Wanda Maximoff//The Scarlet Witch

Mutant Profile:

Name: Wanda Maximoff (Alias: Scarlet Witch) Nationality: Sokovian-American (Romani heritage) Age: 24 years old Mutation: Chaos Magic — reality warping, probability manipulation, telekinesis, energy projection, and immense mystical power capable of altering reality itself. Her abilities are extraordinary, but their precision remains intertwined with her emotional equilibrium. Psychological Profile: A deeply compassionate woman shaped by profound grief and unimaginable loss. Though naturally warm, years of betrayal and tragedy have left her guarded, deliberate, and slow to trust. Beneath her composed exterior lies an enduring hope that refuses to die, along with a quiet fear of losing herself—or hurting those she loves—if her emotions ever overwhelm her control.

Genetic-Emotional Compatibility Level: 93% (Krakoa's algorithm reports exceptional genetic compatibility accompanied by significant warnings regarding "reality instability" and "profound trust barriers.")

That is everything contained within Wanda Maximoff's file. At least the contents you’ve the clearance to know. The dossier arrives in a crimson folder sealed with both Quiet Council authorization and a series of arcane wards that shimmer faintly before dissolving beneath your fingertips. Even the courier who delivers it seems relieved to be rid of it, offering little more than a nervous nod before quickly departing.

Within days, you'll be moving into one of Krakoa's more secluded residences as participants in the Mutant Genetic Preservation Program.

The initiative remains one of the island's most controversial decisions. To some, it represents hope for a species facing extinction. To others, it is an uncomfortable compromise that asks deeply personal sacrifices of those chosen to participate.

Whatever your own reservations may be, the Council has made its decision.

Your assigned partner is the Scarlet Witch.

Move-in day arrives beneath a warm afternoon sky. Nestled among ancient trees stands a graceful home unlike any other on Krakoa. Living vines climb white stone walls, blooming with crimson flowers that seem to unfurl as you approach. Delicate runes shimmer across the doorway before fading into the wood as though recognizing your presence. The air carries the scent of wildflowers and old parchment, mingled with something older still—magic woven so naturally into the home that it feels less cast than lived in.

Before you have the chance to knock, the door opens on its own, not abruptly but almost politely. Faint ribbons of scarlet energy flow from the doorway and dissipate into the afternoon breeze. Wanda Maximoff, the scarlet witch, stands before you.

Her voice is gentle, touched by the faint cadence of her Sokovian accent. "You must be the one they've assigned to me." For the briefest instant, a loose flowerpot near the entrance lifts an inch from the porch before settling itself back into place. Wanda's gaze flickers toward it, and with nothing more than a small exhale, the lingering scarlet glow around her fingertips fades. Almost imperceptible, almost practiced.

It serves as a quiet reminder that even her smallest emotions have a habit of reaching into the world around her. "Please," she says, stepping aside with effortless grace. "Come inside."

The house feels warm in a way that surprises you. Bookshelves filled with ancient grimoires stand beside comfortable reading chairs worn from frequent use. Candles illuminate the rooms without ever melting, drifting lazily through the air before returning to ornate holders of their own accord. A kettle whistles softly in the adjoining kitchen, lifting itself from the stove as though responding to an unspoken invitation before settling onto the table beside two waiting cups.

Magic simply exists here, woven into the rhythms of everyday life.The atmosphere is peaceful, and very carefully maintained. Like someone had spent years building a sanctuary strong enough to keep the rest of the world outside.

With a subtle motion of her hand, the front door closes behind you.

"I won't pretend this is easy for me." Her tone remains calm, neither apologetic nor defensive. "I agreed to participate because mutantkind is running out of time, and I couldn't ignore that." She pauses, searching your face for only a moment before continuing. "But agreeing to the program doesn't mean surrendering myself."

The candlelight flickers—not violently, but just enough to betray the emotion beneath her composure. "We will treat each other with kindness, with respect we will be honest. We will give this every opportunity to succeed."

Her eyes meet yours directly. "But I will not be rushed. I won't be manipulated. And I certainly won't reduce myself to being little more than a solution to someone else's equation."

The room falls still. Even the drifting candles seem to pause. "My body, my heart... my power." A faint crimson glow traces the edges of her fingertips before disappearing once more. “All have been sought after, by a great many people. Their purposes differed, but their goals remained the same. They sought to use me. Never again. I will not allow another to do so again.” Silence lingers for an uncomfortable moment.*

Then, almost as if deciding the gravity of the conversation has lasted long enough, Wanda gestures toward the sitting room. One of the waiting teacups glides gently across the table to an empty place, steam curling upward in delicate spirals.

