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peach-and-bugs · 3 years

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Masterlist

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characters that I write for are organized in alphabetical order by fandom and by name. links will lead to my complete list of posted work for said character:

willing to write for characters: romantically (➵ ) platonically (✸) or nsfw (✧)

Character Alphabets (sfw ✸ & nsfw ✧)

Ask Box Headcanons and Blurbes

Agents of shield

Bobbi Morse ✸ ➵ ✧

Daisy Johnson/Quake ✸ ➵ ✧

Jemma Simmons ✸ ➵ ✧

Jiaying ✸ ➵ ✧

Leo Fitz ✸ ➵

Malinda May ✸ ➵ ✧

Phil Coulson ✸ ➵

Chilling Adventures of Sabrina

Hilda Spellman ✸ ➵ ✧

Madam Satan/Lilith ✸ ➵ ✧

Sabrina Spellman ✸ ➵

Zelda Spellman ✸ ➵ ✧

Doctor Who

Amy Pond ✸ ➵ ✧

Bill Pots ✸ ➵

Clara/Clara Oswald/Oswin ✸ ➵ ✧

Eleven/Smith!Doctor ✸ ➵

Jack Harkness ✸ ➵

Missy/Gomez!Master ✸ ➵ ✧

River Song/Melody Pond ✸ ➵ ✧

Simm!Master ✸ ➵

Thirteen/Whittaker!Doctor ✸ ➵ ✧

Twelve/Capaldi!Doctor ✸ ➵

Five Nights at Freddy (movie)

romantic (➵) platonic (✸) nsfw (✧)

Mike Schmidt ➵ ✸

William Afton ➵ ✸

Vanessa Shelly/Afton ➵ ✸ ✧

Killing Eve

Eve Polastrí ✸ ➵ ✧

Villanelle ✸ ➵ ✧

The Legend Of Korra

Asami Sato ✸ ➵ ✧

Bolin ✸ ➵

Bumi ✸ ➵

Izumi ✸ ➵ ✧

Korra ✸ ➵ ✧

Kuvira ✸ ➵ ✧

Kya ✸ ➵ ✧

Kyoshi ✸ ➵ ✧

Lin Beifong ✸ ➵ ✧

Mako ✸ ➵

Opal ✸ ➵

Tenzin ✸ ➵

The Last Of Us (Games)

