Length: 1,600 words
Rating: Adult
Pairings: Kate/Gibbs
Spoilers: Based on the episode The Good Wives Club.
Summary: "She can't seem to put the case to rest, and she can't help but blame herself, just a little, for the thoughts she can't stop."
A/N: Thanks toFallenbelle and Cha Oseye Tempest Thrain for their suggestions and help with this. Neither of you have seen anything remotely close to the finished product, so no one can blame you for this one!
Our proper bliss depends on what we blame. -- Alexander Pope
Kate only wanted to do her job. If there had been anyone else available, she wouldn't have asked him. If she were thinking, she wouldn't have dreamed of asking him. And if the idea of chaining Gibbs to a bed diverted her thoughts from work for a moment or two and made her give in to the impulse to ask him, well, she's not to blame for that.
She should have known he wouldn't allow it. It could be his job title: Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs, Control Freak. He would never put himself entirely at someone else's mercy – not even hers, and he trusts her. It's just against his nature.
So instead, she found herself in the awkward position. There was something about Gibbs that made her respond to his instructions. She found herself offering her arm to him automatically even as she argued against it. When he snapped the shackle to her wrist, a jolt of irrational fear hit her. If there was a little jolt of excitement too, well, she's not to blame for that.
She took a deep breath, cleared her mind, and tried to focus on the job at hand. She sat down at the vanity, thinking about the life and death of a complete stranger, and trying to imagine a little of the fear the woman must have gone through. For a moment, she felt it. Then Gibbs moved closer, and she couldn't maintain the mindset. He was close enough to smell his soap, and she always found that kind of comforting. They examined the carpet together, and reached the same conclusion at the same time.
Prayer. They looked at one another for a moment, processing the thought. It was sad to think of her kneeling there, praying for divine intervention, for someone to find her. Suddenly, Kate was able to reach that mindset, despite Gibbs' proximity. It wasn't pleasant, and she needed it to end. She reached out her hand for Gibbs to release her, and for a moment, he held it. "We have to find this guy, Kate." His voice was soft, but somehow you could still hear the steel in it. His fingertips brushed her wrist as he removed the shackle.
They did find the guy, and more importantly, they found his last victim alive. If Tony got a little karmic retribution in the process, and if that gave Kate a little satisfaction on behalf of womankind, well, she's not to blame for that.
Yet, she can't seem to put the case to rest, and she can't help but blame herself, just a little, for the thoughts she can't stop.
She might be home on the couch, or standing in line at the store, or driving to work in the morning, when the thought pops into her head. Suddenly, she can feel the cold metal on her wrist, can smell pine soap and sawdust. The back of her neck tingles as though he is standing right behind her, breathing words against her skin.
At first, she forced herself to stop the train of thought right there. It's wrong, it's disrespectful to the dead, to turn what these women went through into a kinky fantasy about her boss. She tried to put it out of her head, but her mind kept coming back to it.
She tried to psychoanalyze it. Maybe it wasn't sexual, she thought. Maybe she feared becoming chained to her job, losing parts of herself to it. So she gave in and followed the thought to its conclusion.
It was definitely sexual.
The details of the fantasy changed sometimes, but usually it began with her standing in front of the mirror, watching him. He was behind her, whispering in her ear. That familiar tone – his voice is soft but somehow she can still hear the steel in it – sends lightning down her spine. He tells her not to resist, but she knows some part of him wants her to, would be disappointed if she didn't. She doesn't fight, but she doesn't give in.
His lips are soft against her skin. Gibbs takes his time, mouth marking a path from one of her bare shoulders to the other. His hands slide up her arms and pull her body against his, rattling the chain as his eyes meet hers in the mirror. She refuses to look away,
Gibbs' eyes may or may not lie, but they don't spill secrets. They tell nothing he doesn't want you to know. She wants to see warmth, or passion, or hunger, but he is as unreadable in her dream as he is in life. Without breaking from her gaze, he draws closer and grazes her ear with his teeth. He murmurs her name, and she fights the urge to go weak against him.
Gibbs watches her with that smirk, that look that says he knows something she doesn't. "Take off your clothes," he orders her quietly.
Here the image varies. Sometimes she imagines that she complies; sometimes she stands defiantly. But her defiance only amuses him. He simply strips her himself. Strapless gown and bra, white satin slip, all land in a heap at her feet. His fingertips slip inside the hem of her panties and brush over bare skin before he hooks his thumbs over the fabric and pushes. His hands slide down her thighs. Only for the briefest moments do his eyes leave hers, as she stand there, wearing nothing but a crucifix. He enjoys watching her struggle not to react.
She knows Gibbs is a man who thrives on making people bend to his will. It is the reason he's the best at what he does. He can make a suspect shake like the hand of God was upon him. So, when he directs her to the bed, her mind tells me she's done well to resist as long as she has. But something stubborn in her still stands. Gibbs isn't fazed. He lifts her off the ground, walks to the other side of the bed so as not to get tangled in the chain, and sets her down. She looks up at him, and now fear shows in her face; his eyes answer with a show of hunger.
Before she can breathe, he is on top of her – all ravenous kisses and demanding hands. But Gibbs is all about control, and he regains his own quickly. She finds herself reaching for him as he pulls back, but he won't allow it. He wraps the chain around the bedpost and pulls, fixing her arm above her head. He pins her other hand with his body as he rolls to her side.
"Don't do this," she whispers.
"I promise you, I won't do anything you don't want me to do," he replies, "but you will want me to."
He smirks. She wants to punch him, but she also wants his mouth on hers again.
He takes his time skimming her body with his eyes and his free hand. She fights not to make a sound as his fingers glide down her stomach, over her thighs, between her legs. Her eyes close, and he chuckles. Angered, she tugs on the chain at her wrist to distract him as she twists, her knee coming up and over. He's too quick. He catches her knee between his legs, and slaps her ass with his free hand.
"Don't be a bad girl, Caitlin. I don't want to have to punish you," Gibbs growls.
"I thought that's what you were doing." Her voice sounds petulant, even to her.
His hand slips under her chin, pulling her mouth to his. "No, this is your reward."
His kiss is more gentle this time, but no less hungry. Everything about him – taut muscles, unyielding grasp, insistent mouth – speaks a demand. She finds herself surrendering to him. Not to need, not to sensation, but to him.
His control over her is complete. She moves when he tells her to move, screams when he tells her to scream. She becomes his willing prisoner, his eager slave.
When reality rushes in on her, so does guilt. She is disturbed by her mind's ability to turn the ordeal those women went through into something pleasurable. And should it be pleasurable? Wasn't this kind of dominance by a man exactly the thing she spent her life trying to avoid? She was strong, capable, and completely independent. Yet, some part of her wanted this. Some part of her wanted it so badly that she couldn't stop thinking about it.
More than once, Gibbs caught her daydreaming. He looked at her oddly as the blush rose in her cheeks. She sensed he wanted an explanation, but he didn't press. Gibbs always treated her with respect. He ordered her, led her, instructed her – but he never tried to control her. That was part of what made these fantasies so wrong.
Maybe, she thought, her fixation was not with being controlled, but with giving up control. It wasn't easy, always having to be strong. But there was no one she trusted with her weaknesses – no one strong enough to support her, and honest enough not to take advantage of her. With Gibbs, maybe she could let him be the strong one. Maybe she could completely let go.
Not that she would ever find out. He was her boss, after all, and he was Gibbs. But if the thought was attractive, well, she's not to blame for that.