fanofthegenre | [ late night at the precinct ]

Entry tags:

oom,
rick castle

[ late night at the precinct ]

Long nights of paperwork are nothing new for Beckett.

Spending the dull hours of the evening filing away even duller paperwork is a routine she's grown accustomed to; the life of a detective isn't always preoccupied with chasing down a suspect or interrogating a guilty party. Sometimes, there's the moments that aren't always worth writing about, the files she somehow manages to let pile up while she's doing the more exciting parts of her job. It's a vicious cycle, the way the tedious work tends to sneak up on her when she's least expecting it.

Every now and then, her eyes flick to the clock, tracking the time, gauging how many hours she has left to finish what she's working on before she'll be getting absolutely no sleep at all. She's the only one here, apart from the night guard working the desk downstairs, and every now and then she stops to stretch, or to refresh her coffee after fiddling with some of the dials on the espresso machine - the machine that nearly requires a PhD from Starbucks to know how to use.

Sitting back down again at her desk, she rolls her shoulders and then her neck, settling in to wrap up a few last-minute details on the open file in front of her.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The hand at her side turns, drawing the warm weight of her breast into his hand. Beckett's a beautiful woman and he'd be lying if he said he never imagined her like this (if it even needed saying) but imagining an seeing are two different animals entirely. In the dark, half light of the lamp he sees a constellation of freckles across her skin; a smooth cafe ole birthmark stamped on the inside of her breast, the skin a half shade darker than the rest of her. Her mother's ring on its chain lies between on her breasts like an insignia. He brushes the fine silver links with the tips of his fingers, hand sliding up to cup her cheek and draw her in for another kiss.

God, what he wouldn't do to protect her. She'd be mortified to know that he spends half his time admiring her and the other half trying to find ways to keep her away from the heartbreak she's made her constant companion. She doesn't need protecting. She doesn't need to be saved. But if she needs help forgetting, even for a little while, Castle is there for her.

He shifts his thigh between her legs, drawing his body out over hers, hands shifting over her breasts, belly and hips.

If she did know this about him, she'd insist she doesn't need protecting. She's made it this far without relying on anyone else to get her where she is. Even Will, in some ways, didn't understand that about her - it was a constant source of tension in their relationship, his assumption that she would let him in to protect her so easily without some kind of resistance. She doesn't want anyone to think she needs saving. That's not who she is.

But the unvoiced part of her knows that she does need it - not often, but every now and then. Needs it like she needs this, the gentle touch of Castle's hands on her body, the look on his face that she catches as his eyes travel over her. It's not just observing, it's reveling, and she nearly wells up then and there as she begins to understand.

She surges upward, using stored strength to roll them until it's her bearing him down against the mattress, straddling him, her mother's ring swaying in the air between them before it comes to rest on his chest, nearly identical to where it falls on her skin every single day. The small band travels down his chest as she does, pressing a series of open-mouthed kisses, and her fingers find the leather of his belt, then the buckle, working it open.

The world twists on a pivot and Castle's shoulders and ears are suddenly surrounded by warm pillows and Beckett smells. He's looking at the marbled paint swirls of her ceiling when she bends over him, her eyes dark and smoky, lips pink even in the limited lighting. 'Little glimmer of colour around her throat as she sways, moves, and Castle has to force himself to breathe when she begins to slide, the little molten ring dribbling down the center of his chest.

He closes his eyes and rocks his head against the pillow, fingers scattering over her shoulders, needing to ground himself in her. He grabs the end of the belt and helps her pull it through the loops on his trousers. It lands with an expensive clunk on the floor.

The weight of her hips on him is enough to make him crazy. He follows the path of her hands, slipping his larger fingers over hers. They fight for a couple of seconds, his blunt nails over the backs of her palms, but they're ostensibly in it for the same thing: the zipper of his pants. He shrinks his shoulder on the mattress and chases a touch up the inside of her thigh.

She hovers over him, positioned on all fours, her hands bracing on either side of his head while she gazes down. The fumbling with his zipper is almost enough to win a small smile from her - this, of all things, would be what they'd wrestle over - but that all disappears when his hand roams over the inside of her thigh.

She lifts one of her hands, using the other to stay propped, and doesn't even watch to gauge where it lands on his body, just explores through another sense. It slides down between her own legs, knocking into his hand for a moment, but continues - down between his, the edge of the zipper digging into her wrist as she turns it underneath, under a waistband, skimming over his lower abdomen. Her eyes lock onto his the moment her hand wraps around his length, slowly stroking.

This is about him as much as it is her, and she'll gasp when he does, her arm rocking back and forth.

Oh god. That sigh turns into a subterranean groan, every fireable neuron in Castle's brain spitting off sparks like a string of Chinese fireworks when she takes hold of him. God, he didn't even need any priming and she's going to be perfectly aware of that and probably lord it over him later. (There are worse things to take hits over, he guesses.)

