Disclaimer: I own NCIS-... Wait, who set my pants on fire?
Spoilers: References to 3x08 "Under Covers" and that time Ziva asked Tony what he'd say to her 'friend' if he ever met that guy.
*Giggles* So ... this is smut :P yup, I'm jumping on that bandwagon—it may have something to do with the fact that Anne (Strawberry Shortcake123) started eyeing me and going, "HAMMOCK SEX." Well (spoiler alert), they did not have sex on the hammock :P they did have sex, though, so please don't read if you shouldn't be reading. That said, to those of you who will read: This is by no means dirty; it's more of a character study than anything else. If you're looking for something extremely explicit, I will disappoint, I'm afraid. Otherwise, enjoy!
-Soph
Unreserved
The sound of a glass door sliding open drew Ziva out of her thoughts, and she turned to see her husband, bare-chested and wearing his usual incorrigibly goofy smile, step out onto the patio with two glasses of lemonade in hand.
"One for you, my darling," Tony announced in his best British accent as he passed her the drink, and she rolled her eyes.
"Going away on honeymoon to a foreign land does not warrant a foreign accent, you know," she answered good-humouredly.
"No, but going away with a foreign lady does," he deadpanned, nudging her in the side with his knee. "Scootch."
She moved aside on the deck chair and almost ended up toppling over the edge when he sat down and took up more than his fair share of space.
"Bryan!" she shrieked, and like the proverbial hero, an arm around her waist just in time saved her from her distress.
"Relax, honey," Tony said, beaming in a manner that displayed all his teeth. It took some manoeuvring, but he finally managed to settle her in between his legs. Her feet tangled with his calves, and he pressed a lingering kiss to her cheek. "I'd never let you fall," he whispered, and her breath caught because she knew that this was Tony speaking, not his undercover persona.
Under the pretext of nuzzling his neck, she tilted her head up and whispered words of her own. "What did Gibbs say?"
"Suspect's got eyes on us now, and apparently a bit of a penchant for voyeurism as well because yealch. But, whatever. We already knew that. We're just gonna have to be more convincing as a newlywed interracial couple on vacation and all that."
"How convincing? We are already cuddling on the deck chair," she murmured.
"Well, I can think of other places where we could cuddle." He wriggled his eyebrows. "Or do more than cuddling."
She managed to mask her huff as a giggle. "I am not putting on a public show for the cameras."
"Oh, c'mon, Ziva…" He put on his best coaxing expression.
"No, Tony." She refrained from getting mad only because she knew he was—mostly—kidding. "I'm not stripping out in the open."
He breathed out in exaggerated patience. "Fine."
"Thank you," she murmured, and he smiled in acknowledgement before covering her mouth with his own.
xoxo
Something seemed to bother him, though.
She didn't find out what it was until they were in the middle of a homemade lunch of tuna sandwiches served at the kitchen counter; she'd just shoved all of her bread crust at him when he suddenly said, "You didn't use to be so reserved," and the taste of her own sandwich died in her mouth.
She swallowed and asked weakly, "What?"
"Y'know…" He lowered his eyes. "Jean-Paul and Sophie Ranier were so much wilder and sexier than Bryan and Anita Sampson."
She stared at him, her heart thumping with mortification at his words. "But they were assassins," she protested by way of explanation—as if it explained anything at all.
He pursed his lips and shrugged. "You could argue it was because of career, but I don't think so. We're a newlywed couple, Ziva; we're full of urges. Or, we're supposed to be. And the Old You would've found some sort of creative manner to make Anita Sampson interesting that way."
She cleared her throat. Her cheeks felt like they were burning. "I'm not the same anymore."
"I know, Ziva, I'm just commenting," he said, and that was where they left it.
xoxo
The afternoon passed quickly, mostly because she avoided him. He'd offended her and he knew he'd offended her; what he did in the hours of staying far away from her, she hadn't a clue, but she wasn't interested in finding out.
For her part, lounging on the deck chair and reading her book seemed to her a reasonable occupation. At one point, upon a moment of weakness and an incidental gust of wind which carried to her a snatch of Tony's humming from within the house, she wondered if she was betraying her cover by doing what she was doing, but she stifled the voice in her head as she flipped the page.
Perhaps Anita Sampson just really liked reading.
xoxo
She'd made up her mind by the time he slipped out onto the patio again.
"Dinner in half an hour," he simply told her and made to go back inside the house, but she grabbed his hand.
"Are all burners off?" she asked, standing up and disregarding the book that had fallen from her lap. "And the oven?"
He gave her a puzzled look. "Yeah, why?"
