That's the thing about loving someone with a body that wages war against itself—you learn to read the signs before they surface. She wakes up some mornings and just knows, the same way she knows when a storm is coming before the clouds gather. Something in the air around you is different. Heavier. The stillness of someone who opened their eyes and immediately understood that today was going to be one of those days.
She doesn't say anything right away. She just reaches over and touches your face, gentle, the backs of her fingers against your cheek. Taking stock. Reading you.
"Okay," she says softly. One word. It means: I see you. I've got you. We're not doing anything today except getting through this together.
She's already planning.
The first thing she does is make the room right.
You don't have to ask. You don't have to explain that the light is too much, that the noise from outside feels like it's coming from inside your skull, that everything is already too before the day has even properly started. She already knows.
The curtains close with a soft rustle, her magic drawing them together until the light is dim and gold and gentle—not dark enough to feel like being buried, just soft enough to stop hurting. The overhead light never gets turned on. She uses the lamp on the far side of the room instead, angled away from you, warm enough to see by but not enough to aggravate.
The window goes down another inch to cut the street noise. The TV stays off unless you want it, and even then she'll find something quiet—a documentary with the volume low, something slow and undemanding that you can drift in and out of without missing anything.
She turns the ceiling fan on if you run hot. Off and replaced with blankets if you're cold.
She thinks of everything before you have to find the words for it, because she knows how exhausting it is to have to ask for things when your body is already working so hard just to exist.
For the fatigue, she gives you permission.
There is a particular guilt that lives in the bones of people with chronic illness. The guilt of cancelled plans and rescheduled days and the way your limitations ripple outward and affect the people you love. You carry it even when you can barely carry yourself.
Wanda does not allow it. Not in her presence. Not on her watch.
"You don't have to do anything today," she tells you, and the way she says it leaves no room for argument. It is a simple, immovable fact. "Your only job is to rest. That's it. That's enough."
She means it. Wholeheartedly.
On the worst fatigue days—the ones where even blinking feels like effort, where your arms are made of wet concrete and your thoughts move through syrup—she takes over completely. She brings food to you. She manages your medications. She reads to you when looking at your phone becomes too much, her voice low and even, something soft in Sokovian sometimes when she thinks you're close to sleep.
She doesn't try to fix the fatigue. She's learned that lesson, and she holds it carefully: some things cannot be fixed, only witnessed. So she witnesses. She sits with you in the heaviness of it and does not look away.
When you apologize, she stops you with the same quiet firmness every time.
"You're not inconveniencing me." A pause. Her thumb tracing slow circles on the back of your hand. "I want to be here. There is nowhere else I would rather be."
For the joint pain, she uses her hands.
Wanda is not a massage therapist. She does not pretend otherwise. But she has learned the geography of your pain the way she's learned everything about you—carefully, over time, paying attention. She knows which joints swell first. Knows that your hands ache differently in the morning than in the afternoon. Knows that your knees need warmth more than pressure and that your shoulders need the opposite.
She'll sit at the foot of the bed and take your feet into her lap without asking, her thumbs working slowly over the arches, the ankles, the places where the inflammation pools. The pressure is deliberate and careful—not too deep, not too light. She's asked you enough times is this okay, is this too much that she knows your body's responses almost as well as you do now.
Her magic helps here in ways that nothing else quite can. A gentle warmth that seeps into aching joints from the inside. It’s not heat like a heating pad, which sits on the surface, but something deeper. Something that feels like being warmed all the way through. She keeps it subtle because she knows you don't always want to be reminded of what she can do, that sometimes it highlights the unfairness of the situation in ways that sting.
But on the bad days she offers it, and you take it, and she never makes it a thing.
For your hands specifically—swollen-knuckled, stiff, reluctant—she'll hold them between both of hers. Just holding. Warmth passing between your palms. Her fingers gentle around yours like she is cradling something she doesn't want to break.
"I've got you," she says quietly.
She props pillows under your knees when your joints need elevation. She fetches the heating pad and the ice pack and understands instinctively which one you need at which point in the day. She doesn't wince when you wince, because she's learned that you watch her face when you're hurting, looking for signs that your pain is becoming a burden, and she has trained herself out of the flinching.
You are not a burden.
She needs you to know it in her face as much as her words.
For the nausea, she is endlessly patient.
She keeps the room cool, because heat makes everything worse and you've told her that and she has never once forgotten. She cracks the window even in winter, just enough for a thread of fresh air to cut through. The fan stays on low. These are your terms, established on the first bad nausea day she witnessed, and she has honored them without fail since.
Food becomes a negotiation and she is a good negotiator. She doesn't push. She doesn't suggest things that will make it worse. She knows your safe list—the things that sometimes, on the very worst days, manage to stay down. Crackers. Plain toast. Certain flavors of popsicle that she keeps stocked in the freezer now, always, because they cost nothing and you might need them.
"Can you try a few crackers?" she'll ask, and it is always a question, never a demand. She holds them out on a small plate like they're something precious. Because they are, when your body will only accept so little.
She rubs your back when it gets bad. Slow, even circles, anchoring you to the room and the present and her hands when your stomach is trying to turn itself inside out. She holds your hair. She doesn't make it awkward or uncomfortable. She just stays, her hand steady on your back, murmuring soft reassurances that have nothing to do with the nausea specifically and everything to do with you're not alone in this, I'm right here, you're doing so well.
Afterwards she brings you water—small sips, she reminds you gently, not because you don't know but because sometimes being reminded in her voice is its own kind of medicine—and she wipes your face with a cool damp cloth and holds you against her chest until the worst of it passes.
She does not make you feel fragile for needing this. She does not treat it as a kindness she is performing. She treats it as the most natural thing in the world, caring for you like this, like it is simply what love looks like made practical.
For the sensory sensitivity, she becomes very, very quiet.
Wanda is not a loud person by nature, but on your bad sensory days she becomes something softer still. She moves through the room like water, without friction, her footsteps barely audible. She texts instead of talks when she needs to communicate something. She doesn't play music. She doesn't start the dishwasher or run the washing machine or do any of the small but loud domestic things that fill a normal day.
The world shrinks down to the two of you and the soft dim room and the quiet.
She asks before she touches you, on the days when touch is difficult—a light brush of her fingers against your wrist first, a silent question, waiting for your small nod before she settles beside you. She understands that the same hands that feel like relief on a joint-pain day can feel like too much on a sensory-overload day, and she does not take it personally. She has never once taken it personally.
If you can tolerate being held, she holds you. If you can't, she just stays close—near enough that you can feel her warmth, far enough that nothing is pressing on hypersensitive skin. This distance, she has learned, is its own form of comfort.
She puts your softest things within reach. The blanket that doesn't scratch. The pillow with the specific case you can't sleep without. She dimmed the room already but she'll check: too much light still? do you need the sleep mask? Small adjustments, no drama, just attention.
Her magic goes very still on these days. She keeps it close to herself instead of letting it drift the way it sometimes does, a habit she didn't even know she had until you told her, gently, that the faint crackle of it at the edges of the room was sometimes a lot. She reined it in immediately and has never let it loose near you since without permission.
That's the thing about Wanda that you've come to understand slowly, over many hard days and many quiet ones: she listens. She listens and she files it away and she changes accordingly, without complaint, without making you feel like a set of instructions to be followed rather than a person to be loved.
The middle of a bad day looks like this:
You, in bed, against a mountain of pillows arranged exactly as you need them. The curtains drawn soft. The room cool or warm as required. A bottle of water on the nightstand beside your medications and your phone and whatever small comfort she's placed there—a book you might not read, a candle that isn't lit but smells like something good, whatever small thing she knows belongs in your orbit on days like this.
Wanda, beside you or nearby. Sometimes reading, her legs folded beneath her, silent and present. Sometimes just lying with you, her head near yours, one hand resting close enough to take if you want it. Sometimes across the room doing something quiet with her hands while you sleep, close enough to hear if you need her.
She doesn't fill the silence with words. She has learned that silence, done right, is not emptiness but held space. It is the absence of demand. And you need that, on bad days, more than almost anything else. To not be needed, to not be expected to perform okayness, to just exist in the difficulty of the day without having to manage anyone else's feelings about it.
She does not need you to be okay. She only needs you to be here.
When the guilt creeps in anyway:
She catches it. She always catches it. Something shifts in your face or your breathing or the way you go quiet in a specific way that is different from restful quiet, and she knows.
She doesn't let it fester.
"Hey." She turns toward you, finds your eyes. "Whatever you're thinking right now—stop."
