Kissing Jemma Simmons was his absolute favorite thing.

And, Fitz had to admit, the arrangement was strangely comforting. He could let his body react to her under the guise of the experiment, pretend he was thinking about someone else, and rest easy knowing he never had to worry about things getting out of hand. Even if he'd been fool enough to let himself overstep with Jemma, even if she could have cast aside her usual 'type' and her professionalism, the Limpstick was a far stricter chaperone than any teacher or parent he'd ever known. It was a peculiar sort of freedom.

And it'll help more than a few agents out of a bind. After all, that was why they were doing this. He mustn't forget that. Even if, when their faces were moving in sync together, mirroring each other like floating ice, he desperately wished he could.

-o-

Jemma deepened the kiss, stacking their lips together, leaving him to kiss her upper lip while she sucked on his lower one. Holy fuck. She'd started doing that a few days prior, and damned if he was going to say anything to discourage her, even if the first time he'd nearly lost his balance from the head rush.

She was in her Keds today, forced to stand on tiptoe, so Fitz tightened his arms under her shoulders in a bid to better support her weight. It was a perfectly good reason, after all. Just being a gentleman. His mum hadn't raised him to just let a girl's legs get tired like that - What kind of a friend would I be? - and if it brought Jemma closer in, well, that simply couldn't be helped.

It was only when Fitz realized he'd backed Jemma into the edge of the counter, feeling her shift torturously against his hip, that he realized the Limpstick wasn't working. Shit. Shit shit shit. It was a relatively normal occurrence by now, being aroused around Simmons in the lab, despite the mixed feelings it stirred up and the fact that she was usually tracking his stats. But it'd never happened before with quite so much body contact, and the medication should have kicked in at this point, and it wasn't, and Fitz was suddenly, animalistically conscious of his desire to rut up against her.

His hand lowered to her hip, digging into her skin where her blouse was riding up, but whether he meant to keep her away or haul her in was currently beyond Fitz's capacity for rational thought. It didn't matter, as it turned out, because Jemma chose that instant to slip her tongue into his mouth. The subsequent whimper that fled their lips was almost certainly his (80/20, if he'd had to guess), and Fitz hastened forward, pinning her to the unforgiving surface and accidentally jolting their faces apart. They stared at each other, all locked eyes and stuttering breaths, foreheads glued together. Fuck, now what? His hand slipped up from her shoulder blade to the back of her head, holding her steady, nearly every inch of her plastered to him as his brain flipped frantically through all the research he'd done, searching for something to impress her.

Bzzzzzt!

Simmons jumped at the sound of the timer, and Fitz sprang back, half-turning in a poorly concealed attempt to hide the way his shorts had tented. Simmons tucked her hair behind her ears and checked the readout.

"No effect. I'd say we're dealing with a placebo, most likely." Her tone had started off ragged, and she cleared her throat, pasting on a cheery expression that juxtaposed oddly with her red face and tousled hair. "But you'll need to verify, just to be safe?"

Fitz swallowed the brick in his throat and grabbed a pile of notebooks off the desk to cover his lap.

"I didn't mean right now, Fitz," she smirked.

He followed her gaze to the journals and schematics in his hands. Fuck my life. Another glossy 8x11 of a naked Amy Pond - wearing only the Scottish flag - stared lustily at him from atop the stack.

-o-

Three weeks into their experiment, after playing through dozens of scenarios, Fitz was feeling comfortable. So comfortable, in fact, that as long as the privacy screen was in place, he no longer made a fuss if Jemma stayed in the room during his 'checkpoints'. They'd realized early on that since it was impossible for Fitz to get himself physically worked up, it was a bit like asking Jemma to leave the room while he rubbed his foot.

In the beginning, of course, his need for solitude during the process had meant putting up with Simmons' constant complaints about missed productivity and frequent nagging to be allowed back in the lab. But soon enough it became clear that keeping Jemma out of the room was making things more awkward rather than less, and they'd finally reached a happy compromise. Now, with the end of the trial rapidly approaching, and all the hiccups firmly behind them, everything was smooth sailing in the lab.

