by B. Cavis
by B. Cavis
He’s always had a thing for black.
He’s not quite sure why. Doesn’t really care, either-- psychoanalysis is for people who are too scared to actually get outside and live. Maybe it dates back to childhood and Mrs. Raken, the next door neighbor with the absentee husband and the little black dress she walked around the house in (“And how are you today, Jethro? My, you’re getting so big!”), but Gibbs has always loved the sight of pale, soft flesh surrounded by clingy darkness.
His first wife had used that to her advantage more than once. It was the ultimate way to win an argument: come out of the bedroom in that magically stringy scrap of black silk and her three inch pumps, and watch his brain evaporate and his anger vanish into the overwhelming urge to throw her down on the nearest moderately flat object and fuck her until she didn’t know anything anymore. She had known exactly how to cock her leg and tilt her shoulders back to display herself best for him; how to make his eyes go dark and his face tighten.
Caitlin Todd could give her lessons.
Sidetrack: Kate in a man’s shirt and short black skirt, holding a ruler and slapping her palm with it while a cute redheaded student bent over the teacher’s desk, her white cotton panties flashing from underneath the (insanely) short little plaid skirt she had on. Kate lifts the fabric up to around the girl/woman’s waist, raises her hand back, and lands a stinging hit of the ruler to the squirming ass in front of her.
Gibbs rubs his eyes and takes a larger sip of his bourbon. The glass is shaped like a cauldron, ridiculously heavy and impractical for sipping anything out of, and only through being extremely cautious tonight has he been able to keep from spilling the entire contents of his glass down his front and turning his costume of “man who really doesn’t want to be at this party and is being forced to be sociable by his director and his evil subordinate agents who really don’t seem to know their place” into drunken bum.
And he likes his costume. It’s wonderfully inventive.
Actually, he had had every intention of coming to this stupid excuse to get drunk and pat himself on the back in his marine uniform. Spending money on getting himself ready for this thing seemed pointless, and putting effort into something he was being forced to do seemed to imply some sort of consent.
And he had wanted to make sure that the fact that he wasn’t there by choice was made quite clear.
However, when Ducky had found that out, he had given Gibbs a look hard enough to make his toenails quiver, and said something quite pointed and then impaled Gibbs upon it. So that idea had gone the way of the dinosaurs as had his façade of having control over his workers.
Hm. Control. That had been a pipe dream if ever he’d had one.
So, here he is. Standing off to the side, dressed as James Bond (because hey, tux? Really easy costume) and watching (the way he always seems to end up at these parties) as everyone gets piss stinking drunk and stupid. Tony is swaying on his platform shoes, and pouting profusely as Raggedy Abby (who the hell saw that one coming?) holds his pimp cane hostage and refuses to give it back. He seems to be debating running after her, weighing the pros and cons.
After all, Gibbs reasons, if he lets go of the wall, he is going to fall. And if he tries to run in those shoes he will break his ankle.
Gibbs snickers into his drink. Loudly. There is nothing in the world funnier than a drunk man in purple and yellow velvet and platform shoes.
Ducky is in a pair of bloody scrubs with a large plastic knife sticking out of his head, talking to an amazed looking bunch of newbies, hands waving in the air to dramatize certain parts of his story and make them duck and waver on their unsteady feet. Gerald is sitting nearby, arm in a sling underneath his sheik’s robe, grinning at the looks on their faces. He’s gotten used to the older man.
It takes time.
And then, of course, there is Kate.
Kate surrounded by her throngs of men (and a few women), hands encased in soft black opera gloves, palms upturned as she holds court.
Kate, hair in dark ringlets down her back and eyes outlined in charcoal and wicked, seductive lust.
Kate, dressed all in black (and “dressed” is a stretch) and looking like sin and salvation incarnate. Long stocking encased legs. Short black, silk (satin?) dress held up by two straps that shouldn’t be supporting her as well and cleavage-friendly as it is. Fuck-My-Ass-With-Your-Tongue heels.
Oh God, those shoes…
Sidetrack: Kate, naked as the day she was born and a whole hell of a lot bigger, head tilted back as he bites her throat and nips at her nerve endings. He lifts her up against the wall, all hardness and strength, and when he pushes into her, she makes a tiny little “o” with her blow job perfect lips, and wraps her legs around his back, and hey, she’s not naked after all. Those heels, those tools of the devil dig into his ass, pain on top of pleasure and lust. Her hands are everywhere, pulling and pushing, and he can’t feel anything but the pinch of her shoes into his flesh and the pulse of her body around him.
Gibbs takes another sip. A big one.
Kate throws her head back at the ceiling and laughs at something someone just said, and five pairs of eyes covet the skin of her throat and upper chest. Gibbs forgets to count himself, curses quietly, and re-evaluates. Six. Six pairs of eyes.
