#reader g!p

The nightmares always leave the same thing behind, the cold of the table, the smell of antiseptic, the feeling of your own body becoming something unrecognizable. Hydra's gift to you. You don't call it that but sometimes it feels that way.

You roll your neck. The muscles there are thick, resistant, slow to loosen. A reminder of what you are now.

The kitchen light is already on.

You stop in the doorway.

She's sitting on the counter, bare legs dangling, oversized Sokovian university hoodie swallowing her frame, a mug cradled in both hands. Wanda Maximoff looks up at you and doesn't seem surprised at all.

"You couldn't sleep either," she says. Not a question.

You move to the cabinet anyway. Pull down a mug. "Never can."

She watches you. You feel it even with your back turned, that particular quality of her attention, warm and precise, like sunlight through a magnifying glass.

"Bad dream?"

You pause just a second too long.

"Something like that," you say.

She doesn't push. That's the thing about Wanda, she never pushes. She just makes space and somehow that's worse, because you keep wanting to fill it.

You lean back against the counter across from her, mug warming your hands, and for a while neither of you says anything. The refrigerator hums. Somewhere outside it starts to rain.

It's the third time this week you've found each other here.

Neither of you has mentioned that yet.

You showed up at the compound on a Tuesday.

No call ahead. No SHIELD escort. Just you, standing at the front gate in clothes that didn't fit right, a duffle bag that was half empty, and enough dried blood on your knuckles to tell a story nobody had asked for yet.

You told the security camera you weren't a threat.

You almost believed it yourself.

Steve was the one who came down to meet you. Cautious but fair, that was Rogers all over. He listened while you talked, watched your hands, asked careful questions. You answered all of them. You were done running. Done hiding. You wanted to be something other than what Hydra made you.

He brought you inside.

That was the first time you saw her.

Wanda was at the top of the stairs, leaning against the railing, fingers curled loosely around the metal. She wasn't supposed to be there, you'd find out later she'd felt something the moment you stepped through the gate. A pull she couldn't name. She'd followed it without thinking.

Your eyes met hers for just a second.

She didn't look away first.

The team's reaction was mixed. Natasha was skeptical, she made that clear without saying a word, just watched you from across rooms with those sharp green eyes. Tony had opinions, loudly. Sam was surprisingly warm. Steve advocated for you and that carried weight.

Wanda said very little in those early meetings.

But you always knew where she was in the room.

Training came first. That was Steve's idea, let's see what you can do in a controlled environment. Responsible. Logical. You hated how much sense it made.

The first time you and Wanda were paired together you almost pulled your punches.

Almost.

She put you on your back in forty seconds flat using nothing but a flick of her wrist and a curl of red mist. You lay there staring at the ceiling, genuinely stunned, and heard her footsteps approach.

Her face appeared above you. Something dancing in her eyes.

"You were holding back," she said.

"So were you," you replied.

Her mouth curved. Just barely. "Yes," she agreed. "I was."

After that training felt less like assessment and more like conversation, a language you were both learning to speak. She pushed you and you pushed back and somewhere in the space between you started to actually see each other.

You noticed small things. The way she tucked her feet under her on the couch. The way her accent thickened when she was tired. The way she sometimes looked at you mid-sentence like she'd forgotten what she was saying.

You told yourself it didn't mean anything.

The mission changed things.

Budapest. Extraction gone sideways, bad intel, double the expected hostiles, and a building that decided halfway through to start coming down around you both.

You found Wanda pinned under a collapsed beam on the third floor. She was conscious, using everything she had to keep the ceiling from finishing the job, crimson light flickering at her fingers. Losing the fight.

You didn't think. You just moved.

You lifted the beam. Four hundred pounds of concrete and steel and you lifted it like it inconvenienced you, held it long enough for her to pull free, then let it drop behind you both as you ran.

Outside, breathless, she grabbed your arm.

"You could have been crushed," she said. Her voice was different. Raw.

"Didn't get crushed though," you said.

She looked at you for a long moment. Then she pulled you into a hug so sudden it almost knocked even you back a step. Her face pressed into your neck. Her hands fisted in your jacket.

You held her. Obviously you held her. You don't think you had a choice.

"Thank you," she whispered.

You didn't trust your voice so you just held on tighter.

After Budapest something settled between you. A comfort that hadn't been there before, easy and warm and just slightly dangerous if you thought about it too hard. Which you tried not to.

She started finding reasons to be near you. You started letting her.

Movie nights where she'd end up leaning into your side without comment. Meals where she'd sit across from you and steal food off your plate like it was nothing. Moments in the hallway where she'd touch your arm just briefly, just enough, before moving on.

Natasha noticed first. Of course she did.

She said nothing. Just gave you a look over her coffee cup one morning that communicated approximately you are in so much trouble with devastating efficiency.

You ignored her.

You were very good at ignoring things that scared you.

Which brings you back here. 2am. Rain against the windows. Wanda on the counter with her mug and her dangling legs and her eyes that always seem to find yours a beat longer than necessary.

Six months of this. Six months of almost.

"You're thinking loud," she says softly.

You look up. "Thought you said you don't read minds without permission."

"I don't have to read your mind," she says. Her eyes drop, just briefly, just for a fraction of a second, before coming back up. "You just have a very expressive face."

Your grip tightens slightly on your mug.

"Go to sleep, Wanda."

She smiles into her tea. "You first."

Neither of you moves.

It becomes a ritual neither of you names.

2am. Kitchen. Mugs that get refilled more out of habit than thirst. The rain comes and goes over the following weeks but you two remain constant, finding each other in the quiet like it was always the plan.

The compound sleeps around you. The world shrinks down to this room, this light, this distance between two people who are both very carefully not saying anything.

The first time you catch her looking you almost miss it.

You've turned to rinse your mug at the sink, back to her, and when you turn around her eyes move up fast, too fast. Back to her mug. Expression perfectly neutral.

But you saw it.

The woxer waistband sits where it always does, grey cotton above the low hang of your sweatpants, a strip of skin between the two. Nothing intentional. Just how you dress at 2am when you're not expecting an audience.

You don't say anything.

You lean back against the counter and pick up the conversation exactly where you left it and pretend your pulse hasn't kicked up.

She pretends too.

You're both very good at pretending.

It keeps happening.

Not obviously. Never obviously, Wanda is too careful for that, too deliberate in the way she moves through the world. But you start to notice the pattern. The way her gaze drops when you reach up to the high cabinet, your shirt riding up, the waistband shifting with the movement. The way she finds something very interesting to look at whenever you push off the counter and your sweatpants settle lower on your hips.

