Taste of Obedience
Dom!Human!Wanda x subby!vampire!reader
Summary: You're a vampire, ancient and obedient, but Wanda? Wanda owns you in every sense. She's human — painfully so — warm, bleeding, alive. And when she lets you sink your fangs into her throat, it’s not just about feeding. It’s devotion. It’s power play. It’s control.
Tonight, she lets you drink. Slowly. Teasingly. But only when and how she says.
Word Count: 3.4K
Warnings: 18+, MDNI, blood drinking (consensual), power imbalance (negotiated, consensual D/s dynamic), dom!Wanda / sub!reader dynamic, possessive language & ownership kink, mild overstimulation, praise kink, post-bite soreness / gentle aftercare, one-sided sleep (reader does not sleep), vampire themes (immortality, fangs, blood), emotional intimacy & codependency undertones
Authors note: I had this idea of a powerful being who wasn't so powerful when it came to Wanda. It flowed so beautifully out of me this morning.
The taste of Wanda’s skin was forbidden fruit.
You weren't allowed to bite — not without permission.
And tonight, permission wasn’t coming easy.
Wanda had you on your knees at her feet, hands folded neatly in your lap, your fangs aching behind your lips. Her body heat was unbearable this close — a furnace radiating against your chilled skin. You could hear her heartbeat, steady and slow, taunting you.
“You’re squirming,” she murmured, tilting your chin up with two fingers. “Something wrong, little fang?”
You swallowed, eyes wide and dark in the candlelight. “I-I need…”
“I know what you need.” Her smile was cruel in the most loving way. “But you don’t get to take it. You earn it.”
Your throat bobbed, the ache to sink your fangs into her pulse point clawing at your control.
Wanda leaned closer, lips brushing your ear. “Say it. What do you want?”
“...To bite,” you whispered, shuddering.
“Say it properly.”
You whined, eyes fluttering closed. “Please, Mistress. Please let me bite. I’ll be good…”
Wanda hummed thoughtfully, trailing her fingers down the side of your throat, letting you feel just how vulnerable she was — how easily she could give you what you craved.
But you belonged to her now. A vampire on a leash. Her pet.
“Maybe,” she said at last, drawing back and straddling your lap, “if you beg pretty enough, I’ll let you have a taste.”
She smiled when your fangs dropped involuntarily.
“Such a hungry little thing.”
Wanda’s thighs cradled your hips as she settled in your lap, warm and commanding. Her fingers threaded lazily through your hair, tugging just enough to remind you who was in control.
Your hands stayed exactly where she expected them — limp at your sides, trembling, even though every part of you screamed to touch her. Your instincts, your hunger, your damnation all thrummed beneath your skin like static.
“You know,” she murmured, her voice syrupy and slow as she rocked her hips forward ever so slightly, “you’re lucky I find this whole pathetic need of yours so… cute.”
You whimpered.
She tilted her head, exposing her throat — just a glimpse of the skin you craved more than blood itself. Then, she grinned and tilted it right back.
“Not yet,” she said sweetly, stroking the line of your jaw. “I want to hear more. Tell me what it does to you, knowing I’m right here — warm, alive, bleeding just under the surface — and you’re not allowed to touch me.”
You blinked fast, fangs pressing hard against your bottom lip. “It hurts, Mistress.”
“I know it does, baby.” She cooed, her nails dragging lightly down your chest. “Hurts here?” One nail traced the space above your heart. “Or here?” She cupped between your thighs just briefly before retreating.
You bucked up into the phantom of her touch, breath catching.
“Both,” you admitted shakily. “Please. Please, I’m so hungry…”
Wanda clicked her tongue, as if scolding a child. “You think I don’t know how hungry you are? I can feel it in you, little bat . The way your whole body hums with it. But want and deserve are two very different things.”
Her hands slid around the back of your neck, nails scratching lightly as she leaned in, her lips ghosting your cheek.
“You’ve bitten me before without asking,” she whispered, her tone sharp with accusation. “You promised you wouldn’t again.”
“I didn’t mean to,” you gasped. “I lost control —”
“And who do you belong to?” she interrupted, pulling back to meet your eyes, her own blazing with intent.
“You,” you breathed. “Always you.”
“That’s right.” She kissed you then — not soft, but claiming. Her tongue slid against yours, and you tasted her spit, her heat, her power. It wasn’t blood, but it was intoxicating. Your nails dug into your thighs to keep from moving.
Her hand suddenly tangled in your hair and yanked your head back, exposing your throat now.
“Say it again.”
“I belong to you.”
Her lips brushed your neck, mimicking what you longed to do.
“You’ll drink when I say so,” she murmured, and you whimpered as she scraped her teeth along your throat in wicked mockery. “Beg one more time, and I’ll think about it.”
