The characters belong to Belisario et al.
The situation is a post-ep to "Internal Affairs."
Rated M for mature. Scenes of sex and implied violence.
NCIS: "Tell Me Lies"
"Tell me again, Tony," the woman breathed into his ear, her arms around him, her nails in the skin of his back. She was disheveled and sweaty and her lower lip was bleeding where he had bitten it earlier.
He grunted and, eyes still closed, as they had been for most of the last two hours, he pushed away, as if to roll off of her slender body. His normally perfect hair was matted with sweat, and his whole upper body was flushed, blushing to the hair's roots with spent anger and pain and passion.
She stopped him from pulling away, and her heels kicked his muscled glutes, driving their bodies back together. Her eyes flashed, and her nails worked again on his back.
"Tell me again, dammit. Tell me. Let me hear you say it." With each phrase, she pulled them together, slick bodies sliding, hips colliding. His eyes snapped open, but he wasn't seeing her, or anything, except the past.
"I don't love you," he whispered.
She slapped him, a darker scarlet hand-print rising on his cheek. "Make me believe you."
He scowled, and thrust his hips savagely forward, slapping their bodies together and making her gasp as he took her again. Her eyes rolled, showing little but the whites as he slowly pounded into her, methodically, joylessly, a machine working to hurt her, to destroy her, to destroy the feeling in his heart.
"I don't love you!" he cried hoarsely, pulling her body up to meet him, burying his face in the damp tendrils of hair against her neck. "It was a lie! It was a job! You don't know me!"
She moaned again, in pain and passion, riding the wave of anger and loathing and denial, trying just to survive it, to not be dragged under for good. He rolled over, and she was swept up on top of him, feeling his body tense to the breaking point as his orgasm filled her, again. His eyes were closed and his head was thrown to the side, as if he was desperate not to look at her again.
"You can't love me…" His voice was a hollow whisper, she barely heard it over the pounding of her heart in her ears, the crashing tide of climax racing, receding, leaving her broken atop him, their bodies still joined.
"Oh, Jean," he sighed. "What was I thinking? No one could ever love me."
"You're wrong, Tony," she told him, rolling off of him at last, to lie, spent, bruised and melancholy at his side.
He opened his eyes, struggling to focus, blinking away salty tears and sweat, looking down at the skin burn his beard stubble had made on the soft flesh of her breasts and neck, the marks of his teeth on her, the pulse still fluttering in the hollow of her throat.
He wanted to say he was sorry, but he wasn't ready to lie, not yet, not to her. So he said the only thing he could, and it was the truth.
"Thank you, Ziva."