She always recovers quickly. Eyes back up. Conversation resuming. That careful neutral expression clicking back into place like nothing happened.

But her fingers curl a little tighter around her mug each time.

And her voice comes out just slightly softer.

Three weeks after you first notice, you do something you're not proud of.

You reach across her for the honey, deliberately, slowly, close enough that your arm crosses her eyeline, close enough that she gets the full picture of exactly where your waistband sits before you straighten back up.

You stir your tea.

You don't look at her.

But you hear the small quiet breath she pulls in.

"Cold?" you ask innocently.

"No," she says. A beat too late.

You hide your smile behind your mug.

She retaliates, though you doubt she'd call it that.

The next night she shows up in a hoodie that slips off one shoulder, hair loose, face soft with almost-sleep. She looks devastating in the way that only people who aren't trying can manage.

She sits on the counter across from you and crosses her ankles and tilts her head and says "you look tired" like she isn't the reason you can't sleep anymore.

"I'm fine," you say.

"Mm." Her eyes trace your face slowly. Unhurried. "You say that a lot."

"Because it's usually true."

"And tonight?"

You look at her, really look, the way you've been trying not to for weeks now. The shoulder. The loose hair. The way she's watching you with that expression that makes you feel like something she's already made up her mind about.

"Tonight," you say carefully, "I'm fine."

She holds your gaze for a long moment.

Then she smiles, slow, private, like you've confirmed something, and looks back down at her mug.

Your heart does something stupid.

Natasha corners you in the gym the next morning.

She doesn't say hello. Just falls into step beside you on the treadmill and stares straight ahead and says  "you know she feels everything you feel, right. Telepathically."

You nearly miss a step.

"She said she doesn't read minds without—"

"She doesn't have to," Natasha says simply. "Emotions are louder than thoughts. Always have been."

She steps off the treadmill. Grabs her towel.

"Just something to consider," she adds, and walks away.

That night at 2am you sit across from Wanda and you can't stop thinking about it.

Every time your eyes drift, and they do, because you're only human, because she's right there, you wonder what she feels rolling off you. Whether the warmth in your chest is as visible to her as her flickering gaze is to you.

She knows.

She has to know.

You look up and find her already watching you. Not pretending this time. Not recovering quickly.

Just watching.

The kitchen feels smaller than usual. The rain is back. Neither of you speaks for a long moment that stretches and stretches like something being pulled tight.

"Wanda," you start.

"I know," she says quietly.

The silence that follows isn't empty.

It's full of everything neither of you has said yet, weeks of 2am and flickering eyes and carefully neutral expressions and stolen moments that were never quite innocent.

She uncrosses her ankles. Her feet find the floor.

She doesn't move toward you.

Not yet.

But the way she looks at you says soon as clearly as if she'd spoken it out loud.

The next night, you know something is different the moment you walk in.

Maybe it's the way the light sits tonight, softer somehow, the under-cabinet glow casting the kitchen in something that feels less like fluorescent and more like candlelight. Maybe it's the rain, heavier than usual, the kind that makes the whole world feel sealed off and private.

Or maybe it's her.

Wanda is already there. Always already there lately, like she times it, like some part of her knows when your nightmares release you. She's standing at the counter tonight instead of sitting on it,  barefoot on the cold tile, oversized cream knit sweater falling to mid-thigh, dark sleep shorts underneath. Her hair is down, loose waves tumbling over her shoulders, still slightly messy from sleep in a way that makes your chest ache.

She looks soft. She looks devastating.

She looks like something you've been trying not to want for six months.

She turns when she hears you and for just a moment,  just one unguarded second, her eyes move over you the way they always do when she thinks she's being subtle. The worn shirt. The low sweatpants. The woxer waistband sitting where it always sits against your hip.

She's not subtle tonight.

She doesn't seem to be trying to be.

"Hey," you say. Your voice comes out quieter than intended.

"Hey," she says back.

You make your tea. She leans against the counter beside you instead of across from you, closer than usual, close enough that your arm brushes hers when you reach for the honey and neither of you moves away after.

You stay like that. Side by side. Shoulders almost touching.

The rain fills the silence.

"Bad night?" she asks.

"The usual," you say. "Cold table. Bright lights." You pause. "Woke up swinging. Nearly took out the nightstand."

She makes a soft sound, not quite a laugh, not quite sympathy. Something in between that only she manages.

"I felt you," she admits quietly. "From down the hall."

You turn your head to look at her. "The nightmare?"

Her eyes find yours. "All of it."

The air in the room changes.

You've known, since Natasha, since before Natasha if you're honest, that she feels it. The warmth you carry when she walks in. The way your pulse shifts when she's close. You've known she knows and she's known you know she knows and somehow that's made it easier to pretend.

It's not easy to pretend right now.

"Wanda—"

"I know we don't talk about it," she says. Her voice is steady but her fingers curl around her mug tight. "I know you're careful and I know I'm careful and I know there are probably very good reasons for that."

"There are," you say. You can't remember a single one.

"I know," she says again. Softer. "I just—" She stops. Exhales. "I feel everything you feel the moment you walk into a room. Every single time. For six months." Her jaw is set but her eyes are honest, wide and green and tired of pretending. "That is a very long time to feel something that loud and say nothing about it."

Your heart is doing that stupid thing again. That thing it only does for her.

"You're not saying nothing," you point out.

Her mouth curves. "No," she agrees quietly. "I'm not."

She turns to face you fully then and you get the full effect of her, the soft sweater slipping off one shoulder, the loose hair, the way she tilts her chin up slightly to hold your gaze because you have a few inches on her. This close you can see the faint flush across her cheekbones. The way her chest rises and falls a little unsteadily.

She's nervous.

Wanda Maximoff, who faced down armies, who rewrote reality, who put you on your back in training without blinking, nervous. Because of you.

Something unlocks in your chest.

"You're so—" you start, and then stop, because there isn't a word big enough.

"What?" she breathes.

"Beautiful," you say. Simply. Like it's just true, because it is, because it has been for months and you're tired of keeping it behind your teeth.

Her breath catches.

You watch her eyes drop, deliberately this time, not hiding it, moving slowly from your face down and back up. Taking her time. When her gaze returns to yours it's darker than before, and the flush on her cheeks has deepened, and she is looking at you like you are something she has decided she is done waiting for.

