CEO!Wanda Maximoff x Reader - 'Resigned Position' Series Masterlist
Summary: You drink too much and insult your boss in the middle of a bar during a company social gathering. But surprisingly, you wake up in her bed. Following the events of not sleeping with your boss, falling in love with her, or threatening a harassment report. Not necessarily in that order.
Warnings: (+18), sexual themes, Dom!Wanda (mostly), Brat!Reader, Unspecified age gap (Milf Wanda/Reader in her mid-20s), explicit language, angst at some points but with happy ending I promise, mutual pining, enemies to lovers, coworkers, semi-public, mentions of violence and (past) toxic relationships. || More warnings and words per chapter.
All Works Masterlist || AO3 | Wattpad | Spotify Playlist
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Resigned Position - Chapters List
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six
Part Seven
Part Eight
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A/N> Originally planned as a one-shot, here I am starting a series. We're all sinners on our knees to dominant Milf Wanda, and I can't say I'm sorry. This story is basically porn with a lot of plot (because I have to live up to my demisexuality), but in general, don't expect any major points or moral lessons. It's all about Wanda in a suit telling us what to do. I've got a few chapters ready, but as of next week I'm covering a colleague's vacation, so don't expect any quick updates. But good reading!
summary: wanda thinks she’s still figuring out what it means to want a woman. what she doesn’t realize is that she’s already fallen for one.
authors note: could not stop thinking about baby gay wanda. writing this genuinely made my heart burst into a million pieces from the cuteness. hope yall love this dynamic as much as i do! this is not proofread.
content warning(s): age gap (w->37, r->22), yearning, unofficial relationship (but they’re so close to one), beach date, lots of fluffy fluff, wanda is such a respectful cutie, eventual smut, soft smut, lots of kissing, breast groping, dildo usage, orgasms, aftercare
moodboard 🍋🤍🌊
𓂃 ོ☼𓂃
knock knock
you freeze from your spot in the bathroom. you had your hands half tangled in your hair, about to throw it up in a loose bun at the nape of your neck. you linger there for another moment, pausing to see if you’d hear the noise again.
nothing.
you twist your fingers through the elastic, wrapping it around the bunched up hair you gathered in the other hand.
knock knock
your hands drop. this time you shuffle towards the door. without bothering to look through the peep hole, you reach for the handle and swing the door open.
wanda.
there she was.
you forget to speak. it was hard to remember when wanda was standing on your doorstep looking like that. the sunlight caught in her hair, pulling out strands of copper you’d somehow never noticed before.
“were you not ready?” she asks, breaking the silence when you don’t. her eyes rake over your form.
the light breeze caught in the linen button up she was wearing, revealing a small glimpse of her black swimsuit underneath.
“no, i was ready. i just thought you were going to text me.” you reply, pulling your phone out of your back pocket to check for any possible missed messages from her.
“well, that seems kind of silly to text when i have two perfectly working legs.” she quips back, reaching up to readjust her sunglasses over her eyes. you miss the access to her green stare immediately.
“shall we?” she gestures towards the general direction of her parked car.
“yeah, let me just grab my stuff.” you shuffle back towards the main living space, gathering your beach bag and a small beach umbrella which was big enough to shade two people.
when you turn to lock the front door, wanda grabs the bag slung over your shoulder.
“you don’t need to carry my bag.” you reach for it, but she already had it secured over her right shoulder.
“i’ll let you carry the umbrella. c’mon.” she reaches for you with her free hand, her fingers wiggling in the air when you hesitate for a moment.
your stomach flutters at the gesture. she made everything feel so easy and natural. sometimes you forget this is her first time doing this with a woman.
you take her hand after a moment, allowing her to guide you to the car.
“you wanna connect your phone to the speakers?” she asks once she finally slid into the driver's seat and started the engine.
you nod your head, navigating to the bluetooth on your phone to connect it to the car.
wanda doesn’t know it, but you carefully created a selection of songs for this date specifically. you packed a speaker in your bag for background music while you two lounged on the sand. it was a painstaking process really. you only knew a handful of songs she really liked—which were at the top of the playlist. the rest you had to guess.
“you remembered.” wanda speaks once the song starts playing through the speakers.
“remembered what?” you feign ignorance.
“i told you i liked this one.” she smiles, her eyes focused on the road ahead. she begins tapping her thumbs on her steering wheel to the beat of the song. it makes your chest bloom with warmth. she noticed. you wanted her to know you were invested in her interests.
the drive there was only about 20 minutes, but it was long enough that you were ready to stretch your legs. being nervous always made you so restless.
unpacking the car went smoothly enough. finding a spot, however, was apparently a matter wanda took very seriously.
“this is a good spot.” she finally declares after making you two wander around for the perfect place.
“uh huh. and what’s so special about this spot exactly?” you lift your hand to block the sun from hitting your eyes. you make a show of looking around at all the other perfectly adequate patches of sand you passed by.
“it just is.” wanda shrugs. she kneels in the sand, laying out a blanket to sit on.
“right.” you agree dryly—teasing. you drop to your knees on the blanket, letting the umbrella in your hand fall to the side.
“did you bring sunscreen?” she asks, moving the picnic basket she packed further back so it wasn’t preventing you two from sitting closer.
“maybe.” you shrug.
“that’s a no.” she reaches into her own bag, retrieving three different bottles of sunscreen.
“you plan on lathering that all on one person?” you tease. it was only the 9th date and you couldn’t help but notice she overpacked when it came to everything.
“one is SPF 30, one 50, and this one is for your face.” she holds up the smallest bottle. it was a brand you’d never seen before.
“come here.” she scoots over an inch, already opening the small bottle and squeezing some onto her hands.
“wanda you really don’t—“ you start to protest, but she cuts you off.
“i can’t take you back home looking like a lobster.” she holds out her hand half lathered in sunscreen. her expression is expectant. you stare at her for a few moments, measuring if she was being serious or not.
it made your belly curl thinking about her putting sunscreen on you. the way she went out of her way to do little things for you—
“well?” she adds when you stare blankly at her.
“well what?”
“are you coming over here or am i coming over there?” truthfully the thought of her taking care of you this way warmed you all the way down to your toes. you just weren’t sure if you could keep yourself composed with something that felt so intimate.
you hesitate only for a second longer before shuffling closer so she could comfortably reach you. you sit with your legs laid out in front of you, your back to her. warm hands lathered with sunscreen begin to massage your shoulders.
she’s very thorough in her application method, going over the expanse of your back twice before deeming it sufficiently protected from the sun. she gives your forearms a squeeze when she’s done, signaling she wants you to turn around.
your breath stutters when you turn and realize just how close the two of you are. your legs are now folded indian style, wanda’s form kneeling in front of you.
“i can do the rest.” you reach for the sunscreen she discarded beside you. it was easier to suggest something practical than admit the intimacy of it was making your stomach flip. she begins lathering your arms as if you had said nothing.
“my hands are already covered in sunscreen.” she finishes covering your arms, smoothing the remaining lotion onto your chest. she’s very thorough in that as well, her fingers tucking under the straps of your bikini top just in case they slid around throughout the afternoon.
you watch her for a moment, a small dent in her brows as if she were very focused on the task at hand. she rubs her hands together once she’s finished, smoothing the excess sunscreen along her forearms until it absorbs into her skin.
“you trust me to do my face?” you inquire teasingly.
wanda glances up. “do you need assistance?”
you laugh once. “no.”
“then yes.” she hands you the small bottle of face sunscreen. you squeeze some onto your fingertips, rubbing it into your cheeks and forehead. it had a faint tropical smell to it that was quite pleasant.
“well, i’m sufficiently protected from the sun.” you declare, handing wanda back the bottles she laid beside you. “you wanna go for a swim?” you begin to stand, lingering on your knees as you wait for a response.
“swim? i think i’d rather look at the cold water than be in it.” her eyes drift towards the ocean, her hands coming up to grasp onto her biceps as she folds her arms across her chest.
“c’mon wanda, it’s the ocean. it’s meant to be swam in.” you attempt to convince her, though experience had already taught you wanda wasn’t easily swayed.
“you go on ahead. i’ll supervise.” she nods her head towards the water, tipping the sunglasses adorning her head back over her eyes.
you sigh, holding your hands up in surrender.
“alright… but you’re gonna be missing out on tons of fun.” you emphasize the ‘tons of fun’ part, a last attempt to persuade her before you rise to your feet.
“i’ll take my chances.” wanda smiles.
you almost roll your eyes, but when you glance at her smile, it’s so warm and endearing that her refusal was entirely weightless.
you turn and head to where the waves were lapping at the shore. the water is cold—just like wanda said. you can’t bring yourself to care though as you wade into the water. you love being in the ocean.
goosebumps prick along your body, but it doesn’t stop you from stepping further into the sea. you see an incoming wave and duck underneath it just before it breaks. when you resurface, you duck under another one. the feeling of the water gently carrying and moving you beneath the surface was invigorating.
you let the waves push you close to the shore, only to swim back out and have the process repeated multiple times.
as the water carries you closer to the sand for the 5th time, your eyes are drawn to the bright white and yellow stripped blanket wanda had laid out for you two. you see her sitting there, one knee bent, sunglasses perched on her nose as she watched the shoreline.
she caught you staring immediately. of course she was watching.
she lifts her hand once, the gesture causing something to tug in your chest. the moment your feet hit the sand, you’re already marching back toward her.
“what happened to all of the fun?” wanda asks.
you’re standing back barely a respectable distance given that you’re dripping water.
“it’s not as fun without you.” you pout. you would lie and say you didn’t do it to play dirty, but that was exactly your intent.
wanda purses her lips, lifting her tinted frames just above her brows. she squints her eyes as they adjust to the brightness of the sun, her gaze not straying from your face.
“i guess we can’t have that.” she says after a moment.
you beam at her, your smile gleaming in the sunlight. you extend your hand towards her, your fingers wiggling in the air just as she had done earlier when she came to pick you up.
wanda accepts your hand as you help to pull her to her feet. you mean to let go of her hand once she was standing, but her fingers never loosen around yours.
feet pad against warm sand as you make your way to the water in comfortable silence.
when wanda’s toes finally reach the cold water, she hisses at the sensation but otherwise continues walking further into the water with you.
“(y/n), it’s freezing.” she says through her teeth, her arms lifted almost comically above the water as she attempts to keep some part of herself dry.
“it’s a little chilly.” you shrug, an amused smile playing on your lips at her reaction. you let go of her hand, sinking further into the water. you watch her from where the water laps at your neck. she was only in as deep as her ribs.
there’s a playful dance in your eyes wanda must have caught on to because her eyes suddenly narrow in on your gaze.
“don’t you dare.” she warns.
“what?” you ask innocently, drifting a couple inches away from her.
“you know what.” she takes a step back herself—as if that would save her.
you let the anticipation build, a sly grin spreading across your face before you pull your arms back under water and then splash in her direction.
she freezes, looking down at herself and then back at you incredulously.
“oh, you did not.” she pushes some hair off her face that stuck to the side of her cheek.
“i did.” you’re still smiling, completely unapologetic.
“that was very rude.” you study her expression, trying to gauge if she was truly upset or not. she did look stern, but just as you were about to open your mouth to say something, you’re met with a face full of water.
you gasp, blinking multiple times to clear your vision. up until this point, wanda never bothered retaliating whenever you teased her. she simply let you have your fun. this was new.
you look back at her, her green eyes shimmering with something suspiciously close to delight.
“there.” she smirks.
“there?” you echo.
“now we’re even.” she nods her head, like this was a resolution.
“that’s it?” you ask, raising your brows.
“were you expecting more?” she mirrors your expression.
“maybe.” you admit.
“don’t push your luck.” she keeps her gaze on you as she slowly sinks deeper into the water until it reaches her neck. she shivers once, but otherwise doesn’t comment on the temperature of the water again.
the two of you drift around for awhile, conversation ebbing in and out between stretches of comfortable silence.
it wasn’t until your stomach began growling that you realized you hadn’t eaten yet today.
back on the sand, wanda unpacked the contents of her picnic basket: chicken salad sandwiches, strawberries and potato chips—which, you discover, she’d sliced and baked in the oven herself. it was very like her to have a homestyle touch on something.
you compliment her cooking and thank her for bringing everything. had you been in charge, you were sure things wouldn’t have turned out as yummy as she made them to be.
as you now lie on your back beside her, sun warming both of your bodies from head to toe, you find yourself completely at ease. your heads are only a few inches apart. every so often, the gentle breeze carries the scent of her sunscreen towards you.
“the sun feels nice.” she comments. you hum in acknowledgment.
you watch seagulls fly in a circle off in the distant sky. the sound of the ocean continues to lull you into a more relaxed state. you can make out the faint sound of voices and laughter from the groups of people littered across the beach.
“that cloud kind of looks like a heart.” you lift your finger towards the sky, tilting your head closer to wanda’s so she can see exactly where you’re pointing. she hums softly in acknowledgment. you don’t move your head back to where it was.
when you drop your hand back to your side, you let your hand rest in the sand where the blanket ends. you curl your fingers, feeling the warm granules move through the spaces in between your fingertips. the sand was so soft here.
“can i kiss you?” wanda breaks the silence. you don’t need to look at her to know she’s tilted her head to look at you. you smile at her question.
“you know you don’t have to ask every time.” you tilt your head to look at her, sage green eyes staring back at you.
wanda hesitates for a moment. her eyes drop to your arm where she watches her own finger trace a line along your warm skin.
“i know.” she finally replies, her gaze back on you now. “i’d still rather ask.” she adds after another short pause.
your smile widens.
“you can kiss me.” you answer softly.
the hand that was tracing along your arm reaches up to gently cup the side of your face. she’s slow as she leans in, closing the few inches of distance between you two. you tilt your chin just before her lips meet yours.
they’re soft and warm and taste faintly of strawberries. your hand comes up now, fingers curling around the wrist that was holding your face. you squeeze gently as your lips move together. it felt like rediscovery. somehow, every kiss still carried the same sense of wonder as the one before. your stomach performed its usual little flip, warmth spreading all the way down to your toes. it almost felt reverent.
when she breaks the kiss, you linger there for a moment, unwilling to completely disconnect. your fingers loosen from around her wrist, but you don’t let go. you open your eyes, noticing that wanda was watching you, her thumb caressing along your cheekbone. she ventures further down, cupping your jaw and using her thumb to trace across your lips.
“y’know, i had a friend in college.” she starts to tell you.
“she dated women. used to tell me all about it.” she pauses again. she catches a few of your baby hairs flying away in the light breeze, tucking them behind your ear.
“i always listened.” she continues explaining. you regard her silently. you want her to continue.
“it interested me more than i’d care to admit.” her hand drops from your face, reaching down to clasp yours. she holds it in between the small space where your bodies lay facing one another.
“yeah?” you ask.
“you’ve been with women before, haven’t you?” she asks.
“i have.” you reply simply.
“i find myself wondering about us sometimes.” she admits.
you swallow. “us?”
wanda nods, her eyes still intent on yours. “what it would be like.”
oh.
your heart stutters in your chest, and you can only hope that your cheeks suddenly feeling warmer only had to do with the sun.
“i think about us too.” you confess quietly. you swallow again, your eyes glancing from where she was holding your hand back up to her stare.
“i really like you wanda.”
she smiles, her hand giving yours a gentle squeeze. “i know.”
neither of you say anything after that. wanda closes her eyes as you tilt your head to look back at the sky. seagulls cry overhead, the breeze picking up as the sun begins to settle further in the west.
you realize the afternoon is beginning to slip away. you inhale slowly, taking in this moment—the ocean, the breeze, wanda. it was an afternoon you won’t soon forget.
“we should probably head back soon.” wanda murmurs, her eyes still closed and her fingers still intertwined through yours.
“already?” you pout.
“i’m old, remember? i lose all energy when the sun starts to go down.” she jokes, but you didn’t want to part ways just yet.
“i don’t want this date to end.” you frown, tilting your head back towards wanda. she opens her eyes as she hears you shift.
“you want to come back to my place for a bit?” she asks after a short pause.
butterflies flutter in your stomach at the offer. you try not to appear overly eager, but the smile tugging at your lips gives you away anyway.
you nod. “yeah, i’d like that.” you say softly.
you pack up all of your things together. you attempt to load yourself up with most of the stuff to carry to her car, but wanda would have none of it. she protested, saying she was ‘old but not that old.’
you were just going to have to get creative with other ways to take care of her.
the drive home was quieter than the one there had been. not awkward, just less talking. your growing awareness that you’d be alone in her house for the first time settles gently in the back of your mind. combined with everything you shared that afternoon, it suddenly makes the evening ahead feel significant somehow. you’re not entirely sure why.
you swallow thickly, glancing in wanda’s direction as she pulls into her driveway.
“everything okay? you’re being quiet.” she comments, shutting the car off as she looks at you.
“yeah, i’m okay. just thinking.” you shrug, not feeling quite bold enough to explain your current train of thought.
she purses her lips, studying your face for a moment.
“care to share?” she asks, one hand still on the steering wheel while the other reaches for one of yours, holding it gently as it rests against the middle console.
“nothing bad…just thinking.” you shake your head. you can feel your cheeks warming again. if she can see them turning pink, she doesn’t say anything about it.
“alright.” she drops it after a moment, squeezing your hand before letting it go.
“we can leave everything in the car for now. you wanna head inside and pick out a movie?” she unbuckles her seatbelt and reaches for her door handle.
“yeah, that sounds good.” you agree, following suit as you step outside of the car and follow her into the house. you’d never been inside her home before, and suddenly the idea feels strangely intimate.
you enter through the front door, wanda stepping across the threshold first.
“shoes off is my only rule.” she says as she shucks off her own beside the small rug you’re currently standing on. you step out of yours, nudging them with your foot so they’re lined neatly next to wanda’s.
you step further inside and glance around at some of her personal touches. there was a tattered book lying on the coffee table in the living room, a throw blanket hanging over the couch, and a succulent sitting next to a window.
“you pick.” wanda’s voice cuts into your reverie. she’s standing in the middle of the living room, tv remote in hand as she holds it out to you.
you step towards her, taking the black remote from her grasp.
she sits on the couch, curling one of her legs beneath herself. you shuffle over to where she’s sitting, taking the cushion next to her.
you turn on the tv and find her netflix app, sitting back as you peruse through the movie selection, truly indifferent to what you might watch.
wanda pulls the throw blanket from behind her back over her legs, spreading the extra over yours as you continue looking.
you settle on an old rom-com. those were always safe.
“this is a good one.” wanda comments. her hand finds yours again.
“mhm, it’s one of my favorites.” you tell her, nodding towards the screen.
you naturally scoot an inch closer to her as the movie starts. it was unconscious really, like your body was doing something before your mind could catch up.
you can feel the warmth from her body when you’re sitting this close. her hand is soft and comforting as she rests your clasped hands against the blanket.
you can feel her eyes on you. you glance towards her in your peripheral vision, but she looks away.
you can hardly pay attention to the movie when you’re so close. you have a feeling she’s looking at you again.
this time you turn your head and catch her a second time.
“what?” you ask.
“nothing.” wanda smiles.
“you’re not even watching.” you scoff.
“neither are you.” she notes astutely.
you exhale, your shoulders relaxing. after a few moments, you lean against her, your head coming to rest against her shoulder. she rests her head on top of yours, her thumb stroking along the back of your hand.
you’re looking at the screen, but you’re not actually paying any attention to the movie whatsoever. you can hear wanda’s steady breathing, her shoulders moving gently as she inhales and exhales. it’s soothing. you pick up on the lingering scent of sunscreen against her skin, along with the usual smell of wanda you’ve come to love—vanilla and sandalwood.
you glance up to say something, but the proximity of your faces makes you forget what you were thinking in an instant. wanda doesn’t look away, instead her gaze flicks towards your lips and then back up to your eyes.
“can i kiss you again?”
you smile immediately. “you don’t have to ask.”
wanda mirrors your expression. “i know.”
you glance at her lips now.
“can i?” she asks again.
“yes.”
she closes the gap. this kiss was different from earlier. not hungrier, not more intense, just… more certain. it feels a little more familiar as your lips move against hers.
she shifts next to you, a hand coming to rest gently against your hip. you instinctively lean further into her, your bodies fitting together a little easier now than they had before. your hands find her hair, slow and careful as you cradle her head.
she breaks away after several more moments, her forehead resting against yours as you both breathe a little unevenly now.
“come with me?” she asks. your hands drop to your lap as you pull away an inch to look at her.
you nod your head slowly and accept her hand as she stands and leads you down the hallway.
you shuffle behind her, her fingers intertwined loosely through yours. the sound of the movie becomes muffled as you walk closer to what you assume to be wanda’s bedroom.
she pushes the door open, stepping inside. her hand drops from yours as she walks to one side of the bed to turn on the lamp on the nightstand.
with her room now bathed in the soft light, you glance around. it’s very tidy and simplistic. you notice there are only a few photos hanging on the wall—most of them landscapes or art instead of people.
“it’s not very exciting.” wanda breaks the silence.
“i like it.” you say honestly. it felt very…her.
your eyes drift from one of the photos on the wall to her face. she’s watching you again.
“come here.” she hums.
you hesitate for a moment. not out of fear, but for the shift in the air that you start to become more aware of. your feet pull you forward before you tell them to.
as you stand before wanda, her hands come up to cradle your face. her eyes skim over your features. she has a gentle smile, one that warms your chest. this time, she doesn’t ask as she slowly closes the gap and presses her lips against yours.
your hands reach for her automatically, your body pressing closer to her instinctively. your legs feel a little wobbly as you stand, butterflies flapping their wings inside your stomach.
you become absorbed in her presence, in the feeling of her soft lips moving against yours, the delicate hold on your face and the quiet sigh she makes when your hands find her waist.
you kiss her deeper, your lips parting. you feel her breath against your lips. your fingers flex around her waist, gently fisting the linen button up she was wearing. you weren’t rushing, you just wanted to explore.
one of her hands slides down your neck, her fingers tangling themselves in the hair at the back of your head.
you pull away this time, needing to catch your breath. with your eyes still closed, your faces just an inch apart, you feel wanda press her lips against your cheek.
your eyelids flutter open, met with what was quickly becoming your favorite set of green eyes.
“you’re beautiful.” she murmurs. your cheeks flush delicately and you smile.
“you’re beautiful.” you echo, emphasizing your words. she really was the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen.
she grins, her nose scrunching. she holds your face there for a long moment, just looking at you.
“you’re staring again.” you tease gently.
“i know.” she replies. “i can’t help it.”
you exhale softly, the familiar flutter of butterflies returning to your stomach.
“sit with me?” she asks. you nod your head, following after her as she sits at the edge of the bed.
her lips find yours again, a little more firm this time. you exhale shakily into her mouth, one of your hands resting along her thigh. you squeeze gently.
when her tongue glides along your bottom lip, it’s gentle and calculated. you let your tongue brush along hers experimentally. she hums, the vibrations delicate against your lips.
she shifts her body so she’s facing you, one of her hands curling underneath your knee. you can feel her pressing herself closer to you.
you break the kiss, panting softly. she’s leaning over you, her eyes shining with something you can’t quite name.
“do you want to lie down?” she asks.
you look at her for a moment and then nod slowly, lowering yourself onto the bed until your head meets the pillows and your back is flush with the comforter.
she gazes down at you, her bottom lip caught between her teeth as she smiles gently.
“wanda…” you begin, pausing for a moment as you search for the right words. “are you sure?”
“i am.” she affirms quietly. you gaze into her eyes, reading only sincerity. your nerves settle a little. she wants this too.
“okay.” you reply simply, a small smile touching the corner of your lips.
she leans over your form, adjusting her position so she was supporting her weight on one arm, her body hovering above you. you think she means to kiss you, but she stops before your lips can reach hers.
“can i admit something?” she asks, her hand coming up to rest against your hip.
“yes.” you answer quietly, your curiosity piqued.
“it was hard not to watch you today.” she begins, her eyes trailing down your body where her hand rests at the seam of your shirt. “in your bathing suit.” she adds. you swallow thickly, your heart beginning to thump in your chest. “i thought the color looked lovely on your skin.” you feel her fingertips trace along a small sliver of exposed skin at your torso.
“can i see it again?” she asks softly, her eyes dipping towards the edge of your shirt.
neither of you had changed since coming back from the beach. you just had on a simple t-shirt and shorts to cover your bikini.
you nod your head after a moment, reaching down to grab the bottom of your shirt. you’re unhurried as you lift it up over your head, gently discarding it to the side next to where you lay.
you shift to get comfortable again, one leg bending as you plant your foot flat on the bed. wanda’s attention naturally drifts to the newly exposed skin along your upper body. the hand that was at your hip traces the soft flesh there. her touch was featherlight, drawing goosebumps along your skin.
