castle fanfiction, beckett/madison - there are four exceptions to every rule (ii/iv).
there are four exceptions to every rule
ii. don't be scared, I've done this before
Notes: Follows part i. The second prompt on Alyson's list was 'comfort'. This is set post-Johanna's murder and explores the theme of 'Paula, you have issues separating sex and grief' ... if you're having problems with the realism in that, maybe try listening to some Peaches and come back? I guess it's a little dark, but no real warnings. The usual sorry-not-sorry applies.
It’s by chance that you run into Maddie after you bury your mother. It’s too cold but you brave the streets anyway because the apartment is too full of her and you wander for a while until you find yourself staring out over the Hudson with your hands in shoved deep in your pockets. The view should be familiar but after eighteen months in California and the death of a parent, all of New York feels alien.
The high school nickname transports you, briefly and after, when Maddie is waving her hand in your face, you ache with nostalgia.
“Kate Beckett,” your old friend says, curling a gloved hand against her hip. “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”
“Getting some space,” you say, honest-without-thinking. Your eyes are fixed on Maddie’s lips, shiny and red with gloss, just the same as they always were in high school. And then, remembering yourself, you blink and force your lips into the ghost of a smile. “I could ask you the same question Maddie.”
She waves a hand. “Home from college and I hear you on the space thing. Moving back in with my parents? Not fun. I thought I’d see if the old stomping ground had changed on my way back from shopping.” The impressive collection of bags swings back and forth on her wrist. “No place like New York.”
“No.”
“Becks.” Maddie’s teeth sink into her lip at your brusque answer. “It’s been years. Don’t you think we can put the whole Brent Edwards thing behind us? I was wrong and I’m sorry and I think he’s gay now anyway.”
That’s when you start to cry. It’s not the quiet crying you do at home in your bedroom, in the hopes that your father won’t see or hear; it’s loud and unmistakable and ugly. At the time, you thought the pain of their betrayal was unbearable but you would give anything, anything, to be sixteen again and know nothing of real grief; to be crying over a boy (and maybe a girl) with a mother to comfort you.
Madison only hesitates for a second. Her bags fall to the floor at your feet and she steps forward to hug you, pulling your head down to her shoulder. The wool of her glove clings to your hair as she strokes it and in her heels, she’s tall enough for you to bury your face in her neck so you do. She smells the same, Thierry Mugler’s Angel and strawberry lip gloss, and that’s what slows your tears. It’s a strange comfort, but you breathe it in until you’re not crying anymore and the two of you are just standing there, silent in the freezing street.
Her breath is warm against the shell of your ear. “I’m guessing this isn’t about Brent Edwards.”
You shake your head and mumble it into her coat, trying to keep your voice steady: this particular admission isn’t getting any easier with time. “My mother… she’s dead.”
“Oh Becks.” Maddie whispers and the way the weight of the revelation hits her is audible. “I’m so sorry.”
She takes your hand. “I know how to take your mind off it for a while.”
Her parents’ apartment looks completely different, but her room looks exactly the same, right down to the Mariah Carey poster above the bed. It’s unmade and she climbs into it, pats the space beside her. As soon as you settle into it, she wraps herself around you, arms slung awkwardly over your shoulders and fingers dancing against the fabric of your sweater. It’s a pleasant way to indulge your misery even if you haven’t seen her for years. She’s a throwback to high school and ever since you came home to find the detective waiting for you, you have felt sixteen again. You’re angry and hurt and you want to throw a tantrum like you might’ve as a child but your father is barely holding it together and you know that you’re an adult now. In this moment though, it’s nice to pretend. It’s no longer like you to relax into physical affection this way, but with her you do. Old habits, dying hard. You wonder just how many high school habits she wants to revisit.
You make it through two episodes of Saved By The Bell until you’re convinced it’s not just in your head, that her fingers are deliberate when they brush the side of your breast, along the curve of your waist, beneath the hem of your sweater. You squirm when they find skin, the cold of her hand against the warm of your stomach.
