obsessiveandutterlydelusional

[obsessiveandutterlydelusional]

side note, i seriously need ideas for what to write, i have like zero requests rn and NEED SOMETHING! please feel free to request, my guidelines are pinned in my profile in the navigation post, and if you don’t see something specific in “the things i will write” STILL REQUEST (unless it’s in something i won’t write), i’m open to most things!

[obsessiveandutterlydelusional]

Too Soft to Be Casual.

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x fem!reader (no use of y/n)

Summary: Wanda shows up like always—hoodie on, guarded eyes, lips on yours before either of you have to say a word. It’s routine. Comfortable. Careful.

But the silence between you is growing heavier. And neither of you are saying what really matters.

She keeps pretending it’s casual. You keep pretending it doesn’t hurt.

Until one message, one knock, and one terrifying truth she can’t hold back anymore unravel it all.

A story about fear, softness, and the quiet kind of love that waits outside the walls you build.

TW: hurt/comfort, angst? with a happy ending, no smut just fluff

Word Count: mm around 1k

A/N: so this is a part two to rules of distraction, it's not very long but i hope it's okay, i've been working so much lately and haven't had the energy to write much. but random off topic thing that happened, i won 1k on a 2 dollar lottery ticket on APRIL FOOLS DAY, of all days. picked up the check today! anyways, enjoy :) also, read part one here if you haven't

⸻

You haven’t talked about the library.

Not once.

Not even in passing.

And somehow, that silence said more than either of you ever could.

The next time Wanda shows up, it’s like nothing’s changed. Hoodie on. Notebook in hand. Eyes shuttered behind practiced indifference. She kisses you at the door—too eager, not tender. Like if she keeps her mouth moving, her heart won’t get the chance to speak.

It’s a rhythm now.

Familiar. Addictive.

Unbearably fragile.

Because Wanda’s always been good at pretending.

That she didn’t notice the way you looked at her like she mattered. That your touch didn’t linger in her skin long after you left. That this thing between you—whatever it is—wasn’t blooming in places she swore were too broken to hold anything like love.

She thought she could keep it physical. Safe. Clean.

She was wrong.

⸻

You feel the shift before she says anything.

She stays in bed longer now, but always on the edge.

Never sleeping.

Never touching.

She’ll trace your spine like it calms her—then flinch back, like even that much softness might cost her something she can’t afford to lose.

You don’t push. But it builds anyway.

The inevitable.

Her mask is slipping, and she doesn’t know how to stop it.

You keep smiling at her the same way. Soft. Steady. Like you see her—really see her—and don’t plan on leaving.

And that terrifies her.

She’s spent years building walls to keep people out.

But you… you never tried to break them down.

You just stood outside, waiting.

That made her want to bolt.

And stay.

All at once.

⸻

Two days pass. Nothing.

No texts.

No study sessions.

Not even a glance in class.

Her seat shifts again—back two rows, like you’re strangers.

Like none of it happened.

You catch her eye once.

She drops her gaze so fast it feels like a punch.

That night, you send one message:

| Are we okay?

She doesn’t reply.

⸻

She stares at your message for fifteen minutes. Types. Deletes. Types again.

She doesn’t know how to say:

I miss you.

I can’t stop thinking about you.

I don’t know how to pretend this is nothing anymore.

She thinks about not replying at all.

And then she’s standing outside your door.

⸻

The knock is so faint, you nearly miss it.

She’s in your hoodie again. Hood up. Sleeves too long. She clings to the fabric like it might hide her from herself.

Her eyes are rimmed red—not from crying. From trying not to.

You step aside. She walks in, but stops in the middle of the room. Like she doesn’t belong there anymore.

Like she’s already halfway gone.

���You gonna ghost me in person too?” you ask. Even tone. But your pulse is hammering.

She winces. “I wasn’t— I didn’t mean to…”

You wait.

“I didn’t know what to say.”

“Start with the truth.”

She hates the way you look at her right now.

Not angry. Not cold.

Just… disappointed. Quietly.

Like someone who’s been left before and learned not to beg.

She never wanted to make you feel like that.

But she already has.

“This is getting too hard,” she murmurs.

“What is?”

“All of it. Pretending this is casual. Pretending I’m not…” She swallows hard. “That you don’t…”

“That I don’t what?”

Her voice breaks. “That you don’t mean something to me.”

The silence after is loud. Tense. Fragile.

You take a step closer. Then another.

“You’re scared,” you say.

She nods, eyes wet.

“I get it.”

She lets out a bitter laugh. “You shouldn’t. I’ve been awful.”

“No. You’ve been protecting yourself.”

You reach out—barely grazing her cheek with your knuckles. She leans into it.

Just a little.

Just enough.

“I don’t need the version of you who has it all figured out,” you whisper. “I just need you.”

She exhales. Staggered. Shaky.

And then it slips out, raw and desperate:

“I think I love you.”

She didn’t mean to say it. Not yet.

But the moment it’s out, it feels like coming up for air after months underwater.

And when you don’t flinch—don’t leave—something inside her unravels.

You smile. Soft. Real.

“I know.”

Her brow furrows, confused.

“I’ve known for a while,” you say gently. “Didn’t want to push you.”

Tears spill down her cheeks, and you catch them with your thumb. She doesn’t hide this time.

“You should hate me,” she whispers. “I kept you at arm’s length, made you feel like you didn’t matter.”

“I don’t hate you,” you say, firm and certain. “I was just waiting for you to stay.”

Then you kiss her.

Not frantic. Not greedy.

Just… quiet.

Her lips meet yours like an apology. Cautious. Hopeful. The kiss lingers, slow and warm, a promise you’re both still learning how to keep.

When you pull away, you press you forehead against hers.

“Stay tonight?” you whisper.

“Please,” she breathes.

⸻

Later, in bed, she curls against your chest. One hand over your ribs like she needs to feel you breathing to believe any of this is real.

You hold her close, no sex, no hurry. Just warmth.

Just this.

She softens—barely—but you feel it.

Her fingers twitch.

“Thank you,” she mumbles.

“For what?”

“For seeing me.”

You don’t answer. You just press your lips to the top of her head.

And for the first time, she falls asleep in your arms.

Letting herself believe she’s allowed to.

[obsessiveandutterlydelusional]

she’s such a f*cking dork oh my god

[obsessiveandutterlydelusional]

FUCK!!! How is she able to look so pure, innocent and sweet but so dominant, mommy and the type of mean person who can break you with only one word at the same time?!

[obsessiveandutterlydelusional]

testing if this works cause I NEED Y'ALL TO SEE THIS FIC. i'm proud of it and my tags won't work/show up on it for some reason..

[obsessiveandutterlydelusional]

Rules of Distraction.

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x fem!reader (no use of y/n)

Summary: It started with stolen glances in class. It became study sessions, late nights, whispered touches. Now you’re in deep in a situationship with Wanda Maximoff—one neither of you can define, but neither of you wants to end. You take her apart in the quiet corners of the library, and afterward, you hold her like she’s something fragile.

