Tony doesn't have to ask anymore. He doesn't have to say a word.

Gibbs knows him better than he does; he knows when Tony needs it most. When Tony's feeling like an overstretched rubber band, taut and wrung out and ready to snap--that's when Gibbs will look at him, across the office, and nod. Just once. That's all it takes.

It's not always that night--sometimes they have a case, or they can't go home. But more often than not, that nod means that Tony will show up on Gibbs' doorstep after dark, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, an overnight bag slung over one shoulder. He'll wait for Gibbs to answer the door and go upstairs silently, undressing and kneeling on the floor next to the bed.

And then he'll wait.

He never knows how long he kneels there. That's the point.

He does know that by the end of the night, he'll be sobbing for breath, shaking, his skin on fire and salt in his mouth from sweat and tears. He knows that by the time Gibbs lets him come he'll be so lost it'll take him hours to come back to himself, just as he knows that Gibbs will be there, holding him and stroking him until he does.

He'll hurt the next day--his back will be sore, his ass will be tender enough that he'll spend most of the day standing or leaning if he can help it, and some of his muscles may be stiff from being restrained for so long. Even hot showers and a massage at Gibbs' hands can only do so much.

But it's not about the pain, either the sharp hot burn or its lingering effects. It's not about the various implements Gibbs uses on him, ranging from the light flogger to the heavier strap to the whip Tony craves and loathes all at once. The pain, the words Gibbs whispers in his ear, the restraints locked around his wrists and ankles...they're just means to an end.

The common misconception is to think that 'end' equals 'orgasm'.

It doesn't.

It's about that point when nothing else matters, when he's flying, high on endorphins and trust and the knowledge that no matter how high he goes, no matter where he lands, he'll land safe. It's the knowledge that he's out of control and that's okay, that's fine, that's exactly the way it should be.

That's what Tony needs, what brings him to Gibbs' house on these nights, trembling a little with fear and anticipation. He knows he's becoming addicted to it, to the release he can only get here, with this man.

He doesn't care.

Sometimes he wonders what Gibbs gets from this, what it does to him to have Tony naked and kneeling and bound in his bed. He doesn't harbor illusions that Gibbs is altruistic enough to do this just because Tony needs it. But he doesn't think Gibbs is sadistic enough to do this to him just because he wants to see Tony break. There's too much caring in the way Gibbs holds him after, in the way he tends Tony's welts and marks with gentle hands.

He's never dared ask why Gibbs does this to him. He's not sure he wants to know the answer and he's almost positive he wouldn't get one anyway.

Besides, that doesn't matter either.

Once in a while, when he's on his knees in Gibbs' bedroom, he thinks about how this all started. How something so *simple* could turn into somethng so...not. How just one touch could turn them from co-workers, boss and subordinate, to...this.

Just one simple touch, that was all it had been. Tony had stumbled; Gibbs had grabbed his wrist to keep him from falling. Only something had flashed between them in that moment and Tony had barely been able to keep himself from going to his knees.

He hadn't known why, then. He hadn't known what his reaction meant, what the look in Gibbs' eyes had promised. He'd just gone to Gibbs' house that night, acting on instinct. The complete lack of surprise on Gibbs' face when he'd opened the door should have warned him--but he still hadn't known.

He'd cried, after, not even knowing why but unable to stop it. Gibbs hadn't mocked him, hadn't told him to shush. He'd just rocked Tony in his arms and kissed his sweaty forehead. "Easy," he'd murmured, stroking Tony's hair. "Easy."

Tony hadn't been able to hide the shame. If Gibbs had let him, he would have left then, despite the fact that his limbs felt like cooked linguine and his back burned and he was in no condition to drive. But Gibbs hadn't released him and Tony hadn't been able to summon up the ability to move out of those strong arms.

Later, he'd gone in search of reasons. He's a detective; he solves mysteries for a living. So he'd read, and he'd learned, and he'd put the pieces together.

