practical magic - wanda maximoff oneshots
summary: study nights with wanda were supposed to be all about magic theory… until you discover the private magic Wanda’s been exploring - and what she’s been using it for.
warnings: smut, bottom!wanda, enchanted strap; overstimulation; suggestive dialogue; fingering; creampie; vampire feeding; mild roughness; humorous, soft aftercare; friends to lovers; emotional intimacy; reader is a vampire | words: 6.388k
a/n-> accidentally posted the unfished version before, just pretend i didn't. this was written with a mission, we need more bottom wanda fics.
General Masterlist | AO3 |
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You've been friends with Wanda for a little over three years now.
When she officially joined the Avengers, you were still elbow-deep in the impossible task of recruiting more witches for what was not-quite-yet a coven. Agatha refused to call it that - “a nosy vampire and three witches who had one joint spell session does not a coven make,” she'd scoffed.
She had a point. The so-called group was mostly chaos: Agatha and the girls argued every other day, Jen technically wasn’t doing magic anymore, and Lilia had a rather violent aversion to the concept of community, possibly because of the whole plague situation. Still, you were trying. Someone had to.
So when the new Avengers were announced and vampire networks started buzzing about humans playing gods again, it wasn’t just politics or prophecy that drew your attention. It was the unmistakable pulse of magic laced in Wanda’s powers, bright and wild and untrained.
The others warned you against mingling with the superhero crowd, especially dragging magic into mortal affairs. But as usual, you ignored them. You knocked on the Tower’s door anyway - literally - and extended an invitation to the witch who didn’t yet know she was one.
Wanda had resisted the label as much as your group had resisted hers. But something softened over time. Bit by bit, routine rooted itself in the quiet moments: delivering spellbooks to the Avengers Tower every week, practicing basics on quiet Sunday mornings, sharing rituals and stories passed down through your centuries-long memory.
You grew close. Agatha would tease - “maybe too close,” always with that knowing lilt - but you both pretended not to hear her.
Which is how you found yourself, for the fourth time this week, sprawled across Wanda’s bed like you belonged there, magical books open in a circle around you. One hand flipped a page absently while the other nursed a stolen blood bag (donation room, New York Hospital - nobody missed it).
You looked up just as the door creaked open. Wanda entered slowly, flushed from her last training session of the day. Hair tousled, breath caught halfway between a sigh and a laugh, she offered you a soft, worn-out smile.
“I guess you don’t do doors anymore, huh?” she asked, voice light but teasing.
You paused mid-drink, fangs still out, mouth curved in a guilty little grin that made her look away too fast. She found sudden interest in the dirt on her sneakers.
“Portals are more efficient,” you said with a lazy blink.
Wanda smiled despite herself, that warm kind of smile she tried to hide. “Make yourself at home,” she muttered, already peeling her hoodie off, adding over her shoulder as she headed to the bathroom, “As usual.”
You mumbled something back - half smirk, half acknowledgment - but your attention had already started to slip.
The blood was sweet, warm enough to relax every taut line in your shoulders. You let your head tip back, fangs still buried in plastic, arm tucked under your neck, legs crossed at the ankles in the middle of her bed like you lived there.
Maybe you did, in a way.
You didn’t mean to listen. You didn’t try to notice the way her footsteps padded across the carpet, or the soft rustle of clothing falling to the floor. You didn’t mean to hear the sigh she let out as the hot water hit her back - or the way the scent of soap slowly replaced sweat, steam curling through the air like incense.
But you noticed anyway.
It wasn’t the first time you found yourself a little too aware of Wanda. Of the way her energy shifted when she entered a room. Of how the scent of her skin after a shower made your brain short-circuit for reasons you refused to unpack.
You blamed the blood. It was easier.
You discarded the empty bag in the container she’d sweetly labeled for you months ago - “blood trash 🩸🗑️ only” - and made a valiant effort to gather the books. Your limbs felt too relaxed to cooperate. Your brain, fogged with warmth and the remnants of adrenaline, wandered somewhere it shouldn’t.
She could skip tonight’s lesson. You weren’t really in a teaching mood, anyway. A movie under the covers sounded more tempting by the second.
