Sorry for the long A/N, the name of my muse for this story is definitely "Hell In A Hand Basket." If there isn't already a label for 'deep fried twinkies' (ie. things our characters might regret the morning after), then we'll need to make one up for this fic, I think.
Warnings: Rated M/ het and femslash / borderline crackfic / Seventies Squick-ish-ness (nothing politically correct about that decade- casual sex- the politics of pleasure - let's write a thesis on the number of ways we are glad that the 70's are over, even if the hotties were H.O.T., and the slang was so bad, it's good).
More warnings: Tons of 70's, 80's, and 90's references here. And some are specific to Castle geography: Tri-state area NY-PA-NJ. If you weren't there, you might need wikipedia for this. Usually, I go for more timeless themes, but once a childhood friend challenged me to expose one of my personal deep fried twinkies (pro-wrestling - yeah, laugh at me, cause its damn funny), it just cascaded into a nostalgic easter egg fest.
But, of course, I tried not to let that interfere with the glorious hotness of our Espo, Lanie and Tory sandwich. Thanks to the fans who gave me suggestions to satisfy their itch for the trio.
"Kevin might be easier to forget than I thought." Tory gasped under her breath.
When Ellis dragged herself away from Ryan, and temptation, back to her bedroom to rejoin Esposito and Parrish, she was not fully prepared for the scene that awaited her.
On the floor on the far side of the room, laid out on his side, was the afro-riffic Snooki Esposito. Propped up on his right side by one elbow, his shoulder muscles bulged through thin polyester, and the rest of his streamlined muscular form poured across her floor, into crossed ankles. Most remarkably, though, he wasn't the hottest thing in the room.
Snooki had a front row seat to the best show in town, because atop the footlocker at the end of Tori's bed, towered the drunker-than-usual Lanie Parrish, in a rare display. Espo brought one finger to his lips, to silently hush Ellis. Then waved her over to join him in the audience.
And what a show they got.
Eyes closed, head back, lost in the funky sounds of Bobby Womack and the 110th Street theme song, Parrish rounded her hips hypnotically left and right. It was a small movement, with her hands clasped in front of her chest, but the way her lips mouthed the words, the way she swayed her knees during the chorus, it seemed way too intimate for an audience. Espo began to wonder if she even knew they were watching.
Lanie Parrish was a dancer at heart. But she had a little too much ambition, and penchant for calling people out on their bullshit, to let herself go most of the time. She didn't judge herself for being human, and having her weaknesses. But her brain always saw long-term goal implications first, so short-term thrills rarely won out against her better judgement.
She loved having fun, going on dates, and lawdy! those girls' nights out. Each of those were so fun, in fact, that she usually ended up planning them herself, just so she could push other girlfriends into letting loose a little. Getting Beckett to open up about Castle, over sangria and mariachi was worth its weight in gold, for instance. But, in the grand scheme of things, there had to be a lot of planning, and safe parameters around how the night would unfold, for Parrish to relax herself.
Then came Tory Ellis, skulking into her life.
On a warm September day, late into the Indian Summer, Ellis had passed Parrish on the sidewalk just as the medical examiner was leaving the precinct. The late afternoon sun provided a near blinding sidelight, as it reflected off windshields and skyscrapers all around. The golden filter brought all of Ellis' attention to the stray floating tendrils glowing around the edges of Lanie's hair. The newly hired tech officer, stopped in her tracks, quite unable to move until the rhythmic swing of that long hair, and the upper end of the legs creating that incredible metronome, had passed out of sight.
When Tory finally regained control of her limbs, and released her lungs from their paralysis, she breathed to herself, "See, Tory, the sun still shines in New York. You'll be forgetting all about California in no time."
A few weeks later, when Ellis had been dispatched to take comparison photos of a vic in Lanie's morgue, her reaction wasn't much better. The medical examiner had her hair tied up high on the crown of her head, with a long ponytail trailing down. Parrish had her ear buds in as she moved about her morgue, redistributing tools and files to their original homes. Oblivious to her visitor, Parrish sang a line here and there, along with the soulful Mr. Mayfield in her ear. But when Lanie closed a drawer with a powerful bump of her right hip, Ellis lost control of the box of flash drives nestled under her arm, and nearly dropped her camera.
The skitter of sliding tech bits bleeding across her floor, brought Parrish's attention back to the room, and she saw Tory Ellis for the first time.
By the time Ellis was snapping photos, the blood had returned to her brain, and she couldn't help commenting.
"It's nice to meet another Curtis fan."
"Ha! Well, my stiffs enjoy a little Chicago soul once in awhile. They get lonely down here."
