a/n: i got a special request for this via tumblr, and i managed to answer to the challenge even though at first i was a little skeptical. the request was for a 'well-endowed gibbs' in the 'hollis mann era'. while i'll admit i've never thought of Gibbs as anything other than hung like a horse, i've never explicitly referenced it in fic because i think that's...tacky, in most cases. but-here you go, anonymous requester: Jenny seeks out a well-endowed Gibbs to "set her right".

(i think you can tell by the author's note this is really mature)

so: basically, heavy hints at 'Sharif Returns' and 'Skeletons' from Season 4, and a little explanation of why Gibbs didn't call Hollis for four weeks after their little hook-up.

hell, i've been hankerin' for some pwp for a while now, and i'm sure this lacks my usual finesse but-plow away, readers.

The problem was—and it really was quite the annoying problem for a woman of her relative intelligence, appearance, and stature—she couldn't even find the time to get properly laid; she was so constantly and maddeningly busy—and thus, exhausted—that when she had a free split second to prowl the available men in the surrounding hunting grounds, she found she was lacking in her usual finesse when it came to selecting a specimen—and discovering that her sharp, eagle eye for picking up satisfying men was rusty due to its focus on case files and sister agencies was a particular blow to her pride.

Thus she put herself through a rather lackluster ordeal after a remarkably lengthy dry spell, and the resulting week after left her more frustrated than she'd ever been—it was a feeling like she had fallen short, had something just at her fingertips that she was unable to reach, or on the tip of her tongue—and she was testy, and tense, and bitchy—

-which ultimately culminated in her surrendering to the voice in the back of her head that lured her right to his basement, because there was a man she knew damn well could set her right.

She hadn't called—the courtesy hadn't even occurred to her—but she had freshened herself up a bit, though she knew from past experience he wasn't that difficult to convince. At the top of the basement stairs, she ran her hand messily through her hair before she made her entrance—and she let her fingers dance lightly down the banister as her heels clicked.

He was over in the shadows, rummaging through a toolbox and sorting handfuls of nuts and bolts out from the rest of his hand tools. He didn't look around, but she knew it was out of practiced restraint rather than because he hadn't heard her. She clicked around the basement for a moment, admiring the boat, and it was when she placed her purse lightly on the workbench that he pushed a handful of screws backwards on the shelf and turned around.

He was holding a rusty, dirty wrench, and she flicked her eyes to it mildly before she looked him over—jeans, T-shirt, scuffed old shoes; typical Gibbs-in-the-basement-with-the-boat attire. She smirked wryly, and lifted her chin.

"Jen," he drawled lazily, greeting her familiarly and asking her what she was doing here all in one deeply uttered word.

His eyes caught hers and he looked at her intently.

She arched one eyebrow, and glanced about the room quickly.

"Am I intruding?" she asked vaguely.

He lifted his shoulders and pulled a darkly coloured rag out of his back pocket, beginning to clean off the wrench meticulously, without looking, his eyes still on her—though there was slight curiosity in them, now.

"You see anyone here?" he retorted gruffly.

She took a few steps forward, casually abandoning her purse on the edge of the countertops. She shrugged and crossed her arms over herself, tilting her head a little.

"If you have company—"

"S'just me, Jen."

"—I wouldn't want to intimidate her," she finished smoothly, ignoring his brash interruption.

He looked at her for a moment, and then snorted, rolling his eyes slightly at her dig at his recent entanglement. He turned back to the toolbox, presenting her with his back, and threw the wrench down, instead picking up a screwdriver and starting to dust off that. He didn't take the bait, and she took her time walking across the basement.

She ran her hand along the counter, picking up sawdust as she did, and then came to a stop when she reached the little nook where the counters met. She turned and leaned back into it, slipping her shoes off and nudged them aside. The concrete floor was cold on the soles of her feet and she shivered—he looked up at her then, narrowing his eyes.

Her nostrils flared slightly at his glare.

"You going to offer me a drink?" she asked.

He considered her, and then thrust the hand tool and the rag into the toolbox lazily, the corner of his mouth turning up in a slightly sarcastic way.

"Where're my manners?" he asked dryly, moving towards her. She clearly understood his implication, and smiled to herself—she lifted her saw-dusted hand to her nose and inhaled, before blowing it lightly into the air and brushing off her fingers firmly.

