slashthedrabble angst challenge by Minorgraces
Summary:
Jack Hodgins/Seeley Booth
Spoilers: Multiple drabbles, spoilers posted in individual summaries.
Notes: For slashthedrabble
Win
In Nominé Patris
Watching the Wheels
Twenty Questions
Not Okay
Like I'd Shop At Hallmark
Instruction
Family Values
Author: Minorgraces
Fandom: Bones
Pairing: Jack Hodgins/Seeley Booth
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 309
Warnings: Light BDSM
Disclaimer: Don't own them. But you'd see more of this if I did.
For slashthedrabble David Bowie lyrics challenge. The lyrics to
Win can be found here.
Win
Me, I'm fresh on your pages
Secret thinker sometimes listening aloud
Life lies dumb on its heroes
Wear your wound with honor, make someone proud
Someone like you should not be allowed
To start any fires
Rendered mute by his coal-black stare, for once my tongue is still and I’m held
hostage by my thoughts. Wide, bone-dense wrists strain at vintage silk; that
narrow echo of false Steve McQueen cool tethers him to the stainless steel
railing in the deserted lab and to the depths of his desire.
Perfect teeth clench and grind, lips strain pale but he doesn’t speak to me,
won’t speak to me because he thinks words are my province.
”You’re so full of shit,” he said, pulling hard on the mouth of his beer
bottle and staring up at me under lowered lids. “Do you have any idea how
impossible it is for an entire society to be in on that delusional conspiracy
crap you spout?”
“You gotta go 20,000 leagues beneath the obvious. That’s the impossibility,
Booth, digging deep when you have no depths to plumb.”
It was out of his mouth before he could pull it back and sanitize the thought
for his protection.
“You have no fucking idea how deep I am.”
He’s out to prove that now, having set only a single guideline for this secret
truce behind enemy lines: our own twisted no gag rule. And so he grinds his jaw
and spits through porcelain enamel just to show me the depth of his resistance.
Not even the bite of thin gold filigree (wound so tightly beneath the head of
his cock that it has swollen to a ripe indigo blood boil upon which his
shimmering St. Christopher medal rides) will move him to speak.
For once we are bound by silence and by a conspiracy of two.
Author: Minorgraces
Fandom: Bones
Pairing: Jack Hodgins/Seeley Booth
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 600
Disclaimer: Don't own them. But you'd see this on screen if I did.
For slashthedrabble angst challenge. x-posted to bones_slash
In Nominé Patris
He’s loose enough to talk about being an altar boy now, tracing the rim of his
near-empty glass with a spatulate fingertip. Leans back against the leather
banquette and smirks at me, ready for a fight.
“Don’t give me any shit about being Catholic,” he warns, eyes narrowed to slits.
“Or any of your ‘religion is the opiate of the people’ crap.”
Open my face like a new prayer book, innocent and fresh. “Nah. That’d be like
trying to teach a dog to play the piano. Just wastes my time and annoys the
dog.”
And Booth is a big dog, all taut muscle and bared teeth and danger. He’s been
like this from the minute he swung his narrow hips into the booth and opened his
arms like a crucified thief, consuming his side of the table. He plays it like
he’s at Wong Foo’s, striding in and owning the place, but I know he’d never try
this game under Sid’s watchful eye.
Not that Sid doesn’t already know, connoisseur of appetites that he is. Booth
probably thinks he’s doing him a favor by coming here, by giving him one less
secret to keep.
Emboldened by the tight space and dim light I lean forward and feel the damp
fabric between my shoulders peel away from my skin. Clench my jaw against an
unbidden shiver as sweat curls down my spine and creeps into the cleft of my
ass.
“I detest all my sins because I dread the loss of heaven and the pains of hell,
but most of all because I have offended Thee my God. . .”
Booth’s eyes widen as I slap a fifty on the table and lift myself out of range,
head for the door. I don’t look back. Don’t have to. It’s not even a quarter of
a block before a massive hand lifts me by the armpit and steers me into an alley
between two brownstones.
He towers over me, pushes hard enough to crack my head against the brick wall.
Whiff of Crown Royal on his breath makes my eyes sting, but I don’t flinch
because no matter what else he might be, he’s still a fed, and I’ll be damned if
any one of those clowns will ever make me blink.
“You’ve got a smart mouth, Hodgins.”
No flinching.