"Well, thank goodness you are here to brighten their day," Ellis felt her words land awkwardly inside Lanie, and added "With your good taste in music." She turned back to snap more shots of the methhead on the slab and continued, "The world didn't get enough of that man's genius. Have you heard 'Astounded,' his last release?"
Luckily, once they started talking, the clamp around Tory's lungs released into a warm buzzing feeling around her sacrum. And the next day, Lanie's inbox had a email with a link to a track, 'Drugs Ain't Cool' by the Ebony Rhythm Band. The subject line read, "To keep your stiffs happy."
As the months progressed, Lanie's inbox had a new musical surprise every few days. And initially, they didn't talk about much else. They just lobbed quick emails back and forth, Ellis' pointing out the obscure references attached to the song, and Parrish expressing gratitude that her boxed lunches were less boring with a funky baseline under them.
But a lot had unfolded since then. Tonight, it seemed, both women had waited long enough for some of the sexier undercurrents of their relationship, to find purchase in the real world. The funky free love filter on the evening, was working on them, hard.
After Tory's loins had drunk enough of Lanie's dancing images to demand a piece of the action, she crossed over to her nightstand to fiddle with the playlist. When the swirl of strings heralded the end of Womack's vocal flourishes drawing near, Ellis stepped up on her bed behind Parrish.
Resting her chin on Lanie's right shoulder, she ventured, "Taking requests, beautiful?"
Lanie leaned her head back over her host's left shoulder, and let her nostrils fill with Tory's juniper scent. "Depends, what you've got in mind. I know how deep that playlist goes."
Tory breathed hotly into Lanie's ear, "Sister, if you do me this solid," Ellis' tongue drew a circle around the curve of the ME's ear, "I promise you get your pick for payback. Any. Thing. You. Want." An involuntary shiver nearly shook Lanie off her precarious perch, until Tory grabbed her around the waist.
Espo damn near whelped. He couldn't decide if he was rooting for them to remember he was there, or to forget altogether.
With her dancer already melting like butter, Tory quickly unclasped the ME's rosy dress at the back of the neck, explaining, "We don't need all this in the way, for this number." Then she cunningly peeled down Lanie's halter, releasing two near perfect orbs, to float in front of her.
Ellis promised, "Oh, I'll make this so worth it, baby," before she hopped off the bed, with Parrish's dress in hand. She spooned herself in front of Espo on the floor, wrapping his idle top arm over her waist.
The telltale baseline, 'Bwawer, bwah bwah bwah, brear, brear,' of The Commodores' Brick House, ripped through the room, forcing Lanie to crinkle up her nose. She'd been suckered.
"Anything you want, remember," Tory lobbed up from the floor. She was ready to trade most anything, for the chance to see Parrish wind like the Solid Gold dancers of her fantasies.
Parrish, her eyes still closed, considered her options for a moment. Tory had been holding out on a few juicy secrets, since they started hanging out. And she had already tried prying them out of her, on various occasions with tequila, and porn, and revelatory girl talk, but nothing seemed to work. Despite the ridiculous premise, Parrish was drunk enough to slough off her limiting thoughts tonight, even though part of her argued that Espo didn't really deserve this show, yet.
She let the moxie of the horns replace her better judgement, and the twang of the base strings reverberate between her hips. It wasn't as if she had to try to enjoy the music. Who could keep themselves from grinding to this iconic song, just a little bit? But she couldn't listen to the words, at least not initially, not without picking a fight.
The only thing separating Lanie Parrish from her leering audience, were her heels, her silver bikini bottoms, and her long curled hair swinging across her back. She widened her feet to the edges of her makeshift stage to steady herself, brought her hands to grasp her hips, straightened her legs on top of all those platform inches, and began to extend, just her rib cage, from side to side. She moved slowly at first, like a steam engine, whose pistons needed to revolve a few times, before they could pump smoothly with speed.
Allowing herself to savor the feeling of her own movement, a satisfied smile spread across her face. Then she spread her isolations to her shoulders, her neck, her hips, before the verse instigated her hand to start tracing the line of her legs.
Esposito's mouth hung slack, uncomprehending how his good luck had allowed him to ease on down this road, without the need for years of begging. But, he felt sure he would beg, if the need arose. No question, this was worth it.
Without ripping her eyes off Lanie's gyrations, Tory turned her chin toward Espo, "They float! Like those old-fashioned, netted glass buoys. The buoyancy doesn't seem possible. Have you ever seen breasts like those?"
Espo shook his head, answering quietly, "Not on anyone else. You?"