She pulls her head back up, cheeks flushed dark and red, eyes sparking in the light from the lights draped with fake cobwebs and spiders. The black feathers behind her shiver and wiggle with her movements, and when she takes a step forward to touch someone, they float with her.
Damn it. When she had told Abby she was going as an “angel” this year, this was not precisely what Gibbs had pictured.
Angels were pure and chaste and… Catholic. He had never heard of anything fun related to the Catholic Church when it came to sex-- what the hell else was he supposed to think? He had pictured her coming in dressed in a flowing white dress with Walmart wings and a halo on a wire headband. Sparkles everywhere, he had predicted.
There are no sparkles. There is no Walmart.
Just darkness and sex and thick, unrelenting, overwhelming, sweet perfume that filled his nose the second she walked in and refuses to leave no matter how far away she gets. He can smell her from here. God, can he smell her…
Gibbs growls. Subtly.
He’s not sure whether to be disappointed in his lack of judgment, or just… really freaking turned on. It doesn’t really matter-- he doesn’t seem to have much of a choice in the issue. Disappointed hasn’t made an appearance all night long.
God, he bemoans, I’ve become a teenaged virgin. This was supposed to have ended a really long time ago. The cauldron is empty. When did that happen? He drops it onto a table easily. Alcohol isn’t going to help this burn; it’s a waste of booze to bother trying.
The air he finds outsides the fire escape door (whose alarm, despite the big red warning sign, does not go off-- budget cuts, he thinks sourly) is crisp but comfortable. The weather has been uniformly warm and the cool fingers of fall have not yet totally wrapped themselves around DC. He breathes deeply, and feels the tension in his lower belly relax slightly.
But not enough.
Damn Caitlin Todd from dark hair to painted toenails. Damn her for being able to incite this reaction from him and damn her doubly for being so completely and utterly cavalier about it. She doesn’t even know.
…At least, he thinks she doesn’t even know.
Gibbs sits down on the steps and rests his chin on his fist, brow furrowed lightly. Could she know? After all, the signs of arousal on a male body are not precisely… subtle. And he has been told by women in the past that his is, well, large as they go. He glances down at his lap, where seeing and smelling her all night has left him half erect, swallows, and looks back out on the alleyway. This is probably the most interesting thing he has had to set his mind to all night, besides figuring how much Abby and Tony have had drink by diving their behavior by the time spent at the party.
Is Kate aware of his attraction to her?
Sidetrack: An entirely too innocent looking Caitlin Todd leans over his desk to grab something from his hand, loses her balance, and drops her hand directly onto the seam of his pants. Her eyes go wide and mischievous with surprise. “Oh, Gibbs? What’s this? Your side arm?” And when he grabs her arms and pulls her over his desk to straddle his waist, the innocent thing goes out the window.
“Why Gibbs,” she purrs into his face, her breath warm and sweet, “are you trying to hide something from me?” At which point the somehow manages to get two fingers in between them and up her skirt, pushing up inside her with all the subtly of a man fucking a woman. She lets out a soft gasp for air, lips curling into a smile, and he grunts out something unintelligible as she tightens, tightens, tightens around him.
…On the one hand, he reasons, warming to the topic now that he is treating it like an issue that involves someone else and not to him and his subordinate agent, he is trained at hiding things. At being covert. In all honesty, he should be able to deceive her-- she shouldn’t have a clue if he is truly the island he likes to pretend he is.
However, she has been trained to observe. Trained in the art of detecting things that escape the normal individual when it comes to human behavior. Profilers aren’t generally obtuse when it comes to human behavior.
He is a human. He has behavior. And unless he is extremely, extremely good at being a blank wall all of the time to everyone who knows him, he is screwed.
…He doesn’t think he’s quite that good.
Gibbs sighs and rubs a hand over his face. Time to go be sociable again.
He gets up and brushes his butt off, straightens his clothing, and prepares himself, mentally, to go back inside. Okay. Deep breathing. No looking at her chest. Steady steps. No looking at her legs. Erect (No! Bad word!) tall posture. No looking at her-
He hears the door open just a bare moment before she steps out onto the stone steps and fills his nose with her smell again. He breathes her in deeply, taking her into his lungs once again, and curses.
“Are you going to just stand there all night, Agent Todd, or did you actually come out here for a purpose?” That’s good, he applauds. Snippy. No woman fucks a man who’s snippy-- this is good. Even if you can’t control yourself, she’ll manage to control herself, and that should be enough.
He hears a low sound enter the air, and it takes him a moment to realize that she’s laughing. At him.
“Aren’t we grumpy tonight,” she sings, and steps out into the night to stand next to him. She blends in with the dark air, and he looks over at her as her wings fill his peripheral vision to the bursting point.
