kenz💕

But mama’s gonna lay down for a little bit. And she just took a shower, so she smells extra nice and her bare skin is extra warm. She looks so comfortable, laid naked across the bed, with her book resting on her chest. Her breasts part when she lays back, leaving a perfect little space for your head. And her tummy looks so soft, like it would just perfectly mould to your body if you curled up on it.

But you’re a big kid, and big kids don’t need naps. So you just stare at her with wide, needy eyes, trying to convince yourself to stay strong. Even though mama looks awfully cozy. Even though it would feel so good to give in and let her pointy nails find their way into your hair, gently scratching your scalp.

Maybe you could just lay down for a little bit. You wouldn’t have to take a nap. You could still be a big kid and lay with mama for just a few minutes. You’ll get up in a few seconds, you tell her. You can’t stay for long. You’ve got lots of big kid responsibilities to attend to.

She understands, she assures you. You can get up whenever you want. But for right now, she’s just gonna pull the thick plush comforter up over your naked bodies. Because she’s getting a little cold. And she’s gonna turn the lights off, so she can relax.

“Shhh… let me do the thinking”

“You’re so pretty with your head empty”

“I like you like this, no single thought behind those eyes”

“Doesn’t it feel good when I take care of you?”

“Only I know what you need”

Mean! Dom Wanda Maximoff x Fem Reader

The past few weeks had been… different.

It started one night when Wanda had you pinned beneath her, her fingers moving slow and deliberate, drawing out every gasp and shudder until you were trembling on the edge. You hadn’t planned it. The word had just slipped out, soft and breathless, right as you came undone.

“Mama.”

She hadn’t reacted. Not really. No pause, no widened eyes, no smirk or question. She’d just kept going, kissing your neck, murmuring “good girl” like always, and held you through the aftershocks. You’d been too blissed-out to think much of it then.

But the next time it happened, it felt even more natural.

She’d had you on your knees in the bedroom, her hand tangled in your hair as you took her strap, eyes locked on hers in the mirror. When she’d pulled you off just to tease you, you’d whined without thinking: “Please, Mama, let me—”

Again, nothing. No acknowledgment. She’d simply guided you back down, voice low and steady, telling you how pretty you looked stuffed with her. No praise for the word, no correction. Just… acceptance.

And so it kept slipping out.

In the shower one morning, when she pressed you against the tile and slid two fingers inside you from behind: “F-Fuck, Mama—”

She’d hummed, curled her fingers exactly where you needed, and made you come without a single comment on the name.

On the couch during a lazy weekend, when she’d pulled you into her lap and let you grind against her thigh until you were soaking through your shorts: “Mama, I’m close—”

She’d gripped your hips tighter, whispered “come for me then, baby,” and kissed you through it. No reaction to the title at all.

It became part of the rhythm. Easy. Natural. Like it had always belonged there.

You’d say it in the heat of the moment, desperate and needy, and she’d respond with touches, kisses, commands—everything you craved—without ever drawing attention to the word itself. No “I like when you call me that.” No “Don’t stop.” No sign it bothered her. Just quiet, steady acceptance, like she’d been waiting for you to find it on your own.

And because she never flinched, never questioned, never made it a thing, you stopped overthinking it. It just felt right.

So it kept happening.

A murmured “Thank you, Mama” when she handed you coffee in bed.

A sleepy “Mama, hold me” when you crawled under the covers after a long day.

A soft, automatic “Good night, Mama” pressed into her shoulder as you drifted off in her arms.

And every time, she simply pulled you closer, kissed your forehead, or ran her fingers through your hair. No reaction. No indication it meant anything more—or less—than everything else you gave her.

It was yours now. Hers now. Just another way you belonged to each other.

But last night, something had shifted in you.

She’d been soft—gentle in a way that still made your chest ache. Slow kisses, tender touches, holding you like you were something precious. No roughness, no commands. Just care. And in the quiet aftermath, curled against her chest, doubt had crept in.

Did she actually like it? Or was she just letting it slide because it was you?

You’d lain awake long after her breathing evened out, staring at the ceiling, wondering if you’d overstepped. If “Mama” was too much outside the heat of sex. If you’d been reading everything wrong.