“beautiful.” she murmurs so quietly, you think it’s mostly to herself. you don’t say anything to fill the silence as she explores the skin of your torso. you watch her expression, which was mostly smooth save for the delicate smile turning up the corners of her lips.
she smooths her hand across your stomach, drawing a line up the neglected side of your torso. your muscles flutter gently beneath her soft touch. she’s watching so carefully that she notices.
“does that tickle?” she asks, repeating the action to elicit the same reaction.
“a little bit.” you admit, your gaze falling to her hand. she hums, moving on from that spot to a little lower, just above the seam of your shorts.
“you have three freckles right here.” she dots each one with a gentle finger. “i thought i noticed that earlier.”
you sigh, feeling your body relax with her soft attention. there’s a patience to her touch that surprises you. she never rushes from one thing to the next, as if she’s spent enough years learning that some moments are worth lingering inside.
“funny you say that. i was counting the freckles on your face earlier on the beach.” you chime in gently. wanda’s eyes lift back to yours.
“is that right?” she asks, smiling amusedly.
“mhmm.”
“and how many did you count?”
her fingers linger at your side, tracing small absent-minded patterns against your skin.
“twenty-three.” you reply.
“twenty- three?” she echoes, looking impressed.
“mhmm.” you repeat with a smile. “i like your freckles.”
your hand lifts to tuck some hair behind her ear.
her fingers drift just beneath the waistband of your shorts for only a moment before returning to your hip. your breath hitches softly, your leg giving a tiny twitch beneath her touch.
“i like that you noticed them.” she murmurs.
she studies your face for another moment before her thumb brushes softly against your hip.
“we can go as slowly as you want.” she says gently.
“okay.” you answer immediately.
she smiles a little. “good.”
“i want to see more of you.” she murmurs, her fingers returning to the waistband of your shorts. she glances up at you, silently asking for permission. you nod, shifting your hips so it was easier for her to slide them off.
it didn’t feel awkward or rushed as she finishes undressing you completely. you felt safe, secure and desired by the softest, sweetest woman you’ve ever met.
you’re equally as gentle and intentional when you take her clothes off, the only barrier between the two of you being her high-waisted bikini bottoms.
as your lips explore one anothers, your hands map out all of the places along her back that draw out a low hum or a shiver. she was more responsive than you thought she’d be. her hands explore your skin, gently caressing and moving along previously unexplored skin.
your hands become a little more bold, sliding up her sides to cup her breasts. your tongue caresses hers, both of your legs coming up to rest on either side of her. your thumbs brush against her hardened nipples. you pinch them carefully, testing her reaction.
she exhales into your mouth, one of her hands grasping more firmly onto your hip. she pulls away from your lips. they’re a little swollen now from how you were gently sucking on them.
“i want to make you feel good.” she says, her voice a little breathless.
“you already are.” you assure her. your hands slide down to her ribs, smoothing over the skin there.
“no, i mean…” she starts before trailing off. “can i try something?” she asks.
you’ll try anything, so long as it’s with her.
“yes.” you reply after a brief moment. you almost regret your answer as instead of her hands continuing to explore your body, she pushes off of the bed. your brows knit together in a delicate frown. you sit up, propping your upper back against some pillows.
“where are you going?” even you can hear the longing in your voice.
“nowhere. just grabbing some things.” she reassures, throwing a soft smile over her shoulder as she heads for the en-suite bathroom.
she returns with a small towel, sitting on the opposite side of the bed where you lay. she reaches down into the nightstand, pulling out a couple objects you can’t quite make out just yet. she turns then, facing you so you can see what she’s retrieved.
a hand towel, a small bottle of lube, and a translucent pink dildo.
“can i use this on you?” she asks as she holds the faux cock between you two. you swallow. it was average sized, certainly nothing to be scared of. however, you’re a little surprised it was something wanda wanted to try so soon.
“we don’t have to.” she says when you don’t respond after a moment.
“no!” you reply a little too quickly. “it’s not that. i want to. i was just a little surprised is all.” you reassure her.
she grins, nodding her head. “okay.”
she scoots close to you until her knee brushes against your thigh. you watch as she coats the dildo with a generous amount of lube.
“i can always add more if we need it.” she snaps the lid shut, keeping the bottle close beside her on the bed.
you open your legs to give her easier access. she settles between them, her knees pressed against the bed on either side of your left leg.
her eyes are intent on her destination as she traces the tip of the pink dildo along your slit.
“tell me if you want me to stop.” she murmurs as she rubs it perfectly against your sensitive nub.
“i will.” you exhale shakily, your hips rolling just slightly into her hand.
she’s thorough, making sure everything is sufficiently lubricated before you feel the tip pressing against your opening. you’re watching wanda, her eyes still gazing at the space between your legs.
the toy slides in easily, though wanda is still slow, allowing your body to accommodate the size carefully.
you gasp as you feel the dildo bottom out inside of you. the stretch is noticeable—pleasant. wanda’s eyes flick up to yours, a pleased expression on her face. she pulls out, twisting experimentally as she pushes it back in. your legs part further, your mouth falling open with a silent moan.
she begins setting a slow pace, pushing in and out of you steadily.
“does that feel good?” she asks, though your breathless pants must be a good indicator she was doing something right.
“yes.” you gasp.
your eyes drift down to her hand, watching as the faux cock slides in and out of you. you can hear how wet you are.
“there are other things i think about us trying.” she begins to say. “but for some reason, this is the fantasy i keep coming back to.” she twists her hand again, picking up the pace just a little. “i didn’t really know why. until now.”
you inhale sharply, a small moan passing through your lips as she bumps against a particularly sensitive spot.
“you’re taking this so well.” she praises, adjusting herself so she was hovering above you, her face just inches from yours. she changes the pace again, this time going a little harder.
“wanda.” you whimper. your hips roll in time with her thrusts. her gaze burns into yours. even in the low light, you can make out how her irises have darkened just a tad around the edges.
“those noises you’re making are even cuter than i imagined.” she hums.
she readjusts her hold on the base, changing the angle as she thrusts the toy into you even faster than before. the new angle allows her to rub perfectly against your sensitive walls, the knuckle of her thumb brushing against your clit with each thrust.
“oh—” your head falls back, your eyes closing in pleasure. “that feels so good.”
“yeah?” she echoes, maintaining her pace. her free hand comes up to brush some hair off your forehead.
“yes!” you gasp, feeling that familiar coil tighten in your belly.
“good. just feel.” she murmurs gently. “you can let go whenever you need to.”
you focus on the sounds of wanda—her slightly labored breathing and her voice paired with the sounds of her fucking you and your breathy moans. the more you focus on it, the more the coil tightens.
your hands seek purchase wherever they can find as it finally snaps. you’re blinded by the color white, your muscles tightening as waves of pleasure wash over your body.
wanda is gentle as she helps you down from your high. her thrusting becoming slower and slower as you ride the waves. she stops when your thighs begin to tremble, but she doesn’t take it out right away.
she kisses you softly, her lips tender and careful as they move against yours.
“was that okay?” she asks quietly.
“more than okay.” you whisper, a smile turning up the corner of your lip.
when she takes care of you after, she’s gentle through the whole process. cleaning you up, making sure you feel okay as you cuddle close together.
your legs are entangled together, arms wrapped around each other as you lazily kiss and stroke along each others skin.
“i want to make you feel good now.” you tell her after a few minutes. she regards you for a long moment before nodding her head. all you know is you want to make this as perfect for her as she did for you.
and so the evening unfolded around you, each new touch feeling less like discovery and more like coming home.
Summary: For one night, the weight of responsibility takes a back seat to celebration. The ballroom fills with family, friends, laughter, and far too many flowers courtesy of Pietro Maximoff. Wanda suspects a conspiracy, Natasha discovers she is capable of being nervous, and an old friend arrives from across the world carrying memories of who you used to be. Beneath crystal chandeliers and Manhattan lights, promises are made, hearts grow lighter, and for the first time in a very long time, happiness feels effortless.
Word count: 8415
Pronouns: She/Her
Age: 28
Pairings: Natasha Romanoff x reader
Warnings: Mentions of illness and hospitalization, Alcohol, Emotional Burnout
Additional Warnings: P in V sex. (⚠️Hetero Sex, tread carefully)
A/N: Smut here in this chapter guys. Enjoy!!
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Back at the ballroom, the celebration continued.
The engagement had transformed the atmosphere of the evening entirely.
Guests still drifted through the room, but now every conversation seemed touched by the same excitement. Wanda remained surrounded by congratulations. Vision looked slightly stunned by his own success.
The musicians had returned to lighter music. The city glittered beyond the windows. And slowly, comfortably, the evening settled into its next phase.
Then the ballroom doors opened.
The shift was immediate.
Conversations softened.
Heads turned toward the door, not because someone famous had entered. Not because someone important had arrived.
Because a king had walked into the room.
The first figures through the doorway were security. Professional. Unobtrusive despite their size. Then came several Wakandan representatives.
Beside them walked a woman many recognized immediately.
Nakia.
Elegant and poised, though far less formal than the man at her side. The Queen of Wakanda greeted a few familiar faces with easy smiles as she entered, offering warm nods where her husband offered measured acknowledgment. If T'Challa carried the weight of a crown wherever he went, Nakia carried the warmth of home.
And finally came T'Challa himself.
Tall.
Composed.
Elegant.
His dark suit was tailored with the same precision one might expect from a monarch representing his nation abroad. There was nothing ostentatious about it.
Nothing designed to attract attention.
Yet attention followed him regardless.
Because some people carried authority without needing to announce it.
T'Challa was one of them.
T'Challa surveyed the ballroom once. Taking everything in. The decorations, the guests, the celebration.
Then his attention settled upon the twins.
Protocol first.
Always.
Nakia noticed where his attention had gone and smiled knowingly.
"Go on," she murmured softly.
The faintest hint of amusement crossed T'Challa's face before he crossed the room toward Wanda and Pietro.
Wanda noticed him first.
Confusion appeared immediately.
Then recognition.
And then complete shock.
Beside her, Pietro looked equally stunned.
The King of Wakanda stopped before them. Nakia remained beside him, her expression considerably less intimidating than her husband's.
A warm smile touched T'Challa's face.
"Miss Maximoff."
Wanda blinked.
Twice. For perhaps the first time all evening she seemed genuinely speechless.
T'Challa turned toward Pietro.
"Mr. Maximoff."
Pietro somehow managed an equally impressive silence. An achievement few believed possible.
"I wish you both a very happy birthday."
The words were sincere and simple.
Respectful.
Nakia's smile widened as she watched both twins struggle to process what was happening.
"And congratulations on surviving another year with each other," she added lightly.
The comment finally earned a laugh from Wanda and broke enough of the tension for Pietro to recover.
Because regardless of titles and positions and achievements, there remained something profoundly surreal about being wished a happy birthday by an actual king.
And somehow even stranger to discover that the Queen of Wakanda was considerably easier to talk to.
Eventually Wanda recovered first.
"Thank you, Your Majesties.”
Nakia immediately shook her head.
"Oh no, absolutely not. Nakia is fine."
The response drew another surprised smile from Wanda.
T'Challa's own smile widened slightly.
"T'Challa is acceptable."
Pietro finally found his voice.
"That somehow makes this weirder."
Wanda elbowed him immediately.
Hard.
T'Challa laughed softly.
Nakia laughed outright.
And just enough of the formality melted away.
T'Challa laughed softly. The tension dissolved just enough. Then his attention shifted toward Vision. A knowing smile appeared.
"Congratulations."
Vision looked simultaneously proud and embarrassed.
"Thank you."
Wanda glanced toward her fiancé. The word still felt wonderful. T'Challa extended his hand. Vision accepted it.
"May your future together be filled with happiness."
The blessing carried genuine warmth and genuine meaning.
Vision seemed to recognize that.
"Thank you."
Nearby, Erik had already begun moving toward them.
The host.
The patriarch.
The head of the household.
Exactly as protocol dictated.
T'Challa turned as Erik approached. Immediately offering the older man his full attention.
"Mr. Lehnsherr."
"Your Majesty."
The two men shook hands.
Mutual respect. Neither performed it. Neither exaggerated it. They didn’t need to. It simply existed.
One leader greeting another.
One man recognizing another's responsibilities.
Different worlds. Different histories. Shared understanding. Their conversation began quietly.
Polite.
Professional.
And while it did, something else happened across the ballroom.
You noticed him.
The reaction was immediate. Not obvious, just immediate.
Surprise flashed briefly across your face. Genuine surprise. The sort rarely seen from you anymore.
Then, unexpectedly, your posture relaxed.
Only slightly.
Most people wouldn't have noticed. Most people were too busy staring at the King of Wakanda. But Natasha did.
From across the room she watched the change happen. The straightening of your shoulders. The momentary surprise. And then something stranger. the tension disappeared. Not entirely, just enough. Enough that curiosity immediately took root.
Interesting.
Across the ballroom, Erik and T'Challa's conversation came to a natural end. The two men exchanged a final handshake, speaking quietly for another moment before parting. Neither seemed particularly interested in ceremony despite the titles attached to their names. Mutual respect did not require an audience.
As T'Challa turned away, his attention settled on you almost immediately.
For a brief moment, neither of you moved.
The years since your last meeting should have made the moment awkward. By all logic, they should have created distance. Time had transformed both of your lives beyond anything either of you could have imagined during university. One had become King of Wakanda. The other had inherited the responsibility of running one of the largest companies in the world. Yet none of that seemed particularly important as your eyes met across the ballroom.
A smile appeared on T'Challa's face.
Not diplomatic. Not public.
The kind of personal only reserved for old friends.
You felt yourself returning it before you consciously decided to.
From across the room, Natasha noticed the change immediately. Throughout the evening she had seen dozens of people approach you. Investors, family friends, business partners and guests. Every interaction had been pleasant, but each carried the same careful professionalism that seemed woven into your bones. This was different. The smile she saw now wasn't one of courtesy. It wasn't one of obligation.
It was easy.
That alone made her pay attention.
As T'Challa approached, you found yourself taking in the familiar details. Age had refined him without fundamentally changing him. He carried himself with more authority now, more certainty, but beneath the polished exterior remained the same thoughtful young man who had once spent hours debating philosophy over coffee while pretending not to procrastinate on assignments.
When he finally stopped in front of you, neither of you rushed to fill the silence.
Some friendships didn't require it.
"You look well," T'Challa said at last.
The greeting was simple enough that it might have sounded meaningless coming from anyone else. Between old friends, however, it carried a different weight. It acknowledged years of separation, countless life changes and the simple relief of finding someone still standing after all of it.
You nodded.
"So do you."
A faint laugh escaped him.
"I should hope so. The alternative would make for a rather unfortunate diplomatic incident."
The response caught you off guard just enough to earn a small genuine laugh. It wasn't loud, but it was real.
T'Challa's eyes immediately lit with satisfaction.
"There it is."
You narrowed your eyes.
"There what is?"
"I was beginning to wonder if the stories were true. That the CEO of X-MEN International has become frighteningly serious."
The accusation earned another reluctant smile.
"People exaggerate."
"They always did."
The ease of the conversation settled around both of you almost immediately. It was a strange thing, reconnecting with someone who had known you before life became complicated. Most people in the ballroom knew Alice Maximoff the executive. Many knew Alice Maximoff the eldest sibling, the caretaker, the woman who always seemed to have a solution ready before anyone asked for one.
T'Challa remembered the student, his friend.
The woman who once argued with professors simply because she enjoyed the challenge. The woman who survived examinations through a combination of intelligence and unreasonable confidence. The woman who had possessed strong opinions on nearly everything and sufficient stubbornness to defend all of them.
As his gaze drifted briefly over your appearance, the contrast was impossible to miss.
University Alice had favoured longer hair and enough colour to give fashion magazines migraines. The woman standing before him now wore a perfectly tailored suit, her shorter hair styled neatly and her posture carrying the quiet confidence of someone accustomed to boardrooms rather than lecture halls. The transformation wasn't surprising. Life had demanded it.
Still, the comparison amused him.
You noticed the look immediately.
"No."
The word arrived before he had even spoken.
T'Challa's smile widened.
"I haven't said anything."
"You were about to."
For a moment he appeared to consider mounting a defence. Then he wisely abandoned the effort.
"I was remembering an orange jacket."
You closed your eyes.
Not the jacket.
Your memory.
Out of every possible thing he could have remembered after all these years, somehow it was that bloody jacket.
"It was fashionable. And it was a different era."
"It was orange."
You opened your eyes only to discover he was enjoying this far more than any reasonable person should.
"I refuse to be judged by a man who voluntarily wore sandals to economics lectures."
For perhaps the first time since arriving, T'Challa laughed openly.
The sound felt familiar enough to erase years.
"There was a reason for that."
"You lost a bet."
"That was not the reason."
"I remember you distinctly losing a bet to Shuri."
Your laughter blended together, easy and unforced. For a few moments neither of you felt particularly concerned with titles, responsibilities or expectations. You were simply two friends sharing an old joke while the city sparkled beyond the windows.
Eventually T'Challa glanced toward the balcony doors.
"Would you like some fresh air?"
You followed his gaze before nodding.
The ballroom had grown warm. Loud. Crowded.
The balcony sounded appealing.
Together, the two of you stepped outside, leaving the celebration behind for a moment as Manhattan stretched endlessly before you in a sea of lights.
For the first time that evening, Natasha watched you walk away with someone and realized your shoulders seemed lighter than they had all night.
The moment the balcony doors slid shut behind you, the noise of the party softened into a distant murmur. Music still drifted faintly through the glass, accompanied by laughter and the occasional burst of applause from somewhere deeper inside the ballroom. Out here, however, the city reclaimed the evening. Manhattan stretched endlessly beyond the railing, illuminated by countless windows and streams of headlights that wound through the streets below.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
The silence felt natural.
Not because there was nothing to say, but because friendship had long ago removed the need to fill every pause. Years had passed since you had last stood face to face. Calls had been exchanged. Messages had been sent. Birthdays acknowledged. Milestones celebrated. Condolences offered. Yet there remained something strangely reassuring about occupying the same physical space again.
You rested your forearms against the railing and looked out across the skyline.
"I'm sorry about your father."
The words were simple and direct.
T'Challa turned slightly toward you. For a moment his expression remained unreadable before something softer settled there. You had spoken those same sentiments over the phone after T'Chaka's passing. You had written them in messages. Yet some things carried a different weight when spoken in person.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
Neither elaborated further. Neither needed to. Grief was not a subject either of you approached casually, and both understood that some losses never truly left. You simply became part of the landscape a person learned to carry.
For a few moments You watched the city below. Then T'Challa glanced toward you and smiled faintly.
"You know, during that entire period, you were one of the only people who managed to have a normal conversation with me."
You looked over.
"I highly doubt that."
"It is true."
"I distinctly remember expressing sympathy."
"You did."
"That seems appropriate."
"It was."
The smile lingered.
"But you also spent ten minutes explaining why a newspaper article had fundamentally misunderstood an international trade agreement."
Recognition dawned immediately.
"The article was wrong."
The fact that he was agreeing with you did absolutely nothing to discourage your argument.
"The author clearly didn't understand the subject matter."
T'Challa laughed softly. Your expression grew deeply suspicious.
"I was correct."
"You were."
The conversation drifted into familiar territory with surprising ease. It had always been that way between you. University had been filled with debates that began over lunch and somehow survived until midnight. Neither of you had ever been particularly good at conceding a point, which meant most discussions eventually ended in mutual stubbornness rather than resolution.
Looking at T'Challa now, it struck you how much and how little had changed.
Age had sharpened certain edges while softening others. He carried responsibility differently than he once had. More comfortably. More naturally. The confidence that came from leadership sat easily on him now, not because the role itself was easy, but because he had grown into it.
T'Challa, meanwhile, found himself noticing similar changes in you.
The Y/N he remembered had possessed louder opinions and an alarming collection of brightly coloured jackets that seemed determined to offend good taste. The woman standing beside him now looked entirely at home in a tailored suit. Years of boardrooms and negotiations had refined her into someone the business world took seriously at first glance. Yet beneath all of that, he occasionally caught glimpses of the student he remembered.
The city lights reflected in the glass behind you as the conversation settled once again. Neither of you both seemed particularly interested in returning inside yet.
Eventually T'Challa tilted his head slightly.
"Did you ever imagine this?"
You followed his gaze before realizing he wasn't looking at the skyline.
He was looking at both of you. At the distance you had travelled from university classrooms and cramped apartments. At the lives you had somehow inherited. You considered the question.
"No."
The answer came honestly.
"Not this."
T'Challa nodded.
"I didn't either."
The response lingered between you. Neither were speaking about success. Not really. Nor were you speaking about titles. The conversation had moved somewhere quieter than that.
"You always knew you'd inherit the company," T'Challa said eventually.
You nodded.
"And you knew I'd inherit the throne."
Neither statement carried resentment.
Children born into families like yours rarely possessed the luxury of imagining entirely different futures. The details had always been uncertain, but the direction never was. Still, there was a difference between knowing something would happen eventually and watching it arrive.
"I suppose I just thought we'd have more time," you admitted.
T'Challa's expression softened. The words required no further explanation. More time before responsibility. The silence that followed was thoughtful rather than sad.
Eventually T'Challa looked toward the city again.
"I hear about you constantly, you know."
That immediately made you suspicious.
"That cannot be good."
"It depends."
"I dislike that answer already."
A laugh escaped him.
"The business press seems incapable of deciding whether you're brilliant or terrifying."
"They exaggerate."
"They all do."
The agreement surprised you enough that you looked over.
"They exaggerate everything."
Then his smile returned.
"Though I did read about the Singapore acquisition."
You closed your eyes.
When you opened them again, he was still smiling.
"The articles made it sound impossible. You completed the acquisition in less than a week."
"There were unusual circumstances."
"You say that as though it explains anything."
"It explains enough."
T'Challa shook his head. The amusement remained, but so did something else.
Respect.
Not the kind attached to titles. The kind earned through competence.
"I've followed enough of your career to know one thing."
You immediately regretted asking.
"What?"
"When people underestimate you, they usually regret it."
The observation settled between you. You looked away first. Not because the compliment embarrassed you. Because accepting compliments had never become easier.
The city provided a convenient distraction. For a while you stood side by side in comfortable silence.
Eventually T'Challa checked his watch.
The motion alone told you the conversation was nearing its end. Duty had a habit of finding both of you.
"I should return before my security team decides I've been kidnapped."
You smiled.
"That would create paperwork."
"A tragic amount of paperwork."
Neither of you moved immediately. You didn’t seem eager to end the conversation.
Then T'Challa spoke again.
"You should visit."
The invitation arrived casually. Simply as an old friend extending an invitation. Your response emerged automatically.
"I'm busy."
The words left your mouth so quickly that both of you knew they had arrived by reflex rather than thought. T'Challa didn't argue.
You sighed. The city stretched endlessly before you, filled with people heading somewhere, returning home or spending time with those you cared about. Eventually you shook your head.
"I'll try." The answer was hesitant.
A smile touched T'Challa's face.
"I'd like that."
For a moment neither spoke.
Then, together, you turned back toward the ballroom where family, friends and responsibilities waited. The city continued glittering beyond the glass behind you, and for the first time in years, the possibility of stepping away from work, even briefly, no longer felt entirely impossible.
Natasha was beginning to suspect that everyone at the party knew something she didn't.
It was an irritating realization, particularly because she was usually the one with information. Being the last person to understand what was happening in a room was not a position she occupied often, and she disliked it more with every passing minute.
She stood near the bar with a champagne flute balanced loosely between her fingers, her attention drifting toward the balcony doors far more frequently than she cared to admit. You and T'Challa had disappeared out there several minutes ago, and although Natasha repeatedly told herself she wasn't watching for your return, the frequency with which her gaze wandered in that direction suggested otherwise.
The ballroom continued around her without interruption. Music shifted into another song. Conversations flowed easily from group to group. Waiters moved between guests carrying trays of drinks and desserts. The party itself seemed entirely unconcerned with the fact that Natasha Romanoff was currently losing an argument with her own curiosity.
A bartender approached and silently offered a refill. Natasha accepted it with a grateful nod.
That was when a familiar voice appeared beside her.
"Dangerous."
Natasha didn't bother turning around.
"Tinny."
Tony Stark looked personally offended by the greeting as he claimed the empty stool beside her.
"That's how we're starting?"
"You approached me."
"Fair."
The answer came so quickly that Natasha almost smiled.
Tony settled comfortably into place beside her, accepting a drink from the bartender as though he owned the establishment. Considering his track record, there was a non-zero chance he actually did.
For a few moments neither spoke. Tony sipped his drink. Natasha pretended not to watch the balcony. Tony noticed immediately.
Observing people was practically a hobby for him. Decades of boardrooms, negotiations and public appearances had left him with an unfortunate talent for spotting exactly what people didn't want noticed. Eventually he spoke.
"So."
Natasha groaned into her champagne.
"I haven't asked anything yet."
The smile that followed suggested he considered this some sort of personal victory. Unfortunately, Natasha suspected he did.
"I keep hearing rumours."
"Hearing what rumours?" Natasha nearly laughed. "You are the rumours."
