Wandanat/ Scarletwidow oneshots

Fire and Dreams ( Pistols And Revolvers part 2 )

" Natasha, Natasha Romanoff, nice to meet you." The Russian responded, trying her best to force the lust out of her eyes as she smiled.

Wanda grinned back.

Both girls filled with a wonderfull, cataclismic sensation that was indescribably maddening.

Wanda returned to a dark house that night.

Her step father waiting for her in the shadows.

She entered the kitchen, where he sat.

Bottles of assorted types of alcohol littered the room.

He said nothing, only bringing his hand out from under the table, and placing a leash down on the wooden surface.

All this time, and she still cried when it happened.

Coughing against the leather coller around her neck.

Tears streaming down her face.

All the while listening to him yell at her.

Venom dripping from his mouth in the form of words that stung and peirced her like acid.

She screamed against the ball gag in her mouth, as he slipped into her.

So she did what this world had taught her to do.

She tuned out.

The pain from his thrusts dulles.

And she closed her eyes.

And she awoke in the park.

Her favorite.

A picnic blanket layed out under her.

A basket filled with wonderfull smelling food by her side.

A sunset straight ahead.

She watched it sink below the horizon.

She barely winces when she feels warm liquid spilling out of her.

Barely flinches when she feels herself throw up.

Instead she stares straight ahead.

Watching the sky turn from blue, to orange, to salmon, to pink, and then slowly fade to black.

A crow caws and a tear runs down her cheek.

She loves this dream.

There were two rooms that locked in Natasha's house.

Her room, and her sister's.

The moment she stepped foot trough the door, she knew it was a race.

Get to one of the rooms before he can get you.

Her sister's room was closest to the front door, so thats usually where she ended up.

Her sister and her, huddling together, tears running down their faces, listening to the sounds of smashing and yelling from downstairs.

Sometimes she made it to her own room, maybe if he was too drunk to run, or if she entered through the back door.

But sometimes he caught one of them.

Maybe he would beat them.

Maybe he would prefer activities only their mom had done with him before she died.