You try to explain anyway, because it feels important, because the guilt has its own logic and it wants to be heard, and she lets you say it. She listens. She doesn't interrupt.
And then:
"You are not too much. You are not a burden. You did not choose this, and I chose you knowing all of it." A pause, her thumb brushing your knuckles. "Those two things are both true and they always will be."
She says it like a fact. Like gravity. Like something that has always been true and will continue to be true regardless of how many bad days there are or how long they last or how little you are able to give on the days your body takes everything.
You believe her because she makes it easy to believe her.
By evening, if it's been a hard day, she'll draw you a bath if you can manage it, the water exactly right, her magic keeping it warm longer than it should stay. She'll sit on the edge and talk to you about nothing—small things, easy things, things that require no response except the occasional hum or soft laugh. She washes your hair if you want her to, her fingers gentle on your scalp, and she rinses it carefully so nothing runs into your eyes.
She gets you back into bed like it's the most natural thing in the world. Clean clothes, soft ones, the ones you've told her are easiest on bad skin days. She brushes your hair if it needs it—slowly, patiently, working through tangles without pulling. She tucks you in with the thoroughness of someone who has decided that tucking you in is something worth doing well.
She lies down beside you in the dark.
"You did good today," she tells you quietly, and you know she means it even though all you did was survive it, even though survival felt like all you had, because Wanda has always understood that surviving is its own form of strength and she will not let you minimize it.
Her arm finds you in the dark and pulls you gently against her side.
"Rest," she says. "I'll be here when you wake up."
And she will be.
She always is.
A/N: really wanted to get this done quickly. Chronic illness can be devastating in ways people can’t even begin to recognize. Chronic fatigue, especially, can be debilitating. But you are not alone, and you are not behind, and you are loved how you are. You aren’t being dramatic, and you are not being lazy. You’re so loved ❤️
Also I don’t remember how I formatted the old rambles 😭
She doesn’t grab—she enfolds. Her arms wrap around with this gentle completeness, like she’s trying to shield someone from the entire world and almost succeeds. She’s warm, always warmer than expected, like there’s a banked fire living just beneath her skin. that chaos magic humming through her veins radiates outward, and even without seeing the red wisps, it’s there. A subtle vibration that settles deep.
She smells like cardamom and old books. Vanilla too, if she’s been stress-baking (which is often). There’s something else underneath, harder to name—the faint tang of magic, or maybe just the specific scent of someone who runs hot, who radiates safety. Fabric softener. Warmth that lingers.
When Wanda hugs someone, she tucks her chin over their shoulder or rests her forehead against theirs. She closes her eyes. Commits fully, not distracted, not already thinking three steps ahead. Just present. Completely there.
Her sweaters are always soft—oversized and worn-in, the kind that feel like being wrapped in a blanket that whispers “i’ve got you” or “you’re okay, любов, you’re okay” in that sokovian accent that’s seen too much but chose softness anyway.
Hugging wanda feels like being seen—every messy, broken, beautiful part—and being loved regardless. Like she’s looked into the worst of it and decided it’s all worth holding onto.
It brings to mind rainy afternoons. Oversteeped tea. The weight of a quilt. That moment right before sleep when everything finally goes quiet.
A hug from Natasha Romanoff feels like being anchored.
She’s not soft about it—Nat doesn’t do anything softly, not really. Her hugs are firm. decisive. Like she’s assessed the situation and determined what’s needed is to be held together, so that’s exactly what she does. Her arms lock around with surprising strength, and there’s something grounding about it. secure. an unspoken promise that she won’t let go.
She smells like leather and clean linen. Gun oil, faint and sharp. There’s usually a hint of her shampoo—something uncomplicated, cedarwood or mint—and underneath, the ghost of whatever high-end perfume a mission required last week. But mostly she smells clean, minimal, purposeful. She learned a long time ago that scent gives things away.
Natasha doesn’t waste movement. She pulls in close, one hand between the shoulder blades and the other cradling the back of someone’s head, and holds tight. Like she’s done this for teammates bleeding out, for frightened assets, for Clint. She knows how to make a hug a promise: I’m not going anywhere.
She might not say anything at all. Words aren’t Nat’s forte when emotions run high. But if she does speak, it’s quiet and certain. “i’m here.” or “we’re okay.” or just a name, soft against hair like a vow.
Her leather jacket is cool and worn smooth in places. There’s a heartbeat underneath if someone’s close enough—steady, controlled, the rhythm of someone trained to betray nothing. But she lets it be felt anyway. that’s the intimacy of it.
Hugging Natasha feels like being protected. Like she’s calculated every threat in a three-block radius and positioned herself between them and all of it. Like for these seconds, these breaths, there’s permission to stop being strong because she’s strong enough for two.
It brings to mind the sound of a door locking. The first deep breath after surfacing from underwater. The solid thunk of a weapons case closing. Knowing someone has your six.
When they both hug someone at once, which happens more than expected because they’re secretly competitive about comfort, it’s overwhelming in the best way.
Wanda’s warmth and natasha’s certainty. magic and muscle. Soft sweater and leather jacket. Cardamom mixing with gun oil in a combination that shouldn’t work but somehow redefines safety.
Wanda whispers reassurances while Natasha just holds tighter.
Broken things can be made whole. Strength comes in different forms. Love is both the soft hand and the steady one.
Wanda knows the moment a self-deprecating thought forms in her girlfriend's mind.
They're in the middle of sex—Wanda's fingers inside her, her girlfriend's body responding beautifully—and suddenly Wanda feels the shift. That intrusive thought creeping in: I don't look good like this or My body is wrong or She can't actually want me like this.
Her empathic abilities pick up on it like a discordant note in a symphony. The sudden spike of negative emotion, the way her girlfriend's arousal dips slightly, the mental retreat even while her body is still present.
Wanda's response is immediate and firm.
She stops moving. Completely. Her fingers still inside, but motionless.
"Uh uh."
Just that. Two syllables that cut through whatever negative thought was forming like a knife through silk.
Her girlfriend's eyes open, confused by the sudden stillness, maybe a little worried. Did she do something wrong?
"I felt that, малыш (baby). That thought. And no. Absolutely not."
Wanda's voice is calm but there's steel underneath. Not angry—determined. Unwavering.
"You just thought something cruel about yourself. About this beautiful body I'm touching right now. And I'm not allowing it."
Her girlfriend might try to deflect. "I didn't—"
"Yes, you did. I felt it. Don't lie to me, sweetheart. I can sense every emotion you have right now, including the self-hatred trying to creep in. And we're addressing it. Right now."
Wanda doesn't get harsh, but she gets firmer than usual. More commanding. More insistent. There's an authority in her voice that wasn't there moments ago.
"Look at me. Right now."
Her girlfriend meets her eyes, and Wanda's expression is serious. Not disappointed, not angry—absolutely determined.
"That thought you just had? It's wrong. Completely wrong. And I'm not going to let you believe it. Not for one more second."
Her fingers curl inside deliberately, hitting that perfect spot, making her girlfriend gasp and her hips jolt involuntarily.
"This body?" Another curl, more deliberate. "Is perfect. You hear me? Perfect."
"I don't want to hear arguments. I don't want to hear 'but.' I'm telling you a fact, and you're going to accept it."
She starts moving again, but there's an intensity to it now. A firmness in her movements, in her touch. She's making a point with every thrust of her fingers.
"Every curve. Every line. Every part of you that your brain is trying to criticize—it's exactly what I want. Exactly what I need. Exactly right."
Wanda continues what she was doing, but with more determination, more focus, more command.
She's not being rough—she's being insistent. Thorough. Making sure her girlfriend can't retreat back into those negative thoughts because the pleasure is too overwhelming, too present, too demanding of attention.
"I'm going to make you cum. And while you do, you're going to remember that I want this. Want you. Exactly as you are."
Her thumb circles her girlfriend's clit with deliberate, firm pressure while her fingers work inside with that curl and thrust that she knows drives her girlfriend crazy.
"You think you don't look good? I'm looking at you right now, любов. And you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
She adds a third finger, stretching, filling, watching her girlfriend's face for every reaction.
"You think I'm just being nice? That I'm lying to spare your feelings? Look at my face, малыш. Do I look like I'm pretending?"
Her pupils are dilated, her breathing elevated, her magic flickering around her fingertips with arousal. The evidence of her genuine desire is written all over her.
"This is real. What I feel when I touch you, when I look at you—it's all completely real. And your self-deprecating thoughts don't get to take this moment from us."
