[Next entry: "NCIS Fic: Opportunity (Tony/Jeffrey White; PG-13)"]
07/28/2007: "NCIS Fic: Autopsy (Lee/Palmer; R)"
Title: Autopsy
Pairing: Michelle Lee/Jimmy Palmer
Spoilers: General season 4
Rating: R
Words: About 450
Summary: Sometimes she thinks there's something wrong with them.
Notes: WTF, NCIS het smut? This is not what I expected to be writing. Yet, I love Agent Lee, and Jimmy cracks me up. Thanks to mklutz who told me it didn't suck.
Sometimes Michelle wonders if there's something wrong with them. She won't think about it for hours, days, but then she'll be trying to wrangle a warrant, or trying to wade through legal red tape, and suddenly the thought pushes forward through the tedium –
Maybe there's something wrong with them.
She tries bringing it up once. "Maybe," she whispers, her leg already hooked around Jimmy's hip, skirt riding tight and high against her thigh, "there's something wrong –"
"Yes," he mutters, mouth against her neck, hands yanking her blouse loose, "you're right, this is awkward –"
And he pivots, brings her with him as he moves back towards the desk. It's after hours, the lights are low, but she's spent enough time in here to know exactly where he's taking her.
Yes, the desk is better, solid and steady under her butt. "Good idea," she says, yanking down his scrubs, pleased she doesn't have to bother with a belt, a zipper, buttons. Scrubs make it so easy. "But," she tries again, "don't you think –"
"What?" He urges her hips up, pulling her skirt and underwear down, off.
We're always doing this in Autopsy, she wants to say. Instead, "Autopsy –" is all she manages, as his hands stroke down her thighs.
He misunderstands; he misunderstands things a lot. Sometimes it annoys her; sometimes it makes her want to kiss him in public or hold his hand, and say, "Yes, we're doing this, yes," to anyone who asks. To everyone who doesn't ask.
"The autopsy?" he asks, sliding down, kneeling. He presses kisses to her legs, licks at the curve of her knees. "The corporal died from blunt force trauma. Some kind of brick, there was residue in – "
"No," she tries to say, tries to correct him, but it comes out garbled, messy, because he yanks her forward, balances her on the edge of the desk, and leans in between her thighs.
She spreads her legs wider, leaning back on one arm. His hair is soft under her other hand – soft and warm and familiar, as familiar as Autopsy – and she gasps as he licks into her, sure and focused.
She stops thinking about it, because – his tongue, his fingers holding her hips – it feels – she gasps again, hips bucking under his hands, she wants more, wants his tongue working harder, faster. He knows, he always knows what she likes, and it's fantastic, perfect, enough that soon, in moments even, she's going to have to press her hand against her mouth to hold back the sounds.
Maybe there is something wrong with them – something that keeps them doing this in grim, cold Autopsy, instead of in a bed – but right now Michelle doesn't care.
End