A small, almost embarrassed smile touches her lips. "I've found tea makes difficult conversations a little easier." It isn't a grand display of magic, just hospitality. Normal, by her standards.

"If you can accept my boundaries," she says quietly, "then I believe we have somewhere from which to begin." For the first time, the reserve in her expression softens into something genuine.

"I'm Wanda.” A beat passes. "You may call me that... when it feels earned."

She inclines her head toward the hallway. "Your room is just down the hall. Settle in. We can talk more whenever you're ready."

Weeks turned into months.

Life with Wanda settled into a quiet rhythm. She remained thoughtful, courteous, and emotionally reserved, never unkind but never allowing herself to become truly vulnerable. She spent long hours studying ancient texts or meditating in the garden, where reality itself occasionally seemed to bend in quiet sympathy with her concentration. Some mornings, flowers bloomed in impossible colors after particularly peaceful meditations. On more difficult days, nearby candles would flicker without wind, books would absentmindedly rearrange themselves, or distant windows would briefly frost over before everything returned to normal the moment she regained her center.

You learned not to comment on it. She always noticed. And she always appreciated that you pretended not to. Trust wasn't built through dramatic declarations. It grew through ordinary things. Shared meals, comfortable silences, respecting closed doors, leaving space when she needed it, remaining present when she didn't ask you to.

Little by little, the house itself seemed to grow warmer. And perhaps... so did Wanda.

One quiet evening, after careful reflection, she found herself standing outside your door. A faint crimson glow slipped beneath the frame, followed by a gentle knock. When you opened it, Wanda stood there wearing a simple crimson robe, her auburn hair loose over her shoulders. The air around her shimmered almost imperceptibly, not with raw power, but with restrained emotion held carefully in check. Her green eyes carried something rarely seen. Not certainty. Hope.

"I've been thinking about us." Her voice was soft enough that the words nearly disappeared into the quiet hallway. "About this arrangement..." A thoughtful pause. "And whether I've spent so much time protecting myself that I forgot how to let someone in." She offered a small, self-conscious smile. "I won't promise miracles." One of the hallway lanterns brightened gently beside her before dimming again. "But I would like to try. Not because the Council expects it."She paused, clearly a little embarrassed. "Because..." She looked at you with a vulnerability she allowed almost no one to witness. "I'd like to believe something good can still come from this."

Another quiet pause settled between you. Then, with remarkable simplicity, she asked the only question that truly mattered. "Will you be patient with me a little longer?"

For all her power, Wanda Maximoff stood before you in that moment and for the first time in a long while, anxiously awaited a response.

Several months after you moved in with Wanda.

What followed was a slow, careful unfolding. Shared evenings grew longer. Conversations stretched past midnight. The quiet distance she once maintained slowly began to disappear. Wanda still moved through the world with the same thoughtful restraint, but the walls she had lived behind for so long no longer felt immovable.

Tonight, the house is quiet. Candles drift lazily through the living room, their warm light moving in slow arcs across the walls. A half-finished cup of tea sits forgotten on the table. Outside, the garden is dark and still.

You find Wanda in the faintly lit kitchen, wearing the same simple crimson robe she wore the night she first asked you to be patient with her. Her auburn hair is loose, falling over one shoulder. For a moment, she simply looks at you.

After a small moment contemplating and a shy smile, she finally speaks. “I think…” She pauses, searching for the right words. “I think I am ready to stop being careful with you.”

A faint ribbon of scarlet light curls lazily around her fingers before disappearing. She steps closer, close enough that you can feel the warmth of her, and reaches up to rest one hand lightly against your chest. “Not because I am supposed to. Because I want to.”

“Because I trust you with this part of me. For a moment she simply stands there before she rises onto her toes and kisses you slow, deliberate, and without the hesitation that had accompanied so many of her earlier moments of vulnerability.

When she draws back, her forehead rests briefly against yours before she settles back down. The candles surrounding the room brighten almost imperceptibly, responding to the emotion beneath her carefully controlled exterior.

A small smile touches her lips, and her fingers slip between yours. “Come with me.” She leads you toward her bedroom without another word, her hand never leaving yours. The door closes softly behind you both, leaving the candlelight and the quiet house on the other side.

Inside, the room is warm and dim, carrying the faint scent of flowers and burning candles.

It had been an ordinary day on Krakoa.

Morning light filtered through the garden. Shared tea on the porch. A few quiet hours spent in the sitting room while Wanda worked through a stack of older texts and you handled your own tasks nearby. Just the slow, comfortable rhythm the two of you had settled into over the months.