Abby Anderson ✸ ➵ ✧

Dina ✸ ➵ ✧

Ellie Williams ✸ ➵ ✧

Joel Miller ✸ ➵

Tommy Miller ✸ ➵

Marvel

Agatha Harkness ✸ ➵ ✧

Bucky Barns/Winter Soldier ✸ ➵

Bruce Banner ✸ ➵

Carol Danvers/Captain Marvel ✸ ➵ ✧

Darcy Lewis ✸ ➵ ✧

Drax ✸ ➵

Gamora ✸ ➵ ✧

Hela Odendottir ✸ ➵ ✧

Hope van Dyne/Wasp ✸ ➵ ✧

Jane Foster/Mighty Thor ✸ ➵ ✧

Kate Bishop ✸ ➵ ✧

Layla El-Faouly/Scarlet Scarab ✸ ➵ ✧

May Parker ✸ ➵ ✧

Mantis ✸ ➵ ✧

Maria hill ✸ ➵ ✧

Monica Ranbough ✸ ➵ ✧

Natasha Romanov/Black Widow ✸ ➵ ✧

Nebula ✸ ➵ ✧

Okoye ✸ ➵ ✧

Peggy Carter/Captain Carter ✸ ➵ ✧

Peter Parker/Spider-Man ✸ ➵

Sam Wilson/Falcon/Captain America ✸ ➵

Scott Lang/Ant-man ✸ ➵

Sharon Carter/Powerbroker ✸ ➵ ✧

Sylvie Laufeydottir ✸ ➵ ✧

Thor Odenson ✸ ➵

Valkyrie ✸ ➵ ✧

Wanda Maximoff/Scarlet Witch ✸ ➵ ✧

Yelena Belova ✸ ➵ ✧

Parks and Recreation

Ann Perkins ✸ ➵ ✧

April Ludgate ✸ ➵ ✧

Donna Meagle ✸ ➵ ✧

Jennifer Barkley ✸ ➵ ✧

Leslie Knope ✸ ➵ ✧

Star Wars

Ahsoka ✸ ➵ ✧

Captain Phasma ✸ ➵ ✧

Finn/FN-2187 ✸ ➵

General Hux ✸ ➵

Han Solo ✸ ➵

Leia Organa ✸ ➵ ✧

Luke Skywalker ✸ ➵

Padmé Amidala ✸ ➵ ✧

Rey ✸ ➵ ✧

Rose ✸ ➵ ✧

Stranger things

Argyle ✸ ➵

Chrissy Cunningham✸ ➵

Dustin Henderson ✸ ➵

Eddie Munson ✸ ➵

El/Eleven/Jane ✸ ➵

Erica Sinclair ✸

Jim Hopper ✸ ➵

Johnathan Byers ✸ ➵

Joyce Byers ✸ ➵ ✧

Karen Wheeler ✸ ➵ ✧

Lucas Sinclair ✸ ➵

Max Mayfield ✸ ➵

Murray Bauman ✸ ➵

Nancy Wheeler ✸ ➵ ✧

Steve Harrington ✸ ➵

Will Byers ✸ ➵

misc.

Alma LeFay Peregrine (mrs peregrine's home of peculiar children)✸ ➵ ✧

Elizabeth Corday (ER) ✸ ➵ ✧

Lady Alcina Dimitrescu (RE:V) ✸ ➵ ✧

Laura DeMille/Madame Rouge (Doom Patrol) ✸ ➵ ✧

Lily Lebowski (Crossing Jordan) ✸ ➵ ✧

Marilyn Thornhill/Laurel Gates (Wednesday) ✸ ➵ ✧

Millie Rusk/MolotovGirl (Free Guy) ✸ ➵ ✧

Miranda Croft (The Flight Attendant)✸ ➵ ✧

Dr. Olivia Octaviouse (Spiderman: Into the Spiderverse)✸ ➵ ✧

Yellowjackets

Jackie Tayler (1996) ✸ ➵

Laura Lee (1996) ✸ ➵

Lottie Mattews (1996/2021) ✸ ➵ ✧

Misty Quigley (1996/2021) ✸ ➵ ✧

"Nat" Natalie Scatorccio (1996/2021) ✸ ➵ ✧

Shauna Sadecki (1996/2021) ✸ ➵ ✧

Taissa Turner (1996/2021) ✸ ➵ ✧

Travis Martinez (1996/2021) ✸ ➵

"Van" Vanessa Palmer (1996/2021) ✸ ➵ ✧

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wmarximoff · 2 years

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tear you apart | w. maximoff

summary: sometimes when your morbid interests turn out to be too much to handle, you need Wanda to calm your spirits down.

warnings (18+): serial killer!reader, dark!Wanda, graphic depiction of dead body, somewhat graphic depiction of dismemberment, graphic depiction of blood, praise kink, strap-on sex, somnophilia, degradation, kinda dubcon, slight corruption/innocence kink, manipulation, toxic relationship, bottom!Wanda, top!reader.

pairing: Wanda x fem!reader

word count: 3k

A/N: btw this is my first time dealing with somnophilia so take it easy on me here ok!

༺ᱬ༻

Faced with the thick, damp, obscure darkness, you saw red. Warm crimson color vivid, flowing concentrated, or coagulated in extensive puddles located at specific points on the rough concrete floor of the low-ceilinged brick-walled basement permeated by a bochohornous climate, a stuffy, compact oxygen, difficult to breathe with the lungs.

You sighed, stagnant in a moment of deep latent esteem, like the artist who jokes about the final product of their masterpiece. Your will grew and sprouted and expanded. There was dark blood under your nails.

The metallic odor of hemoglobin and plasma rose higher and higher from the bowels of the earth like an invisible hand that entered your moist, half-open mouth, descending down your throat, consolidating itself into a single amalgamation of the aroma of lime and the compact smell of damp wood who took possession of the room lacking furniture, except for a small tin locker that could be pointed in one remote corner, or an even smaller scratched wooden table, smeared with heterogeneous streaks of brownish old blood, in another one.

Occasionally, gravity would trickle, from the ceiling straight down to near your left shoulder, particles of water from some probable plumbing that passed right over your head, over that scrawny, funneled yellow lamp that hung solitaryly from a dim and waning coloring that did not do much to brighten up the room that only seemed destined to be dark and excruciating.

Between the screwed-on fingers of both your hands pressed into fists (your knuckles covered in a grated layer of hot blood), your elbows dropped down from your hips like pendulums, stretching your forearms like the magnetism of a lodestone to the center of the earth as your palms pressed against the smooth wooden handle of a sharp-edged axe held just in front of your pelvic region, the metal plate of the tool's face soaked with red, fresh blood from a string of blows delivered voraciously against the hardness of the parietal bone of the human cranium.

Raising and lowering. Raising and lowering. Jets of blood sprayed up and to the sides, painting the walls red as hellfire. Moving your hips, your shoulders, your elbows; your knees bent, almost like a tennis match. Knead the skull. Guaranteed point.

