1. Wanda Maximoff
2. Max Mayfield
3. Love Quinn
4. Cate Dunlap
5. I don't want to write more names, so I've listed fandoms I'll write (if it's not on there, still ask! I forget to add things all the time lol)
// Fandoms I know well - MCU, DC, YOU, THE BOYS, MEAN GIRLS, ATLA, STRANGER THINGS, PERCY JACKSON, HUNGER GAMES, HARRY POTTER, ACOTAR, TOG, VICTORIOUS, BRIDGERTON, FRIENDLY RIVALS, WICKED, ETC.
𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦:
Most anything not on the other list
𝘸𝘰𝘯𝘵 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦:
1. Age Regression / Age Play
// why not? — simply don't feel comfortable
2. Male!Reader
// why not? — i'm not a man, nor am i into men, so i fear i wouldn't be able to accurately write from the perspective of one
3. Explicit Smut
// why not? — i do write stories with smut scenes in them, they are usually just more general. don't really think i could write an explicit one, and it actually turn out good lol.
General Warnings: Psychological manipulation, Emotional grooming, Power imbalance, Implied magical coercion, Cult indoctrination, Gaslighting, Isolation from friends and family (hinted), Stalking behaviors, Depression, Toxic dynamics disguised as care
Author's Note: This is the last chapter where Wanda truly keeps up her "charming, neighborly friend" vibe. After all, the mask has to slip eventually. Some people have asked for a tag list, so I started one at the bottom, just lmk if you want to be added :). Anyways, I hope y'all enjoy! <3
You wake the next morning feeling as though you’d dreamt the whole thing.
The warmth of her voice, the softness of her fingers brushing yours, the slight crimson glow of that little room with its delicate tea set, and the scent of roses heavy in the air — it all seems impossible now, fragile and far away in the gray, brittle light of morning. You lie very still, staring at the ceiling, and tell yourself it was nothing. A whim. A little strange, yes, but harmless.
But when you roll over to reach for your phone, something sharp and warm catches your fingertips.
The scrap of silk.
It lies on your nightstand like it’s been waiting for you all night, that rich red fabric catching what little light filters through the blinds. You pick it up slowly, turn it in your hands. The color is deeper than you remember, almost dark enough to look black where it folds over itself. You let it fall open in your lap, and only then do you notice something stitched into the edge: a series of small black numbers, precise and deliberate, curling like a secret written just for you. Ten digits.
You stare at it for a long while, your heart beating faster in the quiet of your bedroom.
It would be so easy.
You tuck it back into the drawer and shut it softly, but the weight of it stays with you through every hour of the day, sitting under your ribs like a presence you can’t shake.
Work is worse than usual. The espresso machine sputters and dies halfway through the morning rush, and your manager spends the next hour snapping at you like it’s your fault, throwing sidelong glares every time you so much as pause to wipe your hands. A customer complains loudly, slamming a quarter into the tip jar with performative disgust. And through it all, you feel a strange sense of being watched, like someone just out of sight is waiting for you to look up.
The next drink you make, your hands shake so badly you almost spill it on the counter.
When your break finally comes, you duck out into the alley behind the shop with your knees pulled to your chest and a half-drunk coffee cooling in your hands. It’s damp out here, the air faintly sour with the smell of trash from the bins, but it’s better than being inside. You press your back to the wall and close your eyes, trying to breathe, finding yourself whispering her number again and again.
Your phone buzzes in your apron pocket. You don’t bother looking at it at first, but after a minute, you fish it out anyway and see a message from a coworker you usually like.
You okay? You seem kind of out of it lately.
You stare at the screen for a moment before locking it and tucking it away again without replying.
That night you lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, and try to think of anything but the way her voice sounded when she told you: You don’t have to feel this way.
The words echo in your head long after you close your eyes.
By midnight, you’re sitting up and reaching for your phone, thumb hovering over the number stitched into memory.
It rings once, twice, then:
“Hello?”
Her voice.
It catches you off guard, even though you were expecting it. Your fingers tighten on the phone.
“Hi,” you say, your own voice low, almost a whisper. “I… I don’t know if you remember me. I just —”
“I remember you.”
She doesn’t sound surprised. She doesn’t sound like she’s smiling, but somehow you feel as though she is.
You swallow. “Is it… okay if I stop by again? I don’t want to —”
“Of course, detka,” she interrupts gently. “Anytime.”