Now he knows why he cries, why there are nights when he'll lie there in Gibbs' arms when it's all over, shaking with reaction and tears rolling down his face. He knows why the feel of leather wrapped around his wrists makes him shudder and harden instantly. He's learned not to be ashamed of his reactions, of the way Gibbs makes him feel.

Gibbs has taught him more about himself than years of therapy ever managed. Tony has to smile sometimes, thinking about what his old therapist would think of Gibbs and the strange, unspoken dynamic that plays out in Gibbs' bedroom on dark quiet nights. He thinks his therapist would probably be appalled. Then again, there's a reason he stopped seeing her.

Tony's learned by now that what he and Gibbs have, what they do, isn't a typical BDSM relationship in a lot of ways. They don't talk about it. They don't set limits or discuss boundaries. Tony's never had a safeword with Gibbs and he has no idea what he'd do with one if he did. When he goes to Gibbs' house, it's to let go. Completely. He can't do that if he can say stop.

Sometimes he catches Gibbs looking at him at work and wonders if Gibbs has nights like Tony does, when he's overtired and strung out and wants to make it all disappear for a while. If there are nights Gibbs wants Tony in his bed for his own sake, not for Tony's.

He's thinking about that one Wednesday at work, when the rain's pouring down outside and they're all snappish and irritable with each other. He was at Gibbs' on Friday night; the marks have faded by now but the sense of release hasn't and he's fine. But he doesn't think Gibbs is. Something in the way he throws out his fifth coffee cup, something about the way he snaps his phone shut--it seems off, to Tony, and at this point he can read Gibbs better than anyone else on the team.

So when Gibbs glances over at him, Tony meets his eyes and nods, once. He doesn't miss the surprise on Gibbs' face before Gibbs locks it away. But he also doesn't miss the nod Gibbs gives him in return.

It goes both ways.

He goes to Gibbs' house that night, as usual, his overnight bag slung over his shoulder and the sense of anticipation coiling in his belly. Gibbs lets him in and he goes upstairs without a word. He's just finished undressing when Gibbs walks in, catching his wrist and twisting it behind his back. "Why?" he asks, his voice low and quiet. "You don't need it."

Tony drops his head forward. "You do," he says simply.

The pressure on his wrist increases briefly. "You tell me what I need, now?" Gibbs' voice is still quiet, almost dangerously so.

"Are you going to tell me I'm wrong?" Tony asks. He's pushing and he knows it, but on the other hand, he saw the look in Gibbs' eyes earlier. He knows what that means, too.

Gibbs abruptly releases him and shoves him forward. Tony stumbles before catching himself on the bed and earns himself a smack on the ass. "You asked for this," Gibbs says evenly, running a rough hand down Tony's back. "Remember that."

"I know." Tony closes his eyes, letting himself fall. At first he needed Gibbs to talk him down, to whisper things to him and touch him and make him find that space inside his head where nothing else matters. Now he can do it himself.

He doesn't let himself think about what that means.

"On the bed," Gibbs tells him, and he kneels in the center, hands at his sides and head bowed. Gibbs' hand closes around the back of his neck, holding him tight; Tony swallows, instinctively arching into the touch. His body goes limp even as his cock hardens.

Gibbs shakes him a little, almost like a cat would do to a kitten. He pushes Tony forward and Tony's hands go out automatically, catching himself on the headboard. From behind him, he hears a low chuckle and then Gibbs cuffs his wrists to the headboard, stretching him taut from his kneeling position on the bed. It's not entirely comfortable but he knows better than to move.

"You look good like this," Gibbs whispers in his ear, fingers tracing Tony's spine. "Naked and spread out and hard, waiting for the pain. Waiting for whatever I give you." He smacks Tony's ass again, hard. "You're treading on dangerous ground here, Tony. What if I decide I want to keep you for good? You came to *me* tonight. You're changing the rules--what happens if I do?"

Tony shudders at Gibbs' words. He can't think clearly enough to respond and he's turned on and terrified all at once and it's all blending together in his mind. Gibbs' fingers dip into his cleft, one pressing against his hole, and he whimpers. He can't think, can't do anything but react to Gibbs' touches, his words.

