randomshyperson

[randomshyperson]

I thought about this the whole evening after watching that trailer 😭

I’m gonna need a fanfic stat about Lizzie’s new movie, Eternity, and I need it to be Wanda having to choose between vision and reader. Idc who is who I just need ittttt (obvi she has to pick reader duh)

[randomshyperson]

I better see you acting like a rabid dog frothing over a bone about the new Lizzie trailer and the stills 😏

I low-key wanna write freaky smut to every new pic we have but I'll try to add some plot to it because the movie actually has a good sweet story. I would too wait a lifetime for Elizabeth Olsen, or fight any past lovers for her if I had to 😭

[randomshyperson]

EVERYONE SHUT THE FUCK UP RIGHT NOW

[randomshyperson]

practical magic - wanda maximoff oneshots

summary: study nights with wanda were supposed to be all about magic theory… until you discover the private magic Wanda’s been exploring - and what she’s been using it for.

warnings: smut, bottom!wanda, enchanted strap; overstimulation; suggestive dialogue; fingering; creampie; vampire feeding; mild roughness; humorous, soft aftercare; friends to lovers; emotional intimacy; reader is a vampire | words: 6.388k

a/n-> accidentally posted the unfished version before, just pretend i didn't. this was written with a mission, we need more bottom wanda fics.

General Masterlist | AO3 |

-&-

You've been friends with Wanda for a little over three years now.

When she officially joined the Avengers, you were still elbow-deep in the impossible task of recruiting more witches for what was not-quite-yet a coven. Agatha refused to call it that - “a nosy vampire and three witches who had one joint spell session does not a coven make,” she'd scoffed.

She had a point. The so-called group was mostly chaos: Agatha and the girls argued every other day, Jen technically wasn’t doing magic anymore, and Lilia had a rather violent aversion to the concept of community, possibly because of the whole plague situation. Still, you were trying. Someone had to.

So when the new Avengers were announced and vampire networks started buzzing about humans playing gods again, it wasn’t just politics or prophecy that drew your attention. It was the unmistakable pulse of magic laced in Wanda’s powers, bright and wild and untrained.

The others warned you against mingling with the superhero crowd, especially dragging magic into mortal affairs. But as usual, you ignored them. You knocked on the Tower’s door anyway - literally - and extended an invitation to the witch who didn’t yet know she was one.

Wanda had resisted the label as much as your group had resisted hers. But something softened over time. Bit by bit, routine rooted itself in the quiet moments: delivering spellbooks to the Avengers Tower every week, practicing basics on quiet Sunday mornings, sharing rituals and stories passed down through your centuries-long memory.

You grew close. Agatha would tease - “maybe too close,” always with that knowing lilt - but you both pretended not to hear her.

Which is how you found yourself, for the fourth time this week, sprawled across Wanda’s bed like you belonged there, magical books open in a circle around you. One hand flipped a page absently while the other nursed a stolen blood bag (donation room, New York Hospital - nobody missed it).

You looked up just as the door creaked open. Wanda entered slowly, flushed from her last training session of the day. Hair tousled, breath caught halfway between a sigh and a laugh, she offered you a soft, worn-out smile.

“I guess you don’t do doors anymore, huh?” she asked, voice light but teasing.

You paused mid-drink, fangs still out, mouth curved in a guilty little grin that made her look away too fast. She found sudden interest in the dirt on her sneakers.

“Portals are more efficient,” you said with a lazy blink.

Wanda smiled despite herself, that warm kind of smile she tried to hide. “Make yourself at home,” she muttered, already peeling her hoodie off, adding over her shoulder as she headed to the bathroom, “As usual.”

You mumbled something back - half smirk, half acknowledgment - but your attention had already started to slip.

The blood was sweet, warm enough to relax every taut line in your shoulders. You let your head tip back, fangs still buried in plastic, arm tucked under your neck, legs crossed at the ankles in the middle of her bed like you lived there.

Maybe you did, in a way.

You didn’t mean to listen. You didn’t try to notice the way her footsteps padded across the carpet, or the soft rustle of clothing falling to the floor. You didn’t mean to hear the sigh she let out as the hot water hit her back - or the way the scent of soap slowly replaced sweat, steam curling through the air like incense.

But you noticed anyway.

It wasn’t the first time you found yourself a little too aware of Wanda. Of the way her energy shifted when she entered a room. Of how the scent of her skin after a shower made your brain short-circuit for reasons you refused to unpack.

You blamed the blood. It was easier.

You discarded the empty bag in the container she’d sweetly labeled for you months ago - “blood trash 🩸🗑️ only” - and made a valiant effort to gather the books. Your limbs felt too relaxed to cooperate. Your brain, fogged with warmth and the remnants of adrenaline, wandered somewhere it shouldn’t.

She could skip tonight’s lesson. You weren’t really in a teaching mood, anyway. A movie under the covers sounded more tempting by the second.

By the time Wanda stepped back into the room, towel around her neck and damp hair dripping onto her collarbone, you’d transformed the bed into a cozy nest. Pillows fluffed, blankets piled just right, snacks from the Tower kitchen arranged with near reverence on a tray between the two of you.

Wanda’s gaze softened instantly.

“You spoil me, you know that?” she murmured, walking past you with bare feet and warm skin. One hand ruffled her damp hair, while the other reached out to give your shoulder a playful squeeze. The casual intimacy of it sent a flutter through your chest you definitely ignored.

She climbed into bed with a tired sigh, half-buried herself under the covers, and smiled at the little altar of treats you’d made for her.

“Although I love it… if I keep skipping our lessons like this, I’ll only learn the fundamentals by the time I’m thirty.”

You smile at her, the corners of your mouth twitching with playful softness as you click your tongue.

“We can do a whole day of studying tomorrow,” you say, voice low and warm as your fingers move to the buttons of your shirt. “Tonight, I can sense the exhaustion in your skin, sweetheart. You deserve a break.”

There’s the faintest blush on her cheeks at the nickname - she pretends to focus on drying her hair, but you catch the way her eyes flick toward your hands.  Your shirt is halfway unbuttoned now, revealing a smooth stretch of skin.

Wanda’s brow furrows almost instantly.

“What are you doing?” she asks, eyes narrowing as if trying to read your intentions.

You shrug, lips twitching upward in mock innocence. “Getting more comfortable for bed?”

She lets out a breath of a laugh, light but incredulous, her gaze trailing, just for a second, along the exposed line of your collarbone before she catches herself and lifts a finger in warning.

“I know you came here straight from one of your vampire errands. There is no way you’re sleeping in my bed with whatever blood-slicked demon germs you picked up tonight.”

“But I was already in there - ”

Her look is sharp. Final. You sigh, dramatic and defiant, arms dropping to your sides.

“Fine,” you mutter, letting your shirt fall open completely as you pad toward the bathroom. She calls after you, “Towels are in the bottom drawer!” - with a grin in her voice that only deepens when you growl back, “I know where the goddamn towels are.”

Wanda’s still chuckling softly to herself when her eyes catch a glimpse of your silhouette in the ajar door.

She was not expecting the sound of the shower to affect her the way it does - soft splashes, the shift of your body behind thin walls, steam curling like lazy magic through the cracks. Her mouth goes dry. She tells herself to focus on the screen. Instead, she finds herself watching the way your shadow moves behind the glass.

By the time you return, the scent of her shampoo lingers on your skin, mingling with the heat of the shower in a way that’s almost intimate. Familiar. Her breath catches when she glances up - and then immediately flicks her gaze away again.

You step into the room like it’s yours, skin still damp, droplets trailing down your collarbone and disappearing beneath the towel slung low around your waist. You hum under your breath, hair dripping onto your shoulders, leaving little wet marks on her floor.

Wanda makes the mistake of looking again - just a peek - and nearly chokes on her own breath.

You don’t seem to notice. Or maybe you do. It’s hard to tell with you.

A low chuckle slips from your throat as you move toward her dresser, digging through drawers like you’ve done a hundred times. “What the hell are you watching, Maximoff?”

Her eyes go wide, a guilty flush creeping up her neck. She thinks you caught her - thinks the heat in her chest must be visible somehow. But you add, casual as ever, “Your heart just skipped. Don’t tell me you’re scaring yourself with horror movies again.”

Lucky. Very lucky.

Wanda exhales, relief blooming like smoke. “Guilty,” she says quickly, flashing a nervous smile as she gestures to the screen. It’s some old monster flick - practical effects, over-the-top gore, and all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. Something Natasha lent her as a joke.

You glance over your shoulder and laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners. “That’s what got you riled up? Weak.”

She’s about to retort, something equally sarcastic on the tip of her tongue, when you let the towel drop.

Wanda stops breathing.

There’s nothing between her and the sight of your bare back, the elegant lines of muscle, the quiet strength carved into your form like poetry.

She’s seen you naked before. You were once a maid, then a pirate after your transformation - sharing cramped quarters with others became second nature, which explains your complete lack of modesty when it comes to nudity. But for Wanda, lately, it’s felt less like a habit and more like a divine trial of restraint.

You don’t seem bothered. Not at all. You stretch, slow and cat-like, and turn just enough for her to see the faint veins beneath your skin beginning to darken, the glow in your eyes blooming red for a heartbeat.

“Honestly,” you say, voice lower now, more playful, “I don’t know why you’re impressed. You’ve seen me transform a hundred times. Real-life horror movie, free show just for you.”

To prove your point, you flash her a half-formed vampiric grin - sharp fangs, darkened veins webbing lightly across your cheeks, just enough to make her pulse stutter.

Wanda groans, her thighs pressing together under the blankets as she throws herself dramatically onto the pillows. “Don’t do that,” she mutters, eyes squeezing shut. “You’re gonna give me nightmares.”

You laugh again, completely unbothered.

What she doesn’t see - what she misses, because she’s too busy pretending she’s annoyed and not aroused - is the way your eyes linger on her just a second longer than necessary. The way your smile softens when she hides her face in the pillows. The way your hands move a little slower now, as if savoring the comfort of being here, in her space, like it’s something sacred.

Wanda makes the mistake of not noticing where your hands are searching now. She’s too distracted by her own thoughts - by the fire licking at her skin, the way her body is betraying her with every heartbeat.

You find a shirt that’s comfortably oversized - definitely Wanda’s - and pull it over your head. As you fold a few other pieces and rummage through the drawer for something else to borrow, your fingers close around something far too structured to be clothing.

You freeze for a second. Then a slow, wicked grin curls your lips.

You’ve shared a house with Agatha Harkness for more than a century - there are very few enchanted accessories you haven’t seen. And besides, you lived through the entire pro-discovery, post-puritan, human-rights-to-sexuality era, so your fingers wrap around the leather strap with practiced curiosity rather than shock.

But enchanted magical straps? Those are always tethered to the witch who conjured them.