By the time Wanda stepped back into the room, towel around her neck and damp hair dripping onto her collarbone, you’d transformed the bed into a cozy nest. Pillows fluffed, blankets piled just right, snacks from the Tower kitchen arranged with near reverence on a tray between the two of you.
Wanda’s gaze softened instantly.
“You spoil me, you know that?” she murmured, walking past you with bare feet and warm skin. One hand ruffled her damp hair, while the other reached out to give your shoulder a playful squeeze. The casual intimacy of it sent a flutter through your chest you definitely ignored.
She climbed into bed with a tired sigh, half-buried herself under the covers, and smiled at the little altar of treats you’d made for her.
“Although I love it… if I keep skipping our lessons like this, I’ll only learn the fundamentals by the time I’m thirty.”
You smile at her, the corners of your mouth twitching with playful softness as you click your tongue.
“We can do a whole day of studying tomorrow,” you say, voice low and warm as your fingers move to the buttons of your shirt. “Tonight, I can sense the exhaustion in your skin, sweetheart. You deserve a break.”
There’s the faintest blush on her cheeks at the nickname - she pretends to focus on drying her hair, but you catch the way her eyes flick toward your hands. Your shirt is halfway unbuttoned now, revealing a smooth stretch of skin.
Wanda’s brow furrows almost instantly.
“What are you doing?” she asks, eyes narrowing as if trying to read your intentions.
You shrug, lips twitching upward in mock innocence. “Getting more comfortable for bed?”
She lets out a breath of a laugh, light but incredulous, her gaze trailing, just for a second, along the exposed line of your collarbone before she catches herself and lifts a finger in warning.
“I know you came here straight from one of your vampire errands. There is no way you’re sleeping in my bed with whatever blood-slicked demon germs you picked up tonight.”
“But I was already in there - ”
Her look is sharp. Final. You sigh, dramatic and defiant, arms dropping to your sides.
“Fine,” you mutter, letting your shirt fall open completely as you pad toward the bathroom. She calls after you, “Towels are in the bottom drawer!” - with a grin in her voice that only deepens when you growl back, “I know where the goddamn towels are.”
Wanda’s still chuckling softly to herself when her eyes catch a glimpse of your silhouette in the ajar door.
She was not expecting the sound of the shower to affect her the way it does - soft splashes, the shift of your body behind thin walls, steam curling like lazy magic through the cracks. Her mouth goes dry. She tells herself to focus on the screen. Instead, she finds herself watching the way your shadow moves behind the glass.
By the time you return, the scent of her shampoo lingers on your skin, mingling with the heat of the shower in a way that’s almost intimate. Familiar. Her breath catches when she glances up - and then immediately flicks her gaze away again.
You step into the room like it’s yours, skin still damp, droplets trailing down your collarbone and disappearing beneath the towel slung low around your waist. You hum under your breath, hair dripping onto your shoulders, leaving little wet marks on her floor.
Wanda makes the mistake of looking again - just a peek - and nearly chokes on her own breath.
You don’t seem to notice. Or maybe you do. It’s hard to tell with you.
A low chuckle slips from your throat as you move toward her dresser, digging through drawers like you’ve done a hundred times. “What the hell are you watching, Maximoff?”
Her eyes go wide, a guilty flush creeping up her neck. She thinks you caught her - thinks the heat in her chest must be visible somehow. But you add, casual as ever, “Your heart just skipped. Don’t tell me you’re scaring yourself with horror movies again.”
Lucky. Very lucky.
Wanda exhales, relief blooming like smoke. “Guilty,” she says quickly, flashing a nervous smile as she gestures to the screen. It’s some old monster flick - practical effects, over-the-top gore, and all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. Something Natasha lent her as a joke.
You glance over your shoulder and laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners. “That’s what got you riled up? Weak.”
She’s about to retort, something equally sarcastic on the tip of her tongue, when you let the towel drop.
Wanda stops breathing.
There’s nothing between her and the sight of your bare back, the elegant lines of muscle, the quiet strength carved into your form like poetry.
She’s seen you naked before. You were once a maid, then a pirate after your transformation - sharing cramped quarters with others became second nature, which explains your complete lack of modesty when it comes to nudity. But for Wanda, lately, it’s felt less like a habit and more like a divine trial of restraint.
