A/N- It's the lovely and talented RositaLG's birthday which means that she got to give me a prompt and I had to write what she asked. That conversation went something like this:
Me: Can I get your prompt for your birthday fic, please?
Her: Two words: Tie Smut.
So that's what this is. A little late, but pretty smutty. There is a reason for the rating, people.
Happy Birthday, my hagel slag eating, 100th episode loving, Hamlet sharing, Friend. *cupcakes*
She may be the one who studies people, but now he is the one who knows something about her.
It's a small thing, really. Nothing that will change the course of history or get printed in some anthropology journal. It won't be touted on the lecture circuit as a must see session. There will never be anyone waiting for a signed copy of it because it won't be published. It's not the sort of thing he will joke about at the dinner table. When their children are old it won't be part of the stories they tell their grandchildren. It's not even anything anyone will notice except him.
That's what he likes about his little discovery. What he knows is just for him to know.
He supposes on some level his partner is aware of it, too. She has studied extensively for work and for her novels to discover what makes people tick: How is our society wired to respond to things? What is the historical or cultural significance to the things that people do; what they want, how they feel, what they need?
But he can't be completely certain if she'd willingly acknowledge this thing that he knows, not even to herself.
So he plays it close to the vest. He will not tip his hand. If he does, she might pretend it isn't true. If she realizes he knows what he knows, she, the beautiful and stubborn Dr. Temperance Brennan, may just go out of her way to pretend it isn't true at all. And quite frankly what he knows? It benefits him and he wants to hold on to his knowledge and use it to his advantage for as long as he can, as often as he can. Because what he knows is powerful stuff.
She likes his ties.
She likes his ties and they turn her on.
He can remember the first moment it clicked for him that there was something about a tie that just did it for her.
"Your tie is crooked. Let me fix it."
"My tie is fine. I can see it in the reflection in the oven."
"The reflection isn't accurate. The knot is slightly askew. "
"How is a reflection not accurate?"
"It's not a mirror. It's oven glass. Things can appear…distorted. Like your tie. Allow me."
She'd stepped close to him and he'd seen it. Her eyes had turned that deep ocean blue that meant only one thing. Before he even knew what was happening, her hands were yanking on his tie, her tongue was in his mouth and he was thirty seconds away from a morning quickie against the kitchen counter.
But it had been after, once they were redressed and recovered, that he'd finally understood.
She had adjusted the knot, smoothed the tie down and stepped back with a satisfied smile.
"That's much better."
She'd gone upstairs to freshen up and he'd been left standing in the kitchen with his newfound discovery:
She likes his ties and they turn her on.
That knowledge has been a powerful weapon ever since.
He uses it selectively, of course. Sex with his partner is never dull. But sometimes? Sometimes he is just…horny. And though she always matches him step for step when he makes the first move, there is something extra hot about whipping her into a frenzy before he even touches her. And sometimes that frenzy, that amped up need from her, is exactly what he wants.
On those days he would undo the cuffs of his shirt before he ever left the Hoover, but he wouldn't touch his tie until he was with her.
He'd wait until he was certain she was looking and then he'd start his slow seduction.
He would start with a pull, just slide a finger under is collar and tug at the fabric that lay just underneath his pulse, as if it was just a bit too tight.
Then he'd wait. Just a bit.
Then next time she looked over at him he might use that finger and pull at the knot a bit. He wouldn't loosen it, though. Not yet. That's not how it worked. It would just be a pull. Maybe another little pull after that if he thought she needed it.
When she licked her lips, he'd know it was working.
Then he'd wait for just the right moment and he'd say his name for her, the one reserved only for him. He wouldn't make a big deal out of it. He'd just say "Bones" and then accompany it with whatever was germane to their conversation.
"Bones, there is no way Angela will let Hodgins keep a pet python at the house."
"Bones? Did you pick up cereal at the store yesterday?"
"Do you want take-out for dinner, Bones?"
And as he said her name he would loosen the knot at his neck. He'd pull it down, ease the tension in the fabric around his neck and up the sexual tension in his partner.
One time he'd tried it out in the car.
He tugged at the fabric under his collar. "How late do you think you'll be tonight?"
"Preliminary findings will take several hours at least. I should have results in the morning."
"An all-nighter?" He'd pulled at the knot.
"I hate it when you do that."
"I know, but I'm sure this person has a family who wants to know what happened. It's my job to give them that as soon as possible."
"I know. You're right. It's just not good for you to skip a night's sleep, Bones." And he'd loosened the knot.
It was good that he was so familiar with DC side alleys and back ways because they were more than a little late getting back to the lab.
Yes, Booth knows what he knows and he knows how to use it.
And she doesn't realize it at all.
She has always been aware, academically, that men respond to certain stimuli. This is not news to her. She's studied it and experienced it and it's been proven true, time and time again.
