Summary: Fitz was right about giving her the oxygen because it takes 223 hours for Jemma Simmons to breathe again.
Jemma tells Mack that she left because she was making Fitz worse and that is true but only part of the truth. Jemma leaves because too many things have changed and she is not only talking about Fitz.
Sneak-Peak:
Jemma tells herself that she does it for him and she is not lying. She will use that reasoning as a weapon against Mack’s distrust- he will be right but Jemma Simmons got thorns now and she doesn’t take a punch without giving it back, even if she deserves the first one.
Jemma tells herself that she does it for him and she is not lying, but he is not the only reason and that is a secret she will take to her grave. (She still isn’t exactly sure that the weight of her guilt is not what keeps her tethered to this world.)
Jemma tells herself that she does it for him and she is not lying, she honestly believes he will be better without her around, if only because she won’t be adding her grim heart on top of his own problems.
If you don't already have a prompt for fitzskimmons + musical, maybe one night when they have the base to themselves Jemma breaks out a hidden (from Daisy, anyway) talent at the piano, which leads to the revelation that her prodigy bf and gf have all kinds of awesome artsy skills she didn't know about, but Daisy can definitely roll with this new discovery and has some musical talents of her own up her sleave.
AN ~ This was so much fun XD It might not be exactly what you had in mind, but it’s super fluffy and I hope you like it <3
“Not Scrabble,” Daisy put in. “I’m tired of getting my ass kicked.”
“Well, not video games,” Jemma objected, before Daisy could suggest it. Fitz elbowed her and added –
“Jemma’s tired of getting her ass kicked.”
Daisy snorted, but continued to scowl at the limited collection of board games and the like they had on base. They had the classics like Cluedo and Risk and Monopoly, as well as some that she’d never heard of. (Squatter? Stratego? What the hell were they?) But somehow, none of them seemed interesting. She was restless, and would have loved nothing more than to run to a park and kick a ball around, but alas.
“Well, we can’t leave the place unguarded,” she reminded Fitz and Simmons. “We’re the only seniors left.”
“Maybe pool?” Fitz suggested.
“Oh, yes, you have a pool table now?” Jemma’s eyes lit up. “I haven’t really seen the new rec room since I got – you know, back. Now would be the perfect opportunity to take advantage.”
“Also the perfect opportunity for margaritas, if nobody else objects,” Daisy put in.
“Hear, hear,” Fitz agreed.
The rec room had its own miniature kitchen, and Daisy took great pleasure in compiling a jug of the cocktail for the three of them to share. They may not be able to leave the base, but they were as off-duty as they could be in such a situation and, if nothing else, she was dying for a kick of limey freshness after spending so long in the stale air of the base.
Meanwhile, Fitz checked cues and chalk and set the balls in their triangle, while Jemma wandered a circle around the table, twirling her cue absently as she perused the new fittings. There was the pool table, of course, and another lounge and television – this one accompanied by DVDs rather than an X-box, and a box of old VHS tapes in the corner. There was a new bookshelf filled half with classics and half with what appeared to be language dictionaries and tools. She’d have to make a note of that. And then there was…
“What’s this?”
She stepped up to it, brushed her fingers along the front. Now that she thought of it, she hadn’t seen a piano in so long, it was almost unreal. She lifted the lid that covered the keys and pressed a note down. It was a little muted and woody and odd, but still she smiled in delight at the sound of it.
“Oh, they found that downstairs, doing some clearing out of new floors,” Fitz explained. “Most of what was with it was falling apart, but there’s a bit of life in it left. Mack and I did what we could.”
“Is there music?” Jemma was already checking the inside of the piano stool, and she held her breath in wonder for a moment as she drew out the old pages from their place of safekeeping. How long had it been since anyone had last laid eyes on these papers? Played these notes? She imagined a steamy saloon, around the era of Peggy Carter. The musician in her mind was much better than she, and yet, she found the inspiration irresistible.
