dahlibae

[dahlibae]

yall captain daddy nat freaking the fuck outta her gf with a breeding kink coming your way soon…🙂‍↔️

[dahlibae]

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.

[dahlibae]

take my breath away

[dahlibae]

what the fuck did she do in her past life to be this hot now

[dahlibae]

your blog is sooo 🫠🥵 so good!!!!

Jealous sugar mommy Wanda has been so on my brain!! Every event you go to she makes sure you look stunning but it’s always an excuse to make sure people stare and flirt so that she can haul your ass out to the car and punish you. Just to take you back in with your head hanging blushing and sore as you try to socialize now. Just. Yes.

warning(s) — drabble: mommy wanda, brat!reader, kissing, punishment, spanking, choking (18+)

AHHH THANK UUUU SWEETIE :P

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

i won’t lie i’ve been thinking about mommy wanda and how she wouldn’t tolerate brattiness. or back chat. or any kind of attitude towards her. like at all. 100%… but pushing buttons would be soo much fun, especially when you know all you’d have to do is bat your lashes at someone in front of mommy, and she’ll have you spread over her lap in no time lmaoo.

at first, i think she wouldn’t go so hard on you though just bc you like to “bat your slutty eyes at anyone with cleavage” as she would put it. but it would be the fact you don’t cave into submission after she’s already told you off for your behaviour.

it would drive her mental.

you would say something simple like: “well at least she’d treat me like her gf and not a show pony” or even worse, “bet she’d probably fuck me better too” bc let’s face it, at these events wanda has to be all serious and more than often if she doesn’t need you to win her favours she leaves you to your own devices. it’s not rlly your fault you’ve managed to find someone else to keep you company.

but that is exactly what would do it for the older woman.

and the fact that she’s already spanked your ass red and yet you still have an attitude.

she’d push you off her lap and head for the drivers seat, not saying a word to you and not waiting for you to climb into the passenger seat. she’d just drive home as fast as she could without care if you were in the back or the front or even the roof of the vehicle.

even after you arrived home, she wouldn’t say anything, immediately heading to the kitchen to pour another drink. the silence would kill you, and you knew you were in deeper shit than you wanted. it was supposed to be just a little fun, something to rile her up. not exactly hurt her… so to make it up to mommy, you’d go upstairs and undress before kneeling on the bed waiting for her to join.

when she finally arrived upstairs, you could tell she had began unzipping her dress. her eyes were cold and drifted over your bare frame before heading towards the wardrobe where she watched herself in the mirror as she slid the dress off her frame.

“you know… i got all dolled up just for you baby.” she’d caress at her sides as you took in the sight of the red lace against her alabaster skin,“wanted to take you home after tonight and show you how much i love it when you’re a good girl for me.”

okay so… not upset. but maybe homicidal?

she looked like she wanted to eat you alive.

the dress left in a pile on the floor, she’d now stand in front of you, delicate fingers trailing over your sensitive nipples, licking her lips as she watched your skin shiver underneath her. absentmindedly, you’d raise your hands to grab onto her hips, fingers immediately reaching for the protruding bones of her pelvis you just love to kiss and bite and suck…and that snaps her out of her trance as she steps away from you.

that look of adoration she usually has on her face now replaced with the cold one from before. she’d step back into you, this time crowding your space, as her hand wraps around your throat, and she tips your head back to meet hers. you’d look so adorable, flustered with a little pout on your lips that she’d have no choice but to press few kisses, demanding entrance so she could suck on your tongue, before refocusing on the task at hand.

you had been such a bad girl for her.

and wanda doesn’t like when her girl misbehaves.

“oh baby,” she’d release your lips with a loud smack, “it’s too bad mommy now has to beat the brat out of you, huh?”

[dahlibae]

[dahlibae]

I recently graduated with distinction from university and reading "Mommy smart girl" gave me peace of mind.

Truly outstanding your work 🫂

omg congratulations!!! and ty for ur msg <3

[dahlibae]

Taste of Obedience

Dom!Human!Wanda x subby!vampire!reader

Summary: You're a vampire, ancient and obedient, but Wanda? Wanda owns you in every sense. She's human — painfully so — warm, bleeding, alive. And when she lets you sink your fangs into her throat, it’s not just about feeding. It’s devotion. It’s power play. It’s control.

Tonight, she lets you drink. Slowly. Teasingly. But only when and how she says.

Word Count: 3.4K

Warnings: 18+, MDNI, blood drinking (consensual), power imbalance (negotiated, consensual D/s dynamic), dom!Wanda / sub!reader dynamic, possessive language & ownership kink, mild overstimulation, praise kink, post-bite soreness / gentle aftercare, one-sided sleep (reader does not sleep), vampire themes (immortality, fangs, blood), emotional intimacy & codependency undertones

Authors note: I had this idea of a powerful being who wasn't so powerful when it came to Wanda. It flowed so beautifully out of me this morning.

The taste of Wanda’s skin was forbidden fruit.

You weren't allowed to bite — not without permission.

And tonight, permission wasn’t coming easy.

Wanda had you on your knees at her feet, hands folded neatly in your lap, your fangs aching behind your lips. Her body heat was unbearable this close — a furnace radiating against your chilled skin. You could hear her heartbeat, steady and slow, taunting you.

“You’re squirming,” she murmured, tilting your chin up with two fingers. “Something wrong, little fang?”

You swallowed, eyes wide and dark in the candlelight. “I-I need…”

“I know what you need.” Her smile was cruel in the most loving way. “But you don’t get to take it. You earn it.”

Your throat bobbed, the ache to sink your fangs into her pulse point clawing at your control.

Wanda leaned closer, lips brushing your ear. “Say it. What do you want?”

“...To bite,” you whispered, shuddering.

“Say it properly.”

You whined, eyes fluttering closed. “Please, Mistress. Please let me bite. I’ll be good…”

Wanda hummed thoughtfully, trailing her fingers down the side of your throat, letting you feel just how vulnerable she was — how easily she could give you what you craved.

But you belonged to her now. A vampire on a leash. Her pet.

“Maybe,” she said at last, drawing back and straddling your lap, “if you beg pretty enough, I’ll let you have a taste.”

She smiled when your fangs dropped involuntarily.

“Such a hungry little thing.”

Wanda’s thighs cradled your hips as she settled in your lap, warm and commanding. Her fingers threaded lazily through your hair, tugging just enough to remind you who was in control.

Your hands stayed exactly where she expected them — limp at your sides, trembling, even though every part of you screamed to touch her. Your instincts, your hunger, your damnation all thrummed beneath your skin like static.

“You know,” she murmured, her voice syrupy and slow as she rocked her hips forward ever so slightly, “you’re lucky I find this whole pathetic need of yours so… cute.”

You whimpered.

She tilted her head, exposing her throat — just a glimpse of the skin you craved more than blood itself. Then, she grinned and tilted it right back.

“Not yet,” she said sweetly, stroking the line of your jaw. “I want to hear more. Tell me what it does to you, knowing I’m right here — warm, alive, bleeding just under the surface — and you’re not allowed to touch me.”

You blinked fast, fangs pressing hard against your bottom lip. “It hurts, Mistress.”

“I know it does, baby.” She cooed, her nails dragging lightly down your chest. “Hurts here?” One nail traced the space above your heart. “Or here?” She cupped between your thighs just briefly before retreating.

You bucked up into the phantom of her touch, breath catching.

“Both,” you admitted shakily. “Please. Please, I’m so hungry…”

Wanda clicked her tongue, as if scolding a child. “You think I don’t know how hungry you are? I can feel it in you, little bat . The way your whole body hums with it. But want and deserve are two very different things.”

Her hands slid around the back of your neck, nails scratching lightly as she leaned in, her lips ghosting your cheek.

“You’ve bitten me before without asking,” she whispered, her tone sharp with accusation. “You promised you wouldn’t again.”

“I didn’t mean to,” you gasped. “I lost control —”

“And who do you belong to?” she interrupted, pulling back to meet your eyes, her own blazing with intent.

“You,” you breathed. “Always you.”

“That’s right.” She kissed you then — not soft, but claiming. Her tongue slid against yours, and you tasted her spit, her heat, her power. It wasn’t blood, but it was intoxicating. Your nails dug into your thighs to keep from moving.

Her hand suddenly tangled in your hair and yanked your head back, exposing your throat now.

“Say it again.”

“I belong to you.”

Her lips brushed your neck, mimicking what you longed to do.

“You’ll drink when I say so,” she murmured, and you whimpered as she scraped her teeth along your throat in wicked mockery. “Beg one more time, and I’ll think about it.”

You were desperate now, eyes wide and glossy, your voice cracking.

“Please, Mistress. Please let me drink from you. I’m yours. I’ll be good. I’ll be so good. I need it, I need you…”

Her breath hitched — just slightly. Enough to tell you she liked that. Liked hearing you fall apart.

Slowly, deliberately, she shifted in your lap again and drew your face into the crook of her neck. Her pulse was right there. So close. You moaned from the proximity alone.

“Okay,” she said softly. “You’ve earned it.”

Your body went boneless with relief, and just as you began to move in, her fingers threaded through your hair again, tightening hard.

“But,” she added, low and firm, “you bite slow. You drink only when I say. And you stop the second I tell you.”

“Yes, Mistress,” you breathed, barely able to contain yourself. “I promise.”

“Good girl.”

She tilted her head, exposing the smooth, delicate skin of her throat — and finally, finally, she whispered:

“Drink.”

You sank in — slow, reverent. Her blood burst across your tongue like fire and honey, thick with life and heat and Wanda. She let out a soft gasp, her hand stroking the back of your neck, grounding you, guiding you, owning you.

“That’s it, baby,” she whispered. “Take it slow. My good little vampire.”

And you did — because she asked, because she allowed it, and because everything you were belonged to her.

Her blood was everything.

Warm. Sweet. Saturated with her magic and will and humanity — and the taste of her love, because even Wanda’s dominance was affectionate in its own twisted, perfect way.

You drank slow like she asked, fangs buried in her throat, hands shaking where they hovered at her waist. Every instinct screamed to drink deeper, to hold her tighter, to take, but you didn’t. You wouldn’t.

Because she let you.

Because she told you to.

Your arms eased up around her, slow and careful, wrapping her in your embrace without squeezing, without claiming. You never held her too tightly. You couldn’t — wouldn’t — risk hurting her, not even by accident. She was breakable. Human. Yours.

And above all, you were hers.

Wanda stroked your hair lazily, her breathing steady while yours grew rough — not because you needed it, but because it helped, gave you a rhythm to anchor your control.

Her voice broke through the haze: smooth, sharp as a command.

“Stop.”

You froze. Fangs still inside her. Breath stuttering against her skin. Your eyes flew open, wide and frantic. You whimpered against her throat.

But you didn’t move.

Didn’t pull back.

Didn’t drink.

Just… stayed there, trembling, trying so hard to behave.