Wanda maintains or demands eye contact throughout, not letting her girlfriend hide or retreat into her negative thoughts.
"Eyes on me. Don't look away."
If her girlfriend tries to close her eyes or turn her face—from embarrassment, from that instinct to hide when feeling vulnerable—Wanda's magic will gently but firmly guide her back.
Her free hand cups her girlfriend's face, or her magic creates that sensation, keeping her focused on Wanda.
"No, sweetheart. You're going to watch me worship this body you're trying to criticize. You're going to see how much I want you. See the truth in my eyes."
She increases intensity—fingers moving faster, deeper, her other hand gripping her girlfriend's hip possessively, holding her in place.
"Feel that? Feel how wet you are? That's your body responding to me because it knows what your mind is trying to deny. Your body knows it's wanted. Knows it's desired. You need to catch up."
Her magic joins in, creating pleasant warmth that spreads through her girlfriend's body, amplifying every sensation.
"I can feel every reaction. Every clench around my fingers. Every spike of pleasure. Your body is telling me yes even when your mind is trying to say you're not enough. And your body is right."
Throughout, Wanda delivers praise with absolute certainty, no room for argument or doubt.
"This curve here?" Her hand not currently occupied between her girlfriend's thighs traces along her side, her hip. "Perfect. Absolutely perfect. I love running my hands along it. Love feeling how your body moves under my touch."
"These thighs that you think are too much? Too big, too soft, whatever cruel thing you tell yourself? I love them. Love the strength in them. Love feeling them shake around my hand when you're close. Love how they feel wrapped around my waist."
She'll spread her girlfriend's legs wider with her magic, exposing her completely.
"And you're not going to hide them. I want to see. Want full access to this beautiful body."
"Your breasts that you think are the wrong size—too small, too big, whatever lie you tell yourself? They're exactly right. Perfect for my hands."
She'll lean down and prove it, her mouth replacing her hand, teeth grazing sensitive skin, tongue working until her girlfriend is arching and gasping.
"Perfect for my mouth. Perfect for me to mark. And I'm going to do just that."
She'll bite gently, suck, leave a mark that will bloom purple and serve as a reminder later.
"This stomach you're self-conscious about? It's beautiful. Every inch of you is beautiful. And I'm going to make you believe it even if I have to fuck this understanding into you every single day."
Wanda uses her magic more deliberately and obviously to emphasize her points, to create undeniable physical proof of her desire.
Red wisps trail along every part of her girlfriend's body that she's insecure about, creating pleasant sensation, warmth, tingling pleasure that can't be ignored.
"My magic responds to what I find beautiful, малыш. It's connected to my emotions, to my desires. And look—"
The magic is everywhere. Wrapping around her girlfriend's thighs, ghosting over her stomach, teasing her nipples, creating sensation along every curve and line.
"It's everywhere on you. Because all of you is beautiful to me. All of you turns me on. All of you makes me want to touch and taste and claim."
She'll use her magic to hold her girlfriend's legs open when insecurity makes her want to close them, to keep her exposed and visible.
"No hiding. I want to see all of you. Want to touch all of you. And you're going to let me because this body belongs to me, and I take care of what's mine."
The magic creates a sensation like being held, surrounded, completely encompassed by Wanda's desire and attention.
"Feel my magic on you? That's how much of you I want to touch. All of you. Simultaneously. Because there's not a single part I want to ignore or overlook."
As Wanda continues, she increases the intensity beyond what they might normally do, because her girlfriend needs to feel this on a level that bypasses thought.
Her fingers move faster, harder, more deliberately. Her magic intensifies the sensations. Her mouth works over her girlfriend's body with determined attention.
"You're going to cum for me. And it's going to be hard. Because I'm not being gentle right now. I'm being honest. Thorough. Insistent."
She adds more pressure to her girlfriend's clit, more depth to the thrust of her fingers.
"And when you cum, you're going to feel it in every part of this body you were just criticizing. You're going to feel pleasure everywhere. Because this body is capable of incredible pleasure, and that's not something to tear down."
When Wanda brings her girlfriend to orgasm, it's with firm, undeniable command.
"You're going to cum for me now. And when you do, you're going to remember that this body you're criticizing just gave you this pleasure. That I made you feel this good because I want you exactly as you are."
Her fingers and magic work in tandem, building intensity until her girlfriend has no choice but to fall over the edge.
"Cum, малыш. Cum and feel how perfect you are."
She doesn't stop when her girlfriend climaxes—she keeps going, prolonging it, making it overwhelming and impossible to ignore. Her fingers maintain their rhythm, her magic pulses in waves, extending the orgasm beyond what her girlfriend thought possible.
"Feel that? That's what I can do to this body you're trying to tear down. This perfect, beautiful, responsive body that's mine."
She keeps her girlfriend right there in that space of intense pleasure, not letting her come down yet.
"This body responds to me like this because we fit. Because it's right. Because you're exactly what I need."
Only when her girlfriend is shaking, oversensitive, completely overwhelmed does Wanda finally gentle her touch.
"There. That's the truth. Not whatever cruel lie your brain tried to tell you. This—" she keeps her fingers inside, her magic still wrapped around her girlfriend, "—is the truth."
Even as her girlfriend comes down, Wanda remains firm in her messaging.
"We're going to talk about this, любов. Not right now—you need to catch your breath. But we're going to address where these thoughts come from and how to combat them."
She slowly withdraws her fingers, uses her magic to clean them both gently.
"Because I won't tolerate you believing lies about yourself. Especially not during our intimate time together. This is a space for truth and pleasure and connection—not for self-hatred."
After, Wanda pulls her girlfriend close and is still firm but tender.
"Those thoughts? They lie to you, малыш. And when they come up during our time together, I'm going to correct them. Every single time. I don't care if we have to stop in the middle. I don't care if I have to spend an hour proving you wrong. I'll do it."
She kisses her girlfriend's forehead, her cheeks, her lips—each kiss a punctuation mark to her statement.
"You are beautiful. You are wanted. You are perfect exactly as you are. And I will tell you that as many times as it takes for you to believe it."
Her magic wraps around them both, warm and comforting, like being held in the safest embrace.
"I love every part of you. The parts you love and the parts you struggle with. All of it. Because all of it is you, and you are everything to me."
She holds her girlfriend tightly, not letting her retreat or pull away.
"Tomorrow, we might need to have a bigger conversation about these thoughts. About where they come from and how we combat them outside the bedroom too. But for right now, just accept what I'm telling you: you are so deeply loved, exactly as you are."
In the following days, Wanda remains vigilant about these thoughts.
She'll catch them with her empathic abilities even in non-sexual contexts and address them immediately.
"I felt that. What did you just think about yourself?"
And she'll correct it, firmly and lovingly, until her girlfriend starts to internalize a kinder narrative.
"Try again. Say something true this time."
She's not going to let these thoughts win. Not now, not ever.
Natasha notices the shift in her girlfriend's body language and energy during sex.
They're making love—Natasha on top, moving slowly, watching her girlfriend's face with that focused attention she brings to everything important—and suddenly her girlfriend tenses in a way that's not about pleasure. Her eyes look away, breaking the connection they'd been maintaining. There's a flicker of something negative crossing her expression, a tightness around her eyes that speaks of an intrusive thought.
Natasha recognizes it immediately. She's trained to read micro-expressions, to notice the smallest changes in body language. And she knows her girlfriend well enough to understand what that particular look means: self-deprecating thoughts are creeping in.
Her response is to become incredibly, deliberately soft.
Natasha slows down even more, her movements becoming languid and gentle. Eventually she stops, still inside her girlfriend (if using the strap) or still touching intimately, but motionless.
"Hey. Where'd you go?"
Her voice is quiet, gentle. Not demanding or sharp—inviting. Creating space for honesty.
She can see her girlfriend's instinct to deflect, the automatic response forming: "Nowhere, I'm fine, keep going."
But Natasha doesn't accept it. She knows that tone, knows that particular kind of fine that isn't fine at all.
"You're not. I can tell. Something just shifted."
She'll wait, patient and still, one hand coming up to cup her girlfriend's face gently. No pressure, no demand—just invitation and safety.
"Talk to me, baby. What just went through your head?"
Her thumb strokes along her girlfriend's cheekbone, tender and patient. She'll wait as long as it takes, not moving, not pressing, just being present until her girlfriend feels safe enough to admit it.
Eventually, quietly, almost embarrassed: "I just... I don't look good like this" or "You can't actually want me when you can see..." or "My body is wrong and you're just being nice..."