Tony considered that for a moment. "I am many things."
Somehow the man remained impossible regardless of age, success or experience. The billionaire leaned slightly closer despite the fact that nobody around them was paying the slightest attention.
"Are they true? Those rumours?"
For several seconds Natasha simply stared at him. Eventually she sighed.
"What exactly are these rumours?"
The grin that appeared on Tony's face should have been classified as a public safety concern.
"Apparently New York believes you and Maximoff are having an affair."
Natasha immediately choked on her champagne. Across from her, Tony nearly fell off his stool laughing.
"An affair?"
"You heard me."
"That doesn't even make sense."
"Last week I heard a version where the two of you secretly got married."
Natasha stared at the man for a second. Then she laughed despite herself.
"Married?"
"You'd be amazed what people will believe." Tony took another sip of his drink.
"Unfortunately those hobbies involve inventing stories about people they've never met."
Natasha shook her head.
"The internet is stupid."
"The internet remains stupid." Tony nodded in agreement.
For a while they sat in companionable silence. Natasha took another drink. Tony continued looking entirely too entertained by the conversation. Eventually he returned to the subject.
"So?"
"There is no affair."
With a dramatic sigh, Tony gestured toward the balcony doors where you and T'Challa still remained in conversation.
"You're watching them."
Natasha's gaze followed automatically before she could stop herself. The realization arrived a second too late and that made Tony's smile widen immediately. The conversation should have ended there.
Instead, Tony glanced toward the balcony again, and when he spoke next his voice carried an unexpected sincerity.
"Don't overthink it."
Natasha frowned. The shift caught her off guard.
"What?"
Tony swirled the remaining drink in his glass before answering.
"Whatever it is you are trying to achieve, if you are pursuing her."
His gaze drifted briefly toward the balcony, toward you, and then back toward her.
"Trust me."
Before she could fully explore the logistics, movement near the balcony doors caught her attention.
The conversation outside appeared to be ending.
T'Challa was making his way back toward the ballroom while you remained near the railing for a moment longer. Natasha found herself watching the scene with quiet curiosity, trying to understand why your conversation with an old friend had captured so much of her attention in the first place.
Beside her, Tony noticed that too.
Of course he did.
Natasha sighed before setting her empty champagne flute on the bar. Then she straightened her dress and turned toward the balcony doors. Behind her, Tony's grin returned in full force.
"Where are you going?"
Natasha glanced over her shoulder. "Nowhere."
Tony laughed so hard he nearly spilled his drink.
Natasha left anyway.
The sound of the balcony door opening barely registered.
You had already heard it long before the door finished sliding across its track. Years spent navigating crowded events, tense negotiations and boardrooms full of people who wanted something from you had made surprise a difficult thing to achieve. The footsteps that followed were lighter than most.
You didn't need to turn around to know who they belonged to.
The city continued glittering below as streams of headlights wound their way through Manhattan's streets. Somewhere beneath the balcony, life carried on at its usual pace, entirely unaware of birthday celebrations, engagements and complicated conversations happening several stories above.
Behind you, the door slid shut.
For several moments, neither of you spoke.
The silence felt natural. The party had been loud enough to make quiet feel like a luxury, and neither seemed particularly eager to interrupt it.
Eventually Natasha moved to stand beside you at the railing. Not too close. Not distant either. Close enough for conversation and far enough to respect boundaries that neither of you had quite figured out how to navigate yet.
Her gaze drifted briefly toward the ballroom doors where T'Challa had disappeared moments earlier before settling on you.
"Friend?"
"Yes." You glanced sideways.
Natasha waited. When nothing else followed, one eyebrow lifted slightly.
"That's it?"
"What else would he be?"
The answer arrived immediately. Technically accurate. Entirely unhelpful.
Natasha stared at you for a moment, silently debating whether the response was deliberate. Experience suggested it probably was.
"You disappeared onto a balcony with him for half an hour."
"It was twenty-two minutes." The correction escaped before you could stop it.
Natasha's eyes narrowed.
"Really? You counted?”
The faint smile threatening the corner of your mouth ruined whatever credibility remained in that argument.
Natasha noticed.
Of course she noticed.
Lately, she seemed to notice more things than she used to.
A few months ago she might have pushed harder. She might have demanded explanations, pressed for details and refused to accept answers that raised more questions than they resolved.
Tonight she found herself paying attention to something else.
You.
The conversation with T'Challa had changed something.
Not dramatically. Most people in the ballroom wouldn't have noticed a difference at all. Yet Natasha had spent enough time around you to recognize the subtle shift. The tension she had grown accustomed to seeing in your shoulders seemed lighter somehow. The constant vigilance hadn't disappeared, nor would she have expected it to, but it had softened around the edges.
"You look different."
The observation slipped out before she could reconsider it.
You blinked.
"Different?" The confusion that crossed your face appeared entirely genuine. You had no idea what she meant. Strangely, that told Natasha everything.
The change wasn't something you had done consciously. It wasn't a performance. It wasn't an act. It was simply the effect of spending time with someone who mattered.
"He is important to you."
Your gaze drifted back toward the skyline. Not evasive. Thoughtful.
Eventually you nodded. The answer was quiet, simple and completely honest. Natasha waited for elaboration, knowing damn well it wasn’t coming. For some reason, that made her laugh. The sound was soft, carrying easily into the night air.
You looked over immediately.
"What?"
For the first time all evening, Natasha realized something. The lack of information wasn't frustrating anymore. At least, not in the way it once had been. Because you rarely lied.
In fact, you were almost annoyingly honest.
The challenge was that honesty and explanation were not the same thing. You answered questions accurately. You simply didn't volunteer anything beyond the exact boundaries of what had been asked.
For most people, that would have been infuriating. For you, it was practically a language. And Natasha was beginning to learn it.
The words themselves were rarely the whole answer. Sometimes they weren't even half of it. The real truth usually lived elsewhere, tucked away in expressions, pauses, body language and the things left unsaid.
Right now, that truth felt surprisingly obvious.
Whoever T'Challa was, he mattered. Because for twenty-two minutes, the weight of the world had seemed lighter on your shoulders. Natasha found herself smiling.
"I've finally figured out your problem."
You crossed your arms.
"I don't have a problem."
Natasha laughed outright. The sound echoed softly across the balcony.
"That's adorable."
"I am serious."
"You answer questions like a witness under legal supervision."
"I answer them accurately."
"You answer them technically, there’s a difference."
"Well, they are still answers."
Natasha shook her head, still smiling despite herself. The amusement refused to leave, and for some reason that seemed to bother you far more than the accusation itself. It felt like a small victory.
Because she had learned something about you.
The city lights shimmered around you as a cool evening breeze stirred the fabric of your jacket. Behind the glass, the celebration continued uninterrupted. Music drifted faintly through the doors alongside laughter and conversation. The party was still alive, still waiting.
Eventually Natasha glanced back toward the ballroom.
Then toward you.
"Should we go back inside?"
You followed her gaze. The twins were still celebrating. Guests remained scattered throughout the ballroom. Responsibilities still waited patiently for your return. Your expression softened slightly.
"Probably."
Natasha nodded and turned toward the doors. Halfway there she paused. Something made her glance back. Whatever the reason, she caught a glimpse of something she wasn't entirely sure she was supposed to see.
You were smiling.
Not the polite smile reserved for business associates.
A smaller one.
The sort of smile people wore when they believed nobody was looking.
For a brief moment, Natasha simply stood there.
Then a smile of her own appeared.
Not because she fully understood what she had just witnessed.
Because she was beginning to.
Without another word, the two of you stepped back into the warmth, noise and celebration waiting beyond the glass.
The party began winding down shortly after midnight.
Not abruptly, but gradually, the way good celebrations always did. Guests lingered longer than intended, stretching final conversations into stories that somehow generated new stories of their own. Empty champagne glasses multiplied mysteriously across tables. Promises to meet again were exchanged alongside handshakes, hugs and reluctant goodbyes. For the first time all evening, nobody seemed particularly interested in schedules, obligations or responsibilities.
The engagement had changed the atmosphere of the party entirely.
The birthday celebration remained, of course. Wanda and Pietro were still the guests of honour. Yet the evening now carried something else as well. Something softer than excitement and warmer than surprise. A quiet happiness seemed to settle over the ballroom, touching conversations and smiles alike.
Eventually Wanda and Vision made their own escape.
Not because they weren't enjoying themselves. If anything, they were enjoying themselves too much. The problem was that every conversation eventually circled back to the same subject. Every guest wanted to see the ring. Every guest wanted to hear about the proposal. Every guest seemed determined to remind them that they were engaged, as though either of them had somehow forgotten in the last ten minutes.
By the time they finally slipped away, Wanda's cheeks hurt from smiling.
The city had grown quieter by the time the car carried them home.
Manhattan still glittered outside the windows, but the energy had changed. Storefronts were darkening. Traffic had thinned. The city remained awake, yet it felt calmer somehow, as though even New York occasionally remembered how to breathe.
Inside the car, neither felt much need to speak.
Vision sat beside her with one hand intertwined with hers, and neither seemed interested in letting go. The silence that settled between them felt less like an absence of conversation and more like a continuation of everything that had happened throughout the evening.
Wanda found herself looking down at the ring again. She had been doing that a lot. The diamond caught the passing city lights, scattering brief flashes of brightness across the interior of the car.
"You keep checking."
Wanda looked up.
"The ring."
A smile immediately threatened the corner of Vision's mouth. Wanda instinctively glanced down at her hand. The moment she realized what she had done, she groaned. Vision's smile widened.
Traitor.
"You are enjoying this entirely too much."
"Probably."
The answer arrived far too quickly to be innocent.
Wanda laughed despite herself and leaned her head lightly against his shoulder. Outside, the city continued rolling past in a blur of lights and reflections while the comfortable silence returned.
For several minutes neither spoke.
Then another thought resurfaced in Vision's mind. One that had been quietly waiting for an opportunity all evening.
"King T'Challa."
Wanda tilted her head.
"What about him?"
Vision considered the question carefully.
"Was anyone else concerned by how casually a king attended your birthday party?"
The laugh escaped her immediately.
The sound filled the car. Vision looked entirely too pleased with himself.
"You say that as though it happens regularly."
"I am simply curious. Why the King of Wakanda wished you happy birthday."
When phrased that way, the situation sounded considerably more absurd than it had at the party.
Wanda smiled at that. The answer came easily.
"Y/N."
Vision blinked.
"T'Challa and Y/N."
Understanding arrived slowly.
"They know each other?"
"They went to university together."
That caught his attention immediately.
Wanda settled deeper into her seat as she continued.
"They've been friends for years."
Vision thought back to the balcony conversation, to the easy familiarity between them and to the quiet smile that had appeared on your face when T'Challa crossed the ballroom. Suddenly several pieces fell into place.
"I didn't know that."
"Most people don't."
The answer carried a certain fondness that Vision recognized instantly. Whenever Wanda spoke about you, there was always an undercurrent of admiration beneath her words. It wasn't blind hero worship. It wasn't idealization. It was pride. The sort that came from watching someone spend years carrying responsibilities most people never noticed.
"They stayed in touch," Wanda said softly. "Even after university. Even after everything."
Vision nodded.
That seemed consistent with the woman he had come to know through Wanda's stories and through his own experiences. You invested in people the same way you invested in responsibilities. Quietly. Consistently. Without making a performance out of it.
Vision found himself thinking back through the evening. Through the months leading up to it. Through every small detail he had only recently begun noticing. The planning behind the party. The effort nobody had seen. The way problems somehow found their way to you and solutions seemed to emerge shortly afterward.
The remainder of the drive passed peacefully. Neither felt much need to fill the silence. The future no longer felt distant or theoretical. For the first time, it felt tangible. Real. Something they could actually reach out and touch.
Eventually the car stopped outside Wanda's apartment building.
The journey upstairs felt shorter than usual. The elevator carried them toward her floor, the familiar hallway passed beneath their feet and soon they found themselves standing before her apartment door.
Wanda unlocked it.
The apartment beyond was dark and quiet.
For a moment neither moved.
The contrast between the apartment and the ballroom felt almost startling. Only an hour earlier they had been surrounded by music, family, laughter and celebration. Now there was only stillness.
And each other. Just the two of them.
Vision's gaze dropped briefly toward the ring before returning to Wanda's face. The look that passed between them required no explanation. It carried all the happiness, anticipation and affection they had spent the evening trying unsuccessfully to hide.
🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️
Slowly, Wanda smiled. It was the same smile she had worn moments after saying yes. The apartment smelled like lavender and old books. Wanda’s signature scent was the one Vision had come to associate with home. The door clicked shut behind them, sealing away the city’s hum. Only the sound of their breathing and the soft rustle of fabric remained as Wanda turned to face him. Her cheeks were still flushed from champagne and laughter. Her eyes stayed bright even in the dimness. Vision reached for her hand. His thumb brushed over the ring as if to reassure himself it was real.
"You’re staring," Wanda murmured, but she didn’t look away.
"I’m memorizing," he corrected softly.
The admission made her breath catch. Vision had always been deliberate with his words, but tonight they carried an extra weight. A vulnerability mirrored her own. She stepped closer. Her fingers traced the line of his jaw. She marvelled at the way he leaned into her touch like a man starved. When she kissed him, it was slow. Savouring became a contrast to the frantic energy of the ballroom. His hands settled at her waist. They felt warm through the thin fabric of her dress. His grip stayed firm but never demanding.
They moved through the apartment in a haze. Layers shed between kisses. They paused only to laugh when Wanda nearly tripped over her own discarded heels. Vision caught her. His laughter mingled with hers. His lips pressed apologies into her skin even as she assured him she was fine. The bedroom door swung open with a gentle push. Suddenly they were tangled in the sheets. The world narrowed to the space between them.
Vision’s touch was reverent. He mapped the curve of her hip. He traced the dip of her collarbone as if he’d never been allowed to touch her before. Wanda arched into him. Her hands carded through his hair. Her voice broke around his name when his mouth found the sensitive spot beneath her ear. There was no rush. No urgency remained. Only the quiet certainty that they had all the time in the world.
The sheets tangled around them like whispered promises. Wanda’s fingers traced the line of Vision’s collarbone. Her touch stayed feather-light, as if she feared he might dissolve beneath her hands. He didn’t. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. Not now. Not ever again. The weight of him was real. It was solid. His heartbeat thudded against her palm where it rested over his chest.
"You’re thinking," Vision murmured. His voice was rough with something deeper than exhaustion.
Wanda smiled. Her lips brushed his shoulder. "Only about how quiet it is."
No cameras remained. No expectations lingered. Just the two of them were wrapped in the aftermath of something too vast to name. Vision turned his head. He caught her mouth in a kiss that tasted like champagne and shared secrets. His hand slid down her spine. It was possessive in a way that sent heat pooling low in her stomach.
"Not quiet anymore," he said against her lips. She laughed. It was a breathless, startled sound as he rolled her beneath him. The sheets were cool against her back, but Vision was warmth incarnate. His body covered hers. It was all lean muscle and intent. His mouth trailed fire down her throat.
Vision's hands traced the curve of Wanda's waist with deliberate reverence. His fingers skated along the lace hem of her underwear before slipping beneath. The drag of fabric against her thighs was slow. It was almost teasing until the last inch fell away. Her breath caught sharply in the dark. His mouth followed the path his hands had taken. He nipped at her hipbone. His tongue flattened against the sensitive skin of her inner thigh while her fingers twisted in the sheets. When his breath ghosted over her centre, her hips jerked involuntarily. It was a silent plea that earned a low chuckle against her skin.
"Vision." His name fractured into a moan as his tongue finally laved through her folds. It was slow. It was thorough. His grip on her thighs tightened. He held her open while he explored every hidden tremor. Every hitched breath was noted. The scrape of his teeth against her clit sent sparks up her spine. Her back arched off the mattress as pleasure coiled tight in her belly. Just as she teetered on the edge, he pulled back. He left her trembling and gasping.
Before she could protest, he was kissing her again. His body settled between her thighs. The weight of him pinned her to the mattress. His erection was hot against her stomach. Wanda's hands slid down his back. Her nails scored lightly over skin as she rocked against him. Vision groaned. His hips jerked forward instinctively. The head of his cock caught against her entrance.
"Look at me," he murmured against her lips. When her eyes met his, dark with want, he pushed inside in one smooth stroke. The stretch was exquisite. It drew a shared gasp as he bottomed out. For a heartbeat, neither moved. They savoured the perfect fullness. Then Vision rolled his hips experimentally. It drew a choked moan from Wanda's throat.
His rhythm was slow at first. Each thrust was deep and deliberate. One hand tangled in her hair. It angled her mouth to his as their breaths mingled. The other slid down to grip her thigh. It hiked her leg higher over his hip. The new angle had her seeing stars. Her fingers clenched in the sheets as he hit that spot inside her with every roll of his hips.
Vision's control frayed when she arched beneath him. Her walls fluttered around him. His thrusts turned uneven. His forehead dropped to hers as pleasure overwhelmed restraint. "Wanda." Her name was a prayer. It was rough and reverent against her skin.
She answered by dragging her nails down his back. Her hips rose to meet each thrust. The room filled with the slick sounds of their joining. The headboard tapped a quiet rhythm against the wall. Vision's hand slipped between them. His fingers found her clit with unerring accuracy. The dual stimulation had her crying out. Her legs tightened around his waist as pleasure coiled tight in her belly.
When she came, it was with his name on her lips and his cock buried deep inside her. Vision followed moments later. His release spilled into her with a groan that sounded almost pained. He collapsed atop her. Their sweat-slick skin stuck together as they gasped for air in the aftermath.
Eventually, he rolled onto his back. He took her with him. Wanda sprawled across his chest. She listened to the rapid hammering of his heart beneath her ear. His fingers traced idle patterns along her spine. Occasionally they dipped lower to tease the curve of her ass. She swatted at his hand half-heartedly. She was too boneless to put any real force behind it.
"You're insatiable," she murmured against his skin.
"Can't blame a fiancé for trying," Vision murmured. His lips brushed her temple. His fingers continued their lazy exploration. They travelled up her spine. They traced each vertebra. Then they dipped teasingly beneath the sheets again. Wanda shivered despite the warmth tangled between them.
Outside, the city had settled into that rare quiet hour before dawn. Even Manhattan seemed to catch its breath. The curtains fluttered faintly with the building's central air. They cast shifting patterns of light across the rumpled bed. Vision's chest rose and fell steadily beneath her cheek. His heartbeat gradually slowed from its earlier frenzy.
Summary: For one night, the weight of responsibility takes a back seat to celebration. The ballroom fills with family, friends, laughter, and far too many flowers courtesy of Pietro Maximoff. Wanda suspects a conspiracy, Natasha discovers she is capable of being nervous, and an old friend arrives from across the world carrying memories of who you used to be. Beneath crystal chandeliers and Manhattan lights, promises are made, hearts grow lighter, and for the first time in a very long time, happiness feels effortless.
Word count: 8415
Pronouns: She/Her
Age: 28
Pairings: Natasha Romanoff x reader
Warnings: Mentions of illness and hospitalization, Alcohol, Emotional Burnout
A/N: Hey, guys. I have second part ready as well, tumblr tells me this was too big for one chapter so i had to divide it in two parts. Next part will be uploaded tommorow night. Enjoy!
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The apartment was quieter than usual.
Not empty, not really. Pietro had spent the better part of the last week turning every available room into a staging ground for whatever surprise he was planning, but for the first time all day, the noise had vanished. Pietro had disappeared hours ago under the excuse of "final inspections", which was simply his dramatic way of saying he wanted to oversee every detail personally. Wanda had been escorted away by Vision under increasingly suspicious circumstances that she was pretending not to notice how she being kept away from party planning.
And so, for a brief moment, the apartment belonged only to you.
The city stretched beyond the floor to ceiling windows in bands of gold and blue as evening settled over Manhattan. Lights flickered awake one by one across the skyline, distant and warm against the approaching dusk. The bedroom was illuminated by softer light, the amber glow from a standing lamp pooling across the hardwood floor and catching against the dark fabrics laid neatly across your bed.
Your phone rested between your shoulder and ear as you stood before the open wardrobe.
"Detka?"
The sound of your mother's voice immediately pulled your attention away from the rows of suits.
A faint smile touched your mouth.
"Still here, Mama."
The line crackled softly. The voice from the rehabilitation centre was never perfect, but it was better than it had been a year ago. Better than six months ago. Better than last month.
Lately there had been more good days.
More clear days.
The difference was impossible to miss.
The pauses between words had shortened. Her thoughts connected more easily. Entire conversations could now happen without a nurse helping bridge the gaps. Every improvement was small on its own, but together they formed something that had once felt impossible.
Hope.
You listened as she told you about the facility garden. Again.
The roses had begun blooming. Again.
One of the nurses had nearly fallen into a fountain. Again.
You let her tell the story for the third time anyway. Because every repetition meant she remembered. Every repeated story was another piece of her returning.
The tie hanging around your neck remained untied as you moved toward the bed.
"You are getting dressed?" Magda asked.
"Yes."
A thoughtful hum came through the receiver as you glanced down at the options laid out before you. Most people would have considered the choice absurd. Four suits, three different shirts and two watches. The differences between them were subtle enough that Wanda would have rolled her eyes and accused you of being impossible.
Pietro would have claimed they were all identical. Which they obviously weren't. Well, not to you at least.
One charcoal.
One black.
One midnight blue.
One deep forest green.
Each tailored precisely to your frame. Each one was perfectly pressed and immaculate. Your hand hovered briefly over the charcoal suit before moving past it. Then past the black, then navy followed. You finally settled on the dark green. Not because it was dramatic.
Quite the opposite. Because it was understated. It was elegant. It was different enough from your usual armour to be noticeable only to people who paid attention.
People like Natasha.
The thought arrived unexpectedly.
A silence stretched across the phone line. Then Magda laughed. A quiet laugh that was soft and knowing. Your eyes narrowed immediately.
The moment your fingers paused mid-button, you knew that tone. That same lilting, knowing inflection your mother used when she'd caught you sneaking cookies before dinner at age six, or when she'd spotted the nervous way in which you tugged your sleeves before debating tournaments at fourteen.
“What, Mama?”
"Nothing," Magda said, and you rolled your eyes as if she could see you through the phone.
You finished fastening the crisp white shirt with deliberate precision, which seemed too bright against the tailored dark green suit. "What are you smiling about?"
"I did not say I was smiling."
"Uh huh," The watch clasp clicked around your wrist with finality. "And I'm a witch from Hogwarts."
Her laugh came clearer now than it had in years. Twelve months ago, that sound would've shattered you. Tonight, it just settled like a warm stone in your ribcage with familiarity and aching in the best way.
The comfortable silence stretched as you adjusted your cuffs, fingers lingering over the platinum links. Then, with devastating nonchalance:
"And Natasha?"
Your hands stilled.
A thousand professional responses lined up on your tongue. That she'd RSVP'd. That she was bringing Yelena. Safe, polished answers you'd given a hundred times before. But the words dissolved when your reflection caught the light onto the too-perfect drape of the suit, the precisely aligned collar, the tension you couldn't quite smooth from your shoulders despite attending more galas than you could count.
Magda's soft hum through the receiver wasn't quite a laugh. Wasn't quite a sigh. It was the sound of a woman who'd watched her child try to hide a broken vase at six, fake indifference about a poetry prize at seventeen, and lie through her teeth about being fine at twenty-three.
"Mama."
"Oh, detka."
You squeezed your eyes shut. Of course she knew. How? Maternal instincts, is what you had accepted as the answer.
"I like her," Magda murmured.
"You haven't even met her."
"I know enough."
Your gaze drifted to the Manhattan skyline beyond the penthouse windows. Most people saw you as the CEO, they saw the empire, your legacy. Natasha Romanoff had a disconcerting habit of looking directly at you instead.
The reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror showed everything in place. The impeccable tailoring, the regulation-straight tie, the unshakable composure you'd spent decades perfecting. Yet something hummed beneath your skin tonight, foreign and insistent.
Maybe it was The Twins' birthday. Maybe it was Pietro's terrible jokes already echoing in your head. Maybe it was your mother sounding like herself again after years of static and slurred syllables.
Or maybe it was the dangerous thrill coiling low in your stomach when you thought of red hair and a smirk that could level cities.
"Have fun tonight, detka."
You almost argued. Almost recited the script about networking and obligations. But your fingers brushed the emerald silk pocket square which was a shade too close to certain eyes and the rehearsed denial died unspoken.
"I'll try."
The smile in her voice was a live wire. "Good."
That single word settled between your ribs, warmer and far more perilous than any interrogation.
Yelena Belova had been ready for precisely forty-three minutes. No, scratch that. Not approximately, but exactly, because she'd checked twice. The first glance at her watch had been casual curiosity; the second was necessitated by the sight of Natasha Romanoff standing motionless in the epicenter of her bedroom wearing nothing but black lingerie and the expression of someone contemplating the futility of existence itself.
