Work Header

Berserk Her

Work Text:

People thought FitzSimmons were exactly alike. Jemma Simmons took it as a compliment, since Fitz was the smartest person she knew, but there were a number of key differences between them besides, as some had theorized, their gender. For one thing, while Fitz was a morning person, Jemma was a night owl. She quite liked staying up into the wee hours of the morning, having the lab all to herself, even listening to her ‘jams’, while Fitz slept the sleep of the innocent. She knew that when she finally did turn in, she’d sleep in, wake up, and find that Fitz had taken in all her work and continued it in her absence. He’d have coffee and his own take on whatever thorny problem had made her retreat.


Today, thought, he hadn’t so much gone to sleep as ventured into Las Vegas with Skye (and the others), so long as they were parked in Nevada. Jemma, of course, was staying on the plane. She liked the plane. It was much better than hotels, even though that casino owner whose life they’d saved had comped them free rooms. Why would Jemma want a free room? Her room on the plane had her teddy bear and her books and her computer that wasn’t her laptop or her tablet. Why would she leave? No one left their house to stay at a Motel 8 when their house had wings and could fly!


Jemma turned her music up. Stupid empty plane. You’d think someone would’ve stayed to keep her company over slot machines. Someone besides Ward, who was grumpier than ever after that Berserker Staff. And he’d just stayed for the punching bag. If he went a night without hitting it a good hundred times, he’d probably end up headbutting his way through the wall. Though they always stayed up together now, the most they interacted was him stealing Jemma’s tea.


He didn’t this time, possibly because Jemma had started taking hers with lemon. Instead, a few moments after the recurring thuds stopped sounding off the heavy bag, he sagged through the doorway to the plane’s hold, took in the room, and sat down like a sword being set down against a wall. Jemma wouldn’t wish his mental trauma on anyone—but he did look nice wearing nothing on his arms but sweat.


He drank Gatorade—yanks really did do that, hmm?—and then said “Wanna go on a joyride?”




“The plane. No one else is around. Wanna fly it around the state a few times?”


“Oh. Oh!” Jemma pointed at him, then at herself, then at him, then tried to figure out what she was doing. “You were making a joke! Breaking the ice between us! The metaphorical ice! Oh, well done! Very funny! Yes!”


“You’re not laughing.”


“Ha…?” Jemma said uncertainly.


“Crappy joke anyway, forget about it.” He put his feet up. “Just tired of people tiptoeing around me.”


“Well, you were hit with an Asgardian mental-shift device. The last time that happened, Hawkeye nearly crashed the Helicarrier.”


“I’ve got a bit more of a handle on my anger issues. These days it just feels like I’ve drunk way too much coffee instead of seen a video of someone hitting a puppy.” He began unwinding the wrap from his hands. “Which people would know, if they asked me, instead of just whispering about me behind my back…!” He yanked the last of the cloth off with a fierce exertion. Jemma winced a little.


“So you’d like questions?” Jemma asked, rolling her office chair closer to him. “Because, you know, it is rather fascinating, having one’s mentality altered by an alien weapon.”


“I was thinking more along the lines of ‘how are you doing, Ward?’ But sure, I’ll take the survey.”


“Oh, no, no survey.” Jemma tried to move her chair again, but Ward hooked his leg on it and held it still. She faced him, blushing for no discernible reason. “But, if you’d like a more personal question—back when you were first, affected, you made some comments about Skye and… and Fitz, but nothing really about me?”


“Guess I just hit my quota for pissing off my friends.”


“Oh.” Jemma sounded disappointed to herself, which was odd, because he’d answered her question. Kinda. Sorta. “I thought… maybe… I hadn’t done anything to upset you. Which-would’ve-been-gratifying—!” she added quickly.


He looked at her with that inscrutable face he got, with the furrow in his brow he must’ve gotten when he was twelve, because it seemed as much a part of him as eyes or ears or medulla oblongata. His leg wriggled, moving her chair about under her. She grabbed the seat with both hands to try and hold it still; useless since she was perched on it.


“So you think that makes us besties?”




“On second thought,” he nodded to himself, “you do piss me off.”


“Oh. Sorry.”


“It pisses me off that you walk around in your sweaters and your slacks and your fucking stewardess outfits…”


“Flight attendant,” Jemma interjected, only to be steamrollered by Grant.


“--and everyone sees how pretty you are, but I bet you still write in your diary about how all the boys like Skye more than you.”


“I do not—“ Jemma said strenuously, clutching tightly to her seat cushion. “Have a diary! It’s a blog! For the discussion of the sciences!”


Ward laughed mirthlessly. “You think there’s one guy on this crate that would kick you out of bed for eating crackers? One fucking pair of eyes that doesn’t look when you bend over?” He sensed her objection this round. “Yes, even in your fucking lab coat. You could have any guy you wanted. And God knows you want one.”