“Yeah, I do. And if you think it’s going around your cock you’re mistaken.”
It’s not dark enough that I don’t see his face flush then drain of color. Open
palms slam me against the wall for good measure because that’s how they do it in
the movies or he thinks that’s what McQueen would do.
So I slam back and push my elbows out to break his stance, reach up, grab a
handful of his hair and close the gap between us. Take his mouth and bite more
than kiss because that’s part of the game; it has to be rough and raw and this
is complete and utter bullshit. Resist the crack of teeth against teeth;
remember who I am and what I’ve wanted for all these months and kiss him for
real, hot and wet and deep.
Break and swallow traces of blood and whiskey and salt that make my cock stiff
and my breath catch in my throat. Push him back, hard, and he looks tasered,
rocking back on his heels and cutting me with black, black eyes.
“Fucking feds in dark alleys is against my religion,” I tell him, knocking
against his shoulder as I push past. “You want me? You’re gonna have to come to
my church.”
Author: Minorgraces
Fandom: Bones
Pairing: Jack Hodgins/Seeley Booth
Rating: R
Word Count: 200
Disclaimer: Don't own them. But you'd see this on screen if I did.
For slashthedrabble humor challenge.
Watching the Wheels
Perched on the edge of the sofa, Booth grazes my belt buckle with long fingers,
frowning at the figure cast in pewter. Rubs his thumb over the curved relief,
purses his lips.
I can actually see him thinking. Angela noticed the same phenomenon early
on; she originally dubbed it the hamster wheel special but over time
we’ve shortened it to “Seeley-wheelie.”
“Didn’t think you were superstitious,” he says, taking the beer I offer with a
nod.
“Because I’m not.” Stand over him, take a mouthful of my own beer.
“Laughing Buddha, right? Rub his belly for luck?” He lets his hand drop and
pretends to decode the Sam Adams label.
I bite back snark because it’s been a horrendously long day, my ass is dragging,
and he’s enjoying playing Special Agent I’m Not Really Here To Fuck You, Just
Drink Your Beer.
I wish he’d leave and let me go to bed. Alone.
“Hotei was a monk who taught that we find salvation in the now. In what we do
today.”
Booth looks up at me, all Seeley-wheelie. Even I know when I’m beat.
“What the hell. Come upstairs and I’ll let you rub my balls for luck.”
Author: Minorgraces
Fandom: Bones
Pairing: Jack Hodgins/Seeley Booth
Rating: R
Word Count: 600
Disclaimer: Don't own them. But you'd see this onscreen if I did.
Lyrics: From Ship of Fools by the Grateful Dead.
For slashthedrabble hurt/comfort challenge. Sequel to In Nomine
Patris
Set after Two Bodies In The Lab. Booth is recovering from his
injuries, and Jack pays a uncomfortable call.
Twenty Questions
My arrival on his doorstep doesn’t surprise him as much as I thought it might,
and he lets me in without protest. Might be the pain meds, but he doesn’t seem
stoned.
“You always ring people’s doorbells at one thirty in the morning?”
Give him the once over and hand him my entry fee, a bottle of Herradura. “Still
fully clad at this hour? Is that a Ranger thing? We’re always dressed and ready
or something?”
“That’s three. You got seventeen more, so use them wisely,” Booth mutters.
Virulent streaks of violet and stone bruise yellow mottle his wrist where
ruptures still knit, and he struggles to crack the bottle seal. He blinks when I
take the bottle back, aim myself for where I think the kitchen might be.
The Dead pours from the stereo, dope-soaked and mournful and strangely
Booth-like. If his taste in music is any indication, at least he knows who he
is.
Saw your first ship sink and drown
from rocking of the boat
and all that could not sink or swim
was just left there to float. . .
He knows. Doesn’t like it much, nor me particularly, but that doesn’t stop him
from standing a little too close to me as I pour the drinks. The heat from his
healing bruises is close enough to feel through my sleeve.
“How are you feeling?” Since this is my first visit since his release from the
hospital it seems like the thing to ask.
“Like shit. You?”
I won't leave you drifting down
but whoa it makes me wild
with thirty years upon my head
to have you call me child.
The agave nectar slides hot and smooth down my throat, warms deep but not quite
enough. Set the glass down on the counter a little too hard, catch his eyes as I
move past. This little visit is clearly not the best idea I’ve ever had.
