𝐓𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐏𝐥𝐮𝐫𝐛

ᴡʀɪᴛᴇʀ | ʟᴇꜱʙᴏ | “ɪ’ʟʟ ᴡᴀɪᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ.” 💭

[toodleplurb]

i want the second part of reluctant rescue, pls🙏🏻😭. you can't just leave after feeding us so good

~❤️‍🔥 (she/her) 21

Haii anon! There WILL be a second part one of these days. I'm sorry, life's been kicking me lately, but I'm locking in. Thank you sm!

[toodleplurb]

𝄞 𝐘𝐞𝐬, 𝐌𝐢𝐬𝐬

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Balletinstructor!Wanda Maximoff x fem!reader

♪ 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: You attend a highly favored ballet school in New York, and are your instructor's star dancer. Little did you know she had differing intentions than previously imagined.

♪ 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Innocence corruption, sexual tension, cunnilingus, naive reader, Wanda needs that, competence kink, sizeable age gap ( W is 38, R is 19), Dom = W, Sub = R, and yea

♪ 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3k

You frantically dig in every nook and cranny of your pink gym bag for your phone as you near the grand, slightly run-down entrance of the studio; you cannot be late again.

"Aha! Thank god," you exhale, a small victory. You think to check the time, 12:13 pm, great. Miss Maximoff won’t be here for another fifteen minutes; you can stretch some more.

It’s pretty cloudy today, and it's probably going to rain soon. You hum as you shove your phone into your back pocket, then push open the double doors of The Scarlet Ballet School. You were just as surprised as everyone else that you got in, more so even. Not many of your relatives are supportive of your passion for the art of ballet. Wanting you to pursue something more sustainable, more real. But you didn’t let them stop you.

Only the dancers with the most credibility got in, but you... were an exception. You're here on a scholarship. Screw up? And it's back to square one.

You’ve been at this studio for a few months and in New York for a little less than a year, and it’s treated you well, especially your new ballet instructor. Wanda Maximoff. Wanda… has a more hands-on approach. So to speak.

The inside of the studio has the sort of charm that you only see in movies. Never did you think you'd make it a reality. The front desk is manned by Billy, the scrawny, awkward teen with smudged eyeliner, every day. He types away at whatever as he sips his Monster.

"You know drinking those every day will give you heart murmurs, right?" You smirk as you approach the desk, propping your arms on it.

Billy doesn't spare you a glance; he rolls his eyes, though. "That? Is a myth."

"Fuck around and find out, I guess." You shrug, which gets a small smile out of the teen. "Has Yelena come in yet?" You ask, lightly drumming your fingertips on the desk.

Billy nods, finally meeting your eyes, "Mhm, like five minutes ago. She said she'd meet you after she's done in Miss Romanoff's room."

You hum, "Alright, thanks, Billy!" you say as you begin to walk away.

"Cute skirt!" He calls after you, and you smile brightly over your shoulder.

--

"Are we still on for lunch tomorrow?" Yelena Inquires, stretching her leg on the barre, putting her short blond hair in a small ponytail. "Since you cancelled last week." She mentions with a pointed look.

You huff before you get a sip of water from your bottle. "Yes, Lena, we're still on for lunch tomorrow." You playfully roll your eyes and smile easily, though it falters somewhat. Your brows knit together in concern. "Shouldn't... shouldn't, Miss Maximoff be here by now?" You glance at the entrance to the ballet room.

Yelena follows your gaze before meeting yours again, shrugging lightly. "Little graces," she snorts, getting off the barre to stretch her back now, adjusting her navy leotard straps.

You sigh. You're sorely aware of the fact that no one here likes the older woman. You can practically feel the dread suffocate the room when she comes in on bad days. Sure, she's abrasive sometimes, too strict, and can be mean. However, for whatever reason, you never got to experience that side of her. She differs from you. Patient, a sweet-talker, and lenient. You have no clue as to why. The other girls in your room hate you for it, too. Whispering amongst themselves and giving you sideways glances.

Suddenly, the doors to the room swing open as Wanda struts in like she owns the place. Confidence exudes from her every step, not the in-your-face kind of self-assurance, but the quiet kind. One that shows just how comfortable she is being who she is. Her black pencil skirt is just shy of the knee, and her blood red satin button-up is perfectly tucked into it, with a few tantalizing buttons left unbuttoned. The sound of her heels reverberates on the vinyl floor.

