A/N: Everything here is 100% consensual (and noted as such in the fic), but a bit rougher than most of what I write. Just a heads up if that's not your thing.
He's so careful when he rises beside her, the reassuring squeeze of her arm and the drag of his hand along her back keeping her aware of his location as he moves. She's endlessly grateful for the way he just knows, understands without a word of warning that she's wound too tightly and that startling her now will be devastating. When he leans over to brush a kiss to the top of her head, she's ready for it, the delicately placed punctuation at the end of an unspoken promise.
I'm here to catch you if you fall.
Then he's there by her side once more, holding out a hand with such patience that she's sorry – again – that she's ever made him wait for anything. She takes it, of course, sliding their palms together silently as he pulls her up and leads her toward their bedroom. There's little chance of her sleeping tonight, not without the kind of nightmares that will drive her to the guest room in the pre-dawn hours; she trusts him with everything she has, but she won't make him witness the nights her demons claw mercilessly at her soul. Still, she's content to curl alongside him for a while, her taut lines and sharp angles made softer by the inherent tenderness of the man she loves.
She's a full step behind him, physically and otherwise, so he's shut the door and pressed her against it before she can grasp what is about to happen. He isn't kissing her yet, allowing for the time it takes her to catch up, but his entire body is grounding her until she can manage to push some of the chaos aside, just far enough for him to give her everything she needs. When he reaches for the silk scarf that hangs on the back of the bedroom door for nights like this, her body responds instinctively. She peaks, tightens, clenches, gasps, warms, and feels the unmistakable pooling of arousal. Oh.
"Same word as usual?" he asks, and her mind has cleared just enough for her to nod in response. "I need to hear you, Kate."
"Yes, the same word as usual."
He steps back with the scarf and she misses the contact immediately, but she hurriedly rids herself of both her shirt and her bra, tossing them aside and standing patiently before him. He hums his approval, and her anxiety ebbs again when he begins to tie her wrists together; he keeps them in front of her body, both of them understanding that she won't use her hands without permission. There have been numerous occasions requiring stricter rules and restraints from which she can't break free, but those limits are unnecessary tonight and the scarf is nothing but symbolic. She's as bound by her own psyche as by any piece of fabric, and he's here to assist in her escape.
Her hair is wild, a mess of waves around her face, so she's not surprised when he grabs a fistful of it and guides her head back to expose the long line of her neck. Like an animal, she's vulnerable to the way he could tear her apart, her eyes feral as he bites into her skin. He knows her so well, though, and he'll manage to inflict the right amount of pain without any lasting marks; the last thing she'll need in the morning is an angry reminder when she looks for hope in the mirror.
He continues to scrape his teeth over her, finding her earlobe, the slash of her jawline, and her bottom lip – well-acquainted with that particular brand of punishment – before he finally, finally kisses her, demanding that she open to him.
It's unnecessary; she's pretty sure she's always been his for the taking.
Still, they collide almost violently and she gives herself up to it, offers her mouth and whatever else he will use to make things okay again. She can taste the merlot that lingers on his tongue and she knows she's just as dark as the drink he must have set aside before he pinned her, just as fluid in his arms. It will be up to him to consume her entirely. The kiss is messy now, and the press of his lower body into the cradle of her hips pulls a growl from him and a needy moan from her. Then he's clawing at her until he succeeds in shoving his hand past the waistband of her yoga pants, careful to stay above the rough lace of her thong so he can rub the soaked material against her while she keens into his mouth. Fuck.
Her mind is so clouded now, even more so than before, exhausted from the utter hell she endured at the hands of Vulcan Simmons and tortured by the ongoing war with Senator Bracken, so she is growing desperate for what Castle is about to do to her. He will break her until she's unrecognizable, restoring her piece by piece when her head is finally quiet again.
There's no more time to waste, the sounds falling from her lips becoming increasingly despondent, so he withdraws his hand and tugs at her clothes until they've fallen around her ankles and she stands bare against the bedroom door, wrists still tightly wrapped with beautiful silk. He undresses quickly, uninterested in turning this into a seduction when it's nothing but a blur to her, consciousness unraveling again the longer his body is kept away from hers.
When he returns to guide her to the bed, there's nothing kind about the way he handles her, but it stopped mattering long ago. A wide palm lands in the middle of her back to push her face-down on the mattress, the duvet and flat sheet already crumpled on the floor so that only the fitted one remains. Even the pillows are mysteriously gone, and there's something striking about the blank canvas she's now sprawled upon. In the next second, he's crawling up her body until she can feel his arousal nudging between her legs, her own body weeping in anticipation while her eyes fall shut. Her restrained arms are stretched above her head as she lies prone, her cheek resting against the coolness of the sheet.