“Take it easy, man.”
Don’t know if he’s groaning because it hurts him to move or what, but my name
tumbles out and I think he might’ve tried to reach for the hem of my jacket.
“Hodgins… you fucking show up here in the middle of the fucking night for a
shot? What’s that about?”
The stretched-out collar of his sweatshirt shifts, revealing a blossom of
thundercloud-dark flesh that seeps up the side of his neck from the greenstick
fractures of his clavicle. The sight of it dries the spit in my mouth and makes
my dick pulse and thicken, and I can’t tear my eyes away.
“Just wanted to see if you were okay,” and it’s true enough.
This time his fingers connect, crab against my forearm and pinch my jacket
sleeve and he squints as he pulls at the cloth.
“Of course I’m not okay,” he hisses, leaning down to close the space between us.
“I’m not okay, you are not okay, and neither is this.”
He tastes like cactus needles and beer, laced with something corrosive.
Profoundly medicinal. Oxycodone, probably, chased with a dose of soma or
something like it. Lean deeper, swab out the first layer of the kiss, blend our
distinct flavors into something more sweet than bitter until he turns his face
away to draw a ragged breath.
“This can never be okay, understand?”
Link my thumb under the neck of his shirt. Obsidian eyes regard me from beneath
lowered lids, but he doesn’t turn back to face me until I pull the fabric tight
across his throat.
“That’s four. You’ve got sixteen left,” I tell him. “Use them wisely.”
Title: Not Okay
Author: Minorgraces
Fandom: Bones
Pairing: Jack Hodgins/Seeley Booth
Rating: R
Word Count: 700
Disclaimer: Don't own them. But you'd see this onscreen if I did.
For chrisleeoctaves because I'm bored silly and she is such a
wonderful enabler. I know you'd rather Buffy/Angel, but I must exorcise these
demons from mah haid. Tomorrow's another day! Hmm... maybe we can have somebody
reading some hot B/A and getting very happy over at creamofchrislee.
*thinks real hard*
Sequel to Twenty Questions Set after Two Bodies In The Lab. Later
that evening. . .
Not Okay
Because Booth has deemed whatever this is between us to be not okay, he shuns
any attempt at affection. It’s as if he’s seen only prison porn, or thinks cops
fuck without actually touching each other.
He fights to relax as we sit together on the sofa, my arm looped around his
shoulder. Try to guide him closer to me, and he groans and resists, so I lean
against him. After a long moment I reach for a sip of tequila and Booth’s heavy
hand claps the back of my skull and directs my head toward his lap.
It’s a clever variant on the perp shove he tried on me in the alley. Injury
gives me the advantage this time and it’s a snap to slide from beneath his arm,
grab his wrist and sink my teeth into the soft flesh covering the underside of
his forearm.
“Shit! What the fuck did you do that for?”
“Don’t ever push me. You want something, say so. Want me to go down on you, tell
me. Unless you’re part agriophara cinerosa, I can’t read your mind.”
“I’m not agoraphobic. Just….”
Feeling like some kind of Fed Whisperer, I lean in close, follow the
jagged trail of a brick red cut over his left eyebrow with my fingertips. Study
the pattern of faded scuffs on his cheekbone and learn his chipped pavement skin
with my mouth and eyelashes. And wait.
“Please.”
That’s the worst thing I can do: make him speak. He wants whatever we do to
occur in silence even though he understands, as all trained assassins do, that
sounds made by bodies in motion tell more than words can say. They pinpoint
location and intent, and scar the world with the force of our most brutal
desires, betraying lust and greed and yearning to those who’ve learned to
listen.
The scrape of fingernails on worn denim. The clatter of a copper button against
tempered glass. Metal teeth gnashing as zippers rip and part. The sigh of
leather upholstery contracting beneath lower extremities lifted by instinct and
the sudden rush of cool air on passion-fed skin.
Not the least of these are the sounds of our slackened tongues twisting to life
and carving cursive declarations of want along the ridges of our tastebuds,
lips, and cheeks.
Booth pulls back, scalded by the echoes our mouths make in the tiny living room.
Chest heaving from exertion or arousal or pain, he looks at me, big hands light
on my thighs.
“This is all I can do,” he whispers, as if I know what he means.
