a drabble for week thirteen because writing is hard y'all
The weight of Ward’s arm falling over her shoulders yanks Jemma out of her mental review of the grocery list…and sends her thoughts spiraling in another, much more embarrassing direction.
“What?” she very nearly squeaks.
“Don’t look now,” he says, voice a low murmur in her ear, “but we’re being followed.”
That’s never a good thing when one is a SHIELD agent…especially a SHIELD agent who isn’t involved in a case. Their last mission wrapped up three days ago and, having hit their overtime limit, they’ve been given seven days’ downtime until their next assignment. They’re on their way to pick up groceries, for goodness’ sake!
For someone to be following them now…
“What do we do?” she asks.
“Act natural.” Ward presses a kiss to her temple, quick and easy like it’s not going to send her heart straight to her throat. “We’re just a young couple on a romantic stroll. If they’re muggers, they’ll choose someone else when they see us going into the store. Too public for a mugging.”
Jemma leans into his embrace, guiltily delighting in the chance to be so close—to soak in his warmth, to have him shortening his stride for her benefit. The scent of his aftershave is unfairly good; thanks to it (and, admittedly, the inhibition-lowering 0-8-4 they were dealing with), she came within seconds of licking him earlier this week.
Focus, Jemma.
“And if they’re not just muggers?” she asks.
“Then I’ll take care of them,” he says seriously. His arm tightens around her shoulders. “Either way, I won’t let anyone hurt you, okay? I promise.”
Oh, why must he always say such perfectly protective things? If she didn’t know better, she’d swear he’s purposely playing on her weakness for operations agents.
“I know,” she says, and lifts her hand to twine her fingers with his briefly. “I trust you.”
He squeezes her hand and kisses her temple again, and Jemma—well. Jemma decides to enjoy the experience while she can. She knows Ward will keep her safe either way; there’s no harm in savoring the moment, is there?
i’ve been sick all week and a real fic just wasn’t happening. so i hope y’all enjoy this drabble instead <3
He’d never admit it to anyone (hell, he barely admits it to himself) but when Grant’s soulmark burns its way across his chest, he’s just as scared as he is excited.
It’s not the soulmark that’s the problem. He’s been waiting his whole life for his soulmark—for his soulmate. He’s eager to see it, to have concrete proof of the connection—a guarantee that someday soon his soul will bond with its other half. He wants it. Bad.
No, the problem is the timing. He’s been in this stupid hole-in-the-ground cell for six months, and he’s put all of his eggs in the same basket: the Skye’s-my-soulmate basket. He’s felt drawn to her since day one, and with the way their relationship developed before the uprising threw a wrench into things…
She’s his soulmate. She’s gotta be.
But if she’s not…if she’s not, then he’s been playing her all wrong—playing his entire imprisonment all wrong—and it’s too late to walk it back. If his soulmate is anyone other than Skye, he’s screwed. He’ll be stuck down here until…well, until he takes some steps he’d rather not.
So, yeah. When he feels the burn in his chest, the bone-deep ache of his soulmark being born, he’s nervous.
That doesn’t stop him from ripping his shirt off to check it right away, obviously. It just means he’s holding his breath when he does.
And that breath leaves him all at once when he lays eyes on his brand new soulmark. Lightheaded, he falls back on his bed to sit.
It’s Skye. It has to be Skye. When his soulmark is a little plane—the goddamned Bus—with a little black line trailing out behind it, a contrail that’ll turn into his soulmate’s name as soon as their bond is cemented—who else could it be?
He was right. It’s Skye. And some day—someday soon—he’ll be out of this hellhole and with his soulmate.
.
.
.
No one comes down to see him that day, or the next.
That’s fine. He’s sure they’re all struggling with what’s happened, Skye most of all. Soulmarks are made to complete each other the way soulmates do, so she won’t have the little plane like he does—she’ll have the other half of the soulmark. His name. Once they bond, she’ll get the plane and he’ll get her name (he wonders which name it’ll be: the one she chose? The one given to her when she was an unwanted orphan? The one her parents came up with?) and they’ll both be whole.
In the meantime, Skye’s been denying any kind of connection to him, any kind of feelings for him, for months. Having his name write itself across her skin must’ve been a hell of a shock. She’ll need time to come to terms with it, and that’s fine. He can wait.
He’s not humoring anyone else, though. Not anymore. All those months he spent engaging with Coulson, even just to tell him he’d only talk to Skye, that’s over. Now that he has concrete proof they’re soulmates, he’s not bothering with anyone else.
