castle fanfiction, beckett/sophia conrad - kiss me with the kisses of his mouth.
kiss me with the kisses of his mouth.
notes: there are spoilers for Pandora ahead. this is saved on my computer as lol... because... really, it's fairly ridiculous. it was spawned by this and the subsequent encouragement from various wonderful human beings with good taste because it is a truth universally acknowledged that Jennifer Beals must be shipped with anyone in the same frame, but preferrably with another lady because idk, The L Word probably. Also this happened. And they are adorable.
So. In summary: porn. Porn of Beckett/vodka/Sophia Conrad/(Castle in mind not body). Because some fangirls see things as they are and say why - I dream things that never were and ask why not.
P to the S. Title from the Bible. Troll fucking face.
There is a haze between the third and fourth drink where, in retrospect, she can’t tell if it’s the alcohol or Sophia’s fingers creeping down her spine.
(The moment that she thinks this will be when she’s sprawled over her dining table with her badge pressed into her hip and her hands fumbling to unclasp her bra and Sophia’s mouth mapping the curve of her back in the wake of curious, stroking fingers.)
She’s drinking too fast probably, but the vodka is icy only until it reaches her stomach and then it’s warm and it spreads through her bones until she feels less stiff, less cold and she almost forgets the memory of drowning. (Her lungs were on fire and it reminded her far too much of the cemetery, of being shot and being unable to breathe.) Tomorrow morning she’ll discuss it with the shrink, but tonight there’s this makeshift attempt at self-medication and it will have to do.
The CIA agent is leaning against the bar, smirking at her over a beer, and Beckett thinks she’s done nothing to warrant that look. She lifts an eyebrow. “What?” Her hand curls neatly around her hip and she shouts it a little to be heard over the music. “I’m serious. Castle and I, we’ve never slept together.”
(Thankfully, Castle is absent by this point - needed by Alexis - because if he were here, she knows that somehow he would have heard slept together and his name in the same sentence and that would give them both ideas.)
She really does try not to catch her lip with her teeth at the thought, but it’s too late. Heat creeps at her cheeks and she’s thinking of the desperate way that he grabbed at her after they made it out of the water and the water made it out of their lungs - his thumb hard against her rib cage and that moment, unromantic and primal, when she thought maybe he was going to kiss her, shivering, with the river bed clinging to her wet hair and the side of her face.
Her answer earns her an apprasing stare which is like looking in the mirror glass in the interrogation room.
(She's half-admiring, half-unsettled.)
“You’re telling the truth.” Sophia raises the neck of her beer to her lips and sucks on it, thoughtful, until it’s empty.
That’s the moment she realises she’s more affected by the liquor than she should be, because that image, that is appealing and usually it takes her at least a few more drinks to wonder just how different her life would’ve been if she’d accepted her offer from Smith instead of the one from Stanford.
“Of course I am,” she manages, indignant, but Sophia steps a little closer so their hips nudge when she turns to the bar and signals the bartender for another round. Her hair shifts over her shoulder and across the span of her back when she turns back to Beckett. “Just vodka?”
(Which is simultaneously a lot smoother and a lot more ambiguous than can I buy you a drink?)
She swallows the last mouthful before it’s just ice and nods, tries not to notice the pull of Sophia’s dress pants when she leans over the bar to be heard.
“Why not?” she demands, when she rights herself and turns around with a drink in each hand.
“What?” Beckett blinks, takes the perspiring tumbler automatically and follows just as blindly to a recently vacated booth. They sit on the same side.
“Oh, you mean, why not, with Castle?" she says as she sits. "It just…” she frowns, because really, it’s a very good question, one she’s not sure has a good answer. “At first it was just because he wanted it so badly that it was almost as much fun denying him than it would’ve been taking him up on the offer.”
“But then…”
“Well, then we worked together and he obviously wasn’t going anywhere and I …”
“You had feelings for him.”
“He had feelings for me,” she protests, then adds, far too honestly and a little childishly, “First.”
"And now it's complicated."
It's not a question but she nods.
"Would you like it to be simple?"
She's smiling and leaning closer. The curve of her lips is inviting, willing, but not predatory, not overt. It's just a suggestion. A suggestion and a rhetorical question, and Beckett's fairly sure it's not just about Castle.
