For a brilliant friend. Happy birthday, and thank you for everything.
Trigger warnings may apply. If non-consenting language mixed with fully-consensual actions – and the grey space in between – bother you, you might want to skip this one.
"I should have let him die. I want him to die."
She's vibrating with adrenaline as she enters her apartment, Castle on her heels as always, and she shoves the heavy industrial door closed behind them with a demanding force that rattles the plates on her kitchen shelf. Her expression slips in the privacy of home, in the way it only does when she's alone or with him. It hardly seems to register to her at all when his cold hands reach for her, until he begins helping her out of her jacket, pushing it from her shoulders. Automatically, she resists, flailing her arms backward and knocking her wrist carelessly into the counter top with the marrow-jarring thunk of bone against hardwood.
Castle closes a hand around her wrist, spinning her to look him in the eye. Her anger roils, Castle can nearly see it bubbling beneath her skin and waiting to boil over. Her body's a mere vehicle for her thorny bramble of unrealised rage, encased in vines of tight control, the result of years of self-discipline at war with more years of grief and sorrow and sheer desperate determination on her mother's case.
His arms snake around her, holding her to him in a one-sided and possibly-unwanted hug. It's like standing in a firestorm. Her soul's never been quiet, but times like this, he can feel the chaos pouring off of her in waves, can feel her silently shouting for someone to take it from her, because she just can't cope on her own. He knows her well enough to know that shoving him away just as often means that she needs held closer as it means to actually give her space. The delicacy of it is in knowing her moods well enough to make a reasonably certain guess as to which situation they're in. And it seems he's guessed correctly. Her body relaxes marginally, even though she still thrashes from time to time. It's a token gesture, one that fools neither of them.
"Stop," he murmurs into her hair as she weakly writhes and pushes against him, "it's done. You did the right thing, Kate."
He reassures her of it, of course. Privately, Castle's not so certain. But Kate quiets and stills, and at least it seems to have been the right thing to say. She stops thrashing, anyway, though she still trembles with livewire energy of a boxer pulled off a fight at the last second before landing a knockdown hit.
Unrealized potential? Maybe. He knows she would like to arrest Bracken herself. Ask him why (not that the reason will satisfy her). See him go to trial. But as far as he's concerned, letting Bracken meet his fate would have saved the system the trouble of prosecuting and jailing the man responsible for taking so much away from the woman he loves. Her mother. The future she was so certain of before that. Her feeling of safety and trust. Almost her own life.
Yes, as far as Castle's concerned, letting Bracken blow to smithereens would have been ideal. Saved her a painful trial, attempts on their lives that are less likely and more inevitability now, and the horrifying but distinct possibility that Bracken could get off on a technicality or by rigging the trial. If indeed they ever find the evidence necessary to arrest and charge him at all.
He'd have not thought twice about letting Bracken die. He'd have relished it. At a later time, perhaps he'll consciously admit that he felt a momentary flash of white-hot anger at Beckett for putting herself at risk, least of all to save her mother's murderer. But it passed. That's why she's the detective. That's why it's her charge to uphold the law and to do so without bias. Even if it hurts. Even if he's not worth her spitting on him, let alone saving his sorry existence. Even if it – no. He won't think about that. Castle's under no such oath. Technically. His oath is to her, to his family. Well, Ryan and Esposito, too – they're family, after all. But no one else, much less the public at large and least of all snakes in the garden like Bracken.
Castle exhales, tired of thinking and noticing that she's stopped writhing and gone limp in his arms. He lets her go only for her to stiffen again, palms connecting with his chest, giving him a solid shove that unbalances him. He wasn't braced for it. The second attempt, he's ready, doesn't sway a centimeter. Beckett glares up at him furiously.
"Come on, Castle," she bares her teeth slightly as she speaks, pearly canines making her look more feral than her usual feline grace or kittenish bittersweet. He lifts a skeptical eyebrow at her and she looks away, self-conscious and demanding in the same breath.
Oh. That's where she wants to take this?
She shoves him again. He lets her. "Come on, I need..."
She won't – can't? - articulate it yet. What she needs. She can't admit it, maybe not even to herself and certainly not to him.
They're nine months into this thing but Castle thinks it might be considerably longer before she can discuss this matter in more than innuendo and vague requests. If she'll ever fully admit it aloud. Other fantasies have come easily and openly – from sweet vanilla fare to the head-tiltingly kinky – all explored with each other in their languid hours during her suspension, and on nights and odd days off since they've been back at work. But this? She's frightened, ashamed of what she feels and needs.