Her eyes dip one more time, briefly, just a moment, to where your sweatpants sit low on your hips. The woxer waistband. The fit of the fabric below it.

She looks back up.

Her lips part slightly.

"You have no idea," she says quietly, "how long I've been standing in this kitchen trying very hard not to—"

You close the distance.

Not fast, nothing about this should be fast, not after six months of slow, but deliberate. You bring your hand up to her jaw, tilting her face toward yours, giving her every opportunity to stop this.

She doesn't stop it.

She leans in.

The kiss is soft at first. Barely a breath between two people who have been holding it in for too long. Her lips are warm and she tastes like chamomile and something sweeter and your free hand finds her waist and she exhales against your mouth like she's been waiting

She kisses you back.

And then it deepens.

Her hand finds the front of your shirt, fingers curling into the fabric, pulling slightly. The mug gets set down, neither of you remembers doing it. Her other hand slides up your arm slowly, feeling the shape of you, the strength you carry in your frame, and you hear the small sound she makes against your lips when she reaches your shoulder.

You press closer.

The counter catches the back of her thighs. She doesn't pull away.

Your forehead drops to hers when you finally break for air, both of you breathing unsteadily, the rain loud against the windows, the kitchen feeling like the smallest most private place in the world.

Her fingers are still curled in your shirt.

She looks up at you, flushed, eyes dark, lips slightly parted, and then her gaze drops one more time. Takes in the way your body has responded to her without you deciding to. The fit of your sweatpants. The undeniable evidence of exactly what she does to you.

Her eyes come back up slowly.

She doesn't look away.

She looks like she has absolutely no intention of stopping.

"Bedroom," she says softly. It isn't a question.

You tighten your grip on her waist, thumbs pressing into the curve of her hip through the sheer knit fabric. "Is that a request or an order, Maximoff?"

"An order," she says, voice dropping lower, and there it is, the edge you've heard on the battlefield, not in this kitchen when it's just the two of you. "I've waited six months."

Your hands slide down to hook under her thighs, lifting her effortlessly. She lets out a small sound of surprise before your mouth is back on hers, deeper this time, hungrier, tongue sliding against yours with six months of wanting behind it.

She wraps her legs around your waist, fingers tangling in your hair, pulling you closer as you carry her down the hall.

You throw her down on the bed, watching as she bounces slightly, hair fanning out around her. She looks up at you with those dark green eyes, biting her lip.

She swallows hard, legs pressing together as she takes in the clear outline of your hardness through the sweatpants fabric. A soft moan escapes her lips before she can stop it, fingers curling into the comforter beneath her.

You watch her with hooded eyes, seeing the way she's reacting to you. Without a word, you slowly push down your sweatpants, revealing the woxers underneath. 

Her eyes follow your movements, pupils dilating when she sees the bulge straining against the cotton fabric.

She bites her bottom lip, watching as you slowly lower your boxers just enough to reveal your thick, hard length.

A soft gasp escapes her when she sees how big you are, easily eight inches, thick and veiny with a drop of pre-cum glistening at the tip.

Her thighs press together instinctively, a moan rumbling in her throat. 

"Oh fuck."

You smirk at her reaction, stepping closer to the bed. 

"Something you like, Wanda?" You tease, gripping your length at the base and giving it a slow, lazy pump. 

Her eyes lock onto the motion, tracking the way your fist slides up and down the sensitive skin. "Fuck yes."

She nods eagerly, licking her lips. 

"I want it," she whispers, voice hoarse with desire. Her hands reach out to you, fingers curling around your wrist to stop the slow pumping motion. 

"Give it to me." She pulls you closer until you're standing between her spread thighs on the bed.

She sits up slightly, leaning forward to press a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the head of your cock. 

Her tongue darts out to lap at the pre-cum beading there, licking it clean before taking just the tip into her mouth. The suction is immediate and perfect, her warm wet mouth enveloping you as her hand strokes the base. "Mmmm—"

You groan at the sudden heat and pressure, your hands flying to her hair to grip it tightly. 

"Fuck, Wanda," you curse, hips bucking forward slightly to push more of your length into her mouth. 

She takes it easily, her throat relaxing to accommodate you as she begins to bob her head, sucking you off with eager movements.

She takes you deeper with each stroke, eyes rolling up to watch your face, the way your jaw clenches, the way your head falls back, the soft curses falling from your lips. When you start to throb in her throat, she pulls back with a wet pop, licking her lips. 

Wanda quickly strips off her clothing, revealing her full, round breasts with hard nipples begging for attention. You pull your own shirt over your head, tossing it aside as you take in the sight of her naked body. 

Your breath catches, she's absolutely stunning, the most gorgeous woman you've ever seen.

Wanda curls her finger at you, beckoning you closer as she leans back against the headboard, propping herself up on her elbows. Her chest arches slightly, pushing her breasts forward invitingly. Her legs are spread, giving you an unobstructed view of her glistening pussy. 

"Come here," she purrs.

Your cock twitches at her invitation, throbbing visibly and growing even harder, impossibly harder, until it's aching with need. You watch her eyes fixate on your length, her pupils dilating as she takes in every thick inch. 

She bites her lip hard enough to leave a mark, a soft whimper escaping her throat. "Fuck."

Without breaking eye contact, she spreads her legs wider, giving you a better view of her wet, pink pussy. Her hand slides down her stomach to touch herself briefly before she curls her finger again, more insistently this time. 

"Get over here and fuck me," she demands softly but firmly.

You move between her legs without hesitation, gripping your length at the base to keep from coming right then and there. She's so fucking gorgeous, so wet and ready for you. As you move closer, you can see her arousal glistening on her inner thighs, dripping down to the bedsheets.

She reaches out and wraps her hand around your cock, guiding it to her entrance. You can feel the heat radiating from her pussy, the wetness coating the head of your dick. She bites her lip again, this time harder, as you press the tip inside her. 

"Mmm..."

"Oh god," you groan as the head of your cock slips inside her, immediately surrounded by her tight, soaked heat.

She's incredibly wet, making you slide in easily despite how big you are. Her walls squeeze around you deliciously as you slowly push deeper.

She gasps and throws her head back as you fill her up, her hands gripping your arms tightly. 

"Fuck, you're so big," she pants, her voice breaking slightly as you bottom out inside her. 

You can feel every inch of her wrapped around your throbbing length, so wet and snug.

You start to move, pulling back slowly before thrusting back in deeply. 

She moans out, her nails digging into your back as you begin to fuck her. 

Each deep thrust makes her breasts bounce and jostle, her auburn hair flying around her face.

