Title: In the Light of Day
Pairing: Caskett
Rating: M
Category: Romance, angst, sexy times.
Summary: He told her once that he had no clue what they were. He still has no idea. Not after so many nights spent in her bed, not after she's spent nights in his.
Notes: This is a fill for the 2014 Winter Hiatus Kink Meme, so as such it is probably not safe for work reading. I'll put the prompt at the end.
He shouldn't be here.
It's not the agreement they have – what is, though? They don't talk about any of it in the light of day. They barely talk about it under the cover of darkness, when his face is pressed into the curve of her neck and he's buried deep inside her as they ride out the aftershocks of what is arguably some of the best sex he's ever had in his life.
They don't talk about it as he kisses her mouth lazily, or when he slides down her body to use his lips and his fingers to draw hoarse moans of ecstasy from her. He doesn't ask about it, not when he has the opportunity to break her apart with the crook of his finger, not when he's the one getting to fall asleep with the taste of her on his tongue.
They sure as hell don't talk about it when she drops down to her knees and palms him through his pants as soon as he closes her apartment door behind him every other night. There's no talking about it when her lips are wrapped around his dick and her cool, soft hands are working his balls.
He told her once that he had no clue what they were. He still has no idea. Not after so many nights spent in her bed, not after she's spent nights in his. Not after she looked at him with shining eyes and declared everyone gone and his only response was to hold her face, kiss her hard, and declare himself an immovable object in her life.
That'd been the first night. The first night of this thing; they're friends and they fuck until they can't see straight more than a few nights a week, but underneath it all he still loves her and he thinks she loves him, too.
Which is why he shouldn't be here.
She's… she's not nearly as fine as she pretends she is. She puts on a brave face for the boys at work during the day, but he knows better. He feels it in the way her fingers shake when they grip his back as he moves above her. He sees it in the wild look she sometimes wakes up with, before she pushes him onto his back and sinks down, riding him until her chest heaves with pleasure and not terror. He hears it in the way his name crackles from her lips when she comes.
He wants to help her, no he needs to help her. He did this to her, practically pushed her down the hole that is her mother's case, got her shot; the PTSD she'll probably deny having is his fault. He needs to help her even if she's probably going to try to kick him out the way she did before. Even if it means the end of their whatever it might be.
So here he is, knocking on her door at 2 in the morning, knowing she's awake because the dark circles under her eyes each morning tell him she can't sleep.
She smiles, or she tries to, when she opens the door. It doesn't reach her eyes.
"Hey," she greets. It's friendly enough, but her eyes are dull. Tonight's a bad night, as evidenced by the fact that, despite the lingering looks they'd shared when they left the precinct, she hadn't sent him what he hates to think of as her booty call text.
"Hey." He shuts the door quietly, taking stock of her body language before moving closer. "How are you?"
One shoulder lifts and her – his, he recognizes – shirt slides down her arm. God, she's so thin. How has he not seen this? When his mouth's moving over her rib cage, how has he not noticed? When his hands bracket her waist and he watches the way their bodies connect with every thrust, how has he not seen how tiny, almost frail she looks?
"Tired, mostly. I was asleep, you know," she admonishes, but he knows it's a lie. He knows what her face looks like when she's been pulled from sleep. Whether it's thanks to his tongue pushing through her folds and circling her clit, or due to the harsh buzz of her phone on the nightstand, he knows what she looks like when she's been asleep.
"But I'm glad you're here," she adds, stepping close enough to trail her finger down the front of his jacket. "Give me a little incentive; I can wake up for you."
On autopilot, his head dips, mouth seeking the heat of hers. Her kiss is sharp with awareness and bitter with whatever emotions she's been struggling with all night. He might even taste some of his own nervousness as well. He feels her frown against his lips, but she pushes ahead anyway, yanking his leather jacket off his shoulders with sure hands.
Her fingers are nimble, unbuttoning his shirt and pushing it off his body before he has the presence of mind to make his hands curl around her hips and palm her ass. Beckett grunts against his mouth, nodding for him to touch her.
