Steam 1/1
Characters: Beckett, Castle, Josh
Genre: Ship, drama, post episode 18
Length: 1300 words
Rating: R
Spoilers: Everything so far
Warnings: Sexual allusions, some Beckett/Josh interaction
Summary: Josh is in her life and her bed, but there’s a different taste of man on her tongue. Beckett blames the coffee.
Steam
He’s great in bed, not particularly cerebral or creative, but the doctor with the muscle-bound biker jacket knows his way around practical anatomy.
It’s a bit of grunt and grind. Straightforward, with her usually under him, watching over his shoulder at the dimmed light above her bed. Or the spray of cobwebs that crest his ceiling. Sometimes, she waits a while, then her eyes droop close and she’s down for the count before she really knows how she got there. It doesn’t matter whether it’s at her place or his, the mechanics are the same. Pretty great.
It’s bump and run, with sleepovers and intimate breakfast often postponed due to the start of a nightshift or a medical emergency. The sex is better than good - great remember? - but it’s rudimentary. Something Beckett settles for at the end of a taxing case or the conclusion of a bloody day, yet as time marches onwards and the chill hits the air, her imagination starts to wander.
It’s been wandering for more than a year.
She blames the coffee. The way Castle hands it to her, the care with which he cradles her drink, presenting it to her just when he knows she needs it. She blames the heat of the beverage. How it dilates her blood vessels, causing her skin to flush and her heart to beat in time with the banter between them. The way the hot liquid catches against her lips, presses into her palate as she tastes exactly what it would be like on his own tongue. She knows. There’s a succulent memory in the sensation part of her brain.
And then, the coating of bitter caffeine softening his mouth and making it pliable. She could slip in there and catch a swipe against her taste buds - if she roused the courage to initiate it - and it would be as smokin’ as an addict drawing on her first toke of the day.
He’s that addictive.
To admit it to herself is bad enough. To act on her instincts will indicate she’s physically and emotionally attracted, and Beckett’s just not ready to show her hand in case it’s rejected by the banker. The guy holding all the chips in the casino.
So she grabs his coffees the way she wants to grasp the front of his shirts - with two hands, chugging the warm fluid down her throat to stop herself burying her head in the groove of his chest and licking. Because the groove’s there, she’s checked him out. To admit that to herself is worse than thinking about it - about Rick Castle - while Josh is kissing her, moving her with surgical precision towards her bed.
She wonders if he knows his gorgeous, closely-woven shirts dip open at a certain spot when he leans forward to theorize. He does, and the peepshow of his upper body is part of the game he’s playing.
Beckett hears herself moan. She closes her eyes and leans into the doctorly kiss, stealing glimpses of Castle behind her shut lids. He’s dressed in a long woolen coat and not much else, making Beckett restless and more assertive.
Naturally, Josh thinks the sounds of desire are about him, and he presses so the backs of her thighs bump against the bed. It’s okay, she thinks, she wants to be horizontal, but suddenly Beckett has a craving for coffee with cream, something she hasn’t yearned for since her teenage years.
And God. She wants it in a takeout cup, she wants to clutch it in both hands and taste while they walk and talk in a park. And the woolen coat will flap about, it’ll open and Castle will spot her looking at him. And act.
Sometimes, when she’s knows he’s not watching, she’ll snatch glimpses of Castle drinking his own coffee. Tonight, as she lets her boyfriend kiss her temple, neck … collarbone and start the unbuttoning process, she thinks about Castle’s lower lip. When the writer is satisfied with his coffee, his upper lip folds inward and his lower juts out with a little peek of tongue that wipes away a morsel and that sexy, suggestive smile.
It’s Castle trademark, but it’s hot.
She groans again, wanting Josh to rip her shirt off her body, to ram his mouth against her own in an effort to remove the erotic memories of Castle that still linger within. If Josh could work harder, push deeper, Beckett could try to forget those seconds of a kiss that appear to be lasting forever, but he’s not able. She closes her eyes tighter, thinks of something apart from the darkened street outside a warehouse, but …
Yeah? … nah. It’s still there, the memory, the moisture, her desire for more.
