A/N: P!nk has been my muse lately, and I devised this little piece of shit on a walk across campus. Note that it's fairly mature and raunchy.
His hands tightened on her hips.
"Jen," he mumbled, blinking at her hazily.
She pouted at him.
"It's not working!"
She giggled drunkenly and fell forward on his chest, pressing her lips to his shoulder.
He grumbled something. She rolled off of him and ran her hands down his chest to his groin. He pulled her back on top of him, his eyes raking over her body languidly. She leaned forward to kiss him, her hands still moving over him below his navel.
He tasted like bourbon.
They were both drunk—deliriously drunk, falling down drunk, whimsically drunk, and it had something to do with a drinking game—something about shots, and taking one every time Ducky said oh my?
Well, Ducky said oh my a lot.
"Oh, my," Jenny murmured, thinking about it.
Gibbs snorted with laugher, and she burst into giggles again, kissing his neck. He ran his hands down her back, over her thighs, and between them, fumbling with her hands.
"You're gonna take the skin off," he growled dangerously, his voice thick with alcohol and deliciously lazy.
"Want me to slick it up with the rest of that bourbon?" she asked, stumbling over the words and wrinkling her nose cutely as a blush danced across her cheeks.
"Nah," he answered wryly. "Spit works fine."
She shrieked and covered her face; he rolled her onto her back and grabbed her knees, running his hands over his legs before he reached between them and maneuvered himself back inside her with fumbling fingers. She tilted her head back and sighed.
"It's working again," she sang mockingly.
He kissed her to shut her up.
He was that drunk—that kind of completely plastered that sort of—impaired—his ability—to—
Jenny ran a hand back through her tangled red hair, laughing again.
"Jethro," she yelled, half-moaning, half-yelping with amusement.
He touched her lips with his and snickered.
"Shhh," he growled. "You'll wake Ducky."
She mimicked his shushing and then dissolved into quieter giggles.
"How long have we been fucking?" she whispered conspiratorially.
He furrowed his brow, slowing in his movements. She wrapped her leg around him and flipped him onto his back, lowering her mouth to his chest, moving her hips slowly. He didn't remember. In other circumstances, that would be good—a testament to his stamina, but right now it was more due to the fact that they kept having to—
He groaned in frustration and caught her hips again.
She let out an adorable whine of protest.
"Again?'
-they kept having to stop and, er, buck him up.
She tumbled off him again and then cuddled up to his side, hanging on him seductively and warmly, her intoxicated eyes meeting his. She bit her lip and gave him a wicked look, her lips outing.
"Your cock is drunk," she informed him. "It's-It's stumbling all over the place! It can-" she lapsed into amused giggling, "it can barely stand!"
"You sure it isn't just you?" he retorted edgily, resentful of the reminder that he wasn't exactly performing.
She gasped in mock outrage.
"You little bitch!" she accused, punching him in the shoulder.
How dare he insinuate she was the cause of his...dysfunction!
He growled and wrapped his arms around her tightly, rolling over in bed with her until she was lying on his chest again, her hair falling over her shoulders onto him.
"You challengin' me, Jen?"
"No!" she laughed, fluttering her lashes fetchingly. "I wouldn't kick a man while his horse is down!" she protested.
Her words were coming out slurred, and it wasn't helping that she was giggling madly again.
"I don't think you'd rise to the occasion—" she broke off with a shriek as he pulled her under him again, having gotten off enough on the friction of rolling around with her to perk him up.
She slid her fingers into his hair and moaned at him noisily, raising her eyebrows.
"I'll be damned, there's wood in the forest once more!" she cried dramatically.
He kissed her, his eyes boring into hers with a glare, and she laughed, her nose crinkling.
"Don't worry, Jethro," she purred, touching his chin with her fingers and puckering her lips wickedly. "It's not a real adult relationship until you can laugh about—" she burst into giggles and her lips moved as she tried to find the words and form them in her inebriated state: "until you can laugh about a little dhiskey wick!"
He smirked at her fumbling the words.
"Think it's called whiskey dick, Jen."
She was laughing into his mouth this time, her lips brushing his sweetly.
"I'm too drunk to say it, Jethro—you're too drunk to use it!"
'Whiskey Dick' is either the inability to get it up (keep it up) when you're shitfaced, or a sort of situation where he gets it up but takes forever to climax (which can be a bitch if you're unaware of that side effect and volunteer for a blow job, #themoreyouknow)
-Alexandra
story #118