"You're being ridiculous."
Natasha whirled toward her, a dark blue dress crumpled in her fist like a battlefield flag.
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
"Natasha."
Yelena let her gaze sweep the carnage. The bed had vanished beneath an avalanche of discarded fabric. A black dress dangled precariously from the chandelier. A single stiletto perched atop the bookshelf like a disoriented bird.
Yelena decided not to ask.
"You've been 'evaluating options' for an hour."
Natasha's eyes narrowed. "It hasn't been an hour."
"One hour and twelve minutes."
The silence that followed tasted distinctly like Natasha mentally recalculating her life choices.
Seated in the armchair by the window, Yelena crossed her legs, the dark green silk of her gown pooling elegantly around her. Every inch of her was precision. Her hair pinned sleekly, makeup sharp enough to draw blood, the glint of her crystal bracelet catching the light just so. Meanwhile, Natasha looked like she was three rejected outfits away from arson.
"Try the black one."
"I already tried the black one."
"The other black one."
"There are six other black ones."
Natasha let out a theatrical, wall-shaking sound that had likely traumatized their neighbors years ago, for completely different reasons, before flinging the dress onto the bed with unnecessary violence. She snatched another, paused, scowled, tossed it aside, and repeated the process like a woman cursed by every fashion designer in history. Yelena watched this with fascination.
"What happened to the navy dress?"
"I don't like it."
"You loved it yesterday."
"I've evolved since yesterday."
"Into what?"
Natasha jabbed a finger at her. "This attitude is why people fear you."
"No," Yelena corrected smoothly. "People fear me because I'm usually right."
Natasha's jaw tightened. She hated when Yelena did that, mostly because it kept happening. Stalking toward the wardrobe, she muttered something in Russian that sounded suspiciously like a death threat against polyester blends.
The closet yawned before her, a cavern of meticulously organized chaos consisting many designer gowns, cocktail dresses, jackets tailored to lethal perfection. Most women would kill for this arsenal. Tonight, it was Natasha's personal hell.
And then Yelena saw the flicker beneath the frustration, that made her smile.
"Oh."
Natasha froze.
That single syllable was enough.
Slowly, she turned. "No."
"Oh, this is wonderful. You're nervous."
"I am not."
Natasha hurled a pillow at her. Yelena caught it midair without glancing away, decades of practice will do that to you.
"You've stood before monarchs without blinking. You've dismantled senators in front of cameras. You once started a screaming match with Tony Stark in front of three hundred people-"
"That was his fault."
"HA! It was entirely yours."
Natasha folded her arms.
"And yet," Yelena continued, "here you are, half-dressed and existential over a birthday party."
"It's not a crisis."
"The dress hanging from the chandelier suggests otherwise."
Natasha glanced up. The black gown swung gently from the fixture, mocking her.
"...Fair."
Yelena's laughter curled warmly through the room, too much delighted for Natahsa’s comfort. Natasha considered throwing something heavier. Instead, she sank onto the bed's edge, the restless energy draining just slightly as her gaze drifted toward the city lights beyond the window.
Yelena noticed, of course. She always did.
"You like her."
Natasha groaned louder, longer, like the sound was being dragged from her soul. "Not you too."
"There is no 'too.' I started this."
Yelena rose, crossing to sit beside her. For once, neither spoke. The city pulsed outside. Manhattan's heart was beating beneath them as Natasha exhaled, slow and uneven.
"I don't know what this is."
Yelena's voice softened. "You don't have to."
Natasha stared at her hands with uncharacteristic hesitation, there was vulnerability stitched into the silence.
"I keep thinking about her. Even though she's impossible. Even though she barely talks."
"I know." Natahsa can hear the smirk in Yelena’s voice
She finally looked up. "Are you going to say anything useful?"
"Probably not."
"Fantastic."
Yelena patted her knee which was comforting and part annoying. She nodded toward the wardrobe as she stood up.
"Try the red one."
Natasha blinked. "What?"
"The dark red. The burgundy."
"You mocked that dress."
"That’s true. I mock many things."
Natasha hesitated, her curiosity winning out at the end. The burgundy dress emerged moments later. The deep red was rich as aged wine, silk catching the light like liquid fire. (Imagine Jurassic World Premiere Scarlett)
It was everything Natasha wasn't. Soft where she was sharp, fluid where she was rigid, a deliberate contradiction. And yet, when she turned to the mirror, the dress draped her like a second skin, the color igniting her eyes, her loose waves framing the look perfectly.
Slowly, Natasha smiled, not the Romanoff grin, but the real one. Yelena saw it and smirked at her sister’s expression.
"Shut up."
Natasha reached for her clutch. Yelena grabbed hers. Two Romanoff women stood before the mirror. One composed, one pretending to be; one observant, one transparent despite her best efforts.
As they linked arms and moved toward the door, Yelena murmured, "If she looks at you the way you hope she does, try not to panic."
Natasha stopped dead. Turned. Pointed.
"I hate you."
Yelena grinned, radiant.
"Love you too."
The elevator doors swallowed them whole, descending toward the waiting car, the party, and whatever chaos the night had planned.
The ballroom occupied the entire top floor of one of X-MEN International's luxury event properties overlooking Manhattan.
It had started as one of Pietro's more reasonable ideas. Which, in hindsight, should have worried everyone far more than it did. What had originally been proposed as a birthday celebration had somehow evolved into an event that now occupied nearly six thousand square feet, employed enough staff to run a small nation, and featured enough floral arrangements to bankrupt a lesser family.
The result was undeniably beautiful though.
Floor to ceiling windows framed the glittering Manhattan skyline beyond. Crystal chandeliers cast warm golden light across polished marble floors while live musicians filled the room with soft strings and piano. Round tables draped in ivory linen sat beneath elaborate centrepieces woven from white roses, greenery and tiny lights that glowed like captured stars.
It was elegant.
Refined, expensive and unmistakably Maximoff.
Guests drifted through the space in carefully dressed clusters, champagne glasses catching the light as conversations rose and fell in comfortable waves. Business leaders mingled with family friends. Politicians exchanged greetings with executives. Old family acquaintances reunited across the room while waiters moved seamlessly through the crowd.
The party was not scheduled to officially begin for another twenty minutes. People were already arriving. Which meant you were working.
Of course you were.
You stood near the entrance, greeting guests as they entered with the same composed ease that had carried you through boardrooms, shareholder meetings and international negotiations.
A warm handshake here.
A polite greeting there.
An introduction.
A brief conversation.
Nothing difficult.
Nothing unusual.
A deep forest green suit sat perfectly against your frame. The jacket had been tailored with its usual precision, sharp enough to command attention without ever appearing flashy. You looked exactly as everyone expected the heir of the Maximoff family to look.
Across the room Steve was already speaking with Pepper near one of the window displays. Tony stood beside them holding what appeared to be his second drink despite arriving less than ten minutes ago. Bucky occupied a nearby table with the posture of a man who had already identified every exit in the building. Kate Bishop was enthusiastically stealing appetizers from passing waiters. Some things never changed.
The realization almost made you smile.
Almost.
A familiar voice interrupted your thoughts.
"Maximoff."
You turned.
Alexei Shostakov approached with the confidence of a man who had never once questioned whether he belonged somewhere. Beside him walked Melina.
You inclined your head politely.
"Alexei."
"My favourite future daughter-in-law."
You closed your eyes briefly. Melina sighed in second hand embarrassment. Alexei simply just grinned. You had known him long enough to understand there was no point fighting it.
"Good evening, Alexei."
"Good evening, Y/N."
Melina offered you a far more civilized greeting.
"You look well."
"Thank you."
Her eyes drifted across the ballroom. A faint smile appeared.
"It turned out beautifully."
"It was a team effort."
The response emerged automatically, predictably, as if following some unspoken script you both had come to recognize. Melina's smile widened slightly in that knowing way, the corners of her lips curling with quiet amusement because she understood, just as you did, about who had done most of the work behind the scenes. Neither of you said it aloud. The truth hanging comfortably between you, unacknowledged but mutually understood.
The conversation drifted forward for another minute or so, until movement near the entrance caught Alexei's attention, his head turning sharply, and in an instant, his expression transformed, shifting from mild disinterest to alert.
"Oh."
The single syllable carried decades of parental suffering. You already knew what that meant. Alexei looked like a man watching a live grenade enter a crowded room.
You turned toward the entrance to confirm your suspicion and forgot what you had been about to say. The burgundy dress was the first thing you noticed. Deep wine-red silk caught the ballroom light beautifully as Natasha stepped through the doors.
The gown was undeniably feminine without becoming ostentatious. The fitted bodice emphasized her waist before flowing into elegant lines that moved with every step. Her dark hair fell in soft waves around her shoulders. Gold earrings glimmered briefly whenever she turned her head.
She looked...
Different.
Not because she wasn't beautiful. Natasha Romanoff was beautiful in nearly every situation. No, this was something else. She seemed more refined and sophisticated.
More intentional.
The realization arrived before you could stop it. She had spent time choosing that dress. The thought lingered far longer than it should have. Beside her, Yelena looked equally striking in dark green.
The younger sibling immediately spotted Kate Bishop reaching for a piece appetizer. Something lit up behind her eyes. You recognized that expression from many such experiences of Pietro. It usually preceded disaster. Yelena abandoned Natasha without hesitation.
Completely.
Utterly.
She changed direction so abruptly it bordered on impressive.
Natasha stared after her sister.
"Yelena."
"Good luck."
"Yelena."
"Bye."
And then she was gone. Natasha looked genuinely offended. The sight nearly made you smile.
Again.
Across the room Kate noticed Yelena approaching.
"Hey!"
"You're stealing food."
"I am sampling."
"That is probably your fifth sample."
Somehow, they immediately began walking away together while continuing an argument neither seemed interested in winning.
You made a mental note to be concerned later. For now your attention remained elsewhere. Because Natasha was approaching. The crowd seemed to part around her naturally. When she finally stopped before you, green eyes lifted to meet yours. For a brief moment the surrounding noise faded.
Not entirely.
Just enough.
Her gaze travelled once across your suit.
Slowly.
Noticeably.
Then returned to your face as a smile curved her lips.
"Well."
You raised an eyebrow.
"Well?"
"You clean up nicely."
The response arrived far quicker than it should have.
"So do you."
Something flashed across her face. Brief and almost pleased. The realization annoyed you immediately. Natasha recovered first.
Naturally.
"High praise from the woman who communicates primarily through quarterly reports."
"I am capable of normal conversation."
Natasha softly laughed.
"Dangerous claim."
You opened your mouth to respond. Then stopped. Because she was still looking at you. The same way she always did.
Directly.
Unapologetically.
As though everyone else in the room had become temporarily irrelevant. It remained deeply unsettling.
"You look surprised," Natasha observed.
"I wasn't expecting you this early."
"We Russians are occasionally punctual."
"You should notify the press."
Natasha laughed again.
This time the sound was brighter.
Warmer.
And far more distracting than it had any right to be.
But before either of you could continue, another familiar voice joined the conversation.
"Pardon me."
Clint Barton appeared beside Natasha carrying two glasses of champagne. One disappeared into Natasha's hand while the second remained with him.
"Ah," Clint said, looking between the two of you. "Am I interrupting something?"
"No," you answered immediately.
"Yes," Natasha answered simultaneously.
Clint blinked.
Then grinned.
Natasha looked entirely unapologetic. You chose not to acknowledge either of them. Clint wisely retreated before anyone could recruit him into whatever this conversation had become. Natasha watched him go.
Then looked back toward you.
"Birthday twins here yet?"
You glanced toward the main entrance.
"Not yet."
"Good."
"Why?"
A mischievous smile appeared.
"Because then I get to wish them happy birthday before everyone starts crying."
You frowned.
"Who is crying?"
Natasha looked genuinely surprised.
"Your family."
"No."
"Your family absolutely cries during emotional events."
Natasha stared.
Then pointed toward Your father across the ballroom. Erik was currently pretending he wasn't checking his watch every thirty seconds.
"You inherited your observational skills from the wrong parent."
The battle had apparently been decided. Unfortunately for you, she wasn't entirely wrong. And somewhere across the ballroom, entirely unaware of the conversation taking place, Wanda Maximoff and Pietro Maximoff were on their way.
The guests had arrived.
The Romanoffs had arrived.
The ballroom was full and the evening had finally begun.
--- Earlier that day ---
The remainder of Wanda's birthday had been suspicious.
Not bad. Not even unpleasant. Just suspicious.
In hindsight, she probably should have realized something was wrong the moment Vision appeared outside her office at X-MEN headquarters carrying coffee and wearing the expression of a man attempting to behave normally.
The problem was that Vision's version of normal and everyone else's version of normal were two entirely different things. The first clue had been lunch. The second had been the museum. The third had been the walk through Central Park. The fourth had been the bookstore. The fifth had been the coffee shop after the bookstore despite the fact that they had already gotten coffee earlier.
"You are distracting me."
Vision glanced up from where he sat across from her at an outdoor café.
"I am spending time with my girlfriend on her birthday."
"You absolutely distracting are."
"I am not, dear."
Wanda narrowed her eyes.
Vision calmly sipped his coffee.
The picture of innocence.
The fact that it almost worked made it worse.
By late afternoon Wanda had abandoned any hope of uncovering whatever scheme was unfolding behind the scenes. Pietro and Vision working together was a terrifying combination because one was incapable of deception while the other treated deception as a competitive sport.
She wasn't sure which was more dangerous.
By evening they finally returned to Vision's apartment building.
Wanda disappeared into the guest room to change. When she emerged twenty minutes later, Vision forgot how conversations worked. Which was unfortunate. Because conversations were generally useful, this wasn't.
A deep crimson gown flowed elegantly around her frame, fitted through the waist before softening into graceful folds that moved with every step. Her hair fell loosely around her shoulders and the ruby earrings Pietro had gifted her years ago caught the light whenever she moved.
Vision stared.
Wanda smiled.
"Hello."
"You look beautiful."
The answer emerged instantly, without any thought.
Wanda's smile widened. Vision immediately looked relieved that he had successfully managed a complete sentence.
"Thank you."
A faint flush warmed her cheeks. Vision looked away. Then immediately looked back. Then looked away again. Wanda noticed this back and forth. Of course she noticed. The man had been behaving strangely all day.
Now he was somehow even worse.
Half an hour later they entered the lobby of the event building where the supposed birthday gathering was being held.
Wanda expected a small family dinner. Perhaps twenty people. Thirty if Pietro got carried away. The elevator lobby was nearly empty, which briefly reassured her. Then she saw Pietro.
And immediately became suspicious again.
Her twin stood near the elevator doors wearing a navy suit tailored to perfection. The jacket fit flawlessly, the tie was actually straight for once and there was an unmistakable look of satisfaction on his face. The kind of satisfaction usually associated with criminals.
"Pietro."
"Wanda."
"What did you do?"
Pietro looked offended.
"That is a terrible way to greet your brother on his birthday. I am celebrating our birthday."
Vision made a thoughtful noise. Pietro immediately pointed at him.
"Don't."
"I have not said anything."
"You were thinking about saying something."
Vision considered this.
"That is true."
Wanda rubbed her temples. Neither of them was helping. The elevator doors opened with a soft chime. Pietro gestured dramatically.
"After you."
Wanda sighed as she got into the elevator. Vision followed her inside. The doors slid shut as Pietro entered last. As the elevator began climbing silence prevailed for approximately ten seconds. Then Wanda spoke.
"How many people?"
Pietro immediately looked out the glass wall of the elevator. Admiring the city lights that glittered beyond.
"That is a very broad question."
Pietro thought about it.
"It depends."
"On what exactly, my dear brother?"
"On how one defines attendance."
Wanda stared silently at the silver haired man for few seconds. Pietro scratched the back of his neck, anything to avoid Wanda's stare. The gesture alone told her everything she needed to know.
"It isn't that many."
"Pietro."
"It has been more."
Vision finally intervened.
"I was informed this was a small gathering."
Wanda immediately turned toward him.
"You were informed?"
Vision nodded.
"Pietro said it was a small gathering."
The silence that followed was deafening. Then Wanda slowly looked back toward her brother. Pietro had the decency to look embarrassed. Only slightly, but every bit of shame counts.
"Define small."
Pietro brightened.
"Excellent question."
Wanda crossed her arms petulantly, this was an adult woman by the way. Vision was beginning to suspect he had been manipulated.
"Pietro, tell me one thing. Is Tony there?"
"Yes?"
"If Tony Stark is there, this is not a small gathering."
Pietro looked toward the ceiling. Literally anything to avoid eye contact with Wanda. Wanda groaned.
"Happy birthday?"
Vision quietly covered his mouth to hide his smile at Pietro's useless attempt. Wanda pointed at him immediately.
"Vision! Don't encourage him."
"I was attempting not to laugh, dear."
The elevator continued climbing relentlessly, floor after floor, while the sprawling cityscape stretched beneath them in a twinkling grid of lights. With each ascending level, Wanda felt her initial annoyance dissipate, replaced by a growing curiosity that prickled at her senses. Beside her, Pietro practically vibrated with poorly concealed excitement. Not the stressed, overwhelmed kind, but genuine exhilaration that made his fingers tap arrhythmically against the elevator wall.
Memories clicked into place in Wanda's mind. Memories of late-night phone calls abruptly cut short when she entered rooms, meetings hastily adjourned with crumpled notes left behind, Warmth bloomed in her chest as realization dawned. Whatever awaited them at the top, they'd clearly poured weeks of secretive effort into it.
The elevator's deceleration was imperceptible at first, then unmistakable as it glided to a stop. Pietro snapped to attention like a soldier at parade rest while Vision's pulse visibly hammered against his collar. Wanda noted both with narrowing eyes. When the doors parted, golden light flooded the cabin, carrying with it the layered symphony of a hundred overlapping conversations, clinking glasses, and live music.
All three occupants froze.
Pietro's rehearsed nonchalance faltered at the edges. Vision and Wanda gaped at the spectacle before them. A ballroom grand enough to host royalty, its vaulted ceilings dripping with chandeliers, floor-to-ceiling windows framing Manhattan's skyline, and what appeared to be half the city's population milling about in formalwear. Vision's ocular mechanisms audibly recalibrated as he processed the scene. "This appears significantly larger than described," he murmured, the understatement hanging in the air like smoke.
Wanda's head tilted toward Pietro with terrifying precision. He immediately jabbed a finger at Vision. "In my defence, he asked very few follow-up questions."
"You said small," Wanda deadpanned.
"It felt small while planning it!" Pietro protested, hands raised. When Wanda's glare intensified. Before she could retort, movement near the ballroom entrance caught her eye. There You were, standing sentinel by the doors, watching. Waiting. The instant your gazes locked, your lips curved into that rare, soft smile reserved only for family moments, and suddenly the scale didn't matter.
The moment Wanda and Pietro stepped out of the elevator, the ballroom exploded.
"Happy Birthday!"
The cheer crashed through the room like a wave.
Conversations died instantly. Glasses were raised. Applause erupted from every corner of the ballroom as nearly every guest turned toward the entrance. The musicians paused long enough for the greeting to thunder through the space before seamlessly returning to their performance.
For a brief second both twins simply stood there. Pietro had known what was coming. Knowing something and experiencing it were two very different things. The sheer force of hundreds of people celebrating them at once hit harder than expected. Wanda looked completely overwhelmed. Pietro looked like he was trying very hard not to become emotional. Neither was succeeding particularly well.
The applause continued.
People were smiling.
Calling out birthday wishes from every direction.
And suddenly Wanda laughed. A genuine laugh. Bright and surprised and completely unguarded. The sound seemed to break whatever spell had settled over the room. Pietro immediately threw an arm around her shoulders.
"See?" he announced loudly. "Small gathering."
Wanda stared at him.
"There are more people here than attended my university graduation."
"Well, yes. I agree that you deserved a better graduation."
Vision covered his mouth.
Again.
Unfortunately for him, Wanda saw that too.
"Stop encouraging him."
"I am trying not to, dear."
A familiar laugh echoed from nearby.
Yelena was leaning against one of the cocktail tables near the edge of the ballroom, watching the chaos with the relaxed confidence of someone who had absolutely no intention of helping manage it. Beside her stood Kate Bishop, who appeared to have made herself very comfortable despite technically being a guest.
Kate spotted the twins first and raised her glass in greeting.
"Happy birthday!"
"Thank you," Wanda called back.
Then her gaze drifted across the ballroom again, moving past the guests, the decorations, and the countless details she was only now beginning to notice. The flowers had been arranged with care, the lighting cast a warm golden glow across the room, and the music flowed effortlessly through the conversations and laughter. Everything had been planned with remarkable precision. Every element was exactly where it belonged, every detail thoughtfully considered, polished, and executed with care. It was impossible not to see the amount of effort that had gone into creating the evening.
Her eyes finally found you standing near the front of the room, in the same place where you had been when the elevator doors first opened. The position was not surprising. You always seemed to place yourself slightly apart from the moments you created, as though your role belonged behind the curtain rather than on the stage itself. The dark green suit fit you perfectly, and your hands rested comfortably in your pockets as you watched the celebration unfold around you.
And despite the dozens of conversations happening around you, despite the executives and investors and guests trying to claim your attention, your focus remained entirely on your siblings.
Watching.
Making sure they were happy.
The realization tightened something in Wanda's chest because she knew, better than anyone, how much time this must have taken. She knew how much effort had gone into it, how many hours had been spent planning every detail. You already worked more than anyone should, yet somehow you had still found the time for them, for her, for Pietro. Always for them.
Before Wanda could think herself into tears, Pietro squeezed her shoulder. "You are doing that thing." Wanda raised an eyebrow. "What thing?" "The emotional thing." "I am not." "You absolutely are." Wanda glared at him, and Pietro grinned. After a moment, the grin softened slightly before he spoke more quietly. "So..." "So?" Wanda replied.
"I did pretty good." For a second, Wanda simply stared at him. Then she laughed again, a softer laugh this time, one filled with affection. "You did amazing." The answer came immediately, without hesitation, and for perhaps the first time that evening, Pietro looked genuinely speechless. The moment lasted approximately three seconds before his confidence returned. "As expected." "There he is," Wanda said dryly. "I was worried for a moment." Pietro placed a hand over his heart. "I would never leave."
The room continued moving around them. Guests approached, friends gathered and the evening slowly resumed its rhythm.
Steve arrived first, pulling both twins into a brief embrace and offering birthday wishes that were immediately followed by Tony loudly claiming he had brought the best gift. Pepper informed everyone that Tony was lying. Which Tony claimed was slander.
The twins found themselves surrounded almost instantly.
Family.
Friends.
People who loved them.
People who had watched them grow up.
People who had chosen to be there.
And through it all, Natasha found herself watching from across the room.
Not the twins.
You.
The way you stood slightly removed from the centre despite being one of the architects of the entire evening.
The way you automatically redirected praise whenever someone attempted to thank you.
The way your attention constantly drifted back toward Wanda and Pietro.
Making sure everyone was happy.
As though their happiness mattered more than your own. Then she looked toward the twins. And suddenly understood something she hadn't before. This wasn't obligation. Not entirely at least. This wasn't duty either. This wasn't the heir of X-MEN International organizing an event because it was expected.
This was family. This was love.
Messy.
Exhausting.
Unconditional.
The sort of love that spent weeks planning a birthday party and then stood quietly in the background pretending not to deserve any credit.
The next thirty minutes passed in a blur of laughter, conversations and celebration.
The birthday cake itself had been Pietro's contribution. Which was pretty self-explanatory because that thing was enormous. Completely unnecessary. And somehow featured enough decorative elements to qualify as an architectural achievement.
Tony had immediately accused Pietro of trying to compensate for something. Pietro had responded by threatening to revoke Tony's cake privileges. In retaliation, Tony informed him that cake privileges were not a real thing. Pepper disagreed, of course.
The argument had somehow continued for seven minutes.
Wanda was fairly certain neither man had matured since meeting each other. Quite the opposite actually but she didn’t have any proof.
Now, with the cake cut, photographs taken, gifts accepted and the initial excitement settling into a comfortable rhythm, the evening had relaxed considerably. Guests mingled freely across the ballroom while the musicians played softly in the background. Waiters moved between tables carrying champagne and desserts, and for the first time all night there seemed to be no schedule.
No speeches.
No surprises.
At least that was what Wanda believed.
Across the ballroom, Vision was having what could generously be described as a crisis.
A very quiet, very polite crisis. But a crisis nonetheless.
His heart had been racing for the better part of an hour. Every time Wanda smiled. Every time she laughed. Every time she reached for his hand.
The ring inside his jacket pocket somehow felt heavier each time.
He had rehearsed this. Repeatedly so. In front of mirrors. During late-night walks. At work.
He had practiced the speech so many times that he could recite it from memory. Unfortunately, memory was proving remarkably unreliable under current circumstances. His palms were damp. His pulse was elevated. His stomach felt strange.
