pitt was already awake and snarling by the time you arrived.
You’d come in with Baran for her 7:00 a.m. shift, the two of you walking through the sliding doors together. She was in fresh scrubs, you were leaning heavily on her arm as she called out for someone to help her. Another flare. Same unpredictable beast that had lived in your body for years. Baran hadn’t even hesitated when you told her you needed to come in this morning; she’d simply grabbed her keys, helped you into the car, and driven you here herself.
“Hey sweetheart. Another flare?” Cassie came up with that sympathetic look on her face. You nodded in response as you sat at one of the triage chairs. McKay pulled up your file, Baran next to her giving the orders to her senior resident.
Your head lulled a bit as Cassie had Mateo get your IV in. They took blood and you whined out, “Noooo my blood…Mateo how could you?” You joked, making him laugh.
“Even when you feel like shit you’re here cracking jokes.” He set the vials down on the tray before getting your drip going.
Baran and Cassie talked quietly about what to do next and about trying to get you a room upstairs,
“Last night was bad. We’re still dealing with the same ones. I’ve still got patients from the past three days waiting for beds in the ICU.” Cassie told her. Baran made a tsk noise and whispered a curse in Farsi under her breath.
You gave a soft smile, reaching for her hand and brushing your thumb over the back of her hand. “It’s okay. We’ll figure it out.”
ﮩـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ
Now you were tucked into Bay 8, curtain half-pulled, monitors already singing their familiar tune. Baran stood beside your gurney, one hand resting on your leg while she reviewed the intake notes on the computer.
“Labs are still processing,” she murmured, glancing at you. “Pain?”
“Six out of ten and climbing,” you admitted. “The ride over didn’t help.”
She nodded once, already typing in an order for IV fluids and pain medication. Her shift hadn’t even officially started yet, but she moved with the quiet authority of someone who knew every inch of this department.
Whitaker poked his head in. “Dr. Al-Hashimi, they’re asking for you at the desk—”
“Thank you Doctor Whitaker, give me five minutes,” she said without looking up, tone leaving no room for argument. The resident vanished.
Baran turned back to you, softening immediately. She brushed her fingers along your cheek, she could feel the flush from the pain, then leaned down and pressed a slow kiss to your forehead.
“I hate that we’re starting the day like this,” she whispered against your skin. “But I’ve got you. Same as always.”
You caught her hand and held it against your chest, right above your heart. “I know. I’m sorry I ruined your morning.”
“You didn’t ruin anything.” Her thumb stroked your skin. “You’re exactly where I want you to be when you’re not feeling well, somewhere I can keep an eye on you. You and I both know if I had left you alone like this you’d try to drive yourself here eventually.”
“I would-” You tried but she cut you off,
“You’re right darling you would.” She smirks, joking with you before kissing your forehead once more. “I’ll be back when I can. If you need something, hit your call button.”
ﮩـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ
The morning rush was building outside the curtain, ambulances pulling up, the overhead paging doctors, Trinity Santos’s voice already barking orders somewhere nearby, but inside your space it was just the two of you. Baran adjusted your blanket, checked your vitals herself, and stayed close while the meds started dripping in.
Around 7:40 Princess came by talking with Baran about the situation upstairs and trying to get you a bed, but this is the PTMC and with the conversation you heard earlier a bed could take hours or even days if you’re unlucky.
“Still no beds,” she said quietly, reading the look on your face. “But I’m already on it. You’re not spending the whole day down here if I can help it.”
You smiled tiredly, squeezing her hand. “I get to watch you work for a while. That’s not the worst thing.”
Baran’s lips curved, tired but fond. She stole a quick, soft kiss making sure to be careful, aware of the open curtain and the growing noise of the department.
“Behave,” she teased gently. “Or at least pretend to while I go sign in and check the board. I’ll be back before 8. Let me or Princess know if the pain gets worse.”
“I will.”
She lingered another moment, forehead resting against yours, then straightened her scrubs and stepped back into attending mode. Before she slipped out, she glanced back at you once more, she was putting on a brave face, but you saw it behind her eyes even if no one else did. She was worried for you, her wife.
Once you were alone you looked down at your left hand, the thick band made of tungsten, Your wedding ring. Those vows felt like forever ago, but Baran had taken to those vows long before they were official.
The Pitt was picking up speed around you, but at least for the first hour you’ve been here, your wife has made sure you felt safe, seen, and loved through it all as she has since your first encounter.
Summary: Trinity asks you to come over for the weekend, she leaves the door open for you to say no...but why would you want to?
word count: 1K
Warnings: 18+, MDNI, internalized homophobia (if you squint at the beginning), smut, teasing, begging, edging, fingering, aftercare
Authors note: I have been struggling on how I wanted to go with my first fic. I'm happy with this and I have 2 other separate ideas in the works and possibly a second part to this.
ou’re barely holding it together at the nurse’s station, pretending to focus on your notes, when she leans against the counter beside you, too close, too casual.
“Hey Y/L/N,” she says, voice low, playful.
You already know that tone.
You don’t look at her right away. “Hi, Dr. Santos.”
“Mm,” she hums, clearly unimpressed with the formality. Then, softer just for you,
“Did you still wanna come over my place?”
That gets your attention.
You glance at her, heart skipping despite yourself.
Santos smirks, leaning in just enough that her shoulder brushes yours.
“Huckleberry’s gonna be gone all weekend,” she continues, voice dipping into something sultry, tempting. “Means we get the place to ourselves… spend all our time in bed.”
Your breath catches.
Because with her and it’s easy.
There’s no hiding. No careful distance. No pretending you don’t exist the second someone walks by.
With Santos, you’re not a secret.
You’re wanted. Openly.
“You’re terrible,” you mutter, trying (and failing) to sound unaffected.
She grins. “And yet you’re thinking about it.”
You are.
God, you are.
She doesn’t rush you.
That’s the worst part.
Trinity just stays there, close enough that you can feel the warmth of her through your scrubs, like she knows exactly what she’s doing to you and has all the time in the world to let it sink in.
“C’mon,” she murmurs, nudging your arm lightly with hers. “Don’t overthink it.”
You huff out a quiet breath, eyes dropping back to your notes even though you’re not reading a single word.
“I have an early shift tomorrow,” you try, weakly.
“Yeah,” she says easily. “So do I.”
You finally look at her again.
She’s watching you, like, really watching you now. Not the teasing, surface-level smirk she gives everyone else. This is different. Softer. Intent.
It makes your stomach flip.
“You’re dangerous,” you mutter.
Her grin comes back, slower this time. “Only if you want me to be.”
Your pulse jumps.
God.
She straightens just a little, but her hand lingers on the counter right next to yours close enough that your fingers almost brush if either of you moved an inch.
“You could say no,” she adds, voice quieter now. “I’d let you.”
There’s something honest in that. No pressure. No games.
Just… an open door.
And that might be what undoes you.
Because she’s right, you could say no.
You should.
But instead, your hand shifts, just slightly, until your pinky barely grazes hers.
You feel the exact moment she notices.
Her breath catches. Just for a second.
“…That a yes?” she asks, softer than you’ve ever heard her.
You swallow, heart pounding, and finally, finally, let yourself meet her eyes fully.
“Yeah,” you say, barely above a whisper. “It’s a yes.”
For once, Trinity Santos doesn’t have a comeback.
Just that look, like she’s already thinking three steps ahead, already picturing it.
Then she pushes off the counter, all confidence snapping back into place.
“Good,” she says, casual again, but her hand brushes yours on purpose this time. “Don’t make me wait, doc.”
And just like that, she walks off.
Leaving you standing there, completely wrecked… and counting down the hours until your shift ends.
⋆｡˚☤🩺✧˖°.
Her left arm wraps around the curve of your back as you arch under her touch. Her right hand slowly works you up because of course Trinity loves to tease you, pushing you right up against the edge and then pulling back. She'll do it again and again until youre begging and pleading for her to fuck you.
You barely open your eyes, pupils blown and tears streaming down your cheeks as small noises make their way out of you.
“Youre so fucking beautiful like this. Look at you falling apart so easily for me baby.” Her voice is smooth and sultry as she brings you to the edge again.
“Fuck! Trin! Please please fuck can I cum? Please Trinity fuck…ive been so good please please!” You beg as you gripped at her soft sheets that you've thoroughly soaked from how wet she's made you. She's been working you over for hours now you're sure of it.
“Awwww look at my pathetic fuck doll.” She smirks, her fingers working faster, hitting all your spots just right. “Go on, baby doll. Cum for me.”
When she gives you the permission to you're squeezing around her finger, your juices soaking her fingers and hand, more so than before.
She's made you a panting, sweaty, fucked out mess beneath her, but truly you wouldnt want it any other way.
She moves herself slightly, slowly letting you rest on the bed as you breathe heavily.
You close your eyes, trying to catch your breath as she goes to grab a cloth real quick. The routine was simple and the same everytime; you liked that with Trinity. It was safe and secure. You knew underneath her rough exterior she just wants someone to want her.
She starts cleaning you up, your body twitching involuntarily from being sensitive.
“Shhhh its okay baby ive got you. You did so well for me tonight.” Her voice was soft in a way you knew no one at work would ever get to hear.
Soon enough she's helping you drink water as you curl up into her side.