So when your hand tightens around it and lifts it ever so slightly from the drawer, you don’t miss the snap of Wanda’s head in your direction - eyes wide, mouth parting slightly in panic, cheeks already flushed a deep rose.

“Well, well,” you begin, voice dripping amusement, “what do we have here - ”

Before you can finish the sentence, the item yanks itself from your hand with a rush of scarlet magic and flies back into the drawer, which slams shut with finality.

You burst into laughter, fully delighted.

“Oh my god, Wanda. You don’t have to panic like that!”

“Shut up,” she hisses, crossing the room fast - but her voice is trembling and her face is practically glowing red. “Not a word about this!”

“Too late,” you grin, teasing mercilessly. “I love that you’re getting creative with your magic. Really taking your spellwork into… practical territory.”

She groans, turning away from you, face buried in her hands for a moment.

“I knew Agatha would be a terrible influence when I brought you into the coven,” you continue, folding your arms, expression mock-thoughtful.

Wanda wheels around, cheeks still pink. “Agatha has actually been… very mature about this. Extremely helpful.” She points at you, flustered but trying to sound stern. “You’re the one being insufferable.”

Your grin only widens as her hands press to your shoulders, gently but insistently trying to steer you away from the closet. You’re still laughing, still half-dressed, still entirely enjoying yourself.

But then you cheat.

Vampire speed kicks in, and in a blur, you’ve crossed the room, the object once again dangling from your fingers. Wanda’s horrified gasp echoes off the walls.

“Y/N!”

You hold it up between two fingers, smile cocky, eyes glittering with mischief. “You do know Agatha invented this spell, right? I’m just curious - did she teach you all the tricks, or just the basics?”

Wanda groans in frustration. “I’m not having this conversation with you.”

But she doesn’t use her magic to pin you down, not yet. She’s chasing you the mortal way, half-hearted, half-laughing through her mortification, her fingers swiping at the air just inches from your hand every time you dodge.

“Come on,” you tease, voice lilting. “We’re all adults here. Sex is natural. Magic-enhanced sex? Even better.”

“You’re the absolute worst. Worse than Agatha.”

You laugh harder, and that’s when she finally has enough - her magic tugs sharply at your wrist, yanking your arm down and finally letting her seize the toy. But as her fingers close over it, so do yours. Neither of you lets go.

Your eyes meet.

There’s a sudden shift - like the breath is sucked from the room. The laughter lingers on your lips, but something deeper pulses underneath. You tilt your head slightly, tone dropping lower, velvety.

“As your mentor, Wanda… It’s only natural I keep up with the kinds of spells you’ve been exploring.” Your voice is a caress now, the teasing thick with heat. “I just want to make sure you’re reaching your full potential.”

Her breath hitches - she feels the pulse of magic through the toy, the heat it responds to like a heartbeat. Her heartbeat.

You step a little closer, gaze locked to hers. “I could’ve helped you, you know. If you’d told me about this. We could’ve crafted something together. Something designed just for you.”

Her fingers tremble where they hold the object. She tries to speak, but it comes out as a half-broken, “I - I…”

You let go of the strap and take her wrist instead, the shift in contact gentle but commanding. Your other hand rises slowly, carefully, to cup her cheek, and she leans into the touch before she can stop herself.

Your thumb strokes her jaw, and when you speak again, your voice is barely a whisper, warm with sincerity beneath the sultry lilt.

“It’s no problem, really. I still know a few tricks… and I’d be more than happy to teach you. If you want me to.”

There’s a question in your eyes - no pressure, no assumption, just quiet patience. Wanda stares at you, breath shallow, caught between the rhythm of her own desire and the weight of her affection for you. You’re looking at her like she hung the stars, like you’d follow her anywhere if she only asked.

Her voice fails her again. So she nods, slowly.

And the way your smile shifts - softer, sweeter, reverent - makes her stomach flip.

“Oh, Wanda,” you murmur, voice like a promise. “The things I’d do for you... If you only asked.”

Her heart skips.

The hand you still have around her wrist begins to guide hers lower, slowly, deliberately - until it rests just above your waist. Wanda’s breath catches, her lungs refusing to function properly under the pressure of what that might mean. Her mind is racing ahead, heart in her throat, and nothing - nothing - prepares her for what you do instead.

“We’ll have time for you to lead another night,” you murmur, your voice raspy, grounding, commanding in the softest way. “Right now, I’m the one in charge.”

It’s only then that Wanda looks down to where her hand connects with yours, and the sight stops her breath entirely.

The strap, deep crimson and laced with faint magical etchings, is no longer simply something she was holding. It’s now fastened snugly to your body, the enchanted harness shimmering with scarlet runes, secured perfectly around your hips like it belonged there all along. Magic. Old, tailored magic. Magic that listens to arousal.

Her fingers twitch, then squeeze instinctively - and your body jolts forward slightly with a soft, fractured groan.

Wanda’s mouth falls open.

“I bet she didn’t teach you this trick,” you manage through your teeth, your smile strained by the pleasure that flashes visibly across your features.

Wanda doesn’t reply right away. She just releases the strap, palms sliding up to your shoulders instead - firm, grounding, trembling with adrenaline and something deeper. Her eyes lock with yours, voice low but resolute.

“Please stop talking about other people.”

And you’d agree to anything she asked in that moment.

The kiss she gives you is tentative at first, almost uncertain - like she’s afraid you’ll pull away, even though she’s the one fully dressed and you’re still barefoot and mostly naked in her bedroom. Her lips brush yours gently, a silent question.

But when she pulls back, cheeks flushed, eyes searching your face for any flicker of hesitation, you only stare at her like she’s the answer to a question you’ve been afraid to ask for centuries. You don’t need telepathy to know what she’s thinking: Am I crossing a line?

You don’t let her linger in that doubt. Your hands are already cupping her face, guiding her back to you. This time, the kiss is deeper, hungry in the way repressed feelings always are, tender in the way confessions often feel.

It’s the kind of kiss that anchors you. That rewrites the air in the room.

You lose yourselves in it for a while, long minutes of breath shared, lips parting slowly, tongues moving with lazy, reverent rhythm. Wanda's fingers twist into your hair, nails grazing your scalp in ways that make your knees threaten betrayal. And yet it’s the way her hips start pressing forward, restless and seeking friction, that truly tests your restraint.

She’s beautiful like this - messy and warm and open. Lips swollen from your mouth, skin flushed from the weight of wanting. Her whole body hums against yours.

When you finally pull back, it’s only to bury your face in the slope of her neck, placing slow, burning kisses along her collarbone, each one landing with weight. She shudders, fingers tightening around your arms. You feel her lean into you, legs weakening.

Then your fang grazes her skin - barely, a passing scrape - but Wanda’s response is immediate: a high, needy whimper that stokes something primal in you.

“You can feed,” she whispers, breath hot in your ear as she tilts her neck for you. “I don’t mind.”

You close your eyes, inhaling slowly as your grip on her waist tightens. The scent of her skin, still laced with soap and arousal, clouds your thoughts.

“I already have,” you murmur against her throat, voice hushed with restraint. “I don’t really need more tonight.”

Your tongue replaces the fang, a slow, wet stroke against her pulse point - soothing. Grounding.

But Wanda doesn’t want you grounded.

She reaches down suddenly, hand wrapping firmly around the base of the strap between you. The pressure is immediate - blinding - and the groan that rips from your chest is not subtle.

Her voice drops an octave. Confident now. Taunting even.

“I’m offering,” she says, eyes gleaming. “Don’t be rude.”

The enchantment responds at once, feeding off her arousal and yours, sending waves of stimulation back into your body. Your knees nearly buckle at the sensation, and your fingers dig into her hips just to stay steady.

The room spins slightly, heat swirling around you like smoke, thick with magic and want. You swallow hard, regaining your footing - but your fangs have already dropped, lips parting as you hover at her neck again.

There’s something sacred about the way she leans in, baring her throat to you like it’s instinct.

And something dangerous about how much you want her.

She whines sharply and low,  the sound of it vibrating in your throat like a tether pulled too tight. Her back arches into you, desperate for friction, and just as your fangs sink into her neck with controlled precision, her fingers move again - this time teasing the very tip of the strap.

It’s too much. Too much.

A sharp jolt runs through you, spine tightening, and you lose your rhythm in feeding as your hips press forward on instinct. Wanda gasps, not from pain but from impact, because the two of you stumble across the room, limbs clumsy and tangled, until her back hits the wall with a dull thud.

You try. You try to keep your fangs in her skin, your lips at her throat, to hold your body in check and drink without falling apart - but she’s a natural at destruction. Her grip on the toy doesn’t loosen. She keeps moving her hand with shameless precision, masturbating you through the strap like she knows exactly what she’s doing. And maybe she does.

You’re panting against her throat now, ragged and struggling, blood thick on your tongue and arousal hotter than anything you’ve felt in decades. Her power sings under your skin, and it’s not magic, it’s her. Wanda.

She giggles - soft but wicked - and the sound is a spark to dry kindling.

“Go ahead, sweetheart,” she purrs in your ear, voice molten. “Let go.”

Your fangs scrape her skin again, unintentionally, because your whole body is shaking from how tightly you’re holding the knot low in your belly.

“I want to see the big, bad vampire break for me.”

Then her tongue flicks your earlobe, her breath warm and wet. Her hand tightens once, twice - and it’s done.

You come undone in her hand with a raw, guttural groan. Your body convulses, the force of it dragging a cry from deep in your chest. One of your hands slams against the wall for balance, the strength behind it splintering the paint, your fingers flexing as your release pulses through you hard and hot. You’re left shaking, panting, head bowed against her shoulder, clinging to her waist like she’s the only thing keeping you from burning alive.

Wanda giggles again, and it’s unfair how pleased she sounds - mischief and something softer curled around her smile. Her hand finally goes still, slick with your cum, and when she lifts her palm to look at it, her expression flickers with something curious.

“I wasn’t sure that would happen,” she says, a little breathless, a little stunned. “But I’m definitely not disappointed.”

It takes a moment for your brain to connect the dots. She's not talking about the sex. Not exactly.

Her eyes flick back to yours, questioning but hesitant. “Is it…?”

She doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t have to.

Still catching your breath, you manage a nod and a rough, low reply.

“Mine. Real. Yes.” Your voice is hoarse, but steady now. “Functions like the traditional kind… if you want it to. Witches have very creative, non-male methods for building families.”

You kiss her quickly, nothing but warmth, grounding yourself, then pull back, fingers pried from the wall with effort. Cracked drywall and bruised pride. But worth it.

Wanda’s biting her lip, the implications of your words flickering behind her eyes. It makes her look so devastatingly her -  intellect and feelings always working together. You use that second of distraction to inhale, gathering some of the control she just stole from you.

Not because you mind her leading. You don’t. You love it. But you're not about to let yourself lose control of your strength - not in this space. Not with her. She deserves better than unbridled force. She deserves intention.

