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you just tell them. believe me, most therapists hear things that are way more extreme than fanfiction. most of them, if not all of them, encourage creative writing, which is exactly what you’re doing. they don’t care if what you write is not fluff or rainbow and sunshine. I know a therapist who encourages her patient to write about explicit non-con fics involving a character who’s a minor and another character who’s an adult, because writing about it helps said patient cope (the patient is a friend of mine and this is what she tells me about what her therapist encourages her).

I’ve also heard of several cases where therapists urge patients to write about adult x minor fics, or other extremely taboo topics, so that those patients don’t actually harm real people or animals.

Be careful of a new scam going around on ao3!

IF YOU GET THIS TYPE OF MESSAGES, IT IS A SCAM. BLOCK AND REPORT WHOEVER SENT THEM TO YOU

what will most certainly happen if you do contact them:

they will try to convince you your account has been compromised somehow. maybe they’ll tell you they “accidentally reported you” by mistake because they thought you were someone else.

they will then tell you not to worry because they “know someone who can help”

this is where they ask you to contact a random shady ass person outside of tumblr, most certainly on discord

****very important, NEVER EVER contact any random person for help with your tumblr blog or account. contacting tumblr directly via their support center is the ONLY way you can actually receive help regarding your blog/account****

this shady random person, if you contact them, will ask you to click a random link they send you (DO NOT CLICK ON IT) and/or they will ask you to change the email you registered your tumblr account with to the new email they give you

if you ever click on the link they give, you risk getting whatever malicious things that link has

if you change your tumblr email to the new one they give you, your tumblr account is now registered under their email. once your tumblr account is registered under their email, they have full control of your entire account—and chances are that you’re not getting your account back—this is how they hack people, and also how they have access to people’s other personal informations.

Wanda will stroke your or Natasha's hair if either of you wake up from a nightmare and sing you back to sleep.

Natasha is either the softest person on earth or the most emotionally constipated person on earth. No in between. When you or Wanda wakes up from a nightmare, you either get soft cuddles until morning, if not longer, or a gruff "You want to go train?" There's care behind both, of course. She just doesn't always know how to show it.

If you have sensory issues/sensitivities, both of them immediately learn every one of them. They will fight anyone if they don't accommodate you. Unfortunately, that also includes each other if one of them forgets.

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Warnings: PTSD, Red Room trauma, auditory hallucinations, panic attacks, insomnia, nightmares, dissociation, self-neglect, trauma responses, hurt/comfort, mental health decline, recovery themes

Summary: Y/N thought escaping the Red Room meant leaving it behind forever. But when the voices of former instructors begin haunting her mind, old trauma resurfaces in ways she can’t ignore. As her mental health spirals and the line between memory and reality blurs, Wanda and Natasha realize the woman they love is suffering in silence—and they’ll do anything to help her find her way back.

The first voice appeared on a Tuesday. You remembered that because Tuesdays were boring. Nothing special happened on Tuesdays. No missions. No world-ending catastrophes. No alien invasions. Just training. Paperwork. Dinner. Sleep. Normal. The kind of day that should have been forgettable. The kind of day that shouldn’t have changed your life. You had been standing alone in the Avengers Tower kitchen making coffee when it happened. The room was quiet. The only sounds were the hum of the refrigerator and the soft drip of the coffee machine. Comfortable. Safe. Ordinary. Then—

“Your posture is slipping.”

You froze. The mug nearly slipped from your hand. A cold sensation crawled down your spine. The voice had been clear. Female. Sharp. Familiar. Too familiar. For one horrible second you thought someone was standing behind you. You spun around. Nothing. Empty kitchen. Empty doorway. Empty room. Your heart hammered against your ribs. The voice didn’t come back. You told yourself you’d imagined it. Stress. Exhaustion. A weird memory. Nothing more. Nothing less. You finished making your coffee and forced yourself to move on. Because that’s what you did. You always moved on.

—⧗ᗢ—

Three days later it happened again. This time during training. You were sparring with one of your girlfriends, Natasha. One of your favorite things. Something that usually helped clear your head. Natasha threw a punch. You blocked it. Countered. Moved. Everything normal. Everything routine. Until—

“Too slow.”

The words slammed into your skull. You missed Natasha’s next attack completely. The impact knocked you backward. Pain exploded through your shoulder. “Y/N?”Natasha immediately lowered her stance and fell to her knees next to you. Concern flashed across her face.

“You okay?”

You blinked. The training room returned. Bright lights. Rubber mats. The smell of sweat. Reality.