You grunted like a predator tearing apart the carcass of your last prey when something bestial screeched primally in your degenerate core, returning to your untamed roots as you gave up your civilized goodwill to become something more, something beyond that; something beyond the experience of a human feel.

And the red, so clear and vivid and even sinisterly dangerous, was indeed alluring to your vision as it flowed in gulfs from a profuse cut on the back protrusion of the cracked skull, strangely deformed and crumpled, of a young girl with long dark hair lying inert on the dirty floor, locks soaked in that murky liquid that hardened the softness of those curls – her taut forearms drawn back behind her torso, her wrists clung irrefutably unpleasantly before her coccyx bone by a pair of silver handcuffs, face down like she fell there and dragged herself like a fish out of water away from you, like she couldn't get up before her head snapped in half.

The bloodied driver's license laid out on that little table in the corner said the name Jemma Anne Simmons. She was dressed only in a pair of matching underwear (the light lacy fabric splattered with dark blood and brain matter like red raindrops). The pupils of the dilated, brownish iris eyes seemed to want to pop out of their sockets; the forehead and face contorted in a tangle of expressions manifested by that faded stare (you could call it fear, but then also agony, pain, regret) that in the end no longer mean anything more.

A drop of sweat poured from your right temple and dripped to the floor between your feet, where the blood was already pooling. You held the oxygen inside your lungs before raising the blade behind your head once more, bringing it down fiercely against the back of the dead girl's neck. The sound was hollow and watery as the flesh split open, like a blade being driven into a pumpkin. Perhaps that was how Raskolnikov had felt when he hit the old woman in Crime and Punishment.

Taking them apart has always been the most exciting part. Disarticulating the bones from the joints, cutting the sinews, the skin, the flesh, the muscles, that would surely be a therapeutic monthly event for you (it was like quenching the dehydration of the thirsty, or the starvation of the hungry).

Ravenous doses of adrenaline laced your brain chemistry into a rush of emotions, and the compulsive dopamine instilled an ecstatic euphoria inside your chest. After all, cutting them off the limbs meant they were ready to be thrown away. So the job was done. It was the culmination of your actions in an outcome seen right before your eyes. And you got away with it – and that's where the fun lurked, an odd specter of pleasure that loosened your joints and relaxed your muscles.

Less than an hour was needed to do it with your resentful hands equipped with your egregious dexterity regarding the knowledge of the anatomical arrangement of the human body, clean and precise cuts made at the height of the joints – amputated limbs were bagged by rolled up black garbage bags by yards of sticky duct tape as Christmas presents for a homicidal maniac. Something morbidly comic about you has always reveled in the way your anatomy teacher flattered you so dearly in the classroom.

You looked like a Victorian poltergeist wandering the halls of your house after leaving the basement (leaving behind, in that unbreathable cubicle of dim, compressed walls, the pieces of the girl rotting in the dark), whose door opened into a scrawny little space below the red oak staircase, which grew in a diagonal line to the upper floor. It was a warm, sultry summer night.

You felt like a hunter in the woods as you headed towards the last door in the hallway, where the bedroom you shared with Wanda Maximoff, your girlfriend, was located about a year since she had broken into your house. The door opened with a long creak.

Facing the bed were ephemeral shoulders, the color of cold milk, to which the copious summit of a supple, soft back tucked into an old shirt of yours was cramped. Smooth back to the touch of fingertips, accented by long strands of brown hair. Between those expensive sheets there was the sharp look of a still young memory that echoed through your temples, that poured out its appreciation before the sleeping figure of your girlfriend, the nymph tenderness exhaled through her pores, Wanda's ether.

You snorted. Her stomach lying in the middle of the bed strangely reminded you of the body lying on the concrete where you had delivered the axe blows two floors below where Wanda snored so placidly. Something sparked in you.

You were studying her intently in a brief moment of darkness (your girlfriend, sleeping and fragile, had a childish lock of brown hair falling over her forehead and her dark brows furrowed, but her eyes were simple and rested, caught in a deep glint of sleep), drinking from her radiant red beauty as a drug addict does from their favorite drug – the female silhouette splashed by the ghostly bluish light of a streetlight outside and, in a way, even a synoptic veil of purity that accompanied your muse in the world of a utopian dream, like a poor helpless girl.

Covered by the fog of sleep as she was in that lapse of calm in the den of a messy bed, it was as if Wanda had never had her mental health even threatened by the ominous entities that surrounded her all her life since she was then a weeping young girl, like hungry vultures waiting for the death of a little wounded lamb in the pasture. She looked innocent. So, so innocuous. And, therefore, so corruptible.