You let the back of your knees find the bed, falling into a seated position, legs spread, arms behind you for balance.

The enchanted strap is still vibrating faintly between your thighs - hard and slick, pulsing in tune with the magic it fed off. A bit of your cum leaks down your thigh, gleaming in the soft lamplight.

You look up at her.

“Take off your clothes, darling.”

The flush that blooms over her cheeks spreads down her neck. Still, she doesn’t look away. Her hands move to the waistband of her pajama bottoms, fumbling slightly, awkward in a way that makes your stomach ache with affection.

You sigh, all heat and hunger.

“If you take too long,” you warn, “I’ll rip them off you.”

That gets her.

Wanda swallows hard, visibly trembling. She lets go, magic sparking in the air around her, and in one motion she’s out of her shorts. But her panties are still clinging to her hips when your patience runs out completely.

Your hand reaches up, fast, closing gently but firmly around her wrist. In one motion, you pull her down into your lap, chest to chest.

Centuries old. You've fought monsters, conquered cities, danced with death, and kissed gods. But nothing - nothing - compares to the feeling of Wanda Maximoff grinding into you, panting into your mouth, whispering your name like it’s holy and begging to be fucked.

Your grip on her waist tightens, enough to bruise if you weren't careful, but you’ve never been anything but careful with her. It’s hard when she’s like this, moving her hips in frantic circles, riding the enchanted strap nestled between your legs like her life depends on it.

You manage a breath, a brief second of stillness, just enough to let your mouth travel down her body. Open-mouthed kisses trace along her collarbones, then lower, tongue teasing one nipple, then the other. You suck her tits until she's trembling above you, grinding halted, too overwhelmed to do anything but shake and whimper under the weight of your mouth. Her hands dig into your hair, and her chest heaves, breaths ragged. You didn’t expect her to be this close already.

But because the strap is magically connected to her arousal, her orgasm takes you out of orbit. You don't come physically - but you feel it, the echo of it, the way the spell is designed to drag you along with her, the throbbing ache of your own desire flaring bright. Your hips jolt. You groan into her chest.

She whines, too, writhing, overwhelmed, and pretty sure she's going to combust if you don’t fuck her now.

“I need- ” she pants, trying to pull away just enough to yank off her panties, still in the way because you were too impatient before. But you grab her hips and hold her against the strap, grinding her down onto it. “I’m just - just trying to-”

You rip the fabric with a single swipe of your hand.

“Really?” she protests, glaring for a second. “Those were nice.”

But you’ve already flipped her onto her back, pinning her against the pillows. “I’ll buy you new ones,” you promise, eyes flicking down as your hands part her thighs. “I’ll buy you everything. The whole damn world if you want it.”

Wanda laughs, cheeks flushed. “God, you’re such a sweet talker.”

Scarlet sparks hum around her fingers as they tug your shirt away. Her hands hover nervously at her sides, the way they always do when she’s trying not to tremble.

“I’m not,” you murmur, gaze locked between her legs. You’re barely listening, distracted by the sight of her - dripping, swollen, aching for you. “I’m cranky. Suspicious. You just bring out the version of me worth loving.”

Her expression softens, and she reaches for you, not for a kiss, not for your hand.

No, she’s guiding you. Down, between her legs, until your fingers find her heat and sink inside with an obscene wet sound. She moans, breath hitching.

You take your time with this, one finger, slow and deliberate. Then two. Twisting, curling, finding the spot that makes her clench around you with a cry.

“I want- ”

“I know, baby.” You hush her, your voice thick. “Just stretching you first. You’ll take me easily like this.”

She mewls, hips stuttering, her hands clenching the sheets. And just as you're adjusting, the strap between your legs pulses hard - your body jerks, gasping. Wanda came again.

It’s fast, sharp - her body is too sensitive now - but it still rocks through her like a wave. Her cunt flutters around your fingers, and you don’t know how much longer you can wait.

“Please,” she begs, voice high and thin. “Please, I can’t-”

“I know, shh,” you murmur, soothing her while you line up the strap with her soaked entrance. You press the tip against her, barely nudging inside, dragging it through her slickness just to hear her whine. “You’re so ready for me. You’ve been ready.”

You try to keep teasing her, only because you can. Because centuries have taught you patience in the face of primal hunger.

But then-

Scarlet sparks push at your back, a rough shove that drives your hips forward. You sink in, deep, with a single sharp thrust.

Both of you cry out.

The strap fills her completely, pulsing with her magic, thick and hard and vibrating just enough to keep you both panting. Her heat wraps around you, squeezing like her body’s trying to keep you there forever. And you're a goner.

The bed creaks violently with each thrust. Your hips snap forward, steady and punishing. Wanda claws at your back - literal blood under her nails - but you barely feel it. She's shaking, gasping, her legs wrapped around your waist so tightly there's no air between your bodies.

You don’t relent.

Your pace is ruthless, fucking her deep, fucking her through it. The room smells like sex and magic and sweat, and your hand finds her clit mid-thrust. She sobs at the contact.

"Fuck-!" Her whole body jerks, her fourth orgasm slamming into her so hard the lights above flicker.

You falter, nearly losing rhythm, groaning against her throat. “Wanda-fuck-where should I-?”

“W-What?” she gasps, dazed.

“Should I pull out?” you manage. “Or - ”

“What?” she says again, this time angry. Offended. “Don’t you dare fucking stop, Y/N.”

Her ankles lock around you.

You don't argue. You can’t.

You slam into her, thrusting hard as your orgasm rushes through your whole body. You bury your face in her neck, a long, drawn-out groan leaving you as your hips roll forward, grinding deep inside.

The strap pulses, spilling your cum into her in thick, slow waves that make you both tremble.

Her cunt is a soaked mess around the toy, slick and clenching, and when your hips roll again just to stay grounded in her warmth, the wet noise that follows is so obscenely loud it makes her eyes roll back.

And still, she doesn’t let go of you. Doesn’t let you pull away. Her legs hold you in place, her magic curling around your spine.

You're both still struggling to breathe, lungs heavy with the weight of satisfaction, limbs warm and slack after the intensity of climax. But you fight the sleepiness clawing at your body - fight it hard - because Wanda lets out a soft, desperate whine when you try to pull away.

“I gotta pull out, sweetheart,” you murmur, biting back a groan when she clenches around the strap, undeniably on purpose. You push gently against her hips, trying to ease out of her hold.

“I don’t want you to,” she breathes, less demanding now, her voice languid and soaked in exhaustion. Her ankles have slipped from behind your back, but the longing in her tone still tugs at something primal inside you.

You laugh, quiet, honey-sweet and it makes her blush. So does the tender kiss you press just beneath her ear.

“Oh, I know you don’t, baby,” you whisper, adjusting slightly. The enchanted toy slides out of her, and you both sigh at the loss, overstimulated nerves fluttering. Your voice drops, playful but rough with restraint. “But this kind of magic runs on intention. And I’m having all sorts of unholy thoughts right now. I’d rather not knock you up by accident.”

Wanda chuckles breathily at that, but doesn’t protest further. Her body, well-fucked and trembling, is already past its limit. Even your gentlest touch now makes her flinch more than melt.

You slip the strap off with the same ease you'd show removing a coat, as though tonight - the spellbound lust, the raw confessions, the whole fucking-your-best-friend-into-the-mattress thing - was just another Thursday.

“Don’t fall asleep on me just yet, Maximoff,” you tease, catching her eyelids fluttering. Her tired smile is pure surrender. She tries to respond, but her body’s already slipping. “We made a mess, sweetheart,” you murmur, brushing her sweat-damp hair back from her face. “Don’t you want me to-”

Scarlet sparks answer you before she does, pulling you back down and holding you there, face resting on your chest, her magic clinging to your skin like a second blanket. That’s all the answer you get.

And honestly? It’s more than enough.

You settle in with her, bodies tangled, her breath steadying into your collarbone. She’s asleep within seconds.

It doesn’t take long for you to follow.

-

It isn’t the warmth of the sun that wakes Wanda  -  it’s the absence of yours.

The chill that slips into the sheets in your place is subtle but unmistakable. Still tangled in sleep, her hand stretches across the linen instinctively, searching for your body. When she finds only the faint impression of your form on the mattress, her brows knit together in a drowsy frown.

Footsteps shuffle across the wooden floor. The sound is light, familiar. The rustle of fabric follows  -  and something in Wanda's sleepy brain registers it as you.

"It's too damn early, Y/N," she rasps, voice rough with sleep, eyes only half-open. But she doesn’t flinch from the light bleeding through the window  -  because even as her voice breaks the silence, she sees you standing there, reaching up to draw the heavy curtains closed.

"I know, sweetie. That's exactly why I got up," you reply gently, not looking over your shoulder, too focused on shielding the room. "We forgot to close the curtains last night."

It takes a second  -  two, maybe  -  before her still-sleep-fogged mind catches up to the words. Vampire best friend. Sunlight. Her eyes snap fully open.

“Sorry,” she mutters, suddenly wide awake, guilt flooding her features as she tries to sit up.

But you're already crossing the now-dim room, waving off her concern with a shake of your head. “It’s alright. Didn’t get me,” you reassure her with a soft smile, and she breathes out, easing back into the pillows just as you crawl up onto the bed  -  and settle on her waist.

It’s a position that feels far too natural for something so new. And Wanda feels her cheeks bloom red at the thought  -  at how much she wants you to stay exactly like that.

"I know I promised you a day of studying," you murmur, eyes drinking her in like you haven’t seen her in years, “but I was thinking… maybe I could take you on a date instead? What do you say?”

Her answer doesn’t come in words  -  it comes in the small sound she makes when your lips press against hers, hungry and warm and deeply familiar. It steals her breath. She only manages a weak, dazed nod as you pull back with a teasing laugh.

You lean closer to press another kiss to her cheek, but your gaze lingers, catching sight of the scattered constellation of hickeys and bite marks blooming across her collarbone. It makes you pause, and your voice drops as you murmur, “I’ll be gentler next time. I promise.”

Wanda immediately frowns. “Don’t you dare,” she counters, and you snort at the conviction in her sleepy voice.

"Very kinky of you." You grin, and she rolls her eyes, sticking her tongue out at you like a defiant schoolgirl  -  except her fingers are already curling around your hips, pulling you down against her again.

“Don’t pretend you don’t like it,” she says, gaze sharp despite the blush on her cheeks. “I know how much you like leaving your mark, Miss Vampire. The thought of showing me off must drive you crazy.”

You raise an eyebrow at her smugness, and the glint in your eye is all the warning she gets before you strike  -  fast, fluid, effortlessly dominant.

You pin her wrists above her head, your palms encasing her wrists like cuffs of silk and fire. She gasps, startled, and then gasps again as your hips grind into hers with calculated force.

“Oh?” you purr, low and dangerous, “You’ve been reading my mind, you naughty witch?”