So this morning, when you woke up alone in bed—her side already cool—you decided to test it. Pull back. Just in cas.

You padded downstairs in one of her oversized sweaters, the hem brushing mid-thigh, hair a sleepy mess, bare feet silent on the hardwood. The smell of fresh coffee and toast filled the air, and there she was—plating eggs at the counter, hair tied back loosely, wearing a simple tank top and lounge shorts.

“Morning, Wanda,” you said lightly, voice still a little husky as you reached for a mug.

She froze.

The knife in her hand stilled mid-motion. Slowly, deliberately, she set it down and turned to face you. Her expression was unreadable at first—just that calm, controlled mask she wore so well—but her eyes were sharper than usual.

“Why Wanda all of a sudden?” she asked, voice low, almost curious. But you knew her well enough to hear the edge beneath it.

You hesitated, fingers tightening around the mug. The playful ease you’d felt a second ago evaporated.

“I… I wasn’t sure if ‘Mama’ made you uncomfortable,” you admitted softly, eyes dropping to the floor. “You never said you liked it. I didn’t want to push or assume or—”

“Y/N.”

Your name cracked through the air like a whip. She didn’t raise her voice, but the tone made your stomach flip.

“Come here.”

It wasn’t a request.

You set the mug down immediately and walked toward her, heart already pounding. When you were close enough, her hand shot out—fast, precise—and gripped your jaw hard, fingers digging in just enough to border on bruising. She yanked your face up so you had no choice but to meet her eyes.

Green. Cold. Unforgiving.

“Did I tell you it made me uncomfortable?” she asked, voice dangerously quiet, each word enunciated like a threat.

“N-no, Mama,” you whispered, the title slipping out instinctively under her grip.

Her eyes flashed at the sound of it—satisfaction, possession, something darker.

“That’s right,” she hissed, tightening her hold for a second before loosening just enough that you could still feel the ache. “I didn’t. Because it doesn’t. It makes me feel exactly what I want to feel when it comes from your mouth—like you know who you belong to. Like you’re finally admitting it out loud.”

She leaned in closer, her breath warm against your lips.

“So don’t you dare take it back just because you got scared or unsure. That word is mine now. You gave it to me.

You say ‘Wanda’ again like I’m some casual fucking acquaintance, and I swear to god I will drag you over this counter right now, bare your ass, and beat the lesson into you until you’re sobbing ‘Mama’ with every breath. Then I’ll edge you for hours—until you’re dripping, desperate, broken—and I still won’t let you come until I hear it exactly the way I want it. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Mama.” You choked out. Your knees went weak. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes—from the pain and the overwhelming intensity of her.

“I’m sorry, Mama,” you breathed, voice trembling. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I know what you meant,” she cut in, softer now, but no less commanding. Her thumb brushed roughly over your bottom lip, smearing the pressure of her grip. “But you don’t get to decide what I want, baby. You ask. You wait. You trust me to tell you if something’s too much.”

She released your jaw slowly, letting her hand slide down to collar your throat—possessive and bruising.

“Now say it properly.”

You swallowed hard, voice small and reverent.

“Good morning, Mama.”

A slow, approving smile curved her lips.

“Good girl,” she murmured, pulling you into her arms and pressing a kiss to your forehead—like the storm had never happened.

But you could still feel the faint throb in your jaw.

A perfect reminder.

"baby, you're trying too hard. i thought you wanted to make me feel good? isn't that what matters? focus on being good for me, not wanting to cum, wanting to go harder, or faster. just listen to me."

dragging that hand up their spine and to the nape of their neck, pulling at their hair to keep their eyes on mine. my other hand going around their throat, applying the smallest amount of pressure in an effort to keep them grounded with me. nodding at them with that condescending pout as i watch them try to cling onto my instructions, mumbling "i know, baby. it's so hard to listen, isn't it? poor thing, you can't even do the one thing you're meant for, huh?"

eventually pulling them down into my neck, letting those tired pants blur into needy bites and kisses while i coo in their ear. those familiar, gentle encouragements laced with a condescending tone that they know and love.