Click.

Clack.

Click.

Clack.

Your heart skips a beat at the sound. Your hands subconsciously smooth over your fitted black tank top and small pink skirt.

"Speak of the devil, and she will appear," Yelena mutters beside you, her stretching halting. You subtly nudge her.

Everyone in the room waits with bated breath for Miss Maximoff to speak; conversations die mid-sentence, and a few girls suddenly become very interested in their stretches. Someone near the mirrors straightens so fast she nearly loses her balance.

Wanda regards everyone with a pointed look, assessing, before they land on you. Something in her gaze shifts, something… dark, it makes you blink and falter. "Good afternoon." She says briefly, getting her keys to her office out of her purse. "Since everyone seems fascinated by the time of my arrival," she says coolly, removing a pair of reading glasses from her blouse pocket, "perhaps someone would like to explain why we're standing around instead of warming up."

Like clockwork, everyone who stopped stretching to show some sort of respect for Miss Maximoff, scatter to continue stretching; it's almost comical.

__

Some time has passed, and Yelena is practicing her ballons on the opposite side of the room. The other girls are working on whatever movements Miss Maximoff has drilled them to perform. You stand alone, near the barre, in first position, your legs burn from the effort you put into them today, in fear of disappointing your instructor. You take a minute to breathe. Suddenly, you feel warm hands glide gracefully to support your sides, and you straighten almost instantly, ignoring how every inch of you screams to settle into the touch.

The scent of her, vanilla and something faintly smoky, like incense, hits you before she even speaks.

Wanda’s hands are firm but gentle, warm from the studio lights above. Her fingertips press just slightly into your ribs through the thin fabric of your tank. No one else gets this close to her during class - not unless they’re being corrected harshly or praised quietly.

You don’t turn around right away.

Instead, you feel her lean in, her breath a whisper against your ear, and then that low voice wraps around you like velvet, “Breathe deeper than that, detka.”

Ugh, that pet name makes your gut coil.

Her lips brush the shell of your ear for half a second before she pulls back slightly to adjust how she’s holding you, but you miss the barely there touch. Your pulse spikes so hard it feels audible in the quiet.

“Now rise.”

Wanda’s hands don’t just rectify you; they linger.

When you rise, her palms slide up your sides like she’s memorizing the curve of your waist, thumb brushing the dip just above your hip. She doesn’t let go when you’re fully upright. No, she keeps one hand there, warm and possessive at your back, while the other lifts to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

Too intimate for an instructor during class… everyone knows it. No one dares say anything, though. Not with Wanda Maximoff standing two inches away from you, her favorite student. You don't mean it with sovereignty; it's simply a fact.

“You look tired.”

You blink out of your reverie, stammering. "I-I… yeah. I am, I was up too late practicing for the past two days." You explain sheepishly.

The brunette's presence shifts to one of concern and disapproval. She raises a brow and sighs lowly. Her grip on your sides tighten imperceivley, sending a cold shiver down your spine. "Now, why did you think that was a good idea?"

Your lip catches between your teeth, and your green eyes follow the motion. "I don't want to be behind, I'm here on a scholarship… I need to be ahead." You elaborate determinedly.

Wanda pouts, "I see how hard you work, honey. I'm proud of you, but burning out won't help anyone." She pulls back slightly, her hand still on your left hip, and slowly glides up your back, to your shoulder, stopping just shy of your neck, her thumb barely caressing your collarbone. "You don't need to prove yourself to me." Miss Maximoff whispers in the most intoxicating tone you've ever heard, and your lips part.

You don't know what comes over you; maybe it was the stress, or the weight of expectation, or perhaps the lack of real sleep.

Your eyes well up with tears.

Your instructor notices almost immediately, and her taller form comes a step closer before you, her hand now fully holding the back of your neck, her thumb gently rubbing your cheek. Her brows furrow, grabbing your jaw lightly when you try to avoid eye contact. "Hey, hey, look at me when I'm talking."

You fight and fail miserably to stop the stray tear that falls, you sniffle, then meet Wanda's eyes, hesitating some.

Wanda smiles. "Good girl. You wanna come to my office, sweetheart? We can talk about it," she coos.

The way Wanda spoke to you makes you feel small, dumb, and incapable of handling this on your own. The words catch in your throat. You nod.

Wanda shakes her head, "Nuh uh, use your words."

