Warning: This story contains explicit male/male sex. If this kind of thing isn't to your liking, if you're underage, or if m/m sex is illegal where you are, please don't read this story. Life is far too short to be upset by things you read on the internet.

Disclaimer: Not my sandbox, I'm just playing in it. Thanks to all involved in making NCIS such a fantastic show.

Footsteps, quiet, steady, circle round. Tony knows it's deliberate; a choice made to let him know he's not alone. Even so, when a hand settles on his hip, he flinches.

'Ssh, easy,' a low voice murmurs.

Tony shivers, warm air brushing past his ear. He shifts, easing his weight from foot to bare foot, and the hand squeezes gently, strokes up, curving round his side, then back down to his flank. Up again, over the curve of his buttock, calluses rough against his skin. Then the hand is gone, steps leading away, around the perimeter of the room.

Tony shivers again in the cool dry air of the basement. He can feel the cement, rough through the heavy cotton sheet that lies rumpled on the floor.

The footsteps pause, then come back again. Another 'Sshh, easy,' and a hand cups the nape of his neck. Even with that, Tony startles, breath hissing sharp between his teeth, nearly letting go of the wooden struts.

'Ah ah! Keep hold,' the voice says, as much a caress as the hands that run over his shoulders and down his arms, smoothing his goosebumps. The hands fall away, come back to his shoulder blades, smooth over his back, but by the way they touch, Tony can tell the man is standing off to one side of him, giving him space to step back if he needs to, trying not to startle him.

Slowly, Tony relaxes into the hands that stroke steadily over his exposed skin. The voice is low, hushing, comforting, a meaningless rise and fall that reminds him of the ocean. His nostrils flare, catching the mingled scents of sawdust and coffee, bourbon, a clean, masculine sweat.

After an age that is nothing more than the blink of an eye, nothing less than the rise and fall of a distant glacier, Tony realises he's shivering for an entirely different reason. The hands that have so comprehensively soothed and relaxed him have slowly worked their way around his body, and now those callused fingers paint delicate circles over his nipples, slide down to his pubic bone and rub softly, knuckles just brushing his leaking erection.

Tony throws his head back, arching upwards, almost enough to touch the man standing behind him. He bares his teeth and a whimper echoes around the basement room. Then he falls forward, leaning his head against the arch of a wooden rib, a sob catching in his throat. Thrusting his hips backwards, he pushes against the man's hardness and his shoulders slump in submission.

He is caught and he will never run free again.

As if reading his mind, the man pats him cautiously on the hip, then steps backwards, and after a sharp plastic click, the hands are back, but lower this time, pressing between his legs. They slide inexorably down his cleft and come to rest at his entrance. Two fingers circle and push, circle and push while the warm, dry palm of the other hand nestles his sac, cradles his balls with a tenderness that is as erotic as it is a statement of possession. Tony is his, Tony's balls are his, Tony's cock and his entrance and his heart and soul are his. He owns Tony's pleasure, now, and Tony trusts him not to let him down. The discomfort he feels as those slick fingers breach him is only minor, only temporary. Relief is coming, help is on its way…

The hands leave him, leave him feeling naked without them, naked inside as well as out, but there's the rasp of a zipper, the rustle of cloth and ghost-thin latex, then the man steps forwards, covering Tony entirely with his warmth, with his presence, with his scent. Tony bows his head further, baring his neck, wanting only to please.

"You're doing good, so good, Tony…" the man murmurs. "Just a little more, come on now, just a little. Breathe out and push down for me, Tony, you can do it. Good boy, good boy." All the while, his hands are guiding his erection between Tony's cheeks, touching a hot, blunt head to his opening, pushing at the ring of muscle, pushing in, and it's uncomfortable, it hurts, it's burning - and then he's in and buried inside Tony and Tony is that point of contact, he's opening up and relaxing around the intrusion, around the invader, around the cock that fills him, stretching him open. He shivers convulsively, head to toe, and an arm wraps around his waist, a hand strokes his hair.

They wait, all potential energy in the moment before it explodes into action and reaction. They wait, joined together, until Tony sighs unexpectedly, down to the bottom of his lungs, and his owner, his rider, takes it for permission and begins to move. He rocks in and out of Tony, keeping up the litany of praise and reassurance, guiding Tony in precise movements with his thighs and his chest and his cock, with those hard, sure hands that pinch his nipples and wrap around his leaking erection, driving high, nasal whimpers from Tony's throat, from his mouth, from his nose. He thrusts harder, faster, forcing Tony to take it, to move at his pace, then he throws back his head and shouts in triumph, hips stuttering deep into Tony's channel, hand squeezing hard around Tony's cock, forcing the orgasm out of him, to pulse for an eternity then drip onto the cotton-sheeted floor.

Some time later, Tony comes back to himself to find the man easing out of him. He can't stop shaking, trembling, can't unclench his hands from the ribs of the boat, but the man is back with a washcloth, a towel, a robe to wrap around him. His hands are taken, one by one, and chafed between those callused palms before his arms are fed into sleeves, the robe is closed around him, belt tied around his waist, and then, only then, is the blindfold removed from over Tony's eyes.

"Hey," that liquid-silk voice says, turning him around. "How're you doing?"

Tony blinks until his eyes stay open in the low light of the basement. "Hey," he parrots, unsure about everything. His head feels light and empty, his body deliciously heavy. His mouth works a moment, then says "Good. I'm good, I think."

"Sure?" Gibbs asks, blue eyes warm with love and affection and concern.

"Yeah," Tony says and he can hear his own conviction. "Feel like I've been ridden hard and put away wet, boss."

Gibbs grins; it takes years off him, makes him Tony's age all over again and incredibly, startlingly handsome. As Tony's heart hitches in his chest, Gibbs says, "There'd be a reason for that."

Tony surprises himself with a snort of laughter. "All I need now is your brand on my ass to let everyone know I'm yours."

"Hell, Tony, everyone knows that already," Gibbs says, taking him by the hand and leading him up the stairs. "No one's stupid enough to get close enough to look at your naked ass, not when it belongs to me."

"Not going to turn me out to pasture when some roan mare comes trotting by?" Tony asks, his tone heartbreakingly vulnerable.

Gibbs shakes his head and stops at the top of the stairs. He turns and wraps his arms around Tony's shoulders, drops a soft kiss on Tony's forehead, his nose, his mouth, kisses him long and soft and sweet and utterly, utterly possessive. "You're mine. You're the only one I'm ever going to ride again, you got that?" he asks when at last they break apart.

"Right," Tony says, because this is what he's needed, what he's been searching for all his life. "Got it, Jethro."

And Gibbs smiles.