fic: running out of air (rpf: ncis)
yuletide ficathon: liam22 requested michael/cote and hidden romances.
STATUS: Complete
SUMMARY: Five times Michael and Cote slept together.
RATING: NC17
CLASSIFICATIONS: Michael/Cote
ARCHIVING: Do not archive. Thank you.
NOTES: This story is RPF (real person fiction). If that bothers you, turn away now.
THANKS TO: qwirky for the beta.
WORDS: 1,776
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Don't sue.
Copyright anr; December 2009.
* * * * *
Running out of Air by anr
* * * * *
The night they finish filming the container episode, Michael takes Cote back to his place.
It's not the first time he's taken her home with him so she can crash in his spare room -- after a long day and night on the lot, his place is a hell of a lot closer to the studio than hers is -- but it is the first time he's done so with his hand resting high on her thigh, her fingers tracing the backs of his knuckles, for most of the drive.
"You're staring," she says quietly, after he's turned off the ignition, and he drags his gaze away from their hands to find her looking at him.
"I --"
She nods towards the windscreen. "We're here, yes?"
"I know." Turning in his seat, he faces her as best as his seatbelt will allow. "I don't do this anymore, Cote."
She looks tired, he thinks. Exhausted. "Do what?"
"Get involved with co-stars." Not after Jess, not again.
There's a flicker of expression on her features, but it's gone too quick for him to name it. "You don't want to sleep with me?" Her tone is light, curious, not insulted or hurt, and a part of him wonders if she's still acting.
To her question, however, he nods. "I do."
"Then do not make this into more than what it is."
He thinks he might be too tired for this conversation. "And what is this?"
"Right now? Actual sleep. And in the morning?" She shrugs. "I don't know." She smiles a little. "Okay?"
Is it? He doesn't know. Despite his confusion, however, he finds himself nodding, maybe even matching her smile with one his own. "Okay."
There's something incredibly addictive about falling into bed with Cote.
It's not just that they're both tactile people (Pauley is too, and he's never had sex with her) or that he's feeling any particular kind of deprivation (he's been seeing Jana somewhat steadily since the hiatus). It's not even a form of character transference, seeing as how Tony's finally starting to get some of his own on with Scottie's character this year.
It's just... addictive. He doesn't know how else to describe it. He knows her. He knows that if he kisses the side of her neck, she'll make a soft, humming noise in the back of her throat and press herself closer to him. If he tangles his fingers in her hair, she'll rake her nails across whatever skin of his she can reach.
He knows that if he hears opera playing in her trailer, she's worried about the scene being filmed that day and needs a distraction; that her favourite way of forgetting is to push him against the wall of her trailer and take him into her mouth. She likes it when he goes down on her, and loves it when he's on top of her, his hand pulling her leg up to his hip and his body pressing hers deep into the mattress.
And he knows that she's just as addicted to him as he is to her, because she's told him so, a dozen times or more, in a dozen different ways, that she can't get enough of him either.
He just wishes he wanted to stop.
The week before Christmas, they fly to the Bahamas. It's the first time they've ever gone away together, and he thinks it might also have to be the only time.
"It's getting serious," she asks him on their second day, "isn't it?"
"With Jana?" They're in a hammock not far from the beach, crystal blue water from here to the horizon, and he kind of wishes August could have come with them.
"Hmm."
"Maybe." He runs his fingers through her hair absently. She's lying mostly on top of him, one leg sandwiched between his own, and he seriously doubts they'll be able to untangle themselves without capsizing onto the sand below. "It's different, you know? Her being a doctor and all." He's started thinking about proposing, but he's not sure they're quite there yet.
"Not in the business."
"Yeah."
Cote pushes herself up, shifting until she's leaning over him, the hammock swinging wildly for a moment until he steadies her. When they're more or less balanced again, she nods. "She's good for you," she announces. "I've decided."
He laughs, more amused by her audacity than he knows he should be given the subject matter and how he's probably going to go to hell for being such a cheating, lying bastard. (Especially when he remembers neither he or Cote particularly cares that he's a cheating, lying bastard.) "You're good for me as well, I think."
"No, I'm good to you. There's a difference." She runs a hand down his chest, his abdomen, smoothing lower and lower until she's palming him. "See?"
She's beautiful. Beautiful and wicked and all that he can see. "Yes," he manages, hardening under her touch. "Cote..."
