Summary: M for smut. Only Wanda Maximoff could get Stephen Strange so hot and bothered. Spoilers for MoM.
Warning: YE BE WARNED—this is a hard M. Like, we're talking dirty talk, graphic descriptions of smut, some rough play/consensual BDSM, the whole nine yards. Read at your own risk!
Undisclosed Desires
By Ninazadzia
"You trick your lovers
That you're wicked and divine
You may be a sinner
But your innocence is mine
Please me
Show me how it's done
Tease me
You are the one…"
~Undisclosed Desires, Muse
To say it started innocently would be a lie.
Truth be told, everything about Wanda Maximoff was the furthest thing from innocent. She was covered in soot and blood and the ashes of Mount Wundagore as I hungrily kissed her neck, pulling her in close with my shaky hands. I couldn't unsee the carnage from the previous few days—all of the death, the destruction. All of it, caused at her hands.
But more importantly, there was one image I couldn't get out of my mind.
Whether I pushed her away or she instinctively backed off, I couldn't say. All I knew was that as quickly as it had started, she ricocheted across the room, her eyes and palms glowing red.
"What the hell, Wanda?" I snapped.
"For fuck's sake, Stephen." She was wiping her bottom lip, turning her hand to face show me. Blood. I'd kissed and sucked on her bottom lip so hard, it split open.
Well, fuck. Where the hell did that come from?
"You…" I pointed a finger at her, shakily, not quite knowing how to continue. What the hell was I supposed to say? "The last time I saw you, you'd buried yourself under a pile of rubble."
"What? Disappointed I'm not dead?" She said with a smirk.
"Wanda, you killed people. Hell, you could've killed yourself—I thought you had."
She raised an eyebrow, her smirk dissipating. "Do you wish I had?" She took a step closer to me, drawing her hand up so she was tracing my jawline.
I didn't know whether I wanted to recoil, or to dive back down and crush my lips against hers.
It was almost as if she read my mind. "Don't act like you don't want this," she whispered. "Don't lie to me. You're glad I'm not dead."
I swallowed a lump in my throat. She'd pressed her hips up against mine, and was standing so close, I could smell hints of shampoo wafting off of her hair.
"Where the hell is this coming from?" I managed.
"What? This?" She pointed between me and her. She'd been the one to initiate it, after all. One moment, I was sitting by myself inside of the Sanctum, turning on the tea kettle—the next, Wanda had teleported herself right next to the stovetop. And in the split second it took me to react, she'd crushed her lips against mine.
It didn't occur to me until I saw the red glint cross her eyes that she was inside of my head, peeling through my memories like they were layers of an onion. She combed through ever moment we'd shared the last few days, every fight, every conversation, every ounce of destruction caused at her hands.
And then, the memory came into clear focus. The one I couldn't get out of my mind.
"You can answer that for yourself, Stephen," she replied, as I watched the memory play out in front of our eyes, like we had front row seats to a movie.
It was the moment she came to Kamar Taj, and asked us to hand over America Chavez. It was the moment she told me she would send me to a universe where I would be happy, where I could be with Christine, in exchange for America.
And in that moment, while I fleetingly thought of Christine, I couldn't help myself. I glanced down. Whether it was at her lips, her breasts, her hips, I couldn't say. All is knew is that in that moment, at the mention of Christine's name, my knee jerk reaction was, I don't know if I necessarily need Christine in order to be happy.
"And there it is," she whispered, finally pulling us back to reality.
I groaned. "You can't hijack my mind like that."
"I didn't have to, Stephen. You let me in."
"Whatever you think that was—"
"I'm not thinking anything. I know what that was." She paced in circles around me, like a lion stalking its prey. "That was the first moment of raw, instant sexual tension you've had in years. Hell, maybe ever. I don't think I've ever seen you look at Christine that way."
My face felt hot as blood rushed to my cheeks. "You don't know anything about my relationship with Christine."
"I don't have to—I've seen it. It's all over your face. Christine might be everything you think you want in a partner—smart, beautiful, classy, and kind—but she never got your heart racing." She stopped pacing right behind me, and positioned herself so she leaned her lips right up to my ears. "She certainly never got your blood boiling, at least not the way that I did." And then, in one fell swoop, she brought a hand to my crotch. I hardened in her grasp. "Not like I am right now."
I snapped around, shoving my face against hers, practically forcing my tongue down her throat. I needed her to shut up. I couldn't hear another word of it—she was right, with all of it. I hated her for it, but not as much as I hated myself.
Only Wanda Maximoff could get me so hot and bothered.
"I heard that," she giggled. Her and her goddamn telepathy.
"Shut the fuck up," I breathed against her lips. I practically threw her into the kitchen cabinets as I hoisted her up, bringing her legs around my waist as she held on in a straddle. With the flip of my wrist, her dress came undone and flew off her body—one of the many small perks of sorcery, I suppose. "You want this, huh?"
She shot me a wicked grin. "Not as badly as you do."
I brought my mouth against her neck, growling as I sucked on it. She worked her hands down my pants and undid the buckle of my belt, and using magic of her own, brought them down so they pooled around my ankles. "Tell me that you want this, Stephen. Tell me how badly you want to fuck me."