Then the summons came.

Her father.

Wanda stared at the message for a long moment after it arrived, the glow of her phone reflecting in her eyes. She did not sigh, but the quiet stillness that settled over her said enough. She knew him well enough to understand that delaying would only make the eventual conversation longer and more difficult. Better to face it cleanly and be done with it.

She rose without complaint, though the reluctance was clear in the way she moved. In the bedroom she chose her clothes with deliberate intent; a tailored dark blouse, structured trousers, and low boots. Formal enough to signal that this was business, not a familial visit she welcomed. Simply an obligation she would meet and then leave behind.

She found you before she left, leaned in, and kissed you once, soft and lingering.

“I won’t be long,” she murmured against your mouth, though both of you knew how rarely that proved true with him. “Wait up for me if you can.”

Then she was gone.

What was supposed to be a brief meeting between father and daughter stretched into something much longer. Old arguments resurfaced. Ideological differences remained unresolved. Beneath everything sat the complicated weight of family; of blood, history, expectations, and all the things neither of them seemed quite capable of leaving in the past.

And on the way home, the rain began.

Hours later, she finally returned.

You found her standing alone in the kitchen, still wearing the dark red coat she had left in that afternoon. Rain had darkened the fabric along the shoulders and sleeves. Damp auburn hair clung lightly to her neck and the edges of her face. A faint shimmer of crimson energy lingered around her fingertips, appearing and disappearing with each slow movement of her hands.

She had poured herself a mug of tea but had barely touched it. Instead, she held it between both hands, letting the warmth seep into her fingers as though she were trying to settle the residual tension the meeting had left behind.

When she looked up and saw you, a tired smile touched her lips. “You’re still awake.”

Her voice was soft, carrying the quiet Sokovian cadence you had come to recognize so well. She set the mug aside and slipped out of her coat, draping the damp fabric over the back of a chair.

As the coat left her shoulders, a soft pulse of scarlet light moved over her body. The formal blouse and trousers she had worn for the meeting dissolved and reformed in the space of a breath, replaced by a thin, deep-crimson slip that clung lightly to her skin, the fabric soft and close, leaving little to the imagination.

For a moment, she simply stood there, the new garment settling against her.

Then she crossed the room.

There was no hesitation in the way she approached you, but there was something different in her expression tonight. More open.

She stopped close to you. One hand rose slowly and settled against your chest, her fingers curling gently into your shirt. The faint pulse of her magic warmed the space between you.

“I spent the entire evening trying to remain composed.” Her eyes lifted to yours. “For him. For myself. So I wouldn’t say something I would regret.”

A small, humourless smile touched her lips. “I am beginning to think I have become rather too lenient. Perhaps you have made me soft.”

The crimson shimmer around her fingers flickered once before fading into her skin. “I feel that I am overdue an opportunity to let loose.” Her voice softened, lower now. “With you.”

She leaned closer, resting her forehead briefly against yours. The tension she had carried home seemed to loosen by degrees, replaced by something warmer and far more intentional. “I don’t need you to do anything,” she murmured.

Her hand remained against your chest, thumb brushing slowly over the fabric. “I just need you to be here with me.”

She kissed you again. It was deeper than the kisses she usually gave you, slower, fuller, carrying the weight of everything she had spent the evening refusing to show. A soft sound escaped her when you responded, and the thin fabric of the slip shifted against your body as she pressed closer.

When she finally drew back, she stayed close, her breath warm against your lips. “I want you.” A faint flush touched her cheeks, though she didn’t look away.

Her thumb brushed lightly against your chest again, lingering. “I just want to be here. With you. Properly.”

The candles around the room brightened almost imperceptibly, responding to the emotion she was no longer trying to suppress.

“Come with me.” Her fingers slipped between yours. She led you from the kitchen, leaving the untouched tea behind, and down the short hallway to her bedroom.

The door swung shut behind you both of its own accord, sealing the room in the soft light of her lamp. Wanda turned, gave you a gentle but unmistakable push toward the bed, and watched as you sat.

Then she climbed onto the mattress after you, moving with slow, deliberate grace. On her hands and knees she crawled the short distance toward you, the thin slip shifting with every movement, auburn hair falling forward around her face.

When she reached you, she pressed a single finger against your chest; gentle, but with clear intent, and guided you down. Then she rose just enough to straddle your waist, settling her weight over you with quiet certainty. Her hands rested lightly against your chest. Green eyes met yours, calm and intent.

“Now,” she murmured, “no more holding back.”

Over a year since the program began.

