Fantasy into Reality

As the lady said once, T-rated fic, T-rated fic, T-rated fic! I added a chapter to my original tale as found in Vignettes in order to provide equal time.

Don't own them. Just thought I should say it again.

Booth has many fantasies about his partner--but what about Brennan?

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Chapter 1

Seeley Booth has a lot of dreams, mostly inappropriate, about his partner. Even in the very beginning, when he would have told anyone who asked that he preferred leggy blondes, he’d had at least one naughty dream about Bones. Something about the gun range and her getting up into his face and…well, he can’t remember the original details anymore--he’s re-imagined it too often.

Over the years, he’s been given lots of fuel for his dreams turned fantasies. He knows how she feels in his arms or under him, and even what she feels like pressed up against him. He’s had a taste or three of how her lips feel on him, and he definitely wants more. He’s seen her in almost every style of clothing from her lab coat and jumpsuit to formal to sexy to that little robe she answered the door in once.

He also has a good imagination and a talent for creating a whole picture from fragments. Hence a favorite fantasy of Bones in nothing but her lab coat, usually in her office or sometimes on the platform. Not that it was likely to happen in reality. But he has a really good picture of it, regardless.

When she falls asleep on him (unfortunately seldom literally), it simply allows him to add another level, more texture to his dreams.

He doesn’t see her sleep often, however. She may have given him a key, but he rarely uses it, knowing how she reacts to surprises. And the handful of nights spent on her couch--well, he had slept too well to go wandering. Admittedly, there had been their two undercover operations, but he had been too keyed up to dwell on it. He has caught glimpses at other times--through the window that time in the desert, little naps on her office couch, and even more rarely, drifting off in the car--and they had fuelled a few lovely fantasies about kissing her awake and using that drowsy, not-quite-awake time to seduce her into a long, leisurely session of making love.

Which is part of the problem now, of course.

She’s just back from a grueling book tour, with interviews scheduled right up until departure time. He had picked her up at the airport, at her request. (Her publishing house would have arranged a car, but she had refused. “I’ll know I’m home, if you come,” she had confided in a rare moment of openness. “You or Ange, anyway,” she had added, eyes twinkling.) The usual banter and bickering had begun almost immediately. All familiar paths, made comfortable and reassuring by repetition.

She let him into her place, told him to have a beer if he liked, and disappeared into her bedroom to change, yawning every other word, she was so tired. He was a little disappointed--somehow that business-like white shirt and black skirt was more alluring than it should be. He can’t blame her though--no woman has ever told him that nylons and heels were comfortable. Quite the opposite, in fact.

But she doesn’t come back and he goes looking for her. She’s sprawled on her bed, as though she had sat down and simply fallen asleep. The sight makes him pause; his thoughts make him grimace.

This is not the time or place, he reprimands himself. Bad enough he entertains fantasies about his partner, but to be in the same room as his sleeping partner-slash-best friend and lust over her--! No, no. But his eyes linger at the top of her shirt. That very business-like, white, button-front blouse. A “librarian” shirt.

His fingers itch to unbutton it and see what lies below. White bra, probably; most women he had observed wore white under white for everyday. But would it be all practical and Bones? Or did she hide some lacy froth under the professional scientist/eco-warrior façade? Front or back clasp?

He swallows hard. There will be trouble if he keeps this up. On the other hand…

She’s so deeply asleep even another explosion won’t wake her; there is no one else in the condo besides them. Angela’s been told to not come by tonight. What harm just to think about it?

He gives in to the fantasy then. He would gently unbutton her shirt, taking his time as much to keep her from waking too soon as to savor every new inch of skin thus revealed. His mind freezes on that image--open shirt, a vaguely defined bra just a few shades paler than her skin. He knows she has generous curves for a woman so slim, and can see them clearly enough in his mind’s eye, framed by white cloth.

He sinks onto the bed next to her, still dreaming. If he still doesn’t want to wake her, it might be difficult to get the blouse off. He glances at her skirt instead. What was under there? So many possibilities--thong, boy-cut, granny (though he would bet a week’s pay that she doesn’t own a pair of those), commando? Is she one of those women fanatic about matching bra and panties or does she simply grab whatever was on top and wear that? But she’s lying on the zipper, and again, he’s not ready to disturb her, even in fantasy. Could he push it up at all? Maybe a little, but the stockings could be a problem. For his little dream, he should change it to something a little easier to peel off.

