Due North-Prologue: Anticipation-A Caskett PWP twoish-shot set in S6
Title: Due North-Prologue: Anticipation
WC: ~1100
Summary: "If anyone gets to punish anyone in this scenario, it's him. Her. He gets to punish her, because this is one-hundred percent her fault. For running away to Canada for, like, a week on some feeble professional conference excuse." Set any time in S6, but this has nothing to do with anything.
A/N: So, there's this picture of NF when he was on Nick Kroll's show. Add to that the fact that Cora Clavia is HELL BENT ON RUINING MY LIFE IN ALL POSSIBLE WAYS.
This is just two chapters, or perhaps two with a brief epilogue. The rest is written and just needs editing and decision making about how to post it.
She can stop looking at him like that any time now. Like she's going to absolutely dismantle him, bit by sensitive bit,the first chance she gets. Like she's got nothing but options, but she just can't decide on the right punishment.
She probably can't. She's pretty creative in the punishment department. Dangerously, exquisitely creative, and this is so not the time or the place for thinking like that.
Because these pants are surprisingly tight. Everywhere except in the weird jodhpur area, and the long red coat only goes so far. And if anyone does ask him to stand up-if anyone decides that maybe they should get his version of events, rather than taking the word of some slightly hysterical stranger who completely misinterpreted the situation-the long red coat is not exactly going to divert attention from . . . certain downstream effects of spending any more time thinking about Beckett and punishment.
And, anyway, if anyone gets to punish anyone in this scenario, it's him. Her. He gets to punish her, because this is one-hundred percent her fault. For running away to Canada for, like, a week on some feeble professional conference excuse. Totally her fault. So she can pack away that particular look right the hell now.
Not that reversing the polarity on punishment exactly helps with his . . . emergent problem. He's no slouch in the creative punishment department either, and the cross-strap on this thing is sturdy for a costume.
Of course, it's a top of the line costume. Well made, and the attention to detail is impressive. From the high, polished boots down to the buttons and holster and belt. And, of course, the pouch for the cuffs. But he's definitely not thinking about that. Those. Her and that and those, because, hello, very tight pants and attention-drawing red coat, and they're already in trouble. He is not thinking about the satisfying snap and hiss of handcuffs. The way she's defiant and furious and lit up with it the second they click home around her wrists. He's not thinking about that.
Well, he is. Handcuffs-not the fun kind-are on his mind. Because apparently, surprising one's fiancée is a crime in Canada. Or impersonating a mountie. Whatever. It's enough to get you hauled down to hotel security HQ, and that's just sad. It's a sad, polite little place where they apologize for handcuffs and the march of shame with tea and passive-aggressive frowns and disapproval. And lots of stacks of overflow banquet chairs with really appalling mauve upholstery. It's unfortunate in any number of ways because the surprise is ruined.
And anyway, he wasn't impersonating. It's not like he was wandering from conference room to conference room in the outfit, collecting the deepest secrets of international policing to sell on the black market. He's here for her and only for her. And yes, she didn't know he was here at all until she got the call.
He wishes she still didn't know. He wishes he could have gotten out of this, surprise and a kinder, gentler Beckett intact, but this hotel security guy is compensating. He's got a complex about a building full of real cops or something. Between him and the guest who called in the first place, it had gotten to a point where things were about to escalate and he absolutely had to drop her name.
But he wasn't impersonating anything. Not for anyone but her. He's just never been one to skimp when it comes to costumes. And for this? Authenticity is crucial. He's convinced of that. He's convinced of a lot of things.
He knows this is a thingwith her. A fantasy that makes her breath hitch, starting somewhere low in her belly and going all the way up. It makes her cheeks flush with this dirty innocence that he just has to know more about. He has to have the story, and there is one. He knows that, too, as surely as he knows it's not one she'll readily confess.
That's ok. Those are the best stories. The ones he has to work for. It's an art with her. Still. Even though she's the furthest thing from shy about what she wants. Now. More. Like that. Don't stop. God, Castle . . . She's blessedly vocal. Open and enthusiastic, and there's not a single thing between them that doesn't live up to four years of build.
But this part is still an art. He's the story teller. She's adamant about that. Strangely everything-in-its-place until he coaxes. Until he has her where he wants her. Where she wants him to have her. Either or both. Both is good. Both is fucking mind blowing.
It's an art. Knowing when to chase and when to keep quiet. Waiting for just the right kind of dark and the clock to tick over to the minute she'll pour her all her shy secrets in his ear. Because that's it sometimes. Sometimes it's patience and warmth and the kind of openness that doesn't come easy to her.
And sometimes it's not that at all. Sometimes it's him watching. Pushing and pushing, then easing back. Letting her fall a little and catching her. Reading her body and looking for the signs. The flare of her nostrils and heat sweeping upward. Licking her collar bones and tracing a path between her breasts.
It's that kind of story. The kind that has him waiting for the glance over her bare shoulder. The challenge that says Make me. Make me tell. And he does. He looms above her. Makes his size an issue and drags her arms high overhead. He uses teeth and nails and the voice that twists low inside her and they both come away with the good kind of scars, but she tells.
That's the kind of story this. He knows. It's why he followed. It's why he's keeping quiet right now. Letting her handle things, even though it's ridiculous. He locked himself out of the room and he wasn't impersonating anyone. She was later than she should have been, and he was getting ice and the housekeeping cart with the master key was right there and, really . . .
His mouth opens. He's dying to explain. To tell his side, but she gives him a look and he realizes she has it handled. That she's found just the way to handle the security guy and he should keep his mouth shut.
He can do that. He can bide his time.