The line stays quiet for a moment, but you can hear her breathing on the other end, steady and sure, like the sea at night. Then she adds, softer still:
“Come soon.”
You don’t even bother changing out of your pajamas before you leave.
The Sanctuary glows soft and golden when you arrive, the twinkle lights strung along its porch shimmering faintly in the warm night air. The gravel crunches quietly under your shoes as you cross the lot, and by the time you reach the front door, it’s already opening for you.
Wanda is there before you can even knock, leaning casually against the frame with a faint smirk.
“I hoped you’d call,” she murmurs, stepping aside to let you in.
The smell comforts you immediately, roses, woodsmoke, something faintly sweet and rich beneath it all. Her hand on your back is gentle but firm as she guides you through the hush of the house. She doesn’t ask why you’ve come, doesn’t need to, only leads you back to the tea room, where the candlelight seems to burn a little lower, a little warmer than you remember.
And somehow, as you sit and drink and talk to her, the hours seem to stretch and curl softly around you. You lose track of time completely until you happen to glance at the little clock on the wall and startle. Past midnight.
You set your cup down and mumble something about needing to go, but she only shakes her head, as though you’ve said something silly.
“It’s so late already,” she murmurs, and before you can protest, she lays a gentle hand on your arm. “Stay here tonight. You shouldn’t drive back like this. You need rest.”
You open your mouth. To argue? To agree? You’re not even sure, but she leans closer, her breath warm against your cheek. “We have plenty of rooms. You’d sleep better here.”
And so, you let her lead you upstairs.
The room she gives you is small but lovely. The sheets smell faintly of lavender, the little lamp on the nightstand throws a golden glow over the walls, and there’s even a glass of water already waiting for you.
At work, you hear things sometimes. Little snippets of conversation that seem to come out of nowhere and stick with you for no reason you can name.
One afternoon, as you’re wiping down the counter, you catch a few low words from somewhere behind you: two women in line, speaking just loud enough to drift over the hiss of the espresso machine.
“…that place outside of town…” one of them murmurs. “…people say they never come back quite the same…”
You glance over your shoulder, distracted, but they both look down into their coffees like nothing happened, their voices falling silent as if they’d never spoken at all.
The words stay with you anyway, faint and strange, as though you ought to know what they mean, but some soft, red whisper in the back of your mind tells you that you don’t.
Later that week, you decide to take your lunch break in the park, just for a change. The weak spring sun is shining, the air smells faintly of damp earth, and you tell yourself you deserve a little quiet. You sit on a bench under a broad elm tree, sipping your coffee, letting the warmth sink into your skin.
You’re halfway through the cup when a shadow falls over you.
“Fancy seeing you here,” comes a warm, amused voice.
You look up and feel your stomach flip.
Wanda.
She’s dressed casually in a cream sweater, jeans, her hair loose around her shoulders, but her smile is just the same. Calm, self-assured, sharp enough to cut if you’re not careful.
“What are the odds?” she says lightly, already easing down onto the bench beside you without asking.
You blink at her, trying to steady your heartbeat. “You come here too?”
“Sometimes,” she says, her gaze steady on yours. “I’ve always liked this park. The bench you picked under the elm, by the fountain, is one of my favorites.”
The words make you go still for a second, a faint chill running down your spine despite the sun.
You hadn’t told her you’d come here.
For a beat too long, you just stare at her, unsure if you’ve misheard, if she’s just guessing. The silence stretches, and you feel your brow knit slightly, the faintest prickle of unease curling up the back of your neck.
Then, out of the corner of your eye, a faint shimmer hangs in the air, a red thread curling lazily like smoke around the edge of her sleeve, so faint it could almost be a trick of the light. It drifts toward you, weightless, and for a moment, you forget why you’d been frowning.
The sharpness of suspicion dulls. Your shoulders loosen almost without your permission.
Her expression never falters. She only tilts her head slightly, watching you, her green eyes dark and warm and endless.
When you finally find your voice to ask how she knew, she just laughs softly, reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear.
“I pay attention,” she murmurs.
Her fingers linger against your cheek for a beat too long, enough to make your breath catch.
“You look tired again,” she adds, voice dropping lower.
You let out a faint, bitter laugh. “I’m always tired.”
Her thumb brushes lightly along your jaw, a faint smile curling her lips.
“You don’t have to be,” she murmurs.
This time, you believe her.
