A/N: This little tale of a sex mishap utterly re-defines the term "Crack!fic" and I've no excuse for it but to say it was born of a bad joke and an awful night at work after which I cheered myself up by writing fanfiction at 3 in the morning.
"No suit with a tight sphincter is getting in my way, and that includes you, Jen!" -Leroy Jethro Gibbs, Season 3 Episode "Kill Ari, Part 1".
I'm rating this M even though there is no explicit content; it's M for subject matter and really bad puns.
She stared at him, her hair tangled and framing her pale face, her eyes wide and a brightly abashed green. Her soft white sheets were wrapped around her naked body, and she was staring at him, her lips parted a little—she seemed panicked.
He stared back, a little bewildered, a little contrite, but mostly exasperated. It had all happened to so quickly—well, he'd figured it out immediately, if she'd just given him a second to back off—but she hadn't and she was sitting in that armchair staring at him with that dazed look like he'd dropped a piano on her head and his pride was seriously wounded because he couldn't remember a time when sex had ever ended with Jenny on a completely different side of the bed, much less the whole damn room.
He thought she might even be down the stairs if she hadn't tripped over the sheet she'd so unceremoniously ripped with her off the bed and basically fallen headfirst into the armchair.
He raised an eyebrow hesitantly and rubbed his jaw, flexing his hand.
"It was an accident," he said gruffly, his tone mildly apologetic.
"No," was all she said, narrowing her eyes.
"What?!" he asked, incredulous. She didn't think he'd purposely-?!
"No," she repeated darkly. "Accident," she scoffed suspiciously.
"It was an accident," he insisted, growling at her.
"You aren't sixteen," she retorted, her voicing going up several octaves. She winced, pursing her lips warily. "How many times have we had sex?" she asked suddenly, attacking him.
"I don't know—"
"Innumerable times, Jethro. Innumerable," she enunciated tightly. "We aren't fumbling high-schoolers. We know what we're doing; there are no accidents—and that isn't an accident," she hissed, lowering her voice fussily, "it can't—it doesn't—it doesn't happen accidentally!"
He decided not to mention the fact that innumerable was a stupid word to use in this situation, but he did decide to glare at her.
"It didn't even happen," he pointed out.
"It almost happened!" she retorted, alarmed.
He stifled down the urge to laugh at the look on her face; laughing would be the worst possible thing he could do to her right now. She hugged her sheet closer and still looked at him like a deer in the headlights—a very indignant deer.
He sighed in frustration.
"Relax, Jenny," he growled.
"That would make it easier, wouldn't it?" she fired back tartly, her lashes quivering nervously.
He flinched and scowled at her.
"It. Was. An. Accident," he reiterated, pronouncing each syllable slowly. He rolled his eyes, starting to feel a little awkward, and cocked an eyebrow. "You really think I'd go there without asking you—"
"You will never go there with me," she interrupted, her face as serious as the grave.
He stumbled over his words.
"That's—okay…Jen, I don't want—to, but—"
"NEVER," she nearly shouted, a hysterical note hitting her usually silky and calm voice.
She lifted her chin primly.
"If you want it, you can call a hooker. I give you my blessing. It can be a sex tax write-off," the redhead told him flat-out.
"Dammit, Jen," he swore, glaring at her with more pronounced discomfort. "I don't want a damn hooker—I wasn't tryin' to go…there with you; it was an accident, I—" he broke off sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Got distracted," he muttered.
She looked at him starkly, clearly in disbelief at the idea that he'd been so distracted that he completely forgot the basics of her anatomical layout. He realized she was silently demanding he explain himself and he glared at her, throwing a hand out accusingly.
"You moved!" he barked. "I thought you wanted on top, then you got on your knees—"
"And you just took that as an open invitation—"
"No," he interrupted hoarsely, giving her a pained, affronted look. "I didn't think that, I—I," he stuttered, and then came out with the worst excuse possible: "I missed!"