You don’t seem bothered. Not at all. You stretch, slow and cat-like, and turn just enough for her to see the faint veins beneath your skin beginning to darken, the glow in your eyes blooming red for a heartbeat.
“Honestly,” you say, voice lower now, more playful, “I don’t know why you’re impressed. You’ve seen me transform a hundred times. Real-life horror movie, free show just for you.”
To prove your point, you flash her a half-formed vampiric grin - sharp fangs, darkened veins webbing lightly across your cheeks, just enough to make her pulse stutter.
Wanda groans, her thighs pressing together under the blankets as she throws herself dramatically onto the pillows. “Don’t do that,” she mutters, eyes squeezing shut. “You’re gonna give me nightmares.”
You laugh again, completely unbothered.
What she doesn’t see - what she misses, because she’s too busy pretending she’s annoyed and not aroused - is the way your eyes linger on her just a second longer than necessary. The way your smile softens when she hides her face in the pillows. The way your hands move a little slower now, as if savoring the comfort of being here, in her space, like it’s something sacred.
Wanda makes the mistake of not noticing where your hands are searching now. She’s too distracted by her own thoughts - by the fire licking at her skin, the way her body is betraying her with every heartbeat.
You find a shirt that’s comfortably oversized - definitely Wanda’s - and pull it over your head. As you fold a few other pieces and rummage through the drawer for something else to borrow, your fingers close around something far too structured to be clothing.
You freeze for a second. Then a slow, wicked grin curls your lips.
You’ve shared a house with Agatha Harkness for more than a century - there are very few enchanted accessories you haven’t seen. And besides, you lived through the entire pro-discovery, post-puritan, human-rights-to-sexuality era, so your fingers wrap around the leather strap with practiced curiosity rather than shock.
But enchanted magical straps? Those are always tethered to the witch who conjured them.
So when your hand tightens around it and lifts it ever so slightly from the drawer, you don’t miss the snap of Wanda’s head in your direction - eyes wide, mouth parting slightly in panic, cheeks already flushed a deep rose.
“Well, well,” you begin, voice dripping amusement, “what do we have here - ”
Before you can finish the sentence, the item yanks itself from your hand with a rush of scarlet magic and flies back into the drawer, which slams shut with finality.
You burst into laughter, fully delighted.
“Oh my god, Wanda. You don’t have to panic like that!”
“Shut up,” she hisses, crossing the room fast - but her voice is trembling and her face is practically glowing red. “Not a word about this!”
“Too late,” you grin, teasing mercilessly. “I love that you’re getting creative with your magic. Really taking your spellwork into… practical territory.”
She groans, turning away from you, face buried in her hands for a moment.
“I knew Agatha would be a terrible influence when I brought you into the coven,” you continue, folding your arms, expression mock-thoughtful.
Wanda wheels around, cheeks still pink. “Agatha has actually been… very mature about this. Extremely helpful.” She points at you, flustered but trying to sound stern. “You’re the one being insufferable.”
Your grin only widens as her hands press to your shoulders, gently but insistently trying to steer you away from the closet. You’re still laughing, still half-dressed, still entirely enjoying yourself.
But then you cheat.
Vampire speed kicks in, and in a blur, you’ve crossed the room, the object once again dangling from your fingers. Wanda’s horrified gasp echoes off the walls.
“Y/N!”
You hold it up between two fingers, smile cocky, eyes glittering with mischief. “You do know Agatha invented this spell, right? I’m just curious - did she teach you all the tricks, or just the basics?”
Wanda groans in frustration. “I’m not having this conversation with you.”
But she doesn’t use her magic to pin you down, not yet. She’s chasing you the mortal way, half-hearted, half-laughing through her mortification, her fingers swiping at the air just inches from your hand every time you dodge.
“Come on,” you tease, voice lilting. “We’re all adults here. Sex is natural. Magic-enhanced sex? Even better.”
“You’re the absolute worst. Worse than Agatha.”
