Las Vegas – The Bellagio's Sketchy Cousin, Run by the Italian Mafia (and Possibly Haunted)
The outside of the casino looked like someone gave a toddler a glitter bomb, a copy of Goodfellas, and a bunch of glue, then told them to design a building. Neon signs screamed in every color known to man (and a few probably known only to aliens), the valet moved like he was on fast-forward, and the fountain out front proudly spewed water from what was either a gold-plated meatball or a very tacky tribute to spaghetti.
Harry adjusted his tie in the side mirror of a bullet-riddled black convertible that looked like it had driven through a Tarantino movie and survived. Barely.
"So, let me get this straight," he said, squinting at his reflection. "We go in. Cause a scene. And don't get arrested?"
Natasha Romanoff, who looked like sin in a red dress that probably required a license to wear, gave him a slow smirk. "That's the idea."
Harry looked her up and down, cocking an eyebrow. "You're gonna cause a scene just by walking in. I feel like I need an inhaler already."
She gave him a look that could melt titanium. "Flattery will get you everywhere, Potter."
"Wasn't flattery. It was a medical observation."
Clint Barton, leaning against the car wearing sunglasses indoors like a rock star who also moonlighted as a dad, slurped his soda through a bendy straw.
"I call dibs on flipping the roulette table," he said. "That thing owes me money from three years ago."
"Roulette tables can't owe you money," Bucky said, deadpan, cracking his knuckles like he was warming up for a cage match.
"They can," Clint said. "If you believe hard enough."
Bucky looked at Natasha. "Do I get to punch anyone? Or is this another one of those 'blend in' missions where I have to smile?"
Nat gave him a motherly pat on the shoulder. "You get to punch so many people, Buck."
That actually made him smile. Terrifyingly.
They walked into the casino like Ocean's Eleven if all the main characters had unresolved trauma and sarcasm issues. The carpet was so red it looked like it had committed murder, chandeliers glittered overhead like drunk stars, and the air smelled like smoke, desperation, and expensive cologne trying way too hard.
Harry's tux shimmered faintly, thanks to a magical glamor spell Lily had insisted on sewing into the fabric. His green eyes flicked gold for a second. Just long enough to make a cocktail waitress drop her tray.
"Alright, team," Harry muttered. "Time to be distracting. In the loudest, most ridiculous way possible."
Meanwhile – The Surveillance Van
Alastor Moody sat hunched over the grainy surveillance screens like a warlock staring into the abyss. Except the abyss was Vegas security cams, and it owed him less money.
"The one in the red dress just tripped a silent alarm," he growled. "They're tagging us faster than I can say 'constant vigilance.'"
Steve Rogers—yes, that Steve Rogers, America's Golden Retriever—was eating popcorn like he was watching a Marvel movie about himself.
"Weirdly chill for a guy named Mad-Eye," he said.
"I'm always chill," Moody replied, glaring at the screen. "That's why I haven't spontaneously combusted. Yet."
Steve leaned into the mic. "Team One, you've got eyes on you. Make it loud. Make it count."
Back Inside – Where Chaos Had RSVP'd
Harry slid up to the blackjack table like he owned the place. He gave the dealer his best 'I'm charming and also maybe dangerous' smile.
"Hi, I'm Harry. I'd like to lose an absurd amount of money while looking extremely cool."
The dealer blinked. "Sir, this table is for high rollers—"
Natasha threw down a stack of chips like it was an Olympic sport. "We're here to contribute to the local economy."
The pit boss glanced over—and immediately paled. Because Clint Barton had just somersaulted onto the lounge stage and grabbed the mic like a caffeinated karaoke god.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN," Clint boomed, "WHO'S READY FOR TONIGHT'S BINGO-BRAWL BONANZA?!"
An elderly man in the crowd fist-pumped.
Harry subtly waved his hand. Three slot machines nearby exploded in a glittery shower of coins and confetti. A voice screamed "JACKPOT!" loud enough to restart a stopped heart.
Bucky leapt over a craps table like an Olympic gymnast and body-checked two mobsters into a champagne fountain. He actually looked happy. It was unsettling.
"NOW it's a party," he said.
Meanwhile – Beneath the Chaos
Sirius Black—currently glamoured to resemble a sleazy Vegas magician called The Great Doglini—popped open the maintenance door with a wand flick and a grin that said I cause problems professionally.
