#agegap wlw

oh what WOULDNT I do

Soft Dom Wanda x Fem Reader

The restaurant is dimly lit, intimate—white tablecloths, flickering candles, the kind of place where people go when they want to be seen but not bothered. You’re seated right next to Wanda instead of across from her, tucked into a curved booth with a few coworkers and their partners. The conversation flows easily: upcoming projects, gossip, laughter.

Wanda’s left hand rests on your thigh under the table, perfectly innocent to anyone watching. Her right hand holds her wine glass, swirling the deep red liquid as she nods along to something the man in front of her is saying.

Then her fingers slip beneath the hem of your dress.

You feel the slow drag of her fingertips up your bare skin (no panties tonight; she’d checked before you left the house) until she cups you fully, two fingers sliding easily through your slick folds. She never looks away from the conversation, never misses a beat.

“You’re already soaked,” she murmurs under her breath, so low only you can hear, while smiling politely at a joke across the table.

You can’t help it. The second her fingers start those slow, possessive circles over your clit, your eyes go heavy-lidded, lips parting just slightly. You look up at her through your lashes—pure bedroom eyes, dark and needy, the same look you give her when you’re on your knees begging.

Wanda’s fingers pause for a fraction of a second. She finally glances down at you, green eyes narrowing as she takes in your flushed cheeks, the way you’re subtly rocking into her hand looking right at her.

“You look so pretty right now,” she whispers, voice velvet and dangerous, leaning in just enough that her lips brush your ear. “But fix your face, baby. Unless you want everyone at this table to know Mama’s rubbing this greedy little pussy under the tablecloth.”

Your breath hitches. You bite your lip hard, forcing your expression back to something neutral—smiling politely at the waiter as he refills water glasses—while Wanda’s fingers start moving again, slow and relentless.

She keeps you like that for the entire main course: circling, pressing, occasionally sliding one finger just barely inside you and curling before pulling out again. Every time you start to lose control—eyes fluttering, thighs trembling—she leans in close.

“Face, Y/N,” she reminds you softly, deadly sweet. “Pretty girls don’t fall apart in public. They wait until Mama takes them home and fucks them properly.”

You’re practically vibrating by dessert, gripping your fork so hard your knuckles are white, forcing polite smiles while Wanda’s hand works you mercilessly under the table. When the check finally comes and everyone starts gathering their things, she slips her fingers free, brings them casually to her lips, and licks them clean—slow, deliberate—while holding your gaze.

“Car. Now,” she murmurs, standing and smoothing her dress like nothing happened. “You’ve been so good keeping that pretty face under control… but the second we’re alone, I want to see it break.”

You follow her out on shaky legs, the cool night air doing nothing to calm the heat between your thighs.

Because you know the moment that partition goes up in the backseat, Wanda’s going to make you pay—in the best possible way—for every single one of those bedroom eyes you gave her at the table.

The partition is up. The city lights blur past the tinted windows, and the low hum of the engine is the only sound besides your ragged breathing.

Wanda has you in her lap in the backseat, your back pressed to her chest, legs spread wide over hers. Your dress is around your waist, the silk bunched and ruined, and the thin lace of your panties has been pulled aside. She’s turned the small flat vibrator on its lowest, most torturous setting—the steady, pulsing buzz pressed firmly against your clit—and her hand is cupped over it, four fingers rubbing you in tight, slick circles that amplify every vibration, making the sensation far more intense than her touch alone ever could.

You’re free to fall apart here. No one can see. No one can hear through the privacy glass.

Your head lolls back against her shoulder, eyes half-lidded and glassy, lips parted on soft, broken whimpers. You look up at her with those big, pleading eyes you’ve been fighting all night—dark, desperate, completely surrendered—and this time she doesn’t tell you to fix your face.

Instead, she smiles, slow and possessive, green eyes drinking you in.

“There it is,” she murmurs, voice low and rough with want. “Finally giving Mama those pretty eyes openly. You have no idea how fucking beautiful you look right now, baby—so needy, trembling in my lap like you were made for this.”

Her fingers press the vibrator harder against your clit, rubbing in tight, deliberate circles while it buzzes relentlessly. You arch with a whine, hips trying to chase more, but she holds you still with an arm banded across your waist.

“Does that feel good, sweetheart?” she whispers against your temple, lips brushing your skin.

“Yes, Mama,” you choke out, voice small and wrecked, eyes locked on hers—wide, glassy, utterly devoted. “Feels so good—please—”

“Shh.” She kisses your forehead, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth, never stopping the slow, cruel rhythm of her fingers. “I know, baby. I know exactly what you need. But you’re not coming yet. This is just to get you ready—nice and soaked and desperate for when we get home. Mama’s going to take her time with you tonight.”

You whimper, high and pathetic, thighs shaking over hers. The vibrator pulses again, stronger for just a second, and her slick fingers glide faster before slowing once more.

“Keep looking at me like that,” she praises, voice dripping with affection and control. “Those big, needy eyes—god, you’re perfect when you’re this far gone. My sweet, little girl, dripping all over my hand in the backseat.”

You can’t think. You’re floating, lost in her—every slow circle of her fingers and thrum of the toy pulling you deeper into that soft, obedient place where nothing exists except Mama and the way she owns you.

The car rolls on toward home, minutes stretching into sweet torture, and Wanda never lets you fall over the edge.

She just holds you there—rubbing, teasing, whispering how gorgeous you look with those eyes—keeping you wet and trembling and utterly hers until the second the car pulls into the driveway.

Could be me and an older woman.

I started writing one like 5 years ago it was Elizabeth Olsen centered but never finished it and it’ll probably stay dead on Wattpad HOWEVER I just wrote the prologue for my Avatar fic (blue alien’s avatar) I’ll probably post it later tonight but I’m so scared bc I’ve never written stuff like this (I’m a poetry girly)

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.