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pettybetty69 · 1 year

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𝐒𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧 - 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐎𝐧𝐞

Young T'Challa x Enhanced!reader

Word Count: 4.6k

Masterlist | Growing Up

September 1995

"Breakfast!" Your lively Zia, Franca Vitale belted to the house from the kitchen.

The fit, curvesome woman walked in and searched the kitchen for a glass of water. She was fresh off her morning run with her equally fit and sweaty son, Delfie. You followed behind less graciously, legs feeling like noodles, coming to the realization of how out of shape you had gotten over the summer.

With a chug of cold water, the smell of smooth cappuccino and well-seasoned frittata that fermented the Medditerarian kitchen became comfortably apparent.

Your Zio, Roberto Bruni busily made breakfast for himself and the rest of you, excluding Luca and Meera who were out of town for work. Franca traveled over to her partner and delivered a verse of sweet pet names and juvenile flirting. She wrapped her fit arms around his middle-aged waist. He laughed at his partner of nearly two decades and reciprocated the cheesy heartfelt messages. A typical morning affair for them.

Delfie raided the fridge to check on his latest food experiment, and you collapsed into a seat at the island next to your cousin, Paolo. You looked at him with pity and pushed forward a steaming cup of cappuccino. His back was hunched with solemnness.

The day prior, a contraption he invented went terribly wrong and blew up in his face. His face was fine, as the Elementals healing light repaired his skin in a matter of moments. However, his hair was too late to save.

“It doesn’t look that bad.” You comforted, referencing his freshly shaved, pointy head.

“Your lies sicken me.” The lengthy, lean boy moodily stated. But yet, he took a sip of the drink.

"Thanks." He muttered quietly.

“Delfie, go ensure your sister isn’t staring at herself in the mirror again.” Franca ordered her son, entangled with Roberto.

His selective hearing unintentionally (most likely intentionally) dismissed his mother's request and remained hyperfocused on his homemade Feta cheese he carefully unwrapped.

"Delfie!" She called again.

“There’s no need! I’m here and in love!” Serafina airily announced as she arrived in the kitchen.

She was dressed in a long, black satin skirt and a bold, red and black top. The young teenager's lips were painted an expressive red and her mother’s gold jewelry dangled from her thin neck.

“You look to die for, baby. But, no. Put it back."

"But Mama, it pulls it all together! I swear I'll take care of it!" She begged.

This wasn't wrong. Fina always had a taste for aesthetics. Your father always thought so. Her time-dedicated, glossy curls surrounding her pretty amber face only proved it. But her track record for returning things intact.....

"When I see years of hard work and an accumulated salary, I'll consider it."

"I'd just buy my own at that point!" She protested, confused.

"Exactly." Franca mischievously smiled and removed the necklace from her saddened daughter.

"Fina, this 'love' better be from staring at yourself in the mirror for too long. Stay away from my friends! Dante lost the game due to his heart that you broke." Delfie angrily refuted, averting from his cheese.

“I can't help it that he was in love with me. Anyway, I’m not talking about myself this time, Delfie.” She spat her twin's name with venom. “You'll be relieved to hear it’s about Mateo, the man of my dreams.”

Her gush earned a collective sigh from those in the room.

The thing is Serafina fell in love every other week. You didn’t understand it. In the seven years since your father's death, she and Delfie adjusted to society quite quickly compared to you and Paolo. They made friends easily and had grown quite a popularity. Considering this, along with her recent hit of puberty, and the age of rushing hormones it wasn’t uncommon for an anonymously sent bouquet of flowers to arrive from an admirer in the same hopeless condition.

If you were lucky, she would have grown bored of the boy within a number of weeks and moved on to the next. If not, days made for a nice cup of tea from the sadness-fueled rain storms or the path of pissed-off flames that would follow her stomping feet.

“Another boy already, Fina?” Franca gasped with disbelief.

Serafina strolled over in a love-struck sweep and kissed her mother's cheek.

"Of course, Mama. I like to keep things spicy."

"For Adoni's sake, Fina. What happened to Dante? A bit dense, but a nice boy." Roberto, her father, shook his head. Despite it, she kissed his cheek next to his now graying mustache.