Even when she stands to leave, brushing invisible lint from the sleeve of her sweater, you can still feel the phantom trace of her touch on your skin. She glances down at you with a faint, knowing smile, her coppery hair catching the pale light like flame.
“I’ll see you soon,” she says, and it doesn’t sound like a suggestion.
And you watch her walk away, knowing, without knowing, that you will.
The next few days pass in a haze of routine, but her presence lingers, soft and insistent. You keep catching yourself thinking about her — the warmth of her hand on your cheek, the strange, heavy calm that settled over you as she murmured you don’t have to be. You find yourself looking over your shoulder at work, half-expecting to see her leaning against the doorframe, her arms crossed, watching you with that small, knowing smile.
Even when you don’t see her, she’s there. You find little reminders scattered through your days: a faint whiff of roses clinging to your jacket, though you haven’t worn it to the Sanctuary in weeks. A slip of red thread clinging to the hem of your sleeve, though you can’t remember brushing against anything. Your manager mutters under her breath about you being “out of it again,” though you don’t even remember zoning out this time.
One night you lie awake staring at the ceiling, feeling the quiet press in around you like water. You turn over, grab your phone, and open your texts without thinking.
I can’t sleep. I keep thinking about what you said.
The reply comes almost instantly, as though she’d been waiting:
Come by. We’ll talk. Bring your things if you like.
And so you do.
You pack a small overnight bag and drive the now-familiar back roads until the trees close around you and the white-painted house rises ahead, golden and warm in the dark.
The young woman at the front desk doesn’t even ask your name anymore. She just smiles and nods as you pass.
That night you sleep more deeply than you have in months.
You tell yourself it’s just one night. Then another. And another.
It’s easy, here. Easier than it has any right to be.
One evening you find yourself sitting by the fountain in the garden just as the sun begins to sink. The roses are in full bloom now, heavy and fragrant in the air. You can hear the faint sound of laughter drifting from somewhere inside the house, but out here it’s quiet, the only sound the gentle trickle of water.
Wanda finds you easily. She always does.
You don’t even hear her approach this time. One moment you’re alone, and the next she’s lowering herself gracefully onto the edge of the fountain beside you, her skirt just barely brushing yours.
For a long moment, she says nothing. She only sits there, one hand resting lightly on the stone between you, her eyes on the water.
Finally, she exhales, tilting her head, and her gaze finds yours, glinting faintly in the dim light.
“You seem… better now,” she says. Not quite a question, not quite a compliment.
You manage a faint smile, give a quiet little nod.
Her lips curve, just slightly.
“I’ve been thinking,” she murmurs then, softer now, her voice curling low between you. She reaches over to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear, her fingers lingering just a little too long against your cheek.
“You’ve been staying more and more,” she continues. “You seem happier here. Safer.”
She says the word safer like it means something more than you understand.
You want to argue, you don’t.
Her smile deepens just slightly, like she already knows what you won’t say.
“I think,” she says gently, her thumb sweeping lightly along your jaw before retreating, “you’d do well here. Permanently. Like the others.”
The others.
You’ve seen them, the quiet ones in the library, the ones who greet you by name in the kitchen every morning, the ones who move through the Sanctuary’s halls with a kind of ease you’ve never been able to find anywhere else. The admission unsettles you.
“You’d have your own room,” she adds softly. “You wouldn’t have to keep running yourself ragged between here and that little apartment. You’d have people who care about you. You’d have me.”
Her fingers brush lightly against yours, then curl, warm and firm, until she’s holding your hand properly.
“You already belong here,” she murmurs, and there’s a faint glimmer of red at the edge of your vision, curling lazily like smoke between her fingers and yours. “You just don’t know it yet.”
You don’t answer, but she’s smiling as though you have.
That night, you lie awake in your borrowed room, staring at the ceiling, the faint scent of roses seeping through the cracks around the door. For just a moment, it almost feels like you’re being watched from somewhere beyond the shadows, you shake the thought off quickly. You can’t even remember what your apartment smells like anymore.
The next morning, she’s waiting for you at the bottom of the stairs, her hand already reaching for yours before you can speak.
“You don’t have to decide right now,” she says softly, her thumb sweeping slow circles over your knuckles, her smile quiet but certain. “But you already know where you belong… don’t you?”
And you squeeze her hand in yours, feeling something tight in your chest slowly, finally, come undone.