"Not til tonight." Ellis mused, "I wonder if she feels herself up, when business gets slow, down in the morgue."
"I heard that!" Parrish warned over the music. But she didn't open her eyes, or interrupt her dance.
By the time the bridge played, Tory was wriggling like a eel, making it fairly difficult for the arrangement in Javier's pants to keep from looking indecent.
"I can't stand it." Ellis finally gave in, and jumped up to stand in front of Lanie, who's eyes still wouldn't budge open.
"You care to join me, sister?" Lanie was ready to collect, even if the song was far from over.
"Oh, you are doing fine up there, all by yourself. I just came to appreciate the artwork a little closer. Mind if I wander a bit, take a look around?"
Lanie curled her elbows up behind her head. "That's cool. You just watch your fingerprints. You break it, you bought it." A smirky smile spread over the dancer's face, as she waited expectantly for Tory's touch.
No doubt, Espo would have fallen over, if he wasn't already sprawled on the ground. He watched Tory's eyes bring their total focus to the soft bounce of Lanie's ample breasts. In careful appreciation, she brought two fingers to trace the rounded curves on each side, the soft underneath, and then draw up her breastbone, to her clavicles, glowing in the soft light of the nightstand. Then she drew gently around, and down, the sides of Parrish's body.
Tory's patient, meticulous attention, momentarily raised chicken skin down Lanie's arms and back.
Parrish, feeling much more generous now, decided her friend deserved a little something. She put her hands behind her head, opened her elbows out to the sides of the room, and flexed her pectoral muscles for an instant. It made 'the girls' pop, and bounce, in the most delightful way.
Tory squealed and clasped her hands together at her good fortune. "O Lanes, you were wasting your talent in ballet." She dared to cup each breast in her hands, and sighed continuing the seventies slang-fest with, "Balanchine was a fool to banish these boom-city bosoms."
Drunk with the thrill of her fantasy come true, Tory stepped up, to taste one of those beautiful breasts. To ground the tremor of pleasure, Lanie bit the corner of her own lip, hard. And an embarrassing grunt escaped the unprepared Espo on the floor, now perspiring a little uncomfortably under his wig.
The crass sound caught the wrath of Parrish, who finally opened her eyes and leveled them straight at her male voyeur. "Hey, Snooki-zito, you gonna get your fine ass up here? Or do I need to send the fuzz for a shake down?"
Javier jumped so fast that he tripped up the bed, and had to scramble to his feet. As he bounced on the mattress behind them, trying to adjust his tousled wig, he stammered, "I am the fuzz, I mean the heat, I mean, No ma'am." He probed the air around the women looking for his 'in,' to the tangle of limbs.
Lanie rolled her eyes, "Don't hurt churself, soldier boy. There's plenty of time to figure out how this fits together." She took his hands, and placed them on the curve of her bottom, which continued to draw a side-to-side crescent, in time to the music.
Espo really couldn't help himself. He dropped to his knees behind her, so his eyes could enjoy the precious gift in his hands at eye level, mouthing the words "She's mighty, mighty, just letting it all hang out." After which, his mouth dissolved into a painfully horny, "Oww..."
Oh, but it got way more outta control a bit later…
Lanie couldn't take it anymore. "Dammit, Javi, that tickles."
His head popped up from between her legs, "But, you wanted the caterpillar. You asked for this, woman."
Lanie readjusted her position on the bed just a little, settling back into Tory's arms.
"I know, I know, but I swear you must be twitching your lips, or something."
"Oh, you mean, like this?" Javier drug his ridiculous, long reaching mustache along her inner thigh, making her squeal and jump.
Tory, lying on the bed behind Lanie, with her legs framing Parrish's open knees, defended him, "No, no, you just lay back, and take it. You want the caterpillar, you gotta take it, girl."
Lanie squinched up her face, and braced herself for the furry return of Snooki.
Javier took great pains to slowly retrace the path from inside Lanie's knee, all the way up her inner thigh, one torturous, ticklish kiss at a time. Inch by inch, he mouthed, thrilling at every squirmy contortion, as Tory's arms held Lanie tight in a playful straightjacket.
Parish and Ellis had dreamt up this half-cocked fantasy while half-watching a double header of their shared deep fried twinkies, the ones that made Castle's sexcapades with Meredith look wholesome enough to take to church on Easter Sunday. And, surprisingly, it was Lanie who had first brought the idea up to Tory, during a girls night that would live in infamy.
Here's how it went down. On margarita night, over the flickering centerpiece votive, Lanie took in her too-lithe counterpart. And right then and there, she decided.