This was supposed to be easy.

It never was.

TW: NSFW, sub!wanda (sub wanda is so cute and we need more of her), dom!reader, friends with benefits, college au, public sex (you don’t get caught), library sex, power dynamics, fingering, praise kink, some degrading but not much, some dirty talk, smut with feelings, choking (like very briefly), aftercare, mutual pining, internalized feelings, wanda being afraid of vulnerability, you being understanding and sweet because wanda deserves it

Word Count: around 3-4k i think

A/N: sooo, reposting this since it wasn't showing up in the tags for some reason and was flopping- hopefully it works this time (edit: still not showing up AGHHHH, why must tumblr hate me)

⸻

Going from study buddies to fuck buddies wasn’t in the syllabus.

Then again, nothing about Wanda Maximoff ever felt planned. She moved through your life like a glitch in time—unexpected, disarming, magnetic in ways you could never explain but always felt.

It started in a lecture hall, early in the semester. You sat two rows apart for the first month, occasionally exchanging comments over shared notes or sighs of mutual academic dread. The first time she turned around to ask you a question, your brain short-circuited. She had that lazy kind of beauty—like she didn’t try, like she didn’t need to. Auburn waves, soft lips, eyes so green they made you forget what planet you were on.

You tried to play it cool. But you weren’t cool. Not around her.

Eventually, you started sitting next to each other. Then came shared coffees, inside jokes, the way her shoulder would bump into yours when she laughed too hard at something that wasn’t even that funny. She was the kind of girl who looked at you like she already knew your secrets… and maybe she did. Because around Wanda, your walls thinned. Not in big ways. In subtle ones. The kind that crept up unnoticed.

You became study buddies.

It was easy—too easy. She was smart, sharp, snarky. She always came prepared but rarely stayed focused. You caught her staring more than once. Caught yourself doing it too. Her eyes would drift to your mouth when you spoke. Yours would dip to her collarbones when she leaned over the table, sweater slipping off one shoulder. There were so many almosts. Almost touches. Almost kisses.

It should’ve been obvious where it was heading.

And yet, when it finally happened, it still knocked the air out of you.

⸻

It was a late night in the library, a week before midterms. You’d been there for hours, your laptop humming softly while your shared playlist played between you. The space between your chairs had disappeared over time. Her knee brushed yours. You didn’t move. Her voice had gone quieter, lower, like every word was for your ears alone. And when your eyes met—both of you leaning in ever so slightly—it was like gravity did the rest.

The kiss was hesitant at first. A test. A breath. A crackling pause that only lasted seconds before dissolving into need.

You pulled back first, startled by your own boldness. But Wanda chased it, one hand sliding to your jaw as she kissed you again—deeper this time, hungrier. Like she’d been waiting.

And after that, it was all heat and hands and heartbeats pounding in your throat. You made out against a dusty bookshelf that night, both of you laughing breathlessly when a stack of old books tumbled beside you. She pulled away only to say, “My place,” and you followed without hesitation.

What happened next was messy, beautiful, desperate. You learned quickly how her body responded to yours. The sounds she made. The way her fingers curled in the sheets. The way she whispered your name like it was something holy.

And then the morning came.

You half-expected her to ghost you.

Instead, she handed you a mug of black coffee and a shy smile before settling beside you on the couch, your legs tangled like they belonged that way. You didn’t talk about what happened. Not then. Not after the second time. Or the tenth.

It became a pattern.

Before class. After class. On weekends. Quick and breathless or slow and consuming. But always under a silent agreement: this wasn’t more than what it was. A connection built in shadows, never spoken of in daylight.

But it felt like more.

Especially in the quiet moments—the way her fingers lingered against yours when she passed you a pen. The way she looked at you like she was memorizing every inch of your face. The way she always touched you like she was afraid you might disappear.

Still, Wanda had her walls. Tall ones. Reinforced. Built brick by painful brick over years of abandonment and fear.

She didn’t sleep around. That’s what surprised you. For someone who claimed she didn’t do commitment, she also didn’t do casual with anyone else. It was just you. Always you.

But when the silence settled after the sex… that’s when you felt it. The distance. Like she was already slipping back behind the walls you’d tried to pull her from.

You never asked her why.

And she never offered an answer.

But when her fingers laced with yours under the table one day without thinking, when her lips brushed your forehead after a long night, when she looked like she wanted to say something but didn’t… you knew.

She was scared.

Maybe you were too.

⸻

The text came just after noon.

 | Library at 6? Same spot.

You stared at it longer than you should have before typing back.

| Wouldn’t miss it.

It was routine by now. A ritual neither of you questioned. Whenever Wanda needed to study—or said she did—you’d meet in the quietest corner of the library, tucked away in a forgotten nook between two half-empty rows of dusty philosophy books and a cracked window that rattled on windy nights.

No one ever came back here. And you both liked it that way.

You got there early, as usual, because pretending to be casual about seeing her never worked. There was something about the way she moved, the way her presence filled a space before she even said a word. You liked to watch her walk in. That quiet moment before she spotted you, where her expression was soft and unguarded—before she smirked or teased or wore that mask of feigned nonchalance.

You felt her before you saw her.

That familiar shift in the air. The way the back of your neck prickled with awareness. The way your pulse ticked up like muscle memory. You didn’t even have to look up to know she was there.

But of course, you did.

Wanda walked through the library entrance like she wasn’t already the loudest thing in the room—even in total silence. Skirt swaying, boots muffled against the carpet, sweater sleeves pushed halfway up her forearms. She scanned the room with eyes that flicked like a flame, eventually landing on you with a soft, private smile.

And that was it. You were already undone.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said, sliding into the seat next to you. “The bus was a nightmare.”

“You’re forgiven,” you said, voice even. Not like your heart was crawling into your throat.

She pulled her bag into her lap, started unpacking. Notebooks, pens, laptop. Her fingers moved fast, almost distractedly, like she was giving herself something to focus on.

You watched her, shamelessly. The way her skirt rose when she crossed her legs. The way her hair framed her face, slightly messy like she’d been fidgeting with it. The way her bottom lip caught briefly between her teeth as she clicked through her open tabs.

“So,” she said, flicking her pen cap off and raising an eyebrow. “Are we actually studying today, or are we just pretending again?”

You smirked. “I was waiting to see how long you’d last.”

She huffed out a laugh. “Ten minutes. Maybe less.”

You turned your attention back to your laptop, pretending to scroll through notes while watching her out of the corner of your eye. Every movement she made was slow, fluid, calculated. But there was a nervous edge to her today—something quieter behind her usual teasing.

“You okay?” you asked, softer this time.

Wanda looked up. Blinked. “Yeah. Just… tired.”

You nodded, but didn’t press.