“I am very satisfied with my beakers and vials!” Jemma waited a half-second to figure out how that had sounded. This was one of the unfortunate times when it ended up sounding bad indeed. “In my work, I mean. My scientific work, which saves lives and may cure cancer, what would you say if I cured cancer—“


Ward stood so fast his chair tipped over. Jemma looked up into his eyes, even though he towered over her. If she didn’t, she’d be eyelevel with his crotch, and she didn’t think that was a proper view for this conversation. “If you don’t want people to know you masturbate twice a night, don’t live on a plane full of spies.”


“I… that is scientific research!” Jemma retorted. Waited another half-second.




He leaned over her, hands gripping her armrests so tightly that they squealed a little. Or that might’ve been her. “I tend to pick up on little things like how you hold onto me after we fall out an airplane. Rubbing up against me like a cat in heat—“


She could’ve slapped him. Could’ve. Theoretically. “I will not be spoken to in this… guttertrash manner!”


He leaned it closer. Oh, his sweat was dripping on her. Oh. “You’d better come up with some stronger language than that. I’m right about to kiss you and I don’t think being called gutter trash is much of a disincentive.”


Her eyes were flashing—angry, but not with her. Maybe with the fact that he wasn’t kissing her yet. Of course, he shouldn’t kiss her. She was agreeable to it, but it’d been mere weeks since his experience with the Berserker, and she doubted he was fit to consent to such a thing. Though if he were, of course, she wouldn’t… well… it was a very thorny issue!


Jemma put her hand on his chest supportively, meaning to say something wise and scientific that would calm him down without insulting him or necessarily stopping him from kissing her in the future. The future when he was less sweaty; no, about this level of sweaty, just not from working through personal demonic-type issues. When he was sweaty for running a marathon for sick children.


While Jemma was trying to think of what Neil Degrasse Tyson would say (something that would not take a half-second to know was crud), her hand on his flesh triggered an explosion. Ward grabbed a fistful of her lapels like she was a vaguely Eastern European thug and pulled her right out of the chair—it was very easy for him—and against his mouth, which ground against hers like an animal’s. A very, very sexy animal.


When he stopped, Jemma waited quite a few half-seconds before realizing she hadn’t said anything to be found awkward. She just felt like she had. Maybe it was the little moan in the middle there?


Ward was breathing hard, like he was going to turn green and big, his breath furnace-warm as it hit her clavicle and descended between her breasts. His eyes were burning into hers. His lips parted in a snarl that spoke. “I want you more than anything else in this whole fucking world. I don’t give a shit if you want me. And I don’t give a shit if you enjoy it. But if I do this, you’re going to come. It’ll just happen. So if you don’t want this, you walk away right now, because I sure as hell can’t.”


Then, his breathing slightly throttled, he loosened his grip on her sweater dress. It seemed to take an unbelievable effort, but his hand dropped to his side. She took a step back from him and he didn’t move. Seemed to vibrate with need, but his feet were rooted to the floor. She reached out to touch his face. He was burning up and flinched from her touch, but still didn’t move. From the way his breath rattled, he wouldn’t be patient for much longer.


“Choose,” he said hoarsely, leaning in and then forcing himself back, swaying with how torn he was.


She couldn’t quite believe she’d reduced him—turned him into this. The cool dude who could do anything but tell a decent joke was suddenly a maniac out of Ray Louis Stevenson. She absolutely didn’t write on her blog about Skye—after all, it was Natasha Romanoff who had stolen her last boyfriend, just because Jemma hadn’t yet asked him out on a date or found out what his name was—but yes, Skye absolutely seemed more the type to turn a man into some kind of sex monster. She barely remembered to use the sweet-smelling shampoo instead of the stuff SHIELD issued them, which always smelled a bit like giraffes. (It was a very unique smell.)


“Uhhh… yes,” she said softly, “please continue seducing me and having your way with me and such. I would like an orgasm, thank you.” A half-second later: “What?


He wasn’t listening anymore. He was grabbing her, pulling her tight. Holding her against the handle of the gun he had stuffed down the front of his—wait, no, that was—oh, the baby jesus. He carried her like a babe to the wall, let go of her and she stayed against his chest and his… that. His hands split to disassemble her as efficiently as a bomb. One tugged the hem of her dress up over her body, up to her chest where he shoved it into her hands. “Hold that for me. You let it go, I’ll know you wanna stop.”


“Will you care?”


His grin at her seemed peculiarly Asgardian—above mortal concerns, otherworldly, invincible. “Maybe.” His hands dropped away. Only to go to her panties. Her very plain panties, which were very comfortable and made her feel very comfortable and which she had never expected anyone, much less a man, much less Grant Ward, much less anyone, to see.


He ripped them away. They were very stretchy and he still ripped them.


“The thing,” he said, his voice burning in her ears, “about wiggling your hips at a guy for six months is, eventually he might give you what you’ve been begging for.” She was looking into his eyes—it seemed very hard to look away at the moment—but she heard his zipper part and his boxers shuffle out of the way and him hitting the side of his leg. The soft patter as he stroked himself to readiness. “Got something for ya, doc. I think you’ve been waiting for it a while.”