“Good girl,” she murmured, and her nails scratched softly at the nape of your neck. “Still learning how to behave, but you’re getting there.”

You moaned helplessly. Her blood sang through your mouth, coating your tongue, tempting you even now.

“You can feel it, can’t you?” she whispered. “My heart… still beating. My body, still warm. And you’re so cold, sweet girl. So empty. But you’re not going to take what isn’t given.”

You whimpered again, your mouth still latched to her skin, fangs shaking from restraint.

“You’re going to wait,” she said, hand fisting in your hair. “Because I said so.”

Your arms tightened around her a little more, never enough to bruise, just enough to cling. To say I’m here. I’m listening. I’m yours.

You wanted to sob — from hunger, from devotion, from how badly you needed her to say yes again.

And Wanda — cruel, knowing, amused — nuzzled your temple.

“Breathe for me,” she said softly.

You obeyed, inhaling against her neck, shaky and slow.

“Good. Now exhale. Focus.”

You did.

She waited a moment longer, making sure you really held still, before her hand relaxed in your hair and her breath danced over your ear.

“Start again, baby.”

You made the softest, most broken sound — a breathless gasp of gratitude — and resumed.

Carefully. Worshipfully.

Drinking not because you could, but because she let you.

Wanda sighed, letting herself melt into your lap again, perfectly relaxed, completely safe — despite the predator wrapped around her.

“That’s it,” she murmured, almost teasing. “Nice and slow. My good little monster.”

The moment Wanda said start again, you sank back into her throat like it was the most sacred place in the world.

Because it was.

The pull was slow, gentle — reverent. You obeyed to the letter, but you couldn’t stop the little whines in your throat. Each swallow made your hands tremble, your mind quiet, your whole world narrow to the pulse beneath your tongue.

And Wanda was feeling it.

She shifted in your lap, grinding herself against the firm line of your thigh. A sharp gasp left her lips — small, but real.

You knew this rhythm. This body.

You knew what your bite did to her. How her blood ran hotter the deeper you drank. How the pain mixed with pleasure until it blurred into a fever in her skin. You felt her magic flicker beneath her skin like a lit match waiting to catch.

Her fingers tightened in your hair.

“Fuck,” she breathed out, voice cracking.

That wasn’t just arousal — that was need.

You moaned against her, eyes fluttering shut. Her hips rolled again, slow but purposeful, chasing the friction.

“You don’t get to move,” she managed, voice strained. “Don’t… fuck, don’t you dare help me.”

You obeyed. Not a single thrust back. Not a grind. But you held her, arms locked around her back, anchoring her to you as she used your thigh, your body, her vampire.

Her pet.

Her source of pleasure, and pain, and everything between.

She buried her face in your hair as her noises grew more desperate — soft, gasping moans with every twist of her hips.

The taste of her deepened. Darkened. You could feel her heartbeat in your tongue now, rapid and erratic, responding to the heat building between her legs.

You held still like she asked. Even as her nails bit your shoulders. Even as she shook a little in your arms.

“Fuck, baby…” she whispered, her voice almost cracking into a whimper. “You have no idea what you do to me…”

But you did.

You knew.

You’d tasted her blood a hundred times. You felt how deep the reaction went. How intimately her body tied pain to pleasure — how even the softest feed left her breathless and shaky in your arms.

You knew her tells: the magic buzzing at her fingertips, the hitch in her breath when your fangs scraped just right, the way her thighs tightened around you as she fought to keep control.

And she was losing it.

Because even though you were the one kneeling, trembling, biting her throat — she was the one unraveling.

Her hips jerked once, rhythm faltering, and she let out a helpless little moan, high and sharp.

Your breath caught.

Wanda swore under her breath and grabbed your jaw, yanking your head back just enough to pull you off her neck. Blood painted your lips, and you blinked up at her, dazed and starved.

She looked wrecked.

Flushed cheeks. Wild hair. Lips parted.

“Don’t you dare look smug,” she growled, but her voice was shaking. “That wasn’t permission to get cocky.”

You nodded, wide-eyed, blood slicking your mouth.

“I wasn’t,” you whispered. “I swear, Mistress.”

She glared — then kissed you hard, her tongue licking into your mouth, tasting her own blood off your lips with a hungry groan.

“I’m not done with you,” she breathed against your mouth. “Not even close.”

And you believed her.

Because you’d barely scratched the surface of what Wanda Maximoff could do with a trembling vampire wrapped around her finger.

Wanda was breathless, flushed, and trembling slightly when she pulled back from your blood-slick mouth.

Still straddling you. Still in control.

You were hers — panting, fangs aching, lips red from the taste of her. And when she reached down and tugged your shirt up and over your head, you let her, limbs pliant and obedient.

“Sit still,” she ordered, and you did.

She pulled your bra off slowly, watching the way your chest rose and fell in anticipation, her eyes flickering with heat. Her fingers grazed your skin — barely there — and still you shivered like she'd burned you.

“You don’t get to touch me,” she said, voice dark and low as her hands slid down your body. “You hold me. You feed from me. But you don’t fuck me unless I say.”

“Yes, Mistress,” you whispered, voice trembling.

Wanda rocked her hips again, harder this time, and your hands flew to her waist — not to move her, just to hold. Steady. Supportive. Worshipful.

She ground down harder, chasing friction against your thigh through the thin fabric of her panties. She wasn’t hiding the way she moaned now, short and sharp, every breath dripping heat as her fingers dug into your shoulders.

“This is mine,” she whispered, dragging her nails down your chest. “All of you. Even this need you think I don’t see. I own it. You don’t come until I do.”

You whimpered.

She rolled her hips again — and again — soaking the front of your jeans, her body pulsing with magic that sparked against your skin, fraying the edges of your control. But you held firm, nails pressing into your own thighs to keep from moving. From begging.

From doing anything but what she let you.

Wanda's moans grew louder, less composed. Her head fell to your shoulder, teeth grazing the skin where you’d bitten her earlier.

And then — a shudder, a breath held too long — her whole body jerked once, and a loud, broken sound fell from her lips as she came against you.

It was messy. Slow. Her body shaking in your arms, hips twitching as she rode it out, panting into your neck like you were the one keeping her grounded.

You were.

Your arms were wrapped tight around her. Not possessive — never that. But protective. Present. The kind of hold that said: I’ve got you. Take what you need. I’m yours.

Wanda slumped into you, chest heaving, and for a long moment, neither of you moved. You felt her heartbeat against your skin, rapid and erratic and human.

You kissed her temple softly, lips stained red.

Only then did she pull back and cup your cheek.

“Still with me, sweetheart?”

You nodded, eyes hazy, every nerve humming with the weight of her.

She smiled — tired and wicked and full of something soft.

“You did so well,” she whispered. “So good for me.”

Your throat bobbed. “Thank you, Mistress.”

Wanda slipped off your lap and gently pushed you back onto the couch. Her fingers made quick work of your jeans, and before you could protest — or beg — she was between your thighs, her hand pressing flat against your center through your soaked underwear.

“Now,” she said, her voice like velvet. “Now you get to come.”

You came fast — embarrassingly fast — hips bucking up into her hand as she rubbed tight, practiced circles over your clit. All the blood, all the restraint, all the tension that had built up through obedience and denial crashed through you in a wave.

And Wanda watched, chin propped on your thigh, grinning like the smug devil she was.

“God, you’re pretty when you fall apart,” she murmured.

You whimpered, back arching, thighs trembling, and then — finally — you collapsed.

Spent.

Full.

Shaking.

Safe.

Wanda didn’t rush the come-down. She climbed back into your lap, straddling you again — this time to soothe, not to take. She cradled your face, pressing kisses to your cheeks, your brow, the corner of your mouth.

“Easy, baby,” she whispered. “I’ve got you.”

You clung to her, still panting despite the fact that your lungs didn’t need to. Your whole body ached in the best way.

She cleaned the blood from your chin with her fingers and pressed them into your mouth to suck.

“There’s my good girl,” she murmured. “Took it so well. You always do.”

You leaned into her, eyes fluttering shut, resting your forehead to hers.

Her hand stroked your hair. “You did everything I asked.”

You nodded.

“And when I told you to stop, you stopped.”

Another nod. A tiny, broken sound of pride caught in your throat.

Wanda kissed you once — soft, slow, grateful.

“You’re mine,” she whispered. “Every inch of you. Forever.”

And you were.

Wanda was the one who moved first, even though her body was still shaky and her thighs still pressed damp against your jeans.

“Come on,” she murmured, cupping your jaw with one hand and pressing a final kiss to your lips. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You went with her without question, clinging just a little as she guided you to the bathroom. She chuckled softly, arm around your waist.

“You always get like this after,” she teased, voice warm. “Like a baby bat stuck to me.”

You nuzzled your face into her hair, still overwhelmed, still grounded in her scent.

She bathed you both gently — hands slow, steady, not teasing anymore. She peeled away your ruined clothes and held you under the warm spray of the shower, fingers stroking your back, humming softly under her breath.

It soothed the leftover trembles in your limbs.

She washed your hair like you were precious. Like she liked doing this for you. She always did — insisted on it, really.

And afterward, she dressed you in soft pajamas — one of her oversized shirts and a pair of cotton shorts you couldn’t remember stealing but were definitely yours now. She dressed herself in a robe, loose and cozy, and tugged you by the hand into the kitchen.

Wanda didn’t even give you the chance to ask. She pulled a sealed container of blood from the fridge and handed it over wordlessly, then turned to fix something for herself.

You sat on the edge of the counter, sipping slowly, still a little floaty. Your fangs had finally retracted, but your gums were sore. That always happened when you drank too slowly.

She glanced over and frowned. “Still tender?”

You nodded.

Without saying a word, she pulled out one of her freezer packs and wrapped it in a dish towel. She pressed it gently to your cheek, right where your jaw was clenched.

You leaned into it with a soft sound of gratitude.

Wanda made herself a grilled cheese — extra sharp cheddar, exactly the way she liked it — and slid it onto a plate. She only ate half before she offered you a bite.

You hesitated, but took it when she gave you that look — the one that said let me care for you back, dummy.

When you were both fed and warm and finally calm, she took your hand again and led you back to the bed. She crawled in first, reaching for the blanket, but stopped when you climbed in behind her and pulled her gently into your arms.

“You need sleep,” you whispered against her hair.

“You need rest,” she murmured back.

“I don’t sleep.”

“I know,” she said, already burrowing into your chest. “I just like saying it.”

You held her close, your arms wrapped around her waist, your chin tucked over her head.

Wanda let out the softest sigh — barely a breath — and her whole body relaxed in your hold.

It was the only time she ever went limp like that. Only after you fed. Only when her magic quieted and her body was wrung out and her heart beat a little slower in her chest. That was when she let herself be small. Tired. Human.

You didn’t need to breathe, but you did anyway — slow and steady, chest rising with hers. You liked matching her rhythm. It made her feel less alone.

Her fingers twitched against your shirt. “Still with me?”

