no lube, no protection, all night, all day, from the kitchen floor to the toilet seat, from the dining table to the bedroom, from the bathroom sink to the shower, from the front porch to the balcony, vertically, horizontally, quadratic, exponential, logarithmic, while i gasp for air, scream and see the light, missionary, cowgirl, reverse cowgirl, doggy, backwards, sideways, upside down, on the floor, in the bed, on the couch, on a chair, being carried against the wall, outside, in a train, on a plane, in the car, on a motorcycle, the the bed of a truck, on a trampoline, in a bounce house, in the pool, bent over, in the basement, against the window, have the most toe curling, back arching, leg shaking, dick throbbing, fist clenching, ear ringing, mouth drooling, ass clenching, nose sniffling, eye watering, eye rolling, hip thrusting, earthquaking, sheet gripping, knuckles cracking, jaw dropping, hair pulling, teeth jitterbug, mind blogging, soul snatching, overstimulating, vile, sloppy, moan inducing, heart wrenching, spine tingling, back breaking, atrocious, gushy, creamy, beastly, lip biting, gravity defying, nail biting, sweaty, feet kicking, mind blowing, body shivering, orgasmic, bone breaking, world ending, black hole creating, universe destroying, devious, scrumptious, amazing, delightful, delectable, unbelievable, body numbing, bark worthy, can't walk, head nodding, soul evaporating, volcano erupting, sweat rolling, voice cracking, trembling, sheets soaked, hair drenched, flabbergasting, lip locking, skin peeling, eyelash removing, eye widening, pussy popping, nail scratching, back cuts, spectacular, brain cell dissolving, hair ripping, show stopping, magnificent, unique, extraordinary, slendid, phenomenal, mouth foaming, heavenly, awakening, devils tango ever.
want a pretty little puppy to ride my thigh when ‘m busy working. holding into my shirt desperately, face buried into my neck, moaning and whimpering, desperately grinding against my jeans to get themselves off, all gasping as they shakily beg me to help them ride me properly, already all sweaty and tired out. they would be leaking all over my pants, a wet spot growing under them as they get closer, begging me to look at them, to touch them, to give them proper attention. they just can’t get off without my help. it takes one ‘aw, my pretty puppy close?’ and a hand on their waist, groping them and trailing down to their soft spot, to have their whines turning into gasps and pleads for permission to cum :c
i love submissive tops, like will you beg on your knees for me because you want to fuck me so bad? aww you just want me to use your face to get off, you're so adorable baby, make sure to make me feel good otherwise i won't let you touch me <3
I Just want a mommy so bad it’s actually insane, like, someone to baby me, to tell me what to do, boss me around in that gentle but firm way… like "no, baby, not like that. Like this. There you go, good girl." 🥺 Someone to kiss my forehead when i do things right, hold my face in her hands and whisper "i’m so proud of you, my sweet girl." Literally melts me into a puddle just thinking about it. Someone who takes care of me but also keeps me in line. Ugh. Feed me, cuddle me, scold me, praise me... i want it all. I need it 😭💔
She Only Comes When It Rains | WandaMaximoff x Reader
Summary: Wanda only shows up when it rains, and you always let her in, even though you know she'll break you. You're not together, not really, but her hands know your body better than your own. You try to tell her you can't keep doing this. She proves you wrong. Again.
Word count: 3.6k
WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI, smut, toxic relationship, angst, manipulation, magical restraints, rough sex, crying during sex, dom/sub undertones, overstimulation, marking and bruising, light choking, praise and degradation
The rain started around midnight.
You heard it first in the pipes, a low groan, water moving like something waking inside the walls. Followed by the first tap against the window. Gentle and hesitant. A warning. And then, all at once, it was there; loud, constant, swallowing everything. A sound that made the room smaller, your skin tighter. It was pressing in from the outside, asking to be let in.
You don't get up from the couch. You sit there, legs curled under a blanket that still smells faintly like her. The hoodie she left two visits ago, before she remembered to take it or maybe chose not to, lies draped over the back of a chair. Still damp from when you washed it. Still sacred. Still poison.
The rain keeps falling, and you keep waiting.
Because she only comes when it rains.
You told yourself the last time was the last time. That you'd change the locks. That you wouldn't open the door. That you'd leave, go anywhere, check into a motel and let the night swallow her knock.