You laugh harder, and that’s when she finally has enough - her magic tugs sharply at your wrist, yanking your arm down and finally letting her seize the toy. But as her fingers close over it, so do yours. Neither of you lets go.
Your eyes meet.
There’s a sudden shift - like the breath is sucked from the room. The laughter lingers on your lips, but something deeper pulses underneath. You tilt your head slightly, tone dropping lower, velvety.
“As your mentor, Wanda… It’s only natural I keep up with the kinds of spells you’ve been exploring.” Your voice is a caress now, the teasing thick with heat. “I just want to make sure you’re reaching your full potential.”
Her breath hitches - she feels the pulse of magic through the toy, the heat it responds to like a heartbeat. Her heartbeat.
You step a little closer, gaze locked to hers. “I could’ve helped you, you know. If you’d told me about this. We could’ve crafted something together. Something designed just for you.”
Her fingers tremble where they hold the object. She tries to speak, but it comes out as a half-broken, “I - I…”
You let go of the strap and take her wrist instead, the shift in contact gentle but commanding. Your other hand rises slowly, carefully, to cup her cheek, and she leans into the touch before she can stop herself.
Your thumb strokes her jaw, and when you speak again, your voice is barely a whisper, warm with sincerity beneath the sultry lilt.
“It’s no problem, really. I still know a few tricks… and I’d be more than happy to teach you. If you want me to.”
There’s a question in your eyes - no pressure, no assumption, just quiet patience. Wanda stares at you, breath shallow, caught between the rhythm of her own desire and the weight of her affection for you. You’re looking at her like she hung the stars, like you’d follow her anywhere if she only asked.
Her voice fails her again. So she nods, slowly.
And the way your smile shifts - softer, sweeter, reverent - makes her stomach flip.
“Oh, Wanda,” you murmur, voice like a promise. “The things I’d do for you... If you only asked.”
Her heart skips.
The hand you still have around her wrist begins to guide hers lower, slowly, deliberately - until it rests just above your waist. Wanda’s breath catches, her lungs refusing to function properly under the pressure of what that might mean. Her mind is racing ahead, heart in her throat, and nothing - nothing - prepares her for what you do instead.
“We’ll have time for you to lead another night,” you murmur, your voice raspy, grounding, commanding in the softest way. “Right now, I’m the one in charge.”
It’s only then that Wanda looks down to where her hand connects with yours, and the sight stops her breath entirely.
The strap, deep crimson and laced with faint magical etchings, is no longer simply something she was holding. It’s now fastened snugly to your body, the enchanted harness shimmering with scarlet runes, secured perfectly around your hips like it belonged there all along. Magic. Old, tailored magic. Magic that listens to arousal.
Her fingers twitch, then squeeze instinctively - and your body jolts forward slightly with a soft, fractured groan.
Wanda’s mouth falls open.
“I bet she didn’t teach you this trick,” you manage through your teeth, your smile strained by the pleasure that flashes visibly across your features.
Wanda doesn’t reply right away. She just releases the strap, palms sliding up to your shoulders instead - firm, grounding, trembling with adrenaline and something deeper. Her eyes lock with yours, voice low but resolute.
“Please stop talking about other people.”
And you’d agree to anything she asked in that moment.
The kiss she gives you is tentative at first, almost uncertain - like she’s afraid you’ll pull away, even though she’s the one fully dressed and you’re still barefoot and mostly naked in her bedroom. Her lips brush yours gently, a silent question.
But when she pulls back, cheeks flushed, eyes searching your face for any flicker of hesitation, you only stare at her like she’s the answer to a question you’ve been afraid to ask for centuries. You don’t need telepathy to know what she’s thinking: Am I crossing a line?
You don’t let her linger in that doubt. Your hands are already cupping her face, guiding her back to you. This time, the kiss is deeper, hungry in the way repressed feelings always are, tender in the way confessions often feel.
It’s the kind of kiss that anchors you. That rewrites the air in the room.
You lose yourselves in it for a while, long minutes of breath shared, lips parting slowly, tongues moving with lazy, reverent rhythm. Wanda's fingers twist into your hair, nails grazing your scalp in ways that make your knees threaten betrayal. And yet it’s the way her hips start pressing forward, restless and seeking friction, that truly tests your restraint.
