darling, can I be your favorite? - wanda maximoff x reader
summary: A game night at Agatha’s takes a chaotic turn when an old truth surfaces - one that Wanda didn’t expect, and one you thought had been buried by time. Sometimes, even the deepest love begs to be reassured.
warnings: jealousy; mentions of past sexual relationships; possessive behavior; magic-fueled argument; emotionally charged sex; explicit smut; fingering; oral sex (f receiving); praise kink; possessive!Wanda; soft aftermath; emotional vulnerability; affectionate teasing; pillow talk; mild angst with comfort; canon divergence. | words: 4.730k
a/n-> I wrote this as a draft, a couple of weeks ago, when I was going through a very intense Agatha's obsession period, and I totally forgot about it. I was not sure I would use it in a bigger fic because I do want to write immortal, vampire, etc y/n's, but since I didn't, you guys can read it while I work on the upcoming series.
General Masterlist | AO3 |
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"Have you ever slept with my wife?"
The question fell like a thunderclap in the middle of a warm evening.
Silence followed it - dense, choking. Even the soft creak of the porch swing seemed to hold its breath.
You froze, arm still slung casually behind Wanda’s chair, the other hand mid-motion with the wine bottle tilted at a precarious angle. Agatha, across from you, mirrored your stillness, eyes wide, glass of red paused just shy of her lips.
Oh, you should’ve known. This was a terrible idea.
Go out with the witches, they said. Catch up. Share a drink. Invite the literal embodiment of Death, what could possibly go wrong?
It was supposed to be a pleasant night. Drinks on the porch, old stories, the comfort of familiar magic humming softly in the twilight air. But among the four of you, it was always hard to tell who had the sharpest claws - or the most fragile ego.
Your gaze flicked briefly to Wanda, who hadn’t moved. Her hand rested lightly on her thigh, but the tension in her knuckles betrayed her. Her eyes were locked onto Agatha with a heat that could’ve ignited the vineyard around you.
Of course, Agatha was the first to recover. That self-satisfied chuckle of hers was the sound of a match striking.
“What?” she said, tossing her curls over one shoulder like this was just another girls’ night and not a potential crime scene in the making. “Sweetheart, what kind of question is that?”
But Wanda didn’t blink. Her tone was even, and that was far more dangerous.
“A simple one, Aggie.” She leaned back, lacing her fingers on her stomach with rehearsed calm. “Did you two ever sleep together?”
You sucked in a slow breath and, with a tight-lipped smile, retracted your arm from behind Wanda’s chair. The bottle met the table with a soft clink as you moved the wine glass slightly out of reach. Your laugh - dry and brittle - escaped before you could stop it.
“Maybe we’ve had enough to drink for tonight. We should probably - ”
“We’re not leaving,” Wanda interrupted sharply, still staring at Agatha, “until she answers.”
You shifted in your seat, mouth already forming another protest when Rio spoke. Her voice was deceptively calm, but the gleam in her eyes was anything but.
“She?” she asked slowly, arms folding on the table, one brow arching. “What, Y/N can’t answer for herself? Or are you implying Agatha would… what? Force something? Be the only one to blame?”
“I didn’t say that,” Wanda replied coldly.
The atmosphere cracked - subtle, like a shift in the wind before a storm. You could feel it, static in your blood.
And then, Wanda turned her head toward you.
"So?" she asked, voice softer now, velvet over steel. “Tell us, darling - did you and Agatha ever sleep together?”
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Looked, maybe a little desperately, at Agatha, who, naturally, had decided to abandon ship entirely. That traitorous witch was lounging back, a slow grin tugging at her lips. She didn’t even bother to hide it. Especially not when Rio’s left hand slid beneath the table and gave her thigh a slow, possessive squeeze.
You watched it happen. You felt it happen. And still, you were the one on the spot.
“Go on,” Rio said, her voice like dark honey. “Tell us if you fucked my wife.”
Your chair scraped loudly against the wood as you stood up, hands raised, gesturing wildly.
“Okay, no - this is a goddamn trap. I’m not stupid. I’m not answering that.”
“Oh, why so jumpy?” Wanda asked, a chuckle breaking through - but it didn’t reach her eyes. “It’s just a silly little question. We’re all friends here.”
