A/N: Warning – smut ahead.

That Red, Button-Down Dress

Skye doesn't really wear dresses anymore – they're just not that compatible with an agent's lifestyle. Sure, sometimes – mostly in case of undercover operations – they are all but needed, but on everyday basis they're just not practical. Still, she kinda misses them, and maybe that's why she went "what the hell" that morning and put on a dress – the very same red shirt dress she wore on her first day on the Bus. It just felt so nice to slip into a piece of nostalgia.

What she didn't count on was the others' – or, more specifically, Grant's – reaction to her attire. She saw his eyes darken the moment he stepped out of the bathroom that morning and saw her button up the dress; she could almost read his thoughts, as he imagined pushing her hands away and undoing all the buttons slowly, enjoying every single moment of it. Maybe that's why her eyes flashed to him as she buttoned the last one, her gaze meeting his in a silent challenge.

The day was going to be a sweet torture for him, and she simply loved it.

It might have been cruel, but all through the day she did everything to tease him – sat in a way that the dress would ride up just a bit higher than what would be decent; made sure to lick her lips when she knew he would be watching; sneakily put her hand on his knee, inching upwards when they sat next to each other during lunch. By the time she popped her top button and leaned forward so Grant would get a nice view of her boobs, and maybe even a sneak peek of her black lacy bra during Coulson's afternoon briefing, and saw his Adam's apple bob, she knew she was in for a treat tonight.

And true – they are barely out of the conference room and earshot of the others, he is already pulling her towards their bunk with the urgency a man lost in the desert hurries towards the oasis. As soon as the door is closed behind them, she is pushed against the wall and he is on her. Not that she is complaining.

"You little minx," he breathes just a moment before he presses his mouth on the pulse point on her neck, biting gently. "You'll be the death of me, I swear."

She wants to laugh at him, but it is turned into a moan as he undoes two more buttons and his hand slips beneath the dress, squeezing her breast. So he can play dirty, too… Her hands in his hair, she pushes his head down, just to get the message across of what she wants. And he gets it, because the next moment he gives up on carefully unbuttoning the dress and simply yanks at it, sending several buttons flying around the room (she tries to be not too annoyed by this; they are just buttons, they can be easily sewn back. And if not, well, then she can make him buy her a new dress).

Still, it's a turning point.

Letting go of his head, she places her hands on his shoulders and gives him a little shove. He stumbles back a bit, looking at her a little surprised, and maybe a little scared (did he go too far?), but then the next moment she's pulling his shirt out of his pants.

"Take it off!" she commands, and he complies, pulling the Henley over his head while she quickly undoes his belt and fly, then, as he shoves down his pants, stepping out of them and his shoes, she shrugs off the dress, letting it fall on the floor behind her. Then she pushes against him again, making him back into the bed. This time she doesn't even have to say a word – he lies back on his own, propped up against the pillows, pulling her with him.

Then his lips, hungry, demanding, are on hers again, kissing her mercilessly, his tongue plunging into her mouth, while he buries his hands in her hair, messing it up gloriously. She deliberately settles over him in a way that only their upper halves are touching – her legs on either side of his hips, she keeps herself above him, just to tease him. Of course, he soon becomes impatient with their situation and tries to move to flip them over so he could take the reins, but she places her hands on his chest, pushing him back.

"No," she says, leaning down and running her tongue along his collarbone. "Let me be on top."

"Skye…" he breathes, half a plea, half a curse, but he still lets her lead.

This time it's her who attacks his mouth, biting down on his lower lip with enough force to elicit a hiss from him. She feels his hands move to the clasp of her bra, and she has half a mind to swat his hands away, to tease him a bit longer, but then she decides against it, and, instead, helps him get off the black garment. The next moment his mouth is on her nipple, sucking it, while his hand is already on the other breast, playing with its weight, and it's more than enough to convince her that she's made the right decision (her man is a genius with his mouth).

His ministrations have her arch her back, her hips grinding down on him, feeling his erection through the two layers of fabric that is still separating them. He bucks his hips against her, letting out a groan, and it's enough for her to push harder against him, moving her hips in an agonizingly slow, rocking motion. He sucks on her nipple even harder – hard enough to leave a mark –, before he grunts out "Skye…"

She grabs his hand and brings it down to her mound.

"Touch me," she commands in sultry voice, kissing him again, deep, wild.

He doesn't have to be told twice – his hand slips into her panties, not teasing, but going straight for clit, rubbing the little bundle of nerves with the kind of determination and precision she expects from him. She is already wet and aching for him, and his touch is only oil to the fire. She cries out, throwing her head back, her hands sliding down his chest, her nails scratching hard enough to leave faint, red lines behind. Taking it as an encouragement, he suddenly moves his hand – she hears a tear, her panties being ripped off –, then slips two finger into her without warning.

That's it – enough of the fooling around.

She grabs his wrist and pulls it away – still, she can't hold back the little whine at the loss of contact –, then rises a bit so she can tug down his boxers. Freed, his hard member stands proud, a drop of precum on the tip. She pumps him, smearing it on his length – she can see his eyes roll back –, then holds him steady and takes him inside, sliding down on him in one fluid movement.

She moans at the perfection of the feeling; he is just her kind if big, filling and stretching her gloriously, like they were made to fit each other.

She only gives herself a moment to adjust, then starts moving, forgoing the slow buildup. Grant's left hand flies to her hip, gripping her, trying to help her steady as he thrusts against her, while his other goes to her left breast, squeezing and the tweaking the nipple. All the while his gaze is locked on her, flicking between how the pleasure is etched on her face, how her breasts move, and how his shaft keeps slipping out of her, then back in.

As her movements start to become more and more frantic, as she gets closer and closer to the edge, he pulls his knees up a bit, changing their angle just a fraction, but still letting him thrust deeper, hitting a sweet spot inside of her, while his hands slides down from her breast to between them, rubbing her clit, helping her along.

"C'mon, babe," he tells her, punctuated with a grunt as he gives her a forceful thrust. "Come for me."

This, and the little pinch he gives her clit does it – the next moment she explodes. She cries out, her back arching and her hips stilling as her walls flutter around him, clamping down on him. With her pleasure-addled brain she registers in the middle of her orgasm that he freezes up, too, giving her a few last, punctuated thrusts as he spills his seed into her.

When it's over, and the high tide of pleasure slowly ebbs away, she falls down on him, sprawling across his chest. Skin sweaty, and their mixed juices sticky between them, she tries to catch her breath while his heart hammers against her ear as she rests her head on his chest. It takes a good minute or two for both of them to come down from their highs and have enough breath to speak again.

"You owe me a pair of panties," she tells him without moving an inch. "At least."

His chest rocks with his quiet chuckles.

"Alright," he says. "But only if you promise me you'll be wearing dresses more often from now on."