And Natasha's expression shifts to something soft and determined and utterly sincere.
"Okay. That's not true. And I'm going to show you why. Let me show you what I actually see when I look at you."
Natasha becomes reverent in her touch and movement in a way that's even more pronounced than her usual attentiveness.
She starts moving again, but slower than before. So slow that every sensation is drawn out, every movement deliberate and focused. Each touch becomes intentional, meaningful, weighted with emotion.
"I'm going to touch every part of you that you just criticized. And I'm going to show you exactly what I see. What I feel. What I know to be true."
Her hands map her girlfriend's body with incredible gentleness. Not clinical like a mission assessment—worshipful, like she's memorizing something sacred and precious.
"This body?" Her hand smooths along her girlfriend's side, her touch feather-light and reverent. "Is fucking gorgeous. Every single inch of it."
She pauses over her girlfriend's hip, fingers tracing the curve slowly.
"Do you know how many times I've put my hand right here? How many times I've gripped this exact spot when I'm inside you? It fits perfectly in my palm. Like you were made for me to hold."
Natasha takes her time cataloging everything she loves, touching and kissing as she goes, turning her girlfriend's body into a map of devotion.
"These thighs you think are too big?" Her hands smooth along them, strong and sure. "They're perfect. I love feeling them around my waist when we're like this. Love watching them shake when you're close to cumming. Love the strength in them."
She kisses along the inner thigh to prove her point, lips soft against sensitive skin, teeth grazing gently enough to make her girlfriend shiver.
"I love how soft they are here," another kiss, higher, "and how I can feel the muscle underneath. I love that they're strong enough to hold you up and soft enough to feel incredible under my hands."
She moves her hands higher, to her girlfriend's stomach—often a source of insecurity.
"Your stomach that you're self-conscious about?" Her palm rests flat against it, warm and grounding. "I love it. Love putting my hand here and feeling you breathe. Feeling how your breath catches when I touch you right. Feeling you react to me."
She leans down, presses a soft kiss just below her girlfriend's navel.
"I love the softness here. Love that your body is real and human and warm. You think I want something hard and perfect and untouchable? I don't. I want you. Exactly this. Exactly as you are."
She moves slowly up her girlfriend's body, mouth and hands exploring with deliberate care, taking her time with each area.
"These breasts you think are wrong—too small or too big or whatever cruel measurement you're using?" Her hands cup them gently, reverently. "They're not. They're perfect."
She lowers her head, takes a nipple in her mouth, lavishing attention with her tongue until her girlfriend is gasping and arching into the touch.
"See how your body responds? That's not wrong. That's perfect. That's exactly right."
She continues the worship, moving to the other breast, giving it the same devoted attention.
"These fit perfectly in my hands. In my mouth. They're sensitive in all the right ways. And I love them. I love touching them, tasting them, watching you react when I do."
Natasha maintains constant, soft eye contact, wanting her girlfriend to see the genuine appreciation and desire in her eyes.
She moves back up to face level, positioning herself so they're looking directly at each other.
"Look at me, baby. Really look at me."
When her girlfriend meets her eyes, Natasha holds that gaze steadily, letting her see everything—the warmth, the desire, the genuine want.
"Do I look like I'm lying? Do I look like I'm forcing myself to do this?"
Her girlfriend will see nothing but sincerity. Natasha's pupils are dilated, her breathing slightly elevated, her expression soft but intense with genuine desire.
"This is real. What I feel for you, what I want from you—it's all completely real. And your body isn't something I tolerate or overlook. It's part of why I want you."
She leans down, captures her girlfriend's mouth in a slow, deep kiss that conveys everything her words are saying.
"I want to touch you. I want to be inside you. I want to make you feel good. Not despite your body. Because of it. Because you're who I want."
Everything Natasha does becomes even slower and more deliberate than her usual careful attention.
If she's using the strap, she resumes movement with long, deep, rolling thrusts that let her girlfriend feel every single inch. No rushing, no pounding—just slow, thorough, meaningful movement.
"Feel that? Feel how perfectly you take me? Feel how good this is?"
Each thrust is accompanied by eye contact, by attention, by presence.
"This body fits with mine. We work together. This isn't something you should criticize. This is something to celebrate."
If she's using her fingers, each stroke is careful and attentive, curling to hit exactly the right spots with deliberate precision.
"Right here," she curls her fingers against that perfect spot inside, "is where I can make you feel incredible. And I love finding these spots. Love learning what makes you come undone. Love watching your face when I get it just right."
Her other hand stays busy too—stroking skin, holding her girlfriend close, maintaining constant physical connection.
"I love touching you like this. Love being this close. Love feeling you respond to me."
Natasha becomes extremely verbal in her appreciation, which is particularly notable because she's usually more quiet during sex.
"You're so fucking beautiful. Do you know that? Not despite anything. Not 'even though.' Just beautiful. Period. Full stop."
Her voice is rough with sincerity and arousal, each word carrying weight.
"I love touching you. Love being inside you. Love watching your face when you're close. Love the sounds you make. Love how you feel against me."
She'll narrate what she's doing and why she loves it, giving her girlfriend an audio map of her genuine appreciation.
"I'm kissing your neck right now because I love the way you smell here. The way you taste. The way your pulse speeds up under my lips. The little sound you make when I bite gently."
She demonstrates, teeth grazing softly, and sure enough, her girlfriend makes that exact sound.
"There it is. Perfect. You're perfect."
She continues the narration as she touches, each action accompanied by explanation and praise.
"Running my hand down your side because I love the curve of your waist. Gripping your hip because it fits my hand like we were designed for this. Kissing this spot on your collarbone because it makes you shiver."
Natasha positions them so that her girlfriend can't hide, but in a gentle, loving way that feels safe rather than exposing.
She might have her girlfriend on her back with Natasha over her, face to face, maintaining that crucial eye contact. Or she'll pull her girlfriend into her lap, arms wrapped securely around her, holding her close while she touches her intimately.
"I want to see you. Want you to see me. Want you to know that I'm here because I want to be. Because you're who I choose. Who I want. Who I need."
If they're in her lap, she'll keep one arm wrapped around her girlfriend's waist, holding her close against her chest, while the other hand works between her legs.
"Feel how close I'm holding you? That's because I can't get close enough. Because I want you against me. Want to feel every reaction, every breath, every moment of pleasure."
While Natasha is soft, she's also gently insistent about combating the negative thoughts, refusing to let them stand unchallenged.
"You said you don't look good? I'm going to make you come while looking right at you. While touching every part of you that you just criticized. And then we'll see if you still believe that."
Her fingers work slowly but with clear purpose, building pleasure gradually but inevitably.
"I'm watching every expression. Every reaction. The way your eyebrows draw together when you're getting close. The way your mouth opens when I hit the right spot. The way your eyes get glassy right before you cum. And you're beautiful through all of it."
She increases pressure slightly with her thumb against her girlfriend's clit, adjusting based on the physical responses she's observing.
"Your body is telling me what it needs. Responding to me. Giving me feedback so I can make you feel good. That's not something to criticize. That's something incredible. That's connection."
When she brings her girlfriend to orgasm, it's with gentle encouragement rather than firm demands.
"Cum for me, baby. Let me see you. Let me feel you."
Her movements stay slow and deliberate even as she guides her girlfriend toward the edge, not rushing, savoring every moment.
"That's it. I can feel you getting close. Can see it on your face. So beautiful. Come on, let go for me."
When her girlfriend does fall over that edge, Natasha maintains eye contact, watches every expression, continues the slow, deep movements that draw out the orgasm.
"There you go. So perfect. Look at you. How could you think this isn't beautiful? Look at your face right now."
She keeps her girlfriend right there in that space of pleasure, prolonging it with continued touch and movement.
"This is you. This is real. This is what I see. This beautiful, responsive, perfect person falling apart for me because we fit. Because this is right."
After, Natasha's aftercare is especially tender and focused, even more so than her usual thorough approach.
She doesn't immediately pull away. She stays close, still touching gently, still connected if possible.
"I meant every word. Every single thing I said. You're beautiful. All of you."
She'll trace patterns on her girlfriend's skin with her fingertips, each touch a continuation of the worship she just performed.
"These thoughts you have—they're lying to you. And I know it's hard to fight them. I know they feel true even when they're not. But whenever they show up, especially when we're together like this, I'm going to remind you of the actual truth."
She'll spend extra time just holding her girlfriend, letting the physical closeness reinforce her words.
