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castielscarma · 3 years

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Fireman’s carry/ noncon dubcon

Yes, why of course you want another installment of my Fluff/Kinktober 2021! On the sixth day we have fireman’s carry and noncon/ dubcon. Warnings are in the notes, the fluff is always first and the fluff and kink piece are separated by a divider. A snippet from the fluff and a snippet from the kink under the cut. https://archiveofourown.org/works/34258780/chapters/85649152 Of course, it happened at the office party. Not that Dean had any experience on office parties at the Stockholm branch, he'd only been in Sweden for a few months, but he'd take any reason to party whatsoever, even if it was a stale office party. People had warned him about the winter months and Dean had listened but he'd not really believed them. Not really. Listening to people describe it was as if the gloom of mount Doom and Morgoth himself were upon them. And when August turned into September and Dean thought it was chilly, he'd seen people at the outside cafes huddled in soft blankets, sipping coffee and their faces turned towards the sun like freaking wildflowers. He'd thought they were crazy, but crazy in a subtle and demure fashion, like the Swedes seemed to be. It'd taken him a few weeks to get to know someone outside of the office setting, but then he'd met a guy named Benny at the gym that had moved from the north of Sweden down to Stockholm for work. He seemed reserved, quiet but paradoxically also more open than the Swedes he'd met so far and he appreciated having a workout buddy. The office party lacked any Benny, but he saw other colleagues, some of whom he worked with every day, others that he'd only had written communication with. He saw Chuck Shurley, one of his bosses walk over and nod towards him. “Glad you could make it, Dean.” “Glad to be here, Mr – Eh, Chuck.” He still had trouble with addressing everyone on a first-name basis but he was getting better. “There's gonna be a traditional Christmas table, buffet style. It'll be ready in fifteen minutes or so. Here, have you tried glögg?” ”Clog?” “Close enough. Glögg. It's the Swedish version of mulled wine, but since this is an office party, sadly no alcohol in it.” Chuck handed him a tiny mug. “Here, try it. It's good.” The only non-alcoholic brew Dean would deem good was coffee – and thankfully the Swedish coffee tasted fucking amazing – so hearing that the mulled wine was 'good' didn't convince him in the slightest. Still, he took a mouthful and tried not to grimace. “Uh, it has a unique taste.” “Yes, thank you. We Scandinavians have sipped on this around Christmas for ages.” Dean felt something squishy in his mouth and tried not to frown. What the fuck was that? “There's something in the – “ “Oh, that!” Chuck laughed. “It's almonds and raisins. A traditional blend that goes into the glögg. Gives it this wonderful aroma.” Dean chewed and swallowed hurriedly. Aroma was one word to use.

There were treacherous tears in Dean's eyes. He could feel them building up and he wasn't sure if they were due to humiliation – Castiel knowing all these things, all these secrets that were supposed to be Dean's alone – due to fear of what was happening or due to anger, anger that he let himself get tricked, anger that he even had the fleeting thought of liking this monster in front of him.

“Shh, it's okay, Dean. I won't hurt you.”

The bastard already was but Dean knew he didn't care about that.

Castiel bent down and kissed Dean's cheek.

Fear spiked in Dean and his adrenaline made his body rigid, ready to fight or flee yet he had no option of either. He looked to the side, denying Castiel access to his skin.

Castiel chuckled and ignored the protest. Instead, he continued his trail of kisses down Dean's chest as his hands followed, stroking and caressing.

The soft touch – and how Dean hated that the touch was soft, almost loving – on his cock jolted him to action again. He tried moving away but Castiel only sighed, like his objections were a minor inconvenience.

“In time you'll come to learn to crave my touch, not shy away from it.” He moved away, turned his back towards Dean.

#flufftober 2021 #kinktober 2021 #combined #fireman's carry #tw noncon/rape #castielcarma writes #destiel ficlet

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pollylynn · 4 years

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Title: Prospect WC: 1400

He’d asked her to come for Christmas Eve at 12:01 am, the day after Labor Day. He’d pounced on her in bed like an oversized puppy, gazing down at her with adoring eyes, and begged.

You’ll come, right? Of course you’ll come. Say you’ll come.

And she had said she would. She’d laughed up at him and batted him away as he’d damned near smothered her with his enthusiasm. And she’d thought it would be ok. She really had. More than ok, she’d been quietly thrilled that there was no question in his mind they’d still be together three months down the line. She’d been quietly thrilled to find herself so firmly on the inside of the fierce boundary he draws around his family, his traditions.

She can’t say, even now, when exactly the dread had set in. Not that night—not 12:02 am the day after Labor Day or anything like that, though she’d surely had a twinge somewhere amidst the pleasant butterflies.

It might’ve been Halloween, or so. With another annual blowout costume party in the books, he’d turned his attention to Christmas with the seriousness of a seasoned military man fighting a war on multiple fronts. The twinge had certainly gotten stronger by then as he’d enlisted her help to bring bins up from storage to form a staging area in the spare bedroom.

So I can have my guys bring the ones from the off-site unit to the on-site unit. Strategy is key.

