#thisisagentskye

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Fitz waits on her bed and focuses on his breathing as she rummages through her drawers.

“They’re in here, I swear,” she vows, and Fitz tries not to fidget too much, since certain body parts are already sufficiently excited and if this is about to be a non-starter and he has to throw himself under a cold shower he’d rather it be as comfortable as possible. He scolds himself. He really should have brought some with him, but he’d not had the opportunity or the inclination. 

“Found ‘em,” Skye declares, rattling the box. “Do you want to or shall I?”

As she switches into night lighting, her eyes sparkle with mischief and she bites her lip, resisting the urge to tease him further. Fitz scowls, but his left hand really does start shaking as he pries the box open, and he decides he might have to take Skye up on her flirtatiously made offer. She’ll probably passive-aggressively never let him live it down. Especially if it goes well.

“I, uh. I might need a hand,” he confesses, glad for the dim light to hide his blush.

“Oh might you?” Skye snorts lightly, and crawls onto the bed beside him. She pecks a few kisses from his chin up to his ear, and plucks the packet from his hand. For now, she pins it between her palm and the bedcovers, and leans into Fitz until his back is flat out on the bed. His hands curl protectively in front of him, holding her stomach off his, and she can feel his heart pounding where their chests are pressed together.

 “Chill, Fitz,” she murmurs in his ear, gently cajoling. “This is supposed to be fun and relaxing, okay? Loosen up.”

“I’m fine,” he protests. “I’m – I’m loose.”

“Stop talking before you dig yourself a pit you can’t blush your way out of.”

“Good idea.”

“Are you nervous?”

His only reply is an uncertain laugh, and she feels his hands twist in the tight space between them.

“Will keeping your hands busy help?” she offers. “Try. Try touching me. Come on.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere. Pick a place. Experiment. You’re the rocket scientist.”

Her arms quiver. They’re getting tired, holding her up like this – and there’s an ache right down to her bones that makes her want to let herself fall on him, dive at him, and kiss his awestruck face until those shining eyes are rolling back in his head. But she waits.

He uncurls his hands slowly, and she compresses the jolt that shoots through her when his fingers brush over her stomach. Her shirt hangs loose, but he does not reach under its folds, and she hates it but at the same time, she is grateful. Bloody gentleman. She remembers how ticklish she was earlier, and wonders if he remembers. He should; it was not even five minutes ago. But he doesn’t tease the issue further. Or else, he teases by refusing to tease. 

Safe on the outside of her shirt – and damn, she’s starting to wish she’d tossed it off the second she’d turned the lights down - his fingers dance over her sides and to her back. Under the leather jacket that he so loves, she notes, and chokes back a whine as her wrists shudder and threaten to give way. Nonchalantly, he runs his hands up and down as if he’s analysing where she is, taking in her dimensions, mapping her out in his mind. Maybe that’s exactly what he’s doing. She stays as still as she can – and she’s practiced in the art, for all she wants to melt - and waits for his hands to make more committed contact, to invite her onward. 

She can’t help but wonder if he’s doing it on purpose, if the cavalier Leo Fitz is torturing her after all, when finally - hours later, it seems - one of those wandering hands comes to rest near the small of her back. He very slightly draws her pelvis in toward his, but slightly is all she needs; they’re falling together anyway. She lets her arms collapse and curl inward to tangle in his hair. She presses herself against him to soothe her exhausted muscles, and the muffled grunt he makes when she rubs up against his erection makes her bite her lip. She wonders what he wants to say when he stops himself like that. She wonders if words will be easier or harder to find when they’re like this. Probably harder. Would it be rude, she wonders, to challenge herself to chase every last one from his mind?

Fitz’ other hand makes its way up, to the base of her neck, and then the nape, and he knots his fingers loosely in her hair and tilts her face towards his. Taking this as her cue, she closes the remaining distance between their lips, and places one, two, three, increasingly lingering kisses on his. She feels him melt underneath her, his shoulders sinking more properly into the mattress, his hands softer on her skin.

“There we go, see? Not so hard.”

He blinks up at her with dazed eyes.

“Can you stop with the puns?” he murmurs, mimicking her smile. “Oh come on, I didn’t even mean that one. Though if there is ever a time to have a dirty mind…”

He pulls her lips to his and she laughs against him gently.  It’s reassuring to feel his hands get more confident, stronger against her, working with her. She rolls into the kiss and cherishes his low groan, and the way his fingers splay against her back, and he kisses her stronger in some sort of chivalrous vengeance for her mockery. It’s swoon-worthy. Or maybe that’s just because he hasn’t removed his lips yet and she’s forgotten about oxygen.

They part, and their breaths are warm on each other’s faces.

His fingers creep under the back of her shirt.

“Can I-“

“Go for it.”

She sits up a little, and helps him pull the leather jacket over her shoulders. They’re both a little sorry to see it go so early in the game – Fitz, because he likes it, and Skye, because she wants to see how much - but nevertheless, she drops it off the bed, somewhere out of sight. Before she can press herself back down against him, though, he sits up instead. His hands are all over her, working her shirt off, but unlike his early, hesitant touches, each of these leaves a pressure in its wake, so that she can’t be sure where his hands are, or are not, until they are in the air, matching hers, dropping the shirt after its predecessor, and their bodies are practically flush against each other once again.