“I’m fine.”

Lie. But Natasha accepted it. At least for now.

—⧗ᗢ—

The voices became more frequent after that. Always female. Always familiar. Always sounding like someone from the Red Room. Instructors. Handlers. Trainers. Women who had spent years breaking you apart and rebuilding you into a weapon. Women who should have remained buried in the past. Instead they lived inside your head. Every day. Every night. Every waking moment.

“Again.”

“Not good enough.”

“Failure.”

“Stand up.”

“You can do better.”

“Weak.”

The worst part wasn’t hearing them. The worst part was that a tiny piece of you still believed them.

—⧗ᗢ—

Natasha noticed first. Of course she did. She had lived through the same nightmare. Maybe not exactly the same. But close enough. Close enough to recognize the signs. You stopped eating meals with everyone. Stopped laughing. Stopped making sarcastic comments. Stopped lingering in common areas. Stopped sleeping. The last one worried her most because Natasha knew what happened when former Widows stopped sleeping. She knew what nightmares could do. What memories could become.

One night she found you sitting alone in the gym at three in the morning. The lights were dim. The Tower silent. Everyone else asleep. You were hitting a punching bag so hard your knuckles were bleeding.

Punch. Punch. Punch.

Again. Again. Again.

The voice echoed through your head.

“Faster.”

Punch.

“Pathetic.”

Punch.

“Again.”

The bag swung violently. Your breathing became ragged. Your vision blurred. The voice grew louder.

“Again.”....

“Y/N.”

Natasha’s voice. Real. Present. The hallucination shattered. You looked up. She stood in the doorway wearing sweatpants and a faded SHIELD shirt. Her expression was unreadable. Which somehow made it worse.

“How long have you been awake?”

You shrugged. Bad answer. Very bad answer. Natasha’s eyes narrowed.

“Y/N.”

“Couple hours.”

Lie. You hadn’t slept in nearly two days. Natasha knew it immediately. You saw it in her face. Saw the realization settle into her expression. The worry. The fear. The understanding. She approached slowly. Like she was handling a bomb. Or a wounded animal. Or both.

“You need sleep.”

“I’m fine.”

Another lie. Natasha looked exhausted. Not physically. Emotionally. As if she was watching someone she loved slowly disappear.

—⧗ᗢ—

The nightmares started getting worse after that. Far worse. Because exhaustion made everything stronger. The voices. The memories. The fear. All of it. You woke up screaming three nights later. The sound ripped through the room before you could stop it. Instantly your girlfriends sat up in bed. Wanda. Natasha. Both terrified.

You sat upright in bed gasping for air. The nightmare still clinging to your skin. The Red Room dormitories. The cold floors. The punishments. The endless training. The feeling of never being enough. Never being safe. Never being free.

Wanda pulled your head to her chest without hesitation. One hand finding yours immediately.

“You’re here.”

Simple words. Gentle words. Grounding words.

“You’re home.”

Your chest hurt. Because part of you didn’t believe her.

Wanda became increasingly worried over the following weeks. Not because of the nightmares. Not because of the exhaustion. Because she could feel your emotions. Not your thoughts. She would never invade your mind. But emotions slipped through sometimes. Especially powerful ones. And yours were becoming impossible to ignore.

Fear. Panic. Guilt. Shame. Constantly. Relentlessly. Every day. It was like standing next to a storm. And Wanda couldn’t understand why. Not yet.

You became good at hiding things. The Red Room had taught you that. Smile. Perform. Function. No matter what was happening internally. So that’s what you did. You trained. Completed missions. Attended briefings. Answered questions. Everything looked normal. Until you paid very close attention. And Wanda always paid close attention.

—⧗ᗢ—

One evening she found you standing frozen in the hallway. Completely still. Not moving. Not blinking. Not speaking. Just staring at nothing.

“Detka?”

No response. Wanda approached carefully. Concern growing with every step.

“Y/N?”

Your breathing was uneven. Your hands trembling. Eyes focused on something that wasn’t there. Then suddenly— You flinched violently. As if someone had shouted. As if someone had struck you. Reality returned. You looked at Wanda. Terrified. Absolutely terrified. And for the first time Wanda realized this wasn’t stress. This wasn’t burnout. Something was deeply wrong.

—⧗ᗢ—

The confrontation happened two days later. Not because you wanted it to. Because your mind finally gave out.

The team was running a routine training exercise. Nothing complicated. Nothing dangerous. Just simulations. Practice. You should have been fine. Instead the voices were louder than ever. Every step. Every movement. Every mistake.

