#danni writes

She didn’t sleep that night. She lay tangled in her sheets, body slick with sweat, pillowcase damp beneath her cheek. When she closed her eyes, instead of blackness she found the hot glare of an endless desert, sand burning her skin, the air dry and metallic in her lungs. She saw boots in the dust, could feel the weight of rough hands pinning her shoulders, a foreign voice barking barely intelligible words. Her throat ached with the phantom of old screams, and even in her dream she knew no one would come. She woke every hour, heart pounding so loud she was sure the neighbors could hear. Sometimes she’d forget where she was, and for a split-second she’d brace for an impact that never came. Other times, she’d open her eyes and find the ceiling above her perfectly still, the safe hum of the refrigerator, the blurry orange numbers of her alarm clock glowing in the dark. But relief never followed. The memories clung to her, sticky and electric, and she spent the night cycling between half-sleep and the sharp, airless fear of waking from drowning. When the sun finally began to rise, Ziva was sitting upright in bed, fingers pressed flat against the comforter, counting her own breaths. She felt emptied out, brittle, as if her bones were made of chalk and the slightest touch might splinter her. But at least the night was over. At least she could move.

WIP - No title yet - Fic focusing on dealing with the Somalia trauma season 7.

Who would be interested in the most filthy, slutty, smutty, disgusting, Jeongin smut to ever be written?

Hey y'all!

She almost did. In the few seconds that followed, Ziva felt the ghost of a thousand unlived futures flickering between them, Sunday mornings and joint grocery lists, quiet evenings with a son or a daughter maybe, the kind of everyday domesticity she’d never allowed herself to want. She saw all of it, all at once, and then she let it go. There was no other way. Slowly, she eased herself out of his arms, hands lingering on his face as if to memorize the angles. Tony didn’t resist. He only watched her, eyes searching for something to carry with him after she’s gone. She brought her hand down to his, threading her fingers through his the way she might have once, before the world became sharp and brittle between them. She squeezed, firm and deliberate, as if she could force memory and meaning into the gesture. For a heartbeat, Tony just stared at their joined hands, as if he didn’t quite believe in the reality of them, here, now, together in a reality about to disappear. “Let me make you dinner,” she said, the words light but edged with the ache of everything left unsaid. She hesitated, then added, “My mother’s favourite.” She didn’t say ‘for the last time,’ but it was there, suspended in the hush between their breathing. Ziva tried to remember the last time she’d offered anyone something so simple, so intimate, and could only recall faded fragments: a kitchen in Tel Aviv, her mother’s hands teaching her how to slice onions without tears, laughter thick with olive oil and the steam from boiling pots. She wanted to give Tony that memory, give him the warmth of it, as if by feeding him she could feed the part of her that still wanted to trust in something soft.

Thanks @indestinatus for the tag and keeping me relevant around here 💜

Tony’s hands, always animated in daylight, became something altogether different in the blue-shadowed night, his palms shaping her with a focus that slowed her own breathing. He started at her waist, fingers threading just under the hem of her shirt. Ziva had expected cold, or at least a cautious touch, but he ran hot even at rest; the contact set her skin alight. Above, the other hand, her hand still folded loosely over it, traced the rise of her sternum through the thin fabric, then methodically went to work on the buttons of her shirt, each one opening with a snap and a slackening of her composure. She laughed softly when she realized his intention, the sound carried away on the wind before either of them could claim it. She should have guessed Tony would want this, would want her, right here above the city, not waiting even for the safety of bedsheets or privacy. It was a dare and a kind of devotion at the same time, and she felt herself responding in two directions: one part of her tense with the thrill of exposure, another melting with the comfort of being seen, truly seen. She found herself smiling, an involuntary, almost embarrassed thing, as he slipped another button free, his knuckles grazing down the line of her ribs. “You going to undress me on the balcony, Tony?” she whispered, her voice nearly lost to the hush of the city below and the deeper hush between them. It was half a joke, but part of her hoped he was as reckless as she wanted him to be. He didn’t answer at first, just nosed into her shoulder so she felt the heat of his mouth curve into a smile. “If you let me, I will” he murmured, the words tickling down her spine. He moved the hand beneath her shirt higher, palm sliding up the warm plane of her stomach, fingers splayed as if to memorize every muscle. She sucked in a breath at the sensation, his touch both a question and a claim, and she knew, suddenly, she wasn’t nervous at all.

-Chapter 15, This Part Was Always Easy For Us.

Tony cleared his throat, voice rough around the edges “We’re not kids, Boss.” Gibbs let out a breath, more a sigh than an exhale “I know you’re not. That’s the goddamn problem.” He looked at Ziva then and she saw the calculation working behind his eyes, the weighing of risk and cost, the familiar calculus of mission and loss. But this was personal and for Gibbs, personal had always been both the engine and the flaw. He rubbed his hand over his face and for a moment Ziva glimpsed the exhaustion behind the facade. “How is this supposed to work?” he said, voice softer now, but no less sharp. “You think the world’s gonna look at you the same way? You think the Navy Yard’s got room for…” He trailed off, not quite able to articulate the shape of his own concern. The question hovered in the air, heavy as a verdict. Ziva felt Tony’s gaze on her, waiting to see how she’d respond. She realized, with a jolt, that Gibbs wasn’t just talking about the job, he was talking about family and trust, and what happened when the two collided.

WIP - Foundation (Cornerstone Sequel).

She moved through the city as if she were undercover, mapping every escape route, every cluster of loiterers that might become hostile if the light hit them wrong. It was a habit, baked into her bones before she’d even known the word trauma. But then, so was the other thing, the need to prove to herself, and whoever was watching, that she could outlast anything. She’d spent her whole life being tested, first by her father, then by strangers, then by the people she’d chosen to call family. She had passed every test except the one that asked her to pause, to admit she was not immune to damage. She reached the crosswalk and waited, letting her thoughts tangle like the earbuds of the teenager next to her. Therapy. The word itself felt like a dare, one she was not sure she was allowed to accept. There were still times, even now, when she imagined her father’s voice in her head, low, precise, telling her that pain was a luxury, that to name it made it real. She had stopped believing him, mostly. But his lessons had a half-life, and in her weakest moments, she found herself hoarding injuries rather than treating them. She was supposed to be at work. She was supposed to be neck-deep in evidence bags and witness statements, or lurking in the bullpen pretending not to care when Tony mocked her mixed up idioms. Instead, she was here, walking to an appointment she’d avoided for months. It felt a little like calling in air support. It also felt like surrender.

Multi-chap fic. Season 7, post Somalia.