He struggled to keep up with her dating life and truthfully wasn't too pleased about her revolving door. But he knew the mother of his children, and that Franca was just the same in her youth. His mood dimmed thinking about the hell your father would give him if he knew.

"'Nice' is all Dante is, Papa. He's passionless, zestless, he's more boring than Alessa!"

"Hey!" You shouted in defense.

Delfie burst into hysterics, now seemingly listening. "You're- You're seriously shocked?" He managed to get out between his spurts of laughter.

“Rude much?” You countered.

"I'm Alessa, I'm so fun and interesting." He mocked with his hands on his hips in a high tone, bending over with laughter.

You glared at him with deadpan.

"Nah, he’s right." Paolo spoke as if it were obvious. "You're Italian and Argentinian, you should be madder than all of us." The cousin who was supposed to have your back stated in clear agreement.

"After the coffee I made you…." You snatched the cup straight as he was drinking it. A few splashes splat on the table as you glared and went up to make yourself an expresso.

Serafina strolled over to you. An up-to-no-good smile came upon her plump red lips. Following her strut, mischievous purple Clematises sprouted through the seams of sandstone floors.

“So, Alessa." She leaned against the counter beside you. "A little birdy told me that Emilio was eyeing you at the party last Friday."

"I know where you're going with this so don't even start, Fina. No!"

Emilio was your first ever friend. You met when you started school not long after your father died. He had summer skin and kind brown eyes. He was half Argentinian like you. He had always been sweet to you and would invite you to play soccer with him and his friends on the streets. You were good friends and each other's first kiss under the playground slides. However, him being in the year above you had puberty hit him first. Your naive self didn’t understand his sudden infatuation with you, but you knew you didn’t like it. You made him well aware of it, but being a half-Italian mama’s boy, he didn’t understand the concept of ‘no’. The friendship quickly dissipated and as time went on he began his flirtatious attempts. Even now they only subsided when he was in his intervals of dating girls until you publicly slapped him across the face when he tried to kiss you.

“Oh come on! Just give him a chance, it’ll be fun!” She attempted to persuade with her enchanting smile. "No, not going to fall for that," you thought.

“Over my dead body. He’s gross!”

“And handsome.”

“And shallow.”

“And charming.”

“And stupid. He isn’t smart enough to understand that 'no' doesn’t mean 'convince me.' That little boy has no respect for me! He only left me alone when Paolo and Delfie told him off!" The argufying memory made you angry, making your hair aureole with combustion. This was something you refused to budge on. He was supposed to be your friend.

“That was forever ago, Alessa!" Fina annoyingly dismissed.

“Two months is not forever ago.” You stubbornly defended, going back to the expresso.

“He apologized.”

“A pathetic excuse for one.”

“People change.”

“Not that quickly.”

“Leave Alessa alone, Fina. Just because she’s boring doesn’t mean it’s wrong for her to be so.” Your jaw dropped as Zio Roberto patted your shoulder in an attempt to comfort you. He brought the frittata to the island and they all hungrily dove for the first slice as you stood in shock.

"Alright. Just because I'm not a serial dater, participate in every sport known to mankind, or attempt to blow up a lab every now and then does not make me boring!" You passionately embarked on a tirade.

They were silent for a beat while being occupied by their food.

"It kind of does, baby." Franca chuckled, pityingly. The table burst into comical laughter.

You sighed annoyed steam. "It doesn't even matter. I'm rich and have famous parents." You looked to the ground and their laughter reverberated throughout the room.

"I'm good at kicking rocks. I'm not boring now, huh?" You grumbled pettily. Small sandstone rocks magically extracted from the stone floor and you kicked them with your heel.

With a sharp gasp from you, they went higher than intended and shattered one of the stained glass windows.

"Alessandra! What the hell are you doing?" Your mother abruptly scolded as she walked into the kitchen. She was dressed in a lavish, white collar dress and her suitcase for the airport levitated behind her upset statue.

"Sulking and kicking rocks." You deadpanned with honesty. Your cousins meagerly chuckled to themselves.