“Always,” you murmured.

She hummed. “You’re mine.”

“Yours,” you agreed, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Always.”

She drifted not long after, body warm and boneless against yours.

You stayed still.

You never moved while she slept. She hated waking up alone.

So you stayed — watching the way her lashes fluttered against her cheek, the way her lips parted slightly, how utterly soft she looked when all the sharpness faded from her face.

Powerful, fierce, brilliant Wanda — sleeping safe in your arms.

Yours to protect.

Hers to belong to.

You didn’t need sleep.

You had everything you needed right here.

[dahlibae]

him: what are you thinking about?

her: oh.. it’s nothing…..

her brain, longingly:

[dahlibae]

She Only Comes When It Rains | WandaMaximoff x Reader

Summary: Wanda only shows up when it rains, and you always let her in, even though you know she'll break you. You're not together, not really, but her hands know your body better than your own. You try to tell her you can't keep doing this. She proves you wrong. Again.

Word count: 3.6k

WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI, smut, toxic relationship, angst, manipulation, magical restraints, rough sex, crying during sex, dom/sub undertones, overstimulation, marking and bruising, light choking, praise and degradation

The rain started around midnight.

You heard it first in the pipes, a low groan, water moving like something waking inside the walls. Followed by the first tap against the window. Gentle and hesitant. A warning. And then, all at once, it was there; loud, constant, swallowing everything. A sound that made the room smaller, your skin tighter. It was pressing in from the outside, asking to be let in.

You don't get up from the couch. You sit there, legs curled under a blanket that still smells faintly like her. The hoodie she left two visits ago, before she remembered to take it or maybe chose not to, lies draped over the back of a chair. Still damp from when you washed it. Still sacred. Still poison.

The rain keeps falling, and you keep waiting.

Because she only comes when it rains.

You told yourself the last time was the last time. That you'd change the locks. That you wouldn't open the door. That you'd leave, go anywhere, check into a motel and let the night swallow her knock.

But when the thunder hits, low and foreboding, your body flinches like it remembers her mouth before your mind does.

She's ruined you, not just in the bedroom, not just in your bed, but in your existence. The way you sleep half-dressed, waiting. The way you keep your lights low in case she needs the dark. The way you leave water bottles on the nightstand, painkillers in the drawer because you know she comes bruised. You know she comes hollow. You still want her full of you.

Your phone vibrates once. You don't look. It's not her. It's never her. She doesn't call.

She knocks.

01:13 AM.

You're pacing because you're afraid if you sit still for too long, you'll shatter.

You catch your reflection in the window. Rain streaking down the glass, city lights blurred behind you like faded memories. You look tired, like someone who's rehearsed a hundred conversations and still forgets to say no.

You stare at the door, and tell yourself that she's not coming, and if she does you'll tell her to go.

Three soft knocks.

Your breath leaves your body in a rush. You don't move. The rain muffles everything. The room feels to small.

Another knock.

Three, again. It's always three, asking for permission to fall apart.

You open the door.

She's soaked, not just wet, drenched. Like she stood in the storm and let it drown her on purpose. her hair sticks to her cheeks, red strands plastered over sharp cheekbones. Her hoodie clings to her chest, sleeves soaked past her wrists. Her eyes glassy, dark-circled, jaw tight. She doesn't speak. She doesn't look at you. Maybe she doesn't remember how.

You don't step back. You don't invite her in. You just wait.

She's the one who breaks first.

"I shouldn't be here," she says, voice rasping like it hurts to use it.

"Yet here you are."

Her breath catches. her lips tremble, only a little. She's not crying, not yet.

You tilt your head. "Why did you come?"

She looks down. her hands shake. She fists them in the sleeves of her hoodie like she needs something to hold onto.

"You know why."

You do. That's the worst part.

The storm howls behind her, but you're not ready to let her in.

You don't ask where she's been. She wouldn't tell you. She never tells you anything real.

But you see it; how her shoulders slump, how her hoodie drips onto the floor and she doesn't care, how she look at you like you're both a relief and a curse.

"You're always awake when I come," she says, brushing a wet strand behind her ear.

"I don't sleep well anymore."

"I know." A pause. "I hate that."

You snort. "Do you?"

She flinches. Looks away.

She steps toward you.

Her jaw tenses, biting down on something she doesn't want to say. Her eyes flick to the floor, then behind you where her old hoodie still sits, an unspoken testimony to all the things she leaves behind. Her hands, still damp, curl at her sides. For a second, she doesn't look like Wanda Maximoff at all. She just look like someone who's lost. Someone who doesn't know how to be wanted without hurting the wanting.

She breathes in. Shaky. Halting.

Then, she steps toward you. One step. Then another. Like she's not sure you'll let her make the last.

Her eyes are glassy when they find you again. She opens her mouth, maybe to explain, maybe to beg, but nothing comes out. She just stands there, barely inches from you. There's a storm still caught inside her skin, rain dripping from her body, guilt radiating off her in form of heat.

You close your eyes.

Because it's easier not to look at her.

Because looking always undoes you faster.

And when she presses her forehead against yours, when her breath hitches and her fingers close around your arm like she needs your more than air–

You give in.

You always do.

Her mouth is on yours before the door clicks shut. Desperate, drowning, breathless. She kisses you like she's starving and you're the only thing left. Her hands grip your face, not gentle. She's clawing, trembling. She hates herself for wanting this and still wants it anyway. Her mouth is hot and wet and open, and she moans into you like it hurts.

You don't kiss her back, not at first, because you said you wouldn't.

But then she whispers it against your mouth. Not please, but your name. Like it's the last thing she'll ever say, already mourning you.

You shudder.

And you kiss her back.

Her hips press into you. Her hands fist in your shirt, dragging you forward, walking you backward toward the bedroom with wild, erratic steps. She stumbles once, swears, kisses your jaw, your neck, bites down on your collarbone hard enough to bruise.

"You're mine," she breathes, fingers curling in the fabric over your ribs. "You were always mine."

You don't speak.

She doesn't want your words, not yet. She wants your submission, your silence, your body unraveling under hers. You see it in her eyes: red-rimmed, dewy, twitching with the glint of her magic.

When you reach the doorway to your bedroom, her breath ragged, her pupils blown, her lip split from some fight you'll never know the details of, she finally pulls back. Just an inch. Just enough to look at you.

"You don't get to touch me tonight," she says softly. Her voice shakes, but not from fear.

From restraint.

Your breath hitches.

"What–"

Before the question fully forms, her eyes glow red, and you're thrown backward. Not violently, but with forceful deliberation, with all the terrifying grace of her power. Your body hits the mattress hard enough to bounce. You gasp, limbs sprawled.

Then, the binds form. Not ropes, not leather. Magic.

Wanda's signature crimson glow wraps around your wrist and ankles like a lover's embrace; soft at first, then tightening, locking you down. You squirm, breath punching out of your lungs.

You can't move, not even an inch.

"You let me go every time," she says, stepping into the room, slow and dangerous, Her hoodie is gone, discarded somewhere down the hall, and her tank top clings to her from the rain, sheer and soaked. You see the marks on her ribs. The faint shimmer of older bruises. The sharp curve of her collarbone.

She's full of war and grief and sin.

"And then you wait," she continues, eyes never leaving you. "You wait for me to come back. You pretend you hate it, but you're always wet when I walk through that door."

You open your mouth.

She flicks her fingers.

Binds tighten around your throat, not choking, not painful, but silencing, just enough pressure to remind you who you belong to.

Her.

Even when she leaves you. Especially when she leaves you.

"I need to taste it," she whispers. "The way you ache for me. The way you'd cry just to make me stay."

Something between shame and need claws at you from the inside. It's unbearable how much you want her even now, with her voice laced in harshness, with her promise half a threat. The words twist something inside you, sick and tender. And god, it's true. You would cry. You'd beg. You'd let her destroy you if it meant she'd keep coming back. The humiliation of it burns in your chest. it still makes your hips tilt up, desperate for any kind of contact. You're dizzy with it. Drunk on the sick devotion you swore you'd kill.

She crawls onto the bed, over you. Her knees press to either side of your hips, and she sits heavy on your pelvis, grinding down once, measured and punishing. You arch up instinctively, desperate for friction, but the binds keep you pinned. Her magic flares hot.

She leans down and her lips brush your ear.

"No touching," she whispers, reminding you with a voice that's both cure and poison. "You just lie there and break for me."

You whimper. Pathetic.

She laughs, sharp and cruel and breathless.

"You're already close, aren't you?" she purrs, biting your earlobe. "I haven't even fucking touched you yet."

You shake your head, try to lie, try to preserve whatever pride you have left.

But she doesn't let you.

Her hand slides between your thighs. Her fingers press against your core, soaked through your underwear. Drenched. Absolutely ruined for her.

She hums, pleased.

"So needy," she whispers. "You'd let me destroy you and still beg for more, wouldn't you?"

You glare at her. Or rather, you try to.

Your eyes are already full of unshed tears.

When she pulls your panties aside and dips two fingers between your folds, you sob. Not from pain, though. From the way her thumb teases your clit. From the way her fingers curl so perfectly, so violently inside you. From the sick, sacred way she kisses your chest while she ruins you, mouthing at your skin like she's praying.

"You always let me hurt you," she says, breathless against your sternum. "Why?"

You whisper her name.

"No," she snaps, eyes shining. "Tell me."

"Because–" you choke. "Because it's the only time you allow yourself to feel anything."

She stills. Her fingers stay inside you.

Her head lifts. her eyes search yours. there's something ugly and shattered in her expression.

But then, slowly, like it burns, she starts to move again.

Rougher. Faster. You cry out.

She kisses you. Hard. Swallows the sound.

"Good girl," she pants. "Break for me."

Her magic glows brighter.

Your thighs shake.

And you come, with her hand on your throat, her mouth on yours and your body arched as an offering.

But she doesn't stop. She never stops.

You gasp, a high, desperate sound, as she slips her fingers out of only to push your thighs farther apart, spreading you wide. Her breath is hot against your inner thigh, her hands, glowing faintly with magic, pin you still even without the binds.

You're already twitching, already oversensitive, already spent.

But that doesn't matter. It never mattered.

Wanda doesn't want comfort. She comes for confessions, and your body is the alter.

She leans in and licks a long, devouring stripe up your wetness, and you jolt like she's electrocuted you.

"Still so wet," she murmurs, her breath fanning over your swollen clit. "Still mine. Always mine."

"Wanda, please–"

The binds on your throat ease just enough to let the words spill out, but she doesn't answer.

She buries her face in you like she's trying to disappear, her tongue pushing deep, her fingers digging into your thighs hard enough to bruise. She moans against your core, the sound vibrating though you, and your entire body arches like a bow.

"Too much," you whimper, trying to twist away. "I can't–"

"Liar."

Her voice is muffled by your skin, but the accusation cuts like glass.