He invaded her space and leaned past her, his chest almost brushing hers, and her hear kicked up a few notches—she had hardly expected him to reach over her like that. He grabbed two jars and the bottle of whiskey from a high shelf and then took a slow step backwards, meeting her eyes blithely as he pushed a jar into her palm and unscrewed the top of the bourbon.

She followed his hands as he tipped the whiskey into her glass, and she didn't miss the shock of pink lipstick on the edge of her jar—and she had the distinct impression he wanted her to notice it. She made a quiet, almost inaudible huffing noise but said nothing, and inclined her head in thanks when he topped off her jar and attended turned to attend to his own.

She carefully turned her glass so her lips wouldn't touch the pink smudge and took a protracted sip while he set the bottle back on the counter and leaned back. He watched her throat move.

"You run out of your own whiskey?" he provoked.

She lifted her shoulders slightly.

"It's not the same out of antique crystal tumblers as it is out of your dirty mason jars," she teased wryly. "These have a certain—je ne sais quoi," she trailed off with a smirk, and he rolled is eyes slightly at the French.

Unperturbed that she was mocking him, he took a swallow of his own and cleared his throat, looking away from her and squinting critically at the boat.

"What're you doin' here, Jen?" he asked bluntly.

He hadn't been graced with a visit from the Director or from Jenny—he separated them in his head, these days—since before they had begun hunting Sharif. He assumed her absence had something to do with the cold shoulder she'd been giving him since he looked at Hollis Mann for longer than two seconds.

She tilted her head back and sighed heavily, her lashes fluttering.

"I had the worst one-night stand last weekend," she lamented frankly, shaking her head slightly.

Gibbs stopped abruptly, his jar halfway to his mouth, and gave her a half-startled, half-annoyed look. She was just lifting her own to her mouth for another steadying sip when he firmly wrenched it away from her and turned, setting both glasses down and picking up his screwdriver again.

"Jethro—" she began, laughing a little.

She leaned forward to take hers back, and he turned and blocked her, putting up his arms defensively and fixing her with a menacing look. Her eyebrows went up sharply and she pursed her lips.

"No," he said emphatically.

"No?" she repeated incredulously.

He gestured between them with the screwdriver.

"You'n'me don't have that kind of friendship," he scoffed pointedly. "You want to talk about that, I'll give you Ziva's address," he growled.

"I know Ziva's address," she said silkily, applying pressure to his arms and fighting him for her glass.

He flicked her knuckles roughly and she slapped his hand back, darting through his arm and snatching her jar. She pulled it towards her, and he cupped is hand over the top, trying to wrestle it back.

"Don't want to hear about you with other men, Jenny," he barked quietly, a flicker of jealous flashing through his blue eyes.

She succeeded in stealing her jar back, and whipped it around deftly in her hands to point out the glaring pink lipstick.

"Because you've been so subtle about your little adventures in taking the blonde to bed?" she attacked sharply, bitterness pulling the corners of her mouth down.

He turned into her a little, arms knocking against hers, and she pulled the jar close to her chest, pressing her lips together. He didn't have a come back—and they both knew it was because he had been less than gentlemanly about parading this particular affair in front of her. His lips turned up a little, maybe because he was glad to know it had gotten to her, but the smirk didn't reach his eyes—because no matter how much he vindictively wanted her to hurt sometimes, he never actually took pleasure in it when she did.

"Are you seeing her?" Jenny asked curtly. Her lashes fluttered demandingly. "You want me to leave?"

He still said nothing, and she snorted softly, lifting her chin—she took his silence as denial; nothing was official. If she knew him at all—and she knew him well—she would bet the little tryst with the blonde was to piss her off and to wet the desert, and whether the woman knew it or not, Gibbs never planned on taking it any further.

Jenny caught his eye, and parted her lips triumphantly. She tipped her jar to him, and took a sip.

He left his whiskey abandoned, still holding the screwdriver in his hand, and leaned heavily against the counter, angled towards her, staring intently. She ignored his probing gaze and tipped more bourbon down her throat, enjoying the burn and the flush. She let out a breath and shook her head.

He broke the silence finally; slightly distracted by the way the flush ran from her cheeks to her cleavage.

"You were saying?" he prompted sarcastically.

She smiled in disbelief and shook her head, clearly remembering his awful experience.

