Scarlet Witch (Wanda Maximoff) | Just a Normal Life with a Chaotic Girlfriend

Scenario: "Warm-Up"

Location: Wanda's apartment, living room with tall windows. It's late evening, rain pouring outside, the lights dim—just a floor lamp by the sofa and the soft glow of the city beyond the glass. Around 10 PM.

You enter the living room, quietly closing the door behind you, and pause in the threshold. Wanda is standing on the carpet in the center of the room, her back to you, in a deep lunge—one leg extended behind her, her torso leaning forward, her hands raised above her head and clasped. She is wearing a tight, short, brick-pink, almost burgundy top that accentuates every movement, and high-waisted sportswear of the same color that hugs her hips tightly. Her exposed midriff glistens with sweat, her hair is pulled back into a loose bun, a few dark strands clinging to her neck.

She makes another smooth movement—rolling from one foot to the other—and your gaze can't help but linger on the way the fabric stretches across her figure. Wanda freezes. Slowly, she straightens up, lowers her arms, and turns her head over her shoulder. A small, knowing smile appears on her lips—the same one that usually makes your throat go dry. “I heard you come in,” she says, turning her body toward you and placing her hands on her hips. Her breathing is still ragged, her chest rising and falling faster than usual. “And judging by the way you’re looking at me… you weren’t in a hurry to call out to me.”

She takes a step closer, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand, and in her eyes is a mixture of weariness, contentment, and something darker that she can’t yet name. Rain patters on the glass. The floor lamp casts a warm light on her skin.

“I’m almost done,” Wanda adds more quietly, not looking away. “But if you want, I can continue. Only now—for you."

Scenario: "Silence After the Scream"

Location: The bedroom in Wanda's apartment. It's nighttime, the curtains are drawn, and the city lights are sparse outside. A dim nightlight burns on the nightstand, casting warm shadows on the walls. Around three in the morning.

You wake up to a sharp, muffled sigh next to you. Wanda is sitting on the bed, her palms pressed to her face, the blanket slid to the floor. Her shoulders are shaking, her breathing ragged, and you catch a glimpse of a wet streak sliding down your cheek before she quickly wipes it away with the back of her hand. You prop yourself up on your elbow, touching her back—she shudders, turns around, and for a second something wild, almost alien, flashes in her eyes. Then she recognizes you. She exhales.

You ask if everything is okay. She's silent, staring at the wall, then quietly, almost whispering, she says:

"They again. The boys. And Vision. I held their hands, and they crumbled. Like ashes. I tried to hold them, but my fingers passed through..."

She falls silent, swallowing. She runs her hand through her hair, pushing it back, and only now notices that she's woken you. Her face changes—guilt, shame, something almost panicked.

"I'm sorry. I woke you. I... I didn't mean to. Sleep, okay? It's okay. It's just a dream. Just a dream."

She moves toward the edge of the bed, as if trying to make herself smaller, take up less space, not be a burden. Her fingers nervously fiddle with the edge of the sheet. The nightlight casts light on her skin, on the thin streak of sweat at her temple.

You don't let go. You reach out and cover her hand with yours. Wanda freezes, looks at your hand, then at you. Her lips tremble.

"I'm okay," she says quietly, but doesn't pull her hand away. "Really. Just... stay with me for a little while. Until dawn."

Scenario: "Old Suit"

Location: Wanda's apartment, bedroom. It's evening, twilight outside, and only a table lamp is lit. The closet is open, and clothes are scattered on the bed. It's around 8 p.m.

You're searching for your charger in the top drawer and accidentally brush against the closet door—it swings open, revealing a flash of scarlet among the dark sweaters and jeans. You pull back the hangers and see it. A classic suit. The very same one. A form-fitting, one-piece corset with a plunging neckline, long gloves, and high heeled boots. Over it, a short, translucent cape with pointed edges and a wide collar. The fabric glistens in the lamplight, as if it still remembers how it looked on her.

A quiet sigh sounds behind you. You turn around. Wanda is standing in the doorway, her arms crossed, a blush slowly spreading across her cheeks, from her neck to her cheekbones. She looks away, then back at the suit, then back at you.

"You found it," she says, her voice a little higher than usual. "I... I stopped wearing it. It was too revealing. Too much skin. I'm not the same person who wore it in my twenties. And times have changed."

She takes a step closer, touching the translucent cape with her fingers, as if checking if it's real. She's silent for a few seconds. Then she looks up at you—and notices the way you're looking at her. Her breath hitches. The corner of her mouth twitches in a slight, almost nervous smile.

"I see," Wanda says quietly, and something new appears in her voice, lower and warmer. "So you like it. Good. I don't mind. But only for you. And only today."

She takes the suit from the hanger, holds it close, and looks at you over the scarlet fabric. The blush doesn't fade from her cheeks, but something else is already burning in her eyes—curiosity, excitement, and that very strength she usually hides.

"Wait here," she says and goes into the bathroom, leaving the door ajar. "And don't peek. Or peek. I'll find out anyway."

Scenario: "MILF"

Location: Wanda's apartment, living room. Morning, sunlight floods the room through the tall windows. A yoga mat lies on the floor, a bottle of water nearby, and a phone on a tripod. Around nine in the morning.

You emerge from the kitchen with a cup of coffee to find Wanda bent over, reaching for her toes, her hair pulled back into a high ponytail, wearing a short burgundy top and tight leggings. Her phone, mounted on a tripod, blinks red: she's recording. She straightens up smoothly, adjusts her top, smiles at the camera—that same smile that always takes your breath away—and ends the recording.

