Late Nights
Wanda Maximoff x Fem Reader G!P
by summer2224
since you fought so hard in both polls -- it's a double drop 💋 wanda g!p is here
18+ Explicit Smut
Smut Explicit
You couldn't sleep. Neither could she. Somewhere between the nightmares and the chamomile tea you fell in love and neither of you said anything about it for six months. written October 8-23 2025
(4965 Words)
---------------------------------------- The compound is quiet at 2am.
It always is. That's why you like it.
You pad down the hallway in bare feet, an old worn shirt hanging off one shoulder, your sweatpants sitting low on your hips. The waistband of your woxers peeks above them, grey, soft, nothing special. You're not dressed for company. You never are at this hour.
The nightmares always leave the same thing behind, the cold of the table, the smell of antiseptic, the feeling of your own body becoming something unrecognizable. Hydra's gift to you. You don't call it that but sometimes it feels that way.
You roll your neck. The muscles there are thick, resistant, slow to loosen. A reminder of what you are now.
The kitchen light is already on.
You stop in the doorway.
She's sitting on the counter, bare legs dangling, oversized Sokovian university hoodie swallowing her frame, a mug cradled in both hands. Wanda Maximoff looks up at you and doesn't seem surprised at all.
"You couldn't sleep either," she says. Not a question.
You move to the cabinet anyway. Pull down a mug. "Never can."
She watches you. You feel it even with your back turned, that particular quality of her attention, warm and precise, like sunlight through a magnifying glass.
"Bad dream?"
You pause just a second too long.
"Something like that," you say.
She doesn't push. That's the thing about Wanda, she never pushes. She just makes space and somehow that's worse, because you keep wanting to fill it.
You lean back against the counter across from her, mug warming your hands, and for a while neither of you says anything. The refrigerator hums. Somewhere outside it starts to rain.
It's the third time this week you've found each other here.
Neither of you has mentioned that yet.
You showed up at the compound on a Tuesday.
No call ahead. No SHIELD escort. Just you, standing at the front gate in clothes that didn't fit right, a duffle bag that was half empty, and enough dried blood on your knuckles to tell a story nobody had asked for yet.
You told the security camera you weren't a threat.
You almost believed it yourself.
Steve was the one who came down to meet you. Cautious but fair, that was Rogers all over. He listened while you talked, watched your hands, asked careful questions. You answered all of them. You were done running. Done hiding. You wanted to be something other than what Hydra made you.
He brought you inside.
That was the first time you saw her.
Wanda was at the top of the stairs, leaning against the railing, fingers curled loosely around the metal. She wasn't supposed to be there, you'd find out later she'd felt something the moment you stepped through the gate. A pull she couldn't name. She'd followed it without thinking.
Your eyes met hers for just a second.
She didn't look away first.
The team's reaction was mixed. Natasha was skeptical, she made that clear without saying a word, just watched you from across rooms with those sharp green eyes. Tony had opinions, loudly. Sam was surprisingly warm. Steve advocated for you and that carried weight.
Wanda said very little in those early meetings.
But you always knew where she was in the room.
Training came first. That was Steve's idea, let's see what you can do in a controlled environment. Responsible. Logical. You hated how much sense it made.
The first time you and Wanda were paired together you almost pulled your punches.
Almost.
She put you on your back in forty seconds flat using nothing but a flick of her wrist and a curl of red mist. You lay there staring at the ceiling, genuinely stunned, and heard her footsteps approach.
Her face appeared above you. Something dancing in her eyes.
"You were holding back," she said.
"So were you," you replied.
Her mouth curved. Just barely. "Yes," she agreed. "I was."
After that training felt less like assessment and more like conversation, a language you were both learning to speak. She pushed you and you pushed back and somewhere in the space between you started to actually see each other.
You noticed small things. The way she tucked her feet under her on the couch. The way her accent thickened when she was tired. The way she sometimes looked at you mid-sentence like she'd forgotten what she was saying.
You told yourself it didn't mean anything.
The mission changed things.
Budapest. Extraction gone sideways, bad intel, double the expected hostiles, and a building that decided halfway through to start coming down around you both.
You found Wanda pinned under a collapsed beam on the third floor. She was conscious, using everything she had to keep the ceiling from finishing the job, crimson light flickering at her fingers. Losing the fight.