She’s beautiful like this - messy and warm and open. Lips swollen from your mouth, skin flushed from the weight of wanting. Her whole body hums against yours.
When you finally pull back, it’s only to bury your face in the slope of her neck, placing slow, burning kisses along her collarbone, each one landing with weight. She shudders, fingers tightening around your arms. You feel her lean into you, legs weakening.
Then your fang grazes her skin - barely, a passing scrape - but Wanda’s response is immediate: a high, needy whimper that stokes something primal in you.
“You can feed,” she whispers, breath hot in your ear as she tilts her neck for you. “I don’t mind.”
You close your eyes, inhaling slowly as your grip on her waist tightens. The scent of her skin, still laced with soap and arousal, clouds your thoughts.
“I already have,” you murmur against her throat, voice hushed with restraint. “I don’t really need more tonight.”
Your tongue replaces the fang, a slow, wet stroke against her pulse point - soothing. Grounding.
But Wanda doesn’t want you grounded.
She reaches down suddenly, hand wrapping firmly around the base of the strap between you. The pressure is immediate - blinding - and the groan that rips from your chest is not subtle.
Her voice drops an octave. Confident now. Taunting even.
“I’m offering,” she says, eyes gleaming. “Don’t be rude.”
The enchantment responds at once, feeding off her arousal and yours, sending waves of stimulation back into your body. Your knees nearly buckle at the sensation, and your fingers dig into her hips just to stay steady.
The room spins slightly, heat swirling around you like smoke, thick with magic and want. You swallow hard, regaining your footing - but your fangs have already dropped, lips parting as you hover at her neck again.
There’s something sacred about the way she leans in, baring her throat to you like it’s instinct.
And something dangerous about how much you want her.
She whines sharply and low, the sound of it vibrating in your throat like a tether pulled too tight. Her back arches into you, desperate for friction, and just as your fangs sink into her neck with controlled precision, her fingers move again - this time teasing the very tip of the strap.
It’s too much. Too much.
A sharp jolt runs through you, spine tightening, and you lose your rhythm in feeding as your hips press forward on instinct. Wanda gasps, not from pain but from impact, because the two of you stumble across the room, limbs clumsy and tangled, until her back hits the wall with a dull thud.
You try. You try to keep your fangs in her skin, your lips at her throat, to hold your body in check and drink without falling apart - but she’s a natural at destruction. Her grip on the toy doesn’t loosen. She keeps moving her hand with shameless precision, masturbating you through the strap like she knows exactly what she’s doing. And maybe she does.
You’re panting against her throat now, ragged and struggling, blood thick on your tongue and arousal hotter than anything you’ve felt in decades. Her power sings under your skin, and it’s not magic, it’s her. Wanda.
She giggles - soft but wicked - and the sound is a spark to dry kindling.
“Go ahead, sweetheart,” she purrs in your ear, voice molten. “Let go.”
Your fangs scrape her skin again, unintentionally, because your whole body is shaking from how tightly you’re holding the knot low in your belly.
“I want to see the big, bad vampire break for me.”
Then her tongue flicks your earlobe, her breath warm and wet. Her hand tightens once, twice - and it’s done.
You come undone in her hand with a raw, guttural groan. Your body convulses, the force of it dragging a cry from deep in your chest. One of your hands slams against the wall for balance, the strength behind it splintering the paint, your fingers flexing as your release pulses through you hard and hot. You’re left shaking, panting, head bowed against her shoulder, clinging to her waist like she’s the only thing keeping you from burning alive.
Wanda giggles again, and it’s unfair how pleased she sounds - mischief and something softer curled around her smile. Her hand finally goes still, slick with your cum, and when she lifts her palm to look at it, her expression flickers with something curious.
“I wasn’t sure that would happen,” she says, a little breathless, a little stunned. “But I’m definitely not disappointed.”
It takes a moment for your brain to connect the dots. She's not talking about the sex. Not exactly.
Her eyes flick back to yours, questioning but hesitant. “Is it…?”
She doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t have to.
Still catching your breath, you manage a nod and a rough, low reply.
