Housekeeping: Some of you will recognize this first half as it has previously been posted to another archive (AO3); however, this is now a 'double-feature'. Allow me to clarify: This is NOT a sequel - this is the entire story - the previously-released first section plus the never-published second half combined in one posting.
Written for a prompt (which I will place at the end) - and set in season one though you can let your imaginations go wild; it is purposely kept vague.
My words are a little rusty so just... don't have too high expectations, m'kay? This isn't exactly plot-heavy... ;)
In This Here Reality
This can't be real.
He must be dreaming. This can't possibly be real. There's no way in any conscious reality that he could ever have imagined where at this very moment he is actually staring at Kate Beckett touching herself. Kate Beckett with her knees spread open and her fingers between her thighs, Kate Beckett stark naked from the waist down. Kate Beckett lost to the throes of carnal need, making herself come.
This can't be real. He pinches himself, bites his lip to suppress a hiss because it hurt and if it hurt it can't be a dream, right? His mind is hazy because this can't be real and yet the pain was real, and the sounds are real, and so is the scent filling the room. Oh god he can smell her even from so many steps away and his knees weaken, his throat parched.
He should leave. Right now. Turn around, do not take another step, do not pass go, do not collect $200. But he can't move, stands frozen on the spot, can't tear his eyes away.
He's staring right at her, right at her, able to see every detail even though the lighting is dim - the darker and lighter pink flesh, her finger disappearing into the rippled depths of her body, the glistening wetness coating her folds. His blood races south, his cock almost painfully erect immediately because this is sexier and hotter than any porn, really anything he's ever, ever seen.
She whimpers, her thigh muscles quivering as her fingers rub faster, round and round and over her clit, her breathing fast and labored, and his legs move without his permission, take a further step into the room. His brain is yelling at him to stop but his body is drawn to her, every part aching to touch and feel and taste. He's shaking, a horde of butterflies overtaking his insides and his legs are still moving, one step, another step.
The floorboard creaks, the sound vicious as it screams through the muffled silence of the room. He freezes. Her hand clamps over her folds, covering herself, her legs snapping shut as her head flies up, eyes wide with shock.
"Castle," she hisses when she spots him, a sound like venom as her eyebrows knit and the vein pumps in her forehead. "What the fuck? Get the hell out!"
He can't move. He's staring, his heart thundering against his ribs, body shaking with need because this is Kate Beckett, the woman he's dreamt and fantasized about countless times and the sight is so devastatingly beautiful that he can't possibly look away. To his own horror his legs are not obeying her demand or even his own brain that tries to reason with him that he should leave, really, right now because he takes another step - forward.
Kate gasps, fire spewing from her eyes, anger radiating from her in waves as her toes dig into the sheet, her legs, her stomach, even her ass quivering from the strain. Her breathing is rushed, all of her shaking, her hips lifting against her own palm and - she must've been close, he realizes, really close. And then he notices the dark flare of arousal mingling with the anger in her eyes, the flush to her cheeks, the tip of her tongue sliding against her bottom lip just so and holy shit!
It makes him stupid, makes him brave. His next step is determined, confident, daring her to speak, to throw him out - daring her to move. Her eyes widen, her mouth falling open as she holds his gaze, seems to dare him right back. What are you gonna do, Castle?
He wraps his hands around each of her knees, drags her ass to the edge of the bed, spreads her legs wide open. A breath rushes from her lungs and he stares into her eyes as he trails his fingers down the inside of her thighs, digging into her flesh as he holds her spread open before him, the thick scent of her arousal drifting into his nose, setting him on fire.
Kate Beckett is nothing if not kick-ass and he has no doubt that if she didn't want this, he'd be on the ground with a foot to his throat. Instead her eyes never leave his as she stares him down, her leg muscles clenching underneath is grip, waiting him out with almost defiant determination.
Eyes never leaving hers, he drops to his knees, drags her hand away and attaches his mouth to her clit. He sucks, hard. She cries out, her head falling back, her fingers gripping the bedspread. She must've been really close because she comes immediately, wetness gushing against his chin as he sucks, never letting up as her body convulses, muscles visibly clenching in her abdomen, her hips flaring up to meet more of his mouth, head thrown back and a string of ragged cries falling from her throat.