At first he didn't understand it. Was sickened, in fact. Not with her – never her – but with the idea. With himself. For how easily he went along the first time. For how much he wanted it after that. For how much her puzzle of requests turned him on once he put them all together. But that's faded now. He doesn't think about it anymore in that way. Not much. She needs something and he can provide her with it. She needs a narrative and he's the man always has the story, so what does it matter if she's ready to talk about it just yet?
She shoves him again. "Damn it, Castle!"
It's confusing. He's not sure they should be doing this tonight. She's compromised. Hell, he's compromised. They can't solve their problems with sex. But what's the alternative? Their problem is not with them, he reasons. It'd be different if they were fighting or using it as a way to not talk. But they're not fighting or angry or having communication problems. Bracken is their problem. They may go about it differently, but he's her dragon and at the end of the day, he's happy to defer to her choices regarding that. Bracken is a problem that will not be solved for some time at least (unless the karma bus decides to make a stop and he keels over of natural causes or someone else does him in – Castle would by no means shed tears of sorrow for either of those options), ergo, this – whatever it is – is not addressing that, and not addressing them.
For the agonizing length of a minute, Castle contemplates her. Watches her and observes her in the way he can never quite turn off even when he wants to. It's not a call he makes lightly, assessing the risk/benefit equation of giving in or of not giving in, of the chances of her regretting it later if they do or the chance that she'll resent him later if they don't. Of the chances of him taking it too far, if she's too compromised to stop him. She is compromised. But looking at her now, she's… stable. Enough. Not so frantic that she's unable to make her own decisions. Not unable to advocate for herself.
It's about helping her, he realizes. She needs to be free of her external woes, free to cave to a more basic version of her nature that the trappings of her job and her carefully-crafted persona don't allow her to in any other way. She needs him to take some of her pain, confusion, anger from her. If he has a way that she thinks will help, he'll not question it or begrudge her a coping mechanism that's proven harmless in the past. Albeit in lesser situations than a run-in with her mother's murderer. (And secretly he wonders just what her coping mechanism was before. He knows enough of her history that it didn't involve anyone else, nothing like what they do, but the alternatives he imagines are never comforting.) A warm swell of pride washes over him that she comes to him at all, trusts him this much to ask for help. In whatever way she needs.
Castle's mind is made up.
Rough-hewn fingers close around her wrist, enough to cause mild discomfort, playing in without much of a fight this time. He won't pretend that it doesn't excite him. The time where self-deception could be maintained with any plausibility is long-since past, and counter-productive at that. The male curse of external anatomy gives him away anyway. His slacks and chest tighten but he steels his nerves.
"Your safeword..." he trails off, staring her in her eyes, barely-visible rims of color inched out by little hotcoals, burning dark and just as dangerous to handle. "What's your safeword?"
"Damn it, Castle," she hisses, "you know it, just..." She's spiraling into herself, so far into this already. Stamping down his instinct to coddle her when she's so obviously hurting, he slips into another self. Harder. Colder. More controlled. It's not easy, exactly, but he has enough experience now that it's surprisingly natural once he's decided. It's easier still when he keeps in mind that coddling her in the thick of one of her states is typically counter-productive and only makes Kate more frantic. That can come later. This is what she needs right now. But first, he needs something. He takes one last deep, shuddering breath, resisting her mindless pawing at his chest and the occasional shoves that fail to move him at all.
"Your word." It's not a question – it's an order. An ultimatum: she doesn't get anything until she gives him this.
"Cherries," Beckett seethes.
"And if you're scared, or you need me to change something?"
"Yellow," she's practically gnashing her teeth at him, a thing untamed, and the thread of his control unravels with the last hissed syllable.
His mouth seals over hers, silencing her with a sharp bite to her bottom lip. There's no kindness now. Nothing sweet or considerate. That comes later. Right now, he's in charge, and he's going to show her how it goes – how he wants it to go – and his word is law. And for once it's to his benefit that he's under no oath to enforce much of anything – much less enforce it kindly, fairly, or justly. Only safely. Nothing else matters. Auctoritas non veritas, after all.
"Get undressed," he requests coolly, and for a moment he thinks she's going to obey. He can see that part of her wants to. She hesitates. "I said, get undressed."
Kate shakes her head no, backs up right into the door and right into his plan.
Cornered.
