A/N: I have two half-finished one-shots, a bunch of stuff sketched up, and a story I promised Serenity Shadowstar (I haven't forgotten you, and I'll get down to it, I promise!), and yet, I'm doing this. Because why not. Because some stray inspiration struck me. (And because I've been wanting to write some Skyeward smut for some time, even if it's not that smutty.) More explanation of what it was inspired by is at the end of the story.

Rating: M
Word Count: 1761
Disclaimer: [Insert funny text here that tells you I don't own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.]

Where the Heavens Meet the Earthly Realms

Skye is sixteen when she has sex for the first time. It's not a glorious story, really – she is at a party she wasn't supposed to attend, but her current fosters are terrible, so going against them is fun, and she knows by now that misbehaving will get her back to the orphanage faster. So she attends anyway.

The guy is cute in his own way, and she's seen him around in school, even though she doesn't even know his name. But he has a nice smile and is straightforward in a way she finds alluring, and although she is not really into him, this whole situation is exciting and she is having fun, so when with his hand on her ass he suggests they find an empty room, she says okay.

It's a disaster. The guy barely knows better what he's doing than she does (and she's the virgin here), so it's awkward and ill-paced and he gets her tangled up in her shirt at first. His kisses are all saliva and his hands are groping her all the wrong way, putting her off, if anything, but he seems to be enjoying it (she can feel it against her stomach), so she convinces herself it'll get better and doesn't stop him.

It doesn't really get better.

He thrusts into her in a hurried, uncaring way (it's the point where she realizes it's only about him, not her), and it hurts. He makes her bleed. He doesn't give her time to adjust, just starts moving erratically, unable to find a pleasurable rhythm.

The best thing about the whole ordeal is that it ends quickly – he comes with a grunt not long after he enters her, completely satisfied with himself, while she's not any more satisfied than she was when she entered the room. She's not hurt or ashamed or anything, just sorely disappointed.

When they're dressed he goes back to the party, while she goes home. Her fosters are enraged, shouting at her, which only gets worse when she shouts back that at least she got some. She is sent to her room, and by the middle of next week she is back at the orphanage.

Her sexual history is not that varied after that. If she learnt anything from her first encounter is that she now chooses partners more carefully, but soon realizes that even that is no guarantee for a good lay.

There are a couple of guys after she runs away – mostly hurried fucks and quickies in backseats of cars that have seen better times. Some of them are better than others; sometimes she has fun, sometimes she doesn't. All these flings end quickly.

Then there is Miles – they are on again, off again for years, respecting each other – mostly professionally –, having a good time, but never really getting "let's talk about the future"-serious. She's okay with that, because they are on the same page, and at least the sex is better with him – most likely because they have time to get to know each other thoroughly in the biblical sense.

Their physical relationship still leaves something to desire, at least on her part, but she comes more often than not when they're together, so she settles with it. It's still mostly about him, his wants and his desires, but sometimes he remembers that she is an active participant in this relationship as well, and then he'll go down on her or lets her lead, and she'd lie if she said she doesn't like that. But yeah, mostly it's him leading into sex to get what he wants, preferably the sooner the better – he's not one to take it slow –, and yeah, it sometimes leaves her hanging. But she guesses she still has a better sex life than many women, so it's not her place to complain.

Her first time with Ward is nothing like she's imagined.

It might be because it was a long time coming, and with the sexual tension lurking in their relationship since day one, and with the anger and sadness-disguised-as-hatred his betrayal caused she had a feeling that it would be fast and hard, that she might end with a few bruises and torn clothes, and he with angry, red scratches on his back. That it would be against the wall or on a table, maybe from behind, not even looking at each other, a purely physical act to get rid the tension. That afterwards they would quickly dress up and avoid each other's eyes. (And it might be because of May's well-meaning but ill-advised attempt at trying to console her, when she once told her that she was missing nothing by not having banged Ward.)

But still, end of the story: it's nothing like she imagined.

It's not fast and hard, but slow and gentle. It starts with a conversation – sharing and smiling and laughing, finally feeling like they were before, and continues with a kiss. It's not even an overly passionate kiss – at first it's just a pleading glint in his eyes, then a tentative nod of her head, and, finally, a hesitant brush of lips.

It could be all, it could end there, but it doesn't. It just escalates from there. There's no stopping from the moment their lips touch – his hands are cupping her face, thumbs caressing her cheeks, and she's opening her mouth, inviting him in. It's so much like back in Providence, only unburdened by lies.

