Fic: Resolved (NCIS DiNozzo/McGee, NC-17)
Title: Resolved
Authors: kageygirl and tigerlady
Fandom: NCIS
Pairing: McGee/DiNozzo
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: The universe and characters in the fic do not belong to me. I'm not making any money off of this.
Summary: They've been dancing around this too long for it not to become inevitable. Especially when a little bit of old-fashioned wrestling between friends gets involved.
Notes: Once upon a time, kageygirl and I entertained ourselves in chat by coming up with a porny scenario for our boys. We cleaned it up, fiddled around with it a little, and promptly forgot about its existence on our harddrives. Until today. 2000 words, PMPP (Pretty Much Pure Porn). Enjoy!
Maybe bringing McGee over to watch the special edition DVD of Tron wasn't such a great idea. It seems to have given McGee the false hope that the geek shall inherit the earth. He stands there, in Tony's living room, criticizing a cult classic. And after Tony gives him an entirely justified love-tap to the back of the head, McGee grabs his wrist.
"We're not at work, Tony. You don't get to do that."
Tony frowns at McGee. "Since when?"
"Since--now," McGee says, meeting Tony's stare with one of his own. He hasn't let go yet, and something coils up inside Tony. He doesn't let himself smile, because he doesn't want to telegraph anything.
Oh, yeah. It's on.
Tony grabs McGee's other wrist and backs him into the bedroom before McGee can react. More room to maneuver in here. Tony's been in one too many frat house matches where someone collided hard with a desk or a coffee table, and his furniture's worth a lot more than the battered stuff they had at the Alpha Chi house.
McGee finally digs in his heels and throws his weight forward, bring them to a halt at the foot of the bed. "You think you can take me, Tony?" he says, shoving back, a little bit of strain in his voice. "You know I wrestled in high school."
"I know I've seen you get beaten up by a girl." Tony tightens his grip on McGee's right wrist, and McGee tightens his grip on Tony's. Tony does grin now, because even though they're around the same height and weight, Tony actually has seen the inside of a gym more than once this month.
Then McGee sneaks his thigh between Tony's and twists. They land in a tangle on the bed, flush against each other and still struggling. Tony thinks yes! gonna get laid! purely by reflex, right before he realizes that yes, it's true.
They're finally going to do this thing.
"Lose the shirt, McGee," Tony says, his voice low. McGee goes still, eyes wide, staring at him, and Tony watches him come to the same conclusion: this, us, here, now.
McGee licks his bottom lip, twists his captive wrist, adjusts his grip on Tony's. "Truce?"
"Truce." Tony nods. He doesn't let on that, for just a moment, he'd forgotten how they ended up here.
They let go of each other at the same time, but they're slow to move apart. McGee's eyes flick nervously away from Tony's face for a brief second, but he brings them right back. Tony thinks that's what has always drawn him to McGee--the way he never backs down, even when he so obviously wants to.
McGee--Tim--licks his lips and shows that courage again, fingers slipping the small buttons at his cuffs. He unbuttons two buttons below his throat. Pulls his shirt over his head.
Tony starts on his own front buttons, working his way down, taking his time. Putting on a little bit of a show, because, hey--that's why he works out. It's a familiar ritual, but this time it's Tim's eyes he watches as he shrugs the shirt off, letting it dangle and frame his shoulders.
He undoes his cuffs, and then rolls his shoulders again, showing off as the shirt drops behind him. He twitches it off the bed and to the floor with a half smile, and then he's off script again. But there's open want on Tim's face, and Tony's hands are itching to take all that bare skin for a test drive.
"You know what this means, McGee," he says, letting his eyes drift down Tim's torso.
"What?" Tim asks, eyes narrowing in suspicion. As they should.
"It means," Tony says, bobbing his eyebrows, "that the hostilities will resume." And then he pounces.
Oh, yeah, way better this way. So much better that Tony keeps getting distracted and losing the upper hand. Somewhere in the struggle, Tony accidentally grinds Tim's watch band into his skin, and Tim winces. Feeling a pang, Tony gently slides a thumb under the catch and pops it off. There's an angry red mark where the links dug in.
"I'm fine. Don't worry about it," Tim says quickly, and tries to pull his hand away.
"I know you're fine," Tony says, not letting go. He runs his thumb under the mark, and then presses a warm, breathy kiss above it, and another, letting his lips drag over Tim's skin. All the fight goes out of Tim, but he doesn't stop breathing hard.
