Disclaimer: If only...
A/N: So Sav and I were talking...and Saturday Smut was invented at some point. So it's Saturday...have some smut. Drunken Caskett sex and then maybe some ridiculous conversation.
She hears laughter, a fuzzy sound in her ears, something that almost echoes. It takes her a few seconds to realize she's the one it's coming from. That it's her laugh floating between them as her back slams into the door - snapping it shut with a sharp thud and knocking the air from her lungs on a moan. He's blurry, moving too fast for her to keep up but when she focuses she feels his body against her own, hands gripping at her hips, pushing at her thighs and shoving the fabric of her shirt up for his fingers to dance over her stomach.
It feels good, the roughness of his hands, the sloppy groping fingers that push a little too hard against her ribs. The biting kisses he's leaving over her face, wet and uncoordinated. Hitting her cheek, above her eye, right next to her nose before he ever nips her top lip, sucks it between his own, making her hips roll against him, hard and unforgiving. He tastes of alcohol and Castle. She claws at his back, mewls unhappily at the cloth that blocks her nails from digging into his skin. Why is he wearing clothes?
She doesn't want him clothed. She wants him bare, writhing, thrusting, pushing. Instead he's chuckling into her, opening his mouth to her assault and she just needs him naked. Needs to feel him - hard and hot. She wants his skin beneath her fingers. Her hand settles on the back of his neck, a grip that has him groaning, his hips bucking into her, body responding to her every touch. Every fumble she makes.
He's worse. Hands barely capable of unbuttoning her shirt, not that she's paying much attention. Too busy shoving his off one shoulder, sinking her teeth into his collarbone just to hear him yelp. The sound that makes her throb with want, weep at just the anticipation of having him, her body already pulsing, muscles tightening. Liquid heat pooling between her thighs, making her rock forward seeking relief. She's unsteady on her heels, the shift of her weight weakening her knees and if it wasn't for his body pressing so tightly into hers, she'd be sliding to the floor.
"Easy there," She bites him a little lower for his teasing, teeth marking his chest as her own, harder this time. Trying to bruise. The taste of his skin is more intoxicating than the alcohol buzzing in her system. She feels too hot, needs out of her own skin, out of these clothes. It starts with her heels being the first to go, a pause in her kicking when his hand slides up the inside of her thigh.
She chases his touch with her hips, tries to force his fingers to touch but he doesn't. Shakes his head, nose stroking hers with each back and forth motion. She's done playing his games. He's been at this all night, teasing and touching but never giving her what she wants. So she curls her fingers at his jaw, pushes his face away from hers, and in a crude honesty that she knows drives him crazy - she tells him what she wants.
"Castle, if this," She palms the hard tent that's formed in his slacks, subtlety be damned. "is not inside me in the next three minutes, I'm doing this alone."
His eyes blacken, the pupils dilating as his lips part. She cups him, gives a squeeze that has him thrusting just to prove her point. And then it's a flurry of hands, his, hers. She doesn't know who slides her shirt off, doesn't care how his pants and boxers end up around his ankles or that he still has his shoes on. Although it amuses her enough that she snorts out a laugh. Actually snorts and then she's covering her face, laughing harder as he pulls her jeans down.
"I think you're drunk, Detective Beckett."
"No." Yes. She is. She feels it. Light, floating. Horny. She gets like this. All heavy groping hands and liquid legs. But he's worse off than she is, fat fingered and unable to master the lace covering her. She doesn't care. Gives him the benefit of the doubt as she climbs his body, almost falling when she wraps her legs around his waist. The room is tilting, spinning but she ignores it, lets him push her soaked panties to the side and waits. Wanting, needing.
Even in his drunken state, he's trying to seduce, touching her softly, stroking the tips of his fingers through her folds. Her head is too heavy, slams back into the door and she doesn't even register the pain. He almost drops her, she feels it, feels the way he has to press closer, smash his arm between their chests to catch her against the bedroom door.
"Sorry."
"Shut. Up." She doesn't care. She just wants him. She's been waiting for hours. Uncomfortably aroused, wet, and shifting her thighs for relief. Why'd they ever agree to a night out? Her brain is rambling, she's reached the level of incoherent thought and she's almost to the point of asking him why his shirt is still on but he pulls his arm free, thrusting against her, another taunt and she squirms. He's hot, even sliding between her legs she can feel his heat singeing her, imprinting. Hot and hard and she's aching.
He thrusts again, faster this time and he's not teasing anymore, her words escaping on a loud sigh of relief as he buries to the hilt. A sharp pang in her gut, a tightening in her loins. She meets him. Frenzy for frenzy. Rough and sloppy. Nothing coordinated about it. The doorknob pressing against her tailbone, his hands just below, holding her in place. And it's all fuzzy, out of focus as she tries to look at him, tries to find his mouth, meeting his chin instead. He's panting against her nose - his breath moist and warm as her nails finally find his skin beneath his shirt, sliding up the back and scraping down with each twist of his hips, each slick slide in and out.
Her head is spinning faster now, and she mumbles about it against him, guessing he only hears one word because he picks up the pace, sends her climbing, clinging to him as she tightens around him, body pulsing, toes curling. He's stumbling, they're barely standing but she's still grinding against him, moaning at the way he stretches her. And she's drunk, she's dizzy, she's already floating. It doesn't take much for the spring coiled low in her abdomen to snap. His name flies out between them, a soft cry as she tenses. A sweet relief flooding her veins as he groans into her neck, hips no longer slapping at hers and she melts into him.
She's not sure how it happens but one second she's catching her breath, staring over his shoulder and trying to figure out why they aren't in the bed and the next her knees are hurting, aching as they knock into something, elbow catching him in the ribs as they land in a tangled mess on the floor. And it isn't even funny but it is. Because he's glassy eyed, with his pants around his ankles, shirt around his shoulders and his shoes are still on. She's not much better.
And her whole body is going to hurt in the morning but she's smiling, apologizing for the bruise he'll have, her mouth open against his cheek as she settles against him.
"Why are clothes so hard?" He's whining, hands reaching for the clasp at her back. Little late for that.
"Because you're drunk, Castle."
"We. We are drunk." He fumbles, cursing under his breath until the snap finally gives and the bra is loosening, the cups falling as he slides the straps down her arms.
"Now you want me naked?" He leans at an awkward angle and even with the buzzing in her skin, the alcohol induced stupor they're in, she knows he's going for the breasts he's just uncovered. Mouth open and pressing into one peak, hand palming clumsily at the other.
"Always want you naked." It's a mumble around her skin, his lips occupied with more than just talking and she's laughing, caressing his ear with her thumb and index, giving it a tug. "Hey,"
"Hey,"
"Kate?"
"Yes?"
"I'm going to marry you." And it's so drunkenly honest that she has a hard time choking it down. But she does. Knowing he probably won't remember it in the morning. She's not quite drunk enough to forget. She'll remember. "but not naked."
And the moment is gone. Replaced by the fact that he clearly has no filter right now. Telling him what not to say. He's boyish, a grin forming on his lips as he pokes his tongue out to trace over her scar. She barely feels it, too busy letting her liquor fuddled brain process his words. And honestly, she isn't panicking, she isn't thinking of anything really...other than the fact that he's still wearing shoes and it's still funny.
Another gentle tug of his ear for making her picture a naked wedding and she's smiling. Closing her eyes and wondering why the bed has to be so far away right now. He gets quiet, stops pressing heated kisses into her bare chest and she thinks maybe he's passed out...then he snorts. And she hears the thud as his shoes are finally kicked off.
"I'm sure we'll be wearing clothes, Castle."
"Huh?" Yeah, he's not going to remember this.