You were desperate now, eyes wide and glossy, your voice cracking.
“Please, Mistress. Please let me drink from you. I’m yours. I’ll be good. I’ll be so good. I need it, I need you…”
Her breath hitched — just slightly. Enough to tell you she liked that. Liked hearing you fall apart.
Slowly, deliberately, she shifted in your lap again and drew your face into the crook of her neck. Her pulse was right there. So close. You moaned from the proximity alone.
“Okay,” she said softly. “You’ve earned it.”
Your body went boneless with relief, and just as you began to move in, her fingers threaded through your hair again, tightening hard.
“But,” she added, low and firm, “you bite slow. You drink only when I say. And you stop the second I tell you.”
“Yes, Mistress,” you breathed, barely able to contain yourself. “I promise.”
“Good girl.”
She tilted her head, exposing the smooth, delicate skin of her throat — and finally, finally, she whispered:
“Drink.”
You sank in — slow, reverent. Her blood burst across your tongue like fire and honey, thick with life and heat and Wanda. She let out a soft gasp, her hand stroking the back of your neck, grounding you, guiding you, owning you.
“That’s it, baby,” she whispered. “Take it slow. My good little vampire.”
And you did — because she asked, because she allowed it, and because everything you were belonged to her.
Her blood was everything.
Warm. Sweet. Saturated with her magic and will and humanity — and the taste of her love, because even Wanda’s dominance was affectionate in its own twisted, perfect way.
You drank slow like she asked, fangs buried in her throat, hands shaking where they hovered at her waist. Every instinct screamed to drink deeper, to hold her tighter, to take, but you didn’t. You wouldn’t.
Because she let you.
Because she told you to.
Your arms eased up around her, slow and careful, wrapping her in your embrace without squeezing, without claiming. You never held her too tightly. You couldn’t — wouldn’t — risk hurting her, not even by accident. She was breakable. Human. Yours.
And above all, you were hers.
Wanda stroked your hair lazily, her breathing steady while yours grew rough — not because you needed it, but because it helped, gave you a rhythm to anchor your control.
Her voice broke through the haze: smooth, sharp as a command.
“Stop.”
You froze. Fangs still inside her. Breath stuttering against her skin. Your eyes flew open, wide and frantic. You whimpered against her throat.
But you didn’t move.
Didn’t pull back.
Didn’t drink.
Just… stayed there, trembling, trying so hard to behave.
“Good girl,” she murmured, and her nails scratched softly at the nape of your neck. “Still learning how to behave, but you’re getting there.”
You moaned helplessly. Her blood sang through your mouth, coating your tongue, tempting you even now.
“You can feel it, can’t you?” she whispered. “My heart… still beating. My body, still warm. And you’re so cold, sweet girl. So empty. But you’re not going to take what isn’t given.”
You whimpered again, your mouth still latched to her skin, fangs shaking from restraint.
“You’re going to wait,” she said, hand fisting in your hair. “Because I said so.”
Your arms tightened around her a little more, never enough to bruise, just enough to cling. To say I’m here. I’m listening. I’m yours.
You wanted to sob — from hunger, from devotion, from how badly you needed her to say yes again.
And Wanda — cruel, knowing, amused — nuzzled your temple.
“Breathe for me,” she said softly.
You obeyed, inhaling against her neck, shaky and slow.
“Good. Now exhale. Focus.”
You did.
She waited a moment longer, making sure you really held still, before her hand relaxed in your hair and her breath danced over your ear.
“Start again, baby.”
You made the softest, most broken sound — a breathless gasp of gratitude — and resumed.
Carefully. Worshipfully.
Drinking not because you could, but because she let you.
Wanda sighed, letting herself melt into your lap again, perfectly relaxed, completely safe — despite the predator wrapped around her.
“That’s it,” she murmured, almost teasing. “Nice and slow. My good little monster.”
The moment Wanda said start again, you sank back into her throat like it was the most sacred place in the world.
Because it was.
The pull was slow, gentle — reverent. You obeyed to the letter, but you couldn’t stop the little whines in your throat. Each swallow made your hands tremble, your mind quiet, your whole world narrow to the pulse beneath your tongue.
And Wanda was feeling it.
She shifted in your lap, grinding herself against the firm line of your thigh. A sharp gasp left her lips — small, but real.
You knew this rhythm. This body.
You knew what your bite did to her. How her blood ran hotter the deeper you drank. How the pain mixed with pleasure until it blurred into a fever in her skin. You felt her magic flicker beneath her skin like a lit match waiting to catch.
Her fingers tightened in your hair.
“Fuck,” she breathed out, voice cracking.
That wasn’t just arousal — that was need.