Instead, you leaned back in your chair, letting your thigh graze hers beneath the table. Just a little. Just enough.

She didn’t pull away.

Her fingers stilled on her notebook for a second, and you saw the flush rise in her cheeks like clockwork.

Your own breath caught a little. It always surprised you—how easy it was to fluster her. How much she tried not to show it.

“So,” she said again, clearing her throat and looking down at her notes. “Freud or Jung?”

You smirked. “You’re asking me to choose between two emotionally constipated dead men.”

Wanda snorted. “Tell me how you really feel.”

“I feel like you’re wearing that skirt on purpose.”

She looked up sharply, eyes narrowing in mock offense. “Excuse me?”

You tilted your head. “Am I wrong?”

“I don’t dress for you.”

You let the silence hang between you. Then, slowly, you leaned forward.

“No. But you knew I’d see you.”

That got her.

Her lips parted—barely. Her breathing slowed. Her fingers curled slightly over the corner of her notebook like she needed something to hold onto. And still, she said nothing. Her eyes were doing all the talking now.

God, she was so easy to read. Or maybe just easy for you.

You reached beneath the table, your hand moving deliberately until it landed on her knee. The contact was gentle, nonchalant—if anyone walked by, they’d never suspect a thing.

But Wanda’s breath caught in her throat.

She didn’t look at you, didn’t flinch. But her legs shifted under the table. Just a little. Just enough. The message was clear.

Your hand stayed where it was, fingertips brushing small, slow circles over her bare skin. Her skirt had ridden up higher, and you were taking your time, savoring the warmth of her. Her thigh twitched under your touch. A subtle response. One she probably didn’t mean to give.

“I thought we were studying,” she whispered.

“We are,” you said, voice low. “I’m studying how you fall apart.”

Her breath hitched.

You watched the way her jaw tightened, how her shoulders tensed. You knew she was trying not to react. Trying to stay still. Normal. Invisible.

But Wanda was never invisible to you.

Your fingers slid higher, just an inch. Just enough to make her shift in her seat again.

“You’re not going to make it through this study session,” you murmured, close enough now for her to feel your breath.

Her response was barely audible.

“Don’t bet on it.”

But you could already tell—you were winning.

Wanda was already gone, her focus shredded the moment your fingers brushed her knee. She shifted in her seat, pretending to stay composed, pretending her thighs hadn’t already begun to press together, tight and twitching with need.

You barely touched her, and she was already soaked. You knew it. She knew it.

Your fingers ghosted up her inner thigh—slow and unrelenting. You could feel the tension in her leg, her muscles clenching as you reached the hem of her skirt. She stayed perfectly still. Submissive. Obedient. The way you’d trained her to be when the two of you were alone.

But you weren’t alone. And that made this so much sweeter.

You leaned in close, lips brushing her ear, voice low and sharp.

“Spread your legs. Slowly.”

Wanda inhaled sharply. Her fingers gripped the edge of the table. But she obeyed—parting her thighs inch by inch until your hand had full access.

“Good girl.”

You felt the shiver ripple through her body at those words. Always did. She lived for your praise. Craved it.

Your fingers slid over the thin cotton of her panties, dragging along the center of her cunt—hot and soaked and trembling under your touch. A ragged breath escaped her lips, and you gave her a warning look.

“Don’t make a sound.”

She nodded, lip already caught between her teeth.

You pressed your fingers more firmly, circling her clit through the damp fabric—slow, teasing pressure, just enough to make her hips twitch in search of more.

“Do you think anyone would believe me if I told them the sweet, quiet girl who always sits in the second row is dripping wet in the library right now?” you whispered, teeth grazing her earlobe.

She let out a quiet whimper—soft and strangled.

You smirked. “Didn’t think so.”

Your hand moved with agonizing slowness. You traced the line of her slit, felt the heat radiating off her through the soaked cotton. She squirmed beneath your touch, pressing her thighs wider, practically begging without a word.

Your fingers slipped beneath the fabric.

And fuck—she was drenched.

You dragged your middle finger between her folds, gathering her slick, then circled her clit with the lightest pressure.

Wanda’s hand shot out, grabbing your thigh under the table, squeezing hard.

You pressed your mouth against her ear again. “You need something?”

She nodded quickly, hips tilting.

“Use your words.”

“Please,” she whispered. “Please, I—I need more.”

“You’ll take what I give you.”

You thrust a finger inside her without warning, burying it to the knuckle. Her mouth opened in a silent gasp, her whole body jerking forward slightly from the force of it.

“Keep your eyes on the screen,” you ordered.

She stared ahead, unfocused and glassy-eyed, her knuckles white as she clung to the edge of the table.

“Good. Just like that.”

You started a slow rhythm—your finger thrusting deep, curling slightly on each push. Then two fingers. Her walls fluttered around you, gripping tight as you pushed in, dragged out, and shoved back in with more force.

She was shaking now. Trying not to make a sound. Her jaw clenched, her body trembling, thighs pressing in around your wrist.

“Look at you,” you murmured. “So obedient. Just letting me finger-fuck you in public like a filthy little slut.”

She whimpered, her body jerking as your fingers curled hard against that spot inside her.

“You like that? Being used like this?”

“Y-Yes,” she gasped, barely able to breathe. “Yes—fuck—please…”

You brought your thumb to her clit and pressed hard, rubbing tight, relentless circles that matched the thrust of your fingers. Her thighs tensed, hips grinding down against your hand now, chasing her orgasm like she couldn’t hold back anymore.

You reached up with your free hand, wrapping it around her throat.

Not too tight. Just enough.

Just enough for her to know she was yours.

“Stay quiet,” you growled into her ear. “Or I’ll stop.”

Wanda choked back a moan, her entire body convulsing as her orgasm hit her like a wave.

You felt it—how she clamped around your fingers, how her legs trembled violently, how her mouth opened in a perfect silent scream. She fell forward slightly, her forehead pressed against your shoulder, teeth clenched against the fabric of your shirt.

You held her through it—working her through every wave, even as her nails dug into your thigh and her body writhed with overstimulation.

She was panting by the time you withdrew your fingers.

Spent. Shaking.

You pulled her panties gently back into place and leaned in close, lips brushing the shell of her ear.

“You did so well, baby. Such a good girl for me.”

She whimpered—tiny, breathless. Her lashes fluttered as she blinked at the screen, dazed.

⸻

You stayed close.

Not because you had to. Not because she asked.

But because it felt wrong not to.

Wanda was still slouched into your side, breathing shallow and slow, her forehead resting against your shoulder like she was too heavy for her own spine. She hadn’t moved since she came. Her fingers were still curled around the fabric of your jeans like she needed to hold onto something—anything—to keep herself grounded.

You let her.

Your hand rubbed slow, calming circles into her lower back, careful not to touch anywhere too sensitive. She twitched once when your palm skimmed too low near her thigh, and you adjusted immediately, moving up between her shoulder blades instead. She let out a breath. Not quite a sigh. Not quite a moan.