She plucked out a couple of notes, reacquainting herself with the keys. It was not long before a whisper of Für Elise strung itself together, but just as quickly, it seemed to tumble apart.
“You play?” Daisy mused, coming over with her jug of margarita. Pool game abandoned, she used the green velvet as a regular table – lack thereof being the downfall of this rec room – and poured them each a drink. They drank to each other, a wordless hurrah to their love and health and all things good, and took a swig before Jemma waved her hand and insisted -
“Oh, no, hardly. Of course I took lessons when I was a girl, but…”
“Well, the only one I know is Chopsticks,” Fitz supplied, and crudely tapped out a few bars.
“Can you play that?” Daisy wondered, and nodded to the pages Jemma had pulled out. Claire de Lune.
“Oh, I’m – I mean, I don’t think so. I’m afraid I’m out of practice with the dexterity required. Perhaps I could do some chords and things…”
She studied the music closer, trying to recall what all the symbols meant. Key signatures, sharps and flats; she had always been quite fascinated with the intricacies of music. It was a prime example of science creating beauty.
And then, all of a sudden, the ageing, almost sepia pages before her were covered up by the appearance of a songbook from a slightly more recent time. Jemma raised her eyebrow at Daisy, who had put it there.
“ABBA?”
“Yes! ABBA!” Fitz cheered. Daisy beamed.
“Alright then, ABBA it is,” Jemma conceded. She sat down in the stool and shuffled around a little, still tempted to be proper about it despite the fact that Fitz’d had half a pint of margarita already and there was nobody around but these two notoriously more embarrassing people to hear it. Mercifully, the chords were written at the top of the staff and Jemma still remembered most of them. It was going to be a mess, but as she was sure Daisy would remind them all with the energy of a 1940s after school special, it was their mess.
To be honest, it had been a long time since Jemma had been happier than she was that night; reliving her love of the piano with Fitz and Daisy singing along – and if she did say so herself, all three of them doing so with enthusiasm and a frankly not too shabby level of skill – through one of the greatest songbooks of their (well, perhaps their parents’) times. With the rec room to themselves, Fitz and Daisy put on quite a dramatic duet during the songs they knew best. Some of the time, Jemma could have sworn Fitz was impersonating Elvis, and once – to all of their great amusement, Daisy had lamentably strewn herself across the pool table like the most heartbroken of lounge singers. But always they came back to the spirit of the evening, loudly and rambunctiously singing together-
“… SO WHEN YOU’RE NEAR ME, DARLING CAN’T YOU HEAR ME, S-O-S…”
"I like being the only person awake sometimes" Simmons? :))
This ended up being more of a #mood thing than using the actual sentence, hope you enjoy it, anon!
Everyone and their mother has told her that she will grow bored of this.
(Some has even gone as far as to say “terrified” instead of “bored”. They didn’t feel like speaking much after the looks she sent their way at that choice of words.)
So far, they all have been wrong, because moving out of base has been a great choice. Sure, she is not there on the blink of an eye for an emergency anymore, but that is even a bonus, because she is not really good at putting limits on herself for that kind of stuff, and better have the distance do that for her. Better help them grow out of her immediate need for her.
Being a little detached from things also helps her gain some perspective, although she is not planning on telling the rest of her team that.
Mostly, she is grateful that this way she can have respected her own times and her own spaces. Sure, Fitz owns a key and more often than not he and Daisy would drop uninvited with beers and video games. Sometimes it’s Bobbi with a bottle of vodka. Sometimes it’s Coulson with steaks and salad.
Sometimes it’s even May and a bag of fresh tea.
But on the regular, she can get up as early as she wants, get her first cup of tea of the day going and just… stare out of her window. Watch the world stretching its limbs, getting rid of the numbness, opening its eyes lazily. Watch the sunrise, always. Watch people coming home from working all night with the first ray of sunshine on their shoulders. Watch unlucky kids having to wake up ungodly early to go to school.
To remember that even though she thought she had met Death- and there are still days when she is not fully convinced otherwise- the world didn’t stop spinning because she was gone. And maybe for some people having that knowledge would be devastating.