Leaning back, head rolling against the back of the couch, exhaustion draining
his face of color. His cock, sprung from his jeans, ruddy and straight against
the hem of his sweatshirt, tells another story. His eyes change shape, lenses
adjusting to the light or my presence, I’m not sure which.
“I can’t hold you. I can’t lean on you,” he says, squeezing my knee with his
good hand as if to add punctuation.
It doesn’t surprise me.
What surprises me is that I actually swallow back the acid that rises in my
mouth and temper my reaction. He’s behaving exactly as I expected but that
hardly makes it palatable.
“I didn’t ask for that.”
His eyes roll hard and his mouth curves up in a bitter imitation of a smile.
“Are all you goddamn squints like this? Jesus Christ.”
“I haven’t done this with any of them, so I can’t exactly say.”
Booth winces, adjusts his back against the cushion. “I can’t hold you because I
can’t take your weight. I can’t lean on you because my ribs are, I don’t know.
Broken? And the head thing? My motor skills aren’t so great, or maybe you just
didn’t notice that in the heat of the fucking moment.”
It’s my turn to be speechless.
Until I cover his hand with mine, hold his look. The crimson creeping up my neck
and beneath my beard should be a clear enough apology, but it’s not.
“Booth, I … I’m sorry, man. Heat of the moment, right?”
He laughs, and I wonder who’s training whom.
“Just shut up,” he says. “Please.”
So I do.
Title: Like I'd Shop At
Hallmark
Author: Minorgraces
Fandom: Bones
Pairing: Jack Hodgins/Seeley Booth
Rating: R
Word Count: 470
Disclaimer: Don't own them. But you'd see this onscreen if I did.
For slashthedrabble romance challenge. Season 1, Post- The
Soldier On The Grave
Like I'd Shop At Hallmark
His paper-white pallor leads me to think showing up unannounced with fried
seafood and Harpoon was an inspired mistake. Sepia crescents beneath his eyes
make him look leaner, beyond tired. My greeting is addressed to the contents of
the bag.
“Strips or bellies?”
“Strips. And scallops, fries and slaw.”
“Good choice,” he says and it really doesn’t take too many occasions of watching
him eat in public to tell me he’d never eat a whole fried clam, much less a
bowlful of steamers. Most of his appetites are as straight as his ties.
Vintage cars. Classic rock. Steak and potatoes. Sunday Mass.
Most of them.
He sets the sack on the kitchen counter, treats it like evidence. He’s still
staring at every fold and crease when I lever myself up on the counter next to
him and proffer a beer.
“So you and Brennan went to that kid’s funeral today.” That gets a sidelong
glance, at least.
“It was a funeral, all right? Don’t start with your anti-war crap tonight, okay?
I’m in no mood to talk about Iraq, or anything else.”
“Eye-rack? You sound like you should have a talk show on Fox. It’s pronounced. .
.”
If his face was white at the door it’s ghostly as he turns and grabs a fistful
of my shirt. Just as quickly he lets go, smoothes out the fabric, leaves his
hand in the middle of my chest. And still won’t make eye contact.
“Why do you do this?”
“Do what, piss you off?”
Feel the heat from his face as he leans in, eyes lowered so he doesn’t have to
see me. That makes me more than a little furious, but once I feel his breath on
my cheek the fury dissolves, and I think that’s what I hate most about this
arrangement.
What I’m learning about myself.
I’ve learned the fastest way to get shoved against the refrigerator with his
knee pressing my balls to my throat is to explain that Brennan is essentially
correct about the reanimation of Jesus, and that what Booth does every Sunday –
and, presumably, on the mornings after we fuck because he needs to atone – is to
engage in zombie worship.
And I have learned to accept his denial as part of this devil’s bargain.
“No,” he says, bunching the material on my shirt again. “Keep coming back.”
Consider my answer carefully.
There will be no hearts and flowers for us. No declarations of anything but
remorse from Booth, and no declarations of any kind from me because romance is
the one conspiracy that I’ve never believed in. I believe in desire. In the
human need to control and be controlled.
But not in love.
Never in love.
“I’m just in it for the pretty, baby.” I tell him, and wait for what comes next.
Title: Instruction
Author: Minorgraces
Fandom: Bones
Pairing: Jack Hodgins/Seeley Booth
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 500
Disclaimer: Don't own them. But you'd see more of this if I did.
Thanks ever so to sweptawaybayou for the beta.