There was just something uncanny about Tory. Lanie thought the sharp jut of her jaw, and seething eyes looked eerily otherworld-ish, almost Fae in their dark depths. It unnerved Parrish that the younger woman could so easily unseat her cool as she poked at Lanie's inhibitions. Just as the ME called out Beckett on her facades, Tory seemed keyed in to everything buried deep under Lanie's prim exterior.
And the unadulterated confidence Ellis had in expressing some of her more salacious desires, didn't fit her age, or status, at all. She made Lanie feel like the prudish virgin coming out. And that was no small feat. While Tory was still fighting the good fight to keep her actions strictly in line with social norms out in the world, she had pretty much given up on trying to deny that they existed internally. So, on girls night, her comments often seared Lanie with shock.
It had taken Ellis a long time to get Parrish to open up, but in the end it was Lanie who teased her friend with the devilish confession that she harbored a morally abhorrent lust for Melvin and Mario Van Sweetcheeks.
And that's how girls night number six went south, fast.
Really, it had all started in college, when Lanie took an elective Media and Culture class, to offset the grueling trials of Organic Chem, in the same semester. She chose to write about the cultural phenomenon of Pam Grier for her final paper. Just like every other student in the class researching their chosen theme, Parrish waded through academics and culture gurus debating the merits of the genre. And it seemed like a fun no-brainer, a gimme-A.
However, actually watching Grier's films, and others from the period, was a visceral assault that left Parrish with a host of intrusive images dogging her heels. And some simply would not let go of her. While Parrish could have easily burned half the scripts with righteous satisfaction, some of those actors in compromising situations were not at all displeasurable. Watching those 70's films grew into a deep fried twinkie, that Lanie didn't discuss with anyone.
But something about Tory had sprung that lock and key. Back at Lanie's, watching between their fingers, between cringes, and shots, and a host of side conversations about the seventies, both women tried to come up with a litany of respectable reasons why they shared a penchant for 'the genre.' Lanie wasn't buying that crap about Tory's love for the music, even though her playlist did seem to cover the entire catalogue of heavy funk rarities from 1967 to present day.
They attempted to soothe themselves by turning it into a drinking game. Every time something horribly objectionable happened on screen, they would punish themselves for still watching it, with a nasty Anaconda shooter of whisky and sambuca. But, of course, they had drunk past their limit before the second scene opened on Melvin's starring role.
And in the light of morning, they promised themselves, and each other, that they would never do that again. And further, that as sane justice-loving people, there was no way they could take pleasure in something so very wrong. And they concurred, that not even the perfect shape of Mario's backside was worth placing their souls in moral peril like that.
And that was all a hundred percent true for both of them... until it happened again, four months later. Dirty as it was, this was how they began to trust that the other woman could keep a secret, and still manage to maintain sincere respect for their confidant in the light of day. It was just one of the many ways, their ostensibly platonic relationship harbored a pleasantly forbidden undertone.
So tonight, Tory knew she had to make Lanie go through with it.
Parrish really did want this 'present' from Javi, with his overgrown caterpillar mustache on. But she still cursed, "Damn! How did those hot seventies mamas, stand it? I mean, everyday? That's driving me crazier than a sack of rabid weasels."
Tory patronized, "O come now, Foxy, let the man do his job," then she leaned in to whisper, "and I'll put in a good word for you with Sweetback."
Espo's fro jerked upward at the suggestion he thought he heard, his eyes wide. He found Lanie covering her face in embarrassment. But Tory spoke to defend her, "Oh, don't you worry Snooki, if you do your job right, we'll save our next round of shooters to toast your uber fine ass, too."
Two hours later, the mass of sweaty muscles inside Javier, was quaking between the two women.
"Tapping out, I'm tapping out," He hoarsely coughed up at them, struggling to get his face near cooler air. He had refocused himself, and his successive hard-ons, more than half a dozen times over the last long hour, as his attentions batted back and forth between the both of them, finding new ways to test his stamina and multitasking abilities. But now he was bordering on delirium.
Lanie was a tad disappointed their fun was ending, but Tory's face was gloriously triumphant. She held her hand up, waiting for Lanie's high five.
"We did it, Lanes. I told you we could break him, if we worked together."
"Just need a break," he panted hard, eyes closed, "Not givin' up, no surrender, heh, just need water, heh, gotta get my blood sugar back up."