“You okay?” she murmurs, flexing her fingers.
The press of her nails has you swallowing at the tension in the pit of your stomach and between your legs. You nod, let your hand creep from your thigh to hers beneath the blanket.
This is how it’s always been with Maddie, ever since you met in the ninth grade. You both pushed the boundaries of innocent touching, until the summer before tenth grade, when you taught her how to French kiss and the touching became less innocent. At the time, you didn’t think of it as sexual; you were practicing, you never touched her like that even if you wanted to, even if sometimes you thought about it and even if thinking about it made it easier to work yourself off with your own hand.
Now though, you know it is what it is. And, when you kiss her as a test and she smirks as you lick strawberry gloss off your lips, you know she does too.
She cranes her neck to reclaim your mouth, a lot less awkward than she used to be. You wonder if Brent Edwards taught her that.
You both shift and then she’s kneeling between your legs, thumbs tracing along your clavicles. Your hands grip at her waist then map the curve of it, the tips of your fingers edging at the hem of her cropped sweater. (It’s so very impractical for a New York winter, but that was always Madison, slave to fashion.) She leans into your hands, drops an afterthought of a kiss against your lower lip and sits up to pull of the sweater leaving your staring at an eyeful of cleavage which has definitely … developed since high school. You feel a stab of jealous insecurity about your own but push it down when you remember that no one you fuck ever seems to mind.
She pushes the hair that has escaped from your butterfly clips behind your ear gently. “Oh Becks.” Her fingers are soft against your cheek, sympathetic, and she bends to kiss you softly, cradling your face. “Is this okay?”
(The whisper is warm as it graces the side of your face. She’s nosing into your cheek.)
The lace of her bra scratches beneath your fingers. It makes you wonder what’s beneath her bell-bottomed jeans, whether her underwear matches, whether she likes the friction of it. You nod, savouring the gasp thumbing across her nipples elicits. She was always vocal. You like that in a lover, like the way your body finds ways to cradle the sound, how it thrums right through you and settles in your gut.
“I know I probably can’t make you feel better,” she says, scrambling backwards and pulling off her jeans.
(You were right about the matching set. When she settles back between your legs, you palm down her back and rub your hands against the lace until they burn.)
“I’d like to try,” she says between light kisses, some of which miss your mouth.
She’s so very gentle, and you don’t want her to be.
You bite her lip.
The cry is all pain and no pleasure, but you enjoy it anyway. You’re not usually cruel, but people wear grief in interesting ways. Her eyes gleam as she tastes the wound you’ve left her with.
“Make me forget,” you mumble, feeling contrite and sad and so very turned on.
Madison launches at you, teeth at the curve of your neck, nails scratching down into what she can grab of your ass. You dig your fingers into the arch of her spine. The realism of it suddenly distracts you from the surrealism: her slightly awkward position, the warmth of her mouth, the pinch of her perfectly painted red nails. There’s ridiculousness to real sex that you find comforting; it’s so often missing in the fictional counterpart and you don’t know why writers gloss over the messy, uncoordinated truth of it, the fact that you are just two writhing bodies seeking a primal desire.
It doesn’t matter that she’s your high school best friend, that Saved By The Bell is still playing in the background, that you’re not really sure how letting girls fuck you fits into your nominal heterosexuality, that your mother is dead. It doesn’t matter because when you palm at her through the lace of her underwear and she moans at the rough contact you have ever felt less evolved. And you have never been more grateful for that feeling. It reminds you that you’re human. (Ever since you buried your mother, you don’t really feel human. You’re mean and dead inside and raging at the world.)
She pinches at your breasts through the layers of clothing that you’re still wearing, that are making you far too hot, but it’s your jeans she removes, until you’re half-naked and she’s biting up your thighs.
This is cheap relief but it does make you forget so you watch your cunt making a mess of her mouth until you can’t watch anymore.
You scream your orgasm into one of her pink floral frilly-bordered pillows so her parents don’t hear it.