A tension built in between the silence both of you conjured with your matching sights. And as usual, the air became uncomfortable. No one was sure if they should interfere, unsure if this would conclude in an Elemental brawl or in tears.

She visibly sighed impatiently. As she routinely did, she narrowed her sharp eyes distastefully and dismissed you with a perfunctory shake of her head. She went to go make her expresso, walking past you without acknowledgment. Like giving her own child the time of day was a burden.

Your lips fell into a line simmering from buried anger, watching her and her complete disinterest. You switched away from her, marching to the broken window, refusing to let her see your building tears.

“It is not even the 8th hour of the day and there are windows already breaking.” She complained.

Your hands grew hot, with imminent untamed rage.

“Window, Ramona." Roberto corrected. "One that is being fixed just as quickly.”

She looked at the man unamused and spoke pettily, “Good morning, Roberto.”

The tension became thicker. Your Zia Franca took the position to poke at her older triplet.

"Mia Sorella, I see the little devil on your shoulder is enjoying your attention today." Franca teased mischievously.

You drowned out your mother's retort and the rest of the conversation. Teary frustration was rimming in your eyes.

Trembling with emotion, you guided the broken colorful glass with assistance from the air. They whimsically levitated, reflecting off the morning light. The mesh of oxides and the melted concoction of sand, soda ash, and limestone mended back together in the frame.

You found always found the power easier to channel when emotional. It calmed you and soothed watching the shattered colors becoming whole once more.

“That’s Valentino.” Fina whispered in disbelief. “The streamline, cream trench from the 1970 collection! How, Zia?” Fina’s emerald eyes lit up with rave.

“Signore Garavani sent it from the archives yesterday morning.”

“I'd die for it. Mama, can I go to one of your events so I can get a dress too?” Fina began, and so did Franca. As they debated, your mother caught your attention.

“Alessandra, he sent you an outfit as well. The dress is on your bed, you better not forget it.”

You hummed shortly. “It’s already packed.”

"Everything else should be too, except for this rudimentary attitude of yours. I do not have the patience for you today. You’ve known about this trip for a week, so if something is forgotten that's on you." She stated firmly, absent-mindedly sending her bags towards the door.

"Clothes, hygiene, homework, and a notebook. Is that good enough for you?!" You snapped, impulsively. The windows behind you reflected a fiery orange. Burning flames embodied your sweaty curls, trailing down your arms and frame.

The Classic's face became stone, sharp Elemental eyes infuriated. Her nostrils flared with vex, flames gliding down her own Valentino trench. Fina gasped loudly.

The enmity's glare down ignited strain so deep between you both the air thinned. The ground beneath your feet shivered, and her fine nose twitched. Evergrowing pressure rigidfied your body. The wood of the island between you two splintered, the windows and dining wear cracked like ice.

"And a snack." Roberto intervened in front of you to stop an all-out brawl from occurring. His square face immediately sprung with pain, neck clentching, pain receptors inflaming. You both released and he pantingly handed you take a bagged sandwich.

Your anger still resided, huffing through your lungs, numbing any thoughts. Barely over his shoulder, you saw your mother leave the room with Franca following.

He moved out of your fixed sight and the fire sizzled out. You weren't sure if you were going to cry or scream, but the pain was bound to release. You looked down to see the sandwich and its bag effaced. The small puff of smoke echoing, reaching your tear ducts.

Tears immediatley overcame you. "I'm sorry." You chokingly muttered. You turned to see Roberto was already halfway through making another sandwich.

"No, Zio. It's fine." You guiltily resisted, but his owl-like face was still sanguine.

“I don’t want you to starve to death. It isn’t a good look.” He crooned.

“Vogue’s editors may disagree.” You tried to joke through your tears. He sighed with a pathetic chuckle. He stopped what he was doing and opened his arms. You rushed forward and he encased you with an enormous hug. One of his infamous hugs. His extra weight always made it soft and comforting as if you had been wrapped in a fleece blanket. He was warm and sponged up all the frustration you felt.

Once you gathered yourself together, you muttered "There's only one sandwich in the world that beats yours, Zio. Signore Delmar's in Queens. I’m sorry to tell you.” The attempted joke cracked through your voice.

