The manor crowned the snow-laden hill like a relic from a half-forgotten fairy tale—tall gothic spires clawing at the iron-gray sky, walls of weathered Sokovian stone blackened by centuries of rain and war. Frozen ivy clung to the masonry in brittle, crystalline veins. A faint scarlet haze shimmered around the entire estate, pulsing gently like a living heartbeat, distorting the falling snow into slow, swirling patterns before it could touch the grounds.
Inside, the air was different, something warm and savory. Vast halls stretched in a manner that the ceilings of the place deemed irritatinglu high. Every room seemed to breathe: massive stone fireplaces lit with fire, distributing the heat to every inches of the room, casting golden shadows across threadbare Persian rugs and dark wood paneling scarred by generations. The scent of burning pine mingled with old leather, candle wax, and something faintly metallic—the unmistakable tang of chaos magic woven into the very mortar. Once owned by Erik Lensharr, now this manor belonged to His daughter.
The kitchens were a rustic heart—long oak tables pitted and stained from centuries of feasts, copper pots and iron pans hanging from blackened beams like wind chimes. A huge iron stove was dominated on one wall. Wanda's touch was everywhere: jars of preserved fruit on the shelves, properly cleaned floor, the curtains and rugs are cleared of dust too; most likely the effect of her magic. There was a big potrait of her family lines up on the front wall, the only memory she savored everyday. Her days followed a solitary, almost monastic rhythm born of necessity.
At dawn, she walked the perimeter alone with her red wool jacket pulled tight against the biting wind and her boots crunching through fresh snow. Her hands glowed faintly scarlet as she traced new sigils along the wards—lines of power that flared and settled, strengthening the barrier. Ferals tried to enter the manor, but killed with the power Wanda drawing consisting the pulse of life inside. When they came too close, Wanda did not hesitate: crimson tendrils erupted from the frozen earth like living vines, wrapping throats and limbs, crushing them with monstrous power. Or a casual flick of her wrist sent hex bolts streaking—silent bursts of red energy that tore bodies apart mid-leap, scattering frozen chunks across the white fields. She returned to the manor without expression, snow melting from her lashes, hands steady but eyes distant.
Evenings belonged to the tower room at the manor's highest point—a circular chamber lined with cracked mirrors and shelves of ancient tomes bound in strange leathers. There she performed her rituals: chalk circles drawn and erased a hundred times, candles that burned with scarlet flames, chants in old Sokovian that echoed off stone. She tried everything—scrying for lost souls, unraveling the virus's code thread by thread, reaching across realities for echoes of Vision, for the laughter of boys who had never truly existed. Illusions flickered to life: a synthetic man smiling at her, small hands tugging her sleeve. For a moment hope flared. Then the magic faltered, the images dissolved into swirling red mist, and the silence rushed back in heavier than before.
A year earlier, that silence had driven her from Utah.
She had spent months in a buried Stark satellite lab beneath the red desert—sterile corridors, humming servers, the constant smell of coolant and coffee. Jennifer Walters and Natasha Irons were there, brilliant and relentless, chasing theories on gamma mutation stability and potential viral immunity. Long nights blurred into debates over whiteboards, shared meals of terrible cafeteria food, moments of laughter that felt almost normal. But disagreements festered: Jennifer's ethical caution clashing with Wanda's willingness to bend reality for answers, Natasha Irons growing frustrated with endless dead ends and redacted files. And beneath it all, boredom—a soul-crushing stagnation as the world outside crumbled and their work yielded nothing but questions.
One dawn Wanda simply left. No note, no goodbye. She decided to come back to her manor—back across oceans and ruined borders to this ancestral manor in the hills of what was once Sokovia. Here, at least, the grief felt honest. Here, the magic felt like home. For the upcoming days, as long as she didn't changed to feral, she will live here. Potentially to relieve her memories from back of the days.
Now the manor was both sanctuary and prison—beautiful, vast, empty. Sustained by power that grew harder to wield each day, haunted by rituals that changed nothing.
Until the night...
Until the night she was able to communicate with Natasha. She told her about a gift, maybe defining the future. 2 days later, a battered pickup breached the wards, carrying two desperate souls and shattering the solitude she had both craved and feared.
Sam did not heal quickly.
The claw wounds were fatal — deep, ragged gashes across his chest, shoulders, and arms amplifying the blood loss— turned into edges swelling hot and tender. A low fever settled in like an unwelcome guest, rising and falling in waves that left him drenched in sweat one moment and shivering the next. For five long days he hovered in a fragile limbo, consciousness flickering like a candle in wind — murmuring fragments of his past memories, over and over.