“Mine. Real. Yes.” Your voice is hoarse, but steady now. “Functions like the traditional kind… if you want it to. Witches have very creative, non-male methods for building families.”
You kiss her quickly, nothing but warmth, grounding yourself, then pull back, fingers pried from the wall with effort. Cracked drywall and bruised pride. But worth it.
Wanda’s biting her lip, the implications of your words flickering behind her eyes. It makes her look so devastatingly her - intellect and feelings always working together. You use that second of distraction to inhale, gathering some of the control she just stole from you.
Not because you mind her leading. You don’t. You love it. But you're not about to let yourself lose control of your strength - not in this space. Not with her. She deserves better than unbridled force. She deserves intention.
You let the back of your knees find the bed, falling into a seated position, legs spread, arms behind you for balance.
The enchanted strap is still vibrating faintly between your thighs - hard and slick, pulsing in tune with the magic it fed off. A bit of your cum leaks down your thigh, gleaming in the soft lamplight.
You look up at her.
“Take off your clothes, darling.”
The flush that blooms over her cheeks spreads down her neck. Still, she doesn’t look away. Her hands move to the waistband of her pajama bottoms, fumbling slightly, awkward in a way that makes your stomach ache with affection.
You sigh, all heat and hunger.
“If you take too long,” you warn, “I’ll rip them off you.”
That gets her.
Wanda swallows hard, visibly trembling. She lets go, magic sparking in the air around her, and in one motion she’s out of her shorts. But her panties are still clinging to her hips when your patience runs out completely.
Your hand reaches up, fast, closing gently but firmly around her wrist. In one motion, you pull her down into your lap, chest to chest.
Centuries old. You've fought monsters, conquered cities, danced with death, and kissed gods. But nothing - nothing - compares to the feeling of Wanda Maximoff grinding into you, panting into your mouth, whispering your name like it’s holy and begging to be fucked.
Your grip on her waist tightens, enough to bruise if you weren't careful, but you’ve never been anything but careful with her. It’s hard when she’s like this, moving her hips in frantic circles, riding the enchanted strap nestled between your legs like her life depends on it.
You manage a breath, a brief second of stillness, just enough to let your mouth travel down her body. Open-mouthed kisses trace along her collarbones, then lower, tongue teasing one nipple, then the other. You suck her tits until she's trembling above you, grinding halted, too overwhelmed to do anything but shake and whimper under the weight of your mouth. Her hands dig into your hair, and her chest heaves, breaths ragged. You didn’t expect her to be this close already.
But because the strap is magically connected to her arousal, her orgasm takes you out of orbit. You don't come physically - but you feel it, the echo of it, the way the spell is designed to drag you along with her, the throbbing ache of your own desire flaring bright. Your hips jolt. You groan into her chest.
She whines, too, writhing, overwhelmed, and pretty sure she's going to combust if you don’t fuck her now.
“I need- ” she pants, trying to pull away just enough to yank off her panties, still in the way because you were too impatient before. But you grab her hips and hold her against the strap, grinding her down onto it. “I’m just - just trying to-”
You rip the fabric with a single swipe of your hand.
“Really?” she protests, glaring for a second. “Those were nice.”
But you’ve already flipped her onto her back, pinning her against the pillows. “I’ll buy you new ones,” you promise, eyes flicking down as your hands part her thighs. “I’ll buy you everything. The whole damn world if you want it.”
Wanda laughs, cheeks flushed. “God, you’re such a sweet talker.”
Scarlet sparks hum around her fingers as they tug your shirt away. Her hands hover nervously at her sides, the way they always do when she’s trying not to tremble.
“I’m not,” you murmur, gaze locked between her legs. You’re barely listening, distracted by the sight of her - dripping, swollen, aching for you. “I’m cranky. Suspicious. You just bring out the version of me worth loving.”
Her expression softens, and she reaches for you, not for a kiss, not for your hand.
No, she’s guiding you. Down, between her legs, until your fingers find her heat and sink inside with an obscene wet sound. She moans, breath hitching.
You take your time with this, one finger, slow and deliberate. Then two. Twisting, curling, finding the spot that makes her clench around you with a cry.
“I want- ”
“I know, baby.” You hush her, your voice thick. “Just stretching you first. You’ll take me easily like this.”