“Debatable,” Agatha muttered under her breath. No one acknowledged it.
You laughed again. Hollow. “Nice try.”
“Darling,” Wanda said again, the smile falling away now. Her voice was raw silk. Dangerous. “Answer. My. Question.”
You sighed deeply, raking your hands through your hair. “I’m three hundred years old, Wanda.”
She arched an unimpressed brow. “That’s not what I asked.”
You groaned. Crossed your arms.
“You know I’ve been with other people before I met you.”
Her voice dropped. “Yes. Other people. But that’s not what I asked, either.”
You turned your eyes to Rio, who hadn’t blinked once since the start of this witch trial. She looked positively serene in her menace.
“I…” your throat tightened. “I want to go home.”
Wanda sighed, low and tight. “Darling, I swear - ”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” Agatha snapped, standing abruptly, chair legs screeching against the wood. “Yes, Maximoff! Yes, we slept together. A hundred times. For fun. Out of boredom. Just because we could.”
The air trembled as her voice rose, the kind of voice that could split spells in two.
“You have no idea what eternity feels like, alright? We were friends and - what's the word the young ones use now… fuckbuddies, yes? That. We were that. Long before she decided to cross the ocean and play superhero. Then she met you. It's all good. It never meant anything like what I have with Rio. Or what she has with you. So, really, what are you even doing?”
The explosion was literal.
It happened fast. Magic burst like shrapnel. Spells lit the porch in violent flickers. Furniture launched into the air - an end table shattered against the railing, and you ducked just in time to avoid a cursed candlestick flying past your head.
You weren’t even sure who was fighting whom. At one point, you’re almost certain Wanda and Rio turned on each other, until Agatha yanked her wife out of the chaos with a flash of smoke and a hissed incantation. In the confusion, Rio still managed to catch your arm with a glancing slice - a clean little souvenir.
You didn’t even get to say goodbye properly. Just a muttered curse, a strained wave, and the metallic scent of blood on your sleeve as you guided your very pissed-off wife back to the car.
Wanda didn’t speak the whole drive home. Arms folded tight across her chest, lips pressed in a silent pout, gaze locked out the window. You just shook your head the whole way, fingers drumming against the steering wheel, trying to remind yourself that this was fine. That this wasn’t the first magical brawl you’d had to walk away from, and probably wouldn’t be the last.
The boys texted, cheerful and blissfully unaware. Billy, ever the optimist, had been the one to suggest the “moms’ night out.” A bonding experience. Something soft. Easy. He hadn’t accounted for jealousy spells and poorly buried history.
You replied simply:
“All good at Agatha’s. Hope your night was fun too. Love you.”
The house welcomed you with silence. The kind that echoes in corners and stretches across old wooden floors. You locked the door behind you, Wanda already halfway up the stairs without so much as a glance back. Her coat slipped off her shoulders and vanished midair with a lazy flick of magic.
You sighed.
Dropped your keys in the bowl by the door. Followed.
Neither of you spoke as you peeled off your clothes - the remnants of what was supposed to be a cute little night: soft slacks, silky blouses, the faint smell of wine and sandalwood still clinging to the fabric.
It was only once you were both half-undressed in the bedroom, the moonlight casting gentle patterns across the bedspread, that you couldn’t take her silence anymore.
“Wanda,” you said, voice low but sharp. “Can we talk about tonight?”
She stood with her back to you, fingers slowly working the buttons of her blouse. Her voice came clipped. “There’s nothing to say.”
You huffed a dry laugh, arms crossed loosely as you leaned against the edge of the dresser. “For you, maybe. You’ve been ignoring me since we left.”
“I wasn’t ignoring you,” she replied flatly. But she avoided your eyes.
You shot her a look that said really? And she sighed again, softer this time.
“I was thinking.”
You shifted your weight, still watching her. “I don’t like the silent treatment.”
She chuckled bitterly. “And I don’t like that you slept with our friend. But, you know, that’s life.”
“Oh my god.” You groaned, tugging your shirt off in one fluid motion and starting to work on your zipper. “This is absurd. You know that, right?”