"You love this," she growls, licking you open again. "You love when I make you sob. You love when I use you."

You shake your head, crying now, but your hips are still moving, still chasing her mouth.

She sees it.

"God, you're pathetic," she says, cruel and biting. "So easy. So desperate for me to hurt you."

She wraps her lips around your clit and sucks, strong.

You scream.

It's raw, crooked, half a sob, half a surrender. Your wrists flex in their magical restraints, legs trembling. She doesn't ease up. She keeps sucking, licking, biting, until you're coming again with a broken cry, tears streaming down your cheeks.

But even now, it's not enough for her.

No matter what you do, no matter what you offer and sacrifice.

It's never enough for her.

Only when your hips jolt again and your throat is tight, she finally pulls away. Her chin is slick with you. Her eyes are fever-bright.

"Are you crying yet?" she asks, like she can't tell.

You are. Loud and clear. The sound echoes, only quietened by the storm outside.

Her magic tightens around your wrist again, not to mock, but to show her possessiveness.

"Wanda, please," you whisper, words slurred as you blink through the blur. "I can't– I can't–"

She climbs back over you, straddling your waist. Her hands frame your face. Her body simmer with hear. Her pupils are blown wide.

"You said I don't feel anything, but you're wrong."

You try to speak, but she kisses you. It's deep and messy and full of everything she can't say.

"I feel you." Her voice breaks. "I feel this, and I hate it."

You choke on a sob.

"I love you."

She flinches like you slapped her, and for a second, you see her, really see her. The girl underneath the power. The grief underneath the violence.

She growls, low and torn. "Don't say that."

Your eyes are searching hers, voice breaking. "Why not?"

"Because I don't deserve it."

She pushes you down. Hard.

Her hand finds your throat again. her lips hover just above yours.

"I ruin you," she whispers. "And you let me."

The unspoken why lingers dangerously in the space between you. She looks at you, searching for an answer that you can't give her.

You nod, agreeing. Tears drip from your chin onto the pillow. You're still shaking, still aching, still tied. You don't care because even now, even when she's broken you open wit her hands, her mouth, her guilt, all you want is more.

More time.

More her.

More feelings.

"Do it again," you rasp. "Please. Use me."

She breaks.

Something shatters behind her eyes. She kisses you like a punishment, like an apology.

Like a goodbye.

Her hand slips between your legs one last time and you don't resists.

You break for her again.

And again.

Until the edges blur. Until your throat is raw from sobbing. Until she's crying too.

"I'm sorry," she whispers against your ear, fucking you with her fingers through the aftershocks. "I'm so sorry."

It doesn't stop her, and you wouldn't want her to.

This pain, this ruin, this madness... it's all she's ever given to you. It vicious and burns, but god, at least it's all yours to keep.

You lose track of time.

How many times you come.

How many times she apologises mid-thrust or mid–cry.

How many times she says your name like it's a death sentence.

How many bruises she kisses into your skin, or scratches carves into your hips.

Your body stops fighting. Your sobs go silent. the binds don't even need to hold you anymore, you wouldn't move if you could.

And she knows it.

"I shouldn't be here," she breathes again, forehead pressed to yours, hands cupping your face now like she's trying memorise you from the inside out.

"But you are," you rasp, barely a voice left.

Her breath hitches. She kisses you again. It's gentle, but just for a second. Then it turns.

It always turns.

She flips you over, onto your stomach. Your muscles tremble. You're limp, pliant, raw. You hear the sound of her shirt hitting the floor, then her breath catching when she sees the mess she's made of you.

You feel her weight slide back over you. her mouth to your shoulder. Her fingers, red with power, ghosting over your bruises.

"Say you want it," she pleads.

You nod.

"Say it."

"I want it."

"Say you want me."

"I always want you."

She moans, broken. "Even when I leave?"

"Yes."

"Even when i come back just to ruin you again?"

You hesitate, but the truth burns too loud to deny.

"Yes."

She cries then, not loudly but cutting. It's quiet, shaking. her tears mix with the sweat on your back as she kisses your spine, tender, reverent, regretful.

"I'm so fucking sorry," she whispers, over and over, as she enters you again with her fingers, slower this time, but deeper, more intentional. "I don't know how to stop needing you."

You arch, moan. Sobs choking your throat.

"I don't want you top stop," you admit.

Your bodies find rhythm again. An agonising, aching one. She moves inside you like she's desperate to leave a part of herself behind, like she thinks if she fucks you hard enough, she'll be able to stay.

"Tell me you love me," she pants.

You do.

Over and over.

You tell her even as you shake, as you splinter, as your orgasm rips through you one final time and you scream into the sheets.

She comes with you, not from your body, but from the sound of you breaking. Her forehead pressed to your shoulder, her hand bruised between your thighs, her sob a strangled apology into your skin.

You're both crying when it's over.

When her body collapses beside you, shaking.

When her hand finally lets go of your throat, your hips, your heart.

You turn your head to look at her.

She's already looking at you.

But there's something gone behind her eyes. A dimming. A shadow.

You know that look.

You've seen it before. Countless times.

It means she's already leaving.

You reach for her and she lets you this time. Her fingers slide through yours. Her palm is warm.

You fall asleep that way. Clinging. Spent. Bruised.

Still hoping.

You wake up before the sun.

The room is cold.

At first, it doesn't register.

You're curled on your side, one arm reaching across empty sheets that still smell like her skin, like rainwater and sweat, like her pulse against you lips. For a moment, in that strange space between sleep and waking, you pretend she's in the bathroom, or maybe in the kitchen, pouring water, padding barefoot across the floor.

But the silence is too clean.

Too final.

You blink up at the ceiling. your wrists ache, a dull soreness, familiar now. the bruises on your thighs throb in time with your heartbeat. Your breath fogs slightly in the early morning chill, and the blanket is barely covering you.

You sit up.

The other side of the bed is cold.

Your stomach drops, slow and sick and deep. The air tastes different.

Your gaze slides toward the chair.

Her hoodie is still there, not thrown carelessly this time, not half-forgotten, not draped over you lamp like a ghost of her. This time, it's folded. Purposefully. Tenderly.

A final offering. A grave marker.

You stare at it for a long time.

Eventually, you stand.

Your legs shake when you walk to the kitchen. The clock on the stove blinks: 06:04. You pour a glass of water with trembling hands and drink it all without tasting it. The glass stays on the counter, like everything she left behind, waiting to be cleaned up.

You go back to the bedroom, but you don't lie down.

You just stand there.

The window's still cracked open from when the rain first started. the wind lifts the curtain gently. the sky is overcast but dry now, the storm passed sometime while you were sleeping.

She always leaves before the rain stops.

It's tradition by now. A twisted kind of ritual. A storm brings her. The silence takes her.

You throat aches, not from the blinds, not from her hand, but from the sob caught there, stubborn, raw and cruel. You won't cry, not yet. Not while the echo of her mouth still lingers between your thighs. Not while the bed is still warm with her absence.

You pull the hoodie from the chair.

You don't put it on.

You just hold it. bury your face in it. inhale her. Close your eyes.

It's different this time.

It feels over. Not in the dramatic way you swore it would be after the last time, or the time before that. But in the soft, terrifying way people stop calling. The way they fade. The way silence stretches too long.

She folded it. That's what you keep coming back to. She never folds anything.

You sit on the floor.

The hoodie clenched in your fists, knuckles white, nails biting into fabric. You rock once, twice, breath shallow.

The sob comes eventually.

You cry like she kissed you; desperate, broken, unwilling.

You cry until your voice gives out.

Eventually, you lie back against the hardwood, hoodie clutched to your chest, staring at the ceiling like it holds the answers.

You know she won't come again.

Not until it rains.

If it rains.

And even then, maybe not.

Maybe she left something to grieve properly.

But maybe, and this is the crulest thing, maybe leaving it behind was her apology. Her goodbye. Her way of saying: I can't keep coming back.

And the worst part is...

You still want her too.

[dahlibae]

BABYGIRL.

(wanda maximoff x fem!reader)

summary – today was the worst day of your life. everything you’d built seemed to crumble in an instant, leaving you hollow and adrift. but then there was wanda—beautiful, kind, and impossibly understanding. she didn’t ask for explanations or offer empty reassurances… just did what she did best as your girlfriend and also your mommy.

warning(s) – oneshot: hurt/comfort, mdlg, comfort nursing, nipple suckling, mommy wanda, reader needs all the hugs. (18+)

notes – hii, everyone. this is my first request ever and i’ve decided to make this a part of my unofficial mommy wanda series. i also think this is one of my fave pieces so far. thank you for reading! <3

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

You stepped into the living room, exhaustion pressing down on you like a heavy weight. The soft hum of the house greeted you, but it felt quieter than usual. Normally, Wanda would be curled up on the couch, a cozy blanket draped over her lap and a book resting in her hands, waiting for you to come home. If not there, you'd always find her in the bedroom, lost in her novel but never too lost to look up and smile when you arrived.

Tonight, the couch was empty, so you trudged up the stairs, the day’s stress clinging to you like the dampness of your clothes. As you pushed open the bedroom door, the warm glow of a bedside lamp welcomed you. There was your girlfriend sat propped against the headboard, her book resting in her lap, and her eyes lifted to meet yours as soon as you stepped in.

“Hey, sweetheart.” She greeted, her voice soft as she set the book down. Her brow furrowed slightly as she studied your rugged state. “You look like you’ve had a hard day.”

You hesitated for a moment before shuffling toward her. She reached for you, her thumb tracing soothing circles over your knuckles, and tugged lightly, urging you to sit beside her, but instead of settling into her comforting presence, you slipped out of her hold. Without a word, you crossed the room to the wardrobe. The soft rustling of fabric filled the space as you stripped off your damp work clothes, their cold weight falling to the floor, not caring about your nakedness in front of the older woman. You reached for a familiar oversized top, one that belonged to Wanda—and still carried her subtle scent you noticed—as you brought it forward, inhaling deeply.

“What’s wrong?” She asked quietly.

You shook your head, chewing on your bottom lip as you searched for the words, refusing to look back at her. “Just everything.” You finally murmured, voice trembling, as you slipped the top over you. “Work, life—everything went wrong today.” The weight of the admission pressed down on you, and a sharp sting of embarrassment followed as you felt tears welling up, threatening to spill.

Today had been, without question, one of the worst days of your life. Nothing had gone right. Work had been a disaster—projects falling apart, deadlines missed, and criticism piling up. The disappointed look on your boss’s face wouldn’t leave your mind. Then, as if the universe wasn’t satisfied with your despair, a sudden downpour caught you unprepared. Soaked to the skin, you trudged home only to realise your headphones Wanda had gifted you were ruined beyond repair, forcing an expense you couldn’t afford. Each moment felt like another cruel twist of fate, leaving you drained, defeated, and wondering how much more you could take.

