The Release in the Relationship
Spoiler Alert: Tags to Season 6 episodes
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Disclaimer: BONES does not belong to me. I'm just expediting eventually.
A/N: This is a companion piece to The Restraint in the Relationship, a fic which postulates one scenario of how the Booth / Hannah relationship crashes & burns. Although you could read this piece as a standalone, I would recommend that you take the time to visit that story first. There has been overwhelming support for an M-rated follow-up, which is probably excellent therapy for fans coping with the story arc currently being televised. Enjoy...and don't forget to leave a review on your way out...I'm fairly new to the dark side, so feedback is appreciated :)
Apartment of Dr. Temperance Brennan
Two hands. Two hands with fingers gripping and twisting at the fine linen panels of a garment fastened together by an orderly line of buttons. Buttons, guaranteed only to withstand general wear and tear, were helpless against the fulminant reality of assisted entropy, the exertion of force by two hands determined to facilitate a frenzy.
Tolerances were exceeded in a millisecond. Connections and ties were severed. Chaos obliterated the orderly line. Buttons flew, spinning on mathematically predictable trajectories, if one were inclined to calculate them, in all directions; as the shirt of Seeley Booth was ripped open. The buttons landed skittering and pinging in bizarre applause for the exposure of his chest wall; a fine specimen of well-defined musculature to be observed; an artist's model ready to be immortalised on a prepared medium; an expanse of warm, naked skin, begging for the touch of a lover. Of these three objective standards that immediately came to mind, Temperance Brennan correctly selected option three, and let her hands roam where they wanted to go. It was the logical choice, because it precisely matched her intent for ripping his shirt open in the first place..
As he watched on, her hands began their erstwhile exploration of his chest; fingers tracing along the physical grain of muscle fibres; palms alternately seeking fuller, more sensual contact in light circular motions. As her palms skimmed over his dark areola and nipple tissue, she received positive feedback in the form of his hissing intake of breath. Her eyes rose to his face, finding an expression that indicated barely restrained desire, need, passion; even joy.
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"I'm sorry about your shirt," she said in a low voice.
"No, you're not," he countered, bringing his face closer to hers. Their breaths mingling, malty still, from their forgotten beer.
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"No, I'm not," she agreed with a smirk. Not because he had just pulled a Jedi mind trick on her, but because she was a bad liar, and she knew it, and right now she didn't particularly care. But secure in the knowledge that she was an excellent kisser, she proceeded to make amends for her poor attempt at deception. Not that either of them needed an excuse to kiss; although some of their frustrated colleagues would have supported this activity being court-appointed at times in the past.
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As much as Brennan enjoyed being an instigator and aggressor in her sexual conquests, she knew from the look on his face that he was itching to take control, to unleash his Boothy brand of passionate frenzy upon her. Something that she could not deny that she was looking forward to; admitting to herself that it was more than just the physical heat of arousal that she felt, more than a predictable biological reaction to stimuli.
Following her return from Indonesia, there had been no term or condition that had been able to adequately describe, or explain, the aching, empty place just under her diaphragm, that no amount of compartmentalisation or hard liquor could warm up, or anaesthetise. That place was transformed now, housing a burning furnace. But this warmth, this heat, was not that of a destructive flame; it was like a concentrated vial of the passion that she held for the truth she found in bones, or for the sizzling brand of certainty that pure scientific inquiry provided to her rational mind. She realised that this passion was for him; it was also for her when she was with him; ultimately it was theirs alone, for them to share. Taking her hands away from his chest, she grasped both sides of his head, suddenly desperate to share this thing, expressing it using the only intimate medium she knew how to work with, and hoped that it was enough.
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In this instance, making that primal connection between their lips represented a harbinger of passion to come. Lips foreshadowing the contact of more intimate flesh, mouths surrendering searing hot moisture in reaction to each other, tongues generating a delicious delicacy of internal friction against one another. Such was the power of a kiss in a release as tightly wound as this one.
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Booth was concurrently doing some unwinding of his own, releasing guilt, dismissing doubts, and accepting the reality of his choices, both past and present. Her talented hands were stirring up pages, no, entire sealed sections, from the annals of his fantasy archive; the volumes of which, had been locked in a box when he took off to Afghanistan. As she grasped the sides of his head in an attempt to devour him with a kiss, he couldn't hold back any more. His lips welcomed her, his mouth devoured her, his tongue described the menu of his intent toward her. Lost for long breathless minutes, they spiralled around their new axis of intimacy. Seeking gravity, he grasped her hips from where he sat on the barstool, pulling her further between his legs, crushing her as close as possible, initiating a single, slow, seated grind against her as he did so. Her gasp of reaction was enough to break the kiss. They stared at one another, catching their breath.