She handles him like she knows him already and Castle wonders if the observation game has been a two-way street the whole time.

He pulls at the back of her knee with his palm, widening her spread over him. His hand curves up and around her hip, pushing the elastic of her pajama bottoms over her skin. In any other case, he might care what colour panties she's wearing. Now, Castle finds his strict devotion to that kind of detail starting to wane.

Beckett does take a certain satisfaction in the knowledge that he wants this, if it's any indication by the rumbling groan that pushes past his lips or the way in which his hips jut up against her hand. She slows, though, and eventually stops completely, wanting to draw all of this out as long as possible.

There's a drawstring keeping her pajama bottoms from sliding down over her hips; she releases her hold on him to pull it loose and shimmies, the worn-in fabric dropping to her knees and then, eventually, to her ankles with a little maneuvering before she kicks them to the foot of the bed.

Her movement brings her face level with his stomach, and she lingers there for a while, kissing down over his hipbone as each new inch is revealed by a gentle tug on his trousers.

He'll have to remember to thank her later for reading his mind.

He's also going to have to do some serious self-explaining as to how she managed to break him down so quickly, and with so little resistance on his part. He's supposed to be the captain of the good ship Egomaniac and she's got him fumbling like a kid with a model boat. But that's Beckett, for you, and she works in mysterious and often surprising ways.

Doesn't mean that he's going to let her take the lead the whole time. If there's one thing about their relationship that both of them have come to expect, it's that there's bound to be competition. He folds a hand in poker and she knows about it; she folds and he's got an APB out on her motives. They're constantly crawling over one another to out-do, outwit and wrest back control.

He pushes his heels against the bottom of the bed, working the cuffs off his trousers over his ankles. He reaches for her wrist, pulling her up the length of his body, his arm locked around the small of her back. If he surprised her, it'll be worth it and he'll conceal the shape of her shock with a hard, hungry kiss.

It's only fair, given that he's just witnessed her at one of her lowest moments, to knock him down a peg or two in terms of the level of confidence he's projecting.

It's all part of the back-and-forth, this dance they do, like the one men and women have done since the beginning of time, but theirs is unique to them alone, a different kind of wrestling for control. Up until now, it's only manifested itself in wit, the way they snark at one another. But here, it's physical, who can literally wind up on top.

She is surprised by the sudden move he makes to yank her up over the length of his body, hers pressing flush against him when he tugs her down and kisses her hard, hard enough to muffle the moan that rises in her throat while she tangles their legs together. It's a balance now, between protection and playfulness, and she retaliates by rocking her hips against his, the evidence of his arousal hard against the inside of her thigh.

Beckett pulls back with a gentle nibble on his lower lip, turning the kiss into a light and teasing one while she undulates, purely to get a rise out of him.

He tries to lock his knee around hers, maybe to give himself enough leverage to flip her onto her back, like that ridiculous "leg war" game you play when you're a kid. She surprises him with the pressure of her hips and he defeats his own dogged self control with a grunt that's more hungry than frustrated, one that rumbles seamlessly into a low laugh.

The muscles in his leg lock and he pulls her over onto her side, his hands chasing the length of her body until he winds up on top, thigh between her knees. He bends his mouth to her collarbone, flicking his tongue over the shapely curve of skin, her salt and her sweetness filling his mouth.

Her hand cups the back of his neck, fingernails applying the slightest amount of pressure to his scalp there before running down between his shoulderblades and continuing with the shape of his spine as guidance. They're light, gentle scratches, more meant to soothe and leave goosebumps in their wake than to cause pain of any kind.

His name falls from her lips when his mouth travels over her collarbone, and she reflexively tightens her thighs around his leg before she can curb the impulse.

(He'll be teasing her later about that.)

'Draw a map of Castle's body and there's not an inch that's not alert and alive. His shoulders shift underneath her fingernails; he's ticklish in some spaces, and ridiculously sensitive to touch in others. It's been a while since he's felt this invigorated when he's been with a woman. It makes him want to please, and give as good as he's getting.

-- Which shouldn't be a problem, especially if the low, rumbly purr of his name off her lips is anything to go by.

He slides his hands to the small of her back, touching the places that the precinct's closed-circuit camera system wouldn't let him touch before.

His lips turn against her skin, kissing the shape of her nipple before drawing the tight bud between his teeth.

She almost goes wild; if it wasn't for his hold on the small of her back, firm and steadying, she'd feel about ready to snap in half from the force with which she arches, surging up against his lips, the gentle pressure of his teeth as they close around the bud that swells and draws tight in response.

It's almost like her entire body is humming, vibrating with every touch he offers, the sensations even more pronounced and drawn-out than they were only a few hours before when there was the barrier of clothing between his hands and her skin.