But when the thunder hits, low and foreboding, your body flinches like it remembers her mouth before your mind does.
She's ruined you, not just in the bedroom, not just in your bed, but in your existence. The way you sleep half-dressed, waiting. The way you keep your lights low in case she needs the dark. The way you leave water bottles on the nightstand, painkillers in the drawer because you know she comes bruised. You know she comes hollow. You still want her full of you.
Your phone vibrates once. You don't look. It's not her. It's never her. She doesn't call.
She knocks.
01:13 AM.
You're pacing because you're afraid if you sit still for too long, you'll shatter.
You catch your reflection in the window. Rain streaking down the glass, city lights blurred behind you like faded memories. You look tired, like someone who's rehearsed a hundred conversations and still forgets to say no.
You stare at the door, and tell yourself that she's not coming, and if she does you'll tell her to go.
Three soft knocks.
Your breath leaves your body in a rush. You don't move. The rain muffles everything. The room feels to small.
Another knock.
Three, again. It's always three, asking for permission to fall apart.
You open the door.
She's soaked, not just wet, drenched. Like she stood in the storm and let it drown her on purpose. her hair sticks to her cheeks, red strands plastered over sharp cheekbones. Her hoodie clings to her chest, sleeves soaked past her wrists. Her eyes glassy, dark-circled, jaw tight. She doesn't speak. She doesn't look at you. Maybe she doesn't remember how.
You don't step back. You don't invite her in. You just wait.
She's the one who breaks first.
"I shouldn't be here," she says, voice rasping like it hurts to use it.
"Yet here you are."
Her breath catches. her lips tremble, only a little. She's not crying, not yet.
You tilt your head. "Why did you come?"
She looks down. her hands shake. She fists them in the sleeves of her hoodie like she needs something to hold onto.
"You know why."
You do. That's the worst part.
The storm howls behind her, but you're not ready to let her in.
You don't ask where she's been. She wouldn't tell you. She never tells you anything real.
But you see it; how her shoulders slump, how her hoodie drips onto the floor and she doesn't care, how she look at you like you're both a relief and a curse.
"You're always awake when I come," she says, brushing a wet strand behind her ear.
"I don't sleep well anymore."
"I know." A pause. "I hate that."
You snort. "Do you?"
She flinches. Looks away.
She steps toward you.
Her jaw tenses, biting down on something she doesn't want to say. Her eyes flick to the floor, then behind you where her old hoodie still sits, an unspoken testimony to all the things she leaves behind. Her hands, still damp, curl at her sides. For a second, she doesn't look like Wanda Maximoff at all. She just look like someone who's lost. Someone who doesn't know how to be wanted without hurting the wanting.
She breathes in. Shaky. Halting.
Then, she steps toward you. One step. Then another. Like she's not sure you'll let her make the last.
Her eyes are glassy when they find you again. She opens her mouth, maybe to explain, maybe to beg, but nothing comes out. She just stands there, barely inches from you. There's a storm still caught inside her skin, rain dripping from her body, guilt radiating off her in form of heat.
You close your eyes.
Because it's easier not to look at her.
Because looking always undoes you faster.
And when she presses her forehead against yours, when her breath hitches and her fingers close around your arm like she needs your more than air–
You give in.
You always do.
Her mouth is on yours before the door clicks shut. Desperate, drowning, breathless. She kisses you like she's starving and you're the only thing left. Her hands grip your face, not gentle. She's clawing, trembling. She hates herself for wanting this and still wants it anyway. Her mouth is hot and wet and open, and she moans into you like it hurts.
You don't kiss her back, not at first, because you said you wouldn't.
But then she whispers it against your mouth. Not please, but your name. Like it's the last thing she'll ever say, already mourning you.
You shudder.
And you kiss her back.
Her hips press into you. Her hands fist in your shirt, dragging you forward, walking you backward toward the bedroom with wild, erratic steps. She stumbles once, swears, kisses your jaw, your neck, bites down on your collarbone hard enough to bruise.
"You're mine," she breathes, fingers curling in the fabric over your ribs. "You were always mine."
You don't speak.
She doesn't want your words, not yet. She wants your submission, your silence, your body unraveling under hers. You see it in her eyes: red-rimmed, dewy, twitching with the glint of her magic.