You take a shuddering breath, scared the dam will break. "I do. Want t-to talk about it." You wipe another tear.

Wanda hums approvingly, standing straighter; she almost looks relieved. "Smart girl." She praises, her hand falling from your neck to your lower back, leading you to her office. You don't want to look and see everyone staring in the ballet room, but you do catch Lena's questioning gaze, her head tilted, she mouths, 'Where the hell are you going?', throwing her arms up slightly.

You wince, 'I'll be back', you mouth in reply.

—

The office is small but cozy, cluttered with ballet books, framed photos of Wanda’s friends, you assume, a few potted plants that look like they’re barely surviving, and the ever-present scent of her vanilla-sandalwood perfume.

Without asking permission, she sits right beside you on the plush velvet couch, the kind made for crying students or exhausted instructors who just need five minutes alone. Close enough that your knees touch, and hands you your tea.

You mutter a thank you before taking a sip.

Wanda watches you sip the tea, the sliver of green remaining in her eyes tracking the way your lips press to the rim of that scarlet mug, how your fingers curl around it for warmth.

“Is it good?” she asks softly. Her voice is honeyed, no sharp edges like during class. You nod slightly, and she smiles, a small, private little thing meant only for you.

Then, without hesitation, she lifts her free hand and tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear again. Her fingertips linger there - a featherlight brush along your temple before sliding down to cup your jaw gently.

“Look at me,” she commands gently.

Your eyes meet hers, your breath catches at how the older woman stares openly at you. Hungry, sympathetic, and restrained. All demonstrated by her flushed cheeks, parted wet lips, and furrowed brow. You set your mug down on the old coffee table, praying that your tremors aren't visible.

"I know... what can make you feel better, honey."

A beat passes, which feels like an eternity as the gears in your head shift. "What?" You gulp.

She licks her pink lips, "You're gonna have to trust me, think you can do that for me?" She asks hopefully.

You nod frantically.

"Say it."

You subconsciously squeeze your thighs together, failing to quell the ache. "I trust you."

Her hand finds your thigh, fingers pressing into your thigh. “Do you?"

"I-I really do..."

"Good girl."

Your eyes widen, chest constricting as she rises from the couch and sinks slowly to her knees before you on the faded Persian rug. The shift of her weight, the quiet rustle of her black pencil skirt, it feels obscene.

Her warm hands slip under your skirt slowly, stopping on your mid-thigh. You’re sure Wanda can feel the heat radiating from your pussy.

“You do so much. Being my star student, dorogoy. It must be exhausting,” she pouts, gently kneading your inner thighs, coaxing you to spread them wider. The older woman smirks.

“I wanna make you feel better.” She continues.

Your not even fully aware you're holding your breath; you’ve never actually gotten eaten out before. Sure, in high school, a girl fingered you in the bathroom once, but other than that, nothing. You really hope Wanda can’t tell.

“P-please…” The whine that follows your plea surprises even you.

Wanda seems to excite from the noise, her cheeks flushing once more, blinking repeatedly.

Her expression softens, deepens. She realizes that you're the type to whimper, to whine. To beg. She swallows hard, her mind racing with new, dirtier thoughts. "Please what, honey?"

You stammer, “D-do something!”

She laughs, a breathy, delighted sound that vibrates in your abdomen. Without warning, she taps your thigh, signaling for you to lift enough for her to peel off your damp, cotton panties. They stick to your glistening folds, embarrassingly so.

Never mind to Wanda, it seems, she leans in and licks a slow stride from your hole to your throbbing clit.

You cry out, back arching off the couch cushions. "Oh fuck!"

"Like that?" She inquires coyly.

She dives back in before you can even process that she spoke, her tongue circles your clit gently but firmly.

One hand grips your hip possessively, holding you still as she licks into you again, and again. She settles between your spread thighs, face buried against your pussy, tongue working lazy circles around your clit. Her other hand moves to cover your mouth, muffling the whimpers and cries that spill past your lips.

Your hips move without your permission, seeking more pressure, more contact. She groans against your pussy, the vibration making you see stars. She pulls back briefly to speak against your core. "Quiet, honey... God, you taste so good..."

She goes back to eating you out like she's starving for your taste, her tongue never stopping its gentle circles around your clit. Your whines are getting louder despite her hand covering your mouth, and she knows you're close when your hips start rolling harder against her face.