She mewls, hips stuttering, her hands clenching the sheets. And just as you're adjusting, the strap between your legs pulses hard - your body jerks, gasping. Wanda came again.
It’s fast, sharp - her body is too sensitive now - but it still rocks through her like a wave. Her cunt flutters around your fingers, and you don’t know how much longer you can wait.
“Please,” she begs, voice high and thin. “Please, I can’t-”
“I know, shh,” you murmur, soothing her while you line up the strap with her soaked entrance. You press the tip against her, barely nudging inside, dragging it through her slickness just to hear her whine. “You’re so ready for me. You’ve been ready.”
You try to keep teasing her, only because you can. Because centuries have taught you patience in the face of primal hunger.
But then-
Scarlet sparks push at your back, a rough shove that drives your hips forward. You sink in, deep, with a single sharp thrust.
Both of you cry out.
The strap fills her completely, pulsing with her magic, thick and hard and vibrating just enough to keep you both panting. Her heat wraps around you, squeezing like her body’s trying to keep you there forever. And you're a goner.
The bed creaks violently with each thrust. Your hips snap forward, steady and punishing. Wanda claws at your back - literal blood under her nails - but you barely feel it. She's shaking, gasping, her legs wrapped around your waist so tightly there's no air between your bodies.
You don’t relent.
Your pace is ruthless, fucking her deep, fucking her through it. The room smells like sex and magic and sweat, and your hand finds her clit mid-thrust. She sobs at the contact.
"Fuck-!" Her whole body jerks, her fourth orgasm slamming into her so hard the lights above flicker.
You falter, nearly losing rhythm, groaning against her throat. “Wanda-fuck-where should I-?”
“W-What?” she gasps, dazed.
“Should I pull out?” you manage. “Or - ”
“What?” she says again, this time angry. Offended. “Don’t you dare fucking stop, Y/N.”
Her ankles lock around you.
You don't argue. You can’t.
You slam into her, thrusting hard as your orgasm rushes through your whole body. You bury your face in her neck, a long, drawn-out groan leaving you as your hips roll forward, grinding deep inside.
The strap pulses, spilling your cum into her in thick, slow waves that make you both tremble.
Her cunt is a soaked mess around the toy, slick and clenching, and when your hips roll again just to stay grounded in her warmth, the wet noise that follows is so obscenely loud it makes her eyes roll back.
And still, she doesn’t let go of you. Doesn’t let you pull away. Her legs hold you in place, her magic curling around your spine.
You're both still struggling to breathe, lungs heavy with the weight of satisfaction, limbs warm and slack after the intensity of climax. But you fight the sleepiness clawing at your body - fight it hard - because Wanda lets out a soft, desperate whine when you try to pull away.
“I gotta pull out, sweetheart,” you murmur, biting back a groan when she clenches around the strap, undeniably on purpose. You push gently against her hips, trying to ease out of her hold.
“I don’t want you to,” she breathes, less demanding now, her voice languid and soaked in exhaustion. Her ankles have slipped from behind your back, but the longing in her tone still tugs at something primal inside you.
You laugh, quiet, honey-sweet and it makes her blush. So does the tender kiss you press just beneath her ear.
“Oh, I know you don’t, baby,” you whisper, adjusting slightly. The enchanted toy slides out of her, and you both sigh at the loss, overstimulated nerves fluttering. Your voice drops, playful but rough with restraint. “But this kind of magic runs on intention. And I’m having all sorts of unholy thoughts right now. I’d rather not knock you up by accident.”
Wanda chuckles breathily at that, but doesn’t protest further. Her body, well-fucked and trembling, is already past its limit. Even your gentlest touch now makes her flinch more than melt.
You slip the strap off with the same ease you'd show removing a coat, as though tonight - the spellbound lust, the raw confessions, the whole fucking-your-best-friend-into-the-mattress thing - was just another Thursday.
“Don’t fall asleep on me just yet, Maximoff,” you tease, catching her eyelids fluttering. Her tired smile is pure surrender. She tries to respond, but her body’s already slipping. “We made a mess, sweetheart,” you murmur, brushing her sweat-damp hair back from her face. “Don’t you want me to-”
Scarlet sparks answer you before she does, pulling you back down and holding you there, face resting on your chest, her magic clinging to your skin like a second blanket. That’s all the answer you get.
