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wolfbluebird · 17 days ago

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Little Bunny Heart

Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader

Word count: 3.7k

Summary: You don’t know why your dreams are getting fuzzier, or why your tummy aches when Mommy holds you close. But Wanda does. She knows just what her sweet little bunny needs—warm hands, soft words, and milk to quiet your busy brain. You don’t have to think anymore. Mommy will take care of everything.

CW: Mommy kink / Caregiver x little dynamic (non-age regression), Power imbalance (soft control, magical influence), Non-sexual lactation kink / nursing for comfort, Emotional dependency, Orgasm control / light D/s, Semi-hypnotic language and dream manipulation, Soft possessiveness / manipulation (consensual), Submissive adult reader

Men and Minors DNI

✧❁❁❁✧✿✿✿✧❁❁❁✧

You weren’t sure when it started. That feeling. The one that bubbled up in your chest and made your thoughts get stuck like thick syrup in your brain every time you looked at her.

Maybe it was the lavender scent that clung to her clothes no matter how many battles she fought. Maybe it was the way her arms always felt just right—like they were made for holding you. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the soft lull in her voice when she called you “bunny” and pressed your head to her chest.

Whatever it was, it made the world feel hazy. Distant. Like the only thing that mattered was Wanda. Your Mommy.

And today had been a hard day. Not for her, obviously—Wanda had returned from work flushed with energy, cheeks kissed pink by the wind, brushing off alien guts from her sleeves like dust. But you? You’d woken up from the kind of nap that left your heart pounding and your face hot, dream fragments trailing behind you like spider silk. You’d tried to watch cartoons, tried to snack, tried to distract yourself from the lingering ache in your stomach and the guilt crawling just beneath your skin.

Because the dream had been about her. Again.

You didn’t remember most of it. Just warm hands. Red light curling like smoke. A voice calling you sweet girl, good girl, Mommy’s girl—until your body tensed in your sleep and you woke up already halfway to tears.

You didn’t want her to know.

But of course she did.

She always did.

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By the time she finds you, you’ve curled yourself into a tight little ball on the sofa. You don’t even hear her footsteps—you just feel her presence, like gravity. And then her arms are around you, warm and strong, lifting you into her lap like you weigh nothing at all.

“Oh, honey,” she murmurs, like it’s a lullaby only you get to hear. “Have an icky dream, did you?”

Your face burns. You don’t answer—just nod against her chest and try not to cry. You’re too old to cry over dreams. You’re too old to—

“Shhh,” she hushes, stroking your hair. Her fingers slip through the strands like silk, carding slowly, rhythmically. “Mommy’s here now. You’re safe. My sweet little bunny…”

Your bones practically melt under her voice. You want to say thank you, to apologise, to explain. But all that comes out is a shaky breath and a soft noise—something between a whimper and a sigh as you press closer.

She smells like laundry detergent and burnt ozone. Her red magic hums faintly beneath her skin. It always does when she’s holding you like this. When she wants something.

And even though you don’t understand what that something is, not really—you feel it.

You squirm in her lap, not because you want to leave, but because it’s too much. The heat, the comfort, the quiet sense of wrongness that you don’t have the words for. Her hand brushes your cheek—so gentle it makes your stomach flip.

“There she is,” Wanda whispers. “My soft little lamb. I missed you today, you know.”

“You did?” you croak, voice small and hoarse.

Wanda lets out a soft chuckle. “Of course I did. You think I save the world for fun, baby? No. I do it for you. So you can live in this cosy little house, with your soft blankets and silly cartoons and all the applesauce you could ever want. That’s why Mommy works so hard.”

You nod, ashamed again. You hadn’t even thanked her. You hadn’t done anything today. And here she was, acting like she was the lucky one.

She presses a kiss to the top of your head, lips lingering for just a second too long.

“Dreams getting strange again?” she asks softly, her voice like warm honey.

You tense.

Her arms tighten slightly—just enough to remind you that she’s there. That she’s not letting go.

“Baby…” Her fingers move to your chin, gently coaxing your face up to meet her eyes. “You can tell Mommy. You know that, right?”