“Okay what does my baby want? Chinese or Pizza for dinner tonight?” She asks with a small smirk.
“Mmmmm Chinese. The one we got from last time,” you roll a little bit, more on top of her now, “I liked how they made the rice last time. It was perfect with that spice and the flavor was amazing.”
She chuckles and rubs your back as she grabs her phone.
“Okay, okay and why dont you pick what we watch?” She asks, raising a brow.
“ER!” You excitedly call out.
“We work in an ED all day…”
“Yeah but its fun to make fun of the things they get wrong!” You roll over again, onto your back, but across her lap.
“That is very true. I get to call them idiots.” She looks at you with a knowing smirk that makes you giggle. That makes her laugh and honestly…you wouldnt trade getting to hear that for anything.
I'm craving just a lazy day in. Fucking on and off all day. Movies and food in-between. Watching the movie and Mommy gets handsy. End up fucking again. That sounds like an amazing day to me. Then staying in the next day too because I can't walk.
(Just finished Teen Wolf with my gf @scarlethexelove and Lydia is the LOML. We both simped for this woman when on screen so I felt compelled to make this)
FBI Agent!Wanda Maximoff x small town diner waitress!fem!reader
She was just here for a case...you kept telling yourself she had so many more important things to worry about, but she found time everyday to come visit you while she was here investigating a murder...
Mommy!Wanda Maximoff x Natasha Romanoff x Chronically ill!autistic!fem!reader
Summary: Sometimes love looks like missteps and sometimes it looks like standing in the corner, shaking, without the language to explain why and sometimes it looks like being seen anyway.
Word Count: 1.9K
Warnings: Mommy!Wanda Maximoff, poly dynamics (reader dating Wanda, not Natasha), autistic!reader, chronically ill!reader, caregiver dynamics, autistic shutdown, sensory overload, nausea, gentle discipline, emotional vulnerability, hurt and comfort, domestic intimacy, established relationship, soft Natasha Romanoff
Authors note: I woke up at like six and couldn't sleep for an hour. I started thinking about this dynamic cause I tend to not feel well like this when I have to go to work, which sucks.
You felt the AC hitting thr back of your neck, sending goosebumps through your body. You hadn't had the best of days. It had started rough with bouts of nausea. You had to get up for work so you took a few different pills before getting ready and hoping they'd actually work today. You hadn't communicated properly to Wanda all day so when you finally came over to her place after work and she was still in her home office doing paperwork you became rather whiny since you were at your limit for talking which got you sent to the corner.
You're not sure if it's better or worse that she didn't make you face the corner as tears welled up in your eyes as you stood there just wanting her. No matter how hard you tried, words just weren't happening and whining was making it worse.
That is until Natasha walks through the door, you scowl a bit. You and Natasha bumped heads a lot and you weren't with her. Just Wanda. They'd opened up their marriage in hopes to find someone for the both of them and yet Natasha allowed this, allowing you to just be with her wife.
"Wands, why is she in the corner? She looks like a kicked puppy."
"She isn't communicating properly and so I sent her there." Wanda spoke without looking up. Natasha looked you over, really looked you over.
"Wands." Natasha spoke, a sturdier pitch to make Wanda look at her wife. "Look at her. I don't think she can right now."
Natasha waits until Wanda actually looks at you.
Really looks.
Your shoulders are up around your ears, fingers twisted into the hem of your shirt so tight your knuckles are pale. Your breathing is shallow, uneven, the kind that says you’re holding yourself together with thread and stubbornness. There’s a sheen of sweat at your hairline despite the AC blasting, your stomach audibly protesting as you swallow back another wave of nausea.
You don’t move. You don’t speak. You just… tremble. Wanda’s chest tightens immediately.
“…malyshka?” she murmurs, tone softening without her meaning to.
Natasha steps closer, crouching slightly so she’s at your eye level without invading your space. She keeps her hands behind her back open, non-threatening.
“Hey,” she says quietly. “You’re not in trouble right now. Okay?” Your lower lip wobbles. A sound tries to come out, something between a whine and a sob, but it dies in your throat. You shake your head, overwhelmed, eyes glassy. Natasha exhales through her nose and straightens, turning to Wanda. “She’s past words,” she says firmly. “This isn’t bratty. This is a shutdown.”
Wanda’s breath stutters. She’s out of her chair in an instant.
“Oh…oh no,” Wanda says, guilt flooding her voice as she crosses the room. “Malyshka, Mama didn’t realize… I’m sorry. I should’ve checked in. I should have felt it.”
You flinch slightly when she gets close, not because you don’t want her, but because everything feels like it’s too much. Wanda freezes immediately, hands hovering in the air.
“Okay,” she whispers. “Okay, Mama’s here. I won’t touch unless you want me to.”
Natasha watches the exchange carefully. There’s something in her gaze that softens, not jealousy, not resentment, but concern.
“She must have been nauseous all day,” Natasha says gently. “Look at her. She’s exhausted.” You’re surprised Natasha says it first. Eyes flicking to the red head and then back at Wanda.
Wanda nods rapidly, eyes shining. “Baby, can you give me anything? Color? Sound? Point?”
Your fingers twitch. Slowly, shakily, you lift one finger and point at Wanda. A soft, broken sound leaves her chest. As if she should have known immediately, as if she should have just looked up for a moment and noticed before Natasha walked in.
“Okay,” Wanda says immediately. “You want Mama.” She turns her head slightly. “Nat… can you turn the AC down a bit? It’s too cold for her.”
Natasha doesn’t hesitate. She adjusts the thermostat, then grabs the soft throw blanket off the couch and drapes it loosely over your shoulders—careful, gentle, like she’s handling something fragile and precious.
“There,” she murmurs. “Better.”
You sag a fraction under the weight of it, tears finally spilling over. Wanda closes the remaining distance and pulls you into her chest, slow and deliberate so you can pull away if you need to. You don’t. You cling, burying your face against her shirt, whining softly as the day crashes down on you all at once.
“I’ve got you,” Wanda croons, rocking you gently. “You’re safe. You don’t need words. Mama understands now.”
Natasha watches you melt into Wanda’s arms—and something shifts. She clears her throat quietly. “I’ll make some ginger tea. And maybe toast? Plain. Easy on the stomach.”
Wanda looks up, surprised… and grateful. “Thank you.”
Natasha meets her eyes, steady and sincere.
“She doesn’t have to be mine,” Natasha says softly. “To matter.” Then she glances at you—curled into Wanda like you belong there—and adds, quieter, “But… she does.”
You don’t respond. You can’t.
But when Natasha passes by again, mug warm in her hands, you don’t scowl this time.
You lean just a little closer into Wanda’s hold instead.
✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦
Wanda doesn’t rush you.
She keeps one arm firm around your back as she guides you down the hallway, the other hand rubbing slow circles between your shoulder blades—grounding, steady. The bedroom lights are dimmed before you even notice her reaching for the switch. Soft. Safe.
“Okay, baby,” she murmurs. “We’re gonna get you comfy.”
She helps you sit on the edge of the bed and kneels in front of you to untie your shoes, sliding them off with care like even that might be too much stimulation. When she reaches for your hands, she waits—eyes on your face—until you nod faintly.
Your clothes come off slowly, replaced with your softest pajamas. The ones that are worn thin from washing, fabric smooth and familiar against your skin. Wanda presses a kiss to your knee as she pulls the pants up, reverent.
She grabs the trash can next; your trash can and sets it right beside the bed within easy reach. No comments. No judgment. Just preparedness.
“There,” she whispers. “Just in case.”
You sag with relief.
Wanda helps you lie back, propping pillows exactly how you like them without being asked. Then she slips in beside you, lifting the blanket so you can choose.
You hesitate for half a second before crawling toward her, instinct taking over.
You end up half on top of her, cheek pressed to her chest, your body angled left to keep the nausea from cresting too high. One leg thrown over her thigh, one arm tucked beneath her ribs. She adjusts instantly, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other resting warm and solid on your hip.
“Good,” she hums. “Mama’s got you.”
Your breathing evens out just a little.
You lift your hand weakly and point toward the TV.
Wanda reaches for the remote without shifting you at all. “Put on whatever you want, baby.”
You fumble with the buttons, movements clumsy and slow, until the screen fills with something familiar. Something you’ve watched so many times you know every line, every beat. The sound is low. Predictable. Safe.
The tension in your shoulders eases as the opening plays.
“That one?” Wanda asks softly.
You nod, face still buried against her.
“Good choice,” she murmurs, pressing a kiss into your hair. “You can just listen. Or watch. Or not do anything at all.”
Her thumb starts tracing lazy, repetitive lines along your side the exact same pattern every time. Your favorite. The nausea doesn’t disappear, but it dulls, pulled back into the background by warmth and familiarity and Wanda’s steady presence beneath you.
From the doorway, Natasha pauses.
She watches the way you’re draped over Wanda like gravity itself put you there. The way Wanda’s entire body is curved around you, protective and unyielding. Natasha doesn’t interrupt. She just quietly sets the mug of ginger tea on the nightstand, within reach, and leaves the door cracked.
Wanda notices. Her grip tightens just a fraction.
“You’re doing so good,” she whispers to you. “Just rest. Mama’s here all night.”
Your fingers curl into her shirt.