She flushes, caught between embarrassment and arousal, unable  -  or unwilling  -  to deny it. Her thighs shift beneath yours, trying to find friction, but you don’t let her.

You adjust your position, sliding your thigh between hers. The slow, deliberate pressure makes Wanda moan  -  long and breathless  -  as her hips press down against you.

“Just practicing what you taught me,” she whispers, voice trembling, eyes wide with want.

“Let me teach you more, then,” you say, tone dipped in velvet, watching as she tries again to grind against you  -  only for you to shift back just enough to make her whimper.

“This,” you say, voice thick and sinfully sweet, “is called edging.”

Wanda's breath hitches. She opens her mouth to ask  -  what it is, why you’re doing it, maybe even to protest  -  but your lips are already back on hers, and your next words are spoken against her mouth like a spell:

“Questions are only allowed at the end of class.”

[randomshyperson]

How unfinished was that fic?? 👀 It looked good 🤤

only unfished here, i was editing the post yesterday night and accidently schedule instead of saving as a draft :( sorry about the spoilers haha I'll post the whole thing later today!

[randomshyperson]

"Regaining your WHAT" bestie that last paragraph isn't finished 😅😭

This hellsite hates my guts I'll tell you that HAHA it automatically posted the unfinished draft for some reason, sorry people

[randomshyperson]

how you doing mary? missing you

xoxo

I'm doing good anon thanks for asking. I was actually trying to find a way to spread as many bottom!Wanda fics across the website but so far I only managed to write a single oneshot (posting this weekend btw 🫢)

I need ideas if anyone is having that nowadays

[randomshyperson]

Y/N, about Wanda: I mean, yeah, she's clearly mentally ill. But you gotta admit it's a little charming watching her walk around pretending like she's not.

[randomshyperson]

ik your blog is marvel but are you watching the new superman?

i saved this ask for late because I had tickets haha THE MOVIE IS AWESOME!!

I am in love with half the cast, sorry not sorry also I can't believe James Gunn got me shipping clark and Lois in 2025. They were low-key adorable and I think it's because both gave me bisexual vibes 😂

fun fact I was a DC fan before joining Marvel fandom so I'm so so excited for the new dcverse and I was so glad to see such a incredible movie like this; I cannot wait for the supergirl one new year!

But hey is it too early to search for Lois lane x reader?

[randomshyperson]

Hiiii.... Will classified love - wanda maximoff x kryptonian!reader be made into a series? It's so cute 🥺 it needs a part 2🫶

-🦭

I wrote that story as a oneshot but you never know huh imagine if the author was feeling inspired

[randomshyperson]

Would you marry me? 🧎🏼‍♀️💍

[randomshyperson]

masc!readers mentioned, we (me) cheered yayyy

hii 👋

I was genuinely so surprised with that anon because I often rewrite/change story details that might be too descriptive of y/n's (which is a good practice 'cause reader insert stories are meant to be inclusive) but yeah, it's nice to know other masc presenting people here 😂

just for curiosity because fanfiction is all about imagining stuff, I do picture my YN's style somewhere between Remus Lupin, Shauna Shipman and Robin Buckley. Usually depends on the story and YN's age, but I picture a lot of bands, movies, cartoons t-shirts, hoodies, leather jackets, old sweaters, all stars or work boots.

[randomshyperson]

Do you have any fics where the reader is freader but masc presenting?

Hey anon, this is funny because I am masc presenting so everything I write I am picturing a masc y/n haha but because I want all readers to feel included I avoid some descriptions

Anyways, I do have a one where it was requested for a masc y/n it's this one.

If you have any requests for masc readers feel free to send them 🙂

[randomshyperson]

classified love - wanda maximoff x kryptonian!reader

summary: wanda is new to the avengers, and learns the concept of a secret identity. or the one where kryptonian!reader has a secret, and a crush.

warnings: reader is superwoman; mild angst; mutual pining; nervous flirting; soft wanda; protective reader; fluff with feelings; light humor; superhero bureaucracy; canon divergence; minor ultron reference; mild language; happy ending.

a/n-> i'm going for my old drafts and this is from months ago when i was reading a bunch of supercorp fics, especially ones about lena learning about kara's secret identity. So i made my own with this two lovely dorkies. (nope, this is not related to the series with kryptonian!reader i'm working on).

General Masterlist | AO3 |

-&-

It wasn’t that Wanda didn’t know what a secret identity was.

Of course she did. She just hadn’t quite grasped the weight of it.

In her defense, the Avengers weren’t exactly the poster children for discretion.

Tony Stark made sure everyone knew he was Iron Man. Steve Rogers had been the star-spangled face of American propaganda since the forties. Natasha was arguably the most famous spy on Earth - and somehow still mysterious - and poor Bruce had his green alter ego splashed across news channels since his very first rampage. And then there was Thor. A literal god. No mask could hide that hair.

So maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t completely her fault when she leaned over during breakfast, bright-eyed and curious, and casually asked you,

“So… what’s your name, by the way?”

The room fell dead silent.

Wanda blinked, eyes flicking around the Avengers compound’s cozy living room. The sun spilled lazily through the tall windows, warming the hardwood floors and catching dust in the air. A pot of coffee burbled in the kitchenette, and the smell of waffles hung pleasantly in the background. But the atmosphere shifted like someone had cut the power.

Tony was the first to crack. He snorted into his mug, trying and failing to smother a laugh.

Wanda’s eyes widened further when Natasha silently reached over and handed him a crumpled five-dollar bill.

Your smile dropped. Just seconds ago, you’d been grinning at her, saying how nice it was to finally have someone around your age on the team. Now your expression shuttered. Calm, professional. Guarded.

“Uh… that’s confidential,” you said simply.

Wanda let out a short laugh, confused. She tilted her head, hoping she’d misheard.

“What?”

Your eyes flicked over to the group still half-watching from the couches. Clint was biting back a grin. Steve looked conveniently invested in stirring his coffee. You exhaled through your nose.

“I guess nobody warned you about the secret identity policy,” you muttered, not bothering to hide your disappointment. Your arms crossed over your chest - biceps straining slightly under the fabric of your suit - and Wanda was momentarily distracted by just how much muscle you were hiding beneath the armor. She didn’t think that was allowed.

“I’m not trying to be rude,” you added, your voice softer. “But I can’t tell you my real name.”

Her brows drew together. “But you know mine.”

From the couch, Natasha barked out a laugh. You shot her a look that was half glare, half plea, before turning your attention back to Wanda, a flicker less certain than before.

“I do,” you admitted. “But that’s because… everything about you is already public knowledge.” Your voice lowered a little, like you were offering her something real. “It’s nothing personal. It’s about safety. The only reason Ultron didn’t find my family was because I wasn’t in any of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s databases. Not the Avengers’, either. Same way they kept Barton’s family off the radar.”

That explanation landed - she could feel the weight of it - but it didn’t soothe her. Not really.

Wanda forced a tight smile, but a bitter coil twisted in her stomach.

Of course, it still came back to Ultron.

She hadn’t fought beside you back then - hadn’t fought against you either - but that didn’t mean the past was erased. That didn’t mean trust grew overnight. Clearly, it hadn’t.

And suddenly, she was the one on the defensive. Because why should you get to know her when she was still in the dark about you?

“I don’t think that’s very fair,” she said, echoing your posture with a huff and crossing her arms. “You get to know everyone’s names, but we don’t get to know yours?”

You blinked, surprised by the shift in her tone. But it only lasted a beat.

Clearing your throat, you held your ground. “They know. You’re the only one who doesn’t.”

The offense hit her like a slap. She turned sharply toward the others, sending each of them a scandalized glare. They all conveniently found something fascinating to look at - the wall, the floor, the coffee machine.

Only Natasha had the nerve to smile into her cup.

“Hey, I don’t know either!” Sam piped up from the back, his voice light, trying to cut through the tension like sunlight through fog.

You cracked a small smile at that, grateful. But Wanda didn’t move.

Her arms stayed stubbornly crossed, a pout tugging at her lips, and whatever iron-clad resolve you’d been clinging to softened immediately.

“Hey, if it’s any consolation - for both of you,” you start again, your voice lighter, trying to reset the energy to what it had been before your name became the hot topic of the morning. “It’s only because I’ve known them longer. Maybe… if we hang out a little more, I’ll tell you.”

You flash Wanda a tentative smile. There’s warmth behind it - an invitation, not a promise - but she doesn’t take the bait.

She presses her lips together, visibly fighting the tug of a grin, but loses the battle to her pride. With a sharp turn of her head, she mutters, “Don’t bother,” and spins on her heel.

You watch her walk away, ponytail swaying with each step, her back impossibly straight and her jaw clenched in defiance.

And just like that, you’re certain - painfully certain - she might be the most charming girl you’ve ever met.

Unfortunately for you, Natasha doesn’t miss a beat.

She catches the way your gaze lingers a moment too long, your head tilted just slightly as Wanda disappears down the hall. The corner of the assassin’s mouth curls with amusement as she leans back into the couch, arms crossed.

You snap out of it fast, frowning in her direction. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you paying Stark when Wanda brought that up,” you accuse, tone laced with mock betrayal. “You two were betting on this again?”

Tony lets out a bark of laughter from his seat and shrugs like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Natasha raises both eyebrows, feigning innocence. The five-dollar bill is already gone, stashed away like evidence in a classified file.

You sigh, rubbing your hand over your face. “Unbelievable.”

“Oh, come on,” Natasha says, barely hiding her amusement. “You’ve gotta admit - it’s hilarious when people realize Superwoman isn’t your actual name.”

Steve chuckles from the other couch, finally giving in. “That reminds me - remember that poor waiter in D.C.? The one who panicked and couldn’t decide whether to call you Miss Super or Madam Alien?”

Laughter ripples through the room at the memory. Even Banner cracks a smile. You roll your eyes dramatically, throwing your hands up.

“I told him just ‘Ma’am’ was fine,” you mutter as you start walking toward the door, shaking your head. “And for the record,” you call out, tossing a glance over your shoulder with a perfectly straight face, “I am from another planet.”

Tony doesn’t miss a beat. “See? Knew it.”

The room erupts into fresh laughter, but you just shake your head, waving a hand dismissively as you walk off.

“Still unbelievable,” you mutter under your breath, though this time, there’s amusement in your tone. The kind that sits warm and quiet in your chest, like sunlight through clouds.

-

A new bet had been circulating through the Avengers Compound ever since your disastrously awkward introduction to the team’s newest recruits.

How long until Wanda Maximoff discovers your true identity?

Clint said a few weeks, tops. Steve and Tony were betting for a couple of months. Thor, bless him, didn’t even understand the concept of keeping a secret identity and nearly shouted your actual name across the room - only to be stopped by a flying metal gauntlet Tony launched with frightening precision.