Men are visual creatures.
And Booth is no exception to that rule.
But while she understands this logically, it is the visual stimulant that gets her partner aroused that she finds particularly interesting. It's not something that she would find in a textbook, or a journal. It can't be categorized as pornographic, or sensual or even traditionally sexy. But it seems to have an unequivocal effect on him every time she does it.
She can feel a little thrill race through her when she thinks about what he likes. He is such an alpha male and yet…what she knows turns him on is nothing she would ever have guessed.
He likes it when she walks around with her shirt half buttoned.
He likes it and it turns him on.
She'd first noticed it one Saturday morning when she was going to a breakfast meeting with her publicist and he was still lounging in bed. She'd put on her skirt and gotten halfway through buttoning up her shirt when she decided she wanted to dab on a little bit of perfume. Rather than button up and then unbutton once she reached her vanity, she slipped on her shoes and walked by him as she made her way to the bathroom.
"Forgot some buttons, there, Bones."
"I'm going to put on some perfume."
"That guy's nose better not be anywhere near there!"
But when she walked by him again a few minutes later, with her shirt still only half done up, she'd caught the expression that crossed his face.
It was no surprise to her that a moment later her back was pinned against the wall and his tongue was making its way from her clavicle to the valley of her breasts.
"Booth! I'll be late to my meeting and Marcus is very unpleasant when that happens."
"I'll make it worth your while."
"Oh! Yes… I… Oh! I expect you will."
Several very frenzied minutes later, her skirt was up around her waist and her underwear was across the room and she was very, very certain she was not going to care that Marcus the Publicist would be grumpy.
He chuckled as she pushed her skirt down and attempted to smooth her hair back into place. Her hands shook as she attempted to button her blouse.
"C'mere. Let me help you."
He'd buttoned the bottom few buttons then kissed the space between her breasts, just above her bra, before buttoning her shirt the rest of the way.
"That's much better. Have a good meeting, Bones."
He'd left her standing there, still slightly weak-kneed, as he headed to the shower.
And suddenly, she knew.
He liked it and it turned him on when she walked around with her blouse half open.
She understands it is the hint of what is underneath her blouse that is such a turn on. Throughout history, there are examples of this. There was a time that the sight of an ankle was erotic; there were places where showing a woman's bare shoulders was indecent. Because what came next, after ankles and shoulders?
Far, far more socially inappropriate areas.
She knows for a fact that Booth likes her breasts.
He tells her so quite often.
And so the hint of them is a source of arousal for him.
This is information she can work with.
This is information she does work with.
Although she loves the control that comes with it, she tries not to use her secret weapon too often, because Booth is a smart man and she knows if she isn't careful he'll catch on. Most times, he happily complies with any sexual desire she has and she doesn't need to resort to getting him worked up before they even really begin.
But sometimes she just wants him hot and hard and fast and on those days? Those days she walks around with her shirt half open.
First she'd make sure he was watching as she undid the top button. Then she'd do something mundane, like take off her shoes or her earrings. Something to tell him there was more to come.
She'd talk with him, take off her rings, put on some hand lotion. If he looked away, she'd undo another button. If he didn't she'd leave for a moment, and come back with her shirt open a few buttons more.
She'd say his name, the one no other woman had ever called him in the bedroom, as she played with her collar, pulling her shirt open just a tiny bit further.
"Booth, did you remember to pay the landscaper?"
"Booth, I have a meeting tomorrow, so I will drive myself to work."
"Booth? Is your hockey game on Wednesday or Thursday?"
All to call attention to the fact that she was just inches from baring her breasts.
He'd lick his lips and struggle to keep his eyes on hers.
And when he failed? She knew she had him.
Once they'd come home from a long day in court. He was exhausted after being on the witness stand for three hours and she was tense from watching the defense attorney attempt to knock him off his game the entire afternoon.
She knew what she needed and thought he might be too tired to give it to her.
So she tested out her secret weapon.
Buttons half undone, she walked past him twice, once to retrieve her phone and once to set the alarm. Her third pass by him had been to go downstairs to set the coffeemaker for the next day.
She never made it out of the room and there hadn't been any coffee ready the next morning.
Yes, she knows what she knows and she knows how to use it.
And he doesn't realize it at all.
The day has been god-awful for them both, though neither is aware of the other's misery when Brennan arrives home 30 minutes after Booth.
He is standing at the kitchen island sorting mail when she comes through the front door, slamming it shut behind her.
He is not in the mood for one-upping. His day was bad and he knows what he needs and she's the only one who can give it to him.
"Hey." He says, pulling on his tie.
"Hi." She undoes the top button on her blouse, then kicks off her shoes.
"How was your day?" Normally he would wait, but he can't. Not now. He needs this; needs it fast and out of control and maybe even just a little bit dirty. So he pulls at his tie again.