Natasha and Wanda took shifts at his bedside in the east wing guest room — a spacious chamber with high ceilings, heavy velvet curtains drawn against the gray winter light, and a stone fireplace that Wanda kept roaring with conjured logs. The bed was wide and soft, sheets warmed by magic, Sam thrashed restlessly beneath them, delved deeper to his fever.
On the first night, as they carried him inside and laid him on the bed, Wanda had frozen in the doorway, hands still shaking faintly from the cold as well as the sudden discovery.
"There's… a man?" Her voice cracked, eyes wide with raw disbelief and something close to fear. "How is he still… alive?"
Natasha didn't pause, already cutting away his blood-soaked shirt with a knife, exposing the torn flesh beneath.
"Later," she said, voice steady but edged with urgency. "Wanda, First we have to save him.. "
Wanda swallowed hard, the scarlet glow fading from her fingers as she stepped forward. She helped without another word — fetching boiled water, clean linens, herbs from her stores. Her chaos magic pulsed gently over the wounds, thin crimson threads drawing out infection like poison from a bite, easing the worst of the pain. But even her power had limits; flesh could only mend so fast.
The days blurred into a quiet, tense rhythm.
Natasha sat vigil through the nights, bathing his forehead with cool cloths, spooning warm broth between his cracked lips when he surfaced enough to swallow.
Wanda took the days, sitting silently in the armchair by the window, red energy weaving soothing patterns over his skin.
They spoke little to each other at first — but slowly Sam was able to converse with Wanda as time passes. Grief hung heavy in the room, but so did something new: purpose.
On the fifth night, the fever finally broke.
Sam opened his eyes to firelight dancing on stone walls, the scent of pine smoke and clean sheets. Natasha dozed in the chair beside the bed, head tipped forward, red hair spilling loose. Wanda stood at the window, watching snow fall in thick silence.
His voice was a rough whisper. He looked at Natasha, said "Natasha..."
Both women turned instantly.
Natasha was checking his eyes, hand pressing gently to his forehead.
"Sam, How are you?" Relief flooded her face, eyes bright with unshed tears. "Finally, I think the fever is gone."
Wanda approached slowly, almost shy, hands clasped in front of her.
"Sam, we are relieved now that you are well.." she said softly. "You are safe here."
Sam stared, but no recognition dawning through the haze. "Where am I?"
"Its my House. It's been 6 days now that Natasha carried you with all the scratches.."
Sam listened, but then quieter, fear creeping in: "SCRATCHES!!!", He checked himself again, but his bruises were about to be healed.
In disbelief, he said, "I thought… the scratches. I should've turned by now."
Natasha took his hand, squeezed firmly.
"You didn't. You're still you." She leaned closer, "It's going to be okay."
He closed his eyes, tears slipping free down his temples.
"Thank you for saving me," he whispered.
"Not me, Me and Wanda.." Natasha said, kissing his knuckles tenderly.
It took about 3 days more to Sam being clear-headed. His throat was still dry, body felt heavy, but he felt good after so many days. It was early night, as He was sitting on the chair, looking at his arms as the scars were recovered. The fire had burned low, casting soft gold across the room.
Natasha entered into the room to check on him, saw Sam was sitting near the fire. "Sam, still checking the wounds?"
Sam shifted towards her, saw Natasha in a black nightrobe, her red hair loosen in her shoulder.
"Nothing, I just thinking how my arms healed, and why I am not turned."
"Dont think too much Sam, we can find out the cause." she whispered, relief rough in her voice, although, inside she also thinking about the possible reason. She climbed onto his lap without hesitation, careful of the bandages but close enough that her warmth pressed against his side.
"You know.., after a long time, I was panicked that someone will die.", her hand caressing Sam's chest. "Don't do it again, ok? You have to survive."
"I have never been this close to someone, I thought I will die without knowing about you...", Sam said as he looked in her eyes.
She kissed him — slow at first, lips brushing, tasting, then deeper, mouths opening, tongues sliding together in a way that made his pulse kick hard. Five days of fear and waiting poured into it.
Hands moved with quiet urgency. Natasha tugged his shirt up and off, fingers tracing the recovered pink scars across his chest, kissing each one softly. His hands were circling on Natasha's back, She pulled his hand from her back to her thighs, his hands brushing slow circles until she sighed against his mouth.
