A/N: My typical signature mix of smuttyness and brash humor (with a little of the DiNozzo goofball-ness). I think my favorite part of this little ficlet is that I was able to use 'flummoxed'. Grade A word, that one.

Ziva x Tony = Tiva.

Polygot: n; a person who speaks, writes, or reads a number of languages / adj; having command of many languages / n; a mixture or confusion of languages / synonyms: multilingual .

DiNozzo groaned appreciatively, his fingers fisting into the sheets next to her tangled, dark hair, pulling tightly on strands of the curls. He clenched his jaw, brow furrowed slightly, trying to block out her constant stream of husky, seductive murmuring—as much as he liked her voice, he found it hard to stay in the moment, even if he was focused on the glinting Star of David clinging to her sweaty skin, when he had no fucking clue what she was saying.

"Ziva," he mumbled, lowering his lips to her collarbone.

She arched under him, her words hitching higher in her throat.

"Ken," she murmured, and he would have been offended, if he hadn't known it was yes in Hebrew. "Ne vous arretez pas," she moaned. "Тоny, Тony, дай мне это."

"Ziva!" Tony barked.

He stopped moving and stared at her, bracing his hands on either side of her shoulders. He glared at her until she opened her eyes; he moved one hand and and pushed her shoulder into the tangled sheets, looking at her in mild annoyance.

"What?" she breathed, her chest heaving. A cute wrinkled appeared in her brow—she was clearly flummoxed at his interruption. He assumed it was because she'd been really into it, really close, but then again, he didn't know, because he couldn't—

"I can't understand you," he growled at her, looking a bit sheepish.

She shifted beneath him, her skin sliding against his, moving her legs in a maddeningly teasing way. Her knee slid against his hip and he shuddered, clenching his jaw. He gripped her shoulders tighter, as if warning her not to move. She ran her hands over his chest.

"Do not stop," she reprimanded him, a hint of a whine hitting her throaty voice.

He pushed her hands off his chest and slid his fingers into hers, giving her a serious glare.

"How'm I supposed to know that's what you want?" he asked, nettled.

"What are you talking about, Tony?" Ziva asked him dangerously.

"You!" DiNozzo retorted, lowering his mouth to hers, his eyes boring into her deep brown ones. "You—speaking ten thousand languages in bed!"

Every damn time they slept together, Ziva babbled off into her own world of—well, whatever foreign languages she was fluent in.

Ziva blinked at him, her lips compressed in an unreadable, threatening manner. She arched one eyebrow.

"This bothers you?" she asked mildly.

She shifted her hips again and he made a strangled noise, reaching down to grab her hip.

"Jesus," he muttered. "Stop moving."

"No," she retorted. "You start moving."

"Not until you swear you'll stick to English."

Her eyes flashed.

"I cannot control what comes out of my mouth in the throes of passion," she told him flippantly. "I do not see what the problem is."

"I don't speak those languages, that's the damn problem!" whined Tony. "I dunno if you want me to stop or pick up the pace or, er," he faltered, his cheeks reddening a little. "It wouldn't matter if you were saying normal stuff, but—"

"Normal?" she scoffed. "What is normal?"

"Uh," Tony stammered, flushing again. "You know, like yes, yes, yes!" he mumbled gruffly. "I can figure out yes in any language. But you," he swallowed. "You carry on complex conversations!"

She laughed at him, throwing her head back, her skin moving against his silkily again. He groaned in frustration and lowered his forehead to her chest, the Star of David pressing into his skin warmly.

"Ziva," he moaned desperately.

At first he'd been too absorbed in his sheer good fortune in finally sleeping with her to notice how vocal she was in the bedroom—hadn't she said she was a screamer once?—and he didn't mind that Ziva was loud because he liked loud women, and really, what else could he expect from Mossad's finest? But when he was a man whose bedroom vocabulary was a limited repertoire of muted, reverent swearing and pleas with a deity, it was distracting to be with a woman who talked to him consistently in freakin' Turkish or Russian or—well, okay, the Italian was sexy.

But not the Arabic. He sometimes recognized Arabic, and then he got a little scared of her, actually.

Ziva thumped him on the shoulder with her thumb and forefinger, her eyes flashing at him menacingly.

"I will kill you, Tony," she hissed, thwarted in her quest for pleasure by his whining.

He gulped.

"See, that you can say in a language I don't understand," he tried, flashing a goofy smirk.