"Peggy, darling," he whispered, "you're sure this is the right corridor?"
Peggy Carter, who managed to look like elegance incarnate even while holding a lockpick and a high-tech gadget Tony had definitely built during a manic Red Bull binge, nodded.
"This is the way," she said, tapping the screen. "According to Stark's very expensive toy, the vault is thirty meters ahead. Retinal scan. Pressure sensors. Possibly a guy named Luigi with a flamethrower."
"Actually," said a voice from the shadows, "his name's Salvatore. And he's asleep."
Tony Stark shimmered into view, stepping out of a wall panel like a sarcastic magician.
"Also, you're welcome," he added. "I neutralized the threat with an EMP and a well-placed bottle of imported wine."
"Did you turn into a fridge again?" Sirius asked.
"Microwave this time," Tony said. "With Bluetooth."
The vault loomed at the end of the corridor. Big. Titanium. Designed by someone who clearly had intimacy issues and too much access to lasers.
Tony slapped a Stark-brand cracker onto it.
"Five minutes until Clint gets tackled by a security guard with a handlebar mustache. We better be done before then."
Back Upstairs – Clown Fiesta Mode
Clint was shirtless. Again. Doing the Macarena on a roulette table while yelling "I AM THE NIGHT" in what might have been Spanish.
Harry threw a magical stink bomb into the security office with a cheerful "Whoops."
Natasha was yelling at Bucky in Russian while roundhouse-kicking a security guard with a martini glass still in hand.
"I think they bought it," Bucky said, casually suplexing a guy into a decorative plant.
Surveillance Van
Steve blinked at the screen. "Is Clint… strip-teasing?"
Moody didn't answer. He was too busy rewinding.
Vault – Jackpot Level
The vault hissed open. Inside? A sleek backup drive glowing like it held the lost episodes of Game of Thrones—the good versions.
Sirius picked it up reverently. "This better be worth it."
Tony checked his watch. "Party upstairs is about to go full Hangover. We need to bounce."
Peggy tapped her comm. "Extraction now. And someone please tell Barton to put his shirt back on."
Harry's voice crackled through.
"No promises. He already threatened to start singing ABBA."
Natasha snorted, grabbing Harry's hand as they sprinted toward the exit.
"Just so you know," she said, glancing at him sideways, "this was either the worst date ever, or the best."
Harry grinned. "Let's do it again next Friday. Maybe rob a bank in Monaco?"
She squeezed his hand. "Only if you wear that tux again."
He winked. "I'll even let it catch fire this time."
—
Somewhere in Cartagena, Colombia – At a Wedding Full of Guns, Roses, and Salsa Music
The groom looked like he'd stepped straight out of "Narcos: The Musical." Slicked-back hair, a white tux that was definitely not rental, and the kind of smug grin that screamed "I inherited my fortune and my enemies." The bride, on the other hand, looked like she'd rather be anywhere else—preferably on a beach, preferably alone, preferably not about to marry into a cartel dynasty. Her dress glittered like diamonds had cried on it, and her smile was about as real as a knockoff Rolex.
Enter: Los Magicos Mariachis.
Three men in flamboyant charro suits strutted through the gilded iron gates as if this was their Grammy-winning tour and not a covert SHIELD mission. Their sombreros were so wide they might've violated airspace laws. None of them had the faintest idea how to play their instruments.
James Potter—yes, that James Potter—was grinning like he'd just hexed Snape's shampoo with glitter. His wand was cleverly disguised inside the neck of a rhinestone-covered vihuela. "Alright, amigos," he muttered to his partners in crime. "We're not here to win awards. We're here to be loud, suspicious, and disturbingly festive."
James Rhodes—War Machine, veteran Avenger, and currently the world's most unwilling trumpet player—looked like he was regretting every life choice that led to this moment. His black-and-gold mariachi suit featured embroidered phoenixes and an expression that said "I'm too old for this crap." "I've fought Ultron," he muttered. "I've time-traveled. But no, now I'm playing Beyoncé on a trumpet at a cartel wedding. God bless America."
And then there was Alexei Shostakov—the Red Guardian, Soviet superhero, vodka enthusiast, and walking midlife crisis—downing tequila like it was electrolytes. His sombrero could've doubled as a UFO.
"Rhodey," he rumbled, swaying like a grizzly in tap shoes, "when do we fight? I don't like dancing. I like breaking knees."