"You wouldn't believe the utter lack of intuition," she began in a low voice, rolling her eyes at the memory. "You know those long, dry spells—the ones where you get so desperate," she paused, waiting for him to agree.

"Nope," he deadpanned, and she reached out and shoved his chest with a laugh.

He grinned back, and she bit her lip, running her finger around the rim of her jar. She grit her teeth.

"I was desperate," she admitted grudgingly. She closed her eyes and shook her head. "It was interfering with my work—and this guy I picked up…the whole thing was so disappointing," she laughed a little dejectedly. "It made it worse."

Gibbs moved his eyebrow up slowly.

"That's what your problem's been all week?" he drawled, noting it in the back of his mind—edgy, nitpicking, irascible behavior was a symptom of Director Shepard having been fucked badly.

"You noticed?" she asked caustically.

He shrugged lightly, and feigned innocence. She tilted her head, frowning, and groaned softly—frustrated.

"It wasn't even that he was that bad, when it came to technique," she muttered in a distracted tone—failing to notice the dull, irritated look in Gibbs' eyes. "It was just, comparably, so sub-par," she broke off. "What?" she asked Gibbs abruptly.

"Feel like I'm in a goddamn episode of Sex and the City," he growled at her sardonically.

She stared at him.

"When have you ever watched—"

"Been married three times," he pointed out distastefully. He remembered the television show with great animosity—mostly because Stephanie used to constantly ask him which girl she reminded him of.

She bit her lower lip and raised her eyebrow. She lowered her voice, and looked at him through her lashes. He gave her a look, and then straightened, took a shot of bourbon, and shuffled around his tools. He picked up a hammer and started dusting it, and she took his silence as tacit acceptance of her desire to complain to him.

"Men," she growled swiftly, "do not understand what it's like to be—short changed in bed," she remarked—with emphasis.

She shifted her feet restlessly, still struggling with the unsatisfied ache in her bones and muscles that she'd felt since last weekend—and still irrationally annoyed at what the poor bastard she'd slept with naturally couldn't help.

Gibbs smacked the hammer on the counter to test it, listening in a very blasé, careless way.

She turned her neck from side to side and ran her hand through her hair again, debating last minute whether or not she wanted to do this—because she knew she'd have him hook, line, and sinker if she went any further, and she herself wouldn't want to back out. Things could get messy—but he had something she—needed and needed badly.

"Jethro," she burst out finally, gritting her teeth in exasperation. "This guy, he was just…so small."

Gibbs grunted vaguely.

He ran his hands over the hammer, and she watched him, her breath catching in her throat. She waited—what seemed like a lifetime—until he seemed to catch on to what she was implying and abruptly look over at her. She pursed her lips and he blinked at her intently, his features schooled.

He cocked an eyebrow slightly.

"I almost couldn't feel it," she admitted, and then pressed her fingers to her mouth apologetically, closing her eyes briefly.

She slid her hand from her lips to her hair, and took a peek at him—and when she did, discovered he was looking at her intently. He held up the hammer in his hands.

"You need to borrow this?" he asked seriously.

She gave him a scandalized look and a breathless laugh and lunged out to shove his hand away, knocking the hammer out of his hands and onto the counter. He reached over sharply to catch his bourbon before it spilled and she leaned forward, her hair falling over her shoulders.

"Your hand tools aren't sanitary," she murmured conspiratorially, lifting her eyebrow suggestively.

He tossed the rag he'd been cleaning them off with at her pointedly, but narrowed his eyes.

"What're you doing here, Jen?" he repeated his earlier question in a lower voice, his eyes flicking down to her mouth this time—and then quickly back up to her antsy eyes.

She licked her lower lip slowly, and hesitated, reaching out to steal his jar of bourbon from him—hers was long empty. She cleared her throat huskily and lifted it, swirling the amber liquid around a bit.

"It occurred to me that you are not," she stopped, and swallowed hard, lifting the jar to her lips. "Small," she finished hoarsely, and took a very pointed sip. "If I remember correctly," she reflected casually.

He studied her coolly, his expression unchanging. Then—something distinctly smug flared in his eyes and he glanced down at his tools. He looked up, and he was smirking—but for a comical second, she couldn't tell if it was pride or—if he was slightly embarrassed.

"You're one hell of a kiss-ass, Jen," he said gruffly, rubbing his jaw and shifting his weight.