She’d blinked at him a good long while at that. She hadn’t been sure whether or not he was kidding, but of course, he wasn’t kidding. Strategy. Staging areas. Off-site and on-site—a very Castle Christmas.

No presents, she’d insisted, some time right around then. And when his face had fallen, she’d quickly added, No presents this first year. And her heart had leapt right into her throat and a dazzling smile had spread across his face, and she knows—she knows—there had been no dread even then. There’d just been a steely kind of joy and certainty that there would be a second year. He knew it and she knew it, and no presents this first year had seemed like more than enough to keep the dread at bay.

Her birthday, she decides. She’s swirling the glögg in her punch glass and watching the candlelight set the deep red alight. It’s a lovely evening. It’s been an entirely lovely evening, and she’s not sure why she needs to decide when the dread set in. She lifts the glass and the aquavit fumes burn her eyes, so that might have something to do with something. She takes a sip anyway. The fruit and spice burst on her tongue and the liquid burns just the right way going down.

Through the healing power of glögg, she decides she’s done wondering about dread. She leans back in her chair. She looks around the table at their laughing faces and for a perfect moment, she feels balanced on the head of a pin. She feels simply and entirely glad that she is here—that they all are here—and nothing more.

But glögg is a harsh mistress. He raises his glass just then. He chimes the edge of it with his knife and insists on a toast to each of them.

“I want to thank you all for being here. To my mother.” He takes an appropriately dramatic pause and he and Martha eye one another, wary and amused. “To my mother staying with us tonight. And for . . . how many nights running is this now, Mother?” He gets swatted in stereo for that, but he catches his mother’s hand and presses a kiss to her knuckles before turning to Alexis. “To my daughter, for taking pity on me, though I am not a bad poet with obviously nefarious motives.” The three of them given him hell in chorus for that, but his attention is already on her. “And to Kate, for toughing all this out.”

He’s smiling right into her eyes as he says it. He makes a sweeping gesture to the enormous tree, the garland and everything, and gives a self-deprecating shrug, but he’s simply and entirely happy that she’s here—happy to have her as part of this warm, bright family circle—but he thinks it’s a sacrifice. He thinks she has to tough it out, and it suddenly seems vitally important that he know she’s not.

She wants to blurt it out. She wants to shout that it’s not like that, but she’s dimly aware it would the glögg talking right now, so she holds her peace. She smiles right back into his eyes and strategizes.

Her moment comes not too long after. They’re making things up as they go, all of them. There’ll be presents in the morning, not tonight. Martha is too tired for caroling, she says her good nights—complete with an effusive kiss on each cheek for Kate—and climbs the stairs to Castle sarcastically reassuring her that there’s no need to help with clean-up. Alexis, though she’s torn about it decides to call Max to see if he’s still up for a a late-night date, and he is.

“We can leave this for the morning,” he says as he surveys the dish-cluttered table. He frowns. “Can we leave this for the morning?”

“Let’s clear, at least.” She nods firmly and tells herself she’s not stalling. She’s not.

They’re a good team. They make quick work of things, and before long, she’s handing him the last platter. He kisses her on the tip of her nose as he takes it from her, and something about the gesture, or the familiar rhythm, something about the fact that this evening is special—it’s epic—and yet this, the two of them cleaning up, is so ordinary that she can see it stretching out, night after night, Christmas after Christmas until it reaches the vanishing point.

“I have something for you,” she blurts. She dashes away from him to dig through the coat closet until she finds her own. She’s breathless as she digs the smallish, flat package from the inside pocket. “It’s for both of us.”

“But you said—”

He sounds more than a little panicked as he looks down at the sliver wrapping, and she second guesses herself. She questions her strategy and thinks she should have just given it to him a day or two from now like she’d planned to. She’s sure she’s done the wrong thing, when she was the one who’d made such a big damned dread-filled deal over no presents.

“Is it a fuzzy red jockstrap?” he asks suddenly. Her head snaps up. He’s looking at her with an uncertain smile. “You said it’s for both of us.”

“It is.”

She finds her courage in his stupid joke. She finds her determination to tell him how she really feels about being here. She reaches out and tears the paper. He blinks at her, surprised—a little offended like the overgrown kid he his—and finishes the job. He lifts the lid of the box and peers curiously at the framed photos, one on top of the other.

They’re not big—smaller than four by six after she’d cropped them—and neither the frames nor the picture is fancy. It’s just a cell phone snap in simple matching frames she’d picked up at an artist’s stall.

“Labor Day,” she says, willing her voice not to fail her. “Remember?”

“I remember.” He traces the curve of her lightly sunburned shoulder without touching the glass. “I asked—” His face dims a little, grows guarded. “You didn’t say anything. All that time.”

“Nothing to say.” She shrugs down at her own smiling face, his smiling face. “I was excited. Almost the whole time, I was really excited, Castle/” She takes the photos from his hands and holds them up side by side. “Right after you asked me, I did these. One for your place and one for mine.”

“Right after?” He looks at her from beneath his lashes.

