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Merry-Go-Round

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The memory of how exactly they got here would be vague in the end, but the road definitely contained a whole lot of puppy eyes on Tim's side, always colliding hard with Tony's growls and some Go Fuck Yourself looks he kept giving him in return. Ziva watched, but didn't interfere, yet her mischievous grins were the icing on a cake that would turn out to be of the kind everyone went crazy for.

Through movie nights and after-work drinks, through bickering and banter, the three agents had developed a close relationship. After all, if you trusted someone with your life out in the field, you might as well trust that person on a more private level. More or less. Although Tim wasn't exactly happy about the role of the cute baby brother that Ziva and Tony put him into, it definitely held some undeniable advantages, such as getting what he wanted with a little less effort than under normal circumstances, for example.

But then, not much about them was quite normal anyway.

When it first occurred to Tim that his friends had crossed the sibling-lines, he dismissed the thought with all vehemence he owned. It almost grossed him out a little. They weren't supposed to . . . break rule number twelve . . . even though dating didn't seem to be what happened there. His suspicion kept growing until it drove him crazy to sense sex in every look they exchanged, every word they spoke, every casual at-work touch.

He wasn't jealous.

But he was.

~ ~ ~

It was Ziva who laid out the rules for Tim.

The credits of The Apartment were still rolling when she nestled against his side, taking him by surprise; Tony was her usual pillow (and did they really believe they hid it well enough?).

“You know, Tim,” she started, her voice level, her words almost clenching his gut, because no, he wasn't Tim to her. He was McGee on most occasions, and being Tim usually indicated a favor she needed, eighty-six point nine percent of which were likely to get him in trouble.

Tony stood up, walking over to the window to face the starless winter night, but Ziva's voice called Tim's attention back to her.

“You know, Tim, there is something about you that is really hard to resist.”

He blinked slowly. “Huh?” So much for his eloquence.

Ziva laughed softly, resting a hand on his chest in rare display of affection. A sudden rush of anxiety almost made him brush it away, but he placed his own hand over hers instead.

“Like what?” Tim aimed for something smart to say, crinkling his nose with displeasure about his lack of success.

“Your heart is racing,” was Ziva's only reply, as if those words held the key to everything that mattered.

Maybe it did.

Tim remained silent. His eyes wandered to Tony, an unmoving figure, and Tim wondered if he actually wanted this to happen or if he'd just knuckled under the irresistible David charm—but then, that seemed a little too far off the typical DiNozzo way.

Tim heard himself utter a weak, “I know,” without having caught on to what she was actually saying.

“Good.” Ziva tilted his head back toward her so he met her darkened eyes. The TV flickered with white noise. She smiled, then moved, smoothly, to stand behind Tony. He turned around to face her.

A kiss, and Tony's eyes fixed on Tim.

White noise.

Tim swallowing hard.

Hands sneaking underneath her shirt.

Soft moaning, captured in another kiss, open-mouthed.

Tim's jeans getting a little too tight.

Hands.

Lips.

Fly.

Moans.

Zipper.

Phone.

White noise, and Gibbs, curt: “Party's over McGee.”

How could he know? How could he—

“Dead petty officer downtown. Movie night's gotta wait.”

Tim didn't bother to tell movie night was over anyway. He felt so crushed that Ziva's half-whispered, “Soon. I promise,” as she walked past him almost went unnoticed.

~ ~ ~

Days passed. Tim didn't prod her, didn’t approach her whatsoever. It was a bad idea anyway; friends with extras couldn't work at work, let alone with Tony involved. Thus, Petty Officer Marsh being shot in the abdomen and left to die probably was, however undeniably gruesome a crime, the best thing that could have happened to their relationship.

A week into “the situation,” Tony snuck up on Tim (he didn't, actually, he wasn't even the least bit good at sneaking), and clapped him on the back, making Tim all but jump right out of his skin, a startled squeak on his lips. The hand wouldn't let go. It was warm, and just a bit sweaty, which wasn’t justifiable in the middle of January. Before Tim's mind could start processing that infinite loop, Tony's breath tickled down the side of his neck.