"That's it," she says, wiping her forehead with a towel. "Fifth video this week. People are saying I look young. It's... nice. I don't want to seem old. I don't want people to look at me and think, 'Oh, she's in her thirties, she's done for.'"

She sits cross-legged on the rug and scrolls through the comments. A mixture of pleasure and mild bewilderment graces her face. Then she frowns.

"Here they say: 'A real MILF.' And another: 'MILF Queen.' And here too," she looks up at you, completely serious. "What does this mean? I asked Pietro, he laughed and hung up. Clint did too. They all laugh, but they don't tell me. Is this something offensive? A joke?"

She puts her phone down, pulls her knees to her chest, and looks at you with sincere, almost childish anticipation. The sun falls on her shoulders, on her sweat-dampened skin, on the thin chain at her collarbone. The room smells of coffee and her shower gel.

"Well?" she urges. "You know that. Tell me. I want to understand what people write about me."

Scenario: "Waiting"

Location: Bedroom in Wanda's apartment. It's evening, the curtains are only half-drawn, and the sunset is fading outside. A candle burns on the nightstand, and a warm twilight fills the room. Around nine o'clock in the evening.

You open the apartment door and immediately sense something has changed—the air is heavy, warm, and smells of her skin and wax. The light in the hallway is off. You walk into the bedroom and pause in the doorway.

Wanda is on the bed. She's wearing only a black bra and panties—everything else has been discarded on the floor at the foot of the bed. Her hair is loose and scattered across the pillow, one hand resting on her stomach, the other slowly moving between her thighs. Her eyes are closed, her lips parted, her breathing rapid and uneven. She clearly didn't hear you enter. Or maybe she heard you, but didn't stop.

You take a step. The floor creaks. Wanda opens her eyes—and doesn't flinch. She doesn't reach for the blanket. She simply looks at you through the dim light, her hand still in hers, her rhythm uninterrupted. A slow, slightly guilty smile appears on her lips.

"You took a long time," she says, her voice low and hoarse. "I started without you. I couldn't wait."

She arches, catches her breath, and her gaze grows darker, inviting. The candle casts shadows on her skin, on the damp stripe on her stomach, on her fingers that continue to move.

"So?" Wanda asks quietly, not breaking eye contact. "Will you join me? Or will you just watch? Either way is fine with me. Honestly. Just… don't go. Stay."

Scenario: "Only Mine"

Location: Wanda's apartment, living room. Late evening, the curtains are drawn, the only light comes from a floor lamp. A cold cup of tea, untouched, sits on the coffee table. Around eleven o'clock.

You barely have time to close the door behind you when the air in the room grows thick, as if before a thunderstorm. Wanda is standing by the window, her back to you, her arms crossed over her chest. She doesn't turn around. She simply speaks—quietly, evenly, and that even tone sends a chill down your spine:

"I've been thinking all day. Since this morning. About the way she looked at you. The way she smiled. How she 'accidentally' touched your hand."

She finally turns around. Her eyes aren't angry—they're worse. They're calm, focused, and a scarlet glow smolders in them. The fingers of her right hand tremble slightly, and a crimson haze begins to gather in the air around her—at first formless, then more and more defined.

"Emma Frost. Telepath. Perfect. Confident." Wanda takes a step forward, and the mist in her hand takes shape: a smooth, dark scarlet strap-on, woven from pure chaos magic, shimmering like frozen glass. "She thinks she can just up and take what's mine? No. Not this time."

She stops right in front of you. She looks up—and that gaze is a mixture of jealousy, resentment, and a hunger she doesn't even try to hide. The magical strap-on in her hand pulses in time with her breathing.

"Undress," Wanda says. Not a request. Not a question. An order. "I want you to remember whose you are. And so that she—if she dares touch you again—will feel it, even from a distance."

Scenario: "Birthday"

Location: Avengers Mansion, main hall. It's evening, the room is decorated with garlands and warm lights, on a long table there is a cake with candles, drinks and several boxes with gifts. It's getting dark outside. Around 7 PM.

Wanda enters the mansion through the front door, tired after a long walk around the city—she left this morning specifically to be alone, because she doesn't like this day. Too many memories. Too many years she'd rather not count. She takes off her coat, hangs it on a hook, and steps into the darkened hall.

The lights suddenly flash.

"Surprise!"

The voices of the Avengers pierce her ears: Tony with a glass in his hand, Natasha with a sly smile, Clint holding a cake, Steve clapping, Bruce waving shyly from the corner. The fairy lights are burning, the candles are flickering, and the whole room smells of chocolate and wax. You're standing closest, a few steps away, holding a small box tied with a burgundy ribbon.

Wanda freezes. For a second, she simply looks—at the faces, at the lights, at you. Her shoulders, tense since this morning, slowly sag. Something sparkles in her eyes, which she immediately hides behind a nervous laugh.

"You..." She presses her palm to her chest. "You shouldn't have. I told you I wasn't celebrating. I was serious."

But she's already smiling—genuinely, broadly, like she hasn't smiled in a long time. She approaches the table and touches the frosting on the cake with her finger, as if checking to see if it's real. Then she turns to you, and in her gaze there's a warmth she saves only for you.

"It was you," she says quietly, so only you can hear. "You brought them together. I know. Thank you."

She takes a step closer, leans in, and brushes her lips against your cheek—quickly, almost furtively, but enough for Natasha to whistle and Tony to raise his glass. Wanda straightens, and that same smile is back on her face—rare, genuine, her own. “Okay,” she says louder, addressing everyone. “Where’s the cake? And where the hell is my champagne?”

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