Lanie turned to take in the boneless heap of caramel hotness draped over her back. He was a defenseless mess. Espo's reference brought back the memory of the picnic she and Espo had shared with his cousin's family, back when they were dating. Javier's older cousin greeted the detective with a tackle to the ground, and a very effective armbar. It seemed to rile Espo surprisingly well, so she had been keeping it in her back pocket, for just the right occasion. And while Lanie didn't know a thing about wrestling, she had listened patiently to his cousin's elaborate tales of illegal pile drivers, and childhood mattress acrobatics, that day. So she'd gleaned enough for a retort.
Lanie put on her sassafras face, "Yeah, you keep telling yourself that, Luchador." She leaned in to kiss his perspiring brow, " While your effort is sincerely appreciated, you look like a battalion of high flying Rey Mysterio's just worked you over, and left you down for the three count."
Javier really wanted to pin her down for more tickling, because she dared to bring up that familial reference. But all he could manage to throw at her was a limp arm, and a growling grunt.
"Don't you have juice? Or something sweet in here?" Espo rummaged through the contents of Ellis' refrigerator.
Entering the kitchen, with only Snooki's shiny acetate and nylon button down thrown over her thong, Tory answered, "Not really. I have grenadine and maraschino cherries, for drinks."
Still rummaging, Espo named what he found, "Nuts, red peppers, fish oil, some leafy greens that look like a leather handbag…What kind of shit do you cook, without any bread, or anything sweet?"
"Don't waste your breath, Javier, I've tried." Lanie called in from the bedroom. She walked down the hall, wrapping herself in one of Tory's thin robes, before seating herself at the kitchen table. "This is a strictly, BYOP apartment." She tapped a fuchsia fingernail on the glossy countertop, "I gotta bring my own pastries and pancakes. Peanut butter she has, but not a damn thing to put it on."
"That's not true, I have celery and raisins, for ants on a log." Tory offered.
Espo screwed up his face in disgust.
Lanie explained, "Why do you think her flawless skin barely stretches over her bones like that?"
Parrish turned to the other woman, "You know I love you more than my luggage, honeychile," she flicked her pointer in the direction of Tory's bottom, "But sometimes you look like a fitted full-size sheet, pulled over a queen-size bed." Lanie gave her a wink, to assure her friend that concern, not criticism, was her motive.
Tory was used to this kind of comment from Lanie. And she agreed that Lanie's curves were much preferable to her gaunt physique. But she didn't think there was much she could do about it. Simple sugars drove her to giddiness, and just a little could lead to dizzy decision making, and a domino effect of poor choices. She felt like she had to hold herself tighter than that, for now.
Ellis offered Espo, "I could make you some din-o-lade?"
"Huh?"
Ellis divulged a spoonful about her shrouded past, "It was my go-to drink, when I was traveling to the west coast, across long swaths of podunk towns. Not much cash at the time, but free lemon slices, water, and Sweet'n Low could be found at every diner and truck stop. I don't use that pink stuff anymore, but in a pinch, it will boost your sugar with the lemon juice, I think."
Espo perked up, "Oh yeah, my bros used to mix that up at the dinette after school, though I think we called it 'ghettolade,'" he admitted sheepishly. He shook his head at his own slang, so thankful that the 80's were behind them. Then he perked up when he remembered, "And our preferred method of adding sweetness was pixie sticks, if we could get our hands on some." A nostalgic boyish grin swept across his features.
Lanie and Tory both flinched at the thought of pre-pubescent Javi sucking down tubes of fluorescent-hued powdered sugar, and running around with his little friends, hopped up on sucrose. This revelation shed new light on his cousins' tale of wild mini luchadores catapulting themselves over stairway railings, and off of bunk beds. Ah, little Javi. 'Must'a drove his poor mama crazy,' Lanie mused.
With the kitchen commotion raising the decibels in her apartment, Tory cast a concerned eye to the slumbering hottie on her couch. Even though Parrish and Espo had fulfilled more fantasies than she dared hope for tonight. It didn't leave her as sated as she would have liked. In fact, it was just stirring up more images of Kevin joining in, and devouring her resolve.
Lanie noticed Tory's wandering eye and coughed, "Ahem. Sweetie, don't do that to yourself."
Embarrassingly, a little tear flooded the corner of Ellis' right eye, when she smiled and affirmed, "I'm fine." But when Tory spoke, she was shocked to find the frog in her throat betraying way more nakedness than she had intended for this night.
It must have been the inferno in that bedroom that unlaced her, cause she hadn't cried in front of another human, since she was twelve years old.
I know, I'm certifiable. You might be too, if you lived through these decades ;-) So, shall we taint more of our souls with this 'Hell in a Hand Basket" muse or leave him sleeping on that couch?
Thanks to JJ, BS and Selim for your guidance. Hope you can dig it, RB :)