General Warnings: Manipulation, Obsession, Power imbalance, Creepy vibes, Loneliness, Cult undertones, Grooming
Author Note: 3 people told me to continue, so I did. Yay. I may have planned abt 3-4 future parts. Not sure when I will write them, but they are outlined (Yes, i do outline my fics). I've opened my requests, can't promise I will be able to do them, but I love writing fics for people. Also, if you don't have a request, but want to say hi or share anything (im always looking for new song recs) do that too. <3
At first, you even manage to convince yourself you have. When you get home that night, you toss the little red scrap of silk into the top drawer of your nightstand, half out of politeness, half because it feels wrong to throw it away.
You tell yourself she was just a strange woman in a parking lot with pretty eyes and a strange way of looking at you, someone you’ll never see again, someone you shouldn’t even think about. You don’t believe in things like that—mystical strangers or fated encounters. You tell yourself you’re not the kind of person who falls for cheap flattery and cryptic invitations. You are practical. Rational. Level-headed.
But that night, when you finally collapse into bed after your closing shift, her words come back to you all the same.
"You’re hurting. I can feel it."
You squeeze your eyes shut and roll over, shoving your face into the pillow.
You don’t want her to be right.
The next morning comes too early. You drag yourself out of bed, throw on the same uniform you’d crumpled on the chair last night, and trudge out the door without bothering with makeup. The café is already busy by the time you arrive, the line nearly out the door, your manager barking orders at you as soon as you clock in. The steam hisses and the bells ring and the blender whines, and by ten o’clock you already feel like your body is running on autopilot, your smile strained and brittle.
You catch sight of yourself in the stainless steel reflection of the espresso machine at one point and freeze. The image that looks back at you seems older somehow, more tired. There’s something hollow in your eyes that you hadn’t noticed before, and for a moment you hear her voice again, soft and smoky, inescapable.
"You carry pain like a weight. Heavy on your shoulders."
You jerk your gaze away and throw yourself back into work.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of orders and foam and syrup. You say the right words, smile at the right moments, but the entire time you feel the weight of it sitting just under your ribs, that inexplicable ache she’d called out as if she’d known you your whole life.
At home that night, the silence of your apartment feels heavier than usual. The air is stale and cool, the walls too close. You microwave leftovers and eat standing at the counter, scrolling through your phone. Your ex has posted pictures from some beach somewhere, smiling into someone else’s arms. The sight makes your stomach knot in ways you don’t care to name. You mute their account, set the phone face down, and stand there staring at nothing for a long time.
It’s only when you go to plug in your charger later that you find it again. The little red scrap, sitting there in the drawer where you left it. You pick it up and run your fingers over the embroidery.
It’s warm, somehow.
You tell yourself it couldn’t hurt just to see what kind of place this really is.
Saturday comes and you find yourself driving out of the city almost without deciding to. You don’t even bother changing out of your uniform. The address from the flyer sits neatly folded on the passenger seat, and you keep telling yourself the same thing over and over: you’re just curious. You can leave any time you want.
The sun has just set when you turn onto the long, quiet road that winds through the woods. The trees are tall and dark, crowding close, their branches clawing at the fading light. But just when the dusk starts to feel too heavy, you see it. A discreet wooden sign painted white with simple black lettering: The Scarlet Sanctuary.
You turn onto the gravel driveway and slow to a crawl, tires crunching over loose stones. The building that rises up ahead isn’t what you expect.
It’s big, yes, but it doesn’t feel imposing. The wood siding is painted a soft white, with black shutters and warm golden light spilling out from the windows. Twinkle lights are strung along the porch beams, glowing gently. There are flower beds out front and a small fountain bubbling in a stone basin. The air smells faintly of roses and fresh earth.
It looks… nice.
Normal.
It looks like somewhere you could stay.
You sit in your car for a moment gripping the steering wheel. Then you take a breath, shove your keys in your pocket, and climb out.
The door opens on warm air and a faintly floral, woodsy scent that makes your chest loosen for the first time all day. The lobby is quiet, lined with shelves of books and candles in shallow glass bowls.
A young woman at the front desk looks up and smiles.
“Welcome to the Sanctuary,” she says softly, like she was expecting you.
You hesitate. “I just… got a flyer. I was curious.”
Her smile doesn’t falter. “That’s why most people come. You’re welcome to look around.”
Her voice is gentle, reassuring. Without quite meaning to, you follow her through a wide hallway, passing small cozy rooms where other people lounge on cushions, sip tea, write in journals. In one room a small group sits cross-legged on mats, eyes closed in silent meditation. Everyone seems calm here, like they belong.