She blinked at him, her cheeks flushing, and then she bit her lip and winced, her eyes slowly boring into his. She puckered her lips in an unforgiving pout and narrowed her eyes.
"You were a sniper," was all she said.
The 'you don't miss' was implied.
He glared at her sheepishly—he was starting to feel sixteen, like some inexperienced punk who'd thought he was playing it cool when he reached between a girl's legs and was swatted away. The incident had been uncharted and jarring—for Jenny, apparently—but he really had realized promptly that he was, er, off the beaten path, so to speak, and he gripped her thighs to try and remedy that—but she'd been out of bed and across the room in the bat of an eyelid.
Gibbs had never seen Jenny move so quickly, and that was including the time they'd been indecent in a confessional in Paris and the Monseigneur had been about to bust them.
He made an annoyed noise and glared at her.
"I swear, Jen," he growled firmly. "Didn't mean to."
She glared back at him warily, a little of the startled panic fading from her emerald eyes.
Gibbs rubbed his jaw again, smirking a little—still managing a mix of sheepish repentance and suppressed amusement. He lifted his shoulders, his tongue in his cheek, and cocked an eyebrow.
"Wouldn't try it without askin'," he said wryly. "Wasn't raised in a barn."
"That is the most un-funny thing you have ever said to me."
She shifted and lowered her tense shoulders, tossing her head and blowing hair out of her face. She frowned, looking at him intently, and then flicked her eyes to his lips and the column of his throat—she was overreacting a little; he hadn't hurt her, and he had backed off the minute she'd shouted: what the fuck are you doing, Jethro!
She flared her nostrils.
"You swear it was an accident?"
"Yeah," he agreed, rolling his eyes. "Cross my heart," he swore sarcastically. "Come back to bed."
She accepted that he was being honest; he hadn't meant to make her uncomfortable—but she was so utterly not in the mood that the thought of snuggling back up in bed (or doing God knew what else) was unappealing to say the least.
They were adults and they knew how to handle adult situations, but she decided she was done being adult with him right now.
She shook her head.
"I would rather we watch a movie," she retorted prudishly. "I would also like you to sit on the opposite side of the couch."
"Jenny," he growled, annoyed.
"You may pick the movie," she said, refusing to budge.
He cocked his head smugly. She gave him a threatening look and, deciding he was about to tease her and make here blush and want to hide her head, changed her mind.
"No," she asserted. "We're going to watch something wholesome," she said pointedly, glaring at him again. "Pride and Prejudice."
He nearly threw himself into a tantrum on the floor. This night had spiraled into disaster far too quickly—and all because he'd misunderstood the position she wanted and missed and had her thinking for a split second that he was about to take the, ah, road less travelled—
-and she was busy thinking Pride and Prejudice was a great choice because she was damn sure nothing untoward ever happened in the boudoir of Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy.
He gave her a curt nod of agreement, even if it meant he really was acquiescing to sitting with a good religious amount of space between them so she could get over her little trauma.
She stood, draped fetchingly in the sheet, and he got out of her bed and yanked his jeans on without bothering with his boxers. He followed her out of the bedroom and—because he was a bastard and he thought it was funny, he stealthily snuck up behind her and touched her hips, coaxing her backwards.
She squealed and leapt away, whirling around to face him with wide eyes. He smirked, the mirth reaching his blue eyes and she swatted at him weakly, while he watched the hysteria die down again and fade to mild amusement.
"Jen," he said affectionately, putting his hand on the crown of her hair and running is hand through her hair soothingly.
He cocked an eyebrow.
"Sex tax write-off?" he mocked, quoting her panicked words, and she smiled sheepishly, a blush painting her cheeks.
He was probably never going to live down claiming that he'd missed, but at least he had the opportunity to bring that up every time she claimed she wasn't in the mood.
I'll leave it up to YOU to figure out what went wrong ;)