Wanda noticed your anguish, tears falling even if they were hidden behind your hands, and moved over to you. She cupped your cheek, her thumb brushing away a stray tear you had missed. “Oh, my love.” Her tone full of compassion. “Come with me.” She urged softly, pulling you towards the bed and into her lap.

And you couldn’t hold it back anymore—the weight of it all was too much. The disappointment in yourself, the crushing realisation that normal life felt like an insurmountable mountain, left you trembling. A choked sob escaped your lips, then another, breaking free like cracks in a dam. She wrapped her arms around you, her embrace firm yet tender, grounding you as you leaned fully into her.

After a moment, when your tears had finally stopped, you felt her hands under your shirt shift, gliding tenderly from your back to trace slow, soothing circles along your pelvis, up passed your breasts, and to your collarbone. Her touch was deliberate, grounding, yet charged with an unspoken intimacy.

“Baby,” she murmured softly, her voice a velvet caress that pulled your attention, “do you need Mommy to make you feel all better?”

Normally, words like these from her would ignite a fire, turning the world into a hazy blur where nothing else mattered. She had a way of consuming you entirely, of making you forget everything—even your own name and especially what had you so overwhelmed. Sex with Wanda always helped. But tonight, the pressure of the day lingered, sitting heavy on your chest, and even her gentle allure felt like too much. You turned your face slightly, unable to meet her gaze, the vulnerability too raw to confront.

“Not… not like that.” You mumbled, voice barely above a whisper, laced with a mix of exhaustion and nervous hesitation.

Her hands immediately retracted from underneath, but climbed back up to cup your face. She wanted you to look at her as you spoke, but she knew how nervous you were right now. It was clear that whatever you wanted was new territory for you both. And so, her thumb stilled on your cheek as she studied you closely. “Okay. Tell me what you need, sweet girl.”

Your throat tightened as the words clawed at the back of your mind, desperate to be spoken yet caught in the tangle of your hesitation. The thought had crossed your mind—a quiet, intimate need, something grounding and nurturing—but it felt too vulnerable, too strange to voice aloud. “I…” You started, the single syllable trembling before it broke apart. You lowered your eyes, shaking your head as your unspoken longing clung to your lips. Silence stretched between you, but her eyes never wavered from you.

Patience was one of Wanda’s greatest virtues.

“I don’t know how to say it.” You admitted in a whisper, the confession spilling from your lips like a fragile thread of truth.

“Just try, darling?” Wanda prompted, her voice a soft coaxing.

“But it’s… weird.” You replied, still avoiding her eyes.

She shifted closer, wrapping her free arm around your waist. “You can tell me anything. You know that, right? There’s no judgment here.”

You took a shaky breath. “I can’t, Wands. You’ll think I’m weird.”

Her lips pressed gently to your forehead. “Never.” She said firmly. “Not my baby girl.”

Deep down, you knew this was what you needed.

No other comfort would work.

The warmth of her words gave you the courage to continue, though your voice came out in a rush, barely above a whisper, “I… I was wondering if I could kind of play with your boobs… just for comfort.”

Wanda’s lips quirked in a small, understanding smile. “You already do that, baby.” She replied softly, though there was a curious tilt to her voice, almost like a question. Still, what she said was true. After sex, your aftercare often included her gently cleaning you up, then holding you close while you suckled at her breasts, finding solace in her warmth until you fell asleep.

“I know.” You murmured, your gaze dropping shyly towards her chest. “But it’s different this time, isn’t it? I don’t want sex. Just… that.”

The silence that followed made your stomach twist. Panic surged as you began to pull away, regret pouring out of you in a rush. “Actually, forget it. It’s stupid. I shouldn’t—”

“Hey.” She interrupted softly, her voice warm and steady, hands tightening gently on your shoulders, grounding you before you could spiral further. Her emerald eyes locked onto yours, brimming with nothing but love and reassurance. “It’s not stupid. And I don’t think it’s weird.”

“You don’t?” Your voice cracked, still unsure.

She shook her head, a soft smile tugging at her lips as she brushed a curl from your face. Her touch was tender, her tone even gentler. “No, sweetheart. I think it’s brave of you to ask for what you need.”

She cupped your chin, bringing your gaze to hers for the first time this evening. “And for you to tell me when you don’t want to have sex.” Her words melted some of your fear, but it was the warmth in her eyes that truly soothed the ache of doubt in your chest. “Plus, I like when you suckle on me.”

You blushed deeply at her words, and found her leaning forward to press light kisses all over your flushed face.

“You’re so cute.” She added with a playful lilt, finishing with one lingering kiss to your lips.

Still shy about the entire thing, you let her guide you backwards, making enough space for her to pull off her long sleeved top, before cradling you against her.

“There’s no need to be embarrassed about this.” She said, her fingers threading through your curls. “This is just for you, to help you feel safe.”

You rested your head against her shoulder, cheeks burning with embarrassment, but the moment her warmth surrounded you, all your tension began to fade. And you started at the crook of her neck, where her perfume lingered most intensely—a heady mix that would always soothe you. Your lips brushed the delicate curve of her collarbones, pausing to press soft kisses there, the contrast of firmness and tenderness grounding you in the moment. Slowly, you traced lower, finding the pliant skin of her chest, your lips and tongue gliding over her silken flesh in reverent exploration. You hesitated, vulnerable in a way you weren’t used to without the usual lead-up of passion to mask the intimacy. Still, you gave in to instinct, brushing your mouth over her heavy breast before gently taking a nipple into your mouth. The familiar act carried a different weight now, quiet and raw, leaving you feeling exposed but safe in her presence.

She carefully adjusted your position, guiding you to lie on your side as she leaned over you. The shift instantly eased the tension in your back, a welcome relief after being curled up in her lap for so long. She hummed quietly, fingers moving from your hair to your face, stroking your cheeks affectionately.

“Such a good girl.” She whispered, her voice low and soothing. The phrase, usually electric with desire, took on a softer, more tender note this time. Instead of igniting heat, it coaxed you further into your headspace, filling you with a profound sense of safety, as the worries of today floated away. And she held you as if nothing else in the world mattered, her hands continuing their gentle exploration, tracing over your jaw, brushing against your temple, and finally tucking stray curls behind your ears. “Let me see that pretty face.” She’d say, and each touch was intentional, a silent reassurance that she was there, grounding you in the moment. You felt her other hand drift down your back in slow, deliberate strokes, the rhythm lulling you further into her embrace.

“You’re so precious to me.” She murmured, her words wrapping around you like a warm blanket. Her thumb grazed the edge of your lips, pausing for a moment as though memorizing the softness there before her hand slipped back into your hair, cradling you closer to her chest, your nose flush against her.

You let yourself relax completely, melting into her as your lips lingered softly over her skin, not in hunger or lust but in need. A quiet, intimate need for comfort outside the bounds of what you knew. She seemed to sense it, tilting her head to rest her chin against the top of yours. Her breathing was slow, syncing with yours as the last remnants of tension ebbed away. The steady beat of her heart thrummed beneath your ear like a soothing melody, anchoring you to her.

“Thank you, mama.” You managed to say, exhaustion seeping into your bones, as sleep threatened to wash over you.

“Go to sleep, sweet girl.” Wanda replied, her delicate fingers against your skin also coaxing you into a deep sleep.

And when she spoke again, her voice barely above a whisper, it was as if the universe itself paused to listen.“You deserve to feel loved and cared for.” She said, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “And I’ll always be here to show you that.”

Her words hung in the air, wrapping around you like a shield against the world, finally carrying you into the peace of sleep, where you were cradled by the unshakable certainty of her love and comfort.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

[dahlibae]

when she's middle aged and has a darker vibe...

[dahlibae]

my therapist: do you have a type?

me: women that are old enough to be my mother

[dahlibae]

[dahlibae]

holy shit, jackpot

wanda maximoff x fem!reader

Synopsis - Woken by a late night call, you find out why Wanda wasn’t home yet during this hour.

Tags - Fluff, Grumpy x Sunshine (But Sunshine’s just Sunshine because she’s drunk), Partying, Drunk in Love, The Avengers discover alcohol, Soft Wives on Soft Sheets

Note - Bob as a club owner was not on my 2025 bingo card. Might make Thunderbolts* headcanons soon!

Your phone buzzed in the middle of the night, waking you from your deep sleep. The rain poured tremendously outside, its deliberate sound against the windows made you groan, putting a soft pillow on your face.

Wanda was supposed to be back at this hour, but when you extended your hand to her side of the bed, it remains cold. The room was too quiet without Wanda, the thought alone made you think about her whereabouts.

The buzzing sound from you cellphone never left, cutting through the still air of silence. With a sleepy sigh, you picked up: it read;

spider in heelz

is calling...

You blink, answering instantly. The last time Natasha called this late, you’d let it ring. But something tells you that this time was different, especially with Wanda still not home.

“Nat?” You murmur, your voice thick with sleep and the groggy sound of exhaustion.

You hear partying and the faint sound of Last Friday Night by Katy Perry in the background, and glass breaking while someone asks for more beer. You could feel the joyous celebration from the phone, and a chuckling redhead laughing before eventually looking at your concerned and worried face on the screen.

“Y/N. Hey. Listen. I love you. You're amazing. Are you doing— doesn’t matter. We need you.”

You squint your eyes at her drunkly said words, practically feeling the breeze of vodka from her lips. You sit up straighter. “Are you okay? What happened?”

A raspy cough leaves Natasha's throat as she chuckles at someone beside her, assuming it’s Yelena based on her green pocket-filled jacket she was wearing that caught your eye.

“Wanda’s drunk.” Natasha announced like she was declaring your future. “Like super, mega drunk. No one’s sober enough to drive her home, so I called you.”

“I’m glad you did.”

An amused chuckle escapes your lips, already putting on your sweatpants, out of bed. On the other side of the screen, Yelena sneakily takes Natasha’s phone from her hand with Kate by her side, singing along to some remix being played. You say hello to the two, half-asleep, already fighting with your tangled shoelaces.

“Lena, where are you guys?”

“We're at The Void. You should come!” Kate giggles, putting the phone so close to her mouth it made you jump. Yelena mutters something about how scared she is if ever Ava phases and secretly takes a sip in all their drinks.

“Okay, just stay alive. I’ll be there in ten.

—

New York City is a city that never sleeps. The Void, however, filled the nights with neon lights and music you could hear from a mile away. Ever since its owner, Robert Reynolds, established it last month, it became one of the famous spots in the city known as ‘The club where Thor Odison made his personal rage room’.

You step in front of the large building, earning a sympathetic look from the bouncer when he realizes who you are, smiling at you before opening the gates of chaos. When you walk inside, a spotlight finds you as soon as you enter.

“Y/N!” Someone screamed from a distance as the music blared in your ears.

“Oh god.” You muttered under your breath.

You reminded yourself you could always leave them to fend for yourself, but you remember how easy Wanda gets drunk. You let out a heavy breath, scanning the room. Your steps were firm as you approach Natasha. She was beside Bucky, talking deeply as he massaged her hand to fidget amidst the chaos, nodding as she talked.