You lean down and kiss her hard, swallowing every moan that spills from her lips. 

Every thrust pushes a grunt from your throat as you fuck into her dripping pussy. 

She wraps her legs around your waist, pulling you deeper with each stroke.

"Yes— yes— yes—" she chants against your mouth, her hips meeting yours eagerly. 

Her walls clench around you, wet sounds filling the room.

"You're so fucking tight," you groan against her lips, your hands gripping her hips possessively. "Taking my cock like a good girl..." 

She moans loudly at the praise, her pussy squeezing around you. 

The headboard slams against the wall with each powerful thrust bang bang bang

"Such a good girl," you moan, one hand sliding up to grip her throat lightly while you keep pounding into her. "Taking every inch so well for me." 

The headboard hits the wall faster now, your thrusts harder and deeper. She arches into the grip, moaning desperately. 

Bang bang bang. 

"Say my name," you demand.

"Oh god— oh fuck— Y/n— Y/n— Y/n—" she moans your name as you hit that perfect spot inside her relentlessly. 

Your hand tightens on her throat, not choking but applying pressure as you rail into her mercilessly.

"That's it, baby," you grunt, your face buried in her neck as you fuck her roughly. "So fucking tight and loud for me." She's screaming your name now, her voice breaking with each powerful thrust.

"Harder," she begs desperately.

You grab her thighs and spread them wider, lifting her hips off the bed as you slam into her even deeper. 

Her moans turn into high-pitched screams, her nails carving lines down your back.

"Fuck, moan my name baby."

"Y/n! Oh my god, Y/n!" she screams as you pound into her, hitting her G-spot perfectly with each thrust.

Her walls start to flutter around you, her thighs trembling as she gets close. 

"I'm gonna—" she chokes out, her back arching off the bed, her breasts bouncing freely. 

The headboard is slamming against the wall like a drumbeat now, bang bang bang, keeping time with your desperate fucking. 

"Please— don't stop— please—"

"Come for me," you order, one hand moving between them to rub harsh circles on her clit. "Come on my dick right now, Wanda." 

Her eyes roll back and she moans loudly, her pussy clenching and gripping around you as her orgasm rips through her. 

Bang bang bang goes the headboard, still hitting furiously as you keep fucking her through it.

You thrust through every wave of her orgasm until she's a trembling, whimpering mess beneath you. Her thighs squeeze around you, her pussy still pulsing. 

"That's it, good girl," you pant against her ear, the words coming out hoarse and wrecked. 

Her body is covered in a sheen of sweat, breasts rising and falling rapidly as she catches her breath.

"Ride me," you order gruffly, flipping her over so she's on top. Your cock never slips out of her, still rock hard and throbbing inside her heat. "Show me what you can do, baby." 

You grab her hips and lift her slightly before slamming her back down, making her yelp and grip your shoulders.

She starts to move, slowly at first, lifting her hips up and down on your length. 

Her breasts bounce in your face, and you catch one nipple between your teeth, biting down gently. 

She moans and rides you faster, her pussy gripping you tightly. 

You grab her ass and help her bounce on your cock, lifting her up and slamming her down hard. 

She moans out every time you bottom out inside her, her walls fluttering around you. 

"Ride this dick, baby, ride it hard," you groan, your eyes fixed between your bodies watching your cock disappear into her dripping pussy.

She starts to move faster and harder, her hands gripping the headboard for support as she slams her hips down onto yours.

"That's it," you grunt, helping her bounce faster. "Take this dick like the good girl you are." 

Your words make her moan louder, her pussy getting wetter. You grab her ass hard, making her whine and ride you even faster.

You can feel yourself throb, your release building. "I'm close, Wanda," you pant out, "You gonna come with me?" 

She nods frantically, her movements becoming erratic as she chases her second orgasm. 

You reach down and start rubbing her clit in tight circles. 

"Come with me," you demand, your thumb pressing hard on her throbbing bundle of nerves. "Cum on my dick."

She screams your name as she comes again, her vision going white.

Her orgasm triggers yours, and you groan loudly as you unload deep inside her, filling her up with hot spurts. 

She collapses onto your chest, both of you breathing heavily.

Your cock pulses inside her as you keep dripping your load into her. 

She moans softly, still shaking from her orgasm, her walls squeezing around you as you fill her.

"Fuck," you breathe against her neck, still holding her hips tight. "You okay baby?" Your heart is pounding against her chest, the afterglow settling in. 

She nods lazily, unable to form words.

You carefully roll over, keeping her on top of you, both of you now lying side by side in the sweaty mess. 

She snuggles into your breasts, her breathing slowly calming down. 

You stroke her auburn hair softly, kissing the top of her head.

"That was..." she starts, then trails off with a satisfied sigh.

"Perfect," you finish for her. "You're perfect."

She smiles against your chest, her fingers tracing idle patterns on your abs. 

Your softening dick is still inside her, and neither of you seem eager to separate. 

You feel her squeeze around you occasionally, little aftershocks from her intense orgasms. 

You groan softly each time, enjoying the sensation.

She lifts her head to look at you, her eyes soft and satisfied. "I love you," she whispers, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your lips. 

“I love you too,” You kiss her back tenderly, wrapping your arms around her. 

You drag yourself out of bed and tug on the first clothes within reach, grey sweatpants slung low on your hips and an oversized black hoodie that still smells faintly like the detergent from your last assignment. You don't bother tying your hair back. If they wanted polished, they should've scheduled you after noon.

The hallway is quiet when you step out. Too quiet. Then you turn the corner into the kitchen.

And there she is.

Natasha Romanoff stands at the counter, back half turn toward you. Black leggings cling to her long legs. A fitted tank top expose toned shoulders, pale skin, and the intricate braid falling neatly between her shoulder blades. She's barefoot. Relaxed.

She looks... unguarded.

Steam curls from the mug in her hand. She doesn't look at you when she speaks.

"You walk like you're casing the place," she says casually. "Relax. We're not under attack."

You freeze mid step.

"I always walk like this."

Now she turns. And there it is, that slow, knowing smirk youve learned for months. Green eyes sweep over you, unhurried. Taking inventory.

"Exactly."

Heat creeps up your neck. You shove your hands into your hoodie pocket.

"You're up early," you counter.

She lifts the mug, takes a sip. Her throat moves when she swallows. You shouldn't notice that.

"I don't sleep much," she replies. "You?"

"Depends who's making coffee."

Her brow arches slightly.

"Oh?"

