A/N: Hello, long-neglected pasttime! In light of my finishing of possibly the most important essay of my lifetime, I granted myself a little time to indulge in writing, which I have sorely missed since Senior Year and college applications began a tyrranical rule over my life. It is short, smutty, and new-but I've noticed a disappointing lack of Jibbs lately, so dig in.

It was a lazy, contented sort of thoughtful mien that graced the redhead's face as she lay, relaxed; in an awkward-comfortable half-on her back half-on her side position, unperturbed by the cool air of her bedroom that slightly chilled her skin.

She pursed her lips, moving them from half-bitten to half-pouted, and shifted her head, not yet ready to punctuate the silence with her answer to his out-of-the-blue question. The afternoon had been heavy on the sex and light on the conversation; in keeping with the no-obligation terms of the sporadic dialogue she was only half-focused—she was relishing the moment, the ease, and the feel of his warm, soothing breath on her neck and his rough, skilled hand massaging her bare thigh too high for modesty and too low for sin.

Jenny lifted her arm and slipped it behind her head, turning her eyes toward Jethro and considering him a moment before she parted her lips and flicked her green eyes down to his wood-work calloused hand and providing the answer she'd been pondering.

"I like it when you're rough with me."

The break in the soothing rhythm of his hand was subtle, and he recovered quickly, exerting some force to pull her leg up a little, running his hand familiarly over her knee and back up her thigh, his fingers sweeping low.

"Rough?" he asked, arching an eyebrow, a smidge of suspicion, or uncertainty, blinking in his cobalt eyes. His voice was quiet and deep, like gravel. The corner of her mouth danced up in a smirk.

"Rough," she murmured provocatively. He applied heavier pressure to her thigh and pushed her leg up, his palm covering her knee and running over her skin with more aggressive purpose. She twitched her nose and glanced at him through her lashes. She shook her head almost imperceptibly.

"I like it when you talk rough," she amended.

His face was unreadable for a moment. He arched an eyebrow and smirked.

"You want me to call you filthy whore while I fuck you?"

She lifted her eyes heavenward as a blush scrambled across her nose and cheeks. She swallowed and her eyes closed briefly before she glared at him mildly, a little taken aback that he had in fact said that to her.

"I said talk rough to me, Jethro; not talk dirty."

"Vague," he grunted.

"You asked," she retorted passively, her mind still ambling through her thought process. She chewed her bottom lip lightly and watched him run his hand possessively over her leg. She threaded her fingers through her hair; he made a growling sound in the back of his throat, frustrated with her, and she grinned lopsidedly.

Jenny let her head fall closer to his broad shoulder, her eyes cast up at him impishly.

"I like—the aggression. It's subtle. You don't know you do it. You say what you want. You push and pin me where you want. I like it."

"You hate being bossed around."

She arched an elegant eyebrow.

"Not in bed," she whipped back in a low, whisper of a voice.

Jethro moved his foot where his leg was tangled between hers and pushed the calf of hers that was farthest away from him towards the edge of the bed.

"Disappointing," he decided provokingly, deeming her preference unsatisfying. And it was, when into account was taken the fetishes of some much less complicated women.

His redhead smirked.

"I like—"

"Shut-up," he interrupted roughly. He leaned over her and pressed his lips to her neck, his teeth catching against the skin protecting her carotid artery. She tilted her head back. His hand snaked up her torso and he pressed her shoulder into her own bed.

"Get on your back," he said in her ear, curving his fingers in a grip around her shoulder.

She slowly adjusted to comply and Jethro was on top of her, his hip pressed against her raised knee.

"Mmmm," the moan was muffled in her throat; she arched her back, breathing deeply through the initial shock and brief discomfort of his moving into her without forewarning—or foreplay—and yanking her arm from beneath her neck to hold his shoulder.

Jethro slipped his hand behind her head and into her hair, entangling and tightening his fingers. He pressed his mouth against hers hard, holding her lips to his, relying on his instincts and carnal knowledge of her—not to mention to tremble in her hand as her manicured nails scraped his shoulder—to inform him of her state.

Jenny moaned against his lips as he pushed his thrusts deeper, her knee digging into his hip as he made love to her slowly—in the quickest way possible.

She gasped for air, abandoning his tongue and his lips, her eyes closed, lip bitten, short, sharp cries escaping her intoxicating mouth. He tightened his grip in her hair, bracing his palm against her shoulder; the tight contraction of her muscles triggered the dizzying rush of his climax before the force of hers hit and she thrust her head back, a loud moan of satisfaction hitting his ears.

Jenny winced when he pulled out and settled next to her with hardly a moment to let her catch her breath; Jethro groaned softly, dragging her towards him on the bed.

"Like that?"

She made a kittenish noise of approval, her breathing uneven. Her brows furrowed and she sighed.

"Rough, Jen?"

"Jethro," she murmured softly, "I like it because…if someone doesn't rule me sometimes, if I can't find someone to relinquish control to…" she trailed off, her voice faltering. "Rough keeps it real. Sane."

Jethro let his forehead fall against hers and she smirked, rolling her eyes as their skulls knocked a little unpleasantly.

He did not have a reply; not even a monosybyllic one. He looked at her lightly closed eyes and sweat-shiny white skin and then reached up and ran his hand over her damp hair.

"I know what you like," he said bluntly.

"I know," she said softly. "You're why I like it rough. You don't hesitate. You don't have to."

He instinctively ran his fingers feather-like down her spine and she shivered, drawing air in through her lips shakily.

"Mmmm."

He smirked.

She opened an eye as if to make a point, and then demurely flashed a wicked smirk at him with her emerald eyes through her thick lashes.

"If it's dirty talk you like, Jethro," she insinuated in a sultry voice…

"...loving me is like straightening curls...you've got me wondering why I, I like it rough, I, I like it rough..." -Lady Gaga, I Like It Rough