I love Natasha Romanoff and Wanda Maximoff. I roleplay Natasha on www.roleplayer.me and my Natasha is married to Wanda. She was obviously killed in Endgame but Wanda brought her back. Don't like it? Oh well.
The party's thumping downstairs in the Avengers compound, music vibrating through the floors like a distant heartbeat. Laughter and clinking glasses echo up from the common room where the team's celebrating our latest win. I've only been here a couple weeks, but it feels like a lifetime already—especially with Wanda. She's older than me, towering over me, her presence commanding even in a crowd. We're keeping us hidden, though. No one knows; It's our secret, ours. Wanda's hand brushes mine under the table as Tony Stark saunters over, his suit jacket slung over one shoulder, grinning like he owns the night. "Come on, you two! Shots are flowing, and Cap's attempting karaoke. Don't tell me you're bailing early."
I glance at Wanda, her green eyes locking onto mine with that knowing spark. She squeezes my fingers lightly. "We're good, Tony," she says, her voice smooth but firm. "Long day. Need to unwind our way, with some TV and wine."
Tony chuckles, waving it off. "Suit yourselves. More for us." He wanders back to the chaos, and Wanda stands, tugging me up with her. We slip away unnoticed, weaving through the corridors until we reach her bedroom door. She pushes it open, guiding me inside before locking it with a soft click that seals us in our private world. The room's dimly lit, her scent—something warm and spiced—lingering in the air. Wanda turns to me, her chest rising faster now, eyes darkening with hunger. "Sweetheart," she breathes, stepping close, her hands framing my face. "I can't hold back much longer. Seeing you all evening, pretending... I need to you; Now."
Her words send a shiver down my spine, heat pooling between my legs. I nod, breathless, as she rushes to undress me. Her fingers fly over the buttons of my shirt, peeling it off my shoulders, then yanking down my pants and underwear in one swift motion. My skin prickles in the cool air, nipples hardening as she exposes me completely. "Lay on your stomach, baby," she murmurs, voice husky with command. I obey, climbing onto the soft mattress and stretching out face-down, my cheek against the mattress. The sheets feel cool against my bare body. Behind me, I can hear the rustle of fabric—Wanda undressing in a frenzy, her clothes hitting the floor. The bed dips as she climbs on, her strong thighs straddling mine, pinning my legs shut with her weight. I feel her, her hard cock pressing against my ass as she adjusts herself, the tip nudging between my thighs.
She leans over me, lips brushing my ear. "My good girl," she whispers, one hand sliding under my hips to guide her cock to my entrance. She pushes in slowly, inch by inch, stretching my pussy around her thickness. I gasp at the fullness, the slow burn of her entering me. "That's it, my little girl. Take mommy inside you."
I moan softly, clenching around her as she bottoms out, her hips flush against my ass. "Mommy," I whimper, the word slipping out like a plea.
Wanda starts moving, gentle thrusts that rock me into the bed, her pace deliberate and unhurried. "Good girl, call me mommy," she says, her voice affectionate, laced with need. She kisses the back of my neck, one hand stroking my side. "I've wanted this all night. You feel so perfect, so tight for me... My sweet girl."
Her words wrap around me like warmth, each slow slide of her cock drawing out my pleasure. She keeps it tender, grinding deep but not rushing, her body covering mine protectively. "I want to enjoy you for a moment," she murmurs, nipping my shoulder. "Just like this, slow and close. Your mommy's good girl, aren't you?"
"Yes, mommy," I breathe, pushing back against her slightly, savoring the drag of her inside me. Her free hand tangles in my hair, not pulling, just holding, as she whispers more endearments—her hips rolling in that steady rhythm that builds the tension without breaking it. But eventually, her control frays. Her breaths come out sharper, thrusts deepening. "God, Y/N, I need more," she groans, her weight pressing me fully into the mattress, pinning my arms down with her own before interlocking our hands together; which makes me grunt as she does so. She keeps me still, immobile under her dominance, as her pace quickens. Now she's fucking me harder, slamming into me with force that jolts my whole frame, the bed creaking under us.
"Mommy!" I cry out, the intensity overwhelming, her cock hitting deep with every thrust. She grunts above me, her hips snapping forward, driving me into the sheets. That's my girl," she pants, her voice rough now. "Take it all, you're mine."
