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maximotts · 6 days ago

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Across the Street (Wanda Maximoff x Reader)

Summary: You're in need and it seems your neighbor, Wanda, might just be home... not knowing she's been wanting plenty from you too.

Words: 3589

Warnings: pervy neighbor!Wanda, flashing, kitchen sex, allusions to sucking a strap-on (it's mentioned, not done), voyeurism, language, SMUT, bottom!wanda (receiving), top!reader

A/N: It's an AU so like, don't look too much into it.

-X-

The window of Wanda’s bedroom was cracked open just enough to let in the sticky July breeze, the humidity clinging to every gust as it washed over Wanda’s skin. She sat barefoot on the windowsill, legs folded under her, barely hidden by the robe that looked older than her. She was watching you again—trying to pretend she wasn’t—but these days?

She always was.

And it wasn’t innocent. It hadn’t been for months. Even if she tried to convince herself that the brand new binoculars she’d bought three months had been for bird watching. That she hadn’t gotten them specifically so she could gaze into your bedroom when the night was late and the curtains were cracked just enough to see your hand buried between your thighs, head tossed back on the pillow. Wasn’t so she could read your lips as you fucked yourself on that nicely made bed of yours…

Of course not.

You were on your small balcony again, watering the struggling basil plant she’d gifted you when you first moved in across from her. You were wearing nothing but a sports bra and those damn basketball shorts that always rode up in a way that should’ve been illegal for the things it did to her sanity. When you turned, fabric swaying just right, Wanda’s breath hitched. It was barely audible, honestly, but in the dead silence of her room, it might as well have been a thunderclap. Her fingers curled tighter around the chipped ceramic mug that housed tea that had long gone cold.

She had meant to drink it but then she noticed you and well… priorities.

You glanced up once, not at her window but just in the general direction of her house, like you’d felt her gaze even if you couldn’t prove it. She knew you couldn’t see her—she made sure of it—but she still froze, eyes drifting along your features like you were the prettiest painting she’d ever been allowed to witness in person.

She leaned her head against the glass, heart pounding with something akin to shame and desire in equal parts. She hadn’t meant for this to happen—and she wanted to stop, she really did—but she’d never been great at giving up vices. Because every time she considered it — considered throwing out the binoculars, hell maybe even moving out of the neighborhood entirely — she imagined you. Your hands in her hair, her name on your mouth, not as a courtesy but as a moan, and suddenly she’d find herself staring down at your house all over again.

-X-

A few hours later, there was a steady knock at her door. She wasn’t expecting it, startling like she’d been caught. Like you’d heard her thoughts, like you knew the way she fantasized about your nails in her back and your mouth on her cu—

“Hey, Wanda? You home?” you asked, quiet but hopeful, through the door.

Hesitating, Wanda considered not answering before opening it. Curious but wary.

“Uh, hey, weird question… do you maybe have cornstarch? I’ve been trying to thicken a sauce for like, twenty solid minutes and I’m out of starch and I really don’t want to have to go to the store if I don’t have to?” you grinned at her sheepishly, lip snagged between your bottom lip.

Your neighbor was gorgeous, always had been, and you were desperately trying not to stare at the way her old but silky robe clung to her body. It was evident she wasn’t wearing a damn thing beneath it, her nipples straining against the fabric but you were a respectful woman. You wouldn’t gawk…

Hopefully.

Blinking at you slowly, Wanda tilted her head as your words finally cut through the haze her daydreams often left behind. Her eyes wandered along your torso, the way you’d tossed on a tank top—tragically—before walking across the street to her abode.

She cleared her throat, eyes lingering at your mouth. “Mm,” she hummed, “I might. I haven’t cooked much lately.”

Stepping back from the door, she let it swing wider but not fully. Just enough for you to slip in, your body forced to brush against hers if you came through. “You can check the pantry. I think it’s behind the vodka,” she added dryly with a faint smirk. “You’ll have to check.”

You slipped inside with a grateful grin, trying desperately to ignore the way your arm brushed a straining nipple as you passed. “Oh thank God, you’re a lifesaver. Because if I had to go ask Ms. Harkness for something again, I’m pretty sure she’d have spent the next two hours discussing preparedness with me… again. Asked that woman for an egg one goddamn time and it turned into a dissertation.”

Wanda let out a soft laugh.

“She gave me a pamphlet once when I asked her how to care for a fern,” she murmured as she followed you, the door easing shut behind her with a muted click. “Typed. Double-sided. Glossy paper. The works.”