When she leans down to kiss him, he keeps his eyes open. He doesn't want to miss a thing.
The two months he spends not sleeping with Cote are possibly two of the worst he can remember.
It's fucked up, he knows. He's finally being faithful to the woman who's agreed to become his wife, his character has an intense b-storyline in the final four episodes of the season, and Amelia's already agreed to let August stay with him for most of the coming hiatus. He should be on cloud fucking nine.
Should be, but isn't.
He's not even sure why he and Cote have stopped, to tell the truth, and he finds himself staying in character twenty-four/seven on the set, hiding behind Tony, because Tony's love for Ziva is still mostly unrequited this season and that's easier to handle than whatever it is clenching his gut when he looks at Cote and sees Ziva looking back.
Maybe he should have accepted Shane's offer to transfer to the spin-off, he thinks again, as he makes his way back to his trailer after Dennis calls cut! for the last time. Maybe six (three?) years is his limit?
When he opens his door and steps inside, Zi-- Cote's already in there, waiting for him.
"Are we done?" she asks, a somewhat wary expression on her face. "Is it over?"
Is it? Closing the door behind him, he starts tugging at his tie. "The episode's a wrap," he says, unable to look away from her, "barring any disasters in --"
He catches her when she throws herself at him but only just, stumbling back against a cupboard before he can steady them. Her hands slide around his nape, pulling him down into a messy kiss that hits him harder than he would have imagined possible.
"Cote --" he manages.
"I've missed you," she says, cutting him off. "I can't --"
He groans. "God, I know."
She's wearing a loose, flowing top that feels like silk in his hands, the heat of her skin easily seeping through it; finding the hem, he pulls back just enough to tug it up and over her head, her hands latching onto his belt as soon as her arms are free. He'll probably regret this later, their going so fast after so long without, but right now all he can think is, two months, two months, two goddamn fucking months.
He turns them around, pushing her back against the cupboard, and runs a hand down her chest, her abdomen, until he's cupping her. She's wet, and he slides one finger inside her, then another, kissing her neck.
She hums, and reaches between them to wrap her hand around his dick, sliding her fingers over him. "Mi-chael..."
"I know," he says again, cupping one of her breasts in his hand and rubbing his thumb against the nipple. "God, I know, I know, I've missed you too."
She wraps her arms around his neck as he drags his hands to her waist and lifts, her legs anchoring over his hips. When he's sure he's got her, he frees one hand and guides himself in.
Fuck.
"Never again," she breathes out against his collarbone, and he can feel her tongue on his skin, tasting him. "Promise me."
Anything, he thinks. "I promise," he grits out.
He starts to move, thrusting slowly at first, then faster, her hand on his cheek, on his jaw, guiding his mouth back to hers. Kissing him until she's coming, until he's coming, until his world has settled back on its axis and the clouds are disappearing and everything feels fucked up only in ways that make sense.
Never again.
He's back on set a week after his honeymoon ends; in Cote's trailer about eight hours after that.
"I didn't think you'd still want this," he admits, stretching out beside her on her sofa and running his fingers down her arm.
Her hands are inside his shirt, slipping down past his waistband. "This?"
He gives her an awkward smile. "Me."
Unbuttoning his jeans, she pushes the fabric off his hips. "Why wouldn't I?"
He snorts, tugging at the collar of her shirt until he can press his mouth to the side of her neck. "You do remember what I did last month, right? Getting married and all?"
She nods. "I remember." Leaving him to finish kicking off his jeans, she starts on her own. "Not sure what that's got to do with this, though."
Pulling away, he looks at her, taken aback as much from her indifferent tone as her words. "Seriously?"
She sits up and pulls her top off, tossing it onto the growing pile of their clothes. "Does marrying Jana change your wanting me?"
Reaching out, he draws his hand down her back, admiring the way she arches into the touch. "No."
She looks over her shoulder at him. "Does calling her your wife change the way you feel about me?"
It should, he knows, but. "Never."
She raises an eyebrow. "Well then?"
God. Gripping her shoulder, he tugs gently, pulling her back down next to him. "I don't deserve you," he says.
She laughs, rolling over so that she's on top of him, her hair falling down around their faces like a curtain. "Probably not, no."
"I'm sorry," he says softly, but what he really means is, I love you. "You know that, right?"
Leaning down, she kisses him, lightly at first, then harder. When she pulls back, she's smiling. "I know."
He smiles back.
* * * * *
The End.