“I quite agree,” she said dryly, snapping her gaze away from your exposed skin the second your shirt hit the floor. She turned, flustered, fingers unhooking her bra with brisk determination.
“I’m talking about you, Wanda,” you muttered, voice rising a little. “Getting worked up over something that happened a century ago.”
She barked out a sharp laugh and opened the closet, pulling a nightgown with far more force than necessary. “Worse,” you added, “over something that meant nothing.”
“Yeah, right,” she scoffed, eyes narrowed. “It meant nothing. Yet you did it. Hundreds of times, apparently. Just for fun. Like she said.”
“I didn’t even know you back then!” you snapped, incredulous.
The room pulsed with heat - part frustration, part something else, quieter and more tender. You hadn’t wanted to yell. But there was something under her sarcasm that stung. A crack in the armor.
She didn’t answer right away. Her jaw tightened, and she turned slightly, clutching the fabric of her gown as if it might shield her from this conversation entirely.
But she just gives a short, breathy laugh - a sound too bitter to be real - and shakes her head as she steps out of her pants.
For a fleeting second, the weight of the fight evaporates. There she is. Your wife. Bare but for her dark panties, her body bathed in the soft light coming through the curtains.
And you forget how to be mad. You forget the argument.
Until she turns back toward you, and her eyes, glassy and red at the edges, stop you cold.
The frustration in your chest vanishes instantly. You straighten, step forward, and your voice softens like instinct.
“Darling,” you say, barely above a whisper, your hands cradling her cheeks, “why are you crying?”
She sniffs, lashes fluttering as she tries to blink the tears away. Her gaze avoids yours, but she leans into your touch like her skin remembers you better than her pride does.
“If you don’t talk to me,” you murmur, brushing your thumbs along her cheekbones, “how am I supposed to make it better?”
Her hands rise to your forearms, light and hesitant, like she’s not sure if she’s allowed this comfort. Her cheeks are flushed, and for a long moment, all she does is breathe unevenly.
Then, finally, her voice cracks through the quiet.
“Three centuries is a long time, Y/N,” she begins, barely audible. “I’ve only known you for seven years.”
You don’t interrupt. You just listen.
“I know it’s silly, I know,” she continues, voice wavering, “but… you and Agatha have this thing. This rhythm. This history. She’s always throwing it in my face - how well she knows you, how she can predict you, finish your thoughts. And she’s so - so aggravating about it.”
She laughs weakly, then sniffles again, eyes still not quite meeting yours. “And I just… I’m afraid I’m never going to get there. That I’ll always be this late chapter in your life. That I’ll never matter as much.”
Your heart aches at her honesty.
“Oh, Wanda,” you breathe, pressing your forehead to hers. “That’s not true. That’s not true at all.”
She closes her eyes when you kiss her temple - soft, slow, reverent. Then you pull her close, wrapping your arms around her, grounding her in your warmth.
“I love you so much,” you whisper against her hair. “You know that, don’t you?”
She shakes her head, just barely, and your hands gently guide her face back to yours.
“I do, Wanda. I love you a terrifying amount. And yes, Agatha and I have history. But she’s not more important than you. Just like I’m not more important than Rio.”
Your fingers trace calming circles along her waist as her breathing begins to even out.
“We do love each other - Agatha and I - but it’s a different love. Yes, we had sex. But we never made love. We never broke the laws of nature and brought life into the world like she did with Rio. And I’ve never loved someone like I love you.”
Her eyes search yours now, uncertain and wet. You hold her face again, more firmly this time.
“I’ve lived for centuries, Wanda. But it’s only with you that I’ve felt truly alive. Happy. Like I belong somewhere.”
You kiss the corner of her lips, soft and slow.
“I don’t know where these insecurities came from,” you murmur, brushing her tears away with your thumbs, “but I’ll spend every day proving you wrong. Every single day, I’ll remind you how loved you are. What do you say to that?”
Your attempt at lightness breaks the tension just enough. She lets out a teary little laugh and bumps her forehead gently against yours.
“I say…” she whispers, voice trembling, “you better start now.”
She leans in first, lips brushing yours without urgency, just breath and warmth and something far too tender to rush. You both stay like that for a while - nose to nose, hands resting lightly on bare skin, letting the quiet carry all the weight words couldn’t.