Bruce, ever the scientist, made a whole prediction chart - color-coded and everything - outlining the likelihood of various exposure scenarios. According to his behavioral analysis, you’d eventually slip up and reveal yourself accidentally. Tony called him a spoilsport but still convinced him to place a bet anyway.

Maria and Natasha, meanwhile, were curled together on the couch like shadows stitched at the hip, indistinguishable in the half-light of movie night. Natasha didn’t even look up from the screen as she muttered, “It’s not fair to bet on that. Wanda could just read her mind.”

Maria hummed her agreement. “And not tell anyone. Classic Maximoff move.”

Right on cue, as if summoned by sheer chaos, Wanda reappeared in the doorway, arms crossed, eyebrows drawn tight in a frown.

“I would never invade someone’s mind like that,” she snapped, voice low and tight with restrained indignation. “If she wants to keep secrets and build walls, that’s her choice.”

Then she turned on her heel and walked off, her crimson flannel pajama pants fluttering slightly with the motion. The room sat in silence for a beat, then Natasha grinned.

“New bet,” she announced. “How long until Wanda admits she has a crush on Y/N?”

Laughter erupted.

It only got more ridiculous from there.

Maintaining a secret identity was hard enough with your crazy schedule, missions popping up at ungodly hours, and an internship at Oscorp that demanded more from you than legally acceptable. Peter Parker was the only one who truly understood the madness. You had a little ongoing competition: “How many times did I almost get caught today?” A point system. The winner got free shawarma.

But lately, things felt… off.

It was as if the team had collectively decided to test you. You were being sent on last-minute missions, brought back in civilian clothes, tossed into briefings before you had time to shed your disguise. It felt deliberate. Sabotage by friendly fire.

Of course, no one mentioned the bet to you.

It was one of those mornings - chaotic, cursed, and running ten steps behind the clock. You were still in your Oscorp clothes, your signature lead-laced glasses perched on your nose, hair slightly frizzy from rushing. Your dress shirt wasn’t completely buttoned, and beneath it, a glimpse of the familiar blue and red peeked through like a bad omen.

As you stumbled barefoot into the Tower’s common room, scanning for your shoes, you froze.

Wanda Maximoff was standing there in oversized pajamas, her hair a sleepy mess, blinking at you from over a mug of steaming coffee.

“Oh, uh. Hi,” you said, voice cracking just a bit under the panic.

This was it. This was the moment you’d have to change your name, disappear to the Arctic, and start a new life herding goats.

Wanda just blinked, forced a smile, and murmured a polite “Good morning” before turning back to the coffee machine, like you were no one. Like you were just some intern passing through.

Your shoes sat mockingly on the far side of the room. You crossed to them, fumbling with your shirt to make sure not a single thread of the Superwoman suit was visible.

You sat down, tugging your laces tight, when her voice broke the quiet.

“Are you… Friends with anyone here?” she asked suddenly. Wanda leaned casually against the counter, but there was something soft in her voice, almost cautious.

Your mind blanked. Friends? With anyone?

“Uh yeah,” you blurted, nerves turning your brain into static. “I’m friends with Superwoman.”

You could hear your soul leave your body.

Wanda tilted her head. “Oh?”

Before she could press further-or laugh, or question the absurdity of what you just said, the automatic door whooshed open.

Bruce stepped in with a file in his hands and a furrow on his brow.

He took one look at you, then glanced at Wanda. You weren’t often in civilian clothes around the Tower - especially not so early, or without warning. His pause was subtle, but it said enough.

“Y/N?” Bruce asked, tone neutral but probing. “Didn’t know you were here.”

You jumped to your feet, trying to act casual. “Hey, yeah. I came by late last night. Needed to grab some documents.”

Bruce blinked slowly.

“I, uh, ended up staying. Superwoman said it was okay,” you added, your lie falling apart as it left your mouth.

Bruce, mercifully, decided not to comment. The brilliance in his eyes suggested he knew exactly what you were doing. He gave a slow nod. “Right. Of course.”

You grabbed your shoes, already half out the door. “Nice meeting you, Miss Maximoff,” you said quickly, voice almost too formal as you escaped, waving once and not daring to look back.

Bruce stood there for a moment in silence, then looked at Wanda.

She simply lifted the cereal box into the air with her magic, poured it with too much force into her bowl, and carried it off, pouting the whole way.

-

The worst part of the whole secret identity thing isn't the exhaustion, or the constant lies, or even the juggling act between superhero landings and corporate deadlines.

It’s remembering exactly why it's necessary.

Peter runs into an old friend - Harry Osborn - who, by some cosmic joke, also happens to be your boss. Superheroes have their own demons, their own secrets clawing behind the masks, and something serious unfolds between them.

When the dust settles, Gwen ends up in the hospital.

She’ll recover - Peter says it like a prayer - but the guilt is carved into the spaces under his eyes, and it doesn’t go away when he tells you what happened. About Harry, about the favors he wanted from Spider-Man. About how betrayed he felt when he discovered Peter was Spider-Man - and had refused to help.

You don’t sleep that night.

There's a pit in your stomach, bitter and deep. That could’ve been anyone. That could’ve been you.

There are only a handful of people who know who you really are. Your family. Carol - your lifeline, your salvation, the one who pulled you from the wreckage of your dying world. Fury - who raised you through SHIELD like some grim guardian angel. A few Avengers who found out under specific, inescapable circumstances.

Peter, of course. He understands the weight of the mask.

And then… there’s everyone else.

Your classmates. Your bosses at Oscorp. The coffee shop barista who always forgets your name. The world.

And Wanda.

Wanda, who bickered with Superwoman during missions like it were a sport. Who never let you win without a challenge and rolled her eyes so dramatically you sometimes thought she'd levitate off the ground.

Wanda, who always looked at Y/N Danvers like she was made of something softer. Who shared food without asking. Who nudged your knee during movie nights. Who once touched your badge, just to straighten it, and sent a shiver up your spine with the brush of her fingers against your neck.

Wanda, who was slowly becoming a reason to smile in rooms too quiet.

And precisely because of that… Wanda, who could never know.

You couldn’t stand the idea of putting her in danger.

Not just from enemies, but from you. From what it costs to be close to you.

By the time your distress becomes impossible to hide, the bet has long been forgotten. You walk through the Tower in pieces. The team stops whispering about when you'll slip up and starts worrying about whether you’re okay.

It’s Natasha who finally had enough.

She kicks you off the next mission.

No arguments. No chance to protest. Just a firm grip on your wrist and a silent march through the hallways until you're sitting in an empty room that smells faintly of metal and ozone. The door closes with a hiss behind you.

“Okay,” she says, arms crossed. “Let’s talk.”

You glance at the wall like it might give you an escape route. It doesn’t.

You can hear faint voices down the hallway. The others are whispering about your little outburst in the briefing room. You clench your jaw.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” you mutter.

Nat raises an eyebrow.

“Nothing,” you repeat. You shrug. Look at the floor. Your voice dips quieter. “It’s just…”

A breath escapes you. Heavy. Frustrated.

“…how did you know this was what you wanted?”

Natasha’s expression shifts. The sharpness in her posture softens. She sets her tablet down on the table behind her, unread.

“What do you mean?” she asks, but her voice is gentle now.

You hesitate. Your throat burns.

“I mean… back then. When you stopped being the Black Widow. When Fury gave you the option to just be Natasha Romanoff. Why didn’t you take it? Why didn’t you stop?”

She doesn’t answer at first. She just watches you, eyes trained and careful. You hate that they see too much.

You blink, and the tears well up despite yourself. You’re so tired. Of pretending. Of juggling two lives. Of wonder, which one is real?

“And now you’re living with Maria,” you continue, voice cracking. “You could’ve quit. You could be… happy. Quiet. Safe.”

Natasha sighs.

“I get it,” she says softly, like a truth you didn’t want to hear.

She sits beside you.

“But this isn’t really about me, is it?”

You shake your head, eyes shining with unshed tears. Natasha reaches out instinctively, finding your hand and resting hers over it. It's warm. Solid. A grounding force you didn’t realize you needed.

“I visited Gwen in the hospital before I came here,” you say quietly, your voice thick with guilt and fury. “Harry… he did a number on her. Four broken ribs. Internal bleeding. She’s lucky to be alive.”

Your breath shudders. “Peter hasn’t put the mask on in weeks. And I can’t stop thinking - if any of my enemies came for the people I care about…”

You don’t finish the sentence. You don’t need to.

Natasha squeezes your hand tighter. “Hey. I get the fear. I really do. But we’re not helpless. You’re not alone. We can defend ourselves.”

You let out a dry, humorless laugh and nod, though there’s nothing funny in any of this.

“I didn’t want any of this to be necessary, Nat,” you murmur. “The mask, the secrets. I didn’t come here to be a superhero.”

“I know,” she says gently. “But no one makes it through this life alone, Y/N.” She laces her fingers with yours. “And, if you must know, the weight got a little easier for me when I let Maria in. Turns out, sharing the burden isn’t so bad. Who knew?”

You huff a soft laugh and bump your shoulder lightly against hers. The touch feels safe. Reassuring.

There’s a brief silence before you speak again. “I’ll get my head on straight, okay? You don’t have to bench me.”

Nat smiles at you with that knowing tilt of her head. “Look, I think you’re one of the best heroes we’ve got. But maybe - just maybe - getting benched is a good thing right now. Take a breath. A day off. Ask a girl out.”

Your face heats immediately, and you mutter something about not having time for relationships.

Nat smirks, entirely unsurprised. “Then maybe you should consider someone who gets the job. Say, another superhero?” She wiggles her brows. “Someone in the Tower who, as far as I can tell, is very interested.”

You blink. “Wanda doesn’t even know I’m Superwoman.”

Natasha bursts out laughing.

“Oh, honey. Do you really think the mind reader of the group doesn’t know?”

You stare at her, stunned. “But - she never said anything! She treats me like I’m two different people!”

Nat sighs, her smirk softening into something more understanding. “Because you asked her to. Maybe not with words, but with walls. You put this distance between yourself and everyone. Between her and you.”

You look down, guilt landing like a weight on your chest.

“She’s the new kid, Y/N,” Natasha continues gently. “She’s trying to make real connections. Trying to earn trust. And you - ” she nudges your knee with hers - “you won’t let her in all the way.”

You swallow hard, throat tight.

“I just thought… maybe she didn’t know. Or maybe she liked Y/N Danvers more than Superwoman.”

Natasha throws her head back and laughs again, full and exasperated. “Wow. You really are the queen of self-denial.”

She stands and grabs her work tablet off the table, mumbling to herself as she taps through a few screens. “Well, since neither of you is cleared for the mission, it looks like you and Wanda are stuck with tower duty. Desk work, all day.”

You grimace. “Ugh, but I hate desk work - ” You stop. Catch the flicker of amusement in her eyes. Oh. Desk work.

Alone. With Wanda. In an empty tower.

“This desk work,” you mumble.

“I love desk work, actually,” you add quickly, sitting up straighter.