"I mean, you must've thought about what it would be like." There's an upward inflection on the last word; the rest of the sentence is a purr.
"Once or twice."
She's is suddenly jealous of the bottle that Sophia's fingertips rest on. She wants to reach out and pick at the label for something to do with her hands. Vodka offers no such distraction.
(It's a lie; Castle has been her go-to fantasy for a number of months that might be better described as years.) "It was ... there were the books."
"I could tell you what it's really like."
Sophia's fingers are suddenly skimming along the seam of her jeans. She feels the pressure on the inside of her knee and it hums through her like the vokda. Beckett gulps down another mouthful of her drink, nods once, says nothing.
It's warm in her ear: "Or I could show you."
An inch of vokda and the beer Sophia barely touched are left as evidence.
They make it to the bed.
Eventually.
Sophia's hand is at her jaw as they kiss against the door, thumb working against her chin, hips jutting into hers. Her fingers are skimming, mapping curves until they rest against the solid weight of a weapon. Beckett traces it with a finger as Sophia's teeth catch her lower lip and as breath comes heavy between them, she says, "You're still wearing your piece."
She nods. "I came straight from the job. But Rick would like that."
Her lips descend once more, all gentle pressure and stroking tongue.
"Mmm." Beckett hums her protest between their mouths. "Castle," she says, breathless but firm. "It's Castle. Rick is ... too weird."
She nods, moves to suck at the skin just below Beckett's ear and mumbles something about leaving marks and Castle. At that Beckett's lost halfway between reality and the thought of that image, of him and the evidence of him on her body, at her neck, between her legs. Through her shirt, Sophia's teeth aren't sharp against her clavicle but it's wet and warm and she lets her head thud against the wall.
There's another interlude on the sofa. That's where she loses her shirt. Sophia mouths down until her chin is resting against her stomach and they eye each other. She relaxes then, gives into the hot feeling of her skin, because it's obvious Sophia knows how ridiculous the entire thing is. But it works, for whatever twisted reason and she wants it and she makes a fist in the unruly curls tickling at her hip.
"Castle takes requests."
Beckett groans and tugs at the hair between her fingers until the other woman climbs up her body. That's when she discovers a quirk of fashion that makes unbuttoning the dress shirt difficult. "That's just a polite con to get me to talk dirty."
"Maybe." The grin is wicked. "But he really is eager to please, wants to know what you like."
When she shifts to a sitting position straddling Beckett's thigh, her knee is a sudden and wanted pressure. Beckett finds her hips seeking more of it reflexively.
"So." (There's that grin again. And the dulcet tone, seductive and low.) "What do you like Kate?"
She lets her nails graze against Sophia's stomach and fists her hand around the waistband of her pants and tugs roughly, until vertebrae bend and their mouths are urgent and slick against each other again.
Then there's the dining table, briefly.
Sophia's tongue laves across the wake of the sharp pinch of her teeth against a nipple. The fingers are slow inside her, stroking, teasing, drawing more hot, more wet and she's struggling beneath the weight that pins her to the mattress, wanting more.
Teeth graze across to the other breast and the assault makes her hips jump and the jolt catches a thumb where she wants it. She rocks against it and Sophia lets her, until she's audible and her own hand is pinching at her chest. And then the hand is withdrawn completely, tracing wet patterns against the inside of her thigh.
"He likes to tease."
"And I like to give orders," she says firmly. "No more teasing."
"He likes being ordered around too."
Beckett laughs until the insistent fingers make it fade seamlessly into moans. Her free hand finds her sheets and she arches her back, seeks more more more in a slam of hips.
It's the hard press of a fingernail against her clit and the vice of Sophia's mouth against her rib cage that makes her come. She honestly loses conscious control of her limbs. There's just sensation and then the loss of skin and weight against her and then that mouth, the flat of her tongue, rubbing at between her legs, dipping to taste between her folds and then a pause, words a vibration against her thigh that come after a sting of teeth. "He's good at this."