Tony can't help watching Tim's chest as it moves up and down with each rapid breath. Tim's so pale. Tony's made fun of him for it before, but he's fascinated by the way the flush rises across Tim's chest and pinks up his nipples to a dusky rose.
He has to test out that responsiveness. Tony bends down and sucks at Tim's throat. Not hard enough to make a hickey, but definitely enough to leave behind the print of Tony's mouth. Tim arches his neck, hands flexing in Tony's grip, and Tony takes that as a sign to move down.
But Tim jerks up when he does that, and it interferes with Tony's examination. So he presses down harder on Tim's wrists. But that limits Tony's range of motion, keeping Tim still, and when he's not expecting it, Tim kisses him.
The kiss totally throws everything off, so much that Tony forgets whatever plans he had. Tim shifts and rolls them over, and then he's got Tony's head in his hands, kissing the hell out of him.
Tony's running his hands down Tim's sides--soft skin, warm, a damp tinge of perspiration starting to build up--and stops at his hips. They've still got their pants on, belt buckles clinking against each other as they shift. Tony can't quite work out all the steps necessary to get their pants off, not with Tim kissing him like that.
He brings his hands up to Tim's face, mirroring Tim, intending to slow them down. Only that's worse, because Tim starts doing things like sucking on Tony's lip and biting him very softly, and, wow, Tony thought he was the one with the oral fixation, but it's good, it's all good.
Except there's no air, there is just no air, and Tony really needs to breathe. He moves one hand to Tim's cheek, gentle as he pushes him back, just a little, and curls the other hand around Tim's neck, to keep him from going too far away. Tim opens his eyes to look down at Tony, and from this close, they're clear, dark and intent.
Tony's got space now, but god, his chest still feels tight. Now he gets why Abby and Tim didn't work out. Tony had it all wrong. It's not because Tim's such a giant geek, or that he's bad in bed, or any of the other things Tony had imagined.
No, it's that look in Tim's eyes, the one that's wrapping around Tony's heart and lungs and gut, and squeezing until he wants to run as fast and as far as he can. Except--Tony tightens his grip on Tim's neck, and pulls him back in.
Tim might have lost weight, but he's still solid enough to keep Tony pinned down, if Tony lets him. And right now, that's good. That centers Tony enough that he can focus on those pants, and he does, slipping the buckle free, popping open the button. He only fumbles for a second, because it's just like taking off his own pants. Just--in a mirror.
Tim presses a closed-mouth kiss to Tony's lips, and then he pulls back far enough to he can look down their bodies at what Tony's doing. That's almost enough to sidetrack Tony, but he perseveres. Gets Tim's pants open.
Gets a hand inside. Tim's hard under his cotton boxers. Tony slides a hand over him--just getting a feel for the terrain, so to speak, because the angle's awkward and there's not a lot of room to maneuver--but Tim sucks in a shaky breath and rubs himself against Tony's hand, eyelids fluttering. It's hard not to grin at all that enthusiasm, so Tony doesn't try to stop.
He could make Tim come like this, awkward grip and all. Let Tim rub himself off while Tony keeps his hand there for Tim to use. Instead, Tony plays. He draws his thumb around the head of Tim's cock. Curls his fingers into a tight O and lets Tim fuck them for a few strokes. Backs off and lets Tim drag against his palm. It's pretty hot, keeping Tony wound up almost as much as Tim is. Of course, it helps that Tim's thrusts are rubbing Tony's cock nicely, as well.
"Tony," Tim says against his ear, head hanging down. A little breathless and a little broken and god, that's hot. It jars Tony just for a second, too, like a smack to the head, just as it does whenever time Tim gets that soft, solemn tone in his voice and Tony can't bring himself to keep teasing.
He wraps his hand around Tim's cock, his other hand on his back, urging him on, and Tim buries his head in Tony's neck and starts really thrusting. Tony rubs his thumb over that spot below the head, and Tim comes hot across Tony's stomach, grunting as his hips stutter out of their rhythm.
And oh, yeah, that's so hot. Tim looks completely devastated in the best kind of way. Tony doesn't know what he wants more right then: to come himself, or to figure out how to make Tim look like that all the time.
Then Tim takes the choice out of Tony's hands.
He gives Tony a deep, open-mouthed kiss--Tony did that to him, made him all lazy and sated and relaxed. Then Tim opens Tony's pants, one-handed, and Tony would be more impressed by his dexterity, but he's too turned on, and the brush of Tim's fingers is like exquisite torture.
