Fic: Falling [1/1] for anr
Title: Falling
Author: Jo. R (driftingatdusk)
Rating: FR-18
For: anr
Who requested: Rain, tattoos, post-ep.
Summary: Written for the gaficathon Post-ep for 'Judgement Day' so spoilers for that episode.
****
Rain glistened against pale flesh, black ink against silken white skin. He traces the droplets with his fingertips, catches them with his mouth as it moves across her skin in an almost reverent, never-ending kiss.
Her hands, long fingers, delicate but strong, clench in the sheets, grasping fistfuls of cotton as she writhes and moans, a contradiction of wanton innocence he never thought he'd see in his bed.
He found her on his doorstep, soaked to the bone. Her white shirt clung to breasts framed by a black lace bra, legs left bare by the shortness of her skirt trembling in the cold.
Big, wide, round green eyes stared at him. Lost and desperate, confused but determined, too.
She knew why she was there.
So did he.
It would have been easy to turn her away, to reject her. A simple matter of words, of gestures that would be so easy to make but so much harder to live with.
He wasn't sure which of them was more surprised when he didn't.
The others are gone now and it's just them, just him and her and the slow inferno spreading between them.
It'd always been there, the feelings, the desire, burning on a low heat, neglected to the sidelines, banished because it was neither the time nor the place to act on it.
Until now.
Ziva is in Israel, working alongside her father once more. Tony is by now on a ship, the only NCIS agent in a sea of soldiers. McGee is surrounded by computers and geeks who will undoubtedly look up to him like the Technology God he is.
She could have gone to him, Gibbs realises with a pang. Could've so easily reignited the burnt out flame between herself and her former lover, taken the comfort McGee would so willingly have given.
But she didn't. She came to him.
She chose him.
It's his hands who stripped her of her clothes, letting them fall forgotten to the floor in sodden heaps in his hallway where they were no doubt still sitting, dripping on his floor, soaking through his carpets.
It's his mouth that closes over a taunt nipple, sucking and nipping, teasing and tormenting until her body arches.
His name that leaves her lips, a sob torn from her throat in the midst of her desire.
"Gibbs... Please..."
He slides a denim clad thigh between her legs, smirks against her flesh when she presses against it desperately. Shifts his attention to her other breast, his hands smoothing over her skin, leaving a trail of raised flesh in their wake.
****
She walked all the way from the Navy Yard, her body as numb as her mind.
The family she'd built for herself was no more.
She didn't feel the rain soak through her clothes to her skin or shiver at the drops that dripped from her hair down her collar and along her spine.
She didn't feel the dull ache in her heel and the arch of her foot as she walked too far in boots that were pretty to look at but impractical for walks such as this.
She didn't hear the sound of half a dozen horns blasting or the shouts of men she didn't know shouting their approval as her while shirt became see-through in the downpour.
She didn't hear the thunder rumble in the sky above her head or see the lightening as it struck the ground and illuminated the city in an eerie glow.
She didn't smell the burnt atmosphere, the pollution from the cars that passed.
Her legs moved, her body travelling in a direction her mind was only half aware of.
It wasn't until she was standing outside his house, looking up at the light shining through the glass pane in the front door like a beacon that she realised where she was.
What she needed.
Knocking on the door was never something she'd had to do in the past but she did it now, giving him the chance, the opportunity to turn down the proposition written on her face.
She expected him to, was already half-turned back towards the sidewalk when he appeared at the door.
Then he stood aside, blue eyes glittering with a dawning realisation and held the door open so she could step inside.
****
It's her turn to rise above him, his clothes discarded in the shadows of the room. Her fingers explore his chest through the slight smattering of hair, mapping out the new territory, committing the feel of scars old and new to memory.
Lightning flashes, illuminating the room.
Illuminating those eyes that watch her quietly, intently.
Just like always.
His expression changes as she continues, her teasing like an experiment, the furrow of concentration in her brow amusing him up until the moment her actions chase the humour away, replacing it with something darker, heavier, something he swore he'd never let himself feel again.
His hands rest against her hips. Long, lean fingers wrap around her curves, dark in comparison to the pallor of her skin, callous and rough in comparison to the silkiness beneath his fingertips.
Her lips brush against his chest, her tongue blazing a trail of gentle fire. He legs his head fall back against the pillows and watches her through lidded eyes, her strands of her black hair drying in loose curls tickle his chest and he feels something tighten in his stomach when she glances up, green eyes locking with blue.
Heat and want and desire and pain mingling in their depths.
Sliding into her is like sliding home for all it's a cliché. He tightens his hands on her hips and wonders if she'll mind the bruises she finds there in the morning. The small half-smile on her lips suggests she won't.
He arches his hips, pressing himself deeper, further into her. Hears her answering moan hitch in her throat, feels her fingernails rake over his skin with a little more force than before.
The black ink of her cobweb tattoo stands out in stark relief against the delicately pale skin of her neck and he gives in to the impulse to reach up with one hand and thread his fingers through her tangled hair, an almost vicious yank bringing her head down, the ink within reach of his lips and tongue and teeth.
His other arm wraps around her waist and he rolls them, pins her slight form with his heavier one, a brief groan escaping him as the action drives him deeper before he resumes his task of tasting the black lines with the thoroughness she'd come to expect of him on the job.
Her body twists and writhes and shifts beneath his, legs wrapping around him, caging him, keeping him pressed against her.
He doesn't complain, doesn't do much but smile against her neck, nipping at her flesh momentarily, taking pleasure in the gasp that escapes her when he does.
They rise up and up together, and fall the same way.
All they have now is each other but somehow he thinks that might just be enough.