The second orgasm chases the first and they both rattle through her until she's damp and numb and dead weight against her sheets with her teeth wearing a hole in her lip. (Because it was oh and fuck and yes and then Castle. But she knows better than to finish the sentence. Not when it's this good, that would be so, so unfair.)
She crawls up the bed, props herself up against the headboard. Sophia follows, sinks down over her hips and leans down to claim her mouth and their chests press together, nipples hard between them.
(This is the point where it really stops being about Castle at all, which doesn't surprise her as much as it should.)
Sophia's weight is hovering over her thigh until she flexes her knee and then it's wet flesh-on-flesh and the pull of gravity in the absence of friction. It elicits a drawn out groan and she feels that same kind of powerful, that same kind of stupid gratitude that she always feels when she is responsible for another person's sexual gratification.
She lets Sophia work herself off against her thigh, lets her fingers slip lightly against the plane of the other woman's stomach. And then she crooks her neck, tastes salt and perfume between Sophia's breasts. They move against her cheeks. She brings her hands up to steady them and Sophia's hands find her shoulders, thumbs nudging the stark and equisite line of her clavicles. The points of her elbows brush into the hollow of Sophia's.
"Castle would really like this," Beckett says, smirking.
Her predecessor as Castle's muse is too breathless to respond but she nods, and her hair moves over her shoulders and Beckett's hands trail down her front to hold her hips. She lets one fall to rest on her thigh and Sophia finds it, slides against it until it's wet with arousal. When she's found the spot by blind exploration with her hips, Beckett circles it with her fingers which is unexpected, and Sophia yelps and grips tigher until there's the pinch of fingernails against Beckett's shoulders. And then it's fast, furious motion and countermotion.
She's quieter. She gasps and goes still for the briefest moment and then falls foward, silences her orgasm by burying her teeth in Beckett's shoulder.
They shift apart because the heat is uncomfortable and lie, staring at the ceiling for a long moment. And then Sophia laughs. "He doesn't know what he's missing."
It hits a nerve and it stings, but she swallows it. It's not the time for heavy conversation, especially the kind of conversation she'd be better off having with her therapist, not an ex-muse, ex-lover of Rick Castle who is naked in her bed. (And when she thinks about it like that, it is so way beyond fucked up.)
Still, she finds herself saying: "Maybe it's me who doesn't know what I'm missing."
It sounds lighthearted, a joke, but the truth weights it down, makes it heavy.
Sophia turns her head and fixes on her. She can tell because her eyes dart sideways.
"You could change that."
She nods. "I know."
(They're back to staring at the ceiling.)
Beckett wonders when the vodka wore off. With the sex fading she has the beginnings of a headache.
Sophia curls forward, reaches out and touches her toes and stretches her arms over her head. "I should go."
It'd be polite to say that she doesn't, but it makes a kind of sense and besides, Beckett's always preferred to avoid the pretense, the morning after. Daylight isn't the most flattering to rash and drunk decisions and they both have jobs to go to and it's not as messy this way. Still, she does sit up and lift a shoulder. "You don't have to."
It's said with a smile: "No. I know. But."
"Yeah," Beckett murmurs, watches as Sofia pulls on the lower half of her suit. The rest of it's in the living room and she disappears to find it while Beckett lays back against her sheets and reaches under her pillow for the T-shirt she sleeps in. She's lazy about putting it on.
When Sophia reappears in the doorway, she's finishing with the top button of her shirt and pulling her hair out from under the collar of her blazer. "You know it's easy to see what he sees in you. And it's a hell of a lot more than he ever saw in me... or anyone, if I had to guess, given the character, and the books."
"Fiction," she says, letting her toes sink into the carpet and grab it. "At least half of it is imagination. All evidence to the contrary-" she smirks "- Nikki's a lot more adventurous than I am."
They share smiles and Beckett stands and at the door, Sophia bends and kisses her cheek. It's friendly and incongruous given the circumstances, but that's comforting.
"This'll just stay between us," she says.
Beckett nods and doesn't say thank you, but her smile is grateful.
When she closes the door she leans against it and debates how to feel for a single moment before she huffs in laughter at herself under the guise of laughing at the empty room. The surrealist painting of an evening ends when she sinks into her mattress, yawning.
Sleep comes more easily than it does most nights.
She dreams of Castle.
