There's this long, unbelievable silence occurring, like it often does when someone puts his foot in his mouth, only not this time. Not exactly, anyway. It is an unlucky coincidence that Tony comes back in just as Tim begins snooping around, except that's not what he is doing; either way, the heat burns Tim's cheeks and with it his mind, burns it into fine ashes trailing away with the icy wind coming from Tony's direction. Or so it seems.
He closes the website too late, but the noises are clearly audible anyway. What was I thinking? His heart beats like a pneumatic hammer as he flips sunlight off his sleeve, unable to unsee that massive cock pounding hard into another guy's ass, among other images, all of which were quite frankly confusing in one way or the other.
“So,” Tony says, his voice as cracking as Tim's mask of casualness.
“I will pretend this never happened.”
Tim can't see Tony nodding, avoids looking at him. Judging by the severe prickle in his ears, his head must explode any second now, for which he would be grateful, despite the fact that splashing cerebral mass all over this neat-o place isn't exactly how he's always figured he would be facing the curtain. But it would get him out of this situation, and that's all he can hope for right now.
“Or . . .”
Tim tenses. There's a sudden edge to Tony's voice that he cannot define, and refuses to analyze. His remaining shrewdness does not prevent him from opening his mouth though, repeating that word, that tiny little word, a squeaky question, nail to the coffin.
“Or we skip the embarrassment and proceed right to the inevitable.”
There is no answer in the world to that. No coherently voiced one, anyway. Only the very obvious tightening of his jeans, half-hidden by the table.
“Gay? Me neither. Doesn't mean we can’t experiment a bit.”
“Yeah, and by that I'm sure you mean I'd be the one to . . . adjust.”
“It's not my fault you're an obvious bottom.”
“I'm not even talking to you,” Tim snaps, but really, there's no denying the fact that more of his blood keeps rushing south because of Things That Could Happen.
“Good. I don't like talkers anyway,” Tony replies, and before Tim knows what's going on, the chair is swiveled around, making it impossible not to face his friend, except for the fact that with a lack of functioning brain cells, his gaze wanders further down and, Dear Lord, this isn't happening. Tim watches himself touch Tony in an almost peculiar way.
“I knew you were game.”
“I'm not,” Tim negates as his fingers crawl to where they should not be, his voice so low he barely hears himself. Tony grabbing his wrist comes in really handy, for now he can't reach the so-not-interesting area, and this is when a disappointed purr he will never admit to have made comes over Tim's lips. His eyelids flutter, almost as quick as his heartbeat.
“I appreciate your eagerness, McQueen. Just—hey, stop fumbling. Look at me.”
He doesn't know how, but he complies. Meeting Tony's gaze is oddly intimidating, and deep inside, Tim is afraid he's made a fool of himself, that it was just a stupid-silly DiNozzo way to lighten up an embarrassing situation, to which the stupid-stupid McGee reaction always, always, will be screwing up even more.
Tony shakes his head, yet his smile reaches his otherwise darkened eyes. If what hardens further under Tim's searching fingertips is an indicator, there's an eighty percent chance it's actually going to happen. Maybe eighty-five. Whatever “it” might be at this point.
“Let me make this as clear as possible for you. If we end up fucking, you're bottom.”
“What a surprise.”
“Hush. I'm not done.”
Tony licks his lips, and Tim mirrors it, unaware. “What else?” he asks a little breathlessly.
“I'll be fucking you hard. Hard enough that you'll feel it for a good while, but I'll try not to bruise you. Not too bad, that is.”
“Sounds inviting,” Tim deadpans with narrowed eyes.
“My place, my rules.”
“Hold on. Are you saying if we were in my place, we'd play by my rules?”
“Sure.” Tony's snicker reveals the lie. “Next time, then. Except this is a one-time offer. Which, by the way, never happened. So, do we have an agreement?”
“One more question.” Tim hesitates, not much aware of how his fingers curl around his by now ninety-one and a half percent chance. “That, um, little movie . . . the choking, in particular . . . ?”
“Not happening unless you give me the go.”
Tim nods subtly. “Deal,” he agrees, but while the word is still leaving his mouth, Tony pulls him out of the chair, pushing him down to his knees. He fails to steady himself, surprised by the suddenness, and there's no way he can suppress a frustrated groan, especially not when Tony chuckles. “Just for the record—” Tim starts, interrupted by the belt that's unbuckled and the premium view he's got. His thought dies so quickly that it must leave a vacuum, but honestly, the only thing that matters in this very moment is how his lips brush against the hardness right in front of him, and how his hand wraps around it, and maybe also how his own cock responds.
