Fic: Break the Cycle, Author: derRumtreiber, Rating: R
Title: Break the Cycle
Rating: R
Genre: little bit o' angst, I suppose
Word Count: 610
Warning(s): None
Spoiler(s): None
Summary: 50ficlets challenge - chained. One part out of five, not necessarily the first.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to DPB, CBS, Paramount, et al. No copyright infringement is intended.
AN: I really don't know what this is D: All I know is it's not really beta'd and there's more floating around somewhere that will get posted at some point.
There are times when McGee feels suffocated. When he feels like the world is closing in on him and pressing, pressing, pressing; when Gibbs is pressing for something, for what Tim can’t give him, smothering him with an intensity and fierce loyalty that keeps him at McGee’s side in ways that McGee has never been glued to him. It’s painful and he doesn’t know what to say, can’t know what to say, just wants it, sometimes, wants it to be over because if it was over he wouldn’t feel like this.
He hates that he feels like this. He hates that it’s come to this. He hates that he gives and Gibbs takes, and no questions asked -- that’s just the pecking order, yes sir, whatever you say, Boss. He hates that he lets Gibbs do it to him.
It’s 10:30 on a Tuesday morning, but he just ducks his head and keeps walking as he passes the Navy Yard. He should call, he knows. He should let somebody know. He should let Gibbs know, but Gibbs is the last person he wants to talk to right now. The director second to last.
It’s 11:45 and he sends Tony a text from the bottom of the elevator at the metro station at Adam’s Morgan. Not coming in today.
It’s 11:47 when he gets one back from Gibbs: Take the week.
He comes back to work the next Monday and Gibbs spends most of the morning in Autopsy, most of the afternoon just plain angry. Tony claps McGee on the back consolingly.
“It’s easier if you just tell him, Probie, instead of running,” Tony says. “Trust me. I know.”
And Tim knows. He knows. He always knows, and he always does, but this time he didn’t care, and so he didn’t.
When he makes his way into Gibbs’ basement that night, after being pushed and shoved and verbally beaten for the whole second half of the day, he shoves back. Literally and hard. Shoves Gibbs back into his boat, presses his knee a little too firmly between Gibbs legs and growls against his neck.
“Fuck you,” he whispers against taught, pulsing skin. “Fuck. You.”
Gibbs shrugs an idle shoulder, bitter juxtaposition of earlier. “Fine by me,” he answers.
McGee doesn’t bother to ask if he’s serious, because he doesn’t much care, is still too angry to care, and for the first time in their relationship the chain is finally broken. He tugs at zippers and an old, worn out sweatshirt and old, worn out jeans, lays Gibbs open like Gibbs has laid him open and embarrassingly bare so many times before. The chain is finally broken when he takes, takes so god damned hard, and Gibbs just gives it to him as McGee hisses “Fuck you,” again and again, every thrust and every syllable another line of a litany that he wants to shove down Gibbs’ throat.
“Fuck you, Jethro,” he almost sobs one final time, body shaking through his orgasm.
Gibbs lowers them both to the floor, thoroughly fucked and breathing heavy and still gloriously hard, and McGee likes it, loves it, revels in it, doesn’t move a god damned muscle, not until Gibbs’ shaking hands come up to run through McGee’s short hair.
“Please,” Gibbs whispers, voice rusty and strained. “Tim. Please. I--”
Please do this for me, he’s saying and Please make me come. And he’s saying Please don’t leave, or at least, as close as Jethro Gibbs will ever come to saying that.
It’s enough for McGee and he reaches down to touch, grasp, stroke, coax Gibbs into submission and relief. It’s enough to make him stay.
Rating: R
Genre: little bit o' angst, I suppose
Word Count: 610
Warning(s): None
Spoiler(s): None
Summary: 50ficlets challenge - chained. One part out of five, not necessarily the first.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to DPB, CBS, Paramount, et al. No copyright infringement is intended.
AN: I really don't know what this is D: All I know is it's not really beta'd and there's more floating around somewhere that will get posted at some point.
There are times when McGee feels suffocated. When he feels like the world is closing in on him and pressing, pressing, pressing; when Gibbs is pressing for something, for what Tim can’t give him, smothering him with an intensity and fierce loyalty that keeps him at McGee’s side in ways that McGee has never been glued to him. It’s painful and he doesn’t know what to say, can’t know what to say, just wants it, sometimes, wants it to be over because if it was over he wouldn’t feel like this.
He hates that he feels like this. He hates that it’s come to this. He hates that he gives and Gibbs takes, and no questions asked -- that’s just the pecking order, yes sir, whatever you say, Boss. He hates that he lets Gibbs do it to him.
It’s 10:30 on a Tuesday morning, but he just ducks his head and keeps walking as he passes the Navy Yard. He should call, he knows. He should let somebody know. He should let Gibbs know, but Gibbs is the last person he wants to talk to right now. The director second to last.
It’s 11:45 and he sends Tony a text from the bottom of the elevator at the metro station at Adam’s Morgan. Not coming in today.
It’s 11:47 when he gets one back from Gibbs: Take the week.
He comes back to work the next Monday and Gibbs spends most of the morning in Autopsy, most of the afternoon just plain angry. Tony claps McGee on the back consolingly.
“It’s easier if you just tell him, Probie, instead of running,” Tony says. “Trust me. I know.”
And Tim knows. He knows. He always knows, and he always does, but this time he didn’t care, and so he didn’t.
When he makes his way into Gibbs’ basement that night, after being pushed and shoved and verbally beaten for the whole second half of the day, he shoves back. Literally and hard. Shoves Gibbs back into his boat, presses his knee a little too firmly between Gibbs legs and growls against his neck.
“Fuck you,” he whispers against taught, pulsing skin. “Fuck. You.”
Gibbs shrugs an idle shoulder, bitter juxtaposition of earlier. “Fine by me,” he answers.
McGee doesn’t bother to ask if he’s serious, because he doesn’t much care, is still too angry to care, and for the first time in their relationship the chain is finally broken. He tugs at zippers and an old, worn out sweatshirt and old, worn out jeans, lays Gibbs open like Gibbs has laid him open and embarrassingly bare so many times before. The chain is finally broken when he takes, takes so god damned hard, and Gibbs just gives it to him as McGee hisses “Fuck you,” again and again, every thrust and every syllable another line of a litany that he wants to shove down Gibbs’ throat.
“Fuck you, Jethro,” he almost sobs one final time, body shaking through his orgasm.
Gibbs lowers them both to the floor, thoroughly fucked and breathing heavy and still gloriously hard, and McGee likes it, loves it, revels in it, doesn’t move a god damned muscle, not until Gibbs’ shaking hands come up to run through McGee’s short hair.
“Please,” Gibbs whispers, voice rusty and strained. “Tim. Please. I--”
Please do this for me, he’s saying and Please make me come. And he’s saying Please don’t leave, or at least, as close as Jethro Gibbs will ever come to saying that.
It’s enough for McGee and he reaches down to touch, grasp, stroke, coax Gibbs into submission and relief. It’s enough to make him stay.