"Close your eyes."

He does, falling deeper into the darkness behind his eyelids. He's almost anticipating the touch of cool fabric against his skin, the sound the blindfold makes as Gibbs fastens it around his head.

But he doesn't get it. "Don't open your eyes," Gibbs tells him instead, running a hand down his back.

He can't do anything else. His head drops forward again, his body arching even more into Gibbs' touch. Another smack to his ass makes him gasp and he squeezes his eyes shut to keep from opening them reflexively. He relaxes in anticipation of another and feels a little off-balance when it doesn't land. Gibbs is oddly, eerily silent behind him, and Tony doesn't know what to make of that.

The blackness behind his eyes is absolute and the lack of sound or touch behind him leaves him feeling disconnected. Gibbs is his world, the only thing he can focus on, and right now it's as if Gibbs doesn't exist at all. He's alone in this black void and he's spinning, tumbling through freefall with no way to stop it.

He hears the whistle a split second before the crop lands across his ass, a line of bright fire in the dark. The pain burns through him and before he can adjust to it, it lands again, right below the first. The strength in the blows makes him gasp, his hands grabbing the headboard just for something to hold onto.

Again and again and again and he loses track of the blows. He's panting, twisting under the crop, low harsh sounds falling from his throat. The pain's melting into pleasure and he's sweating now, everything lost except the whistle the crop makes and the slap of it against his skin.

And then it stops and he falls forward a little, caught by the cuffs on his wrists. Gentle fingers trace over the marks on his ass and he whimpers a little, even that light touch like sandpaper on his skin. "So pretty when you're marked," Gibbs murmurs, tracing a welt. "And I'm not done yet."

He shudders at the promise in Gibbs' voice.

His wrists are uncuffed; Gibbs kisses the inside of each, squeezing them a little. "Present," he says softly.

Tony knows what that means. He drops to his elbows, forehead resting on his crossed arms. He stays kneeling, but he shifts his legs apart as much as he can.

He used to hate this, enough that he almost couldn't do it. He hated feeling so exposed, so open. Embarrassment actually did get the better of him once or twice and he ended up curling up in a ball on the bed, shaking.

This still isn't anything he's comfortable with. But he's learned that he doesn't have the right to be embarrassed. He's there for Gibbs' pleasure, to be used and marked and taken as Gibbs decides, and if this is part of that--well, then, that's how it is.

"Good," Gibbs says quietly; Tony feels a flush of pleasure run through him at the word. Gibbs doesn't use it often.

He hears sound behind him now, but he can't quite figure out what it is. The sound of a drawer, maybe, but he's not sure. It doesn't matter. He'll be told if it does.

Something cool and slick presses against his hole and he shudders. "Relax," Gibbs says evenly. "It isn't like you don't want this."

Tony forces himself to breathe evenly, making himself relax as the plug slides into him. It's thick and solid and he whimpers behind his arms as his body adjusts to it. Gibbs presses on the base, twisting it a little. He makes a short sound of satisfaction and Tony can just picture him with that slight smile on his face.

"Kneel up," Gibbs tells him. "Hands behind your neck."

As he does, the plug shifts inside him, nudging his prostate. He can't hide the gasp, nor can he hide the shudder. Gibbs chuckles softly, pressing on the base again. "You love this," he says softly in Tony's ear. "Spread out for me, stretched and filled, your ass marked and your back begging for it. You want it so badly it hurts."

And he does. He can't hide that and he doesn't even want to try.

"Stand up," Gibbs says. Tony wobbles a little when he's on his feet and Gibbs takes his arm to steady him. "Against the wall."

He braces himself against the wall, legs spread for balance. His palms are flat against the painted surface and he bows his head, waiting.

There's no warning, no way to ready himself--just the crack of the whip a split second before it lands across his back, red flashing behind his eyes. And then--nothing. No sound, no whisper of leather, nothing.

