Hold Me (Until My Fears Are Chased Away)
He's on a mission; she's in the command center (she can't go out, not anymore).
His comms go dark two hours in.
Her heart stops beating.
She tries everything in her power to get the connection back up, or at least hack into something near where he is supposed to be, to know that he's okay (he can't be dead, he can't be gone, not now, not when…), but it's just beyond her power.
She is panicked, frantic, and she's sure her blood pressure is up in the skies. Jemma tries to reason with her, tries to get her out of the command center, but Skye just won't, not until… not until…
That's the point when she starts crying out of sheer frustration.
It's exactly 16:37 p.m. when he finally logs in from the quinjet.
"Mission accomplished," he sounds tired, but his voice is coming through the speakers clear and strong. "No casualties or injuries, although I had some problem with the comms," he says as if they haven't known it already. "En route back to the base, ETA…"
She laughs out loud in relief.
She waits for him to finish his report right in front Coulson's office, walking to and fro impatiently.
She just… needs him. Needs to feel him, hold him, have him, know that he's there and he's okay (damn roller-coaster of a day, damn hormones, damn him…).
She wastes no time when he finally comes out – she grabs his collar, pulls him and down and kisses him, deep and frantic and desperate, pushing her body against his, making it clear what she wants.
"Please," she begs, pulling his lower lip between her teeth as he grips her hips. "Grant, please…"
He groans into her mouth.
"Yes," he agrees, but then pushes her away, shaking his head, as if to clear it. "Yes, a million times yes, but not here," he says looking around cautiously, as if he was afraid of being caught (well, she can kind of understand that).
"Okay," she nods, swallowing, desire burning in her veins. "Not here."
Their bunk has never seemed to be this far before.
She is panting and ready to combust by the time they reach it, and as soon as the door closes behind them, she is ripping his clothes off, having no patience for finery right now.
Thankfully, he catches up to her urgency quickly; his lips attacking her neck, sucking and licking and biting, leaving marks, he strokes her fire with practiced touch, pulling off her sweater and playing with her breasts, his thumb finding the sensitive peaks in no time.
He's barely touched her yet, and she is already moaning and chanting his name.
Finally, they are naked, falling into bed (she is wet, achingly so, and his member is hard against her stomach).
On a normal night, she'd try to be playful, prolong the foreplay – she'd push his head between her breasts, laughing, or would slide down and take him into her mouth, just to see him squirm. Or maybe it would be him going down on her, keeping her still with his strong arms as he licks her, making her come once, twice, before having mercy on her, and sliding home.
On any other night, she loves these little games.
But tonight, she just wants him, she just wants the rush, the connection, the reassurance.
She wants him, alive and warm and pulsing with wild energy under her fingertips.
So she pushes him down to the pillows, climbs over him, grabs his erection, steadying him, then takes him in in one long stroke, throwing her head back.
Once two bodies as one, she leans forward, almost lying on top of him as she starts to move – small, rocking movements as he helps him, matching thrust for thrust.
The urgency suddenly gone, they move slow, not rushing towards the end, lengthening the moment.
His hands are everywhere – on her ass, on her thighs, the curve of her waist, down her shoulder blades, along her spine. On her clit, rubbing, stroking, teasing.
His lips are everywhere – on her shoulders, sucking at her neck, lovingly brushing the sensitive skin, on her jaw, on her lips, kissing, kissing her as if he was a drowning man, and she the last drop of water on Earth.
When she comes, she comes slowly, then suddenly – there's a slow build up, a tightening starting from her core, spreading slowly in her whole body, reaching even her fingertips, and she just can't take it anymore and she shatters.
Her whole body spams, and her walls grip him, and her back arches, and his name is on her lips, and her thoughts are beautifully meddled with pleasure, and it's too glorious to describe.
She can feel him fall over the edge, too – his body tensing, his grip on her hips strong, mouth opening in a silent shout, shooting his seed deep into her body. (She hopes it's just as good for him as it is for her.)
Afterwards, they lie side by side in the bed, turned towards each other, finger interlocked.
She is blinking sleepily at him, she is sated, calm, happy – she has him, whole and unharmed, and that's the only thing that matters.
He smiles at her before he slides his hand down, smoothing his palm over the slight curve of her belly, the loving touch somehow bringing back the terrors of the afternoon.
Tears well in her eyes.
"I was terrified today," she confesses in a whisper.
He nods, understanding; his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows.
"I know."
"I thought I lost you, and I…" she sniffles. "We can't. We can't lose you. We need you."
He pulls her close, until her head is pillowed on his chest.
"You won't," he promises, stroking her hair. "You won't, I'm here, I'm not going anywhere. I promise. I'll always be here for you."
And as silly as it is, she believes him.