This was written as a birthday prezzie for alizarin_nyc! Hope you
like it! Also cross posted to slashthedrabble.
Instruction
Booth doesn’t speak in the car.
When we round the circular driveway in the back of the house he kills the
ignition, slides out from behind the wheel without looking at me and waits, arms
locked across his chest. Follows me to the door, spreading gravel with every
step, and trails me into the house and up the spiral staircase into the kitchen,
all without an invitation or welcome.
I head for the glass-front cabinet and pull down a bottle of Wild Turkey, grab
two short glasses from the shelf. I need to cover my surprise more than I need
to take a double shot, so I act the host and pour him a drink. Hand it to him as
though the palm of my right hand isn’t shredded and bloody. As though the knees
of my jeans aren’t torn out and my thighs aren’t blossoming indigo from blunt
force trauma.
As if it’s perfectly normal for him to be standing in my fucking kitchen in the
middle of the afternoon.
He drains the glass, comes around beside me and pours another. Hands it to me.
“I don’t remember asking you to come in.” Set down the glass, leave him to stare
at the empty space. Shrug out of my jacket, make an attempt to wash my hands,
loosen the tiny flecks of asphalt embedded just above my wrist. “Is this the
part where you tell me that I’m to keep to my specimen collecting and stay out
of your way like a good little squint?”
Granite fingers dig into my biceps, the heat from his chest pours through the
perfectly starched button down shirt he's wearing and radiates through my
t-shirt. Cold as wet tissue, soaked through with dread sweat, gooseflesh springs
up on every part of my skin as he leans, hard and heavy, into my back. His mouth
brushes the side of my ear, and his voice seeps in, ominous and low.
“When I tell you to stop, you do. Understand?”
Hot water spray sends particles of dirt and a scatter pattern of crimson over
the sparkling stainless steel sink. Feigning interest in the wound, wincing only
from the feel of his body, wide and hot and threatening, and from the press of
his cock against my spine.
“Are we talking when I’m trying to dodge bullets during supposedly routine field
work, or when you’re fucking me?”
Fingers loosen, then tighten once more and he sags into me, dead weight. Pins me
against the sink, trapped from waist to dick against cabinetry on one side, by
solid hips, thighs and muscle on the other.
“Stop it,” he rasps, and his threat dissolves into a plea. “Just…stop.”
When he doesn’t move, I know he wants this. And so do I, though his timing could
be better. I relax, let my stance and the way I lean back telegraph what he
needs to know.
Feel the curve of a smile against my cheek.
“See how easy that was?” Booth purrs. “Command, followed by response.”
Author: Minorgraces
Fandom: Bones
Pairing: Jack Hodgins/Seeley Booth
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 300
Disclaimer: Don't own them. But you'd see this onscreen if I did.
Thank you to sweptawaybayou for the beta.
For slashthedrabble family challenge.
Family Values
“I can’t do this. I have a kid.”
The whispered non-sequitur hits me harder than the fierce slamming of his cock
and the press of his fingertips deep in the soft tissue at my waist. He keeps
thrusting, keeps me balanced on my shoulders as his declaration settles in the
blackness around us.
Breaking the silence doesn’t slow him in the least, and why should it? He
pistons into me as if I know his thoughts aren’t enough to stop him. As if he
could fuck me deaf.
It’s enough to turn every muscle in my body to steel. Barbed wire strings me
from jaw to ankle, teeth to toes and I shove back, our physical differences
suddenly moot.
Kick my heels hard into his shoulders, push him out of me and he lands on his
ass in the middle of the living room floor. His stunned cattle bellow and
guttural question hang in the air, unanswered.
He’s said enough for one night.
I stand on worthless legs, an upended whiskey glass beneath one heel about to
shatter and slice flesh and tendon. A self-inflicted bloody wound would be
poetic justice; I just kick it away and listen as it rolls in the dark Booth so
gallantly insists upon.
No candlelight softens our truth. No music accompanies the rasp of skin against
skin or absorbs our whispered curses and fevered gasping. No words are exchanged
until he can’t keep them in and tries to make me complicit in his shame.
“Fine. Get out.”
It’s dark enough that he can’t see my death grip on the banister as I try to
haul myself upstairs to my bedroom, to anywhere above him, beyond him, beyond
this. Dark enough to mask the damage while I find a way to hide it from myself.
Contact
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