Just something… real.

She always melted like this after you pushed her. Like her body remembered how to breathe, but her brain hadn’t caught up yet.

“You with me?” you asked, voice quiet.

She nodded, barely. Her voice came small against your neck. “Yeah. Just…”

“Floaty?”

“Yeah.”

You kissed the top of her head, right where her hair was softest. She made a sound at that—something fragile. Something that made your chest tighten.

The library was still quiet. A few pages turned in the distance. Someone coughed. The world kept moving around you, but in your little corner, time slowed.

Wanda didn’t lift her head for a long time.

And you didn’t ask her to.

You just kept holding her. Grounding her. One arm wrapped around her shoulders, one hand still brushing her back like you were trying to tell her all the things you couldn’t say aloud.

She shifted eventually. Not away—just slightly enough to peek up at you through her lashes.

Her mascara was smudged.

“You always do that,” she said, voice hoarse.

“Do what?”

“Take care of me. After.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Would you rather I didn’t?”

“No,” she said quickly. Then, softer: “No, I just… don’t know how to be this.”

She dropped her gaze again, like the confession was too much.

And fuck, it hit you like a punch to the gut.

You cupped her cheek gently, tilting her face back up so she couldn’t hide.

“You don’t have to be anything,” you said. “You just have to be here.”

Wanda blinked at you, her lips parted like she might say something else. But nothing came. Just that look—raw, uncertain, too honest for someone who usually kept her armor sharp and spotless.

Your thumb brushed just under her eye, catching a bit of smeared black.

She leaned into the touch. Barely. But she did.

“You should hate this,” she murmured. “I’m such a mess.”

“I like your mess.”

Her laugh cracked something inside you—it was small, breathy, and wet at the edges, like she was trying to pretend it wasn’t relief.

Then she pulled away just enough to sit up, straighten her sweater, and pull the hem of her skirt down over her thighs again. Still flushed. Still dazed. But trying to collect herself in that careful, practiced Wanda way.

“Next time,” she said, clearing her throat, “remind me not to wear a skirt when I’m trying to be productive.”

You smirked. “You wore it for me.”

She gave you a look—one that was half defiance, half surrender.

And didn’t deny it.

[obsessiveandutterlydelusional]

I'm not sure if you write plus size reader but if you do I'd love to see Wanda being absolutely Obsessed with female curvyplussized!reader— like she can't help but be all over her, pawing, palming, groping at whatever she could get her hands on. Wanda is absolutely floored like she can't help but eye reader until she just can't help but beg the poor woman to sit on her face! reader would be so reluctant, not wanting to suffocate her. If not, ignore this. Hope you're doing well

ofc anon! i'd love to fulfill this request for you :) since i wasn't sure if you wanted a full fic or not, i wrote you a little blurb. i hope you like it!

⸻

Wanda can’t stop touching you.

It started small — a hand on your lower back that lingered too long, a thumb brushing your side as she reached past you. But now? There’s no mistaking it.

Her hands find your waist like it’s second nature, palms curving over the soft, generous swell of your hips as she presses in close behind you in the kitchen. “You know,” she murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear, “you’re dangerous walking around like this.”

You blink down at yourself — oversized tee, no pants, bare legs — nothing particularly scandalous.

Wanda disagrees.

She moves like she’s in a trance, fingers tracing under the hem of your shirt and gliding over your tummy, slow and intentional. “I swear to god, I can’t think straight when you’re in my space. You’re just so…” Her hands glide down, squeezing your hips with a greedy little groan. “So soft. So perfect.”

You shift uncomfortably, not because you don’t like it — god, you do — but because a tiny voice in your head always wonders if she means it. Really means it.

She notices.

Wanda turns you around, both hands cradling your face now, thumbs stroking your cheeks with aching tenderness. “You have to know how much I love your body,” she whispers. “I’m obsessed with it. I think about you constantly. Your thighs, your stomach, your ass, your gorgeous face—baby, you’re everything.”

The heat in her eyes is almost overwhelming. It’s like she can’t decide whether to drop to her knees or burst into tears.

“I see you trying to hide,” she murmurs, pressing kisses across your jaw, your neck, your shoulder. “But there’s nothing you need to hide from me. I love touching you. Holding you. Feeling all of you.”

And when her hands slide down to squeeze your thighs again — slow, deliberate, hungry — her breath hitches. “If I don’t get you somewhere horizontal in the next thirty seconds, I’m going to lose my mind.”

You let out a soft laugh, trying to diffuse the heat blooming low in your belly, but she’s already tugging you toward the bedroom, her grip gentle but urgent.

“I’m serious,” she says, glancing over her shoulder at you with flushed cheeks and wild eyes. “I’m not letting you out of my arms until you’ve let me worship you properly.”

Once you're in the bedroom, she backs you toward the bed, her hands never leaving your body — smoothing over your arms, your waist, tracing every curve like she’s memorizing you all over again.

When she sinks to her knees this time, it's with intention.

Her fingers curl around the soft backs of your thighs, reverent, her mouth already brushing kisses across your belly. “Please,” she whispers, looking up at you like you're holy. “Sit on my face.”

You freeze, heart hammering. “Wanda, I— What if I hurt you?”

She blinks like she can’t even compute the question. “Baby… If you don’t, I’ll really be the one hurting. I want this. I want you. You’re not too much — you’re everything I’ve ever wanted.”

You hesitate. But the way she holds you, the way she adores you — it makes something inside you ache in the best way.

So you nod.

And the smile Wanda gives you could light up the entire city.

[obsessiveandutterlydelusional]

she may have committed mass murder but i still love her

[obsessiveandutterlydelusional]

Ruined for Anyone Else.

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x fem! reader (no use of y/n)

Summary:

Just when you thought you were getting through to Wanda Maximoff, she pushed you away again. She said you meant nothing. That the tension, the lingering glances, the intimate conversations—none of it mattered. But two months later, when Natasha’s lips find yours in a game of truth or dare, it’s Wanda who finally snaps.

What starts as jealousy erupts into something fierce, something possessive… something you’ve both been denying for too long. A slow burn explodes into raw desire, and when it’s over, you’re left with the truth Wanda never dared to say out loud.

She doesn’t just want you. She needs you.

And she’s not done proving it yet.

TW: NSFW, dom!wanda, sub!reader, enhanced strap, p in v sex, lots of smut, porn with little plot, wanda doesn't pull out (breed me PLS), jealous!wanda, possessive!wanda, emotional hurt/comfort, angst but very little, aftercare ofc

Word Count: 3-4k

A/N: second fic time! i didn't really know what to write, so i just wrote whatever came to mind. very little plot for this, but that's fiiine. enjoy this you nasties (myself included).

—

Just when you thought you were getting close to Wanda, she pulled back again—like a tide that kissed your feet before vanishing into the sea. Always just out of reach. Just when you thought you were finally holding her, she recoiled like your touch burned her.

