#anxeity

Living with severe OCD

Taking control of OCD : inspirational stories of hope and recovery

OCD : a guide for the newly diagnosed

Overcoming compulsive checking : free your mind from OCD

Anxiety, worry, OCD and panic attacks : the definitive recovery approach

Obsessive compulsive disorder : practical, tried-and-tested strategies to overcome OCD

Getting over OCD : a 10-step workbook for taking back your life

The OCD workbook : your guide to breaking free from obsessive-compulsive disorder

Daring to challenge OCD : overcome your fear of treatment & take control

Coping with obsessive compulsive disorder

Coping with obsessive-compulsive disorder : a step-by-step guide using the latest CBT techniques

Obsessive-compulsive disorder : core interventions in the treatment of obsessive-compulsive disorder and body dysmorphic disorder

Obsessive-compulsive disorder : a guide for people with obsessive-compulsive disorder and their families

Obsessive-compulsive disorder : the facts

Obsessional thoughts & behaviour : help for obsessive-compulsive disorder

Overcoming obsessive thoughts : how to gain control of your OCD

Overcoming obsessive compulsive disorder : a self-help guide using cognitive behavioral techniques

The silence in the Finnish woods was so thick it pressed against the walls of the safe house like snow-laden branches. In the beginning, it had been welcome—quiet, peaceful, a relief after the chaos of the mission. A safe house nestled in a forgotten stretch of forest, shielded by layers of magic and off-the-books S.H.I.E.L.D. protocols. You’d spent the first few days in a cocoon of blankets, cocoa, and low murmurs between Wanda and Natasha as the three of you healed. But that calm had curdled now.

It started with the ache behind your eyes. A slow, steady pulse. You told yourself it would pass—you were strong, trained, and disciplined. But strength didn’t negate biology. And biology was getting harder to ignore.

By day five, the blood supply you had packed for yourself was gone.

You hadn’t said anything at first. You could get by, you told yourself. You could last another few days. But your body disagreed. Hunger started to gnaw at you with sharp, insistent teeth. It made you restless. Pacing the small cabin like a caged thing. Waking in the middle of the night with your fangs extended, breath ragged, jaw clenched so tightly it felt like it might crack. You didn’t trust yourself—not anymore.

And they knew.

Wanda had caught your gaze lingering too long on her neck. Natasha had seen your hands trembling when you reached for the kettle. They weren’t stupid. You weren’t subtle. So it wasn’t a surprise when, on the sixth night, they cornered you in the living room.

You were sat near the fire, knees drawn up to your chest, too tired to pretend you weren’t freezing from the inside out. Wanda sat on the rug in front of you, her hand warm where it touched your shin. Natasha stood behind her, arms crossed, expression soft but serious.

“You need to feed,” Wanda said gently. “We can see it.”

“I’m fine,” you lied, and the words came out cracked.

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “You’re not. And you know it.”

You looked away, guilt a stone in your throat. “Even if I needed it… I’m not feeding from either of you. That’s not up for discussion.”

Wanda tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly. “Why not?”

“Because I could hurt you,” you snapped, more harshly than intended. You sighed, running a hand over your face. “You don’t know what it’s like when I lose control. I—I’ve never fed from someone I love before. If I take too much, if I don’t stop, it could—” You swallowed hard. “It could kill you.”

A long pause. Then Natasha stepped forward, kneeling beside Wanda.

“We’re not afraid of you,” she said. “We’ve faced worse things than a bite.”

“It’s not just a bite,” you said quietly. “It’s instinct. It’s hunger. It’s—” You shook your head. “It’s not safe.”

Wanda reached for your hand, lacing her fingers with yours. “It’s not safe for you either. You’re getting worse. Your pupils are blown, your body’s shaking, and you haven’t slept. If this goes on another day, you’ll snap and hurt someone anyway. Maybe one of us. Maybe yourself.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Natasha leaned in then, her voice low. “If this was me, and I needed something only you two could give, would you let me suffer out of pride?”

You winced. “That’s not fair.”

“No,” she said softly. “But it’s true.”

