Ashleigh Anpilova


Set during Smoked.

Gibbs and Ducky are in Autopsy.

An established relationship story.

Written: June 2008. Word count: 1,014.



They shouldn't be doing this; not here; not like this. Anyone could come in and see them.


But he couldn't help it. He had to have Ducky in his arms; he had to have Ducky's mouth on his; he had to have Ducky's arms around him; he had to feel Ducky's body - every part of Ducky's body - pressed against him. He had to. It wasn't just a case of 'want'; it was necessary; essential; just as breathing was necessary and essential to remaining alive.


The embrace in the squad room had been wrong; he could see that now. At the time it had been sublime to have his lover back where he belonged. Too many months had gone by since the last time he'd held Ducky, kissed Ducky, made love to Ducky, been made love to by Ducky. Far, far, far too many months.


But all that had changed less than half an hour ago. At the time with Ducky in his arms, pressing his body against him, letting him feel parts of the body that only lovers ever felt, his lips on Ducky's ear, brushing it, letting Ducky's heavy, silky hair brush against him, it had all felt right. It had felt more than just 'right'. Much, much more.


But now he realized he shouldn't have taken Ducky into his arms; he shouldn't have held him so closely, so intimately; he shouldn't have let him press him body against him; he shouldn't have put his face against Ducky's head and smelt the sweetness of his hair; he shouldn't have put his lips on Ducky's ear. He should have settled for a quick, one-armed hug - that would have been safer.


But once he'd held Ducky, felt Ducky, smelt Ducky, tasted Ducky, he had to have more. So that was why they were huddled together in Autopsy, pressed into the corner of the one part the cameras didn't reach. They were locked in an embrace, arms holding one another, bodies pressed so closely together not even a dollar bill could have been slipped between them, mouths connecting, lips parting, tongues meeting. Holding onto one another as though nothing or no one would ever separate them again. Their need for the intensity of the contact was immense and palpable.


He was aroused, clearly and obviously aroused, and the more he pressed against Ducky's body the harder he felt himself growing. He could feel Ducky's arousal too, not quite as hard as his yet, but it wouldn't be long; he knew his lover's body so very well. His shorts were damp and his need intense; it shouldn't be like this. They shouldn't be like this, both of them were more than half a century old, and yet they were behaving like teenagers - but he didn't care. He needed Ducky in his arms; he needed his arms around him; he needed his lips on Ducky's; he needed to be kissing and be kissed by Ducky. He needed Ducky.


Finally Ducky pulled away just a little, gasping aloud as he gulped in air. He pulled back a little more, looking up at Jethro, letting his clear and open passion, meshed with love and devotion to be seen. Then to Jethro's surprise Ducky moved his hand from where he held Jethro and deliberately, quite, quite, quite deliberately brushed his fingers over Jethro's arousal.


Jethro hissed and caught Ducky's hand, holding him tightly. "You do that again, Duck, and we'll be making love here." He growled the words, through his passion-filled dry throat.


Ducky gazed up at him, and to his surprise, delight and tinge of concern, he saw Ducky calculating; he saw him lick his lips, he watched him consider what he'd said. He felt Ducky move his hand just a little under his slightly looser grip. He held his breath; he couldn't believe it; Ducky was going to . . .


But then Ducky sighed softly, and let his hand still as he gazed up at him with regret. The look said everything Jethro was feeling.


They both knew they shouldn't.


They both knew they couldn't.


Not here. Not like this. And not just because anyone could come in. It was more than that.  They had to -


And then the look in Ducky's eyes changed, and for a second Jethro again held his breath as he saw something he couldn't define. Suddenly Ducky tugged his hand out of Jethro's now very loose grip and deliberately, his intention utterly clear, ran his fingers again over Jethro's arousal.


This time Jethro gasped aloud as the touch was less gentle, more determined; its meaning was clear. As Ducky stroked him for a third time and then a fourth, he backed even further against the wall, letting it support him. "Duck," was all he could manage.


But now Ducky was unzipping him; now he was slipping his hand inside his trousers, feeling his way into Jethro's shorts, moving with knowledge, surety, skill, and determination. "If my young assistant can make love here, so can I," Ducky said, as he closed his amazingly cool hand around Jethro's heated skin and began to move it.


It was quick.


It wasn't pretty.


It was physically one-sided, as all Jethro could do was brace himself against the wall and let Ducky's talented figures work their magic on him.


But as always when they were intimate with one another, it was done with affection, love, tenderness; the history between them was so blatantly obvious.


Quick and not pretty and physically one-sided it might be, but never for one second was it merely the physical, simply just sex. As Jethro climaxed into Ducky's hand, whispering his name, and Ducky leaned near enough to put his mouth on Jethro's and kiss him, his world re-settled on its axis.


Just before Ducky kissed him for a second time, he repeated the words he'd said in the squad room. "Welcome home."


"Thanks," Jethro said, also repeating what he'd said a short time ago, as his mouth joined with Ducky's.


Finally he was back.


Finally he was home.



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