Tim scoots himself down Tony's body, dragging Tony's jeans down, peeling his boxers back and exposing his cock. Rubbing his fingers over Tony's hipbones, Tim gives him as a sly a look as he can manage, with that baby face. Then he closes his mouth over the head of Tony's cock, and Tony forgets all about innocent faces.
Holy fuck. Holy fuck holy fuck holy fuck is the only thing going through his brain as Tim starts moving up and down. He doesn't go porn-star deep or try any fancy tricks, but it's good. Tony blinks twice, bringing everything back into focus, and he realizes Tim has his eyes closed. Long lashes resting against his skin, cheeks working hard, mouth stretched and wet. Tim looks blissful. Tony drops his head back onto the bed, too close to consider anything but the feel of Tim's mouth on his cock.
When he comes, it feels almost--inevitable--but no less fantastic for it. Tim holds him down with his palm on Tony's pelvic bone and swallows, and watching his throat work is an extra jolt of pleasure. It's almost too much. Tony goes to reach for him and finds their fingers already entwined. He has a vague memory of wanting to do that earlier, wanting to touch Tim, but he doesn't remember following through on it.
Tim doesn't pull off right away. He takes his time, sucking and licking like he's cleaning up. Tony shivers and yanks on Tim's hand.
"Was that okay?" Tim asks breathily.
Tony grins; he wants to tease, to rile Tim up again, but he's taken by a fit of giggles. The open-eyed, uncertain look on Tim's face fades away, replaced with that sly smile. Tony pulls on Tim's hand again. Tim collapses against his side, and then they're laughing together.
"Yeah, no, you're absolutely right, McGee," Tony says, smiling up at the ceiling. "We really need to keep working on that until we get it right."
"Sorry," Tim says, voice muffled against Tony's collarbone, no better at keeping a straight face than Tony is. He looks up, eyes shining as he meets Tony's.
"Don't apologize, McGee. It's-"
"--a sign of weakness," Tim finishes with him. His eyebrows dip and rise as he parses out a different response. "I'll... do better next time?"
"Yeah, you will," Tony says, draping an arm around Tim. Next time. He likes the sound of that. Tony glances down their bodies, swipes at the mess on his stomach with a handful of sheet, then looks back at Tim, grinning again. Not that he's sure he ever stopped. "Hey, next time, we might even get all of our clothes off."
Authors: kageygirl and tigerlady
Fandom: NCIS
Pairing: McGee/DiNozzo
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: The universe and characters in the fic do not belong to me. I'm not making any money off of this.
Summary: They've been dancing around this too long for it not to become inevitable. Especially when a little bit of old-fashioned wrestling between friends gets involved.
Notes: Once upon a time, kageygirl and I entertained ourselves in chat by coming up with a porny scenario for our boys. We cleaned it up, fiddled around with it a little, and promptly forgot about its existence on our harddrives. Until today. 2000 words, PMPP (Pretty Much Pure Porn). Enjoy!
Maybe bringing McGee over to watch the special edition DVD of Tron wasn't such a great idea. It seems to have given McGee the false hope that the geek shall inherit the earth. He stands there, in Tony's living room, criticizing a cult classic. And after Tony gives him an entirely justified love-tap to the back of the head, McGee grabs his wrist.
"We're not at work, Tony. You don't get to do that."
Tony frowns at McGee. "Since when?"
"Since--now," McGee says, meeting Tony's stare with one of his own. He hasn't let go yet, and something coils up inside Tony. He doesn't let himself smile, because he doesn't want to telegraph anything.
Oh, yeah. It's on.
Tony grabs McGee's other wrist and backs him into the bedroom before McGee can react. More room to maneuver in here. Tony's been in one too many frat house matches where someone collided hard with a desk or a coffee table, and his furniture's worth a lot more than the battered stuff they had at the Alpha Chi house.
McGee finally digs in his heels and throws his weight forward, bring them to a halt at the foot of the bed. "You think you can take me, Tony?" he says, shoving back, a little bit of strain in his voice. "You know I wrestled in high school."
"I know I've seen you get beaten up by a girl." Tony tightens his grip on McGee's right wrist, and McGee tightens his grip on Tony's. Tony does grin now, because even though they're around the same height and weight, Tony actually has seen the inside of a gym more than once this month.
Then McGee sneaks his thigh between Tony's and twists. They land in a tangle on the bed, flush against each other and still struggling. Tony thinks yes! gonna get laid! purely by reflex, right before he realizes that yes, it's true.
They're finally going to do this thing.