AN ~ AS PROMISED Jemma self-rescue fic *rubs hands together*. If Jemma 'let's remind everybody that I'm specifically a biologist' Simmons doesn't do something with that room full of plants I'm going to eat my hat. Let's just leave it at that for now. & enjoy!
also fulfils @aosadvent2017 prompt “peace”
*spoilers for AOS 5x01 and 5x02*
Rated T for Kasius being a creepy jerk (but nothing overly sexual happens), but also for him meeting an end he deserves.
Read on AO3 (~2500wd)
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or forever hold your peace
“Walk with me.”
Kasius waved a hand and Jemma forced herself to move. Slowly, gracefully, pointedly, like she had once learnt in ballet: using enough muscles to pull herself forward, so that she would not be tempted to turn and run. She knew she would be dead before reaching the door if she tried something like that. She wouldn’t even hear it coming.
So she followed, swanning after Kasius as if she hung on his every word. They were, after all, the only things she could hear thus far. His words. His breathing. His footfalls. She was not sure if anything else would come back to her, but the absence of her own breathing and heartbeat and the sound of her own footfalls in these marble halls no longer haunted her like it had the first night, keeping her up in a swirling sensory deprivation chamber. Now she had something to focus on. Kasius. And how much she hated every single thing about him, like nails on a chalkboard. Like honey dripping off a thorn.
And then, suddenly, she couldn’t feel hate.
She stepped over a threshold with him into a garden so beautiful that for a moment she could hardly breathe. A room full of potted roses was one thing but this? Gloriously paved pavilions swept here and there, winding through gardens of roses and daffodils, olive and lemon trees, palm fronds and frangipanis, ivy, and orchards. Apples, pears, peaches, apricots.
Her jaw dropped a little. Her body had stilled. None of this she noticed until Kasius turned to glance at her over his shoulder, a smirk on his lips.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he prompted, though of course he required no response from her. It was assumed that she would agree, and even if she had wanted to deny him that satisfaction, her awestruck expression had already betrayed her. For a moment, she was stuck like a deer in the headlights, but she kept her face passive and he did not think to question the inner workings of her mind. They did not matter to him. Only her face.
Satisfied at having caught his petulant princess in a moment of vulnerable joy, Kasius waved over another servant. He would quell her yet, he thought, and picked up a piece of one of his favourite golden apples.
“Try some,” he offered, and Jemma obediently stepped forward. Forcing her breath in and out, forcing her fingers not to clench into fists, she tried not to notice those cold, flat blue eyes so close to her face; that touch so tender but not for her sake. She wished to herself that the apple would taste like ash, like poison, but as she bit down, found it was one of the most beautiful things that she had ever tasted.
And then the rage flooded back in.
She nearly choked on the apple – on the desire to spit it back in his face – as the thought filled her mind, and all her senses, so loudly that for a second it almost felt like her hearing had returned:
People are starving.
People down below were starving to the point where they had clawed at grain poured onto the ground before them. To the point where they had leapt at each other’s throats. Had killed a man. Or would have, were it not for her – and for Kasius, who had finished what they’d started not for bread, but for perfection.
Kasius sighed loudly, smiling paternalistically.
“I know, my dear,” he assured her. “It can be quite overwhelming. I forgive you.”
Before she could flinch away, Kasius brushed her cheek. His fingers came away with a droplet of water. A smudge of gold. Jemma gaped in horror but fortunately, he merely called another servant to bring him a cloth to wipe the smudge away, and another with a pot of paint to reapply the gold where she had marred it. Feigning chagrin - but also, hiding the terror in her eyes and on her face – Jemma ducked her head and let Kasius led on again. As they walked, he waxed lyrical about his garden and its many beauties, and how it was such a shame that a beauty like herself had been held separate from them for so long. It faded into a meaningless blur of sound. To him she was merely another one of his flowers; he only admired her hardiness because it had allowed her to emerge from below unscathed, for his admiration.
