Figuratively Speaking - Castle/Beckett (1/1)
Title: Figuratively Speaking (1/1)
Fandom: Castle
Characters:Rick Castle, Kate Beckett
Genre:Het, future!fic, saucy dialogue and adult situations
Pairing:Castle/Beckett
Rating:R (but only just)
Length:600 words
Summary:He's a writer. It's his job to notice things.
Author's note:Help me, for I have committed Castle fic. I have been struggling with the demon known as writer's block with my current Prison Break and RPF stories, so think of this as a fanfic sorbet, so to speak. It's written to go with this amazing piece of Castle/Beckett artwork by scribblecat and written with her blessing and encouragment. Said artwork is not safe for work or small kiddies looking over shoulders. Also? I'm a latecomer to the Castle fandom and I can only assume that the trope I've chosen to use here has been done before, possibly more than once, so apologies in advance. LOL. No beta, so please feel free to offer concrit.
~*~
Sometimes he wonders if her liking for being on top comes from the same place as her refusal to hand over her car keys. The need for speed, so to speak, even as they’re suspended in time, lost in the slide of skin and hands and mouths.
No one could blame him for wondering, he decides, because Detective Kate Beckett is very decidedly in the driver’s seat at this very moment. Figuratively speaking, that is.
And speaking of her figure -
Her pale skin glows in the half-light as she pushes him deeper into the pillows, her breasts brushing his chest just enough to make him shudder. Or was it the delicate curl of her tongue around his that did the trick?
He slides his hands along her thighs, relishing the tension he feels tightening her muscles, intent on hooking his thumbs into the elastic of her underwear. She shakes her head, her fingers encircling his wrists as she pins his hands to the mattress with gentle determination. Her languid smile is an exact match for the one she'd worn as his Ferrari purred its throaty roar under her touch for the first time. He gives her a slow smile of his own, his theory gaining more credence with every passing second.
Very interesting, indeed. Katherine Beckett, your Freudian slip is showing.
“Patience, my friend,” she murmurs, amusement lilting through the words as she rolls her hips against his in a slow, maddening dance. “There’s no rush, is there?”
“Friend, hmmm? I certainly hope you don’t do this with all your friends,” he manages to quip as she arches her back, making him dislike the thin barrier of her underwear with a renewed passion, and is rewarded with a soft chuckle.
“Just you, Castle.”
Time to test the theory, he thinks.
Two seconds later, she’s staring up at him, looking as though she’s torn between objecting to the sudden change in perspective (oh, now there’s a neat piece of subtext, he must remember that one for Nikki and Rook’s next sex scene) and wanting to plant one on him.
To his relief, she goes with her gut, and her mouth, of course, kissing him into next week with a hunger that he returns with an urgency that completely distracts her from the fact that he’s at last managed to tug those damned underpants over the curve of her butt.
Things get a little hot and slippery and fast after that (kind of like driving his Ferrari for the first time, he thinks dazedly as his senses spin out of control) and as far as he can tell, she doesn’t care a jot that she’s no longer in the driver’s seat.
Much later, as they lie together in a boneless, damp tangle on his bed, he finds the energy to slide his fingers through her tousled hair, gently kneading her scalp in the way he knows makes her toes curl. “Can I drive tomorrow?”
With her still half-draped limply over him, he feels her chuckle as much as he hears it. “In your dreams, Castle.”
Okay, the toe curling didn’t work. He still grins as he presses a kiss to her damp temple, though, because whatever dreams he’s going to have tonight about this woman, he’s pretty sure they’re not going to involve driving around in her beat-up old car.
As expected, she doesn’t let him drive the next day, or the day after that, but that’s okay. He’s a patient man, and he’s more than happy to wait his turn to be in the driver’s seat.
Figuratively speaking, of course.
~*~
Fandom: Castle
Characters:Rick Castle, Kate Beckett
Genre:Het, future!fic, saucy dialogue and adult situations
Pairing:Castle/Beckett
Rating:R (but only just)
Length:600 words
Summary:He's a writer. It's his job to notice things.
Author's note:Help me, for I have committed Castle fic. I have been struggling with the demon known as writer's block with my current Prison Break and RPF stories, so think of this as a fanfic sorbet, so to speak. It's written to go with this amazing piece of Castle/Beckett artwork by scribblecat and written with her blessing and encouragment. Said artwork is not safe for work or small kiddies looking over shoulders. Also? I'm a latecomer to the Castle fandom and I can only assume that the trope I've chosen to use here has been done before, possibly more than once, so apologies in advance. LOL. No beta, so please feel free to offer concrit.
~*~
Sometimes he wonders if her liking for being on top comes from the same place as her refusal to hand over her car keys. The need for speed, so to speak, even as they’re suspended in time, lost in the slide of skin and hands and mouths.
No one could blame him for wondering, he decides, because Detective Kate Beckett is very decidedly in the driver’s seat at this very moment. Figuratively speaking, that is.
And speaking of her figure -
Her pale skin glows in the half-light as she pushes him deeper into the pillows, her breasts brushing his chest just enough to make him shudder. Or was it the delicate curl of her tongue around his that did the trick?
He slides his hands along her thighs, relishing the tension he feels tightening her muscles, intent on hooking his thumbs into the elastic of her underwear. She shakes her head, her fingers encircling his wrists as she pins his hands to the mattress with gentle determination. Her languid smile is an exact match for the one she'd worn as his Ferrari purred its throaty roar under her touch for the first time. He gives her a slow smile of his own, his theory gaining more credence with every passing second.
Very interesting, indeed. Katherine Beckett, your Freudian slip is showing.
“Patience, my friend,” she murmurs, amusement lilting through the words as she rolls her hips against his in a slow, maddening dance. “There’s no rush, is there?”
“Friend, hmmm? I certainly hope you don’t do this with all your friends,” he manages to quip as she arches her back, making him dislike the thin barrier of her underwear with a renewed passion, and is rewarded with a soft chuckle.
“Just you, Castle.”
Time to test the theory, he thinks.
Two seconds later, she’s staring up at him, looking as though she’s torn between objecting to the sudden change in perspective (oh, now there’s a neat piece of subtext, he must remember that one for Nikki and Rook’s next sex scene) and wanting to plant one on him.
To his relief, she goes with her gut, and her mouth, of course, kissing him into next week with a hunger that he returns with an urgency that completely distracts her from the fact that he’s at last managed to tug those damned underpants over the curve of her butt.
Things get a little hot and slippery and fast after that (kind of like driving his Ferrari for the first time, he thinks dazedly as his senses spin out of control) and as far as he can tell, she doesn’t care a jot that she’s no longer in the driver’s seat.
Much later, as they lie together in a boneless, damp tangle on his bed, he finds the energy to slide his fingers through her tousled hair, gently kneading her scalp in the way he knows makes her toes curl. “Can I drive tomorrow?”
With her still half-draped limply over him, he feels her chuckle as much as he hears it. “In your dreams, Castle.”
Okay, the toe curling didn’t work. He still grins as he presses a kiss to her damp temple, though, because whatever dreams he’s going to have tonight about this woman, he’s pretty sure they’re not going to involve driving around in her beat-up old car.
As expected, she doesn’t let him drive the next day, or the day after that, but that’s okay. He’s a patient man, and he’s more than happy to wait his turn to be in the driver’s seat.
Figuratively speaking, of course.
~*~