Or so he thought.

-o-

"Jemma…" Nothing. "Jemmaaaa…" His knee wouldn't stop bouncing. Why won't it stop bouncing? At least one part of his body was moving.

Fitz looked around for something to take his mind off things and lit on several issues of Simmons' hand-picked erotica on the desk next to his chair. Rolling a magazine up into a spyglass, her peered around the room before squinting through it at his non-existent stiffy. "I spy, with my little eye, someth- nope. Nothing."

Simmons finished measuring her reagents and turned around, a small frown marring her orchid face. "Still down for the count? That's unusual."

"You're tellin' me." Fitz took off his watch and knocked it against the edge of the countertop, as if he could somehow take out his current frustration on the timepiece. Seeing her eyebrows go up and a tsk start to form on her lips, he dropped the watch in his shirt pocket and sent her a pleading gaze. "Jemma, I'm not… I'm tryin' not to worry, but it's never taken this long before! Are you sure you dosed me right?"

"The Limpsticks are pre-measured, Fitz, you know that." She leaned against the lab table with one hand, drumming her fingers on its shiny surface. "I'd ask if you ate anything out of the ordinary, but..."

"Yeah, you made me fast before testing, so…" Fasting days were by far the worst.

"Right. And you didn't have an adverse reaction the last time - it only took," she moved to the keyboard in front of the monitor readout, tapping away, "five hours and thirty-one minutes to get you back in business."

Fitz tugged at his hair in defeat. "Well, business is certainly not booming today." He chuckled sourly at his attempted joke. Levity didn't help. Nothing helped. Okay, that wasn't quite true. Simmons helps.

She was still staring at the screen, biting her lip in thought. "Your stats look more heavily impacted today as well. Your stiffness rating is all off."

Fitz rested his elbows on his knees and dropped his forehead miserably into the heels of his hands. "Do I want to know?"

"Well… I assume you're aware of your maximum numbers?"

He was. Call it male pride or bodily curiosity, but Fitz hadn't been able to resist checking the stats for his 'love rocket' when it reached blastoff. "Yeah. Max is about 34 Newtons." Like a rock-hard cucumber, baby.

"Right. Well, on average, your lowest is 6.4 Newtons," - more like an old kiwi - "and in the last few hours you've dropped to less than half that."

He dropped his forehead into his hands, groaning. "Simmons! That's softer than a bag of soggy raspberries!"

Fitz heard a low noise, and when he raised his eyes, she looked to be biting the inside of her lips. Is she laughing at me? "Hey! This is serious!"

She brought a hand up to cover her twitching cheek, an apology in her tone. "You're right, Fitz. If it helps, I really think it's just a fluke, but if I could take a look-" She motioned to his shorts.

"No!" Fitz backed as far away as he could while leashed by the monitor cuff. "Don't-" he swatted at the air in front of his crotch. No touching m' berries. Not while his numbers were at a record low, anyway. "I'd rather just wait, if that's all right with you."

"Of course." Her expression was sympathetic as she crossed to where he sat in his chair, squeezing his shoulder gently and patting down his shirt collar. "I've got a couple of ideas, then."

Fitz lifted his gaze hopefully, and she continued. "I've been working on the counter-drug you requested, but all I have so far is a formula. I could synthesize it for you, but…"

"It's never been tested, might do more harm than good."

"Exactly."

Yeah, fuck that. Fitz didn't fancy volunteering his penis for any more of this guinea pig malarkey.

"Your other choices are to simply wait it out, which you've been doing, or," Simmons walked to the door, shrugging out of her lab coat, "I can go get you some food." She must have had some idea how that suggestion would go over, judging by the smile on her face. "A full stomach may ameliorate the effects of the drug."

Is that a halo? Fitz thought he might be going a bit delirious. "That, uh… that sounds… fuck, Simmons, I'm starving."

"It's no problem. If it hasn't sorted itself out in an hour, we'll talk about more drastic measures." She hung up her lab coat and grabbed her purse. "I'll be back soon. In the meantime, I suggest you keep stress-testing the drug's effectiveness. There's a Fleshlight in the drawer by your knee if you need it."

