Note: I've never written Skyeward before, and I wanted to write something fluffy, since I'm expecting nothing but angst-o-rama for us during season two. But then this happened. Um. Sorry?
She hates him.
That's what she tells herself as they tear into each other on another random bed in another anonymous motel, clothes flying everywhere in their haste.
They never have much time.
As he kisses his way down her neck, she hooks a leg around his waist, grinding her hips into his, making them both moan. She tries to imagine what Coulson would say, how disappointed he would be. How angry May would be. And Fitzsimmons … they would be so hurt at her actions. At her betrayal.
And it is a betrayal — of the whole team — she knows.
He's a liar, she thinks, as he pops the clasp on her bra and tosses it aside, mouth immediately moving over her. He uses his teeth, just enough to send a rush of pleasure between her thighs, just the way he knows she likes. Liar, she repeats in her head. Everything he ever told me was a lie.
("You're saying that your feelings for me? …" "They're real, Skye, they always have been.")
Since the first rough, desperate coupling against a wall in a dark alley — her shock and anger at seeing him quickly turning into something else — it's happened again and again. Each time, she tells herself it will be the last.
But Ward isn't the only liar in the room.
He moves to her other breast, hand sliding over her belly and into her panties. He murmurs something about how wet she is, and even though it breaks their rule about talking (her rule), she can't bring herself to care when he is expertly stroking her, opening her with his touch, callused fingers slipping into her core.
She wishes she'd never met him. He tried to kill Fitz and Simmons — and nearly succeeded. She almost died because of him, because of Garrett and Hydra and their stupid, evil, Nazi plan. She hates him so much it burns, but that doesn't stop her from desperately fucking herself on his fingers.
Her whimper is annoyingly pathetic when he pulls away, slipping her panties off and moving down the bed, mouth zeroing in on her inner thigh. She whimpers again as he sucks hard, marking her in the only place she'll allow, beard scratching deliciously at the sensitive skin.
Tomorrow, she knows, she'll touch that spot and remember all of this. And she'll be so aroused and ashamed that she'll spend an hour or more at the punching bag, trying to beat the memories out of her mind.
And it might work, for a little while.
When he's finished marking her, he shifts between her thighs, drawing a full-fledged moan from her as he licks a long, slow stripe up her center. She ignores his smug grin, twisting her fingers into his hair to guide him where she wants him. He willingly obeys, taking her apart with his lips and tongue and teeth.
He's a killer. Eric Koenig. Victoria Hand. A bunch of guards at the Fridge. Probably a lot more she doesn't know about. Killer. Murderer. Monster. (With a fucking amazing mouth).
It's not until he's inside her, rocking into her slow and deep — not fucking her like he's supposed to, but loving her — that she lets herself forget. It all fades away. There's no SHIELD or Hydra, no past or future, no lies or betrayal. Nothing but them.
("What I want is to stay here with you and imagine the world outside doesn't exist.")
There's just Ward and Skye, harsh breaths and sweat-slicked skin, the delicious stretch of him filling her, his groan as she digs her nails into his shoulders. And his eyes. His eyes burning into hers, holding all the words of love and regret that she won't allow him to say out loud. She wants to look away but can't; she doesn't want him to know that she's holding back words of her own. I hate you, she thinks as she comes harder than she ever has before. I love you.
And it's only after — when they're collapsed together and she's staring at the ceiling, wondering how the hell she let this happen again, regretting it already yet still (always) wanting more— that there's no one she hates more than herself.