Credit to DX2012 and LaLa111202 for sparking this thought.
Chapter 1: Dreams
"When I met the other you…"
Beckett looks up, slightly surprised, from where she's curled up on the couch, feet conveniently placed in Castle's lap where they can be either massaged or provide massaging. He hasn't told her a lot about his – dream? Alternate universe? Hallucination?
"…Captain Beckett, I thought it was all a joke. Pranking me. I should have guessed then that it wasn't a hoax."
"Mmmm? How so?"
"She was wearing a skirt." Beckett chokes into her drink.
"And how does that tell you it wasn't a hoax?" Castle regards her with a don't be dumb look.
"I have never, ever, seen you in a skirt. Dresses, very occasionally, but never a skirt. You wear pants." He looks a little wistful and a lot lustful. "It was seriously hot. You could wear dresses or skirts a lot more often without me objecting."
"I'm sure I must have worn a skirt some time," Beckett scoffs. She's somewhat disconcerted and a little jealous. Which is utterly ridiculous, because how can she be jealous of herself? She wiggles her toes, and is somewhat reassured by the reaction.
"Nope. Don't remember." He grins wickedly. "I would definitely remember. Couldn't possibly forget." She raises a disbelieving eyebrow. "Your legs, Beckett. I would have seen your legs."
"And? You've seen my legs." She stretches said legs luxuriously. Castle admires them, despite the fact that they are currently covered in jeans.
"But they would have been emerging from a skirt, at work. Oh, Beckett. Don't tell me you wouldn't have imagined my hand, sliding on to your knee, sliding up under the hem of your skirt along your leg…higher and higher until" –
"You mean you imagined it. And where exactly is all this mental masturbation of yours taking place, Castle?"
"In the precinct, of course. That's where the other-you was wearing a skirt."
Beckett laughs. "In the bullpen. Right. With fifty cops all wandering around you think I'd let you touch me and put your hand up my skirt? In your dreams – and don't say it."
"Say what?"
"In my dreams you just join in. You say it every time." Castle pouts, adorably.
"But you do."
"Not just in your dreams, now. So don't say it. Anyway, this fascinating little fantasy of yours…" the words are snarky but she's smiling provocatively… "could be replaced by hard reality." She slides closer to him. "I like… hard…reality," she purrs, runs a hand naughtily over his stomach and pauses. "Definitely hard."
Castle looks down. "I like your legs." He runs a hand from her ankle to her knee, slowly. "In every reality." His hand slides a little further up. Beckett's slides a little further down. She wriggles even closer, which has the happy effect that the pace of Castle's hand sliding upward increases quite spectacularly, without him having any say in the matter. Her hand is carefully exploring the possibilities for undoing his belt. It's in the way. And since tonight they have finally managed to ensure that absolutely everyone else is out till tomorrow (significant bribery had been involved) she has no intention of wasting the gloriously uninterruptable evening.
Castle has clearly had some very similar ideas, but since he has the hugely unfair advantage that he can – and does – simply lift her up and remove the offending item: being pants in this case, he has cheated and done just that. With a trace of his fingers over her just to make sure she knew that he was doing it. (Like he thinks it's possible for her not to notice him undressing her? Really? Even if she weren't a detective she thinks she might detect him taking her clothes off.) Cheating will be punished – oohh – but maybe not now. Later. She'll send herself a memo. Later. When she can think.
"I like your legs even better without coverings." He strokes happily up and down them for a moment. It doesn't take long for the stroking to slow up, remain firmly north of her knees, and then for Castle's large hands to become more forceful, his eyes to grow dark and intent, and the stretch of his fingers to play gently across the soft skin of Beckett's inner thighs, nudging them apart as he does. His other hand is carefully separating the buttons of her dress shirt from their buttonholes. Beckett thinks that it's only fair that she returns the favour, but when she starts at Castle's neck he growls gently at her.
"My playtime," he says, meaningfully. Ah. She knows that occasionally he likes to have her first in nothing but her underwear and then, later, in nothing at all, while he remains clothed for the majority of proceedings. She likes that game too, especially when, as today, (as every day, just in case) she's wearing a bra-and-panties set that would knock out the entirety of the US Marine Corps in one blow. So she repatriates one hand away from Castle's broad shoulders and gives him room to work. One should always allow talent free rein, after all. And Castle is certainly very talented. He's currently employing his talents to extremely good effect. Her shirt seems to have gone the same way as her jeans. She'll find them later. A lot later. Tomorrow.
