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[personal profile] lukon_idein
With stress building from the Unknown Future of Unknown, I have once again channeled my energies into pr0n. Just a wee draught to slake my naughty Gibbs thirst. Hopefully now I can settle down and face the UFoU with a clear mind. (HA.) Or maybe I can at least focus on my corrections a little more. Need to clear up a ton of frustrating loose ends which sometimes make me want to punch things. Or, as is safer, take it out on my hot, fictional boys. Sorry, Jethro, but it's your turn tonight. :D

So, without further ado, for those who can manage to get to anyone else's postings amidst all this LJ cloak and dagger craziness, I humbly present...

Title: Self-Inflicted Punishment
Author: Lukoni
Fandom: NCIS
Pairings: Mention of Gibbs/Dinozzo and Dinozzo/Barrett; OMC/Gibbs
Word Count: 770
Summary: Gibbs feels things slipping out of control, and needs some help getting it back.
Rating: R
Warnings: Brief, non-explicit M/M BDSM. Mild angst.
Notes: Tag to episode 8x20 (“Two-Faced”), so probably some spoilers there. Just a little Gibbs POV to help me sort out the weirdness of this latest ep.

Self-Inflicted Punishment

Gibbs walked stiffly up his front stairs in the silence of the early morning, sore and exhausted, but his gut had calmed, for now at least. It had been churning like an unsettled sea since that night, weeks ago now, when Tony had turned his back on him, ignoring his warning, and had gone after that woman like a guided missile.

He stopped on the porch to pick up an unwanted menu left by some enterprising restaurateur, stooping carefully, feeling the welts on his back pull. He really couldn’t blame Tony for wanting more, for wanting the American dream – wife, kids, house with a lawn and rain gutters that creaked in the wind. Hell, by the time Gibbs was Tony’s age he’d been married three times – or was it four? The kid hadn’t taken the plunge even once yet.

The unlocked door yielded easily to his touch and he slipped inside feeling ancient. Like a ghost. Haunting an abandoned house. Tony hadn’t been here since that night, and Gibbs hadn’t really expected him, even though he might have wished for him. They only had sex occasionally, when it was convenient, and ever since Barrett had showed her damned perky face in DC, it certainly hadn’t been convenient for Tony.

He shouldn’t have let it get to him, but between Vance trying to get him fired or possibly killed, Dinozzo ignoring him, McGee looking for something higher, and Ziva in love, he just couldn’t stop himself. Before he knew it, his feet were carrying him back up the stairs and he was trying to warn Barrett away from Tony like a Mama Grizzly protecting her cubs.

He tried to tell himself that he was only looking out for Tony. That he could see so many ways that this could end badly for Tony that Tony refused to see. He tried to tell himself that he was only attempting to maintain the integrity of his team, which was already starting to fracture out from underneath him without the help of a beautiful, young firecracker of an agent. But he couldn’t lie to himself – part of him wanted to keep Tony all to himself. It was a convenient arrangement. Satisfying, to himself at least, who had been married so many times and did not want to tilt at that windmill again. Comfortable.

There wasn’t a head slap hard enough to knock any sense into his own thick head tonight, it seemed. He could hardly hope to keep his team under control if he couldn’t keep himself under control. And so he had made the call. A man Morrow had introduced him to years ago. Former marine and who knew what else, who specialized in arranging certain liaisons for military and ex-military personnel. Gibbs had been sorely in need of his services after Paris. And occasionally someone else had been in need of Gibbs since. Tonight he wanted someone older and tough as nails, someone who could give him punishment, discipline and control. Victor had given him Andrew.

He climbed slowly up the single flight to his bedroom, cataloging every ache and pain. The slight chafing of the skin of his wrists from the thick leather cuffs. The strain in his shoulders from hanging in the frame. The burn in his back from the strap, laid on to perfection. The soreness of his ass from a thorough and relentless fucking. The blindfold had helped him focus, and he hadn’t made a sound the whole time, except to answer his master.

There was satisfaction to be gained from that, at least, he thought as he flopped, face first and fully dressed, onto his bed. Learn to hold your tongue, marine. You should know that by now. Keep your weaknesses hidden, don’t broadcast them to the whole damned room. Listen, observe, outmaneuver.

If only he could stop getting old. If only he could keep his team in a safe little bubble, like Abby wanted him to. If only he could figure out what the hell Vance was plotting behind his back. He felt like the ship was sinking, but it was his duty to try and do everything in his power to save it, no matter how useless his efforts.

At least tonight, for a while anyway, he found balance. By forcing himself to obey, he had regained his self-control. And in a few hours, he’d head back to the office, with armor made of welts and bruises, reminding him with every ache to hold it together, to stay focused, to keep his eyes open and his mouth shut. Reminding him that he was alone. And strong.
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April 2011

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