Reciprocal

by Jane Davitt




Tony exhales a shaky breath, reaches down, and pats McGee's head. His hand stays there for longer than he tells it to, stroking through surprisingly silky hair. "That was…"

When his vocabulary comes up dry for a word that manages to compliment McGee for one hell of a blow job, without being too nice to him, McGee smiles, clearly seeing more than Tony wants him to. Tony's dick; well, he'll put that on display any time; it's impressive; his fervent gratitude and approval is something else again.

(God, that flick of McGee's tongue and the way he'd used his teeth so lightly, slicing bands of heat along sucked-slick skin…)

"Thank you, Tony."

On his knees, his lips wet where he's licked them clean of Tony's come and his own spit, and an extra button undone on his shirt, and McGee still manages to look prim.

"Okay," Tony says and gestures McGee up with a curl of his finger. "Never let it be said that DiNozzos don't reciprocate. Your turn for the wall, mine to say my prayers." He looked down at the abandoned warehouse floor and winced. Oh, well. He wasn't wearing anything that hadn't seen worse. A bit of dust and grit… it'd brush off and not even Gibbs would notice -- okay, cancel that thought. He wasn't going near Gibbs until he'd changed. Except, Gibbs being Gibbs, he'd spot that and wonder and ask and --

"Tony," McGee prompts patiently, but with an edge to his voice that screams of being desperately aroused, and of course he is, why wouldn't he be? He's having sex with Anthony DiNozzo; knee-weakening lust is obligatory.

Tony drops to his knees nonchalantly and has McGee Junior enjoying the fresh air a moment later. Not too bad a specimen. Not bad at all. He resists the impulse to reach for a ruler and breaths in. It doesn't smell good, it won't taste good, and that guideline's one he's sticking to. McGee smells slightly sweaty -- has to be ninety here in this enclosed, dim space; Tony's shirt is sticking to his shoulders after he's ground them into the wall, squirming, writhing -- but it's the light, clean kind of sweat over scrubbed skin. McGee's the kind of person who has manicures; figures he'd wash between, well, just about everywhere.

Tony licks the head of McGee's cock and tries to remember the last time he did this to a man. Being done to has happened fairly often over the years, but Tony doesn't, for all his talk, usually pay back in the same coin. He's never had any complaints.

He licks, tastes, and feels his mouth fill and water at the musky bitterness. An acquired taste. Like oysters. Tony likes oysters. A little lemon juice, maybe some --

McGee's hands curve around his head and draw him closer with more authority than Tony would've expected. He opens his mouth obediently, and before he's had time to process the incongruity of that, he's got the top three inches or so of McGee's erection to deal with, sliding over his tongue and rounding his parted lips. His jaw starts to ache after a moment or two. Out of practice.

He's doing okay once he hits his stride; McGee makes him gag (twice) even before that final, choking gush of come floods his mouth, but hey, deep throating is an art form and he's never… And he's been trying to give as good as he got, so McGee's sharp hiss of pain when Tony's teeth dig in could be considered his own fault… but overall, he'd give himself an A minus.

Okay. B plus.

When he's finished, without even getting to his feet, he glances up at McGee, smugly anticipating lavish praise. His smile fades. McGee's frowning, a pucker of dissatisfaction showing. Even as Tony begins to protest, it fades.

And McGee reaches down, pats Tony's face with a kind, forgiving hand, and whispers, "Probie," regretfully.


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