"Castle, no," she protests, Bracken and his presidential aspirations and the fact that they're goddamned screwed and it's her fault entirely ringing in her mind and swirling with more present and persistent dangers. Bracken's out there. Castle's in here. Castle's the one pinning her wrists above her head, dragging the knuckles of his massive hand down her face with deceptive tenderness. The rush of danger at these hands finally begins to chase down the panic and tearing grief of the danger outside.
"We both know you don't mean that, sweetheart," his voice is unlike its normal self, hissing the word sweetheart like it's filthy and degrading and god maybe it is right now and that only adds to this whole thing. It's as if another Castle lives just underneath the skin of the one she spends her days and nights with, which itself is underneath the clothes of the man everyone else sees. This part of him comes out to play in the best and worst of times only. She's not sure which one it is tonight.
"No," she protests again when he steps into her space, his face inches from hers and his piercing eyes stabbing through hers. His lips curl into a sneer. "This isn't- Castle, no!"
"Fine. We'll do this the hard way, then."
Twisting in his grasp, she writhes and pleads – no, don't, not like this - until her elbows bend unnaturally and she brings one crashing into his chest. Surprises him into letting her go. Her instinct to flee like frightened prey kicks in, she dashes under his arm, any direction, any at all, as long as it's away.
She gets as far as the couch when he halts her, thick immovable arm catching her from behind and strapping around her middle, yanking her backwards even while the rest of her continues in motion, the immutable law involving acceleration and mass conspiring to bring her downward. Castle sinks to his knees, taking advantage of her still-falling body and draping his body over the back of her own.
"Now, now, Beckett," her partner drawls, his breathing heavy in her ear and not a bit of it from the exertion of trapping her, but rather from his plain excitement. "Don't make this harder on yourself." She tries to say something again, but the hand clenching angrily at her hip releases her. For a fraction of a second, she thinks she has a chance to escape, but before she can make to right herself, his fingers grasp her breast, kneading her painfully, pinching her nipple through the fabric of her shirt and bra. The touch sparks straight to her pussy and to her humiliation, the wet spot in her panties grows. A whimper escapes her.
"Castle, leave- just go-" the words spill from her in the right order, but they sound hollow even to her ears. "Please," please – what? "just go, we can forget about this, we don't have to-"
"Oh yes we do, Beckett," he snaps, his knee coming to rest in the small of her back, and she's pinned so completely helpless to the floor but she thrashes still. "I think you know exactly what we have to do."
She does. Despite her protests, her refusal to admit her nature even to herself, she knows.
They grapple for some time, the self-assured strength of having the upper hand making Castle a near immovable object, but it doesn't stop her from trying. She doesn't—she can hardly think, can't think, can't think about or feel anything besides him holding her down, besides feeling like he surrounds her in every way, too close, far too close and not close enough, and it's too much. Hearing herself exhale in one woosh as if the wind's been knocked out of her, she relaxes because it's almost too much and because she doesn't know what else to do. Goes limp beneath him. It takes Castle a moment to realize, to stop fighting with her while he's shoving her slacks down lengthy legs that are no longer kicking blindly hoping to land a blow on him.
It's a good move. It confuses him. The pressure of his knee pinning her and the angry hands on her hip and breast ease fractionally. She can't see him, but she can feel his concern all the same. Fuck that. She hasn't said her word.
She tries escaping, gets nowhere, and then she's face to furious fiery face with a Castle she hardly recognizes. His mouth is curled into the wicked relief of a stony sneer like the consummate movie villain; jaw clenched in rage, the erratic bob of his throat the only sign that control isn't entirely easy for him. But then, his eyes... his eyes still hold him, in flashes. They flicker softness and concern, and contrary to the hand at her throat and the other splayed across her stomach, she can see how hard he's fighting. How hard it is for him to walk the line between controlled enough and out of control enough.
"Stop," she sighs, aiming for fear and pleading and instead ending up directly on fuck me, even to her ears. He hears it, she knows, and she swallows, trying to snap herself back into character.
"I don't think you want me to stop," he rasps out darkly, and worse still, he's right. The anger at that drives her as she remembers herself again, lands a slap to his face and watches the choleric rush sink back into him, the predatory joy of the hunt and playing with his prey return. His thumb forces on her windpipe, not enough to restrict airflow, but enough to make her certain that he could. If he wanted to. "You want this." She pulls her palm back to strike again, and he's on top of her fully, his chest to hers, a full arm lazily trapping both of hers. "You're making me mad," he explains to her with icy-sharp articulation, jamming his hips into hers to let her feel his straining cock and how he stops to stimulate himself against her, "be good. You're not going to like it if I'm angry."