"Soon as Surge gives the signal," Rhodes grumbled. "Until then, play nice. And no headbutting uncles."
"Maybe just one?"
James strummed a chord that made three pigeons fall out of a tree. "Showtime."
Meanwhile – Inside the Mansion of Poor Life Choices
Erica Hayes—aka Surge, mutant lightning bolt in sneakers—balanced a tray of overpriced shrimp puffs with all the grace of a bored prom queen. Her hair was tucked under a massive blonde wig that screamed 'early Britney Spears meets PTA mom on wine night.' Her disguise apron had more glitter than the Vegas strip and smelled like a margarita had a midlife crisis.
"I'm in," she whispered into her comms, sliding past a couple arguing over who paid off which judge. "Nobody suspects the waitress with the crab rangoon."
Above, circling unseen – The Quinjet
Melinda May, the Cavalry herself, was perched in the pilot's seat, sipping green tea like she'd rather be anywhere else. Her eyes scanned the monitors like a hawk judging you for your posture.
"Copy that," she replied dryly. "Painting of the abuela should be above the mezcal cabinet. Don't touch the mezcal. It's trapped."
"I was born to avoid cursed tequila," Erica muttered.
Back at the Wedding – Chaos in G Minor
James Potter conjured a fountain of glittering doves made of magical fire. One dive-bombed the ice sculpture. An old woman burst into tears—possibly from awe, possibly because her flan got vaporized.
Rhodey took center stage. With a sigh of eternal suffering, he launched into a mariachi remix of Single Ladies that honestly slapped. Like, disturbingly so. A group of heavily armed grandmothers threw their hands up.
Alexei launched into a kazoo solo with the enthusiasm of a child on espresso.
One guard leaned toward another. "Are we high?"
Inside the Mob Boss's Office – Shocking Developments
Erica zapped a snooping guard into next week, flipped the rug, and faced the world's sassiest oil painting: Abuela, holding a machete in one hand and a parrot in the other, judging her with infinite Latino grandma energy.
"Yeah yeah, I'm not worthy," Erica sighed, reaching up to zap the hidden sensor. The painting slid aside, revealing a high-tech safe.
"Five-digit code," May said through her comms. "Use Tony's decoder."
Erica pulled out the sleek Stark-tech gadget. "Let's hope it—"
BZZZT The decoder fizzled and smoked.
"Oh, come on!" she shouted, and in true Surge fashion, punched the safe. A shockwave of blue lightning surged through the metal, which hissed, melted, and popped open like a popcorn bag from hell.
Inside sat the backup drive. And a stack of very questionable photographs. "Is that… Fury playing poker with Deadpool? In a dress?!"
She snatched the drive and bolted for the kitchen. "I'm ignoring that. Mentally deleting it."
Wedding – Full Meltdown Mode
Alexei had challenged the groom's uncle to a dance-off. James was conducting a floating violin like Mozart on Red Bull. Rhodey dropped the trumpet and started moonwalking with lethal precision.
The mob boss stood, clearly not having a great day. "WHY IS THE TRUMPET PLAYER GLOWING?!"
Rhodey flashed his War Machine grin. "Because your in-laws just got upgraded."
Then: FLARES.
The Quinjet uncloaked like a ghost doing a mic drop. A rope ladder unfurled from the sky.
"Got it!" Surge shouted, bursting through the kitchen, sparks flying from her fingers. "Let's get the hell out before I shock a waiter by accident!"
James fired a Stupefy into the air that exploded like fireworks. Three guards somersaulted into the punch bowl. Alexei headbutted a guy, faceplanted into the churros, then grabbed a handful anyway.
James caught the ladder one-handed and swung upward like a magical Tarzan. Rhodey scooped up Erica. Alexei belly-flopped onto the last rung like a bear on a waterslide.
From below, chaos reigned. Guests screamed. Fireworks exploded. Someone kept dancing.
In the Jet – Just Another Day
Melinda May didn't flinch. "Next time," she said flatly, "I'm sending you all in as mimes."
James Potter sprawled across a seat, wand still steaming. "Only if we get silent explosives."
Alexei groaned. "Can we still wear hats?"
Erica flopped into a seat, pulled off her wig, and shook out her hair like a shampoo commercial. "I want nachos. And a nap. Possibly in that order."