“Tonight at Ziva's, Probie.”

“It’s not Friday.”

“No. But you're gonna come.”

“I—” have plans, Tim meant to say, but suddenly it clicked. The not-question in a husky whisper, the sweaty palm, the touch itself, it all made sense.

“Hope so.”

~ ~ ~

Tony answered the door. “You're late,” he said, grinning, perfectly aware that Tim was, in fact, twenty minutes early. “Frou-Frou is taking a shower.”

“That's probably the stupidest name you could ever call her.”

“I've called her worse, believe me.”

Tim was positive there must be a quick-witted reply at hand somewhere, but he couldn't bring himself to dig for it, so he simply headed towards the kitchen to grab a beer.

Tony followed him and stood in the doorframe. “Thought about chickening out?”

Looking at nothing and everything in the room, except Tony, Tim narrowed his eyes. “I have.” He shrugged. “Multiple times.”

“But now you're sure this is what you want?”

“Are you?”

Tony remained silent, such an uncommon reaction for him that Tim instantly sensed he was comfortable with the arrangement. If he weren't, there'd be a snarky comment or a bad joke, especially in the light of Tim's nervous confession. But here he stood, uncharacteristically serious about the whole situation for a change.

Tim shyly made eye contact.

Tony flashed a smirk—“I'd never dismiss a chance of putting you in your place, Probie”—and the moment of understanding was gone.

“Do not let him tease you, McGee.” Ziva squeezed past Tony. Water dripped from her hair, trailing silver lines down her bare shoulders. Wearing nothing but a towel, she looked more breathtaking than ever, but, of course, Tim had not much comparative data about her. He blinked, unable to un-focus from the steady rise and fall of her breasts. Chest! He swallowed. I'm not staring, Ziva—but, honest-to-God, staring was pretty much what he was here for, so to Hell with it.

“For all I have heard, you have got quite something to be jealous of. Tony is just afraid he might come off shorter.”

“Worse,” Tim corrected her automatically, blushing hard when he caught himself a heartbeat later.

“Same thing,” she replied cheerfully. Closing the space between them took only a half-step. Ziva's smile became mischievous. “What basis is there to the rumors?”

“What do you care?”

“Whether or not I am going to use my toys, I do not wish to keep them boxed as new. Is that how you say it?”

Tony snorted. “In McGee's case I'd say it's in the original packaging.”

His “Screw you, Tony,” stuck in Tim's throat, for Ziva reached out to check for herself. Even through two layers of clothing, her hand was pleasantly warm as she palmed his length, laughing throatily at the instant physical reaction.

How Tim managed not to flinch was beyond him, yet he mustered a challenging look, not even crumbling when Tony stepped up close enough to scout along with Ziva, his hand on top of hers.

“I thought you said no touching,” Tim forced out as evenly as his quickening breath allowed.

“I believe I also said 'unless I tell you so.' It was meant to apply to you. Exclusively.”

“Must have gotten a bit confused, then.”

“Apparently.” Ziva stood back, but Tony did not shift, and thus her behind ground into his crotch, eliciting a not-quite growl. She laughed again, with a deeply arousing edge to the sound, and tilted her head just enough so she could glance at the man behind her.

Tony ran a hand up the outside of her thigh. Ziva's laughter turned into a soft hiss, and Tim felt a twinge of his jealousy returning. Then he noticed, only out of the corner of his eye, how the fingertips vanished beneath the hem of the towel, how they snuck around to the inside and further up, until Ziva breathed out to him: “Show me, McGee,” and that was when his mind quit most of its service with an unhappy moan, yet a moan nonetheless.

Unable to avert his gaze from the lazy, cloth-covered movements of Tony's hand, Tim kicked off his shoes, considered and dismissed his socks, then unzipped and shoved his pants down in a smooth rush, boxers following swiftly. Although he definitely had nothing to hide, it still felt strange to be put on display like that, knowing without looking that two pairs of eyes were fixed on him, two smirks flashing at the sight of his hardening cock.

“Mmm, not bad. I think I like my new toy.”

Tony let out a grumble. Half-whispering into Ziva's ear, his caresses rolled a hushed curse over her lips. “Better not get used to it.”