She rocks back gently, so that she can wrap her legs around him and sit properly in his lap. For a moment they are still again, watching each other. His smoky eyes drift from her face, trailing past her parted lips, down her neck, to her heavily breathing shoulders. Gently, he runs his hands along them. They feel smaller than they look, but perhaps that’s just an illusion caused by the way they shake in his feather-light grasp. Skye’s usually such a headstrong person, and he loves that, but he’ll forgive himself for enjoying this moment of weakness.

 A moment which is rather rudely interrupted all of a sudden when one of her hands cups his chin and the other returns to the hair at the nape of his neck, and she pulls him forward to kiss her. His hands lose track of what they are supposed to be doing, moving in a hurry to hold him upright, but Skye either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care that he’s left her shoulders. She refuses to relinquish him as her increasingly rough kisses move across his face, down his chin, to his neck. 

Heat floods downwards, leaving his head spinning, and he throws his head back to cherish the feeling of her lips and her tongue and her teeth against his throat. So much for her moment of weakness. If this was to be his, he could most definitely live with that.

She grabs at his shirt, pulling at buttons and not really caring whether they tear off or pop out, so long as the plaid gives way to her. She relishes chasing the breath from him as she kisses his neck and grinds against his pelvis and tears at his shirt. Once she’s freed his arms, his hands recover their function, and lock just above her hips, holding her to him. That’s not a problem; she wants to stay. In fact, she grinds down all the harder for his invitation, only stopping when she feels the scratch of more material under her fingertips.

“Areyoujoking.” It’s breathless and angry and frustrated, and she certainly doesn’t expect him to answer, least of all in this state, but God, trust Leo Fitz to wear a singlet in the middle of spring.

She throws him back against the mattress and he’s panting too hard to fight her on it. Insecurities or no insecurities, the singlet is coming off. Fair’s fair. Plus, the way her fingers scrape recklessly against his skin as she peels it off him makes any amount of potential humiliation worth it. Just the touch alone – the warmth of it, but also the carelessness, the refusal to walk on egg shells around him – is an inspiration and a promise, and since the words to tell her that are far from his tongue right now, he writhes under her touch and fights to kiss her some more.

She leans over him, offering her face for him to kiss, but when he moves to knot his fingers in her hair again, she presses his arm back to the mattress. 

“No hands,” she breathes. “Just for a minute.”

She dances her fingers across his belly, and it’s like someone dropped a heap of volcanic ash on him.

“Skye,” he moans. 

She does it again, a little harder, a little lower.

“Skyyyye.”

Those eyes, those eyes are starting to roll. She bites his lip gently, and pulls. He chases her with sloppy, desperate kisses. On either side, his hands scrape and grasp at the bedcovers, desperate to obey her instructions, but equally desperate to touch, to examine, to feel, to stimulate. The third time she presses her fingers into the sensitive flesh at his navel, he inhales sharply and holds his breath. He knows what’s she’s trying to do. But she knows she can beat him. Right here, right now, she could disembowl him, and he’d let her. It would only take one movement from her. But what to move? Her lips? Her hips?

She lets out a slow, cool breath, right by his ear, and feels the shiver run down his body.

“Pass me the condom. I think it’s under the pillow behind you.”

His hand scrambles for it.

“You still want me to do it?” 

He doesn’t have the breath to say yes. Skye sits upright, and he wishes the lighting was better as fierce eyes glow down at him.

“Do you still want me to do it?” she repeats, more demanding this time.  “One word, Fitz. You can do it.” 

He shakes his head.

“No?”

She runs her hand up his chest, and along his arm, and takes the condom from him. She tears it open and offers it to him.

“You want to do it?”

He shakes his head again. His lips part, like he wants to say something. Skye presses hers shut.

“Well one of us is going to have to do it. I guess I’ll just sit here until you make a decision.” She shifts her seat and Fitz growls quietly.

“Wait, sorry, what was that?” She makes a show of leaning down so that her ear is almost right against his mouth. It doesn’t surprise her when he pulls the lobe with his teeth and runs his tongue down her jaw line. It’s still not words, so she’s not moving on the condom thing, but it feels nice, so she doesn’t pull back. She can wait. After all, she’s the one sitting on him.

But then she feels a gentle tingle against her right thigh.

It’s only a moment’s warning. 

He presses a smile against her lips and she’s thrown off balance.

“I said no hands!” she squeaks, laughing as the bottom drops out of her stomach and only catches up with her when she hits the mattress again. Fitz is at her neck, kissing and licking and biting like she had done, but with so much more urgency and force. Every now and then he rubs his stubbled cheek against her and she clenches her fists as she feels her own eyes wanting to roll back.

“Leo Fitz, you absolute troll,” she murmurs. Not gonna lie, she’s impressed. Especially as he runs his left hand down her side and to the waistband of her pants and she’s glad she didn’t bother with a belt today – though of course Fitz did because he’s Fitz and for such a lab sloth he really dresses up and it’s attractive but would it kill him to be easier to strip? 