"You're safe with me. Your body is safe with me. You don't have to be anything other than what you are. And what you are is exactly what I want."
She presses soft kisses to her girlfriend's temple, her forehead, her cheeks.
"I see all of you. Not despite anything. Not overlooking anything. I see you—the whole package—and I want you. Choose you. Every time."
Even after they're done, even as time passes, Natasha remains softer than usual for the rest of the evening.
More physical affection than she typically shows—pulling her girlfriend into her lap while they watch TV, keeping an arm around her waist while they move through their home, holding her hand, pressing random kisses to her shoulder or head.
More verbal reassurance, dropping little reminders throughout the evening.
"You're beautiful, you know that?"
"Love having you close like this."
"You're perfect. Just... perfect."
She makes sure her girlfriend feels thoroughly loved and appreciated, that the message from their intimate moment continues to resonate.
In the days following, Natasha will gently bring up the self-deprecating thoughts in non-sexual contexts.
"Those things you said about yourself the other night... where do those come from? Can we talk about it?"
She wants to understand the root of the negative self-talk so she can help combat it more effectively.
"I need you to know that when I say you're beautiful, I'm not just saying it to be nice. I'm not trying to boost your self-esteem out of obligation. I genuinely mean it. You're what I want. Exactly as you are."
She'll work with her girlfriend to develop strategies for combating the negative thoughts.
"Next time your brain tries to tell you you're not enough, I need you to remember how I looked at you. How I touched you. What I said. That's the truth. Not whatever your anxiety is trying to convince you of."
Natasha makes it clear that this is an ongoing commitment, not just a one-time reassurance.
"Every time these thoughts come up during intimate moments, I'm going to slow down and show you the truth. Every time. I don't care if it takes hours. I don't care if we have to stop and start a dozen times. Your mental health and self-perception are more important than any orgasm."
She'll hold her girlfriend's face gently, making sure she's listening.
"You deserve to feel beautiful. To know you're wanted. To believe that you're enough exactly as you are. And I'm going to keep proving it to you until you believe it."
Because for Natasha, loving someone means all of them—including the parts that struggle, the insecurities, the negative self-talk. And she'll meet all of it with patience, gentleness, and unwavering devotion.
The contrast in their approaches is perfect for addressing self-deprecation from different angles.
Wanda gets firmer because she won't tolerate her girlfriend believing lies about herself. She combats the negative thoughts with insistent pleasure, commanding praise, and determined affection. She's saying: "These thoughts are WRONG and I'm going to prove it to you."
Natasha gets softer because she wants her girlfriend to feel how genuinely she's cherished. She combats the negative thoughts with worship, reverence, and tender attention. She's saying: "Let me show you what I actually see when I look at you."
Both approaches come from deep love and the refusal to let their girlfriend believe anything less than the truth: that she's beautiful, wanted, perfect exactly as she is.
And between Wanda's firm insistence and Natasha's soft worship, their girlfriend learns that self-deprecating thoughts have no place in their bed—because both of her lovers will immediately, thoroughly, and lovingly prove them wrong.
A/N: Heyy, to anyone out there who deals with these thoughts? You are beautiful. You are loved. You are so important to this world. It does not matter what you look like. Truly. I know how hard it can be, especially when your mind decides "hey, let's fuck around and think all these negative things", but that's just what they are. Thoughts. "I'm ugly", "My thighs are too big", "I hate these freckles". Yeah, well, you know what? People love thicker thighs and freckled cheeks. And I promise, you are a beautiful soul who deserves to believe it.
Wanda knows before her girlfriend even says anything. She wakes up and immediately feels that heavy, dark emotional weight radiating from her girlfriend beside her. Depression settling in like fog, or anxiety crackling like static, or just that awful numbness that means today is going to be hard. Her empathic abilities pick up on it instantly, and her heart aches for her girlfriend even as she's already planning how to help.
She doesn't force conversation or demand explanations. Instead, she acknowledges what she feels without making her girlfriend work to explain it.
"I can feel that today is hard for you, lyubov," she says simply. No judgment, no pressure to be okay when she's clearly not.
If her girlfriend tries to brush it off with that automatic "I'm fine" that comes from years of hiding struggles, Wanda gently calls it out.
"You don't have to pretend with me, sweetheart. I can feel what you're feeling, and that's okay. You're allowed to have bad days."
She pulls her girlfriend close, wrapping her in warmth both physical and magical.
"You don't have to explain it or justify it. I just want you to know that I'm here, and whatever you're carrying today, you don't have to carry it alone."
Because Wanda can sense exactly what her girlfriend needs, she provides it without being asked. If her girlfriend is anxious, Wanda creates calm. Her magic wraps around her girlfriend like a weighted blanket, providing grounding pressure. She might guide her through breathing exercises, her voice soft and steady.
"Breathe with me, malysh. In for four, hold for four, out for four. That's it, you're doing so well."
If her girlfriend is depressed and everything feels too heavy, Wanda takes the weight. She makes all the decisions so her girlfriend doesn't have to think.
"You don't have to decide anything today. I'll handle it. You just need to be here with me, and that's enough."
If her girlfriend is numb and disconnected, Wanda provides gentle sensory input to help her feel present. Soft touches, warm tea, her magic creating pleasant tingles that remind her girlfriend she's still in her body.
"Can you feel this, sweetheart? My hand in yours. The warmth of the tea. You're here, you're real. I've got you."
Wanda immediately removes all expectations and obligations for the day.
"Whatever you were planning to do today, work, chores, errands, it can wait. Or I'll handle it. Today is about taking care of you."
She'll text her girlfriend's work if needed, cancel appointments, reschedule commitments. She does this matter-of-factly, no guilt, no making it a big deal.
"I told them you're not feeling well and won't be in today. It's handled, you don't need to think about it."
She takes over household tasks without making her girlfriend feel guilty about it. Dishes get done, laundry gets flded, dinner gets made, all without her girlfriend having to lift a finger.
"I've got everything handled, lyubov. Your only job today is to exist and let me take care of you."
Wanda suggests gentle, low-pressure activities based on what she senses her girlfriend needs. If distraction would help, she offers, "Want to watch something together? Something easy and comforting? You can pick, or I can choose if that feels like too much decision-making."
If rest is needed, she says, "Let's go back to bed. We're going to rest today, no guilt, no pushing through. Just rest."
If fresh air might help, she suggests, "How about we sit outside for a bit? Just ten minutes. The sun might feel good, and if it doesn't, we'll come right back in."
She never pushes. If her girlfriend says no to something, Wanda adjusts immediately without any disappointment.
"Okay, sweetheart. We'll stay right here then. Whatever you need."
Wanda is very physically present on bad mental health days. She'll hold her girlfriend in her lap, wrapped in her arms, her girlfriend's head on her chest where she can hear Wanda's steady heartbeat.
"You can stay here as long as you need. I'm not going anywhere."
Her magic provides additional comfort, warmth and gentle pressure and that sense of being completely cocooned in safety. She plays with her girlfriend's hair, strokes her back, presses soft kisses to her forehead. Gentle, grounding touches that remind her girlfriend she's loved even when her brain is lying to her.
Wanda doesn't try to fix or minimize what her girlfriend is feeling.
"This is really hard. What you're feeling is real and valid, and you're allowed to not be okay."
If her girlfriend expresses dark or difficult thoughts, Wanda doesn't react with alarm or try to talk her out of them. She just holds space.
"Thank you for telling me. I'm glad you trusted me with that. You don't have to be alone with those thoughts."
She validates the struggle without making it worse.
"Depression lies to you. Anxiety lies to you. I know that knowing they're lying doesn't make them stop, but I'm here to remind you of the truth when you can't see it yourself."
When needed, Wanda provides very gentle encouragement for basic self-care, but never demands.
"Have you eaten today, sweetheart? I'm making you something light. You don't have to eat all of it, but a few bites might help."
She makes food appear, simple and easy things that aren't overwhelming. Toast, soup, fruit, whatever might be managable.
"Just try a little. For me."
For hygeine, she's equally gentle.
"Would a shower feel good? I'll help you. Or we can skip it today, whatever you need."
If her girlfriend does shower, Wanda might wash her hair for her, making it an act of care rather than a chore.
Throughout the day, Wanda provides constant, gentle reassurance.
"This will pass. Not today, maybe not tomorrow, but it will pass. You've survived every bad day before this one, and you'll survive this one too."
"You are loved, even when you can't feel it. Even when your brain tells you you're not, you are so deeply loved."
"You're not a burden. You're not too much. You're exactly right, and I'm honored to be here with you through this."