You didn't think. You just moved.
You lifted the beam. Four hundred pounds of concrete and steel and you lifted it like it inconvenienced you, held it long enough for her to pull free, then let it drop behind you both as you ran.
Outside, breathless, she grabbed your arm.
"You could have been crushed," she said. Her voice was different. Raw.
"Didn't get crushed though," you said.
She looked at you for a long moment. Then she pulled you into a hug so sudden it almost knocked even you back a step. Her face pressed into your neck. Her hands fisted in your jacket.
You held her. Obviously you held her. You don't think you had a choice.
"Thank you," she whispered.
You didn't trust your voice so you just held on tighter.
After Budapest something settled between you. A comfort that hadn't been there before, easy and warm and just slightly dangerous if you thought about it too hard. Which you tried not to.
She started finding reasons to be near you. You started letting her.
Movie nights where she'd end up leaning into your side without comment. Meals where she'd sit across from you and steal food off your plate like it was nothing. Moments in the hallway where she'd touch your arm just briefly, just enough, before moving on.
Natasha noticed first. Of course she did.
She said nothing. Just gave you a look over her coffee cup one morning that communicated approximately you are in so much trouble with devastating efficiency.
You ignored her.
You were very good at ignoring things that scared you.
Which brings you back here. 2am. Rain against the windows. Wanda on the counter with her mug and her dangling legs and her eyes that always seem to find yours a beat longer than necessary.
Six months of this. Six months of almost.
"You're thinking loud," she says softly.
You look up. "Thought you said you don't read minds without permission."
"I don't have to read your mind," she says. Her eyes drop, just briefly, just for a fraction of a second, before coming back up. "You just have a very expressive face."
Your grip tightens slightly on your mug.
"Go to sleep, Wanda."
She smiles into her tea. "You first."
Neither of you moves.
It becomes a ritual neither of you names.
2am. Kitchen. Mugs that get refilled more out of habit than thirst. The rain comes and goes over the following weeks but you two remain constant, finding each other in the quiet like it was always the plan.
The compound sleeps around you. The world shrinks down to this room, this light, this distance between two people who are both very carefully not saying anything.
The first time you catch her looking you almost miss it.
You've turned to rinse your mug at the sink, back to her, and when you turn around her eyes move up fast, too fast. Back to her mug. Expression perfectly neutral.
But you saw it.
The woxer waistband sits where it always does, grey cotton above the low hang of your sweatpants, a strip of skin between the two. Nothing intentional. Just how you dress at 2am when you're not expecting an audience.
You don't say anything.
You lean back against the counter and pick up the conversation exactly where you left it and pretend your pulse hasn't kicked up.
She pretends too.
You're both very good at pretending.
It keeps happening.
Not obviously. Never obviously, Wanda is too careful for that, too deliberate in the way she moves through the world. But you start to notice the pattern. The way her gaze drops when you reach up to the high cabinet, your shirt riding up, the waistband shifting with the movement. The way she finds something very interesting to look at whenever you push off the counter and your sweatpants settle lower on your hips.
She always recovers quickly. Eyes back up. Conversation resuming. That careful neutral expression clicking back into place like nothing happened.
But her fingers curl a little tighter around her mug each time.
And her voice comes out just slightly softer.
Three weeks after you first notice, you do something you're not proud of.
You reach across her for the honey, deliberately, slowly, close enough that your arm crosses her eyeline, close enough that she gets the full picture of exactly where your waistband sits before you straighten back up.
You stir your tea.
You don't look at her.
But you hear the small quiet breath she pulls in.
"Cold?" you ask innocently.
"No," she says. A beat too late.
You hide your smile behind your mug.
She retaliates, though you doubt she'd call it that.
The next night she shows up in a hoodie that slips off one shoulder, hair loose, face soft with almost-sleep. She looks devastating in the way that only people who aren't trying can manage.
She sits on the counter across from you and crosses her ankles and tilts her head and says "you look tired" like she isn't the reason you can't sleep anymore.
"I'm fine," you say.
"Mm." Her eyes trace your face slowly. Unhurried. "You say that a lot."
"Because it's usually true."
"And tonight?"