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"You are very aroused, Booth," she commented with a teasing grin on her flushed face.
"You would be disappointed if I wasn't Moh-hard for you, Bones," he quipped, relaxing his grip a little.
She laughed, genuinely thrilled at his endearing attempt to use science. "As in Moh's Scale?"
"Yeah, Hodgins explained it to me once. It's a measure of hardness, y'know. They even rap about it," he said, as if adding a pop-culture reference gave his assertion more weight.
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Her hand trailed down his chest again, over his abs, fingers tap-dancing over his belt buckle to land directly over the 'evidence', which was summarily grasped for an independent assessment.
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"I'm no expert in Geology, Booth, but I would give it a seven..."
"A seven?" spluttered Booth. "Out of what?"
She grinned. "Out of ten, on Moh's Scale...where seven is roughly equal to the hardness of quartz, and translates to an absolute hardness factor of one hundred."
"Quartz, huh?" said Booth with a cocky grin. "Is that hard enough for you?"
"I suggest that we abandon your science lesson and find out," she suggested.
He flashed her a grin of mischief as he placed his hands over the front of her blouse, rubbing lightly, before grasping the cotton in his hands. "Then if school is out, I get to rip off the teacher's shirt," he announced.
"I ripped open your shirt, Booth," she reasoned. "Following the passionate frenzy cliche, you should reciprocate. I believe it's called tit for tat."
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"You can keep the tat, Bones," he murmured at the expanse of flesh exposed, as buttons from her blouse were sent off in spiralling arcs to join the others that littered her hardwood floor. A brief struggle ensued as each one of them attempted to remove the shirt of the other at the same time. Booth flung her shirt over the other side of the kitchen, grabbed her by the waist and hoisted her up to sit on the kitchen bench, knocking over his beer bottle in the process. It toppled, spilling it mostly over her hand which was splayed behind her on the bench. Booth grimaced at the mess.
"Don't worry about it, Booth. I'm not," she reassured him with a dangerous light in her eyes as she took her beer soaked hand, and began sucking the excess beverage from her dripping fingers; providing a practical (and incredibly hot) demonstration of her glossal genius in the process. Not be outdone, and despite his tumescence now approaching an improbable eight on Moh's scale, he pursued the drips that had fallen onto her chest with his lips, using his tongue to trace back each wet trail left behind. His hands busied themselves behind her back, attempting to undo the clasp of her bra. Releasing her pinky finger from her mouth, she reached behind her back with her right hand and playfully smacked his large, fumbling fingers away.
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"Aww, Bones! I'm supposed to be ripping your clothes off here," he complained, temporarily abandoning his plunder of her cleavage and taking the opportunity to lave and kiss a path along her jawline, targeting her earlobe. His exhaled breaths were hot against her skin, and the sensation was driving her arousal to the point where she could no longer ignore the sweet beckoning tension of an orgasm, waiting like a prima donna bouncing en pointe in the wings.
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"Sometimes, you just have to...defer...to my expertise, I've been wearing a bra for years...ahh!" she exclaimed in relief and victory, as the hooks and eyes parted ways with a practiced twist of her wrist.
"It would have been nice to rip it off though," he pouted, placing his warm hands over his newly released booby prize.
"It's a $200 bra. One of my favourites. It's a matching set," she commented earnestly around her heavier breaths, as she let the bronze satin and lace number slip down her arms, and fall to the floor.
"And you just tossed it on the floor, you bad girl," he teased mildly into her neck, while simultaneously employing his hands to do some major league teasing of her exposed breasts.
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"I know," she crooned huskily. "But in this case, bad is also good, which makes no sense..." she trailed off, terminally distracted by the pads of his thumbs tracing around the areolae on each breast, with various rotating planes of his short thumbnails grazing in tandem against each nipple, delivering a stimulating blend of exquisite pleasure and mild pain. She inhaled sharply and gave an involuntary shiver in response. Grabbing at his belt buckle, eidetic memory recalled her previous experience of removing the item and made quick work of it, before moving on to his pants, which were the next item on her passionate frenzy checklist.
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"Are you trying to get into my pants, Dr. Brennan?" he asked, a little breathless himself as her hands invaded below the waistband of his boxer shorts to stake an intimate claim.
Their foreheads came to rest together, both recognising the need for a brief hiatus, because a well executed passionate frenzy really shouldn't involve getting caught out on second base.
"Actually, I'm attempting to get you out of your pants. But you know that, right?" she chuckled evilly.