“Oh, the only child doesn't want to share,” Tim deadpanned.

“Hush. If you are fighting, I will just leave you to yourselves.” Ziva's voice was surprisingly steady, but not without breathless arousal. She softly rocked her hips back against Tony, grasping the hem of Tim's shirt at the same time. “And I am positive both of you prefer the not-as-queer set-up.”

The men nodded agreement to that, although Tim didn't fail to notice that Tony hesitated, his lips curling into the shadow of a regretful smile.

“Good. Now, get that off as well.” Ziva tugged at the fabric between her fingers. “And while you do, tell me: how would you like having a taste of my pussy?”

Surprise almost made Tim strangle himself with his shirt. He succeeded in taking it off, but then he only stared at her, his throat so dry that not a word could emerge.

She trapped his eyes. “I take this as a positive reply,” she said, and when Tim managed to stutter a confirmation, she stilled Tony's hand with her own, bringing the other up to loosen the knot of the bath towel. It fell open, revealing perfect skin still moist from the shower.

Swallowing, Tim let his gaze wander from the swing of her collarbone to her breasts, small and firm, nipples hard, tempting, almost mocking. He blinked, trailed his eyes further downward, following the outline of her abs to drink in every detail of skin and muscle. His visual journey stopped just below the curve of her hipbone. Although the invitation was clear, it still carried the strange taste of violating Ziva's privacy. Tim had to shake his head twice to chase the thought away. He dared a glance down, past the heel of Tony's hand, along the curl of his fingers, unaware of the dreamy smile that lit up his face at the image. His cock hardened further, twitching with excitement as he watched Ziva guide Tony's hand up her front, and he received a view of the glistening wetness. Realization forced a whimper over his lips and flushed his cheeks.

“You should give him a taste, I suppose,” Ziva suggested, amusement dancing in her voice, as she let go of Tony and stepped aside, leaving an empty spot between the men.

A low rumbling growl accompanied Tony as he moved closer and nudged Tim's lips with his index finger, but Tim couldn't sort out who made the sound, not with his tongue flicking out and licking over the digit, then sucking it in unhesitatingly. He didn't care how far up the queer-scale that was (probably not too far, though); tasting Ziva on Tony was a powerful turn-on, and he wanted more. Damn it, he wanted the real deal, but like hell he'd ask for it. Instead, he sucked a second finger into his mouth, quite pleased when Tony failed at holding back a moan. He closed his eyes.

“How do you like that, Tim?” Ziva asked, her voice so close to his ear that it almost seemed to come from inside his head.

Tim purred in response, not stopping when she told him to touch himself, or when he heard a zipper going down, the rustle of fabric, and Tony groaning. He didn't stop until there was no trace of Ziva left on Tony's fingers, and even then, cracking his eyes open lazily to watch them kissing, with her mirroring Tim's own rhythm on Tony, he kept sucking.

Ziva broke the kiss, mocking, “When you are done practicing, you may want to take your front row seat in the bedroom.”

Tony snickered. “Yeah. And maybe some other time I really let you suck me, McQueen,” he teased, hissing when Tim bit him lightly in response.

Tim shoved the hand away. “Yeah.” He nodded. “Maybe. In your wildest dreams.” He winked at Tony as he passed them by, surprised at how easy he found it to appear calm while everything inside him screamed for action.

Luckily, they didn't keep him waiting. Barely inside the bedroom, Tony stepped ahead of him, stopping him with a firm hand on his chest.

“I have to warn you. Little Frou-Frou here sometimes gets very . . . itchy . . . for a fast road to the showdown.”

“Shut up, Tony,” Ziva laughed. “You love it that way.”

“I do—” he narrowed his eyes, “—but we have a guest to please.”

“Since when do you worry about me?” Tim shifted to face Ziva, finding her kneeling on the bed already, biting her lower lip, legs opened wide enough to provide a nice view of her pussy—and of how she brushed a finger over her clit. He continued hastily before his voice failed him. “Where do you want me?”