You look at her, really look, the way you've been trying not to for weeks now. The shoulder. The loose hair. The way she's watching you with that expression that makes you feel like something she's already made up her mind about.
"Tonight," you say carefully, "I'm fine."
She holds your gaze for a long moment.
Then she smiles, slow, private, like you've confirmed something, and looks back down at her mug.
Your heart does something stupid.
Natasha corners you in the gym the next morning.
She doesn't say hello. Just falls into step beside you on the treadmill and stares straight ahead and says "you know she feels everything you feel, right. Telepathically."
You nearly miss a step.
"She said she doesn't read minds without—"
"She doesn't have to," Natasha says simply. "Emotions are louder than thoughts. Always have been."
She steps off the treadmill. Grabs her towel.
"Just something to consider," she adds, and walks away.
That night at 2am you sit across from Wanda and you can't stop thinking about it.
Every time your eyes drift, and they do, because you're only human, because she's right there, you wonder what she feels rolling off you. Whether the warmth in your chest is as visible to her as her flickering gaze is to you.
She knows.
She has to know.
You look up and find her already watching you. Not pretending this time. Not recovering quickly.
Just watching.
The kitchen feels smaller than usual. The rain is back. Neither of you speaks for a long moment that stretches and stretches like something being pulled tight.
"Wanda," you start.
"I know," she says quietly.
The silence that follows isn't empty.
It's full of everything neither of you has said yet, weeks of 2am and flickering eyes and carefully neutral expressions and stolen moments that were never quite innocent.
She uncrosses her ankles. Her feet find the floor.
She doesn't move toward you.
Not yet.
But the way she looks at you says soon as clearly as if she'd spoken it out loud.
The next night, you know something is different the moment you walk in.
Maybe it's the way the light sits tonight, softer somehow, the under-cabinet glow casting the kitchen in something that feels less like fluorescent and more like candlelight. Maybe it's the rain, heavier than usual, the kind that makes the whole world feel sealed off and private.
Or maybe it's her.
Wanda is already there. Always already there lately, like she times it, like some part of her knows when your nightmares release you. She's standing at the counter tonight instead of sitting on it, barefoot on the cold tile, oversized cream knit sweater falling to mid-thigh, dark sleep shorts underneath. Her hair is down, loose waves tumbling over her shoulders, still slightly messy from sleep in a way that makes your chest ache.
She looks soft. She looks devastating.
She looks like something you've been trying not to want for six months.
She turns when she hears you and for just a moment, just one unguarded second, her eyes move over you the way they always do when she thinks she's being subtle. The worn shirt. The low sweatpants. The woxer waistband sitting where it always sits against your hip.
She's not subtle tonight.
She doesn't seem to be trying to be.
"Hey," you say. Your voice comes out quieter than intended.
"Hey," she says back.
You make your tea. She leans against the counter beside you instead of across from you, closer than usual, close enough that your arm brushes hers when you reach for the honey and neither of you moves away after.
You stay like that. Side by side. Shoulders almost touching.
The rain fills the silence.
"Bad night?" she asks.
"The usual," you say. "Cold table. Bright lights." You pause. "Woke up swinging. Nearly took out the nightstand."
She makes a soft sound, not quite a laugh, not quite sympathy. Something in between that only she manages.
"I felt you," she admits quietly. "From down the hall."
You turn your head to look at her. "The nightmare?"
Her eyes find yours. "All of it."
The air in the room changes.
You've known, since Natasha, since before Natasha if you're honest, that she feels it. The warmth you carry when she walks in. The way your pulse shifts when she's close. You've known she knows and she's known you know she knows and somehow that's made it easier to pretend.
It's not easy to pretend right now.
"Wanda—"
"I know we don't talk about it," she says. Her voice is steady but her fingers curl around her mug tight. "I know you're careful and I know I'm careful and I know there are probably very good reasons for that."
"There are," you say. You can't remember a single one.
"I know," she says again. Softer. "I just—" She stops. Exhales. "I feel everything you feel the moment you walk into a room. Every single time. For six months." Her jaw is set but her eyes are honest, wide and green and tired of pretending. "That is a very long time to feel something that loud and say nothing about it."
Your heart is doing that stupid thing again. That thing it only does for her.
"You're not saying nothing," you point out.
Her mouth curves. "No," she agrees quietly. "I'm not."