“As long as it’s good enough for our family, there is no competition to me.” He comforted, seeing through your humor guard. You slightly nodded with a sniffle.

"Ignore it, sweetheart." He whispered and brushed the back of your head.

"I know."

It was moments like these that perpetuated the longing you had for your father. Tears already began to spill over onto Roberto’s shirt at the thought. It had been years, but the pain from seeing him so still and lifeless forever tainted your mind. Nothing was the same after he died. Sure, things got better with time, but nothing ever replaced the force he was. You knew that. The world knew that. Your mother knew that of all people. Sebastian Vitale, the loving husband. Sebastian De la Vega, the man behind it all. Papa, the father you knew and loved.

It was like her heart, warmth, and the bond you two had, had gone with him. Your family was there through it all and Roberto bared the brunt of it. The cries, the laughs, and the misguided rage. Everything. You weren't sure if was simply because you were his niece or his late best friend's daughter or the fact he believed he was indebted to your father who opened the doors to get him to where he is today. But you knew he missed him as much as you and loved you just as much as his twins. Times could be hard, good, then hard again; it all came in waves. But you could never say you didn’t have your family to help you through the terrain.

He squeezed you one last time and pulled back with his hands on your shoulders. He looked at you with that sense of nostalgia he often had. You knew he was seeing the features of your father. He took your face in his callused hands.

"Go on, freshen up, and be on your way. We'll all be here for you to tell us about your dull trip to the UN." He smiled, warmly.

________________________________________

Fifteen-year-old Prince T’Challa, son of King T'Chaka sat withdrawn upon a Wakandan aircraft. His arms crossed and gaze firmly stuck upon the early morning’s hot-shaded clouds, his repressed resentment was bound to reach the surface. He was far beyond furious with indignation toward his cool-faced, indifferent uncle. King S’Yan.

The striking shades from confident yellow to blistering red reminded him of his home. The place his uncle had personally confined him from 9 months out of the year. The man who pretentiously watched him from the seat ahead.

King S’Yan, the man was equally as regal but less of a wise force compared to his late brother. S’Yan surmounted to the throne at 25 in the wake of T'Chaka's murder at the hands of Klaue. He was the youngest of three brothers; an enigmatic recluse with no foresight to arise to the throne. But with T’Chaka dead, N’Jobu exonerated for treason and the eight-year-old heir too young to lead a nation, S’Yan was put into a compromising position. He was not only forced into a self-transformation to become the king Wakanda needed or carry the sudden responsibility of a nation on his shoulders. But by law, his orphaned nephew became his ward.

S'Yan observed his nephew across from him with a watchful eye. He thought of how much he had grown since that cruel night seven years ago. From a broken boy to an independent young man. A certified genius. An arrogant and ungrateful one in his eyes.

“You attend the most elite school in the nation yet you still find substance to dull over.” The King pondered aloud. "I'm beginning to wonder if you find pleasure in being miserable."

The prince’s irritation arose, finally expressing itself across his young aristocratic face. The one just like his father's. His wide eyes, his mother's eyes, became righteous daggers of resentment all directed at his guardian. Or lack thereof.

“It is valid for me to dull over my time being wasted. Everything this school teaches I’m already aware of. In addition, the bland food and professors know half of what ours teach.” He coldly refuted. The King remained nonchalant toward the boy's attitude.

“It has already been decided. You’ve been given this opportunity to have the adolescent experience and greet those your age around the outside world. Burning olive branches and scouting for flaws is what truly wastes your time. And that is your doing, not mine."

"The time I've been home has summed to a year. A single year out of these past four. With all due respect, understand I don’t visualize the logic of isolating me from the nation I will be leading. I will never be appreciative for the institutions that have me stripped from my home."

The Prince, barely containing his seeth, viewed his silent uncle who scavenged for the right words to respond. But nothing. A response of nothing. The King, now in place the prince was, watched the early morning sunrise to avoid the postponed conversation.

“We are ten minutes out, my King.” A Dora announced.

"Thank you, Uuka." The monarch thanked casually with neglect of the unfinished conversation.

The Prince was seething with a gasket about to burst. He shot up and stormed to the bathroom before he could make a scene. He shut the door tight and so did his eyes.

