Secrets

You Deserve Better

Warnings: Angst, dark thoughts.
Please consider these warnings before reading.

A/N- I have changed parts of the chapter because I felt uncomfortable after writing them. Sorry if the first version also made you uncomfortable.

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Look into my eyes

Now you're getting sleepy

Are you hypnotised by secrets that you're keeping?

I know what you're keeping

Arms snaked around your waist, a head moving to rest on your shoulder as you could feel her hair tickling the side of your neck, a low relaxed hum leaving her lips to contrast the nervous sigh you let out. Natasha pressed a small kiss to your cheek, a small smile sneaking onto your face before it was consumed by an anxious expression.

"This smells delicious Moya Lyubov," she whispers out before moving to lean on the kitchen counter at your side. She saw how tense you were, assuming it was the stress of cooking dinner for everyone that had got you so on edge, oblivious to the real reason.

Wanda.

It had been a few days since you had seen the older woman and you could tell she was mad. You spoke to her in passing, mumbling under your breath whether she and Vision would want to come for dinner, blushing at her tone of voice when she asked you to speak up before asking once more and practically scurrying away.

You hated confrontation and you couldn't bear the thought of telling Wanda it was over between the two of you, hoping that she'd just read your mind or something and get where your thoughts were at. If only that was possible.

"I love your lasagne so much," Natasha's tone was light-hearted to try and ease your nerves, looking at you with a soft expression. You met her gaze, a little of the tension flowing from your body as you stared into her emerald eyes that were filled with love and care.

"More than me?" You ask teasingly, swallowing the lump that had built in your throat. She raises her brow at you, pushing herself off the marble countertop, biceps flexing a little, and steps forwards to be in front of you. Her lips ghosts your own as your hand freezes in the air, the spoon full of mince hovering in the air as your attention is solely on her.

"I'll have to think about that," she rasps out, eyes peering up at you as she tilts her head, gently pressing her lips against yours. Her lips are soft, so incredibly soft, and you think you're addicted. When she pulls back you try to chase them, a finger pressed against your chest to keep the distance. "As much as I love eating lasagne, I prefer to eat you out Moya Lyubov," she purrs and it's sinful that she can sound that hot with her accent. "Of course I love you more," she chuckles when noticing how much darker your eyes have turned, a smirk plastered on her face at how easily she could turn you on.

"Yeah?" you sigh out lowly, the feeling of her hands resting on your hips burning into your skin, body heating up at her touch. "Why don't you prove it?'' Her smirk grows a little as she manoeuvres you both around till your back is against the countertop, spoon discarded into the half made lasagne while you look into her mischievous eyes.

Her lips crash to yours, earning a soft moan from you. Your hands move to her waist, pulling her closer and forcing her to pin your body against the marble top, needing to feel her close. Teasingly, her tongue swipes over your bottom lip before pulling away, a chuckle leaving her lips.

"You're going to have to wait until after dinner then," she whispers with a taunting tone, biting her lip to try and hide the smirk that tugs at the corner of her lips at your offended and a little annoyed expression.