Yelena, Kate, and Ava were beside them playing cards. They laugh loudly when Kate starts calling her mother because she lost.

“And the lights just went out! Just as the best part of the movie comes— Y/N!”

Natasha jumps at you and hugs you tightly. You let out a gasp, holding her still as she wobbles. “Wanda’s sooo drunk. She started talking to the plant next to Steve and calling it the better Captain America.”

You wince as Natasha tugs you through the club with Bucky following behind, his metal arm casually slung around your shoulder.

Your eyes spot Steve and John having an arm wrestle. People were around them, placing bets about who they think’ll win.

Sam, who looks like five minutes from passing out, sits comfortably against the wall with Pietro, who has a tilted party hat on his head like a crown.

These are the mighty Avengers?

Then you see her— your eyes spot your wife, slouched and out of this planet.

Wanda, who was slumped over a table staring at her reflection in a half-empty glass with cranberry vodka held steadily by Carol, singing Fireworks with her whole chest.

It wasn’t the first time Wanda was drunk like this. Since then, she wrote a long essay dedicated to herself about how she won’t ever, in the name of peace, drink again.

“Sweetheart?” You approach her after assisting Natasha to the nearest couch, but she stands up again and runs to sit down with Sam and Pietro.

Wanda looked up, eyes glassy. She was intoxicated, the way her face flickered with confusion.

“Uh, do I know you?” She mumbled, taking the glass from Carol and drinking the vodka inside, nose scrunching at the bitter taste.

“Seriously?” You sit beside her, carefully taking the glass away from her. She examines your face for a couple of seconds before touching your cheek.

“You’re pretty, like a finished painting with all the right colors.”

“Thank you, we’re married.” You say, deadpanned, putting the glass on the nearest table.

“We are?”

“As far as I know.”

Wanda blinks at you again, letting it sink in and whispered, “Holy shit, jackpot.” and tries to kiss you but you tap her lips instead.

You smile, hooking your arm under Wanda’s and pulling her up as she whines. “C’mon, let’s get you home.”

Wanda clung to you instantly, her scent wrapping around your senses as she hides her flushed face against your arm. “You smell like rain and cozy sheets, wifey.”

“Because it’s pouring rain outside. I was sleeping very peacefully before you turned into a frat boy.”

“You’re so sexy when you’re mean.”

You sigh so deeply it could extinguish a candle from across the room. You turn to find the three still sitting down against the wall like college students who tried weed for the first time.

“I’m calling cabs to pick you guys up, okay?” You say loudly to Natasha, who was now playing cards with Yelena and Ava, with grumpy Kate watching them.

“Thank you, our angel sent from heaven!”

—

You got Wanda home in one piece.

On the drive home, she kept opening the window, sticking her head out and saying that it was ‘her way of paying respects to mother nature’.

Wanda immediately kicked off her heavy heels the moment she entered your house. Then flopped down to the soft, velvety couch face-down

“Darling,” You call softly.

“I live here now.”

“You’re sleeping in bed.”

“Says who?”

Your eyes roll, removing your own shoes and placing her purse on the counter. Then, you drag her upstairs, wrangled her in the bathroom and handing her a toothbrush.

“Have I been kidnapped? Are you really my wife?” She says slurrily, the toothbrush still in her mouth as your hands stretch a hair tie, your fingers meeting her red locks and tying it into a cozy ponytail.

“Tomorrow I won’t be.”

Wanda pouts as she rinsed and spat. Then she hugs you like a koala sleeping on a tree, about to fall off. You swear she looks like she's about to cry. “Don't say that, krasivyy.”

You pause at the way her voice trembles and how her arms wrap around your waist like you’re going to run away from her grasp.

God, she’s so drunk.

It took about ten minutes before you got her ready for bed. The teasing grin on her face when you removed her shirt is still there as she clung to you against the cold sheets, poking your cheeks.

You called cabs for the others, putting your phone down to finally get the well- deserved sleep you’ve needed since you stepped inside that club packed with people dancing their problems away.

“You’re mad at me.” Wanda traces circles on your hip, her delicate hands intentionally brushing the swell of your butt when you hug her back.

“I’m not mad. Just tired.” Wanda kisses your shoulder, pressing more kisses until it reaches your face, softly— and slowly— lingering on your lips.

“I’ll make it up to you.”

“Yeah?”

“I’ll cook breakfast tomorrow. Naked.”

You laugh despite yourself, being pulled by Wanda closer as the redhead presses more kisses and nuzzles against your collarbones.

“Next time you decide to get drunk and forget me, at least text me first.“

In the dark, with your limbs tangled underneath the cotton sheets, heartbeats soft in your ear, Wanda whispers one thing before sleep took her.

“If I don’t make it to the bathroom in time, just remember, I love you.”

A bucket sits nearby next to her side of the bed on the ground, just in case she wakes up from her dreams of drinking more vodka. And you, always composed, always patient, just held her tighter in hopes that she won’t pull away from the sheets that smell like rain.

“Go to sleep, idiot.”

[dahlibae]

if you stay, i’ll soften ✦ wanda maximoff

everyone wonders how you two got together. if only they could see that little things that make you grateful to call her yours.

୨ tags: fluff, hopeless romantics, sfw and slight nsfw, dorks in love, fluff, girlfriends in the compound, stolen kisses, wanda maximoff being the best girlfriend, fluff, freakiness, did i mention fluff? ୧

─────────────────────

— girlfriend!wanda who secretly owns a journal written with all the things you like that you’ve mentioned betore. at night with you in her arms, she gently slips away to write how you like your coffee. soon enough, she’ll memorize.

— girlfriend!wanda who has hairties on her wrist just in case you need to tie your hair. she prefers her hair down, but she knows that you get irritated when your hair is all over the place. hell, she even ties your hair for you in exchange for a kiss. dork.

— girlfriend!wanda who always wakes up ahead of you. you’d prefer if she’d sleep in, but you know she’ll wake you up by kissing your face or somehow ending up on top of you as she lies down with her phone in her hand, watching instagram reels.

“your phone’s so loud, might as well use a speaker.”

“good morning, beautiful.”

— girlfriend!wanda who can‘t go to sleep properly unless you’re beside her. even if you have different rooms in the compound, you always sleep together. limbs tangled, you talk about everything and nothing at the same time. by the time you talked about a time where you saw bucky without his metal arm for the first time, her breathing slowed, her head against the pillow with her arm across your waist.

— girlfriend!wanda who calls you “dude” as if you didn’t just have the steamist makeout session of the year. you would stare at her blankly and she would steal a kiss, proceeding to call you dude.

“dude, i swear you have to stop looking at me like that."

“maybe i don’t really mind being called baby.”

— girlfriend!wanda who pretends she doesn’t like having her picture taken when in reality, your pictures of her always have her smile reaching her eyes. she folds when you practically threaten her to smile, causing her to smile.

“smile or i’ll hide all your sitcom dvds.”

“you wouldn’t dare.”

— girlfriend!wanda who isn’t into pda but her hand always finds your lower back. whether it’s guiding you through the busy streets, calming you when you’re anxious, or just needing to feel the warmth of your skin. your spine always tingles when she does it, biting back a smile.

— girlfriend!wanda who took almost a year before she told you about how she felt it when pietro died. it was a topic no one even dared to ask her about until you found yourselves on the rooftop, with just the stars and the moonlight. you stayed silent as she talked about it, playing with her rings that layered on her soft fingers. you were the only person she talked to about it, and now, you always bake two cakes on her birthday.

— girlfriend!wanda who took you to italy as your first travel out of the country together. you two binge watched the white lotus and fell in love with sicily. the sight of you, the piercing light of the sun, and the clear water was a dream come true. plus, she got all smiley when you asked her to apply sunscreen on your back.

— girlfriend!wanda who always sends you the most random texts wherever she’s not with you. she believes she has this keen sense of observation and sees what other people miss. during missions where she’s from a distance, you’d wake up with your inbox filled with her texts.

[1:43 AM]

w <3 : do you think frogs get sad???

you: what???

w <3 : like when people get scared of them and run away

w <3 : i would be so offended

w <3 : also i miss you. and your ears.

you: thank you, babe. please get some sleep.

w <3 : omg did you just call me babe

you: sleep.

[2:10 AM]

w <3 : if you’re a frog, call me princess tiana.

seen

— girlfriend!wanda who gets turned on when you pull her hair during an intimate moment. she becomes feral when your hands find her ginger locks when she has you on the wall, messily kissing eachother. there was one time when you gripped her hair firmer than usual, she fully moaned against your ear. needless to say, you never lived it down.

— girlfriend!wanda who is such a boobs girl. ugh. she just loves coming back after a mission and immediately burying her face in your chest. she loves the feeling of it. soft and comfortable between her hands. whether it’s against hers or what, it just stares at her and she can’t help herself.

“i’d start a cult for these. there’d be a rule where you aren’t allowed to wear a shirt when i’m home.”

“oh my god.”

— girlfriend!wanda who gives the best head scratches ever. when you put your head on her lap during a steady evening, you fall asleep to the feeling of her hands on your head, scratching slowly. she also plays with your hair and literally talks to it, whispering things like “you’re so pretty.”, “you smell like vanilla.”. to your hair, mind you.

— girlfriend!wanda who’s love language is physical touch, whether she’s giving or receiving. she’ll never admit that she tears up slightly when you hug her. both of you stay like that for as long as you can, not letting go. your hugs are something she wants all to herself. call her greedy for having you, but it’s true.

“wands, we have a mission briefing in twenty. we have to get ready before natasha kills us both.”

“five more minutes.”

— girlfriend!wanda who has a habit of tracing your face when you’re asleep. she has your features memorized, just like how she memorized your coffee order. every freckle, the curve of your jaw, you wake up to the sight of her fingers lazily tracing your face. when you called it cute, she blushed and rolled her eyes.

— girlfriend!wanda who’s afraid of losing you. the simple thought of it scares her. you complete her, in and out. she always makes you promise to stay alive when you go on a mission. when she’s with you, she insists on protecting you rather than fighting itself. she’s afraid that your hugs will soon be a memory. you assure her that you are safe and that you’ll be okay, kissing the worry off her face. she gets calmer when you do. when you love someone, the fear of losing them is the price of it all.

— girlfriend!wanda who loves you so much. though she comes off as playful, her love for you is as if you hung the moon for her. she stares at you too long, keeps her journal neatly hidden in her drawer, always gets your coffee right, smiles in pictures, and calls you dude when you accidentally pull her hair. when wanda maximoff loves, she’s willing to pick herself apart for you if it makes you happy.

─────────────────────

[dahlibae]

Key to Your Flat

Wanda Maximoff x Reader

Word count: 4.9k

Notes: Fluff, a bit of angst, pining, lots of acts of service, friends to lovers, au no powers

Summary: Wanda ends her long term relationship with Jarvis after realizing she was a lesbian. You've been her best friend since college, it's only right for you to support her in any way you can.