"Stop it!" he ignorantly thought, rubbing away the wetness leaking from his tear ducts. He washed his face and chugged a glass of water to find any way to stop a sob from coming to fruition. It eventually settled after a series of trembling breaths.

He looked at his reflection and sniffled, preparing to bring himself together. His emotions bottled once again, his suit was twiddled to perfection, and he rubbed away his bloodshot eyes. He stared at the frown unconcealed on his lips and forced it into a line.

By the time he slid the door open, the aircraft was already set to translucent, landing upon a rooftop. He went next to the King, ready to descend off the ship.

“All I ask is for you to attempt to find an element to enjoy and not be so emotional for once in your life.” The monarch muttered and walked off the deck.

The Prince stood back for a beat, being the very thing the King just told him not to be. He sucked in a harsh, repressing breath, making his way down the deck.

________________________________________

The morning of, you woke up early due to nerves. Anxiousness coursed through you yet buried beneath it was a layer of excitement. For years you had seen your mother, Zia’s, and Zio at these conferences on television. They were always respectable and graceful yet brutally ruthless when it came to challenging the corrupt. Which, many of the powerful were. Over the years you overheard their closed-door conversations and their frequent ‘business trips’ for their clandestine work. Now, after months of convincing your harsh mother, it was your turn to go.

You put on a petite dress that's tone was similar to a pale daffodil. Giovane, innocente and Italiana were the adjectives swirled across the small note card shipped with the dress. Paired with a simple gloss, rosy blush, and curtains of curls pulled back with a silver clip, you smirked knowing how jealous Serafina would be.

The bathroom door opened and you turned to see your mother walk out of it, stunning and ready. She perfunctorily glanced toward you.

There were few words spoken between you and your mother that morning. She did her own thing and you did yours, some of the tension still lingering. It was silent mostly. You didn’t like it. You had never liked silence. It left you alone with your thoughts.

You watched her from afar as she took out and skimmed over a file that she used her back to shield you from seeing. In an effort to stir up a conversation, you went over to her.

“Will there be any objectives today? Conversations to eavesdrop? An official watch out for?” You peeped over her shoulder to view the file in her hands. Only a few words in, she snapped it shut.

“Nothing of which involves your attention.” She dismissed and dissolved the file to a crisp between her fingertips. Light trails of smoke shadowed her and she walked across the room to lock up her belongings. She slid her finger along the inner walls of the briefcase, spawning gunpowder. Atop it all, she drizzled webs of a high electric charge, ready to set off if an unwelcomed person were to open the belongings. Clever.

“Today, all I ask is for you to take in the moment and stay out of trouble. There will be much power and knowledge in that room, it may bring some use to take a note or two.”

“So, spy?" You hopefully suggested. It wasn’t something she would ever ask you to do, nor did she know that was the reason behind your interest for attending.

“Alessandra.” She impatiently warned.

“Fine.” You surrendered, harshly.

____________

You arrived at the assembly an hour later. You were in a massive room with 17 rows and 6 columns of curved desks for the 185 nations in eventual attendance. The large space buzzed with ambassadors, advisors, and royalty all greeting one another with their shallow diplomatic fronts.

It was overwhelming. Your senses felt like they were on fire. The intent you had to spy was abandoned by the toll of myriads of physiological and chemical chaos. It trembled the internal sphere containing the Elemental force.

You wonder how your mother did it. She greeted powerful officials with ease as you stood beside her, struggling to say anything other than a few verses. You were sure she was happy about it.

Many were pleased to see her, some even going out of their way to meet her. The Ramona Vitale. Italy’s newly appointed permanent UN ambassador, the fearless human rights violation investigator, and the widow of the late revered Sebastian De la Vega.

Now, the mousey ambassador of Japan stood before her, subtly brownnosing.

“I admire your strength, Ramona. This is a tense time within your nation yet you still find the time to attend the assembly and raise such a lovely daughter. The betrayal of the Prime Minister was so unexpected.” He referenced your nation’s Prime Minister taken out of power for his ties with the Mafia. You didn’t know how, and no one knew who leaked the evidence, but she, Luca, and Franca were the ones to expose it.