Natasha rolls her eyes and chuckles, already halfway to the door. “You just cost me twenty bucks, Danvers.”

It takes a second to process what she means. Another bet. Another chance. Another push.

And before the door closes behind her, you're on your feet again - chasing after her, heart hammering with something that feels a lot like hope.

-

Desk work is, without a doubt, the least glamorous part of being a superhero.

Bureaucracy. Mission reports. Intelligence logs. Inventory updates. Categorizing classified items into neatly labeled folders.

Endless, soul-crushingly boring stuff.

Boring enough that your focus slips every five minutes - though maybe that’s less about the files and more about the hum of Kryptonian energy beneath your skin, begging for movement. Or maybe it’s the presence at the other desk, steadily flipping through files, her brow furrowed in concentration.

You spin absently in your swivel chair, just to keep your body busy. One turn too far and the chair wobbles dangerously under your weight, threatening to tip. You gasp and grab the desk for balance - just in time.

Wanda lets out a small giggle, quick and unexpected. The sound makes your heart stutter.

“Sorry you got dragged into this too,” she says, trying to make conversation. Her eyes flick toward you, soft with something you can’t quite name. “I think this is just them getting back at me.”

You tilt your head, brows raised. “What do you mean?” Your voice is playful, but your mind leaps straight to the worst possible interpretation. “Wait - am I that bad to be around? Is this some kind of punishment?”

Wanda's eyes widen, and she scoffs, scandalized. “What? No! That’s not what I meant.” She sounds almost flustered, and when you give her your best wide-eyed puppy dog look, she glares, flustered but amused. “Come on, you’re not that bad.”

There’s laughter in her tone, and you offer a reluctant smile, looking away before it turns into a grin you can’t hide.

She leans back slightly in her chair, her voice softer now. “It’s because of Ultron, really. My fault he managed to compromise so many of our files. Now we have to go all analog. Hard copies for everything. Hence…” She gestures broadly to the pile of folders between you.

You pause, your smile fading a little. “You know you didn’t create Ultron, right?”

Wanda doesn’t answer immediately. Her fingers hover over the edge of a file. You can hear the shift in her breath, just slightly unsteady, before it evens again.

“Maybe it’s time to stop blaming yourself for something that wasn’t yours to carry,” you add gently.

There’s a moment of quiet between you, something unspoken passing in the space between your desks. A heartbeat. Hers, steady now. Yours, skipping like it’s forgotten how to keep rhythm.

Then Wanda clears her throat. “Still,” she says lightly, “I have to admit - it’s a little funny. Seeing Superwoman stuck behind a desk.”

You roll your eyes, shifting in your seat as the poor chair creaks under your weight. She smirks. “It’s like watching Thor try to sit on Tony’s designer couch. That poor thing never stood a chance.”

You laugh under your breath and adjust your posture before the chair gives out. “It’s not so bad,” you murmur, casting her a sideways glance. “I like my work partner.”

The words slip out before you can stop them. They land in the air between you with more weight than you intended.

Wanda blinks, and her cheeks flush instantly. You feel the heat creep up your own neck in response.

“I mean - like, in a friendly way,” you stammer quickly, eyes darting back to your file. “Like… liking my teammate. Not like liking liking - ”

She lets out a breathy laugh, somewhere between nervous and charmed, and turns her attention to the stack of papers in front of her like they’ve suddenly become the most fascinating thing in the world.

You try to listen - listen for the gentle rhythm of her heartbeat - but yours is pounding so loudly in your ears, you can’t hear anything else.

“I get it, Y/N,” Wanda murmurs.

And just like that, your mouth clamps shut. Embarrassment floods through you, hot and fast. You duck your head and pretend to care very deeply about the stack of inventory files in front of you, wishing you could disappear into them. Or, better yet, have one of those heavy boxes topple over and end this moment with poetic finality.

It takes a full five minutes for your brain to catch up - five minutes of sitting there in silence, pretending to work, heart pounding uselessly - before it hits you.

She called you by name.

Your eyes widen as realization crashes into you like a wave. You freeze, blinking at the words on the page that don’t even register anymore. Your breathing shifts, shallow and uneven.

Wanda brought it up first.

You didn’t even notice.

You’ve been so locked inside your own anxious spiral, so distracted by every small move she makes, that you missed the one thing you were most afraid of.

You’re so wrapped up in your panic that you don’t realize she’s stopped working, that she’s crossed the room, quiet as a shadow. She pulls something out of one of the drawers. It doesn’t belong to the inventory.

Your glasses.

The old pair, lost ages ago in the mess of the tower, now held gently in her hands like they were something precious.

You only catch her movement in your peripheral vision, and when she’s standing beside you, you instinctively hold your breath.

The chair shifts slightly beneath you, the telltale shimmer of her magic moving it to face her.

She doesn’t say anything. But there’s no anger in her face. No judgment. Just that patient, quiet look that always makes you feel like maybe the world isn’t such a bad place after all.

She brushes a few strands of hair from your eyes. Then, slowly, she slips the glasses onto your face.

“There you are,” she says softly.

It’s almost enough to undo you.

The contrast of the suit - the bright blue and red - and the old glasses feels ridiculous, but the way Wanda’s eyes soften makes it something else entirely. Familiar. Real. You.

“Wanda, I - ” you start, but she moves before you can finish.

She kisses you.

It’s soft, gentle - just the press of her lips to yours. Barely long enough to register before she pulls away.

Your cheeks go up in flames. “H-hm...” Your brain short-circuits. Words evaporate. You’re just... sitting there, in a slightly too-small chair, in your super-suit, with the most incredible girl in the world looking at you like that.

Wanda’s lips quirk in a smile. “Sorry. I just thought we had to get a few things out of the way.” Her fingers trace lightly down your cheek. “You’ve been thinking about it for days. But it didn’t seem like you were going to actually do anything.”

“I was going to,” you mumble, flustered. “Eventually.”

She laughs under her breath, warm and amused. “Sure. Eventually.”

Before you can think of a clever response, she leans in again - this time slower, more certain. Her nose brushes yours, a soft, teasing touch, before her lips find yours again.

This kiss is different. Unhurried. Confident. Her mouth moves against yours with quiet intent, and when her tongue brushes against yours, it sends a shiver down your spine.

Unfortunately, the chair makes a rather unfortunate groan beneath your shifting weight. You lurch slightly, catching yourself before you topple over completely.

Wanda pulls back with a burst of laughter, and you can’t help but join her, even as you cover your face in embarrassment.

Eventually, you peel the glasses from your nose and set them on the desk beside you. Your hands find hers and bring them to your chest, pressing them gently against the symbol on your uniform. Her gaze flickers down, then back to your face.

Your voice comes quieter now, almost fragile. “I’m sorry it took me so long to tell the truth,” you say. “I’ve never been this scared to let someone in. To risk putting them in danger just by loving them.”

Wanda doesn’t flinch. She nods, her expression softening as she wraps her arms around your shoulders.

“I do understand,” she whispers. “Come here.”

You fold into the embrace, arms slipping around her waist, grounding yourself in the feel of her - warm, solid, real. There’s a long moment where neither of you says anything. You just breathe each other in.

Then, voice low and almost conspiratorial, Wanda murmurs against your ear: “I love Mexican food, if you ever get brave enough to ask me out.”

You laugh into her shoulder, breaking the hug. “Oh my God, stop reading my mind.”

“But it’s so fun,” she teases, her smirk blooming again.

You roll your eyes, but the grin stays. “I can think of something better for you to focus on.”

She raises an eyebrow, intrigued.

But she’s the one leaning in first, closing the distance with a wicked little smile and a kiss that promises a thousand unsaid things.

[randomshyperson]

You write such good pining. There's so many different flavours to choose from. Do you realise how much you've written? Thank you so much. It's like I'm in a huge store with so many choices. I love you ♥️

I can't believe I wrote so much honestly haha but I'm glad I did and people like it :)

[randomshyperson]

Oh but Darling You are my Favorite🫰

[randomshyperson]

darling, can I be your favorite? - wanda maximoff x reader

summary: A game night at Agatha’s takes a chaotic turn when an old truth surfaces - one that Wanda didn’t expect, and one you thought had been buried by time. Sometimes, even the deepest love begs to be reassured.

warnings: jealousy; mentions of past sexual relationships; possessive behavior; magic-fueled argument; emotionally charged sex; explicit smut; fingering; oral sex (f receiving); praise kink; possessive!Wanda; soft aftermath; emotional vulnerability; affectionate teasing; pillow talk; mild angst with comfort; canon divergence. | words: 4.730k

a/n-> I wrote this as a draft, a couple of weeks ago, when I was going through a very intense Agatha's obsession period, and I totally forgot about it. I was not sure I would use it in a bigger fic because I do want to write immortal, vampire, etc y/n's, but since I didn't, you guys can read it while I work on the upcoming series.

General Masterlist | AO3 |

-&-

"Have you ever slept with my wife?"

The question fell like a thunderclap in the middle of a warm evening.

Silence followed it - dense, choking. Even the soft creak of the porch swing seemed to hold its breath.

You froze, arm still slung casually behind Wanda’s chair, the other hand mid-motion with the wine bottle tilted at a precarious angle. Agatha, across from you, mirrored your stillness, eyes wide, glass of red paused just shy of her lips.

Oh, you should’ve known. This was a terrible idea.

Go out with the witches, they said. Catch up. Share a drink. Invite the literal embodiment of Death, what could possibly go wrong?

It was supposed to be a pleasant night. Drinks on the porch, old stories, the comfort of familiar magic humming softly in the twilight air. But among the four of you, it was always hard to tell who had the sharpest claws - or the most fragile ego.

Your gaze flicked briefly to Wanda, who hadn’t moved. Her hand rested lightly on her thigh, but the tension in her knuckles betrayed her. Her eyes were locked onto Agatha with a heat that could’ve ignited the vineyard around you.

Of course, Agatha was the first to recover. That self-satisfied chuckle of hers was the sound of a match striking.

“What?” she said, tossing her curls over one shoulder like this was just another girls’ night and not a potential crime scene in the making. “Sweetheart, what kind of question is that?”

But Wanda didn’t blink. Her tone was even, and that was far more dangerous.

“A simple one, Aggie.” She leaned back, lacing her fingers on her stomach with rehearsed calm. “Did you two ever sleep together?”

You sucked in a slow breath and, with a tight-lipped smile, retracted your arm from behind Wanda’s chair. The bottle met the table with a soft clink as you moved the wine glass slightly out of reach. Your laugh - dry and brittle - escaped before you could stop it.

“Maybe we’ve had enough to drink for tonight. We should probably - ”

“We’re not leaving,” Wanda interrupted sharply, still staring at Agatha, “until she answers.”

You shifted in your seat, mouth already forming another protest when Rio spoke. Her voice was deceptively calm, but the gleam in her eyes was anything but.