He briefly considered whether human beings had survived this experience throughout history. The answer was apparently yes. Barely.
Vision reached for a passing tray and took a champagne flute.
Then another.
Then paused.
The second seemed excessively dramatic.
He put it back but the first remained. He stared at the flute for several moments. Then drank. Just enough to keep his nerves under check.
Liquid courage.
A concept he had previously considered irrational. Tonight he understood it completely.
"You took alcohol voluntarily."
Vision nearly jumped. Pietro appeared beside him carrying his own drink and the expression of a man enjoying himself far too much.
"I am attempting to remain calm."
"You are failing miserably." Pietro grinned.
For all his teasing, his expression softened slightly. Because unlike everyone else in the room, Pietro knew exactly what was about to happen. He had helped plan it. He had tested the projector.
Hell, he had edited the slideshow.
"You'll be fine," Pietro said.
Vision looked unconvinced.
"Vision."
"Yes?"
"She is already in love with you."
The answer arrived so quickly that Vision almost missed it.
"I know."
Pietro blinked.
"Then what are you nervous about?"
Vision looked toward Wanda. She stood across the ballroom speaking with Natasha and Yelena, her laughter carrying faintly through the room. His expression softened immediately. The answer came quietly.
"I only get to ask once."
For a moment Pietro said nothing.
Then he nodded.
Understanding completely.
"Yeah," he said softly. "You do."
The two men stood in comfortable silence for several seconds. Then Pietro glanced at his watch. His grin returned instantly.
"Ready?"
Vision inhaled and then exhaled. Then proceeded to touch the ring box inside his pocket. Then Vision nodded.
"Ready."
Pietro's smile widened.
"Excellent."
He immediately disappeared.
And just five minutes later the first signs appeared.
The ballroom lights gently dimmed. Conversations around the hall slowed. Guests looked around curiously. The musicians allowed their current piece to fade away before transitioning into something softer. Something slower. Something more romantic.
Wanda frowned.
She immediately became suspicious. So, naturally she looked for Pietro and her twin brother was suddenly nowhere to be found. Which was never a good sign.
Before she could investigate further, one of the massive projection screens positioned along the ballroom wall flickered to life. The room quieted hopefully. Guests turned toward it with anticipation.
Wanda's attention followed automatically. And then a photograph appeared.
Vision.
Standing awkwardly beside her during one of their earliest dates.
The image changed.
Another photograph.
Then another.
Then another.
Wanda blinked.
A slow smile spread across her face.
"Oh."
The slideshow continued.
Pictures from over the years.
Some professional.
Some candid.
Some clearly stolen by family members with questionable respect for privacy.
Some saw Vision laughing.
Some saw Wanda.
And most them seen the two of them together.
Coffee dates.
Movie nights.
Holiday gatherings.
Lazy Sunday mornings.
Tiny moments.
Ordinary moments.
The sort of moments that somehow became the most important.
The room seemed to fade away as Wanda watched. The photographs shifted in time. Months becoming years.
Friends appearing.
Family appearing.
Memories started unfolding one after another. Several guests were openly emotional by this point. Yelena was pretending not to be. Kate was pretending not to notice Yelena pretending. Neither was particularly convincing.
Wanda laughed softly at one photograph where Vision was clearly caught mid-sneeze. Then another where she had fallen asleep against his shoulder. Then another where both of them looked utterly ridiculous.
Each image felt like a reminder.
Not of grand moments, no.
Of real moments, the kind that built a life.
The slideshow finally slowed.
One last photograph appeared. Wanda and Vision together. Smiling. Happy.
That last image lingered and then faded into the black screen.
Simple white words replaced the image.
Simple.
Elegant.
‘Turn around’.
Wanda frowned.
"What?"
The words remained unchanged.
‘Turn around’.
Confused laughter escaped her. Around the room, many smiles appeared. Suddenly nobody was looking at the screen anymore.
They were looking behind her.
Realization arrived slowly to Wanda what those words meant.
Wanda turned.
The sight that greeted her made her gasp in surprise.
Vision knelt several feet away.
One knee on the floor.
One hand gripping a small ring box. The other was trembling visibly, but that wasn;t the point.
The sight alone shattered whatever composure remained in the party. A collective sound swept through the ballroom.
Soft.
Emotional.
Several people immediately started crying.
Including Clint.
Clint would later deny this.
Vision looked terrified. Absolutely terrified, yet his eyes never left Wanda. Not even once. The ballroom around them disappeared. The guests disappeared too. Everything disappeared. Because nothing else mattered in this moment.
Leaving only the two of them.
"Wanda."
His voice caught immediately. He cleared his throat and tried again.
"Wanda."
A tear slipped down her cheek.
Vision smiled. Small. Nervous.
Entirely in love.
"I had a speech."
The room laughed softly.
Even Wanda did despite her tears.
"I practiced it. I practiced it a lot."
Pietro immediately nodded from somewhere in the crowd.
"An alarming amount."
Vision continued.
"The problem is that every version sounded wrong once I actually saw you."
The ballroom fell silent again. His eyes never left hers.
"Because no speech feels big enough."
The trembling in his hands became more noticeable.
Not from uncertainty.
From emotion.
"You are my favourite part of every day."
Wanda's hand covered her mouth as more tears followed.
Vision's own eyes glistened.
"I love your kindness."
His voice softened.
"I love your strength."
A pause.
"I love your stubbornness."
Wanda laughed through her tears.
The room joined her.
"You make every place feel like home."
Vision swallowed.
Then smiled again.
The most vulnerable smile anyone there had ever seen.
"You make me better."
The words landed heavily.
Simply.
And honestly.
"You always have."
Vision opened the ring box.
The diamond caught the light immediately.
Brilliant.
A beautiful timeless piece.
Much like the woman staring at him.
"Wanda Marya Maximoff, would you give me the honour of being your husband?"
The room held its breath.
Every guest.
Every friend.
Every family member.
Waiting.
Wanda laughed through her tears.
Cried through her smile.
Shook her head because words refused to cooperate.
Then finally managed the only one that mattered.
"Yes."
The answer barely left her lips before the ballroom erupted.
Cheers.
Applause.
Laughter.
Celebration.
Everything at once.
Vision looked stunned. As though he hadn't actually expected success.
Then Wanda launched herself at him. The ring box nearly disappeared. Vision barely managed to catch her. Neither seemed particularly concerned about the piece of rock right now, not when they has each other.
The kiss that followed was greeted by another wave of applause.
Around the ballroom, glasses were raised.
And standing among all of it, surrounded by family, friends and celebration, Wanda Maximoff couldn't stop smiling.
Not even for a second.
Because somehow, impossibly so, the best birthday of her life had just gotten even better.
The celebration continued around them.
Laughter echoed through the ballroom. Champagne glasses clinked together. Friends and family crowded around the newly engaged couple, each eager to offer congratulations. Tony had already begun insisting that he deserved partial credit for the proposal's success. Pepper had informed him, quite firmly, that he absolutely did not.
In the middle of the chaos, Wanda found herself needing a moment.
Just a moment.
Not because she was unhappy.
Quite the opposite.
She felt so overwhelmingly happy that her heart scarcely seemed capable of containing it.
The ring glittered on her finger every time she moved her hand.
She still couldn't quite believe it.
Excusing herself from the growing crowd, she slipped through one of the glass doors leading onto the balcony overlooking Manhattan.
Cool evening air greeted her immediately.
The city stretched endlessly below, thousands of lights illuminating the darkness like scattered stars. Traffic moved in distant streams while skyscrapers rose proudly against the night sky.
For the first time since the proposal, everything felt quiet.
Or at least quieter.
Wanda rested her forearms against the balcony railing and looked down at the ring again.
A small laugh escaped her.
Fiancé.
The word still felt unreal.
The sound of the door opening behind her drew her attention. She didn't need to turn around.
She already knew.
"You know," your voice said from behind her, "the boy has guts."
Wanda laughed immediately.
There it was.
The Maximoff family equivalent of emotional vulnerability.
She turned to find you approaching, hands tucked comfortably into your pockets. The city lights reflected softly across the sharp lines of your suit. You stopped beside her at the railing.
For a moment neither of you spoke.
The comfortable kind of silence. The sort that only existed between people who had known each other almost their entire lives. Then Wanda looked down at the ring again. And quietly said, "Thank you."
You sighed.
Already knowing exactly what she meant.
"I haven't even congratulated you yet."
The smile that appeared on Wanda's face was immediate.
"You know what I'm thanking you for."
"I have several guesses."
"You planned all this."
"Pietro planned most of it."
The answer arrived far too quickly. Wanda rolled her eyes.
"There it is."
"What?"
"You doing that thing."
You glanced sideways.
"What thing?"
"The thing where you pretend you weren't responsible for seventy percent of something."
"I was responsible for significantly less than seventy percent."
"Sixty-nine?" That earns a small laugh from you.
"Sixty."
"Sixty-five."
You considered it.
"Possibly."
Wanda laughed again. God, she looked happy. Not just happy, but content. The kind of happiness that settled deep inside a person. The kind that lasted.
For a while neither of you said anything.
The sounds of the party drifted faintly through the closed balcony doors behind you.
Muffled music from the live band, laughter, Conversation.
Wanda found herself studying your profile. The city lights illuminated one side of your face. And suddenly she noticed it. Not tears.
You almost never cried, not in front of them. Not in front of people. But your eyes were brighter than usual. There was a softness there that hadn't existed earlier. An emotion you were trying very hard to keep under control.
Understanding dawned immediately.
"Oh."
You glanced toward her.
"What?"
Wanda smiled. A gentle smile. The kind reserved exclusively for family.
"I'm still here, still me. Still your little sister."
The words landed exactly where she intended them to. Your gaze shifted away first. Toward the skyline. Toward the city. Anywhere except at her. Which was answer enough for Wanda.
A long silence followed. This one wasn't comfortable. Not at first at least.
It was full.
Full of years.
Full of memories.
Full of everything neither of you needed to say aloud.
The little girl who used to crawl into your room after nightmares. The teenager who stole your clothes. The sister who called you at three in the morning because she couldn't sleep. The family dinners. The hospital visits. The birthdays. The holidays.
The life shared between them.
Eventually you smiled. A smile that was small and almost sad.
"I know."
Wanda waited. Because she knew there was more. There usually was. You exhaled quietly. Then finally admitted the truth.
"I'm just very proud of you."
The words hit harder than she expected. Perhaps because you didn't say things like that often. Not because you didn't feel them. Of course you did. You simply weren't always good at expressing them.
Wanda felt her throat tighten. For a second she couldn't speak. Then she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around you. The hug was immediate. You froze for exactly half a second before returning it. As always. The embrace wasn't dramatic.
Neither of you cried. Neither of you needed to. The gesture said enough. Eventually Wanda pulled back. Your hands settled on her shoulders briefly.
The same way they always had.
The same way they probably always would.
Then Wanda's eyes drifted downward.
Toward your suit.
Specifically toward the dark green jacket.
A mischievous smile appeared. Dangerously.
You noticed it at once and immediately became suspicious.
"What?"
"Nothing."
You narrowed your eyes. The smile on her face widened.
"Wanda."
She looked entirely too pleased with herself.
"You know, green really suits you."
You looked down automatically. Then back at her.
"Thank you?"
Wanda hummed thoughtfully.
"It's almost the exact same shade as Natasha's eyes."
Silence.
Wanda watched you attempt to pretend it wasn't.
Your expression remained remarkably controlled. Unfortunately, Wanda had known you her entire life. She saw the microscopic hesitation. The almost imperceptible narrowing of your eyes. The immediate desire to change the subject.
Victory.
Sweet sweet, glorious victory.
"Wanda."
"Yes?"
"I am going back inside."
"You didn't deny it."
You turned toward the balcony doors. The laugh that escaped her followed you all the way back toward the ballroom.
For perhaps the first time all evening, she wasn't thinking about the proposal. She was thinking about the fact that after years of carrying the entire world on your shoulders, someone had finally managed to make you squirm.
And honestly?
That might have been her second favourite part of the night.
Still smiling, Wanda slipped her arm through yours as the two of you stepped back into the warmth, light and celebration waiting inside.
Across Manhattan, several miles away from the celebration currently unfolding atop one of X-MEN International's luxury properties, T'Challa was running late.
It was not a situation he particularly enjoyed.
The conference room around him was beginning to empty as delegates gathered their documents and aides quietly organized the aftermath of a meeting that should have ended forty-five minutes earlier.
The discussion had been productive and necessary. But lengthy nonetheless. All qualities that unfortunately tended to accompany diplomatic negotiations. As the final signatures were exchanged and the last handshakes offered, T'Challa finally rose from his seat.
"Your Majesty."
A representative from the American delegation stepped forward.
"Thank you for your time."
T'Challa inclined his head politely.
"The feeling is mutual."
The exchange continued for several more minutes before he was finally able to make his exit. The moment the conference room doors closed behind him, his expression shifted almost imperceptibly.
Not annoyance. The king of Wakanda didn’t get annoyed. But his eyes moved toward his watch. He was late. Not disastrously so. But still late.
The realization bothered him.
By the time he reached the underground parking structure, Nakia was already waiting beside the vehicle. One glance at her expression told him she knew exactly what conclusion he'd reached.
"You are late."
"I am aware."
"You dislike being late."
"I am aware of that as well."
Nakia smiled.
The king of Wakanda opened the rear passenger door and settled into his seat. The convoy began moving moments later. Manhattan lights streaked across the windows as the city rushed past outside. For perhaps thirty seconds the interior remained silent.
Then Nakia handed him her phone without any explanation. T'Challa accepted it and looked at what was being portrayed.
The first image showed Wanda standing with one hand covering her mouth.
The second showed Vision kneeling.
The third showed a ring.
T'Challa's eyebrow lifted slightly.
Nakia smiled.
"You missed something."
"So it would appear."
He continued scrolling.
One post simply read:
SHE SAID YES!!!!!
Another:
WANDA MAXIMOFF IS ENGAGED!!!!
Another:
IF THEY BREAK UP I WILL STOP BELIEVING IN LOVE
An impressive declaration considering the proposal had happened less than thirty minutes earlier. T'Challa returned the phone.
"I assume they are pleased."
Nakia laughed at the king’s remark.
"I think that's a safe assumption."
The car continued through the city. A comfortable silence settled between them.
Eventually Nakia spoke again.
"Do they know you're coming?"
T'Challa looked out the window.
The lights of Manhattan reflected faintly across the glass.
"No."
The answer was simple.
Immediate.
Nakia's smile widened.
"Not even her?"
"No."
"You're enjoying this."
The faintest hint of amusement appeared in his eyes.
A dangerous amount of amusement for someone usually so disciplined.
"Perhaps."
Nakia laughed again.
For a king, T'Challa could occasionally be remarkably predictable.
Summary: Natasha and her girlfriend find themselves captured and at the mercy of an individual who wants nothing more than to break the Black Widow. And what better way to do that then torture the woman she loves in front of her while she is helpless?
Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, torture (beatings, injury, blood, tools used to inflict harm), happy ending
Word count: 2,278
Marvel Masterlist Natasha Masterlist
June Of Doom 2026 Masterlist
Also available on Ao3 @juneofdoom
The first thing you become aware of as you slip back into consciousness is the ringing in your ears, the pain in the side of your head and a strain in your shoulders. When you manage to open your eyes you find yourself staring up at your own hands which are chained up above you with the other end of the chain is wrapped around a large pipe, which explains why your shoulders ache.
You grunt softly as you readjust yourself, trying to get a better look at your surroundings. And that's when your gaze lands on your girlfriend Natasha, who is in the same predicament you are. Only she's still unconscious. You try to move closer to her with the intent to wake her, but the length of the chain doesn't allow much movement. You tug on them in frustration but of course they don't give, which leaves you with only one option
"Natasha" you call out in a harsh whisper, trying not to get your captor's attention. But she doesn't stir, so you try a different approach, "Tasha"
She groans and her eyes slowly open, it takes her a moment to actually come to and understand her surroundings but once she does her posture shifts and she tests the strength of the chains. Her eyes fall on you then, chained up just as she was and her gaze hardens
"Are you hurt?" she asks, her voice soft
You shake your head, "Nothing serious, bump on the head, strain in my shoulders"
She nods, "Yeah, me too. How long was I out?"
"Not sure, I was out too. Only came to about five minutes ago"
The heavy metal door to the room swings open then, letting in the bright UV-light from the hallway. You blink rapidly, trying to focus on the figure that lingers in the doorway. But right now all you can tell with certainty is that it's a man
"Ah, you're awake" he says almost gleefully, a thick Russian accent wrapped around his words, "Good"
He takes a few steps further into the room allowing you to see him now. He's tall, well built, middle aged, has a crooked nose that tells its been broken at least once, and has a scar across his left cheek. If you weren't in this situation you probably would have laughed, he looked like every modern Mafia stereotype rolled together. Ironic considering he was mafia
"They say you don't have a heart, Black Widow" he says, making your attention snap back to him, "Cold, calculated, an assassin through and through."
Her jaw clenches at his comment and she tries hard not to glance at you. He seems to notice this and smirks, taking a step closer to her. Close enough to touch her. He grabs her chin and forces her to look at you
"But see, your pretty girlfriend there tells me that's not true" he says, letting her go and stepping towards you
"Don't touch her" Natasha tells him, her voice firmer and darker than you've ever heard it, "I swear if you harm her- "
But he cuts her off with a laugh, "I am not afraid of you. I have you chained, you are defenseless"
Its your turn to laugh then, "She is never defenseless"
"We shall see" he sneers. Then your head snaps back due to a well placed punch. You can taste blood in your mouth and can tell your lip is split
"You son of a bitch!" Natasha growls, surging forward only to be stopped by the chains
He laughs and grabs a fistful of your hair, "I have hardly even begun"
You hiss at the sharp tug but don't flinch away from him, you know it's better to not show fear in these situations. You hold eye contact with him, which only makes him tighten his hold on your hair, but you don't flinch. He smirks at this and lets you go
"I am going to enjoy this" he mumbles to himself as he steps back slightly
He throws a punch that lands against your ribs, causing the breath to leave your lungs. And before you can suck in more air he punches you in your stomach, making you let out an oomph noise
"Enough!" Nat shouts, her voice wavering slightly
He sneers as he turns around and Natasha braces herself as he approaches her, "You are not in control here, I am! I say when it is enough!"
His fist connects with her cheek and she easily rolls with the punch. She'd taken hits before, worse hits too, this was nothing to her. And if it kept him from hitting you again then it was worth it. Unfortunately for her, he knows her game, and he has no intentions of playing into it.
He harshly grabs her chin a second time, "I can do whatever I want, and you can do nothing about it. Remember that"
He releases her and heads over to a small table in the corner of the room. The table hadn't seemed important earlier upon waking up, but now you and Natasha can see that laid out on it's surface are multiple instruments to cause pain. Some rope, a hammer, a lighter, an assortment of pliers, a small billy club, and a few knives. The thought of him using any of those on you makes Natashas skin crawl and she knows she has to find a way out of this situation, and fast
He takes a moment to look over the tool before he settles on the club. He walks back over and without any hesitation strikes the side of your knee with it. The force of the hit causes your knee to buckle and you let out a shout of pain. Natasha clenches her jaw at the sound and once again tugs at the chains, willing them to give as he swings the club again. This time he strikes your side, the same one he had punched earlier. There's a distinct sharp pain in your ribs and you know at least one is fractured if not broken as you let out a shout
"Stop!" Natasha yells, "Just tell me what you're after. Is it intel? Are you using us as leverage against the team? Just, tell me what you want"
He smiles a sinister grin that allows you to see his poorly cared for teeth and he turns to look at her, "This is what I want. I don't need your secrets, and you'd never truly give them anyway. And I couldn't care less about the Avengers. I just want to break you, Widow"
"I will kill you for this, for hurting her. And I will enjoy it" she growls, rage taking over her features, "She is not a tool to be used against me"
"She is now" he states plainly, heading back over to the table. He sets the club down, grabbing a knife instead.
You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself for whatever was coming next. He cuts open your shirt, leaving you bare except for your bra. The sudden exposure of cold air makes you shiver, but what really chills you is the knife he presses gently against your skin
Natashas eyes widen in fear and she can feel her heart plummet, "No, wait!"
But he doesn't, he drags the blade down down your abdomen. Its not a stab, which does carry some relief to both you and Natasha, but it is still a painful gash. Tears slip down your cheeks as he repeats the action two more times to separate areas of your abdomen. Natasha's gaze is fixed on the blood that runs down your skin and soaks into the waistband of your pants
The man steps back a bit to get a good look at his work and that's the opening Natasha had been waiting for. She grabs the chain holding her to that pipe and uses her body as a pendulum, swinging herself forward with all her strength. She moves with grace and fluidity, and wraps her calves around the man's neck. He stumbles backward, surprised by her actions and this lets her pull him in closer, choking him with her thighs now. He makes a choked sound and flails, causing the knife to clatter to the floor
"I told you not to touch her" she hisses, squeezing his throat hard with her powerful muscles
His hands grapple at her legs, trying to pry her off, but it's really no use, he's already struggling for air. It doesn't take long for his eyes to roll back and hip body go limp. When she's absolutely certain he isn't faking it she lets him go and his unconscious body tumbles to the ground with a thud.
"Are you okay?" she asks you, her eyes filled with concern
You nod, "I'll be fine once we're out of here"
You can tell by her expression that she doesn't quite believe that, but she first has to focus on getting herself then you out of the chains, then she can worry about you. She looks back up above where the chain is secured and notices that the pipe that once held her chains up has become slightly loose, likely due to her using her entire weight to swing forward. And that works very well in her favor.
She grabs the chains again and starts to swing, and after a few swings uses her agility to swing herself upside down. She gets her feet wrapped around the same pipe she's chained to, making it shake and loosen even more. You watch in awe she starts to tug on it, using her strength and gravity to eventually yank the pipe free. She crashes to the ground hard and you wince at the sound. She lets out a groan as she rolls to her side
"Tasha!" you shout, "Are you okay?!"
She groans but slowly gets to her feet, "I'm alright"
Now free from the pipe the chain easily slips off her hands and she quickly makes her way over to you. She cups your face in her hands and brushes away some of your lingering tears
"It's okay detka(baby), I've got you" she whispers soothingly
She gives your lips a quick kiss, not minding the taste of blood from your split lip. Then she retreats from you and heads over to the table. She grabs the rope and one of the smaller knives. She heads over to the man and grabs the knife still laying on the floor. In one quick motion she slices across his neck and then as if she hadn't just ended a man's life she calmly walks back over to you. She uses the small knife to pick the lock on your chain in record time, and catches you before you hit the floor
She gently helps you sit down and does her best to treat your still bleeding cuts, "I'm sorry, its my fault this happened to you"
"Its not your fault Tasha, it's his and his alone" you assure her
She shakes her head and blinks back tears, "He hurt you to get to me"
"And now he's dead."you state, "You didn't let him hurt me Tasha, and you're the reason we're free now. This isn't your fault"
"It feels like it is" she quietly admits
"It isn't" you assure her again, squeezing her hand
She lets go after a few moments in order to look over the rest of your injuries and when she's satisfied that you're not at risk she gets up and searches the man. She finds a cellphone in his pocket and immediately calls the Tower for backup, knowing they can track the call to the location.. Before hanging up she stresses to them that she wants a medic too
She comes back over to you and sits down, then she ever so carefully pulls you into her lap. She holds you close but not tightly, she doesn't want to cause any pain to your bruised areas or cuts. You settle against her, finally letting yourself feel at ease and she buries her face into the crook of your neck
"For a second there, I thought I was going to lose you" she whispers, her voice strained, "I was so scared"
"I'll need patched up, but I'm okay, Tasha" you assure her, wrapping your arm around her, "I'm okay"
A few hours later you and Natasha have both been rescued, taken back to the Tower, and patched up in the med bay. You required some stitches, and knee brace and have been given pain medication to take while on your ordered bed rest. Which means you're currently cuddled up in bed with your girlfriend.
You're curled up against her, resting your head on her shoulder and hugging your arm around her waist. She has her arm wrapped around yours too and her thumb is currently rubbing soothing circles on your hip. The scent of her shampoo fills your nostrils, and its just the calming piece of normality you needed
"I love you" you murmur
She carefully tightens her hold, still being careful of your injuries, "I love you too, Y/n, so damn much. And if I had lost you today…."
"Shh Tasha, I'm okay. You didn't lose me, so don't go there mentally okay? Be here with me now, don't think about the what ifs"
"That's easier said than done" she admits softly
"I know" you tell her, reaching up to cup her cheek
Like a cat seeking affection she leans into your touch, "Just keep holding me"
happy pride and something something bishova rooftop kiss!
the concept of kate kissing yelena right before her dramatic fall back and both of them feeling so thrilled is sooo 🛐🛐🛐 and you know rooftop kisses became their thing 👀
this was inspired by olivia rodrigo's song drop dead. highly recommend hallucinating bishova scenes to it
"kiss me and i might drop dead" -> "kiss me and i might do i really cool drop off the building to show off??"