The pressure builds fast, coiling tight in my core. Wanda's hand slips between my legs, fingers circling my clit in firm strokes that push me over the edge. I shatter, pussy clenching hard around her as waves of orgasm crash through me. She follows seconds later, burying deep and flooding me with hot cum, her body shuddering against mine. We ride it out together, intense and connected, her groans mixing with my whimpers. She doesn't pull out right away. Instead, she collapses gently over me, cock still buried inside, cockwarming me as our breaths even out. "Stay like this a bit," she says softly, kissing my damp skin. "Feel me in you. Mommy's not done yet." We linger there, her warmth seeping into me, until the ache rebuilds. Wanda shifts, starting to move again, slower at first but building quickly to that same fierce rhythm. Round two is hungrier—she flips me onto my back midway, spreading my legs wide and thrusting in deep, her eyes locked on mine as she calls me "good girl" and "mommy's girl" through gritted teeth. We climb higher, faster, until another shared climax rips through us, her cum mixing with the first load, spilling out around her as she pumps a few more times. Exhausted and sated, Wanda eases out, gathering me in her arms. "Come on, baby," she says tenderly, carrying me to her bathroom. The tub fills with warm water, steam rising as she adds bubbles and her favorite lavender oil. She settles in first, pulling me between her legs, my back to her chest.
She washes me with gentle hands, soaping my skin, massaging my shoulders and breasts with care. "My perfect girl," she murmurs, rinsing my hair, fingers combing through the strands. I lean into her, letting her pamper me—kissing my temple, tracing lazy patterns on my stomach. "You were so good for mommy tonight. Relax now." The water soothes our aching bodies, her touch turning the afterglow into something even sweeter. Downstairs, the party rages on, but here, it's just us—our secret world, safe and intimate.
you can't sleep. you never can. so you do what you always do, find the library, find something dead enough to make the living world feel small, and wait for morning. what you don't expect is for wanda maximoff, closed off and careful and untouchable by anyone's account, to start showing up too. or to start leaving books out. or to schedule weekly evaluations that stopped being evaluations after the second one.
she doesn't do this with anyone. everyone says so. you're trying very hard not to think about what that means.
The compound had a particular kind of silence at 2am.
Not peaceful. Not the kind of silence that invited sleep or stillness or any of the things normal people did at this hour. It was the silence of a building that had seen too much, holding its breath between one catastrophe and the next. You had learned, in the eight months since you'd been assigned here, that the silence wasn't something you could sleep through. It pressed against the inside of your skull like something wanting out.
So you didn't try anymore.
You had a system. Shower, because the nightmares always left you sweating. Tea, because it gave your hands something to do. And then the library, because books about dead civilizations were the only thing that made the living world feel manageable. There was something deeply comforting about ancient Rome. About Egypt. About people who had built enormous impossible things and then been swallowed by time anyway. It made your own problems feel appropriately small.
You pulled your knees up on the wide leather chair in the corner, your chair, though you'd never said that out loud, and opened to the page you'd marked three nights ago. The Ptolemaic dynasty. Cleopatra hadn't slept well either, probably. You found that comforting.
You didn't hear her come in.
You never did, which should have unnerved you more than it did. Wanda Maximoff moved through spaces like she'd already been there, like the room rearranged itself quietly around her presence rather than the other way around. You looked up and she was simply there, at the far shelf, fingers trailing along the spines of books she clearly already knew by heart. A mug in her other hand. Dark Auburn hair loose around her shoulders.
You watched her for a second longer than you should have before looking back down at your page.
She didn't acknowledge you either. That was the thing about these nights, they had developed their own grammar, one neither of you had written down or agreed to. She came in, she chose a book or didn't, she sat. Sometimes across the room. Sometimes closer. You read. She read, or she didn't, sometimes just sat with her mug and looked at nothing in particular. You didn't make conversation. You didn't have to.
It had started about six weeks ago. You still weren't entirely sure what to make of it.
The first evaluation had been three months into your assignment.
Standard enough, you'd thought. New personnel, Wanda was senior, someone had to sign off on integration. You'd sat across from her in the office that always smelled faintly of something warm candles she wasn't supposed to burn, you suspected and waited for the performance questions.
They hadn't come.
Instead she had looked at you for a long, unhurried moment the kind of look that made you feel like something being read and asked what you'd studied before SHIELD recruited you.