"Frustrating." She pulls off her earrings and turns to place them on the table behind her. "You?" She asks with her back to him.
"Irritating." He answers as she turns back around. "Just…bad, you know?"
"Do you want to talk about it?" She says, brushing by him to the cabinet where they keep the glasses.
He notices that her shirt is unbuttoned almost to her waist and he is quite certain she only undid one button, the top one, last time he looked.
He shakes his head to regroup and reaches for the knot of his tie. "No, Bones, I don't." He thinks he might have her now, because he can see that she swallows hard when he says her name. He really hopes his tactic is successful immediately like it usually is because he just needs to get this day out of his brain and there is only one way that is going to happen.
She crosses by him to get some water.
"I'm sorry you had a bad day, too, Booth, " she tells him, tugging on her shirt collar.
He can see her creamy skin peeking out between the columns of buttons and holes and he can see the tiny bow on her bra in between her breasts.
He can see her swallow her sip of water and tip her head back as she does.
And now he knows something new.
He's being played.
And he's not quite sure what to think about this game.
Technically, he figures he can't lose. Not really. It seems like their goal is the same and if he wanted to he could end it now by pretending to be completely fooled by her behavior.
But Booth has always been competitive and as much as he wants to get his fingers in her hair and get his lips on her mouth and his growing erection inside of her tight heat, he wants it the way HE wants it.
He'll have to up his game.
So he pulls his tie a little looser.
By the time her shirt is all the way unbuttoned and hanging open and his tie is completely unknotted and just hanging off his neck, she realizes she has been caught.
She also realizes he is knee deep, or tie deep, in his own version of seduction.
It's been an awful day; the kind of day where she expected other people to do their jobs so she could do hers, and they'd all failed her miserably.
She wants to forget this day and to forget that she has relearned what she has been trying to let go; you shouldn't rely on other people.
She desperately wants Booth, strong and sure, inside of her. He won't fail her. He never does. In any way.
But she needs the control. She needs to run the show.
She needs to win this game they are playing.
So as much as she realizes they both want the same end result, she has to be in charge.
She will have to play the game a little harder.
So she pops the front clasp of her bra open.
They have been at this for forty-five minutes and there is no end in sight.
They are discussing the most idiotic things. What he ate for lunch. How Angela wants to go to Paris again. How they need to ask the landscaper to trim the rose bush in the front. When was the last time he went to the dentist.
They are discussing anything but what is really happening and the only indication this is not a normal conversation in the kitchen is the state of their clothing.
His shirt is unbuttoned and untucked, his tie still hanging on and more than anything he wants to push her against the wall, rip off everything she is wearing below the waist and fuck her senseless.
But only if she admits to what she is doing.
Which she will not.
Her bra is hanging over the back of a kitchen chair. She pulled off the entire thing through the sleeve of her shirt, claiming it was an uncomfortable undergarment and he knows she is full of it.
It's working, though. He can see the swell of her breasts, can make out her nipples through the fabric that still covers them. They are peaked and ready for him to touch them, to lick them, to suck them and dammit, he really, really wants to.
He can't decide anymore if this is really worth winning, because losing seems like it could be just as fun.
Except he really likes to win.
But so does she and he knows this could go on forever.
He decides to make one last play.
He steps so close to her, trapping her between himself and the kitchen counter, but he doesn't touch her. He knows that if he does, he won't be able to stop touching her.
As it is he can't stop the words that tumble from his mouth.
"What game are you playing here, Bones?"
Her attempt to look indignant in the wake of being completely aroused is laughable, but he has to give her credit for trying.
"I don't know what that means."
"You don't know what that means? You're walking around the kitchen, no bra, your nipples hard and ready for attention, and you are seriously trying to tell me you don't know what's going on?"
"Me? I am not the one who started this."
"You heard me. Do you really think you are so clever? I know what you've been doing."
"I'm just standing her talking to you."
"Your pupils are dilated, your breathing has increased. I'd be willing to bet your heart rate is elevated as well."
He leans just a little bit closer in, his lips next to her ear, his body contorting so he wouldn't touch her, so she couldn't feel just how turned on he was. "You. Can't. Win. This." He whispers and then moves back, just a little, to watch her whole body tremble in reaction.
Her chin lifts in that way that he knows means that she is digging in her heels. "I have no idea what you are talking about." She swipes at his tie on one side, sending it flying over his shoulder so it now hangs only down his back and down one side of his chest.
She goes to do the same to the other side, but he moves and instead of her fingers flicking his tie, they graze his chest.
The contact causes them both to freeze and catch their breath and it seems for a moment that time stands completely still.
"Fuck!" He mutters when he starts to breathe again and he means it two ways.
He's lost the game and he knows it. It is a cry of forfeit.
But it is also a warning. What is about to happen will not be sweet and gentle.