You look at her—really look at her. Her eyes shimmer with concern. Her lips are soft and pink. She’s so pretty it makes your head hurt. You want to tell her, but the words curdle in your throat. How can you say it?

That the dreams are about her. That you wake up aching, confused. That sometimes you think her voice is still in your head, whispering things that don’t make sense but feel right.

You blink, and her expression shifts. Something darker settles behind her gaze—smug, maybe. Or knowing.

“Was I in them again?” she asks, and you freeze.

“I—no—”

“Oh, bunny,” she sighs, but there’s no real disappointment in it. Just amusement. “You’re such an adorable little thing. Don’t have a single clue, do you?”

You shake your head slowly.

Her hand slides down to cup your cheek. “Poor thing. Your little brain can’t handle all these grown-up feelings, can it? That’s okay. That’s what I’m here for.”

You should pull away. You know that. But all you do is nuzzle into her touch.

Wanda smiles.

And you never see the faint red shimmer that flickers behind her eyes.

✧❁❁❁✧✿✿✿✧❁❁❁✧

You lose track of how long you lie there. Safe in Wanda’s arms. Curled up like a kitten, pressed to the rise and fall of her chest, your breathing syncing to hers without you even realising. Her touch doesn’t stop—not for a second. Fingers in your hair, on your cheek, across your back. Always gentle. Always there. Like if she stopped, you might unravel.

You want to speak, but your mouth doesn’t work right. Every time you try to form a word, your tongue gets stuck. You feel… stupid, almost. But not in a bad way. Just fuzzy. Floaty. Like you’re drifting underwater in a dream where everything smells like lavender and feels like Wanda.

“Mmhm,” she hums, as if responding to a thought you didn’t say out loud. “That fuzzy little head of yours is running in circles again, isn’t it?”

You nod slowly, dizzy from the sound of her voice in your ear. It’s like she lives in your head. Always has. But lately it’s gotten worse. Or better. You’re not sure anymore.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you whisper.

Wanda pulls back just enough to look at you. Her expression is so full of pity you could cry.

“Oh, sweetheart.” She presses a soft kiss to your temple. “There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re just sensitive. You feel things deeper than most people. And that’s okay.”

“But the dreams—”

“Are just dreams,” she says, cutting you off with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Your little brain’s still growing, still trying to make sense of big things. Of feelings. That’s normal, bunny.”

You shift in her lap, and her hands slide to your hips—holding you steady, keeping you right where she wants you.

“Still,” she says, tone dipped in honey and something else, something darker, “if those dreams are making my baby uncomfortable, maybe we should do something about them.”

Your heart stutters.

“Like… like therapy?” you offer weakly.

Wanda laughs. Full and warm and rich with amusement. “Oh, no, no. Therapy’s for other people. Strangers. You don’t need some stranger poking around in that precious head of yours, do you?”

You shake your head. That sounds awful. You wouldn’t want anyone else inside your head. Not when Wanda’s already there. Already knows you better than you know yourself.

“No,” you murmur. “I want… I want you.”

You don’t even really mean to say it like that. But the way her eyes light up? The little inhale she takes? It makes your stomach twist in that now-familiar, shameful way.

“I know you do,” Wanda whispers, and her hand cups the back of your neck. “You always want Mommy. Even when you’re sleeping.”

Her words send a bolt of embarrassment through your spine. You squirm instinctively, trying to hide your face in her shirt, but she won’t let you. She tilts your chin up with one finger, forcing you to meet her gaze.

“You’ve been dreaming about me,” she says. Not a question. A fact. A gentle accusation.

You nod. Barely.

Wanda sighs again, all softness and control. “You poor thing. You don’t even understand what you’re feeling, do you?”

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologise, bunny. It’s not your fault. Your brain’s just trying to tell you something. And it’s too little to make sense of it all on its own.” Her fingers tap your temple, affectionate but firm. “That’s why I’m here. To help.”

You feel tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. You don’t even know why.

“I feel weird,” you mumble. “Like… itchy inside.”

“Oh, sweetie,” Wanda purrs, already shifting you closer. “That’s called longing. You want me. And it feels scary because you don’t know what to do with it.”

You blink slowly, like your brain’s catching up one second at a time.