You looked between them—your girls. Your beautiful, brave, infuriating girls. Wanda, whose touch had become your anchor, whose magic warmed the air around her like sunlight. Natasha, whose sharp edges you had somehow learned to hold without bleeding. They were offering something sacred. Trust. Willingness. Love.

Your fangs ached in your mouth. You wanted to say no. You wanted to hold onto the last shreds of restraint. But you were so tired. And they were still there. Still choosing you.

“Okay,” you whispered. “Okay. Natasha first.”

You didn’t miss the quick flicker of relief in both of their eyes—relief that you’d finally agreed, that you were still lucid enough to choose—but it made your chest ache. They shouldn’t have had to offer themselves like this. But they had. For you.

Natasha’s movements were steady as she joined you on the edge of the bed, pushing up the sleeve of her soft black long-sleeve until her forearm was bare. Her skin was pale in the golden light of the oil lamp, marred here and there by fading bruises and healed scars—each one a story you already knew by heart. But now she was offering something new. Something sacred.

You stared at the soft, vulnerable place just above her wrist, where the veins pulsed visibly under the skin. Your fangs were already out, no longer able to hide themselves. Your jaw ached from holding back. Hunger roared in your gut like a storm, but your fingers were gentle as they wrapped around her arm.

“I need you to tell me the second it’s too much,” you said. “Don’t wait. Don’t try to tough it out.”

“I will,” Natasha murmured. “I trust you.”

That undid you more than anything else.

You lifted her wrist toward your mouth slowly, reverently. You kissed the skin first, a soft brush of your lips, and she shivered under the contact. Then, without letting yourself hesitate, you sank your fangs in.

Her blood hit your tongue like heat and iron and smoke. Rich. Potent. Alive. For a moment, everything else vanished. The cold. The fear. The guilt. It was just her, pouring warmth into your starved body, and you drank with slow, careful pulls. The taste of her curled through you like silk and fire, and you had to close your eyes against the rush of sensation.

Natasha didn’t flinch. Her breathing deepened slightly, but she stayed still beneath your mouth, her fingers curling gently into your hair, anchoring you. You let that tether hold you in place, one hand pressed flat to her thigh, grounding yourself in the solid warmth of her. You listened—to her heartbeat, to her breath, to the way her body responded—and you stopped the exact moment the rhythm changed. Before her pulse weakened. Before the hunger in you could try to drown the part of you that loved her.

You withdrew slowly, licked the wound closed with care, then pressed your forehead to her wrist, your whole body trembling.

“Fuck,” you breathed, the aftertaste of her still burning through your veins. “I’m sorry. That was… more intense than I thought it’d be.”

She was pale, but smiling. “It’s alright,” she said, her voice low and steady. “I’m alright. I’ve had worse bites.”

You huffed a laugh, but there was too much emotion behind it. You couldn’t meet her eyes as you reached for the clean cloth Wanda offered, dabbing gently at the two tiny punctures before applying a plaster. The bandage was ridiculous—a little cartoon fox from a first-aid kit meant for minor scrapes—but Natasha grinned when you smoothed it into place.

“Fierce predator,” she teased, voice wry. “Absolutely terrifying.”

You rolled your eyes. “Shut up.”

She leaned in and kissed your cheek anyway.

And then Wanda held out her hand.

Her wrist was already bared, slender and trembling slightly, but her gaze was calm. Determined. You stared at her, something primal twisting deep in your gut.

“Are you sure?” you asked, voice strained. “Yours is… different. I can feel it.”

Wanda nodded. “I want this. I trust you too.”

You hesitated. But only for a moment. Because the truth was, you wanted her too. You needed her.

You took her wrist with both hands, cradling it like something precious. You pressed a kiss there too, reverent as a prayer, then let your fangs pierce her skin.

Her blood hit you like fire.

It’s not like Natasha’s. Wanda’s blood is chaos and sunlight, grief and power, every emotion she’s ever swallowed down now pouring into your mouth. You drink—and the taste drags you under. It’s too much. She tastes like love. Like your name whispered in the dark. Like the first time she held your face and didn’t flinch. You feel her in every inch of you—her magic threads through your veins, golden and wild, binding you to her in ways that make your chest ache.