Ziva grinned. She scanned the room, obviously enjoying his growing impatience. Only when Tony had settled behind her, stark naked now, nipping at her neck and reaching around to pinch a nipple, then walking his fingertips down and joining her own hand in her lap, did she finally end the farce.

“Down there,” she breathed, vaguely pointing at a fluffy rug in front of the bed. “Premium view.”

Tim glanced at the cushioned seat in the far corner, but she shook her head.

“The lady wants you on your knees, boy.”

“Ha ha, Tony.” Tim complied, growling low in his throat at the sight of two of Tony's fingers sliding in and out of Ziva almost rhythmically. Being so close and yet out of reach felt torturous; licking his lips only doubled the urge to join in the fun. Tim managed to reel himself back for now. There would be a better time for that. Maybe. After all, this whole show was set up for his entertainment, following rules he'd willingly, if a little absent-minded, agreed to, and he had the vague impression that if he screwed up, a next time would be out of the question.

There was nothing much Tim could do. Eyes glued to the scene, he grabbed his cock and started stroking along with Tony's pace. It drove him crazy. He felt entirely helpless, torn between aching need and overwhelming fascination.

Ziva looked down at him, and for a split second his heart somersaulted at the hope she'd pull him in.

“If you come before I do, I will have to handcuff you next time.”

He blinked, confused; he wasn't that close yet. “Won't happen,” he replied, his tone clipped and hoarse.

“It better not.”

Ziva moved beside Tony, causing him to withdraw and Tim to whimper with disappointment, or maybe with subconscious plea. She winked, and then she closed her lips around the tip of Tony's cock, making him throw back his head with a heavy moan. Tim watched her mouth slide lower, so slowly that he could by no means understand where Tony found the self-control not to buck up and take matters into his own . . . well, maybe hips in this case. He was positive he could not survive such sweet torture in this state of arousal, but the other man didn't move, didn't even bury his fingers in her hair or any of those reactions that just come so naturally. Maybe Tim was a bit overzealous. Maybe Tony was more focused. Maybe—

“Another taste, McGee?” Tony's voice barely faltered, although his lashes fluttered, and his breath came out shallow and quick.

Tim found his vocal chords denied him any reply other than a raspy, unintelligible sound, but he arched forward, his mouth open, eyes staring up at them, in a perfect display of humble acceptance. The pace of his strokes increased slightly, but other than that, he held still at two fingers brushing past his lips, held still through watching Ziva taking Tony in so deep that it was a definite obscenity. He didn't move until she released Tony's cock only to tell him, “It is okay,” but the allowance set him on fire.

The two of them sucked almost in unison. Tim, unable to look away from the sincere devotion Tony was granted, tried to mirror Ziva's every move, but found it hard to follow the lead, stumbling out of rhythm either with his mouth or his hand. He closed his eyes, letting the situation carry him away instead of striving to keep any kind of control.

“Hey. McGee.” Tony. Not really important.

Tim hummed, though, giving a hint as to acknowledging.

“McGee. Stop.”

He hummed once more, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. He was getting close, quite close, and he simply couldn't comply, aching for release.

Ziva stretched her arm out over the edge of the bed.

“Give me your hand.”

He did so, sobbing, because of the unfairness of her fingers closing around his wrist one by one. It was agonizing.

“I did not come yet, Tim.”

His eyes fluttered open halfway, vaguely catching Ziva, hands, and a condom, and Tony—involuntarily?—rocking his hips into her touch. Tim gasped around the fingers in his mouth, only then realizing he still kept them trapped. He looked up at his friend almost timidly, relieved to meet a smile.

Tim withdrew, stammering an apology.

“Wouldn't have thought you'd be such a sucker,” Tony mocked, the words depriving Tim's face of all color and yet making him smirk.

“And it is hot to see,” Ziva commented, looking as smug as she looked pleased. She pulled Tony in for a rough kiss, not letting go of Tim's wrist, but guiding his hand flat down onto the mattress.

“Don't pull a stunt with your right hand. Up here as well.”

Tim complied, feeling somewhat pathetic. His cock throbbed, demanding attention so sternly that it might as well be outright talking to him right now, peremptory tone and such. Laughter rose in his throat at the silliness of the idea. He turned it into a soft, begging, “I can't. Please.”