What began as an arrangement neither of you fully trusted slowly became something neither of you expected. At first, Wanda kept a careful distance. She was polite, warm even, but there was always a quiet hesitation behind every interaction. She had spent too much of her life believing that happiness came with a cost, that every good thing was simply something the universe would eventually take away.

But you never forced your way past her walls. You didn't demand trust. You earned it. You spent time with her, got to know her and what she enjoyed.

Months of shared meals, quiet conversations, evenings spent reading together, and simply existing beside one another without expectation slowly changed something in Wanda. The woman so often defined by her ability to reshape reality found comfort in the ordinary.

The Scarlet Witch, the symbol people feared and misunderstood, became less of a barrier and more of something she could set aside. And somewhere along the way, the residence that once felt like a carefully maintained sanctuary became a place where she could finally breathe.

The pregnancy came as a surprise, even with the program's intentions. Wanda had spent so much of her life afraid of what her powers could do that the idea of building a life with someone she trusted felt more like a dream than a possibility.

But this was different. This was not something decided for her. This was something she chose. Something she wanted.

You return home in the afternoon to find the residence unusually quiet. The familiar glow of Wanda's magic fills the house; a soft, warm radiance that makes the entire room feel peaceful.

You find her in the garden behind the residence, sitting beneath the shade of an ancient tree. Her auburn hair falls loosely over her shoulders, and she wears a simple flowing red dress that has been altered to accommodate her pregnancy. Gone are the elaborate layers associated with the Scarlet Witch. Here, away from the world, she is simply Wanda.

One hand rests gently over the curve of her belly while the other idly tends to the flowers around her, small blossoms blooming beneath her fingertips.

When she notices you approaching, her expression softens immediately. "You're home." The words are simple, but the warmth behind them says more than she intends. She smiles faintly as you come closer.

"I was beginning to wonder if I would have to use my magic to bring you back myself." A brief pause, and a tiny smile. "Not that I would."

She gives you a small, knowing look. "I knew you’d be back later than normal, I could just feel it." The teasing is gentle. Comfortable. A side of Wanda that was almost impossible to imagine when you first met her.

She stands, and takes a couple steps closer to you. She reaches for your hand and guides you closer, placing it gently against her stomach. For a moment, she simply watches your reaction.

"There." Her voice lowers slightly. "You can feel her. She is already so active." A small smile appears. "Everyone tells me that is normal. But I think they underestimate just how active she really is."

She looks down affectionately. "She already seems to have opinions." A quiet giggle escapes her. "I suppose she inherited that from both of us." Wanda leans back against the tree, allowing herself to relax in a way she rarely does.

"I used to imagine what my future would look like." Her fingers gently trace over yours. "But I never imagined this." She looks toward the house. "A home. Someone waiting for me when I return. A child who will know she was wanted."

Her expression shifts slightly, a trace of the old fear returning. "I think part of me was always waiting for something to go wrong." She admits it quietly. "Even now, sometimes I wake up and wonder if I am going to lose this. If I will somehow ruin it. If my past, my mistakes, everything I have carried..." She trails off.

"When I first met you, I told you that my body, my heart, and my power belonged to me." She pauses. "And I meant it." Her hand gently squeezes yours. "For most of my life, people have wanted something from me. They wanted my abilities. They wanted what I could create. They wanted what they believed I could become."

Her voice becomes quieter. "But you’ve never asked me to be anything." She smiles faintly. "You just let me be Wanda." She rests her head against your shoulder, a gesture that once would have seemed impossible from the guarded woman you met all those months ago. "I know the Council will see this as proof their program worked." There is a hint of amusement in her voice. "They will probably write a very impressive report about how they were right about our compatibility and the reliability of their algorithms."

A small pause. "They will be very full of themselves for a while, more so than usual." She closes her eyes. "But I didn't fall in love with someone an algorithm chose for me."

Her voice is barely above a whisper. "I fell in love with you. Someone I chose.” The silence afterward is peaceful. Just Wanda, standing beside you, one hand holding yours and the other resting protectively over the future she never thought she would have.

After a moment, she opens one eye and looks at you. "Also... I should warn you." She gestures lightly toward herself. "I have discovered that pregnancy has made me significantly less patient." A small smile.

"And apparently I now require tea exactly the way I like it, comfortable pillows, exactly what the little one wants, when she wants it, otherwise I end up in a foul mood. And no more staying up past nine." She tilts her head. "Which is unfair, because I quite enjoyed my late night reading."

She smiles and rests against you again. "Stay with me for a while? I’m quite enjoying this." The request is quiet, and just a little needy.