"Please," she gasps, even though she's not entirely certain what she's asking him for - only that she needs more.

Edited 2010-02-13 01:49 (UTC)

The seal around her nipple isn't perfect and, through it, Castle's soft groan spreads out over her skin. He draws his lips to a punctuation point, tongue skimming apologetically over the place where he had his teeth moments ago. 'Slightest bit of concave pressure hollows his cheeks as he draws a deeper, sweeter taste of her into his mouth. He could spent hours paying her this kind of attention. Getting to know her body, the way it bends and moves, what she likes and doesn't so much, the things that make her weak even when she's lying down.

He rolls his weight onto the opposite elbow, mouth leaving her breast but his thumb there to brush her nipple back to a peak; he touches his lips to the chain around her neck, glancing up to catch her expression.

Her eyes close, lashes fluttering against her cheeks as another sound rises out of her and winds somewhere towards the headboard when she tips her chin up. She senses him pausing and eases back down, eyelids heavy with arousal as she watches him chancing a glance up at her. She bites her lip around a grin, lifting one hand to run fingers through the sleep-mussed strands of his hair.

"Now you're just teasing me," she murmurs, her voice low and throaty as she teasingly pinches the shell of his ear. It's a move she's made before, but it has a different meaning behind it now.

He winces all the same, even though the pressure's not nearly as bad as she could potentially make it. 'Little things like that -- that harken back to the early days of their partnership -- make him grateful for what they've seen together and, more importantly, that they've come through it together. He fishes his hand at his ear, bumping the shell of her palm with his knuckles. He turns her fingers over in his, squeezing her palm. A grin.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"'Course you don't," she scoffs, her head lolling to one side to study him from that angle as her lips part to reveal teeth in an obvious grin.

"You've got me nearly naked in bed, Castle. What are you going to do next?" It's like she's a reporter angling for a quote, but she can't maintain the seriousness of her impression, and starts smiling halfway through.

He considers an answer while drawing his lips over her other, as-yet-untasted nipple. 'Rolls those baleful blue eyes (eyes that could charm nuns if you ever got him into a church) toward her, hands kneading the flesh at the small of her back. His tongue slides lasciviously around the curve of her areola.

"Don't tell me that your public school education neglected a sex ed class," he teases. "Boys in the gym, girls in the cafeteria? 'What comes next' might require a couple of diagrams."

"And here I thought it was more of a Show than a Tell," she gasps, making little effort to hide the tremor in her voice, though it's a different kind of trembling than before when his tongue darts out to torturously flick over her skin.

She sucks in a hiss of a breath; now he's deliberately doing what he's doing to tease her, to leave her dangling out before she pleads with him to reel her in. But she's not about to cave so easily, hooking a thumb underneath the elastic band at his waist and snapping it playfully against his hip.

Edited 2010-02-13 02:32 (UTC)

"Ow --" with his lips still around her nipple "-- of course you know, this means war." He slides his hands beneath her bottom and lifts her so she's sitting up against the headboard of the bed, his body swaying between her legs. 'Palms on either kneecap, he leans forward and drops his mouth over hers.

She cups his face in both hands, legs easing open under his, and returns the kiss as deeply as it's offered to her.

"Give me your best shot, writer," she purrs, against the edge of his mouth, and then turns her head to press another kiss, this one to the place on his ear she'd pinched earlier.

"Writer?" Like it's a blue word. She flicks his earlobe with her lips and that's one of Castle's sweet spots, attention to which is equal parts maddening and erotic. "That a pet name, Detective?" As his hand slides over the shallow curve of her kneecap, down the inside of her thigh. "I guess it's okay. 'Hunk-o-man' would technically be more accurate."

"Don't be ridiculous," she whispers, lightly scraping teeth against the earlobe to follow the gentle touch of her lips and the warm ghosting of her breath.

Her hands skim beneath the elastic again, but not to tease, only to urge the last piece of fabric remaining on his body down and off him.

He hooks his knuckle around the elastic of her panties, drawing the thin cotton over her hips. He reaches beneath her kneecap and pulls her legs out straight, toes extended like a ballerina on point, and rests them on his shoulders while he walks her underwear past her ankles.

His lips touch the outside of her knee. "You got something against pet names?"

Beckett wrinkles her nose, partly due to the pet name question, but also because his lips are ticklish on her skin while he speaks, and it's easier to focus on that sensation than the other he's caused, wet heat between her thighs.

"Just don't care for them. Something tells me you don't, either - "

Her lips twist slightly.

" - kitten."

Castle slides his palm over the naked contour of her thigh, pushing his fingers into the skin of her hip. One tug and he's pulled her away from the headboard, onto her back among the puffed pillows and twisted sheets. "I told you," he says quietly, easing his hand between her thighs, "don't call me 'kitten'."

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject