CAKE | wanda maximoff
the role you made me play of the fool, how you laugh when you lie, i got a list of names and yours is in red underlined. oh, look what you made me do. i do not give permission for my work to be copied or translated on other sites. plagiarism is a crime!! → warnings: killing, blood, cheating, cannibalism, crazy as fuck reader. read at your own risk. main m. list || whispers of heartache m. list
Tomorrow is Wanda’s birthday.
And today, I found out she’s having an affair with my sister.
Not rumors.
Not messages.
Not suspicions.
I walked into our bedroom and saw them — naked, tangled, moaning like nothing in the world existed except their filthy little secret. In our bed. The bed I bought. The bed where she used to whisper that she loved me.
My blood went cold. My hands trembled. Wanda noticed me first, her eyes widening, her lips still swollen from kissing my sister.
She covered my sister’s body with the blanket as if she were protecting something precious.
Protecting her.
Not me.
I laughed. I don’t even know why. Maybe because it finally made sense — why she’d been distant, cold, avoiding my touch.
Why she flinched when I said “I love you.”
“Y/N,” she breathed, voice shaky. “I—I can explain.”
“No need,” I replied. “I get it.”
Later, she broke up with me. Said she didn’t love me anymore. Said she was in love with my sister.
𖤇──────⊹⊱✫⊰⊹──────𖤇
The scent of synthetic frosting and expensive perfume was a cruel mockery of what today marked: Wanda's birthday. The betrayal was still a raw, jagged wound — a scene seared into my memory, witnessed in the unforgivable intimacy of our own bed. Fury had been a hot, blinding flash, but the breakup that followed was a slow, deliberate twist of the knife.
“I don't love you anymore. I'm in love with your sister.”
In love your face, asshole. The words were a bitter mantra.
Despite the wreckage, a perverse logic took hold. We had loved each other. The habit of devotion, the ache of loss — they didn't vanish overnight. I decided I would still attend. I would play my part.
Pathetic, right?
I arrived at the party, a polished veneer of civility masking the ice in my veins. Wanda spotted me immediately, the moment she saw me, her face lit up like I was the only person she wanted to see. Her eyes widening with a flicker of something close to relief, or maybe guilt.
“Thank you for coming, Y/N. I know we're not on good terms right now, but I'm truly happy that you're here,” she said, her voice genuinely soft.
“It's no problem,” I replied, the practiced smile feeling strange on my face. “I can put aside our problems for now. Just enjoy your party.”
She reached out as if she wanted to touch my arm, but she stopped herself.
Good girl.
Tony, bless his oblivious heart, joined us shortly after. “Hi, ladies!”
“Hey, Tony,” Wanda smiled.
“Enjoying your party?”
“Yes, thank you for this.”
“No worries, I’ll leave you two alone,” he said before excusing himself, walking toward the other guests, leaving a pleasant space of noise and light around us.
“So, I saw you holding something when you got here,” Wanda prompted, her curiosity peaking. “What is it?”
My lips curled.
A genuine, chilling smile stretched across my lips. “Oh, yes. I almost forgot.”
I pulled the small, heavy box from my bag and placed it carefully in front of her.
“Oh my god, you didn't have to!” she gasped, already reaching for it.
“Nah, it's fine,” I said, my innocent look flawless.
She opened the box and gasped again, recognizing the distinctive, deep color and dense crumb of the Waldorf-Astoria Red Velvet Cake.
Her absolute favorite.
“So... you like it?"” I asked.
“Like it? I love it!” she happily replied, already in bliss.
I hummed, retrieved a small fork, and passed it to her. “Go on, it's all yours.”
She mouthed a silent thank you and took her first bite, her eyes closing in bliss.
She moaned softly.
My stomach fluttered.
Of course she loves it.
Her expression softening into pure enjoyment. “Where did you buy this? I love the taste of it, it's so good!”
I didn't answer, instead watching her closely, savoring the moment of her happiness.
Then, the party atmosphere dissolved as a sense of cold dread entered my periphery. I looked past Wanda and saw my parents approaching, their faces etched with deep, unmistakable worry.
“What's wrong?” I quietly asked, my voice flat.
My mother's eyes were wide, darting nervously around the room. “Where is your sister? Have you seen her?”
I shrugged nonchalantly, forcing a casual lack of concern. “No, why?”
“We haven't seen her since last night,” Dad said, his hand rubbing Mom's back in a futile attempt at comfort.
“She probably just enjoying her life out there,” I dismissed it with a wave.
I turned back to Wanda as my parents walked away, presumably to continue their search, their distress a dull, distant hum.
I smiled, seeing Wanda so wonderfully engaged with the cake, her cheeks full, lipstick smudged, happily devouring the cake, which was now almost finished. I looked down at the dark, rich red velvet, and the memory returned — not as a flash of anger, but as a detailed, step-by-step account of meticulously planned closure.
FLASHBACK
I sent the text, knowing how easily my sister would fall into the trap of false intimacy.
Y/N: hey, sister. I might hate you right now but do you mind helping me bake a cake for wanda?
Y/S/N: no, not at all. where are you?
Y/N: I'll send you my location, I'll wait for you, be quick.
Y/S/N: okay, see you!
I stood inside my private workshop. The location was the old, unused cabin property far upstate. Remote, and currently uninhabited. The walls were lined with soundproofing foam. The floor was concrete. Sterile. Easy to clean.
No neighbors.
No cameras.
No witnesses.
It was perfect. I put the phone away and waited, the patience of a predator settling into my bones.
When she arrived, she looked tentative, burdened by guilt, which was exactly what I needed. “Hey, so uhm, shall we start?” she asked awkwardly.
“We shall,” I replied, my half-smile carefully calibrated to suggest vulnerability and forgiveness.
We walked inside. Before following her deeper into the structure, I paused, glancing deliberately around the desolate acreage. I closed the door with a precise, final click.
“So, this place is yours?” she asked, attempting small talk, hoping to erase the tension.
“Yes. I love it,” I hummed, walking past the kitchen area and deeper into the main room.
“I love it too, the atmosphere is so nice. It feels... private.” she continued, attempting to keep the conversation light. “How about you?”
I stopped and turned, letting the innocent smile drop away entirely. I paused for a slow, terrifying second, letting my eyes rake over her face. “What I love here is when you scream for help, no one will hear you.”
She froze.
“Oh…”
I laughed, still smiling.
“Wanna try?”
“What?”
“Try screaming,” I repeated.
Her forced composure cracked instantly. “W-What? Y/N, stop joking around! You're scaring me.”
“And who said I'm joking? Try screaming now, darling. Because that might be the last time.”
The air seized. I produced the long, shining knife, its blade reflecting the dim cabin light. Her face crumpled into fear and drained of its color.
“Y/N, stop, please! I'm sorry, okay? Please, don’t do this — I’m your sister!” Tears flowed freely now.
“My sister?” I scoffed. “How ironic. Did you even think of that when you decided to fuck my girlfriend in our bed?” My voice was low, lethal, yet calm.
I felt the pure, cold thrill of justified rage.
“Please, please... I-If you want, I'll avoid her. I—I’ll stop seeing her and t-tell her to be w-with you again!” she begged, trying desperately to trade her life for a worthless promise.
“Oh, sweetheart,” I whispered, brushing her cheek with the cold blade. I let out a short, hollow laugh. "Really? You think you can un-betray me? Nah. This is way more fun, don't you think?"
I moved closer, deliberately slowing my actions, making the terror last. I reached out, not with the blade, but with the flat of the steel, dragging it slowly down the front of her shirt, watching her breath hitch and her eyes water with unbearable dread.
I pressed the tip against her stomach.
She whimpered.
“You're a great begger, now I see why she fell in love with you,” I mocked, withdrawing the knife only to plunge it, with cold precision, into her abdomen.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
The knife sank into her flesh, her skin tearing like wet paper. Warm blood spilled over my hand.
A raw, ragged scream tore from her throat. A beautiful, raw sound, swallowed instantly by the heavy insulation of the cabin walls.
I twisted the blade.
Her knees buckled, but I held her upright, watching her eyes fill with agony and betrayal.
“You took something from me,” I whispered. “So I’m taking something from you.”
I pulled the now-stained blade out, watching her collapse, clutching at the wound, whimpering pleas.
I didn't stop.
I stabbed, again and again and again, with a practiced, methodical rhythm, the sound of the blade meeting flesh, bone, and wood the only music in the room.
Her blood sprayed across my face, warm and metallic. The floor became slick with it. Her breathing turned wet and gurgling.
I felt nothing but the final, satisfying release of pressure when she finally went still, her eyes vacant, the silence complete.
I let her body fall.
“God, you're no fun,” I whispered, disappointed by the lack of challenge, by the sudden emptiness of the scene.
But I wasn’t done.
“Whatever. Let's just hope you taste good in red velvet.”
I dragged her to the stainless steel table.
Her skin was pale, lips blue, eyes glassy.
“I hope you taste as sweet as she thinks you are,” I muttered.
I cleaned my knife, humming softly.
Then I began carving. I began the grueling, necessary task, the knife now taking on a new, utilitarian purpose.
Removing muscle. Fat. Bone.
Separating flesh like a butcher preparing fine meat.
Every cut was a final act of erasure, ensuring that the red velvet was the only true star of Wanda's birthday.
The smell of iron and raw meat filled the room, but I had grown used to it.
I marinated the chosen cuts with cocoa, sugar, vanilla.
Ground them into batter.
Mixed them with red coloring and cream cheese frosting.
Baked them into a perfect mini cake.
A labor of love.
A gift.
A punishment.
A masterpiece.
When I finally placed the finished cake into the box, I kissed the lid.
“Happy birthday, Wanda.”
𖤇──────⊹⊱✫⊰⊹──────𖤇
“That was like the best cake ever!” Wanda exclaimed, licking frosting from her finger, snapping me out of the vivid reconstruction.
“I'm glad that it tastes good,” I replied, taking a casual sip of water to hide the tremor in my hand and the genuine, satisfied smirk that threatened to break through my smile.
“I love it, thank you,” she finished, leaning back, blissfully unaware.
I raised my glass to my lips, pretending to drink.
I watched her swallow another bite.
Another piece of the woman she claimed to love.
I leaned back, satisfaction spreading through me.
I'm sure you really love it, Wanda. I thought, looking at the remnants of the red velvet and the faint, sweet trace on her lips. you’re eating the person you left me for. And you don’t even know it.
The perfect cake, the perfect revenge.
i should be in a psych ward or something. i'm actually really insane, it just doesn't look like it.
note: my request for unwritten fics on whispers of heartache are open! please note that it was inspired by the songs hence the titles, make sure it's connected!