So when the barrier on his cell clears to reveal Simmons, well into the night of the third day, he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even get up. He stays right where he is, stretched out on his bed with his hands tucked beneath his head.
“The silent treatment?” she asks after an expectant pause. “That’s mature.”
Grant ignores her.
“Just as well,” she says. “I don’t need you to talk for this—in fact, I’d rather you didn’t.”
The cold tone is unusual for her, but not unusual enough to get his interest. She’s not Skye. He’s not pretending to care about anyone but Skye anymore.
“As you were, then,” Simmons mutters, and then—then she takes off her shirt.
Grant sits up.
His cell’s not very big. Even from his bed, he has no trouble seeing what brought her down here: there, above the cup of her bra, is his name. Grant Ward, there in his own handwriting, curving down (down, how did he not realize, the black line that’ll become his soulmate’s name isn’t straight, it declines, not like a contrail, like the path a parachuter might take while diving out of the plane to save his soulmate’s life) from a black dot that’ll become the Bus once they’re bonded.
Skye isn’t his soulmate. Jemma is.
“You—” He doesn’t know what to say. For once in his life, he’s got nothing.
“I’m your soulmate, yes.” Thin-lipped, she pulls her shirt back on. “Leave Skye alone.”
“What?”
“She’s been through enough,” Jemma says tightly. “Leave her alone.”
Shaking off his shock, Grant stands. “You think I care about Skye? You’re—”
“Nothing,” she interrupts sharply. Then she takes a deep breath and continues, calmly, “I’m nothing to you, I know. But you never would’ve believed Skye isn’t your soulmate unless you saw it with your own eyes, so.” She gestures loosely at her chest. “Now you know, and you won’t be harassing her to the point she feels the need to strip and prove she hasn’t got your mark.”
There’s a lot there—a lot he’ll need to unpack later. For now, there’s only one part of it he’s concerned with.
“You’re not nothing to me,” he says. “You’re my soulmate. Jemma—”
“I’m nothing,” she repeats forcefully. “Don’t even try it, Ward.”
“I’m not trying—”
“You spent a year playing with my feelings,” she says over him. “You think I don’t know that? I might have been blind, but I’m still a genius. I was nothing to you then, and I’m nothing to you now. I won’t let you play me or anyone else again.”
Six months ago, Grant would’ve known exactly the right words to use to talk her down. He could’ve soothed her temper, brought her around, and he could’ve done it easily.
But he wasn’t expecting this. He wasn’t expecting her. The shock still has him floundering—and she doesn’t give him time to recover.
“Leave Skye alone,” she says again, voice and eyes equally cold, and then she blanks the barrier.
A drabble for week nine of my thirty-four weeks! The imaginary deadline isn’t working as well on my muse this year as it did last year....maybe because I started midway through the year so my inner perfectionist isn’t involved? idk. Fingers crossed I’ll find some real inspiration next week, and until then, I hope you enjoy!
Grant wakes in blinding agony. Literally--or so he fears for one brief, panicked second. Then he connects his inability to see with the soft hand resting over his eyes and, a second later, the hand to the soft humming he hears.
“Jem?” he asks. Croaks, really. His throat is wrecked.
“Yes, darling.” Gentle fingers--ones not attached to the hand still covering his eyes--card through his hair. “I’m here. Don’t try to sit up.”
“Why not?”
“You have a concussion,” Jemma says. Her fingers skirt the edge of a sore spot near his temple. “A fairly severe one, I think. It’s better if you move as little as possible.”
“Okay.” That’d explain the blinding agony and how long it’s taking him to realize really obvious things. Things like the softness his head is resting on isn’t a pillow, it’s her lap. “Is there a reason you’re covering my eyes?”
Her hand shifts. “Still the concussion. There’s a fluorescent light directly above us; I don’t believe you’d enjoy looking into it.”
“Probably not,” he agrees. “What happened?”
“The team,” she says. “May in particular. I understand there was quite a fight.”
As she says it, it comes back to him. Slowly.
Ah, fuck.
“I lost,” he says.
“I’m afraid so.”
“John?” he asks.
Jemma’s free hand leaves his hair and comes to rest on his heart instead. He knows before she takes in a shaky breath to speak what she’s gonna say.
“Dead,” she says anyway. “I’m so sorry, Grant.”
Part of him isn’t, not as crazy as John was getting by the end there. Writing on walls, talking nonsense, abandoning all their plans....there was something wrong with him, something the GH-325 did. Part of Grant isn’t sorry that the maniac who replaced John got put down.