You slowly start to fall asleep on her after having some of the tea. Tea had never been your favorite, but the two women insisted it helped with things. You'd much rather have ginger ale though. The exhaustion of the day crept in slowly. As your breathing evened out of Wanda you heard the door open. Too exhausted to open your eyes. You knew it was Nat.
Natasha settles carefully, every movement measured so she doesn’t jostle you. The mattress dips just enough for you to register her warmth at your back, solid and grounding. She props herself on one elbow, eyes immediately flicking to you—your slackened grip on Wanda’s shirt, the slow rise and fall of your shoulders, the faint crease between your brows that hasn’t fully smoothed even in sleep.
“She crashed hard,” Natasha murmurs. “That’s good. She needs the rest.”
Wanda nods, fingers still tracing that same familiar pattern along your side. She doesn’t stop. She doesn’t even look away from you.
“I hate that I missed it,” Wanda whispers. “She was hurting all day and I…I corrected instead of cared.”
Natasha exhales softly and reaches out, resting her hand on Wanda’s forearm. Not stopping her. Just anchoring her.
“Wanda,” she says quietly, firmly. “You corrected behavior. You didn’t punish her. You didn;t put her over your desk and spank her or give her lines. The moment you saw it, you shifted. That matters.”
Wanda swallows. “It doesn’t feel like enough.”
“It never does,” Natasha replies. “When you love someone like this.” She glances down at you again, voice lowering. “She didn’t pull away from you. Even in shutdown. That tells you everything.”
Wanda’s eyes shine. She bends her head and presses a gentle kiss to your hair, lingering there.
“She chose me,” Wanda whispers, almost to herself.
“Yes,” Natasha agrees. “And she trusts you to learn.”
For a moment, the only sound is the low murmur of the TV and your steady breathing. You shift slightly in your sleep, nose nudging closer into Wanda’s chest with a soft, needy sound. Wanda stills completely, then relaxes again when you settle.
Natasha’s expression softens in a way few people ever get to see.
“She likes ginger ale better,” Wanda adds quietly, a hint of fondness slipping in. “Next time, we keep some cold in the fridge.”
Natasha huffs a small, breathy laugh. “She always makes a face with the tea and yeeet she still drinks it,” Natasha says. “Because you ask.”
Wanda nods. “Because she’s good.”
“Because she’s trying,” Natasha corrects gently. Natasha shifts closer, careful, until her shoulder brushes Wanda’s. She drapes the edge of the blanket over all three of you, tucking it in near your back when a faint shiver runs through you.
“You don’t have to be perfect,” Natasha says quietly. “You just have to keep showing up.”
Wanda’s hand tightens protectively at your hip. “I will. Always.”
Natasha rests her head back against the pillows, eyes never leaving you. And even half-asleep, even drifting under, your body knows the difference. You sigh softly, deeper this time, content, warm, held from both sides.
Summary: You’re good at pretending you’re fine, too good. When period cramps hit hard, you curl in on yourself and try to endure quietly, convinced you don’t deserve to interrupt Wanda and Natasha’s night. Unfortunately for you, Wanda can feel your discomfort, and Natasha can read you like an open book.
Authors note: This was a request from a nonnie so thank you for that and I hope your own period is okay and that this helps you get through it! The request can be found here.
You’re very good at pretending you’re fine.
Years of practice, really, smiling through discomfort, moving carefully, laughing at the right moments. So when the dull ache in your lower abdomen sharpens into something cruel and twisting, you barely let it show.
Barely.
You stay curled on the far end of the couch, legs tucked under you, a blanket draped casually over your lap. The TV hums quietly, some documentary Natasha put on that she’s half-watching while cleaning her guns at the coffee table. Wanda is beside you, leaning back with a book, socked feet tucked under your thigh.
You focus on breathing. Slow. Controlled. If you stay still enough, maybe it won’t—
Another cramp hits, sudden and unforgiving.
Your fingers tighten in the blanket before you can stop yourself. Your jaw clenches. You inhale sharply through your nose.
You don’t make a sound.
Wanda’s page stops turning.
She doesn’t look at you right away. She doesn’t need to. Something in her chest twists, familiar and wrong, like a thread pulled too tight. Your discomfort hums against her senses—not pain exactly, but unease, curling in on itself.
She glances sideways.
You’re staring too intently at the TV. Your shoulders are rigid. There’s a fine tension in you she knows too well.
“Malyshka,” Wanda murmurs softly, closing her book. “Are you alright?”
You nod immediately. Too fast.
“Mhm. Yeah. M’just tired.”
Natasha looks up then, eyes assessing, gaze flicking over you in a single practiced sweep. She notices the way you’re folded in on yourself, the way your foot keeps flexing under the blanket.
“Tired doesn’t usually make you hold yourself like that,” she says mildly. It’s not accusatory. More like she’s giving you an opportunity to tell them the truth.
You shrug, trying to keep your voice light. “Just… one of those days.”
Another cramp coils low and hot. You swallow hard.
Wanda’s brows knit together. She shifts closer, her knee brushing yours, and the contact alone almost makes you crack. Her hand lifts, hesitantly and then rests gently on your thigh.
The warmth of her palm sinks through the fabric. She feels it then, with her magic. Not just the discomfort, but the way you’re actively pushing it down, hiding it. Wanda’s thumb strokes once, soothing, instinctive.
“You’re hurting,” she says quietly. Not accusing, she would never do that, but there’s a certain finality to her voice, the kind that makes you want to break into a million pieces.
You shake your head, even as your eyes sting. “It’s not…I mean, it’s fine. It’s stupid. I didn’t want to make a big deal-”
Natasha is on her feet instantly. She crouches in front of you, forearms resting on her knees, gaze steady and unyielding in the gentlest way. “Hey,” she says. “Pain is not stupid and you don’t get bonus points for suffering quietly.”
You let out a shaky breath. Your composure finally slips, shoulders slumping.
“It’s just cramps,” you admit softly. “They’re bad this month. I didn’t want to interrupt your night.”
Wanda’s heart aches.
“Oh, ljubov,” she whispers, her free hand coming up to cradle your cheek. “You are not an interruption.”
Natasha straightens, already in motion. “Heating pad?”
Wanda nods. “Oh and tea, the raspberry leaf one.”
“On it.” Natasha disappears down the hall, while Wanda gently tugs you closer until you’re half-curled against her side. She pulls the blanket higher around you, cocooning the two of you together. You melt into her before you can stop yourself.
“I’m sorry,” you murmur, voice small. “I didn’t want to be needy.”
Wanda presses a kiss to your temple. “You are allowed to need us.” Her hand slides slowly, carefully, to your lower abdomen. She doesn’t use her magic. Just warmth and her presence. Her thumb rubs small, grounding circles.
“You don’t have to hide from me,” she says softly. “I feel when something is wrong. Especially with you.” Your eyes close as another wave rolls through, less sharp now, dulled by her touch. You breathe out, tension easing.
Natasha returns with a heating pad, already warm, and a mug of tea. She hands the tea to Wanda, then kneels again to adjust the pad against you, tucking it securely in place.
“There,” she murmurs. “I’ve got you.”
She sits beside you this time, long arm draping behind your shoulders, fingers brushing your arm in slow, reassuring strokes. You’re sandwiched between them, Wanda’s warmth at your front, Natasha’s steady strength at your back.You’re safe and held and loved.
The cramps don’t vanish completely, but they soften. The edges blur.
“You don’t ever have to pretend with us,” Natasha says quietly. “We notice. Even when you think we don’t.”
You huff a weak laugh. “Yeah… I’m starting to realize that.”
Wanda smiles softly, brushing your hair back from your face. “Next time,” she teases gently, “you tell us first. I can make it better sooner.”
You nod, eyes heavy now, exhaustion settling in as the pain eases. “Okay. I promise.”
Natasha presses a kiss to the crown of your head. “Good girl.”
You relax fully then, body finally unclenching, letting yourself be taken care of. The TV drones on, forgotten as Wanda hums under her breath, a soft Sokovian lullaby, and Natasha’s hand keeps a steady, grounding rhythm on your arm.
Summary: You’re good at pretending you’re fine, too good. When period cramps hit hard, you curl in on yourself and try to endure quietly, convinced you don’t deserve to interrupt Wanda and Natasha’s night. Unfortunately for you, Wanda can feel your discomfort, and Natasha can read you like an open book.
Authors note: This was a request from a nonnie so thank you for that and I hope your own period is okay and that this helps you get through it! The request can be found here.
You’re very good at pretending you’re fine.
Years of practice, really, smiling through discomfort, moving carefully, laughing at the right moments. So when the dull ache in your lower abdomen sharpens into something cruel and twisting, you barely let it show.
Barely.
You stay curled on the far end of the couch, legs tucked under you, a blanket draped casually over your lap. The TV hums quietly, some documentary Natasha put on that she’s half-watching while cleaning her guns at the coffee table. Wanda is beside you, leaning back with a book, socked feet tucked under your thigh.
You focus on breathing. Slow. Controlled. If you stay still enough, maybe it won’t—
Another cramp hits, sudden and unforgiving.
Your fingers tighten in the blanket before you can stop yourself. Your jaw clenches. You inhale sharply through your nose.
You don’t make a sound.
Wanda’s page stops turning.