She sighed and raised her eyes to the ceiling, and then she shoved her hands into his shoulders and forced him onto his back, flipping them over and adjusting their position. He moved his lips in a silent prayer as she slid down onto him and leaned down slowly, molding her body tightly to his.

Her lips touched his tauntingly.

"You would prefer I be silent?"

"No," he mumbled distractedly, as her tongue traced the contours of his bottom lip. He was lured into silence by her kiss for a moment, and then he gasped for breath and threw his head back, his pulse quickening. "Just want to know what you're sayin', Ziva."

She cocked her head curiously.

"Is it not enough that I am naked?" she asked logically. "Must you also know what's in my heart?"

He laughed.

"You're speaking from the heart?" he teased.

"Perhaps that is why you cannot understand it," she fired back smoothly.

He reached out and cupped her cheek.

"Woman told me once that speaking from the heart during physical pursuits doesn't mean anything," he said, arching his brows.

Ziva tilted her head, her dark eyes wise.

"I do not believe that," she remarked callously. "That is only true if the bed is the only place you ever speak that way."

DiNozzo rolled his eyes, sighing. His hand ran through her hair and over her back, fingers going over her spine until they reached her lower back and he tried to coax her to move her hips on top of him, his lips brushing hers again.

"Will you just speak English?" he asked, exasperated.

She smiled.

"I have already told you, I cannot help it."

"Try, Ziva," he ordered petulantly. "It weirds me out when you start yelling in Turkish."

"It was Russian," she corrected. "And French," she trilled, her voice low and husky.

"Whatever," he growled. "This isn't a late night advertisement for Rosetta stone."

She cocked an eyebrow and leaned back, her hair falling over her shoulders, giving him a beautiful view of her, completely naked on top of him. He spared a good look and a silent prayer of thanks to whatever God was listening. She brought his hands to her abdomen, pulling them up towards her breasts, and kissed his fingertips.

"Tony," she said wryly, moving her hips slowly, "if you were doing anything wrong, I would be speaking English."

He grinned, his eyes on her, letting his hands wander over her skin and his gaze linger on his face as she tilted her head, lower lip bitten in concentration, eyes half-closed while she picked up a rhythm—to get them back to where they'd been before he'd so rudely interrupted for a translation.

"Tony—" she breathed, her voice catching. She tilted her head back, lips parting sexily. "Girami."

It was Italian, and though it was more than he knew—he knew her well enough to sense what she wanted, and he pulled her down to his chest and flipped her under him, ravishing her lips and neck with kisses when he took over, thrusting hard and fast.

He growled his few customary curses, his lips pressing against the Star of David, and it wasn't long before she had broken into some unintelligible language again, her nails raking down his back, just enough to mark the skin a little. He managed to hold out until her hand found its way into his hair and she pulled, screaming out a few choice, completely different words—and he seriously hadn't ever heard that language before—and throwing her head back.

DiNozzo pulled her hips tight against his, his lips still pressed to her necklace, moving them soundlessly, and shuddered, coming down slow, savoring the afterglow for a moment before he collapsed next to her, his arm slung over her abdomen.

Ziva relaxed on her back, eyes on the ceiling, an enticing, cat-who-caught-the-canary look on her lush mouth. DiNozzo rubbed his head, pulled his hand over his jaw, and groaned in appreciation, peering at her from the pillow.

"What the hell language was that?" he panted curiously.

Ziva laughed.

"I was not aware I spoke Gallic," she mused silkily.

DiNozzo raised his eyebrows. She moved her legs against his lazily.

"I may have picked it up working IRA contacts when Shepard was posing as that Irish whore," she murmured.

"Nah," DiNozzo drawled smugly, raising up on one arm and looking down at her loftily. "Think I just make you speak in tongues," he gloated, and preened like a peacock awash with sexual prowess.

She snorted, cocking an eyebrow at him.

"Hey, that makes me God, right?" Tony joked, smirking.

"Tony," she said, feigning shock. Ziva leaned over and sank her teeth in a gentle nip into his shoulder, her lashes fluttering against his skin. She hissed:

"That is blasphemy."

Translations:

"Ken" [Hebrew] = "Yes"
"Ne vous arretez pas" [French, albeit formal] = "Do not stop"
"дай мне это" [Russian] = "Give it to me"
"Girami" [Italian] = "Flip me on my back"

Special thanks to: Marzia (MarciaRebaFan) for providing Italian translation for me (she's a native speaker!) and understanding with good nature the quirks of needing to ask for sex phrases when fanfiction is involved!

-Alexandra
story #125