She turns to face you fully then and you get the full effect of her, the soft sweater slipping off one shoulder, the loose hair, the way she tilts her chin up slightly to hold your gaze because you have a few inches on her. This close you can see the faint flush across her cheekbones. The way her chest rises and falls a little unsteadily.
She's nervous.
Wanda Maximoff, who faced down armies, who rewrote reality, who put you on your back in training without blinking, nervous. Because of you.
Something unlocks in your chest.
"You're so—" you start, and then stop, because there isn't a word big enough.
"What?" she breathes.
"Beautiful," you say. Simply. Like it's just true, because it is, because it has been for months and you're tired of keeping it behind your teeth.
Her breath catches.
You watch her eyes drop, deliberately this time, not hiding it, moving slowly from your face down and back up. Taking her time. When her gaze returns to yours it's darker than before, and the flush on her cheeks has deepened, and she is looking at you like you are something she has decided she is done waiting for.
Her eyes dip one more time, briefly, just a moment, to where your sweatpants sit low on your hips. The woxer waistband. The fit of the fabric below it.
She looks back up.
Her lips part slightly.
"You have no idea," she says quietly, "how long I've been standing in this kitchen trying very hard not to—"
You close the distance.
Not fast, nothing about this should be fast, not after six months of slow, but deliberate. You bring your hand up to her jaw, tilting her face toward yours, giving her every opportunity to stop this.
She doesn't stop it.
She leans in.
The kiss is soft at first. Barely a breath between two people who have been holding it in for too long. Her lips are warm and she tastes like chamomile and something sweeter and your free hand finds her waist and she exhales against your mouth like she's been waiting
She kisses you back.
And then it deepens.
Her hand finds the front of your shirt, fingers curling into the fabric, pulling slightly. The mug gets set down, neither of you remembers doing it. Her other hand slides up your arm slowly, feeling the shape of you, the strength you carry in your frame, and you hear the small sound she makes against your lips when she reaches your shoulder.
You press closer.
The counter catches the back of her thighs. She doesn't pull away.
Your forehead drops to hers when you finally break for air, both of you breathing unsteadily, the rain loud against the windows, the kitchen feeling like the smallest most private place in the world.
Her fingers are still curled in your shirt.
She looks up at you, flushed, eyes dark, lips slightly parted, and then her gaze drops one more time. Takes in the way your body has responded to her without you deciding to. The fit of your sweatpants. The undeniable evidence of exactly what she does to you.
Her eyes come back up slowly.
She doesn't look away.
She looks like she has absolutely no intention of stopping.
"Bedroom," she says softly. It isn't a question.
You tighten your grip on her waist, thumbs pressing into the curve of her hip through the sheer knit fabric. "Is that a request or an order, Maximoff?"
"An order," she says, voice dropping lower, and there it is, the edge you've heard on the battlefield, not in this kitchen when it's just the two of you. "I've waited six months."
Your hands slide down to hook under her thighs, lifting her effortlessly. She lets out a small sound of surprise before your mouth is back on hers, deeper this time, hungrier, tongue sliding against yours with six months of wanting behind it.
She wraps her legs around your waist, fingers tangling in your hair, pulling you closer as you carry her down the hall.
You throw her down on the bed, watching as she bounces slightly, hair fanning out around her. She looks up at you with those dark green eyes, biting her lip.
She swallows hard, legs pressing together as she takes in the clear outline of your hardness through the sweatpants fabric. A soft moan escapes her lips before she can stop it, fingers curling into the comforter beneath her.
You watch her with hooded eyes, seeing the way she's reacting to you. Without a word, you slowly push down your sweatpants, revealing the woxers underneath.
Her eyes follow your movements, pupils dilating when she sees the bulge straining against the cotton fabric.
She bites her bottom lip, watching as you slowly lower your boxers just enough to reveal your thick, hard length.
A soft gasp escapes her when she sees how big you are, easily eight inches, thick and veiny with a drop of pre-cum glistening at the tip.
Her thighs press together instinctively, a moan rumbling in her throat.
"Oh fuck."
You smirk at her reaction, stepping closer to the bed.
"Something you like, Wanda?" You tease, gripping your length at the base and giving it a slow, lazy pump.