Something had shifted in her expression. Not softened exactly. More like adjusted. Like she'd expected one thing and received another.
Why? she'd asked.
You'd thought about it. Because those people didn't know how their story ended. They just lived it. I find that honest.
She had looked at you for another moment. Then she'd written something down and told you the session was over.
You'd been called back the following week. And the week after that.
By the fourth one you understood they weren't really evaluations. By the fifth you stopped pretending you thought they were. You just came, sat down, and let her ask you things strange careful questions that circled around who you were rather than what you could do. What did you dream about. What did you miss from before. What were you afraid of that had nothing to do with the job.
You answered honestly. You didn't know why except that lying to Wanda Maximoff felt not just pointless but vaguely dangerous, and also if you were being truthful with yourself, in the private hours you wanted her to know. You couldn't explain that. You just did.
She never answered the same questions in return. You never asked her to.
"Ptolemaic?"
You looked up. She was closer than you'd registered, glancing at the cover of your book as she settled into the chair adjacent to yours. Not across the room tonight. Adjacent. Close enough that if you shifted your knee it would touch hers.
"Late Ptolemaic," you said. "The collapse more than the height of it."
"Mhm." She tucked her feet beneath her, cradling the mug in both hands. "You're drawn to the endings."
It wasn't a question. You thought about denying it and didn't bother.
"They're more honest than the beginnings," you said. "Beginnings are just people who don't know what's coming. Endings are people who do, and kept going anyway."
She looked at you then. Really looked, the way she did sometimes that made the back of your neck warm. In the low light of the library she looked not softer exactly, Wanda Maximoff was not a soft woman, but something in her had set down its guard slightly. The line of her shoulders. The way she held the mug loosely instead of like something to anchor herself to.
"You couldn't sleep," she said.
"Neither could you."
The corner of her mouth moved. Not quite a smile. "No."
You turned a page you hadn't read. "Bad night?"
She was quiet long enough that you thought she wouldn't answer. That was fine. She didn't owe you her bad nights any more than you'd asked for her good ones.
"I dreamed about Sokovia," she said finally. Quiet. Even. Like she was reporting something that had happened to someone else. "I don't always. Sometimes I go weeks. And then."
"And then," you agreed.
She looked at you again. "You have them too. The nightmares."
"Most nights."
"What are they about?"
You considered. Outside the compound's narrow library windows, the sky was the particular blue black of very early morning, not yet committed to dawn. "A younger version of myself that I couldn't get to in time." You paused. "I keep getting there almost. In the dream I'm always almost fast enough."
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable. With Wanda it never was. She had a way of receiving things you said without immediately doing anything with them, no reflexive comfort or deflection, just, taking it in. Holding it somewhere. It was the thing you had realized, slowly and then all at once, that you trusted about her.
"I used to think," she said, "that if I understood something well enough I could stop being afraid of it. I studied everything. Every language, every history, every war." A pause. "It doesn't work that way."
"No," you said. "But it passes the time."
This time she did smile. Brief and real and directed entirely at you, and you felt it somewhere below your sternum in a way you'd stopped trying to qualify.
The book Wanda had left for you the first time had been sitting on the small table beside your chair. You'd assumed it was a coincidence. Parallel Lives by Plutarch, worn paperback, someone else's margin notes.
The second time a slim volume on the construction of the pyramids you'd been less sure.
The third time you'd arrived to find something on Cleopatra's political strategy, you'd picked it up, held it for a moment, and looked across the room to where Wanda sat reading without looking at you.
"Thank you," you'd said.
"For what," she'd said, turning a page.
You'd let it go. You'd understood that was how it worked with her. The acknowledgment of a thing was sometimes the end of it. She gave carefully and didn't want to be watched doing it.
But you'd noticed. You kept noticing. The way she angled her body toward you in the library even when she wasn't looking at you. The way she placed herself between you and the door during mission briefings without appearing to think about it. The way she had appeared, three weeks ago, in the doorway of the medical bay when you'd come back with a gash along your forearm nothing serious, truly nothing and had looked at you with an expression that was gone before you could name it, replaced instantly by something careful and composed.
You should have had backup, she'd said.
I was fine.
You should have had backup.
She'd left before you could answer. The next mission she'd quietly restructured so you did.