Summary: A forgotten recipe book finds its way home. A lost watch returns after years beneath the water. A man asks for your sister's hand. Across an ocean, an old friend finally decides to come back. And somewhere beneath the armor you've worn for so long, something dangerous begins to stir: wanting. Not duty. Not obligation. Just wanting.
Word count: 11,331
Pronouns: She/Her
Age: 28
Pairings: Natasha Romanoff x reader
Warnings: Mentions of illness and hospitalization, Alcohol, Emotional Burnout
A/N: Hey, guys. I am finally back, AGAIN. I am still on bed rest with a torn ACL. Let's keep fingers crossed for that.
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The office had a way of making Natasha Romanoff feel like an impostor in her own skin.
Floor-to-ceiling glass walls reflected the cold geometry of Manhattan’s skyline, the cityscape sharp enough to cut against the horizon, indifferent to the woman lounging in its midst. The desk, a sleek obsidian slab, was polished to an impossible sheen, not a fingerprint, not a smudge, not a stray paperclip, nothing to suggest it had ever been touched by human hands. It was the kind of workspace designed for someone who lived by spreadsheets and strategic silence, someone who thrived on structure.
Natasha was currently draped sideways in her chair like a discarded coat.
One leg hooked carelessly over the armrest, the other stretched out as if testing the limits of personal space. Her shoes were black, expensive, impractical which had been kicked off at some point, abandoned near the couch in a silent rebellion against professionalism. A tablet rested against her thigh, its screen glowing with a report she had stopped absorbing halfway through the third paragraph.
“Run it by me again,” she said, voice smooth as poured whiskey, eyes still fixed on the screen without seeing it. “Why is this my problem?”
Across from her, Yelena didn’t look up either.
But for entirely different reasons.
Where Natasha sprawled, Yelena sat with military precision with her spine straight and shoulders squared while her pen moving in precise strokes across the document in front of her. The pages were arranged in a grid so exact it could have been measured with a ruler, edges aligned, corners crisp. She had rearranged them twice already. A third time wasn’t out of the question.
“Because,” Yelena replied, tone drier than the Sahara, “your signature is on the approval sheet.”
“Sounds like a clerical oversight.”
“It isn’t.”
Natasha hummed, scrolling idly. “Boooooo.”
Yelena circled a line with enough force to leave an indent in the paper beneath. “These projections are inconsistent.”
“They always are.”
“That isn’t reassuring.”
“It’s predictable.”
Yelena finally lifted her head, gaze flat and unimpressed. “You’re impossible to work with.”
“And yet,” Natasha mused, tilting her head just enough to meet her eyes, “here you are.”
“I’m preventing you from bankrupting this company out of sheer boredom.”
Natasha’s lips twitched, the ghost of a smile flickering across her face. “You worry too much.”
“I worry the appropriate amount.”
The rustle of paper fills the quiet room as Yelena turns another page in the financial report, her fingers pausing halfway down the sheet. A muscle ticks in her jaw before she speaks, her voice measured but edged with something sharp. "They're deliberately underreporting their operational costs. By at least twenty percent."
Natasha doesn't immediately react. She leans back in her chair, the leather creaking softly beneath her, and lets her head tilt until she's staring at the ceiling's cracked plaster. A slow exhale escapes her lips before she responds, tone so casual it borders on dismissive. "Then we let them."
Yelena goes still. The silence stretches between them. When she finally speaks again, her voice is clipped. "Explain."
Natasha doesn't hurry. She rolls her shoulders in a lazy shrug, still not looking away from the ceiling. "They'll commit to those numbers officially. Put them in writing, stake their reputations on them." A pause. A flicker of amusement in her voice when she continues, "And then we strke. When it's most inconvenient for them, when they've tied themselves to the lie, we ask all the right questions."
Yelena studies her, eyes narrowing slightly. The faintest twitch of a smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth before she schools her expression back to neutrality. After a moment, she nods once decisively. "Fine."
A beat of silence.
Then, dry as dust: "I hate when you're right."
Natasha's grin is all teeth, though she still doesn't bother looking over. "It happens often."
"Not often enough to justify this level of smugness."
Natasha opens her mouth to retort but the door swings open before she can take a word out.
No warning.
No courtesy knock.
Yelena's head snaps up instantly, her posture coiling into readiness without conscious thought. Natasha doesn't move. Not at first. She merely turns her head just enough to glance toward the doorway, her expression shifting from lazy amusement to something more intrigued, like a cat spotting an unexpected mouse.
Pietro Maximoff strides in as if he owns the place.
Which he doesn't.
But he moves with the unshakable confidence of someone who's never once considered that closed doors apply to him. His gaze sweeps the room in one quick, assessing glance before he quirks an eyebrow. "Well," he says, tone dripping with mock disappointment, "this is significantly less dramatic than I was led to believe."
Yelena is already on her feet. Not in a threatening stance but her body hums with alert energy. "You weren't announced," she says, voice edged with frost.
Pietro flashes her a grin that's all charm and zero remorse. "No."
"That's not how this works."
He shrugs, glancing pointedly back at the door, which is still wide open before meeting her gaze again. "Seems to be working just fine from where I'm standing."
A soft, breathy laugh escapes Natasha. She doesn't rise from her chair, but there's a glint in her eyes now, something amused. "Let him stay, Lena," she murmurs, stretching her legs out in front of her. "I want to see how far he gets before he regrets this."
Yelena does not sit down.
“You walked through security.”
“I walked past security,” Pietro corrects.
“That is worse.”
“I will take that as a compliment.”
Natasha finally shifts properly in her seat, swinging her leg down and straightening just enough to look like she belongs in this office. “You are Pietro Maximoff,” she says.
“I am,” he replies, pleased.
“We have seen your file.”
“Ah,” he says, hand over his chest again, “I was hoping I made an impression.”
Yelena crosses her arms. “You did.”
“Good impression or concerning impression.”
“Both.”
That seems to satisfy him. He steps further inside, closing the door behind him with a casual ease that suggests he has already decided this conversation will go his way. Natasha watches him with open interest now.
“You did not come here for talking,” she says.
“No,” he agrees. “Though I am enjoying it.”
“Get to the point.”
Pietro reaches into his jacket. When he pulls his hand back out, it is holding two envelopes. He places them on the desk with deliberate care.
“For you,” he says.
Yelena looks at them like they might explode. “This feels suspicious.”
“It is not,” Pietro says. Then, after a beat, “Well, not in a dangerous way.”
Natasha leans forward, picking one up between her fingers.
“You broke into my office,” she says, turning it over once, “to deliver mail.”
“I did not break in,” he says again.
“You are very attached to that distinction.”
“It matters to me. Wordplay saves me legal troubles”
Yelena exhales through her nose. “What is it?”
“An invitation,” Pietro says.
“To what.”
“A birthday party.”
There is a pause.
Yelena stares at him.
Natasha smiles broadly.
“Of course it is,” she says.
Pietro points at her, pleased. “See. She understands.”
Natasha opens the envelope. Inside, the invitation is simple. Elegant. Personal in a way that corporate correspondence never is. Her eyes flick over it once. Then again. In meantime, Yelena takes hers, opening it more briskly.
“This is at your estate,” she notes.
“Yes.”
“And you came personally.”
“Yes.”
“That is unnecessary.”
Pietro tilts his head. “Is it?”
He considers that. Then smiles. “Maybe. But you are getting the premium experience.”
Natasha glances up. “Premium?”
“Pietro Maximoff hand delivery,” he says, gesturing to himself. “Very exclusive. Everyone else got assistants and emails and whatever else my father thinks counts as effort.”
Yelena’s mouth twitches despite herself. “You are saying we should feel honoured.”
“You absolutely should.”
Natasha laughs, low and amused. “That is a bold claim.”
“I stand by it.”
Yelena finally sits again, though her attention does not leave him. “And this is where you expect us to… what. Socialize.”
“Yes.”
“With your family and assciates?”
“Yes.”
“And with her?” Yelena adds pointedly.
Pietro’s grin sharpens. “Especially with her.”
Natasha does not look away from the invitation. But something in her posture shifts. Just slightly.
“You are very confident,” she says.
“I am very observant,” Pietro corrects.
“And what have you observed?”
“That this,” he gestures lightly her, meaning more than just the room, “is not something your parents arranged quietly.”
Yelena watches him closely. “No.”
“So,” Pietro continues, “you might as well make it interesting.”
Natasha’s thumb traces the edge of the card.
“And how do you suggest we do that?”
Pietro leans back against the edge of the desk, easy, unbothered.
“You come,” he says. “You drink something expensive. You pretend you are not evaluating each other like business assets.”
Yelena snorts. “That last part seems unlikely.”
“I said pretend.”
Natasha’s lips curve. “And you think she will indulge this?”
“I think,” Pietro says, and for a brief second there is something a little more deliberate in his tone, “that you will not get a better chance to figure that out.”
There it is. Not serious.
But real enough.
Yelena taps the invitation against the desk. “You are very comfortable inviting chaos into your house.”
“You have not met my sister properly in a social setting,” Pietro says. “She will match you.”
Natasha glances up at that. Something sharper flickers in her gaze.
“That sounds like a challenge.”
“It might be.”
Yelena looks between them, then sighs lightly. “This is already a bad idea.”
“That is what makes it a good one,” Pietro replies.
Natasha closes the invitation, sliding it back into the envelope with care.
“We will come.” she says.
Yelena turns to her. “We will?”
“Yes.”
“You decided that very quickly.”
Natasha shrugs, relaxed again. “I am curious.”
Pietro beams like he just won something.
“Excellent,” he says. “Then I will stop risking your security team’s blood pressure and leave.”
“That would be appreciated,” Yelena mutters.
He pushes off the desk, heading toward the door.
“Just so you know, It’s still my and Wanda’s birthday. Don’t forget that in your own romance.” He throws over his shoulder as he leaves the room. He leaves the same way he entered.
Unannounced.
Unbothered.
And the door closes behind him.
Morning settles over the building in quiet layers of light and routine.
You are already dressed by the time the sun reaches the upper floors. Charcoal suit. Clean lines. Hair pulled back with the same precision you apply to everything else. Your tablet rests in one hand, already alive with numbers, messages, schedules that have no awareness of the date.
You do.
You always do.
You just do not allow it to change anything.
Your assistant begins to speak when you step out of your office, a list of priorities, calls, reminders arranged neatly for your approval. You listen. You respond. You adjust two things without looking at the screen.
Then, when they finish, you pause. Just long enough to interrupt the rhythm.
“Hold my morning,” you say.
They blink, once, caught off guard. “For how long?”
“An hour.”
There is a hesitation. Not resistance. Just surprise. You do not leave gaps in your schedule. You do not step away from structure without reason. They recover quickly. “Of course.”
You nod once and that is all. The corridor outside your office feels the same as it always does. Controlled. Efficient. Every movement purposeful, every voice measured. It is a world you built into something predictable, something that does not require you to feel anything in order to function.
You walk through it without breaking stride. But there is something different today. Something that is not visible. Something that is not obvious. Just… quieter, in a way that has nothing to do with sound.
The hallway outside Wanda's office is quiet in that particular way office hallways get. Your footsteps slow as you approach the familiar door, its frosted glass pane slightly smudged where hundreds of hands have pushed it open over the years. The brass handle is cool beneath your fingertips when you reach for it, your hand hovering there, suspended between action and memory.
The hesitation isn't born from uncertainty because you know exactly why you're here. But this time something deeper pulls you into the past. The ghost of another door surfaces in your mind's eye: painted white, slightly chipped at the bottom. That door had led to a bedroom where a small figure cocooned herself in blankets every morning, stubbornly clinging to sleep like it was the most precious commodity in the world.
“Five more minutes,” she had murmured from under the covers.
“You said that ten minutes ago,” you had replied.
A groan. A small hand reaching out blindly toward you. Trusting you to be there.
A deep breath draws you back to the present. The office door before you now doesn't open to pyjamas and stuffed animals, but to manila folders and Post-it notes in Wanda's distinctive, looping handwriting. Still, your knuckles rap against the wood with the same gentle rhythm you'd used all those mornings. Two soft taps that say "I'm here" more than "Wake up."
The pause that follows stretches just long enough for you to notice the hum of a computer fan through the door, the faint citrus scent of someone's perfume lingering in the hallway. Then comes the shuffle of papers being hastily rearranged, the telltale squeak of Wanda's chair.
When her voice calls "Come in," it carries that same warm timbre you remember from childhood, though now it's layered with professional composure. The door swings open to reveal an office that's unmistakably hers. Not through any deliberate decoration, but through the accumulated evidence of how she works. Stacks of files form precarious towers along the edges of her desk; each topped with brightly coloured sticky notes fluttering like tiny flags. A coffee mug sits perilously close to the keyboard, its contents long gone cold but still bearing the rings of multiple reheating attempts.
Her cardigan hangs abandoned over the back of the chair, one sleeve turned inside out as if she'd shrugged it off mid-sentence and never circled back. The desk lamp casts a warm pool of light over a half-eaten granola bar still in its wrapper, the corner neatly folded back the way she's always done it since she was seven.
She looks up when the door opens, and in that fractional moment before recognition, you see the flicker of surprise on her face because you don't come here without purpose these days, don't interrupt her workday just to see her face. Her expression softens as she takes you in, the way it used to when you'd finally coaxed her out from under the covers all those years ago.
"Hey," she says, and it's quieter than her usual greeting, already searching your face for clues even as her fingers absently straighten a stack of papers that doesn't need straightening. You close the door behind you.
The click is quiet.
Intentional.
“Good morning,” you say.
Her brows knit slightly. “Good morning.”
There is a beat.
You step forward, placing your tablet down on the edge of her desk without looking at it again.
"Happy birthday, Wanda."
Three words. Simple. Unadorned. But they land differently, not just compared to everything else you’ve said today, or yesterday, or in the meetings that blurred into weeks. Different from anything spoken in months. Maybe longer.
Her expression shifts, though not all at once. First, the briefest tightening of her fingers around the pen she’s holding, then the slow release. The change starts in her eyes: surprise, quick and unguarded, chased by something warmer. Softer. Something she tries and fails to swallow down.
"You remembered," she says, voice quiet. The words escape before she can stop them, before she can reshape them into something less telling.
You don’t react.
"I always do."
She swallows and looks away for half a second. Of course you do. You always have. She just... forgot what it feels like to hear it from you. To hear anything from you that isn’t clipped professionalism.
Then, without ceremony, you reach into your jacket just deep enough that she catches the faint rustle of fabric and withdraw a small box.
No ribbons. No glossy wrapping. Just plain paper, folded neatly, the edges pressed together with the kind of precision that suggests it wasn’t done by someone paid to wrap gifts.
You set it gently in front of her.
"For you."
Wanda stares at it like it’s something fragile as if she moves too fast, it might vanish.
"You didn’t have to," she says, but the words are reflex.
You tilt your head just slightly and wait.
"Open it."
She does. Slowly. Carefully. Like it matters.
Inside is not jewellery. Not anything that belongs in a glass case or a balance sheet.
It is a worn, leather-bound notebook.
The kind that has been opened and closed too many times to still be pristine. The edges softened. The cover marked by years that have left their imprint without apology.
Wanda freezes.
Her fingers hover over it before she finally lifts it out.
Her breath catches.
“You kept this,” she whispers.
You watch her.
“Yes.”
She opens it.
The first page is filled with messy handwriting. Younger. Uneven. Ink smudged in places where hands were too small to be careful.
Recipes.
Not written properly. Not measured the way they should be. Notes in the margins. Corrections. Little comments that make no sense to anyone who was not there.
Mama’s recipe book.
Or what it became when Wanda insisted on learning too early, too fast, standing on a chair beside you while you tried to keep everything from burning.
“I thought we lost it,” she says.
“We did,” you reply.
Her eyes flick up to you, confused. Then back down. And she sees it.
The later pages.
Your handwriting.
Clean. Precise. Controlled.
You had rewritten it. Preserved it. Kept every note she made, every mistake, every correction, every memory. Her fingers trace over a line where her younger self had written something wrong and scratched it out three times. You had left it. Exactly as it was. Her vision blurs.
“You… you fixed it,” she says, but her voice shakes because that is not the right word.
Her throat tightens. She closes the notebook slowly, holding it against her chest like if she lets it go, it might disappear again. For a moment, she cannot speak. She does not trust her voice.
You step closer.
Close enough that she feels it before you do it.
Your arms wrap around her.
Not stiff.
Not distant.
Not the brief, careful contact you allow when something requires acknowledgment.
This is different.
This is… real.
And that makes Wanda freeze.
For a second.
Because this does not happen.
Not anymore.
Not like this.
Then she melts into it.
Her arms come up around you, tight, instinctive, like she has been waiting for this without realizing it. And it is longer than it should be. Long enough for the world outside her office to disappear.
Long enough for her to remember what it felt like when you used to do this without thinking.
She buries her face into your shoulder. You smell like something clean. Familiar. Controlled. Underneath it, something softer she has not noticed in a long time.
Her thoughts come all at once.
You didn’t forget us.
Her grip tightens. She does not want to let go. Because she knows what happens after.
You step back.
You return to yourself.
You put the walls back up like they were never gone.
She knows this and she hates it. All at the same time.
“You don’t have to do everything alone,” she thinks, but does not say.
“You don’t have to carry it all,” she wants to say.
“You don’t have to disappear from us to keep us safe.”
But she does not say any of it.
Because right now, you are here.
And that is more than she has had in a long time.
Her eyes sting. She blinks it back.
You do not move immediately.
Neither does she.
For a moment, it feels like something might shift.
Something might break open.
Then you step back.
Of course you do.
Your hands drop to your sides.
Your expression smooths.
Not completely.
But enough.
“Take care of yourself today,” you say.
It is the closest thing you will give to something softer.
Wanda just nods because she cannot trust her voice yet.
You pick up your tablet and turn toward the door.
Then pause.
Just for a second.
“Save me a dance,” you add.
It is light. Almost casual. But it lands heavier than anything else.
Wanda lets out a small, broken laugh. “I will.”
The door closes behind you. And Wanda stands there, holding the notebook, feeling like something inside her has been cracked open in the best and worst way at the same time.
She presses it closer to her chest.
Heart full.
Because for a moment, she had you back.
And now she knows exactly how much she misses you when you are gone.
The corridor stretches ahead in a line so clinically perfect it could have been drawn with a ruler, all gleaming surfaces and harsh overhead lighting that leaves no shadow unexposed. It hums with the sterile efficiency that permeates every inch of this corporate labyrinth where each polished marble tile placed with mathematical precision, each recessed light fixture calibrated to the exact same lumen output. Your Louboutins strike the floor in sharp, metronomic clicks. Left, right. Like a chess piece advancing across the board.
The auditory assault hits you fifteen paces from Pietro’s office in form of an overlapping cacophony of laughter, the screech of ergonomic chairs being shoved back, someone impersonating what was clearly an excruciating client interaction in falsetto. You don’t need to see the scene to reconstruct it; his team operates at a frequency just shy of anarchy, yet somehow their deliverables land in your inbox with pixel-perfect margins and formulas so elegant they make your teeth ache. Chaos theory in action.
You don’t knock so much as rap your knuckles once against the frosted glass. Just a formality you discard mid-motion as you push through without waiting for acknowledgment.
The tableau snaps into focus before you. Pietro is perched on the edge of his desk like some dishevelled conductor, shirtsleeves shoved past his elbows, hands carving shapes in the air to illustrate what you suspect was a catastrophic supply chain failure. His team freezes mid-gesture as they notice you, a pen clatters onto a notebook, someone chokes on their coffee, a junior analyst’s mouth hangs open mid-sentence.
Pietro’s gaze flicks to you. His eyebrows hitch up, but his grin doesn’t falter. “And that,” he announces, sliding off the desk with a graceless thump, “is why we institute a strict ‘no interns negotiating with Japanese steel suppliers’ policy. Meeting adjourned.” He flaps a hand at his team like shooing pigeons. “Go. Exist elsewhere. Preferably where accounting can’t hear you.”
They scatter with the frantic energy of students caught cheating. The door clicks shut behind the last straggler.
Silence pools in their wake, thick as spilled ink.
Pietro leans back against his desk; arms crossed over his rumpled shirt. The overhead lights catch the silver streaks in his hair that weren’t there five years ago. “Either you’re here to fire me,” he muses, tilting his head, “or someone died.”
“Neither.”
You reach into your jacket, a movement smooth enough that Pietro’s shoulders tense fractionally, as if expecting a weapon. What you extract is sleeker: a matte black case small enough to fit in your palm, its surface so devoid of branding it looks almost clinical. The only flaw is the faint smudge of fingerprints near the hinge, evidence of how tightly you’d clenched it during the elevator ride up.
Pietro eyes it like it might contain anthrax. “Should I be concerned?”
“Perpetually.”
He flicks the latch with a thumbnail.
“Happy birthday, Little piety.”
Inside, cradled in charcoal-gray suede, lies a watch. It’s not one of the gaudy limited editions he collects to needle shareholders with, but the 1972 Seiko reissue. The same model he’d scrimped six months’ allowance for at sixteen, only to lose it during a drunken stumble into a Venice canal two weeks later. You can still see the memory like a film reel.
Pietro shivering on the hotel steps at 3 AM, seawater dripping from his hair, grinning like a lunatic while Wanda wheezed laughter into her hands.
His fingers hover above the watch face, not quite touching. “This is-”
“The exact reissue. Down to the brushed steel casing.”
“I know what it is.” His voice drops to something rough. “How the hell did you-”
“The original manufacturer had the blueprints archived in Nagano.” You adjust your cufflink, ignoring the four months of favours it took to extract them. “They required… significant persuasion.”
Pietro exhales through his nose. He turns the watch over. Catches the inscription laser-etched onto the underside: Run faster next time
His shoulders jerk. Not laughter but something quieter, more seismic.
When he looks up, his expression is softer than anything you’ve seen from him in a decade. “You’re the worst,” he informs you, voice scraped raw.
“Duly noted.”
He straps it on with fingers that fumble the buckle. The leather is still stiff, the face pristine. When he flexes his wrist, the seconds hand ticks forward with perfect, silent precision.
The word comes out rough, barely more than an exhale, "Thanks."
You don’t answer with words. Just a slow tilt of your chin downward, a silent acknowledgment that lands between you like a dropped coin. The space between your bodies feels charged suddenly, thick with all the things neither of you ever says aloud.
Then you move.
One deliberate step forward, your heels scuffing against the concrete floor. His breath hitches, just once, as your arms slide around his shoulders, pulling him in before his brain can catch up. The hug is sudden, but not reckless. You’ve calculated this.
For half a heartbeat, he’s rigid against you, all sharp angles and coiled tension, like he’s bracing for impact. Then, like a sigh given form, his muscles unwind beneath your grip. His arms come up almost reflexively, hands pressing flat against your back, fingers digging in just enough to wrinkle the fabric of your jacket. Quick. Easy. Familiar.
It’s nothing like Wanda’s embraces. Hers are sprawling, desperate things, all clinging warmth and whispered pleas. This is leaner. Lighter. A fraction too careful, like he’s afraid of pressing too hard and finding nothing solid beneath his palms. But it’s real. God, it’s real. And that alone makes it rare enough to steal the air from your lungs.
"Don’t," he starts, voice muffled against your shoulder, "get used to this."
The corner of your mouth twitches. "You won’t let me."
His laugh is quiet, humid against your collarbone, and then you’re stepping back, because of course you are. The distance returns like a reset button, your expression smoothing into its usual neutrality as if the last ten seconds never happened. The moment shrivels, retreats.
You glance sideways at him. "Try not to cause problems today."
His grin is all teeth. "No promises."
"Expected. Try not to lose this one,” you say, turning toward the door.
Behind you, Pietro adjusts the clasp. “No promises.”
The corridor swallows you whole. The building resumes its rhythm.
Somewhere, a watch ticks in perfect synchrony with your own.
The corridor greets you the same way it always does. Quiet. Ordered. Predictable. Nothing in it reflects what you just did. Assistants move past you with files tucked neatly against their sides. Conversations remain low, efficient, stripped of anything unnecessary. The soft hum of the building continues uninterrupted, like it has no awareness that something rare has just occurred within its walls. You walk through it without breaking stride.
Your tablet is back in your hand. The screen lights up as if it has been waiting for you. Messages. Numbers. A missed call. The day resumes its shape the moment you allow it to. You do not look at any of it. Not yet. Your reflection follows you in the glass panels that line the corridor. Composed. Unchanged. If anyone were to look at you now, they would not see it. They would not see the way your chest still feels too tight.
They would not see the lingering imprint of Wanda’s grip against your back. The way she held on like she had been afraid you would disappear if she loosened her arms. They would not see the brief, almost startled warmth in Pietro when you stepped into his space without warning. They would not see the moment where you allowed yourself to exist without structure. You see it. You feel it. You do not know what to do with it.