He's big, Tim thinks immediately, and then, This is gonna be challenging. He recalls what faint memory he has of giving head, digging up his most exciting MIT adventures. At first he's a little clumsy, but then he finds a nice rhythm, losing all shyness as he goes along, licking and sucking as if his life depends on it. Granted, he could still use a little more experience, but neither of them is expecting the amuse-gueule to outdo the main course, and given by the fact that Tim's tasting pre-come, Tony must clear the table any minute now.
For obvious reasons, it is ridiculous to believe the thought is a cue going straight from Tim's mind to Tony's hips, but he draws back just in that moment. Yet, Tim isn't willing to stop already.
“Come on, McGreedy,” Tony groans, almost a slur. “I have other plans.” The tension in his voice makes Tim blink, realizing his eyes are closed. He's surprised to find himself cupping Tony's balls. He must be much more confident in what he's doing than he thought. Maybe it's like riding a bike. Or a horse. Or speaking languages. Just one of those things you never actually forget once you learned them. Blowjobs are just like riding a bike, right?
Tony's voice cuts into Tim' absent-mindedness, but he doesn't understand the words. What he understands is that his head is tilted back, fingers gripping hard into his hair, and it hurts a little, mostly because it’s unexpected. He struggles to stay close, likes the feeling of power, but Tony withdraws relentlessly. Tim smacks his lips at the loss, a contended grin plastered on his face.
Looking up isn't scary this time, at least not until Tim becomes aware of the fire in Tony's eyes, and the way his chest heaves heavily.
“Easy,” Tim means to utter, or something equally silly. His voice dies in his throat when he's pulled to his feet and shoved backward in one smooth movement, almost toppling over the chair.
Tim fists the edge of the table as he bumps against it, this close to crashing into the computer. The impact steals his breath away, or maybe it's Tony's erection rubbing against his own or the hands on his ass. Either way, he feels helpless for a heartbeat, wide open, and definitely about to lose the last bit of his self-control. He tries to say something else, anything, but what comes out in the end is just a begging, “Tony, please!” making Tim shut his eyes at being such a girl.
“What do you need?” Tony growls against the side of his neck, in-between a hiss-evoking bite and a soothing lick. He shoves Tim further backwards, into a fairly awkward position, forcing the monitor into his ribs and such.
“Just—can't we go to the bedroom?”
Just like that. No. Tim understands there's no arguing. Tony's place, Tony's rules, all right. You'll get that back, he vows silently, the idea flashing a smirk across his face.
“What do you need?” Tony repeats with urgency, thrusting his hips into Tim's.
“Some kind of preparation would be nice,” Tim mutters in response, grinding back as much as he can, pinned down like he is.
“You've done that before, right?”
“God, do you really care?”
“At this point or in general?” Tony snickers, but the next moment he kisses Tim, preventing any further reply. It is rough, ravishing, disturbingly uncaring, and Tim can't hold back a deep-throated moan, or stop his legs from wanting to spread wide.
“Preparation, huh?” Tony breathes against his lips. He starts to unzip Tim's fly, finally, and before Tim has retrieved his voice, his hips buck up against the feathery-light touch on his cock, wanting more, so much more that his mind threatens to snap if he doesn't get it, now, nownownow, pleaseohgod.
“So good,” he outright purrs. And, “I'm not barebacking,” slips out, making him blush hard enough for Pippi Longstocking's hair to declare a war of envy.
“Next you’ll tell me you want lube, right?” Tony deadpans, but he nods at the same time, looking serious. “Got it covered, buddy.” He adds more, but with him squeezing Tim's balls so deliciously that his eyes cross, there's once again no sorting out any meaning.
When Tony leaves him, it seems almost final, although this is nonsense. They haven't even started yet. Still, Tim feels weirdly alone with his pants and briefs shoved down just enough to get a grip on his erection, and that's what he does. Sliding off the table, he covers the warm imprint Tony's hand has left on him with his own, watching as the bedroom door falls ajar. He starts stroking himself. Not too much, not too fast; he wants to last through it, after all.
Tony returns quickly, holding up a bottle of lube and a pack of condoms like some trophy. He clicks his tongue at the sight of Tim touching himself, and tilts his head to the side. “You do know you're a cock-tease, right?”
“Correction. I'm not just teasing.”
“Who would've thought?”
Tony is back with him in the next moment, stopping an inch away from Tim's lips. His breath is light and quick, much like Tim's. For a heartbeat, they simply look at each other, trying to figure out whether or not they're about to cross a line that sends them straight to hell. Then, as if come to a silent agreement, Tony steals a brief kiss and steps back again, gesturing for Tim to turn around.