An: So this was supposed to be a cute little 1-2k fic loosely based on the Doja Cat snippet that says "Does a key to your flat mean girlfriend?" But it has turned into something else lol.

Masterlist | Masterlist 2

From the first day that you met her, you knew that Wanda would be one of the most successful people that you had ever encountered. There was no one more determined to make something of themselves than her. It was more than hard work; it was the way she sacrificed for the things that she wanted to accomplish in life.

You admired her.

How could you not, especially with the lack of direction you had in your own life? When you became her roommate in your sophomore year in college, you were already on your 3rd major. From engineering, to English, to culinary arts; you were all over the place. Yet you didn’t care much about it figuring things would work out somehow.

You believed that the universe would grant you whatever fate you deserved. Until Wanda told you that was such a ridiculous notion. Who would wait for a handout from the universe when they could simply get what they wanted themselves?

She was a good influence on you. You started taking school and your future a little more seriously after that. You put a lot more stock into your culinary dreams, and they paid off. There was a beaming fulfillment in your chest when you opened your own restaurant. Something that probably wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t met Wanda.

While you can’t necessarily recall what Wanda does off of the top of your head. You know she’s got some long fancy title at some big industry company. She had taken an internship in college and because of how completely undeniable the woman was, she shot up in the ranks of the company within a 10-year period.

You were both busy people, but you never loss touch as you climb your respective ladders of success. It was second nature for you to keep in contact with Wanda. It’s not something you thought about as much as something that you did.

Other aspects of your life often slipped through your fingers. You weren’t proud to say you’d forgotten a birthday or two or missed family plans because of work. Even your dating life suffered immensely because of your hectic lifestyle.

You never understood just how Wanda could manage to create enough balance in her life to find someone like Jarvis. He was a good man, clean cut. A little more uptight than you’d thought Wanda would go for, but a charmer, nonetheless.

You remember being skeptical when you first met him. You were the first person that he’d met from Wanda’s life. It was an accident when you ran into him on the way out of Wanda’s flat. He was about to knock when you were exiting. The red head was a little embarrassed to explain as you stared at the tall blonde man. You looked between the two before you shook his hand and sent him a decent enough smile.

She had chased after you when you left, trying to explain herself, but there was nothing to explain. You congratulated her, said you were happy she found someone. She thought you’d be upset with her, but you weren’t. How could you be upset when she was happy?

You had assumed that they had a perfect relationship. That’s how it seemed when you saw them interact with each other. His hand on her waist, her eyes shining into his. They’d seem to complement each other like the ocean compliments the beach.

Which is why you were confused when Wanda called you in the middle of your shift at work. She hardly ever called, finding texting much more reliable. However, you picked up the phone on the first ring.

“Hey, I know you’re probably working right now but is there any way you can pick me up.”

It sounded like she had been crying.

You were taking your apron off as you spoke into the phone, “Always, just send me your location and I’ll be on my way.”

You hear the relieved sigh she lets out, “Thank you.”

You informed your staff of your departure and headed to your car.  Wanda sent her location, and you put it into your GPS, before driving off. She was closer than you had expected so getting to her was nothing.

She was at a park in the middle of the city. The day was cloudy, and the sun was preparing to set. It was a very grey day to be outdoors.

Once you were out of your car you scanned around for your friend. You found her almost instantly. She was sitting on a bench, her head in her hands.

You’d seen her stressed before, but this felt bigger than that. Her voice on the phone made that very evident to you.

You approached her cautiously and when you got close enough you called her name, “Wanda.”

Her head shot up when she heard you. She was off the bench and in your arms before you had time to react. Her arms were tightly wound around you. It caught you off guard and all you could do was stare down at her for a moment.

Soon you were holding her back just as tight. Your hand cradled the back of her hair, finger tenderly rubbing her scalp.

“What happened?” Your voice is soft when you ask, not trying to provoke her any more than she already is.

It takes her a minute to pull away enough to answer you, but eventually she does, “Jarvis, he proposed.”

Your eyes widen, “These don’t look like happy tears.”

“I was trying to break up with him,” she lets out a deep sigh. “I called him to talk in person, and then I tell him that I think we should break up. He gets on one knee and starts talking, and I- I just…”

“Oh Wands,” you pull her back into your embrace.

You readjust so that you have one arm over her shoulder. She doesn’t protest as you lead her to your car. She climbs in the passenger seat no questions asked as you pull off.

When you arrived at your destination she finally speaks up, “What’re we doing here?”

“Getting takeout,” you answered quickly getting out of the car. “You sit tight.”

You’re in and out of the Chinese food spot with a hefty bad of boxes in tow. When you re-enter the car with the food Wanda sends you a small smile.

“Did you-”

“Of course, I got our favorite and I asked for extra sweet and sour too. I was going to drive to yours, maybe we could eat and indulge in some sitcoms or talk, whatever you want. How does that sound?”

Your eyes raked over her features. She gave you a few small nods, “Sounds better than having an existential breakdown at the park.”

“Well, I guess it’s settled then,” you chuckled a little.

You drove to her house, glancing over at her every few minutes. Her head rested on the window and her eyes were closed, but you knee she wasn’t sleeping. Wanda often closed her eyes when she was trying to ground herself. It was something you had picked on back in college. You never knew where she went in her head, but it always seemed to help her refocus.

When you got to her flat. You handled the food and handled the tv, shooing Wanda away to put on some more comfortable clothes. When she came back in her sweatpants and robe the two of you ate as you watched I Dream of Jeannie.

It took about 2 episodes before she said anything to you.

“You’re not going to ask why I wanted to break up with him?”

You leaned back into the couch, “I’m curious, but it didn’t really seem like something I should be asking right now.”

She searched your eyes for something. If you had to guess, you say for security. She needed to know that start she said next was ok to tell you. In truth there was nothing she could say that would deter you from being there for her.

“I think I like women,” she said as she looked into her lap. There were more tears brewing behind her eyes, “Only women.”

There was no hesitation as you moved closer to her. Your thigh rested against hers, prompting her to meet your gaze.

“That’s not a bad thing Wanda.”

She shakes her head, “It is especially when you have a long-term boyfriend who loves you with everything that he has. You keep wondering when you’re going to love him the way he loves you. When will you stop hating the way he touches you? When will you be able to look at him, the way he looks at you. By the time you realize it can’t be him, it will never be a him… it’s too late. He shows you a ring while you’re trying to break up with him.”

You grab her hand, “You need to be kinder to yourself. This isn’t something you chose to do Wanda. It’s not like you knew the whole time. It sounds like you’re just coming to terms with your sexuality. You did the right thing by breaking up with him.”

“But-"

“Let me finish. If I’m being honest, getting on one knee and proposing to someone after they tried to break up with you sounds like a manipulation tactic.”

She ran her free hand through her hair, “Did you think we were a good couple? Jarvis and I.”

You thought about the question briefly, “I think it looked like you were the perfect couple, but sometimes I didn’t understand it. You’re both so different, not that it was a bad thing. I just… I’ve seen you soar to unimaginable heights. I’ve seen your ambitions become your reality. I just didn’t see that in him. You’re always striving to be the best, to improve. I always thought you’d want someone to do the same with you or someone who was okay with you doing that. It just seemed like all of that went over his head.”

“He was a very traditional man. He always talked about settling down in the future, with firm roots, and kids. He talked about me retiring and letting him take care of me. It was just- not what I wanted.”

“And that’s ok, people break up all the time Wanda. It’s a normal part of life. Yes, it sucks, but it's just a breakup. Think of it as one step closer to finding your person.”

She nods slightly, “When did you get so good at this?”

You smile at her, “I’m not good at this. I’m just good with you. That's what nearly a decade of friendship does to someone.”

She didn’t say anything else. Instead, she rested her head on your shoulder and turned her attention back to the tv. You wrapped your arm around her shoulder, pulling her firmly into you.

Wanda would get through this, just like she got through everything else. You’d make sure of it, because she'd do the same for you.

In the coming months, you found yourself carving out more time for Wanda. The busy nature of your schedule died down significantly when you started to entrust the general manager of your restaurant with some more responsibility. It made your workload lighter while allowing your GM to get some more experience.

You used the new free time to support her the best way you could. Sometimes that meant bringing her lunch when she was working. Other times it was coming over after to make sure the woman wasn’t neglecting her home. You’d go over and check if she had groceries or that she wasn’t letting the flat get too dirty.  She was the kind of woman that threw herself into work when she was trying to avoid something.

You’d even gone as far as helping her set up a dating profile when she was ready to put herself back out there.

“How do you do it?”

“Do what?”

You were once again in her flat. She stood in the kitchen, while you sat on a chair stationed at the island in the middle of the same room.

“Date women,” she was asking sincerely, but you couldn’t stop yourself from laughing.

“Well, I don’t really date, but it’s the same as any date. You’re trying to present your best self, get a good foot forward, but while maintaining an authenticity. It’s not like a job interview where only one person is doing the hiring; you both have a say in how it turns out.”

Wanda narrows her eyes, “Why don’t you date?”

You shrug, “Too busy running a very successful restaurant.”

“You’re not as busy as you used to be. Maybe you should set up a profile for yourself. I’m sure any girl would be lucky to have you.”

You shook your head, “Hard pass, but I appreciate the effort.”

“Come on, Y/nn. I know accomplishments can feel empty when you don’t have anyone to share them with,” she tried to persuade you.

“Well good thing I can share it with you then,” you countered.

She let out an irritated sigh, “You know that’s not what I meant.”

You smirk, “Why do you want me to sign up so badly anyway? You think we’re going to match?”

You were only joking, yet you can’t help but notice the slight color on your friend’s cheeks.

She scoffed like you expected her to, “Grow up.”

For a moment it feels like you’re back in your college dorm. The playful and flirty banter was always present between the two of you. It was easy for you to flirt with her, knowing you never really had a chance. However, now that there was even the slightest of possibility that this could escalate, it felt completely different.

“It’s alright Wanda, nothing to be ashamed of. I’m hot, successful, hardworking, and financially responsible. Hard to ignore the total package.”

She rolled her eyes, “I remember when Ms. ‘Total Package’ couldn’t even finish her college assignments without my help.”

You chuckle when you catch her eyes, “You’ve got me there. If it wasn’t for you, I have no idea where’d I be.”

“Probably still in college on your 95th major change,” she laughed at her own joke.

Now it was your turn to roll your eyes, “Very funny.”

 With a smile plastered on her face she strolled over to sit next to you. She spun on the barstool before grabbing your arms and looking into your eyes, “I have something for you actually.”

“What is it?”

She reached into her pocket and sat a key down on the island. You looked at her then the key with slight confusion.

“A key?”

Wanda nods, “You’re basically here all the time and I’m getting tired of opening the door for you.”

“I’m using this key to come over and cook in this beautiful kitchen, you hardly use.”

“Hey, I cook,” she defended.