The mouth on his and two hands framing his cheeks obviously caught him off-guard, for he dropped the spatula he was holding.
"Sex on the hammock," she breathed, "let's go."
His mouth fell open. "Ziva," he gasped, even as she caressed his hipbones. "Ziva, I don't think that's such a good idea."
"Why not?"
"'Cause I don't think you made your decision under the right circumstan—"
"I have had all afternoon to think about it, Tony." She bit her lip. "Don't deny me. Please."
"I'm not denying—"
"Then let us do it. What do you have to lose, hmm?"
He looked at her. For the longest time, he just gazed at her, his greenish-greyish eyes unfathomable and his expression unreadable. And her heart just kept racing, kathumpkathumpkathump, because the persona he played might not be able to reject its counterpart, but he could certainly find a way to reject her.
She didn't know what she'd do if he gave up on the two-and-a-half months of the bliss and Heaven they'd found within the walls of his apartment solely because of her disproportionate zeal towards fulfilling an assignment.
But in the end, just before she could close her eyes and lower her head and drop her hands and walk away, he breathed out and caught her lips, softly, with his.
"Okay," he whispered, "okay."
xoxo
There was a moment, as he was backing her towards the brown hammock nestled in between two palm—or was it coconut?—trees, that she spared a thought for the person spying on them.
Was this what the suspect got off on? she wondered. She had to admit that the idea of a third party looking on during an intimate moment repulsed her, but Tony was running his hands up her sides and totally engrossed in kissing her, so she shushed that voice in her mind once more.
Her partner was gentle in helping her into the hammock. "You alright?" he asked her as he clambered in after her and lay down, his chest to hers, his fingers tickling her cheek. She nodded—and then he just gazed at her, silent for a long time.
"God…" he eventually mumbled. "God, Ziva, you're so gorgeous."
She bit back the smile that wanted to curl up her lips. "It is just the moonlight."
Giving her a mock cross look, he leant down.
Kissing Tony gave her a thrill every. single. time. It was strange how, even after weeks of doing this, she still managed to be surprised by his kisses; by how sweet he tasted, by how the contrasting musky undertones of his scent never failed to put her every nerve ending on alert. The fervour he kissed her with always stunned her. Long fingers cradled her jaw and never moved until—
"Oh," she cried, startled, as his palm brushed her. She hadn't even noticed that his right hand had crept up her top and underneath her bra, but there his fingers were, rubbing and massaging.
She lost her breath just as he came up for air, and then he bent down and was suckling her neck. Eager teeth scraped; an eager tongue chased the pain away with pleasure and soothed. His hand squeezed; her fingernails dug into his bare back in an attempt to hold back another cry.
And then that same hand was travelling downwards, slipping across her skin towards a belt buckle—
And just like that, Ziva turned cold.
It wasn't right. It just wasn't right, to be doing this while a stranger watched on. It just wasn't right, to be doing this while even their colleagues could be watching on. Bold she was, but an exhibitionist she was not, and perhaps—way back in the day—she could have once completed an act for the sake of reality, but it wasn't right now. They were Tony and Ziva now: They had been for months, and there would be no trace of Bryan and Anita Sampson within the act in which they were about to engage.
"Stop," she murmured, and his hand drifted back to the area around her waist.
"We still going through with this?" he asked softly, as if he'd foreseen having to check.
"No," she answered. "I'm sorry."
"It's fine." He kissed her lips. "Now, I'm gonna pretend that I'm carrying you in to take you to bed, so please, no Ninja moves, because we won't be very convincing that way. Alright?"
Before she could answer, he'd already hopped out of the hammock and slid one arm under her knees. The other around her back, he scooped her up and carried her back into the light and safety of the house.
The curtains were drawn shut once she had been deposited onto their bed, and Tony then crept up the mattress to settle down next to her—an arm around her waist, but otherwise not touching her. She shut her eyes.
"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I thought I could do it."
"Hey, it's fine," he reassured her, brushing her hair back. "No harm done, right?"
"No," she answered loudly, rudely, before she remembered to lower her voice. "You were right. I used to be able to detach myself from whatever it was we were doing. I used to be able to use my body—"
"Hey." His tone was suddenly much sharper, and she froze with her mouth open, afraid to complete the sentence. "You are not an object, Ziva."
It was strange how he could manage to make her feel so small. "No," she answered shamefully, glancing away, "but my body is."
He breathed out jaggedly. "How could you even say that?" he questioned harshly.
"How could I even say what?" Fuelled by his anger, she pressed on. "Realistically speaking, Tony, your body is worth only as much as you make it. The literary mind sells their writing. The creative mind sells their art. I … I have a good body."