Natasha had said it to you over coffee one morning with the particular bluntness she reserved for things she considered obvious.
"She doesn't do that with anyone."
"Do what," you'd said, aiming for casual.
Natasha had looked at you over the rim of her mug. "Sit with them. Leave things for them. Rearrange ops because she doesn't like the risk profile." A pause. "You know she monitors where you are in the building."
"She monitors everyone."
"She monitors everyone for threat assessment." Natasha had set down her mug. "That's not what this is."
You hadn't said anything.
"Just so you know," Natasha had said, and taken her coffee and left.
"Can I ask you something," you said.
The library had gotten quieter, if that was possible. Wanda looked up from the book she'd been reading with the focused patience of someone who already knew it well.
"You can always ask," she said. Which was not the same as I'll answer, and you both knew it.
"The evaluations." You kept your voice steady. "They stopped being evaluations a while ago."
She held your gaze. "Did they ever feel like evaluations?"
"No." You shifted in the chair, watching her. "Why me."
It landed in the space between you and stayed there. Wanda looked at you for a long moment, and you had the sensation you sometimes got with her of being read not intruded upon, nothing uncomfortable about it, just the feeling of someone looking at you clearly. Without the static most people brought.
"You came here," she said finally, "and you weren't afraid of me."
"I was a little afraid of you."
"You were appropriately cautious," she amended, and the dryness of it surprised a short laugh out of you. "Everyone else was one or the other. Afraid, or trying to prove they weren't. You just —" she paused, seeming to choose. "You just looked at me. Like I was a person."
You didn't know what to say to that.
"I wanted to know you," she said simply. Like it was that uncomplicated. For her, maybe it was. She'd had forty years to learn how to say true things without flinching from them. "So I found ways to do that."
"The books," you said.
"The books."
"The office sessions."
"Yes."
"The library."
She looked at you steadily. "I was already coming here. You made it better."
The word landed quietly. Better. You turned it over. Outside, the sky had shifted almost imperceptibly toward something lighter, the first suggestion of dawn still an hour away at least but beginning to make itself known.
"Wanda." Her name in your mouth felt significant in a way you'd been avoiding for weeks. "What are we doing."
She was quiet for a moment. "What do you want to be doing."
"I asked you first."
Something moved across her expression. Not quite amusement, warmer than that. She uncurled slightly from her chair, and you tracked the movement the way you'd been tracking her movements for months involuntarily, helplessly, with the specific attention of someone who had given up pretending they weren't paying attention.
"I think," she said, setting her mug down on the table beside her, deliberate and unhurried, "that you know what I want."
"I want to hear you say it."
She looked at you for a long moment. Then she stood, and crossed the small distance between your chairs, and when she reached you she didn't hesitate just reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear with a touch so certain and so gentle that your breath caught entirely.
"I want you close," she said, low. "I've wanted that for a while."
"You could have said something."
"I'm saying something now." Her hand had settled against your jaw, tilting your face up slightly, and the difference in height felt suddenly very present, the way her presence always became suddenly very present when she chose to let it. "You're twenty-eight years old and you read about dead empires because it makes the world feel smaller, and you answer every question I ask you like you've been waiting for someone to ask, and I have been —" a pause, something tightening almost imperceptibly in her expression — "very patient."
Your heart was doing something unreasonable. "You're always patient."
"Not with this," she said. "Not anymore."
When she kissed you it was exactly what you should have expected from her unhurried, certain, the kiss of someone who had decided and was not second-guessing the decision. Her hand stayed against your jaw and you reached up without thinking and curled your fingers into the fabric at her waist and she made a small sound against your mouth that undid something in your chest entirely.
She pulled back just enough to look at you. Her thumb moved along your cheekbone.
"Come with me," she said quietly. Not a question. The particular tone she had that wasn't a command either, just certainty. An assumption of yes because she knew you, had been learning you for months in libraries and quiet offices, and she knew.
She was right.
You stood. She took your hand the first time she'd done that, and the simple press of her fingers against yours felt enormous and led you out of the library, down the quiet corridor, into the low warm light of her room. The door closed behind you. She turned to face you in the near dark, unhurried, and reached for the hem of your shirt.
Your breath hitched as her fingers brushed against the bare skin of your waist. She tugged the fabric up once in question, and you lifted your arms without hesitation, letting her pull it over your head. The cool air hit your skin, but your attention was entirely on her.