"Thank you, Natasha. I will promise I will take caution from next time." Sam flushed with this kiss. Natasha smiled, said, "Good boy. Now, come with me, your prize is still due."
She stood up, pull Sam by his hand and took him to the bed.
Natasha did not wear anything under the robe, so when she loose her robe to reveal her naked body to Sam, he paused, "Natasha... Is it ok? I mean.."
"What is ok? Am I not beautiful to look to?"
"No, that's not... You are too beautiful.. but.."
"Shhh...", Natasha put a finger on his mouth. "Less talk, more work. For tonight, you will learn about me.. specially my body..."
She started kissing him, initially slow, then deep. Sam was going with the flow, as Natasha put his hands on her breast.
Sam started groping the breast, so firm and soft, he was thinking. He pulled out, then started licking the nipples slowly. Natasha moaned, "Mmhhh... So you know how to arouse a woman?"
Sam pull up, said, "I think it makes you feel good", still fondling her breast.
"Wow... that's... a good work.... Now it's my turn."
She leaned down, kissed him again, then reached between his legs. She pulled down his drawers, Her fingers wrapped around his cock — already hard, throbbing in her grip.
"Wow.. look at this! Sam.. you got a beast..", Natasha smiled.
Sam was still laying on the bed, feeling the warmth came from Natasha's voice.
She stroked once, twice, then started with a rhythm.
But Sam did not get hold of it, and after a couple of strokes, he released early.
Natasha licked the cum from her hand, saw Sam was still hard.
"Sorry Natasha,.. I don't mean to.."
"Dont worry, dear. But it's good that you Still has energy.", Natasha smiled.
"Yes.. Because It's you...", Sam smiled slowly, as Natasha drop her head down on his cock, started sucking it. Her deligate lips kept Sam ajar, as he hold her head with his hands, slowly started moaning.
This time, Sam stood out for few minutes of oral ravishing, but released a big load on her mouth.
Natasha pull up her head, licking her lips, said, "Ummm... It's a bit salty, but it's good."
Sam pull his body on the bed, his eyes were closed, his stamina was now too much low, but his cock was still erect.
Natasha saw him, slowly climb upon him. She rose up on her knees, positioned him at her entrance, and sank down — inch by inch — eyes locked on his cock. She was wet, hot, taking him in a long, deliberate glide until he was buried completely.
Natasha began her journey to take away Sam's first time, as They both exhaled shakily at the feeling. Sam slowly pinching Natasha's nipples, as She started moaning.
"Dont... release.... untill I said... so", Natasha told Sam as Sam tried to focus, but the steady and heavy rhythm made him mad.
Slow rolls of her hips at first — lifting just enough to slide halfway up his length, then sinking back down, grinding her clit against him on every downstroke. Sam's hands gripped her waist, guiding but letting her set the pace. Her breasts swayed with each motion; he cupped them again, thumbs teasing nipples until she bit her lip and moved faster. Natasha leaned forward, hands braced on his chest, riding him deeper — long strokes that dragged the head of his cock against her front wall on every thrust. The wet sounds of their bodies filled the quiet room, mingling with their breathing. His thumb found her clit, circling firm and slow. Natasha's head fell back, hair spilling down her spine as she rode him harder, chasing the building pressure.
Close now, she leaned forward again, mouth finding his in a messy, open kiss. Her thrusts grew shorter, faster, grinding desperately.
"Now you can," she gasped against his lips.
Sam's hips snapped up one last time, burying himself deep. Natasha cried out softly — a low, broken sound — as she too released, her walls fluttering and clenching around him in long waves. The feeling dragged him over; he groaned, pulsing hot inside her, hips jerking through every spill.
They stayed locked together, breathing hard, sweat cooling on their skin. Natasha collapsed gently onto his chest, Sam's hands still on Natasha's hips.
"Natasha, are you okay?", Sam asked slowly.
Natasha laughed quietly, still laying down on his chest. "I feel weak."
"Me too. Still Can't believe you are my first..."
She smiled against his mouth. "Good. Because we're doing that again as soon as you're stronger."
Natasha pull up the sheet over them, as Sam started sucking the nipples again. They fell asleep still joined, as the firelight fading to embers, the manor again gone silent around them.
For the first time in months, the night felt safe for Sam.
The door was now closed, as Wanda slowly walking away from the room. She had gone to Sam's room to check his condition, but saw it differently.
As she walking, a smile also came up in her lips, Can it be possible? Let's hold it for the future, as she thinking.