She does like it. She hates that she likes it.
His voice alone, dark and syrupy and unsafe, is enough to both frighten and excite her. She throws herself into it, thrashing beneath him as his free hand quickly liberates her of her shirt, doesn't bother reaching behind her to remove her bra, just gives it a brutal yank up her chest to expose her to his sight and touch, squeezes the sensitive flesh roughly. Her angular elbows and shoulder blades ache at being crushed to the cold floor, a dull throbbing beginning to course through her.
He's near immune to the blows she's managing to get in, as he's no longer able to contain her hands and undress himself at the same time. The knee on her chest means she's going nowhere, but she can still fight. She can. He's not going to subdue her. Adrenaline pulses in her, the aborted high of confronting Bracken returning with vengeance, and all three adrenaline responses vie for dominance.
Carelessly, Castle jerks her panties aside, deciding for her on the third F. Without ceremony, he cups her, evidence of exactly what her body thinks of this coating his hand instantly.
"I knew it," when did he become so good at being so dark? "I knew you wanted this. Do you want more, Beckett?"
"No!" she screams, reaching around to the back of his neck, gouging him with her fingernails and dragging. Castle roars indistinctly, pain testing the man's grip on the leash of his control. She can't breathe. Can't think. Can't focus on her emotions. Only feel and fight. Fight or flight or...
"Fuck," she swears. Lexical ambiguity leaves her unable to decide what it means.
"That's right," Castle agrees mockingly, producing his belt and easily pinning her wrists above her, fastening them together with alacrity that speaks to experience.
She's growing exhausted – he's utterly immovable, her chest heaves with the exertion of struggling futilely. She gives one last buck of her hips up into him, the attempt to dislodge him only making her situation worse when her hip grinds into his erection, the massively swollen head dark and leaking steadily. Castle groans, bending down to whisper nastily in her ear.
"Give up, Beckett."
She can't move, can't do anything but whimper out senseless, formless please to him. Her throat clogs with tears that spill down her face. Castle pays it no mind, toeing her slacks all the way off and bringing her panties with them with a callous wrench.
Moving upward until he hovers over her chest – only just not crushing her. One hand wraps leisurely around his cock, the other brushing her throat as if contemplating holding her there, then electing to fist into her hair.
"Open your mouth," he orders tersely, waiting her response with mocking patience. A menacing noise escapes him when she fails to follow directions. "I said, open your mouth, and don't think about biting."
She thinks about it as best she can in her haze, hardly able to get out her protests.
"Now!" Castle barks, his thick digits forcing entrance at her lips and – fuck – she wants to, she wants to give up, wants to open her mouth, wants to take him in and suck him and let him use her mouth. But if she does – if things go too far, if she can't speak to get her word out, can't get out of this...
"Yellow!" she cries, plaintive in her anxiety and seeing no other option. Castle stares down at her, unmoving for long moments, she can see him trying to process what she's said. Slowly, his fingers withdraw, her panic abating with them, replaced by a freefall of emotion. Regret. Sadness. Relief. The events of the day rush back to her. She berates herself. She can play chicken with a bomb to save her mother's murderer, but can't deal with this? Now Castle's going to see her imperfection and back away from this. Weak, she's so weak-
Castle clasps her chin, turning her to look at him.
"What's wrong?" voice restrained and choked, he's no less demanding, but for a different reason. Demanding honesty. Demanding she admit just a little to him.
Everything stops for a moment. Her inner voice. The battle between them. She can think again, and it does not occur to her to deceive him or herself.
"Not my mouth. My word..." Castle's eyes go wide with the dawn of understanding, and he nods. He takes another deep breath, dips and kisses her soundly. Body relieved and thrumming with the high of his unconditional acceptance, she melts into him, everything else forgotten, but all too soon, he's back into his role.
Before she knows what's happening, she's on her feet, being marched – somewhere – with his fist in her hair forcing her to walk with him. He hasn't stopped? She wants to stop, if only long enough to turn around and kiss him again, jump into his arms and thank him for understanding. But she can't. She can't do anything. A fresh wave of wetness pools between her thighs at the thought, her pussy clenching around nothing.
