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.

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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'."

Her hands scramble for purchase, finally coming up with fistfuls of the bedsheets when his fingers delve between her legs, exploring and sure in the same instant.

"What're you going to do about it, Castle?" she whispers, rocking against his hand. Her want is evident, renewed, and suddenly she needs this more than ever.

Edited 2010-02-13 03:11 (UTC)

Her skin is soft and warm. Castle drags his thumb over the vellum-thin skin at the juncture of her leg and groin, threading the close curls between her legs. God, is he doing this to her? He can't help but think that some part of all this is strictly supernatural; that there's no way that Beckett -- the same Beckett who stood on principle of pride and refused to let him see her make a cup of espresso with the machine he'd bought -- could whisper like that.

He runs his fingers over her skin, touch turned gentle. Something about the moment and the way she said his name has taken the fight out of him and focused him on making her feel good. 'Forgetting for a while.

His hand slides to her hip, gently easing her legs apart. He meets her eyes. 'Holds focus. "Beckett, I --"

Beckett closes her eyes, willing her breathing to steady, concentrating on the simple act of inhale/exhale, the repetition of something so simple even as she senses the anticipation and the slow burning of the heat between her legs. It's impossible for her to hide, spread open before him as she is, as exposed literally as she was emotionally mere moments before.

It's close to overwhelming, but she focuses on him and what he's doing and how it feels - and God, does it feel good, even the slightest of touches at the curvature where her leg joins to her hip.

Her eyes fly open when he utters her name.

"Castle?"

"I --" and some of the confidence drops visibly from his eyes, like a shade's been drawn. Whatever he was going to say immediately after her name has come and gone. "I left my wallet in the other room." A raised eyebrow.

"Oh."

A moment of confusion, and then realization.

" - oh. Right. Here, you stay."

It'll be easier for her to maneuver in the dark, knowing the layout, as well she should; she scoots out from underneath him, nudging him onto his back, and surges against him, pressing a heated kiss to his mouth.

"Stay," she repeats, more insistently, the tone she'd use if they were in a squad car - but this time, she hopes he'll listen to her as she slides from the bed and hurries on tiptoe down the hall, her eyes scanning tables and surfaces in the semi-darkness until she finds what he'd been looking for.

When she returns, wallet in hand, she doesn't enter right away, but peers around the partially open door, almost hiding from him.

While she's gone he's got his thumb against his bottom lip, trying to pin down her taste and sort it from the thousand-and-one other sensory things he's experiencing at that second. The impression of Beckett's body is still warm in the mattress next to him; he reaches out and fills the shape of her hips with his palm. Warm. Soft.

He hears old floorboards bending beneath small feet and lifts himself up on his elbow as she appears in the doorway. Moonlight shafts through a gap in the blinds; she looks timid. Castle can see the outline of her bare breast and the upright arm that covers it, her attempt at modesty.

His eyes are heavy with the sight of her.

"C'mere," he says quietly, turning out his palm.

She moves quickly, long legs carrying her back to the bed in no time at all, the leather of his wallet smooth against her palm until she gently lays it down by his hip, sliding along beside him in the bed, fitting herself along his side.

Her mouth finds his, slow and sure, and when the contact deepens, becomes more intense, her hand trails down to touch the top of his thigh, lightly massaging as she works her way inward, keeping him responsive and ready.

He draws his nose along her cheek, exhaling when her fingers find him again and it's all he can do not to twist into her hand and really earn himself a pet name, most likely an embarrassing one. Response is definitely not a problem at this point.

"Don't hide from me," he tells her. Maybe for the way she sheltered in the doorway; maybe for all the times she thinks she should be tough when she's breaking inside. He turns his lips against hers, fingers at the nape of her neck.

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