Rhodey checked the drive. "Mission complete." He glanced around. "And nobody got shot."
"Speak for yourself," Potter winced. "Someone hit me with a pineapple."
"I love this job," Erica grinned.
Melinda May just sipped her tea.
Welcome to another day at SHIELD.
—
Location: Exclusive Holiday Retreat in the Swiss Alps. Where billionaires ski, spies scheme, and Harry Potter wears more turtlenecks than legally advisable.
The snow glittered like a Photoshop filter slapped on a cocaine ad as a sleek black Bentley glided into the private driveway of the Mont Edelweiss Grand Retreat—the kind of resort where the doormen wore Rolexes and the snow got botoxed weekly.
Harry Potter stepped out first, wearing a cashmere white coat that screamed, My ancestors owned your ancestors. His emerald ring caught the light like it owed him money, and his perfectly disheveled hair gave the impression of a man who'd just rolled out of a five-star bed and into a five-star war crime.
Right behind him, Natasha Romanoff popped out like a sparkly grenade in a neon-pink snowsuit. Blonde wig, bedazzled sunglasses, fur trim that made entire ecosystems cry—it was Valley Girl couture meets international assassin, and somehow, it worked.
"Oh. Em. GEEEEE," Natasha squealed, clinging to Harry's arm like a clingy Instagram filter. "Baaaabe, are we, like, seriously staying in the Presidential Suite?! You promised me a hot tub with champagne fountains and, like, towel swans that do kisses."
Harry gave her a lazy, posh smirk, the kind of smile that had tanked stock markets and ignited at least three minor revolutions. "Pumpkin, if there's not a golden toilet that sings 'God Save the Queen' while you do your business, I will personally file a lawsuit against Switzerland for emotional trauma."
Behind them, Sirius Black unfolded himself from the car in a tux so sharp it could cut glass—and probably had. He looked like a butler, yes, but a butler who'd stabbed a few dukes and once danced shirtless on a yacht in Monaco. He opened the trunk with a flourish, tossing a wink at a passing heiress who promptly walked into a snowbank.
"Welcome to the Alps," Sirius muttered with a smirk. "Where the air is thinner, and so are the personalities."
Peggy Carter strolled up next in stilettos that shouldn't be legal on ice. With a clipboard, headset, and a thousand-yard-stare of a woman who'd once slapped a Nazi into a coma, she looked every inch the assistant who ran the world from behind a latte.
"Mr. Pendragon," she said crisply. "I've scheduled the property tour for tomorrow. You'll also be meeting with Prince Leopold's real estate broker and a hedge fund manager who legally changed his name to 'Wolf.' I assume you'll want to glare at both?"
Harry nodded solemnly. "Absolutely. Make sure I have my Glare Cloak. The one lined with pure disappointment."
From the shadows, Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes flanked the group like bodyguard statues carved from Mount Olympus and bad decisions. Steve had a jaw so square it could be used in math problems and wore a suit like it was a moral obligation. Bucky, on the other hand, looked like a half-frozen assassin with Resting Murder Face and a metal arm that flexed whenever someone said "luxury taxes."
"Let's keep our eyes open," Steve muttered through the comm, scanning the perimeter with the intensity of a man who once defeated fascism using only a frisbee.
"Yeah," Bucky added, his voice dry as Swiss gin. "I don't trust anyone wearing more than one ascot."
Meanwhile – In a Motel Where Dreams Go to Die
Back in a motel room with decor that could be described as "post-war depression meets IKEA clearance," Alastor Moody was threatening a radiator with his cane.
"Place smells like wet socks and capitalism," he growled.
Clint Barton, wearing a hoodie that had lost its will to live, didn't look up from the laptop. "I think the Wi-Fi's being powered by a drunk hamster with a dial-up modem. Also, I might be sitting on a sock that's not mine."
Through the comms, Harry's voice crackled in. "Mole and Vixen have entered the foxhole. Try not to choke on your jealousy, boys."
Clint tapped a button. "Copy that, Vixen. Let us know when you hit gold. Or at least the minibar."
Front Desk – Where Money Talks and Everyone's Lying
The concierge looked like he charged for eye contact. "I'm sorry, Mr. Pendragon, but the Presidential Suite is available only to authorized Mont Edelweiss Society members or special patrons."