"Wanda—" you whispered, but she didn't give you time to finish.
Her mouth was back on yours before you could draw another breath, swallowing her name. There was no tentative exploration now, no testing the waters, she moved with the same deliberate certainty she'd used to cross the library, the same calm, terrifying patience she'd applied to everything else for months.
She walked you backward until your knees hit the edge of the mattress.
You fell back, and she followed you down, catching herself on her forearms above you, not letting her full weight settle. Her auburn hair created a curtain around both of you, trapping the warmth, the intimacy.
"You're sure," she murmured, more statement than question, her thumb tracing your lower lip.
The red glow of her eyes in the dim light did things to you.
"Always," you breathed, and it was the truth you'd been sure for weeks, probably longer.
She smiled against your mouth, that small, private curve of lips that said she already knew. Her hands moved to unhook your bra, and when the fabric released, she took a moment simply to look at you. To see you.
That was the thing about Wanda.
She never rushed the looking. She absorbed every detail, the hitch of your breath, the flush spreading across your chest, the way your fingers curled into her shoulders, as if memorizing a text she intended to keep. Her gaze was heavy, reverent, stripping away the remaining layers of your defenses without saying a word.
"You're beautiful," she said quietly. Like a fact. Like gravity.
You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. No one had ever looked at you like that, like you were a masterpiece, a puzzle they'd spent years trying to solve. She leaned down, pressing open mouthed kisses along your collarbone, her hands sliding up to cup your breasts.
Her touch was gentle but firm, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they peaked under her fingers. She kissed lower, tracing the curve of your breasts with her lips before capturing one peak in her mouth. You arched into the sensation, hands gripping her hair as she sucked softly.
A soft moan escaped you. Above you, Wanda made a low hum of satisfaction against your skin, the vibration making your thighs press together involuntarily.
Her hand drifted down your stomach, fingers hooking under the waistband of your pants. She looked up at you once, those scarlet eyes burning with want and something softer underneath, before slowly tugging them down your hips.
You lifted your hips to help her, kicking the pants away when they were loose enough. Now you were completely bare beneath her, exposed in a way that should have made you self conscious but somehow didn't. Something about the way she looked at you made you feel worshipped rather than examined.
Her fingers moved to the hem of her own shirt, taking her time.
"Keep your eyes on me," she said softly, her voice gone rough.
You obeyed. You would have obeyed anything she told you right now.
She pulled her shirt up and over her head, revealing smooth skin and full curves. She took her time unhooking her own bra, letting the straps slip down her arms before tossing it aside. You watched as she revealed herself to you, your breath catching at the sight.
"You're gorgeous," you whispered, the words leaving your lips before you could stop them.
Her smirk was slow, satisfied. "Eyes still on me," she commanded again, her fingers moving to the button of her pants now.
She unbutton them with deliberate, unhurried movements, stepping out of them and her underwear in one fluid motion.
Now she stood before you completely naked, every inch of her exposed and glorious. The dim light cast shadows that only enhanced her curves, her full breasts, the dip of her waist, the gentle flare of her hips. She was a vision, and she knew it.
"You're staring," she said, but there was no heat behind the words. Only teasing satisfaction as she watched you look your fill. She placed a knee on the mattress beside your hip, crawling over you slowly, giving you a perfect view of everything. Your heart pounded in your chest.
Your hands moved almost without your conscious thought, cupping her breasts gently. She let out a soft sigh, leaning into your touch as she settled herself between your thighs. Her skin was warm and soft under your fingers, her nipples hard against your palms as you squeezed gently.
Wanda groaned low in her throat, the sound vibrating against you. She braced herself on one arm, hovering just above you, watching your hands explore her. When your thumbs brushed over her sensitive nipples, she rolled her hips against yours, a slow, deliberate friction that made you gasp.
"Good girl," she praised breathlessly, her scarlt eyes darkening.
Encouraged by her praise, you squeezed her breasts more firmly, rolling the nipples between your thumbs and fingers. Wanda's hips moved in time with your touches, grinding down on you as she kissed along your collarbone. Her hand snaked down between your bodies, finding your center already wet and ready.
Wanda spread your wetness around with her fingers, circling your clit slowly. Her touch was confident and sure, like she knew exactly what you needed.