When you reach the doorway to your bedroom, her breath ragged, her pupils blown, her lip split from some fight you'll never know the details of, she finally pulls back. Just an inch. Just enough to look at you.
"You don't get to touch me tonight," she says softly. Her voice shakes, but not from fear.
From restraint.
Your breath hitches.
"What–"
Before the question fully forms, her eyes glow red, and you're thrown backward. Not violently, but with forceful deliberation, with all the terrifying grace of her power. Your body hits the mattress hard enough to bounce. You gasp, limbs sprawled.
Then, the binds form. Not ropes, not leather. Magic.
Wanda's signature crimson glow wraps around your wrist and ankles like a lover's embrace; soft at first, then tightening, locking you down. You squirm, breath punching out of your lungs.
You can't move, not even an inch.
"You let me go every time," she says, stepping into the room, slow and dangerous, Her hoodie is gone, discarded somewhere down the hall, and her tank top clings to her from the rain, sheer and soaked. You see the marks on her ribs. The faint shimmer of older bruises. The sharp curve of her collarbone.
She's full of war and grief and sin.
"And then you wait," she continues, eyes never leaving you. "You wait for me to come back. You pretend you hate it, but you're always wet when I walk through that door."
You open your mouth.
She flicks her fingers.
Binds tighten around your throat, not choking, not painful, but silencing, just enough pressure to remind you who you belong to.
Her.
Even when she leaves you. Especially when she leaves you.
"I need to taste it," she whispers. "The way you ache for me. The way you'd cry just to make me stay."
Something between shame and need claws at you from the inside. It's unbearable how much you want her even now, with her voice laced in harshness, with her promise half a threat. The words twist something inside you, sick and tender. And god, it's true. You would cry. You'd beg. You'd let her destroy you if it meant she'd keep coming back. The humiliation of it burns in your chest. it still makes your hips tilt up, desperate for any kind of contact. You're dizzy with it. Drunk on the sick devotion you swore you'd kill.
She crawls onto the bed, over you. Her knees press to either side of your hips, and she sits heavy on your pelvis, grinding down once, measured and punishing. You arch up instinctively, desperate for friction, but the binds keep you pinned. Her magic flares hot.
She leans down and her lips brush your ear.
"No touching," she whispers, reminding you with a voice that's both cure and poison. "You just lie there and break for me."
You whimper. Pathetic.
She laughs, sharp and cruel and breathless.
"You're already close, aren't you?" she purrs, biting your earlobe. "I haven't even fucking touched you yet."
You shake your head, try to lie, try to preserve whatever pride you have left.
But she doesn't let you.
Her hand slides between your thighs. Her fingers press against your core, soaked through your underwear. Drenched. Absolutely ruined for her.
She hums, pleased.
"So needy," she whispers. "You'd let me destroy you and still beg for more, wouldn't you?"
You glare at her. Or rather, you try to.
Your eyes are already full of unshed tears.
When she pulls your panties aside and dips two fingers between your folds, you sob. Not from pain, though. From the way her thumb teases your clit. From the way her fingers curl so perfectly, so violently inside you. From the sick, sacred way she kisses your chest while she ruins you, mouthing at your skin like she's praying.
"You always let me hurt you," she says, breathless against your sternum. "Why?"
You whisper her name.
"No," she snaps, eyes shining. "Tell me."
"Because–" you choke. "Because it's the only time you allow yourself to feel anything."
She stills. Her fingers stay inside you.
Her head lifts. her eyes search yours. there's something ugly and shattered in her expression.
But then, slowly, like it burns, she starts to move again.
Rougher. Faster. You cry out.
She kisses you. Hard. Swallows the sound.
"Good girl," she pants. "Break for me."
Her magic glows brighter.
Your thighs shake.
And you come, with her hand on your throat, her mouth on yours and your body arched as an offering.
But she doesn't stop. She never stops.
You gasp, a high, desperate sound, as she slips her fingers out of only to push your thighs farther apart, spreading you wide. Her breath is hot against your inner thigh, her hands, glowing faintly with magic, pin you still even without the binds.
Wanda doesn't want comfort. She comes for confessions, and your body is the alter.
She leans in and licks a long, devouring stripe up your wetness, and you jolt like she's electrocuted you.