Her eyes lock onto the motion, tracking the way your fist slides up and down the sensitive skin. "Fuck yes."
She nods eagerly, licking her lips.
"I want it," she whispers, voice hoarse with desire. Her hands reach out to you, fingers curling around your wrist to stop the slow pumping motion.
"Give it to me." She pulls you closer until you're standing between her spread thighs on the bed.
She sits up slightly, leaning forward to press a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the head of your cock.
Her tongue darts out to lap at the pre-cum beading there, licking it clean before taking just the tip into her mouth. The suction is immediate and perfect, her warm wet mouth enveloping you as her hand strokes the base. "Mmmm—"
You groan at the sudden heat and pressure, your hands flying to her hair to grip it tightly.
"Fuck, Wanda," you curse, hips bucking forward slightly to push more of your length into her mouth.
She takes it easily, her throat relaxing to accommodate you as she begins to bob her head, sucking you off with eager movements.
She takes you deeper with each stroke, eyes rolling up to watch your face, the way your jaw clenches, the way your head falls back, the soft curses falling from your lips. When you start to throb in her throat, she pulls back with a wet pop, licking her lips.
Wanda quickly strips off her clothing, revealing her full, round breasts with hard nipples begging for attention. You pull your own shirt over your head, tossing it aside as you take in the sight of her naked body.
Your breath catches, she's absolutely stunning, the most gorgeous woman you've ever seen.
Wanda curls her finger at you, beckoning you closer as she leans back against the headboard, propping herself up on her elbows. Her chest arches slightly, pushing her breasts forward invitingly. Her legs are spread, giving you an unobstructed view of her glistening pussy.
"Come here," she purrs.
Your cock twitches at her invitation, throbbing visibly and growing even harder, impossibly harder, until it's aching with need. You watch her eyes fixate on your length, her pupils dilating as she takes in every thick inch.
She bites her lip hard enough to leave a mark, a soft whimper escaping her throat. "Fuck."
Without breaking eye contact, she spreads her legs wider, giving you a better view of her wet, pink pussy. Her hand slides down her stomach to touch herself briefly before she curls her finger again, more insistently this time.
"Get over here and fuck me," she demands softly but firmly.
You move between her legs without hesitation, gripping your length at the base to keep from coming right then and there. She's so fucking gorgeous, so wet and ready for you. As you move closer, you can see her arousal glistening on her inner thighs, dripping down to the bedsheets.
She reaches out and wraps her hand around your cock, guiding it to her entrance. You can feel the heat radiating from her pussy, the wetness coating the head of your dick. She bites her lip again, this time harder, as you press the tip inside her.
"Mmm..."
"Oh god," you groan as the head of your cock slips inside her, immediately surrounded by her tight, soaked heat.
She's incredibly wet, making you slide in easily despite how big you are. Her walls squeeze around you deliciously as you slowly push deeper.
She gasps and throws her head back as you fill her up, her hands gripping your arms tightly.
"Fuck, you're so big," she pants, her voice breaking slightly as you bottom out inside her.
You can feel every inch of her wrapped around your throbbing length, so wet and snug.
You start to move, pulling back slowly before thrusting back in deeply.
She moans out, her nails digging into your back as you begin to fuck her.
Each deep thrust makes her breasts bounce and jostle, her auburn hair flying around her face.
You lean down and kiss her hard, swallowing every moan that spills from her lips.
Every thrust pushes a grunt from your throat as you fuck into her dripping pussy.
She wraps her legs around your waist, pulling you deeper with each stroke.
"Yes— yes— yes—" she chants against your mouth, her hips meeting yours eagerly.
Her walls clench around you, wet sounds filling the room.
"You're so fucking tight," you groan against her lips, your hands gripping her hips possessively. "Taking my cock like a good girl..."
She moans loudly at the praise, her pussy squeezing around you.
The headboard slams against the wall with each powerful thrust bang bang bang
"Such a good girl," you moan, one hand sliding up to grip her throat lightly while you keep pounding into her. "Taking every inch so well for me."
The headboard hits the wall faster now, your thrusts harder and deeper. She arches into the grip, moaning desperately.
Bang bang bang.
"Say my name," you demand.
"Oh god— oh fuck— Y/n— Y/n— Y/n—" she moans your name as you hit that perfect spot inside her relentlessly.