“I do want you,” you whisper, and it comes out like a confession. A sin.

Wanda smiles again. This one is softer. Sadder, maybe. “Of course you do. I’m your everything, aren’t I?”

You nod helplessly.

“Then there’s no need to feel guilty,” she says, leaning in to brush her lips over your cheek. “Your dreams are just your heart’s way of trying to be close to me. That’s sweet, bunny. So sweet.”

Her hand moves to your chest, right over your heart. Her palm is warm. Steady. Your breath hitches.

“You don’t need to be scared of your feelings,” Wanda says, like she’s reading straight from your subconscious. “They’re natural. And you’re such a good girl for telling me. For trusting me.”

You bite your lip.

“I feel bad that they’re about you.”

She hums thoughtfully. “Why would you feel bad about that?”

“Because… you’re my Mommy.”

She leans back just slightly, eyes narrowing—not with anger, but interest.

“And what does that mean to you?” she asks.

You don’t know how to answer that. Your head’s spinning again. You want to curl up and cry and crawl inside her shirt like a baby animal and never leave.

Wanda pulls you forward, your cheek resting over her heart.

“It means I’m yours,” she says. “And you’re mine. That’s all that matters.”

You nod against her chest, the ache in your belly easing a little at her words.

“You’re so lucky to have me,” she murmurs. “Most people don’t get this. They don’t get someone to love them like I love you.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Her voice hardens by a hair. Just enough to make your stomach clench again.

“Yes, Mommy,” you say quickly. “I do.”

She strokes your back again, slow and lulling. “Good girl. That’s what I want to hear.”

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You wake up trembling.

You're not even sure what startled you-the dream was warm, not scary. There was no running or screaming. Just Wanda. Her voice. Her touch.

The way she looked at you like you were hers-not just emotionally, but physically. Entirely. Like every inch of your skin belonged to her.

And now you're soaked between the legs, face hot, body aching with a need you don't know how to satisfy.

You whimper softly, trying to shift away, to hide, to think. But you can't. Because Wanda's already awake.

Already watching you.

Like she never slept at all.

"Oh, bunny," she murmurs, voice like velvet and syrup and everything. "You're squirming again."

You try to apologise, but all that comes out is a gasp as her hand moves-down.

"You thought you were hiding it, didn't you?" she coos. "Poor baby. You're always so embarrassed when your body tells the truth."

Her hand cups your cunt over your panties, slow and firm and inevitable. You bite your lip hard, trying not to cry out. It's too much. You're too sensitive. She always makes you too sensitive.

"You're soaked," she says, mock-scandalised. "From dreaming about Mommy. That's what this is, isn't it?"

You nod-shamefully, helplessly.

Wanda's smile could ruin you. "Of course it is. My needy little thing. You can't even sleep without me pressing into you. Holding you. Touching you. Isn't that right?"

"Yes, Mommy," you whisper, voice trembling.

"There's my good girl."

She kisses your forehead, your nose, your lips-soft and teasing, like she's so proud of you for admitting the truth.

"You were trying to be good, weren't you? Trying not to wake me?"

You nod, tears slipping down your cheeks from sheer overstimulation. "I'm sorry-"

"No, no. Don't apologise," she says, sliding her hand into your panties without warning. Her fingers stroke through your folds, slick and slow, like she has all the time in the world. "Mommy's so proud of you for feeling this much. It means your heart is open. Your body's honest. You're letting go."

Your hips jolt against her hand. You're not trying to grind down. You're not trying to be bad. But your body's desperate, and she's so good at this.

"Shh," she whispers. "Don't fight it. You want this."

You nod, gasping, breath catching in your throat as she circles your clit with a soft, wet stroke.

"Say it."

"I-I want this. I want you, Mommy."

"You want Mommy to touch you like this? Make you come in her bed?"

"Yes-yes, please-!"

"Such a sweet, well-mannered bunny," she coos.

"You're doing so well. Just keep letting me take care of you."

You melt. That's all you've ever wanted. For her to take care of it. Of everything. And Wanda knows that.

She slides a finger inside you-slow, deliberate. You cry out, clinging to her like she's oxygen.

"Good girl," she breathes. "So good for me. My perfect little pet."