“What do you want, Agent Todd?”
She carefully brushes off an area of stone, spreads her hem out, and sits down on it. Her legs make a soft swishing sound as the stockings rub together. “You left the party,” she says, and he wonders if that’s her idea of an answer.
“So, I was wondering why.” She looks up at him, arms locked in place to keep her upper body still. The position gives him an unfairly explicit look down her dress. He sits down next to her and keeps his eyes straight ahead. Quickly. “I know you didn’t want to go, but it’s not all that bad, is it?” She leans over, resting her hand lightly on his arm, and he turns towards her desperately for a moment, looking at her like a man looks at a woman in a short black dress and angel wings, before remembering who he is and who she is, and turning his face forcefully back.
Don’t look. It’ll be harder to look away once you look.
“It’s not my thing,” he grumbles softly, and wishes he could be more articulate around her. “Not his thing”? Apparently, not only is he a teenaged virgin, but he also skips English class a lot.
Sidetrack: A teenaged Kate, hair up in a ponytail, skirt up past her knees, sitting next to a bad boy in a leather jacket, staring up at him with adoring eyes as he spreads her legs, exposing her to the air at the top of the bleachers, and pushes up and beyond. Her hands clench by her sides, gripping the worn metal, and he grins wolfishly as she starts to make the soft sound of female surrender in the back of her throat.
He was a bad boy in high school. Just a thought.
“Oh,” Kate says, and now that she has her answer, why isn’t her hand moving away? He swallows thickly and wishes her away, wishes every little bit of her… away.
And silently rejoices when, purely he’s sure from the chill in the air, she moves closer to him.
“Why don’t you come back inside?” She prod gently, and he raises an eyebrow.
“Is that what you think I should do, Agent Todd?” She sighs and he sets his jaw.
“It’s cold out.”
“Little cold air never hurt anyone.” The warmth on his arm increases, and he glances down nervously at the head of dark, gently curled hair that has suddenly appeared on his shoulder. He tells himself she’s trying to stay warm. Nothing else.
“You,” he continues, “on the other hand aren’t exactly dressed for this. You should go inside.” He swallows down something petty and bitter, but it leaves it’s mark on his tongue all the same. “I’m sure your admirers are getting restless without you.”
Her head lifts up, and when her cool hand comes on his opposite cheek, her allows her to turn his face towards her because he’s frankly too shocked at the contact to do anything else.
Kate’s eye shadow is silver and sparkly, and there is a thin sheen of iridescent glow over all of her features. She looks like her skin has crushed opals mixed in. Her dark eyes search his for something, and when she finds it, a smile starts to grow on her face. “Why Agent Gibbs,” she teases cheerfully, “I do believe that you are jealous.” He snorts. “Don’t make that noise at me-- you are jealous. I can tell these sorts of things, you know.”
“Then your radar must be off,” he hisses, but the smile disappears. “Why on Earth would I be jealous of you?”
And the smile growing wider and thicker is his only warning for Caitlin Todd’s other hand snaking down into his lap and grabbing hold of the erection that had surged up again with the smell of her hair in his nose. He lets out a grunt, and thrusts up against her palm. The smile grows softer. “I don’t think you’re jealous of me, Gibbs. I think that you’re jealous of them.”
She slowly, so slowly he might just be dreaming and maybe this is the part right before he wakes up, rises to her feet, and comes around to face him, grip still on his cock. Her wings shine regally in the light from the building. He swallows.
“Am I right?” She asks softly, and God she has to release her grip if she ever expects him to be able to answer a question in anything other than a grunt.
He manages a “guh.” He’s quite pleased.
Kate nods. “Yeah, I thought so.” Her hand releases him, and he doesn’t know whether to start breathing again or to be saddened by the fact that now he has nothing to do but breathe. She felt much better than air. “You want me, Gibbs?” All of the coyness has left her voice. This is a question.
Like, “How was the weather today?” Or “Would you fuck me up the ass?”
Yeah. Just a question.
“You know,” she continues. “Abby says this is supposed to be the night when the spirits come out to play and cause general mischief.” She shrugs, obviously not sure if she agrees in such things. The back of her hand brushes against him, and he hisses at the teasing, just barely there pressure. His hips bush him up at her, and his hand comes up to grab her wrist and keep her in place. She smiles softly. “Wanna be mischievous with me, Gibbs?”
She grabs him once more, and his eyes close in overwhelmed relief as she starts to rub him through his pants. She shifts closer to him and her scent is all he can smell, her touch all he can feel. Hot. Too fucking hot.