She gasps. Her head tips back.

And you don’t stop.

You can’t.

You’ve never tasted anything like this—sweet and aching and full of memories. Her childhood. Her loneliness. You feel it all, and your hands grip her tighter, anchoring yourself to her like she’s the only thing holding you together.

Her breathing stutters. Her fingers twitch against your shoulder. But you don’t stop.

Her heartbeat falters.

And then Natasha is there.

She yanks you back, hard, her arms around your chest like iron bands as she tears you away from Wanda.

You scream—no words, just sound—and fight her, fangs still bared, hunger still wild. But Natasha holds you. Holds you like she’s done before. Like she will always do. Her breath is in your ear, fierce and shaking.

“Stop. Stop, baby. She’s done. That’s enough. You’ve got to come back now.”

Your hands are fists in her shirt. Your vision is red at the edges. You can still feel Wanda’s pulse against your lips, her blood singing in your body.

But Natasha is stronger.

She keeps whispering. Keeps anchoring you.

And finally—finally—you come back to yourself.

Wanda is on the bed, curled in on herself, pale and shivering. But her eyes are open. She’s conscious. She’s looking at you with something that hurts worse than any wound—trust.

You drop to your knees at the bedside, trembling. Your fangs are still out, your breath ragged.

“I didn’t mean to,” you whisper. “I didn’t mean to go that far. I’m so sorry, I—”

“Shh,” Wanda murmurs, her voice hoarse but gentle. “You stopped. That’s what matters.”

“I didn’t,” you choke. “She stopped me.”

Natasha moves beside you, kneeling, her hand warm against your back. “You would’ve,” she says. “You just needed help. That doesn’t make you a monster.”

“I could’ve—” You don’t finish the sentence. You can’t.

Wanda reaches for your hand, her grip weak but insistent. “You didn’t,” she says. “I’m still here. And I’m not afraid of you.”

Her thumb strokes over your knuckles, and your throat tightens.

Natasha presses a kiss to your shoulder. “We’re not leaving you to carry this alone. Not now, not ever.”

You hold Wanda’s hand like it’s a lifeline, and Natasha wraps herself around both of you, pulling you close until the three of you are tangled together on the floor, heartbeats mismatched but steady.

You lick the bite marks on Wanda’s wrist closed with trembling care, and when you press two plasters over them—matching ones this time, little cartoon foxes—she smiles.

But you don’t.

Because as the haze lifts, and the rush of blood dulls into something quieter, colder, realer—you finally see Wanda. Really see her. Her skin is too pale, her body curled small with exhaustion, dark circles under her eyes like bruises. You had done that. You had almost—

Your stomach twists, still not full, still not satisfied, and that’s what does it.

That clawing, awful part of you that whispers, More. Just a little more. One more pull, and you’ll feel whole again.

You jolt back from her like she’s on fire. The instinct flares and fizzles, shame rising like bile in your throat.

“I can’t—” you start, voice raw. “I need to go. Just for tonight. I—I need to be away from you.”

Natasha blinks, still crouched beside you. “What? Why?”

“I’m not safe,” you say quietly, backing away until your spine hits the wall. “I thought I was. I thought I could handle it. But I couldn’t. And I still—” You stop yourself before admitting just how badly you want to taste Wanda again. “I don’t trust myself. And I’m not putting either of you at risk.”

Wanda pushes herself up onto an elbow, barely steady. “Please don’t do that. You stopped. You came back.”

“I didn’t. She did.” You nod toward Natasha. “If she hadn’t been here—”

“But I was here,” Natasha says. “And I will be. We’re not going to let you spiral alone.”

“I can’t be around her tonight,” you say firmly, staring at your own bloodstained hands. “I still want it. That should terrify you.”

“It doesn’t,” Wanda whispers, but she’s too tired to fight you on it. And that breaks you more.

You back slowly toward the guest room—tiny, windowless, just a cot and a bolt on the inside of the door.