They didn't grant him any response, but he needed no more words. The sight of Tony directing Ziva into his lap with her hand guiding his cock inside her short-circuited Tim's mind in a most pleasant way.

Rocking hips, roaming hands, all of it hypnotizing, seemingly designed to rip into shreds what little was left of his self-control. He was vaguely aware he panted just as much as they did, moaned along, squirming in his uncomfortable position, yet without even blinking, barely shifting away.

He was so close—so close, please—to them, to coming; Tim was positive he might just pass out if he had to endure this torturous, blissful aching for much longer, yet disobedience was not an option.

Fisting the comforter, he kept watching, watched as they changed their position to spooning, mindlessly enjoying the clear view of the in-and-out, sometimes framed by fingers, hers, his, touching he could not always tell where or what exactly. He watched as they rearranged again, Ziva on all fours, digging her hand into Tim's hair as Tony fucked her from behind. Tim could only imagine the willpower it took her not to scream out her lust, could tell by how she clenched her jaw, bit her lip, and by how hard she jerked his head back. It hurt. It turned him on even more.

“If I sucked you now,” she panted out, each syllable an extension of Tony's thrusts, “how long would you last?”

The question alone almost made him come. Tim's eyes crossed, and he found it impossible to voice an answer, the less so when Tony announced, growling, that he was, “Right behind you, buddy.”

Tim wondered how close Ziva was to coming, and how in all Hell he was supposed to live through this, to wait just one more damned second. His hand twitched, but she grabbed his wrist, holding him in place.

“Ziva, please.” Tim was surprised the words came out, however feeble.

“Not yet.”

“I can't—please!”

She let go of him, but shook her head. “Me first,” she insisted. Her voice was so slurred that he barely understood her. Ziva stretched a little more until she could nuzzle her cheek against the back of his hand. “Almost.”

“Goddammit, Tony, fucking get her there!”

The two of them chuckled, but Tim was past finding it amusing. He found it nearly humiliating. One touch, one single damned touch would suffice now, and of course he could just ignore Ziva's command—but some part of him that he had not known to exist still was excited, bouncing with joy at this fairly odd level of sexual distress.

Tim squeezed his eyes shut in the attempt to hold back tears of sheer frustration, hoping they'd let him escape the scene, but hoping in vain.

“Look . . . at me. I want you to . . . to see . . .” Ziva lost her voice, but she didn't fail to open Tim's eyes one last time.

Let go. Let go. Let go.

A silent mantra while Tim memorized every facet of her beauty. The flush of her cheeks. Her parted lips, red and full, kissable. Fluttering lashes, half hiding the endless darkness that was her eyes. The shivers running all over her body as Tony tilted her head back, slamming into her so hard that the whole bed shook from the force.

To see her face as she came was so intoxicating that Tim, lost in her staccato of moans, followed her straight, no touch needed, nothing else necessary but the sweet bliss that rocked her in waves, spreading to him through the spark of a single, repeated word: “Now.”

Tim failed to notice Ziva kissing his hand, Tony crying out as he followed them a mere minute later; he wasn't aware of his tears, could not explain them. There was nothing left but consuming heat, blinding, crushing, and a dizziness that he connected with too much wine, yet not with sex. It was not unpleasant, but it disconnected him completely from the outside world.

He didn't know how much time passed until Tony's voice broke through his mind, but it couldn't have been more than a few minutes.

“Come on up, Tim. This can't be comfortable anymore.”

“Never was,” he replied weakly. “Can't move.”

“Yes, you can.”

Tim shook his head. All he wanted was just another moment of rest, only until his heart was put back in its place instead of pounding in his head.

~ ~ ~

Tim woke up to find himself nestled against Ziva's back. On her other side, his arm wrapped around her waist and fingers softly brushing against Tim's hipbone, lay Tony. The room was dark and quiet.

Deeply contented, he snuggled up even closer, not minding the shift of Tony's touch. He was already on the edge of falling asleep again.

This is a good thing. It's really . . . really . . .