All you people with cravings for more pineapple pie!!! All you smut monsters need to get your minds out of the pie plate.
Since several people asked so nicely, here's a small slice, that I hope satisfies your appetite.
Four years, six months, two weeks, three days, to taste that perfect, ripe, pineapple pie-- the one that beckoned to him ever since he first saw it, the golden rind and those prickly green eyes and that goddamned heavenly smell tempting him every single damned day. He started removing the prickly eyes first, that first year, every barbed comment, critical correction, and snotty look slowly giving way, that last eye yielding to hardly any pressure at all when she let him hold her in McVicker's barn and tell her he knew who she was.
The next year, well, the inedible bottom, the spiky green top, useless attempts to shield the tempting insides now that the eyes and the rind were gone-- she cast them off on her own when she decided to stay after Sully left. He knew it, he just didn't ask-- though he was joyful inside, especially given his idiocy in dabbling in raisins and pumpkin that year.
The third year? Well, he wasn't quite sure what happened there, except that he thought it just needed more time. The fruit stood there, glistening, tempting, the rind and eyes gone, everything but the core peeled away, its fragrance so incredible he couldn't smell anything else. His mouth watered that whole goddamned year. He was afraid, though, after Epps, to try to remove the fruit from its tough, bitter core-- it was still what held the fruit together, even after the peel and the eyes and the top and the bottom were gone. He hadn't expected that she'd do it herself, a goddamned self-preparing pineapple-- at her dad's trial, then when he died and she begged him to hold on, then socked him as hard as he'd deserved at his damned resurrection. That third year and into the fourth, she slowly sectioned herself-- leaning her head on his shoulder after Zack, not sleeping with Wexler, getting him that stupid office chair, paying him compliments, fixing his back, defending him to their therapist.
He hadn't planned on it, that fourth year, sixth month, second week and third day-- it just happened. The last section just fell into his lap, as they finished their paperwork at her house, on her couch, and she turned to him. "I'm sick of your stupid line, Booth," she said, a small smile nonetheless curving her mouth. "And this surrogate relationship, too, as much as it's nice to spend so much non-work time with you."
He was speechless. He was going to get some pineapple pie! He'd never hesitated before, and yet here he was, sitting here catching flies with his mouth when he could be enjoying pineapple pie, right now, this very instant.
"What's the matter, Booth," she asked, leaning in saucily, her breath tickling his face. She knew she had him when his jaw dropped. And when his pants tented-- the jaw dropped first, but only seconds before. But it was a hell of a tent, she thought appraisingly. "Forensic anthropologist got your tongue?"
He closed his mouth, grinned, and then stood, pulling her up and managing to get them both naked and on top of her bed in an instant. "Something like that," he said, as he bent to kiss her, the taste of her mouth sweet, tart, intoxicating. Yep, pineapple, the most worth-it fruit in the world. "My tongue's all yours, baby," he growled-- then started to feast. He smelled her, filling his nose with the salt-fruity notes of her skin, the way she buckled and curved under his tongue and his hands. He let her melt on his tongue, first, slow and teasing, until she was begging for more. The flesh of her core, her warm filling, in his mouth and under the light bite of his teeth as he tested her was like nothing else. She was firm and yet yielding, covered in thick, salty-tart-sweet juices-- completely over-the-top, out-of-this-world, unbelievably, incredibly, worth it.
"Aah!! Seeley! Oh! More!" she screamed, her cheeks and chest pink, her breath panting. She wailed again right before the rush hit his tongue, flooding his mouth. The juices dripped on his chin, on his hands, and he licked up every last drop, just as he said he would, two months, two weeks and one day ago. He'd kept track. Baking time was important.
Yep. Pineapple pie was his favorite. Pineapple pie that grabbed your hair and screamed "Oh, God, Booth! Please!" like a banshee.
Booth loved pineapple pie. Booth also loved making love to Bones. He didn't just love making love to Bones because he was cocky, though he knew he was good—mostly, he just loved Bones. Period. Whether she was pineapple or not. But the pineapple? It didn't hurt.