Harry tilted his head, lips curled into something between a smirk and a prophecy. "Tony Stark assured me it was handled. You know Tony—genius, billionaire, playboy, wedding crasher in orbit. I'm sure he'd be devastated to hear you've misplaced my reservation."
The concierge paled slightly. "Ah. Mr. Stark. Of course, sir. We were just… ensuring security protocols. Your suite is prepared."
"Lovely."
Natasha popped her gum. "Baaaabe, do they have those Japanese toilets that play music? I want mine to say 'Yaaaas Queen' when I pee."
Harry didn't blink. "Only if mine tells me I'm emotionally unavailable and then plays Adele."
As the elevator opened, a man the size of a small moon stepped aside. Steve subtly blocked him with one arm, while Bucky just stared at the guy like he was mentally measuring where the weak joints were.
"Elevator's secure," Steve said. "He blinked too slow."
"I don't trust his kneecaps," Bucky muttered.
Inside the elevator, Peggy's voice came through Harry's hidden comms. "Vault is directly adjacent to Suite 7. You'll have a six-minute window during the Sommelier Showcase. Apparently, the Prince of Monaco wants a full breakdown of the '07 Merlot versus the '09 Merlot. Spoiler: It's just grapes."
Moody chimed in. "Rich idiots."
Clint added, "Careful with the wine. They lace it with nanotrackers. Real subtle, like a Bond villain who flunked chemistry."
Harry adjusted his cufflinks, revealing a sleek Montblanc pen that was really his wand in designer cosplay. "I came prepared. Got a charm that'll flush me faster than Taco Bell and a Red Bull if something goes sideways."
Natasha leaned in, brushing her lips against his cheek. "You say the most romantic things, husband."
Harry smirked. "Stick with me, darling. I'll make sure we get our champagne-soaked fairytale—or at the very least, free robes."
She giggled, looping her arm through his. "Let's go rob a billionaire vault."
"After you, my love."
The doors closed. The elevator rose.
The heist had officially begun.
—
Location: The Penthouse Suite (With Views of Half the Alps and Enough Gold to Blind You)
The double doors whooshed open like something out of Star Wars, revealing a suite so ludicrously luxurious it looked like Liberace had a baby with the Sultan of Brunei—and then that baby went to interior design school in Versailles. There was a fireplace that probably had a higher net worth than most hedge fund managers, velvet curtains thicker than Moody's trust issues, and a sunken jacuzzi that screamed, "Welcome to your villain origin story."
Sirius—who had just finished impersonating a butler with the dramatic flair of a Shakespearean actor with a vendetta—closed the doors behind him. "Clear. No cameras, no bugs, not even a house-elf with a grudge."
Harry yanked off his faux fur coat and flopped onto a chaise lounge upholstered in what was probably unicorn leather. He looked good doing it too—because of course he did. "Alright, kids. Let's talk heist."
Natasha peeled off her platinum wig and tossed it onto a nearby flamingo-shaped sculpture that looked like it had wandered out of a cocaine-fueled fever dream. "That wig was itchier than Clint's sarcasm in a blizzard." She pulled a sleek holographic disc from her clutch and tapped it with her perfectly manicured nail. A glowing 3D model of Mont Edelweiss Resort spun to life mid-air.
"Tony hacked into the blueprints last night. Took him five minutes and three sarcastic remarks about Swiss firewalls."
"To be fair," Harry said, raising a brow, "they did design those firewalls while high on cheese and neutrality."
Natasha grinned. "Vault's across the hall. Not on any official floor plans. Reinforced titanium alloy, enchanted steel, and enough magical tripwires to give Dumbledore performance anxiety."
Harry whistled low. "Well. That's one sexy vault."
Sirius—now free of his gloves and sipping from a hip flask labeled Definitely Not Firewhisky—joined them. "How are we supposed to crack that open? Even I can't apparate through that much arcane overkill, and I once snuck into a Death Eater gala dressed as a coat rack."
"We're not going through it," Natasha said, zooming in on the schematics. "We're going around."
She highlighted a shaft tucked behind the vault. "Old dumbwaiter system. Sealed off during renovations when the resort decided to go full Bond villain. But the access tunnel from the wine cellar still exists. Probably."
Harry leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "So we take the scenic route, drop through the chute, and surprise the vault from behind like a tax audit. Got it."
Peggy's voice buzzed in over comms like an English schoolteacher who could kill you with a teacup. "Security does a full system reboot every night at 2:37 AM sharp. You'll have four minutes. That's your window."