A/N: Final chapter is long and M. It'll be up probably tomorrow.
WC: ~1100
Summary: "If anyone gets to punish anyone in this scenario, it's him. Her. He gets to punish her, because this is one-hundred percent her fault. For running away to Canada for, like, a week on some feeble professional conference excuse." Set any time in S6, but this has nothing to do with anything.
A/N: So, there's this picture of NF when he was on Nick Kroll's show. Add to that the fact that Cora Clavia is HELL BENT ON RUINING MY LIFE IN ALL POSSIBLE WAYS.
This is just two chapters, or perhaps two with a brief epilogue. The rest is written and just needs editing and decision making about how to post it.
She can stop looking at him like that any time now. Like she's going to absolutely dismantle him, bit by sensitive bit,the first chance she gets. Like she's got nothing but options, but she just can't decide on the right punishment.
She probably can't. She's pretty creative in the punishment department. Dangerously, exquisitely creative, and this is so not the time or the place for thinking like that.
Because these pants are surprisingly tight. Everywhere except in the weird jodhpur area, and the long red coat only goes so far. And if anyone does ask him to stand up-if anyone decides that maybe they should get his version of events, rather than taking the word of some slightly hysterical stranger who completely misinterpreted the situation-the long red coat is not exactly going to divert attention from . . . certain downstream effects of spending any more time thinking about Beckett and punishment.
And, anyway, if anyone gets to punish anyone in this scenario, it's him. Her. He gets to punish her, because this is one-hundred percent her fault. For running away to Canada for, like, a week on some feeble professional conference excuse. Totally her fault. So she can pack away that particular look right the hell now.
Not that reversing the polarity on punishment exactly helps with his . . . emergent problem. He's no slouch in the creative punishment department either, and the cross-strap on this thing is sturdy for a costume.
Of course, it's a top of the line costume. Well made, and the attention to detail is impressive. From the high, polished boots down to the buttons and holster and belt. And, of course, the pouch for the cuffs. But he's definitely not thinking about that. Those. Her and that and those, because, hello, very tight pants and attention-drawing red coat, and they're already in trouble. He is not thinking about the satisfying snap and hiss of handcuffs. The way she's defiant and furious and lit up with it the second they click home around her wrists. He's not thinking about that.
Well, he is. Handcuffs-not the fun kind-are on his mind. Because apparently, surprising one's fiancée is a crime in Canada. Or impersonating a mountie. Whatever. It's enough to get you hauled down to hotel security HQ, and that's just sad. It's a sad, polite little place where they apologize for handcuffs and the march of shame with tea and passive-aggressive frowns and disapproval. And lots of stacks of overflow banquet chairs with really appalling mauve upholstery. It's unfortunate in any number of ways because the surprise is ruined.
And anyway, he wasn't impersonating. It's not like he was wandering from conference room to conference room in the outfit, collecting the deepest secrets of international policing to sell on the black market. He's here for her and only for her. And yes, she didn't know he was here at all until she got the call.
He wishes she still didn't know. He wishes he could have gotten out of this, surprise and a kinder, gentler Beckett intact, but this hotel security guy is compensating. He's got a complex about a building full of real cops or something. Between him and the guest who called in the first place, it had gotten to a point where things were about to escalate and he absolutely had to drop her name.
But he wasn't impersonating anything. Not for anyone but her. He's just never been one to skimp when it comes to costumes. And for this? Authenticity is crucial. He's convinced of that. He's convinced of a lot of things.
He knows this is a thingwith her. A fantasy that makes her breath hitch, starting somewhere low in her belly and going all the way up. It makes her cheeks flush with this dirty innocence that he just has to know more about. He has to have the story, and there is one. He knows that, too, as surely as he knows it's not one she'll readily confess.
That's ok. Those are the best stories. The ones he has to work for. It's an art with her. Still. Even though she's the furthest thing from shy about what she wants. Now. More. Like that. Don't stop. God, Castle . . . She's blessedly vocal. Open and enthusiastic, and there's not a single thing between them that doesn't live up to four years of build.
But this part is still an art. He's the story teller. She's adamant about that. Strangely everything-in-its-place until he coaxes. Until he has her where he wants her. Where she wants him to have her. Either or both. Both is good. Both is fucking mind blowing.
It's an art. Knowing when to chase and when to keep quiet. Waiting for just the right kind of dark and the clock to tick over to the minute she'll pour her all her shy secrets in his ear. Because that's it sometimes. Sometimes it's patience and warmth and the kind of openness that doesn't come easy to her.
And sometimes it's not that at all. Sometimes it's him watching. Pushing and pushing, then easing back. Letting her fall a little and catching her. Reading her body and looking for the signs. The flare of her nostrils and heat sweeping upward. Licking her collar bones and tracing a path between her breasts.
It's that kind of story. The kind that has him waiting for the glance over her bare shoulder. The challenge that says Make me. Make me tell. And he does. He looms above her. Makes his size an issue and drags her arms high overhead. He uses teeth and nails and the voice that twists low inside her and they both come away with the good kind of scars, but she tells.
That's the kind of story this. He knows. It's why he followed. It's why he's keeping quiet right now. Letting her handle things, even though it's ridiculous. He locked himself out of the room and he wasn't impersonating anyone. She was later than she should have been, and he was getting ice and the housekeeping cart with the master key was right there and, really . . .
His mouth opens. He's dying to explain. To tell his side, but she gives him a look and he realizes she has it handled. That she's found just the way to handle the security guy and he should keep his mouth shut.
He can do that. He can bide his time.
A/N: Final chapter is long and M. It'll be up probably tomorrow.