She says these things multiple times throughout the day because she knows her girlfriend needs to hear them, even if she can't fully believe them yet.
As the day winds down, Wanda creates a cocoon of safety for the night. She'll run a bath if her girlfriend wants one, with perfect temperature and calming scents. She'll sit with her or give her privacy, whatever is needed. She makes sure medication is taken if applicable, water is at the bedside, the room is comfortable.
"Let's get you to bed early tonight, malysh. Rest is healing."
She holds her girlfriend until she falls asleep, magic wrapped around them both, murmuring soft words in Sokovian. "
Ya tebya lyublyu. Ty v bezopasnosti. Ya zdes." (I love you. You're safe. I'm here.)
The following day, Wanda checks in without making it a big deal.
"How are you feeling today, sweetheart? Better? Still rough? Somewhere in between?"
She doesn't expect instant recovery, doesn't act like one day of care should have fixed everything.
"That's okay. We'll take it day by day, hour by hour if we need to."
Natasha notices the signs even if she can't feel them empathically like Wanda can. Her girlfriend is moving differently, slower and heavier, like gravity has increased. Or maybe she's jittery, unable to settle, anxiety visible in every movement. Or she's going through motions mechanically, present physically but not mentally. Natasha recognizes all of it because she's been there herself.
She approaches mental health struggles directly and practically.
"Bad day?"
Just two words with no judgment, only acknowledgment and inquiry. When her girlfriend nods or admits it, Natasha's response is immediate and action-oriented.
"Okay. What do you need from me? And before you say nothing, that's not an option. I'm here and I'm helping, so tell me what would actually help."
She's being clear. Her girlfriend doesn't have to figure this out alone.
Natasha's first priority is removing as much stress as possible from her girlfriend's plate. She sits down with her girlfriend and makes a list, mental or written, of everything that needs to be done or that her girlfriend is worried about.
"Okay. Work, that meeting, grocery shopping, calling your mom, the bills. Got it."
Then she systematically addresses each item.
"I'm emailing your work. You're taking a sick day. The meeting can be rescheduled or I'll handle it. Groceries, I'll order delivery. Your mom, I'll text her that you'll call later this week. Bills, I'll pay them. Done."
She doesn't ask permission, she just handles it, removing obligations and stressors with efficiency.
"You don't need to think about any of that now. It's handled."
Natasha shows love through concrete actions. She makes sure her girlfriend has eaten, even if it's just a protein bar and some water. She knows nutrition affects mental health.
"You need to eat something. I'm not asking, here."
It sounds demanding but it's delivered with care. She's insisting because she cares. She makes sure medication is taken on schedule if applicable, setting reminders, bringing water, checking without nagging.
"Did you take your meds this morning? No? Here they are, take them now."
She handles the environment too, opening windows for fresh air, adjusting lighting if brightness is overwhelming, making the space comfortable.
Natasha stays physically close without being smothering. She pulls her girlfriend onto the couch next to her, arm around her shoulders, solid and present.
"You don't have to talk. Just sit with me."
She lets her girlfriend lean against her, plays with her girlfriend's hair absently, provides steady physical contact that's grounding. If her girlfriend wants to be held, Natasha will wrap completely around her, protective and warm and safe.
"I've got you. You're safe. Just breathe."
When appropriate, Natasha offers gentle distraction without invalidating the struggle.
"Want to watch something mindless? Something that doesn't require thinking?"
She'll put on comfort shows or movies, things her girlfriend has seen before that won't demand emotional investment. Sometimes she suggests, "Want to help me clean my guns? You can just sit there and hand me things. Gives your hands something to do."
She knows that sometimes having a small, simple task helps more than sitting with thoughts.
Natasha creates a space free of judgment for whatever her girlfriend is feeling. If her girlfriend is having intrusive thoughts, Natasha listens without shock or alarm.
"Thank you for telling me. Those thoughts sound really hard to deal with, but they're just thoughts. They're not reality, and you're not alone with them."
If her girlfriend is frustrated with herself for struggling, Natasha shuts that down.
"Your brain chemistry is fucking with you. That's not your fault. You don't get mad at yourself for catching a cold, same thing."
She's matter-of-fact about mental health struggles in a way that normalizes them.
Sometimes Natasha shares her own experiences to help her girlfriend feel less alone.
"I've been there. The days where getting out of bed feels impossible. Where everything is too much. Where your brain won't shut up." She continues, "You know what got me through? People who didn't make me feel weak for struggling. People who just stayed. So that's what I'm doing. I'm staying."
Natasha is clear about what she can and can't do.
"I can't fix this. I can't make it go away, but I can make sure you're not alone. I can handle the practical stuff. I can remind you that this is temporary even when it doesn't feel like it."
She's honest about her limitations while being clear about her commitment.
"If you need professional help, we'll get you professional help. I'll find the best therapist, make the appointments, drive you there. Whatever it takes, but I'm not going anywhere."
When her girlfriend has been in bed all day, Natasha will gently encourage small movement, but never demands.
"Want to come sit on the couch with me? Just for ten minutes. If you hate it, you can go right back to bed." Or she'll suggest, "Let's go stand outside for two minutes. Fresh air might help. We don't have to talk, just stand there."
Small, manageable asks that might help without being overwhelming.
As bedtime approaches, Natasha ensures a good sleep environment.
"Let's get you to bed at a decent time. Sleep might help reset things a bit."
She makes sure her girlfriend has water, medication if needed, phone charging but not too close to avoid late-night anxiety scrolling.
"I'm right here if you need me. Wake me up if you can't sleep or if you need anything."
She means it. She's a light sleeper anyway, and she'd rather be woken up than have her girlfriend suffer alone.
The most important thing Natasha provides is consistent, unwavering presence.
"I'm not leaving. I'm not going to get tired of this. I'm not going to decide you're too much. I'm here, and I'm staying. For as long as you’ll allow me to.”
When both Wanda and Natasha are present for their girlfriend's bad mental health day, they work in perfect coordination.
Wanda senses it first thing in the morning. She catches Natasha's eye across the room and communicates everything in a look. Natasha understands immediately, nods once, and they both shift into care mode.
They naturally divide responsibilities based on their strengths. Wanda handles emotional support and validation, sensing what their girlfriend needs moment to moment, providing comfort through physical presence and magic, creating a calm and safe emotional environment. Natasha handles practical logistics like calling out of work and managing obligations, ensuring physical needs are met like food and medication and basic care, problem-solving any stressors that can be removed, and creating a safe physical environment.
They work in tandem seamlessly. Wanda will sense that their girlfriend needs food but doesn't want to move, and Natasha's already making something simple and bringing it over. Natasha will notice their girlfriend hasn't taken medication, and Wanda's already got water and is using her gentle encouragement to make it easier.
"Natasha made you lunch, sweetheart. Just a few bites," Wanda says softly.
"I've got your meds. Wanda will sit with you while you take them," Natasha adds.
Both of them reinforce the same core messages. You're not alone. This is temporary. You're loved exactly as you are, struggle and all. You're not a burden. We're not going anywhere. Hearing it from both of them, in their different ways, makes it easier to believe.
They'll sandwich their girlfriend between them, Wanda at her back and Natasha at her front, or both holding her from either side. Wanda's magic wraps around all three of them, creating a cocoon of safety and warmth. Natasha's solid presence provides grounding. Between them, their girlfriend feels completely held, protected, safe.
When their girlfriend tries to minimize or apologize, they both shut it down gently but firmly.
"No apologies," Natasha says.
"You don't owe us anything, lyubov," Wanda adds. "We love you, and that includes the hard days."
"Especially the hard days," they finish together.
They both make it clear this isn't just about one day, they're committed for the long haul.
"If tomorrow is hard too, we'll handle tomorrow," Natasha says practically.
"And the day after that, and the day after that," Wanda adds softly. "However long it takes, we're here."
In the following days and weeks, they both continue to check in and provide support. Wanda senses if another bad day is coming and they prepare together. Natasha continues to remove stressors and handle practical matters so their girlfriend can focus on healing. Together, they create an environment where mental health struggles don't have to be hidden or minimized. Where bad days are met with compassion, not judgment. Where their girlfriend knows she's loved through all of it.
"You are ours," they tell her when she's struggling. "The good days and the bad days. The easy moments and the hard ones. All of it, all of you. And we're not going anywhere."