I’m going to Hell, he decides and breathes deeply, trying to push down his arousal. It really isn’t right of him to do this, even if no one would ever know in order to take him to task for it.

The deep breaths, calm thoughts, and eyes fixed on his shoes work, at least enough for him to move beyond the sexy and sensual and notice the basic awkwardness of her position. That can’t be comfortable.

He gently pulls off her shoes and unhooks her earrings, remembering how she had lost one in that trailer and it had jabbed his hand when he sat on the bed the next morning. Feeling like he was putting Parker to bed, which should be enough anti-eroticism for anyone, he gently shifts her enough to pull the covers back. Unfortunately for his good intentions, the hem of her skirt shifts upwards as well, allowing him to see the top of the thigh high stockings she wore and a sliver of skin above. The desire he had pushed down surges back with a vengeance.

Oh, God. He steps back, panting.

She sighs and curls up on her side as he watched. Gritting his teeth, he leans far enough over her to unclasp her necklace, grateful that he’s used to the punch of her scent; at least he’s not going to drool all over her.

He steps back again, scanning her. Shoes, jewelry, hair was down already-- In light of the little (!) fantasy he had already indulged in, he doesn’t think he should remove anything else. I don’t know if my control’s that good. Well, maybe the stockings. He debates that for a while; in his fantasy, he would without question, but this isn’t a fantasy, this is real life, no matter what’s he’s been thinking.

Without conscious thought, his finger gently traces the line of her stocking; she makes a faint purring sound.

That decides it for him. He covers her chastely with the sheet, not allowing himself to take further advantage. He’s garnered enough impressions for a long time, if he ever can get over the guilt of how he got them.

He yawns now himself, and can almost hear her voice in his ear--“If you’re that tired, Booth, you shouldn’t leave. Sleep here instead.” She’s said it before and he takes the memory for the offer and begins to unbutton his shirt and toe off his shoes. Too bad her flight had come in right after he got out of work; he was going to have to sleep in his dress pants. He hates that, but there’s no way he’s going to sleep in Bones’ house just in boxers.

Carefully, he sets his things on the bedside table, phone on vibrate, gun angled just so in case of trouble.

He stretches out on the bed, on top of the covers. It's a nice bed, even better than his own, and he wriggles his shoulders to get more comfortable. It’s one more liberty, but somehow, he doesn’t mind taking this one.

Don’t roll in your sleep, he cautions himself, like he used to tell himself what time to wake in the morning when he was a Ranger. Just don’t. Bones will not appreciate it. He closes his eyes. It’s enough to be right here, right now, without demanding more is his final thought before falling asleep himself.



Angela carefully unlocked her friend’s door. Ten am; Bren should be up by now. But it was surprisingly quiet, and not even the faintest whiff of coffee hung in the air. Well, she got home, anyway. Her bags are here. Oh-ho-ho-ho, so is a certain G-Man’s jacket. Did they get lucky? She grinned. Did I get lucky is the real question.

She tiptoed through the dim condo to the bedroom. The door was open, which she considered another stroke of luck, giving her just enough light for her to see who’s there.

Her first reaction was disappointment--Booth was sleeping, lying on his side, on top of the covers, wearing slacks, wifebeater, and funky socks. She could just see some of his things draped over a chair and piled on the table. Bren was curled up under the sheets, an echo of Booth, and a judicious bit of craning showed she was still wearing street clothes.

But the basic charm of the scene soon appealed to Angela’s artistic nature, and she rapidly took several shots of them with her phone for later inspiration before withdrawing.

Still moving quietly, she started the coffee and left the partners to their dreams.

Chapter 2

Temperance Brennan slowly wakes from a welter of confused, yet pleasurable, dreams. She stretches languidly, letting the images play through her mind.

As she does, she becomes aware that she is still wearing her clothes from yesterday, and hard on the heels of that is the recognition of the fact that coffee has been recently brewed.

She pushes herself into a sitting position and her eyes drop to the other side of the bed. It’s rumpled, as though someone slept on top of the covers. On impulse, she pulls the pillow close.

Booth. She smiles. Looking further around the room, she can see some of his things. The thought of Booth in--on, she corrects herself with a moue of disappointment--her bed is more than pleasant, even if she didn’t know he was there. Briefly she wonders why he didn’t take the couch as he usually does, but dismisses it in favor of the image of the two of them lying spooned under her covers, one of his arms loosely wrapped about her waist, the other cupping her, and that mouth of his planting lazy kisses over her neck and shoulders. She shivers (as she usually does) at the thought, a dreamy expression on her face.