He chases her orgasm as she comes down, grazing his tongue and his teeth against the swollen, sensitive nerves and her hips quiver, her body sinking limply into the mattress. He maps her with his tongue, long strokes up and down the length of her, delving into her, filling his mouth with her wetness, her flavor both tart and sweet, so perfectly like her that he thinks he may never have enough of this woman, may happily spend his life chasing this, chasing her.
She mewls, writhes beneath him, fingers scrabbling at his hair, to push him away or drag him closer, it's hard to tell but when he flicks the tip of his tongue across her nerves she screams, her whole body convulsing and he knows he can make her come again. He runs the flat of his tongue over her, plays and circles and teases while he slides two fingers deep inside her heat, almost loses it himself right there when her inner muscles quiver around him and she's so wet and hot and ready for him, so velvety soft, feels so incredibly perfect.
She moans and mumbles, yes and fuck and more more more and he pumps harder, deeper, in and out, curls his fingers against the ridged sensitive spot inside, licks and sucks and nips her clit, tonguing her folds. She's quivering, swelling and getting tighter around his fingers, her breathing choppy and her head thrashing from side to side and this is by far the sexiest thing he's ever done - making Kate Beckett come.
Her hips jerk and he presses down harder with his mouth to keep her in place, give her the pressure she seeks while he runs his other hand up across her abdomen and underneath her t-shirt, roughly tweaking her nipple through the lace of her bra. She moans, long and hard, all of her so tensed that he knows she's close. He pumps and presses hard, simultaneously teases his pinkie finger around the rim of her rear, dipping the tip of his finger just barely inside and then she screams, her nails sharp as they dig into his scalp, her hips jerking up high, her whole body shaking and convulsing as she comes hard and very, very loud.
He drags out her pleasure, fingers pressed to her sweet spot and his tongue lapping until she's sobbing, her hands limply pushing his head off her.
He sinks onto his haunches, heart racing and muscles limp; all of him just as spent. He lays his cheek to the soft skin of her abdomen, his blood throbbing thickly, achingly in his lap. His eyes sink closed as he inhales her now-familiar scent, feels the rushed rhythm of her heartbeat beneath her skin.
The silence stretches, long moments only filled with the arrhythmia of their breathing until he feels the awkwardness like a third person intruding into their intimate moment. He swallows hard, doesn't know what to do; wonders if she expects him to leave and worries that he should, even though every part of him is revolting at the idea because he wants nothing more than to taste and feel her over and over again. He knew they'd be great but in his wildest dreams, in his best writing, he couldn't have imagined how extraordinary, how explosive and life-altering she'd be.
He really had no idea.
They haven't said a word.
He just thoroughly ate her out while she screamed and bucked, fell apart under his meticulous ministrations; he's still kneeling between her legs with his fingers sticky where her moisture is drying against his skin and yet they still haven't spoken. He feels that that's odd; verbal sparring is pretty much the basis of their relationship, after all. Well that, and his utter infatuation with anything and everything that is Kate Beckett. It's safe to say that the past half hour certainly didn't lessen that.
He's man enough to admit to himself that he feels a little lost. Is there some sort of etiquette for Proper Behavior When You've Gone Down on Your Still-Not-All-That-Enthused-With-You Partner After You Caught Her Masturbating? Because he's had more than his fair share of experiences but nothing has ever prepared him for this.
At first he thinks he's imagining it, the soft movements of her hands on his head but then it becomes unmistakable - her fingertips curling into his hair, circling his scalp slowly- with care. His head sinks heavier against her stomach; an almost inaudible sigh falls from his lips. His breath travels across her skin, a flare of goose bumps following in its wake that he can't help but track with his eyes. His blood pumps languidly down to his midsection, the throbbing bordering on painful where his hardened length is imprisoned by the sharp inseam of his jeans.