“I really want you, Tim,” Tony says. “So, so badly.” The need is alive in his voice.
“I know. Me too. That’s not the point.”
“What is it, then?”
“I'm . . . I . . .” Tim falters. There is no way how to tell Tony he's not taken it in years. Many, many, years. There's no way to explain he's a little afraid all of a sudden.
“I'll be careful.”
“Lies,” Tim whispers, but the idea of being fucked right into next week is still appealing, so very much that his cock twitches in his hand. He lets go, finally turning around.
“I promise, I—” Tony starts, loosing his voice when Tim pushes the monitor aside just enough to bend over the table, presenting his adorable backside in a way that he knows to be irresistible from long-past experience.
“Yeah,” Tim sighs, not needing to hear the obvious. He yanks at his jeans, thankful when Tony takes over, shoving them down until they meet his shoes. It's somewhat cliché, but it suffices to spread his legs enough to double the invitation.
The first touch is light, fingertips ghosting into his cleft, and it is not enough. He hears the cap of the lube bottle popping open, prepares for the cold, and still shivers when Tony's generously slicked hand is back, aiming straight at working a finger inside him.
It hurts. He's not used to it anymore. Somewhere deep in his heart, Tim laughs at himself for being so damned tense, but he can't help it. Clenching his jaw, he pushes back some more, wanting it to become better, pleasing, like he remembers. If he can't take a single finger, he's gonna have a hard time taking Tony's cock. He's done it before, he wants it now, and there's no accepting failure, or girlish I Broke A Fingernail sort of difficulties.
Tony runs his other hand along Tim's back, comforting, reassuring, and then, all of a sudden, Tim feels the digit slide all the way in, surprisingly effortless once the physical and mental barriers are overcome.
“Cliché,” he huffs, starting to slowly rock himself back and forth.
Tim moans when the angle becomes perfect for stimulating his prostate. Oh yeah, he's missed that. He probably could've talked Abby into it, but he hasn't, and now Tony's getting all the credit for reminding him of how wonderful it feels. It doesn't seem fair, and Tim takes a mental note not to get off on it, although it seems quite an impossible plan.
Until another finger enters him, that is. It's easing in smoothly, all right, but the stretch makes Tim bite his lower lip. Damn it, he thinks, then says it out loud, making Tony rub the grin Tim can't see into his back.
“I'm ready,” Tim adds through gritted teeth.
“If I don’t open you up properly,” Tony counters, flicking his wrist just enough to send a jolt of sweetjesus through Tim's loins, “I'm gonna hurt you.”
Tim snorts, unable to prevent it. “I'm not getting any more ready, Tony,” he insists despite the slight sting of the stretch. “If you want your dick up my ass, you better get there already.”
“You have such a cute way of begging.”
“Did you just call me cute?”
Tony places his free hand between Tim's shoulder blades, maneuvering his chest down flat onto the table. “You are. Face it, Probie. You're a cute, sexy, squirming mess.”
“I'm not squirming at all,” Tim protests, but then Tony pushes in real deep, and his body betrays his words.
“Exactly. Now get a good grip on the table's edge.”
“Because I said so.”
It's not much of a convincing argument, but if Tony's true to his word in fucking him hard enough to leave a lasting impression, Tim figures he will be grateful for the support. He reaches out.
“Good boy,” Tony mumbles, withdrawing. “I want you to stay exactly like this. Can you do that for me, Timmy?”
Tim means to voice a firm confirmation, he really does. When he hears the condom wrapper being torn open, though, all that slips out is an impatient whimper, which at least he somehow manages to transform into a not-quite-as-pathetic growl. His breath quickens with excitement.
“You sure you ready?” Tony almost hisses, not waiting for an answer, lining up, pushing in, and it's tearing Tim apart in the most blissful, endorphin-rushing way imaginable. Okay, yes, he may be exaggerating the tiniest bit. Still, his grip on the wood tightens, and he leverages himself back, greedy for more, for all of it, nownownow, “God, yes!” but Tony holds him down firmly, filling him at his own, slow pace, pausing once he's all the way inside. It's driving Tim crazy, making him squirm for real now, his body so tense it aches, hurting so much more than the penetration. When the actual party starts, the first hard, slamming thrust sets off fireworks of pleasured pain leaving his lips in a string of nearly-distressed sounds.
“Yeah,” Tony groans, “you're so fucking tight.” He digs his fingernails deep into Tim's flesh, so deep he's sure they're drawing blood, adding to the variety of, This is the best damned thing happening in years. Tim doesn't realize he's cussing at random, doesn't notice that he’s beginning to sweat all over, or how his knuckles are turning white and the wooden surface chafes his cheek. His consciousness, what little is left of it, is focused on how his hipbones bump into the table with every thrust, how his cock keeps scraping the edge, and, most of all, how wonderfully conquered he feels.