Icy artificial lighting invaded the amorphous walls of the interior of the room, projected all by three specific points transverse to the serene countenance pierced by the sleeping extension of the pale face that Wanda possessed – from her eyebrows trimmed in their dark strands to the bridge of her nose and the apollonian cheekbones of her bucolic bone structure, clinging, in the moonlight, to the beaded bone of her powerful jaw. A mechanical innocence was imparted to her closed eyelashes.

Your heart fluttered, your pupils dilated with dopamine, when did you step onto the floorboards of the dark room and creeped your way to the bed that was just a puddle of rumpled sheets, where Wanda lay snuggled in the blandishments of the night. For brief seconds that together wouldn't even make up the whole of a minute, you watched her. You just watched her, plotting with yourself what you were going to do with her, how you were going to break her. She was naked down her navel, without any panties to be seen.

“You're so beautiful...” the tip of your right index and middle fingers swept the strand of unruly hair behind the shell of Wanda's ear, “I could just tear you apart.”

And then you fumbled for the strap-on of a long, thick scarlet silicone in an open drawer on a low shelf next to the bed, which you then proceeded to tie around your waistline after you got rid of your bloodstained jeans, your fingers quivering in euphoric anticipation as you did. Your desire to consume her swelled inside your stomach; you wanted to eat her alive, rip her skin, break her bones. You wanted to fuck her raw.

You then positioned yourself on top of Wanda on the bed, the mattress sinking from the unbalanced weight in just a single spot. With your lips parted, your pulps pink and split, you toke long bites to the contour of her milk-white neck, in the region of its junction with the left shoulder, by the hairline located in the gap between her ear and the neck, validating the traces of hickeys seated there, like clumsy strokes of dark paint on a blank canvas; since the bodies were close to the center of the vast bed, legs intertwined and warm hair tangled up in the pillow.

“Fuck, you're so hot, pretty girl,” was a quip breathed in hot breath against Wanda's lobe, your right hand guiding the length of the toy to part her moist pink folds, “So soft… so receptive... so submissive… you're perfect. My perfect girl.”

Wanda purred like a sleepy cat at the intimate sensation, her heavy lids still hooding her emerald eyes, enjoying the feel of your lips spattering bites over her ruffled epidermis. In an unguarded way, perhaps even somewhat needy in her core, she snuggled against your warm body above hers, tucking her tailbone between your hips.

A firm grip of your bloodied hand was strained against Wanda's hip with no explicit intentions of letting go. The silence, sharp and excruciating, came and went in a rather shy and awkward way. Tiny shriveled seconds that, together, took up minutes. One-hundred-fifty-seconds quiet.

Wanda's heart rumbled demeaningly in a sharp grip, for even if she didn't look you straight in the eye, she understood the fact that the woman who held her in her arms was nothing but lust and violence incarnate – even without being awake, Wanda's subconscious was well aware that your irises had taken on profuse and vicious hues, like sea water or a stormy sky. A rueful sigh of your exhaled warm and close to her ear.

And then you crept through her rosy slit, which inferred, from the frail Wanda held hostage to your diligent touch, a loud, strident growl, which dangled the base of her skull against the bone of your shoulder.

“Y-Y/n...?” Wanda's tiny voice resounded in a moan throughout the room that had once been engulfed in intrinsic silence, albeit a little sluggish and husky from her sleepy features, “What... what are you... what are you...?”

She moaned in a high-pitched squeal as you slid the entire length of the toy into her tight walls in one thrust with your taut hips.

“F-fuck-! Oh! Y/n, I- I don't-”

“Shut up and take it, okay?” you gifted her with a tiny deferred kiss on her scalp (artificial strawberry shampoo scent sweetening the sharp metal smell inside your nostrils), “I need to have you right now. I need you, Wanda.”

“I- I—” the shaven brows were, thus, wrinkled by the face as rosy as a peach; she sounded a little giddy in her rambling speech, pressing her fingers against the sheet, “I'm not sure if—”

“Come on, Wanda,” you whispered against her dark hair, “You're my good girl, aren't you?”

Wanda held her breath, “I’ll always be your good girl.”

And then, a smile blossomed on your part, the enamel of your teeth coming into contact with the sensitive skin of her pale neck, where you couldn't help but capture a rosy sliver between your lips and stick a mighty bite there – to remember her that while she was smoldering with pleasure, you were a powerful being who didn't even make an effort to push her buttons and drive her crazy. The insignificance of the human race at the hands of such a monstrous creature as you has never before been so exciting and aphrodisiac.