Despite nights and mornings of teeth cleaning, stacks of coffee, peppermint tea and a hot dog or two, Beckett still wears Castle like an internal hickey. There’s no bruising, he didn’t hurt her, but the evidence of his kiss lasts longer than the actually exchange. And it’s not only his brand on her taste buds, it’s his chatter, his demeanor and sweetness, his coffee … if Castle was a coffee, he’d be a mocha latte, so creamy, indulgent. So damn rich and probably too intense in large quantities. But Beckett will never get enough of a chocolate hit in her beverage, and that seems to be the problem.
Josh finally has her shirt undone. In a move she could have predicted yesterday, he reaches around her back to find the clasp of her bra and uses his other hand to massage the side of her neck and run riot through her hair.
He’s a great lover, she reminds herself, as she finally drops onto her mattress and he reclines beside her, fingers on all the right buttons, lips motoring southward as she flips at her own fly. Just as she’s about to mutter something along the lines of ‘I’m sorry. Hey? I’m sorry, but … Josh? I’m so beat tonight’ for the first time in their relationship, her phone sounds from the bedside table.
‘Kate? What? Wait! Goddamn it!’ says Josh, feebly kissing her shoulder as she moves to the right.
Beckett retrieves her cell, sees a text from Montgomery and instead of flopping back into her boyfriend’s arms with a sigh, she sits straight up like she’s been hit by coffee.
‘You’re not being called right now? C’mon!’
And just like that, ‘save-the-world-savvy’ sounds like a little boy whine, and Beckett has to bite back the urge to remind him that’s she is a NYPD Homicide Detective and that he is often paged to the hospital at moments like these.
‘Call you later?’ she asks, hooking up her clothes and buttoning down her lips on what she really wants to say. What she really wants to taste, because if she’s honest with herself? It’s a different bean flavour.
But one step at a time, she thinks to herself. Dealing with this great-in-bed lover might help her get that leap closer to the extraordinary. If she has the balls.
‘Josh?’ She means it. She will deal with him. Later.
‘Yeah. Sure, whatever.’
Kate watches Josh as he stands to his full, impressive height. He wanders to the kitchen and gets himself a glass of water. There’s no offer to share, no colour to the drink, no camaraderie round the coffee machine, no steam.
With Castle, there’s enough hiss and spit to ignite a vat of long, long ... expresso dreams, although surely this will keep her up all night?
Smiling, Katherine Beckett thinks that just might be okay.
Genre: Ship, drama, post episode 18
Length: 1300 words
Rating: R
Spoilers: Everything so far
Warnings: Sexual allusions, some Beckett/Josh interaction
Summary: Josh is in her life and her bed, but there’s a different taste of man on her tongue. Beckett blames the coffee.
Steam
He’s great in bed, not particularly cerebral or creative, but the doctor with the muscle-bound biker jacket knows his way around practical anatomy.
It’s a bit of grunt and grind. Straightforward, with her usually under him, watching over his shoulder at the dimmed light above her bed. Or the spray of cobwebs that crest his ceiling. Sometimes, she waits a while, then her eyes droop close and she’s down for the count before she really knows how she got there. It doesn’t matter whether it’s at her place or his, the mechanics are the same. Pretty great.
It’s bump and run, with sleepovers and intimate breakfast often postponed due to the start of a nightshift or a medical emergency. The sex is better than good - great remember? - but it’s rudimentary. Something Beckett settles for at the end of a taxing case or the conclusion of a bloody day, yet as time marches onwards and the chill hits the air, her imagination starts to wander.
It’s been wandering for more than a year.
She blames the coffee. The way Castle hands it to her, the care with which he cradles her drink, presenting it to her just when he knows she needs it. She blames the heat of the beverage. How it dilates her blood vessels, causing her skin to flush and her heart to beat in time with the banter between them. The way the hot liquid catches against her lips, presses into her palate as she tastes exactly what it would be like on his own tongue. She knows. There’s a succulent memory in the sensation part of her brain.
And then, the coating of bitter caffeine softening his mouth and making it pliable. She could slip in there and catch a swipe against her taste buds - if she roused the courage to initiate it - and it would be as smokin’ as an addict drawing on her first toke of the day.
He’s that addictive.
To admit it to herself is bad enough. To act on her instincts will indicate she’s physically and emotionally attracted, and Beckett’s just not ready to show her hand in case it’s rejected by the banker. The guy holding all the chips in the casino.