His breath offers a searing contrast when leans down to whisper in her ear. "Are you still with me?"
She hisses out a yes.
Anything else she might have managed is lost when he uses his legs to spread hers further, slides his arm beneath her abdomen, and slams into her with little other warning, her body clenching possessively in response. There's no tender appreciation of their connection, no chance to adjust to the sensation of being so filled; he pulls away almost completely, the responding ache immediate, and then drives forward again. And again. And again.
She lifts her head and flattens her palms against the headboard, the only leverage she can possibly find in her position. He's rocking into her – fucking her – without reprieve, and the bed is squeaking out repeated protests to the force of his body, the sounds being made between them only adding to the madness. It's so tight like this, almost painful, but there's a strange relief in being able to feel anything beyond the deep chill that had settled in her bones hours ago; the ice water that had been used to torture her still serves as a cruel reminder, continuing its unrepentant course through her veins.
From the corner of her eye, she catches sight of his forearm, muscles straining as he supports his weight above her. His other arm is still tucked underneath, raising her hips to him while his hand is pressed into her side, fingers splayed and leaving the shadow of his unforgiving grip between the harsh lines of her ribs. As coherent thought becomes more of a blessed struggle, she flashes back to the last time she ached with such bitter cold, how much she'd needed this kind of attention after they'd been rescued from the freezer. But he wouldn't have fucked her then, not like he is now, the way he's relentlessly pumping into her until the last of her control is gone. No, back then he would have held her with a tenderness that might have destroyed her. Their love was still unspoken, barely recognized perhaps, and he would have cherished her so completely. His lips would have carried promises too precious to be released into the space between them, each one left along her naked body instead. There would have been no soreness afterward, only the ghost of his touch, even the pressure between her legs too gentle to break the ice away. He wouldn't have understood then, couldn't possibly have been able to tear her apart and rebuild her anew.
He does it without question now.
And she's lost to him, the sensation of being so fully taken overwhelming her. There's very little feeling left in her outstretched and still-bound arms, the wet slap of their bodies' connection suddenly muted, and her vision beginning to blur; only his deep thrusts bring her back from a dangerous edge, keeping her on the right side of consciousness.
If she were any more aware, she'd notice how carefully he was holding his hand away from her mouth tonight. So often, during moments like these, he'd slip his fingers past her lips, allowing her to suck and soothe whatever panic had driven them to an almost-violent desperation. Or she'd be screaming while he thoroughly owned her, purging herself of unnamed terror until his hand would slide across her mouth, silencing her and helping himself to more of the power he could so effectively wield. But he won't do any of that right now, knowing without question that it would bring an unwelcome end to their evening, abruptly unraveling his careful efforts; he'd learned enough about her repeated dunking at the hands of Simmons' men to avoid anything that might restrict her ability to breathe. Instead, he blankets her body with his, warding off the cold and any evil lingering in the darkness of the room.
If she were any more aware, she'd be grateful.
But nearly all of her world has dulled, forgotten except for the insistence of his cock between her legs and the way she responds so sharply to every brutal stroke. It's almost unfathomable, but her arousal has coiled tight in her core despite her inability to feel anything else, and she's close. So fucking close. She just needs him to let go of whatever restraint he's just barely maintained.
He finally does.
The tears roll over the curve of her cheeks and hang pathetically along her jaw until they fall to the sheet below. Her legs are spread wider now and the bed is rocking wildly beneath them as his movements become merciless, so intent on fucking the hurt from her mind that he's inflicting new pain on her helpless body. And it's exactly what pushes her over the edge, her muscles tightening, clenching, begging him until she swears she can almost feel him pulsing inside her. He groans, long and loud against her ear and the sound causes her entire body to shudder with a smaller climax, even as he smothers it with the weight he can no longer support above her. He's quick to roll off her, but she misses the connection immediately, and he wordlessly pulls her into his embrace as her heartbeat finds its way back to normal.
Her wrists remain wrapped in the silk scarf and tucked between them; he won't untie her until they both know she's recovered enough to want that element of control back. From past experience, it could be a matter of minutes or hours, but for a man who was willing to wait for years, this is nothing at all. She sighs into his shoulder and closes her eyes.
They wait together now.
This was based upon a quote I saw on tumblr (source: graciouswords dot tumblr dot com): "And when you fuck her, do so until her body breaks and her mind escapes her. Then hold her in your arms until she finds her way back home to you." My deepest thanks for the inspiration.