You moaned against her, eyes fluttering shut. Her hips rolled again, slow but purposeful, chasing the friction.
“You don’t get to move,” she managed, voice strained. “Don’t… fuck, don’t you dare help me.”
You obeyed. Not a single thrust back. Not a grind. But you held her, arms locked around her back, anchoring her to you as she used your thigh, your body, her vampire.
Her pet.
Her source of pleasure, and pain, and everything between.
She buried her face in your hair as her noises grew more desperate — soft, gasping moans with every twist of her hips.
The taste of her deepened. Darkened. You could feel her heartbeat in your tongue now, rapid and erratic, responding to the heat building between her legs.
You held still like she asked. Even as her nails bit your shoulders. Even as she shook a little in your arms.
“Fuck, baby…” she whispered, her voice almost cracking into a whimper. “You have no idea what you do to me…”
But you did.
You knew.
You’d tasted her blood a hundred times. You felt how deep the reaction went. How intimately her body tied pain to pleasure — how even the softest feed left her breathless and shaky in your arms.
You knew her tells: the magic buzzing at her fingertips, the hitch in her breath when your fangs scraped just right, the way her thighs tightened around you as she fought to keep control.
And she was losing it.
Because even though you were the one kneeling, trembling, biting her throat — she was the one unraveling.
Her hips jerked once, rhythm faltering, and she let out a helpless little moan, high and sharp.
Your breath caught.
Wanda swore under her breath and grabbed your jaw, yanking your head back just enough to pull you off her neck. Blood painted your lips, and you blinked up at her, dazed and starved.
She looked wrecked.
Flushed cheeks. Wild hair. Lips parted.
“Don’t you dare look smug,” she growled, but her voice was shaking. “That wasn’t permission to get cocky.”
You nodded, wide-eyed, blood slicking your mouth.
“I wasn’t,” you whispered. “I swear, Mistress.”
She glared — then kissed you hard, her tongue licking into your mouth, tasting her own blood off your lips with a hungry groan.
“I’m not done with you,” she breathed against your mouth. “Not even close.”
And you believed her.
Because you’d barely scratched the surface of what Wanda Maximoff could do with a trembling vampire wrapped around her finger.
Wanda was breathless, flushed, and trembling slightly when she pulled back from your blood-slick mouth.
Still straddling you. Still in control.
You were hers — panting, fangs aching, lips red from the taste of her. And when she reached down and tugged your shirt up and over your head, you let her, limbs pliant and obedient.
“Sit still,” she ordered, and you did.
She pulled your bra off slowly, watching the way your chest rose and fell in anticipation, her eyes flickering with heat. Her fingers grazed your skin — barely there — and still you shivered like she'd burned you.
“You don’t get to touch me,” she said, voice dark and low as her hands slid down your body. “You hold me. You feed from me. But you don’t fuck me unless I say.”
“Yes, Mistress,” you whispered, voice trembling.
Wanda rocked her hips again, harder this time, and your hands flew to her waist — not to move her, just to hold. Steady. Supportive. Worshipful.
She ground down harder, chasing friction against your thigh through the thin fabric of her panties. She wasn’t hiding the way she moaned now, short and sharp, every breath dripping heat as her fingers dug into your shoulders.
“This is mine,” she whispered, dragging her nails down your chest. “All of you. Even this need you think I don’t see. I own it. You don’t come until I do.”
You whimpered.
She rolled her hips again — and again — soaking the front of your jeans, her body pulsing with magic that sparked against your skin, fraying the edges of your control. But you held firm, nails pressing into your own thighs to keep from moving. From begging.
From doing anything but what she let you.
Wanda's moans grew louder, less composed. Her head fell to your shoulder, teeth grazing the skin where you’d bitten her earlier.
And then — a shudder, a breath held too long — her whole body jerked once, and a loud, broken sound fell from her lips as she came against you.
It was messy. Slow. Her body shaking in your arms, hips twitching as she rode it out, panting into your neck like you were the one keeping her grounded.
You were.
Your arms were wrapped tight around her. Not possessive — never that. But protective. Present. The kind of hold that said: I’ve got you. Take what you need. I’m yours.
Wanda slumped into you, chest heaving, and for a long moment, neither of you moved. You felt her heartbeat against your skin, rapid and erratic and human.
You kissed her temple softly, lips stained red.
Only then did she pull back and cup your cheek.
“Still with me, sweetheart?”
You nodded, eyes hazy, every nerve humming with the weight of her.
She smiled — tired and wicked and full of something soft.
“You did so well,” she whispered. “So good for me.”
Your throat bobbed. “Thank you, Mistress.”
Wanda slipped off your lap and gently pushed you back onto the couch. Her fingers made quick work of your jeans, and before you could protest — or beg — she was between your thighs, her hand pressing flat against your center through your soaked underwear.
