OLD DRAFT CONCEPT : " GUARD DOG "
—- not my gif, credit to original poster! -—
Wanda Maximoff x Werewolf! GN/Female/Male Reader (x slight Natasha Romanoff)
A/N — Here's a little bedtime story for ya'll. Old draft concept for an upcoming and looong oneshot for Wanda in a mafia au setting. Bits and pieces may be recognised in the published column plot wise but overall, we're taking an alternate route, my babbies.
WORD COUNT — 2.2k
READER DISCRETION — Alcohol consumption — mafia business and semi dark themes — profanity — mention of death and murder — mention of black market and auction — reader and Nat have some history — player reader Tony is so proud — Alexander Pierce is of course an arsehole, what else is new? — Rumlow is a bad guy (duh) — I think that's it?
An expensive investment. A broad term to use for a werewolf broken in by the system at a young age. But it’s true.
Alexander Pierce, the finance manager and ringleader as a whole, did all he could to break you in, and to say he did is an understatement. He exceeded the limits you once believed you had and once you were ready, he put you out in the field to garner your reputation.
You had no limits. Ruthless in your endeavour to complete whatever task was required of you, prepared to do whatever it took, your peers could only look at you with both fear and admiration.
When all was said and done, you were given your collar, then sold through the underground hub for criminals: the black market.
That’s when you learnt in the span of the few minutes that the auction lasted for, that you were either a trophy to those of the higher class of crime, or a very wanted source of security and war. From black funding operators that had their hand in the military’s pit on the hunt for a war hound, to the gangster overlords who controlled territories in the differing states and countries, requiring some form of high end security, there was a very rapid increase in the price they were each willing to pay.
At a total of twenty-five million, your collar and services were sold to Mr. Tony Stark. From the sleek fit of a light grey, three piece suit and bright pink tie, Stark had a brighter outlook on the window of his underhand activities. He was the type that lounged back in the severity of his criminal dealings.
Unlike his fellow company who each wore darker palette suits of either navy blue or jet black. He stood out for sure as his auburn tinted glasses did little to hide the one question on his mind: Was his money well spent?
Well, to say at the very least, you wouldn’t be here tonight if you weren’t every single cent he spent on you three years ago.
Thinking about the memory now, this is a different tone entirely. Dark and neon is how you remember the black market scene, stalls and cube stores with an assortment of supplies anyone in the business would need, whether that be for the amateurs - which were the usual target customers - or the smaller businesses which belonged to small cluster gangs.
The big time runners had designated storehouses to spare where they obtained their supplies, and ran other dealings and hand-offs in and out of private rooms in the clubs.
Here, the scene is warm, lavish and made for those who seek the comfort in living in marble halls and pristine white pillars, short cut grass and elaborate parties such as this one.
“Shit, this party is awfully chipper for someone who died last week,” you huff, eyes scanning the crowd from the smooth, darkly polished bar, which you incidentally found very comfortable to lean back on when told for the hundredth time, “Just sit tight, just a little bit longer.”
You didn’t have the time nor patience to sit around getting older by the damn minute. Thankfully, Tony put his card behind the bar so that meant an endless river of drinks. Because you needed the alcohol. A lot.
Not a moment too late is your glass refilled with your refreshment.
“Please, Y/N,” sighs Steve from your right side, arms folded over his chest, navy blue suit straining just a bit too tightly against his body, “have some respect for the Maximoff family. They lost their only male heir to a deal gone wrong. They need our support.”
Your shoulders rise with a particular deep inhale before falling lax, you swirl the sliver of whiskey left in your glass and with a jerk of your wrist you finish it. Ice rattles in your glass as you shimmy it, indicating you need a refill and pronto.
“People live, people die. You cross someone and you get shot in the back. It happens.”
“He was gunned down in the streets with a fucking machine gun, Y/N. You consider that a mere oopsie?”
You shrug in response to Sam’s question with a pout of your bottom lip. “Pietro thought he was the shit. That’s what got him killed by Rumlow.”
Sam runs a hand over his face, now distressed by the lack of sincerity you show for the grieving family. “For fuck sake…”
In the three years of your loyal work to the Stark family and those of his brotherhood - his allies - your colours shone through immensely to reveal a shining personality. Excluding the fact you’d become something of a playful rogue with the women.
You simply chalk it up to your animal magnetism. Something that leaves them wanting more whenever in the presence of your company.
In fact, that was how Tony came to own unclaimed establishments and clubs in the boroughs, ones he wasn’t able to get his hands on before, but after he had you as a playable card in his fold, you provided club goers the relief of being harassed and drinks being spiked. Territorial take over schemes from rival gangs were second guessed when they saw you watching over the joint.
The after hour visits for your libido were just the perks. But you left a lot of lustful and broken little hearts in the wake of your work.
For a werewolf, you were always assumed to be a means of security, and that much was true. Didn’t mean it excluded you from taking on other odd jobs for the families from time to time. Debt collection, assassinations, tailing and blackmail ops, the list is endless.
When Steve casts a hardened stare your way and you mockingly raise your hands up in surrender. “Alright, I’ll offer my condolences to the heiress, but I ain’t weeping at her feet for her brother who got himself into that mess because he thought he was too big for his own shoes.”
“Just behave yourself, alright? The last thing we need is the entirety of Europe at war with us.” You roll your eyes and salute the captain. “Yessir.”
You bring the glass rim to your lips and draw a small gulpful of your refurbished liquor, the fiery taste rolls over your tongue, you savour it to keep your sanity intact lest you go insane from the waiting. Where was the heiress?