“I’ll lock myself in,” you say. “Just for tonight. I need to reset. I need to remember I’m still me.”

They don’t stop you, not really. Natasha watches you go with a tight jaw and damp lashes. Wanda leans her head against her knees, fighting the fog of blood loss. Neither of them begs. Neither of them turns away.

They trust you. Even now.

You shut the door. You slide the bolt.

And then you sink to the floor, pressing your back to the wall, fists clenched, fangs still aching behind your lips.

You don’t sleep. Not that night.

But you sit in the dark with the guilt, and the hunger, and the terrifying reminder of what you almost became.

You sit with it because it’s yours to carry. Because if you’re ever going to earn the right to touch them again, you have to know that next time—next time—you’ll stop yourself.

The light in the safe house was grey and pale when you finally stirred. Morning, maybe. Or just the slow thaw of northern dawn through snow-heavy clouds. You hadn’t slept—not really. Maybe you dozed in fits, but your dreams were sharp and red-edged, and the hunger was still a dull throb in your throat, echoing beneath your skin.

You hadn’t moved from the floor. Still curled where you’d collapsed the night before, knees to chest, your back pressed to the wall like you were trying to sink through it and vanish entirely. The cot remained untouched. You hadn’t deserved the comfort of it.

There was a knock at the door.

Soft. Familiar.

“Moya lyubov’?” Natasha’s voice. Careful. Testing. “You awake?”

You didn’t answer at first. But you heard the sound of her settling just on the other side of the door, her back sliding down the wood, mirroring your posture like she knew exactly how you were sitting.

“I know what you’re doing,” she said after a moment. “Locking yourself away like this. Punishing yourself. You think that’s protecting us.”

You closed your eyes.

“It’s not.”

There was silence for a few seconds, then a second body joined her on the other side. Wanda’s presence was unmistakable—like warmth easing in through the cracks, her magic brushing softly beneath the door like fingertips reaching for yours.

“I’m alright,” she said gently. “Really. I slept a little. Nat fed me. I’m just tired.”

You could hear the way she leaned her head against the wood. “But we’re worried about you.”

You buried your face in your arms.

“I nearly killed you,” you said hoarsely. “You’re both acting like that’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” Natasha said. “It was scary. But it wasn’t you. It was your hunger. And you came back.”

“I didn’t come back fast enough.”

“You came back,” Wanda echoed. “You stopped before it was too late. That means everything.”

You shook your head, even though they couldn’t see. “It doesn’t mean I’m safe. It means I’m a risk. And I’m not willing to gamble either of you.”

There was a pause.

Then the doorknob rattled gently. Not trying to force it—just testing it.

“You think we’re scared of you?” Natasha asked. “We’ve seen what you are when you lose control. And we still love you. So either let us in, or come out here. Because we’re not going away.”

You hesitated. Everything in you still screamed that you didn’t deserve their softness. That you needed to stay in this box you’d made for yourself. But Wanda’s voice broke through your spiralling thoughts like sunlight through ice.

“I kept reaching for you in my sleep,” she whispered. “Natasha had to hold my hand so I wouldn’t notice you were gone.”

Your chest caved in around her words.

Your fingers trembled as you reached for the bolt, sliding it back with a quiet metallic click. The door creaked open a fraction—and then warm arms were already around you. Natasha pulled you into her chest without hesitation, her hand cradling the back of your head like she’d been waiting all night to do it.

Wanda joined you both a second later, wrapping herself around your waist from behind, her face pressing into your spine, her fingers knotting in the fabric of your shirt like she was afraid you’d disappear again.

“I still want to run,” you whispered, raw. “Even now.”

“But you’re not running,” Natasha murmured. “You opened the door.”

“You let us in,” Wanda said, voice thick. “That’s all we ever needed.”

And you broke.

Right there, in the tiny hallway of a safe house in the woods, you let it all fall—guilt, fear, control. Your girls held you through every ragged breath, every whispered apology, every trembling exhale. They rocked you gently between them, their warmth banishing the cold that had lived in your chest since the night before.

You didn’t feed again that morning. You didn’t need to. You just let them love you.