You built a friendship with her. A genuine one. But beneath the smiles and the quiet conversations, there was something else. Something unspoken. A tension that simmered like a storm trapped beneath glass. Maybe that’s what scared her—how real it felt. How dangerous it is to want, truly want, when you’ve lost too much before.

You knew this. You understood. But knowing it didn’t ease the ache that bloomed in your chest after that night.

—

The compound was still, wrapped in late-night quiet. Most everyone had retreated to their rooms, yet sleep refused to claim you. You tossed and turned for an hour, your blanket too warm, your sheets too constricting. Eventually, you gave up, sighing softly as you swung your legs over the bed and padded out into the hallway.

Your socks muffled each step as you walked, humming softly to fill the silence. The cool artificial air nipped at your arms. When you passed the kitchen, the clatter of ceramic shattering made you freeze.

Then a muffled curse.

You peeked into the room, curiosity tugging you forward. The lights were dim, casting a warm glow over the marble countertops. There, hunched by the sink, stood Wanda Maximoff—auburn hair tousled, a broken mug at her feet, steam curling from spilled tea.

“You should be more careful, witchy,” you said, voice low and teasing.

Wanda turned sharply, startled. Her expression softened when she recognized you. With a flick of her fingers, crimson magic swept the shards from the floor. “And you should learn not to sneak up on people,” she muttered, voice barely above a whisper.

You stepped inside, leaning on the island, tilting your head slightly. “Couldn’t sleep either?”

“No.” Her back stayed to you as she grabbed a new mug and tea bag.

Something about her tone made your brows furrow. Distant. Guarded.

“Is something wrong?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

She stirred the tea slowly. The soft clinking of spoon against porcelain filled the silence before she spoke. “Nothing’s wrong... but nothing’s right either.”

You studied her closely. The tension in her shoulders. The way her fingers clutched the mug like it might slip from her grasp. You always noticed the little things when it came to her.

“Not wrong, but not right?” you repeated. “Wanda, what does that even mean?”

She turned then, slowly, finally facing you. Your name slipped from her lips like a breath she’d been holding too long. “You and me… whatever you think this is, you’re wrong. There’s nothing between us. I don’t want you to get false hope.”

Your chest tightened.

“We’ve been polite. Friendly. Maybe we talked a little too much. Maybe we slipped once or twice. But it meant nothing. We’re teammates. Not friends.”

It didn’t sound like her. It sounded practiced. Mechanical. Like something she’d been rehearsing in the mirror.

“Are you serious?” you asked, voice shaking. “We bonded. We shared parts of ourselves we never showed anyone else. That doesn’t just happen. That means something.”

Wanda’s eyes flickered, lips parting as if she might break. But then she hardened again.

“I don’t care what you believe,” she said tightly. “It’s the truth. You mean nothing to me.”

And it shattered you.

You barely managed a nod before walking out. You didn’t look back. If you had, you might have seen the crack in her facade. The pain in her eyes. The way her fingers trembled around the mug like she was trying to hold herself together.

—

Two months passed.

And if you thought things were tense before, you had no idea what suffocating really felt like.

Wanda avoided you—but only physically. Her eyes, on the other hand, seemed magnetized to you. Whenever you were in the same room, you felt them boring into the back of your skull. If looks could kill, you would’ve turned to ash ten times over.

But it wasn’t the staring that bothered you—it was the reason. She’d said you meant nothing. So why was she watching like you were the one who broke her?

You didn’t know.

And the growing attention from Natasha? That was something else you hadn’t expected.

She lingered more. Checked on you after training. Offered to patch you up with surprising gentleness after missions. You didn’t read too much into it at first. Maybe she was just being kind.

But Wanda? Wanda was losing her goddamn mind.

Each laugh you shared with Natasha made her fists clench. Each touch between you, no matter how innocent, made her jaw tighten. And the kiss?

The kiss sent her over the edge.

—

Tony’s “team bonding night” was harmless enough at first. Drinks. Loud music. Dumb dares. You were halfway through your second cocktail when someone proposed a round of truth or dare.

Classic. Dangerous. Especially with this crowd.

Most of it was fun—embarrassing dance moves, gross drinks, wild handstands. Then Sam grinned, eyes flicking to Natasha.

“Truth or dare, Red?”

“Dare,” Natasha smirked.

“Kiss the person you find most attractive in this room.”

The room erupted with whistles.

You laughed—until you saw her moving toward you.

Natasha cupped your face. Her lips met yours—firm, confident, hot. You gasped against her mouth in surprise, but you didn’t pull away.

You didn’t even notice the sound of shattering glass until Natasha pulled back.

You turned.

Wanda was standing across the room, a sharp-edged fury in her eyes. Her plastic cup lay in ruins at her feet.

You barely registered the moment her magic tugged you off the couch, or the stunned murmurs from your teammates behind you. One second you were in the lounge; the next, you were slammed against the inside of Wanda’s bedroom door, the wood cool against your back, her body pressed flush to yours.

“What the fuck was that?” she hissed, every word laced with venom and something darker—possessive, feral.

You met her gaze, breathless. “What was what?”

“Natasha kissing you,” she growled, her emerald eyes glowing faintly red around the edges. “Did you enjoy it?”

Your frustration surged. “You don’t get to ask me that. You’re the one who pushed me away. Said I meant nothing to you.”

Her jaw clenched, and then she broke—finally, fiercely. “I lied.”

Before you could respond, her mouth was on yours.

It was chaos and longing, a kiss that felt like it had been buried under months of silence and regret. Her lips crashed into yours, rough and all-consuming, but melted within seconds into something slower, more dangerous. Her hand cupped the back of your neck, anchoring you there like she was terrified you’d disappear.

You groaned into her mouth as her tongue slid against yours, tasting you like it was her first breath of air after drowning. You didn’t need alcohol to feel drunk—Wanda was intoxicating all on her own.

She broke the kiss only to pull you toward the bed, her magic stripping every thread of fabric from your body with a soft hiss of air. Your skin prickled at the sudden exposure, but you barely had time to register the chill before she was on top of you, straddling your hips with a wild look in her eyes.

“She doesn’t get to touch you like this,” she growled. “No one does. Only me.”

Her eyes roamed hungrily over your body, and her breath hitched when she saw how wet you were already.

Her hands weren’t shy. They moved over your chest, kneading your breasts roughly, thumbs circling your nipples until they were pebble-hard. When she leaned down to take one into her mouth, your back arched off the bed, a soft whimper escaping your lips.

“Fuck—Wanda…”

She groaned against your skin, the vibration sending another wave of heat between your legs. Her teeth scraped gently, then bit—just enough to leave a mark. Her free hand ghosted down your stomach, pausing just above your mound before dipping lower.

You gasped when her fingers found your slick folds.

“So wet already,” she whispered, more to herself than to you. “Is this for her? Or for me?”