She doesn’t look at you right away. She doesn’t need to. Something in her chest twists, familiar and wrong, like a thread pulled too tight. Your discomfort hums against her senses—not pain exactly, but unease, curling in on itself.
She glances sideways.
You’re staring too intently at the TV. Your shoulders are rigid. There’s a fine tension in you she knows too well.
“Malyshka,” Wanda murmurs softly, closing her book. “Are you alright?”
You nod immediately. Too fast.
“Mhm. Yeah. M’just tired.”
Natasha looks up then, eyes assessing, gaze flicking over you in a single practiced sweep. She notices the way you’re folded in on yourself, the way your foot keeps flexing under the blanket.
“Tired doesn’t usually make you hold yourself like that,” she says mildly. It’s not accusatory. More like she’s giving you an opportunity to tell them the truth.
You shrug, trying to keep your voice light. “Just… one of those days.”
Another cramp coils low and hot. You swallow hard.
Wanda’s brows knit together. She shifts closer, her knee brushing yours, and the contact alone almost makes you crack. Her hand lifts, hesitantly and then rests gently on your thigh.
The warmth of her palm sinks through the fabric. She feels it then, with her magic. Not just the discomfort, but the way you’re actively pushing it down, hiding it. Wanda’s thumb strokes once, soothing, instinctive.
“You’re hurting,” she says quietly. Not accusing, she would never do that, but there’s a certain finality to her voice, the kind that makes you want to break into a million pieces.
You shake your head, even as your eyes sting. “It’s not…I mean, it’s fine. It’s stupid. I didn’t want to make a big deal-”
Natasha is on her feet instantly. She crouches in front of you, forearms resting on her knees, gaze steady and unyielding in the gentlest way. “Hey,” she says. “Pain is not stupid and you don’t get bonus points for suffering quietly.”
You let out a shaky breath. Your composure finally slips, shoulders slumping.
“It’s just cramps,” you admit softly. “They’re bad this month. I didn’t want to interrupt your night.”
Wanda’s heart aches.
“Oh, ljubov,” she whispers, her free hand coming up to cradle your cheek. “You are not an interruption.”
Natasha straightens, already in motion. “Heating pad?”
Wanda nods. “Oh and tea, the raspberry leaf one.”
“On it.” Natasha disappears down the hall, while Wanda gently tugs you closer until you’re half-curled against her side. She pulls the blanket higher around you, cocooning the two of you together. You melt into her before you can stop yourself.
“I’m sorry,” you murmur, voice small. “I didn’t want to be needy.”
Wanda presses a kiss to your temple. “You are allowed to need us.” Her hand slides slowly, carefully, to your lower abdomen. She doesn’t use her magic. Just warmth and her presence. Her thumb rubs small, grounding circles.
“You don’t have to hide from me,” she says softly. “I feel when something is wrong. Especially with you.” Your eyes close as another wave rolls through, less sharp now, dulled by her touch. You breathe out, tension easing.
Natasha returns with a heating pad, already warm, and a mug of tea. She hands the tea to Wanda, then kneels again to adjust the pad against you, tucking it securely in place.
“There,” she murmurs. “I’ve got you.”
She sits beside you this time, long arm draping behind your shoulders, fingers brushing your arm in slow, reassuring strokes. You’re sandwiched between them, Wanda’s warmth at your front, Natasha’s steady strength at your back.You’re safe and held and loved.
The cramps don’t vanish completely, but they soften. The edges blur.
“You don’t ever have to pretend with us,” Natasha says quietly. “We notice. Even when you think we don’t.”
You huff a weak laugh. “Yeah… I’m starting to realize that.”
Wanda smiles softly, brushing your hair back from your face. “Next time,” she teases gently, “you tell us first. I can make it better sooner.”
You nod, eyes heavy now, exhaustion settling in as the pain eases. “Okay. I promise.”
Natasha presses a kiss to the crown of your head. “Good girl.”
You relax fully then, body finally unclenching, letting yourself be taken care of. The TV drones on, forgotten as Wanda hums under her breath, a soft Sokovian lullaby, and Natasha’s hand keeps a steady, grounding rhythm on your arm.
Summary: Long before Wanda Maximoff arrives in Westview, you are already being drawn there—not by hunger or curiosity, but by warning. Ancient instincts pull you east as the world begins to feel wrong. When you reach Westview, the truth reveals itself through vibration and strain: the bridge is going to collapse.
word count: 932
Warnings: Supernatural/cryptid elements (moth-like guardian creature, wings, glowing eyes), implied disaster (bridge collapse, civilian danger), government/military presence (S.H.I.E.L.D., Nick Fury), themes of grief, foreboding, and fate, surveillance, being watched, emotional heaviness
Authors note: This was a request which can be found here
Long before Wanda Maximoff ever set foot in Westview, you were already moving toward it. The pull came first. Not hunger or curiosity.
Warning.
It started as a pressure behind your eyes, a low ache that followed you through forests and abandoned highways. The world felt… tilted. Wrong in a way only old things notice. Your wings carried you east, night after night, guided by instinct older than names.
Westview glowed strangely from the air—too quiet, too contained, like a held breath and then, when you were close enough, the truth hit you all at once.
A bridge, of course it was a bridge. The bridge; the only artery leading out of town toward New York.
You circled it once, then twice, heart pounding so hard your chest vibrated. The structure hummed beneath you—metal strained, joints tired, stress fractures whispering secrets through vibration and echo.
Collapse.
Not now. Not yet. But soon. You didn’t know the hour.You didn’t know the trigger. You only knew what your kind had always known.
If you sense it, it is your responsibility to warn them.
So you tried. God, you tried. You flew low over cars, wings wide, shadows swallowing headlights. People screamed. Swerved. Slowed. You hovered directly in front of trucks, screeching until your throat burned. Some people stopped, but most didn’t and so you did the unthinkable.You revealed yourself.
At dawn, when the sky was pale and unforgiving, you landed on the bridge itself—perched high on a light post, wings folded but unmistakable. Massive. Wrong. Impossible. Phones came out and cars came to a halt. Some of them screamed and ram, but you stayed.
You lowered your head and let them see your eyes glow. You rumbled warnings into the steel beneath your feet, sending vibrations through the structure, hoping—praying—someone would understand.
Danger.
Leave.
Do not cross.
That was when the men in black arrived. Unmarked vehicles.Too quiet and too precise. You felt them before you saw them.
And then—
Nick Fury stepped out of one. You locked eyes across the span of the bridge.
You didn’t attack. You didn’t flee.You stood tall. A chitter coming out of you softly. You meant no harm here. He had to know that.
Fury studied you for a long moment, unreadable behind dark glasses. He lifted a hand, not to signal weapons, but to stop them. Slowly, deliberately, he nodded. There was no fear. He saw no sign of threat and neither did you. It was something much simpler.
Acknowledgment.
You released a low, relieved sound and spread your wings. The air cracked around you as you launched skyward, vanishing into the clouds before anyone could stop you. Fury watched you go.
“Let it go,” he said quietly when someone asked if they should pursue.
“Whatever that was,” he added, “it wasn’t here to hurt us. I think it was warning us of something.”
You disappeared back into the treeline, heart racing, wings aching. The warning had been given. Whether anyone listened was no longer in your control, but Westview still pulled at you. Because the bridge wasn’t the only thing holding its breath. Something else was coming. Something wrapped in grief and magic and red light and you didn’t know it yet, but you were flying straight toward her.
You stayed after the bridge collapsed.
Not openly.
Not proudly.
You watched from the treeline as emergency lights smeared red and blue across the river. You felt the structure give way exactly the way your instincts had warned — metal screaming, concrete tearing, water swallowing sound. You crouched low among the trees, wings wrapped tight around your body as humans ran and shouted and searched for reasons.You had warned them. It still wasn’t enough. So you lingered.
Westview didn’t let go of you after that. The town hummed wrong, like a snapped wire still sparking. You felt it every night — a pressure in the air, a building tension that made your wings itch and your chest ache. Something was coming. Not sudden like the bridge. Slower. Heavier. You began to patrol.
Rooftops first. Then streetlights. The high places where you could see without being seen. You moved only at night, slipping through fog and shadow, careful to never stay too long in one place, but people noticed anyway, they always do.
You saw the way windows went dark when you passed overhead. Heard the sharp intake of breath when your silhouette crossed the moon. You caught flashes of glowing screens raised shakily toward the sky.
You hated it, the attention, but you stayed. Because the town still felt… fragile and because somewhere in it, something burned bright and aching and dangerous in a way that pulled at you relentlessly.
Her.
You didn’t know her name yet. Only her magic, it was red and raw and it threaded through with grief so dense it bent the air around her. You felt it from rooftops away, like heat through stone. You tracked that warmth instinctively, keeping your distance, watching the way it flared when she was tired, or lonely, or lost in thought.
You watched her for days. Always from above. Always silent. Always undetected.
Until one night, the fog rolled in thick and low, swallowing sound and light alike. You perched on a streetlamp near the edge of town, wings folded tight, senses sharp and for the first time, you didn’t hide when footsteps approached. You didn’t flee when the magic in the air shifted. You stayed because whatever was coming next…
You knew she needed to see you. You knew she needed you.
Summary: Wanda warns you days in advance that a friend will be visiting. You try to prepare, but the moment Natasha Romanoff steps into the house, your instincts roar to life. She smells like steel and violence, like someone who could hurt Wanda, and you react like any ancient guardian would.