You step closer, drawn in despite yourself. "Yeah. If it's Barton, I go back to bed."

A soft huff of laughter escapes her, low and real. Victory.

She turns back to the machine, pouring another cup without asking. You watch the way she moves. Efficient. Fluid. Every motion precise without looking mechanical. Even making coffee feels tactical in her hands.

She holds the mug out to you without turning. You take it. Your fingers brush.

It's brief. Accidental. Not accidental.

Her eyes flick down to where your hands meet. Neither of you pull away immediately.

"Careful," she murmurs. "You stare like that during missions too?"

You force a sip of coffee, even though it's too hot. "Maybe I'm assessing a threat."

She finally faces you fully now, leaning one hip against the counter. The braid slides over her shoulder as she tilts her head.

"And what's the verdict, Agent?"

You hold her gaze. You refuse to look away first.

"Undecided."

A slow step forward. She invades your space just enough to make it obvious. Not enough to cross a line.

Her voice drops slightly. "You should decide quickly."

"Why's that?"

Her eyes flick to your mouth for half a second.

"Because hesitation gets people hurt."

The air shifts. You swallow.

This is what everyone means when they talk about her. Not just lethal. Magnetic. Like standing too close to the edge of something high and dangerous.

You clear your throat. "You flirt with all the new recruits?"

"I don't flirt."

You laugh under your breath. "That's a lie." She smiles, not wide. Not soft. Just enough.

"Maybe I'm just curious."

"About?"

Her gaze drags down and back up again, slow enough to make your pulse kick. "The way you move."

Your brain short circuits. She straightens, taking another sip of her coffee like she didn't just destabilize your entire nervous system.

Footsteps echo faintly from down the hall, someone else waking up.

Natasha steps away first. Professional. Controlled. But as she passes you, her shoulder brushes yours. Intentional.

"Training at ten," she says lightly. "Try not to stare too much. It's distracting."

And then she's gone. You stand there, coffee in hand, heart racing.

You are absolutely doomed.

Later, the training room smells like rubber mats and metal. You're early. On purpose. If you're going to spar with Natasha Romanoff, you're not walking in cold.

You're wrapping your hands when the doors slide open behind you. You don't turn. You don't need to.

"You stretch before you try to take me down," she says smoothly, "or are you planning to rely on enthusiasm?"

You glance over your shoulder. Leggings. Different pair, dark grey. Tank top clings to her frame, braid tighter. Focused.

God help you.

"I don't need stretching," you reply. "I adapt."

She steps fully onto the mat. The doors shut behind her with a quiet hiss.

"Confidence," she hums. "I like that."

She circles you slowly. Not predatory. Evaluating. You force yourself not to track every step.

"Rule one," she says, slipping easily into instructor mode. "If you're distracted, you're dead."

"Good thing I'm not distracted."

She moves fast. You barely catch her wrist before she sweeps your leg. The impact of the mat hits your back, air rushing from your lungs.

And she's above you in a second. Knee pressing into your hip. Hand pinning your wrist above your head. The other braced near your shoulder.

Her hair falls slightly loose from the braid, a few red strands brushing her cheek.

You stare up at her. She's breathing evenly. You're not.

"Not distracted?" she murmurs.

You shift your hips sharply and twist. She anticipates it, but not fully. You hook her leg, roll, and suddenly she's the one on her back.

You don't waste the opening. You pin her wrists down. Straddle her hips.

Silence. The room feels smaller. Her chest rises beneath you. Controlled. But not unaffected.

"Well," she says calmly. "There you are."

Your grip tightens instinctively. "You talk too much," you mutter.

She tilts her head slightly against the mat.

"You're staring again."

"I'm assessing."

"Mm." A slow smirk curves her mouth. "Your assessments are very thorough."

Your thighs flex unconsciously to stabilize your position.

She notices. Of course she does.

Her knee shifts upward slightly against your side. Testing your balance. Testing you.

"You're stronger than you look," she says quietly.

"So are you."

Her gaze darkens just a fraction.

"Careful."

"Why?" you breathe.

Her hands flex in your grip.

"Because I haven't actually tried yet."

And then she moves. It's fluid. Controlled violence. She breaks one wrist free, twists, and uses your own weight against you. The world flips.

You hit the mat harder this time. She traps one of your legs between hers, forearm pressing just beneath your collarbone. Not enough to choke.

Enough to remind you she could.

You're breathless. She's closer than before. Her braid slides forward over her shoulder, brushing your chest.

"You hesitate," she says softly. "Right at the moment you should commit."

Your pulse is hammering now. Not from the fall.

"Maybe I like anticipation."

Her lips twitch.

"That's dangerous."

Her grip shifts slightly higher.

"You going to tap out?" she asks.

You look at her mouth.

"No."

The air thickens. Her eyes flick down. Just like in the kitchen.

Just like before.

For a split second, neither of you move. Then the training room doors hiss open.

"Am I interrupting something," Tony's voice drawls.

Natasha releases you instantly and rolls to her feet in one seamless motion. Professional. Untouchable.

You sit up slower, trying to steady your breathing.

"Training," Natasha replies evenly.

Tony looks between you both. Smirks.

"Uh-huh."

You stand. Natasha doesn't look at you as she adjusts her braid.

"Again," she says calmly. "From the top."

And when she finally meets your eyes......

There's a challenge there. Not instructor to recruit. Something else. You step back onto the mat. This time, you don't hesitate.

The showers are quieter than the training room.

Too quiet.

Steam clings to the air, curling along tile and glass. The compound's locker rooms are sleek and modern, frosted dividers, rainfall showerheads, metal benches that always feel colder than they look.

You thought you'd be alone. You're halfway through peeling off your tank when you hear it

The soft click of the door closing. You don't turn immediately. But you feel her.

"Didn't think you'd still be here," Natasha says casually.

Her voice sounds different in the steam. Lower. Closer.

You glance over your shoulder.

She's already untying her braid. Your stomach tightens.

"I like to cool down properly," you manage.

She hums. "Good habit."

You pull your shirt over your head, tossing it into your locker. Sweatpants follow. You're left in your briefs, hoodie discarded somewhere behind you.

You can feel her eyes. Not staring. Not obvious.

But aware.

You straighten slightly without meaning to. Instinct. Pride. And beneath that a flicker of tension.

She steps past you toward the row of showers, tugging her tank up and over her head in one smooth motion.

You look. Of course you look. Natasha Romanoff, an undeniable gorgeous woman.