Your hand tightens on her throat, not choking but applying pressure as you rail into her mercilessly.
"That's it, baby," you grunt, your face buried in her neck as you fuck her roughly. "So fucking tight and loud for me." She's screaming your name now, her voice breaking with each powerful thrust.
"Harder," she begs desperately.
You grab her thighs and spread them wider, lifting her hips off the bed as you slam into her even deeper.
Her moans turn into high-pitched screams, her nails carving lines down your back.
"Fuck, moan my name baby."
"Y/n! Oh my god, Y/n!" she screams as you pound into her, hitting her G-spot perfectly with each thrust.
Her walls start to flutter around you, her thighs trembling as she gets close.
"I'm gonna—" she chokes out, her back arching off the bed, her breasts bouncing freely.
The headboard is slamming against the wall like a drumbeat now, bang bang bang, keeping time with your desperate fucking.
"Please— don't stop— please—"
"Come for me," you order, one hand moving between them to rub harsh circles on her clit. "Come on my dick right now, Wanda."
Her eyes roll back and she moans loudly, her pussy clenching and gripping around you as her orgasm rips through her.
Bang bang bang goes the headboard, still hitting furiously as you keep fucking her through it.
You thrust through every wave of her orgasm until she's a trembling, whimpering mess beneath you. Her thighs squeeze around you, her pussy still pulsing.
"That's it, good girl," you pant against her ear, the words coming out hoarse and wrecked.
Her body is covered in a sheen of sweat, breasts rising and falling rapidly as she catches her breath.
"Ride me," you order gruffly, flipping her over so she's on top. Your cock never slips out of her, still rock hard and throbbing inside her heat. "Show me what you can do, baby."
You grab her hips and lift her slightly before slamming her back down, making her yelp and grip your shoulders.
She starts to move, slowly at first, lifting her hips up and down on your length.
Her breasts bounce in your face, and you catch one nipple between your teeth, biting down gently.
She moans and rides you faster, her pussy gripping you tightly.
You grab her ass and help her bounce on your cock, lifting her up and slamming her down hard.
She moans out every time you bottom out inside her, her walls fluttering around you.
"Ride this dick, baby, ride it hard," you groan, your eyes fixed between your bodies watching your cock disappear into her dripping pussy.
She starts to move faster and harder, her hands gripping the headboard for support as she slams her hips down onto yours.
"That's it," you grunt, helping her bounce faster. "Take this dick like the good girl you are."
Your words make her moan louder, her pussy getting wetter. You grab her ass hard, making her whine and ride you even faster.
You can feel yourself throb, your release building. "I'm close, Wanda," you pant out, "You gonna come with me?"
She nods frantically, her movements becoming erratic as she chases her second orgasm.
You reach down and start rubbing her clit in tight circles.
"Come with me," you demand, your thumb pressing hard on her throbbing bundle of nerves. "Cum on my dick."
She screams your name as she comes again, her vision going white.
Her orgasm triggers yours, and you groan loudly as you unload deep inside her, filling her up with hot spurts.
She collapses onto your chest, both of you breathing heavily.
Your cock pulses inside her as you keep dripping your load into her.
She moans softly, still shaking from her orgasm, her walls squeezing around you as you fill her.
"Fuck," you breathe against her neck, still holding her hips tight. "You okay baby?" Your heart is pounding against her chest, the afterglow settling in.
She nods lazily, unable to form words.
You carefully roll over, keeping her on top of you, both of you now lying side by side in the sweaty mess.
She snuggles into your breasts, her breathing slowly calming down.
You stroke her auburn hair softly, kissing the top of her head.
"That was..." she starts, then trails off with a satisfied sigh.
"Perfect," you finish for her. "You're perfect."
She smiles against your chest, her fingers tracing idle patterns on your abs.
Your softening dick is still inside her, and neither of you seem eager to separate.
You feel her squeeze around you occasionally, little aftershocks from her intense orgasms.
You groan softly each time, enjoying the sensation.
She lifts her head to look at you, her eyes soft and satisfied. "I love you," she whispers, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your lips.
“I love you too,” You kiss her back tenderly, wrapping your arms around her.
In that moment, everything feels right, perfectly messy and perfectly loved.