The inside of her home smelled faintly like sandalwood and old books, the air a little cooler than yours thanks to a vintage ceiling fan that clicked softly overhead. The kitchen was neat, but lived-in. There were mugs in the sink and a book splayed open on the counter—Russian, from the looks of it.

Walking over to her pantry, you bent down as you perused the shelves looking for something—anything—to save this fucking sauce of yours. She was leaning against the doorframe, robe gapping slightly as it exposed the barest hint of her bareness beneath.

“I always thought you liked her,” Wanda said after a moment, voice quieter now. “You smile at her the way most people reserve for friends. Or... for women they might sleep with.”

“Who, Agatha? No, I mean, we’re friendly enough but I’m not trying to sleep with her,” you replied absently, fingers combing through her shelves until your fingers made contact with something that might work.

"I see," she murmured.

Her gaze roamed lazily down your back, along the slope of your shoulders. The way your muscles shifted under that tank top like they had no idea they were being watched. Or maybe you did know and were just teasing her. She couldn’t be sure.

“Strange,” she added after a beat. “I could’ve sworn you had a type.”

You found the corn starch. Or something like it—unlabeled, half-used, tucked beside a vodka bottle and a box of stale granola bars. She shifted closer as you began to rise, her hand trailing slowly along the counter’s edge, her nails faint against the wood.

"Would you have slept with me if I were more like her?" she asked suddenly, voice low and unsteady—not sad, but there was something in her tone that made your chest ache. "Polished. Precise. Prepared."

You froze, breath catching in your chest before you turned to face her fully. “I… um… hold on, sleeping with you was an option?” you squeaked, eyes wide as you stared at the bare skin slowly coming into view beneath her blood red robe. Every step left it open a little more, pale flesh flushing under your gaze.

Wanda’s lips curled into a lazy, wickedly pleased little smirk. The kind that made your skin prickle in places that weren’t polite to mention. Lashes lowering, her eyes darkened as she stepped closer, her fingers ghosting along the center of her robe. “It’s always been an option,” she purred, “You just never knocked.”

She stopped barely a foot from you, her gaze dragging over your face, eyes lingering on the way your lip caught between your teeth.

“And I’ve been so patient…”

Then, with no further warning, Wanda loosened the belt at her waist. The robe slid open, falling back over her shoulders and pooling at her feet as she opened herself fully to your hungry eyes in the warm kitchen light.

Her voice was calm. Almost amused. "Still need that cornstarch, or...?"

“Holy fuck,” you breathed, staring at her like she was heaven and hell wrapped into one delightful package.

Wanda didn’t flinch. She stood there, shameless and still, like a painting that dared you to look away. Her bare skin caught the light, curves cast in soft amber, her nipples drawn tight from the air or the moment—maybe both. Probably both, honestly. Her hair spilled over one shoulder, tousled and wild, framing her chest like something sacred and obscene all at once.

Her eyes never left yours.

"Mm," she hummed, head tilting. "That’s not a no, detka.”

She took a step closer. She was warm where she pressed against you—warm and magnetic in that way that made your knees want to forget their purpose.

"You’ve been teasing me for months," Wanda whispered, voice dropping into something sultry and low. “All those little outfits. Bending over your balcony. Laughing like you didn’t feel me watching.”

Her hand lifted, fingertips ghosting over your wrist.

“Are you really surprised that I wanted to taste what you’ve been offering?” she whispered, mouth mere inches from yours.

“…I thought I’d caught you one time, but I wasn’t sure,” you admitted breathlessly, setting the box aside like it was contraband as your hand lifted to ghost along her collarbones. “Thought I saw your fingers buried in your panties… staring into my window…”

Her eyes fluttered shut for just a moment as your fingers brushed over her collarbones, and when they opened again, they were blazing with hunger. “You did,” she whispered. “I wanted to see how far I could push it. How close I could get before you noticed. Before you’d come for me.”

Her hand reached up, fingers threading gently—possessively—into your hair, tugging just enough to tilt your head back so she could look at you properly. Her other hand ghosted down your side, not quite touching, just hovering over the curve of your waist, warmth soaking into the cut of your hipbone.

“I thought about you, just like that,” she breathed, mouth brushing so close to yours it was barely space. “Wondering if your fingers would feel better than mine.”

Her eyes narrowed just slightly, hungry and unafraid.

“Want to find out?”

A guttural sound escaped your throat as you bent down and gripped her thighs, lifting her onto the kitchen island before settling between her naked thighs. A gasp hitched in Wanda’s throat, sharp and involuntary, as her bare skin met the cool marble of the island. Her thighs parted around you without hesitation, wrapping loosely around your waist as if her body had been waiting for this exact moment.

