They were never meant to be.
She's lived a life of light; colours too bright to be a reality and plush, expensive things to keep her amused, dominated her entire upbringing.
He's lived a life of darkness; broken toys and broken people were all he had ever known.
They were never meant to be.
She was destined for the spotlight; effervescent and tremendous, made of charm and flawless, winning smiles.
He was destined for the shadows; wordless unless engaged in conversation, biting when he is, a marvellous study of calm and storm.
They were never meant to be.
Because she is one of them, and he is not.
They were never meant to be.
Because she is porcelain, so close to shattering, with her perfect surface chipping into pieces.
Because he is fire and steel, a never ending cycle of melting and rebuilding, his surface twisted and harsh, but true as could be.
They were never meant to be.
But sometimes, on one of those days, when everything feels so forced, so wrong, and the smiles she puts up feel just unreal; she chooses to forget.
On those days, she finds him, back against a wall, eyes blue, blue, blue filled with their wary, solemn wisdom. He would turn his head, as always, a curious cock to the side, hands burrowing deep into his pockets.
And he would smile a wolfish smile; full of knives and fangs and sharp edges, a danger to even be exposed to.
But never dangerous to her.
His only invitation is a raised palm.
This is a choice.
This is the choice.
She could just as easily walk away.
(But that's not true, she never could. Never would)
Like always she takes the offered hand; watches her slim pale fingers disappear into his long calloused digits.
XoX
They were never meant to be.
And the feeling spreads like ice through her veins.
Flooding her systems till that all there is. Till she's just the shell of Jemma, a puppet being led by her hand. Till she can't think past the wrongness; of her breathing, loud, excited, and his, low, shallow; of her pulse, crashing with a chaotic rhythm in her throat, and his a close equal that she feels through his wrist, pressed against her own; of their sliding, roving, almost shy gazes, glancing along the other's body; of how she is who she is and he is who he is; of how she aches with him this close.
But this is right.
This is the one truth she can always depend on.
(And how she clings to it.)
XoX
She often wondered about him before this (whatever this was).
She had wondered what kind of lover he would be.
She imagined him to be rough, impatient.
Harsh and demanding.
And those thoughts had fulfilled her not-so-innocent fantasies.
Thinking of his hands curling around her wrists, like vices, of his lips trailing bruises in their wake as they trailed lower and lower, of his voice, rough and grating, as he demanded and commanded what he wanted, blue eyes pinning her in place, were the bare intrigue that held her in the night time and kept her from sleep.
Of course, she had had to improvise (she was Jemma Simmons, if anything she was adaptive), replacing his large hands and warm lips with her small, cold digits; his voice was from her own mind, whispering sinful things as she (he) trailed and drifted along her body, making her gasp and bite back moans.
But then, nights and nights of dreams later, she discovered she was absolutely wrong.
He was a gentle lover.
Gone are the sharp edges that tear and cut skin and flesh.
All that's left is Fitz; a stark contrast from the man from before, and she feels like she's holding something delicate, fragile, every time she sees this side of him.
He would kiss and caress, as though she was the one, singular, most important thing in the entire world. His fingers were warm and calloused, ghosting along her skin again and again, till she was shivering. His lips were soft, fitting firmly with hers, brushing softly down her skin, feather-soft touches. He never spoke, like this was the one thing he had no place disturbing, like this was precious, at most a whispered murmur of her name strained and hissing.
After the first time, as they lay, her facing away, out of the window into the black sky, him curving, fitting behind her with a warm embrace and his nose buried into the crook of her neck, like he belonged here, she wondered if it's the same, as those endless nights of imaginary words, imaginary hands, imaginary him.
No. She finally decided.
This is better.
XoX
They are a secret.
A code wrapped in a riddle wrapped in an enigma, and they both love it.
They are impossible by all logic, but perhaps, it works so well because they are possible, just in their own unknowable way.
It's what she thinks as he pins her gently against the worn wooden wall, arms caging her in place, legs slipping between hers till the distance between them is a hairs-breath.
Then it's just thoughts of his lips, barely touching her own before shying away, driving her breathless.
She lunges forward at the next pass, capturing his lips.
This is what makes it worth it. Lips moulding over hers with silent worship, fitting, sliding against one another, her fingers tangling with his hair, brown in the half-light of the moon, shining brightly through the window, his fingers pulling her close by her waist, before snaking one up the length of her back to cradle her neck, soft tendrils of hair curtaining his hands, warming her with just that single touch.
This; teasing touches, drifting lower and lower, clothes rustling as they're tugged off of warm skin, lips quickly taking their place, her fingers brushing against his stubble, his fingers splaying across her back, eyes meeting, blue turning silver in the moonlight, brown to black in the shadows.
This; whispered words of encouragement as she moved over him, the almost pained groan that was employed for his rendition of her name, her equally drawn rendition of his, the thrumming electronic beat that filters through the floorboard having no meaning to either, they're just too lost in one another.
This; when later, she sleeps, draped across him, fingers lazily interlocked, her head nestled on his chest, ear firmly pressed to his ribs, his other hand brushing sleepily through her tangled locks, breathing her own perfume, lilac and something vaguely metallic, and his, mahogany and scotch and fire, and contemplating how oddly perfect they are together.
This; when he presses a kiss to her hair, and whispers those three words.
I love you.
XoX
Jemma Simmons could count on both her hands those rare, precious moments in her life when everything seemed to simply fall in place; when the unsolvable just became solvable.
(This was most definitely one of them.)
XoX
They were always meant to be.
It just takes her four more words to let him know that this was always the truth.
XoX
I love you too.