She trailed kissing down your body, your neck, your breasts, your stomach, each kiss leaving a faint warmth in its wake. You writhed beneath her, every brush of her lips making you whimper.
"Mm," you moaned as she reached your thighs, her scarlet eyes looking up at you from between your legs with dark amusement.
She parted your folds gently with her fingers, exploring you.
The look on her face was pure reverence, like she'd discovered something sacred. She leaned in, breathing warm against your sensitive skin, and you whimpered, thighs trembling.
"So wet," she murmured, her voice thick with want. "All this for me?"
You could only nod, unable to form words as her tongue made its first slow, exploratory swipe up your slit.
Your back arched off the mattress immediately, a moan escaping your lips. Wanda held you steady with firm hands on your hips, keeping you from bucking away even as her tongue found your clit.
She lapped at you with the same patient, meticulous attention she gave everything else, slow circles, gentle pressure, exploring every ridge and fold like she was memorizing a map.
"Wanda," you gasped, your hands tangling desperately in her auburn hair. The sensation was overwhelming, soft, wet heat against your most sensitive spot, building a tight coil of pleasure low in your belly.
She hummed against you, the vibration sending shockwaves up your spine, and sucked your clit gently into her mouth.
Your toes curled, thighs trembling around her head.
She pulled back only to swirl her tongue lower, dipping it inside you briefly before returning her focus to your clit. Her free hand moved to rub slow circles on your inner thigh, a grounding counterpoint to the dizzying pleasure.
"You taste incredible," she murmured between licks, her voice muffled but sincere.
Your hips bucked against her mouth involuntarily.
She took your twitch as encouragement, her tongue pressing firmer against your clit while she slipped one finger inside you, curling it upward to find that sensitive spot.
The dual sensation made your vision blur at the edges.
"Fuck—" you moan out, head thrown back against the pillows.
"That's it," she murmured against you, adding a second finger inside with practiced ease. Her tongue flicked rapidly across your clit as her fingers thrust slowly, deeply.
The wet sounds of her movements filled the room, impossibly loud in the silence.
Her eyes found yours, crimson than usual, glowing faintly in the dim light, as she watched you unravel beneath her.
Your eyes rolled back in your head as she hit that spot inside you perfectly, her fingers curling up with each thrust.
She was watching you closely, your chest heaving, your thighs shaking around her face, your muffled moans growing louder.
She pulled back suddenly, removing her fingers completely
She moved up your body instantly, her mouth finding the sensitive shell of your ear. She nipped at the lobe, soothing the sting with a flick of her tongue before whispering hotly against your skin.
"I want to be in you," she moaned, the words vibrating straight down your spine.
You moaned instantly at the thought, your body clenching around nothing.
A familiar red glow filled the room as she channeled her powers, fingers tracing down between your thighs.
When she pulled back, a length of smooth magic waited at your entrance, warm, pulsing with the same scarlet energy that crackled across her skin.
"Touch it," she ordered breathlessly, guiding your trembling hand to the magical cock.
Your fingers wrapped around the conjured member, marveling at the realistic feel, soft skin over firm, throbbing heat. Wanda groaned at your touch, her eyes fluttering shut briefly before locking onto yours with fierce intent.
She moved your hand slowly, letting you explore the length and girth.
"Put it inside you," she said, her voice rough with desire as she guided your hand to your entrance. You bit your lip, heart racing, and pressed the head against your slick opening. With a slow breath, you pushed your hips down, taking the first inch inside with a shuddering moan.
Your back arched against the mattress as it stretched you open, filling you completely in a way fingers never could. Wanda gripped your thigh, watching your face contort with pleasure.
"Fuck," Wanda groaned, eyes locked onto the sight of her magical creation disappearing inside you. She reached out with trembling fingers, spreading your folds to reveal the thick base stretching your hole wide open. "You're taking it so well," she praised, her voice hoarse with desire.
"It's... it's so big," you whimpered, writhing as you took another inch. The sensation was overwhelming, being filled so completely, knowing it was Wanda's magic inside you. She smirked, running her free hand up your thigh.
"You can take more," she assured, slowly thrusting her hips forward. The magical cock slid deeper, hitting spots inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids. You moan out, hands grasping at the sheets as she bottomed out completely inside you.