Word count: 2.3K
Warnings: Monster/human romance, nonhuman reader, nonverbal communication (chirring, trilling, gestures only), mild supernatural themes, comfort, fluff, gentle touch, found family/trust building, minor body horror elements (feathers, claws), mentions of a knife
Authors note: I wanted to introduce Nat as both a friend, but also as a potential threat for our reader in the future as Wanda and Nat get closer and spend more time together.
Wanda had warned you for two whole days. Had tried to prepare you.
A friend is coming.
A trusted one.
Human. Smaller. Might smell like metal and danger.
Be gentle. Please, malen'kiy motylek .
You tried. You really did. But when Natasha steps through Wanda’s front door, leather jacket still half-zipped, sharp eyes scanning the room like a soldier entering a warzone, your instincts flare. She smells like steel and like gun oil. Like someone who has taken lives and could take Wanda from you if she chose. Natasha’s gaze lands on you.
And you’re not perched politely on the couch, you’re crouched on the back of the armchair, wings half-unfolded, pupils glowing like two burning moons. A territorial stance. An ancient one.
Natasha freezes.
“What the hell is that?” she breathes, stepping back so fast she hits the doorframe. Door knob hitting into her back.
You bristle instantly, feathers flaring. A rumble coming from deep within you.
Wanda sighs like a tired mom.
“I told you not to say ‘that,’” she mutters.
Natasha’s eyes widen.
“It- it made a noise-Wanda, it looks at me like it wants to eat me!”
And that’s when you growl. You are not an It.
Not a snarl.
Not a hiss.
A low-frequency, ancient rumble that vibrates through the floorboards, rattles the glass on the shelves, and makes Natasha stumble like the earth itself shifted under her boots.
Natasha’s hand goes instantly to the knife at her belt.
Wanda steps between you both. Magic bristling at her fingertips.
“HEY!” she snaps, hands up.
Instant silence.
You stop growling, muscles still coiled, wings trembling like a storm waiting to break.
Natasha’s chest rises and falls too fast, her instincts warring between fight and run.
But Wanda? Wanda looks at you first.
She walks backward slowly, placing her palm over your cheek.
You lean into it immediately, claws easing their grip on the upholstery. The glow in your eyes dims from dangerous neon to a cautious ember.
“That’s enough, malen'kiy motylek,” she whispers. “She’s a friend. I promise.”
Your rumble lowers into a confused hum you are not convinced, but listen because Wanda speaks. Wanda turns to Natasha, who is still half in combat stance, half in shocked awe.
“Nat, don’t make sudden moves. Or threatening ones. Or… sarcastic ones.”
“That’s all I am,” Natasha croaks.
Wanda gives her a flat look.
“I know. Please behave anyway.”
Natasha’s gaze shifts to you again. “It’s… bigger than I expected.”
You glare and she flinches.
Wanda places both hands on your face now, forcing your attention on her, grounding you with soft magic and softer touch.
“She’s protective,” Wanda murmurs. “You entered fast, and she felt threatened.”
Natasha slowly lowers her knife.
“Does it…does she understand us?”
You make a low, insulted chirp. Feathers ruffling a bit.
Wanda huffs. “Yes, of course she does.”
Natasha winces. “…Oh.” You can feel Natasha’s emotions shift. She feels bad.
You sniff the air in Natasha’s direction. She smells like danger, like missions, like pain Wanda has survived. The growl rumbles again, quieter this time, but unmistakably possessive.
“Dorogoya,” Wanda murmur-scolds. “She is not here to hurt me.”
You stare at Wanda, searching her face, reading her heartbeat the way only your species can.She’s calm and trusting and safe. Your body loosens, inch by inch. You fold your wings, lowering your height. You bow your head slightly it’s the smallest sign of courtesy your instincts allow.
Natasha’s eyes soften just a fraction.
“I think,” she says carefully, “we’re… good?”
You blink once.
Then growl again. Softer this time.
Wanda sighs dramatically and rubs her temples.
“Oh my god. This is going to be a long afternoon.”
Wanda guides you down with a soft, firm touch to your shoulders.
“Sit, malen'kiy motylek.”
Your wings twitch. You don’t like sitting with the red-haired predator in the room. But Wanda’s voice melts right through your chest, warm and calm.
You lower yourself to the floor at her feet, reluctantly, talons curling into the rug. Your posture is tall enough that your head still rests near her knees. Her hands come down automatically, arms looping around your shoulders, drawing you into the space between her legs like she’s holding an oversized shadow creature made of feathers and muscle.
You lean into her. Of course you do. She is safety and she is calm and she is your Wanda.
Across from you, Natasha sits stiffly on the opposite couch. Legs open, elbows on her thighs, one hand still hovering a little too close to a concealed knife.
She’s trying…sort of…
“So…” Natasha says slowly, eyes flicking between Wanda’s hands on you and your glowing eyes locked on her.
“…this is her calm?”
Wanda immediately strokes along the back of your neck, smoothing down a patch of raised fur.
“She’s doing really well,” Wanda says brightly.
Natasha makes a strangled sound.
“If this is ‘really well’ I’d love to see ‘slightly annoyed.’”
You growl under your breath, just once its a low note of “I heard that.”
Wanda taps your cheek gently. “Be nice.”
Your brain is nothing but one looping, instinctive command:
Wanda keeps talking, trying to keep things normal.
“She found me. Or I found her. I’m still not sure,” she says, absently running her fingers through the soft fur at your jaw. “Maybe she was drawn here. I was just on the way home from the store. A bag in my hand and I just looked up and she was there. I’m still not sure if it was my magic that brought her here or if it was that bridge or something else completely.”
Natasha exhales. “That’s what worries me.”
Every word she says, your instincts dissect.
Tone.
Heartbeat.
Breath.
You don’t have language like humans do, but your mind is screaming meaning anyway:
Threat? Maybe threat. Protect Wanda.
Danger smell. Wanda talking too calmly. Protect.
Do not let her get near your witch. Protect.
Wanda small. Wanda soft. Protect.
Wanda’s thumbs rub slow, calming circles against your collar.
You lean your head against her knee, eyes still glowing but softened now that she’s touching you.
Wanda smiles down at you like you’re the cutest thing in existence.
“She loves very deeply.”
Natasha snorts. “And also looks like she would tear my spine out.”
Wanda shrugs. “Love is complicated.”
You shift your weight, lifting your head to look up at Wanda.
Big.
Round.
Glowing eyes.
Expression:
Want up. Want Wanda. Want lap.
Wanda pauses mid-sentence and huffs a tiny laugh.
“Oh sweetheart, not-”
Too late.
You crawl up.
Not stand, not pounce, just climb, clambering awkwardly over her legs, wings dragging, claws careful as you go, until you’re half-cradled in her lap. You nuzzle against her stomach, pressing your forehead into her ribs with a needy, rumbling purr.
Wanda slides back into the couch cushions, startled but immediately wrapping her arms around you on instinct.
Natasha bursts out laughing.
“Oh my god,” she says, wiping her eyes. “She really is a giant murder puppy.”
Wanda glares.
“She is not-”
You tuck your head tighter under Wanda’s chin.
Natasha waves her hand. “No, no, not complaining. It’s kinda adorable. In a ‘please don’t eat me’ way.”
Wanda strokes your furline between your antennae.
“What am I going to do with you?” she murmurs.
Your wings puff, your rumbling hum deepens, your brain says one thing, over and over:
Protect Wanda. Love Wanda. Stay with Wanda.
Natasha watches the two of you, expression softening slowly, cautiously.
“…She’s good for you,” Nat finally says.
Wanda smiles into your feathers.
“She really is.”
You press closer, the tip of a wing curling around Wanda’s hip.
Natasha lifts her brows.
“Oookay, that’s enough affection for me. I’m gonna need a drink.”
You hiss once a soft note for good measure. You don’t even look at her, but Natasha knows.
Nat rolls her eyes.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. ‘Protect.’ I got it.”
You rumble a satisfied note.
Wanda just kisses the top of your head.
After grabbing her drink Natasha sits forward slowly, elbows on her knees, watching you curled practically inside Wanda like a massive protective shadow with glowing eyes.
“Okay,” she mutters. “Let’s… try something less terrifying.”
Wanda strokes down your spine.
“She’s fine, Nat.”
“You say that,” Natasha says dryly, “while holding your demon-moth like a baby. Wanda rolls her eyes and you growl. Natasha winces but reaches into her jacket pocket anyway.
“Alright,” she sighs. “Peace offering number one.”
She pulls out a small pouch of beef jerky. She holds a piece up toward you. Like a dog treat. Wanda chokes on a laugh. You stare at her, unamused.
Nat wiggles it. “C’mon. Everybody likes jerky.”
You sniff.
It smells… salty.
Processed.
Cheap.
You turn your head away with a disgusted chirp.
Natasha stares. “…Did she just reject it?”
Wanda pats your back. “She’s picky.”
You tuck your head under Wanda’s arm like:
NOT from predator woman. No.
Natasha sighs and stuffs the jerky back into her pocket.
“Okay. Fine. I didn’t want to share it anyway.”
You rumble back, wings fluffing.
Then Natasha hesitates.
“…Maybe something else,” she says more quietly.