You’re just starting to wonder how to slip away when she appears.
At the top of the stairs.
Leaning lazily against the banister, as if she owns the place.
Wanda.
Her eyes find yours instantly, and she smiles like she already knew you’d come.
“Hello, darling,” she calls down, her accent curling around the words.
You freeze.
She comes down the stairs unhurriedly, and when she reaches you, she tilts her head, eyes sharp and bright.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” she murmurs.
You swallow, your voice small. “I just wanted to see.”
Her mouth curves slightly. “And now you have.”
Her hand finds yours before you can think to stop her, warm and sure. “Come,” she says.
She leads you to a small sitting room with bookshelves and a low table already set with tea.
You sit because she asks you to.
She pours you a cup and asks questions about your work, your apartment, what brought you here. At first, you answer curtly, but something about the way she listens, like every word matters, makes it easy to keep talking.
You tell her more than you meant to. You tell her about how quiet the apartment is, about how sometimes you don’t bother calling anyone because you don’t want to bother them.
When you stop, embarrassed, she reaches out and lays her hand over yours.
“You carry so much,” she says softly. “No wonder you’re so tired.”
And you have nothing to say to that.
When you finally stand to leave, it’s fully dark outside. She walks you to the door, her hand light on your back.
“You’re welcome any time,” she whispers, tucking the silk back into your palm.
Then she leans in close, her lips grazing your cheek.
“Take care of yourself.”
The scent of roses clings to your skin all the way home.
General Warnings: Manipulation, Obsession, Power imbalance, Dubcon (emotional), Creepy vibes, Loneliness
Author Note: I haven't written anything in a long, long time. Is this something people would still want to read? I don't want to write more if no one wants to read it lol.. :)
The flyer is cheap paper, but it smells faintly of roses.
You only took it to be polite.
The woman who pressed it into your hands had a beatific smile and eyes that didn’t quite blink right. She said something about “The Scarlet Sanctuary”, about how they hold meetings every evening just outside of town, and how “Mother welcomes all lost souls.”
You’d laughed it off and shoved the flyer into your apron pocket when you got to work.
But the words stayed with you anyway.
Mother welcomes all lost souls.
By the time your shift ends, it’s dark. You close up the coffee shop, lock the door, turn toward your car, and stop.
She’s there.
Leaning against the hood of your car, the most stunning woman you’ve ever seen. Red leather jacket, hair like molten bronze, lips curled into a knowing little smile.
Her presence is… commanding. As if she owns not just your car, but the entire parking lot, the whole world around her bending slightly in deference.
You swallow. “Uh. Hi?”
Her eyes meet yours, and something inside you freezes.
“You’re new here,” she says. Her accent is faint, Eastern European, and lingers like smoke in the air. “I wanted to meet you.”
“I—” you start, but she interrupts by stepping closer.
Her perfume hits you first: rich, sweet, heady. Roses and something darker.
“I’m Wanda,” she says, offering a pale, perfect hand. “And you… are hurting.”
Your stomach knots. “Excuse me?”
Her gaze is soft and predatory all at once. “I can feel it. You carry pain like a weight. Heavy on your shoulders. No one sees it but me.”
You blink rapidly and force a laugh. “You don’t even know me.”
Wanda just smiles.
“That can change,” she murmurs. “Come see me tonight. Let me show you how we heal here.”
She presses something into your hand. Not a flyer this time, but a slip of red silk, embroidered with a swirling sigil.
Before you can respond, she’s already walking away.
And you’re standing there, watching her disappear into the shadows, heart hammering in your chest.
--------------------------------------ᗢ--------------------------------------
Weeks before she ever approached, Wanda saw you.
She was driving through town on some minor errand—one she sent others to do most of the time—when she caught sight of you through the glass of the café window.
You were wiping down tables, your apron stained with coffee, your face tired but soft in the warm light of early evening. And she felt it.
She knew.
Her powers stretched, unbidden, tasting the edges of your mind the way someone might test the ripeness of fruit.
And it was there, your grief, your self-loathing, your fragile little hope that maybe, somewhere, someone might actually care enough to see you.
Wanda had smiled to herself.
She’d sent a follower in the next day with the flyer, just to plant the seed. And when that seed took root, when she saw you actually reading the little slip of paper behind the counter, she decided it was time to intervene personally.