Cold prickles her skin and she draws her legs towards her torso. He’s pulled her pants right off already. How the bloody hell does he do that? Sorcery, she’d say. Science, he’d reply no doubt; distract her with a flush of hormones and make her tremble and seek him for warmth and damn him, it’s working. 

He runs his hand down her leg and she’s not sure whether the quiver he leaves behind is worth the warm pass of his hand but she’ll take it. His hand tremors every now and then, though, and she takes it as a promising sign of nerves. Not that his other hand, or his mouth, are about to let her do anything with those nerves any time soon: his right hand clamps her hand bearing the condom to the bed above their heads, and his mouth works lower down her chest, to the edge of her bra, as if it’s the lowest place he can reach while his hands are busy. Maybe it is, or maybe he’s just making her think that – she’d never had the time or the inclination to map him out like he did her. Either way, it clouds her mind enough that she doesn’t notice his left hand is making its way slowly back up her leg, sliding toward her inner thigh, and toward the edge of her underwear.

“Damn you,” she gasps. Her resistance is weak. The hand he is pinning can do nothing, and the other only grabs weakly at his back. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs against her chest. He pulls back a few inches and grins at her. “Wha’ was tha’?”

“Damn you,” Skye repeats. “Damn you and your fingers and your voice and your accent you massive, massive-“

Her eyes flutter closed as he starts to gently circle with his fingers. She squirms as her upper body demands that he recommence his ministrations, but he does not.

“Sorry, I cahn ‘ear you,” he teases. A string of curses leaves her lips, mouthed and whispered on her gasping breath, as his circling and gentle pressing has every muscle in her body working to stop him or to force him to hurry up.

Her free hand scrapes down his back, and the sting is a pleasant one. She grabs at the waist of his pants, nails biting into his belt, and though she tries to shift the material to tease him back, her whole arm is shaking too much. She tries to bring her other hand down to help, and much to her surprise, Fitz lets her. Lifting her head – though it sets all her muscles burning – she glares at him as he calmly kisses the backs of her fingers.

“Would you like to do i’?” he offers. 

She grinds her teeth and snatches her hand away. There is no way she can answer that isn’t want he wants. Well played, Leo Fitz.

“Gimme that. And roll over.”

She smiles as he obeys her, and scowls at his belt as it seems just as quietly confident in obstructing her sexual prowess as its wearer. She wrenches it open, and drags his pants down and his underwear after them, and as she rolls the condom over him she can feel him shudder, hear him gasp, see him grab at the bedcovers again. 

She sneaks her way back up his body, making sure to trail her fingers across the sensitive flesh of his belly before working her way up to his neck. She knots her fingers in his short curls. She kisses his collarbone, up to his ear – and she teases the lobe, and runs her tongue along his jaw. His eyes are closed, content to have handed himself over to her. He reciprocates every kiss she gives. His hands follow the dips and curves of her back as she rearranges herself, and as she sinks down onto him he bites her lip and groans against her.

“Skye.”

She sits straighter, to get the angle right, and he only protests a little as her lips leave his. His head falls back against the bedcovers. His bare chest rises and falls in time with hers. His eyes – as blue as night, in this lighting - shine up at her, still with that gentle admiration. She has to shift for balance, so she puts her hands over his heart and wills herself to remember that expression, and to cherish the good heart from which it grew. He puts his hands on her thighs, gently coaxing her forward, encouraging her to move. He presses ever so slightly into her, and she can feel the desperation, and she knows that he is waiting for her.

“Bloody gentleman,” she hisses and lifts herself. Instantly, his hands move to support her, letting her set the rhythm and find the angles. It doesn’t take her long. She knows what she likes. And whatever that is, whatever sounds it draws from her, seem to work for him.

His hands brace strongly against her, despite his quivering body beneath, heart pounding to keep up. Eventually, she can’t resist, and she pulls him up too and they fall together and he holds her against him and she cups his stubbled cheeks and grabs at his hair and kisses the life out of him, and his hands knot in her hair and he kisses her neck, her collar bone, her chin, her lips. She kisses his neck again, and he throws his head back. She tries to kiss her name out of him. To nip and lick and press her name from his panting lips before she reaches  the exponentially approaching proverbial edge. All she gets is an indiscernible groan, but the vibration of it in his throat against her lips is almost enough to tip her over.

“Keep your eyes open,” she whispers into his skin. He can only nod insistently, breathlessly, and she realises she’s done it. She’s knocked the words out of him. 

It’s her last sensation, that rush of satisfaction, before the stars behind her eyes begin to burst. She moans against his neck and gasps as she feels him join her. His arms tighten around her, holding her together as she crumbles to atoms and sighs his name. He’s glad for her instruction, reminding him not to give in to the sweeping swell that demands he closes his eyes. Instead, he watches hers flutter and roll back in ecstacy. Hands trembling, he holds her head up, and stops her shaking chest from collapsing against his until the initial waves of their orgasms have been allowed to dissipate into the room and become sea foam.