She's never shied away from his touch when they do this, she's never had rules like he'd expected her to have. He's free to touch and kiss, to caress and stroke. He's free to lift her off her feet and wrap her legs around his waist. He's free to carry her to her bedroom and stretch her across her bed, to kiss her neck, to graze his teeth against her collarbone, even to tease the peak of her nipple through her nightshirt. She likes the friction of having the cloth between her skin and his mouth.
But he doesn't. Not tonight. He doesn't haul her up, taking care to tease the bulge in his pants against her legging-covered center. He fuses his mouth to hers, yes, he pulls her against him, yes, but he can't make himself go any farther than that.
Her fingers make quick work of his belt, knuckles brushing over his jeans in promise. She smiles against his mouth, actually smiles, when he grunts and his hips rock into her hand.
"Fuck," he hisses when she finally parts his jeans and reaches into his boxers, sliding her thumb across the head of his cock.
"Mhmm, working on it, Castle. And hey, less hold-y, more touch-y here." Her leg slides higher – fuck, why does she have to be so flexible? – creeping over his hip in invitation. An invitation he sorely wants to accept. His hand curls against her thigh, fingers sliding close to where she wants him to be, where he wants to be.
"Beckett, mmm, Beckett wait." Gentling his mouth against hers, he breathes her name. "Wait, just…"
Startled, she pulls away. Her hand leaves his pants and her fingers push her hair off her forehead. She knows. The caged look in her eyes tells him she knows what he's trying (and failing miserably) to say, to do.
"Castle, don't."
"Kate, I –"
Her fingers curl in the hem of her shirt, lifting it and throwing it to the side quickly. Beautiful, bare flesh calls to him, but he curls his fingers into his palms, pressing his hands against his open jeans. He has to resist, to keep his mind on the mission.
"No?" she snaps, cupping her chest. "Boobs not doing it for you tonight?"
Her leggings hit the floor with a soft swish and she leaves them behind with two jerky steps. God, he can't do this. Not with her on display for him like this.
"What about this? Is this better? We'll cut right through it," she growls, sliding her hand down her belly to touch herself. He watches her breath stutter at the contact, at the slow circles her fingers make.
She moves closer to him again, lifting her hand to paint her wetness over his lower lip. His tongue darts out, sampling her taste from his flesh and then her own.
Kate groans softly, urgently, and he feels her free hand skirt around his waist to shove his pants down his hips.
"Get. Naked," she orders, her voice roughened with frustration, arousal, maybe even a little fear.
"I just want to help you, Kate," he blurts as she kneels to help him remove his shoes and step out of his discarded clothes. "I, we, shit –" he hisses as her hands move up his legs and her mouth trails along his inner thigh. His train of thought's nearly gone by the time her tongue touches his shaft, making lazy designs along his length.
"You are," she answers finally, her breath caressing his sensitive flesh. "This – you, this helps." Her lips wrap around him, head bobbing quickly before she pops off again. "Helps me forget."
Her tongue circles slowly.
"I want you to remember," he pants, trying desperately to get the words out. Panic flashes in her eyes. "I want you to remember, Kate. Because forgetting can only last so long. Pushing it down can only last s-so long."
Her hand tightens around his thigh. "What are you saying, Castle? Because you know, mid-blowjob isn't exactly the best time to break up with me." Her words puff over him as her hand pumps.
"I'm saying," he struggles to get the words out. "I'm saying we can be better than this. Better than booty calls and sex until we're too exhausted to dream."
Taking a breath, he hauls her to her feet, kissing the palm she'd had wrapped around him. Her breath stutters again, sounding dangerously close to hyperventilation, but she doesn't pull away. She lists closer.
"You don't need to be okay with me, Beckett. This doesn't need to be a coping mechanism."
When she doesn't snap that it does, that that's all this is, his arm bands around her waist, drawing her in. Their hips collide, but he ignores his need in favor of resting his temple against her hair.
"Stop pushing it down, stop trying to forget. Remember and work through it, let me work through it with you," he pleads against her ear. "We'll get a crane or some C4 and blow right through that wall."