“She?” she asked slowly, arms folding on the table, one brow arching. “What, Y/N can’t answer for herself? Or are you implying Agatha would… what? Force something? Be the only one to blame?”

“I didn’t say that,” Wanda replied coldly.

The atmosphere cracked - subtle, like a shift in the wind before a storm. You could feel it, static in your blood.

And then, Wanda turned her head toward you.

"So?" she asked, voice softer now, velvet over steel. “Tell us, darling - did you and Agatha ever sleep together?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Looked, maybe a little desperately, at Agatha, who, naturally, had decided to abandon ship entirely. That traitorous witch was lounging back, a slow grin tugging at her lips. She didn’t even bother to hide it. Especially not when Rio’s left hand slid beneath the table and gave her thigh a slow, possessive squeeze.

You watched it happen. You felt it happen. And still, you were the one on the spot.

“Go on,” Rio said, her voice like dark honey. “Tell us if you fucked my wife.”

Your chair scraped loudly against the wood as you stood up, hands raised, gesturing wildly.

“Okay, no - this is a goddamn trap. I’m not stupid. I’m not answering that.”

“Oh, why so jumpy?” Wanda asked, a chuckle breaking through - but it didn’t reach her eyes. “It’s just a silly little question. We’re all friends here.”

“Debatable,” Agatha muttered under her breath. No one acknowledged it.

You laughed again. Hollow. “Nice try.”

“Darling,” Wanda said again, the smile falling away now. Her voice was raw silk. Dangerous. “Answer. My. Question.”

You sighed deeply, raking your hands through your hair. “I’m three hundred years old, Wanda.”

She arched an unimpressed brow. “That’s not what I asked.”

You groaned. Crossed your arms.

“You know I’ve been with other people before I met you.”

Her voice dropped. “Yes. Other people. But that’s not what I asked, either.”

You turned your eyes to Rio, who hadn’t blinked once since the start of this witch trial. She looked positively serene in her menace.

“I…” your throat tightened. “I want to go home.”

Wanda sighed, low and tight. “Darling, I swear - ”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” Agatha snapped, standing abruptly, chair legs screeching against the wood. “Yes, Maximoff! Yes, we slept together. A hundred times. For fun. Out of boredom. Just because we could.”

The air trembled as her voice rose, the kind of voice that could split spells in two.

“You have no idea what eternity feels like, alright? We were friends and - what's the word the young ones use now… fuckbuddies, yes? That. We were that. Long before she decided to cross the ocean and play superhero. Then she met you. It's all good. It never meant anything like what I have with Rio. Or what she has with you. So, really, what are you even doing?”

The explosion was literal.

It happened fast. Magic burst like shrapnel. Spells lit the porch in violent flickers. Furniture launched into the air - an end table shattered against the railing, and you ducked just in time to avoid a cursed candlestick flying past your head.

You weren’t even sure who was fighting whom. At one point, you’re almost certain Wanda and Rio turned on each other, until Agatha yanked her wife out of the chaos with a flash of smoke and a hissed incantation. In the confusion, Rio still managed to catch your arm with a glancing slice - a clean little souvenir.

You didn’t even get to say goodbye properly. Just a muttered curse, a strained wave, and the metallic scent of blood on your sleeve as you guided your very pissed-off wife back to the car.

Wanda didn’t speak the whole drive home. Arms folded tight across her chest, lips pressed in a silent pout, gaze locked out the window. You just shook your head the whole way, fingers drumming against the steering wheel, trying to remind yourself that this was fine. That this wasn’t the first magical brawl you’d had to walk away from, and probably wouldn’t be the last.

The boys texted, cheerful and blissfully unaware. Billy, ever the optimist, had been the one to suggest the “moms’ night out.” A bonding experience. Something soft. Easy. He hadn’t accounted for jealousy spells and poorly buried history.

You replied simply:

“All good at Agatha’s. Hope your night was fun too. Love you.”

The house welcomed you with silence. The kind that echoes in corners and stretches across old wooden floors. You locked the door behind you, Wanda already halfway up the stairs without so much as a glance back. Her coat slipped off her shoulders and vanished midair with a lazy flick of magic.

You sighed.

Dropped your keys in the bowl by the door. Followed.

Neither of you spoke as you peeled off your clothes - the remnants of what was supposed to be a cute little night: soft slacks, silky blouses, the faint smell of wine and sandalwood still clinging to the fabric.

It was only once you were both half-undressed in the bedroom, the moonlight casting gentle patterns across the bedspread, that you couldn’t take her silence anymore.

“Wanda,” you said, voice low but sharp. “Can we talk about tonight?”

She stood with her back to you, fingers slowly working the buttons of her blouse. Her voice came clipped. “There’s nothing to say.”

You huffed a dry laugh, arms crossed loosely as you leaned against the edge of the dresser. “For you, maybe. You’ve been ignoring me since we left.”

“I wasn’t ignoring you,” she replied flatly. But she avoided your eyes.

You shot her a look that said really? And she sighed again, softer this time.

“I was thinking.”

You shifted your weight, still watching her. “I don’t like the silent treatment.”

She chuckled bitterly. “And I don’t like that you slept with our friend. But, you know, that’s life.”

“Oh my god.” You groaned, tugging your shirt off in one fluid motion and starting to work on your zipper. “This is absurd. You know that, right?”

“I quite agree,” she said dryly, snapping her gaze away from your exposed skin the second your shirt hit the floor. She turned, flustered, fingers unhooking her bra with brisk determination.

“I’m talking about you, Wanda,” you muttered, voice rising a little. “Getting worked up over something that happened a century ago.”

She barked out a sharp laugh and opened the closet, pulling a nightgown with far more force than necessary. “Worse,” you added, “over something that meant nothing.”

“Yeah, right,” she scoffed, eyes narrowed. “It meant nothing. Yet you did it. Hundreds of times, apparently. Just for fun. Like she said.”

“I didn’t even know you back then!” you snapped, incredulous.

The room pulsed with heat - part frustration, part something else, quieter and more tender. You hadn’t wanted to yell. But there was something under her sarcasm that stung. A crack in the armor.

She didn’t answer right away. Her jaw tightened, and she turned slightly, clutching the fabric of her gown as if it might shield her from this conversation entirely.

But she just gives a short, breathy laugh - a sound too bitter to be real - and shakes her head as she steps out of her pants.

For a fleeting second, the weight of the fight evaporates. There she is. Your wife. Bare but for her dark panties, her body bathed in the soft light coming through the curtains.

And you forget how to be mad. You forget the argument.

Until she turns back toward you, and her eyes, glassy and red at the edges, stop you cold.

The frustration in your chest vanishes instantly. You straighten, step forward, and your voice softens like instinct.

“Darling,” you say, barely above a whisper, your hands cradling her cheeks, “why are you crying?”

She sniffs, lashes fluttering as she tries to blink the tears away. Her gaze avoids yours, but she leans into your touch like her skin remembers you better than her pride does.

“If you don’t talk to me,” you murmur, brushing your thumbs along her cheekbones, “how am I supposed to make it better?”

Her hands rise to your forearms, light and hesitant, like she’s not sure if she’s allowed this comfort. Her cheeks are flushed, and for a long moment, all she does is breathe unevenly.

Then, finally, her voice cracks through the quiet.

“Three centuries is a long time, Y/N,” she begins, barely audible. “I’ve only known you for seven years.”

You don’t interrupt. You just listen.

“I know it’s silly, I know,” she continues, voice wavering, “but… you and Agatha have this thing. This rhythm. This history. She’s always throwing it in my face - how well she knows you, how she can predict you, finish your thoughts. And she’s so - so aggravating about it.”

She laughs weakly, then sniffles again, eyes still not quite meeting yours. “And I just… I’m afraid I’m never going to get there. That I’ll always be this late chapter in your life. That I’ll never matter as much.”

Your heart aches at her honesty.

“Oh, Wanda,” you breathe, pressing your forehead to hers. “That’s not true. That’s not true at all.”

She closes her eyes when you kiss her temple - soft, slow, reverent. Then you pull her close, wrapping your arms around her, grounding her in your warmth.

“I love you so much,” you whisper against her hair. “You know that, don’t you?”

She shakes her head, just barely, and your hands gently guide her face back to yours.

“I do, Wanda. I love you a terrifying amount. And yes, Agatha and I have history. But she’s not more important than you. Just like I’m not more important than Rio.”

Your fingers trace calming circles along her waist as her breathing begins to even out.

“We do love each other - Agatha and I - but it’s a different love. Yes, we had sex. But we never made love. We never broke the laws of nature and brought life into the world like she did with Rio. And I’ve never loved someone like I love you.”

Her eyes search yours now, uncertain and wet. You hold her face again, more firmly this time.

“I’ve lived for centuries, Wanda. But it’s only with you that I’ve felt truly alive. Happy. Like I belong somewhere.”

You kiss the corner of her lips, soft and slow.

“I don’t know where these insecurities came from,” you murmur, brushing her tears away with your thumbs, “but I’ll spend every day proving you wrong. Every single day, I’ll remind you how loved you are. What do you say to that?”

Your attempt at lightness breaks the tension just enough. She lets out a teary little laugh and bumps her forehead gently against yours.

“I say…” she whispers, voice trembling, “you better start now.”

She leans in first, lips brushing yours without urgency, just breath and warmth and something far too tender to rush. You both stay like that for a while - nose to nose, hands resting lightly on bare skin, letting the quiet carry all the weight words couldn’t.

When your hands begin to move, it’s with a slowness that almost feels sacred. You know exactly where to touch - where her skin burns hotter, where she arches, where she melts. Your fingers trail down her back, pausing just long enough to tease, before pressing into her hips and lifting her effortlessly into your lap.

She doesn’t stop kissing you - deep and unhurried, her tongue moving against yours with the kind of longing that makes your bones ache. She moans softly when you break the kiss just long enough to ask:

“Shower or bed?”

But the way she clutches your jaw and kisses you harder is answer enough. You're lucky you made it as far as the bed.

She falls back against the mattress with a gasp, her hair fanned out like a halo in disarray. You move to follow, but she tugs you down with her, mouth never leaving yours, legs wrapping tightly around your waist.

The friction when your bodies align makes both of you shudder. Clothes half-on, half-off, hearts racing, and breath hitching.

You look down at her - cheeks flushed, pupils blown, lips kiss-bruised - and think this is what eternity was always meant to feel like.

Your lips trail down Wanda’s throat, lingering at the base where her pulse jumps under your mouth. Her fingers tangle in your hair, her legs tightening around you with a quiet urgency she hasn’t put into words yet.

She’s warm, flushed, her skin humming under your palms. Every breath she takes is just a little shakier, a little more desperate - and it draws something low and primal from inside you.

You kiss along her collarbone, slow and reverent, until her breath hitches and she arches up to meet you.

