thehappyfangirl: (gibbs/abby)
[personal profile] thehappyfangirl
Fandom: NCIS
Pairing: Gibbs/Abby
Rating: R
Summary: Dressing up means so much more.


I'm sitting on the edge of his dresser when he comes out of the bathroom, steam rising off his body in the cool of the bedroom air, and envy him his short hair that takes nothing to finger-comb into place. He arches his brow at me and the tie draped loosely around my neck; I cross my legs and let him see the tall, many-buckled boots beneath the nearly floor length dress.

"Oh, don't mind me," I say, gathering the long skirt up to make sure I hadn't missed anything shaving my legs tonight. "I'm ready whenever you are."

And the foreplay begins, not with a striptease, but a cover-up.

First the boxer-briefs (I guessed right!), the soft cotton only accentuating the taut muscles of his thighs, the curve of his ass, the waistband tugged into place with a little elastic 'snap!'

The socks, oddly enough, are next. He pulls them on, the black contrasting with the paler skin that never sees the light of day. No shorts for this Marine, no sir.

He pulls on the pants with easy efficiency, glancing over at me as he leaves them open and I can see the faint stirring beneath the BVDs. Not yet, not until later. He knows we can't be late, but he also knows what a tease this is for both of us.

I've seen him in a jacket, pants and button-down, nearly every day at work. I've seen him in a t-shirt and jeans, which is so damned sexy it's hard to keep my hands off him. Not to strip him; I've seen him naked too, and love that just as much.

Sometimes, though, I just want to feel him through the cotton and denim. I'll rest my cheek against the warmth of his back as he pours his coffee in the morning, or slide my hands down over his ass as he works on his boat. Skin-on-skin has its merits, but there's a comfort in clothes people wear to relax, and it makes me warm inside to see him, touch him when he's not working or...well, working.

When I see him in a suit and tie, however...

It's not every day either of us wear formal wear, and the rarity of the occasion makes it special enough to be an event, one that usually ends in against-the-wall, biting, scrabbling, sweaty animal sex that leaves lipstick smeared across his cheek and bite marks on my shoulder and neck.

Sometimes the collar hides the marks the next day, if we have to go to work. If it's a weekend, I leave it bare for him to see, and we both share a smile if I catch him looking.

But I'm forgetting what's right in front of me. I missed him pulling on the undershirt, but the stretch of the cotton across his shoulders and chest is more than enough to remind me of the night to come.

Oh, that dress shirt, all sharp lines and crisp creases, arms loose enough to hide the strength beneath them, the chest just tight enough to show off the trim waist and hips as he finally zips the pants to hide himself completely. Each slide of the tiny buttons through their holes is another I may pop off later, depending on how desperate I am to feel him against me or how quick he is to pin my arms against the wall to stop me.

His eyes are intent on the buttons, then his reflection as he lifts his chin to get the top button situated. It's only when he looks over at me again that I slide off the dresser and approach. He rests his strong hands on my hips as I slip the silk lengths of his tie into a tight Windsor knot. I feel his fingers curl and gather a bit of the skirt higher, and I tug at the tie to smile up at him.

"Watch those hands, Gibbs. We have at least a rubber chicken, some applause and a dance you promised me --if there's dancing-- before we get to that."

He loves it when I wear the long-skirted dresses. Just like him in a suit and tie, they're different enough from the barely-there skirts and schoolgirl tops that he loves what the dresses cover more than the skirts reveal...if that makes sense. It does to us, and that's what matters.

Such as now, when I can picture the skirt rucked up over my hips, his fingers digging into my thighs as he fills me again and again, the belt still jingling from where his pants hang open. Or waking later on the couch, his jacket my blanket and his body my pillow.

He shrugs the jacket on, steps into the shoes and looks at me, and suddenly the wait seems interminable. We both need a fix.

We meet each other halfway in a long, slow kiss, tongues and lips promising later, my hands curled at his lapels and his hands sliding down over my ass to pull me against him. We're both panting slightly when we part.

I pick up one of his spare handkerchiefs off the dresser to wipe my lipstick from his lips, and we both turn to look at each other in the mirror. "C'mon," I say as he starts to nuzzle at one of the little 'bun-lettes' I twist my hair into for more formal occasions. "Fornell invited us to the commendation ceremony. The least we can do is look presentable while we're there."

His smile in the mirror is my answer, and I slide my arm through his for him to lead me to the car. We're both dressed to the nines, but we may as well be naked for the smiles behind our eyes.


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Cross-posted to [ profile] gibbs_abby
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December 2011

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