“Not particularly when considering the influence power, money, and greed has over the human psyche. Though you are right, it is undoubtedly a tense time but I believe this has been a wake-up call for many. This is a time to realize that greed and seediness will always find their way to the light.” She intensely looked directly into the ambassador’s eyes.

The small man’s blood rushed to his limbs. You sensed the sudden release of cortisol and adrenaline. Fear. What is this man hiding?

“Certainly. However, we must not undermine the importance of allyship during these difficult times. I hope our nations will continue our solidified bond.” He added, his voice unwavered.

She only hummed with a well-hidden smirk on her cordial face. She nodded her head disingenuously. His breathing picked up in pace and you couldn’t help but feel a spike of amusement at the mouse being caught in the trap.

“I’m sure we will be seeing more of each other, Ambassador. As well as you, Ms. Vitale. Like mother, like daughter.” He said his farewell with a subtle warning of eye contact and moved on. As he walked away, he whispered to one of his advisors.

“Mama was that…” You whispered with excitement.

“Not now.” She smirked with satisfaction.

As another came to greet, you whimpered at an all-consuming shudder down your spine. Every sight, every touch, and every taste amplified chucking you into a shivering state. Your ears were ringing. It felt like holy water dribbled down your skin, like your flesh was vibrating to let the heaven within release and it all abruptly stopped with the rapid touch of a hand. Suddenly everything was calm again, but with your mother’s hand on your back and the United States ambassador giving a worried look.

“Are you alright there, Ms…”

“Ms. Vitale.” You completed her sentence. “I apologize for my rudeness, but if you excuse me for a few moments.” You rushed out of the room. You locked yourself into the bathroom and slammed your back against the stall door. You were panting. What the hell was that feeling? You never sensed anything like it before. It was like you were someone else. Or something else.

You took a breath and stiffly restrained the power once more. The second you walked back into the buzzing room, your breath caught in your lungs. Breathe. Just breathe. With careful strides and steady breaths, you walked back to where you were before.

Your mother gave you a curious look as if she was asking if you could handle yourself. She almost looked concerned. It was strange. You took a long breath and nodded.

But still, your curiosity was unsatisfied, What the hell was that? Was it someone or something? You could see even your own mother now tense and stiff. Curiosity is what killed that cat, but you couldn’t resist your dying want to know what was causing it. It was calling you. It was primitive, archaic, and begging for your attention. Your eyes shut and the room vibrated with senses. The motion of your head ignored any logical reasoning you had left and settled to the right of the room. Opening your eyes, the light adjusted, to see the King of Wakanda.

Vibranium. The archaic Elemental metal. It made so much sense, but wasn't most of it stolen? His entire body had to be encased with it. The King of the 3rd world nation stood tall and regally with two bald-headed women near him. They were intimidating with their tight black dresses, sharp features, and silver vibranium rings around their necks.

But your focus didn't sustain on them for long, but rather on the boy who stood beside the monarch. He was around your age and roughly around your height. His hair was groomed, and his suit was tailored without a flaw. A vibrant scarf hung across his chest and it was colored tanzanite and diopside, the jewels for intuition and catharsis.

It reminded you of a painting. He appeared as though he had it all, but his noble features were bathed in quiet melancholy. He looked malnourished of liveliness, like a pressure was weighing him down. Yet, his youth could still be seen through his bored burnt umber eyes. They glanced at the clock at least every 30 seconds, resulting in the repetitive disappointing twitch between his eyebrows. It made you smile. Then, his wide-set eyes twitched toward you. He tensed, an unreadable expression coming across his aristocratic face.

An embarrassed blush came across yours. You were panicing and didn't know why. His eyes didn't move, watching you, judging you. A sharp breath scraped down your throat, passing your palpatating heart. You swiftly looked away. Your eyes scrunched with embarrassment, questioning if throwing yourself out the window was a bad idea. Even through your shut eyes, you couldn't shake the image of the puzzled, noble boy.

#black panther x reader #t'challa x oc #t'challa x reader #fanfiction #marvelau #marvel fanfiction #young t'challa x reader

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