fanofthegenre | [ forced decompression ]

Entry tags:

oom,
rick castle

[ forced decompression ]

Combing the parking garage for any sign of the third victim's body proves fruitless. The killer - whoever he is - isn't sticking to his normal M.O. of leaving the body where he's killed them, either. Forensics bags the lone pump, the clumps of blonde hair, swabs the places where her blood had spilled, but Beckett isn't hopeful yet. Changing his tactic means he's becoming more unpredictable, getting harder to pin down, but the fact that she's being sent home after feeling like she and her team can actually be a help is weighing heavy on her shoulders. Her protests fall on Agent Shaw's ignoring ears, and she leaves feeling more helpless than before - a feeling she doesn't appreciate having at the moment. It's not until she's climbed into her car and left that she realizes Castle's still there, but something tells her he doesn't mind being left with another brilliant mind to build theory with.

The unit, a small trio of suits wearing earpieces, are waiting in various places throughout her apartment building by the time Beckett gets there, a bag of takeout Chinese in one hand. The sight of them only re-emphasizes her frustration over the situation, and her other hand tightens around her keys when she lets herself into her apartment. She makes a point of checking all the windows, combing rooms, and then pokes her head out into the hallway and tells the guys to head on home. There's no point in keeping them around when everything's perfectly secured and she's got a gun in her bedside drawer - and one in the living room, too.

Beckett changes into a loose-fitting shirt and a pair of jeans and cracks open the Chinese, mixing rice and veggies together with her disposable chopsticks. Fifteen minutes in and the casefile is spread out on the couch in front of her, and Beckett settles in Indian-style, combing over the information: crime scene photos, eyewitness accounts, victims' backgrounds - searching for anything she might be missing, anything Agent Shaw and her team (and her "smart board") haven't pinned down yet.

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Both of them slightly buzzed from the wine and entirely ironed out from the case; something about this is important (different), and Castle can't put his finger on it. Maybe it's the way that they've become a refuge for one another in the last couple of months: from her mother's case, to the night swim, to old movie stars and expensive French wine. Neither of them have copped to admitting it -- that humbling, humiliating "n" word: "need" -- but they're saying it through touch, he thinks, and that's almost as terrifying.

Her squeeze pulls some of the breath out of him. He draws his thumbs beneath her hipbones, chin pulled across her resting breast. He considers her skin like he'd consider a wine: slow, savouring, appreciating the taste and the weight on his tongue. Low, warm breath over her araeola, watching the bud tighten and peak. He draws it between his lips, flicking his thumbs over her hips.

It may be next to impossible for those words to make it out of her mouth unless they're in the context of work ("Castle, I need you to stay in the car" -- or "Castle, what I need you to do is move out of my way"), but here, she doesn't need to put a voice to anything other than his name, a sigh and a gasp his touch elicits, and her shoulders roll back as her hips shift upward, her back poised in a delicate arch. His mouth, that damned mouth of his that holds one too many satisfied smirks and smug expressions for her liking, is one and the same with the lips that reel her in, her body taut and primed.

Her hands blindly fumble around for a hold and settle for the sheets beneath her, fingers clenching fistfuls while her head lolls to one side in order to catch a glimpse of his profile, his face a model of concentration, as she sinks her teeth into her lower lip up above him and releases it in a quiet exhale.

Her leg's come up to companion his ribcage, her heel pushing at his hip. He feels like he's moving through something thicker than air -- like the atmosphere has been charged, laid heavy, and they're caught in some kind of cosmic slowdown that makes everything feel like it's happening in slow motion. He drags his eyelids open (they feel like they're weighted with little lead sinkers) and is rewarded with a smokey-eyed, highly aroused Kate Beckett looking back at him, her lower lip plush and pouty. His heart rackets against his sternum.

Slowly dragging his mouth from her breast, down the railroad ties of her ribcage to her stomach. Her navel is small, an almost-invisible fuzz of baby duck-fine blond dusted beneath, a freckle like a punctuation point on the inside of her hip. He slides his hands over her waist, holding her hips beneath his palms as he slides down the mattress, knee going zzpp! with sudden sheetburn. He kisses her kneecap. The inside of her thigh.

Each movement he makes, each response from her is slow, deliberate, the kind of building energy that leaves them locked in a tangle of limbs, otherwise unaware to everything else going on around them. She's not about to dwell on anything case-related, or even cast her eyes toward the clock on her bedside table to calculate how many hours of sleep she'd be getting if she chose to go to bed now. At this point, it's nearly impossible for her to exhale without some tiny sound of pleasure hitching onto her breath for the ride.

Beckett squirms half-restlessly, half-impatiently. The anticipation is almost as agonizing as the main event itself, and she chuckles quietly when his mouth discovers the lone ticklish place on the inside of her thigh, right alongside the other spot that causes her muscles to tense and her fingers to slide through the hair on the back of his head. Her breathing quickens audibly, a renewed rush of warmth hitting her deep down and gradually spiraling out.