Moody joined in, voice crackling like old parchment and bad intentions. "Vault door's runic. Ancient Norse meets Egyptian death magic. Charming stuff. You'll need an enchant-breaker and a blood cipher. Preferably one that doesn't explode."
Harry looked to Natasha. "You bring the hand?"
She smirked and held up a sleek black glove with a ring embedded in the palm. "One severed billionaire's finger, synthetically grown and ethically harvested."
"That's so romantic," Harry said, mock-tearful. "You really do know what I like."
"Oh, I know exactly what you like," she murmured, and that smirk turned positively illegal.
Bucky and Steve entered like a buddy cop duo who'd accidentally wandered into a spy thriller. Bucky leaned against the wall like he had a PhD in brooding. "Wine cellar entrance is guarded by two guys. One's twitchy. The other's practically unconscious. Rogers could probably knock them out with a bedtime story."
Steve crossed his arms. "I was thinking chloroform."
"Always the gentleman," Harry deadpanned. "Alright. Here's the play: Steve and Bucky distract the cellar guards. Natasha and I use the chute. Sirius stands by to break the runes if I can't charm them with my dazzling personality."
"And me?" Moody asked, sounding far too excited for someone about to weaponize spa accessories.
Harry grinned. "You, my dear paranoid former Auror, are going to sabotage the elevators and trap the security team in the sauna. With a cursed loofah."
Moody chuckled. "I do love creative mayhem."
"And after we grab the drive—" Natasha started.
Harry held up a finger. "Correction. Drives. One has Einhardt's research. The other has a Hydra sleeper list. Fury knows about one. I'm gifting him the second. Eventually. After I watch him try not to say thank you."
Steve looked mildly betrayed. "You're hiding things from Fury?"
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Steve. I'm pretending to be married to a former KGB assassin, staying in a hotel that bills you for blinking, and planning a magical heist with a cursed loofah. Of course I'm hiding things from Fury."
There was a pause.
Bucky shrugged. "Fair."
Natasha raised her champagne flute. "To the vault."
Harry clinked his glass. "To morally flexible heroics."
Sirius toasted with a grin. "And to looking damned good while doing it."
T-minus 6 hours to the Vault Heist.
Things were about to get stupid, sexy, and supremely illegal. Just the way Harry liked it.
—
Mont Edelweiss Grand Retreat – The Illusion of Leisure
Lord Harold Pendragon strolled through the lobby like he had personally invented wealth. His tailored three-piece suit fit like sin and confidence had a baby, and the polished dragon-head cane he didn't actually need clicked against the marble floor with satisfying finality.
On his arm? The Natasha Romanoff—currently channeling every spoiled heiress in Beverly Hills with a voice that sounded like it got Botox.
"Oh. My. GOD, Haaaaarry," she squealed, spotting the twenty-foot Baccarat crystal dragon in the lobby. "That is, like, so extra. Is that supposed to be you? 'Cause I can totally see the resemblance. Shiny. Dangerous. Prone to starting fires."
Harry smiled like he'd just been complimented by an art critic. "At least one of us appreciates quality craftsmanship. I'd say the same about your shoes, but I'm pretty sure they were designed by a drunk elf with commitment issues."
She gasped and smacked his chest playfully. "You did not just insult Louboutins."
"Oh no, I insulted you for wearing them indoors like a Kardashian on cocaine."
Behind them, Sirius Black—a.k.a. Bartholomew the Butler, a.k.a. living proof that butlers can look like ex-convict Greek gods—glided in silently, holding an empty silver tray like it was a symbol of existential dread.
"Sir Harold," he said, sounding like he gargled with Oxford degrees, "your 3PM eucalyptus-extraction-and-guilt-release ritual has been rescheduled. The Countess of Luxembourg regrets to inform you that her goat yoga ran long."
Harry nodded solemnly. "A tragedy. Be sure to send her my condolences and a small tactical nuke wrapped in cashmere."
Sirius arched an eyebrow. "Glitter packaging?"
"Glitter, anthrax, maybe a strongly worded Yelp review," Peggy Carter chimed in, striding up in red heels and power-librarian energy. Her digital tablet looked like it contained nuclear codes and spa appointments. "Also, I've bribed the hotel masseuse to fake a nervous breakdown so we get the entire wellness suite. You're welcome."