FEEDBACK: Always appreciated. *g*
STATUS: Complete
SUMMARY: Five times Michael and Cote slept together.
RATING: NC17
CLASSIFICATIONS: Michael/Cote
ARCHIVING: Do not archive. Thank you.
NOTES: This story is RPF (real person fiction). If that bothers you, turn away now.
THANKS TO: qwirky for the beta.
WORDS: 1,776
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Don't sue.
Copyright anr; December 2009.
* * * * *
Running out of Air by anr
* * * * *
The night they finish filming the container episode, Michael takes Cote back to his place.
It's not the first time he's taken her home with him so she can crash in his spare room -- after a long day and night on the lot, his place is a hell of a lot closer to the studio than hers is -- but it is the first time he's done so with his hand resting high on her thigh, her fingers tracing the backs of his knuckles, for most of the drive.
"You're staring," she says quietly, after he's turned off the ignition, and he drags his gaze away from their hands to find her looking at him.
"I --"
She nods towards the windscreen. "We're here, yes?"
"I know." Turning in his seat, he faces her as best as his seatbelt will allow. "I don't do this anymore, Cote."
She looks tired, he thinks. Exhausted. "Do what?"
"Get involved with co-stars." Not after Jess, not again.
There's a flicker of expression on her features, but it's gone too quick for him to name it. "You don't want to sleep with me?" Her tone is light, curious, not insulted or hurt, and a part of him wonders if she's still acting.
To her question, however, he nods. "I do."
"Then do not make this into more than what it is."
He thinks he might be too tired for this conversation. "And what is this?"
"Right now? Actual sleep. And in the morning?" She shrugs. "I don't know." She smiles a little. "Okay?"
Is it? He doesn't know. Despite his confusion, however, he finds himself nodding, maybe even matching her smile with one his own. "Okay."
There's something incredibly addictive about falling into bed with Cote.
It's not just that they're both tactile people (Pauley is too, and he's never had sex with her) or that he's feeling any particular kind of deprivation (he's been seeing Jana somewhat steadily since the hiatus). It's not even a form of character transference, seeing as how Tony's finally starting to get some of his own on with Scottie's character this year.
It's just... addictive. He doesn't know how else to describe it. He knows her. He knows that if he kisses the side of her neck, she'll make a soft, humming noise in the back of her throat and press herself closer to him. If he tangles his fingers in her hair, she'll rake her nails across whatever skin of his she can reach.
He knows that if he hears opera playing in her trailer, she's worried about the scene being filmed that day and needs a distraction; that her favourite way of forgetting is to push him against the wall of her trailer and take him into her mouth. She likes it when he goes down on her, and loves it when he's on top of her, his hand pulling her leg up to his hip and his body pressing hers deep into the mattress.
And he knows that she's just as addicted to him as he is to her, because she's told him so, a dozen times or more, in a dozen different ways, that she can't get enough of him either.
He just wishes he wanted to stop.
The week before Christmas, they fly to the Bahamas. It's the first time they've ever gone away together, and he thinks it might also have to be the only time.
"It's getting serious," she asks him on their second day, "isn't it?"
"With Jana?" They're in a hammock not far from the beach, crystal blue water from here to the horizon, and he kind of wishes August could have come with them.
"Hmm."
"Maybe." He runs his fingers through her hair absently. She's lying mostly on top of him, one leg sandwiched between his own, and he seriously doubts they'll be able to untangle themselves without capsizing onto the sand below. "It's different, you know? Her being a doctor and all." He's started thinking about proposing, but he's not sure they're quite there yet.
"Not in the business."
"Yeah."
Cote pushes herself up, shifting until she's leaning over him, the hammock swinging wildly for a moment until he steadies her. When they're more or less balanced again, she nods. "She's good for you," she announces. "I've decided."
He laughs, more amused by her audacity than he knows he should be given the subject matter and how he's probably going to go to hell for being such a cheating, lying bastard. (Especially when he remembers neither he or Cote particularly cares that he's a cheating, lying bastard.) "You're good for me as well, I think."
"No, I'm good to you. There's a difference." She runs a hand down his chest, his abdomen, smoothing lower and lower until she's palming him. "See?"
She's beautiful. Beautiful and wicked and all that he can see. "Yes," he manages, hardening under her touch. "Cote..."
When she leans down to kiss him, he keeps his eyes open. He doesn't want to miss a thing.
