If you're taking prompts: Fitzsimmons having an argument in the lab, and their initial frustration with each other turns more into a frustration for each other...if that makes sense
Obviously you’ve heard about my trashy reputation. Glad word’s getting around ;P
I wrote this at work so I can’t guarantee it’s as full-on smutty as it could’ve been…. but it’s still pretty smutty. :)
“I can do it, Jemma! Just give me a bit of space!” Fitz snapped. Honestly, if she wanted to take things slow in the wake of Maveth she could at least stop pressing up against him all the time.
“You’re being stupid!” she shot back, actually shoving him aside with her hip so that she could take over the delicate extraction. “We could’ve gone to bed hours ago if you’d only let me help!”
“And we would’ve been done hours ago if you’d just let me work! You’re a bigger handicap than my actual handicap!”
“Your ego is the biggest handicap in this room,” she muttered. “There, see? Done already.”
“My way would’ve been been more thorough.”
“Really, Fitz?” she huffed, whirling to face him. “You’re going to challenge me on thoroughness? I can catalog and enumerate the steps I took to circumvent the entirely unnecessary third test you were about to run–”
“And color code it too, I bet,” he said coolly, tilting his chin up defiantly. “By that time I could’ve run the test four more times, and made tea.”
“Oh, would you just shut up!” she cried, and then she quite literally jumped him.
It happened so quickly that for a full minute Fitz didn’t respond to her roaming hands or her desperate mouth on his or even the way she was trying to step between his legs. When he realized what was happening, he stumbled backwards and his hands slid up her back and over her shoulder blades, pulling her closer to him.
There were a lot of questions he should be asking right now, but Jemma was trying to tilt him backwards over a desk and he very much doubted she’d take her tongue out of his mouth long enough for them to have a conversation.
After all they have been through, it is fucking mangoes that nearly do him in.
It’s their third day in the Seychelles and the fruit salad looks like a perfectly innocuous dessert choice. Besides, it’s healthy, and as much as Fitz groans that they’re on holiday and they deserve the triple-fudge molten lava cake, Jemma orders the salad.
A few bites in, Fitz drops his fork and starts clutching at his throat.
She doesn’t react immediately as his face goes red and he gasps for air. Honestly, she thinks he’s pulling her leg – isn’t that exactly the sort of thing Fitz would do? (To this day, she’s still not entirely convinced it wasn’t an elaborate prank.) Besides, he’s never mentioned any allergies.
But then his fist hits the table with a bang and he croaks out, “Jemma, I can’t breathe,” and her heart twists, because there’s no faking the way the veins are bulging on his forehead or the little pinpricks of a rash appearing around his mouth.
She scrambles to him, assesses the situation in a heartbeat, and turns to the other restaurant patrons staring at the commotion. “Does anyone here have an epi-pen?”
Fortunately a Pakistani tourist does – she can’t think about what might have happened if not; the hospital is at least a twenty minute drive away – and she plunges it into his leg. He cries out as best he can when he’s choking and she catches him as he nearly falls off the chair.
“If you die, Leopold Fitz, I am going to kill you,” Jemma hisses, holding his face in both hands and rubbing her thumbs over his cheeks as if to soothe the burning there.
He shakes and she realizes he’s trying to laugh. After a minute he’s got enough air to wheeze, “I don’t think that’s how it works, Jem.”
“I would, though,” she insists, even as she’s lowering him to the ground and cradling him in her lap, relieved tears burning her eyes. “I’d yank you back long enough to punish you for leaving me.”
“That sounds really dirty,” he mumbles.
“Shut up, you,” she chuckles, stroking his hair back from his sweaty forehead.