You laugh, “I said hardly, didn’t I?”

When you got home that night, you felt a new weight on your shoulders. Your hand slipped into your pocket to pull out the key. You held it flat in your palm. The small piece of metal was cool against your skin. You stared at it for a long while.

It was just a key. There wasn't anything crazy about it. Your friend gave you a key to her house. Friends do that with each other. Your heart shouldn’t have been fluttering the way it was over such a simple gesture.

You closed your hand around the key trying to ground yourself. Your eyes shut, but as soon as they did her smile etched its way into your sight.

“Shit.”

It was like college all over again. You thought you had gotten over your crush on Wanda many years ago. She was straight, it was never going to happen. That was something you could deal with, something you could work through. However now, that wasn’t the case anymore. Wanda liked women, technically you had a chance.

You shouldn't be thinking like that. She needs you now, to be her friend. You were doing so well. Taking care of her had become an unconscious pattern as easy as breathing. You never thought about it too hard when she needed you. It’s like the moment she put the key in your hand, your mind finally started thinking.

Subconsciously you’d always known it. It’s why you didn't date. It was unfair to be with someone who’d never be able to prioritize over Wanda. She was one of the few people in your life that you’d drop everything for.

Sure, you were a busy woman, but you’d never be too busy for her. Her distress over Jarvis literally made you change the way you worked, just to make sure you were there when she needed you.

“Why would I make her a dating profile?” You asked yourself as you face-planted on to your mattress.

Just as you expected Wanda’s profile was gaining some traction. There were a lot of women interested in someone like her. Soon she was going on more dates than you had been on in years. Most of them weren’t serious, she often said she wouldn’t be seeing them again.

While you were sad that she wasn’t finding anyone suitable you were also happy for the same reason. You thought you’d attempt to cheer up her up after so many bad dates by cooking one of her favorite dishes from home.

You made a day of finding the freshest ingredients. You drove out to find markets that had authentic food from her home country. There wasn’t a lot locally, but you didn’t mind the hunt.

Once you had everything you needed you made your way over to Wanda’s. It was a struggle carrying everything up, but you managed with a little bit of a struggle.

While you were still conflicted about having a key to her flat, you still used it plenty of times. So just like you had done previously you let yourself into Wanda’s home.

“Oh, fuck sorry,” you said as you immediately saw Wanda straddling the lap of an older (an admittedly super attractive) woman on her living room couch.

Wanda looked like a deer in headlights. You were trying to comprehend if you were more mortified or heartbroken. No one spoke for a long while until the older woman cleared her throat.

“Right, uh I’ll just come back tomorrow or something. Enjoy your night, Wanda.”

With the groceries still in your hand, you turned around and closed the door. You only made it down a few steps before you heard someone calling after you.

“Y/n, wait!”

You closed your eyes and took in a deep breath trying to mask your feelings before you turned around.

“This stuff is a little heavy Wanda; I want to get it back to the car before the bags break.”

She took a few bags from your hands, “Let me help you.”

“You don’t have to; you looked pretty busy in there. Here I was, bringing stuff to cook for you in light of all your failed dates, but it seems like you’re not doing nearly as bad as I thought,” you tried to joke with her.

“Agatha is definitely the best of the dates I've had so far.”

You had to keep yourself from wincing, “Glad to hear it.”

Wanda helped you load the stuff back into the car.

“I’m really sorry about this. If I would’ve known you were coming-"

You shook your head, “It’s fine Wanda, go back to making out with a hot older woman. They don't like to wait for too long. I’ll just text you next time instead of just barging in.”

“I have you a key because you’re always welcome.”

You unhook the key from your key ring and hand it back to her, “I know that, but maybe it’s best if you let me in.”

“Y/n,” she looked at you with confusion.

You smile through the pain, “If you’re going to have women over, it’s not a good look for another woman to be coming in and out of your house whenever. We’re not related and we’re not roommates. There’s not really a reason for me to have access to you like that.”

“I don’t understand,” she looked between you and the key that was now in her hand.

“Usually, a key to your flat would mean I’m your girlfriend. Me coming over to cook for you as another woman who likes women is bad for your stock. It just doesn't feel like something that's easily explained. I would have a bunch of questions if I was in Agatha’s position, especially since you haven't gone back yet,” you hop into your car.

There was a conflicted look on her face, “You’ll stop by tomorrow?”

“I’ve got work, but I'll try to stop by after,” you told her that even though you knew you wouldn't be coming back tomorrow.

“I’ll see later then?” She was searching for something as she surveyed your features.

With what little control you had left, you tried to give her what she was looking for, “Definitely. Now forget about this and go back to your date.”

She looked like she wanted to say more, but with a small glance back at her flat, she walked away. You drove home.

The groceries felt eternally heavier when you were bringing them into your house. You wondered how carrying them upstairs to Wanda’s was even possible.

You hurriedly put the food away, showered, and then got in the bed. When your head hits the pillow, you let out a deep sigh. Your jaw started to tremble on its own.

You let out a bitter laugh as the tears fell down your face. You didn’t bother to wipe them away.  It felt like a part of you was ripped out of your chest.

This was bound to happen eventually. Wanda would move on from Jarvis and your silly fantasy would be crushed. You felt silly crying over a woman that was never yours.

Yet another part of you was screaming at you for feeling silly. You were doing a lot for Wanda. Even if it was all just friendly, sometimes it felt like more. All the dinners, all the cuddling on the couch, all the late-night talks. She was your better half, but she wasn’t your girl. She’d never be your girl.

It was something you had to accept. You didn’t go to work the next day. You rotted in your bed, not having the energy to get up. Scrolling on your phone was the only thing you wanted to do.

Wanda had texted you a few times, but you ignored the messages. Even the thought of her just made your entire chest burn.

You finally got out of bed when you had to pee. You took the opportunity to brush your teeth as well. On the way back to the bed your doorbell started to ring. Not just once either. Whoever was at the door pressed the button over and over again. It was impossible to ignore.

So, with your bed head, red eyes, and mismatched pajamas you yanked the front door open, “Look, I don’t know what you want but could you just go away and try again tomorrow or something.”

“Tomorrow’s not going to work for me.”

Your head shot up and you felt face heat. Wanda was standing at your front door with her arms crossed over her chest with an eyebrow raised.

“What’re you doing here?”

Your voice had a softness to it that you reserved for the red head in front of you.

She didn’t answer your question. Instead, she let herself into your home. You closed the door behind her. You followed her to your living room. She sat on your couch while you took a seat on a chair diagonal to it.

“I thought you had work today,” she says.

“I decided not to go.”

“I’ve been texting you.”

You shrugged, “Haven’t been on it sorry.”

Wanda stared at you, “I went to your restaurant looking for you.”

You were looking into your lap, “I’m sorry Wanda.”

She got up from the couch to come completely into your line of sight. She kneeled down in front of you, her hands resting on your knees.

“What’s going on with Y/nn?”

The concern in her voice broke you out of your trance. You tried your hardest to feign that you were alright.

“I’m fine. Since you’re here why don't you let me cook something for us?”

You stood from the chair quickly pushing down the rest of your emotions. She watched as you walked over to the kitchen pulling out some of the ingredients you had bought the day before.

“This is for paprikash,” Wanda watched as you began to prepare.

You nod, “Yeah, I got stuff for chicken paprikash, alivenci, and cholent too. The plan was to cook the paprikash and then the alivenci for dessert. I was going to set up the cholent for you before I left so you could have it fresh the next day because it’s got to cook for like 17 hours.”

“You got all of this for me?”

You answered her while chopping up the vegetables, “It was nothing.”

“It’s not nothing. You’re using Hungarian bell peppers, where did you even get those?”

You smiled a bit, “I do own a restaurant, Wanda. If there’s anything I’m an expert in, it’s food. I wanted it to be authentic as possible.”

As you began cooking you felt the weight of the situation lift off of your shoulders. Cooking had always been a stress reliever for you, and it wasn’t any different now. You could feel Wanda’s eyes on you, but you never looked away from the meal.

Only when the chicken was simmering in the pot did she attempt to grab your attention.

“After you came by yesterday, I asked Agatha to leave,” Wanda broke the silence.

You finally look at her, “Why would you do something like that?”

She simply placed a key on the counter, “I couldn't stop thinking about you giving me this key back.”

“Wanda,” you tried to stop her, but she cut you off.

“No, I need you to listen. When you put this key in my hand, it felt like you had handed me a live grenade. I didn’t understand why. It wasn’t until I went back inside, and Agatha asked me how we knew each other that it clicked. You’re my everything.”

“What are you saying?”

She hesitated, “I’m saying I’ve already found my person.”

“Wanda, you’re my best friend.”

She invaded your personal space, grabbing you gently by the wrist, “And you’re mine, but it’s more than that isn’t it? You’re the person I can rely on for anything at any time. You’re the woman that left her restaurant to put me back together when my ex left. You listened to me, you held me, you cooked for me, made sure I had groceries, and that my house was clean. Friends don't do as much as you've done for me.”

You slowly lifted your gaze to meet her’s, “I just know you appreciate acts of service.”

“Y/n if you don’t want this I’ll leave and we can pretend it never happened; but if you do want this, want me, I’m right here laying it all out for you.”

You drop your gaze again, “I cried myself to sleep last night. I thought I'd lost my chance. When I saw you on top of Agatha, something broke inside of me Wanda.  Back in college I had a crush on, but I thought you were straight, so it was easy to keep it down. When you came out to me, it was like I was at square one all over again.”

Wanda shook her head, “It’s not square one because here I am telling you that I’m in love with you. Please give us a chance Y/n.”

You wished the moment was more glamorous as you kissed the woman in front of you. You hadn’t denied her yet and you never planned to. Her hands locked behind your neck while yours rested on her waist.

Your breath was shaky when the kiss ended. Neither of you moved.

“I love you too,” you pecked her lips again.

Wanda blushed, but you were more focused on the way she looked at you. Her eyes were full of nothing but tenderness.

“Would you take the key back?”

You raised your eyebrow, “Why does it feel like you’re asking me for something else?”

She feigned innocence, “I’m not. Unless you think that what you said yesterday about keys is true.”

“Remind me what I said again?”

Her fingers played with the hairs at the base of your neck, “A key to my flat means girlfriend.”

You pretended to think about it, “Girlfriend?”

She nodded, “Girlfriend.”

“I guess I’ll have to get you a key too then,” you said softly.

This time Wanda leaned in for a kiss. It was supposed to be a peck, but you both got lost in that moment. Neither willingly to part with the other just yet. Lips fitting together to create a soft lullaby of security.

You never thought you’d be lucky enough to have Wanda in this way. She was your best friend, your person, and now your girlfriend. It may have taken years, but you wouldn’t have had it any other way. Wanda cherished you just as much. She felt like an idiot for not realizing her feelings sooner, but she was just happy to call you, her girl.

And one day, she would be ecstatic to call you, her wife.