So she grabs his coffees the way she wants to grasp the front of his shirts - with two hands, chugging the warm fluid down her throat to stop herself burying her head in the groove of his chest and licking. Because the groove’s there, she’s checked him out. To admit that to herself is worse than thinking about it - about Rick Castle - while Josh is kissing her, moving her with surgical precision towards her bed.
She wonders if he knows his gorgeous, closely-woven shirts dip open at a certain spot when he leans forward to theorize. He does, and the peepshow of his upper body is part of the game he’s playing.
Beckett hears herself moan. She closes her eyes and leans into the doctorly kiss, stealing glimpses of Castle behind her shut lids. He’s dressed in a long woolen coat and not much else, making Beckett restless and more assertive.
Naturally, Josh thinks the sounds of desire are about him, and he presses so the backs of her thighs bump against the bed. It’s okay, she thinks, she wants to be horizontal, but suddenly Beckett has a craving for coffee with cream, something she hasn’t yearned for since her teenage years.
And God. She wants it in a takeout cup, she wants to clutch it in both hands and taste while they walk and talk in a park. And the woolen coat will flap about, it’ll open and Castle will spot her looking at him. And act.
Sometimes, when she’s knows he’s not watching, she’ll snatch glimpses of Castle drinking his own coffee. Tonight, as she lets her boyfriend kiss her temple, neck … collarbone and start the unbuttoning process, she thinks about Castle’s lower lip. When the writer is satisfied with his coffee, his upper lip folds inward and his lower juts out with a little peek of tongue that wipes away a morsel and that sexy, suggestive smile.
It’s Castle trademark, but it’s hot.
She groans again, wanting Josh to rip her shirt off her body, to ram his mouth against her own in an effort to remove the erotic memories of Castle that still linger within. If Josh could work harder, push deeper, Beckett could try to forget those seconds of a kiss that appear to be lasting forever, but he’s not able. She closes her eyes tighter, thinks of something apart from the darkened street outside a warehouse, but …
Yeah? … nah. It’s still there, the memory, the moisture, her desire for more.
Despite nights and mornings of teeth cleaning, stacks of coffee, peppermint tea and a hot dog or two, Beckett still wears Castle like an internal hickey. There’s no bruising, he didn’t hurt her, but the evidence of his kiss lasts longer than the actually exchange. And it’s not only his brand on her taste buds, it’s his chatter, his demeanor and sweetness, his coffee … if Castle was a coffee, he’d be a mocha latte, so creamy, indulgent. So damn rich and probably too intense in large quantities. But Beckett will never get enough of a chocolate hit in her beverage, and that seems to be the problem.
Josh finally has her shirt undone. In a move she could have predicted yesterday, he reaches around her back to find the clasp of her bra and uses his other hand to massage the side of her neck and run riot through her hair.
He’s a great lover, she reminds herself, as she finally drops onto her mattress and he reclines beside her, fingers on all the right buttons, lips motoring southward as she flips at her own fly. Just as she’s about to mutter something along the lines of ‘I’m sorry. Hey? I’m sorry, but … Josh? I’m so beat tonight’ for the first time in their relationship, her phone sounds from the bedside table.
‘Kate? What? Wait! Goddamn it!’ says Josh, feebly kissing her shoulder as she moves to the right.
Beckett retrieves her cell, sees a text from Montgomery and instead of flopping back into her boyfriend’s arms with a sigh, she sits straight up like she’s been hit by coffee.
‘You’re not being called right now? C’mon!’
And just like that, ‘save-the-world-savvy’ sounds like a little boy whine, and Beckett has to bite back the urge to remind him that’s she is a NYPD Homicide Detective and that he is often paged to the hospital at moments like these.
‘Call you later?’ she asks, hooking up her clothes and buttoning down her lips on what she really wants to say. What she really wants to taste, because if she’s honest with herself? It’s a different bean flavour.
But one step at a time, she thinks to herself. Dealing with this great-in-bed lover might help her get that leap closer to the extraordinary. If she has the balls.
‘Josh?’ She means it. She will deal with him. Later.
‘Yeah. Sure, whatever.’
Kate watches Josh as he stands to his full, impressive height. He wanders to the kitchen and gets himself a glass of water. There’s no offer to share, no colour to the drink, no camaraderie round the coffee machine, no steam.
With Castle, there’s enough hiss and spit to ignite a vat of long, long ... expresso dreams, although surely this will keep her up all night?
Smiling, Katherine Beckett thinks that just might be okay.