She reaches into a deeper, inside pocket. Her whole posture shifts. Slower. More careful. Her eyes soften, just a fraction, like she’s touching something fragile in her memory.
She pulls out; A coin. Old. Flattened a little from age. Silver that’s not really silver, but shines like it anyway. She holds it between two fingers and the light catches it. Your head tilts instantly, wings perk. A soft, curious trill rises from your chest.
Natasha notices. “Oh? You like shiny things, huh?”
Wanda murmurs, “Careful, Nat-”
But Natasha shakes her head.
“No. This one’s fine. She can have it for a minute.” She places the coin gently on the coffee table between you. It glints. Familiar. Not familiar as in memory, but familiar as in meaning. It’s old, it’s carried, it’s important, it’s loved.Your claws reach out and tap it lightly with your claw. You feel the warmth from Natasha’s body on the metal, trace the tiny ridges, the old marks. Natasha watches you with an expression Wanda has never seen on her before: vulnerable.
“It’s an old Soviet rouble,” Natasha says, voice oddly soft. “Older than me, technically.”
You tap it again, tilting your head at the shine. You purr, not for Wanda this time, but for the object. Natasha continues,
“It was the only possession I kept from my childhood. Hid it in my boot during Red Room training.” She laughs once, humorless. “I think the instructors just never thought to check for coins. My dad had given it to me from our mission in Ohio.”
Your glowing eyes lift to her. They’re not aggressive or warning. Just… seeing her, just looking at her. Natasha swallows.
“I don’t know why I kept it,” she says, leaning back. “Maybe just to prove I came from somewhere. That I wasn’t nothing.”
You make a soft, low croon. Understanding emotion if not words. Wanda squeezes your shoulders, proud of you.
Natasha points at the coin with a little shrug.
“Go ahead, you can pick it up.”
You gently scoop it with your claws and raise it toward your face, inspecting. Turning it. Admiring it. Feeling the weight of a life you’ve never lived.
Natasha’s lips twitch.
“…She likes it?”
Wanda beams. “That’s a very big deal, Nat. She doesn’t take anything from strangers.”
Natasha snorts. “I noticed.”
You press the coin to your chest, chirping a warm, resonant note that vibrates the couch.
Wanda laughs.
“Oh darling, you can’t keep it.”
Natasha holds up a hand.
“It’s fine. She can borrow it.”
Your wings flap in contentment.
You relax for the first time since Natasha arrived.
Nat smiles, it's small, real, maybe the first one of the day.
“Well,” she exhaled, leaning back. “Guess we’re making progress.”
You hold the shiny at your chest like a treasure, eyes glowing soft and steady. You put the rouble away.
For the first time, you don’t growl at her. You just watch and Natasha quietly watches you back. Natasha’s breath catches when you slide closer. She goes still, not afraid, just…surprised. Wanda watches with a soft, proud little smile, her hand stroking between your wings.You settle beside Natasha on the couch, your massive body folding in like a great night-feathered cat. You curl your legs, wings tucking tight, antennae sweeping gently as if scenting her aura. Nat freezes again when your head lowers to her thigh.
Natasha huffs a disbelieving laugh.
“No, no, this can’t be real—”
But then you do the unthinkable.
You reach into the small pouch under your throat, the place you instinctively keep the things you treasure and pull out the rouble Natasha gave you.
Except you don’t keep it.
You place it on her knee, tapping it once with a talon.
A gift returned.
A “this is important to you; I will guard you too.”
Natasha swallows hard.
“Oh,” she whispers. “Oh… you understood that?”
You blink slowly at her, pupils dilating, head tilting. Wanda leans forward and murmurs,
“She understands everything.”
Nat’s hand shakes as she lifts it up, hesitating a moment before she runs a careful hand along the thick fur of your forearm. You don’t flinch in fact you melt. It’s hesitant at first, but the moment you let out a soft warbling trill, she gains confidence.
And then it happens,
you curl tightly against her side, your wings arching to make space, feathers brushing her shoulder gently. You’re so warm, so heavy, like a massive living blanket settling into place.
Natasha laughs, breathless.
“She’s… cuddling me?”
Wanda grins.
“She likes you. A lot.”
Nat shakes her head, still stunned, fingers brushing your fur again.
“Well… that’s a first. A giant cryptid moth deciding I’m worth snuggling.”
You rumble deeply, pressing your forehead to her ribs, eyes half-lidded and glowing softly. Natasha rests a tentative hand on the back of your head.
Wanda beams at the sight.
“Welcome to the family, Nat,” she teases. “Once she curls up against you… you’re hers.”
Summary: Wanda warns you days in advance that a friend will be visiting. You try to prepare, but the moment Natasha Romanoff steps into the house, your instincts roar to life. She smells like steel and violence, like someone who could hurt Wanda, and you react like any ancient guardian would.
Word count: 2.3K
Warnings: Monster/human romance, nonhuman reader, nonverbal communication (chirring, trilling, gestures only), mild supernatural themes, comfort, fluff, gentle touch, found family/trust building, minor body horror elements (feathers, claws), mentions of a knife
Authors note: I wanted to introduce Nat as both a friend, but also as a potential threat for our reader in the future as Wanda and Nat get closer and spend more time together.
Wanda had warned you for two whole days. Had tried to prepare you.
A friend is coming.
A trusted one.
Human. Smaller. Might smell like metal and danger.
Be gentle. Please, malen'kiy motylek .
You tried. You really did. But when Natasha steps through Wanda’s front door, leather jacket still half-zipped, sharp eyes scanning the room like a soldier entering a warzone, your instincts flare. She smells like steel and like gun oil. Like someone who has taken lives and could take Wanda from you if she chose. Natasha’s gaze lands on you.
And you’re not perched politely on the couch, you’re crouched on the back of the armchair, wings half-unfolded, pupils glowing like two burning moons. A territorial stance. An ancient one.
Natasha freezes.
“What the hell is that?” she breathes, stepping back so fast she hits the doorframe. Door knob hitting into her back.
You bristle instantly, feathers flaring. A rumble coming from deep within you.
Wanda sighs like a tired mom.
“I told you not to say ‘that,’” she mutters.
Natasha’s eyes widen.
“It- it made a noise-Wanda, it looks at me like it wants to eat me!”
And that’s when you growl. You are not an It.
Not a snarl.
Not a hiss.
A low-frequency, ancient rumble that vibrates through the floorboards, rattles the glass on the shelves, and makes Natasha stumble like the earth itself shifted under her boots.
Natasha’s hand goes instantly to the knife at her belt.
Wanda steps between you both. Magic bristling at her fingertips.
“HEY!” she snaps, hands up.
Instant silence.
You stop growling, muscles still coiled, wings trembling like a storm waiting to break.
Natasha’s chest rises and falls too fast, her instincts warring between fight and run.
But Wanda? Wanda looks at you first.
She walks backward slowly, placing her palm over your cheek.
You lean into it immediately, claws easing their grip on the upholstery. The glow in your eyes dims from dangerous neon to a cautious ember.
“That’s enough, malen'kiy motylek,” she whispers. “She’s a friend. I promise.”
Your rumble lowers into a confused hum you are not convinced, but listen because Wanda speaks. Wanda turns to Natasha, who is still half in combat stance, half in shocked awe.
“Nat, don’t make sudden moves. Or threatening ones. Or… sarcastic ones.”
“That’s all I am,” Natasha croaks.
Wanda gives her a flat look.
“I know. Please behave anyway.”
Natasha’s gaze shifts to you again. “It’s… bigger than I expected.”
You glare and she flinches.
Wanda places both hands on your face now, forcing your attention on her, grounding you with soft magic and softer touch.
“She’s protective,” Wanda murmurs. “You entered fast, and she felt threatened.”
Natasha slowly lowers her knife.
“Does it…does she understand us?”
You make a low, insulted chirp. Feathers ruffling a bit.
Wanda huffs. “Yes, of course she does.”
Natasha winces. “…Oh.” You can feel Natasha’s emotions shift. She feels bad.
You sniff the air in Natasha’s direction. She smells like danger, like missions, like pain Wanda has survived. The growl rumbles again, quieter this time, but unmistakably possessive.
“Dorogoya,” Wanda murmur-scolds. “She is not here to hurt me.”
You stare at Wanda, searching her face, reading her heartbeat the way only your species can.She’s calm and trusting and safe. Your body loosens, inch by inch. You fold your wings, lowering your height. You bow your head slightly it’s the smallest sign of courtesy your instincts allow.
Natasha’s eyes soften just a fraction.
“I think,” she says carefully, “we’re… good?”
You blink once.
Then growl again. Softer this time.
Wanda sighs dramatically and rubs her temples.
“Oh my god. This is going to be a long afternoon.”
Wanda guides you down with a soft, firm touch to your shoulders.
“Sit, malen'kiy motylek.”
Your wings twitch. You don’t like sitting with the red-haired predator in the room. But Wanda’s voice melts right through your chest, warm and calm.
You lower yourself to the floor at her feet, reluctantly, talons curling into the rug. Your posture is tall enough that your head still rests near her knees. Her hands come down automatically, arms looping around your shoulders, drawing you into the space between her legs like she’s holding an oversized shadow creature made of feathers and muscle.
You lean into her. Of course you do. She is safety and she is calm and she is your Wanda.