You didn’t hesitate. “You. It’s always been you.”

Her fingers slid through your folds slowly, deliberately teasing, before circling your clit with practiced precision. Your hips bucked instinctively, chasing the contact, but she pulled her hand away with a devilish smirk.

“Patience.”

Then, with no warning, she thrust two fingers deep inside you.

Your mouth fell open in a gasp, your walls clenching around her as she curled her fingers expertly, finding the perfect spot with unerring accuracy. Your hands fisted the sheets as she pumped into you steadily, the wet sounds of your arousal echoing through the room.

“God—Wanda, please—”

“Please what, baby?” Her voice dropped to a husky purr as she leaned in close, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You want more?”

You nodded frantically, moaning as her thumb found your clit, rubbing tight circles in rhythm with her thrusts. You were close already—dangerously close.

“You take my fingers so well,” she growled. “So tight and needy. You’d let me do anything to you, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes—fuck, yes—”

Her fingers worked faster, deeper. You could barely breathe, hips rolling up to meet every thrust. She kissed you again—sloppy, desperate—as her fingers fucked you mercilessly.

Then she pulled them out.

You almost sobbed at the sudden emptiness.

But then your eyes widened.

Wanda stood at the edge of the bed, her body now completely bare, her skin bathed in the soft glow of crimson magic. You hadn’t even noticed her removing her clothes. What drew your attention was the black leather harness secured around her hips—and the strap-on she now gripped at the base.

It pulsed faintly with red light, almost alive. Your mouth parted when it twitched in her hand. She moaned softly, and you realized with a jolt—she could feel it.

“Lay back,” she commanded.

You obeyed instantly.

“Spread those pretty thighs for me.”

You opened your legs, heat flooding your face at how soaked you still were. She climbed onto the bed, positioning herself behind you. Her hand gripped your hip as she guided the thick, red-glowing tip through your folds, teasing you.

“Please,” you whispered, nearly crying with need. “Wanda…”

She grinned darkly. “You’ll take every inch of me, won’t you?”

With one slow thrust, she pushed inside—and you felt every inch.

You moaned sharply, nails digging into the sheets as she filled you completely, inch by torturous inch. It was thick, stretching you more than anything you’d ever taken before. Your head rolled back into the pillow, your breath ragged.

“Fuck,” she groaned. “You’re so fucking tight.”

She started to move, each thrust sending a jolt through your body. The sound of skin meeting skin echoed in the room, punctuated by the obscene squelch of your wetness.

Her pace picked up, brutal and relentless. She leaned over you, one hand braced beside your head, the other sliding between your legs again to circle your clit. You were losing yourself, drowning in the pleasure, the heat, the way her body moved against yours.

“You were made for me,” she panted against your ear. “Look at you—so fucking desperate. You’d let me use you however I wanted, wouldn’t you?”

You nodded, mouth open in a silent moan.

“Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you cried. “Use me. Fuck me. I’m—fuck—I’m yours, Wanda.”

That was all she needed.

She pulled you up by your hair, forcing your body to arch into hers as she slammed into you faster. You screamed her name, legs shaking as you spiraled toward the edge.

“Gonna cum in this pretty pussy,” she growled. “Fill you up. Mark you so no one else even thinks about touching you.”

Her thrusts grew erratic. You could feel her cock twitching inside you, the sensation too much, too perfect.

“Cum for me,” she commanded, her thumb rubbing tight, furious circles against your clit. “Now.”

Your vision blurred as the orgasm tore through you, back arching violently as your walls clenched around her. You screamed her name, clinging to her as if she were the only thing holding you to earth.

She moaned loud and deep as she came with you, hips stuttering, the dildo twitching inside you as magical heat spilled deep inside.

You collapsed onto the bed, body trembling, breath shallow. Wanda slowly slipped out, watching with satisfaction as her release dripped from you.

Then she laid down beside you, pulling you close, her fingers tracing lazy circles on your thigh.

You expected her to be done.

But when you looked up, her eyes gleamed with renewed hunger.

Her smile turned wicked. “I’m not nearly finished showing you who you truly belong to.”

You were barely catching your breath, heart still pounding from the first round, when Wanda shifted beside you with an almost predatory slowness. Her hand smoothed over your thigh, then gripped it, possessive and firm.

“I’m not done,” she murmured against your neck, her voice husky, low, and dangerous. “You think one orgasm is enough for me?”

You whimpered as she hovered above you, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your jawline. Then another, just below your ear. Her thigh nudged yours apart.

“I want to see you,” she whispered, brushing your hair from your face. “Every second you fall apart for me.”

You didn’t have time to respond before she grabbed your thighs and hooked them over her shoulders, shifting your hips upward. Your back arched off the mattress with a gasp, the angle exposing you completely.

The strap between her thighs was still slick from earlier. It glowed faintly again, magic humming with anticipation as she lined it up at your entrance.

“Ready?” she rasped.

You nodded desperately. “Please, Wanda…”

With one smooth thrust, she slid inside—slow but deep. Your body instinctively clenched around her, your hands flying up to grip her arms as your lips parted in a breathless moan.

“Fuck,” she growled. “Still so tight, so warm…”

She leaned down, bending you almost in half with your legs still pinned over her shoulders, her chest now flush to yours. Her skin was fever-warm, and the look in her eyes—half-wild, half-worshipful—made your breath catch.

This position let her sink deeper. So deep, you swore you saw stars every time she bottomed out.

Wanda gripped the back of your knees, keeping them spread wide as she thrust slowly at first, making you feel every inch. Then she sped up—hard, rhythmic, the wet slap of your bodies echoing through the room.

“Look at me,” she commanded, her forehead pressing to yours. “I want to see you fall apart.”

You obeyed, eyes locking with hers, and the intimacy of it almost broke you.

Every thrust rocked your body into the mattress, your nipples grazing her chest, your cries muffled against her lips as she kissed you between moans.

“You were made for this,” she groaned. “Made to take me. To belong to me.”

“Yes—Wanda—fuck, don’t stop—”

She shifted her weight slightly, angling her hips just right to grind against that perfect spot deep inside you, and your cry turned into a sob.

“I want you to feel this for days,” she growled. “To walk around with my cum dripping from you, still aching, still ruined for anyone else.”

Your fingers dug into her back, nails dragging red lines down her skin. She hissed, then grinned.

“That’s it. Scratch me. Mark me back.”

Her hand snaked between your bodies, two fingers rubbing tight circles over your clit in time with her pounding hips. The stimulation was overwhelming—white-hot pressure building, your muscles tightening, your breath catching.

“Cum for me,” she whispered, voice shaking. “Let go. Let me have all of you.”

You shattered with a scream, back arching fully off the bed, body trembling violently as your orgasm slammed through you. Wanda kept fucking you through it, her own breathing ragged, the toy twitching inside you as her magic transferred the pleasure directly to her body.

