Oh, The Places You'll Go

You're Not the Boss of Me (But You Might be Big)

Notes: Written for Porn Battle. Prompt--dominant. Because McGee is in charge and don't you forget it.


The thing about McGee is...well, the thing about McGee is that he started out as marshmallow and somewhere along the way turned into steel. It used to be Tony'd poke and Probie would cave and now, okay, now, if Tony peeks sideways at the tiny, pink, mewling baby thought imprisoned in the darkest room of his mind, it might just be that he...ah...doesn't want to be the only one doing the poking these days.

It's his own fault, so he shouldn't be surprised--most stuff ends up being Tony's fault and he has the minor brain damage to prove it. He'd ragged on McGee endlessly since the first time they met and one day McGee had started pushing right back. Only Tony hadn't noticed at first, hadn't noticed for a long time until Probie'd faced him down over the right way to conduct some apparently routine murder case. He'd stood his ground, had McGee, with that stubborn pout, and refused to back down. Tony'd been right up in McGee's face, snarling out his counter-arguments and McGottoberight had taken them down one by one.

"Just do it, Tony," he'd snapped eventually, turning on his heel with a flick of his fingers.

Tony'd been left in the middle of the floor, staring after him, feeling kind of...okay, so maybe turned on wasn't quite the phrase he'd want to use in circumstances like these, but it was possible the boner he'd been sporting might have begged to differ. Whatever, Tony'd been grateful that no one else had been around to witness him scurry back behind his desk and beat his head against the keyboard for that extra crunching sound.

Being always an enterprising kind of guy, he'd reasoned it away quick enough: it was a boner of shock. Men got erections when they were hanged and hanging was a shock so QED, same kind of deal. Case closed.

Only it had happened again. This time when Probie was arguing despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary that Brosnan was a better Bond than Connery, and, on top of that, had scored a date with the hot blonde they'd managed to pull in as arbitrator. McGee had tucked her number into his wallet with a smug grin in Tony's direction and there it was again. Tony'd excused himself and crab-walked to the bathroom where he'd stared his dick into submission because no way was he jerking off thinking of McGee.

See, this is why someone should have warned Tony to wear rubber shoes on his slippery slope because it's been downhill from there with no crash barrier at the bottom. It had been the work of a few close brushes with Mr. Humiliation and Miss Point and Laugh for Tony to get his, er, outward reactions under control (remembering Ducky's lecture on the 'joys' of test cricket was effective and timely), but his inner ones continue to run amok like sugared-up kids in a toy store. He whines, McGee tells him off and Tony's insides do this twisty-jumpy thing that Tony is pretty damn sure has never been described in any of the Readers' Letters in Hustle.

He doesn't plan to do anything about it--ain't nothing wrong with a bit of back and forth to get the blood pumping and the old brain cells charged up and ready to fight crime--it's just that the tiny, pink, mewling baby thought will not stop yapping for one second. It's like a cuckoo in the nest of Tony's brain and it's slowly driving him exactly that.

The best course of action, he figures, is to avoid exposure, so of course, this is exactly the time that Gibbs seems to be permanently pairing Tony with McGee. And it's like some weird self-imposed torture because he's still Tony and he pick, pick, picks at McGee even though he knows that there's a good chance McGee's going to stick out his bottom lip and narrow his eyes or do that thing where he looks all around as if to say 'Did you notice how dumb, DiNozzo was then, or was it just me?' and why can't Tony go back to the days when he would have just hit McGee upside the head and gotten on with business? Why's it got to go getting worse?

"Tony," says McGee, one day after Tony has fumbled the camera, narrowly avoided disturbing the crime scene after tripping over police tape and reversed the truck into a tree, "what is wrong with you?"

"Bad day, Probie. Time of the month."

"I take it you mean the full moon tonight and not spiking progesterone. Because that would explain the hair."

"Shut up, McGee." Tony takes a step towards him.

"Make me." McGee lifts his chin and puffs out his chest.

Tony opens his mouth but nothing comes out. Which is probably for the best because it would be something like, "I have handcuffs. They're furry." Instead he jerks his thumb over his shoulder, hoping it's pointing at something vaguely relevant and turns on his heel to get the hell out of Dodge.

"Lunch," says McGee, dropping a box on Tony's desk.

"Where are the fries?" complains Tony, opening the box to see a plain burger.

"You don't get any." McGee flops into his own chair, digging into the paper bag he holds. There are fries, Tony can smell them.

"Why not?"

"You stole my bear claw yesterday. Bad field agents don't get fries."

"Oh," says Tony, swallowing hard. "Okay."