Little did he know, of course, that she had a littering of scars on her torso and legs. She had been through too much not to. Yet, as he had said of his former… concubine? She was safe with them hidden beneath her tunic, where he could not notice them.
(She hoped that would not change any time soon.)
He also did not know, though, many other things about her – or, apparently, about his flowers. Things like the fact that she was a highly trained biologist with paramilitary experience. Things like the fact that apples, peaches, apricots - let alone the plants that they walked past now; daffodils, oleander, Angel’s Trumpet – could kill.
He was walking her through a field of weapons, and he didn’t even know it.
Now, there was something worth smiling about.
--
Standing outside his door that evening - or at least, her best estimate thereof - Jemma took a deep breath. The crockery shuddered on its tray and she hoped it was not too loud; she did not know how many others had been given the silence bug, or drug, or whatever it was. But she drew herself strong. It was now or never – not least because she just couldn’t take this much longer. Her behaviour was unusual, but Kasius still hadn’t cottoned onto the fact that she wasn’t who he thought she was, so she was willing to risk it. If all else failed, she hoped, it was a demure enough act of service that he might think it merely unusual – perhaps even a gesture of goodwill – and simply dismiss her.
Strong, she thought to herself, and knocked on the door.
“Enter,” he called, and so she did, and the smug thrill that ran through her at his expression of surprise was more satisfying than she could have imagined. Careful not to let on, however, she smiled meekly and curtseyed a little before bringing the tray forward. Kasius shuffled in his seat, and gestured for her to sit beside him. How quickly would she be dead, she thought, as she lowered herself into the seat. How close was his assassin? Around the corner? Just outside the door? Heart pounding, she poured the tea.
“Hmm, sweet,” Kasius mused, wafting it past his nose as if it were wine. All of a sudden, Jemma thought, perhaps she should have worked with wine. Perhaps it would have hidden the scent more easily. But then Kasius asked; “What is it?”
Jemma tilted her head. Was he expecting her to answer?
“Speak,” he said, and nodded insistently – excitedly, as if watching her open a present. Jemma’s lips twitched, trying to contort into a smile as her heart filled with the sense of freedom, and a desire to tell this slimey maggot everything she thought about him.
“Wellness tea,” she said instead. “Good for the skin.”
This seemed to amuse Kasius, and Jemma almost laughed. Instead, she simply let that smile slip loose, as if she were pleased to have amused him, and poured the tea. He waited until she picked up her own cup, which she had been hoping against, but prepared for. She took a sip, and so did he.
(They’d have to drink much more than that, though.)
“And what have you been doing with your day, my dear?” Kasius asked.
“Listening,” Jemma replied, and she could see it. And hear it. The smugness. That’s my girl, his expression said. I knew you’d come around. She wondered if he could see the same smugness in her eyes – but no, she thought, he probably assumed she was simply overcome with desire, or gladness for having pleased him, or any number of things that required minimal brainpower on her behalf. Instead, what she meant was learning. And now that she could speak, oh, what she had learned was going to earn her so much more satisfaction.
“Oh, this is simply wonderful,” Kasius praised, taking another mouthful of her tea. “You must share the recipe with the kitchens. Where did you learn such a thing?”
“My mother taught me.”
“Hm.” Kasius nodded thoughtfully. “Interesting woman, your mother. I should have her brought here. Where did you say she worked? Processing?”
“Yes.”
Part of Jemma hoped that he would find May. She would certainly have something to say about this whole situation. Or to punch, at least. But most of Jemma’s attention was focused on trying not to cackle like a bloody murderer as Kasius refilled his own cup to the brim with more tea. How long had it been since he’d poured his own cup? Was it because he was used to taking as much as he wanted of something he liked? Or was it the drug she’d put in there, that even now, was niggling at her own throat to take more?
“Processing, you say?” Kasius repeated. “Yet she knows something about herbs. Curious.”
He paused, and Jemma had to take another sip before he got suspicious.
“Yes, ah,” she offered faux-nonchalantly. “I suppose she got creative. Working with what we have, everyone playing their part and all that.”
