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A groan fills the air as your back meets the training mat again. The impact travels through your body, lets the newly formed bruises of this training lightly throb. While you try to gain your bearings one more time, Natasha turns to Peter. “See how she tried to go for my throat this time?” Since you can’t hear a verbal answer, you assume Peter just nodded, because Natasha continues. “When they’re outnumbered or feel like their opponent is stronger than them, werewolves always try to end the fight quickly to avoid lethal injuries. The most common point for them to attack is the throat.” She gestures for you to charge at her again. With a groan, you heave yourself up, then start to circle her. This time, you pull a feint at her right upper body, just to redirect your blow to her leg in the last second. The next moment, your face makes contact with the floor again. “Other weak points they try to aim at are the ankles or knees. Any idea why?” Peter flusters, caught off guard with the question. While he stammers out an answer, you catch your breath. “Because you won’t be able to continue fighting with a hurt leg?” The redhead chuckles. “That is part of the answer, yes. When you get hit there, your leg immediately folds, right?” You watch as the boy listens wide-eyed, eager to absorb every little thing Natasha explains. “It’s a height advantage; it’s easier to go for the throat when your opponent stands on a lower level than you. Makes it easier to overpower you from above.” She takes a step back. “Try to attack her this time.” While Peter scrambles to join you on the mat, you muster him. His body form is more of the athletic type, but still lanky – he’s still growing, limbs a bit long, not filling out his form yet. The nickname he dons makes sense: little spider they call him, or as Thor says, spiderling. His inexperience in hand-to-hand combat is obvious as he charges at you frontal, but both you and the wolf note how fast he is, and his lack of experience gets compensated by his eagerness to do well in front of his trainer. A jump to the side and Peter barrels past you, tripping as he stumbles over your outstretched leg. You can’t help the small smirk sneaking its way on your face, and he frowns as he jumps in for another try. It goes on like that for a while, the boy trying to land a hit while you stay on the defensive, only evading his blows by slides to the side or well-placed rolls. The wolf presses against your skin, eager to sneak in a little attack itself, but you’re content this way, so you ignore it for now. On your next slip to the side, though, his feet hooks into your ankle – you stumble to the ground, and the next second he’s onto you, trying to trap you against the floor. The wolf bristles as a hand finds your throat and you follow suit, scrambling to get your feet under you to throw him off while he tries to catch your wrists with one hand. Sweat drips down to dampen the mat while the two of you struggle for the upper hand – then he lets up a bit of his weight to get a better angle. The wolf jumps at the mistake, intertwining your legs to roll him over, and then your arm presses lightly against his windpipe. Peter raises his hands, body going slack in surrender. You won. Just as you make to stand up, the wolf tears against the confines of your mind, drives you on further – you stiffen, trying to rein it in again, but the urge grows. To press down harder, to tilt his head back, expose the soft flesh of the throat, to tear one of the hunters holding the both of you hostage, to rip rip RIP – A tug at your collar brings you back into the room. “That's enough”, Natasha scolds, and you scramble to stand up, back up, get away from the boy and the bloodlust coursing through your veins. Timidly, you watch as she helps Peter up. He doesn’t seem to realize what just happened, eager to listen to her explanations on what he did well and what could have been done better, but when Natasha throws you a look, you know that she noticed what could have occurred if she didn’t intervene. After a few minutes she gestures for you to join them again and you do so hesitantly, shoulders up and eyes on the floor. “You nearly had her”, she says, lightly grabbing your arm to pull you into the position she wants. When she moves the hair to expose your neck and push up the collar you stiffen – the wolf prowls just under the surface, clearly unhappy with the vulnerable position you’re both forced into, but you fight it back deeper into your mind, trying to not let on that you’re not as much in control as you want them to believe. At the hand on your neck you grit your teeth though, limbs locking up. Of course she’s showing him this move... You try to swallow your pride as the grip tightens, nearly your whole weight now supported by the woman behind you as your knees fail to hold you up. “See how her whole body stiffens?” Sweat drips down his temple as Peter nods. “It’s a natural reaction. I imitate the hold mothers use on their offspring to carry or calm them down. It’s highly effective, especially with younger wolves or ones that just reached