Her back is sculpted muscle and pale skin, a faint scar trailing along her shoulder blade. The braid loosens fully as she sets the hair tie on the counter.

"Something you want to say?" she asks lightly.

You snap your gaze upward.

"No."

A pause. She glance at you then, not mocking. Not smug. Just studying.

You step toward the opposte shower, turning the water on. The spray hisses to life, steam rising thicker now. You step under it, letting heat soak into your shoulders.

You're aware of your body. Too aware.

The way the water runs down your chest. The weight between your thighs. The fact that proximity like this makes everything sharper, heavier.

You've never been shy. But this is Natasha. And she notices everything.

Her shower turns on beside yours. There's a divider. Frosted glass. Blurry outline only.

You tell yourself that's a relief.

"You did better today," she says over the water.

You close your eyes briefly. "You threw me twice."

"I threw you four times."

You huff a quiet laugh. "You were counting?"

"I always count."

The water muffles the space between you.

Your mind betrays you, imagining the curve of her shoulders under the spray. The way droplets would trace down her spine.

You shift slightly. And you freeze.

Because you realize If she stepped around that divider, she would see everything. Every reaction. Every truth. Your jaw tightens.

You've always carried yourself confidently. In missions. In fights. In beds you've left before dawn.

But this is different. Because you don't want her looking at you like a weapon.

You want.....

You exhale slowly.

The water shuts off beside you. Your heart stumbles. You hear the faint slide of glass. Then her voice. Closer than before.

"You're very quiet."

You open your eyes.

She's leaning lightly against the divider's edge, towel wrapped low around her. Damp red hair falling loose over her shoulders instead of braided. She's not staring down. She's looking at your face.

That's worse.

"Just thinking," you reply.

"About?"

You hesitate. There it is again. That split second.

She steps a little closer. Not invading. But close enough that steam curls between you instead of separating you.

"You hesitate," she murmurs.

You meet her eyes this time.

"Maybe I don't know how you see me."

That lands differently. Her expression shifts, subtle. Softer at the edges.

"I see you," she says simply.

Your throat tightens. Her gaze flicks downward, briefly, yes, but not with shock. Not with confusion. Not with judgment.

Just assessment. Appreciation. She meets your eyes again.

"You think I'm easily intimidated?"

"No."

"Good."

She reaches past you for another towel, her arm brushing lightly against your side. Bare skin against bare skin.

Deliberate. You feel it everywhere.

"You don't need to second guess yourself," she adds quietly.

There's something in her tone that isn't teasing. It's certain. She steps back, giving you space again. Not retreating, just allowing you air.

"Get dressed," she says lightly, composure sliding back into place. "Dinner in hour."

She walks away barefoot, towel secure, back straight.

And you watch. Because it's not just the way she looks. It's the way she moves. And now you know she sees you.

Dinner at the compound is never quiet.

Clint's arguing with Sam about something ridiculous. Tony's scrolling through his tablet while pretending he's not listening to everyone. Wanda's laughing softly at something Vision said under his breath.

You're seated halfway down the table. Natasha is across from you. Not beside you.

Across. You don't know if that's worse.

She's changed into black slacks and a dark long-sleeve fitted shirt. Hair loose now, falling in soft waves instead of a braid. She looks effortless. Controlled. Watching everything.

Including you. Every time you glance up, her eyes are already there.

You look away first. You're halfway through your food when it happens.

It's subtle at first.

Rhodey makes some offhand comment about medical evaluations for new recruits. Something about files. About "unusual classifications."

You stiffen. You already know where this is going.

Tony, not malicious but careless, glances up. "Yeah, Banner mentioned something biologically fascinating—"

"Tony," Natasha says evenly.

Too late.

Rhodey looks at you, brow raised, curiosity naked and unfiltered. "Wait. So it's true?"

The table quiets. You feel it. That shift. Eyes on you.

The word hangs unspoken but loud anyway.

Intersex.

You've dealt with worse. In locker rooms. In agencies. In whispers you pretended not to hear. You set your fork down carefully.

"It's not classified," you say evenly. "But it's also not a group discussion."

There's an awkward shuffle. Clint mutters something about changing the subject.

But Rhodey presses, not cruel, just ignorant.

"Didn't mean anything by it. Just didn't know how that works in— y'know. Field ops."

The silence stretches.

Your jaw tightens. Across the table, Natasha goes still.

Not tense. Still. The kind of still that comes before something breaks.

"It works," you reply flatly.

James shrugs. "Didn't say it didn't. Just— different, right?"

The word lands heavier than he intended.

Different.

You push your chair back. The scrape against the floor is louder than you mean it to be.

"I'm done," you say calmly.

No one stops you. No one except

"Y/n—"

Natasha's voice cuts clean through the room.

You don't look back. You don't want to see their faces. You don't want to measure pity against curiosity.

You make it halfway down the hall before you hear fast footsteps behind you.

"Hey."

You don't stop walking. Your door slides open at your approach. You step inside. It starts to close.

A hand catches it. Of course it does. Natasha slips through before it seals shut.

Silence fills the room. You don't face her.

You're standing near the window, arms crossed tight over your chest like you're bracing against something physical.

"I didn't need defending," you say quietly.

She doesn't respond right away. When she does, her voice isn't sharp.

It's controlled fury.

"He should have known better."

"It wasn't malicious."

"It doesn't have to be."

You turn then. Her eyes are darker than you've ever seen them. Not playful. Not teasing.

Protective.

"He reduced you to a biological footnote at a dinner table," she continues. "That is not acceptable."

You swallow. You're not used to this. You're used to handling it. To brushing it off. To owning it before someone else can weaponize it.

"I can handle myself," you say.

"I know."

She steps closer.

"That's not the point."

Your breath catches slightly. There's no teasing in her stance now. No sparring. No calculated smirks.

Just her.

"I see the way they look at you sometimes," she says. "Like they're trying to categorize you."

You hold her gaze.

"And you?"

She steps fully into your space. Close enough that you feel her warmth through your shirt.

"I look at you," she says quietly, "and I see someone who could take me down if I give them half a second."

Your heart stutters. Her hand lifts, slow enough that you could step back. You don't. Her fingers brush lightly against your jaw. Not possessive.

Certain.

"You are not something to be explained," she continues softly. "Or dissected. Or discussed."

Your composure cracks just slightly.

"You didn't have to get angry."

A faint, dangerous curve touches her mouth.

"I wasn't angry."

You raise an eyebrow. She exhales slowly.

"Fine. I was."