Across from you, Natasha sits stiffly on the opposite couch. Legs open, elbows on her thighs, one hand still hovering a little too close to a concealed knife.
She’s trying…sort of…
“So…” Natasha says slowly, eyes flicking between Wanda’s hands on you and your glowing eyes locked on her.
“…this is her calm?”
Wanda immediately strokes along the back of your neck, smoothing down a patch of raised fur.
“She’s doing really well,” Wanda says brightly.
Natasha makes a strangled sound.
“If this is ‘really well’ I’d love to see ‘slightly annoyed.’”
You growl under your breath, just once its a low note of “I heard that.”
Wanda taps your cheek gently. “Be nice.”
Your brain is nothing but one looping, instinctive command:
Wanda keeps talking, trying to keep things normal.
“She found me. Or I found her. I’m still not sure,” she says, absently running her fingers through the soft fur at your jaw. “Maybe she was drawn here. I was just on the way home from the store. A bag in my hand and I just looked up and she was there. I’m still not sure if it was my magic that brought her here or if it was that bridge or something else completely.”
Natasha exhales. “That’s what worries me.”
Every word she says, your instincts dissect.
Tone.
Heartbeat.
Breath.
You don’t have language like humans do, but your mind is screaming meaning anyway:
Threat? Maybe threat. Protect Wanda.
Danger smell. Wanda talking too calmly. Protect.
Do not let her get near your witch. Protect.
Wanda small. Wanda soft. Protect.
Wanda’s thumbs rub slow, calming circles against your collar.
You lean your head against her knee, eyes still glowing but softened now that she’s touching you.
Wanda smiles down at you like you’re the cutest thing in existence.
“She loves very deeply.”
Natasha snorts. “And also looks like she would tear my spine out.”
Wanda shrugs. “Love is complicated.”
You shift your weight, lifting your head to look up at Wanda.
Big.
Round.
Glowing eyes.
Expression:
Want up. Want Wanda. Want lap.
Wanda pauses mid-sentence and huffs a tiny laugh.
“Oh sweetheart, not-”
Too late.
You crawl up.
Not stand, not pounce, just climb, clambering awkwardly over her legs, wings dragging, claws careful as you go, until you’re half-cradled in her lap. You nuzzle against her stomach, pressing your forehead into her ribs with a needy, rumbling purr.
Wanda slides back into the couch cushions, startled but immediately wrapping her arms around you on instinct.
Natasha bursts out laughing.
“Oh my god,” she says, wiping her eyes. “She really is a giant murder puppy.”
Wanda glares.
“She is not-”
You tuck your head tighter under Wanda’s chin.
Natasha waves her hand. “No, no, not complaining. It’s kinda adorable. In a ‘please don’t eat me’ way.”
Wanda strokes your furline between your antennae.
“What am I going to do with you?” she murmurs.
Your wings puff, your rumbling hum deepens, your brain says one thing, over and over:
Protect Wanda. Love Wanda. Stay with Wanda.
Natasha watches the two of you, expression softening slowly, cautiously.
“…She’s good for you,” Nat finally says.
Wanda smiles into your feathers.
“She really is.”
You press closer, the tip of a wing curling around Wanda’s hip.
Natasha lifts her brows.
“Oookay, that’s enough affection for me. I’m gonna need a drink.”
You hiss once a soft note for good measure. You don’t even look at her, but Natasha knows.
Nat rolls her eyes.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. ‘Protect.’ I got it.”
You rumble a satisfied note.
Wanda just kisses the top of your head.
After grabbing her drink Natasha sits forward slowly, elbows on her knees, watching you curled practically inside Wanda like a massive protective shadow with glowing eyes.
“Okay,” she mutters. “Let’s… try something less terrifying.”
Wanda strokes down your spine.
“She’s fine, Nat.”
“You say that,” Natasha says dryly, “while holding your demon-moth like a baby. Wanda rolls her eyes and you growl. Natasha winces but reaches into her jacket pocket anyway.
“Alright,” she sighs. “Peace offering number one.”
She pulls out a small pouch of beef jerky. She holds a piece up toward you. Like a dog treat. Wanda chokes on a laugh. You stare at her, unamused.
Nat wiggles it. “C’mon. Everybody likes jerky.”
You sniff.
It smells… salty.
Processed.
Cheap.
You turn your head away with a disgusted chirp.
Natasha stares. “…Did she just reject it?”
Wanda pats your back. “She’s picky.”
You tuck your head under Wanda’s arm like:
NOT from predator woman. No.
Natasha sighs and stuffs the jerky back into her pocket.
“Okay. Fine. I didn’t want to share it anyway.”
You rumble back, wings fluffing.
Then Natasha hesitates.
“…Maybe something else,” she says more quietly.
She reaches into a deeper, inside pocket. Her whole posture shifts. Slower. More careful. Her eyes soften, just a fraction, like she’s touching something fragile in her memory.
She pulls out; A coin. Old. Flattened a little from age. Silver that’s not really silver, but shines like it anyway. She holds it between two fingers and the light catches it. Your head tilts instantly, wings perk. A soft, curious trill rises from your chest.
Natasha notices. “Oh? You like shiny things, huh?”
Wanda murmurs, “Careful, Nat-”
But Natasha shakes her head.
“No. This one’s fine. She can have it for a minute.” She places the coin gently on the coffee table between you. It glints. Familiar. Not familiar as in memory, but familiar as in meaning. It’s old, it’s carried, it’s important, it’s loved.Your claws reach out and tap it lightly with your claw. You feel the warmth from Natasha’s body on the metal, trace the tiny ridges, the old marks. Natasha watches you with an expression Wanda has never seen on her before: vulnerable.
“It’s an old Soviet rouble,” Natasha says, voice oddly soft. “Older than me, technically.”
You tap it again, tilting your head at the shine. You purr, not for Wanda this time, but for the object. Natasha continues,
“It was the only possession I kept from my childhood. Hid it in my boot during Red Room training.” She laughs once, humorless. “I think the instructors just never thought to check for coins. My dad had given it to me from our mission in Ohio.”
Your glowing eyes lift to her. They’re not aggressive or warning. Just… seeing her, just looking at her. Natasha swallows.
“I don’t know why I kept it,” she says, leaning back. “Maybe just to prove I came from somewhere. That I wasn’t nothing.”
You make a soft, low croon. Understanding emotion if not words. Wanda squeezes your shoulders, proud of you.
Natasha points at the coin with a little shrug.
“Go ahead, you can pick it up.”
You gently scoop it with your claws and raise it toward your face, inspecting. Turning it. Admiring it. Feeling the weight of a life you’ve never lived.
Natasha’s lips twitch.
“…She likes it?”
Wanda beams. “That’s a very big deal, Nat. She doesn’t take anything from strangers.”
Natasha snorts. “I noticed.”
You press the coin to your chest, chirping a warm, resonant note that vibrates the couch.
Wanda laughs.
“Oh darling, you can’t keep it.”
Natasha holds up a hand.
“It’s fine. She can borrow it.”
Your wings flap in contentment.
You relax for the first time since Natasha arrived.
Nat smiles, it's small, real, maybe the first one of the day.
“Well,” she exhaled, leaning back. “Guess we’re making progress.”
You hold the shiny at your chest like a treasure, eyes glowing soft and steady. You put the rouble away.
For the first time, you don’t growl at her. You just watch and Natasha quietly watches you back. Natasha’s breath catches when you slide closer. She goes still, not afraid, just…surprised. Wanda watches with a soft, proud little smile, her hand stroking between your wings.You settle beside Natasha on the couch, your massive body folding in like a great night-feathered cat. You curl your legs, wings tucking tight, antennae sweeping gently as if scenting her aura. Nat freezes again when your head lowers to her thigh.
Natasha huffs a disbelieving laugh.
“No, no, this can’t be real—”
But then you do the unthinkable.
You reach into the small pouch under your throat, the place you instinctively keep the things you treasure and pull out the rouble Natasha gave you.
Except you don’t keep it.
You place it on her knee, tapping it once with a talon.
A gift returned.
A “this is important to you; I will guard you too.”
Natasha swallows hard.
“Oh,” she whispers. “Oh… you understood that?”
You blink slowly at her, pupils dilating, head tilting. Wanda leans forward and murmurs,
“She understands everything.”
Nat’s hand shakes as she lifts it up, hesitating a moment before she runs a careful hand along the thick fur of your forearm. You don’t flinch in fact you melt. It’s hesitant at first, but the moment you let out a soft warbling trill, she gains confidence.
And then it happens,
you curl tightly against her side, your wings arching to make space, feathers brushing her shoulder gently. You’re so warm, so heavy, like a massive living blanket settling into place.
Natasha laughs, breathless.
“She’s… cuddling me?”
Wanda grins.
“She likes you. A lot.”
Nat shakes her head, still stunned, fingers brushing your fur again.
“Well… that’s a first. A giant cryptid moth deciding I’m worth snuggling.”
You rumble deeply, pressing your forehead to her ribs, eyes half-lidded and glowing softly. Natasha rests a tentative hand on the back of your head.
Wanda beams at the sight.
“Welcome to the family, Nat,” she teases. “Once she curls up against you… you’re hers.”