“Right after,” she says, with honesty, with conviction. She sets the photos aside and winds her arms around his neck. She presses her cheek to his and hopes he knows. She hopes he understands: She’s not toughing anything out. A/N: Long and disjointed. I would like to blame the drink of my people, but I have not set any fortified wine on fire tonight. Hmmm.

images via homeofthenutty

#Castle #Caskett #Castle: Season 5 #Castle: Secret Santa #Kate Beckett #Richard Castle #Alexis Castle #Martha Rodgers #Fic #Fanfic #Fanfiction #Fan Fic #Fan Fiction #Writing #Hmmm

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pollylynn · 5 years

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“We haven’t opened those boxes since.” —Kate Beckett, Secret Santa (5 x 09)

Title: Reclamation Rating: T WC: 900

He chases Alexis and his mother out more or less the minute dinner is over. Neither of them needs all that much chasing, though Alexis is definitely a bit annoyed with him. She’s red-cheeked and flustered as she steps away to call Max, but her bad poet leaps at the chance to have their skating date after all. He can hear the slightly tipsy cheer go up from his mother’s students when she calls to say she’ll be joining the caroling party, and an even bigger one go up when she says she’s still bringing the glögg, so he might be forgiven for being the villainous mastermind behind the on-again-off-again evening.

He wraps the two of them in scarves and coats. He pulls Alexis’s hat down over her eyes to make her laugh. He braces and tries not to hover as each of them, in turn, embraces Kate and quietly wishes her a Merry Christmas. He kisses them each on the cheek and shuts the door behind them.

There’s no sigh of relief from her as he turns the lock, but as she stands with her back to him, gazing a the tree, he sees her curl into herself a little. He looks around the loft and cringes at how big everything is. How overwhelming it must be for her, and he wants to offer to . . . he doesn’t know. Build a blanket fort or something so it won’t all be pressing in on her. He’s just about to to offer that or something equally absurd when she turns to him.

“Thank you, Castle.” She smiles. It’s a weary little thing, but it’s genuine and beautiful in the firelight and the glow of the tree. “Dinner was wonderful. Everything was wonderful.”

“Really?” He approaches her carefully. He wants to believe she’s sincere. “Not too much?”

“Oh, it’s way too much,” she laughs. “It’s like a thousand times too much. But it wouldn’t be A Very Castle Christmas if it weren’t.”

“I suppose not,” he laughs along with her. He’s relieved—reassured at least, but he wonders. He still wonders. “But for you. Kate, if it’s too much for you—“

“No,” she shakes her head. She starts to say something. He thinks she starts to say one thing, but she says another. “It’s not too much for me. But . . .” She chews her lip a second, then rushes toward him. She presses a lingering kiss to his cheek, even as she’s pulling away. “Would you mind if I . . .” She darts toward his office. He sees that she has her phone in her hand. “There’s something I should do. Is that okay?”

“Of course.”

He shoos her into the office, pulling the door closed, even though it’s more or less a gesture, given the open shelves. He busies himself cleaning up the remains of their feast, ferrying dishes from the table to the kitchen and creating just enough racket to keep him honest, vis-à-vis the eavesdropping it takes every scrap of willpower to refrain from.

“Sorry,” she calls out quietly from the doorway not too long a while after. Her fingers are curled around the edge of the bookcase.“I stuck you with the cleaning.”

“No, my mother and daughter stuck me with the cleaning,” he says. He tosses a dishtowel over his shoulder and crosses the room to her.

“That was my dad,” she blurts before he even gets there. “I called my dad.”

He’s confused for a second. Dangerously confused as to why a simple call has her making what sounds like a confession, then it hits him: She called her dad for the first time in thirteen Christmases.

“How . . . was that?” he asks, even though he can see the answer for himself as he sweeps the hair back from her forehead. She’s still beautiful, but a damned sight wearier than she was a little while ago.

“New.” She reaches up to still his hand and tips her cheek into the curve of his palm. “He sounded glad. Really glad.” Her eyes close and her lips twitch in frustration. “I should have called sooner. Last year or the year before that or the year before . . .”

“But you called this year.” He slips his arm between the curve of her waist and the upright of the bookcase to draw her to him. “Are you glad?” He pulls back a little to look into her eyes. “Did it make you glad to talk to him tonight?”

“It did.” She sounds a little surprised at her own answer. “It’s not like before.” A shadow passes over her face, a scowl because it’s obvious that it couldn’t possibly be like it was before her mother was taken from them both, but something more than that. “It wasn’t . . . I think I was dreading it. Dreading the idea of how sad he must be, and the idea that having to deal with how sad I am would just make it worse for him. But it was just . . .” She swallows back some tears. “It was nice.”

“Good,” he says. “Nice is good.”

He traces the smile that just touches the corner of her lips. He’d like to say more. He’d like to say too much, but he resists the urge. He just holds her until he feels her breath even out and her heart return to its slow, steady thump.

He keeps watch.

A/N: There’s likely to be a pause on these. I hope to be back. images via homeofthenutty

#Castle #Caskett #Castle: Season 5 #Castle: Secret Santa #Kate Beckett #Richard Castle #Martha Rodgers #Alexis Castle #Fic #Fanfic #Fanfiction #Fan Fic #fan fiction #writing #Drabble #Drabble Fail #My Brain is Fucking Incorrigibile

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