ficlet: handle with care
Strip away the job--that's first. Peel off the badge, the weight of responsibility, the ramrod-straight posture of duty you carry. Let it go, let it pile in the corner. You don't need it now.
Next is the outer skin, the face you present to the world. You can let go of the lover, the ex-husband, the Marine--all these pieces that make you up, that come together to assemble one Leroy Jethro Gibbs, with the second 'B' for bastard. You don't need them, either, and they go in the corner on top of the job.
All your worries and cares, now. Those can float away, or sink, or crawl across the floor; you don't care. Whether or not that patch in the kitchen is a leak or will be one, the insulation you need to put on the living room windows, the power bill, McGee's latest report and Ziva's current attitude--you don't need them. You don't want them. And you let them go.
What's left now, after all this is gone, is you. Nothing more, nothing less. Just you, the man who's seen too much and done both too much and too little. The man who's still searching for answers, even after life's told you over and over again that there aren't any. The man who's been slapped around and shoved back and forth by life and love until you don't know what you believe anymore, only that you believe something--this is you. This is who you are.
This is you, and the only thing you care about right now is the person kneeling on the floor in front of you, the collar black and snug around his neck, the cuffs leather and metal against his wrists.
He doesn't know why you do this, and you've never seen fit to enlighten him. It's not his business why you take him in on these nights. It's not his concern why you do this to him.
The only thing you want Tony to focus on is you, and what you expect from him. The only thing he needs to be aware of is you. Anything else is extraneous.
You know he's trying. You know he's doing his best. But you also know that even as he kneels on the floor, naked and chained, his posture utterly submissive and his face serene, part of him is still thinking about his car, his apartment, the last movie he rented and how old that Chinese food is in the back of his fridge.
This is unacceptable.
You won't say anything to him, of course. It's not really his fault he can't do this on command, the way you can. But then again...if he could, he wouldn't be here. He needs you to take him apart, to take him down to his core until nothing of him is left, until he's flown apart in front of you. When the workday gets too much, when the caseload gets too heavy, when life is just overwhelming...this is when he comes to you. This is when he kneels in front of you in your foyer, hands palm-up on his thighs and eyes cast down.
He needs you to break him. But what he doesn't understand, and what you'll never tell him, is that you need to break him just as badly.
You don't do this just for him. You're just not that altruistic. No, you do this because you need control, and Tony gives you that. Tony gives you complete control when you're together like this. You could choke him, stop his breath, and you don't think he'd fight back. You never will, of course; if you push Tony past what he can handle, he won't come back, and that too is unacceptable. But the simple knowledge that you could makes you smile.
Does it make you a sadist, that you enjoy his pain? Does it make you cruel, that you love seeing the marks on his skin caused by your hand, your whip?
Do you care?
Yes. Or no. Or perhaps a bit of both. Like so much else, it doesn't matter.
You watch Tony coldly, compassionately, as he writhes under the lash. You ignore the fatigue in your arm as the blows fall. He's not there yet. He's breaking but he's not broken yet, and you won't stop until he is. He deserves nothing less.
Neither do you.
But you can see him beginning to shatter. You hear it in his voice, in the hitch in his breath, the way he chokes on the tears rolling down his face. It won't take much more. Just one more--
He screams, and there's pain and anger and freedom in it and you barely get him on the bed before he's spreading his legs and begging wordlessly for you to take him. He's broken, now; there's nothing left but what you've made of him, and the only thing he can think--can feel--is his need for you.
So you slick your cock and you push into him and you take him, and as you do you whisper to him, telling him over and over that he is yours, that you have him, that he is safe. He needs to hear it as much as you need to tell him. The time for pain is over; now is the time for connection.
Tony comes with a cry and a moan and it's only seconds later that you grunt and bite his shoulder and come inside him. And for a long while, neither of you moves. You're exhausted, drained from the evening, and you're not sure Tony's even awake. He may have blacked out when he came; it's happened before.
Eventually, however, you pull out of him carefully and go to the bathroom, cleaning up with a damp washcloth and returning to the bedroom with a fresh cloth and a tube of ointment. He's still half-conscious as you wipe him off and tend the angry weals that stripe his back and his ass, and you have to shove him a few times before he gets the concept of moving under the covers.
You turn off the light and settle in next to him, holding him against you. He sighs a little and snuggles closer and you smile as you stroke his hair and listen to him fall asleep.
Everything you piled in the corner will be there in the morning, and it's in the morning that you'll put it all on again. You'll put on the suit of responsibility and duty and you'll drink your attitude with your coffee. Tony will, as well; he'll settle the facade of the ladies' man on with his turtleneck and he'll slide into his frat-boy persona as easily as he steps into his ridiculously expensive shoes.
The invisible, tangible pile in the corner is what you are. The person lying in bed now is who you are.