Summary: You seek comfort and closeness in the only way you know how: by climbing clumsily into Wanda’s lap and wrapping your wings around her like a living blanket. Wanda is patient and endlessly gentle, brushes your wings, petting your fur, and coos sweet things while you melt into a puddle of vibrating chirps and purrs.
Word count: 1.6K
Warnings: Monster/human romance, nonhuman reader, nonverbal communication (chirring, trilling, gestures only), mild supernatural themes, comfort, fluff, gentle touch, found family/trust building, minor body horror elements (feathers, claws)
Authors note: These two have captured my heart and I am so happy to see that you guys love mothman!reader as much as I do!
Wanda is curled up on the couch with a blanket and a thick novel, legs tucked under her, hair loose and warm around her shoulders. The lamp beside her glows gold — dim enough not to startle you, bright enough for her to read.
You’ve been pacing. Well. Pacing for you means quietly circling the coffee table on all fours, wings dragging like a nervous cloak, little chirruping hums slipping out whenever you glance at Wanda.
She notices, of course. She smiles over the top of her book.
“What’s going on, malen'kiy motylek?”
You freeze. Your wings twitch. Your antennae perk and then droop. You want something, desperately, but you don’t know how to ask.
So you just… stare. Eyes narrowing a bit, flicking between shades of red in thought.
Wanda pats the open spot beside her. “Come here, come sit.”
But that’s not what you want. You want her. You want to be in her lap.
With great ceremony, you climb onto the couch. It creaks under your weight, Wanda snorts softly, used to it by now. You try to be graceful. You fail immediately. One wing hits a pillow. Your claws catch a bit of her blanket. Your other wing flicks and knocks Wanda’s bookmark to the floor.
She just laughs.
“You’re doing amazing, sweetheart.”
You kneel in front of her, huge, looming, glowing-eyed… and somehow still look like an anxious puppy trying to ask for cuddles.
Then you inch forward.
Wanda blinks.
“Are you..? Oh. Oh, you want to…alright then. Come here.”
You very gently, very carefully, fold yourself… onto her lap.
Or at least you try.
Your torso fits. Somewhat. Your head ends up pressed under her chin. Your wings spill out over her legs and half the couch. Your claws cling to the hem of her sweater with heartbreaking delicacy, but you’re technically “in her lap,” and that is what matters. Wanda wraps her arms around you automatically. “Hi, baby.”
You trill, a soft, vibrating sound that shakes through your ribcage. Your body relaxes all at once, heavy with comfort, like you’ve finally found the perfect nest.
Wanda kisses the side of your head.
And then,
“Pffft.”
She suddenly sputters, pulling a feather from her mouth with two fingers. It’s one of yours. You jerk upright, horrified. Your eyes go wide, glowing a sharp embarrassed red. You make a tiny, mortified squeak, your wings drawing tight to your body like you’re trying to make yourself disappear. Wanda just laughs harder.
“Oh honey, no, no, come here.” She cups your cheeks, guiding you back down against her chest. “It’s okay. I promise. I’ve had worse in my mouth.”
You chirp once a little offended and relieved at the same time.
Wanda brushes stray feathers from her lips.
“See? All good. I love having my malen'kiy motylek in my lap.”
You melt instantly. You settle again, nuzzling under her chin, rumbling with soft purrs. Your wings loosen, spreading comfortably around her like a living blanket. Wanda strokes your back, tracing the patterns in your feathers while her book rests forgotten at her side.
“You know,” she whispers, “you don’t ever have to be small for me.”
Your eyes half-close, glow softening to a warm hue.
You feel safe.
You feel loved.
You feel home.
And Wanda holds you like she never wants to let you go.
˖⁺‧₊☽ ཐི༏ཋྀ ☾₊‧⁺˖⋆
Wanda soon learns there is a very specific sound you make when you want attention. A soft, warbly trill, almost a purr, almost a whine that vibrates right into her bones.
You’re curled in her lap again, head tucked beneath her chin, wings draped around her like oversized velvet curtains. Who needs a blanket when you have giant feathered wings wrapped around you? Wanda strokes your back lazily, fingers sinking into the plush fur between your wings. It’s peaceful. Warm. Your breathing has slowed to that deep, resonant hum she loves.
Then you make the sound.
Trillllll…
Wanda pauses, smiling.
“Oh? What’s that, sweet girl?”
Your antennae flick, brushing her jaw. You shift just enough that one wing cracks open… and then flop it directly into her hands.
You want grooming. You want your wings brushed.
“You’re too cute,” she mutters, leaning over the armrest to grab the soft bristle brush she bought you, technically a large pet brush, but she’d never say that out loud. It’s gentle enough not to snag your delicate feather-edges, strong enough to smooth the thicker, furred sections.
You settle immediately when you see it. Your entire body goes still with anticipation, like a giant predatory cat waiting for scritches.
Wanda starts slow. Long, careful strokes down the length of your wing. The feathers ripple and settle under her touch. You let out a deep, shuddering purr so loud she feels it in her stomach.
“There it is,” she coos. “Good girl. My beautiful moth.”
You curl more tightly into her lap, pressing your forehead into her ribs. Your claws lightly grip her thigh, not to hurt, just to anchor yourself.
Wanda works through each section with reverent patience, brushing away bits of lint, smoothing every ruffled patch from your night of rooftop perching. The brush whispers softly with every pass. When she hits a tender spot just under the wing joint, you gasp more of a startled chirp and you melt sideways, wings slackening like someone unplugged your bones.
“Oh sweetheart,” Wanda laughs, brushing it even more slowly. “That’s a good spot, hm?” Your eyes are half-closed, glowing dim and lazy. Your breathing deepens. The purring becomes a rumbling drone, rhythmic and steady. When she switches to your second wing, you help by shifting your weight and lifting it for her, like a very well-behaved, giant, supernatural lap puppy.
At one point, Wanda’s fingers slip into the softer feathers near the base of your neck. You lean into her touch instantly, rubbing your head against her shoulder like you can’t get close enough.
“That’s right,” she whispers. “You’re safe. Let me take care of you.”
You nuzzle deeper into her, making a tiny, grateful whimper.
The brushing slows as she moves to the finer detailing — smoothing all the stray fluff along the curve of your spine, gently cleaning the little tufts near your antennae. Your wings curl around her, fully enveloping the both of you in softness.
It’s warm.
It’s intimate.
It’s the closest thing you’ve ever known to being cherished.
When she finally finishes, Wanda presses a kiss to your forehead.
“All done, malen'kiy motylek.”
You lift your head, eyes glowing faintly, and press a feathered cheek to hers — your version of a kiss. Wanda’s heart nearly bursts.
“Anytime,” she breathes. “I’ll brush you as long as you want.” You promptly flop back into her lap, wings spread across the couch, making another hopeful trill. Wanda laughs.
“Alright, alright. Round two.”
˖⁺‧₊☽ ཐི༏ཋྀ ☾₊‧⁺˖⋆
Wanda is still brushing the last few feathers along your side when your instincts finally snap. She’s cared for you, she’s touched you gently, she’s spoken softly to you, held you, loved you in the way only creatures of comfort and instinct truly understand.
And now every feral, affectionate part of your moth heart goes:
My turn. My Wanda. Must groom.
You scoot upright in her lap, a sudden movement that makes Wanda blink in surprise. You cup her face gently between your clawed hands and lean in, antennae brushing her cheeks.
“Sweetheart?” she asks, smiling. “What is-”
You lick her.
Right on the cheek.
A quick, soft swipe, more like a kitten than a creature of folklore. Wanda freezes for half a second… then melts, pink creeping up her neck.
“Oh…” she whispers, breath catching. “You’re grooming me.”
You chirp proudly.
You lean in again, giving her another tiny lick, then another, little affectionate touches along her jaw, her cheekbone, the tip of her nose. Your tongue is warm, gentle, reverent. You treat her like something precious. Something loved.
Wanda laughs softly, stunned and flustered. “You are… unbelievable,” she murmurs, voice warm. “My sweet malen'kiy motylek.”
You chirrup and lean closer, pressing a forehead bump to hers, then resume your careful licks. You’re incredibly delicate with her, mindful of your fangs, mindful of your claws. Your instincts scream, protect, cherish, soothe. Moth affection running deep and ancient.
You run a soft lick along her temple where her hairline begins, a grooming gesture that says you are mine and I adore you.
Wanda lets out a tiny, involuntary sigh.
Her eyes flutter closed. Her hands find your waist, pulling you closer, guiding you into her lap even more securely.
“Baby…” she breathes, voice barely there. “You’re going to make me blush.” she says, but her face and neck are already completely flushed.
Your wings fluff happily at the sound of her fluster. You continue, giving gentle grooming licks down her jawline, then nuzzling your nose against her neck. You lick there once, delicately, and Wanda actually gasps.
“Okay, that, that’s very sweet,” she stammers, cheeks burning. “You’re so good to me.” You trill, pleased. You smooth her hair back with one hand, then give one last affectionate lick to her cheek to finish the “grooming session.”
When you pull back, Wanda looks undone. Soft. Ruined. Completely in love. She cups your face, smiling wide and warm.
“Thank you, dorogoya,” she whispers. “I love when my malen'kiy motylek takes care of me too.” You puff your feathers proudly and curl into her chest, satisfied. Wanda wraps her arms around you, burying her face in your neck. “I swear,” she murmurs, “you’re going to be the end of me.”