And the look on his face if she ever, ever told him.
One day she might.
notes: there are spoilers for Pandora ahead. this is saved on my computer as lol... because... really, it's fairly ridiculous. it was spawned by this and the subsequent encouragement from various wonderful human beings with good taste because it is a truth universally acknowledged that Jennifer Beals must be shipped with anyone in the same frame, but preferrably with another lady because idk, The L Word probably. Also this happened. And they are adorable.
So. In summary: porn. Porn of Beckett/vodka/Sophia Conrad/(Castle in mind not body). Because some fangirls see things as they are and say why - I dream things that never were and ask why not.
P to the S. Title from the Bible. Troll fucking face.
There is a haze between the third and fourth drink where, in retrospect, she can’t tell if it’s the alcohol or Sophia’s fingers creeping down her spine.
(The moment that she thinks this will be when she’s sprawled over her dining table with her badge pressed into her hip and her hands fumbling to unclasp her bra and Sophia’s mouth mapping the curve of her back in the wake of curious, stroking fingers.)
She’s drinking too fast probably, but the vodka is icy only until it reaches her stomach and then it’s warm and it spreads through her bones until she feels less stiff, less cold and she almost forgets the memory of drowning. (Her lungs were on fire and it reminded her far too much of the cemetery, of being shot and being unable to breathe.) Tomorrow morning she’ll discuss it with the shrink, but tonight there’s this makeshift attempt at self-medication and it will have to do.
The CIA agent is leaning against the bar, smirking at her over a beer, and Beckett thinks she’s done nothing to warrant that look. She lifts an eyebrow. “What?” Her hand curls neatly around her hip and she shouts it a little to be heard over the music. “I’m serious. Castle and I, we’ve never slept together.”
(Thankfully, Castle is absent by this point - needed by Alexis - because if he were here, she knows that somehow he would have heard slept together and his name in the same sentence and that would give them both ideas.)
She really does try not to catch her lip with her teeth at the thought, but it’s too late. Heat creeps at her cheeks and she’s thinking of the desperate way that he grabbed at her after they made it out of the water and the water made it out of their lungs - his thumb hard against her rib cage and that moment, unromantic and primal, when she thought maybe he was going to kiss her, shivering, with the river bed clinging to her wet hair and the side of her face.
Her answer earns her an apprasing stare which is like looking in the mirror glass in the interrogation room.
(She's half-admiring, half-unsettled.)
“You’re telling the truth.” Sophia raises the neck of her beer to her lips and sucks on it, thoughtful, until it’s empty.
That’s the moment she realises she’s more affected by the liquor than she should be, because that image, that is appealing and usually it takes her at least a few more drinks to wonder just how different her life would’ve been if she’d accepted her offer from Smith instead of the one from Stanford.
“Of course I am,” she manages, indignant, but Sophia steps a little closer so their hips nudge when she turns to the bar and signals the bartender for another round. Her hair shifts over her shoulder and across the span of her back when she turns back to Beckett. “Just vodka?”
(Which is simultaneously a lot smoother and a lot more ambiguous than can I buy you a drink?)
She swallows the last mouthful before it’s just ice and nods, tries not to notice the pull of Sophia’s dress pants when she leans over the bar to be heard.
“Why not?” she demands, when she rights herself and turns around with a drink in each hand.
“What?” Beckett blinks, takes the perspiring tumbler automatically and follows just as blindly to a recently vacated booth. They sit on the same side.
“Oh, you mean, why not, with Castle?" she says as she sits. "It just…” she frowns, because really, it’s a very good question, one she’s not sure has a good answer. “At first it was just because he wanted it so badly that it was almost as much fun denying him than it would’ve been taking him up on the offer.”
“But then…”
“Well, then we worked together and he obviously wasn’t going anywhere and I …”
“You had feelings for him.”
“He had feelings for me,” she protests, then adds, far too honestly and a little childishly, “First.”
"And now it's complicated."
It's not a question but she nods.
"Would you like it to be simple?"
She's smiling and leaning closer. The curve of her lips is inviting, willing, but not predatory, not overt. It's just a suggestion. A suggestion and a rhetorical question, and Beckett's fairly sure it's not just about Castle.