Edited 2010-04-13 23:17 (UTC)

Her nails send a zing of electric sensation down the back of his neck and into his spine. He's trapped by touch and tactility -- the smoothness of her skin, the taste of it beneath his mouth. He can feel the muscles of her inner thigh tighten the higher he goes and, being Castle, he takes advantage of every creative opportunity he can get his head around: a shallow, sharp bite to the inside of her thigh, smoothed immediately with a cool press of his lips.

He's making it impossible for her to even think about staying still underneath his mouth, especially when he goes and does that - Beckett tenses with a corresponding hiss, a jerk of her hips, followed by a slight tremor as he moves to soothe the tender skin with gentle lips. She glances down at him, his face briefly shrouded in shadow until he slides upward, ascending into some of the light that filters through her bedroom window. A grin filters on to her own features, but it's laced with the heavy look in her eyes, given more weight. Her fingers slide into his hair, tenderly ruffling, then moving down to his cheek.

This is it -- a "Do or Don't" moment -- and Castle has a second to let it twist uncertainly in his gut before he sees her face and the decision is made for him. Strong, sure fingers on the backs of her thighs. The bite of the coverlet beneath his elbows. Her skin curves and dips beneath him like corporeal topography, collecting shadows and driving him to all ends of possible metaphor. He curves his cheek briefly into her hand, then draws a line over her inner thigh with the tip of his nose, exhaling across her warm skin. His lips, and then his tongue. He closes his eyes.

There's the pause before the moment. She draws in a breath, harsh and quick, releasing it in a shudder that dissolves into a whimper as the first wave washes over her. Somehow, she manages to tense and relax simultaneously, her hands moving to where his rest against her thighs and lacing their fingers together, holding on tightly as she struggles not to move or shift in any way. She wants to lay back and enjoy this without the urge to squirm but, like so many other things in their unique relationship, Castle seems determined to relieve her of control. Her hands tighten their grip, then release, her hips stuttering forward in a sudden, jerking movement. "Castle," she gasps, her eyes squeezed shut.

Her fingers squeeze ten little points of pressure on the backs of his knuckles and Castle turns his hands, as much as he can, to hold on to her palms. Their skin is slick and oily; he feels all of the bones in her palms hanging on, like she's afraid the laws of physics are going to give out and cause her to float up right onto the ceiling. He slips his fingers underneath her wrists, dancing them over her forearms before he braces a palm to either thigh, pushing gently apart, his lips close -- so close -- until he commits himself to a first long, slow taste of her.

It almost feels as if she's close to spiraling out, to some point beyond her own control of things, and then, then, that's when he makes his move. Her next exhale of breath leaves her in a low, soft sound, drawing her fingertips in against her palms until she can feel the pinpricks of her nails digging into the skin. It's agony and sheer relief all at the same time, her eyes screwed shut and her lips falling open in a silent O. All her reservations are beginning to melt away, the layers of the onion peeling off one by torturous one.

Castle draws his fingers up over her thighs, circling behind her kneecaps to where the tender, soft flesh is. He rolls his shoulder downward -- an easy ally-oop! -- and coaxes her ankle up and over it. The muscles in her lower back are more tense than a Senate hearing; Castle slides his palms over her hips, thumbs on either side of her pelvis, just letting her know that he's still there to hang on to her if she wants to fall.

She wants to - oh, does she ever want to - but there's only one thing that can top the fall, and that's if she can bring him over that edge with her. Her hands find his at her hips, squeezing once and then again, a signal and then a plea to bring him up to her level. She smooths fingertips over his spine, tracing the curve of a shoulderblade when he shifts his weight and it momentarily glides underneath his skin. Her mouth finds his, slow and lazy, to drag across. I want you, she says, without actually uttering the words themselves.

Dragged up, up, up, and it's almost as if he's weightless for a second -- an astronaut in orbit above her -- grounded only when he feels the press of her hands on his shoulders. He breathes her name, her real name, against her mouth. His eyes are closed, but he's full of visions of her beneath him. 'Hand slaps the night stand, upsetting the digital clock onto the floor. He growls and pushes his kneecap into the mattress, getting a better angle, until he can slip his hand into the drawer and pull out one of the foil-wrapped packets she keeps there.

This part is awkward: arms and elbows and knees going everywhere while he splits the foil and rolls on the condom. He's glad for her hands; they keep him interested even while he has to force every ounce of his brain to concentrate on the task. Then he's kissing her again, the want of her spreading through his chest like radiant heat.

A pause, the weight heaping on her chest, like the press of a hand, and then there, the moment of joining, and the tension filters out of her in a single exhale, one that finds a little volume in the form of a tiny moan that hitches along. Her fingertips trace the curving path of his spine, between his shoulderblades and up to the back of his neck, coming into contact with short strands of hair, combing through against his scalp and cradling him close, his name a whisper against the shell of his ear as she bends her knees and draws him in.