You press your thumb lightly against the edge of your tablet, grounding yourself in something solid. Something familiar. Something that does not shift under pressure. This is what you understand. Not that. Not the way Wanda looked at you. Not the way her voice broke around something as simple as you remembering. You always remember. That has never been the issue. The issue is that remembering is not the same as allowing yourself to feel it.
You reach the elevator. The doors open without delay. You step inside. Alone. The doors slide shut behind you, sealing you into a space that is smaller, quieter, more contained than the corridor you just left. For a moment, there is nothing but the soft mechanical hum as it begins to move. And then your mind catches up.
You should not have stayed that long. That is the first thought. Measured. Immediate. Practical. You should not have allowed the moment to extend beyond what was necessary. You should not have stepped forward first. You should not have closed the distance. You should not have. You stop the thought. Not because it is incorrect. Because it is incomplete.
Your fingers tighten slightly around the tablet. You look at your reflection in the steel panel in front of you. Still composed. Still controlled. Still exactly what you have trained yourself to be. And yet. You remember her voice. Soft. Warm. Certain in a way that had never needed to prove itself. "You are thinking too hard again."
You close your eyes. Just for a second. You can see it clearly. The open window. The scent of lilacs carried in on a breeze that had nothing to do with obligation. The way she had sat beside you like there was nowhere else she needed to be. "What are you dreaming of today?" You had not answered her properly then. You had not known how. Because wanting had felt like something fragile. Something that could be taken away if you held it too openly.
You had learned early that what you held mattered. So you held everything carefully. Tightly. Until it became easier to not hold anything at all. The elevator continues its ascent. The numbers change. You do not look at them. "If you bury all your wants beneath duty, you will become a statue." Your hand shifts against the tablet. Your grip loosens. "Beautiful, yes. But cold, unmovable, and alone."
You inhale slowly. Measured. Controlled. But it does not settle the way it should. Because this morning was not controlled. This morning was not efficient. This morning did not serve a purpose that could be measured in outcomes or numbers or strategy. You had walked into Wanda’s office without an agenda. You had stood in front of her without calculation. You had given her something that had no value in a boardroom and no return in profit.
You had held her. Not because it was expected. Because you wanted to. The realization settles heavier than you expect. You wanted to. You open your eyes. Your reflection looks back at you. Unchanged. And yet. There is something there that was not there yesterday. Something quieter. Something that does not belong to structure.
The doors open. Your floor. The world waits on the other side. Structured. Demanding. Unforgiving in the way it always is. You step out. Your pace resumes immediately. There is no visible hesitation. No one would know that anything inside you has shifted.
You reach your office. The door opens. Closes behind you. The space is exactly as you left it. Immaculate. Controlled. Predictable. Your desk waits. Your work waits. Your role waits.
You did not have to do what you did this morning. There was no requirement. No expectation. No consequence if you had chosen not to. You could have sent something through an assistant. You could have acknowledged it in passing. You could have done what you always do. Minimize. Control. Distance.
You did not. Because of her. Because of the way she looked at you that day by the window. Because of the way she asked you what you wanted, not what you would do. Because of the way she told you that forgetting how to want would cost you more than anything duty could ever demand.
You straighten. Your shoulders settle back into alignment. Your expression smooths. The structure returns. It always does. But this time, it does not erase what came before. It sits alongside it. Uncomfortable. Unfamiliar. Alive.
You reach for your tablet. The screen lights up. The day begins again. And somewhere beneath the numbers, beneath the decisions, beneath the version of yourself you present to the world, something quieter remains. Not gone. Not buried. Just waiting. For you to decide what to do with it.
The quiet in your office feels different today. Not heavier, not lighter, just altered in a way that lingers in the corners and clings to the glass windows where the afternoon light softens the city's reflection. You notice it the way one becomes aware of a room after laughter has passed through it, when something remains even after the sound fades.
It's been that kind of day.
Earlier, Wanda had wrapped her arms around you while Pietro's voice, too loud and too close, refused to let the moment go untouched. You stood there, motionless as ever, and yet not entirely untouched. The memory sits beneath your ribs now. Not painful, not sharp, just present.
You're seated at the smaller table by the window instead of your desk, a half-eaten lunch in front of you. For once, you aren't ignoring it. You take measured bites. Not out of hunger, but discipline. Yet today, something else threads through the act: a quiet awareness that you shouldn't let the day pass through you without pause.
Your tablet lies untouched beside you. Your phone is silent. For a few minutes, the world feels manageable.
Then comes the knock.
Soft. Careful. The kind that asks permission twice before being heard once.
You look up.
"Come in."
The door opens slightly at first, hesitation lingering in the movement as if whoever stands beyond it is still reconsidering.
Vision.
He steps inside, his posture is composed but not entirely at ease. That, more than anything, tells you something is different. He isn't a man who fidgets, nor one who hesitates without reason.
He also doesn't belong here. Not in this building, not in this system of glass and steel and controlled authority. He doesn't work for X-MEN International. His world runs parallel to yours, intersecting only where Wanda is concerned.
Which means this visit is deliberate.
"Miss Maximoff," he says, his voice steady but quieter than usual. "I hope I'm not disturbing you."
"You are," you reply calmly, setting your fork down with precision. "But not in a way that requires you to leave."
A flicker of relief crosses his face before it vanishes beneath practiced control. He steps fully inside, closing the door carefully behind him.
"I won't take much of your time," he says.
"You'll take exactly as much as is necessary," you correct, gesturing toward the chair across from you. "Sit."
He hesitates, then obeys, lowering himself into the seat with the wariness of someone entering a space that isn't theirs to claim.
You study him.
He's chosen this moment carefully. Your lunch break, the only unstructured time in your day. Yet he looks as though he expects to be turned away for it.
You don't rush him.
Silence settles between you, but it isn't the usual kind. This one carries anticipation, something fragile at its edges.
He exhales slowly.
"There's a personal matter I wished to discuss with you," he begins.
You tilt your head slightly. "I see."
Another pause.
"I've already spoken with your mother," he says.
That stills something in you. Not visibly, your posture doesn't shift. But your attention sharpens the way it does when something meaningful disrupts your carefully ordered world.
"When?" you ask.
"A few days ago," he replies. "During one of her clearer periods."
You nod once. "And?"
"She gave her blessing."
You don't respond immediately. Instead, you press a button on the discreet panel embedded in the table. A quiet chime sounds before your assistant answers promptly.
"Yes, ma'am?"
"Two glasses," you say. "And the decanter from the cabinet."
A brief, surprised pause. "Of course."
Vision watches you, uncertainty flickering across his face. "This isn't necessary," he begins.
"It is," you interrupt gently. Not a command, just a decision.
He falls silent as you fold your hands loosely in front of you, gaze steady. "For what did she give her blessing?" You knew the answer, but hearing it from his mouth was something you needed.
He meets your eyes fully. "I intend to ask Wanda to marry me."
Something in you fractures. Not catastrophically, not sharply, just quietly, like something held too tightly for too long finally giving way. Though, you are more than happy for you little sunshine.
You don't speak.
For a moment, you simply look at him.
Then the door opens again. Your assistant moves efficiently, placing two crystal tumblers on the table followed by a heavy glass decanter filled with amber liquid that catches the light like something alive. She sets everything down and leaves without a word.
The door clicks shut.
Silence returns.
Vision's gaze flickered from the decanter back to you, his hesitation palpable in the quiet room. His fingers twitched slightly at his sides before he repeated, "That is unnecessary," though his voice lacked its usual conviction this time.
Your hands moved with deliberate grace as you reached for the decanter, pouring equal measures into two crystal glasses. The liquid made a soft chime against the glass, the sound echoing slightly in the space between you. Without ceremony, you slid one drink toward him. "Take it," you said simply. He accepted with careful fingers, handling the glass as if it might contain something more volatile than alcohol.
As you lifted your own drink, you let the moment stretch. Your fingers curled around the cool crystal, your eyes studying him over the rim. "You chose today," you stated rather than asked. His quiet "Yes" came immediately, but when you followed with "The party is this evening," and then "And you have yet spoken to my father?" his response took longer in coming.
"...not yet," Vision admitted after a pause.
"And Pietro?" you pressed.
This silence lasted longer. "I have not consulted him," he finally confessed.
The admission startled an unexpected sound from you. A brief, unguarded laugh that made Vision blink in surprise. It wasn't your usual polite smile, but something more genuine that reached your eyes before you could stop it. "Then you're either very brave," you observed, "or catastrophically unprepared."
His lips pressed together in what might have been the ghost of a smile. "I'm beginning to suspect the latter," he conceded.
You took a measured sip, letting the warmth spread through you before setting the glass down with precise control. "When do you intend to ask her?"
"At the party," Vision said. "With Pietro's assistance."
Your eyebrow arched slightly. "You plan to involve him after the fact?"
"I'd hoped," he said carefully, choosing each word, "to secure essential approvals first."
Now your smile became unmistakable. "So you intend to survive my father, then entrust the execution to Pietro."
"Yes."
Tilting your head slightly, you considered this flawed strategy. "That's not a plan. That's a gamble."
"I'm aware," he admitted.
As you studied him over another sip, you noted how unlike Natasha or Pietro he was. Every movement measured, every decision intentional. Which made his current approach all the more significant. "You asked my mother," you noted.
"Yes."
"You came to me."
"Yes."
"And you're prepared to ask my father?"
"I am."
The certainty in his voice made you hold his gaze a moment longer. "Then you understand what this means."
"I do."
The silence that followed felt different now. Less charged, more settled. You watched the way light fractured through your glass before speaking again, your voice softer now. "Ask him before the party begins. Not after. He'll respect that."
Vision nodded. "And Pietro?"
Leaning back slightly, you allowed a trace of amusement to show. "Tell him last. He'll be offended regardless. This way minimizes the damage." A pause. "And be prepared for improvisation."
"I suspected as much," Vision acknowledged.
When you lifted your glass again, a toast without words maybe. But something in your expression shifted subtly. The familiar composure remained, but beneath it now lay something warmer, more approving. "You have my blessing," you said simply.
The words landed heavier than their simplicity warranted. Vision stood very still for a moment before his quiet "Thank you" carried a new depth.
You inclined your head slightly before adding, almost as an afterthought but not quite, "And my support."
This seemed to affect him more profoundly. You held his gaze as you continued, "She'll say yes. Not because it's expected. Because she wants to." Your fingers tightened fractionally around the glass. "Don't make her wait."
Something unspoken passed between you. A shared understanding that lingered in the air before dissipating. Vision's nod this time carried more certainty. "I won't," he promised.
After another sip, you set the glass down decisively and picked up your fork, returning to your interrupted lunch as if the conversation had been just another item on your agenda. Vision rose to leave.
"I would finish that drink, if i was going to face my father." You suggested Vision. And he takes it in account as he down the contents of the glass in one go before making a face. Not one of disgust, but one that suggests the scotch was one of best one he has had.
"Miss Maximoff," he said as he reached the door. When you looked up, he added quietly, "She's fortunate." To have you as her sister goes unsaid in his mind.
You considered this assessment briefly before responding with the faintest echo of your earlier smile, "No. You are."
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving a different quality of silence in its wake. One less charged with anticipation, more settled in its new shape. You finished your meal methodically, neither rushing nor distracted, then stood and adjusted your cuffs with habitual precision before returning to your desk.
The party would begin in hours. There was still work to complete. But for the first time in longer than you cared to remember, you didn't feel entirely carved from marble.
The top floor feels different.
Even before the doors open, there is a shift in the air. The hum of the building fades the higher one goes, as if noise itself knows where it is no longer welcome. By the time Vision steps out into the corridor, the silence has settled into something deliberate. Not absence, but control.
The lighting is warmer here. Less clinical than the lower floors, less concerned with efficiency. The walls carry weight, dark wood panels broken by framed pieces that are not decorative so much as historical. Photographs. Agreements. Moments that have shaped something larger than the company itself. This is not where decisions are made. This is where they are remembered.
The assistant outside the office does not stop him. She rises slightly, acknowledges him with a small nod, and gestures toward the door as though the outcome of his visit has already been decided.
Inside, Erik Lehnsherr is seated behind his desk.
He is not reading. There are papers in front of him, but they remain untouched. One hand rests lightly against the surface, fingers still, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the glass wall that stretches behind him. The city lies beneath it, distant and orderly, reduced to something manageable from this height.
The door closes softly behind Vision.
Erik does not look at him immediately.
He lets the silence settle first.
It stretches long enough to become intentional, long enough to make it clear that this is not an oversight. Then, without turning fully, Erik speaks.
“So, You intend to propose.”
It is not a question.
Vision steps forward, measured, unhurried. He stops at a distance that is respectful without being hesitant, posture straight, hands at his sides.
“Yes,” he says. He doesn’t question how the old man knows.
Erik turns then, his gaze landing on him with quiet precision. There is no surprise in it. No curiosity either. Only assessment.
“You have considered the implications,” Erik continues, voice even. “For her? For this family?”
“I have.”
A brief pause follows. Erik studies him, not searching for doubt but for its absence.
“And you believe yourself prepared.”
“I do.”
The answer comes without delay, without emphasis. It is not defensive. It simply exists.
Erik leans back slightly in his chair, the movement slow, deliberate. His fingers tap once against the desk, then still again.
“Belief,” he says, almost idly, “is a flexible thing.”
Vision does not respond to that. He does not need to. The observation is not directed at him as much as it is placed in the space between them, something to be acknowledged rather than answered.
Another stretch of silence.
Then Vision speaks again.
“I have spoken with her mother.”
That earns a shift.
It is small, almost imperceptible. A slight tightening at the edge of Erik’s expression, a brief stillness that replaces the measured rhythm of his breathing. The name does not need to be said. It is understood.
“And?” Erik asks.
“She gave her blessing.”
Erik’s gaze lowers for a fraction of a second, not in dismissal but in thought. When it lifts again, there is something heavier behind it. Not softness. Not quite. But the sharp edge of scrutiny has dulled, replaced by something more inward.
Magda’s opinion carries weight in this room in a way few things do.
But it is not enough.
“You came here anyway,” Erik says.
“I did.”
“Am I to assume that her approval was not sufficient?”
Vision holds his gaze. “It was not the only one I sought.”
That is when Erik’s attention sharpens again.
A quieter kind of focus now. Less immediate, more deliberate.
“I spoke with her sister.”
A beat.
“And?”
“She approved.”
The room changes.
Not visibly. Not in any way that could be measured. But something settles into place, something that had remained suspended until now.
Erik does not move immediately. His gaze remains fixed on Vision, but it is no longer searching in the same way. The evaluation shifts. Recalibrates.
The silence that follows is different from the ones before it.
Earlier, it had been a tool. Now, it is a conclusion being reached.
Erik exhales slowly, leaning back further into his chair. His hand moves from the desk to the armrest, fingers curling slightly against the leather as his eyes drift, not away from Vision but through him, as though aligning what he has heard with something already known.
You do not make decisions lightly.
He knows that better than anyone.
If you said yes, it was not out of sentiment. Not out of pressure. It was weighed. Measured. Considered from every angle that mattered.
Which means this is not a question of permission.
It is already a decision.
Erik’s gaze returns to Vision, steadier now.
“You understand that her sister’s judgment is not easily given.”
A beat.
“And yet you believe you have earned it.”
“I believe she would not have granted it otherwise.”
There is no pride in the statement. No attempt to elevate himself. Only a recognition of what your approval signifies.
Erik watches him for a long moment.
Vision does not attempt to fill the silence with explanation or justification. The admission stands on its own, unguarded, unembellished.
Erik’s eyes narrow slightly, studying him again. Not for weakness this time, but for depth.
“You think that will be enough?”
“I think it is where I begin.”
Another pause.
Longer.
Heavier.
Then Erik leans forward, resting his forearms against the desk, his presence filling the space between them in a way that is quiet but unmistakable.
“Loving her,” he says, voice lower now, “is not a matter of intention.”
Vision does not look away.
“I am aware.”
“She does not ask for much,” Erik continues. “She does not demand attention. She does not make her needs known in ways that are obvious.”
“I know.”
“And that will make it easy,” Erik says, “to believe she is content when she is not.”
The words settle between them, deliberate, precise.
Vision absorbs them without interruption.
“I will pay attention,” he says.
Erik’s gaze sharpens slightly at that. “Attention is not observation.”
“No,” Vision says. “It is presence.”
That earns the smallest shift.
Not approval. Not yet. But something closer to acknowledgment.
Erik leans back once more, the tension in his shoulders easing just enough to signal that the evaluation has reached its end.
For a moment, he says nothing.
Then, simply:
“You have spoken to her mother and her sister.”
He studies Vision one last time, as though confirming something that has already been decided.
“Which means you have done what was necessary.”
It is not phrased as permission.
It is not given as a blessing.
But it is acceptance.
Clear. Final.
Vision inclines his head slightly. Not in submission, but in recognition.
“Thank you.”
Erik waves it off with a small, dismissive motion of his hand, though his gaze remains steady.
“Do not mistake this for reassurance,” he says.
Vision does not.
“I won’t.”
Erik’s expression settles back into something unreadable, the earlier shifts folding neatly beneath the surface.
“Marriage,” he continues, “is not a solution to anything. Not for her. Not for you.”
“I understand.”
“If you are looking to fix what you think is broken,” Erik says, “you will fail.”
“I am not.”
A pause.
Then, quieter:
“Respectfully, Sir. I am not looking to fix her.”
That, more than anything else, stills the room.
Erik holds his gaze for a long moment.
Then, finally, he nods.
Once.
It is subtle. Controlled. But it is the closest thing to approval he will give.
“Good,” he says.
The conversation is over.
The door closes behind him with a soft click.
The silence returns, settling back into the room as though it had never been disturbed.
The venue is louder than it should be for this hour of the afternoon.
Not crowded yet. Not alive in the way it will become once music fills the halls and guests begin spilling through the entrance in tailored suits and glittering gowns. But there is movement everywhere. Staff crossing the ballroom with floral arrangements balanced carefully in their arms. Technicians crouched beside lighting rigs. Caterers weaving through tables draped in linen smooth enough to reflect the chandeliers overhead.
Pietro Maximoff stands in the middle of it all like a man attempting to conduct a storm with sheer force of personality.
“One inch left,” he says, pointing toward a cluster of lights suspended above the dance floor.
The technician stares at him. “Sir, nobody is going to notice one inch.”
Pietro narrows his eyes. “I will.”
The man sighs and adjusts the fixture anyway.
Pietro steps back, head tilted critically toward the ceiling. Satisfied at last, he turns only to nearly walk straight into Vision.
“Well,” Pietro says, recovering instantly. “You move disturbingly quietly for someone wearing dress shoes.”
Vision’s expression shifts faintly, something close to amusement touching the corner of his mouth. “You appeared occupied.”
“I am occupied,” Pietro replies. “I am orchestrating magnificence.”
He gestures broadly toward the ballroom around them. The room gleams beneath warm golden light, elegant without feeling rigid. There are traces of Wanda everywhere in the details. Soft candlelight woven carefully into the centerpieces. Deep crimson flowers balanced against ivory arrangements. Music selections spread across an open folder nearby, half crossed-out and rewritten in Your handwriting.
Vision notices all of it.
Pietro catches the look and snorts softly. “Yeah, she got involved halfway through and suddenly everything became tasteful.”
“I think it looks beautiful.”
“That is because my genius laid the foundation,” Pietro says gravely.
Vision hums in polite agreement that is convincing enough to satisfy him.
Around them, staff continue moving through preparations, but Pietro’s attention settles properly now, studying Vision with casual familiarity. There is no tension between them. Vision has long since become a steady presence orbiting Wanda’s life. Holidays. Family dinners. Charity events where Wanda dragged him into conversations while Pietro rescued him from overly affectionate relatives.
Vision had endured all of it with impossible patience.
“What brings you here?” Pietro asks. “Besides admiring my work.”
Vision glances briefly around the ballroom before answering.
“I wanted to speak with you privately.”
Pietro’s brows rise slightly at the tone. Not alarmed. Just curious.
“That sounds ominous.”
“I intend to propose to Wanda.”
The words land cleanly between them.
Pietro stills.
Not dramatically. Not enough for anyone else in the room to notice. But the restless rhythm of him quiets for a brief moment, his attention sharpening fully onto Vision.
“…Ah,” he says after a second.
A worker passes behind them carrying a ladder. Somewhere near the stage, someone curses loudly after dropping a box of glassware. Pietro does not look away.
“You are serious.”
“Yes.”
The answer comes simply.
Pietro exhales once through his nose, gaze drifting upward toward the chandeliers as though recalibrating several thoughts at once. Then, slowly, a grin tugs at the corner of his mouth.
“You know,” he says, “I always suspected this was where things were headed.”
Vision watches him quietly.
“She looks at you differently,” Pietro continues. “Calmer. Less... noisy in her head.” He pauses. “That sounded less creepy before I said it out loud.”
“It made sense.”
“Good.”
Pietro folds his arms loosely across his chest now, studying him with a different kind of attention than before. More thoughtful. Less casual.
“And you are telling me because?”
“I would like your help.”
That catches him off guard properly.
Pietro blinks once. “Mine?”
“Yes.”
A short laugh escapes him, quieter than usual. “You have significantly overestimated my reliability.”
“I do not believe I have.”
“Interesting. Wrong. But interesting.”
Vision says nothing.
Pietro studies him another moment, then shakes his head faintly, amusement softening into something more genuine.
“You already talked to her, didn’t you?” he says suddenly. “Sestra.”
“I believed it was important.”
For a moment, Pietro says nothing.
The ballroom continues shifting around them, busy and bright and unfinished, but his attention drifts somewhere quieter. Toward Wanda. Toward you. Toward the strange shape of time passing without permission.
Then he looks back at Vision properly.
“When?”
“At the party.”
Pietro’s grin returns instantly. “Oh, that is evil.”
“I was told Wanda appreciates meaningful gestures.”
“She does,” Pietro says. “But mostly I meant doing it in front of this family.” He gestures vaguely around them. “Half of us cry aggressively.”
Vision absorbs that seriously enough that Pietro laughs outright.
“I am joking,” he says. Then pauses. “Mostly.”
Another silence settles between them, easier this time.
Then Pietro steps forward, resting a hand briefly against Vision’s shoulder.
It is not dramatic. Not ceremonial. Just sincere.
“You make her happy,” he says quietly.
The humor has left his voice now.
“And she deserves that.”
Vision meets his gaze steadily. “I know.”
Pietro studies him for another second, searching perhaps for uncertainty, for hesitation, for anything that might force this conversation in another direction.
He finds none.
At last, he nods once.
“Alright then,” he says, exhaling lightly. “Let us emotionally devastate my sister in the most elegant way possible.”
The invitation arrives in the middle of a briefing on agricultural exports.
T'Challa barely notices it at first.
The morning has already been consumed by reports, projections, and negotiations that seem determined to outlive everyone involved in them. By the time the meeting concludes, the sun has climbed high enough to flood the royal office with warm afternoon light, painting long bands of gold across polished stone floors and dark wood furnishings.
Only then does his attention settle on the cream-colored envelope resting atop a stack of documents awaiting review. A small smile appears almost immediately. Brief, but enough.
"What is it?" Nakia asks from across the room.
T'Challa turns the envelope over in his hands before answering.
"An invitation."
The response is unremarkable. But his expression is not.
Curiosity flickers across Nakia's face as she watches him open it with a level of care normally reserved for considerably more important correspondence.
For several moments, silence settles over the office.
His eyes move slowly across the page.
Then the uncharacteristic smile returns.
The sort of expression attached to memories rather than events.
Nakia closes the file she has been reading.
"Who is she?"
T'Challa glances up.
She gestures toward the invitation.
"I assume it is a she."
A soft laugh escapes him.
"It is."
"Then who is she?"
His gaze drops back to the card.
The answer should be simple, yet it is not. It takes him several seconds to find.
"An old friend."
Nakia waits. And when nothing further follows, one eyebrow lifts slightly. The reaction earns another quiet chuckle.
"I realize that explains very little."
"An unusually self-aware observation."
T'Challa smiles faintly before extending the invitation toward her. Nakia accepts it. The event itself appears straightforward enough. A birthday celebration. Private guest list. Formal attire. Location included. Nothing particularly remarkable. Yet one detail immediately catches her attention. The invitation is addressed simply to T'Challa.
Not ‘King T'Challa’.
Not ‘Your Majesty’.
Not ‘Sovereign of Wakanda’.
Just ‘T'Challa’.
The distinction feels oddly intimate. When she looks up, she finds him watching the city beyond the windows. "How long have you known her?"
For a moment, he doesn't answer. His gaze remains fixed on the distant skyline while his mind is somewhere far away, in a different time of his life. Then, he quietly speaks up again.
"Almost fifteen years."
That surprises her.
Because there are not many people left who knew T'Challa before the crown. Before the responsibilities. Before the endless machinery of state consumed most of his life.
Nakia studies the invitation once more.