"I mean, you must've thought about what it would be like." There's an upward inflection on the last word; the rest of the sentence is a purr.
"Once or twice."
She's is suddenly jealous of the bottle that Sophia's fingertips rest on. She wants to reach out and pick at the label for something to do with her hands. Vodka offers no such distraction.
(It's a lie; Castle has been her go-to fantasy for a number of months that might be better described as years.) "It was ... there were the books."
"I could tell you what it's really like."
Sophia's fingers are suddenly skimming along the seam of her jeans. She feels the pressure on the inside of her knee and it hums through her like the vokda. Beckett gulps down another mouthful of her drink, nods once, says nothing.
It's warm in her ear: "Or I could show you."
An inch of vokda and the beer Sophia barely touched are left as evidence.
They make it to the bed.
Eventually.
Sophia's hand is at her jaw as they kiss against the door, thumb working against her chin, hips jutting into hers. Her fingers are skimming, mapping curves until they rest against the solid weight of a weapon. Beckett traces it with a finger as Sophia's teeth catch her lower lip and as breath comes heavy between them, she says, "You're still wearing your piece."
She nods. "I came straight from the job. But Rick would like that."
Her lips descend once more, all gentle pressure and stroking tongue.
"Mmm." Beckett hums her protest between their mouths. "Castle," she says, breathless but firm. "It's Castle. Rick is ... too weird."
She nods, moves to suck at the skin just below Beckett's ear and mumbles something about leaving marks and Castle. At that Beckett's lost halfway between reality and the thought of that image, of him and the evidence of him on her body, at her neck, between her legs. Through her shirt, Sophia's teeth aren't sharp against her clavicle but it's wet and warm and she lets her head thud against the wall.
There's another interlude on the sofa. That's where she loses her shirt. Sophia mouths down until her chin is resting against her stomach and they eye each other. She relaxes then, gives into the hot feeling of her skin, because it's obvious Sophia knows how ridiculous the entire thing is. But it works, for whatever twisted reason and she wants it and she makes a fist in the unruly curls tickling at her hip.
"Castle takes requests."
Beckett groans and tugs at the hair between her fingers until the other woman climbs up her body. That's when she discovers a quirk of fashion that makes unbuttoning the dress shirt difficult. "That's just a polite con to get me to talk dirty."
"Maybe." The grin is wicked. "But he really is eager to please, wants to know what you like."
When she shifts to a sitting position straddling Beckett's thigh, her knee is a sudden and wanted pressure. Beckett finds her hips seeking more of it reflexively.
"So." (There's that grin again. And the dulcet tone, seductive and low.) "What do you like Kate?"
She lets her nails graze against Sophia's stomach and fists her hand around the waistband of her pants and tugs roughly, until vertebrae bend and their mouths are urgent and slick against each other again.
Then there's the dining table, briefly.
Sophia's tongue laves across the wake of the sharp pinch of her teeth against a nipple. The fingers are slow inside her, stroking, teasing, drawing more hot, more wet and she's struggling beneath the weight that pins her to the mattress, wanting more.
Teeth graze across to the other breast and the assault makes her hips jump and the jolt catches a thumb where she wants it. She rocks against it and Sophia lets her, until she's audible and her own hand is pinching at her chest. And then the hand is withdrawn completely, tracing wet patterns against the inside of her thigh.
"He likes to tease."
"And I like to give orders," she says firmly. "No more teasing."
"He likes being ordered around too."
Beckett laughs until the insistent fingers make it fade seamlessly into moans. Her free hand finds her sheets and she arches her back, seeks more more more in a slam of hips.
It's the hard press of a fingernail against her clit and the vice of Sophia's mouth against her rib cage that makes her come. She honestly loses conscious control of her limbs. There's just sensation and then the loss of skin and weight against her and then that mouth, the flat of her tongue, rubbing at between her legs, dipping to taste between her folds and then a pause, words a vibration against her thigh that come after a sting of teeth. "He's good at this."
The second orgasm chases the first and they both rattle through her until she's damp and numb and dead weight against her sheets with her teeth wearing a hole in her lip. (Because it was oh and fuck and yes and then Castle. But she knows better than to finish the sentence. Not when it's this good, that would be so, so unfair.)