****
End.
Author: Jo. R (driftingatdusk)
Rating: FR-18
For: anr
Who requested: Rain, tattoos, post-ep.
Summary: Written for the gaficathon Post-ep for 'Judgement Day' so spoilers for that episode.
****
Rain glistened against pale flesh, black ink against silken white skin. He traces the droplets with his fingertips, catches them with his mouth as it moves across her skin in an almost reverent, never-ending kiss.
Her hands, long fingers, delicate but strong, clench in the sheets, grasping fistfuls of cotton as she writhes and moans, a contradiction of wanton innocence he never thought he'd see in his bed.
He found her on his doorstep, soaked to the bone. Her white shirt clung to breasts framed by a black lace bra, legs left bare by the shortness of her skirt trembling in the cold.
Big, wide, round green eyes stared at him. Lost and desperate, confused but determined, too.
She knew why she was there.
So did he.
It would have been easy to turn her away, to reject her. A simple matter of words, of gestures that would be so easy to make but so much harder to live with.
He wasn't sure which of them was more surprised when he didn't.
The others are gone now and it's just them, just him and her and the slow inferno spreading between them.
It'd always been there, the feelings, the desire, burning on a low heat, neglected to the sidelines, banished because it was neither the time nor the place to act on it.
Until now.
Ziva is in Israel, working alongside her father once more. Tony is by now on a ship, the only NCIS agent in a sea of soldiers. McGee is surrounded by computers and geeks who will undoubtedly look up to him like the Technology God he is.
She could have gone to him, Gibbs realises with a pang. Could've so easily reignited the burnt out flame between herself and her former lover, taken the comfort McGee would so willingly have given.
But she didn't. She came to him.
She chose him.
It's his hands who stripped her of her clothes, letting them fall forgotten to the floor in sodden heaps in his hallway where they were no doubt still sitting, dripping on his floor, soaking through his carpets.
It's his mouth that closes over a taunt nipple, sucking and nipping, teasing and tormenting until her body arches.
His name that leaves her lips, a sob torn from her throat in the midst of her desire.
"Gibbs... Please..."
He slides a denim clad thigh between her legs, smirks against her flesh when she presses against it desperately. Shifts his attention to her other breast, his hands smoothing over her skin, leaving a trail of raised flesh in their wake.
****
She walked all the way from the Navy Yard, her body as numb as her mind.
The family she'd built for herself was no more.
She didn't feel the rain soak through her clothes to her skin or shiver at the drops that dripped from her hair down her collar and along her spine.
She didn't feel the dull ache in her heel and the arch of her foot as she walked too far in boots that were pretty to look at but impractical for walks such as this.
She didn't hear the sound of half a dozen horns blasting or the shouts of men she didn't know shouting their approval as her while shirt became see-through in the downpour.
She didn't hear the thunder rumble in the sky above her head or see the lightening as it struck the ground and illuminated the city in an eerie glow.
She didn't smell the burnt atmosphere, the pollution from the cars that passed.
Her legs moved, her body travelling in a direction her mind was only half aware of.
It wasn't until she was standing outside his house, looking up at the light shining through the glass pane in the front door like a beacon that she realised where she was.
What she needed.
Knocking on the door was never something she'd had to do in the past but she did it now, giving him the chance, the opportunity to turn down the proposition written on her face.
She expected him to, was already half-turned back towards the sidewalk when he appeared at the door.
Then he stood aside, blue eyes glittering with a dawning realisation and held the door open so she could step inside.
****
It's her turn to rise above him, his clothes discarded in the shadows of the room. Her fingers explore his chest through the slight smattering of hair, mapping out the new territory, committing the feel of scars old and new to memory.
Lightning flashes, illuminating the room.
Illuminating those eyes that watch her quietly, intently.
Just like always.
His expression changes as she continues, her teasing like an experiment, the furrow of concentration in her brow amusing him up until the moment her actions chase the humour away, replacing it with something darker, heavier, something he swore he'd never let himself feel again.
His hands rest against her hips. Long, lean fingers wrap around her curves, dark in comparison to the pallor of her skin, callous and rough in comparison to the silkiness beneath his fingertips.
Her lips brush against his chest, her tongue blazing a trail of gentle fire. He legs his head fall back against the pillows and watches her through lidded eyes, her strands of her black hair drying in loose curls tickle his chest and he feels something tighten in his stomach when she glances up, green eyes locking with blue.
Heat and want and desire and pain mingling in their depths.
Sliding into her is like sliding home for all it's a cliché. He tightens his hands on her hips and wonders if she'll mind the bruises she finds there in the morning. The small half-smile on her lips suggests she won't.
He arches his hips, pressing himself deeper, further into her. Hears her answering moan hitch in her throat, feels her fingernails rake over his skin with a little more force than before.
The black ink of her cobweb tattoo stands out in stark relief against the delicately pale skin of her neck and he gives in to the impulse to reach up with one hand and thread his fingers through her tangled hair, an almost vicious yank bringing her head down, the ink within reach of his lips and tongue and teeth.
His other arm wraps around her waist and he rolls them, pins her slight form with his heavier one, a brief groan escaping him as the action drives him deeper before he resumes his task of tasting the black lines with the thoroughness she'd come to expect of him on the job.
Her body twists and writhes and shifts beneath his, legs wrapping around him, caging him, keeping him pressed against her.
He doesn't complain, doesn't do much but smile against her neck, nipping at her flesh momentarily, taking pleasure in the gasp that escapes her when he does.
They rise up and up together, and fall the same way.
All they have now is each other but somehow he thinks that might just be enough.
****
End.