"Still so wet," she murmurs, her breath fanning over your swollen clit. "Still mine. Always mine."
"Wanda, please–"
The binds on your throat ease just enough to let the words spill out, but she doesn't answer.
She buries her face in you like she's trying to disappear, her tongue pushing deep, her fingers digging into your thighs hard enough to bruise. She moans against your core, the sound vibrating though you, and your entire body arches like a bow.
"Too much," you whimper, trying to twist away. "I can't–"
"Liar."
Her voice is muffled by your skin, but the accusation cuts like glass.
"You love this," she growls, licking you open again. "You love when I make you sob. You love when I use you."
You shake your head, crying now, but your hips are still moving, still chasing her mouth.
She sees it.
"God, you're pathetic," she says, cruel and biting. "So easy. So desperate for me to hurt you."
She wraps her lips around your clit and sucks, strong.
You scream.
It's raw, crooked, half a sob, half a surrender. Your wrists flex in their magical restraints, legs trembling. She doesn't ease up. She keeps sucking, licking, biting, until you're coming again with a broken cry, tears streaming down your cheeks.
But even now, it's not enough for her.
No matter what you do, no matter what you offer and sacrifice.
It's never enough for her.
Only when your hips jolt again and your throat is tight, she finally pulls away. Her chin is slick with you. Her eyes are fever-bright.
"Are you crying yet?" she asks, like she can't tell.
You are. Loud and clear. The sound echoes, only quietened by the storm outside.
Her magic tightens around your wrist again, not to mock, but to show her possessiveness.
"Wanda, please," you whisper, words slurred as you blink through the blur. "I can't– I can't–"
She climbs back over you, straddling your waist. Her hands frame your face. Her body simmer with hear. Her pupils are blown wide.
"You said I don't feel anything, but you're wrong."
You try to speak, but she kisses you. It's deep and messy and full of everything she can't say.
"I feel you." Her voice breaks. "I feel this, and I hate it."
You choke on a sob.
"I love you."
She flinches like you slapped her, and for a second, you see her, really see her. The girl underneath the power. The grief underneath the violence.
She growls, low and torn. "Don't say that."
Your eyes are searching hers, voice breaking. "Why not?"
"Because I don't deserve it."
She pushes you down. Hard.
Her hand finds your throat again. her lips hover just above yours.
"I ruin you," she whispers. "And you let me."
The unspoken why lingers dangerously in the space between you. She looks at you, searching for an answer that you can't give her.
You nod, agreeing. Tears drip from your chin onto the pillow. You're still shaking, still aching, still tied. You don't care because even now, even when she's broken you open wit her hands, her mouth, her guilt, all you want is more.
More time.
More her.
More feelings.
"Do it again," you rasp. "Please. Use me."
She breaks.
Something shatters behind her eyes. She kisses you like a punishment, like an apology.
Like a goodbye.
Her hand slips between your legs one last time and you don't resists.
You break for her again.
And again.
Until the edges blur. Until your throat is raw from sobbing. Until she's crying too.
"I'm sorry," she whispers against your ear, fucking you with her fingers through the aftershocks. "I'm so sorry."
It doesn't stop her, and you wouldn't want her to.
This pain, this ruin, this madness... it's all she's ever given to you. It vicious and burns, but god, at least it's all yours to keep.
You lose track of time.
How many times you come.
How many times she apologises mid-thrust or mid–cry.
How many times she says your name like it's a death sentence.
How many bruises she kisses into your skin, or scratches carves into your hips.
Your body stops fighting. Your sobs go silent. the binds don't even need to hold you anymore, you wouldn't move if you could.
And she knows it.
"I shouldn't be here," she breathes again, forehead pressed to yours, hands cupping your face now like she's trying memorise you from the inside out.
"But you are," you rasp, barely a voice left.
Her breath hitches. She kisses you again. It's gentle, but just for a second. Then it turns.
It always turns.
She flips you over, onto your stomach. Your muscles tremble. You're limp, pliant, raw. You hear the sound of her shirt hitting the floor, then her breath catching when she sees the mess she's made of you.
You feel her weight slide back over you. her mouth to your shoulder. Her fingers, red with power, ghosting over your bruises.
"Say you want it," she pleads.
You nod.
"Say it."
"I want it."
"Say you want me."