Beckett sags against him, arms winding around his chest to grip his back. Her breath comes out ragged and thick, and he doesn't need to feel the splash of wetness against his shoulder to know she's crying. His hand makes broad strokes over her back, but he doesn't speak.
"No C4 jokes, please," she croaks out finally, pulling her arm back to wipe her eyes.
"No, no C4 jokes," he agrees, remembering the bank all too well. They've had too many close calls. "We'll rip it down barehanded."
His partner nods in acceptance, sinking against him again. "God, I'm so tired."
"Well it's late," he says, smiling into her hair when she snorts.
"Firm grasp of the obvious, Castle."
His hand makes another slow circle on her back, this time dipping low enough to get a firm grasp of something else. Kate mewls, mouth opening against his neck.
"Unless you're about to use that hold to carry me to bed, stop feeling me up."
He lifts her off her feet, delighting in the way she laughs into his skin. They're okay. They'll be okay. They may fight more about this – definitely about other things, too – but they'll be okay.
They slip into bed together, limbs tangling effortlessly as Beckett yanks the covers up to their shoulders. It takes some arranging to find a position that won't leave one of them hurting by morning, but once they're settled, his fingers slip through her hair.
"I'm sorry," she whispers, lifting tired, grief-clouded eyes to his.
His mouth slides over hers softly. "For what?"
"Lying. About remembering. I didn't want to forget… what you said, just everything else. The pain, the, the smell of the blood, that's what I try to forget."
Feathering his fingertips over her cheek gives him a moment to collect his thoughts. "I forgive you."
She takes a deep breath, probably one of her first ones since he arrived, sinking deeper against him when she exhales.
"Thank you."
"And I'll… make it up to you, I'll make tonight up to you. Getting you hot and bothered and then boom, dropping the serious talk on you, I mean."
This time he gets a smile and a soft kiss. She's fading in his arms.
"Got yourself worked up, too, Castle," she murmurs as she drifts off.
Yeah, he did do that, too. He'll survive.
He thinks cold and unsexy thoughts until he falls asleep.
He wakes in the morning to soft fingertips trailing up and down his length, coaxing him to hardness as warm lips and a sure tongue slide down his neck and over his chest. Her lips curve when she notices his breathing change.
"Hi," she greets, slowing her strokes a little. Of course, she follows it up with a flick of her tongue over his nipple.
"Hi," he echoes, clearing the sleep from his throat. His palm splays against her ass with far less finesse than he'd like, but she just smiles, trailing a path of open-mouthed kisses to his other side. "How'd um, how'd you sleep?"
"Better than I have in days," she admits, rocking into his hand, encouraging.
His fingers slip between her legs, brushing, teasing. Kate shudders, dipping her head for a brief moment before meeting his eyes.
Last night her gaze was dull, haunted. Today her eyes are clear and happy.
"Good," he breathes, craning his neck to catch her lips. This kiss is slow, soft, hopeful. This kiss – like most of them – makes his heart hammer and his blood rush faster, but it feels different, too. Like a beginning. "I was supposed to be making it up to you, you know." His fingers slide teasingly.
Beckett groans, fingers moving against his shaft once more.
"Just wanted to speed up the process, Castle," she teases, bumping her nose against his.
"Don't speed it up too much," he warns, skimming a hand up her chest to cup her breast.
She groans, pressing into his hand.
"I like taking my time with you, Beckett." He grins, curling his fingers around her thigh and flipping her onto her back.
Beckett squawks, wrapping her arm around his neck as he settles between her thighs. Her easy laugh warms him to his toes.
"How 'bout you take your time with me next time," she starts, tugging him down for a slow kiss. One of her hands slips between them, taking him in hand again to tease him through her folds. His hips jerk. She's so wet already, fuck. "And you get inside me right now?"
It's the only invitation he needs. Wrapping her leg around his hips, he slides home.
Prompt: Castle/Beckett
Friends with benefits. Affection starts to creep in. When Castle finds her struggling with PTSD one night, he won't let her deal with it with sex.