(A P.S. only the Australians among you will understand: resisted a Nikki Webster reference in the title. I'm proud of myself. Strawberry kisses anyone?)
ii. don't be scared, I've done this before
Notes: Follows part i. The second prompt on Alyson's list was 'comfort'. This is set post-Johanna's murder and explores the theme of 'Paula, you have issues separating sex and grief' ... if you're having problems with the realism in that, maybe try listening to some Peaches and come back? I guess it's a little dark, but no real warnings. The usual sorry-not-sorry applies.
It’s by chance that you run into Maddie after you bury your mother. It’s too cold but you brave the streets anyway because the apartment is too full of her and you wander for a while until you find yourself staring out over the Hudson with your hands in shoved deep in your pockets. The view should be familiar but after eighteen months in California and the death of a parent, all of New York feels alien.
The high school nickname transports you, briefly and after, when Maddie is waving her hand in your face, you ache with nostalgia.
“Kate Beckett,” your old friend says, curling a gloved hand against her hip. “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”
“Getting some space,” you say, honest-without-thinking. Your eyes are fixed on Maddie’s lips, shiny and red with gloss, just the same as they always were in high school. And then, remembering yourself, you blink and force your lips into the ghost of a smile. “I could ask you the same question Maddie.”
She waves a hand. “Home from college and I hear you on the space thing. Moving back in with my parents? Not fun. I thought I’d see if the old stomping ground had changed on my way back from shopping.” The impressive collection of bags swings back and forth on her wrist. “No place like New York.”
“No.”
“Becks.” Maddie’s teeth sink into her lip at your brusque answer. “It’s been years. Don’t you think we can put the whole Brent Edwards thing behind us? I was wrong and I’m sorry and I think he’s gay now anyway.”
That’s when you start to cry. It’s not the quiet crying you do at home in your bedroom, in the hopes that your father won’t see or hear; it’s loud and unmistakable and ugly. At the time, you thought the pain of their betrayal was unbearable but you would give anything, anything, to be sixteen again and know nothing of real grief; to be crying over a boy (and maybe a girl) with a mother to comfort you.
Madison only hesitates for a second. Her bags fall to the floor at your feet and she steps forward to hug you, pulling your head down to her shoulder. The wool of her glove clings to your hair as she strokes it and in her heels, she’s tall enough for you to bury your face in her neck so you do. She smells the same, Thierry Mugler’s Angel and strawberry lip gloss, and that’s what slows your tears. It’s a strange comfort, but you breathe it in until you’re not crying anymore and the two of you are just standing there, silent in the freezing street.
Her breath is warm against the shell of your ear. “I’m guessing this isn’t about Brent Edwards.”
You shake your head and mumble it into her coat, trying to keep your voice steady: this particular admission isn’t getting any easier with time. “My mother… she’s dead.”
“Oh Becks.” Maddie whispers and the way the weight of the revelation hits her is audible. “I’m so sorry.”
She takes your hand. “I know how to take your mind off it for a while.”
Her parents’ apartment looks completely different, but her room looks exactly the same, right down to the Mariah Carey poster above the bed. It’s unmade and she climbs into it, pats the space beside her. As soon as you settle into it, she wraps herself around you, arms slung awkwardly over your shoulders and fingers dancing against the fabric of your sweater. It’s a pleasant way to indulge your misery even if you haven’t seen her for years. She’s a throwback to high school and ever since you came home to find the detective waiting for you, you have felt sixteen again. You’re angry and hurt and you want to throw a tantrum like you might’ve as a child but your father is barely holding it together and you know that you’re an adult now. In this moment though, it’s nice to pretend. It’s no longer like you to relax into physical affection this way, but with her you do. Old habits, dying hard. You wonder just how many high school habits she wants to revisit.
You make it through two episodes of Saved By The Bell until you’re convinced it’s not just in your head, that her fingers are deliberate when they brush the side of your breast, along the curve of your waist, beneath the hem of your sweater. You squirm when they find skin, the cold of her hand against the warm of your stomach.
“You okay?” she murmurs, flexing her fingers.
