Author's Notes: so there's this fic-a-thon (go! play!) in which all the prompts are Texts From Last Night posts. And geonncannon prompted with Castle/Beckett - (208): I want to be ashamed of the things we do this weekend. So this happened. And I myself am a little bit ashamed of that. This is literally just about Castle and Beckett having lots of sex and saying really dirty things to each other. And I'd apologise for the c-word, but I really like it. JUST SO WE'RE ALL CLEAR, THIS IS WHAT YOU'RE GETTING INTO.
"Wow Castle, you're working really hard to see me in a swim suit."
He’s meeting her at the precinct after work so they can drive up to the house in the Hamptons together and just as he closes the door to the car he gets a text.
I want to be ashamed of the things we do this weekend.
She has him up against the door before his suitcase can make it through behind him. He decides it can wait outside and the door slams shut behind his back and she slams her hips into his front, begins climbing up his body, until he’s holding her thighs and she’s clinging to his shoulders and they find another wall.
The painting beside her head slides until it’s crooked.
When they’re lying on the floor in the hallway, breath still coming heavily, he twists his head to look at her. So, what exactly would you be ashamed of?
Good point. Well, you write softcore porn for a living, I’m sure you can think of a few things to test me.
Challenge accepted detective, challenge accepted.
She’s moving takeout from plastic containers to real plates (most of the time, this is her idea of a home cooked meal) when he bumps into her from behind, circles her wrists with his fingers and holds her completely still. And then he runs his hands up her arms, beneath the thin straps of her tank top and of her bra, presses his nails into her spine as he runs them down her back, stopping at her ass, thumbs in her back pockets.
I like your jeans.
He breathes against her shoulder, drops his mouth to it, tongues up the curve of her neck to huff in her ear. Forget food Beckett. His hands are suddenly at her hips and then under the waistband of aforementioned jeans. I want to eat you.
So he does, peels off everything on her lower half as he slides to the floor, and she moves a leg over his shoulder, lets her heel press into his back. He doesn’t tease like he normally does, sucks hard on her clit and moves down, to thrust his tongue against her folds.
Her hands come up to clutch at the counter.
Somehow he knows just how far to work her, stops when she’s close but not so close that it’s an anti-climax entirely.
Tell me what you want Kate.
He blows warm air against her.
I want you to finish what you started. Her heel gets more insistent and at the precinct, it wouldn’t be a tone he would argue with.
Mmm, no. Really tell me.
She does - (I want your mouth on my cunt Castle. I want you to make me come all over your face.) - and gloats in her victory until her orgasm mutes it and she rocks forward to get more of his mouth and his fingers, arms extended, hands still gripping the kitchen counter. (Oh. God. Fuck.)
She smirks down at him. You’re going to have to try harder than that.
He wakes her up on Saturday morning with a cup of coffee and breath tickling her ear saying remember how I told you I’d be happy to let you spank me?
She twists around, sits up to take the coffee and quirks an eyebrow at him expectantly.
Well I would.
Should’ve told me Castle. I left all my toys at home.
(She is, however, quite good with her hands.)
Saturday night he gives up on sex (kind of) and tries alcohol. They make it through far too much of the tequila before they run out of limes, and he feels it humming through him. She’s laughing too much for him to believe she’s as sober as she says she is. Someone suggests the beach, and he wants to think it’s him that suggests skinny dipping, but it could be her. And when she’s kicking up water against him, naked, and shrieking at waves (very un-Beckett, but in a good kind of way), he thinks the point is moot.
Her hair is wet and she tastes like salt and tequila when he kisses her, and she’s always more bold with her tongue when she’s drunk. She reaches out and takes his hand and positions his index finger exactly where she wants it between her legs with a kind of precision which should not be possible after so many shots.
They stumble towards the sand and she’s laughing as he tries to slide a finger inside her and walk at the same time (two activities that are not particularly compatible) and then she falls down on her knees, sand licking at the water the ocean left behind and clinging there, like he clings to her hair. It pulls.
Lucky I like it rough.
He bites down on her shoulder. I can work with that.
Her hands find beach and she rocks forward on them when he pushes into her in two movements (how she likes it, not too much at first) but then it’s all hard rhythm.
Oh I know you can.
He curls forward and presses his mouth to whatever skin he finds.
There is sand everywhere, and he grinds some roughly against her back as she works herself off with her hand.
When she says it he does. Too much for you detective?
No. She’s smirking and the beach is the only one who sees it but still, he can hear it in her voice.
I just –
She moves, reaches behind her to curl her hand around him erection as she shifts, moves her fist up and down without missing a beat when she rolls onto her back (even though a twist of the wrist is necessary and he wishes, in retrospect, that he had watched her do that).
– want to see your face when you come all over me.
On Sunday, they nurse hangovers in bed and she groans when his hand curls around her hip.
Don’t even think about it. I’m too sore.
Thought that’s how you like it.
I never said I didn’t like it.
By Sunday afternoon, things have improved considerably. She’s still wearing sunglasses inside to read, but the windows are open and the afternoon sun is warm against her ankles. He comes in and sits beside her, skimming the words over her shoulder until the end of a chapter.
So my phone has this app.
Really? That’s your line?
You don’t even know what it does yet.
She closes her book and he moves it from her hands, places it on the nightstand and they shift until she’s sitting between his legs, her back to his front, the T-shirt she slept in edging up over her hips, helped along by his hand. His mouth trails along her neck, finds the spot she likes, bites down on it. She leans into his chest.
I want to film you.
Her hand curls around his knee and she runs her nails along his thigh until she can reach into his pocket and find his cell.
There really is an app for everything.
It casts everything in soft light so it looks like some kind of vintage porno when she lets him pull off the shirt and roll her nipple under his thumb. She watches it on the screen, searches for the best angle.
Want me to zoom in?
He just sucks harder on her neck and lets his hand smear her arousal against her thigh.
When she stretches out her arm to get a better visual, the movement increases the pressure between her legs and she can smell herself.
Oh yeah, she says to his smart phone, self-aware enough to have a sense of humour about it but serious enough to be mind-numbingly sexy, do it to me.
He thinks something incredibly tasteless about Steve Jobs, rolling over in his grave, and anatomically isolated rigor mortis.
On Sunday night, she falls into bed beside him with a soft oomph and nudges her nose into his shoulder.
He smiles, mumbles something, half-asleep and she curls her body around him, slides up against the sheets until she can say it to his ear. The thing is Castle, I’m not ashamed of anything we do. I never could be.
Good, he says, because I sent that video to Ryan and Esposito.
She hits him, hard, with a pillow.