"Uh huh, and I also know that if you don't take it easy on Seeley Jnr. down there, that this whole frenzy thing is gonna end, real soon!" he admitted.
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She reluctantly throttled back on her ministrations, which had been simply been mimicking the attention that his own hands had been giving to her. "You need to help me get out of my own pants, Booth, they're all wet now."
He gave a groan and shut his eyes at the imagery that the statement conjured up. She felt him twitch against her hand and gave a laugh that could only be classified as naughty. "Although the beer that you spilled on my counter top has actually soaked into my pants, you should know that the innuendo was also intended." She removed her hands to a safer zone, but used the advantage of her seated position to wrap her legs around him, effectively pulling their torsos together. Enjoying the sensation of being skin to skin for a moment, Brennan murmured in his ear, smiling in remembrance of the words she wrote, asking for real this time. "Do you love me?"
"Do you want me to prove it to you?" he asked, recalling the fantasy/reality that had plagued and haunted him in turn. When she whispered a sultry 'Absolutely', into his ear, a cocky grin spread across his face, as his hands began to divest her of the beer-soaked pants, reassuring him that this was no damned dream. She covered his still grinning lips with her own as they reclined back over her counter-top together, arching her back as his hands lifted her hips, slipping under to slide along her skin, tempering the shock of cold from the hard surface beneath her. The sensation dragged her away from the precipice once more, but the warm hands traveling back up her legs told her exactly what he had in mind.
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"Page 187?" she asked. "You know I've never done this. I just wrote about it."
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He gave a short laugh, followed by a long, hot, exhalation that branded his intent on her skin. "Me neither, Temperance...but I read the manual." She laughed as she felt, rather than saw, his eyebrows waggle. He reached for her hand, to join them both, to ground them both. "Quote the passage...tell me what you want..."
She knew the words because she wrote them, because she awoke with them echoing from her receding dreams on a hundred humid Maluku nights.
"It was a night of mutual pleasure, tethered delicately at each end by the most intimate of kisses..."
Gripping his hand hard once before letting go, she was suddenly bereft of speech, the wave of heat that washed over her was undeniable evidence that he knew the rest. Every muscle group below her diaphragm tightened as Booth did 'that thing'. That thing that she had always known would be enjoyable...had always hoped that it would be done well enough to satisfy her...and before she knew it, she was there. Sensation receded like a fiery backdraft, sucked away into a silent moment of stillness; returning released, searing sine waves through nerve endings overloaded with pleasure, tugging at her grip on control. A thousand tiny hands pulled her on a thousand separate vectors, as the rising carbon dioxide level in her blood forced the involuntary release of the breath that she had been holding; tensed vocal cords generating an inarticulate shout.
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According to the 'Page 187' script, there was no time to let her come down, it was up to him now to act. She had already propped herself up onto her elbows, half-gasping, half laughing in gleeful expectation. "I think I know what happens next!" she chuckled huskily. Biting down on his bottom lip, still savouring her flavour, he pulled her toward him, sitting her up in the process. He shifted his forearms under her hips to lift her into position, pleased beyond measure when he realised that she had retained the ability to wrap her legs around him, bracing herself, using the strength of her legs to pull him closer, seeking his heat with her own. Their combined momentum provided the pivotal connection, triggering a dysergic moment where words, thoughts, and breath were stolen away; consumed in consummation.
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Experiencing the first shock of the new friction between them engendered a few quiet moments where they simply clung together, torsos crushed together in an intimate parody of guy hugs past. Neither of them naive to the physicality of the act, but shedding the last shreds of innocence between them nonetheless. Their lips homed in on each other, clashing in a brief and aggressive needy kiss; knowing instinctively what was required to pick up the tempo between them. The passion was there, and the frenzy followed...drowning them in their collective delirium, writing a new arrangement of a primal rhythm and melody.
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Surrounded, invaded, and inundated by the overwhelming weight of evidence; Occam's razor cut through the rational binding around her metaphorical heart. Her intellect made an exception to the irrationality of an logical juxtaposition; that she could no longer reject the truth of the metaphysical, whilst accepting that she was unable to deduce the existence of love by reason alone. Exerting her physical freedom, she added her own complementary counterpoint to his increasingly demanding pace. Even now they were antagonistic in their affections. Each time his lips approached her ear on his repetitively dogged path to drive them both to oblivion, he spoke a single word, which transmuted into a mantra validating what he knew; what he had always known. 'So. Damned. Good. Together.'
As she saw, heard and felt him lose coherence, there was nothing left for Brennan to do now except concur. She relinquished self-control, walls quaking on the edge of collapse, crying out an emphatic 'Yes!'
Pluralitas non est ponenda sine neccesitate