She crawls up the bed, props herself up against the headboard. Sophia follows, sinks down over her hips and leans down to claim her mouth and their chests press together, nipples hard between them.
(This is the point where it really stops being about Castle at all, which doesn't surprise her as much as it should.)
Sophia's weight is hovering over her thigh until she flexes her knee and then it's wet flesh-on-flesh and the pull of gravity in the absence of friction. It elicits a drawn out groan and she feels that same kind of powerful, that same kind of stupid gratitude that she always feels when she is responsible for another person's sexual gratification.
She lets Sophia work herself off against her thigh, lets her fingers slip lightly against the plane of the other woman's stomach. And then she crooks her neck, tastes salt and perfume between Sophia's breasts. They move against her cheeks. She brings her hands up to steady them and Sophia's hands find her shoulders, thumbs nudging the stark and equisite line of her clavicles. The points of her elbows brush into the hollow of Sophia's.
"Castle would really like this," Beckett says, smirking.
Her predecessor as Castle's muse is too breathless to respond but she nods, and her hair moves over her shoulders and Beckett's hands trail down her front to hold her hips. She lets one fall to rest on her thigh and Sophia finds it, slides against it until it's wet with arousal. When she's found the spot by blind exploration with her hips, Beckett circles it with her fingers which is unexpected, and Sophia yelps and grips tigher until there's the pinch of fingernails against Beckett's shoulders. And then it's fast, furious motion and countermotion.
She's quieter. She gasps and goes still for the briefest moment and then falls foward, silences her orgasm by burying her teeth in Beckett's shoulder.
They shift apart because the heat is uncomfortable and lie, staring at the ceiling for a long moment. And then Sophia laughs. "He doesn't know what he's missing."
It hits a nerve and it stings, but she swallows it. It's not the time for heavy conversation, especially the kind of conversation she'd be better off having with her therapist, not an ex-muse, ex-lover of Rick Castle who is naked in her bed. (And when she thinks about it like that, it is so way beyond fucked up.)
Still, she finds herself saying: "Maybe it's me who doesn't know what I'm missing."
It sounds lighthearted, a joke, but the truth weights it down, makes it heavy.
Sophia turns her head and fixes on her. She can tell because her eyes dart sideways.
"You could change that."
She nods. "I know."
(They're back to staring at the ceiling.)
Beckett wonders when the vodka wore off. With the sex fading she has the beginnings of a headache.
Sophia curls forward, reaches out and touches her toes and stretches her arms over her head. "I should go."
It'd be polite to say that she doesn't, but it makes a kind of sense and besides, Beckett's always preferred to avoid the pretense, the morning after. Daylight isn't the most flattering to rash and drunk decisions and they both have jobs to go to and it's not as messy this way. Still, she does sit up and lift a shoulder. "You don't have to."
It's said with a smile: "No. I know. But."
"Yeah," Beckett murmurs, watches as Sofia pulls on the lower half of her suit. The rest of it's in the living room and she disappears to find it while Beckett lays back against her sheets and reaches under her pillow for the T-shirt she sleeps in. She's lazy about putting it on.
When Sophia reappears in the doorway, she's finishing with the top button of her shirt and pulling her hair out from under the collar of her blazer. "You know it's easy to see what he sees in you. And it's a hell of a lot more than he ever saw in me... or anyone, if I had to guess, given the character, and the books."
"Fiction," she says, letting her toes sink into the carpet and grab it. "At least half of it is imagination. All evidence to the contrary-" she smirks "- Nikki's a lot more adventurous than I am."
They share smiles and Beckett stands and at the door, Sophia bends and kisses her cheek. It's friendly and incongruous given the circumstances, but that's comforting.
"This'll just stay between us," she says.
Beckett nods and doesn't say thank you, but her smile is grateful.
When she closes the door she leans against it and debates how to feel for a single moment before she huffs in laughter at herself under the guise of laughing at the empty room. The surrealist painting of an evening ends when she sinks into her mattress, yawning.
Sleep comes more easily than it does most nights.
She dreams of Castle.
And the look on his face if she ever, ever told him.
One day she might.