McGee stares at him. Tony busies himself at his computer and doesn't dare to turn around.

Tony's covering the back and it's the sound of McGee yelling that gets him smashing through the door with a Zegna shoe that's never going to be the same again. He curses protocol that means he can't just tear through the house to where the crashes and bangs are kind of alarming. He's cleared two rooms when McGee comes into view. He has the suspect on the floor one arm twisted up behind his back, and is wiping blood from his face. The room is almost immaculate. McGee's taken the guy out like a pro, no assistance required.

Tony gulps and starts muttering under his breath, " Test cricket is played between two teams of 11 players over a period of up to a maximum five days," but it's no good. It's game over.

McGee looks up, then. "Are you going to just stand there, DiNozzo, or are you going to cuff him?"

"Um," says Tony and tries really, really hard not to look down. There's no getting around it, little Tony is going to be making his presence felt at McGee's eye level. This...could get awkward.

McGee doesn't say anything, though, doesn't even look at Tony funny, just gets on with the job at hand, bagging evidence, taking the suspect in and handing him off to Gibbs. They get the evidence down to Abby and are heading back up to the squadroom, Tony congratulating himself on a lucky escape when McGee leans over and stops the elevator.

"Er," says Tony, who's feeling particularly articulate.

"Okay," says McGee turning towards him, folding his arms and settling back on his heels. "Based on recent observations, I think we have a problem."

"We do?" Tony opens his eyes as wide as possible--he's heard it indicates innocence.

"Yes, I do."

"Care to elaborate?"

"I could," says McGee, quirking his head in consideration. "Or-" he pauses, and Tony sees the jaw clench that is the sign that McGee's mind is made up and screw the consequences. "Or you could suck my dick." He stares defiantly at Tony as if daring him to say anything.

Jesus. Jesus. Tony's eyes are wide for real, now, his nostrils flaring, and McGee must see what he's been hiding because he says, "On your knees, DiNozzo," and Tony goes.

Tony goes. And he's not young any more and his knees creak as he hits the floor but McGee's unbuckling his pants and then it's there, McGee's dick staring him in the face, full and thick. And he should be freaking out, scrambling to his feet and hitting the alarm for rescue, but he's the calmest he's been for weeks.

"Do you need a lesson?" asks McGee, and it's the same voice but different, darker and irresistible and Tony shakes his head, no, and opens his mouth.

It's strange at first, the shape and size of it on his tongue, the musky salty taste of it, and it knocks him off-balance, but Tony steadies himself with a hand on McGee's thigh and the other on the shaft of McGee's dick. He tries a little pressure, sucking and flicking his tongue over the head at the same time as stroking down with his hand. McGee makes this broken sound and grabs Tony's shoulder and Tony doesn't know if it's the sound or the touch or the knowledge that he caused them both, but the low hum of arousal that he's been feeling since McGee took down Lieutenant James single-handed is now a full-throated, '66 Chevy roar. He needs to touch himself. Preferably three months ago. His fingers twitch against McGee's thigh.

"No," says McGee, reading his mind. "Me first."

It speaks to Tony's state of mind that that's just fine by him. He wants to hear that noise again anyway. And he does. And when he slides his hand further down to cup and squeeze McGee's balls he hears, "Fuck, Tony, again," and feels McGee's thigh trembling under his hand and can't help but grin around McGee's dick. Because maybe in-charge McGee gets Tony hot, but he's in charge of getting McGee off and that's a trade-off he can live with.

"Tony, God," says McGee as Tony increases the pressure with his mouth and hand. "I'm. I'm going to come and you're going to swallow."

For a split second Tony thinks he should either be panicking or refusing but then he grabs McGee's hips with both hands, tugging him in close and opening his throat. Do it, he thinks and some kind of primal instinct takes over and he curves his tongue, pressing upwards and milks the orgasm out of McGee. His mouth fills with the bitter liquid and he swallows reflexively, McGee making tiny choked off sounds, and Tony wonders if he'll make more noise the next time when they're in private.

Then he thinks, Next time?

Tony pulls off and McGee falls backwards, supporting himself against the elevator wall and tucking himself away.

Still on his knees, Tony looks up at him and grins. "My turn."

McGee smiles back, slow and very, very evil. He leans over and flicks the switch to go. Tony just has time to scrabble to his feet before the doors are sliding open and McGee is stepping out.

"Later, Tony," he calls over his shoulder with a flick of his fingers.

And, if there were any justice in the world, Tony would get to kill McGee now, but instead he stares after him goofily and wonders if he can convince McGee to use the handcuffs.

Maybe if he asks nicely.


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