“You’re so beautiful,” you whisper against her skin, your voice already rough with want. “So, so beautiful, Wanda…”

She exhales shakily, but instead of softening, something sharper slips into her expression. Her hand cradles your cheek for just a second, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, and then she says - quiet but certain - “I want you to forget her.”

You blink, breath catching.

She leans up to kiss you - not gently, this time, but deep, wet, almost possessive. Her fingers clutch at your sides, pulling you tighter against her until there’s no air left between your bodies.

“I want to be the only one you remember,” she whispers into your mouth. “The only one who ever made you feel like this.”

Her hips roll up against yours, grinding with slow, aching precision, and the friction makes you gasp.

You answer with your hands, gripping her thighs, pushing them apart just a little further. Her panties are soaked, clinging to her, and the heat of her against you makes your whole body throb.

“You are,” you breathe, your voice uneven. “You already are, Wanda - fuck - there’s never been anyone like you.”

But it’s not enough. Not for her.

“Then prove it,” she says.

Her fingers curl into the waistband of your underwear and tug - insistent, wordless. She strips you down without hesitation and pushes her own panties off in a single, impatient motion. The moment you’re bare, she pulls you into her again, gasping at the skin-to-skin contact, her legs locking around you like she needs to keep you there, tethered, owned.

“Say it again,” she whispers, her mouth at your ear now, her nails dragging lightly down your back. “Say you love me.”

“I love you,” you murmur into her hair. “God, I love you.”

Your hand slips between you, fingers finding her soaked and aching. She shudders as you circle her clit, your strokes slow and deliberate. Her hips stutter, trying to chase more, but you keep the rhythm steady.

She whines in frustration and grabs your wrist.

“Inside,” she pants. “Now. I want you inside me.”

You oblige - because how could you not? You push in slowly, letting her stretch around you, savoring the way her breath trembles and her eyes flutter closed.

She gasps when you're fully inside her, her arms wrapping around your shoulders as if anchoring herself to this moment, this feeling.

“You feel so good,” she moans, her voice breaking into a breathless laugh. “So good - better than anyone else, right?”

You thrust slowly, deliberately deep. “Wanda…”

“Say it,” she demands again, her voice strained. “I want to hear you say I’m better than her.”

Your breath catches as you rock your hips into her again, and she tightens around you at the praise in your voice.

“You are,” you groan. “You’re better. The best. No one’s ever made me feel like this.”

She moans, high and desperate, nails digging into your back now, and you love the way she falls apart when she feels worshipped.

You keep the pace slow but deep, driving into her with just enough power to make her eyes roll back. She keeps clinging, gasping, her legs wrapped tight and her lips seeking yours over and over like she’s scared you’ll disappear.

“You're mine,” she says through gritted teeth, her voice raw. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you gasp, thrusting harder now. “Only yours, Wanda. Always.”

Something breaks in her then. She pulls you down into a messy, desperate kiss, hips jerking against your hand in time with your rhythm. You can feel her building - her walls fluttering, breath hitching, thighs trembling.

“Don’t stop,” she cries. “Don’t stop, don’t stop - ”

You don’t. You couldn’t if you tried.

Her release crashes over her like a wave - her whole body arching, a broken moan leaving her throat as she clings to you like she’ll drown without your touch.

You groan against her neck, the world blurring around you both.

After, when you’re breathless and tangled and coated in sweat, she still refuses to let you go. Her fingers rest lightly on your spine, her cheek pressed to your shoulder, and her voice - softer now - fills the silence.

“I meant it,” she murmurs. “I want to be your best. Your only.”

You press a kiss to her temple, still catching your breath, and answer simply:

“You are.”

Wanda doesn’t wait this time.

The moment you’re fingers move out, she shifts you both on the bed, her thighs straddle your hips, and her fingers grip your wrists, pushing them into the mattress above your head. Her eyes - glassy, burning - search yours with something between a challenge and a plea.

“Let me,” she says, barely above a whisper. “Let me use you. I need to feel it.”

Your heart stutters. You nod. You’d give her anything.

Wanda kisses you - fierce, almost bruising - and she grinds down against your stomach, soaking and needy, desperate for friction. Her breath hitches, and she breaks the kiss just long enough to sit up on your lap. The sight is devastating - her flushed chest rising and falling, her thighs tight around you, her fingers trembling as she reaches between her legs to line herself up with your thigh.

She doesn’t ride your fingers. She doesn’t ask for your mouth.

She rides your body.

The slick heat of her folds drags along your skin as she rocks forward, her hands planted firmly on your chest. She sets the rhythm, grinding her clit against your hip bone like she’s chasing something she’s been denied for years.

You moan under her, completely helpless to do anything but watch her fall apart.

“I want to hear you,” she breathes, her voice already breaking. “I want to hear you say it.”

“Say what?” you manage to ask, breathless, utterly entranced by the way she moves - by the way her wetness smears across your skin, by the needy roll of her hips.

“That I’m better,” she pants, leaning down again, her mouth hovering over yours. “That I’m better than her. That you’ve never felt this way with anyone else.”

You blink up at her, stunned by the sharp ache in her voice.

Then you speak - raw and reverent.

“You’re the best I’ve ever had, Wanda. No one’s even close. No one’s ever touched me like this, made me feel like this. It’s you. Only you.”

A sound leaves her throat - half gasp, half sob - and her pace falters for just a moment before picking up again, faster now. She leans into your shoulder, moaning as she grinds against you, desperate, frantic, like she’s trying to brand the memory into both your skins.

Her walls flutter around nothing, her clit dragging over the line of your hip, and you can feel how close she is - how badly she wants to come from this alone.

You free your hands from hers gently and cup her face, guiding her to look at you again. “Let me touch you,” you whisper.

She nods, dazed, panting. “Yes - God, yes - please - ”

You flip her with ease - just enough to roll her under you - and immediately settle between her thighs. She moans at the shift, at the sudden emptiness, but then you’re there - mouth warm, hands steady, tongue pressed flat and slow against her soaked folds.

Wanda cries out, her back arching off the bed.

You hold her hips still as you suck her clit into your mouth, slow and deep, and you swear she’s trembling already.

“You taste like fucking heaven,” you murmur, lips brushing her as you speak. “This is mine, Wanda. No one else’s. I’ll spend the rest of my life proving that to you if I have to.”

She’s already shaking her head, eyes squeezed shut, too overwhelmed to answer - but you don’t stop.

You fuck her with your mouth until she’s begging. Until her fingers clutch at the sheets, then at your hair, and her thighs start to close around your head.

“I’m gonna - oh God, Y/N - fuck, I’m - ”

She comes with a choked moan, clit pulsing against your tongue. But you don’t stop.

You moan softly as you keep licking her through it - slower, deeper, dragging it out until her legs tremble violently under your grip.

“Too much - ” she whines, trying to squirm away, but you pin her hips down, unrelenting, drunk on the taste of her.

“You said you wanted me to never forget,” you murmur, tongue still working her oversensitive flesh. “I’m making sure of it.”

Her next orgasm builds too fast. It rips through her with a sob, her fingers tangled in your hair like she’s holding on for dear life. Her voice breaks open as she moans your name, high and hoarse and wrecked.

When you finally pull away, her chest is heaving, her thighs soaked and twitching, her body flushed all over like she’s burning from the inside.

You crawl back up to her, kiss her slowly, and wipe her tears with your thumbs again.

And when her trembling fingers cup your cheek, she whispers, raw and hoarse:

“Mine.”

You kiss the corner of her lips. “Yours,” you promise. “Always yours.”

The air is thick with heat and the scent of sex, but it’s the quiet that lingers most.

Wanda lies boneless against you, one leg thrown over your hip, her cheek pressed to your shoulder, lips parted against your skin as she catches her breath. You hold her close, tracing lazy shapes along her spine, the softness of her skin still slightly damp beneath your fingertips.

Neither of you rushes to speak. It’s a sacred kind of silence. The kind that feels earned.

Eventually, you feel Wanda shift - just enough to rest her chin on your chest and glance up at you with glassy, blissed-out eyes. She’s flushed and glowing, her hair a wild mess over her face, and you grin as you tuck a strand behind her ear.

“You okay?” you murmur, voice husky but gentle.

She nods slowly. “Better than okay.” Her smile is sleepy, but a little shy, too. “Did I… go too far?”

You blink, then laugh softly, lifting your hand to cup her cheek. “Wanda. That was hot as fuck. If that’s what jealous and possessive feels like, I might have to make Agatha say something smug more often.”

Wanda gasps and hides her face in your chest, groaning. “Y/N!”

You laugh louder this time, wrapping your arms around her and pulling her close. “I’m kidding. Mostly.”

She mumbles something against your skin, clearly flustered, and you kiss the top of her head.

“But seriously,” you say, quieter now, “we didn’t cross any lines. You didn’t hurt me. I didn’t push too much?”

Wanda shakes her head, nuzzling against you with a soft sigh. “You were perfect. You always are.”

“Debatable,” you whisper with a crooked grin, earning a small swat to your side.

You let the moment settle again before you shift just slightly, enough to look into her eyes.

“I get it, you know,” you murmur. “I really do.”

Wanda frowns softly. “Get what?”

“The feeling,” you admit, your voice dipping into something more vulnerable. “Of wondering if someone else meant more. If you’ll ever measure up to something you weren’t part of.”

You pause. Breathe. Let the words come slowly.

“Sometimes I think about Vision. The Mind Stone. That… connection you two had. And the twins - before they were mine, before I got to call them ours. I wonder if I’ll ever compare to what you had with him. If you’ll ever look at me the way you looked at him.”

Her breath hitches, and you almost regret saying it. Almost.

But then she cups your face and kisses you - slow, deep, and full of something so real it nearly brings tears to your eyes.

When she pulls back, she presses her forehead to yours and whispers, “I’ve never looked at anyone the way I look at you. Never loved anyone the way I love you.”

You blink hard. Your throat tightens.

“He wasn’t my soulmate, Y/N,” she says. “He was comfort. He was safety. He gave me something when I was lost. But you… you found me. You brought me back to life. You’re the one who made me feel again.”

You don’t say anything at first. You just wrap your arms around her, tighter than before, and bury your face in her hair.

“I don’t care what fate or magic or some glowing rock decided,” she murmurs. “I choose you. Every time.”

Your voice is a little wrecked when you speak. “God, I love you.”

She smiles against your cheek. “I know.”

You pull back just enough to look at her again. “And just so we’re clear,” you add, grinning as you lean in close, your voice dipping with playful warmth, “you’re also definitely the best I’ve ever had.”

Wanda rolls her eyes, blushing to her ears. “Stop.”

“Never.”

You both dissolve into quiet giggles, tangled up in each other like vines, warm and safe and endlessly close. And even with everything unsaid still lingering in the shadows, what remains between you feels stronger than ever.

There’s no need to rush. Tonight, you’ve got time.

And tomorrow, too.