“Naturally, naturally.” Kasius nodded. “That’s what I like to hear, my dear. Beautiful stock, your family. You know what? I will have your mother found.”
Perhaps this would have scared her, any moment other than now, but Jemma’s blood was already pumping. Kasius’ words were growing uncontrolled; speaking his mind rather than the measured, perfect words of a philosopher. He drank more. Jemma’s throat itched too, but she quashed it down with the thought of what it would take to expel the poison later. Meanwhile, Kasius’ pupils were growing wider. The drug. Was the poison taking effect yet? How fast was stage two going to go? How was she going to get out of this room once it had?
“Have you got somewhere to be, my dear?”
All of a sudden she felt watched. More than that. Seen. One of the side effects of the drug was paranoia and she should have known, she should have predicted this – but how lucid was he, still?
“You’re all fidgety,” he said. “You’re fidgeting. I don’t like it.”
She grinned, and drummed her fingernails against her teacup. Never had she wished for a clicky pen more in her life, but this would have to do.
“Sorry,” she said, unabashedly not sorry at all as she felt the tides rapidly turning in her favour. “I’m simply excited about having executed my plan to perfection.”
“Perfection?” he repeated, bewildered, and she blinked coquettishly.
“Aren’t you proud of me?”
Something, she saw, started to dawn in Kasius’ eyes. Something, perhaps, about what he had said to her upon their first meeting. About her wrist, smooth as if untouched by a metric. About her tears. Her mysterious knowledge - ‘creativity’- with plants that had not been seen by humans like her in nigh on a century.
Something about the old stories.
Kasius leapt to his feet, and swayed.
“GUARDS!” he roared, and Jemma scrabbled away. This was a rollercoaster of a plan but she wasn’t out of ideas yet. She snatched up the teacup, brandishing it like a weapon, and put the table between her and Kasius so that he could not attack. She only had a few seconds. She’d have to pick a door soon. But she couldn’t help spending a little longer watching the fury in Kasius’ eyes burn out into desperation, pain, fear.
She held her chin high. No mercy.
“Why did you do this?” Kasius choked; still surprised, it seemed, that a woman he had been willing to gift with perfection would turn on him so.
And Jemma had thousands of answers to that question, but one came quick and burning to her tongue.
“Acacius,” she said.
“Who?”
“The man I saved. The one you killed,” she explained. “You owe me a life. That is how it works, right?”
Recognition clicked in for a moment, and then the fury returned. Kasius lunged at her, but fell onto the table; convulsing, frothing at the mouth. Not long now.
“GUARDS!!” he cried again, with as much strength as he could muster, though Jemma could hear even that was rapidly fading. “Guards! … They’re here.”
They.
The heroes. The stories. The legends. The ultimate threats to this regime.
They.
Her.
Heart in her throat, teapot still in hand, Jemma retreated, launched herself at the door, and fled through Kasius’ compound with the desperation of a crazed racehorse. She was almost out by the time they finally turned on her, and she struggled, and it felt like she was drowning, but she fought on. She smashed the teapot over somebody’s head, ducked a swipe, overturned a potplant and ran. The roses caught at her tunic and flicked at her face and she ran. She stumbled down the stairs, lost her footing for a moment, felt herself falling and thought it’s all over but it was not. The shouting and jostling all around her was muted but she could hear herself. Her footfalls. Her heartbeat. Her breath.
Something slowed within her, and steadied, and somehow she caught herself and staggered on toward the door. She slammed it shut behind her, only taking half a second to catch her breath before looking for the next one. How far had the battlecry gone? Would she be safe anywhere? Which direction should she go?
She settled for ducking into a crevice for a second, as more guards poured into the passageway from elsewhere. Armed ones; not Kasius’ dainty personal staff.
