fanofthegenre | [ late night at the precinct ]

It takes a lot to stop Castle's world from moving. 'Habit of the trade (and hers, too, he supposes) to always be running, chasing the next idea, trying to figure out the missing piece that'll tie all the little details together. His mind is a rat's maze of half-finished novels. He can't go anywhere without peering under rocks, looking for the things that ordinary people would take no notice of.

He'd been profiling Kate Beckett since the first time they met. Trying to learn her habits, to understand what made her put her life on the line seven days a week, at the cost of family, friends and anything remotely resembling a personal life.

When she took down Coonan, he stopped profiling.

He draws his hand over the nape of her neck and gently pulls her away from him, just enough to place a kiss to the crown of her head. Then he gathers her back into his arms, sheltering her against his chest, as if he truly believes he can protect her from the things that keep her up at night, inside and out.

"I'm right here," he tells her quietly. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Okay," she says, whispering that acceptance against him enough times until a bigger part of her starts to believe it. Maybe that's all she needs, the reassurance, but it also might have something to do with the heartbeat she can feel underneath her fingertips - or how warm he is, how alive. It's the physical assurance of his presence that's as important as the words he tells her, and that's when she realizes.

Even if he ran out of stories to tell about Nikki Heat, even if he moved on to bigger projects that took him elsewhere, there's a part of Beckett that knows Castle would never leave her life. Not really. In some ways, he's been more of a constant for her than Lanie, or her father, even. She can't pinpoint the moment when he managed to weasel his way in like this, to mean more to her, to bring her to the realization that he matters - something she couldn't even begin to anticipate the first time they met.

He's seen her at her best and her worst. Very few people can say they've witnessed both.

When she draws back, blinking through wet lashes in the dimmer light, he's just looking at her - with earnest, maybe, or compassion, or worry, or all of the above and then some, and she doesn't dwell, doesn't even think - just reacts, moving in slowly, resting her forehead against his for a while, her eyes closed, and she pushes her lips, warm and tentative, to his.

It's a movie moment. A book moment. Something that he'd stick between the rising action and the resolution; maybe devote half a chapter to the build up and the inevitable, sweet, stumbling fall toward completion. He would have been okay with just holding her -- really -- just letting her know through his physical presence that he was there for her, had been, and always would be.

In the instant before she closes the gap, Castle tastes ozone. It's her breath, falling warm and full against his mouth and he can count on one hand the number of times this has happened in real life. In fiction (in his head) it's happened a thousand times, in a thousand different ways. Kate Beckett is kissing him.

That's something you'd turn the page for.

It takes him less than a second to decide. Then he folds his hand over her shoulder, bringing it to the side of her throat where her pulse beats, low and steady. His thumb underneath her jaw. Gently easing her head back to get the better angle, mouth flush and responsive over hers.

Beckett's not entirely certain what propelled her forward. Perhaps it was a response to a movement, a reaction to the action of his arms around her, keeping the distance between them reduced to mere inches. There's even less of it now, as his hand nudges up underneath her jaw and tilts upward to enable the kiss to deepen. There's a slow, building heat in it, one that rises hotter and faster when she slides her arms around his neck, drawing him in while she presses forward to meet him halfway.

It's needy, too, but not overwhelmingly so, because it's tentative, too, and visible in the way her mouth moves against his, the salt of her tears still lingering on her lips. It speaks without words, says what she won't be able to herself.

I'm afraid of how much I need you.

Her hands descend from the back of his neck, his shoulder, to smooth down the length of his arms and then inward. He's already undone the first few buttons of his shirt for sleeping; her fingers find where he's left off, working steadily until the rest of them give way and she can push the two identical sides of the fabric apart across the breadth of his chest.

Her hands are small and slim, but Castle knows what they can do. He's seen them reach for a gun with the kind of speed that would put spaghetti Western stars to shame. He's watched her in hand-to-hand combat and felt sympathy pain for the guy who walked away with an ugly left eye. There's a permanent stamp of gunpowder on her right index finger, just beneath the knuckle.

Castle has a writer's callus there. Beckett's got gunsmoke.

She touches his skin and he draws in the muscles of his stomach, in part out of surprise and in part out of a hard-wired need to look good for her. His hand slides down the column of her throat, over her slender shoulder and over the bumps of her ribcage. He holds her hips in his hands, thumbs pointing downward.

