A/N: Warning: This is not my normal style. I saw this prompt on the kink meme at LJ: "Rick and Kate (not in a relationship never had sex with each other before ) get kidnapped and forced into a underground BDSM ring where they are forced to to continually have sex (with each other ) different positions different fetishes depending on what the client wants." and it intrigued me. I changed it SO much that I almost didn't mention the prompt, but it was my inspiration for kidnapping and creepy, so I give it the credit.
This is AU, set post "Undead Again"-"Always" was absolute perfection, but didn't happen in this fic.
Thanks to Jessie, my creepy inspiration and cheerleader of all things fic.
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"Let her go, you son of a bitch," he seethes through clenched teeth, tugging at his restrained hands.
"My my, Mr. Castle," the man taunts as he pulls out a pocket knife and cuts the scarf holding Kate's feet together. Her knees fall apart limply. She's not moving, but he can see the steady rise and fall of her chest, which gives him an iota of relief. He can still feel something—some drug—clouding his system. "You sure are…passionate about Miss Beckett, here." Kate is sitting directly in front of him, in a rickety wooden chair, her position mirroring his, with her wrists tied behind her back. He wonders if the tight knot of rope is cutting into her flesh the way it is his. She's blindfolded, but her head is lolled off to the side and he can see a sliver of her eyelid where the material has slackened.
Briefly, he wonders why he isn't blindfolded. But, when the masked man runs his fingers up Kate's thighs, up the front of her blouse as he stands, Castle knows. He slides lanky fingers around her face, cups her chin to tilt her head up as he leans his own into her. The bastard wants Castle to see this—what he's planning to do to her.
No.
No.
"Please," he begs, trying a new tactic. "Please let her go."
"Will you help me arouse her?" He presses his lips to Kate's sleep-slackened jaw, a series of pecks before he lets his tongue run up her cheek. "From her slumber," he adds, whites of his teeth showing through the upturn of his lips.
"I—I won't." The man watches in amusement as Castle jerks again in his chair, the wooden legs jump and scrape on the concrete floor until he collapses back in exhaustion, nothing accomplished. He thunders out a loud roar of frustration and helplessness, feels the tears prick at his eyes.
He looks around the dimly lit room; his sight still hasn't adjusted to the darkness. A single light bulb is dangling from the ceiling (a fire hazard, to be sure). The high windows and dank dampness lead him to believe they're in a basement of some sort. The windows are painted black, but small cracks in the coat are letting miniscule slivers of light in, letting him know it's daytime.
They've been here several hours, then.
He and Beckett were on their way back to the precinct after grabbing a bite to eat late last night. She still had mounds of paperwork to complete, and he wasn't ready to let her go yet. Her wall was coming down (she said so herself), and by God's will he was going to be there if (when, the more optimistic part of his brain reminded) she decided that she wanted more. So, he offered to help her with the paperwork in exchange for her accompanying him to dinner. She acquiesced with a wide smile and tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow as they walked to a diner a few blocks away. She was warm and willing and smelled so damn good, and he wondered if he gave her wall a good kick, if it might finish crumbling tonight.
It was when they were strolling back towards the precinct things start to get fuzzy. Neither one of them felt great; it came upon them suddenly. They attributed it to the oppressive heat, even with the sun hibernating in the night's sky. Kate was nauseated—dizzy with it—and Castle had a blinding headache; surprisingly, Kate was the one who suggested that they forgo the paperwork, saying that she could finish it on her own in the morning. Even as she protested, Castle insisted on at least walking her home. He remembers, as they turned a corner, seeing a non-descript black van (how cliché) pull to the curb, parking illegally.
Then hands hands, lots of hands—or maybe it was merely one set, he doesn't know, can't be sure. But they felt like they were everywhere, grabbing, pushing, pulling, injecting. Kate was screaming his name futilely. And he was reaching for her, but only coming back with fists full of air; she sounded so close, but his blurred vision couldn't spot her.
He couldn't save her.
And then there was white noise, the static blocking out everything.
Then nothing.
Silence.
That's what he woke to a few minutes ago. An alarming quiet, save for his own shallow breathing.
It's the same quiet that's haunting the room now.
"Don't tell me you don't want her." The man again shows his pearled handled pocket knife, fingers it as if in admiration, then quickly exposes the blade and flattens it to her forehead—Castle can see the tender flesh indenting with the pressure—then he spins it quickly so the sharp edge folds back in on itself. With a menacing laugh, he slips it back into his pocket, steps closer to Castle. "I see the way you look at her. Like you want to climb on top of her and fu-"
"Stop it," he breaths out, closes his eyes.
"Do you know that I watch you watch her?"
So, he's not a stranger, not really; this isn't a random act. Castle doesn't know whether to be comforted or demoralized at that knowledge. What he does know is that this man isn't stable and Kate isn't safe here.
"Who are you?"
"Oh, now that's no fun!" The man laughs again, the hole in his mask stretching with the widening of his lips. "Call me Warden."
"Warden?" Castle rifles through his memories, tries to find some familiarity in that name. He's got nothing. And he can't get a distinct visual interpretation. The man isn't tall, but he's stocky, with no distinctive birthmarks or tattoos that he can see through dark denim pants and long-sleeved shirt. He's wearing a ski mask, black non-descript except for the strip of neon orange lining the eye and mouth holes.
The voice seems mildly familiar; enough to gnaw at his brain, but that could be him angling for something, anything to grasp onto. In reality, he has nothing. Nothing to win him an upper hand.
Nothing to protect her.
"Warden," he again tests the name on his tongue, tries for a calm, even tone. "What do you really want? Money? How much?" He offers, no restrictions. It wouldn't matter what amount was thrown at him; he'd unearth it, even if it went beyond his own resources. He'll find a way. "I can have it to you before the day's up. Easy."
"I don't want your money, Mr. Castle. I want you to tell me a story. Show me a story."