The rest of him hurts. Too much to think on it right now---too much to let himself think about John at all.
He moves on.
“Are we in a cell?” That’d explain the weird echoing quality to both their voices.
Jemma pauses, but doesn’t press the issue of John. She’ll make him talk about it sooner or later, he’s sure--she wouldn’t be her if she didn’t--but probably she’ll wait until the concussion heals. Grant’ll take the time and be thankful. (And be ready to distract her once the concussion’s gone.)
“We are,” she confirms. “In the basement of what I suspect, based on the age, to be an old SSR base.”
Huh. “An old SSR base with only one cell?”
“No.” He can hear the smile in her voice. “I’ve been assured our shared accommodations are only temporary. Once you’ve healed, I’ll be moved.”
Over Grant’s dead body. He’s not letting Jemma out of his sight--not ever again. He’s sure as fuck not letting SHIELD lock her up away from him.
He covers her hand on his chest, his thumb finding her ring almost automatically. He feels along the edges of it, the familiar shape. It’s just like Coulson to let her keep it.
“I’ll have us out of here before they get the chance,” he promises.
Jemma shifts beneath him, enough so the press of her lips to his forehead isn’t a surprise.
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Relationships: Jemma Simmons/Grant Ward, Jemma Simmons & Original Character(s), Grant Ward & Original Character(s)
Characters: Jemma Simmons, Grant Ward, Original Characters
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon, POV Outsider, Additional Warnings in Author’s Note
“You shut up,” he says again, “you stay down, or I will shoot your fucking—”
Shoot their fucking what, they never get to know. He’s only halfway through the word fucking when Ms. Hampton pops back up from behind her desk and shoots him in the chest.
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Relationships: Jemma Simmons/Grant Ward
Characters: Jemma Simmons, Grant Ward, Original Characters
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon, Pregnancy, Interviews, POV Outsider, Unreliable Narrator
Series: Part 3 of talbot's wrath
Once we’ve all got our drinks doctored to our liking (Grant is drinking black coffee; Jemma, some form of juice), I dive right in.
“Thank you so much for agreeing to meet with me today.”
“Oh, no,” Jemma says, favoring me with a beaming smile. “Really, I should be thanking you. I appreciate the chance to set the record straight.”
“We,” Grant corrects. Adorably, he’s scooted his chair close enough to hers that he can drape an arm over her shoulders. “We both appreciate you giving us this opportunity.”
Jemma pats his thigh. “She’s not here for you, dear.”
ta-da! week eight of my thirty-four weeks! you get a drabble today because, uh, three day weekend, I guess. I just didn’t wanna write a whole fic. But I hope y’all enjoy anyway, and happy July 4th to my American followers!
The lighthouse is beautiful.
Not the base—that’s all dreary corridors and dark rooms, as is typical for one of SHIELD’s underground facilities—but the actual lighthouse, the aboveground tower for which the base is named. It’s light and airy, all high ceilings and large windows, with a touch of charm from the spiral staircase and rounded walls.
Of course, there isn’t much in the way of square footage, but in Jemma’s opinion, the view makes up for that. Out on the balcony, on a clear day, she can see all the way across the lake to the town on the other side. The sunrises—and sunsets, for that matter—are beautiful.
Right now, however, the sun is high in the sky, and she’s on the other side of the balcony, overlooking the lawn. Green grass dotted with wildflowers slopes down the hill, acre upon acre of empty space running the length of their little peninsula. It’s perfect for picnics, both intimate family affairs and company-wide.
It’s the latter today, of course. Down below, the lawn is being taken over by blankets, tables, and pavilions as various personnel work on setting up for the Lighthouse’s Fourth of July picnic. Even from up here, she can hear the noise rising—shrieks from the children racing each other from one table to the next, music from someone’s stereo set-up, shouts as agents coordinate the (apparently) delicate set-up of the grilling stations.
Jemma’s meant to be reviewing reports on Floor 14’s latest experiments. Instead, her tablet lays all but forgotten in her lap as she watches the organized chaos below her.
“Sulking?”
She startles, nearly fumbles the tablet, and disguises unlocking it with the pretense of rearranging herself. By the time Grant rounds her chair to lean against the railing before her, she’s able to put on a convincing show of having been lost in her work.
“No,” she says, feigning petulance. “Working. Unlike some.”
He makes a show of looking around. “Weird place for a scientist to work.”
“Fresh air is healthy,” she says archly. “What about you? Have you given up on your pointless celebration of a centuries-old tainted victory?”
He clicks his tongue. “Don’t be a sore loser, baby.”