The two months he spends not sleeping with Cote are possibly two of the worst he can remember.
It's fucked up, he knows. He's finally being faithful to the woman who's agreed to become his wife, his character has an intense b-storyline in the final four episodes of the season, and Amelia's already agreed to let August stay with him for most of the coming hiatus. He should be on cloud fucking nine.
Should be, but isn't.
He's not even sure why he and Cote have stopped, to tell the truth, and he finds himself staying in character twenty-four/seven on the set, hiding behind Tony, because Tony's love for Ziva is still mostly unrequited this season and that's easier to handle than whatever it is clenching his gut when he looks at Cote and sees Ziva looking back.
Maybe he should have accepted Shane's offer to transfer to the spin-off, he thinks again, as he makes his way back to his trailer after Dennis calls cut! for the last time. Maybe six (three?) years is his limit?
When he opens his door and steps inside, Zi-- Cote's already in there, waiting for him.
"Are we done?" she asks, a somewhat wary expression on her face. "Is it over?"
Is it? Closing the door behind him, he starts tugging at his tie. "The episode's a wrap," he says, unable to look away from her, "barring any disasters in --"
He catches her when she throws herself at him but only just, stumbling back against a cupboard before he can steady them. Her hands slide around his nape, pulling him down into a messy kiss that hits him harder than he would have imagined possible.
"Cote --" he manages.
"I've missed you," she says, cutting him off. "I can't --"
He groans. "God, I know."
She's wearing a loose, flowing top that feels like silk in his hands, the heat of her skin easily seeping through it; finding the hem, he pulls back just enough to tug it up and over her head, her hands latching onto his belt as soon as her arms are free. He'll probably regret this later, their going so fast after so long without, but right now all he can think is, two months, two months, two goddamn fucking months.
He turns them around, pushing her back against the cupboard, and runs a hand down her chest, her abdomen, until he's cupping her. She's wet, and he slides one finger inside her, then another, kissing her neck.
She hums, and reaches between them to wrap her hand around his dick, sliding her fingers over him. "Mi-chael..."
"I know," he says again, cupping one of her breasts in his hand and rubbing his thumb against the nipple. "God, I know, I know, I've missed you too."
She wraps her arms around his neck as he drags his hands to her waist and lifts, her legs anchoring over his hips. When he's sure he's got her, he frees one hand and guides himself in.
Fuck.
"Never again," she breathes out against his collarbone, and he can feel her tongue on his skin, tasting him. "Promise me."
Anything, he thinks. "I promise," he grits out.
He starts to move, thrusting slowly at first, then faster, her hand on his cheek, on his jaw, guiding his mouth back to hers. Kissing him until she's coming, until he's coming, until his world has settled back on its axis and the clouds are disappearing and everything feels fucked up only in ways that make sense.
Never again.
He's back on set a week after his honeymoon ends; in Cote's trailer about eight hours after that.
"I didn't think you'd still want this," he admits, stretching out beside her on her sofa and running his fingers down her arm.
Her hands are inside his shirt, slipping down past his waistband. "This?"
He gives her an awkward smile. "Me."
Unbuttoning his jeans, she pushes the fabric off his hips. "Why wouldn't I?"
He snorts, tugging at the collar of her shirt until he can press his mouth to the side of her neck. "You do remember what I did last month, right? Getting married and all?"
She nods. "I remember." Leaving him to finish kicking off his jeans, she starts on her own. "Not sure what that's got to do with this, though."
Pulling away, he looks at her, taken aback as much from her indifferent tone as her words. "Seriously?"
She sits up and pulls her top off, tossing it onto the growing pile of their clothes. "Does marrying Jana change your wanting me?"
Reaching out, he draws his hand down her back, admiring the way she arches into the touch. "No."
She looks over her shoulder at him. "Does calling her your wife change the way you feel about me?"
It should, he knows, but. "Never."
She raises an eyebrow. "Well then?"
God. Gripping her shoulder, he tugs gently, pulling her back down next to him. "I don't deserve you," he says.
She laughs, rolling over so that she's on top of him, her hair falling down around their faces like a curtain. "Probably not, no."
"I'm sorry," he says softly, but what he really means is, I love you. "You know that, right?"
Leaning down, she kisses him, lightly at first, then harder. When she pulls back, she's smiling. "I know."
He smiles back.
* * * * *
The End.
FEEDBACK: Always appreciated. *g*