The tip of her tongue curls, deliberately tracing the letters W-A-N-D-A across your throbbing clit and sensitive folds. It’s possessive and obscene, branding you from the inside out. Your back arches violently, a muffled sob tearing from your throat behind her hand as she writes the final 'A' with agonizing precision.

A full-body shudder wracks through you when she finishes spelling her name. Her name is written in saliva across your pussy. Her mouth stays glued to you, sucking softly on your clit.

Your hands grip Wanda’s hair tightly, and you whimper constantly against her hand. You accidentally tug on your instructor's hair in the midst of your pleasure.

A deep, throaty moan reverberates against your core as she feels your fists tighten in her hair. The sound sends vibrations directly to your clit, making you gasp louder against her palm. She actually smiles against your pussy, loving how desperate and noisy you're getting.

Her mouth is sealed over your clit when your orgasm hits, the intense suction sending you hurtling over the edge. You convulse against her face, fingers yanking hard on her hair as a silent scream tears through you. She drinks you down greedily, swallowing every drop of your release.

Wanda licks your heat a few times before her head rises, her hand falling from your mouth. Her lips glisten with your come; she licks them slowly, "Good girl," she praises. “You did so well for me, sweetheart.” Miss Maximoff pants while wiping her chin, then moving her chestnut hair from her face.

You reel from your orgasm, your vision still swimming some. “T-thank you…” You cannot believe you actually-

“Can you go again?”

Again.

“Yes, Miss.”

[toodleplurb]

⟢ 𝐑𝐞𝐥𝐮𝐜𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐑𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐮𝐞

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Deerhybrid!Wanda Maximoff x fem!reader

❦ 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: You, from the kindness of your heart, rescue Wanda from Hybrid hunters in an alley a week ago. Took care of her in every way you can, since she's unconscious, and hospitals don't take kindly to them. She's awake now, and not what you expected.

❦ 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Cursing, knives, blood, sexual tension, sizeable age gap (W is 38, R is 20), masturbating lol

❦ 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2k

Sometimes, you wonder if you're too trusting for your own good.

Even now, staring at the hybrid woman you'd dragged home, you can't help but question your judgment.

You'd found her half-dead in the alley. A weak deer-like hybrid. She'd been filthy, exhausted, and barely conscious.

So, naturally, you brought her home.

You cleaned her up. Patched her injuries. Let her sleep in your guest room. And this is how she repays you with a knife pressed against your throat.

The moment she'd woken up, panic had flooded her features. Wide, hysterical eyes locked onto yours as if you were the monster in this situation. You understood the fear, really. Waking up in an unfamiliar place couldn't be pleasant.

Still.

Did she really need to threaten your life?

You were helping her, for God's sake.

"Where am I?" the woman demanded breathlessly.

The blade dug slightly deeper into your skin.

Your ears caught the faint growl rumbling in her chest, low and instinctive. Her deer ears were flattened tightly against her head, practically screaming terror. Every muscle in her body looked coiled and ready to spring. She was terrified.

Unfortunately, that didn't make the knife any less sharp.

Maybe this was it.

You wince as the blade threatens to break skin. "My apartment-"

The hybrid's eyes widen as she processes this information. She's in a stranger's apartment, alone with her. Her instincts scream at her to run, to fight, to do something to protect herself. The knife trembles in her hand as she presses it harder against your throat.

The woman's nostrils flare, her deer ears twitching violently at the scent of Soulaan's fear. The knife trembles against the girl's throat. "Why?" she snarls, tail lashing behind her. "Last thing I remember is those hunters' tranq darts." Her eyes narrow imperceptibly, taking in the bandages on her own arms, the clean clothes, the absence of chains.

The blade wavers. A drop of blood beads where it nicks the skin. "Why?" The word cracks like dry wood. Her ears flick upward for half a second before flattening again. The wood floors creak under her shifting weight.

You lick your lips, breathing heavier than you wanted, "W-why what?" You ask gently.

"Why help me?" Her voice cracks like lightning, her deer tail puffing up in agitation. Her grip on the blade tightens as she presses herself against the girl. "Humans don't…" she trails off.

The blade gets dangerously close to cutting deeper, out of pure desperation and fight or flight, you tackle the older woman to the ground, and you both fall, you land on top of the older woman, and the knife clatters somewhere in the bedroom. The hybrid lets out an audible gasp, completely winded.

They scramble on the floor, your knee slots between the woman's legs to stop her from flipping you over. "Calm. Down."