You whimper into her shoulder, brain full of fog and heat and her. Nothing else exists. Nothing else matters. Just this. Just her. Just the way her fingers curl just right, pressing into your walls until you're gasping her name like a prayer.

And then she stops.

You let out a sob, hips bucking, frantic. "No-Mommy

—please—!"

"Shh, shh," she murmurs, kissing your ear. "You'll come when I say. You're not in charge of your body anymore, baby. That's my job, remember?"

You nod frantically, tears slipping down your cheeks, thighs trembling around her hand.

"You're mine," she says again, slower. Deeper. Like it's a spell. "Say it."

"I'm yours."

"Again."

"I'm yours, Mommy. All yours."

She smiles. And starts moving again.

The second finger pushes in with ease, and you gasp at the stretch. Her thumb finds your clit. The rhythm she sets is almost cruel-perfect, punishing, loving.

"There you go," she whispers. "Now let go for Mommy. Be a good girl and come for me."

You do.

It rips through you like lightning. A tidal wave of pleasure, guilt, relief, and need. You sob against her as your body shakes in her arms, every nerve lit up like a firework.

She doesn't stop. Not until you're trembling, overstimulated, and still pressing your hips into her hand like a bunny in heat.

"My poor girl," she says softly, pulling her fingers free and licking them clean. "So starved for affection."

You can't even speak. You're crying and whimpering and curled up against her chest like a baby, and it feels right. Like this is who you were meant to be.

Like this is where you belong.

"Shh, it's okay," Wanda murmurs, stroking your hair.

"It's all better now, isn't it? You don't have to think anymore. You don't have to want. You just have to let go."

You nod, delirious. Happy. Empty and full all at once.

"Mommy will keep you safe," she promises, tucking you back under the blanket. "Forever. You never have to leave. Never have to grow up."

And you believe her.

Because your dreams already belong to her.

And now, so does everything else.

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You're still shaking when she lays you down.

Not from fear. Not even from the orgasm. But from the come-down. The emotional unraveling. The way your brain turns to cotton after you've let yourself go that far, that deep, with her.

Wanda tucks the blankets around your body like you're something precious. Fragile. Something she owns, but not in a cold way— in the way a mother holds her child like they're the axis her world spins around.

"Easy," she murmurs, brushing your sweaty hair back from your forehead. "There's my good girl. You did so well for Mommy."

You want to respond, but your throat's tight. All you can do is cling to her shirt and try not to dissolve.

She doesn't rush you. She never does.

Instead, she sits back against the headboard and gently pulls you up with her, until you're resting against her chest, your head over her heart. You listen to the soft beat of it-steady, certain, like it could anchor you even if the world was ending.

Which, you suppose, she's probably prevented a few times this week already. "Breathe with me," she whispers. "Can you do that?"

You nod, inhaling shakily.

"That's it. Just like that, bunny. In through your nose, out through your mouth."

She guides you through a few slow rounds, her hand tracing slow circles on your back, her other hand cradling the back of your head. And little by little, your muscles begin to loosen.

"There we go," she murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. "You're safe. I've got you."

You nuzzle into her without thinking. Still floating, still fuzzy.

And then, softly:

"I love being like this."

Wanda hums warmly. "Like what, sweetheart?"

"Little," you murmur. "Just... held. Protected. Like you're the only thing I have to worry about."

She smiles against your skin. "That's because you don't have to worry about anything. That's Mommy's job."

You hum, sleepy now. Your head rises and falls with each of her breaths. There's something primal about it-being curled against her like this. Something ancient. Deep. You feel like a baby animal safe in its den. Like you never even knew you needed this until she gave it to you.

"Mommy?" you whisper after a long moment of silence.

"Mhm?"

"..Can I ask something?"

"Anything, my love."

You hesitate. You don't know why you feel embarrassed. She's seen every inch of you. She's held you while you cried, while you begged, while you came apart in her arms. But this feels... different. Vulnerable in a new way.

"I've been thinking about something," you say quietly.

"And I don't think it's sexual. It's just—comfort."

Wanda doesn't press. She waits. Letting you find the words.

"Sometimes," you say slowly, "when I'm like this... when | feel really small... I get this... urge."