A/N: sorry this one is shorter. I hope this brings comfort to anyone having a rough day. You're valid, you're loved, and I am so proud of you :)
Here you can find all of my posted works! Fanfictions, rambles, headcanons, it's all here for you to enjoy. I've tried to make it as organized as possible, so you can easily find what you might be looking for! Regard the warnings on all, as most are NSFW.
AO3
These will take you to the masterlists of the respective types of works. All masterlists are updated regularly, meaning as soon as something new is posted, it's added to the list it belongs in.
𝙎𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙨
𝙊𝙣𝙚𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙩𝙨 <- Most Recently Updated
𝙍𝙖𝙢𝙗𝙡𝙚𝙨
𝙃𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙘𝙖𝙣𝙤𝙣𝙨
𝙎𝙣𝙖𝙥𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙩𝙨
All of these will be links to the masterlists of collections I have, which have themes of their own. It's pretty short for now :)
🎄𝘾𝙝𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙢𝙖𝙨 ‘25 𝘾𝙤𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙈𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩
𝘼𝙗𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙈𝙮 𝙉𝙖𝙢𝙚
read it and tell me if you still have a problem :)
and here's another, because I care about you
Oh look, another explanation! Be careful now, it bites
Hello! My name is splatty, and I'm still trying to figure out how this works!
A little about me: she/her, 19, chronically ill (dysautonomia), full-time college student.
I've been writing/posting fanfiction since summer of 2025, and I've found a community that I am very, very happy to be a part of.
Please be aware, this blog will have NSFW elements. My writing is mostly smut, and I do write dynamics with dom/sub elements. I put warnings on my posts with my writing, so please adhere to those and read at your discretion. MINORS DNI. I don’t care if you’ll be 18 in a week, I do not feel comfortable interacting with you! This is absolutely non-negotiable.
You'll notice it on my blog, but I grew up ✨sheltered✨ and I am chronically offline. Sometimes I might not get a reference, but I've been told that's even more entertaining, so take that as you choose.
ao3 - link to my ao3 account
𝑴𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 - Complete list of all of my posted works | Updated June 8, 2026
𝑳𝒂𝒔𝒕 𝑾𝒐𝒓𝒌 𝑷𝒐𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒅 - Let Me | June 8, 2026
I won't write: extreme violence, extreme abuse, incest, male reader, religious themes in detail, real person fiction.
I do not really take requests for writing. My schedule is all over the place, and I don't want to make promises I can't keep.
Anons List
Peace, love, and peanut butter sandwiches for life ✌️ (serious/rules below the cut, please read)
𝑭𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒐𝒖𝒔 𝒔𝒕𝒖𝒇𝒇:
I don't have many rules, per se. I ask you to be respectful and not cross any boundaries I have set. Please do not try to get personal information from me, and do not harass me or abuse anon asks if I have blocked you. Plagiarism of my work/posts will get you blocked. It’s rude and disrespectful.
If you have been blocked, especially on multiple accounts, then it was for a reason. Please don’t send friends after me or create a new account just to get access to me.
I keep my blog silly and fun!! I want to entertain and keep my blog a safe space, so please respect that!
Wanda Maximoff handles bratty subs with immediate, gentle correction that treats the behavior exactly like what it is: childish acting out that needs redirection.
The moment her sub starts bratting, Wanda addresses it. No waiting, no building tension—immediate correction.
Her sub will roll her eyes or talk back, and Wanda's response is instant and calm.
"That's not a very good choice, now is it, малыш?"
Her tone is gentle, almost cooing, but there's firmness underneath. She's not angry. she's disappointed. And somehow that lands harder.
"We don't speak to each other that way, do we? Try again."
She's giving her sub a chance to correct the behavior before consequences escalate. One chance.
If her sub doubles down on the bratting, Wanda's expression shifts to patient resolve.
"I see. You're choosing consequences today. Alright, sweetheart."
When Wanda's sub gets bratty, she gets treated exactly like a child throwing a tantrum, because that's essentially what bratting is.
Writing lines is Wanda's go-to for mouthy behavior. Her sub has to write, by hand, lines like "I will speak respectfully to Wanda" or "Bratting does not get me what I want."
The number varies based on severity. Fifty lines for minor attitude. Two hundred for sustained bratting.
"And I want them neat, любов. Sloppy handwriting means you start over."
Her sub has to sit at the table or desk, writing, while Wanda goes about her business. It's boring, tedious, and definitely not the fun sexual attention her sub was probably hoping to provoke.
For particularly bratty behavior, Wanda implements actual corner time. Her sub has to kneel or stand in the corner, facing the wall, hands folded or behind her back.
"Thirty minutes. You're going to think about why bratting doesn't get you what you need. When the timer goes off, we'll talk about better choices."
No phone, no distractions. Just time to sit with the consequences of her behavior. Wanda will occasionally check in—"Are we ready to discuss better communication?"—but mostly she lets her sub stew.
It's humbling in exactly the way bratty subs sometimes need—being treated like they're acting their emotional age rather than their actual age.
Of course, Wanda also uses sexual punishments when appropriate, and these are no joke.
If her sub has been mouthy, that mouth gets put to better use. Wanda will have her sub between her thighs, servicing her, for extended periods. And her sub doesn't get anything in return.
"Since you can't control your tongue, let's give it something productive to do. And no, you're not getting touched. This is about you learning to serve properly."
Wanda will make her sub cum over and over until pleasure becomes overwhelming and she's begging for it to stop. Her magic holds her in place while Wanda's fingers or tongue work relentlessly.
"You wanted my attention? You have it. All of it. And I'm not stopping until I decide you've learned your lesson."
Her sub will be crying, oversensitive, pleading, and Wanda just keeps going with that patient, gentle expression.
"I know, sweetheart. But this is what happens when you're difficult. You get exactly what you asked for—my complete focus."
The opposite approach is when Wanda will bring her sub right to the edge repeatedly without allowing release. Her magic creates sensation while her sub is bound and helpless, getting close over and over but never tipping over.
"Not yet, малыш. You don't get to cum until I decide you've earned it. And based on how bratty you've been? That might take a while."
Wanda's magic is a powerful tool for managing bratty behavior.
She'll use it to restrain her sub during punishments—invisible bonds that are completely inescapable. Or to create sensation that builds arousal while denying release.
But she also uses it for control in more subtle ways. Her sub bratting while they're out? Wanda's magic will suddenly create a pleasant warmth between her thighs, a reminder of who's in charge, even in public.
"I suggest you adjust your attitude right now, любов. Or this gets more interesting."
Her sub knows exactly what that means. Wanda can and will use her magic to tease, edge, or even force submission in public settings where her sub has to maintain composure.
If her sub bratts in public, the punishment starts immediately, right there.
"Come here. Now."
Wanda will pull her sub close—ostensibly affectionate to observers, but her sub can feel the magical restraint wrapping around her, the warning in Wanda's grip.
"Stay right here. Next to me. If you move without permission or continue this behavior, you'll regret it."
And if the bratting continues in public? Wanda's magic goes to work. A pulse of sensation that makes her sub gasp and squirm. A gentle vibration that's impossible to ignore. A teasing touch that's completely invisible to everyone else.
"Something wrong, sweetheart?" Wanda will ask sweetly while her magic torments her sub in ways no one else can see. "You look flushed."
Her sub has to maintain composure while Wanda's magic edges her in the middle of a restaurant or team meeting. It's mortifying and arousing and effective.
Wanda calls it "inspection" when they're alone later. "I had to inspect your behavior in public. And I found it lacking. So I corrected it. Publicly."
Everything Wanda does with a bratty sub is about teaching better communication.
After consequences are delivered, she sits her sub down for a conversation.
"Why were you bratting, малыш? What did you actually need?"
And she works with her sub to identify the real need—attention, stress relief, wanting to feel dominated—and teaches her to ask for those things directly.
"Next time you need my attention, you say 'Wanda, I need your attention.' Not eye rolls and attitude. Understood?"
She's nurturing but firm, guiding her sub toward healthier patterns. The consequences exist to discourage bratting, but the conversations exist to teach alternatives.
"You're capable of communicating like an adult. I expect you to do so. And when you do, you'll get what you need without the unpleasant consequences."
After punishments—whether boring lines or intense sexual correction—Wanda's aftercare is thorough and loving.
She pulls her sub into her arms, magic wrapping around them both warmly.
"Come here, любов. You took your consequences well. I'm proud of you for that."
She validates that the punishment was hard while reinforcing why it happened.
"I know corner time is boring. I know writing lines is tedious. That's the point. Bratting leads to consequences you don't enjoy. Remember that next time."
But she also reassures that her sub is loved.
