Fill for the Winter Hiatus Kink of the Castle meme.

WARNING: non-con prompt has non-con. I don't condone rape in any form. This is just fiction.

Beckett/Castle

Beckett has abducted her favorite author and keeps him cuffed, tied up and/or drugged in her bedroom to fuck whenever she likes.


He fights, at first. Of course he does. Not that it does any good.

From the moment he detects the sickly-sweet odor of chloroform in the rag, she has him. The next few hours are nightmarish, confusing, terrifying. He drifts in and out of consciousness, each time in a different place, each place unfamiliar. At one point he's sure he's in a car, the motion souring his stomach before he is dragged back under. Flashes of woods, a cabin, stairs. The cold dig of handcuffs at his wrists.

A woman's touch rouses him, in more ways than one. He cannot see ... a blindfold perhaps, but his thoughts are clearer. His hands, still bound, stretch above his head. He smells earth, mildew, and fresh-cut wood. That along with the shut-in feel of the air tells him that he's in some sort of basement. His mind searches for the name of the softness beneath him, bed, he's on a bed. The springs squeak as he shifts.

"Shhhh," the woman breathes, as if that would calm him. Her hands run feather-light over his bared chest. He's not sure where his shirt has gone. Probably the same place as his pants. He shivers, as much from the touch as the cold.

"I have money," he explains, "lots of it. Please don't hurt me, I have a family, a daughter!" His words are awkward to his own ears but his head is killing him and he's tied to a bed and maybe now isn't the time for eloquence. He feels more than hears her low chuckle and it chills him. There's something about it that suggest that its owner is not of sound mind. He tries again, "Please, anything you want, I'll give it to you, just let me go."

He feels her long legs slide over his, warm thighs coming to rest around his hips, soft fabric does nothing to hid the pressure of pert breasts over his heart. So that's where his shirt went. Her breath smells like vanilla and coffee and desperation as she whispers the words that crush any hope of escape into his mouth.

"I just want you."

Fuck.

He feels her straighten up and shift her weight. He's trying to think, surely there's something he can do to stop this but nothing comes to mind. She rolls her hips against his and his body responds. He grits his teeth, fighting to stay calm.

"Whoa, hey..." he babbles, trying to ignore the undulation teasing him into arousal, "I'm all for kinky and everything, but isn't this a little fast?" Her hands dance across his ribs once more, drawing a squeak.

"Shut up, Castle," she purrs, and he feels her moist tongue follow her hands.

He struggles, of course he does, but it doesn't do much good. She strips him of his boxers and laughs at his pleas, taking him in her hot mouth as he curses.

He holds out hope when she withdraws only for it to be dashed when he feels the prick of a needle at his elbow.

"This should help you relax," she says.

After that it's a mess of hands and tongues and sex. She's so warm and tight around him and he can't see but it's good, so very, very good. He groans at the sensation, something deep down inside him loving being used, being fucked, like some sort of animal. She rides him like a thoroughbred, drawing her pleasure from his very flesh. He can't help it, his body responds, it wants this, his hips rise from the bed and before he knows it he's fucking her back. When he comes it's with a roar inside her, a bellow of ecstasy that rips his soul.

He wakes to find his hands free and the room empty. He was right, it's some kind of basement, freshly finished, with a bathroom off to one side. The water from the shower scalds his skin, but does nothing to remove the smell of her, the feel of her, the memory of the woman who used him.

By the time the water runs cold, he's formed a plan; get out of here, find a really good therapist, and write a bestseller about crazy female fans and the authors who get kidnapped by them. Unfortunately, as he surveys the room, he realizes that it's easier said than done. The door is locked from the outside, sturdy oak that for all his strength doesn't move an inch. He searches for something to pick the lock but comes up empty. In a dresser in the corner he finds clothes in his size, on a small table rests a Styrofoam temple crowned by a pair of chopsticks.

Obviously, she's planing on keeping him here for quite some time.

Maybe some food will help him think of something.

At least he likes Chinese.


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