The press of her nails has you swallowing at the tension in the pit of your stomach and between your legs. You nod, let your hand creep from your thigh to hers beneath the blanket.
This is how it’s always been with Maddie, ever since you met in the ninth grade. You both pushed the boundaries of innocent touching, until the summer before tenth grade, when you taught her how to French kiss and the touching became less innocent. At the time, you didn’t think of it as sexual; you were practicing, you never touched her like that even if you wanted to, even if sometimes you thought about it and even if thinking about it made it easier to work yourself off with your own hand.
Now though, you know it is what it is. And, when you kiss her as a test and she smirks as you lick strawberry gloss off your lips, you know she does too.
She cranes her neck to reclaim your mouth, a lot less awkward than she used to be. You wonder if Brent Edwards taught her that.
You both shift and then she’s kneeling between your legs, thumbs tracing along your clavicles. Your hands grip at her waist then map the curve of it, the tips of your fingers edging at the hem of her cropped sweater. (It’s so very impractical for a New York winter, but that was always Madison, slave to fashion.) She leans into your hands, drops an afterthought of a kiss against your lower lip and sits up to pull of the sweater leaving your staring at an eyeful of cleavage which has definitely … developed since high school. You feel a stab of jealous insecurity about your own but push it down when you remember that no one you fuck ever seems to mind.
She pushes the hair that has escaped from your butterfly clips behind your ear gently. “Oh Becks.” Her fingers are soft against your cheek, sympathetic, and she bends to kiss you softly, cradling your face. “Is this okay?”
(The whisper is warm as it graces the side of your face. She’s nosing into your cheek.)
The lace of her bra scratches beneath your fingers. It makes you wonder what’s beneath her bell-bottomed jeans, whether her underwear matches, whether she likes the friction of it. You nod, savouring the gasp thumbing across her nipples elicits. She was always vocal. You like that in a lover, like the way your body finds ways to cradle the sound, how it thrums right through you and settles in your gut.
“I know I probably can’t make you feel better,” she says, scrambling backwards and pulling off her jeans.
(You were right about the matching set. When she settles back between your legs, you palm down her back and rub your hands against the lace until they burn.)
“I’d like to try,” she says between light kisses, some of which miss your mouth.
She’s so very gentle, and you don’t want her to be.
You bite her lip.
The cry is all pain and no pleasure, but you enjoy it anyway. You’re not usually cruel, but people wear grief in interesting ways. Her eyes gleam as she tastes the wound you’ve left her with.
“Make me forget,” you mumble, feeling contrite and sad and so very turned on.
Madison launches at you, teeth at the curve of your neck, nails scratching down into what she can grab of your ass. You dig your fingers into the arch of her spine. The realism of it suddenly distracts you from the surrealism: her slightly awkward position, the warmth of her mouth, the pinch of her perfectly painted red nails. There’s ridiculousness to real sex that you find comforting; it’s so often missing in the fictional counterpart and you don’t know why writers gloss over the messy, uncoordinated truth of it, the fact that you are just two writhing bodies seeking a primal desire.
It doesn’t matter that she’s your high school best friend, that Saved By The Bell is still playing in the background, that you’re not really sure how letting girls fuck you fits into your nominal heterosexuality, that your mother is dead. It doesn’t matter because when you palm at her through the lace of her underwear and she moans at the rough contact you have ever felt less evolved. And you have never been more grateful for that feeling. It reminds you that you’re human. (Ever since you buried your mother, you don’t really feel human. You’re mean and dead inside and raging at the world.)
She pinches at your breasts through the layers of clothing that you’re still wearing, that are making you far too hot, but it’s your jeans she removes, until you’re half-naked and she’s biting up your thighs.
This is cheap relief but it does make you forget so you watch your cunt making a mess of her mouth until you can’t watch anymore.
You scream your orgasm into one of her pink floral frilly-bordered pillows so her parents don’t hear it.
(A P.S. only the Australians among you will understand: resisted a Nikki Webster reference in the title. I'm proud of myself. Strawberry kisses anyone?)