Throwing her on the bed like a ragdoll, Castle steps back, admiring his work with a mixture of pride and momentary concern. She's fatigued, so tired, so very tired that she instinctively curls up in a ball, shielding herself from his view and touch momentarily. Her body aches with the prolonged struggle against him, she doesn't have the energy to fight. So she resorts to her words. What she can make of them, anyway.
"Are you going to be a good girl now?" he asks condescendingly, crawling on top of her and drawing her bound hands back above her head, either not noticing or not caring that she's already working one hand free. "Yeah, I think you are."
She's finding it more and more difficult to maintain this strange, slow combat. She doesn't resist when he rolls her on her back, pulling her thighs apart, cold air eddying around her overheated flesh mingling headily with her temperature flaring hot, skin prickling all over.
"I knew it. You're wet as fuck, Beckett." She knows – she knows she is, god, can he just stop taunting her? "So hot for it. You're dripping, just begging me to fuck you. Tell me how you want it," Castle implores nastily. Something deep in her belly clenches, winding tighter and tighter at his words. "Tell me how much you want my cock."
"I don't!" she cries, weakly trying to kick him again, "Please, I don't-"
A single bark of a laugh pierces the air of the bedroom, cutting through the heaviness of what they're doing, the faint smell of sex that permeates the air.
Two digits penetrate her without warning, curl, and she's flying, her orgasm wracking through her at the slightest brush of the spot inside her after all the tension they've built up. Castle doesn't give her a chance to come down, flicking his thumb over her clit roughly until it feels like she's on fire, unable to take any more, unable to stop her body's response.
"Can you admit it now, Kate?" she can admit anything. She'll do anything. "Do you want me to fuck you now?"
"Please..." she manages through her whines and keens. Anything that will divert his attentions away from the nerve center of the painful pleasure he's inflicting on her. He knows it. Rolls her clit between his fingers and jerks, her legs spasming when he does. "Please..."
She doesn't know if she's supposed to be begging him to fuck her or begging him not to. She doesn't care at this point, just as long as he does.
"You don't get a choice." Her cunt throbs in response and she knows he feels it, another traitorous small climax juddering through her almost at his words alone.
Yanking her legs up and exposing her completely, Castle withdraws his fingers, making a show of sucking them clean before bringing his upper body down to hers, staring her in the soul with the thick muddle of love and darkness. He spreads her with the head of his cock, thrusting deeply and bottoming out. No warning. The sensation takes over her and she swears she can feel him in her chest, her throat, her mouth, everywhere. She feels every bit of him, every ridge and vein of him filling her and utterly overpowering her. It hurts – good hurt – as long as her body still tries to resist, before finally giving up and opening for him.
Their savage rhythm is accompanied by the harmony of her screeches and his grunts and barely-sounded utterances. Whether they're threats or reassurances or anything else, she doesn't know – her brain's beyond hearing or comprehending anything now. It's all only just drowning out the wet slap of their bodies together, his balls and thighs against her ass. She can feel herself building quickly or maybe just never coming down, her ecstasy fighting with the pain and fear, building an uncontrollable blaze like bottled thermite. It has to go somewhere, it has to, has to burn something, she can't keep it in her body or she'll explode. She'll simply explode. There's nowhere else for it to go, nothing else she can do but dig her nails deep into the arms that pin her and savagely sink her teeth into his shoulder. Time flies out the window with her senses as she peaks, coming again and still he won't relent.
"Good girl, Kate," Castle says raggedly, using her name again and no longer in character, just him, just Castle, "fuck- fuck- Kate. Going to come in you, Kate. Make you wetter. Fill you up."
Her tears flow steadily as he trembles above her, his orgasm flooding her body with him, the warmth spreading through her – the anger and self-loathing and fear and stress all salty and damp on her cheeks, all washed away and replaced with the final burst, the aching joy of total surrender.
Lazy and tabby-cat docile, Kate comes to draped over her partner's back. Not sure how she got there. Pretty sure she doesn't care. Her mind's quieter now, even though her legs and hands still tremble boneless and pleasantly sore, transient reminders of what they've done.
She runs her fingertips over his back lightly, tracing the culpable marks she's made on him. His only movement is to fold his arms in front of him, lay his head to the side and rest his cheek on his folded forearms. Castle breathes shallowly, troubled. His skin twitches under her touch, his body beneath her quite tense. She senses his state, whatever it is. Pandemonium. Psychological bedlam.