adulthood a few years ago. Experienced werewolves will try to escape it as fast as possible before you can get a good grip.” You close your eyes as humiliation floods you, but Natasha presses down further. The squeak echoing around the room lets blood shoot up your cheeks, and you start to squirm to get out of the now painful hold. “As you can see, the more I press, the more she tries to escape because it hurts, but with her limbs mostly motionless you’re still in control. When you have a good hold on her and are sure you won’t slip, you can kick at the back of her knees or bend her over – ” she does just that with her leg, slowly lowering you to the ground “ – and use the hunting knife to end the fight.” A finger on your throat, then several light stabs at your chest and belly. “It’s a favored hunter move ‘cause it leaves you with one hand free, which can make the difference between surviving or getting yourself killed, but you should be careful when using it on taller specimen.” You lay motionless as Natasha points out your weak spots, one hand still on your neck, and you make no efforts to get up when she wraps the training up, bringing Peter to the door while he stutters his “thank you”s. The mirrors on the ceiling reflect everything, show you, all alone, laying on the training mat in the huge gym you don’t want to be in. It never fails to hit you just how vulnerable and without chance you really are here – how foolish you had been these few months ago, thinking outrunning this group could be possible. It almost feels like it’s been in another life, you running through half the states to get rid of your pursuers, throwing them off your scent with false tracks. Hell, even snapping at them, first Bucky, then Natasha. For you, it had been a life and death situation, but it’s clear now why she had said they should stop playing with their food. Neither you nor your wolf had posed any real danger to them, just a pup baring its teeth, something you push over for fun at the way it puffs itself up. You don’t react as Natasha calls you, still staring at the ceiling. When her shadow casts over your body, eyes trying to search yours, you roll to your knees and fix your gaze on her feet. If it can be avoided, you don’t want her to see how you feel... But Natasha is scarily observant, you have learnt, and just a moment later there is a hand under your chin, tipping your head back. “What’s wrong, mutt?” You shrug, swallowing the ever-growing lump in your throat. The moment you try to talk, you just know you’ll start to cry, so pressing your teeth shut seems like the better option now. “...you always go mute when you're thinking about it.” Perplexed you watch as she lowers herself to her knees – she’s still taller than you, but now the difference isn't so huge that you can manage to escape her gaze. Her eyes have lost some of their hardness, and the small smile on her face seems more genuine than anything you’ve seen before. “You can’t change it now, little one. I’ve started hunting your kind when you were nothing but a pup, and some of the others have hunted even longer than that. You didn’t stand a chance the moment we realized what you really were.” The smile grows. You watch as little dimples appear on either side of her face, but then the wolf nudges against your mind and you shake yourself out of it again. “You did exceptionally well for someone your age. We’ve had wolves twice your age that didn’t last half as long as you.” A thumb caresses your cheek, and you swallow again to get rid of the damn lump. There is understanding in her gaze as you blink fast, trying to keep her from seeing your tears. You hate this. You hate that the moment one of them shows you any kindness, you crumble down like some tower build out of pebbles, falling over the moment the hands that created it decide to push it over again. Natasha strokes over your cheek one last time, then stands up again, extending her hand. Hesitantly, you accept the help. She hauls you up – – but she misjudged the force she would need, and you stumble against her, grabbing at her arms not to lose your balance. This close her subtle smell invades your senses; sweat from the workout, but under that, slightly buried, Natasha’s scent jumps out, vaguely familiar after weeks of sleeping in the same room and living together. Wide-eyed you look up: her slightly wider gaze is the only indication that she is as surprised as you are, but then your eyes flicker down. Her lips are parted in surprise as well, soft-looking and inviting… You swiftly retreat, so taken back by yourself that you don’t notice her eyes flickering from your lips too. That is – that is not a thought you will even contemplate to entertain. What is wrong with you? Does this stir from the absolute emotional chaos you’ve felt the last few days or are you so desperate for positive contact that your subconscious would even consider your captor a suitable candidate? Natasha clears her throat while you get your expression back under control, then she lightly pushes you to the door, her hand a warm presence at the small of your back. “Come, little one. We both earned a bath today.”