“Again.”

“Too slow.”

“Worthless.”

“Again.”

Your breathing accelerated. You couldn’t focus. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t separate memory from reality. The simulation room suddenly felt different. Smaller. Colder. Familiar. The walls looked like the Red Room. The instructors sounded real. The past wrapped around your throat. And then— You heard her. The handler. The woman who had spent years tearing you apart. The voice was crystal clear. Standing directly behind you.

“Look at you.”

Your blood ran cold.

“Still disappointing.”

The world tilted. The room disappeared. Reality fractured. You weren’t an Avenger anymore. You weren’t in the Tower. You were seventeen. Trapped. Broken. Terrified. Back in the Red Room.

“Y/N!”

Someone grabbed your shoulders. You screamed. Instinct took over. You shoved them away violently. Chaos erupted. The simulation stopped. People shouted. Everything blurred together. Until suddenly—

Red energy. Warm hands. Green eyes. Wanda. Natasha. Both standing in front of you. Neither afraid. Neither angry. Just worried. Devastatingly worried. And somehow that hurt most of all.

—⧗ᗢ—

The panic attack lasted nearly an hour. By the end you were curled up on the floor shaking. Unable to meet anyone’s eyes. Unable to explain. Unable to pretend anymore. The team quietly left. Giving space. Giving privacy. Leaving only Wanda and Natasha behind. The three of you sat in silence. The training room unusually quiet. Until Natasha finally spoke. Softly. Carefully. The way someone approaches a wound.

“Are you hearing voices again?”

Again. The word shattered something inside you. Because she already knew. She had known for weeks. Maybe longer. And she had been waiting. Waiting for you to trust her enough to tell the truth.

Tears burned behind your eyes. You hated crying. Hated vulnerability. Hated feeling weak. The Red Room had conditioned those reactions into you. But you couldn’t stop it. The first tear slipped free. Then another. Then another. And suddenly you were crying so hard you couldn’t breathe. Years of pain. Years of fear. Years of pretending. All breaking apart at once.

Natasha moved first. She always did. She sat beside you. Pulled you against her chest. Held you together when you felt like you were falling apart.

“It’s okay.”

You shook your head violently. “No.” Your voice cracked. “No, it’s not.” The words spilled out before you could stop them. “They won’t stop.”

Natasha stiffened. Wanda’s eyes filled with tears immediately. You laughed bitterly. Broken. Exhausted. Hopeless.

“They’re always there.”

The confession hung in the air. Heavy. Painful. Real.

—⧗ᗢ—

For nearly an hour you told them everything. Every voice. Every nightmare. Every panic attack. Every moment of terror. Every hallucination. Everything. The words felt poisonous leaving your mouth. Like dragging shards of glass from old wounds. But Wanda and Natasha listened. Never interrupting. Never judging. Never looking away. Just listening. Because they loved you. And because they needed to know how much pain you’d been carrying alone.

When you finally finished speaking, silence filled the room. You couldn’t look at either of them. You expected disappointment. Fear. Maybe even disgust. Instead Natasha cupped your face. Forced you to meet her gaze. And what you saw there nearly broke you all over again. Love. Pure love. Nothing else. No fear. No judgment. No pity. Just love.

“You should have told us.”

The words weren’t angry. They were heartbroken. Wanda reached for your hand. Her own shaking slightly.

“We’re your family.”

You started crying again. Because family had always been a complicated word. The Red Room had stolen that concept from you long ago. Yet somehow Wanda and Natasha kept rebuilding it. Piece by piece. Day by day. Teaching you what love was supposed to look like.

—⧗ᗢ—

Recovery wasn’t immediate. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t easy. Some mornings you woke up convinced everything was improving. Other mornings the voices returned before your eyes even opened. Some days you couldn’t leave bed. Some days you felt almost normal. Healing wasn’t a straight line. It was a battlefield. And every day felt like a fight.

The difference was that now you weren’t fighting alone. Natasha started checking in constantly. Never overbearing. Never controlling. Just present. Always present. A hand on your shoulder. A cup of coffee. A quiet conversation. A reminder that someone cared. Someone noticed. Someone stayed.

—⧗ᗢ—

Wanda became your anchor during the worst episodes. When the voices grew loud. When reality blurred. When panic consumed you. She would sit beside you. Hold your hands. Guide you back. Patiently. Repeatedly. As many times as necessary. One particularly bad night the voices became overwhelming. You sat on the bathroom floor shaking. Hands covering your ears. Trying desperately to make them stop.

“Weak.”