Murmuring her gratitude to him, she rubs her palms over his arms, caressing his shoulders, his neck. He's far away, drifting around in some memory that makes his expression change without any apparent external input. The raffish pelt of his hair is hopelessly torn from its normal shape - flops onto his forehead, obscuring what little she could see of his face. His eyes appear to be shut, but she's under no delusion that he's resting. Processing, more like.
When her legs can move again, maybe minutes or maybe an hour later, she stands, wobbling slightly and squirming with the run of their mingled juices down her legs. Castle looks up over his shoulder behind her, quirking his clever mouth in a guilty smirk when Kate turns to catch him openly staring at her ass. She retreats to the bathroom, then the kitchen. Silly man. How can he not know that she most definitely does not object to that? Even if she did, she'd be a hypocrite, for the number of times she stares at his. She's just better at not being caught.
She returns quickly with a large steel bottle of ice water from the fridge, his and hers matching icepacks, a clean flannel with antiseptic for the scratches and bites.
She really did a number on him this time.
"Hey," he greets soberly, watching her eyes carefully as he always does after they... well, it doesn't matter. She's fine. More than fine. Flashing him a smile – genuine and toothy and full of life for the first time in days – she wills him to understand. To not overthink it. Some day they'll have to have a conversation about it, but not now. Not today. A sense of tranquility sets over her as she straddles his hips, shushes him sweetly when he hisses at the sting of the antiseptic on the angry red tracks she's made in him.
"Hey, yourself," murmurs Kate belatedly. He's not himself. She's noticed this before when he's taken her, but tonight it's far more pronounced. "Are you okay?"
A shake of his body beneath her is the only indication of laughter, a single sound that doesn't reach her ears as much as vibrates through both of them as a hollow jerk.
"'m fine," replies Castle after a while. "Shouldn't I be asking you that?" he asks, more as if he's fighting with himself about that than asking her directly, so she stays quiet, waits for him, touching him lightly. "I uh..."
Sensing he's about to say something that may be too much, too intense coming off what they've done, Kate tries her best not to squirm, but still finds herself looking for an exit, a distraction, a distance of any kind to put between them. Her nudity is almost intolerable. Willpower wins out, and she elects instead to resume dabbing one particularly deep scratch, still lightly oozing blood.
"It scared me," he admits, solemn. "I don't like how much I like behaving that way when I'm in the moment."
Kate thinks she knows the feeling. There's a twinge of guilt. It's her issues that bring about these nights in the first place.
"I didn't think I could stop. Part of me didn't want to."
She wracks her hazy brain, wondering what point in the night he could be referring to.
"When you said yellow," he answers for her. Freaky shared brain thing. "I almost... I liked it, when you were afraid and begging me. I liked hearing you beg and cry."
It's her natural instinct to tell him it's okay. It is – to her. She knows he'd never betray her trust, even if it's difficult. She knows that their play can seem too real to him at times. But she also knows telling him it's okay seems dismissive to him, like she doesn't take it seriously how difficult this role be for him, especially afterward. Rubbing soothing circles in his back and carefully avoiding the marks she's left on him, she's not sure what to say. So she says nothing for a long while, letting the fingers of one hand affectionately card through the pelt of his ottery hair, hoping they'll speak for her.
"I trust you," she finally assures him instead. A simple affirmation. And the truth – the ultimate truth in all of this, all of what they are in every context. He relaxes some. She think's the storm's mostly past. "It's okay to like it, Castle." She's a hypocrite, but it's also the truth. "It's just a fantasy."
A gentle palm cups the bony knob of her knee, lightly squeezing.
"Up?" he requests, nothing close to an order. He'll not so much as tell her to drink her coffee for days after this – everything, for a time, will be phrased as a request. That she knows from experience.
She knows other things from experience, too. That he won't tell her he loves her for many hours, if at all tonight. She suspects he can't reconcile that with the violence, even if it's just play. Knows that he'll stop her when she tries to tell him. She knows that it will be a few days before he stops hovering closer than normal to her, and that he'll not let her go at all during the night, keeping her body in as much contact with his as possible. That sex will be slow and kind in the coming hours and days, and in a way more intense.
She complies happily, swinging her leg around and letting him turn over and prop himself up against the headboard. No sooner has he rested back than he's drawing her onto his lap and into his arms, big and strong and home. Tending to the cruel bites at the junction of his shoulders and neck, Kate relishes this as much as anything. Taking care of him. He took care of her, and it takes so much out of him sometimes.
