It's the things he doesn't mean to do that get him into the most trouble.
Right now Tony has him, hands and knees, grunting and groaning with each thrust, shaking the whole damn bed apart all because he couldn't keep his hands to himself.
It was just a glancing touch. A stupid, tender thing that skimmed Tony's shoulder in the back of the crowded elevator. It was dumb to be looking at Tony's profile, to be so goddamned relieved that he'd cheated death one more time that he couldn't keep his hands to himself. Tony hadn't startled, hadn't even looked at him save a quick glance out of the corner of his eye. Tony had been able to resist the urge, had fought it until they were alone in the relative safety of Gibbs' house before he pinned him to the wall with kisses sharp with desperation.
When Tony had pulled back he'd looked anything but desperate. He didn't say a word, didn't have to. The rules were clear and Gibbs knew them all too well because he'd made them. No unnecessary touching at work, Rule Number One. Punishment was at the other's discretion.
"Bed," Tony had said, voice deep and slightly hoarse, sending a shot of lust down Gibbs' spine.
Punishment was never punishment, of course. Not really. Lately it was something Gibbs had begun to crave. To give up control, to relinquish everything into Tony's capable hands.
To let Tony fuck him into next week and later jokingly say he'd been a very bad boy with that grin that always promised him more.
Maybe he means to do it a little bit. Maybe he's breaking the rules on purpose because following them hasn't really gotten him much in life. Following the rules had him sleeping in an empty bed, alone in his own home and unable to lift himself out of the rut he'd fallen into.
It felt good to strip down and crawl into that bed, to feel Tony just looking at him, admiring the view. Then those hands follow the path of that gaze, smoothing over his ass, his back. He likes Tony's hands, with their long, sure fingers and gentle strength. Tony's fingers that press up and in to him, slick and confident, driving Gibbs to growl and curse and beg.
He rides them, head hanging and back arching, needing more and knowing he can't ask for it. It's Tony's game right now, Tony's rules and Tony likes to play it by ear. Keep Gibbs on his toes.
"Tell me what you want," he rasps, twisting his fingers mercilessly.
"Fuck..." Gibbs grates out, voice breaking.
"Let me hear you say it, Jethro. Come on. Tell me what you need."
For a second it's too much, it's the edge and if he even breathes he'll be toppling over. He'll be saying words he can't take back; can't shrug away or laugh off.
"Please..." Gibbs nearly snarls.
That's all it takes and then Tony's lining up and driving home, one endlessly long, slow thrust that leaves Gibbs fisting the sheets with a furrowed brow and a slack mouth. Tony doesn't have any more words; he grips Gibbs' hips and starts a steady rhythm that has them both panting for air. He drives for the sweet spot, presses a smiling kiss to Gibbs' shoulder when the other man thrusts back, pushing on relentlessly until he gets everything he wants. All it takes is one of those hands that Gibbs likes so much wrapping around his dick, giving one good pull and he's over another edge, less frightening than the first, eyes shut against the onslaught of firing nerves and uncontrollable spasms. Tony follows, his last few thrusts stutter and halt as he stiffens and Gibbs rides him out.
They fall down, breath still coming a little hard and Tony smiles, sated and sleepy, when Gibbs reaches out to touch him, to run his own calloused hands over tan skin slick with sweat.
Gibbs changes the sheets, Tony starts the shower. They make quick work of it, eager for drowsy kisses and sleep.
Tony never asks Gibbs if it's love and Gibbs is thankful because sometimes he's afraid the answer might be yes.