She shook her head a little, letting her eyes drift down his chest to his belt.

"I'm not merely stroking your ego," she said tightly. "I keep thinking—of that first time in Marseille," she bit down on the edge of her Mason jar. "You're not small," she reiterated.

"We talkin' eighth wonder of the world?" he joked smugly.

"Do not tease me," she said dangerously, chewing on her bottom lip. "I want," she started, and then faltered—she was too—uptight to detail explicitly what exactly she wanted, but in this case, it wasn't so much emotionally him as physically—him, though she wasn't the kind of woman to say aloud that she didn't care if he even looked at her.

Casually, he picked up the hammer, grabbed her hand, and pressed them together.

"Go to town," he deadpanned wryly.

She shoved him in the chest with her free hand and blushed beautifully, her knuckles turning white as she gripped the slim grip on the hand tool. He threw up his hand to block another physical attack from her, and grabbed her at the hip—to hold her back, he told himself. She turned the hammer over, and dragged the pronged nail remover on the back of it down his forearm lightly, shaking her head.

"This doesn't come close," she complimented softly.

At that, he raised his eyebrows, his expression considerably more serious. His hand moved on her hip, applying pressure, thoughtfully pulling her a little closer. She thrust the jar in her hand back onto the counter, lifting her eyes to his aggressively. She clutched his T-shirt, narrowing her eyes.

"If you're committed to—her," she began warningly.

He lifted his shoulders vaguely and shook his head. It had been one night—and one night did not a relationship make. He wasn't feeling particularly willing to talk about other women at the moment—in fact, his conscience concerning doing right by Hollis had become slightly blurred by Jenny's—admiration—

She gracefully stumbled forward and he caught her against his chest, his hand slipping around her until his arm was wrapped around her waist. He shifted, straightening up slightly, elbow resting on the counter, and cocked his head to the side—

She kissed him.

He pulled her closer, giving into that kiss easily. She was always so easy to kiss—and maybe that was familiarity, maybe it was because she was good, but kissing her was always damn near irresistible.

He liked the satisfied, relieved little moan that vibrated from her lips to his, and he grinned into her mouth in a way that was charming and conceited. He gripped her a tighter and casually shoved the stuff on his counter backwards in anticipation. He shifted, and she nodded her head slightly.

He didn't have to lift her onto the counter as much as she climbed up, her lips parted anxiously. Her foot caught in his jeans as she tried to situate herself around his waist and he snorted, amused, helping her get comfortable—smart of her to wear a skirt, he thought.

He slid his hands over her knees, stopping mid-thigh and massaging teasingly, and leaned forward to nip at her neck, growling in satisfaction when she tilted her head back and gasped. She squeezed his shoulders, and then ran her hands down his chest, tugging on his shirt insistently. He didn't budge, didn't move to let her rip it off, and she whimpered, pressing her lips to his temple seductively.

Her hands fell to his belt, and he let her unbuckle it before he pushed her hands away and drew back, raking his eyes over her. His mouth opened slightly and he sucked in his breath—he reached out and yanked her shirt from her skirt, untucking it, and then rapidly unbuttoning it. He pushed it off her shoulders and leaned forward to press kisses to the swell of her breasts briefly.

He hitched her skirt up higher, wrinkling it underneath her, and reached for her panties, only to discover—

"What if I'd said no?" he growled huskily, slightly affronted that she'd been so confident in her ability to seduce him that she'd worn no panties.

"I'd have the hammer," she retorted hoarsely, and reached for his hands, dragging them closer to her, pressing them into her thighs.

He fought her hands off and slipped a hand between her legs, thankful for less material to remove, and he touched her. His fingers slipped against her and he bit back an impressed groan—she gasped huskily, and stroked his fingers over her reverently.

"Damn," he choked, his mouth dry.

He looked up at her.

"I've barely touched you," he growled.

"Jethro," she managed shakily, reaching for his neck. She stroked his jaw, her fingers running over his throat. "I told you—I've been thinking about you—your," she broke off, losing her breath, "all week," she choked out.

"Christ," he muttered—and then her lips where on his again, and she was fervently letting her hands rake down his chest for his jeans, pushing them down his hips until she heard them hit the floor around his ankles.

She searched for the opening in his boxers, and he slapped her hands away and just pushed them off, reaching for her hips and yanking her closer, dragging her to the edge of the counter.