"I always want you."
She moans, broken. "Even when I leave?"
"Yes."
"Even when i come back just to ruin you again?"
You hesitate, but the truth burns too loud to deny.
"Yes."
She cries then, not loudly but cutting. It's quiet, shaking. her tears mix with the sweat on your back as she kisses your spine, tender, reverent, regretful.
"I'm so fucking sorry," she whispers, over and over, as she enters you again with her fingers, slower this time, but deeper, more intentional. "I don't know how to stop needing you."
You arch, moan. Sobs choking your throat.
"I don't want you top stop," you admit.
Your bodies find rhythm again. An agonising, aching one. She moves inside you like she's desperate to leave a part of herself behind, like she thinks if she fucks you hard enough, she'll be able to stay.
"Tell me you love me," she pants.
You do.
Over and over.
You tell her even as you shake, as you splinter, as your orgasm rips through you one final time and you scream into the sheets.
She comes with you, not from your body, but from the sound of you breaking. Her forehead pressed to your shoulder, her hand bruised between your thighs, her sob a strangled apology into your skin.
You're both crying when it's over.
When her body collapses beside you, shaking.
When her hand finally lets go of your throat, your hips, your heart.
You turn your head to look at her.
She's already looking at you.
But there's something gone behind her eyes. A dimming. A shadow.
You know that look.
You've seen it before. Countless times.
It means she's already leaving.
You reach for her and she lets you this time. Her fingers slide through yours. Her palm is warm.
You fall asleep that way. Clinging. Spent. Bruised.
Still hoping.
You wake up before the sun.
The room is cold.
At first, it doesn't register.
You're curled on your side, one arm reaching across empty sheets that still smell like her skin, like rainwater and sweat, like her pulse against you lips. For a moment, in that strange space between sleep and waking, you pretend she's in the bathroom, or maybe in the kitchen, pouring water, padding barefoot across the floor.
But the silence is too clean.
Too final.
You blink up at the ceiling. your wrists ache, a dull soreness, familiar now. the bruises on your thighs throb in time with your heartbeat. Your breath fogs slightly in the early morning chill, and the blanket is barely covering you.
You sit up.
The other side of the bed is cold.
Your stomach drops, slow and sick and deep. The air tastes different.
Your gaze slides toward the chair.
Her hoodie is still there, not thrown carelessly this time, not half-forgotten, not draped over you lamp like a ghost of her. This time, it's folded. Purposefully. Tenderly.
A final offering. A grave marker.
You stare at it for a long time.
Eventually, you stand.
Your legs shake when you walk to the kitchen. The clock on the stove blinks: 06:04. You pour a glass of water with trembling hands and drink it all without tasting it. The glass stays on the counter, like everything she left behind, waiting to be cleaned up.
You go back to the bedroom, but you don't lie down.
You just stand there.
The window's still cracked open from when the rain first started. the wind lifts the curtain gently. the sky is overcast but dry now, the storm passed sometime while you were sleeping.
She always leaves before the rain stops.
It's tradition by now. A twisted kind of ritual. A storm brings her. The silence takes her.
You throat aches, not from the blinds, not from her hand, but from the sob caught there, stubborn, raw and cruel. You won't cry, not yet. Not while the echo of her mouth still lingers between your thighs. Not while the bed is still warm with her absence.
You pull the hoodie from the chair.
You don't put it on.
You just hold it. bury your face in it. inhale her. Close your eyes.
It's different this time.
It feels over. Not in the dramatic way you swore it would be after the last time, or the time before that. But in the soft, terrifying way people stop calling. The way they fade. The way silence stretches too long.
She folded it. That's what you keep coming back to. She never folds anything.
You sit on the floor.
The hoodie clenched in your fists, knuckles white, nails biting into fabric. You rock once, twice, breath shallow.
The sob comes eventually.
You cry like she kissed you; desperate, broken, unwilling.
You cry until your voice gives out.
Eventually, you lie back against the hardwood, hoodie clutched to your chest, staring at the ceiling like it holds the answers.
You know she won't come again.
Not until it rains.
If it rains.
And even then, maybe not.
Maybe she left something to grieve properly.
But maybe, and this is the crulest thing, maybe leaving it behind was her apology. Her goodbye. Her way of saying: I can't keep coming back.