When your hands begin to move, it’s with a slowness that almost feels sacred. You know exactly where to touch - where her skin burns hotter, where she arches, where she melts. Your fingers trail down her back, pausing just long enough to tease, before pressing into her hips and lifting her effortlessly into your lap.
She doesn’t stop kissing you - deep and unhurried, her tongue moving against yours with the kind of longing that makes your bones ache. She moans softly when you break the kiss just long enough to ask:
“Shower or bed?”
But the way she clutches your jaw and kisses you harder is answer enough. You're lucky you made it as far as the bed.
She falls back against the mattress with a gasp, her hair fanned out like a halo in disarray. You move to follow, but she tugs you down with her, mouth never leaving yours, legs wrapping tightly around your waist.
The friction when your bodies align makes both of you shudder. Clothes half-on, half-off, hearts racing, and breath hitching.
You look down at her - cheeks flushed, pupils blown, lips kiss-bruised - and think this is what eternity was always meant to feel like.
Your lips trail down Wanda’s throat, lingering at the base where her pulse jumps under your mouth. Her fingers tangle in your hair, her legs tightening around you with a quiet urgency she hasn’t put into words yet.
She’s warm, flushed, her skin humming under your palms. Every breath she takes is just a little shakier, a little more desperate - and it draws something low and primal from inside you.
You kiss along her collarbone, slow and reverent, until her breath hitches and she arches up to meet you.
“You’re so beautiful,” you whisper against her skin, your voice already rough with want. “So, so beautiful, Wanda…”
She exhales shakily, but instead of softening, something sharper slips into her expression. Her hand cradles your cheek for just a second, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, and then she says - quiet but certain - “I want you to forget her.”
You blink, breath catching.
She leans up to kiss you - not gently, this time, but deep, wet, almost possessive. Her fingers clutch at your sides, pulling you tighter against her until there’s no air left between your bodies.
“I want to be the only one you remember,” she whispers into your mouth. “The only one who ever made you feel like this.”
Her hips roll up against yours, grinding with slow, aching precision, and the friction makes you gasp.
You answer with your hands, gripping her thighs, pushing them apart just a little further. Her panties are soaked, clinging to her, and the heat of her against you makes your whole body throb.
“You are,” you breathe, your voice uneven. “You already are, Wanda - fuck - there’s never been anyone like you.”
But it’s not enough. Not for her.
“Then prove it,” she says.
Her fingers curl into the waistband of your underwear and tug - insistent, wordless. She strips you down without hesitation and pushes her own panties off in a single, impatient motion. The moment you’re bare, she pulls you into her again, gasping at the skin-to-skin contact, her legs locking around you like she needs to keep you there, tethered, owned.
“Say it again,” she whispers, her mouth at your ear now, her nails dragging lightly down your back. “Say you love me.”
“I love you,” you murmur into her hair. “God, I love you.”
Your hand slips between you, fingers finding her soaked and aching. She shudders as you circle her clit, your strokes slow and deliberate. Her hips stutter, trying to chase more, but you keep the rhythm steady.
She whines in frustration and grabs your wrist.
“Inside,” she pants. “Now. I want you inside me.”
You oblige - because how could you not? You push in slowly, letting her stretch around you, savoring the way her breath trembles and her eyes flutter closed.
She gasps when you're fully inside her, her arms wrapping around your shoulders as if anchoring herself to this moment, this feeling.
“You feel so good,” she moans, her voice breaking into a breathless laugh. “So good - better than anyone else, right?”
You thrust slowly, deliberately deep. “Wanda…”
“Say it,” she demands again, her voice strained. “I want to hear you say I’m better than her.”
Your breath catches as you rock your hips into her again, and she tightens around you at the praise in your voice.
“You are,” you groan. “You’re better. The best. No one’s ever made me feel like this.”
She moans, high and desperate, nails digging into your back now, and you love the way she falls apart when she feels worshipped.
You keep the pace slow but deep, driving into her with just enough power to make her eyes roll back. She keeps clinging, gasping, her legs wrapped tight and her lips seeking yours over and over like she’s scared you’ll disappear.
“You're mine,” she says through gritted teeth, her voice raw. “Say it.”