He grabs her waist with one hand, barely aware of her delighted purr, and pulls her forward to straddle his right thigh. Closer, he demands through breathless lips. Closer and harder and don’t you dare move away. She spreads her legs far enough for his thigh to press up against her, and he grunts at the soft slide of silk panties across his leg.
“This is bad,” he groans quietly, forcing his head forward to make eye contact with her.
Her mascara coated eyelashes fall and rise once. Peacefully. “I’m not actually touching you,” she points out, and closes her eyes in concentration, rubbing herself against his thigh and shivering at the results. “And you’re not really touching me. We’re fully clothed.”
“We’re dry humping in an alleyway,” he grunts. God, she’s getting herself off my rubbing against his thigh. He’s not even touching her (oh wait, yes he is-- that’s just a way of her trying to excuse their totally inexcusable behavior) and she is getting off. With him.
“Yeah,” she agrees, and presses down harder on his thigh as a little frown of concentration appears on her forehead and her lips press together hard. “But damn, I never had this much fun doing this as a teenager.”
Sidetrack: Caitlin Todd, in all of her teenaged glory, hands wrapped in the hair of a teenaged him in the basement of her parent’s summer home, rubbing herself over his teenaged erection and moaning into his teenaged throat. He thrusts up against her, and she gives a little panting gasp that he feels with his whole body, running through his veins, and he watches her shiver and shudder and wonders if she would let him unhook her bra.
“Guh…” Gibbs says, and Kate laughs breathlessly.
“Yeah. Very ‘guh.’” Her hips move faster, and he has just enough presence of mind to push his leg up harder against her, as her fingers squeeze once again. He can’t remember the last time he did something good for himself. Something that felt this good; something selfish.
Fuck NCIS. Fuck the regs and fuck the rules and fuck the directors.
He has Kate in his lap, almost ready to come, her hands on his cock, and her black wings spread out behind them. He is really starting to like being selfish.
Her hand is losing its dexterity as her own pleasure approaches the pinnacle. He thrusts up at her again to remind her of her duties her, and starts to rub harder between her legs. The silk has started to create a wet friction with his leg. She’s dripping through her panties.
Her head falls forward to press against his collar, hand still moving, mouth open to allow her lungs the easiest search for air. When she swallows, it comes out as a loud gargled noise. He catches the tip of her ear with his tongue and lips, and she whines, the pitch of her voice increasing.
“Gibbs…” she pants, and if he lives to 100 with a sexual experience every single day, he will always remember the way she says that. “Gibbs… P-Please…” Her hips are frantically moving now, searching for release, and whenever she shifts forward, she jolts her hand. He can feel his leg quivering with the weight of her, and his back is going to be killing him tomorrow.
Fuck his back too.
Gibbs throws himself forward, jerking her towards him with the last bit of thought in his mind, and she grinds herself against his hip as he slips a hand down between them. Her panties are tacky with her. He shoves them aside and thrusts his fingers forward, four of them pressing frantically in the general direction of where he knows her clit must be. Come on, he thinks desperately, hit something!
And after a few sticky, desperate moments of shifting, he does. Her back straightens, eyes flying up to his, and her mouth is open in the beginnings of a scream now as her eyes squint and her face takes on a look of divine pain.
She throws herself forward and presses her mouth into his shoulder to muffle the sound coming from her belly. He feels her teeth through the cloth of his jacket and groans. Her hand has gone completely still now, and he is going to die really very soon if she doesn’t do something.
He wraps his hand around her smaller, pale one, forcing her to make a fist, and thrusts a few times into their conjoined grip. She pants wetly against his neck. Come on, he tells himself, come on, come on… He tightens the grip he has on her hand, pressing her tighter and tighter around him, but it’s the sound of her voice that does it for him.
The softly whispered, contented, “Gibbs…”
He throws his head back, feeling cum fill his boxers and wash around him, and honest to God growls.
Kate is purring happily into his shirt collar when he pulls himself together. When she speaks, her voice is humorous. “So, Gibbs,” and she lifts her head up to look him straight in the eye. “Jealous?”
He snaps. Something inside of his head goes “ping” really loudly, and he grabs her around the back of the neck and pulls her lips close enough for him to reach.
She is warm and wet and soft. Her tongue presses up against his and rubs against his teeth, and he loves the taste of her rolling across his molars and cheeks. She laughs into his mouth, and he pulls away with a glare. She laughs harder, and now the sound is free to the air.
He really likes that sound.
Gibbs nips her bottom lip hard and grunts. “After this party, Agent Todd, I am taking you home.”
“Well, Agent Gibbs,” she sighs, “I suppose I’ll just have to suffer in silence.”
He snorts. “Silence?”
And the glint in her eyes undoes him entirely. “Well, you might have to gag me, actually…”
Oh yeah. So definitely sidetracked.
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