“Oh, fuck,” she gasped, finally thrusting deep and holding herself there as she came—her hands gripping you like a lifeline, body shaking above yours.

You felt warmth pulse inside you again—thick, hot, magical release—and the sensation sent a final shudder through you as you collapsed back to the bed, limp and gasping.

Wanda slowly withdrew, careful, tender now. Her magic glowed briefly as she pulled the covers over both of you and settled beside you, drawing your body into hers like she never wanted to let go.

—

The room was warm now, your skin still flushed, but it wasn’t from sex anymore.

Wanda’s arms were wrapped tightly around you, one hand stroking gentle circles across your spine, the other tangled in your hair. She held you like you were something fragile—something precious.

You didn’t know how long you laid there in silence, your breathing slowly syncing. The rhythm of her heartbeat beneath your ear was a lullaby, steady and grounding.

She shifted slightly, tucking you closer.

“You’re shaking,” she whispered softly.

You hadn’t even realized it, but you were. Your body trembled, not from fear, but from everything. From release, from relief, from the emotional weight that had been pressing on your chest for months.

“I’m okay,” you murmured into her collarbone. “Just… full. Of a lot.”

Wanda kissed the crown of your head, her lips lingering. “I know.”

She pulled the comforter higher over you both and used her magic to dim the lights until only the soft glow of the moon spilled in from her window.

“Are you hurting anywhere?” she asked gently, brushing a thumb down your cheek. “Too much pressure? I—”

“Wanda.” You stopped her with a small smile. “You were perfect. It was everything. You are everything.”

Her throat bobbed with the weight of your words.

“I didn’t plan for any of this to happen tonight,” she admitted, her voice barely more than a breath. “Not the party. Not the kiss. And definitely not this.”

You nodded slowly, your fingers tracing lazy lines along her stomach. “But it’s been building for a long time, hasn’t it?”

She looked down at you, eyes glassy with unspoken emotion. “I tried to fight it. I tried to keep it all inside. I thought it would be safer. That I could just… protect you by staying away.”

“From what?” you whispered.

“From me,” she said, voice cracking. “Everyone I love gets hurt. Or worse. You were starting to matter to me, and I panicked. It was easier to lie. Safer to push you away.”

You inhaled shakily, pressing your forehead to hers. “Do you know how hard it was to hear you say I meant nothing to you?”

“I hated myself the moment I said it,” she confessed. “It wasn’t true. Not even close.”

You pulled back just far enough to meet her eyes. “Then say it. Tell me what’s true.”

Wanda cupped your face between her hands, thumbs brushing over your cheeks like you were made of glass. Her voice shook as she spoke, but her gaze never left yours.

“You mean everything to me. You’re the only one I think about when I wake up. The only one I look for in a crowded room. The only one I dream about, even when I try not to. You’re… it.”

You couldn’t help it. The tears came, not from pain—but from relief. From finally hearing the words you’d longed for.

And when she kissed you, it wasn’t about possession anymore. It wasn’t about dominance or jealousy or claiming. It was soft, tender, reverent—like she was pouring everything she couldn’t say into your mouth.

When she pulled back, your foreheads stayed pressed together, noses brushing.

“So… what now?” you whispered.

She smiled for real this time—small, shy, a little broken around the edges. “Now I stop running. If you’ll still have me.”

You wrapped your arms around her neck and pulled her down on top of you, bodies tangling under the blankets.

“I’ve always had you,” you said.

You felt her exhale, like she was finally letting go of every wall she’d held up.

She nuzzled into your neck, voice sleepy now, lips brushing your skin as she whispered:

“I’ll protect this. I’ll protect us.”

You smiled, your hand finding hers under the sheets, lacing your fingers together.

“You don’t have to. We’ll protect each other.”

And in the safety of her arms, wrapped in the aftermath of chaos, sex, and confession—you finally slept.

Together.

Exactly where you belonged.

[obsessiveandutterlydelusional]

It's her world and we live in it ࿐

[obsessiveandutterlydelusional]

mommy is mommying~

picturing her on this call and you’re hidden from the camera, your head on her lap while she soothingly strokes your hair and cheeks

[obsessiveandutterlydelusional]

clothes on the floor ☑️

legs spread ☑️

gasping for air ☑️

pleading and whining for this woman who doesn’t even know i exist ☑️

[obsessiveandutterlydelusional]

18+, minors dni, i do not give permission for anyone to post my works to any platform.

masterlist|ao3|request info

always open to finding moots, feel free to dm me anytime :)

[obsessiveandutterlydelusional]

۶ৎmasterlist۶ৎ

wanda maximoff x reader:

Quiet as worship 18+

Ruined for Anyone Else 18+

Rules of Distraction 18+, pt.2

more to be added...

[obsessiveandutterlydelusional]

taking requests!

sooo, i'm taking requests, and i will mainly be writing for elizabeth olsen/her characters (mostly wanda). i will not write requests for candy montgomery, should be self explanatory but i'm just not comfortable with writing that character because it's based on a real person that, yknow.. anyways, i'll list down below requests i take/don't take

what i will write about:

fluff angst smut au/canon one-shots open to series/multiple chapters blurbs imagines hc's female reader g/n reader mommy/mistress kink power dynamics (dom/sub) bdsm (to the best of my knowledge, i'm kinda vanilla BUT i've read a lot) any body type! (will update if i think of more)

what i will not write about:

rape/non-con illegal age gaps/difference incest pedophilia bestiality no piss kinks or anything like that male reader (will update if i think of more)

what i'm on the fence about writing:

stepcest (really depends on the request) dub-con (again, it depends, based on my quick google search of the definition, it's still questionable for me writing wise)

a/n: when requesting, please specify if you'd like a full fic or something short, i want to make sure i'm fulfilling your request! don't be shy to request, i'm pretty open-minded and won't judge! just because i'm not comfortable with writing certain things, doesn't mean i would judge you for what content you like to consume!

[obsessiveandutterlydelusional]

Quiet as worship.

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x fem!reader (no use of y/n)

Summary:

You and Wanda have spent the last year walking the tightrope between secrecy and devotion—navigating judgment, age gaps, and quiet mornings that feel more sacred than any spotlight. To the world, you're just two successful women in different stages of life. But behind closed doors, you're something far more intimate. When you return home during one of Wanda's livestreamed interviews, the quiet ache to be close becomes impossible to resist. And under the desk—where no one can see—you remind her exactly who she belongs to, even when the camera’s still rolling.

A story of stolen moments, soft worship, and the kind of love that doesn’t need an audience to feel real.

TW: NFSW, oral sex (w!receiving), fingering (w!receiving), age gap relationship (legal, duh), secretish relationship, praise & worship kink (implied), power dynamics, dom!wanda, sub!reader, established relationship, fem!reader, public sex?(concealed), A/U!Celebrities, MDI.