You pause. Wanda strokes your cheek, so gently it almost hurts.

"Tell me."

"I want to... I think I want to nurse from you. Not like a sex thing. I just want to feel close. Safe. Like I'm yours."

You go quiet again, afraid to look up.

But Wanda doesn't laugh. Doesn't flinch. She just smiles.

"Oh, bunny," she says softly. "You don't need to be embarrassed about that."

You blink. "

"...l don't?"

"Of course not." Her hand drifts down to cradle your jaw. "Wanting that kind of closeness is normal. Especially for someone like you. You're so emotionally open when you let yourself drop. You crave nurture, not just care. That's beautiful."

You bite your lip. "But I'm not actually a baby."

"No," she agrees gently. "You're not. You're my big girl. My sweet girl. And that's what makes this so special. Because you choose to be soft with me. To let me feed you. Hold you. Love you."

You breathe out a shaky little sigh, the shame in your chest loosening.

"Would you want that?" you ask. "Like….. actually?"

Wanda cups your face in both hands now. Her eyes are soft. Fierce. Certain.

"If it would comfort you?" she says. "Then yes. Without question."

You're quiet again. "You could... make it happen, couldn't you?"

She smiles faintly. "Bunny. I can bend reality. I can defy physics. I think I can manage a little magical lactation."

You giggle-surprised by your own lightness. It feels good to laugh after how intense everything was.

Wanda beams at the sound.

"I'd like that," you admit. "I don't even need it now. I just... I want it to be something we can do. Sometimes. If I feel too small. Or scared. Or like I don't know how to be a grown-up anymore."

Wanda doesn't answer right away. Instead, her hand moves to her chest, and with the gentlest whisper of scarlet, you feel it shift. A warmth, a pull-something ancient and primal awakening just beneath her skin.

You blink up at her, dazed. "Did you just—?"

"I told you," she murmurs, voice wrapped in love and power, "I'll give you whatever you need."

She reaches for the hem of her shirt and pulls it up slowly, revealing one soft, full breast, the peak slightly flushed, already responding to you. There's no eroticism in it-just invitation. Tenderness. The kind of gesture a goddess might make to her most devoted worshipper.

"Come here, sweetheart."

Your breath stutters, but your body knows what to do before your mind catches up. You shift up, still trembling, still so small, and Wanda gently guides your head to her chest.

"That's it," she whispers, brushing your hair from your face. "You're safe. Just take what you need."

Your lips close over her nipple slowly, hesitantly, and -

Warmth.

It's warm. Her milk is soft and subtly sweet on your tongue, and your whole body melts as you begin to suckle. Shame evaporates instantly-there's only the overwhelming, complete right-ness of this. Of her hand stroking your spine. Her heartbeat in your ear.

Her soft voice murmuring praise as your breathing slows and the fuzz in your brain dissolves like sugar in tea.

"There you go," she whispers. "Good girl. Mommy's so proud of you."

You feel like crying again. From relief, this time. From how utterly full you feel, in every sense of the word.

"That's it, my little bunny," Wanda hums. "Drink up. Fill that aching tummy. Let Mommy hold you.”

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A/N: I’ve never wrote anything in this style before, so please let me know how I did and if you enjoyed it! And if you guys want more then tell me.

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naffeclipse · 1 month ago

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Following SotM, would you ever be interested in writing a DCA x Reader story based in the SotM factory/story? There's so much detail and worldbuilding to the game, I think your writing would really shine working with the setting :D

I love the setting of SotM factory and just how tragic and lonely it all becomes with the Murray family, and I had a thought about a Y/N hired as a sort of secretary/investigator.

Technically, you're only here for the secretary part of the job. Edwin Murray has also instructed that you dig through all employee records, emails, and messages to find out who betrayed him. Sure. Why not. You're getting paid either way, and Edwin seems satisfied that you're not working for "them".

(You feel bad for the guy. He seems stressed and paranoid, and maybe he's dealing with a few things that more qualified professionals should broach than you.)

So, you get to work, day after day, on the slow and high-pitched droning computers before you notice a program on one of the security room monitors. Moon.exe. You boot it up, confused, before you understand that it's some kind of game. At least, that's what it must be, right?