"Lose the shirt, McGee," Tony says, his voice low. McGee goes still, eyes wide, staring at him, and Tony watches him come to the same conclusion: this, us, here, now.
McGee licks his bottom lip, twists his captive wrist, adjusts his grip on Tony's. "Truce?"
"Truce." Tony nods. He doesn't let on that, for just a moment, he'd forgotten how they ended up here.
They let go of each other at the same time, but they're slow to move apart. McGee's eyes flick nervously away from Tony's face for a brief second, but he brings them right back. Tony thinks that's what has always drawn him to McGee--the way he never backs down, even when he so obviously wants to.
McGee--Tim--licks his lips and shows that courage again, fingers slipping the small buttons at his cuffs. He unbuttons two buttons below his throat. Pulls his shirt over his head.
Tony starts on his own front buttons, working his way down, taking his time. Putting on a little bit of a show, because, hey--that's why he works out. It's a familiar ritual, but this time it's Tim's eyes he watches as he shrugs the shirt off, letting it dangle and frame his shoulders.
He undoes his cuffs, and then rolls his shoulders again, showing off as the shirt drops behind him. He twitches it off the bed and to the floor with a half smile, and then he's off script again. But there's open want on Tim's face, and Tony's hands are itching to take all that bare skin for a test drive.
"You know what this means, McGee," he says, letting his eyes drift down Tim's torso.
"What?" Tim asks, eyes narrowing in suspicion. As they should.
"It means," Tony says, bobbing his eyebrows, "that the hostilities will resume." And then he pounces.
Oh, yeah, way better this way. So much better that Tony keeps getting distracted and losing the upper hand. Somewhere in the struggle, Tony accidentally grinds Tim's watch band into his skin, and Tim winces. Feeling a pang, Tony gently slides a thumb under the catch and pops it off. There's an angry red mark where the links dug in.
"I'm fine. Don't worry about it," Tim says quickly, and tries to pull his hand away.
"I know you're fine," Tony says, not letting go. He runs his thumb under the mark, and then presses a warm, breathy kiss above it, and another, letting his lips drag over Tim's skin. All the fight goes out of Tim, but he doesn't stop breathing hard.
Tony can't help watching Tim's chest as it moves up and down with each rapid breath. Tim's so pale. Tony's made fun of him for it before, but he's fascinated by the way the flush rises across Tim's chest and pinks up his nipples to a dusky rose.
He has to test out that responsiveness. Tony bends down and sucks at Tim's throat. Not hard enough to make a hickey, but definitely enough to leave behind the print of Tony's mouth. Tim arches his neck, hands flexing in Tony's grip, and Tony takes that as a sign to move down.
But Tim jerks up when he does that, and it interferes with Tony's examination. So he presses down harder on Tim's wrists. But that limits Tony's range of motion, keeping Tim still, and when he's not expecting it, Tim kisses him.
The kiss totally throws everything off, so much that Tony forgets whatever plans he had. Tim shifts and rolls them over, and then he's got Tony's head in his hands, kissing the hell out of him.
Tony's running his hands down Tim's sides--soft skin, warm, a damp tinge of perspiration starting to build up--and stops at his hips. They've still got their pants on, belt buckles clinking against each other as they shift. Tony can't quite work out all the steps necessary to get their pants off, not with Tim kissing him like that.
He brings his hands up to Tim's face, mirroring Tim, intending to slow them down. Only that's worse, because Tim starts doing things like sucking on Tony's lip and biting him very softly, and, wow, Tony thought he was the one with the oral fixation, but it's good, it's all good.
Except there's no air, there is just no air, and Tony really needs to breathe. He moves one hand to Tim's cheek, gentle as he pushes him back, just a little, and curls the other hand around Tim's neck, to keep him from going too far away. Tim opens his eyes to look down at Tony, and from this close, they're clear, dark and intent.
Tony's got space now, but god, his chest still feels tight. Now he gets why Abby and Tim didn't work out. Tony had it all wrong. It's not because Tim's such a giant geek, or that he's bad in bed, or any of the other things Tony had imagined.
No, it's that look in Tim's eyes, the one that's wrapping around Tony's heart and lungs and gut, and squeezing until he wants to run as fast and as far as he can. Except--Tony tightens his grip on Tim's neck, and pulls him back in.
Tim might have lost weight, but he's still solid enough to keep Tony pinned down, if Tony lets him. And right now, that's good. That centers Tony enough that he can focus on those pants, and he does, slipping the buckle free, popping open the button. He only fumbles for a second, because it's just like taking off his own pants. Just--in a mirror.