Your impassive left hand, passing under Wanda's ribs close to the mattress, touched her to the circumvallation of her rosy breast inside the material of the shirt, while your right index and middle fingers fingered her snatched clitoris in impetuous outlines. You moaned like an animal at the taste of blood sliding down the face of your tongue.

“I-it hurts,” Wanda whimpered airily before smiling in the dark, “Do it again. Fuck, do it again!”

The muscles in your abdomen stagnated as your bodily sensitivity acclimated when your hips snatched up Wanda's insides (exploring with the strap, opening and understanding; a new sensation brewed by each touch to ravage her insides), the hollow of your crotch going back and forth hard against Wanda's dripping center. A puddle formed on the sheets beneath her, the liquid running across the inside of her thighs. Wanda found herself reduced to a weeping, writhing, lost, helpless mess, but she couldn't even feel an ounce of shame inside.

“Fuck—” The pale hands, hungry for something to hold on to, screwed the curls of your head behind hers, seeking them just behind them; her head thrown back over your shoulder, a subtle vein popping under the epidermis of her neck, the scar with your initial pulsing on her right collarbone, “Fuck, Y/n, fuck-! S’s-so big-!"

“You're mine,” you kissed a sliver of skin down her clenched jaw, gripping her rosy breast tightly with the shrewd touch, “You're my whore to do with what I want with, Wanda. I’m gonna fucking tear you apart.”

The length inside her was like fire – just as strong and intoxicating. And Wanda felt full of gasoline. Before she could even ask for more, beg your like a believer before her god, you fucked her hard and steady all the way to her cervix, tying yourself to that deep and vulnerable spot inside her, and made to press yourself in her with irascible pumps. Wanda's plea, then, was cut short with a strangled roar, and from her emanated an inhuman shriek, trying and failing to open her legs to more of your touch.

A gulf of heat and wetness slid out of her pussy in response, and the bundle of nerves throbbing between her legs pulsed like a frantic heart against the ribs in her ribcage. And, for a couple of intangible moments, time became an abstract concept for Wanda.

You fucked her fast and primal, thrusting fast and hard into her insides soaked in a sticky liquid as it was - there was a firm intention behind every hard movement, every press of your fingers and every ghostly touch of your folded palm over her smoldering clit, which clamored for more attention with every touch given to it. The head of the bed slammed against the concrete wall.

You'd push Wanda forward and then mark her tight back muscles with bites and licks, pulling the sliding strap off and on from inside her vulva, toward the edge of a state of arousal that bordered on insanity; which, in such a way, ended up metamorphosing into a dance in synchronous partnership, like the symbiotic conception of a work of art by two artists of different styles. You leading and Wanda yielding to the rhythm you sentenced.

And, in such a way, Wanda diffused herself with every progression, even the smallest, so that she could beg, like an animal, for you to take her to a place she's never been before, for you to take her like no soul before had done it before her, so that you would fill her with what only a being such as you were in her eyes, (an inhuman deity) could supply her.

“Fuck, Wanda, I love the way your greedy cunt feel around my cock,” you muttered, dragging your lips down her shoulder, “You're so good to me, did you know that? So, so good...”

“I-I’m good…?”

She snorted, her chest heavy, lids pressed together over dark eyes, clouded with pleasure. Both brows furrowed in a lapse of voluptuousness, forehead buffed with a bead of crystalline sweat. She wanted to be good, and she liked to be recognized as such. She'd love to hear how good she was for you. She liked being flattered. You smiled in a husky voice in her ear.

“So, so good, slut. Good as fuck. You’re my favorite bitch.”

And in such a way you did it, as if only the praise given to her beloved's oratory was all it took to untie the knot of her primordial apex, woven just a hand below her secluded navel. Her body stiffened suddenly, her vision filled with a white thunder that stunned her senses into an electrical charge throughout her thighs.

“Oh, fuck! Fuck, Y/n, fuck! Fuck!”

Irises darkened in a veil of smoldering rejoicing dipped to the waterlines of her eyes, and an ethereal mist, showered with sublime delight, crowded within her, pouring from her pulsing center the sweetest honey down the length of your strap wedged between her twitching crotch as it was—a hot, viscous membrane that oozed across the sheets, the height of her release.

Wanda's head dropped to the pillow, gasping, drunk on the intoxicated heat of the climax that rumbled through her muscles and bones. And she screamed against the pillowcase when you sank inside her swollen and abused pussy without circumlocution one more time.

“I still haven't come, you spoiled fucking brat,” you muttered over her, “Now spread your legs the way you know how. This will only end when I want it to end.”

Wanda smiled lethargically against the pillow.

“Alright, Y/n. I love you.”

“Yeah,” you kissed her temple, “I know.”

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