“Well, well, I thought I wouldn’t see any of you again. Especially you.” Your head, as well as those of your group, direct their gaze to the new voice. The corners of your lips twitch up and you flash her a wolfish grin, chin tilting up slightly in your relaxed position against the bar. You looked like a cat happily laying in the sun.
“Miss Romanoff,” each of the men greeted with a nod of their heads. You, however, pat your thigh as an invitation for her to sit. “I had work to do the next morning.”
“Mm, that’s what you tell the other girls, I’m sure.” You clap a hand to your chest with a wince. “You wound me, Sweetheart. If I had the chance, I would have stayed.”
She hums but it’s obvious she doesn’t believe you by the rise in her brow.
Natasha Romamoff is a hard fish to catch. One of the more established families that control practically the entirety of Europe, alongside the Maximoff family, the two were partners and crafting an empire strong enough to stand on their own without any dire need for support.
Yes, her family had prior dealings with the brotherhood. The Starks, Wilsons, Barnes and Rogers and more, whether to collaborate on a bigger criminal project to the smaller portioned deals. Smuggled goods and weapons, blackmail intel deliverance, international bribery to keep the feds off your backs. But she never committed to joining forces.
You suppose it’s a good power move on her part. She doesn’t have to abide by any of the family creeds, in the end, you’re all loose ends that may potentially be severed if need be. She had the ball in her court and the mysterious Maximoff heiress.
Even your animal magnetism wasn’t enough to charm her into joining forces with Stark and his powerhouse of families, but they were surely enough to charm her into a wild one night stand.
But as you told her. You had work to do. And now she appears to spurn you with her eyes and cruel words, but still entertains your flirtatious advances and indulges the empty space of your thigh.
For a well respected mob boss such as herself, she definitely liked to play it risky; dressing included.
Last you saw her, she was dressed in a more professional manner. But here at this funeral party, whatever the fuck it was, she chose to wear a black, spaghetti strap cocktail dress that’s short enough to be skimming the mid of her thigh. The slit riding the dress up higher is just plain dangerous.
She’s facing you, back arched and ass resting on the cliff of your knee. Your clawed hand supports her at the small of her back. Her perfume is strong and complimenting, the sweet bouquet of lavender rolls over the exposed tops of her breasts from her even more exposed neck. Her plump, red lips move in a way that’s hypnotic. “So I hear you’re going to be a bargaining chip for Wanda Maximoff.”
“Where’d you hear that?” you scoff with a flick of your chin.
“I have spies who whisper to me,” she answers with a swift quirk of her brow.
Of course she overheard the news. She then chuckles softly, and all eyes watch her with a level of suspicion. “She won’t take any deal you offer her. She’s determined to steer clear of your little gang wars over in the states.”
“Rumlow killed her brother and he has bases around our territories. Wouldn’t she appreciate the extra hands in catching the rat?” Bucky poses the question with a dark brow angled high and clenched jaw, the muscles in his cheeks flex harder when Natasha offers no affirmative response; a mark to hopefully land you in the door and good graces with the heiress.
“You really think she wants a guard dog?”
“Hey,” you growl with a wrinkle of your nose, fangs on the precipice of baring at her. How she used the term in a condescending manner made the fur beneath your skin bristle. Sam claps a hand to your shoulder, somehow able to sense the seething anger within you.
“We just want to help. Offer support for her loss and bring Rumlow down.”
“No. You want a foothold in Europe. And I’m sorry but…” She looks you up and down, drinking in the sight of you and you know she can see you without your clothes on. “You’re not going to cut it, babe.”
She turns her body to make her getaway but you don’t let her slip away just like that. She gasps and looks to you with a furrowed glare when your arm circles her waist and tugs her back until she’s flush against you, the men in your company watch with trepidation of your next course of action.
“I will cut it because whether she wants to admit it or not, she needs us.”
Natasha’s eyes, true to her fashion, darken with a challenge. “You’re wasting your time. She’ll get Rumlow herself.”
“And if Rumlow plans to get her first?” For a moment you see the doubt cross her face. “That’s where she needs me.”
“Tony Stark.” Each of the men turn to the voice behind them and their once cool and collected selves turn rigid, nervous under the power one woman can hold so absolute, her green eyes scan each of their faces before they land on you.
You finally look and meet her stare, still holding Natasha against you even as she tries to push away from you.
“Unhand her,” the woman commands with an accented tongue.
At first, you wanted nothing more than to play this out a little, see what makes this woman tick. But both Tony and Steve look at you, silent in their order, you sigh heavily and release Natasha. Once you do, she wastes no time in joining Wanda’s side with a bow of her head.
“I hear that you wished to have an audience with me.”
Wanda is the sole survivor of this ordeal. Her parents were assassinated two years ago and now her brother was killed. This is the stressed matter at hand, her empire could crumble to the ground, all that hard work put into the grave, because she’s being so fucking stubborn with this deal.
“I will not sign my family, nor any of my shares, to Stark Industries. Enough have I done to keep you out of the hands of law enforcement. I will handle Rumlow myself.”
This isn’t how any of you hoped this would go. The grief has made her stronger than before. It wasn’t exactly you were waiting for the chance for her to have a weak spot and try your luck, but you all had thought she might even be at least a little desperate for extra help.
Natasha’s face says it all: I told you so. You can only roll your eyes and resume with what you’re doing.
“Miss Maximoff, we only wish to help you. All we ask in return is that you grant us some territory to work with for our trade deals as payment for support lent to you to catch Rumlow.”
Thank you for Reading! (◕ ᴥ x)
TREEHOUSE TAGLIST — (Even though I doubt this is worth putting the taglist on, here it is anyway)
@alexawynters