"Remind me to give you a raise," Harry said.
"I already gave myself one," she replied. "I now outrank you in three fake corporations and one very real offshore shell."
"Boss move. I'm so proud I could cry."
Natasha leaned in, eyes twinkling. "If you do, I'll collect your tears and sell them as luxury cologne. Sad Billionaire by Harold Pendragon."
"You're horrible," he whispered.
"You married me."
"Only because no one warned me you were clinically chaotic with a black belt in flirting and murder."
She smiled sweetly. "And yet, you're still here."
Meanwhile, Poolside…
Steve Rogers, shirtless and built like America's actual infrastructure bill, lounged in a deck chair with the seriousness of someone guarding nuclear codes… in swim trunks.
Beside him, Bucky Barnes looked like a Calvin Klein model who'd just killed a man with a hardcover book. He was sipping a mojito and pretending not to be judging everyone around him. (Spoiler: he was.)
A tourist wandered over, squinting. "Excuse me, are you—?"
"No," Steve said, not even blinking behind his aviators.
"But—"
"Nope. Not me. Definitely not America's ass."
The tourist scurried off. Bucky snorted into his drink.
"You know that guy's gonna go home and swear he met you."
Steve shrugged. "If he thinks he met Captain America in swim trunks sipping cucumber water, good for him."
"Could've been worse. Could've asked for a selfie."
"I would've thrown him in the pool."
Bucky raised a brow. "That's not very Captain-y."
"I'm on vacation," Steve deadpanned. "I'm not responsible for anything until I put the suit back on. Or unless someone threatens the dog."
Bucky nodded. "Fair."
Elsewhere in the Hotel…
The control room wasn't actually in the hotel. It was in the Budget Inn Chalet across the street, which smelled like mold, regret, and someone's leftover curry.
Clint Barton sat in front of a jury-rigged monitor setup, balancing a bowl of instant noodles on his thigh and looking like the least impressed hacker in the universe.
"Alright, team Glitter Mafia," he said over the comms, slurping dramatically. "I've looped the spa and corridor feeds. If anyone blinks funny in the lobby, I'll know before they do. Also, whoever programmed this hotel's firewall was either a genius or a sadist. Possibly both."
Sitting beside him, Mad-Eye Moody glowered at a magical projection stone like it owed him money.
"I've cursed the elevator override, hexed the HVAC ducts, and placed a tracking charm on the janitor's left shoe."
"Wait—why the janitor?"
Moody didn't even blink. "I always curse the janitor."
Clint paused. "...Okay, but what if he's just doing his job?"
"Then he's guilty of optimism. And that's punishable."
"Okay. Just checking. Also—thanks for cursing my noodles."
"I didn't curse your noodles."
Clint frowned. "You didn't?"
"I cursed you for eating them."
"...figures."
Back in the Grand Ballroom…
The chandeliers sparkled. The string quartet did unspeakable things to Vivaldi. And Harry and Natasha glided across the dance floor like they owned it—which they did, at least until checkout.
"You're stepping on my foot," she murmured, still smiling for the crowd.
"You're lucky I'm not stepping on your ego. That thing has its own gravitational pull."
"Ooh, savage. You kiss your butler with that mouth?"
"Only on Wednesdays."
"Harry," she whispered, twirling under his arm, "you know what's really hot?"
"Me?"
"Stealing from the ultra-rich while pretending to be ultra-rich."
"That is sexy. Wanna fake-seduce me upstairs and discuss our escape plan in the hot tub?"
She grinned. "You had me at 'fake.'"
He pulled her close, spinning her beneath the crystal dragon chandelier. The guests clapped. The cameras rolled. And the masterclass in distraction ticked forward.
Beneath the glamor and glitz… the countdown burned on.
T-minus 5 hours, 17 minutes.
The ballroom glittered. The masks stayed on.
And the heist? Oh, the heist was going to be delicious.
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Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Click the link below to join the conversation:
https://discord.com/invite/HHHwRsB6wd
Can't wait to see you there!
If you appreciate my work and want to support me, consider buying me a cup of coffee. Your support helps me keep writing and bringing more stories to you. You can do so via PayPal here:
https://www.paypal.me/VikrantUtekar007
Or through my Buy Me a Coffee page:
https://www.buymeacoffee.com/vikired001s
Thank you for your support!