Word Count: around 1k (it's a short one)

A/N: honestly, i've never really written anything before, (unless you count making "fanfics" on youtube when i was like 13.) i've been obsessd with elizabeth olsen lately, and really just wanted to write something short for wanda. i don't expect this to really blow up or anything but thought i'd share and may write more fics if this gets any attention. feel free to comment your thoughts or critiques, i also barely know how to navigate anything on tumblr when it comes to posting so if you have any tips for that, greatly appreciated. enjoy! :)

You and Wanda had been navigating the blurred line between secrecy and intimacy for nearly a year. It wasn’t a tabloid-worthy secret—not exactly—not to those who mattered. Your families knew. So did your closest friends. But the rest of the world? The fans, the press, the ever-watchful industry eyes? They didn’t know. Not yet.

You both guarded it tightly, like something too rare and beautiful to survive under public scrutiny.

And truthfully, it wasn’t the kind of love story you could explain easily.

You were 21—young, ambitious, a rising force in music with a voice that turned heads. Acting had become your latest frontier, a new stage to conquer. Wanda was 30—powerful, poised, and captivating in ways that made people go silent mid-sentence. She’d lived through storms, carried shadows she rarely spoke of, and moved through the world with a calm intensity that demanded respect.

And that nine-year gap between you? It made people talk. Judge. Assume.

Her friends whispered their theories—maybe she was chasing youth, maybe it was a passing indulgence. Your family masked concern with logic, lacing their doubt with patronizing smiles. Too young. Too complicated. As if love bowed to reason.

But none of it mattered. Not anymore.

Because it worked.

The late nights. The quiet mornings. The language spoken in glances and silences. It bloomed into something undeniable. And after nearly a year of proving the world wrong, even the skeptics had started to soften. They saw it now—the connection, the depth, the truth.

A month ago, you moved in—into her secluded home nestled in the hills above L.A., wrapped in silence and red-hued sunsets that lasted just a little longer when she was beside you. It felt seamless. Like gravity.

Today had been ordinary, in the kind of way that only shared lives could make beautiful. You’d spent the morning in the studio, lost in harmonies and half-written lyrics. Wanda had stayed home, preparing for a livestreamed interview for a film she’d done more as a favor than anything else.

Before the call began, she left you a voice note—low, calm, clipped in that no-nonsense way she got when she was focused.

“I’ll be live when you get back. Mic and camera on. Be good for me, okay?”

There was a softness beneath the command, and you’d smiled at the sound of it.

You got home quietly, careful with your keys and the sound of the door, trying not to disturb her. But curiosity had a gravity all its own. You told yourself you just wanted to see her.

Drifting down the hall, you paused at the half-open door of her office. Warm light poured out, casting long golden shadows. And there she was.

Wanda sat like she owned the space—back straight, voice smooth, answering questions with calm poise and piercing intelligence. Her hair, back to its deep auburn, framed her face in soft waves, new bangs brushing her brows and easing the sharpness of her features. She wore a loose black pantsuit—elegant and commanding, clinging to her in ways that made your pulse stutter. She didn’t have to try. She just was.

And you stood there, breath caught in your throat.

She hadn’t noticed you. Her eyes were on the screen. But yours? They were only on her. The curve of her mouth, the angle of her jaw, the way her fingers moved lightly across the desk—it all drew you in. Unintended seduction. Unintended, and yet devastating.

Your body responded before your mind could argue. Quietly, you stepped inside. No grand plan—just a hunger to be close. You dropped to your knees, heart hammering, and crawled beneath the desk. Her mic was angled high, her camera facing away from the lower half. She wouldn’t be visible from this angle. Neither would you.

It wasn’t about teasing. It wasn’t about interruption. You just needed to be near her.

Face to face with her knees, you reached out, fingers ghosting over her ankles and slipping under the fabric of her pants to stroke the warm skin of her calves.

Wanda didn’t flinch. Didn’t skip a beat. But a subtle smile ghosted her lips—so faint it might’ve gone unnoticed.

‘I knew you’d find your way under my desk.’

Her thighs shifted, parting slightly, creating space for you. Space you moved into with reverent ease. You rested your head on her inner thigh, looking up through your lashes, just watching her speak—captivated. Worshipful.

Your hands trailed up, fingers pressing softly into the fabric of her slacks, drawing lazy circles on her skin beneath.

And Wanda responded in the quietest of ways.

A shift in her chair. A hand sliding down, curling beneath the desk to cradle your jaw. Another tangling into your hair, fingertips gripping gently. Guiding. Not forcing. Just showing you what she wanted.

Your cheeks burned under her touch, the intimacy of it pulling a shiver through you. You hadn’t expected this—thought maybe she’d hush you away with a glance. But Wanda rarely did what people expected.

Hands shaking just slightly, you moved to the waistband of her pants, undoing the button with deliberate slowness. Her hips lifted, offering permission, as she kept speaking to the screen with barely a hitch.

“So you could say the character’s inner struggle is something many of us can relate to…”

Her voice stayed calm, even as you slid the zipper down.

You pulled her pants and underwear just low enough, breath catching at the sight of her—already wet, already wanting. She was flushed, beautiful, and utterly composed.

Leaning in, you pressed soft kisses to her inner thighs, rewarded with the quietest sigh. A gentle tug at your hair—impatient.

You obeyed.

Your mouth found her center, tongue teasing a long stripe through her slit, savoring the taste of her. She shifted, hips rolling forward, breath catching as you sucked lightly on her clit.

“Mm… the theme of self-discovery was important to explore…”

A subtle breathiness laced her tone, barely there but so present to you.

The wet sounds of your mouth were louder now, shame and desire twisted together in your chest as you tried to stay quiet. Your fingers joined the rhythm, slipping into her slowly, curling up to find that one perfect spot.

She gripped the chair arm harder.

“It’s about… facing your fears. Finding courage to be who you truly are…”

You looked up at her—sweat at her brow, jaw clenched, chest rising with uneven breaths. She glanced down, and her green eyes met yours—dark, desperate, hungry.

She was close. So close.

“This film really shows the power of… of collaboration…”

Her thighs trembled around your head, clamping tighter. Her hands clenched, one still buried in your hair. She was trying so hard to hold it together.

“And—ah—it’s been an honor to work with such an incredibly talented ensemble…”

Her voice broke for a fraction of a second.

You knew that sound. That edge. She was there.

“Thank you for having me,” she said quickly, managing a final smile for the camera. “It’s been a pleasure.”

She ended the stream in one swift motion—shutting the laptop before anyone could respond.

In a blur, she pushed her chair back, pulling you from under the desk and onto her lap with startling strength.

Her lips grazed your ear. Her voice was low, dark, commanding.

“Naughty girl. You just couldn’t wait, could you?”

A shiver licked up your spine.

“You know this isn’t going unpunished.”

And you knew. God, you knew. But you didn’t care. As long as it was Wanda... You’d take anything she gave.