He takes a deep breath and lets it out suddenly as the whip cracks down again, three hard strikes in a row. The next one crosses over them and he gasps, twisting under the blow.

The whip is falling faster now, the blows hard and relentless. He'd beg if he could remember how but he doesn't even know what he'd be begging for. More? Stop? He has no idea. He can't think, he can only feel. He's falling apart under the lash of the whip, shattering each time it lands.

One more lash across his thighs and he cries out, knees buckling a little. Gibbs grabs him, hands on his upper arms, steering him toward the bed. The comforter is soft under his chest and thighs as he falls on it, hands clutching at the covers.

He gasps when Gibbs slides the plug out of him, but his brain barely recognizes the empty feeling before he's filled again. Hot and hard and slick and oh God it's Gibbs' cock inside him now, taking him, hard and strong and he sobs once with the sheer *need* of it. He's so hard it hurts; he's gasping against the covers, begging wordlessly for anything Gibbs will give him. His back burns and his ass is on fire and he's so desperate to come he'd grovel if Gibbs told him.

"Mine," Gibbs growls in his ear and he's never done that before and Tony whines as the shock runs through him. God, yes, his, anything, please, God, *please*...

"Break for me," Gibbs whispers. "Shatter. Do it. Break for me."

He's flying apart at the seams, he's trembling all over and at Gibbs' words he comes apart completely. He thinks he screams but he's not sure and then the world just goes white in a roar of blood in his ears and sparks in his eyes. He doesn't even feel Gibbs' hands tighten on his hips enough to bruise, doesn't register the bite to his throat and is still struggling to breathe when Gibbs groans and comes inside him.

Warm hands reach for him, draw him against Gibbs' chest, holding him close, and it's only then that he realizes he's crying, body shaking with the force of it. He can't stop it and he doesn't even try. By this point he knows better; the only thing he can do now is ride it out.

Eventually it stops and he curls against Gibbs, exhausted and spent. Gibbs kisses his forehead and wipes his face with a tissue. "Roll over," he says quietly, and Tony manages to fall onto his stomach. A moment or three later he feels the soothing touch of the ointment on his back and shudders reflexively, hissing at Gibbs' touch. Gibbs ignores his jump and continues working the ointment in, his touch gentle but thorough as he covers Tony's back from shoulders almost down to his knees.

By the time he's done, Tony's shivering. It takes the last of his energy to crawl under the covers and he's already half-unconscious when Gibbs pulls him close again, Tony's head against his chest.

He's asleep in seconds.

Things are the same the next morning and they aren't, all at once. The way Gibbs makes him take a hot shower and spreads the ointment over his back is the same. The lingering lassitude in his bones is the same.

The thoughful, almost predatory look in Gibbs' eyes isn't.

He's so rattled by that look he barely manages to eat breakfast and has no idea what he choked down.

"You changed the rules," Gibbs says as Tony's putting the lid on his coffee cup. His body is warm at Tony's back and his hands are solid and firm on Tony's shoulders. "What if I change them more?"

Gibbs kisses the side of his throat and Tony can't stop himself from whimpering. "What if I decide to keep you?" Gibbs asks softly and Tony remembers his words from the night before.

He drops his head forward, closing his eyes. "Gibbs..." It's a whisper, all he can manage.

"Mine, Tony," Gibbs murmurs. "You came to me. You put yourself in my hands. You're mine now."

Oh God. Oh God--Tony gasps, his knees threatening to give out.

Gibbs laughs softly and kisses his throat again. "We're going to be late for work."

Tony shudders, hands clenching on the countertop. "I--Gibbs, I can't just--"

"You can." Gibbs' voice is firmer now. "You will, Tony."

And something in that voice gives him the strength to pick up his coffee cup and leave the house. He makes one abortive move toward his car before a raised eyebrow has him sliding into the passenger seat of Gibbs'. Dropping down into the seat a little too hard makes him wince and he sighs, closing his eyes.

It's going to be a long day.