A/N: I have no excuse for this other than that I have an exam on contemporary English literature tomorrow, and I spent the better part of my day reading about things like the role of virginity and the move from girlhood to womanhood in Angela Carter's The Bloody Chamber, and how sexuality and science is linked in Tom Stoppard's Arcadia and what's the purpose of nadsat in A Clockwork Orange. So right now my head is full of a clatter of literature-nonsense, and I needed an outlet. So here it is. Not much of a plot, but some fluff, some smut, and maybe a little bit more lyricism than there is usually in my writings.

Rating: M

Word Count: 1520

Disclaimer: [Insert funny text here that tells you I don't own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.]

I. The Weapon

In the beginning, she frustrates him.

He can't really describe why. It's not sexual frustration. It's not even her snark, not really. He spends hours in his bunk during the night, not sleeping but staring at the ceiling and pondering on the reasons why she drives him out of his mind, even when he actually decides that he likes her as a person.

And then he realizes.

It's her differentness. Not just in mind, but in body, too.

He is all sharp lines and solid muscle, and that's what he is used to, May is just like that, too, but Skye… She is soft and rounded, all silk and padding. There is barely any muscle on her bones, under the satin skin. There's no real strength behind her movements – there is grace, some kind of nonchalant, born-with, not-learnt, down-played grace, but no strength.

One week in, and he is sure no matter what she does, she will never be strong enough, capable enough to be let out into the field. She is just not built for it. But still, he continues to train her, because she is determined to learn, and he is determined to give her everything to defend herself with (and he is also determined to keep her safe).

And then something changes. She surprises him (as she always does).

It doesn't happen overnight, but she progresses.

Her determination seeps into her punches. Her inner strength into her kicks.

Her muscles wake up, and he is there to witness the change.

Her baby fat (she is so young) is melting away. There is definition to her arms now, her stomach, when he catches a glimpse, starts to look toned. Her stance is better, she stands taller, prouder. Even her features, her cheekbones, the line of her nose, her jawline, are shaper now.

The girl who makes a joke out of everything is still there, he sees her in the twinkle in her eyes, but finally, he is starting to see the steel under the silk.

(He is still frustrated with her, but now it's different kind of frustration, and it is making his blood roar.)

II. The Shrine

He raises his head, and sees an expanse of hills and valleys, an exciting landscape of smooth, tanned skin in front of him.

Her skin is glistening with perspiration, and her chest is rising and falling in a slow, irregular rhythm.

Good.

If she would look at her now, if she would see the smugness on his face, he is sure she'd laugh at him – not mockingly, but in a delighted way –, but right now she is too preoccupied with coming down from her high to care about him.

Good.

He is not done.

He lets his hand slid up her leg as his lips start their pilgrimage northwards.

He kisses the soft swell of her pubic bone, the shallow valleys between it and her hipbones, the smoothness of her belly, tracing his tongue along the lines of the softly defined muscle. He dips into the pool of her navel, draws a line from it to the center of her ribcage, peppers kisses between her breasts. He plays with her nipples – and what a dirty game he is playing –, sucking in the right one first, the gently nibbling on the left one. He continues, tracing her collarbone, then biting into the soft flesh where her neck and shoulder meet, soothing the red marks he leaves with his lips.

Her breathing is becoming quicker once again, and his name tears from her lips in a whisper. It makes him shiver. She lifts her legs, trying to hook them around his waist, but he pushes her back down (she lets out a little, annoyed moan). But he doesn't stop her when one hand finds his head, slender fingers burying in his hair, while the other sneaks down his back, her blunt nails scratching his skin.

He sighs and groans and she whispers "please".

He was never good at denying her anything.

He reaches down and aligns himself with her, but doesn't slide in just yet.

First, like a good pilgrim reaching the end of his journey, knocks on the door, nudging her entrance, seeking permission to enter the shrine.

She sighs and bucks her hips and whispers "yes".

He crosses the threshold in a slow, unhurried pace, letting her adjust. Her walls are warm and wet and tight around him, and he feels like he's just entered heaven.

He starts his worship.

Her hands in his hair and on his back, his on her side and on her leg, now lifting it slightly, her lips open and chanting, his on her neck, they move together in a practiced dance. They do not hurry, but climb to the peak of pleasure slowly, helping each other along, whispering and kissing and loving, until they just can't take anymore, and her walls spasm around him, and he spills himself inside her.

And in this sacred place, he feels at home.

III. The Creator

He watches her, amazed. He just can't look at her in any other way nowadays.

She is not doing anything extraordinary – she is just standing in front of the bathroom mirror, still in sleep shorts and a tank top that is not quite covering her stomach, and is brushing her teeth.

And yet he is unable to turn his eyes away from her, or to get rid of the stupid, goofy smile on his face as he takes her form in from his position standing by the bathroom door.

He starts from the bottom, from her delicate feet, then moving to the slim ankles, the defined calves, the long, lithe thighs, all wrapped in soft, tanned skin. But the interesting part just comes.

His eyes slip to the soft swell of her belly, and his smile widen.

She is at that stage of her pregnancy when her condition is already obvious, but not yet keeping her from anything – there is a defined bump there, perfectly curved, but still small, the hips already widened a bit, but her waist still tapers a little just below her ribcage. The days of the morning sickness have passed, the time of swollen ankles and aching back is still ahead them, she is energetic, insatiable, irresistible, glowing.

He's never thought he'd get to experience this. He's never thought it would feel like this. This exhilarating, terrifying, exciting, horrifying, this amazing. He tries to catch what he is feeling exactly, but it keeps slipping from his clutches.

There's a life growing inside of her, getting bigger and stronger every day. There's a baby who exists partly because of him, because he gave a part of himself to Skye, and she took it, adding a part of herself to it, and now her body is the temporary home of their baby, constantly changing to accommodate her (he is hoping for a daughter). And it amazes him beyond words.

And he is already seen her, on grainy, black-and-white images. He's seen how she is changing – at first she was just a little dot on the screen, pulsing with heartbeat, then started to take a form, big head and small body at first, but the last time he saw her he could already make out where the eyes will be, he saw the plump lips and the delicate arch of an ear, the tiny arms and legs and the even tinier fingers and toes. It's strange, because she is here, but she is not, beyond reach and far away, and he just can't wait until she arrives.

Skye notices him watching, as she always does, and turns to him, foam almost dripping from her lips. Her eyebrows rise, as if in question, and he shrugs. As she turns to the sink to spit, he walks up behind her, sweeps her hair aside, and places a gentle kiss on her neck as one of his hands sneak down and touch her belly.

Skye says she can now, sometimes, feel the baby move. She describes it as tiny flutters, barely noticeable, as if there were butterflies flying around in her womb. He longs to feel it, too, but he knows that they are weeks away from that, so, for now, he simply caresses the taut skin of her belly, hoping that the baby feels it, if not the gesture itself, then at least the love behind it.

Skye puts down the toothbrush, and, her lips still a little white, turns around in his arms, and kisses him, her lips a silent reassurance that they will be alright. She knows that he is scared – scared for her, for their child, for the future –, because she is just like that and because she knows him.

But he is not just scared, but happy, too, happier than he's ever been (he thinks), so he kisses her back, his lips a silent promise to her, to them, a promise to love and to protect and to be there for them until his very last breath.

A promise he intends to keep.