Fic: May Be Given In Evidence [Bones]
Jan. 31st, 2009 01:05 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
froggimus_rexTitle: May Be Given In Evidence
Fandom: Bones
Pairing: Seeley Booth/Cate Pritchard
Rating: Hard R/NC-17 for teh sexxors.
Spoilers: 4.01-02 Yanks in the UK (very vague ones)
Word count: 448
Notes: Written for the porn battle.
He really does intend only on one or two post-seminar drinks, but somewhere along the line a pint turns into several pints, then turns to an offer of a couch and a shared cab fare. Which leads directly to his current situation. Pressed up against the door, one hand buried deep in a mass of long, dark curls as his teeth rake lightly over an exposed neck.
Were he sober, he might have been slightly put out that the questing fingers of his free hand were eliciting nearly as many giggles as gasps, but he's always been an amenable drunk, and there's nothing mean-spirited in Pritchard's laughter as she fumbles with his belt. "Why Agent Booth," she states, in the over-careful way of someone who knows they're drunk, palming his hard-on through his pants. "I do believe you're happy to see me."
"You're sure of yourself," he retorts, even as he groans and his hips jerk forward. "Could be a gun, Pritch."
"Where'd you get one then?" she laughs, her fingertips teasingly light as they trace the outline of his cock straining against the fabric of his trousers.
Distracted, it takes a moment for him to reply. "Could have smuggled it in."
"I'd arrest you if you did." Nails rake over his stomach as her hand slowly slides under his waistband, grips him tightly.
It doesn't take that much longer to unbutton her blouse one-handed than it would have using both, not really, and he likes the way her hair feels entwined around his fingers. "You wouldn't," he murmurs as his thumb finds a nipple, ghosts over it in tight circles. "You like me too much."
He bites down on an involuntary whimper as she takes her hand off him, feels cold metal encircling his wrist with a soft click. "Not that much," she replies, her grin taking the sting out of the words as she tugs on the handcuffs. "You're nicked."
He lets her guide him, watches the professional way she loop the cuffs around a radiator pipe before securing his hands behind his back. "Aren't you gonna read me my rights?" he asks, leaning back as casually as the cuffs and his drunkenness allow.
"Course I am," comes the reply as his shirt is pushed off his shoulders, down his arms, teeth and nails marking the newly bared skin. "I'm a professional."
She gracefully sinks to her knees, punctuating her words with nips and bites along his chest and stomach. "You do not have to say anything," she says, nails scraping over his hipbones, voice full of sincerity. "But anything you do say may be given in evidence."
He waives his right to silence.
Fandom: Bones
Pairing: Seeley Booth/Cate Pritchard
Rating: Hard R/NC-17 for teh sexxors.
Spoilers: 4.01-02 Yanks in the UK (very vague ones)
Word count: 448
Notes: Written for the porn battle.
He really does intend only on one or two post-seminar drinks, but somewhere along the line a pint turns into several pints, then turns to an offer of a couch and a shared cab fare. Which leads directly to his current situation. Pressed up against the door, one hand buried deep in a mass of long, dark curls as his teeth rake lightly over an exposed neck.
Were he sober, he might have been slightly put out that the questing fingers of his free hand were eliciting nearly as many giggles as gasps, but he's always been an amenable drunk, and there's nothing mean-spirited in Pritchard's laughter as she fumbles with his belt. "Why Agent Booth," she states, in the over-careful way of someone who knows they're drunk, palming his hard-on through his pants. "I do believe you're happy to see me."
"You're sure of yourself," he retorts, even as he groans and his hips jerk forward. "Could be a gun, Pritch."
"Where'd you get one then?" she laughs, her fingertips teasingly light as they trace the outline of his cock straining against the fabric of his trousers.
Distracted, it takes a moment for him to reply. "Could have smuggled it in."
"I'd arrest you if you did." Nails rake over his stomach as her hand slowly slides under his waistband, grips him tightly.
It doesn't take that much longer to unbutton her blouse one-handed than it would have using both, not really, and he likes the way her hair feels entwined around his fingers. "You wouldn't," he murmurs as his thumb finds a nipple, ghosts over it in tight circles. "You like me too much."
He bites down on an involuntary whimper as she takes her hand off him, feels cold metal encircling his wrist with a soft click. "Not that much," she replies, her grin taking the sting out of the words as she tugs on the handcuffs. "You're nicked."
He lets her guide him, watches the professional way she loop the cuffs around a radiator pipe before securing his hands behind his back. "Aren't you gonna read me my rights?" he asks, leaning back as casually as the cuffs and his drunkenness allow.
"Course I am," comes the reply as his shirt is pushed off his shoulders, down his arms, teeth and nails marking the newly bared skin. "I'm a professional."
She gracefully sinks to her knees, punctuating her words with nips and bites along his chest and stomach. "You do not have to say anything," she says, nails scraping over his hipbones, voice full of sincerity. "But anything you do say may be given in evidence."
He waives his right to silence.