Her hands tightened on her upturned dress as she felt him at her entrance. He prodded gently at her, parting her labia, and it was only then that she realized how wet she was for him to so easily slip inside. But he didn’t. Not yet. Just pushed his cock into her and held himself there, her sex parted but not truly entered. He wasn’t holding back. He was in control. Enjoying her look of sheer delight. Her wetness.


“Yeah,” he said, half amused. “A good long while…” And he lunged forward to Jemma’s joyful sigh, sending himself deep inside her and sending her hard against the wall behind her. She keened in disbelief; every second making her more and more aware of his thick, full intrusion inside her. It was unbelievable, her cunt practically sizzling with pleasure, but the look in his eyes grounded her. He was holding himself still again, that tranquil fury she’d come to recognize keeping him from simply fucking her through a bulkhead. Ward was enjoying his power over her almost as much as the pleasure it brought him.


It wasn’t enough for him. She didn’t think it would ever be enough. He reached down to her stocking-clad legs, hooking his arms under them to yank them roughly upward, up to her chest. He swung them over his shoulders, bending her double, her knees jammed into her breasts and her calves on his shoulders.


“You’re going to feel every inch of me,” he said in her ear, almost cooing. Like the thought was pounding in his head. His only consideration.


“Yes!” Jemma replied. Not the most original dirty talk, but… “Yes!


Ward worked slowly at first, careful to savor every shuddering effect his strokes had on her. It quickly ceased to satisfy him. He sped up, briefly pleased with the agonized passion that twisted Jemma’s flushed face. Then that wasn’t enough either. His hands gripped Jemma’s slender legs and bent them even further, pressing her knees into her soft breasts  and hanging her ankles around her ears. Jemma had no idea she was so flexible. It would be good to know later on.


Then he set his forearm against her ankles, keeping them up while with his other hand he unerringly found her clit and stroked her with the callused fingers from every romance novel Jemma had ever read. They were just as good as Danielle Steele said they were. She made an undignified expression and held it until she came, a few seconds later. Ward stopped, throbbing hotly within her, starting to shake violently but for now, holding himself still. He was getting better at that.


She was realizing all over again how big he was, how far he’d gone. Christ, how was it possible? “I’ve always wished you’d fuck me like this,” she told him, trying and failing to catch her breath.


“I know,” he said casually. Then, a half-second later: “SHIELD has very detailed files on all its agents.”


“You’re kidding. Like with the truth serum.”


He shook his head. “Very detailed.”


She could tell he couldn’t hold himself back much longer. His hips were starting to rock, desperate for the sweet friction of her cunt. And the tiny motions felt good, so fucking good…


“So what else is in my file?”


He leaned in. She could feel the feverish heat coming off him, like he was a goddamn radiator. “I’m gonna bend you over that table, smack your cute little ass, and think about what you’d have to do to convince me not to cum all over your face.” His smile was merciless. “File says you’d enjoy that, but you don’t seem the type to me.”


“I, uhh, ohh… table sounds good.”


“Wasn’t asking.”


And despite the many half-second times she’d realize she’d just said something like “Fuck me harder, James fucking Bond!” or “Make me your hot little science bitch person!”, Ward didn’t turn out to need any encouragement. He fucked her and she took it. Worked out rather well for both of them.




“So, anything interesting happen while we were gone?” Fitz asked, between bites of a gigantic submarine sandwich. There’d been a bistro in Vegas that sold them and he’d bought about eight, stacking them in the refrigerator for an all-sub diet over the next week.


“Interesting?” Jemma replied. She was blushing. She did that a lot now.


“You know.” Fitz set his sandwich down on the table. “Get the virus to compile or anything?”


“No, no, nothing… interesting. Just up to the usual shenanigans! Working for SHIELD and running tests and certainly not breaking any rules!” She glanced at the sandwich. “You’re not going to eat that, are you?”


“Why not?” He picked it back up, clutching it to his chest like a newborn infant. “If you wanted a sandwich, you should’ve asked for one. I’ve started on this one already; I’m committed.”


“Well, you put it on the table.”


“What’s wrong with the table? We scrub it down after every use and it’s been at least a month since we put anything alien on it.”


“Yes, you’re right. Why wouldn’t you be right? Oh, Fitz!”


Eying her suspiciously, he took a great big bite. “Mmm. It’s the special sauce that makes it work. Tangy.”


So tangy,” Jemma agreed.


Nearby, Ward looked up from May’s focus mitts. He took in Jemma’s frankly disturbed expression, and Fitz’s great enthusiasm for sandwiches, then went back to his training.


“So,” May said, absorbing a volley from him, “now that you have angst, are you planning on fucking everyone on this plane?”




“Just so you know, Coulson likes to cuddle.”