beta by lostakasha
So ... you think Seeley is straight?
I can play that.
He told her about walking through a hospital tent, looking for a friend. The smell of blood so sharp and immediate that it hurt to breathe. Men on cots. Some writhing in drugged pain, some as still as death. Impartial, impersonal clipboards that hung from each bed with simple stats that said nothing about the person they represented and that's what hurt him the most.
Who was this man? Where did he come from? What was he before coming over here? First love, favorite hobby ... darkest, deepest dreams. Booth couldn't stop asking because when he was sent to kill, he couldn't even begin to wonder about the prey. He couldn't even begin to care.
She listened with wide eyes that were dark with knowledge. She may not have ever been there when it was happening, but she damn well knew the aftermath. She knew it all first hand. She told him of tagging remains and separating bodies and the story that was left once the reality had passed.
After he and his kind had left.
He held her hand and they drank too much wine after dinner. Filling empty glasses with their souls bared over the tablecloth like specimens in a petri dish. Picked apart and dissected. But it didn't hurt, because they were doing it to each other with words and memories and shared experiences.
He told her about sitting in the dark of his bedroom and still hearing the sound of earth being moved by artillery and the flashes of bombs going off. The momentary blinding and the tight, metal grip of his rifle in his hands. The need to kill that overwhelmed him. The taste of sand in his mouth, the smell of oil and the black smoke that rolled through his world, through his eyes, though his senses. The hard-on that never left.
“Come home with me.” She whispered.
“Just hold me,” she said and Booth nodded.
He motioned for the waitress and the check.
Seeley could count on one hand the times that she'd asked for his help or for his arm. His strength. His presence.
He couldn't tally up the times he needed her and he would never try.
They ended up in her bed. Blankets kicked to the floor. Both sweating as if they were still in some nameless desert alone, cut off from the rest of their lives. From reality.
She licked his forehead, the point of her tongue soft on his eyelids. Weightless, she took his breath away. He didn't remember her nails being so long, so sharp, until he felt them slicing into his shoulders, scraping down his arms.
“Spread your legs,” she whispered.
Booth did what she asked, his spine arching off the mattress.
She fucked him as if he was a virgin and she fucked him as if he was a whore. Belt around her waist, dildo slicked with lube. Her knees pushing his thighs apart and her hips pushing forward with a desire to feel him bend under her. Break under her.
She pried him open, guttural words tumbling raw from her lips. She pressed him to the bed, determined and ruthless. His face into the pillow, his teeth bit cotton and silk. He felt himself split wide open and he shuddered as she moved over him. Fingers in his hair, teeth in his shoulder.
She slowed her motion enough that Seeley could push up from the bed. One of her hands reached around and clamped on his cock. Tight grip, slick fingers. Moving up and down and up and pinching the head of his dick.
He came in fast, hard, hot cramps of desire. After he fell forward, shredded from the release of emotion, of orgasm, she urged him to his back, her knees over his arms, her hot, wet pussy pushed to his hungry mouth.
“My turn, Booth, my turn ...”