She fought his shirt over his head and clutched it in one of her hands. Her heels dug into his lower back and he gently coaxed her knees apart, pulling his hand away from her and maneuvering between them—he sensed she didn't want him to push her too far before he was inside her, and he didn't have any interest in that, either.

Jenny bit her lip and kissed him urgently again, her hands fumbling between them until she found hot, hard flesh, and she moaned, her hands shaking—she mumbled what sounded like a prayer of relief and ran her palm over him until he thrust against her.

"Jen," he ground out.

She nodded, biting her lip—he felt her teeth against his jaw, and he pulled her closer, lifting her a little and letting her guide him against her. He watched her, his jaw tight, resisting the urge to thrust into her as hard as he could—until she looked at him through her lashes and nodded again.

He gripped her thigh tightly and pushed it up around his ribs, acquiescing to her need and slamming into her with everything he had. She dug her nails into his shoulder and cried out hoarsely, her eyes closing heavily.

Her stomach tightened and she bit her lip for a moment, before she gasped heavily and moaned. She felt like—crying it was so good, so much better than that nightmare last weekend—she was right in remembering that he was perfect, well-endowed enough to really fuck her without it being a stressed, painful ordeal. She never had any trouble taking him, after all.

"Jen," he groaned through gritted teeth, his breath ragged. He was restless, and he wanted to know if she was okay for him to move—but she shook her head.

"Hold still," she requested. "God, Jethro, just—don't move," she pleaded breathlessly.

She braced one hand behind her, and spilled the remaining bourbon all over the place—he gave her an annoyed look, his muscles aching, and he rocked against her a little anyway; he couldn't stand it much longer—

She caught her breath in a hoarse, high-pitched gasp.

She opened her eyes, and the pleasure he got from the star-struck glitter in them was going to bolster his arrogance for days. She moaned softly and licked her lips.

"Do that again," she panted huskily. "I—I'll come," she told him, almost stunned herself.

He raised his eyebrows and pulled his head back a little to stare at her, startled, and she just licked her lips again. He smirked, and executed the same slow, easy rocking movement against her, though a little rougher this time, and she arched her back, his name tumbling from her lips.

"God—Jethro, god!" she cried.

She seized hold of whatever hand tool was closest for something to dig her nails into—and was too far gone to realize the humor in it being the hammer.

He took that as a compliment—and as permission, and grit his teeth, lowering his forehead to her collarbone as he thrust into her—over and over again, chasing her climax hard. He caught up with her—right when she collapsed against him and pressed her lips shakily to his neck, and buried himself in her, closing his eyes tight against her neck as he came.

He thought he shouted her name a little too loudly, but his ears were ringing, and his memory was blitzed for that final split second—he was too high on flattery and the grand finale. He sank his teeth into her shoulder for good measure and she whimpered appreciatively, her lips still nipping against his throat.

He didn't step back just yet—he slid his hand from her hips and slipped it between her thighs, stroking his hand over her in a rapid, light motion. She gasped and flinched away for a moment, sensitive, and then he had her again—just the right pressure, just enough to show he still knew her that well, and just enough to give her a second orgasm—since it seemed the little guy hadn't even presented her with one.

She moaned his name over and over, leaning heavily against his chest, basking in the tight, full feeling of him—Jethro—still buried inside her like this.

She tightened all over again, and then she relaxed again, wrapping her body around him as if he were the only thing supporting her—and he very nearly was. He breathed out slowly, resting for a moment before he pulled out gently and then leaned his forehead against hers.

"Damn," he muttered hoarsely.

She licked her lips, biting down hard on the swollen bottom lip. She composed herself for a moment, taking deep, shuddering breaths, and then laughed huskily.

"That's what I call an endowment," she mumbled, smirking to herself.

He wiped his hand behind her on the counter, soaking his palm in the spilled whiskey, and then flicked it into her hair, turning his lips into the tangled red locks and breathing in for good measure.

"Services cost you a bottle of bourbon," he growled wickedly.

She laughed, reaching between them suggestively to give him an affectionate swat—and in light of the incredible ego boost she'd given him—and the physical satisfaction he'd hammered her with—he completely forgot there was a blonde waiting for him to call.

the hammer thing, i just
i can't stop laughing

-alexandra
story #64