Fitz's eyebrows practically flew off his forehead, and he successfully choked on his own spit. "A what?!" What the actual fuckity fuck. Had she paid for that with departmental funds? Talk about an equipment budget.

Hand on the door handle, completely self-assured as if this were a totally normal conversation for them to be having, Simmons answered lightly, "It's a sex toy. It might help!" Another minute of flummoxed staring and she tilted her head pointedly towards the privacy screen. "Come on, Fitz, don't dawdle."

Good fucking Lord. "Yeah, all right, I know." He scooted his chair forward to drag the divider closed.

-o-

"I'm back! I brought panini." He could hear Simmons through the screen - he couldn't help but hear her, as she'd consciously made quite a lot of noise re-entering the lab, presumably to avoid surprising him in the middle of 'calibrating his equipment'. Not like she's walkin' in on anything anyway. He was like a wet sock down there. And his attempt with the Fleshlight had felt like trying to stuff a blobfish into a drinking straw.

"Are you decent?" He saw her arm extend past the divider, holding a paper bag that smelled about the way he thought Amortentia might. At his grunted assent, she rounded the border and offered him a quick wave. "How's everything going here?"

Fitz ran a tired hand through his hair. "God, Jemma, I never thought I'd be tired of wanking, but this is the actual worst." He couldn't avoid the defeated sigh that came out of him. His penis was failing in almost Biblical proportions. The Second Not-Coming.

"Chin up, Fitz," she consoled him. "I'm sure you'll be back to stretching out your underpants in no time!" Her expression, deliberately bright, did nothing to convince him, and it soon twisted in consternation at his mood. "Eat your sandwich, yeah?"

He wolfed down his meal in relative silence, stopping only to give her a thumbs-up at the flavor, while she went over the data they'd collected from him over the month.

"So, really, taken all together, your stats today aren't that bad… oh, and look! Stiffness is back up to 4.8!" Great. Slightly firmer spoiled raspberries. Kill me now. "That's a good sign. I'll let you get back to it." She bent down and pressed a quick kiss to his forehead. "I'll be right on the other side if you need me."

Need her? If she only knew. He untucked himself from his shorts, taking care to be quiet, and looked at the open centerfold. Despite the pretty woman gazing up at him from the glossy page, Fitz just wanted to imagine Jemma, the way he'd done so many times in the shower, but it felt wrong with her standing only a few feet away. After a couple of minutes working the portions of himself he could reach, he heard Simmons' optimistic voice, bubbly as ever.

"I almost forgot! Here you go!" Something slid under the screen towards his feet.

Fitz squinted at the paper on the floor. Is that- "Simmons? How many of these Amy Pornds did you ask your friend to Photoshop?"

"Amy Pornd? Clever."

"I've always thought so." Fitz was pleased for the distraction. "So how many?"

"Oh, I don't know, Fitz. A dozen? You seemed to like them."

Fitz was touched. Right. On the subject of touching. He grabbed at himself again, but not even the Doctor's loveliest companion could make a dent in his conundrum. Oh, Amy, you bad girl. That is not how you use a sonic screwdriver. It was useless. He groaned. "It's no good, Jemma."

"Well, maybe we just need to talk it through. What normally works for you in these circumstances?"

"Erm…" he couldn't very well say 'you'. "You know, the uh… all the regular things." When she didn't respond, he felt the vacuum of silence and supplied, "I just… girls, and I like when… when girls think I'm great?"

"Well, we all enjoy validation, Fitz." There was a pause, and he could hear the awkward bottlenecking of her next words. "You know I don't think I've ever told you, but you… you certainly have a gorgeous pair of ears."

Sweet baby Jesus in the manger, no. "Simmons, don't- you're not very good at flattery-"

"I beg your pardon? I do think your ears are gorgeous." Great, now she just sounded mad. "You had better not be trying to tell me my own mind!"

"No." He swallowed. "Nope. Wouldn't dream of it."