And honestly? It’s more than enough.
You settle in with her, bodies tangled, her breath steadying into your collarbone. She’s asleep within seconds.
It doesn’t take long for you to follow.
-
It isn’t the warmth of the sun that wakes Wanda - it’s the absence of yours.
The chill that slips into the sheets in your place is subtle but unmistakable. Still tangled in sleep, her hand stretches across the linen instinctively, searching for your body. When she finds only the faint impression of your form on the mattress, her brows knit together in a drowsy frown.
Footsteps shuffle across the wooden floor. The sound is light, familiar. The rustle of fabric follows - and something in Wanda's sleepy brain registers it as you.
"It's too damn early, Y/N," she rasps, voice rough with sleep, eyes only half-open. But she doesn’t flinch from the light bleeding through the window - because even as her voice breaks the silence, she sees you standing there, reaching up to draw the heavy curtains closed.
"I know, sweetie. That's exactly why I got up," you reply gently, not looking over your shoulder, too focused on shielding the room. "We forgot to close the curtains last night."
It takes a second - two, maybe - before her still-sleep-fogged mind catches up to the words. Vampire best friend. Sunlight. Her eyes snap fully open.
“Sorry,” she mutters, suddenly wide awake, guilt flooding her features as she tries to sit up.
But you're already crossing the now-dim room, waving off her concern with a shake of your head. “It’s alright. Didn’t get me,” you reassure her with a soft smile, and she breathes out, easing back into the pillows just as you crawl up onto the bed - and settle on her waist.
It’s a position that feels far too natural for something so new. And Wanda feels her cheeks bloom red at the thought - at how much she wants you to stay exactly like that.
"I know I promised you a day of studying," you murmur, eyes drinking her in like you haven’t seen her in years, “but I was thinking… maybe I could take you on a date instead? What do you say?”
Her answer doesn’t come in words - it comes in the small sound she makes when your lips press against hers, hungry and warm and deeply familiar. It steals her breath. She only manages a weak, dazed nod as you pull back with a teasing laugh.
You lean closer to press another kiss to her cheek, but your gaze lingers, catching sight of the scattered constellation of hickeys and bite marks blooming across her collarbone. It makes you pause, and your voice drops as you murmur, “I’ll be gentler next time. I promise.”
Wanda immediately frowns. “Don’t you dare,” she counters, and you snort at the conviction in her sleepy voice.
"Very kinky of you." You grin, and she rolls her eyes, sticking her tongue out at you like a defiant schoolgirl - except her fingers are already curling around your hips, pulling you down against her again.
“Don’t pretend you don’t like it,” she says, gaze sharp despite the blush on her cheeks. “I know how much you like leaving your mark, Miss Vampire. The thought of showing me off must drive you crazy.”
You raise an eyebrow at her smugness, and the glint in your eye is all the warning she gets before you strike - fast, fluid, effortlessly dominant.
You pin her wrists above her head, your palms encasing her wrists like cuffs of silk and fire. She gasps, startled, and then gasps again as your hips grind into hers with calculated force.
“Oh?” you purr, low and dangerous, “You’ve been reading my mind, you naughty witch?”
She flushes, caught between embarrassment and arousal, unable - or unwilling - to deny it. Her thighs shift beneath yours, trying to find friction, but you don’t let her.
You adjust your position, sliding your thigh between hers. The slow, deliberate pressure makes Wanda moan - long and breathless - as her hips press down against you.
“Just practicing what you taught me,” she whispers, voice trembling, eyes wide with want.
“Let me teach you more, then,” you say, tone dipped in velvet, watching as she tries again to grind against you - only for you to shift back just enough to make her whimper.
“This,” you say, voice thick and sinfully sweet, “is called edging.”
Wanda's breath hitches. She opens her mouth to ask - what it is, why you’re doing it, maybe even to protest - but your lips are already back on hers, and your next words are spoken against her mouth like a spell:
“Questions are only allowed at the end of class.”