“I’m yours,” you gasp, thrusting harder now. “Only yours, Wanda. Always.”
Something breaks in her then. She pulls you down into a messy, desperate kiss, hips jerking against your hand in time with your rhythm. You can feel her building - her walls fluttering, breath hitching, thighs trembling.
“Don’t stop,” she cries. “Don’t stop, don’t stop - ”
You don’t. You couldn’t if you tried.
Her release crashes over her like a wave - her whole body arching, a broken moan leaving her throat as she clings to you like she’ll drown without your touch.
You groan against her neck, the world blurring around you both.
After, when you’re breathless and tangled and coated in sweat, she still refuses to let you go. Her fingers rest lightly on your spine, her cheek pressed to your shoulder, and her voice - softer now - fills the silence.
“I meant it,” she murmurs. “I want to be your best. Your only.”
You press a kiss to her temple, still catching your breath, and answer simply:
“You are.”
Wanda doesn’t wait this time.
The moment you’re fingers move out, she shifts you both on the bed, her thighs straddle your hips, and her fingers grip your wrists, pushing them into the mattress above your head. Her eyes - glassy, burning - search yours with something between a challenge and a plea.
“Let me,” she says, barely above a whisper. “Let me use you. I need to feel it.”
Your heart stutters. You nod. You’d give her anything.
Wanda kisses you - fierce, almost bruising - and she grinds down against your stomach, soaking and needy, desperate for friction. Her breath hitches, and she breaks the kiss just long enough to sit up on your lap. The sight is devastating - her flushed chest rising and falling, her thighs tight around you, her fingers trembling as she reaches between her legs to line herself up with your thigh.
She doesn’t ride your fingers. She doesn’t ask for your mouth.
She rides your body.
The slick heat of her folds drags along your skin as she rocks forward, her hands planted firmly on your chest. She sets the rhythm, grinding her clit against your hip bone like she’s chasing something she’s been denied for years.
You moan under her, completely helpless to do anything but watch her fall apart.
“I want to hear you,” she breathes, her voice already breaking. “I want to hear you say it.”
“Say what?” you manage to ask, breathless, utterly entranced by the way she moves - by the way her wetness smears across your skin, by the needy roll of her hips.
“That I’m better,” she pants, leaning down again, her mouth hovering over yours. “That I’m better than her. That you’ve never felt this way with anyone else.”
You blink up at her, stunned by the sharp ache in her voice.
Then you speak - raw and reverent.
“You’re the best I’ve ever had, Wanda. No one’s even close. No one’s ever touched me like this, made me feel like this. It’s you. Only you.”
A sound leaves her throat - half gasp, half sob - and her pace falters for just a moment before picking up again, faster now. She leans into your shoulder, moaning as she grinds against you, desperate, frantic, like she’s trying to brand the memory into both your skins.
Her walls flutter around nothing, her clit dragging over the line of your hip, and you can feel how close she is - how badly she wants to come from this alone.
You free your hands from hers gently and cup her face, guiding her to look at you again. “Let me touch you,” you whisper.
She nods, dazed, panting. “Yes - God, yes - please - ”
You flip her with ease - just enough to roll her under you - and immediately settle between her thighs. She moans at the shift, at the sudden emptiness, but then you’re there - mouth warm, hands steady, tongue pressed flat and slow against her soaked folds.
Wanda cries out, her back arching off the bed.
You hold her hips still as you suck her clit into your mouth, slow and deep, and you swear she’s trembling already.
“You taste like fucking heaven,” you murmur, lips brushing her as you speak. “This is mine, Wanda. No one else’s. I’ll spend the rest of my life proving that to you if I have to.”
She’s already shaking her head, eyes squeezed shut, too overwhelmed to answer - but you don’t stop.
You fuck her with your mouth until she’s begging. Until her fingers clutch at the sheets, then at your hair, and her thighs start to close around your head.
“I’m gonna - oh God, Y/N - fuck, I’m - ”
She comes with a choked moan, clit pulsing against your tongue. But you don’t stop.
You moan softly as you keep licking her through it - slower, deeper, dragging it out until her legs tremble violently under your grip.
“Too much - ” she whines, trying to squirm away, but you pin her hips down, unrelenting, drunk on the taste of her.