Castle holds her in the cradle of his body, looming over her in a way that makes her feel small and cherished and protected in spite of – no, because of – what they've done. What she's allowed him. The things she's given up and that he's taken responsibility for, feels the weight of it never more than on nights like this, but that he cares for and nurtures so brilliantly.
The slow ecstasy lingers over her like a heavy blanket, protection against the harsh outside world. Strongly, for hours, but more faintly for days afterward. It will eventually dull from this humming rapture to a low pulse of well-being and psychological peace. She doesn't know why she feels this way. And for right now, at least, she doesn't care. Her heart's free of the anger and fear of her work, free of guilt and shame, of the usual suspicion that she's got something dreadfully wrong with her for wanting Castle in that wild way, for liking it when he manhandles her and when he's in control and when he tells her what to do. When she doesn't have to decide, when she has no control of and no blame for her reactions and can blame it on him and on her body instead of her mind.
The word's always on the tip of her tongue. She just doesn't want to have to hear herself say it, what he is. She wants to hear what – by elimination – that makes her even less. So many connotations. So contradictory to what she – Detective Kate Beckett, top cop – has always been told to be, taught to want to be, allowed herself to become.
Some day, maybe she won't need this. Won't need to ask him for a story to alibi her conscience from the truth. But she's not there yet. She doesn't know when she will be.
Dropping a kiss to her forehead and brushing her tangled, sweat-dampened hair out of the way, Castle revels in having her in his arms. She's still and quiet. No firestorm. No chaos. Just his Kate, unburdened and thoroughly tired out. The smile she reserves just for him goes a long way toward making it okay, and he returns as much of it as he can, outright grinning when she shifts a little, tilting her head back in unsubtle invitation for him to kiss her.
"Shameless," he mutters affectionately, his heart weighted with thoughts and feelings beyond words.
"Mmmhm."
Castle pauses, downing a gulp of ice water before bringing the vessel to her lips and tipping it back, watching her face as she drinks with a slow-burning sense of wonder, seeing her so sweet and vulnerable. Resentment or regret are things unknown, just the hearthglow of curiosity and love scribbled across her features. Even after what he's done to her. He marvels at her, sensing how safe she feels in his hands when not an hour ago they were inflicting – pretending to inflict, he corrects himself – pain and terror on her.
Setting the bottle aside when she's finished, Castle gives her what she wants, without the slightest reservation or guilt this time. Stroking his tongue into her mouth and sighing his happiness when she reciprocates enthusiastically, twists herself to bring their lower bodies together, still keeping herself cocooned against his chest, her head resting on his shoulder. They make out slowly, lighthearted and giddy and unhurried, rocking against each other for just enough friction to tease, to bring his mood and his body's responses back up and make some of the guilt ebb away.
Kate's fingers lace with his, guiding them down the smooth plain of her body dotted with gooseflesh from the cold and from the aftershocks of pleasure that still shimmy through her occasionally. Slipping their fingers to the juncture of her thighs, she idly plays with her clit. Something she often does after one of these nights. Castle breaks off, gazing at her questioningly.
"Please?" she asks, and of all the times she's said it tonight, it's unique for its happiness and contentment. Contentment he's provided her. That's something. It's enough to sustain him.
Spreading her pussy open with his fingers, Castle hums softly at the gorgeous sight. She's soaked with the remains of both their passion, red and still swollen and he realizes he needs it as much as she does. Being with her like this again won't erase what he's done. He wouldn't want it to, he knows she wouldn't either. But it goes a long way towards putting him back to something like normal. He just needs to be sure she's okay, that taking her that way didn't take any of her away.
Silently, he lines himself up, sliding home and groaning quietly at the feel of her around him, warm and snug and perfect. They hardly move at all, soft and lazy, letting their kisses and easy touches speak as much as anything. No goal or race to the end, no rush, no power play. Just a need for connection.
When they break their kiss for a moment, her eyes smile at their corners and twinkle up at him, the universe of her complexities swirling in their warm depths as she whispers to him.
"I think I like this part best."
Castle's inclined to agree.
Prompt: "Very rough, hair pulling, biting, scratching, bruising sex + tender, sweet aftercare."
Originally was going to be a fill for kink meme, but it took more time than anticipated to get this one to where I could accept it and post it in reasonably good conscience. So here ya go.
Many thanks to my lovely beta D, and to all whose conversations have inspired and informed this.