She looked wrecked already. Flushed cheeks, chest rising in fast, shallow breaths, lips parted in something between a moan and a plea. One hand braced behind her, the other sliding up your chest, fingers curling in the fabric of your shirt like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to pull you in or tear it off.

“Fuck, detka…” Her voice cracked, thick with disbelief and arousal all at once. Her nails dragged gently over your collarbone, and her knees pressed firmer to your sides, holding you there, grounding herself against you like she needed the contact to breathe.

“I used to imagine this,” she whispered, lips brushing against the shell of your ear, her voice shaking with every word. “You, between my legs… fucking me like this…”

You gripped her chin, bringing her face to yours as your mouth met hers in a brutal, needy kiss while your hand glided along a breast before palming it gently, feeling the way her nipple stiffened even more beneath your palm.

Wanda moaned into your mouth—raw and desperate, the sound vibrating against your lips and along your tongue. Her hand shot to your neck, fingers digging in like she was anchoring herself to you, grounding herself in the feel of your mouth devouring hers. She kissed back hard, lips pliant but unyielding, tongue sliding over yours with a practiced hunger that betrayed just how long she’d fantasized about this. She was burning beneath your touch, breath catching every time your fingers grazed the soft swell of her.

Her thighs tightened around your waist, dragging you closer, grinding her heat against your stomach shamelessly now as your tank top rode up, slick and wanting and soaked through with months of pent-up obsession.

“Fuck, Wanda, I can feel you dripping on my stomach,” you rasped in her ear, mouth trailing hot, desperate kisses down her throat.

Wanda whimpered, head falling back as your lips scorched a trail down her neck, each kiss igniting fresh tremors that rolled down her spine. Her nails dug into your shoulders, clinging like she might lose gravity entirely if she let go.

“God, detka—” she choked out, voice cracked and shaking, “—you make me so fucking wet just by looking at me. I—”

Her words dissolved into a moan as your mouth found that perfect spot just beneath her jaw, and her hips jerked against you instinctively, grinding into the plane of your stomach like her body couldn’t help it. You could feel her, slick and hot and desperate where she was spread open for you, all modesty gone, nothing left but raw need.

Her legs tightened again, trembling, breath hitching with every pass of your tongue against her neck.

“I’ve touched myself to the thought of this,” she confessed, voice trembling with the weight of it, the confession pouring out like something sacred and sinful. “So many fucking times—right there, at the window, watching you move, dreaming about what your mouth would feel like—fuck, please—”

She gasped again as your hand slid lower, lower, every nerve in her body arching into your touch like it was the only thing keeping her alive.

Your hand dropped to her cunt, fingers spreading her lips open as you pulled back just enough to study the slick, glistening sheen between her thighs.

Wanda’s entire body jolted at your touch—hips twitching helplessly as you exposed the flushed, dripping heat between her thighs. The cool air hit her folds and she whimpered, unabashed, cheeks flushing darker even as her legs fell wider, offering herself up completely.

“Such a messy girl,” you cooed mockingly, tongue dragging along your lip at the angry red of her clit.

Her breath stuttered, lips parted around a broken sound that was somewhere between a moan and a plea.

“Oh, fuck—” she gasped, voice hoarse, “I can’t— I’m gonna come if you keep talking like that,” she admitted, voice pitched high and desperate now. “You don’t even have to touch me and I’d come—”

“Look how swollen it is,” you murmured, dragging your thumb over her clit teasingly. “So swollen I bet it’s throbbing, isn’t it? Begging for a mouth around it…”

Wanda let out a strangled, broken moan, her head thrown back and eyes fluttering shut like she couldn’t bear the weight of your words and your touch at the same time. Her hips bucked involuntarily, grinding up into your hand the moment your thumb grazed her clit, that soft, deliberate tease enough to send sparks shooting through her entire body.

“Yes,” she gasped, voice ragged and soaked in need. “It’s—fuck, it’s pounding.”

Her voice dropped lower, guttural and soaked with something so filthy it made your own center ache.

“I’ve dreamed about it. Grinding down on your tongue until I come all over your face—crying for it—so fucking desperate while you hold me there and make me take it.”

She was panting now, clit twitching under your thumb, the swollen nub aching for pressure, for more—slick gushing with every shallow thrust of her hips, her thighs trembling from how close she already was.

“Fuck, please touch me,” she begged.

You smirked, crouching down just enough until your mouth was level with her. “Tell me what else you’ve dreamed about,” you commanded, leaning in and licking a stripe through her heat.

Wanda shuddered, her entire body jolting as her thighs clamped around your shoulders. Her fingers threaded into your hair, tightening, anchoring herself to the sight of you between her legs, devouring her like you owned her.