Jemma stiffened, holding her breath as one of them stalked past her – and was shortly blown back, off his feet and into the ground, hard, by a new arrival. Daisy. She seemed amused by all the panic and the alarms – and if Jemma was not mistaken, mouthed, aw shux, for me? – at the contingent of guards between them. Jemma curled even deeper into the crevice, out of the way while Daisy attacked, and only when the coast was clear did she creep out again. Upon seeing her, Daisy baulked - horrified, sympathetic – and touched Jemma’s arm.
Are you alright?
Jemma touched her ear, symbolising deafness, and Daisy frowned in confusion.
“I’ll explain later,” Jemma said, speaking loudly over the ruckus she could only assume Daisy was hearing. “But our cover is blown. We have to get out of here. Now.”
AN ~ another fic ft. Jemma reclaiming her agency, it’s maybe a little dark but it doesn’t linger on the darkness; a hurt-comfort fic. ft. Jemma & Mack, because those two aren’t close enough and are an untapped reservoir of potential greatness. plus some platonic Skimmons, bc if you can’t tell, I am READY for Daisy’s rescue mission next ep
based on the prompt “renewal” from @aosadvent2017
Rated T. tw for minor self harm, blood. also contains S5 premiere spoilers.
Read on AO3.
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She’s not sure exactly what it is – why it is that moment that she snaps. Perhaps it is nothing more than opportunity after a period of depression. That is, after all, when most rebellions happen.
Whatever the reason though, the moment is the moment. Jemma seizes a rose in her hand – as tightly as she can, and so swiftly she hardly has time to cry out from the pain before she rips it from the tree. Kasius turns, horrified and unsure what to do. Should he kill her? Probably, by his own logic, but that won’t help him understand. Why would she wilfully injure herself, wilfully diminish her perfection in his eyes? Why would anyone want to destroy such a masterpiece?
“Put – put that down,” he orders, the air in his voice scraped by anger and confusion. “The blood will come off, my love, I’m sure.”
Jemma snarls. This time, she knows what it is. It’s my love and the way those words grate through her. The bloody rose she is holding, she thinks, makes a grand symbol that Kasius in all his theatrics should appreciate, and there’s a scar she thought she’d have forever from Maveth that had finally, apparently, faded into nothing.
Too bad.
She scrapes the rose down her forehead; narrowly missing her eye, slicing through the old Maveth scar with relish.
Horrified, Kasius gapes at her, and Jemma feels a sadistic grin light her face. She can taste the blood on her lips and it only makes her smile wider. She has ruined his perfection, ruined his control, and the sound has come rushing in. Even the sound of her own voice, as she challenges:
“What are you going to do about it?”
Of course, this cuts through Kasius’ rage as he sees that she is not something to be pitied or protected; she is no longer his art. She is trouble. Fortunately for him though, nobody has managed to yet outrun the Spheres.
“Sinara!” he calls. “SINARA!”
But there is no answer, only a voice that he does not recognise.
“Jemma, GET DOWN!”
It takes him a moment to remember who Jemma is. His trouble has brought trouble with her – and, apparently, is smart enough to duck below a table when her friends order it, not waste another moment staring as the windows around them shatter.
Glass crunches underfoot as their newest arrival steps into the doorway.
“Quake,” she says. “I think you’ve heard of me.”
Her eyes search the room for Jemma, and though a flicker of concern passes through them she keeps her stance hard, and nods to the empty space beside her.
Jemma runs.
She runs as fast and as hard as she ever has but it feels like she’s slipping. She has no direction, and there’s blood in her eyes – in her mouth – on her hands. It’s under her feet for all she knows but she hasn’t fallen yet so she runs, putting as much distance between herself and the bodies behind her as she can. The team is here. She’s safe now; even though she can’t see them, she knows that Daisy, May and Coulson are closing the gap she has left in her wake, weapons raised. There’s no way she can turn and fight now, so she runs –
Until she slams into a brick wall that catches her. Not a wall at all, but Mack; his arms snap closed around her and he scoops her out of the way of the conflict, turning into her momentum until it disappears and she is left trembling, exhausted and terrifed, but safe in his embrace. By his coaxing she puts one foot in front of the other until he’s herded her around the corner, out of the fight.
