TW: R4pe, Violent fantasies, dissacosiation, mentions of physical abuse, verbal abuse, overall dark themes.
Wanda loved her girlfriend.
Fire and intensity.
Action and explosions.
Smoke and guns.
Suduction and tormemt
Firey locks and emerald eyes that sparkle in delight and malice.
Soft crimson lips and sinfull curves.
She was the let's walk in there with a stick of dynamite and see what happens! Type of girl.
Every second with her was packed with excitement.
And pistols.
Natasha loved ger guns.
She even kissed them sometimes.
Wanda loved her intensity.
She loved how protective she was of her.
She loved that hypersexual Russian with all her soul.
She remembered when they first met.
It feels like a dream.
Or maybe everything since then does.
All she knows is that they finally killed the nightmares that plauged them.
"Are you Wanda Maximoff?" The voice caused the Sokovian to snap her head up, only to be met with the most perfect eyes she had ever seen.
She soon realized who they belonged to.
Natasha Romanoff.
People gave her many names; ' The quiet kid ' ' The emo' ' That sociopath' ' Crazy bitch' ' Surprisingly, smash' and many, many more.
She bit her lips and nodded slowly.
" The teacher assigned me to work with you." The redhead stated matter of factly.
There was something about this girl that left Wanda spellbound.
" She said you could help me with algebra." She alaberated.
" Right! Of course!" The Sokovian broke free of her mind's emerald prisons to grin.
The redhead took a second to scan the brunette's body, letting her eyes trail every curve and dip shamelessly, eyes widening by the second as she took in the girl in front of her.
Long, soft auburn hair that glowed red in the sunlight.
Soft lips that seemed too akin to a black hole to be around.
Bright eyes that sparkled with something the Russian knew all too well.
Her breasts so soft and perfect they seemed to draw her in, everything in her brain screaming at her to touch them, to caress them, to squeeze them, to smush her face into them.
Her hips were perfectly curved, leaving the Russian almost drooling as she continued down long, muscular legs, and then bringing her eyes back up to meet crinsom cheeks, and eyes that followed her gaze.
Natasha knew she should be praying to this goddess right now, however her moter functions were quite impaired as her brain attempted to reboot.
At least she hadn't fallen to the ground.
She silently thanked Sappho for that.
As her brain was restored, and logic returned to her mental wasteland of Wanda's body, she cleared her throat, regaining her composure.
" 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.
Once when he had caught Yelena, Natasha had gone to help.
She ended up getting a bottle smashed against her face.
So they made a pact.
Just hide. If one of them got caught, just pray he was to drunk to do anything permanent. It was better he had one ragdoll than two.
Today she entered through the front door, getting ready to sprint up the steps and to her sister's room.
But her soul drained of hope when she saw him standing right in front of her.
A stained white tanktop and white boxers with small red hearts on them.
Sometimes it seemed like he never quite outgrew the whole jerky teenager stage.
He was clearly already quite drunk.
And she hoped Yelena was already locked in one of the rooms.
She was grabbed by the wrist and lead to the living room.
" SIT DOWN!" He screamed.
She did as she was told.
" You-you-you, YOU FUCKING PEICE OF SHIT!" He screamed in her face, the Russian wincing as saliva flew and splatted.
" EVERYDAY I WORK MY DICK OFF FOR YOU GIRLS, AND YOU HAVE THE AUDACITY TO HIDE AWAY?!"
" I'm the only reason you're alive."
His voice was suddenly soft.
" Every day I let you live."
" Don't I get something in return?"
Natasha squeezed her eyes shut as she felt his hand clumsily drag up her thigh.
She felt something inside of her.
A burning.
Bubbling up.
Screaming at her.
Her rage and fear evolving into something that terrified her.
An apathetic desire to watch him bleed.
She ached to see him suffer.
But before she could do anything, his fingers had found themselves inside of her.
A hand clamped over her mouth.
And then the screaming in her mind turned to laughter.
An obscene, spine chilling laughter.
And she knew something inside of her had just died.
When Wanda woke, it was two days later.
She was naked and on the floor, surrounded by semen and vomit.
She had just had the most wonderful dream.
She smiled in the afterglow of her paradise.
She wished she never had to wake up.
Then she could dream forever.
Tears of happiness ran down her cheek.
She loved her reality.
She was safe there.
She was happy there.
Why would she want to live in a world that treated her like this?
His fingers were rough inside of her.
No regaurd for her pleasure.
She knew he only liked to watch her squirm.
He brought his hand away from her mouth.
Let it roam freely over her body.
A bruising burning touch.
It left its unbearable filth on her breast, groping harshly.
He moaned.
It infected her ass, squeezing, smacking, and bruising.
And he moaned again.
And her anger grew.
He pulled his boxers down.
A fully erect member gisgraced her presence.
The sight almost made her puke.
Of all the things she hated about him, the thing she probrably hated most was the way he smelled.
Of rot and mold.
Of spoild meat and booze.
Like all his rotton actions had manifested themselves in his obscene odor.
" Now let me show you something your mama used to do." He cooed
Of course he had to defile her name too.
The laughter and screaming in her head turned to discernable words.
Telling her to do things to him.
Mutilatory, torturous, bloodcurdling things.
Images filled her head.
Images of justice.
Bloody, disembowlatory justice.
Scenes of flesh and sinew being torn from ivory bone.
Cuts running down his repulsive instrument, seperated into lossely attached peices that she could peel back like petals of a flower.
A knife twisting down his throat, she could hear her own laughter echoing as he coughed up and sputtered on his own blood.
She didn't know when he had taken her pants off.
When her underwear had been discarded.
He prodded a hole she never thought would be touched.
The tip of his repulsive organ pressing through.
Streatching and squeezing in a way that horrified her.
Another voice screamed in her head.
Telling her that wasn't what it was for.
She had never felt so violated before.
Like her whole body was being defaced.
She threw up, retching and coughing, watching as the bile seeped into the carpet.
He used this moment of weakness to slip fully inside.
And she screamed.
A cry of anger and agony.
A strangled promise of retaliation.
A whiff of smoke from the fire burning within her soul.
He clamped a hand over her mouth as he gently shushed her.
She hated that he used such a sweet demeanor when causing her so much pain.
He let out a cry of pleasure as she felt warm liquid liquid shooting up within her.
He removed his tourture device from her and stood, she barely registered his receeding footsteeps.
All she could do was lay there, on the floor, panting, and feed the fire within her soul.