Her smile turns rueful though as she realizes she’s absent-mindedly caressing the spot he slept in, and she shakes her head. It’s not the first time she’s thought of her partner that way, and she’s self-aware enough to know it won’t be the last. But for now, she tables it in favor of a cup of coffee and some conversation with said partner. He’d be embarrassed beyond words to know of his starring role in her fantasies. Quite considerate of him to make coffee, she thinks in an effort to bring her thoughts around to a more socially acceptable framework, considering I must have fallen asleep on him last night. She doesn’t remember falling asleep and hopes he didn’t throw his back out carrying her into her bedroom.

Padding silently (and carefully--she hasn’t taken off her stockings and the hardwood floor is slick) out of her bedroom, she can hear small sounds indicating he’s in the kitchen--a cupboard closing, the chink of ceramic against granite, the refrigerator opening and closing.

His back is to her when she turns the corner and she pauses to admire the view. Broad shoulders, narrow hips, well-muscled arms--and that was just the posterior view. She has always very much appreciated his appearance--well-structured is just the…safest…term she can find.

What would he do if she slipped up behind him and wrapped her arms about his waist? Her fingers tingle at the thought of tracing those sharply defined abdominals. He’d stiffen, she decides, and start to babble. But she’d ignore it and work her hands under that shirt, indulge her curiosity about how his skin feels under her touch, tease him a bit before sliding her hands to the waist of his pants. She could almost hear his pro-forma protests as she undid them, slipped a hand in, feeling him--

She must have made some noise then, for he jerks slightly and nearly drops his cup before turning to face her.

“Mornin’, Bones. Sleep well?”

“Good morning, Booth,” she replies, hoping her face is not as red as it feels. “And yes, I did. Sorry to fall asleep on you last night.”

“Nah--you were bushed and needed the rest. Coffee?”

“Please.” She accepts the cup and settles in at the table. “Thanks for making it,” she adds as he sits next to her.

“Not me.” He slides a folded piece of paper towards her and she would swear he looks embarrassed in turn. “Angela, by the handwriting.”

She takes it and reads. Angela’s cheerful lasciviousness comes through clearly and Brennan wonders why her cheeks feel even hotter if nothing happened. On the other hand, if nothing happened, why does Booth look a bit red himself?

She sips her coffee and contemplates that question. Is it possible that he has fantasies to match hers? Is that why he didn’t sleep on the couch? She rapidly hides her smile behind the cup.

“I guess I’m going to have to go shopping,” she says into the silence.

“Yeah. Your milk’s turned, the cheese has mold on it--”

“That’s the blue cheese, Booth, and it always looks like that. I like it on my salad once in a while.” She sets down the coffee cup, stretches, notes how his eyes follow her movements. Hiding another grin, she bends and begins rolling her stockings down. “I should have done this earlier,” she notes easily, pretending she hasn’t noticed his reaction. “The floor’s slippery.”

He’s practically tripping over his own tongue (or at least she thinks that’s the correct term) and she takes pity on him. “I’d offer you breakfast, but…” She shrugs and sits more properly in the chair.

“I can go pick something up,” he offers. “Do you need help shopping?”

“I don’t want to impose…” she says doubtfully.

“Not a problem. I’ll just go home and change and then stop someplace for breakfast.” He’s practically bouncing in his chair and if she didn’t know why he was uncomfortable, she’d be offended. Instead, she waves him off.



She’s just finished combing her hair out when she hears the door open. “Bones?” He’s early.

“Be out in a minute,” she calls. Following her normal habits, she drapes the bathmat over the side of the tub, hangs up the towel she used on her hair, blows out the candle she lit, turns off the light.

“You’re earlier than I expected,” she voices her earlier thought as she walks out of the bathroom in only a sapphire-colored silken robe, carefully cinched tight. He takes one look at her, then finds the floor fascinating.

But he manages to shrug. “Traffic was light and there was no line at the bakery.” He waggles the bag of bagels at her before setting it on the table, still not looking directly at her.

“I missed these while I was gone,” she says lightly, taking one and splitting it. Among other things, she adds in her head, eying Booth in his jeans and T-shirt, which fit far too well for her peace of mind. As usual. She can’t help but remember her thoughts while in the shower…

She really wished she had woken up first, gotten a good look at Booth as he slept. It’s a rare sight and short-lived--he always wakes when someone enters the room, something she usually attributes to his Ranger training.