Her thumb traces lightly along your jawline before her hand drops.

"I don't like when people talk about what's mine."

The words land between you. Heavy. Neither of you move.

"Yours?" you repeat.

Her eyes flick dow, briefly, then back up.

"If you want me to be wrong," she says, voice lower now, "say it."

The room feels smaller. You step closer instead. Close enough that your chests nearly brush.

"You're not wrong."

That does it. Her control fractures just enough to see it. Her hand slides to your waist, testing. You don't pull away. She studies your face one last time. Making sure.

"You hesitate," she murmurs.

"Not this time."

You do exactly what your body's been screaming to do since you met.

You tower over her, the shift in height dynamics finally yours. Your hands come up to cup Natasha's face, thumbs pressing gently against those high cheekbones she's so proud of.

Her breath hitches. Just slightly. You can't help it. Your eyes drop to her lips. Full. Unsmirking. Her lips part slightly, like she's about to say something but can't remember how words work anymore.

You lean in slowly. Torturously slow. Giving her one final chance to pull back.

She doesn't. 

Her hands tighten on your waist, pulling you closer until your bodies press together. Clothed but electric.

Your thumbs brush her jaw as your head tilts.

Your noses brush. Your foreheads rest against each other. Her eyes flutter closed. She's barely breathing. The last inch between your mouths is agonizing. 

Then it disappears. Your lips meet softly. No teasing. No sparring. Just a gentle press of soft flesh against soft flesh.

It's a slow kiss. A soft kiss. A kiss meant to communicate a hundred different emotions that don't fit into words. 

Your fingers slide back into her hair, tilting her head slightly to deepen the kiss. Her hands slide up to your shoulders, holding on like she's afraid you'll disappear.

When you finally pull back, it's only an inch. Your foreheads still touching. Your breaths mingling. Her eyes open slowly, pupils dilated, lips slightly parted and kiss-swollen. 

She looks stunned. You look confident. You've never seen her look so unguarded before.

Natasha's control snaps like a rubber band stretched too far. Her lips are on you again, this time heated and desperate. She's kissing you like she's starving and you're the only meal that matters. 

Her hands slide from your shoulders to your neck, pulling you impossibly closer. You step forward, backing her against the wall near the window.

One hand moving to brace against it beside her head. The other remains tangled in her hair, controlling the angle of the kiss as you deepen it. Your bodies align perfectly, hips pressing together through layers of fabric that suddenly feel too thick.

She lets out a soft sound against your mouth, something between a gasp and a moan. 

Her legs part unconsciously, giving you room to step between them. Her fingers coil tighter in your hair, tugging just enough to make you hiss into her lips.

"About time," she breathes against your mouth.

She's never looked more uncomposed. And it's beautiful.

You smile against her lips before capturing them in another kiss. This one is messy, hungry, filled with month of built up tension finally breaking free. Your hand slides down from her hair to her waist, then lower, gripping her thigh and lifting it around your hip.

She wraps her leg around you eagerly, pulling you even closer. 

The new position makes her gasp when you grind against her deliberately. Her head falls back against the wall, exposing her neck to you. You take advantage, pressing open mouthed kisses there before sucking hard enough to leave a mark.

"Mark me," she whispers, and the request sounds more like a command than a plea. She wants proof, something visible that says she's yours. Her fingers find your belt loop, yanking you tighter against her. "Let them see."

You bite down on her pulse point, sucking bruises into her porcelain skin until you know she'll have to wear them to breakfast tomorrow.

She moans softly, her nails digging into your back through your shirt. 

The sound is muffled against your mouth as you kiss her again, swallowing the noise. Your hands roam freely now, one gripping her thigh, the other sliding under her ass to lift her up.

She wraps her legs around you instinctively, locking her ankles behind your back. You carry her like that, her arms around your neck, her lips on yours, over to the desk. 

You set her down on the edge, breaking the kiss just long enough to pull off your shirt.

She whimpers at the sight of your bare breasts, reaching out to trace the muscles she's seen flexing under shirts for months. 

You're more beautiful than she imagined, more defined, more scarred. She pulls you back between her thighs without warning, raking her nails down your abs.

You hiss at the sudden contact, your hips jerking forward into hers. 

She's wearing too many damn clothes. You start removing her shirt roughly even as she pulls you back for another kiss, her tongue invading your mouth with equal parts aggression and need. 

You break the kiss to pull her shirt over her head, tossing it aside. Your hands immediately go to her bra, unclipping it with practiced ease before throwing it away too. She arches her back, pressing her breasts against yours as you kiss her again, deeper and wetter this time.

Your bodies fit perfectly like this, breasts to breasts, hips aligned, her legs locked around your waist. 

You can feel how wet she is through her pants, and it makes you even more desperate to get them off. You grind against her deliberately letting her feel how hard you are, making her moan into your mouth.

"Off," she pants against your lips, yanking at your pants. "I need these off." She's never wanted anyone this badly, never been so instantly, desperately aroused.

You fumble with your own pants, adrenaline and lust making your usually steady hands clumsy.

She helps, shoving them and boxers down just enough to free you, and then her hands are on your cock, soft, fingers wrapping around the hardness they've fantasized about for months.

"Fuck," she whispers, looking down at you like you're a revelation.

Her thumb swipes across the tip, smearing the precum gathering there. 

You buck into her hand involuntarily, gripping the edge of the desk until your knuckles go white.

"Nat," you warn, your voice gravelly with need. "Don't—"

She ignores you, stroking you slowly, watching your face like she's memorizing every reaction.

"Look at you," she murmurs, voice thick with lust and something softer. Her grip tightens, thumb circling the head. "All that control. All that discipline. And here you are, shaking for me."

Your hips jerk forward, fucking her hand shallowly.

"You're so hard," she whispers, like it's the hottest thing she's ever seen.

Her words make you throb in her hand. 

She watches with fascination as a bead of precum forms at your tip, catching it with her thumb and spreading it down your length. She's touching you like you're something precious, something rare, and it's making your head spin.

"Please—" you start, but she cuts you off with a kiss, hand moving faster now.

Her tongue slides against yours, swallowing your moans as she jerks you off faster, rougher. Her other hand comes up to grab your jaw, holding you in place for the kiss as she works you with her hand. 

You're panting into her mouth, hips thrusting into her grip like they have a mind of their own.

"Nat," you gasp, breaking the kiss to bury your face in her neck. "Gonna—fuck, Natasha—" Your hand clamps down on her wrist, stopping her movements. You're right on the edge, thighs shaking, and the last thing you need is for her to keep touching you like that.