“Hey, Jemma, are you with us?” he asks, trying as hard as he can to look into her eyes. She nods, and all but weeps at the sound of his voice. She’d been beginning to think she’d never hear anything again.
“What did they do to you?” Mack wondered, his fingers going to her head until she bats him away.
“That was me- I did that,” she manages tearfully. “I didn’t want him to touch me any more.”
She crosses her arms, hiding her wrists, which all of a sudden feel itchy and wrong, and then she feels it on her face. Her clothes. His control is all over her.
(She breathes, listening to the sound of it; listening to the sound of the fighting around the corner; listening to Mack, and she reminds herself that she is free.)
“Okay, well let’s clean the blood, alright? There’s got to be a washcloth around here somewhere.”
“No, you should go,” Jemma insists, seeing Mack glance back toward the fight.
“Nah,” he says. “They’ve got this handled. Come on.”
To her, it was only a glance, but upon examination the shotgun axe has disappeared; in Elena’s hands now as the battle continues – on the one hand, to bring Kasius down and on the other, to inch along the hallway, into the dingy cafeteria. Mack pours a pot of water and it’s probably not clean but it’s as clean as they’re going to get, so he sets to work.
“Thank goodness you arrived when you did,” Jemma said. “I was beginning to think I hadn’t thought this through.”
Mack snorts. “Clawing your own eye out?”
“I was never going to blind myself.” She shakes her head. “I was just – sick of him watching me. Like I wasn’t real. I was even starting to believe it a little myself, I think. Then all of a sudden, something clicked and I realised, if he didn’t want me anymore then I would be safe.”
“Sure, except for the Balls of Death and the guns and the fact that we're living Snowpiercer: Space Edition.”
“Yeah. Except for those things.” A smile touches her lips briefly, and Mack smiles back, glad to see her panic beginning to subside. “How’d you do it?”
“I grabbed a rose.”
“That asshole has roses? Figures.”
“And chocolate, and fruit, and gold,” Jemma continues, a distracted cloud shadowing her eyes as she reflects; “Lots and lots of gold.”
Mack huffs. He has thoughts on the matter, but he figures Jemma probably already agrees, so he dips the material back into the water and wipes at Jemma’s skin again. He frowns.
“’s not coming off.”
“Boil it,” Jemma commands.
“You sure?”
Mack doesn’t need a verbal answer. The hardness in Jemma’s eyes tells him that if they don’t try something soon she’s going to claw every millimetre of gold off herself with her bare hands. As it is, she’s in such a hurry to get it off that she nearly pours boiling water over the both of them, and hisses in pain at the heat of the water on her face.
“Wait,” Mack insists, “just steam it for a –“
But she’s already scrubbing so vigorously it’s as if her face is on fire and this is the only way of putting it out. When she finally surfaces, gasping for breath, her skin is red – but at least it is not gold – and her mind is clear, even as the tears finally start to leak down.
Idk if you’re still taking prompts but could you do one where Jemma wears a thong for the first time since they started dating and Daisy sees it whiles Jemma is getting dressed and her brain just melts into a pile of lesbian goo.
ahahahah Daisy you useless wlw :P this was fun to write, I hope you like it!
With Benefits - Rated M for partial nudity & sexual references.
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currently accepting pride prompts and (fic) prompts for my mcu bingo cards
Pride prompt: Simmorse + first time (Not necessarily nsfw if something else comes to mind but nsfw also welcome ;D)
Thank you for your prompt, and your patience. It’s finally here (x)! It’s a bit of a softer dynamic than I usually write for them when it comes to smut (and it is definitely nsfw), but I had fun. I hope you like it!
(and keep the Simmorse prompts coming, I’ve got a BUNCH of bingo squares to fill and almost no Simmorse prompts! They can be smutty or non smutty, I don’t mind, check out my bingo squares for inspiration if you’re interested)
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currently accepting pride prompts and (fic) prompts for my mcu bingo cards