She loves the way he looks at her when they're doing this: hot, intent and focused; as if there's no-one but her in the world. Just the expression in his eyes makes her damp and squirmy and hopelessly, totally aroused. In a moment he'll start to talk, and she'll be lost. She stretches against him, as flexible and poised and dangerous as a panther, until he soothes and strokes her into the purring pettability of a house cat.
And then he does start to speak. His treacle-smooth, dark purring baritone, the very epitome of a bedroom voice, winds around her brain and twines down her nerves until it covers her completely. When he uses that tone, the words are – certainly not irrelevant, but equally certainly not the sole consideration. That tone strokes over her body and down between her legs and round and about and in almost as effectively as his hands, or mouth, or body. Sex is at least as much about the effect his voice has on her as anything else, and if he's really trying he can leave her soaked and close to whimpering without even touching her. He'd done it, once: tied her to the bed, stepped back and simply talked, with that same hot, intent focus and that same bedroom voice. She'd never believed that she could come without a single touch. (She'd had her revenge, later that same night. He'd asked, then pleaded, then outright begged. She'd shown him precisely the same degree of mercy he'd shown her. None.)
"If you wore a skirt," he murmurs provocatively, "then I would start with my hand on your knee, like this" – and he places one broad palm over her knee and strokes insinuatingly – "and that would remind you of what I'm going to do now." He smiles lazily, in the way that always means he intends to have his own way, complete control of the pace and the game. Beckett can certainly cope with that.
"The thing about a skirt, Beckett, is that there are so many possibilities. First, there's the view: the way a skirt emphasises the length of your legs and the contour of your foot in those incredibly sexy heels you wear." The fingers over her knee stroke down around her ankle, and smoothly back up again. She's damp. Damper.
"Then there are the changes. When you stand up, the skirt is one length, but when you sit down, it's shorter. The view alters. If it were an on-the-knee skirt, when you sat down I would see the edge of your quads. You'd know it, too. You'd be showing me." He pauses. "Wouldn't you?" She nods. His fingertips stretch a little round and up, flittering at the start of that same edge of quad. Beckett moves restlessly, and Castle's arm round her holds her tighter.
"You might even cross your legs, and make it shorter yet. Which brings us to the third option: what's covering your legs. Maybe nothing, so a skirt shows off smooth skin, and I know that I can touch its satin-softness all the way up and under the skirt. Maybe hose, that I can peel from you, stroking all the way as they roll down; or kissing the skin they reveal." His voice drops deeper, evoking all the actions that he might take. "I'd have to find out." His handspan widens, fingertips only an inch or two short of indiscretion. It's deliberate, she knows.
"I might find out that you were wearing stockings," he purrs. It's very clear that he likes that idea. "That would be the best of both worlds: sliding up to find soft skin" – he demonstrates – "and the option of peeling off the stockings." His tone hardens slightly. "Or not. I might leave them on." There's a gravelly growl underlying the purr, now. "Imagine the feeling of the lace at the top as I rub it over you." She squirms. His fingers aren't close enough and it's not fair. Squirming achieves nothing. Castle's clasping her firmly and her movement is pleasurably limited.
He leans down and kisses her, sure and deep and as possessive as he's been since the moment they rediscovered their joy in each other. He's always been somewhat satisfyingly possessive, in private, but for the last month or so he's been determined to show her just how deeply she is his. She hasn't taken any pains at all to object. She's made every effort to show him how deeply he is hers. She kisses him back just as hard and sure and deep. His hand, unhappily, doesn't take the usual route of playing gently with her breasts. She tries to suggest it, but he silences her with another searching kiss.
"My playtime," he says again, with emphasis. "I'm going to choose the games." Oh, okay then. It's not as if she won't enjoy whatever game he settles on. She wiggles in his lap, making sure that he's at full match fitness, so to speak. Seems so. He brings his mouth back to hers and then licks and sucks round her neck until she's squirming under his lips and in his arms.
"But then there's the final option. The final frontier. Access. See, if you were wearing a skirt, I wouldn't need to worry about belts and buttons and zips. I could just slip my hand under the material and run it all the way up and find you. Play with you. Slide those silk panties you like to wear to and fro until they're ruined." He must spend a small fortune on replacing the ones he ruins: torn, or too soaked and stained to clean. She doesn't ever ask, and doesn't ever want to stop him – ruining, or replacing. New ones simply appear. "And there'd be no evidence. No traces. No suspicious gaps in your clothing. Nobody but you and I would know." She tries to wriggle, hot, desperate and damp with desire.