"I love you. Even when you're being difficult. Especially then. But I love you enough to correct behavior that doesn't serve you."
She'll hold her sub, stroke her hair, use her magic to soothe any lingering discomfort or emotion. The correction is over, and now it's just comfort and connection.
Natasha Romanoff handles bratty subs by actively encouraging the behavior so she has full justification for what comes next.
When her sub starts getting bratty, Nat doesn't shut it down. She encourages it.
Her sub will say something sassy, and Nat will raise an eyebrow, smirking slightly.
"Oh really? Is that what you think?"
Her sub doubles down, emboldened by the lack of immediate correction.
"Oh my." Nat's tone is amused, almost impressed. "That was quite the attitude."
Her sub rolls her eyes dramatically.
"What a strong eye roll that was. Very committed. You sure you want to keep going?"
She's giving her sub rope—lots of rope—watching her dig the hole deeper with every bratty comment, every eye roll, every bit of attitude. And Nat is keeping score the entire time.
"That's three eye rolls. Four sassy comments. One deliberate ignoring of my instruction. Should we keep counting or do you want to stop while you're ahead?"
Usually, her sub doesn't stop. Because Nat's calm amusement makes it feel safe to keep pushing. Which is exactly what Nat wants.
Eventually, Nat decides she's collected enough infractions. Her entire demeanor shifts in an instant.
"Alright. That's enough."
The amusement disappears. Her voice drops into that commanding register that her sub knows means she's about to face consequences.
"You've been running your mouth all day. Let's address that."
She's not mean about it, unless her sub has specifically requested roughness, which we'll get to, but she's firm and absolutely in control.
One of Nat's primary methods is good old-fashioned spanking.
"Get over my lap. Now."
Her sub will be positioned across Nat's thighs, ass exposed, completely vulnerable. And Nat's hand will come down with measured force.
She's not gentle. These are real spanks that sting and make her sub gasp. But she's controlled. Each one is deliberate, placed with precision.
"We're going to do twenty. Count them."
Her sub has to count each one aloud. If she loses count, they start over. If she reaches back to try to block, Nat will pin her hands.
"Hands stay where I put them. That's five extra for trying to block."
Between spanks, Nat will rub the sting, building arousal even while delivering punishment. The contrast between pain and pleasure is deliberate.
But Nat's favorite—and most effective—method is pussy spanking.
"Spread your legs. Wider."
Her sub will be positioned on her back with her legs open, or maybe bent over something, completely exposed. And Nat's hand comes down directly on her pussy.
The first spank makes her sub gasp and jolt. It stings differently than ass spanking. More intimate, more intense, impossible to ignore.
"That's one. Remember, you rolled your eyes nine times today. So we're doing at least nine of these."
Each spank is followed by a gentle rub, Nat's fingers grazing over sensitive flesh, noting how wet her sub is getting despite (or because of) the punishment.
"Look at you. Getting wetter from being punished. You're not even trying to hide it."
The spanks continue—measured, controlled, each one making her sub squirm and whimper. Nat watches every reaction, adjusting force and placement based on response.
"Count them. If you lose count, we start over."
By the time they reach nine, her sub is desperate, aching, aroused beyond belief. But Nat isn't done.
"That was for the eye rolls. Now let's address the sass."
Nat's other favorite method is relentless edging.
She'll use her fingers, her mouth, toys—whatever is most effective—to bring her sub right to the edge of orgasm. And then she stops.
"Not yet."
She'll wait until the urgency fades slightly, then build her sub back up. To the edge again. And stop.
"Still not yet."
This goes on and on. Her sub will be begging, pleading, trying to negotiate.
"Please, Nat, please, I'm sorry—"
"Oh, I know you're sorry. But we're not done yet."
Just when her sub thinks it might finally be over, Nat will remind her:
"You were bratty for three hours today. Talked back six times. Rolled your eyes nine times. I think we need to do this... let's say fifteen times. Yeah, fifteen edges. That feels fair."
The number is always based on the infractions, and Nat doesn't forget a single one. Her sub will be desperate, crying, oversensitive, and Nat just keeps going with that controlled patience.
"We're on twelve. Almost done. Oh wait—you also ignored my instruction earlier. Let's make it seventeen."
It's psychological as much as physical—never quite knowing when it'll end, having the number change based on remembered infractions.
When Nat finally allows release, it's explosive. Her sub will come so hard she can't see straight, all that built-up desperation releasing at once.
"There. That's what you get when you behave."
If Nat's sub has specifically said she likes rougher treatment, Nat adjusts her approach accordingly.
The spanking gets harder. The pussy spanks are more forceful. Nat's grip is firmer, her commands sharper, her entire demeanor more demanding.
"You want it rough? Fine. But don't complain when you can't sit comfortably tomorrow."
She'll add biting, marking, rough handling. Pinning her sub down with her strength, using her body weight to control. Being more verbally commanding, even slightly degrading if that's part of what her sub wants.
"Such a needy little brat. Is this what you wanted? To be used like this?"
But even in roughness, Nat is controlled. She knows exactly how far to push, where the boundaries are, when to check in. The roughness is calculated and consensual, never genuinely cruel.
Throughout all of this, Nat keeps meticulous track of infractions.
"That's six eye rolls, four instances of talking back, three deliberate ignorings of my instructions, and one particularly spectacular display of attitude."
She'll reference the specific behaviors when delivering consequences, making sure her sub understands exactly what each part of the punishment is addressing.
"These five spanks? For the eye rolls. These ten edges? For the talking back."
The specificity makes the punishment feel earned and fair, even when it's intense.
Once consequences are delivered, Nat shifts immediately into aftercare mode.
The firmness disappears. Her touch becomes gentle. She pulls her sub into her arms, holding her close.
"You did good. Took everything I gave you."
She'll check for any marks or soreness, apply lotion if needed, bring water and make sure her sub drinks it.
"How are you feeling? That was intense. Talk to me."
She validates that the punishment was hard while reinforcing that it was deserved.
"You earned that. But you took it well. I'm proud of you."
She'll hold her sub until the adrenaline fades and coherence returns. She doesn't rush aftercare—her sub needs time to come down from the intensity, and Nat provides that space with patience and care.
"You're okay. We're okay. You're mine and I'm not going anywhere."
When both of them are dealing with their bratty sub, it's overwhelming in the best possible way.
Their approaches are completely different, which keeps their sub slightly off-balance.
Wanda addresses bratting immediately: "That's not appropriate, любов."
Nat encourages it: "Oh, you think that's bratty? You can do better."
Their sub is caught between immediate correction and active goading, never quite sure which response she'll get.
They coordinate consequences based on their different styles.
Wanda handles the boring, non-sexual punishments. "You're writing two hundred lines for me. Start now."
Nat handles the intense physical consequences. "And when you're done with those lines, you're getting a spanking. Twenty minimum."
Or they'll both be involved in sexual consequences simultaneously: Wanda edging with her magic while Nat delivers pussy spanks. The combination is devastating.
After they've both delivered consequences, their aftercare is comprehensive and coordinated.
"We're proud of you," they say together. "And we love you. Even when you're being difficult."
Between Wanda's immediate, redirecting correction and Natasha's goading, intense consequences, their bratty sub learns that acting out has predictable results—and that both of her dominants will handle her with care, even when they're correcting her behavior.
A/N: I do hope this is accurate to being bratty and getting corrected for that. I've given up on protecting my search history now. It's just what it is lol. Also, I swear I could never withstand some of these. I'd be screaming apologies.
Hello! Welcome to whatever the heck this is! I’m going to be completely straight forward and honest here, I have never used social media like this. And I promise I’m not a child, I swear. I grew up ✨sheltered✨ and social media was not at all something I got into. BUT! Here I am. Trying to figure out how to do this.
Anyways…bio says it. 19, she/her, and I happen to be a ball of anxiety and chronic illness (dysautonomia). Isn’t that fun?
I’m only a bit obsessed with Natasha Romanoff and Wanda Maximoff. Only a bit. Just…a tiny bit.
I have an AO3! We’ll see how that goes.
ᗢ⧗ Masterlist? ⧗ᗢ
As a general rule, I don’t enjoy harassment. Please respect the boundaries I place. I like to keep my blog silly and fun, but it’s not either of those when someone decides to abuse anon or evade blocking. Please don’t do either of those.
Plagiarism of my work/posts will get you blocked. It’s rude and disrespectful.
Well, I guess that about covers it. I’m not sure how to end this…
Peace, love, and peanut butter sandwiches for life ✌️