"Close friends?"
The question earns her another stretch silence. T'Challa's gaze drifts briefly toward the windows.
"Wakanda attracts exceptional students."
Nakia smiles despite herself.
That sounds suspiciously like a deflection. He knows it. He also knows that she knows it. For a moment neither acknowledges the fact. Then a faint smile touches his face.
"Most of them spend four years making certain everyone is aware of exactly how exceptional they are."
That earns a quiet laugh.
"And she didn't?"
"No."
The answer arrives immediately.
Almost fond.
"She never felt the need."
The room grows quieter. Outside, aircraft move silently between distant towers. Somewhere below, advisors continue navigating the endless complexities of governance. Yet for a few moments, none of it feels particularly important.
T'Challa settles back slightly in his chair, his attention no longer on the office around him but on memories decades old.
"We met during our first year."
A small smile appears.
"She was late."
The smile widens fractionally.
"The professor had already started the lecture. The room was completely silent. Then the door opened."
The memory plays itself across his expression.
"Most people would have apologized. Or looked embarrassed."
"What did she do?"
T'Challa's smile finally reaches his eyes.
"She looked around, realized every seat was occupied, dragged a chair from another room, and sat down."
Nakia laughs. The image is unexpectedly easy to picture.
"That sounds incredibly disruptive."
"It was."
His amusement deepens.
"The professor stopped teaching entirely."
"And?"
"And she asked him to continue."
The office falls quiet again.
T'Challa turns the invitation over once between his fingers.
"Most people spend years trying to become comfortable with themselves."
His voice has grown softer now.
"She already was."
The statement lingers because of the certainty behind it.
Nakia studies him carefully.
The woman he is describing bears little resemblance to the woman she occasionally sees in finance magazines. The woman in those photographs always appears composed. Controlled. Distant.
The woman in his memories sounds... lighter.
"You respected her."
The words leave her before she fully considers them.
T'Challa looks down at the invitation and smiles.
"No."
The answer surprises her.
A moment later, he continues.
"I respected her later."
His thumb traces the edge of the card.
"At university she was simply my friend."
And somehow that distinction feels far more important.
Nakia looked down at the invitation again.
The card seemed remarkably ordinary considering the conversation it had inspired. Yet she suspected that if anyone else had sent it, it would already be buried beneath the mountain of state documents awaiting review.
Instead, it remained in T'Challa's hands.
"Does she always invite you?"
The question drew him from his thoughts. For a moment he simply looked at the invitation.
Then he nodded.
"Every year to anything important to her."
The answer came so naturally that it was clear he had never considered how unusual it sounded.
"Every year?" Nakia repeated.
A faint smile touched his face.
"Every year."
The office grew quiet again.
Outside the windows, Wakanda continued moving through its day. Aircraft crossed distant skies. Meetings began and ended. Decisions were made. Thousands of people went about lives entirely disconnected from the conversation taking place in the royal office.
Yet somehow this seemed more important.
Nakia folded her hands in her lap.
"And you attend?"
The smile became something closer to embarrassment.
A rare expression.
"No."
That answer surprised her.
"No?"
T'Challa shook his head.
"Not once."
A soft exhale escaped him.
"Not because I did not want to. Life simply had other plans."
The words carried no bitterness.
Only acceptance.
The acceptance of a man who had long ago learned that duty rarely asks permission before taking something from you. For several moments he remained silent, turning the invitation over carefully between his fingers.
"I always intended to attend the next one."
A small smile appeared.
"Then the following year would arrive with new duties to fulfil."
Nakia understood immediately.
There was always something.
A summit.
A diplomatic crisis.
Trade negotiations.
Security concerns.
The responsibilities attached to a throne had a way of multiplying when one wasn't looking.
"Yet she kept inviting you?"
The observation escaped her before she realized it.
T'Challa's expression softened.
"Yes."
There was something almost remarkable about that simple answer.
No disappointment or resentment. You kept inviting him. Year after year. Regardless of whether he came. Regardless of whether he could. The invitation always arrived.
The realization seemed to settle over the room slowly.
Nakia had never met Y/N Maximoff.
She knew the name. Knew the company. Knew the reputation. But the woman T'Challa described felt very different from the woman presented to the world.
Because you remembered people.
Even when years stood between you.
Even when distance did.
Even when life did.
"What happened?" Nakia asked quietly.
T'Challa's gaze lowered.
Not because he wished to avoid the question. Because the answer deserved consideration.
"Nothing happened."
The response surprised her.
"At least not all at once. We graduated. The group scattered across the world. Careers began. Responsibilities arrived."
A pause followed.
"That part was normal."
His eyes settled on the familiar handwriting once more.
"What was not normal was how quickly everything changed afterward."
The warmth in his expression dimmed.
"When my father died, I became king."
Nakia felt the weight of those words even now.
Years later.
She remembered the days that followed.
The grief.
The expectations.
The impossible transition from son to sovereign.
No amount of preparation could truly prepare someone for that moment.
T'Challa continued quietly.
"And around the same time, her mother suffered a severe stroke."
Nakia knew that story. Most people in their business circles did. Not the intimate details of course. Not the private pain. But enough.
Magda Maximoff's illness had become one of those events that altered the course of multiple lives at once.
The invitation remained untouched between his hands.
"My coronation was scheduled a few weeks later. She called me herself. And I remember thinking she sounded exhausted."
A faint crease appeared between his brows.
"Not emotional but exhausted."
The distinction mattered because one implied grief and the other implied responsibility. And responsibility had a habit of lasting much longer.
T'Challa looked toward the windows.
Toward a country he was sworn to protect.
Toward a life that often belonged more to others than himself.
"She apologized. She apologized for missing my coronation."
T'Challa laughed softly.
"You understand?"
"I think I do."
"Her mother was in the hospital."
His voice was calm.
Measured.
Yet somehow that made the memory heavier.
"Her family needed her."
Another pause.
"And she was apologizing to me."
The silence that followed felt thoughtful rather than sad.
Neither of them rushed to fill it.
Eventually T'Challa lowered his gaze to the invitation once more.
The years between then and now seemed to gather quietly inside the room.
"We spoke occasionally after that."
A small shrug.
"Less often than either of us intended."
Another truth shared by countless friendships. Not broken, just simply stretched.
"But every year," he said softly, "the invitations arrived."
Not formality.
Effort.
Then, almost absentmindedly, his eyes drifted toward the tablet displaying next week's schedule.
The state visit.
New York.
The diplomatic meetings already scheduled.
The route already planned.
For the first time in years, there was no conflict.
No emergency.
No impossible choice waiting to be made.
Just an invitation and a friend.
T'Challa stared at the schedule for several seconds.
A slow smile appeared.
Real.
Almost boyish.
The sort of smile rarely seen on kings.
For the first time in years, he realized he could say yes.
Not next year. Not someday. Not when things settled down.
Now.
Nakia watched the realization settle across his face.
"You're going."
The certainty in her voice made it less a question than a statement.
T'Challa looked down at the invitation once more.
At the familiar handwriting.
At a friendship that had somehow survived years of distance and silence.
At a door that had never quite been allowed to close.
"Yes, I think I am."
He carefully placed the invitation atop the stack of documents waiting for his attention.
For once, matters of state could wait another minute.
The last time T'Challa had seen you, you were sitting in a terrible café near the engineering faculty, insisting that his presentation strategy was inefficient while stealing fries from his plate.
The next time he sees you, you would be one of the most influential women in the world.
And, if his instincts were correct, a stranger in all the ways that mattered.
For reasons he could not entirely explain, that thought made him want to arrive all the more.
Summary: Just because you and Wanda have been dating a while doesn't mean neither of you have been able to keep your eyes or thoughts off your best friend Natasha. And she can't keep her eyes or thoughts off either of you either. Tonight, the tension is finally broken
Authors note: been awhile since I wrote some WandaNat smut, hope you guys enjoy!
Warnings: smut(grinding, blowjob, fingering, mutual jerking off, double penetration, vaginal & oral sex) subby Wanda, Natasha has a penis, Reader has a penis
Word count: 2,800
WandaNat Masterlist Marvel Masterlist
The music of the club thrums around you, the bass so deep that you can practically feel it in your chests. Natasha takes the lead, grabbing onto your hand as she pulls you and your girlfriend Wanda further inside. She glances back over her shoulder and flashes a smile at both you and your girlfriend that has butterflies erupting in both your stomachs. Not that either of you would ever admit that to her. Eventually she manages to lead you over to a corner booth
"I'm gonna head to the bar, grab us some drinks" she shouts over the music, "You guys want your usual?"
"Yeah, sounds good" you agree
She nods and heads off for the bar while you and Wanda settle into the booth. You watch Natasha wade through the sea of people with ease, her confidence and sharp stare making them get out of her way quickly. You always admired that about her, among other things.
You glance over to see Wanda's eyes still glued on Nat and smirk to yourself. It was no secret to you that your girlfriend fancied your friend, and you couldn't blame her because you did too. The two of you have even started talking about what it would be like to add her to your relationship. Wanda didn't think asking was a good idea, she wasn't sure of the redhead's feelings and didn't want to ruin your friendship with her. But you saw how she looked at Wanda and even yourself at times, you felt how her touch lingered too. You strongly suspected that she wanted more too
Natasha returns with everyone's drink and slides into the booth beside you. She smiles and takes a sip of her beer and you and Wanda start drinking your drinks too. The three of you sit there for a little while, just vibing to the music and enjoying each others company while getting buzzed. Eventually though Wanda leans into your side and her lips find your neck
Your lips quirk up into a smirk as she kisses along your jawline and out of the corner of your eye you can see Natasha tracking the movement, her focus completely on the two of you.
"Come on baby, let's go dance" Wanda murmurs against your ear
You nod and gesture for her to slide out. As she does so you turn to Nat, "We're gonna dance, feel free to join us"
Natasha watches the two of you head for the dance floor before taking another swig of her beer. Your offer was tempting, but she knew that she wouldn't be able to hold herself back. Her hands would have been all over both of you, and God help her if either of you were to grind against her. So she decided she would just sit here and watch, even if that was it's own kind of torture
Out on the dance floor Wanda's hips sway in time with the beat and your hands travel along her waist, pulling her closer. Wanda turns around in your hold and starts to grind back against you, trying to get you worked up. And she could tell it was working. Your breath was coming quickly against her neck and there was a bulge at the front of your pants that was now pressing against her
"Careful sweetheart" you coo, squeezing her hips, "Lots of eyes here, wouldn't want them to see this, would you?"
She bites down on her bottom lip, "Just one of those sets of eyes"
"Natasha?" you ask in a chuckle, "Well, lucky for you, because her eyes haven't left us all night"
Wanda lets out a soft needy sound, "Really?"
"Really" you tell her, leaning down to kiss the junction of her neck and shoulder, "I think we should make a move tonight, what do you think?"
"Are you sure it won't ruin anything?"
"Baby, she's looking at us like she wants to devour us. Trust me, she'll jump at the chance" you assure her
Those words make Wanda subconsciously grind back against you, "Okay, then yes. Please yes"
You smirk at that, "Okay, you stay here and keep dancing. I'll go back to the table, say I'm a bit worn and need to refresh with my drink. Then I'll make a proposition to her. Sound good?"
She nods enthusiastically, "Yes, god yes"
You release your hold on her and make your way back over to the booth. You notice Nat's gaze move down to the front of your pants briefly before she tears her gaze away and looks back over at Wanda. You slide in beside her and start sipping on your drink
"I think she could dance all night"
Natasha chuckles, "Yeah, she seems to have a lot of energy. And moves"
"That she does" you agree, taking another sip, "She's got some other moves too"
The redheads eyes flick back over to you, her expression shifts slightly as she tries to figure out if you're saying what she thinks you are. You smile at her in a way to assure her that you meant it
You slide closer to her, "Would you like to see those moves Tasha? She's just dying to try them with you, and so am I"
Nat swallows thickly as she looks back out at Wanda, "You…you're both sure?"
"Oh absolutely" you tell her, letting your hand come to rest on her thigh. You slowly slide it further up, watching her breath catch as you cup her bulge, "And it feels like you are too"
"Fuck…" she mumbles
You look out at Wanda and when her gaze meets yours she understands everything just by the look in your eyes. She smiles and starts making her way over to the booth. You slide out of your seat as she arrives and Natasha finds herself missing your touch immediately. Thankfully for her you offer her your hand, and she quickly grabs a hold. You take Wanda's hand too and start to lead them both towards one of the clubs back hallways where the rooms for more private encounters are
As soon as the door to the room shuts Wanda goes right for Natasha. She loops her arms around the other woman's neck and presses herself right up against her bulge, "Hi Tasha"
"Hi Wanda" Nat groans as her hands find their purchase on the younger womans waist
"Baby, why don't we let her have a seat, hm?" you suggest
Wanda leads her over to one of the plush chairs in the center of the room and gently pushes her shoulders and Natasha plops down in the chair. She instinctively spreads her legs to accommodate her bulge, making Wanda lick her lips
"Go ahead baby, show Tasha how good you are with your mouth"
Nat's eyes widen as she watches your girlfriend quickly pull her hair back into a ponytail and sink down on her knees in front of her. Wanda gently caresses Nat's thighs and then moves for her belt. She undoes the buckle then slowly pulls the zipper down before she reaches inside to palm Nat through her boxers. The redhead lets out a groan and grips the arms of the chair so tight her knuckles go white
"Mm, nice and hard already" Wanda practically purrs as she pulls the boxers waistband down and frees Nat's length
Nat hums as Wanda's fingers wrap around her cock and then lets out a moan when Wanda leans in and takes the tip in her mouth. She swirls her tongue around a few times before taking more of Nat into her mouth. She starts to bob her head, hollowing her cheeks out as she does so.
"Yes, just like that" she moans, moving one of her hands to grip Wanda's ponytail
"Knew you'd enjoy this" you tell her with a smirk, "She's enjoying it too, aren't you baby?"
Your girlfriend lets out a moan around Nat's cock and the vibrations cause the redhead to throb against her tongue. You chuckle at the look of pure bliss on your best friend's face and honestly you can hardly wait to be the reason she's making it, but you're also content to watch Wanda have her fun
"Fuck….if she keeps it up like this I won't last long" Nat admits, her cheeks going a bit pink
"That's okay Tasha" you assure her, "Let go whenever you're ready"
Wanda doubles down on her movements and brings one of her hands up to stroke the base of Nat's cock. The older woman's hips start to rut forward, and her head lulls back against the chair. She lets out a gutteral moan and then she releases inside Wanda's eager mouth. The brunette swallows every drop then releases Nat with a wet pop
"You taste good" Wanda says, licking her lips
"Come here" Nat tells her, guiding her face closer until she can crash their lips together
Wanda lets out a small sound of surprise before melting into the kiss and by the time Nat pulls back she'd even more breathless. Her cheeks are still an adorable shade of pink and her chest is heaving as she tries to calm down
"Let Tasha catch her breath baby" you tell Wanda as you plop down in one of the other chairs, "But you were such a good girl, You deserve a reward"
Wanda quickly gets up off the floor and makes her way over to you, clearly eager for whatever the reward may be. You chuckle at her enthusiasm and pat your lap. She sits down and looks at you expectatly
You slide one of your hands up her thigh and under her skirt, "So wet already. Sucking Tasha off do this to you?"
"Uh huh" she softly admits as she spreads her legs further apart
Natasha gaze is glued to you both and she can feel her softened dick twitch at the revelation that just getting her off was enough to make Wanda soak her panties
"That's my girl" you coo as you move her underwear to the side
Your thumb finds her clit and you press down on the bundle of nerves before slowly rubbing. She lets out a small moan and grabs onto your shoulders to help anchor herself. And then you push two fingers inside of her dripping core
She lets out a loud moan and tightens her grip on your shoulders, "Feels so good"
"Oh I know it does baby"
You start to thrust your fingers, curling them just right all while your thumb still draws circles against her clit. Her walls flutter around you as you set a decent pace with your movements and she starts to grind down against your hand.
This makes Nat chuckle, "Eager little thing, isn't she?"
"Oh you have no idea" you laugh
Wanda's pussy squeezes your fingers tighter then, she clearly enjoys being talked about in this manner while also not being fully acknowledged. You'd have to file this new information away for later because you were certainly going to use it
"I….I'm close" Wanda stutters as her clit throbs under your touch, "Please, can I cum?"
"Such good manners" Nat comments, making the brunette blush
"You can cum baby, but you gotta look at Tasha while you do, okay?"
She immediately turns to meet the redhead's piercing gaze and lets out a series of moans as she cums. Her release gushes out around your fingers soaking her panties even more, along with her thighs. You gentle your thrusts helping her through her climax until she starts to shake as overstimulation nears.
You pull your fingers out of her pussy, "You did so good baby"
She smiles at you, "Thank you"
"Of course, now I'm gonna let you rest and go have my own fun with Tasha"
You pick her up, turn around and place her in the chair you'd just been sitting in. You lean in and place a soft kiss against her lips before making your way over to Nat. She looks up at you eagerly and watches as you unzip your pants and pull your own cock free from your boxers
"Come here Tasha"
She stands up and steps closer, her cock nearly touching yours. You close the distance and let them touch, which has her letting out a soft sound of pleasure. You wrap your hand around both your lengths and slowly start to stroke.
"Oh god" she moans, reaching out to grab a hold of your hips, "That feels….fuck that feels so nice"
"Mhm, it does" you reply breathily
You tighten your grip slightly and start to stroke faster, pulling a moan out of both you and Natasha. Her cock throbs in time with yours and begins to leak precum all over your hand
"Y/n" she moans as she tightens her hold on your hips
"I know Tasha, god I know" you groan as your own cock begins to twitch, "Cum with me"
She eagerly nods and you swirl your thumb over both your tips and both of you erupt. Cum splatters all over your hand and you both moan and pant as you slow your strokes
"Fuck….that was hot" Nat says, still trying to catch her breath
"It was" you agree before you lean in to kiss her
She melts into the kiss then turns to look at Wanda, "Can we go home and ruin her now?"
Your girlfriend lets out a whimper and you smile, "I thought you'd never ask"
After getting back to your place Wanda almost drags both you and Natasha to the bedroom before you can even get your shoes off. Her excitement was palpable
"Clothes off and get on the bed baby" you tell your girlfriend who is all too happy to comply. She quickly undresses and sits on the side of the bed, waiting for further instructions and you turn to Nat, "You already felt her mouth, wanna feel her pussy?"
"God yes" Nat groans, already palming her bulge
You smirk, "Hear that baby, Tasha is gonna fuck that pretty pussy of yours. So that means I get the pleasure of fucking your mouth"
Wanda lets out a soft whimper, clearly enjoying the idea of having both used at the same time. She lays back on the bed and lets her legs fall open, exposing her dripping core to both you and Natasha. The redhead nearly trips over herself as she strips and she positions herself between your girlfriends legs
"Do you have a condom?"
You chuckle, "You don't need one, she's on birth control. She likes it raw, likes to get filled up"
"Fuck" Nat groans, "I'm really going to enjoy this"
She lines herself up and slowly slides into Wanda, making them both let out sounds of pleasure. She enjoys the feeling of Wanda squeezing her so much that she's unable to stop herself and starts rutting into the brunette right away. You watch for a few minutes before you strip and make your way over to the bed
"Open up baby"
Despite her eyes already being hazy from the pleasure Nat was giving her she obeys and opens her mouth. As soon as you shove your dick in her face she wraps her lips around the tip and swirls her tongue around it
"Fuck, just like that" you moan, taking a fist full of her hair to help her take more of you
"She's so damn tight" Nat groans as her hips slam into Wandas
"God I know" you chuckle, "And her tongue is magical"
Wanda moans around you, enjoying the praise you were both giving her and she hollows out her cheeks as she suck you off. You start rutting your hips forward, fucking her face as she continues to suck. You know at the pace you and Nat are going that neither of you will last too much longer, but you also know that Wanda won't either
"Fuck….I'm close" the older woman mumbles
"Me too" you grit out
All it takes is a few more thrusts and both you and Natasha are falling over the edge. Wanda moans as her own orgasm washes over her, her walls clamp down and milk Natasha while she eagerly swallows around you.
"You did so well for us baby" you coo, stroking her hair as you pull your cock back out of her mouth
"Damn right she did" Nat praises, "Such a good girl for us"
Wanda blushes, "Thank you Tasha"
The redhead crawls into the bed and wraps her arms around Wanda before looking at you and reaching out, "Come on, it's cuddle time"
You smile at her softly and join them on the bed, "I'm glad you joined us Tasha"
A couple days ago, I made a post addressing Pixelberry/Series Entertainment's "It Lives Within." At the time, I wasn't aware of the story, I only knew that the name was the same. Since then, I saw many people accusing it of plagiarizing our game. I decided to look into it more, and after having watched all the episodes on YouTube, the claims of plagiarism unfortunately seem to be valid. As such, I'd like to further address this situation, and provide a list of stolen ideas and art with screenshot proofs and explanations.
A few years ago, I had a video call with one of the original writers for the It Lives Series. Though I knew nothing about their original plans for the game before starting this project (including that they also intended to name the game "It Lives Within"), he told me their plans on that call. It was going to be a survivor-type cave crawl story with giant bug-inspired and creepy crawler monster enemies, where you play as a new character who is attacked by these creatures while camping and separated from their friends. From my understanding, Connor and his crew would be sort of like the Sam and Dean from SPN, acting as these experienced "hunters" who help protect them.
That is not what the story of what Choices "It Lives Within" was. At all.
This means that the AI """writers""" at Series Entertainment/PB were not creating this story based on the original writers’ plans. They made their story idea later - after ILW was completed in its entirety. Therefore, it's reasonable to follow that unlike the title, these similarities are not coincidence. Though even then, the title It Lives Within had to do with the cave setting and going literally into the earth, while the AI version has nothing to do with caves. So the reasoning for the title is not the same as the reasoning for their original title.
With all this in mind, let’s go over the similarities between our game and the Choices It Lives Within AI show. I am going to be putting it beneath a read more, in case there are people who are interested in playing ILW and don’t want to get it spoiled.
Major things they stole:
Their villain, Silas, is Matthias. Literally, that's it. He's Matthias.
Silas is an immortal man who looks just like Matthias who's been alive for almost 200 years and was a member of the Westchester cult, where he knew Cora. He wants to sacrifice redfield Noah due to his connection to the Power (Rowan anyone) as part of a complicated ritual he's put together in order to... I'm not quite sure what, exactly, as the story was a bit hard to follow. He thinks he’s all manipulative and the main crew states that "He’s getting us to do his work for him!”
And then there's his appearance. That's the same hairstyle. He's the same age. Same race. Literally, just like Connor in their story is as recognizable AI-version of his in-game sprite, that's what this guy looks like. All he's missing is the beard.
The gang's base of operations is Cora’s cabin
This one is interesting. It's such a tiny detail, and I'd grown so used to the cabin being their safe place that when Connor was like "We need to get back to the cabin" it literally took me a moment to realize - wait. They had nothing to do with that cabin in the original series. Using that as a home base was literally our idea, an It Lives Within original.
The main enemies are mind controlled townspeople working for Silas
Instead of following the precedent of the previous games and having the enemies be Power-twisted animal monsters, they decided to make their enemies humans that are mind-controlled into zombie-like beings that attack the gang in hordes. There's even a scene where the gang is driving through them in their car. This is a rip-off of It Lives Within's horrors. And on top of that, they copied the carnival scene where Harper driving through the horde of horrors.
Noah and Devon's relationship
Their relationship in this '"TV show" has suspicious similarities to their friendship/romance routes in ILW. They made Devon be redfield Noah's anchor to reality, and even had Devon use memories to help ground Noah, which we showed in the cabin scene where Devon and Noah play baseball together. And I know there were Noah x Devon shippers outside of me before ILW released, but it was never PB's plan to canonize them. So the fact that they are seemingly changing course to canonize them after they grew so popular in the fan version feels a bit too coincidental.
Scraping fan art for their AI animation frames
But what's even more egregious is that they have even stooped to scraping from fan artists, who have nowhere near the same following or exposure as our project does. Seriously, what are the odds that the MC they choose to use matches this artist's MC's race, gender, hair, and outfit exactly, that they used Noah's old outfit, that they are literally positioned on the same sides of the image? It's blatant plagiarism, and it's despicable. @errajay I'm so sorry they did this.
These are the biggest similarities, but considering that it was only like 15 minutes of content, that means that a high percentage of the story was stolen. Sure, the exact details of "Silas's" plan are different (he's like a horcrux for the "entity" aka power and he was split into 43 parts and Noah's one of his parts and he needs to kill him to get it back and be free or something) it's the same concept: immortal man who's trapped making a complicated ritual requiring sacrifice while manipulating people to get everything into place.
If you want to see for yourselves, please find it on YouTube. Do not support them with clicks or traffic on their app. Thank you! Oh, and just in case anyone was wondering, no AI was used in the drafting of this post 💖
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