Tony lets his hand run up Tim’s back to rest on his neck.
Tim shifts slightly.
“I'm not gonna,” Tony calms him.
“I think . . . you can.”
“I'm—no. No, I won't.” Still, the weight of his hand feels somewhat heavier.
Tim tries to turn his head further, succeeding only enough to catch a glimpse at Tony out of the corner of his eye. “Come on,” he challenges him, his tongue much more confident than his heart. “You want to. Gotta take this chance.”
Tony's thrusts slow down, grow hesitant, but his fingers twitch. “What if I lose control?”
“I trust you.” That, at least, is unquestionable. Tim would trust Tony with his life, and his offer right now is a concrete confirmation of that very fact. Tim brings a hand over Tony's, tightening their joint grasp on him. “Do it if you want.”
Tony's shaking him off impatiently, huffing something unintelligible, yet his fingers slowly slide around the side of Tim's neck, pressing in more, tensing when they reach his throat.
“Do it,” Tim demands again, purrs it out, filled with an unreal pride that he shall be the one fulfilling this fantasy. And then, Tony complies, stealing Tim's breath right from him with both hands. Tim's eyes widen, and for a split second, he's terrified, but then he can breathe again, and the mightiest moan of all times escapes his parted lips, speaking of the most surprising, yet deepest, satisfaction.
He feels Tony tense all over, pushes back to meet his thrusts, encourage him; screw the table and his own soreness, screw the flicker of panic running across his face: this is the ultimate experience.
“More,” Tim begs, doesn't have to because the word is cut off anyway, choked to death where it originates. This time, the pressure is higher, lasts longer, until tiny white dots appear in Tim's view. He flails, just a bit, and Tony lets go.
“God, Tim,” he growls, bending over him more, kissing his way up his spine.
It's mind-twisting, good beyond words. Tim practically feels every single molecule of oxygen streaming into his lungs, hungrily soaked up by his circulation, and that, if anything, is bliss, sheer, stupid bliss. He chuckles at the sheepish thought, receiving more of the restraint in response, sending a mighty rush of ecstasy all through him. He fists the edge even harder, his body tense to the point of nearly breaking, and Tony kisses the back of his head, whispering, “Come for me, buddy,” pinning him down with his full weight, choking him longer than is good for him, fucking him, delightfully, painfully, completely taking possession of him—it's too much to handle, too much to bear.
Tim comes in a seemingly endless staccato, trembling all over, close, so close to passing out, and Tony is still moving inside him, still not quite there, but now that Tim's crossed the line, it starts feeling a little awkward. Like waking from a deep sleep, eyes still tired and swollen, with the night's fearsome dreams ready to conquer your conscious self.
He feels sore all over, his heart pounding so hard against his ribcage that every beat is like a hammer blow, causing physical pain, and yet his breath is cut off once more, one last, blinding time.
Tony collapses on top of him. Tim can feel his cock pulsing inside him as he comes, is equally proud and ashamed, worn out and satisfied. He reaches for one of Tony's hands, guiding it to his cheek, nuzzling his face into the sweaty palm.
“Thank you,” Tony whispers into his ear, repeating it over and over in turns with kissing him anywhere he can reach without shifting.
Tim is content. He knows come later, he will have a hard time dealing with most of this, but for now, heaven is just a breath away.
~ ~ ~
There's this long, unbelieving silence, occurring like it often does when someone puts his foot in his mouth, only not exactly. Tim's heart beats like a pneumatic hammer as he flips sunlight off of his sleeve, unable to unsee.
“So,” Tony says, his voice as cracking as Tim's mask of casualness.
“That what's turning you on, McGee?”
“What? No!” Tim squeaks, his powerless voice and fluttering lashes almost evidence enough.
“Sure. I really don't wanna know why you're watching porn on my computer when all you're supposed to do is clean out the system. Gay porn, too.”
Tim's head is spinning with the accusation and the imagery now branded into his sight. “I have not—Tony, this is ridiculous!”
Tony, leaning against the doorframe, crosses his arms in front of his chest. He narrows his eyes, giving his partner such a pitying look that Tim cannot possibly not blush further.
“What?” Tim snaps, desperately wishing for the world to stop turning, right now, thank you for your kind consideration.
“I'm out for a walk. Clean up after yourself, will you?”
Tony's gone in the next blink, leaving Tim unexceptionally flustered.
He turns the video back on after two minutes of staring.