It doesn't stay so. At least, you thought it was a game. The Moon character is no longer confined to the borders of the program but is now right there, popping up in your daily work schedule. You're very nervous about a possible virus that you accidentally downloaded, but the character doesn't seem to do much. His text boxes will bubble up every now and then, and his haunting gaze will occasionally pop over the files you're combing over in all of his low pixilated glory. (Who gave this computer figure sculpted pectorals?)

He has some odd lines, random script you assume, mindlessly being triggered by... you don't know what. None of it ever makes sense, but you like to read it, just for one moment's break from the mundane and often drivel work you've signed up for. Sometimes it's funny. He tells you to go to bed when the clock runs late, and that must be due to time-based triggers, or so you figure.

You think he's just here for... you don't know, moral support? A fun little distraction that someone must have worked on between big projects due at the factory. Who's to say.

One evening, vision blurry from reading a screen in a too dark room after hours of rehashing lines after lines, trying to decide if a disgruntled employee is suspicious or the average working joe for complaining about the boss to a coworker, when you drag the mouse onto The Moon's face and start clicking, and clicking. Out of dire boredom and need for something, anything new, you click and click as if to magically fix that clock and send you straight out of here. Click. Click. Click.

A new dialogue box pops up.

Stop.

You lift your finger off of the left click.

That's new.

So, you click again, and again.

What do you want?

The Moon's face almost seems annoyed in its half-eclipsed expression. You chuckle to yourself.

"Just pressing your buttons," you snicker. "What else can you do?"

Then you immediately look around the messy, file-filled room, as if you would somehow be caught dorkily chatting to yourself, well, a computer program. Good thing it's only you in the building. Occasionally Edwin will burst into the security office as if he might catch you red handed in something you shouldn't be, but you let your work speak for yourself, and that usually calms the man down.

You need to get out and enjoy your weekend, don't you?

You slump back into your chair and stare at the screen. Just you and The Moon.

You click on The Moon's face again. The satisfying sharpness of the mouse click fills you with bubbling amusement at the childish prodding.

The next dialogue box flips into view.

I can press your buttons too.

A loud slam falls behind you, pushing you out of your seat as you whirl back to find the heavy door locked into place. Heart in your throat, you blink as the lights cut out. You're plunged into tar-black blindness, save for the green glow of the computer screen.

Silenced by terror, you crank your head slowly back to your work desk. The computer hums quietly.

The green glow intensifies as The Moon stares at you. He fills the pixels, one eye piercing you like the end of a knife.

Your eyes snap to the next line of dialogue.

Boop!

For several, terrifying heartbeats, you stand and listen to the frantic scarping of your breath. Like prey spotted by a hunter, you dare not move. The darkness is absolute, and the only light is before you; a lighthouse or the last flicker you see before it all plunges into eternal night.

Who did that?

Then the flick of lights buzzing back on spares your half-suspected heart, and you unlock your limbs when the security door slides back open.

You hardly skim the next box of text as the computer returns to where you left off, files and emails crowding the screen side by side, and The Moon's head set in one corner.

You snatch your backpack and book it through the door. That's it. You're off the clock. You don't care if Edwin loses his marbles about you ducking out a few minutes early. You will not stay a moment longer.

It is only on your drive home, twisting your sweaty palms around the steering wheel, that your brain unscrambles enough to recall the final words on the screen.

Nighty night.

#so yeah #that's a thought!#secret of the mimic #you come back to work on monday and think that you figured it out: it's some prank program that was just messing with you #probably by the same people that edwin suspects of betraying him (and it gained control of the doors and lights... somehow)#so it was nothing and the moon program doesn't freak you out at all!#not that you try to put a sticky note over the moon face in the corner of the computer #only for a box of text to pop up and call you naughty naughty for doing so #you're totally not freaked out! you've got worked to do! so it's fine!#probably!#but you can't help and sometimes grumble out loud and receive an answer from the moon #it's not like he's listening #but you can vent your frustrations #and it's like a rubber ducky to squeeze when you've got too much info before you and does it matter that you're talking to a program?#secret of the mimic moon #run moonware #< au title for the moment #naff writing

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