She makes a soft, knowing noise against your ear, her hand slowing to a stop. She doesn't release you, her fingers still wrapped tightly around your length. 

"Mm?" she hums, sounding far too pleased with herself for reducing you to this state.

You start kissing and sucking on her neck, leaving your own marks again as you work to get her pants off. 

She lifts her hips eagerly, helping you push them down along with her underwear. She's so wet that her thighs are shiny with it, and the sight makes your mouth water.

"Use your mouth," she demands breathlessly, spreading her legs wider for you.

You sink to your knees between them, pressing a kiss to the inside of her thigh before working your way closer to her center. She's glistening, swollen, and the smell of her arousal hits you like a drug. 

You run your tongue through her slit slowly, savoring her first desperate moan.

"Oh— fuck—" 

Her thighs tremble as you taste her, her hands immediately finding your hair. You wrap your arms around her legs to hold her in place, pressing her thighs open wider against the edge of the desk. Your tongue circles her clit once before dipping inside her, licking deep into her warmth.

She's tasting perfect, salty and sweet and entirely Natasha.

You eat her like you've been starving, your tongue thrusting in and out of her pussy in long, slow strokes. 

She gasps and whimpers above you, her hips wriggling against the desk as she tries to get closer to your mouth.

"There—right there," she chokes out when your tongue finds a particularly sensitive spot inside her. 

She pushes your head down with gentle pressure, her thighs trembling around your ears. 

You suck on that spot like it's a lifeline, your nose rubbing against her clit with each movement. She's getting wetter, her walls fluttering around your tongue. 

"I'm close—"

You pull back slightly, focusing your efforts on her clit. You flick the sensitive nub with the tip of your tongue before sucking it between your lips, humming against her. Her back arches off the desk, a high, thin moan escaping her as she comes undone.

Her thighs clamp around your head, trying to hold you there as she rides through her orgasm.

You lick gently through it, soothing her oversensitive clit with soft kisses as she trembles. 

When her legs finally loosen, she collapses back against the desk, chest heaving.

You stand up, your length throbbing painfully between your legs. Your lips are swollen, covered in her.

She looks at you like you hung the moon, her chest rising and falling rapidly. 

"Holy shit," she breathes, still trying to catch her breath.

Her eyes drop to your cock, standing hard and wet looking against your stomach, and her mouth waters. 

You move closer, pressing against her entrance. "Can I?"

"Please," she whimpers, wrapping her legs around your waist again. 

She's still sensitive from her orgasm, but the need to have you inside her is overwhelming. She reaches between you to line you up with her entrance, the tip pressing against her wet, lips.

You push inside her slowly, both of you groaning as your length is swallowed up by her tight heat. 

She's so wet that you slide in easily, but she's still tight enough to make your eyes roll back. You bottom out with a harsh breath, buried deep inside her against the desk.

"Oh my god," she gasps, arms and legs tightening around you. "You're so big." 

She shifts slightly, taking you even deeper, and you see stars. You've never felt this good inside someone before, never felt someone fit around you so perfectly.

You start moving slowly, pulling out until only the tip is inside her before sliding back in. 

She moans loudly, her hips lifting off the desk to meet your thrusts. You increase the pace gradually, her wet sounds filling the room along with the slap of skin on skin and the creaking of the desk.

You grunt with each thrust, the sound raw and guttural escaping your chest. Every time you bottom out inside her, a particularly rough groan tears from your throat like you can't help it.

You're losing yourself in the feeling of her wrapped around you, squeezing you so perfectly.

"Fuck, Natasha—"

Your hips snap faster, the desk shaking under you.

"Harder," she begs, her nails digging into your back. 

You oblige immediately, pounding into her with abandon now. She meets every thrust with her hips, crying out every time you hit that spot inside her that makes her see stars. "That's—it, just like that—"

Your grunts get louder, more desperate, as your orgasm builds.

She feels you thickening inside her, your thrusts becoming erratic and deep. 

She knows you're close. 

She lifts her legs higher on your waist, shifting the angle so that with each snap of your hips, your tip is hitting her g-spot perfectly. "Don't stop," she commands hoarsely.

"Fuck," you grunt repeatedly, your face buried in her neck as you chase your release. You're so deep inside her now that every movement sends tremors of pleasure through both of you.

Your thrusts turn choppy, desperate, chasing that peak. Your hand slips between your bodies to her clit, rubbing hard circles as you fuck into her deeper, faster.

Her whole body tenses around you, her inner walls clenching and fluttering. 

"Oh god Y/n, I'm—" She gasps sharply as you rub her clit in tight circles, her head falling back against the desk with a soft thud. 

Her orgasm hits her a second before yours does.

You come hard, groaning into her neck as your cock pulses inside her.

You thrust through your release, filling her completely with each snap of your hips. 

She throws her legs high around your waist again, taking everything you're giving her as she rides out her own orgasm. Her inner muscles grips your cock perfectly with each wave, both of you shaking violently from the force of it.

After what feels like an eternity, you both slowly come down from your highs. You stay buried inside her, your forehead resting on her shoulder as you both try to catch your breath. 

Your hips give a few lazy thrusts still, too sensitive for much more but unable to stop completely.

She runs her hands soothingly up and down your back, her thighs tightening and relaxing around your hips. 

"That was..." She trails off, clearly at a loss for words. Her body is still humming with pleasure, her inner muscles gently squeezing your semi-hard cock.

"You okay?" you whisper, pressing a soft kiss to her shoulder before carefully pulling out of her.

She whimpers at the loss, her thighs falling open. You moan at the sight of your cum dripping from her swollen, glistening pussy.

"Don't bother," she mumbles, catching your wrist when you reach for a tissue. "Let it stay."

You moan softly, pulling her limp body against your breasts instead. 

She fits perfectly against you, her cheek resting on your heart. 

The bedroom is a mess, papers scattered everywhere, the desk creaking suspiciously, but you couldn't care less. 

"You're trouble," you murmur, kissing the top of her head.

She laughs softly, wrapping her arms around your waist. 

"You have no idea," she replies, looking up at you with a mischievous smile. 

Her legs are still spread slightly, your release visible between them. She makes no move to close them, instead shifting comfortably against you.

You tilt your head, studying her. "And I get the feeling this won't be the last time." 

Your hand traces idle patterns on her back, your thumb brushing over her spine. The post orgasm haze is pleasant, making everything feel warm and soft.

She grins, unashamed.