Nostrum Monumentum - A Lesson in French
Title: A Lesson in French
Author: pearly_eyes
Rating: G
Word Count: 254
Prompt: challenge #14, foreign language, from ncisdrabble100
Character(s): Ziva David, Tony DiNozzo
Summary: “Do you wish for death at my hands?”
Unlike some people who wake up their lovers by touch and a kiss, this morning Ziva chose to whisper words in Italian and Spanish into Tony’s ear, weaving gossamer fantasies until he could not discern between lucidity and consciousness. After a momentary pause where he did the mental translation, he responded fervently with an assault on her lips, turning said words into reality. It was a satisfying arousal for both.
Then as they laid basking in the glow of early-morning sex, she murmured, “I wonder if you will respond as enthusiastically, if I had spoken in French.”
“What is it you are implying, Zee-Vah?”
“Do you know what the French word is for post-orgasm?” Sensing the question was more rhetorical, Tony lifted his head up, supported by his elbow. Tracing her face with his polished green eyes, he waited.
Surreptitiously, her hand shot out, two fingers landed at the junction of Tony’s neck where she could feel the steady rhythm of his carotid pulse. “La petite mort, the small death.”
There was no mistaking the increased tempo of his heart rate and the deep darkening of his eyes, Ziva did not resist the impulse to remove her hand from Tony’s neck, to bury her fingers into his short sandy hair.
“I thought that you were dying once,” she admitted, “and I can kill someone 18 ways with a single paperclip.”
At her confession, he leaned forward, settling in the familiar area between her legs. “Do you wish for death at my hands?”
“Tuez-moi, Tony.”
-`-`-`-`-
Tuez-moi, Tony. - Kill me, Tony.
Author: pearly_eyes
Rating: G
Word Count: 254
Prompt: challenge #14, foreign language, from ncisdrabble100
Character(s): Ziva David, Tony DiNozzo
Summary: “Do you wish for death at my hands?”
Unlike some people who wake up their lovers by touch and a kiss, this morning Ziva chose to whisper words in Italian and Spanish into Tony’s ear, weaving gossamer fantasies until he could not discern between lucidity and consciousness. After a momentary pause where he did the mental translation, he responded fervently with an assault on her lips, turning said words into reality. It was a satisfying arousal for both.
Then as they laid basking in the glow of early-morning sex, she murmured, “I wonder if you will respond as enthusiastically, if I had spoken in French.”
“What is it you are implying, Zee-Vah?”
“Do you know what the French word is for post-orgasm?” Sensing the question was more rhetorical, Tony lifted his head up, supported by his elbow. Tracing her face with his polished green eyes, he waited.
Surreptitiously, her hand shot out, two fingers landed at the junction of Tony’s neck where she could feel the steady rhythm of his carotid pulse. “La petite mort, the small death.”
There was no mistaking the increased tempo of his heart rate and the deep darkening of his eyes, Ziva did not resist the impulse to remove her hand from Tony’s neck, to bury her fingers into his short sandy hair.
“I thought that you were dying once,” she admitted, “and I can kill someone 18 ways with a single paperclip.”
At her confession, he leaned forward, settling in the familiar area between her legs. “Do you wish for death at my hands?”
“Tuez-moi, Tony.”
-`-`-`-`-
Tuez-moi, Tony. - Kill me, Tony.