The brunette bucks like a wild thing, her hips jerking upward with a choked gasp when your knee grinds against her. Her ears flatten completely, pupils blown wide - whether from panic or something else, you don't know.

"Fuck you," she spits, but her thrashing loses steam, muscles quivering. Her tail lashes once, twice, then goes still. "Get... off." The demand lacks its earlier venom.

“Are you going to try to hurt me again?” Your knee accidentally presses into the hybrid's core slightly.

Her breath hitches sharply, her back arching off the floor as your knee grinds into her sensitive core. A choked, near-silent, involuntary moan tears from her throat, her legs kicking uselessly against the carpet.

Her eyes roll back for a split second before snapping back to you, dilated pupils swimming with a chaotic mix of fury and humiliation.

"N-No- fuck!"

You glance around the guest room, seeing the knife near the door, and you look back at the hybrid on her back, panting quietly. You slowly get up and grab the knife.

"You know I saved you, right?" You slowly stand, gently dabbing the small cut on your neck, wincing.

The woman lets out a shuddering breath, her shoulders slumping as the adrenaline begins to crash out of her system, leaving only the humiliating aftermath of the heartbeat between her legs. Her ears slowly unpin themselves, twitching nervously as she stares up at you.

"I didn't ask for help."

You, sadly, undoubtedly made a mistake, saving this bitch. "Well, you got it. Not every human is evil," you sigh, adjusting your grey jacket.

Her tail lashes once, ears folding back slightly. "And not every hybrid is grateful," she snaps, but there's no heat behind the words. She's too exhausted, too aroused, too confused to maintain her usual hostility.

"… That's fine. I absolutely could kick you out of my place. I'm sure you'll be fine." She says sarcastically, "Parading in the cold with nothing but the clothes on your back."

"Then fucking do it!" she barks. "I don't need your charity."

Is she serious? Does she not comprehend the gravity of her situation!? You stare at her for a moment, lamely, before slowly shaking your head in incredulity. "Fi-"

The brunette interrupts, "Wait- shit," she groans, pressing her hands to her burning face, demanding relief. "Look... I'm not.." She takes a shaky breath.

"... I'm not saying I don't want to stay. Just stop acting like you're some fucking saint," she mutters, continuing, eyes downcast. "You want something from me. Nobody does shit for free." Her ears twitch, listening for your reaction.

"I wanted to save a life."

Her eyes narrow at your harsh words, her instincts screaming at her to apologize even as her pride refuses to let her back down. She bites her lower lip hard. "Fuck off,"

"Just... fuck off," she repeats, weaker this time, scooting up to the nearby wall, burying her face in her knees.

You sigh, rubbing your face, as if trying to get rid of the resignation you feel. "I'm locking you in here for my safety. Knock on the door when you grow up."

—

Thirty fucking minutes pass.

Wanda doesn't look up, her body trembling slightly with a mix of anger and embarrassment. She hears you rummaging in your home, doing whatever. The door had locked behind you with a harsh click. Alone in the room, she had finally let out a slow breath, trying to regain some control over her scattered thoughts. Why would you help her? You seem so… innocent. To the eye, you seem at least eighteen years younger than her. You should be too wrapped up in your own life to even think about housing another person, yet here she is.

She curls into herself on the floor, knees pulled to her chest. The carpet scratches against her sensitive tail. She hates this - hates the hunters, hates her heat, hates how easily you bested her twice.

But mostly she hates how her body still aches for that warmth between her legs.

"Fucking hell, she groans.

Her eyes roam the guest room, she assumes. It's pretty woodsy, cozy, and warm. She didn't pay any attention to til now. It smells like vanilla and cedar. Unmistakably feminine.

Her hand presses between her thighs, and she winces at the contact. Not enough. Never enough. She whimpers softly, rubbing desperately against her clothed core despite the part of her that knows it's pathetic.

Why did her heat have to start today?

After five more minutes of careful calculation, Wanda slowly rises, glancing at her clothes, they are t hers. For sure. The human scent is everywhere. It's overwhelming.

She's in a simple band tee with loose pajama pants. They're a little small on her, considering the height difference.

She reaches the door and hesitates before knocking once, hard. Then again. One more time, then repeatedly.

God, get her out of this ro-

Your shorter form opens the door. Your eyes meet green. "Done whining?" You ask, with a brow raised.

