It's nearly 1:30 in the morning here and I am, quite frankly, exhausted. I danced all day and then came home and started writing this, ignoring my mom's attempts to lead me downstairs...I feel kind of horrible. No, really horrible. I turned her down to write smut (prolly not even good smut).
This is the second part to my other story 'It's a Thin Line.' It MIGHT be able to stand alone, though. Tell me if it can. Please.
Oh, and reviews are greatly appreciated. And, as I've said MANY times, writing smut is increasingly hard for me because I'm twelve and all I have to go on is public media. Long story short; tips? Please! I mean, am I using too MUCH detail, not enough?
Anyway, hope you enjoy!
-Livia
"McGee, have you seen DiNozzo?"
No one sees the way she tenses; the way her whole persona freezes for the millisecond after the question is asked. (No one sees it because she barely sees it herself.)
"No, Boss," the younger man answers quickly and almost goes back to what he's doing.
McGee pauses when he feels the silver haired Marine's eyes still upon him, an expecting arch to one eyebrow. The agent is quick to reassess.
"I'll find him," he mutters then, and turns back to his computer where he begins typing so fast Ziva's mind picks up a rhythm. She doesn't realize it; but she's biting the inside of her cheek. The Israeli goes back to work. (That's all she can do.)
It's almost five minutes later that Tim is giving her an answer; a frustrating one.
Tony DiNozzo has turned his cell off.
Ironically, just as the words leave his mouth the elevator dings; and in walk a smiling EJ and a relaxed looking Tony.
Ziva ignores the way her heart constricts almost painfully in her chest.
(Because, really? She's the one who started a relationship with someone else first.)
Her subconscious plays dirty tricks on her; though. There's always that niggling side bar comment that EJ's not that pretty. (And never forget Tony took interest in her first.)
She purses her lips, looking down at the keyboard in front of her, typing another row of unintelligible letters that are meant to be a report that was due a week ago. Ziva thinks she has maybe been letting herself go lately.
(Which wouldn't be the only thing.)
Tony doesn't say a word to her as he sits at his desk, and for a moment she remembers the look in his eyes when she opened the door nearly three days ago.
She bites the inside of her cheek a few more times, then stops. She's drawn blood by now, and blood always makes her flashback to Saleem.
Ziva watches Gibbs grant Tony a firm head slap; nothing is said. McGee never asks Tony where he was, and Gibbs doesn't either.
(Because, really? Who didn't see EJ with him?) Her hands shake a bit as she types another word or two. Suddenly, she realizes what she's been typing this whole time.
Tony loves her. Tony hates me. Tony wants her. Tony would never want me. Tony loves her. Tony hates me. Tony wants her. Tony would never want me because I broke his h-
Ziva highlights it all, then deletes every last word.
Tony still hasn't said anything; and they still don't have a case.
(Is it any easier this way?)
TZTZTZ
At noon Gibbs says they can go to the gym. It's comfort; physical exertion, regardless of the fact that would only prove to get her more worked up.
She changes into a pair of black yoga pants and a purple tank top because that's all she has in her locker, and Ziva mentally chides herself for being unprepared.
(Her frustration upon herself is half egged on by the frustration of not being able to ignore Tony in such a thin shirt that clings to his torso. She hates that she imagines him without it on.)
((She's already seen him like that. Many times. Why should it be so important now?))
She ignores the thoughts, because the thoughts don't matter.
TZTZTZ
Hours pass, and Ziva loses herself little by little.
The heavy punching bag would likely be obliterated if it wasn't built to withstand such force as the kind she is putting on it. Her hair is pulled back into a tight bun, but curling tendrils still stick to her sweat soaked forehead.
She goes until her body aches and her heart pounds in her chest like she might combust.
She enjoys this feeling; almost more than sex with Ray.
A cold hand touches the back of her shoulder, and she loses her mind a bit.
Looking back, Ziva didn't mean to throw him to the ground like that.
She didn't even mean to hit him so hard in the eye.
His mouth opens and he grunts in pain, a hand coming up to assess his injury. Ziva stands there, and doesn't say anything. She may be in a bit of shock. (Because who can really tell?)
A harsh cry escapes him at the probing he attempts and Ziva's suddenly aware again. She kneels down and tries to help him up, and still doesn't say anything.
She never realized that hours had passed; that McGee and Gibbs had gone back upstairs to change and they were free to go home. The gym was empty; save them.
Looking upon the quickly forming bruise; she knows she's seriously fucked up. (And it's not just about accidentally hitting him anymore.)
"Tony," she mutters, easing him into a sitting position, reaching up to take his hands away. To see the damage.
They're so close they can feel one another breathing now, and Ziva can see just how green his eyes are, even under the florescent lighting.
Suddenly; everything hits her, moving in quick waves that almost make her nauseous.
Standing there, in the doorway of her apartment. (Looking into those green eyes.)
He made pain into something she could see with her eyes, hear in his voice.
"Ziva," Ray had said seriously when they were back inside.