“Now,” she said, her voice like velvet. “Now you get to come.”
You came fast — embarrassingly fast — hips bucking up into her hand as she rubbed tight, practiced circles over your clit. All the blood, all the restraint, all the tension that had built up through obedience and denial crashed through you in a wave.
And Wanda watched, chin propped on your thigh, grinning like the smug devil she was.
“God, you’re pretty when you fall apart,” she murmured.
You whimpered, back arching, thighs trembling, and then — finally — you collapsed.
Spent.
Full.
Shaking.
Safe.
Wanda didn’t rush the come-down. She climbed back into your lap, straddling you again — this time to soothe, not to take. She cradled your face, pressing kisses to your cheeks, your brow, the corner of your mouth.
“Easy, baby,” she whispered. “I’ve got you.”
You clung to her, still panting despite the fact that your lungs didn’t need to. Your whole body ached in the best way.
She cleaned the blood from your chin with her fingers and pressed them into your mouth to suck.
“There’s my good girl,” she murmured. “Took it so well. You always do.”
You leaned into her, eyes fluttering shut, resting your forehead to hers.
Her hand stroked your hair. “You did everything I asked.”
You nodded.
“And when I told you to stop, you stopped.”
Another nod. A tiny, broken sound of pride caught in your throat.
Wanda kissed you once — soft, slow, grateful.
“You’re mine,” she whispered. “Every inch of you. Forever.”
And you were.
Wanda was the one who moved first, even though her body was still shaky and her thighs still pressed damp against your jeans.
“Come on,” she murmured, cupping your jaw with one hand and pressing a final kiss to your lips. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
You went with her without question, clinging just a little as she guided you to the bathroom. She chuckled softly, arm around your waist.
“You always get like this after,” she teased, voice warm. “Like a baby bat stuck to me.”
You nuzzled your face into her hair, still overwhelmed, still grounded in her scent.
She bathed you both gently — hands slow, steady, not teasing anymore. She peeled away your ruined clothes and held you under the warm spray of the shower, fingers stroking your back, humming softly under her breath.
It soothed the leftover trembles in your limbs.
She washed your hair like you were precious. Like she liked doing this for you. She always did — insisted on it, really.
And afterward, she dressed you in soft pajamas — one of her oversized shirts and a pair of cotton shorts you couldn’t remember stealing but were definitely yours now. She dressed herself in a robe, loose and cozy, and tugged you by the hand into the kitchen.
Wanda didn’t even give you the chance to ask. She pulled a sealed container of blood from the fridge and handed it over wordlessly, then turned to fix something for herself.
You sat on the edge of the counter, sipping slowly, still a little floaty. Your fangs had finally retracted, but your gums were sore. That always happened when you drank too slowly.
She glanced over and frowned. “Still tender?”
You nodded.
Without saying a word, she pulled out one of her freezer packs and wrapped it in a dish towel. She pressed it gently to your cheek, right where your jaw was clenched.
You leaned into it with a soft sound of gratitude.
Wanda made herself a grilled cheese — extra sharp cheddar, exactly the way she liked it — and slid it onto a plate. She only ate half before she offered you a bite.
You hesitated, but took it when she gave you that look — the one that said let me care for you back, dummy.
When you were both fed and warm and finally calm, she took your hand again and led you back to the bed. She crawled in first, reaching for the blanket, but stopped when you climbed in behind her and pulled her gently into your arms.
“You need sleep,” you whispered against her hair.
“You need rest,” she murmured back.
“I don’t sleep.”
“I know,” she said, already burrowing into your chest. “I just like saying it.”
You held her close, your arms wrapped around her waist, your chin tucked over her head.
Wanda let out the softest sigh — barely a breath — and her whole body relaxed in your hold.
It was the only time she ever went limp like that. Only after you fed. Only when her magic quieted and her body was wrung out and her heart beat a little slower in her chest. That was when she let herself be small. Tired. Human.
You didn’t need to breathe, but you did anyway — slow and steady, chest rising with hers. You liked matching her rhythm. It made her feel less alone.
Her fingers twitched against your shirt. “Still with me?”
“Always,” you murmured.
She hummed. “You’re mine.”
“Yours,” you agreed, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Always.”
She drifted not long after, body warm and boneless against yours.
You stayed still.
You never moved while she slept. She hated waking up alone.
So you stayed — watching the way her lashes fluttered against her cheek, the way her lips parted slightly, how utterly soft she looked when all the sharpness faded from her face.
Powerful, fierce, brilliant Wanda — sleeping safe in your arms.
Yours to protect.
Hers to belong to.
You didn’t need sleep.
You had everything you needed right here.