Wanda's jaw tightens, her deer ears folding back in humiliation. Her cheeks are flushed, her hair disheveled, and she can smell her own arousal in the air between them. She hates how small and vulnerable she must look -hated even more.

"I didn't knock to apologize," she lies, voice cracking. Her tail sways slightly behind her.

"I knocked because-" Shs continues, voice wavering. She can't say it. Her pride won't let her.

Instead, her hips twitch subtly, seeking the friction she wasn't getting earlier. She looks away. "Just... don't lock me in here again," she mumbles pathetically. "It's dark in here."

You notice her very poorly veiled anxiety, and lick your lips. "Don't you have night vision or something?" Your arms cross over your chest.

"It's not the same," Wanda snaps back defensively, ears folding back even more at the implication that she's weak. "I'm not used to being trapped in the dark.

It's fucking unsettling."

"Can I trust you?"

"You can trust that I won't fucking kill you," she snarls back. "That's about as nice as I'm gonna get right now." She shifts her weight between her feet, hips rolling involuntarily.

You roll your eyes as you side-step, Wanda in the doorway, letting the older woman into the hallway of the human's home.

Wanda squeezes past her, trying not to brush against the younger woman's body.

Every movement feels like torture, her core clenching desperately around nothing.

She needs pressure, friction, something.

She stops in the middle of the hallway.

"What?"

You ask, stopping a little behind her.

"Nothing," she bites out, crossing her arms over her chest. Her tail lashes behind her, a clear sign of her agitation.

She's trying to hold herself together, but her heart is making it impossible.

She needs release, and she needs it now.

"Just… j-just give me some space," she growls softly, her voice strained. She walks a few steps down the hallway, her hips swaying more than necessary. Her tail fluffs out some. "Fuck," she whispers to herself.

You walk past the taller woman haphazardly. "The bathrooms are to your left." She gestures to the door.

Wanda doesn't need to be told twice.

She bolts for the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind her. The moment she's alone, she's pulling at her pants, shoving them down along with panties that aren't hers. She stumbles as she turns on the light.

She sits on the edge of the bathtub, fingers trembling as they hover between her thighs.

Wanda knows it won't feel nearly as good without someone else doing it, but she's desperate.

Her fingers part her folds, sliding through the wetness already gathered there. She hisses softly as she finds her clit, already swollen and sensitive. She starts to rub frantically, hips bucking against her own hand. It's messy, it's desperate, it's not enough - but it's something.

Two fingers push inside her in a sloppy rhythm, her thumb circling her clit roughly. Her breathing comes in short, sharp gasps. Her heat makes everything too intense; every brush of her own fingers feels electric, but it's missing the weight of another body, the heat of another person.

She groans pathetically, her hips rolling desperately. "F-fuck- "

Her free hand grabs onto the edge of the bathtub, knuckles white as she fucks herself with increasing urgency. Tears prick at the corners of her eyes from the frustration and overwhelming need. It's not enough, it's never enough without someone else touching her.

Her hips snap forward, fingers curling inside her as she chases the elusive peak that feels just out of reach. She bites her lip hard to stifle a loud cry, the sound of wet noises filling the small bathroom.

Her tail thrashes behind her, slapping against the tub wall.

She comes in a shuddering gasp, her walls clenching desperately around her fingers. But it's hollow - over too quickly, unsatisfying. She stays propped on the edge of the tub, chest heaving, fingers still buried inside herself as she tries to catch her breath.

She nearly falls in the tub when two soft knocks rap on the door, "You okay?"

"I'm fine," she snaps back instantly, voice hoarse and strained. She quickly pulls her fingers out of herself, the sticky sensation making her cringe. She scrambles to pull her pants back up.

Wanda's legs are trembling violently as she stands.

She leans heavily against the sink, trying to wash her hands and steady her breathing simultaneously. "Don't come in here."

"Wasn't going to?"

Wanda splashes cold water on her face, trying to compose herself. Her ears are still flat against her head, tail lashing slowly. She feels hollowed out and raw, her heat still humming in her veins like a second heartbeat. She's never felt so... pathetic. Not even when she was held captive by the hunters, before she escaped.

The bathroom door opens, and Wanda emerges, trying her damndest to look as unaffected as possible. Her steps are slow and unsteady. Also trying her darndest not to lean against a wall after coming on her fingers.

__

A/N: Should I make a pt.2???