But she would have liked to have seen him at peace for a while, no one deserves it more. Not to mention wonder about the best way to wake her sleeping warrior. Kisses, she had finally decided, rinsing her hair. Light ones, peppered over every centimeter of exposed skin. It would have been better if he wasn’t wearing the undershirt, she mused, and like magic, it disappeared from the image she was carefully building up.

Not like she didn’t know what he looked like without clothes, she thought, lips twitching into a smile as she remembered the night she had burst into his bathroom, full of fiery indignation. Sex had been the absolute last thing on her mind, but the image of him shooting to his feet “I took a bullet for you!” had been faithfully recorded and fueled hours of fantasies.

Even though she deliberately doesn’t let herself walk those well-worn paths (after all, he is due back shortly), she is still flushed with more than steam when she turns off the water.

“--Bones?”

“Sorry, Booth. Just--thinking.” And it's true--she's thinking of him and lines and dares and near-death experiences. And how she wants to test that statement made well over a year ago about breaking the laws of physics.

She shifts at that last thought and the robe slips a little. He looks down at the movement and is caught. She sees where he is looking and experimentally crosses her legs. Slowly. The soft fabric slides some more, showing her legs well above the knee.

Men appreciate a visual aid, she thinks with a grin as he stares for a satisfying …four, five, six steamboats. She smirks; she may not be good at reading people, but in this arena, she’s no fool. She knows what he’s thinking…or rather, knowing Booth, what he’s trying not to think of.

She never was a gambler in the classic sense, but something of his willingness to take risks seems to have been transferred to her over the years. And so she takes potentially the biggest risk of them all, chancing everything on one metaphoric roll of the dice, as he forces his eyes back up to hers.

She drops the bagel back on the plate. “Booth?”

“Yeah, Bones?”

With no other warning, she launches herself at him and kisses him passionately. This is her moment, she will learn what she wants to know. Out of reflex his arms close about her and she revels in how it feels.

But he pulls away and she can’t quite stifle a groan. His eyes search her face, looking for something only he knows.

And then his mouth’s back on hers, his arms about her, and her fingers are tangled in his hair and digging into his neck, and it’s nothing like she had thought it would be--

It’s better. And she gives herself up to it completely.

When they reluctantly part, she says, in a husky voice she barely recognizes as her own, “Bedroom.”

“Bedroom,” he agrees in tones as needy as hers, before scooping her up. “Shopping’ll have to wait, Bones. And breakfast, too,” he growls, nuzzling behind her ear.

“That’s all right,” she purrs back, tipping her head to give him better access. “I wasn’t that kind of hungry.” As he gently lays her down on the bed, she yanks him close and whispers, “But don’t get too accustomed to playing the alpha-male, Booth--from now on, when I have my hands on you, I don’t want it to be because I’m fixing your back!”

Haha so many great comments I can't note a favorite......well yes I can "when my hands are on you I don't want it to be because I'm fixing it back." I lol'd and loved angela's sneak in and oh I lol'd when ange took pics lol omg that would so be me!! But wow nice fic can't wait for the next chapter

Sorry, Ann dear--this is a two-shot only. I'm no good at writing smut (this is actually about as close as I've ever gotten), and therefore I figure the readers can come up with hotter scenarios than my poor pen can relate!
(though should any of our smut-meisters *cough Rob cough* want to come up with a sequel, all I gotta say is: Pass it by me 1st!)

But I'm glad you like it. The end line was the most difficult for me to come up with, so definitely appreciate that!

Oh king rob please do help dawn with the smut lol don't worry I am no good at it myself lol but I was well entertained

Don't hold your breath, though--last I heard, he was in the throes of inspiration on his own story. But he does write great smut, so fingers crossed.

I do thank my Queen for the endorsement, yet I am but a humble student to the great smut mistresses (and masters) such as blc - though I have had my moments.

I wonder, I am in the midst of working on that story we'd talked about my Queen but in the meantime I might be persuaded to repost one of my early pieces. Tattoed perhaps? That's fairly light smut with some comedy as well, that might do.

In the meantime it's back to the grind for moi, I must complete this while it's still fresh in my mind.

RM

Far be it for me to interfere with the muse, but you do underrate yourself. The smut in the 3 part Pivotal Moment just about mel--er, blew my socks off, even though the story's angsty as Hell.

Now get back to work, O King!

Dawn, this was great. Just enough tantalizing and suggestion to allow me to fill in all the blanks!!

It was fun to write, too! I'm going to have to look into more innuendo-laden work, I see.

Thanks, Sherry.