She sniffs and pointedly returns her attention to her tablet.
It’s all in good fun, of course. Jemma isn’t so patriotic as to begrudge—or even be mildly annoyed by—the Lighthouse’s annual Independence Day celebration. In fact, she always quite enjoys it. As the only English person on base, however, it’s become something of a tradition for her to make a show of disdaining the celebrations, keeping herself apart until someone comes to drag her into things.
(Fitz, naturally, is always quick to remind everyone that he is in fact Scottish, and therefore hates the English even more than the rest of them do.)
The exact methods of said dragging usually depend on just who comes to fetch her, but Grant is given to making it somewhat literal. Last year, he slung her over his shoulder and carried her downstairs, kicking and laughing all the way.
Today, however, he stays where he is, slouched against the railing behind him. His gaze is heavy on her.
“What?” she asks, looking up as the silence draws out. “Don’t you want to return to your party?”
“Nah,” he shrugs. “Think I’d rather celebrate July Fourth the way my ancestors did.”
“And how’s that?”
He smiles, slow and wicked. “By fucking the British.”
Jemma snorts a surprised laugh—a surprised laugh quickly muffled, as Grant swoops in to press his lips to hers. It’s a brief kiss, barely more than a peck…but he never has needed much to get her heart racing.
“So?” he asks as he draws back. Only slightly: he’s still bent over her, hands braced on the armrests of her chair. “What do you say?”
“I don’t know,” she says, pretending to consider. “Can you truly make it worth my while? Perhaps I’d rather stay out here and watch the fireworks.”
“Oh, baby,” Grant laughs. “Don’t you worry. There’ll be plenty of fireworks.”
“Well.” Delicately, Jemma sets her tablet aside. “If there will be fireworks…”
“Stars, too,” he promises.
As ever, he’s as good as his word—and they even make it down to the lawn in time for dinner afterward.
This is a very bad time to discover a new turn on.
Ta-da! Week four! This week you get a super old drabble with a new, slapped on ending, because I drove 300 miles this morning and I just can’t, y’all.
Takes place in the same verse as this equally old drabble. Call it several weeks later.
This is a very bad time to discover a new turn on.
She is being held prisoner by Hydra, at the order of its god, who for some horrible reason is determined to make her his goddess. She should not be getting turned on at all and especially not in said (delusional) god’s presence.
And yet it’s undeniable.
It’s the combination of factors, she thinks. His warmth just behind her; his legs bracketing her hips; the slow, steady stroke of the brush through her hair; the occasional brush of his fingers against the shell of her ear….
And it certainly doesn’t help that he’s in Ward’s body which, no matter how much she hated him, she’s never quite managed to quit being attracted to.
“All right, I think that’s enough,” she says, leaning forward to avoid the next pass of the brush. “Thank you for the assistance.”
“My pleasure,” Hive says, “Jemma.”
As always, his voice wraps around her name like it’s an endearment. Paired with the weight he puts on the word pleasure and her own (unwanted) arousal---
“I want to go upstairs,” she says, even as she scrambles off the bed. Fetching her shoes from their spot by the door makes for an excellent excuse to put some distance between them. “May I?”
It grates that she has to ask---that he has any say at all in her movements, that she’s become so accustomed to her restrictions that she doesn’t even think to just walk out---but she doesn’t dwell on that now. She tucks that concern away, alongside the thoughtless way she accepted his help with her hair instead of struggling through herself, the ease with which she slept beside him last night, and other, similar signs that her fight against him is a losing one.
He’s the enemy, it’s true. She can’t and won’t forget that.
But the longer she stays---the longer she languishes in the pretty gilded cage he’s trapped her in, full of luxury and affection and everything she could want, save freedom---the less it seems to matter.
By his smile, Hive knows it. “Of course. Lucio will take you.”
Permission granted, Jemma flees. Hive doesn’t follow her, but her thoughts do.
Not even the sunlight streaming through the windows in the upper base can change what she fears is fact: someday, she won’t have the strength to flee.
Someday---perhaps even someday soon---she won’t even want to.
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Relationships: Jemma Simmons/Grant Ward
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon, Season/Series 02
“Hi, honey,” Grant Ward says, spreading his arms. “I’m home.”
He’s wearing civilian clothes. There’s a woman just behind him, one of the admin assistants from the forty-second floor. The ragged mess she last saw of his left wrist has healed into a thick scar.
All of this Jemma absorbs in the span of a single heartbeat. In the next, she moves.
“Grant,” she sobs, and flings herself across the distance between them. “You’re alive!”