"Or maybe I'd find no panties at all." His hand is finally on her, firm fingertips pressing lightly, drawing tiny circles over the thin wet silk. "Maybe I'd just find…flesh." The silk moves aside. Beckett mewls softly, and Castle looks darkly down at her. "Like that thought, Beckett? Like knowing that I could just reach up and touch you like this" – he draws his fingers slowly across her and her head falls back and her body opens for him – "or like this" – one thick finger slides inward and teases wickedly – "without anything in the way. You'd be all wet. All wet, all day, all for me, waiting for me to touch you." The smile is predatory, dangerous. "Maybe I would, and maybe I wouldn't. Maybe I'd just tease, and leave you wanting."
"Castle…" Stop this, please. She can't think. She just wants him to get her off. Now.
That voice and those words and that touch and he's still talking but the words don't matter any more because his fingers are firm and forceful and he's taking her higher and higher as they slide and curve and run over that one key spot inside and one key spot outside and please now he pauses for a second and murmurs evilly, "Or I could do this," and thrusts with his fingers and presses with his thumb and she cries out and comes around his hand.
"Of course," he says annoyingly smugly when her eyes reopen, "you'd have to keep quiet." Beckett reaches up and twists his ear in revenge. "Ow." But he's still grinning, and she agrees he has a reason for his smugness. Still, she's no pushover. Despite the previous ten minutes.
"Never gonna happen, Castle." He pouts with disappointment. "I am never wearing a skirt to the precinct." She pauses and smiles seductively. " 'Cause if you did all of that… I'd have to make you wait till we got home to do this." And she slips off the couch on to her knees in front of him so quickly that he's still starting on What? when she's opened his pants and released him and taken him into her mouth.
He's not talking now. Not intelligibly, anyway. She loves reducing him to mush. The only word he has left is her name. She swirls her tongue and scrapes very carefully with her teeth to add a tiny edge of danger and the hint that in this position she holds all the aces – the contrast is delicious: she may be the one who's practically naked and on her knees but she's totally in control of his still mostly-clothed body. She flicks her tongue and hollows out her cheeks in the way that always really, really does it for him – and it does. However much they might play with him being in charge, or her, in the end neither of them really is.
He scoops her back up into his lap for some recovery time, snuggled affectionately close and each dropping tiny, blissful kisses on each other, small reminder that this evening is barely begun. Affection turns imperceptibly into arousal, kisses becoming harder, little nips along his collarbones, her naughty hands opening his shirt wider and revealing the extremely nicely defined pectorals below it. It would be shameful not to admire such a sight. She doesn't do shame, where Castle is concerned. Anyway, she's tired of him being dressed. Definitely no longer necessary. His shirt slips off his shoulders, and while he's fighting his way out of it his arms are momentarily tied up and useless. She takes shameless advantage of it and ensures that the rest of his clothes are undone. She might not be able to lift him (so unfair) but it won't take much for his pants to be on the floor.
Beckett stands up while Castle's still trying to wriggle out the confines of his shirt cuffs. He whines at her, disappointedly.
"Come back."
"Nope." She takes a couple of steps away. Castle manages to dispose of the shirt, stands up and with one hand shoves off his pants and goes after her. He catches her just about exactly where she'd calculated he ought to: the bedroom door, hauls her very tightly against him, kisses her roughly and, precisely as desired, picks her up so she wraps her legs round his waist, takes a couple of strides, and drops them both on the bed with him over her and settled perfectly where he should be. She laughs up at him, happy and content and so much in love that she can't contain it, and the look in his eyes shifts from predatory to passionate and adoring. He lowers his head to kiss her, and all the words that he might have said, and has said, and will say again and again, are in his lips and mouth and tongue entwined with hers.
And then there are no more words, only the smooth slides of hands, and mouths, and now-naked bodies perfectly fitting and matched; the soft noises of love and connection and togetherness. This time it's slow and tender: sweeping them up on a roller, not drowning them under the tsunami, leaving them sated and soothed and soft in each other's arms.
Some time later, showered and snuggled up together in blissful peace and solitude, drifting into sleep, Beckett remembers the expression on Castle's face as he'd thought about her in a skirt. A tiny, mischievous smile quirks at her lips.
He does so much for her. It's only right that she should return the favour.
Two shot. Part two in a day or two. Shameless fluff, both parts. If anyone detects even the slightest hint of a plot, I shall be wholly amazed.
I always appreciate knowing what you think.