"Good." She sounded more determined than ever. "Your ears aren't the only nice part of you, certainly. You're very symmetrical, if a bit pale. And your forearms are actually quite-"

"Simmons!" he pleaded. It would've been great to hear her say all that, if he hadn't known she was only doing it out of an overdeveloped need to be of assistance. "C'mon, please… you don't need to…" he trailed off, waving his arm vaguely about in a gesture she couldn't even see.

Another beat of silence. "Is it the magazines, then? Would you prefer a video? I've got earbuds. Or would you prefer something raunchier? I know you said in your questionnaire you didn't have any kinks, but people often lie on forms- you know what, I can't talk to you like this, I'm coming in."

"No, no- don't-" He caught sight of Simmons' slim fingers hooking into the side of the divider, and just barely had time to pull his waistband back up. She stared at him expectantly, concern in the set of her mouth, until he sighed, "Look, it's not the magazines. Well, not exactly."

She spread her hands slightly, silently asking 'Then what?'

His brain grasped around for what to say, something that wouldn't give him away too badly. "These women," he gestured to the photo, "they're quite fit, don't get me wrong," - but they're not you - "but their um, y'know," his hands came up to mime squeezing at his chest, "are a bit- well, you know how much I dislike party balloons, since the helium shortage, and I just can't get-"

"Ohhh!" she cried out in realization. "Well, that's easily sorted!" And suddenly, without further ado Jemma was pulling her blouse and bra up over her chest.

"Jemma! What are you doing?!" Fitz shrieked, clutching his armrest as his feet planted sharply into the floor.

Her shirt dropped back down almost as quickly as it had gone up, and she seemed to realize she'd crossed a line. Her hands flew to her mouth. "Oh! Oh, no. Fitz, I'm-" She rushed to close the screen between them and babbled through her next statement. "I'm so sorry! I thought- well, you've been such a good sport- and it seemed the least I could do- oh, God, just- excuse me, please."

Fitz heard the door slam closed as he stared down at his dumbfounded hands. What the Hell. Simmons had just flashed him. It didn't make sense. They'd only been chatting, and then, all of a sudden her breasts were front and center in his line of sight. Seared into his mind's eye. Her perky, delicate, pale breasts, with those lovely rosy nipples, the perfect mouthful. Fitz had an image of those gorgeous breasts bouncing above him, moonlight streaming through the window, shadows casting across them and creating a stark relief that only emphasized their supple glory.

He was so invested in filing away every detail of the wonderful picture in his head, it was a minute before he noticed the insistent beeping of the readout screen. He checked his watch. Seven hours, fourteen minutes. Head swimming with relief, he uncuffed himself from the monitor and went to find Jemma.

She was just outside the door, leaned forehead-first against the wall, and the picture she presented was so pathetic that in his current exuberant mood, Fitz couldn't help but laugh.

"Hey, it's fine! Everything's good."

She stood up sharply, cheeks pink. "How do you mean?"

He scrunched up his face, running a hand over the nape of his neck. "I, erm… I know you were only tryin' to help?" He rushed ahead, "And you did. So, er… yeah," he stammered. "Thanks for- for lettin' me see your… I mean, they're very…" He sucked in a breath. "I appreciate-"

"Jesus, Fitz, no." She covered her face with both hands, pressing her palms to her flushed cheeks. "You don't have to thank me."

"Okay, well." He scratched at his left ear. "Either way, we're good."

She gave him a tentative smile and shuffled around him to step back into the lab. He followed her back in and helped as she recorded the data from this latest trial.

Once the air had cleared a bit and they were in a more familiar groove, though, he couldn't resist taking the piss. They were just turning off the lights and heading out the door when Fitz rounded on her with a wry grin.

"Oh, and Simmons?"

She paused in the middle of checking through her purse for her keys and faced him pleasantly. "Hmm?"

"You needn't be embarrassed about your breasts," he said breezily. "They're perfectly average."

Author's Note

The hardness numbers for fruits and veggies are accurate. Penetrometers, man.

Amortentia is the love potion in Harry Potter. It smells like your greatest desires, sort of.

Props to leopolds and Anthropologicality for giving me the inspiration to have Jemma flash Fitz and have him thank her.