Prompt: "write skyeward smut pls." I kid you not.
Skye feels like a teenager again, all sweaty palms and fluttering heart and pure nervousness. Her breath is fast and shallow, and her fists lie clenched at her sides. It's painfully difficult not to run right up and press her lips against Ward's and just go, but she wants to wait, to take the time to notice that his eyes are as wide as hers, that he seems as nervous as she is, that the top button of his button down is already unbuttoned but there are nine to go. She wants it to be perfect and romance novel romantic, and the way he's looking at her like she's the love of his life is making all the waiting worth it.
She takes a halting step forward and stops to thank whatever pulled the rest of the team away for the day. It's a sign, she wants to think; whatever is up there watching over her looked down and said, "You go get with Grant Ward, young Skye" and she couldn't deny a command like that.
Everything is slow and drawn out and completely different from what she thought it would be as she finally touches her lips to his. Ward meets her halfway, and it's soft and deep. She tastes like strawberry chapstick and smells like grape jolly rancher, her favorite flavor. And he sighs against her lips and slides his hands to her hips, barely grazing the heated skin under the hem.
Skye smirks against his lips and tilts her head, sliding her tongue against his bottom lip and deepening the kiss, and suddenly she's desperate for his touch, his hands, him. Her fumbling hands grasp at the buttons of his totally irritating shirt, and when she huffs in annoyance he chuckles and takes her hands in his larger ones and helps her undo the buttons. Skye pushes the clothing from his shoulders and lets her hands continue down, exploring the planes of his chest and stomach, feeling the muscle clench under her fingers and his heart race. It's addicting, touching him. She can't stop.
But then he's tugging insistently at her own top, and she reluctantly removes her hands to let Ward slide the fabric over her head and off. He flings it somewhere behind her - she couldn't care less where it ends up - and then they're chest to chest, skin to skin. One of his hands tangles in her hair and the other goes to the clasp of her bra, pulling senselessly as if pure desire could unclasp it. It's her turn to ease his fumbling, and she reaches behind her and deftly undoes it, leaving him pausing in befuddlement at the mysterious contraption.
He's not befuddled for long, though, and soon his hand is going to cup her breast. Skye whimpers against his lips and moves to kiss and lick her way down his jawline - he has an unfairly gorgeous jawline - to his neck, and she stops to suck at his pulse point. It's beating frantically, and that realization gives her the courage to begin to walk him backward.
They're only steps away from his bed, and when his knees hit the mattress he sits and tugs her so she's straddling him. She shifts her weight and inadvertently grinds against him, and Ward's head drops back in pleasure. "Shit," he groans.
Suddenly it's real and it's happening, and his moan is enough to send a chill down her spine. Her lips return to his with a newfound fervor, and his hands grasp her hips and spin them so she's laying back against the bed and he's above her. His skin is burning beneath her touch and she can't wait any longer, so she works to unbuckle his belt. Ward goes to mimic the action on her, but he can't get the thing unbuckled.
"Your belt is ridiculous" he complains, the effect dampened by his inability to manage more than a heated whisper. She giggles, actually giggles, and raises her foot to kick his shin softly.
"Loser."
It takes him far longer than he'd like and a little longer than he can maintain his dignity for to get her belt off and pants unbuttoned, but the sharp intake of breath she takes against his cheek upon success is enough to make it all okay again. Her own hands slide to his ass and push his pants and boxers down in one motion, and as soon as he can get her pants off as well she locks her feet behind his ankles and pulls him down closer to her. Ward drops from his hands from his elbows, just barely ghosting above her.
Their kiss is sloppy and desperate, and Skye pulls away only to gasp "Grant, go."
His name sounds sweet on her lips, and it is with that thought on his mind that Ward leans down and slides into her. He pulls away from her lips and buries his head in her shoulder, hands dancing across her body aimlessly and passionately.
It's as if he has lost all ability to think: everything is her hands, her body, and her. He's so tall, yet she fits perfectly under him and around him, and it's only the sensation of her lips and teeth against his shoulder that brings back enough sanity for him to realize this.
Skye is moaning and murmuring beneath him, and it takes him a moment to recognize his name in between various curse words, whatever expletives came to her mind to begin to depict the rush of feeling at her core. And as he thrusts, he gasps out a quiet "fuck!" and she finds himself agreeing wholeheartedly.
Skye's past the point of caring about her actions, and as she nears the edge her hands reach into his hair and pull. She goes first, biting down into his skin and dampening the call of his name that escapes her. She's hot and tight around him, and he falls as well, eyes wide and gaze lifted to meet hers as they collapse into heavy breaths.
Ward rolls off of her, not trusting his elbows' ability to hold his weight. She turns to lay against him, chest rising and falling almost to the beat of his heart.
"Still think I'm a loser?" he manages, turning to her with a small, shy grin.
Skye can't manage a decent glare, so she sticks out her tongue. "You're always going to be a loser."
And he'd complain, but her bare, flushed body against his own convinces him otherwise. So he lets his eyes slide closed and relishes the warmth of the woman next to him.