"I can't stop!" She remembers croaking brokenly, (not at all like her), the words tumbling from her mouth before she can stop them with logic.
Damn logic. Damn feeling.
"I can't stop loving him!" She screams at her lover who is quickly picking up his clothes and bags and leaving for his own hotel, unnerved by the presence.
He's CIA. He's untouchable. He isn't stability. He is not Tony.
And he is not what she needs.
Yet, she had convinced herself otherwise.
Damn safety. Damn stability.
She picks up the phone, ready to call him back to her. Ready to make things as right as they can be.
(She does not realize then that his heart hurts so much already.)
To all this pleading, this regret, comes finality.
In the sick form of a voice mail message.
Damn love.
The sweat on her skin has cooled by now, the air conditioning starting in the empty gym of NCIS. She shivers; and she watches his eyes darken.
A plush greenery turns to molten emerald.
She doesn't know quite when; but a gasp claws her way up her throat as they pull themselves together in one final act of desperation.
His lips meet hers and she can't breath, even for just a second in time.
They both freeze for a moment, then, but neither pull away.
After the moment of hesitation passes, though, there's only accepting of truths neither were ever willing to face. This constant battle for dominance they now face is foreign land to her. Ray never took control like this. Ray was never willing to fight.
He tugs at the band that holds her hair up, and when he succeeds lets the thick ebony waves tumble down her shoulders, his fingers running through it.
She tugs at the hair on the nape of his neck as her tongue slips deeper into his mouth, velvety, forbidden. Tasting like the sweetest of sorrows.
Neither realize they're still in the NCIS gym. Neither realize they could be found at any time. Neither care.
Her fingers, softer than he ever thought they would be, cause every nerve ending to become a live wire as she drags the hem of his cotton shirt up his body, ridding him of it in a matter of seconds. Through that thin tank top he can almost make out everything.
That's what goes next, as mouths are still tearing at one another, hungry, craving. She arches her back as his fingers trace over each of the straps of her simple black bra, pulling back slightly to push him down onto his back. He can't help but admire her with hungry gaze as she straddles him bluntly.
She reaches for the fly of his pants with a zest that makes him glad he'll be out of them just as quick. When he pushes his pants down to his ankles, he swallows, because Ziva's already pushed down his boxers, and grips him in her hand. He lets out a ragged breath, because he just may loose it right there. He won't let himself.
With a gasp, Tony rolls them once, putting him in the dominate position.
(It's only fair, he thinks.)
He dips a hand beneath her yoga pants and feels her, slick and wet when they haven't even really gotten started yet. She moans, unhinged, and he pauses, because this is the newest development yet.
Her slips a finger, then two, inside of her, and watches as the woman before him turn to putty in his hands. It's a little ironic, considering just moments prior she was beating the life out of an inanimate object. (No pun intended.)
He applies a little more pressure to her clit with his thumb, and she squirms beneath his grasp, hand coming up to grip his wrist, vicelike, warning.
Chocolate meets emerald, and they both know that what they need they need now.
And just like that, it's never been easier.
He pulls her yoga pants down to her ankles and she wraps her muscular legs around him, attempting to make the position more comfortable. He positions himself, and pushes.
Sweeter than heaven. Hotter than hell. Ecstacy.
He registers her warmth, and damn, if she wasn't tight. She lets out a low, keening sound that comes from deep in the back of her throat and his one hand gripping her below the rib cage holds her so firmly, so surely.
She arches, and he lets out a low hiss. If that one action wasn't incentive enough to keep going, he doesn't know what would be.
He pulls back and doesn't let her catch her breath, thrusting back inside her with so much energy, she's never felt so filled. Ziva's nails bite into the skin of his back, her nipples hard against his chest. He goes a little crazy, then and there.
All he knows then; is her.
He can't help but savor the sound of her low moans and pants as he picks up the pace only enough to torment, to tease. When her face grows such a deep color he thinks she may pass out he gives her a bit of peace, reaching down to stroke her clit softly.
She falls apart. He groans.
They both combust, but combustion has never been so sweet. Wanted.
Needed.
He doesn't exactly remember when, but he eventually rolls to the side, pulling out of her carefully, still watching her wince.
They are nude, they are sweaty, and they are utterly satisfied.
(At least, that's what he'd thought.)
Suddenly, she grows still. Silent, but too silent.
She won't meet his eyes as she rolls away onto her knees and begins putting on her clothes so quickly. He was barely up off the ground before she was finished. He cracks his neck and tries to ignore the way his knees ache.
"Ziva," Tony whispers, and she can barely think of his name because it hurts too much.
"Ziva," he says again, only louder.
She ignores everything, like the sweat that is still beaded upon her forehead.
The juices still sticky between her thighs.
She turns, because she has to do this.
She has to break his heart, grant him peace.
"Just leave me the fuck alone, Tony."
She rushes out of the gym and doesn't look back.
(Reality is blunt. Ignorance is sweet.)