“You said you wanted me to never forget,” you murmur, tongue still working her oversensitive flesh. “I’m making sure of it.”
Her next orgasm builds too fast. It rips through her with a sob, her fingers tangled in your hair like she’s holding on for dear life. Her voice breaks open as she moans your name, high and hoarse and wrecked.
When you finally pull away, her chest is heaving, her thighs soaked and twitching, her body flushed all over like she’s burning from the inside.
You crawl back up to her, kiss her slowly, and wipe her tears with your thumbs again.
And when her trembling fingers cup your cheek, she whispers, raw and hoarse:
“Mine.”
You kiss the corner of her lips. “Yours,” you promise. “Always yours.”
The air is thick with heat and the scent of sex, but it’s the quiet that lingers most.
Wanda lies boneless against you, one leg thrown over your hip, her cheek pressed to your shoulder, lips parted against your skin as she catches her breath. You hold her close, tracing lazy shapes along her spine, the softness of her skin still slightly damp beneath your fingertips.
Neither of you rushes to speak. It’s a sacred kind of silence. The kind that feels earned.
Eventually, you feel Wanda shift - just enough to rest her chin on your chest and glance up at you with glassy, blissed-out eyes. She’s flushed and glowing, her hair a wild mess over her face, and you grin as you tuck a strand behind her ear.
“You okay?” you murmur, voice husky but gentle.
She nods slowly. “Better than okay.” Her smile is sleepy, but a little shy, too. “Did I… go too far?”
You blink, then laugh softly, lifting your hand to cup her cheek. “Wanda. That was hot as fuck. If that’s what jealous and possessive feels like, I might have to make Agatha say something smug more often.”
Wanda gasps and hides her face in your chest, groaning. “Y/N!”
You laugh louder this time, wrapping your arms around her and pulling her close. “I’m kidding. Mostly.”
She mumbles something against your skin, clearly flustered, and you kiss the top of her head.
“But seriously,” you say, quieter now, “we didn’t cross any lines. You didn’t hurt me. I didn’t push too much?”
Wanda shakes her head, nuzzling against you with a soft sigh. “You were perfect. You always are.”
“Debatable,” you whisper with a crooked grin, earning a small swat to your side.
You let the moment settle again before you shift just slightly, enough to look into her eyes.
“I get it, you know,” you murmur. “I really do.”
Wanda frowns softly. “Get what?”
“The feeling,” you admit, your voice dipping into something more vulnerable. “Of wondering if someone else meant more. If you’ll ever measure up to something you weren’t part of.”
You pause. Breathe. Let the words come slowly.
“Sometimes I think about Vision. The Mind Stone. That… connection you two had. And the twins - before they were mine, before I got to call them ours. I wonder if I’ll ever compare to what you had with him. If you’ll ever look at me the way you looked at him.”
Her breath hitches, and you almost regret saying it. Almost.
But then she cups your face and kisses you - slow, deep, and full of something so real it nearly brings tears to your eyes.
When she pulls back, she presses her forehead to yours and whispers, “I’ve never looked at anyone the way I look at you. Never loved anyone the way I love you.”
You blink hard. Your throat tightens.
“He wasn’t my soulmate, Y/N,” she says. “He was comfort. He was safety. He gave me something when I was lost. But you… you found me. You brought me back to life. You’re the one who made me feel again.”
You don’t say anything at first. You just wrap your arms around her, tighter than before, and bury your face in her hair.
“I don’t care what fate or magic or some glowing rock decided,” she murmurs. “I choose you. Every time.”
Your voice is a little wrecked when you speak. “God, I love you.”
She smiles against your cheek. “I know.”
You pull back just enough to look at her again. “And just so we’re clear,” you add, grinning as you lean in close, your voice dipping with playful warmth, “you’re also definitely the best I’ve ever had.”
Wanda rolls her eyes, blushing to her ears. “Stop.”
“Never.”
You both dissolve into quiet giggles, tangled up in each other like vines, warm and safe and endlessly close. And even with everything unsaid still lingering in the shadows, what remains between you feels stronger than ever.
There’s no need to rush. Tonight, you’ve got time.
And tomorrow, too.