He releases a breath against the side of her mouth and it's low and scraggly, like he's been running for a long time. His lips find the corner of her mouth, then the powder-soft line of her jaw; a trail leading back to and beneath the curtain of her hair.

She dips her head back, that same curtain spilling back over her shoulders when she exposes more of her neck to him, the curving angle of her jaw that disappears just underneath her ear. One or two deliberate presses of his lips there and she's bound to dissolve, but how could he know that? She marvels silently, lips parting in a quiet sigh when his mouth descends along the slope of her neck.

She's not looking for those details now, won't be hard-pressed to care about muscles here and there; all she wants under her hands now is skin, and she's prepared to do what she can in search of it, her palms skimming over his strong shoulders while her knuckles snag on the sides of his shirt to push it over and down his arms until the sleeves catch on the prominent bones of his wrists.

With that barrier gone, she tilts her head down, eyes flickering to his face seconds before she kisses him again, this one more insistent than the others, her fingertips ghosting over his chest, his abdomen, committing each expanse of skin to her memory through that touch alone.

She takes his face in her hands, thumbs tenderly tracing over his cheeks, and pours herself into the meeting of mouths, even as she lays back against the pillows, coaxing him down to her.

Castle falls back with her, both of them victims of second gravity, and the world goes soft at the edges. The sheets and pillows smell like her; scent, the closest sense tied to memory, pulls Castle into her close, shuttered world. He bends above her, not as graceful as she could be, but trying to be gentle; trying to be what she needs.

Her hands move deliberately and so do his -- tracing the edge of her camisole with his fingers, sliding it up over her navel. He stops there, though, his hand on her stomach, fingertips stalled just beneath the curve of her ribcage. He's not being polite. He's not afraid to go higher in search of fuller territories. He wants her to feel him, the way he touches her, the steadfastness of his hand a mirror for what he said to her.

I'm not going anywhere. I'm right here.

There's more to the kiss now than just tender experimentation. They've had a taste of each other and now the hunger is overwhelming, threatening to spill over and devour the both of them. He moves his mouth over hers, sliding the edge of his tongue over her bottom lip, as if he's asking permission.

He touches her the same way he does everything else: deliberate, purposeful, giving it all equal, deserving thought. She'd be foolish to think he'd go about it in any other fashion, and she draws in a sharp breath of her own against his mouth when his fingers slide over the flat plane of her stomach, light and almost ticklish but purposeful enough to cause the heat to coil deep down.

Her lips part slowly, but encouragingly, needing more the same way he does, their mouths colliding in a rhythm that's almost too easy to find, and she whimpers softly when her tongue slides against his, the kiss adopting more passion. Her hands anchor themselves along his sides, fingertips gently pushing into the skin of his back, and she works a leg around his, the inside of her thigh pressing against his hip.

Stay.

He's covering her, almost cradling her below him, as tenderly as he had earlier when he'd wrapped his arms around her, and the intention behind it all is enough to make her chest feel as though it'll swell to bursting. She chooses, instead, to kiss him that much harder.

You fall 'til you break. That's in his head for no reason until he realizes that he wrote it for Derek Storm, the last thing the guy would say before he took a bullet in the head. There's no reason for it to hit him now and he wonders if he's dreaming; dreams are always disjointed, like reality's disjointed, and he could have sworn he was sleeping in a chair ten minutes ago.

The hand on her stomach slides around to the small of her back, working her camisole up the mattress, his knuckles bumping over her spine. Her skin is soft and impossibly warm. His hands are greedy for more of her and they manage to ruck the bottom of her camisole over the tops of her bare breasts. The side of his palm forms to the outside of her breast; they're too close -- too needy for contact -- to break away completely but it's the impression of her body that's got him going in high gear now. He's hard almost instantly.

His teeth gently scissor her bottom lip, breath coming a little faster as she bends beneath him.

Her body bows, back arching to send her up against him, against the hand that slides along her ribs and higher, sending a shiver rocketing through her system in response. It's like she's fevered now, hot and aching for more of him, of his touch, and her own breathing quickens in answer, soft, short puffs over his mouth as she tilts her head to the opposite side.

She doesn't need to see him, what his hands are doing; all she needs is to feel, feel something other than loss and fear and heartbreak, and this reminds her that she's fully capable of experiencing all the sensations she thought she'd pushed aside for good.

She breaks the kiss, but only briefly, to rise, arms crossing over her front to pull her camisole over her head, and then lowers herself again, letting her bare top half touch his fully.

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."

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