She paused when she was fully inside you, letting you adjust to the stretch. Her eyes were glued to where your bodies were connected, watching the way you fluttered around her magic thickness.
"Look at you," she murmured, leaning down to press kisses to your neck. "So full of me."
You whined, walls clenching tight around the cock. "Wanda..."
She began to move slowly, pulling the magical shaft nearly all the way out before sliding back in. The rhythm was torturously gentle, deep, deliberate thrusts that had you gasping for air. Each time she pushed forward, the cock seemed to pulse with her magic, swelling slightly and hitting that perfect spot.
Your eyes rolled back in your head.
"This is mine," she growled against your ear, picking up the pace. Her hips snapped harder now, driving the conjured length deep with every thrust. Your moans turned into needy whimpers, your walls gripping her tightly as she fucked you.
"Yes," you moan out as she hit that spot inside you perfectly, making your vision blur. "It's yours... only yours." Your hands clawed at her back desperately as she pounded into you relentlessly.
Wanda groaned deeply at your words, possessiveness flashing in her eyes.
"Right there," you moan out, your legs wrapping around her waist to pull her deeper. She hooked her arms under your thighs, lifting your hips off the bed and driving into you with powerful strokes. The angle was perfect, the magical cock hitting your spot with each thrust.
"You like that?" she grunted against your neck, her pace brutal now, Deep, fast thrusts that had your body shaking and your mind scattering. "You like being fucked by my magic cock?"
Your moan was your only response, loud, desperate sounds that she swallowed with hungry kisses.
She sat back on her heels, pulling you onto her lap so she could bounce you on her dick. Her hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise as she slammed you down onto the thick length over and over.
You threw your head back, crying out as the new position let her hit even deeper.
"Fuck, you look so good riding my cock," she groaned, her eyes fixed on where your body was impaled on her conjured member. She leaned forward to capture your mouth in a messy kiss as she continued to bounce you up and down roughly. Your moans were muffled against her lips.
She suddenly grabbed your chin, forcing you to look down between your legs.
"Watch," she demanded hoarsely. You whimpered, your eyes locking onto the sight of her magical sliding in and out of your pussy.
Your mouth dropped open as you watched the thick, veiny length split you open, disappearing completely inside you before pulling back out slick and shiny.
The sight was obscenely hot, you could see every ridge and vein, every twitch and throb of the enchanted dick as it fucked you senseless.
"That's all me," she moaned proudly, her hands gripping your ass to spread your cheeks wider for better visibility. She slammed you down particularly hard, making you moan out as the cock kissed your walls. "Watch yourself take every inch, baby. You're so beautiful like this."
Your vision blurred with pleasure.
She suddenly lifted you off completely, making you whimper at the loss. But then she was laying you on your back and lifting your legs over her shoulders, fitting the head of the cock back against your entrance.
"I want you to see this."
She pushed inside slowly, letting you watch your stretched hole open around the thick magical length. Your pussy gripped it desperately as she filled you inch by inch again.
"Does that feel good, baby?" she purred, her eyes never leaving your face. "Is my cock filling you up nice and deep?"
"Yes," you whimpered, your head falling back against the pillows.
She began fucking you slowly again, each thrust a deliberate show as you both watched her conjured cock slide in and out of your body. Her pace was torturously sensual, deep, measured strokes that let you feel every single inch.
"Rub your clit," she commanded breathlessly. "Show me how you make yourself cum when you think about me."
You reached down immediately.
You circled your clit desperately, fingers moving faster as she watched. She matched your rhythm with her thrusts, the magical cock pulsing inside you with each touch to your sensitive bud. "That's it," she praised, "Touch yourself for me while I fuck you."
Your hips bucked as you worked your clit furiously, matching Wanda's deep strokes. The dual sensation had you spiraling out of control, her thick cock stretching you perfectly while your fingers worked your swollen nub.
"I'm close," you gasped, your thighs trembling against her shoulders. "Wanda, I'm gonna—"
"Fuck," Wanda groaned, her eyes rolling back as your walls clenched around her cock like a vice. She felt you tighten around the magical length, fluttering and squeezing as you got closer. "You're so fucking tight, baby... you feel so good."
Then you hit your orgasm.
Your body arched off the bed, your moan echoing through the room.
That was all it took.