It's a newer movement between them, but one she's learning to remember each time it happens, muscles picking up on little chances or deviations he makes in the rhythm and adjusting to fit again. Her eyelashes flutter against her cheeks, soft puffs of breathing interspersed with her small moans. Her heart feels just about ready to gallop out of her chest.

Something about this time is quieter than the others; more tempered, careful. Maybe they're both afraid that the security detail she said she ditched might come back for one last sweep of the place; maybe they're being quiet for another reason--that this thing between them is so tenuous and fragile, a misplaced sound might break it.

Quiet, yeah, but close. She's got her legs around him like a vice and he's almost trying to bring them within the same molecular space, hands on her hips and over her ribs, circling her breasts until there's no inch of her his touch hasn't lingered.

In this precious, all too brief moment, she's not thinking about the case. Nor is her mind turning to thoughts of Shaw, of the team that is undoubtedly still taking up residence at the precinct and working even into this late hour. Shaw said we needed to decompress. Castle's earlier words echo in her brain when his hands skim over her breasts, and she arches up into his touch, head lazily drifting to one side.

There's no rush, no hurry. She can't be bothered to glance over toward the alarm clock, knocked askew by earlier fumbles, and a part of her is accepting of that. Beckett opens her eyes in the semi-darkness, turning to find Castle's face as her own tilts upward for her mouth to collide with his.

Her breath flashes across his cheek. Blindly, hungrily, he blurs his own focus and finds her mouth again. Neither of them have ever been any good at taking things slow. Work. Play. Themselves. To be slow is to be dangerously close to being stagnant, and both he and Beckett would sooner die than risk falling off the map like that. But the both of them seem happy to let time go by them when they're like this. The whole terrifying, shrinking world goes away when he's with her.

"What do you need?" he breathes, drawing his tongue along her bottom lip. "What do you need, Beckett?"

Need. It's a word that resonates with her all too strongly, tightening in her chest and knocking around against her ribs like a restless prisoner trying to escape from the bars. For a moment, she nearly freezes, but only in her face even as her body perpetuates the movement, the slow undulating pace. She closes her eyes against it, against the question, turning her head to one side so that Castle's mouth stutters over her jaw.

"This," she says, because right now, it's a safer answer than the one that had been dangling from her tongue alongside (you). "Just this."

He kisses the side of her jaw. The corner of her mouth where, on any given day, her lips bow down into a species of frown that lets him know she's only half taking him seriously. The place where, now, her lips are full and parted, blowing warm air like a channel through his hair.

"Me too."

His hand sweeps under her hip, pushing her toward the headboard -- companioned by a knock! loud enough to resonate with her neighbors -- as he moves over her, one knee dug into the mattress, his arms around her middle, pulling them both toward the end.

Like so many other things about Castle, this finish is also unpredictable but no less overwhelming when it happens. There's the catch - in her breath, in her chest, a moment where she's suspended in the in-between, in some kind of ecstatic limbo - and her body tenses, her back bowed, dark hair spilling over her shoulderblades when she arches toward him for one last surge.

The catch, but also the inevitable release and the feeling akin to an explosion as she cries out, just once, biting down hard on her own lower lip to stifle the sound halfway through. A rush of warmth, and Beckett slowly begins to find her center of gravity again, laying back into the surprising safety of Castle's arms.

It takes him a minute longer, not because the need for release isn't there, but because it's every honest, red-blooded straight male's fantasy to hear a woman make a sound like that and know that he had something to do with it. Her mouth is close to his ear. He feels her lips scrape over the shadow on his cheek and jaw, hears something in her that battles to get out and be heard, and that's enough for him: the end is hard, fast, and threatens to drown him. With her, he wouldn't mind going under.

Slow, slow, slow. A mantra in his head that his body eventually obeys. He lets out a sigh and turns his cheek, blindly seeking her mouth beneath him. Her eyes are smokey and pale. He smiles languidly.

"Decompression is fun."

Beckett's content to lay in the aftermath for a moment, her eyes still closed, concentrating on returning the pace of her breathing and the rhythm of her heartbeat back to their normal rates. There's a slow fire still burning in her lower belly, stoked into a lingering flame as she sighs under Castle's seeking mouth, her limbs weak and pleasure-filled.

Decompression. Shaw.

And just like that, Beckett's brain is back on the case, the wheels resuming their turning. Her eyes snap open. She pries herself away, squeezes out from underneath Castle, rolling onto her side and cradling her arms against her chest.

"Uh huh," she murmurs, eyes reflecting the returning stream of her thought process as she stares at the bedside table, the alarm clock's face hidden from her view thanks to earlier fumbling in the dark.

Castle flops onto his back and pillows his hands beneath his head. He nudges her with the side of his foot. "Hey, you're missing the afterglow."

Beckett senses it. Barely.

"Uh huh," she murmurs.

He angles a look toward her. A single eyebrow cranes upward.

"You wanna' use my back as a white board?"

She's back on the scent, he can tell.

[ forced decompression ]

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