"So, you sold your—"
She slammed the heel of her hand into his chest. "Do not say it like that," she hissed. "Do not cheapen what I did. I did good work with this body, Tony. I saved lives with the information I got from sleeping with bad men. I was a very good undercover officer because of it."
"But you're not Mossad anymore—you don't have to save lives by sleeping with bad men. I'm not a bad man."
Her throat closed, because it sounded so much worse when put that way. Almost like she was accusing him of being in a relationship with her for her body. "It's just…" she said, blinking her tears away, "it's just that you said Sophie Ranier was sexier—"
"Jesus, Ziva," he interrupted, rubbing a hand over his face. "When I said that, I meant it in the shallowest, most misguided way possible. Sophie Ranier was sexier, yeah, because she was more mysterious, but that doesn't mean I don't find this—who you are now—just as attractive."
"I just want to be…" she swallowed, unable to finish her sentence. I just want to be desirable to you again. "I know that even when it's the two of us alone, I'm not as … unreserved as I used to be. And I feel bad for that—"
"Don't even say it, Ziva."
"I know!" she exclaimed. "I know you don't need me to be wild; I know you were just commenting; I know you like the way I am now. But I feel bad for both of us! We used to be full of this incredibly explosive energy—"
He kissed her roughly, stealing the words from her mouth. A tongue pushed against her lips. Stunned, she obliged, letting him enter. A protest turned into a sigh as she felt him nip her, hands pressing hard into her body. It was so different from his treatment towards her just ten minutes prior, but maybe she needed that; maybe she needed to know that she wasn't a fragile porcelain doll which required careful handling.
Be careful. Handle with care … contents priceless.
The memory of the words made her eyelids burn, and he finally lifted his mouth from hers, studying her.
"What are you doing?" she asked, her voice wavering.
"Showing you how explosive we can be." His thumb ran across her cheek, brushing away a drop of moisture. "It doesn't matter what we do, y'know. I love you, and that's what makes you sexy to me. You don't have to do anything or be anything, just…. You don't even know what kind of thrill it gives me to wake up in the morning and find you in my kitchen, in my clothes, making breakfast for us. I'd trade a hundred Sophie Raniers for you."
A chuckle escaped her lips, and she turned away and wiped her tears.
"Okay?" he asked gently, and she nodded.
And then he dipped his head down and oh, oh, there it was, finally—the toe-curling rush that came from really kissing him. Soft lips and soft hands that paved fire as they travelled and oh, teased just above the hemline of her pants—a hundred Jean-Pauls could not hold a candle to her Tony.
A belt buckle was hard undo with one hand. By the time he got her belt unfastened, she had already managed to peel him out of his shorts and was palming him through his boxers. His body jerked and a harsh breath fell from his lips; he laughed shakily.
"Let's not end before we begin," he told her, and it was her turn to chuckle. His eyes burnt into her, mesmerizing her so much that she missed the unzipping of her pants and jumped when a fingertip touched her mound.
Oh, yes, having sex with Tony was just as fresh as kissing him was.
His hand was in her pants now, moving downwards and downwards—
She let out a sigh as he brushed a finger over her folds. He was barely touching her, really—her underwear was still on—but she was already tense with anticipation. She opened her legs wider, and he took the opportunity to press down; her breath hitched again, prompting her to hook her ankles around his legs and roll them over.
Ceding control to him was still hard, even after all this time.
She knew the tables had been turned when he stared up at her, his eyes dark with lust and impatience. Getting Tony to lose himself was easy. She ran her hands up his chest and played with his chest hair; when his eyes slid closed, she bent down and licked. Over the dip in his collarbone, the wide expanse just short of brown fur. And then she closed her mouth around his nipple, and he grunted and dragged his hands up her back. She pulled and released; crept lower and lower, licked his bellybutton, until she stopped barely centimetres from where he really wanted her to be.
"Ready?" she asked, and his voice was gravelly when he choked out something in the affirmative. She carefully pulled his boxers down.
Running a tongue up the underside of his cock, she took his tip into her mouth. She sucked and he grunted, his breathing audibly getting more ragged as she bobbed her head lower and lower. When he bumped the roof of her mouth, she raised a hand to massage his sac, and he spat out a harsh expletive.
Over and over she swirled her tongue and played with him. She rubbed and squeezed and traced; above her, his fingers ran through her hair and cries of God, oh God left his lips. When she licked up his pre-cum, her tongue dwelling just the fraction of a second longer than necessary on his slit, it was her name that he called.
"Stop," he cried hastily. "Stop."