They keep kissing until they run out of air, slowing inching closer to each other, then resting their foreheads against the other's when their lips finally part. Her heart is racing and she's feeling giddy and excited, and she can see the same delighted excitement in his irises. There's also a silent agreement there as his thumb brushes over her kiss-swollen lip, and the next thing she knows that they're in his room, the door closed, and he's laying her down on the bed.

He takes the lead, but in a way that lets her know he'll let her take things over the moment she wishes so, but she doesn't. She just lets him crawl over her, his elbows resting next to her head, his knees between her thighs, and kiss her, kiss her slowly, languidly, unhurriedly. It's just kissing for a long time, him above her, and lips and tongues and sighs and breathy moans. When she finally grows impatient and starts tugging at his shirt, it occurs to her that now it took her to get rid of his Henley about as much time as it took others she's been with to get over with the whole ordeal completely and even get dressed again.

She loves it.

His shirt is soon followed be hers and her bra, and when they're finally skin-to-skin it's glorious. She feels on fire in the best possible way, ready to combust, when they have barely begun yet.

He whispers sweet, sentimental nothings to her as he frees them of their remaining clothing, kissing along her leg, from her hip down to her ankle, as he pulls down her pants, and then she chuckles because it tickles, and she can feel his smile against the arch of her foot.

Even then, completely bare and wet and achingly ready for him, he doesn't rush, but kisses her again and again and again, brushing his hands along her sides, the underline of her breasts, the length of her thighs, and she just sighs, arching her back softly, because it feels so great, she feels so great, so cared for, so… loved.

When he finally enters her, filling her oh so perfectly, it's gentle, too, almost tortuously so. He moves slowly, rocking back and forth in an unhurried pace, as if to lengthen the moment, while he cups her face and her hands embrace him, and their noses touch, and he looks into her eyes, and their whole bodies are pressed together, and when he vows against his lips that he loves her, she doesn't even think about it, just repeats his vows, and she doesn't regret it, not at all, because it's so true it almost hurts. He seems to still for a moment, as if surprised, then he quickens his pace and claiming her lips again, and she just can't keep her eyes open anymore, because it just feels too good, he feels too good, it's amazing, and her body feels like a string on a bow drawn back, ready to let the arrow fly, and she doesn't want the moment to end, but she just can't take it anymore, and–

When she comes, it's something she has never felt like before. It's intense and coming from deep within herself, washing over her in strong, never ending waves. She is silent, her eyes shut and her mouth open, but every nerve and cell in her body are singing, and she briefly wonders if the earth is moving, but even if it does, she honestly doesn't care.

She feels too great, too free, too divine to care.

Grant falls down next to her a moment later, spent and breathing heavily and his skin glistening, but he won't, just won't let go of her, his arms encircling her waist and pulling her close.

He presses a kiss on the crown of her head, and she feels like laughing.

She can't begin to describe how, but this, what they have just done, was different from everything she has ever done before. It was sex, that's for sure, but it was more than that – it was liberating, it was transcendent, it was beyond pure physicality.

Maybe this is what people call making love? Is that even exists, at least in a sense that it is different from simple sex? Is there a line separating the two? And if there is, how can one tell that she crossed it over? What makes one thing belong to the sphere of mere mortals, while the other feels like it was stolen right from the heavens?

She doesn't know. And honestly, she is too blissed out to even think about it (she doesn't want to think of anything but Grant's arms around her, his heartbeat under her ears, his warm skin against hers and his soft lips on her temple).

But there's one thing she'd like to believe (something she is sure of): she has just made love to Grant Ward – the first man she has ever made love to, and the only man she ever wishes make love to.

A/N: the story behind this one-shot is that I was doing research for my thesis this afternoon, and I read a study on the ambiguity of virginity loss – how people define losing their virginity in different ways, and how its definition might get re-evaluated over time (e.g. a lesbian woman might have intercourse with a man first, but later on only consider herself a non-virgin when she's had sex with another woman, but you can even feel like a virgin every time you enter a new relationship). The point is: virginity is not a straightforward thing, not a body part being intact, but something we define for ourselves. What I tried to express with the story was that although Skye has had intercourse before, she only reaches the point where she loses her "spiritual virginity" – or, put simpler, makes love for the first time –, when she finally gets her freak on with Ward. I know, it's sentimental and cheesy, but please, bear with me.