It may be schizophrenic, it may be insane, but it's your life.
this one is for crimsonquills, who asked me to write something from the Dom's point of view. I also seem to be trying to write one of these either every day or every other day; if y'all get sick of 'em, lemme know,
Next is the outer skin, the face you present to the world. You can let go of the lover, the ex-husband, the Marine--all these pieces that make you up, that come together to assemble one Leroy Jethro Gibbs, with the second 'B' for bastard. You don't need them, either, and they go in the corner on top of the job.
All your worries and cares, now. Those can float away, or sink, or crawl across the floor; you don't care. Whether or not that patch in the kitchen is a leak or will be one, the insulation you need to put on the living room windows, the power bill, McGee's latest report and Ziva's current attitude--you don't need them. You don't want them. And you let them go.
What's left now, after all this is gone, is you. Nothing more, nothing less. Just you, the man who's seen too much and done both too much and too little. The man who's still searching for answers, even after life's told you over and over again that there aren't any. The man who's been slapped around and shoved back and forth by life and love until you don't know what you believe anymore, only that you believe something--this is you. This is who you are.
This is you, and the only thing you care about right now is the person kneeling on the floor in front of you, the collar black and snug around his neck, the cuffs leather and metal against his wrists.
He doesn't know why you do this, and you've never seen fit to enlighten him. It's not his business why you take him in on these nights. It's not his concern why you do this to him.
The only thing you want Tony to focus on is you, and what you expect from him. The only thing he needs to be aware of is you. Anything else is extraneous.
You know he's trying. You know he's doing his best. But you also know that even as he kneels on the floor, naked and chained, his posture utterly submissive and his face serene, part of him is still thinking about his car, his apartment, the last movie he rented and how old that Chinese food is in the back of his fridge.
This is unacceptable.
You won't say anything to him, of course. It's not really his fault he can't do this on command, the way you can. But then again...if he could, he wouldn't be here. He needs you to take him apart, to take him down to his core until nothing of him is left, until he's flown apart in front of you. When the workday gets too much, when the caseload gets too heavy, when life is just overwhelming...this is when he comes to you. This is when he kneels in front of you in your foyer, hands palm-up on his thighs and eyes cast down.
He needs you to break him. But what he doesn't understand, and what you'll never tell him, is that you need to break him just as badly.
You don't do this just for him. You're just not that altruistic. No, you do this because you need control, and Tony gives you that. Tony gives you complete control when you're together like this. You could choke him, stop his breath, and you don't think he'd fight back. You never will, of course; if you push Tony past what he can handle, he won't come back, and that too is unacceptable. But the simple knowledge that you could makes you smile.
Does it make you a sadist, that you enjoy his pain? Does it make you cruel, that you love seeing the marks on his skin caused by your hand, your whip?
Do you care?
Yes. Or no. Or perhaps a bit of both. Like so much else, it doesn't matter.
You watch Tony coldly, compassionately, as he writhes under the lash. You ignore the fatigue in your arm as the blows fall. He's not there yet. He's breaking but he's not broken yet, and you won't stop until he is. He deserves nothing less.
Neither do you.
But you can see him beginning to shatter. You hear it in his voice, in the hitch in his breath, the way he chokes on the tears rolling down his face. It won't take much more. Just one more--
He screams, and there's pain and anger and freedom in it and you barely get him on the bed before he's spreading his legs and begging wordlessly for you to take him. He's broken, now; there's nothing left but what you've made of him, and the only thing he can think--can feel--is his need for you.
So you slick your cock and you push into him and you take him, and as you do you whisper to him, telling him over and over that he is yours, that you have him, that he is safe. He needs to hear it as much as you need to tell him. The time for pain is over; now is the time for connection.
Tony comes with a cry and a moan and it's only seconds later that you grunt and bite his shoulder and come inside him. And for a long while, neither of you moves. You're exhausted, drained from the evening, and you're not sure Tony's even awake. He may have blacked out when he came; it's happened before.
Eventually, however, you pull out of him carefully and go to the bathroom, cleaning up with a damp washcloth and returning to the bedroom with a fresh cloth and a tube of ointment. He's still half-conscious as you wipe him off and tend the angry weals that stripe his back and his ass, and you have to shove him a few times before he gets the concept of moving under the covers.
You turn off the light and settle in next to him, holding him against you. He sighs a little and snuggles closer and you smile as you stroke his hair and listen to him fall asleep.
Everything you piled in the corner will be there in the morning, and it's in the morning that you'll put it all on again. You'll put on the suit of responsibility and duty and you'll drink your attitude with your coffee. Tony will, as well; he'll settle the facade of the ladies' man on with his turtleneck and he'll slide into his frat-boy persona as easily as he steps into his ridiculously expensive shoes.
The invisible, tangible pile in the corner is what you are. The person lying in bed now is who you are.
It may be schizophrenic, it may be insane, but it's your life.
this one is for crimsonquills, who asked me to write something from the Dom's point of view. I also seem to be trying to write one of these either every day or every other day; if y'all get sick of 'em, lemme know,