She let him go and looked up. "Gotta stop," he breathed, and she crawled up his body. "God," he breathed again, capturing her mouth with his. She wondered briefly if he could taste himself on her.
And then she lost her train of thought, because he was fondling her breast. Massaging and squeezing and tweaking her nipple; crossing the valley to her other breast. And now the hand was moving around to her back, undoing the hook of her bra. She sat up and pulled off her top, sliding the straps of her bra off her shoulders.
"You are … incredible, you know that?" he murmured.
She ducked her head, working on pulling off her pants and panties instead of answering him. His fingernails scratched up her sides as she pulled one, then another, of her legs out of the trousers. The cream cotton underwear followed, and then suddenly his hand was at her folds, sure fingers brushing through her wetness. A gasp escaped her and she sank down to rest her weight on his body, trusting him to hold her while she caught her breath.
He never gave her the chance to catch her breath, though. Up and down went his fingers, coating her in her own heat. Nimbly, he rubbed a finger on her clit; she squeezed her eyes shut and tried to hold back the noises she wanted to make. Harder and harder he pushed, until a digit moved lower without warning and dipped into her opening.
She cried out. She could feel her muscles clenching in preparation for what would inevitably follow. It was merely the tip of his finger that now rubbed her, that pushed against her walls and stroked her, but she was already on fire. She tried to move, but he held her in place, his finger not stopping.
"Let me," he whispered, and she bit her lip before nodding.
Perhaps it was time to lose herself in him.
He shifted and turned them over so that it was now she who lay on her back and he who hovered over her, and then he pushed his finger back inside her, hooking it in a 'come hither' motion and thumbing her clit at the same time. In pushed another finger, and she moaned; tried hard to cling on to her sanity.
"Hey, let yourself go," he murmured to her, just a trace of amusement in his voice, and she felt her cheeks grow hot.
"I'm trying."
He pressed harder, dragging another cry from her, and then kissed her. Chased her tongue with his while he inserted a third finger; sucked on her bottom lip while he rubbed her harder and harder, tasted her while he toyed with her clit—
When she came, it was utterly unexpected. She simply flew apart with a startled yelp, feeling all her muscles tense at once and burning up as they loosened again. Something roared in her ears and made her eyes close, focusing all her attention of the sensation of her muscles convulsing around his fingers. And even then, he never really stopped; his fingers still moved within her, prolonging the crest and keeping her at a high until all of her breath had been stolen.
She finally collapsed, panting, onto the bed. "Oh god," she said hoarsely, and only thendid he pull his fingers out and rub her gently.
"How was that?" he asked, as if expecting her to give a thorough and comprehensive evaluation of what she had just experienced.
If she hadn't known before how talented he could be with his fingers, she certainly knew it now.
She chuckled and pulled him down by the neck, rewarding him with a sloppy kiss.
"Enter me," she ordered, and he raised his eyebrows and grinned.
"Wow, Miss David, you must be really satisfied with the service you've just gotten."
She laughed and tapped his cheek reproachfully. "Stop teasing."
So, he did, his eyes turning serious as he took himself in his hand and brushed himself over her opening. Her breath caught in her throat. He pushed in.
Barely an inch at first, and then he was pulling himself out. She let out an impatient breath, but before she could say anything, he was entering her again. This time, he got halfway there before pulling out. She readied herself for the final thrust, but he still managed to shock her when he slammed in, making her heart pound in her throat as he waited for her to adjust.
He moved slowly then, sending waves of pleasure through her. Bit by bit, her self-control slipped again. Bit by bit, she gave herself over to him, wrapping her arms around his neck and keeping him as close as she could; bit by bit, he shattered her reserve and her insecurities and, somehow without her noticing, gave her a safe place to fall. His eyes kept hers, even as he started to lose his self-control; even as he started to speed up; even as his muscles started to tremble with the effort it took him to hold himself above her. His face was taut when she rolled them to take over, and even when his thumb slipped down to her clit once more, she could tell that he was trying to wait for her.
"Let go," she whispered, tracing his jaw with the pads of her fingers. "Let go. It's okay."
He fell apart with a roar, thrusting up one last time into her, and she could only follow him into their oblivion, falling against him and holding onto him for all she was worth.
When she could finally breathe again, she found that he had slipped his hands onto her back and was rubbing her skin in the tenderest of gestures.
In the silence of the room, she stroked the flesh of his shoulder and contemplated saying the words on her mind.
"I love you, too," she eventually confessed into his chest. She had no idea if he could hear her.
But then, he pressed the lightest, most achingly sweet kiss onto the top of her head, and she decided that he already knew.