"What did you say?" She is being coy, but her voice gives away her desire. She likes the talk.
"Fuck," he swears again.
"Oh god, please, yes." The words coast out of her mouth in a strangled, urgent whisper.
Maybe he didn't lose after all.
His mouth descends upon her breasts as if he has been starving for them. He licks and sucks and scrapes his teeth along them while her fingers work desperately at his belt buckle and her back arches towards him, urging him to take more.
He laves her nipples, swirling around them with his tongue, then sucking hard as they pucker even more beneath his ministrations.
She is successful and finally undoes his Cocky buckle, pushing his pants and boxers down in one move, freeing his erection. She closes her fingers around it immediately, pulling, then pumping as frantically as his tongue is moving over her breasts.
The counter is digging into her lower back and the harder he sucks, the further back she leans. It's not an angle either of them can work with for what they really want and it needs to be changed.
His hands are exploring the waistline of her skirt, searching for a zipper, a button, a hook…something so he can get it off her and himself inside her, but he can't find anything. He gives it a tug down, but it doesn't really move and so the only solution is foggy brain can find is up. He reaches down to the bottom and yanks the hem upwards on one side. She grabs the other side and pulls up, too, pooling the fabric around her stomach and waist, but granting him much better access.
He cups her ass, his hands strong and sure, and squeezes as his lips capture hers. She moans into his mouth and the sounds she makes and the way she is playing with his dick are going to be his undoing.
He moves his hands to her waist and boosts onto the counter's edge, lining her up just where he needs her.
"Now, Booth. "
Just where she needs him as well.
Without thought he hooks his finger around the impossibly flimsy panties she is wearing and pulls, ripping one side.
One side is all he needs and he shoves the rest out of the way without bothering to take it off. His fingers graze her center when he does this and it's not accidental.
He can smell her arousal and she is dripping with need.
The temptation to play can't even begin to compare to their need for one another. Teasing and tempting and playing will have to wait.
Before the games, they just both just wanted some release.
Now they both just want to be thoroughly fucked.
"Hold on, Baby." This is a warning, too. Once he pushes inside her he will lose control. Of this he is certain.
She puts one hand on the counter behind her to brace herself and wraps her legs around him, the other hand grasping his strong upper arm.
He grabs her ass and pulls her towards him at the same time he strokes into her and the sheer force of their joining makes her gasp as patches of color slash across his cheeks.
Normally he'd stop and revel in it, but this is not that moment.
Instead he just slams into her over, and over, and over, and even though he is buries himself to the hilt every single time, it's not enough. It's like he can't get deep enough inside her for either one of them because she is latching both her arms around his neck now and his hands are solidly basketing her ass and she is matching him stroke for stroke, nearly climbing onto him, fucking him hard.
"Oh, yeah, Bones. That's it. That's it."
He buries his face in her neck and holds on tighter still when he feels her start to tip towards orgasm.
No noise escapes either of them for a moment except for ragged breathing and the sounds of two toned bodies slamming into one another until a keening noise begins to rise from the back of her throat.
She is beginning to tense around his dick, and he can feel the push on the base of his spine and the tightening in his balls and he knows he is getting close to falling over the edge.
"Yeah, baby, that's it. Come on." He urges her on, but it's for him, too. He will come when she does and she's almost there.
"Booth!" She screams his name as her head snaps back and her body arches up and every part of her begins to shake in violent release.
Her inner walls contract hard around him, pulsing and milking and he thrusts deep one last time before he detonates, coming long and hot and hard inside of her.
Recovery takes more than a few minutes…if he had to guess probably longer than the sex itself. He is forced to withdraw from her as he begins to soften, not because he wants to, but because he can't stand up anymore. Every ounce of strength has been depleted and he stumbles backwards a few steps before giving in and sitting down on the floor, his back resting against the cabinets opposite of where they'd just claimed each other.
Brennan is boneless, laying back on the countertop, her chest rising and falling fast, her skin flushed pink from head to toe. He can see small tremors still pass through her every now and then and her legs seem to be unable to just be still.
They don't talk.
They can barely breath.
They are each thoroughly sated, satisfied, content, spent and any other adjective there is to describe the feeling after being well and truly screwed.
He thinks she might be asleep on that countertop until she speaks, her voice still husky from sex.
"We're getting take out. I am not going to cook on this counter right now."
He chuckles. "Deal."
"The menus are in the desk drawer." She points across the kitchen.
"You get them."
"No. Loser should get them," she asserts.
"So you admit it was a game."
"YOU said it was a game and if that's the case, then I clearly won."
"I don't think so."
"No way. I am the winner."
She is quiet for a moment, then asks. "Call it a tie?"
She is quiet again for a bit before she asks "Want a tie breaker?"
"Great. Grab the menus. We'll need the sustenance."
So he does.
Because a go around with her is an offer he'll never refuse.