“Fuck,” she gasped, voice cracking. “I’m gonna make such a fucking mess—soak your face—God, detka, don’t stop—”

Your tongue flicked her clit and she nearly screamed, hips jerking forward, back arching.

“I’ve dreamed—fuck—about your mouth there,” she choked out. “About waking up with your fingers already inside me, slow and deep, while you kiss the back of my neck and tell me how much you missed this pussy.”

You licked again, firmer and filthier—and she damn near sobbed.

“I’ve dreamed about you pulling my hair while I’m on my knees… about you calling me your slut while you fuck my throat raw w-with that strap of y-yours—oh fuck, your tongue—”

She was writhing now, breathless, on the verge of breaking, cunt pulsing around nothing and clit throbbing against every flick and suck of your mouth.

“You want my strap buried in that pretty mouth of yours?” you rasped before wrapping your lips around her clit, sucking hungrily—teasingly—before pulling back again. “I bet you’ve seen me wearing it around my house, haven’t you? That red dildo on my hips… bet your mouth would look so pretty stretched around it. Bet you’d love choking on it while I call you my filthy little thing…” before your tongue was buried deep inside her.

Wanda cried out, the sound raw and filthy, echoing off the kitchen walls like a confession torn from her throat. Her thighs clamped around your head with almost bruising desperation, her nails digging into the island’s edge behind her as her whole body convulsed with the force of your tongue plunging into her, wet and deep and so goddamn relentless.

She was drenched, every clench of her cunt coating your tongue, your chin, every breath soaked in the scent and taste of her.

“Fuck, fuck, yes,” she babbled, voice high and trembling, head thrown back as her hair stuck to her damp skin. “I’ve seen it—seen you with that strap—saw you through the fucking window with it once and came on my fingers just imagining you down my throat—”

Her body jerked violently as you sucked again, lips closing around her clit just long enough to send her spiraling. Her voice shattered into broken moans, hips grinding against your face now with pure instinct, slick gushing over your tongue.

She was shaking, hands in your hair, pulling, holding, like she wanted to fuse you to her body, like she needed your mouth locked between her thighs until she came so hard she forgot her own name.

Wanda screamed, a sharp, feral sound torn from somewhere deep in her chest as your fingers slammed inside her, three at once, stretching her open with no warning and no mercy. Her cunt clenched around them instantly, greedily, like her body had been starving for this and you’d finally, finally given it what it needed.

“FUCK—detka—!”

She was thrashing now, hips rocking helplessly against your mouth, head thrown back as sweat slicked her flushed skin. Her pussy pulsed around your fingers with every hard thrust, your knuckles slamming against her with each pump.

Your mouth—God, your mouth—was locked onto her clit, lips sucking and tongue flicking in rhythm with every brutal stroke of your fingers. The combination was lethal.

Wanda was gone.

A mess of curses in a language you didn’t speak but desperately wanted to learn and sobs that sounded like prayers, her voice broke as she writhed under you, overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of it.

“You’re gonna make me fucking cum—!” she wailed, thighs trembling, every muscle tensing under you like a bow drawn too tight.

“I—” her voice shattered again, high and desperate, “I’m gonna cum so fucking hard—don’t stop, please, don’t stop—”

Her body locked around you, a full-body quake of release tearing through her as she screamed, clit throbbing wildly under your tongue, cunt clenching around your fingers as waves of ecstasy crashed over her again and again. She gushed around you—loud and messy and so fucking pretty you wanted to cry as she soaked your hand, your mouth, the edge of the counter, everything.

She collapsed back with a broken moan, chest heaving, hair plastered to her flushed face.

“…I didn’t really need cornstarch,” you finally admitted with a sheepish grin. “I just wanted a reason to talk to you.”

Wanda let out a hoarse, breathless laugh, her chest still rising in deep, uneven pulls as she looked down at you, her body trembling in the aftermath. She was stunning like this, her thighs splayed wide and glistening, cunt still twitching around your fingers buried deep inside her.

“God, detka,” she rasped, lips curved into a half-smile that was equal parts awe and disbelief. “You could’ve just said hi like a normal fucking person.”

But her voice was thick with affection, hand sliding to your cheek, thumb brushing your jawline, her body still melting from the inside out.

“Says the woman who’s been spying on me,” you muttered with a smirk.

She dragged her fingers slowly through your hair, then gripped it lightly, pulling your face up toward hers with quiet insistence. “Next time,” she murmured against your lips, voice low and spent, “just bring your strap.”

#wanda maximoff x reader.#to read.

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