“Failure.”

“Again.”

“Again.”

“Again.”

Tears streamed down your face. The room spun. Your chest felt too tight. Too small. Too painful. Then the door opened. And Wanda found you. She didn’t ask questions. Didn’t demand explanations. Didn’t tell you to calm down. She simply sat beside you. Wrapped her arms around your shoulders. And stayed. The voices continued. But Wanda remained. Warm. Steady. Real. Eventually that mattered more.

—⧗ᗢ—

Months later things weren’t perfect. The voices still appeared occasionally. The nightmares still happened. The scars remained. But something had changed. You had changed. The voices no longer controlled you. They no longer defined you. Because every cruel thing they said had to compete with reality. And reality was stronger. Reality was Wanda kissing your forehead before missions. Reality was Natasha pulling you into her lap while watching movies. Reality was laughter. Safety. Home. Love.

—⧗ᗢ—

One evening you sat between them on the couch. A movie playing quietly in the background. Your head resting on Wanda’s shoulder. Natasha’s fingers intertwined with yours. Comfortable silence. The kind that only existed between people who knew each other completely. Then a voice whispered. Soft. Familiar.

“You don’t deserve this.”

For a moment old fear stirred. Old pain. Old doubt. Then Natasha squeezed your hand. Wanda kissed your temple. And the voice lost its power. Because they were real. The Red Room wasn’t. The past wasn’t. Those women weren’t here. But Wanda and Natasha were.

Years of conditioning had taught you that love was earned. That mistakes deserved punishment. That weakness deserved cruelty. Wanda and Natasha spent every day proving otherwise. Teaching you. Showing you. Reminding you. Again and again and again. Until eventually you started believing them. And whenever the bad days returned — Whenever the nightmares resurfaced— Whenever the voices whispered from the shadows of your mind—You no longer faced them alone. Because Natasha would sit beside you. Because Wanda would hold your hand. Because both women loved you enough to stay. Even when things got ugly. Even when recovery became messy. Even when you struggled to love yourself. And sometimes, during those difficult nights, Natasha would brush a strand of hair from your face. Wanda would wrap a blanket around your shoulders. And one of them would ask quietly:

“Are you hearing voices again?”

Not with fear. Not with judgment. Not with disappointment. Just love. Just concern. Just a gentle reminder that you didn’t have to carry the weight by yourself anymore. And for the first time since escaping the Red Room— You believed it. ❤️

Having her body held into place, being talked down to until her clit is throbbing, and slowly becoming a mindless slut who’s only goal is to be good for mommy.

"There you are," they murmur. "Come here, pretty girl."

I obey without thinking, stopping close enough to feel the warmth between us. A hand gently lifts my chin, making me meet their eyes. Their gaze lingers just long enough to make my breath catch.

"So pretty when you're flustered."

Heat rushes to my cheeks, earning a quiet smile.

"Look at you," they whisper. "Blushing already."

Their thumb brushes lightly along my jaw before they lean in, their lips meeting mine in a slow, lingering kiss that leaves my heart pounding.

"Patience, sweetheart."

I let out a soft laugh, trying to hide my smile.

"That's my good girl."

They take my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze before leading me farther into the room, and I follow without hesitation, trusting them completely.

Abby tries to make it slow for you, she really does. It takes everything in her not to rip right through you the second you’re alone with her but she restrains herself. You’ve never been treated much ‘like a lady’ in the past, other partners expecting the work in the bedroom to come from you and Abby knew that too. She was desperate to show you how much you were worth to her.

Her restraint trembles. Dragging her lips down your thighs, the thick warm overwhelming smell off you pulling her desire out further than she is able to contain while she hooks her fingers under the elastic of your boxers, pulling them off as controlled as she can handle. Her tongue reaches you, one slow drag through your centre.

It hits her like a drug.

Her fingers grip tight around your thighs and suddenly she is both drowning in you and needing you like the air she breathes.

A low guttural moan hums through her as your back arches at the sudden increase of pressure and heat.

Every single sound you make, every time you move into her when you’re desperate to chase more and buck away when it grows too much is pure bliss to her.

It’s almost an hour before she pulls herself out of her daze, blinking half lidded up at you while you’re finally able to catch your breath. Moaning through each shudder of the after-shocks, still trembling under her long after mouth travels up your body. Kissing a path to your lips and holding you till your limbs go limp against her.

You’re sleeping in her arms while she’s already thinking about the next time she can lose herself between your thighs.

Bit of a masc reader thingyyy. Idk it’s 5am and I’m horny.