I didn't pause, didn't stop to think for a second of how wrong all of it was—how not forty-eight hours prior, Wanda Maximoff had tried to kill me. "Let me show you," I answered, as I brought my fingers down to her hot, pulsating cunt. She squealed as cum rushed from her pussy, soaking my fingers and the floor beneath us immediately. I hoisted her up onto the countertop as I played with her clit with one hand and pumped my fingers inside of her with the other, reveling in the feeling of my fingers in her cunt.
"Fuck, Stephen," she breathed. "You're going to make me cum."
That was enough to make me stop short. "No." I pulled her hand down to my cock, motioning for her to stroke it. She grasped it vigorously, pumping her hands around my hard member. "You get to cum when I say you can."
"Oh, so it's going to be like that?" She grabbed my chin, holding my face forcefully. "Are you going to make the rules, Stephen? Are you going to be rough with me?"
"Do you want me to be?"
She laughed devilishly. "What do you think?"
That was all of the permission I needed to smack her cheek—my turn to hold her face in my hands. "You want me to have my way with you, Wanda?"
"Yes, fuck." This time, I smacked the side of her ass. "Yes, Stephen," she panted, dripping onto my fingers as she brought her pussy to tease the tip of my cock. "Give it to me."
I pulled away. I couldn't help myself—the teasing, the smacking, the way I crushed my hips against hers, pinning her down to the countertop. It was everything I'd never gotten to do before, but everything I'd always wanted to do.
When I made love to Christine, it was just that—love. I held her delicately, I caressed her skin as I slowly inserted myself inside of her, and I took my time to make sure she wouldn't so much as whimper while our bodies moved with one another. Even before I was a Master of the Mystic Arts, I always feared for her—and for me too, I guess. I worried that if she saw my undisclosed desires, the things that I really wanted, it would scare her away.
Wanda Maximoff, on the other hand, I had no such qualms about.
I pulled her in for a kiss, before abruptly pulling away. I spat into the palm of my hand, and brought it down to my cock, lubing it up as I rubbed it against her pussy. "I want you to beg."
"Please, Stephen," she whimpered. "Please. Give it to me."
"Tell me how badly you want it."
"I want it." She crushed her lips against mine, sucking on my bottom lip as she ran her hands up and down my back. "I want to feel you inside of me so fucking badly."
"You want this?" I raised an eyebrow, inserting myself a few inches, then immediately pulling out. It was euphoric, the feeling of her tight warmth gripping my cock, but it didn't hold a candle to the look on her face. The look of sheer lust and animalistic pleasure, of wanting to be fucked and pleased exactly the way she wanted—exactly the way I wanted.
"You're such a fucking tease, Strange," she moaned, wrapping her legs around my waist as she bucked her hips against me. I slipped right in, burying myself deep inside of her, feeling my cock stretch out every inch. I could feel the beads of sweat dripping down the side of my face as I watched her thrust her hips against mine.
"Holy fuck," I breathed, waves of pleasure enveloping me. "You feel so fucking good."
She laughed, sucking on my index finger, and digging her nails into my back. "Who would've known? You fit fucking perfectly inside of me."
Her laugh, her voice, the feeling of her body against mine—it hit me like a fucking train. I'd always known, deep down, since the moment I'd met Wanda Maximoff, that we were cut from the same cloth. I fancied myself to be an intellectual, a refined man of classy sensibilities—but deep down I always knew that I had that side of me, the one that I couldn't bring out in polite company. The one that wanted to talk dirty and fuck like an animal, and leave with scratches on his back and bruises for good measure.
And in Wanda Maximoff, I'd finally found someone who could see that side of me—who wouldn't just handle it, but would revel in it.
I came in hot, fast spurts, screaming out her name as she dug her nails so hard into my back she drew blood. She sloppily kissed my cheek afterwards, and we both slid down to lie next to each other on the kitchen floor.
"You were fucking made for me, Wanda," I breathed against her neck, trailing soft kissed from her ear to her collarbone. "Physically—that was insane."
She smiled, color rushing to her cheeks. "To tell you the truth—I didn't know it could be that good."
"Really?" I raised an eyebrow. "Vision wasn't much into dirty talk?"
She shook her head, looking away. She bit her lower lip, hesitating before she spoke next. "Vision…he saw me as this delicate, dainty thing. He loved me, but I think he always worried about hurting me. Worried I would take him getting rough with me the wrong way."
She turned to face me, searching my expression. "Something tells me you know all too well what I'm talking about."
I nodded slowly. I wouldn't say a word about Christine—not to her. Then again, I thought, watching as the corners of her mouth turned up until a small smirk, I keep forgetting I'm with a fucking telepath.
"It's okay," she whispered, softly kissing my lips. "I won't tell a soul."
"I know," I sighed, running a hand through her loose red curls. "And, for the record—" I added, as I brushed a strand of hair out of her face, "you don't ever need to worry about me being delicate with you. I know how durable you are."
She smiled. "Good."
"…I want to reconcile the violence in your heart
I want to recognize your beauty is not just a mask
I want to exorcise the demons from your past
I want to satisfy the undisclosed desires in your heart"
~Undisclosed Desires, Muse