Tim presses a closed-mouth kiss to Tony's lips, and then he pulls back far enough to he can look down their bodies at what Tony's doing. That's almost enough to sidetrack Tony, but he perseveres. Gets Tim's pants open.
Gets a hand inside. Tim's hard under his cotton boxers. Tony slides a hand over him--just getting a feel for the terrain, so to speak, because the angle's awkward and there's not a lot of room to maneuver--but Tim sucks in a shaky breath and rubs himself against Tony's hand, eyelids fluttering. It's hard not to grin at all that enthusiasm, so Tony doesn't try to stop.
He could make Tim come like this, awkward grip and all. Let Tim rub himself off while Tony keeps his hand there for Tim to use. Instead, Tony plays. He draws his thumb around the head of Tim's cock. Curls his fingers into a tight O and lets Tim fuck them for a few strokes. Backs off and lets Tim drag against his palm. It's pretty hot, keeping Tony wound up almost as much as Tim is. Of course, it helps that Tim's thrusts are rubbing Tony's cock nicely, as well.
"Tony," Tim says against his ear, head hanging down. A little breathless and a little broken and god, that's hot. It jars Tony just for a second, too, like a smack to the head, just as it does whenever time Tim gets that soft, solemn tone in his voice and Tony can't bring himself to keep teasing.
He wraps his hand around Tim's cock, his other hand on his back, urging him on, and Tim buries his head in Tony's neck and starts really thrusting. Tony rubs his thumb over that spot below the head, and Tim comes hot across Tony's stomach, grunting as his hips stutter out of their rhythm.
And oh, yeah, that's so hot. Tim looks completely devastated in the best kind of way. Tony doesn't know what he wants more right then: to come himself, or to figure out how to make Tim look like that all the time.
Then Tim takes the choice out of Tony's hands.
He gives Tony a deep, open-mouthed kiss--Tony did that to him, made him all lazy and sated and relaxed. Then Tim opens Tony's pants, one-handed, and Tony would be more impressed by his dexterity, but he's too turned on, and the brush of Tim's fingers is like exquisite torture.
Tim scoots himself down Tony's body, dragging Tony's jeans down, peeling his boxers back and exposing his cock. Rubbing his fingers over Tony's hipbones, Tim gives him as a sly a look as he can manage, with that baby face. Then he closes his mouth over the head of Tony's cock, and Tony forgets all about innocent faces.
Holy fuck. Holy fuck holy fuck holy fuck is the only thing going through his brain as Tim starts moving up and down. He doesn't go porn-star deep or try any fancy tricks, but it's good. Tony blinks twice, bringing everything back into focus, and he realizes Tim has his eyes closed. Long lashes resting against his skin, cheeks working hard, mouth stretched and wet. Tim looks blissful. Tony drops his head back onto the bed, too close to consider anything but the feel of Tim's mouth on his cock.
When he comes, it feels almost--inevitable--but no less fantastic for it. Tim holds him down with his palm on Tony's pelvic bone and swallows, and watching his throat work is an extra jolt of pleasure. It's almost too much. Tony goes to reach for him and finds their fingers already entwined. He has a vague memory of wanting to do that earlier, wanting to touch Tim, but he doesn't remember following through on it.
Tim doesn't pull off right away. He takes his time, sucking and licking like he's cleaning up. Tony shivers and yanks on Tim's hand.
"Was that okay?" Tim asks breathily.
Tony grins; he wants to tease, to rile Tim up again, but he's taken by a fit of giggles. The open-eyed, uncertain look on Tim's face fades away, replaced with that sly smile. Tony pulls on Tim's hand again. Tim collapses against his side, and then they're laughing together.
"Yeah, no, you're absolutely right, McGee," Tony says, smiling up at the ceiling. "We really need to keep working on that until we get it right."
"Sorry," Tim says, voice muffled against Tony's collarbone, no better at keeping a straight face than Tony is. He looks up, eyes shining as he meets Tony's.
"Don't apologize, McGee. It's-"
"--a sign of weakness," Tim finishes with him. His eyebrows dip and rise as he parses out a different response. "I'll... do better next time?"
"Yeah, you will," Tony says, draping an arm around Tim. Next time. He likes the sound of that. Tony glances down their bodies, swipes at the mess on his stomach with a handful of sheet, then looks back at Tim, grinning again. Not that he's sure he ever stopped. "Hey, next time, we might even get all of our clothes off."