Wanda's eyes rolled back completely as she slammed into you one final time, her grip bruising on your thighs. "Oh fuck— fuck—" Her hips stuttered against yours as the magical cock seemed to pulse and throb harder, flooding your pussy with warm, glowing pleasure as she came with you.
She collapsed forward, burying her face in your neck as both of you came down from your highs.
Her breathing was ragged against your skin, the magical cock slowly dissipating into red sparks as she lost focus.
You lay trembling beneath her, completely wrecked and boneless, clutching at her shoulders.
"Holy shit," she rasped, pressing lazy kisses to your pulse.
You couldn't even form words yet. Your mind was completely blank except for the lingering aftershocks of your earth-shattering orgasm.
You simply clung to her, your legs falling from her shoulders to drap over her hips as she nuzzled against your neck.
She eventually lifted her head to look at you, her eyes softer than you'd ever seen them. She traced a gentle thumb over your cheekbone, smiling slightly at your flushed face and messy hair.
"You okay?" she asked quietly, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.
"I..." you started, your voice completely wrecked and hoarse. You cleared your throat, still trying to catch your breath. "I can't feel my legs."
Wanda let out a breathy laugh, pressing another kiss to your temple. "Mission accomplished, then." She shifted slightly, settling her weight more comfortably beside you, one hand tracing idle patterns against your waist.
You stared at the ceiling, still working on breathing like a normal person. Your brain was coming back online in pieces, slow and warm, like something being reassembled without urgency.
"You know," you said finally, voice still wrecked, "Cleopatra was reportedly so compelling that grown men forgot how to function in her presence." A pause. "I get it now. I really get it."
Wanda lifted her head to look at you.
"Are you comparing me to Cleopatra."
"I'm saying the historical record finally makes sense to me personally."
She looked at you for a moment, that look, the one that had been unraveling you for months in libraries and quiet offices, and then she laughed. Really laughed, quiet and genuine, her face dropping against your shoulder.
"You're unbelievable," she said.
"You knew that. You read my file."
"I did." She pressed a smile against your skin. "It didn't cover this."
"The part where I make ancient history jokes in —" you glanced at the window, the sky beginning to suggest something like dawn "— whatever this hour is."
"No," she said. "That part was a surprise."
A comfortable quiet settled. Her hand had stilled at your waist, just resting. Outside the window the compound was still dark, that particular held-breath hour you knew better than any other. Except this time it didn't press against you. It just was.
"Hey Wanda."
"Mm."
"The first evaluation." You felt her go slightly still. "You already knew everything in my file."
It wasn't a question. She was quiet long enough to confirm it.
"I knew your file," she said.
"So what were you actually doing."
A pause. "Seeing if you were different in person."
"Were you?"
"Was I what."
"Disappointed. When you met me in person."
She lifted her head again and looked at you with something so plainly fond it made your chest ache. "The second session," she said, "you told me you studied Rome because people who don't know how their story ends are more honest than people who do." She held your gaze. "I thought about that for a week."
You looked at her. "I thought you stopped listening after I said classical antiquity."
"I was listening before you sat down."
The quiet that followed was warm and a little enormous. You turned your head toward the window. The sky was doing that thing, not dawn yet, but the idea of it, the first suggestion of something changing.
"I don't want to sleep," you said, more honest than you meant to be.
She understood. She always understood. "The nightmares."
"They're better some nights than others."
She shifted, resettling, her arm a more deliberate weight across you. "Stay," she said. Simple. Certain. "If it comes I'll be here."
You looked at her.
"You can't promise that," you said quietly.
"I know." She held your gaze. "I'm promising it anyway."
You thought about endings. About people who kept going after they could see what was coming. About Wanda Maximoff at forty who had lived through enough of them to know exactly what she was saying.
You pulled her closer instead of answering.
You slept.
For the first time in longer than you could remember, you slept straight through to morning and when you woke, slow and soft and unfamiliar with the feeling, she was still there. Reading. One hand still resting at your back like she'd kept it there the whole time.
On the nightstand beside the bed was a book you didn't recognize. Slim, worn at the spine. You reached for it without thinking.
Egyptian Astronomy and the Architecture of Eternity.
You looked at her.
She turned a page without looking up. "I found it months ago," she said. "I was waiting for the right time."
You held the book against your chest and looked at the ceiling and smiled at it like an idiot.