Her touch is so tender and it reminds him how much of a conundrum this woman truly is. Sharp-witted and full of passionate fire, an almost cruel tease at times and yet with such depth and warmth and sensibility cracking through her tough shell the levels of which he thinks he's never before met. No-one has ever intrigued him like Beckett.
She's a mystery he may never solve.
But she hasn't thrown him out yet and he takes that as a good sign; he may not solve her but he may as well dig a little deeper, push her a little further still. Or die trying. His heart hammers but he brazenly slides his hand down her abdomen, holds his breath waiting on her reaction as he travels lower, and lower still until he's cupping her between her legs. His middle finger slips between her folds, the tip teasing against her entrance and he bites back a too desperate groan as he's enfolded by the warm, slick velvet of her body.
Beckett mewls, her thigh muscles tightening in syncopation with the grip of her fingers around strands of his hair until she's moving beneath him. Her toes dig into his shoulder as she stretches one of her gorgeous, limber legs, and pushes him away from her.
There's fire sparking from her eyes, an almost dangerous glint as she eyes him. "Lose the clothes," she orders, and he scrambles to obey because he isn't stupid enough not to.
Her teeth snag at her bottom lip as she scoots further onto the bed. Propped up on her elbows she watches every one of his moves. His body tingles under her gaze, his blood rushing in his ears, his limbs, his hard length that bobs out eagerly as soon as he drags down his jeans and boxers. Standing stark-naked before her, he feels more exposed than he expected but the dark challenge in her look makes him step forward instead.
"Your turn," he growls, staring back at her. Eyebrow raised she sits up, peels her t-shirt up over her head, then unhooks her bra, her eyes never leaving his and every movement measured as the bra straps slowly descend off her shoulders. The cups drop, freeing the soft weight of her breasts almost in slow motion.
Fuck, she's stunning. More beautiful than he envisioned, than he ever could've written and he's on her immediately, knees sinking into the mattress when he crawls over her, wraps his mouth around one breast. He sucks her into his mouth, hard, flicks and circles the other nipple with his thumb, and she falls back onto the bed, dragging him with her.
He's feasting on her, there's no other word for it but he can't stop, the taste and feel of her skin like a drug consuming his system, her back arched high off the mattress and her fingers gripped around strands of his hair. The sounds falling from her lips only spur him on further, moans and chants and breathless incoherencies. He's pressing her down, hips rolling to seek her arousal when her knees tighten around his hips and his world suddenly tilts off his axis.
He lands on his back with an oomph of breath while this incomprehensibly sexy female holds him hostage against the mattress and rises above him, fierce and fiery and indomitable. She's sliding over the length of him, has him trapped between his stomach and the slick welcoming heat of her body, up and down, slow and methodical and he can't help but stare at her, his heart racing, the blood pounding through his veins, throbbing in his lips, his neck, rushing to where he's almost painfully aroused.
She's got him - check-mate - and, judging by the saucy look with which she's regarding him, she knows it too. And he doesn't even care, he'll be whatever she needs him to be. He'd be her-
Everything.
He gulps at the sudden realization, his muscles clench, his hips jerk at the shock; too new, too raw, oh god it's much too soon. She stops squirming, stares back at him, her eyes so dark, like a forest at dusk, deep and mysterious and he could so easily get lost in her.
Maybe he already is.
Then she blinks, and the spell is broken. Her tongue glides across her bottom lip, her fingertips like fleeting caresses that whisper across his waist as she climbs off him. He wants to plead with her to stay, wants to grip her hips and tug her back down, fill her body with all the unloved, lonely parts of him, find solace in her warmth and strength. Wants more than anything to not have scared her away with the needy desperation that must've leaked from his eyes, that sits like a boulder in his chest every day, carefully hidden, never shared.
He does nothing of the sort, just watches as her knees glide over him, her weight lifts off his body, the lump in his throat thick as she turns her back to him.
And then she swings her leg over his hips, her slender fingers wrapped around his length, guiding him as she rises over him and takes him inside, inch by slow, torturous inch, her hands braced on his thighs, nails digging into his flesh. She's warm and snug and perfect and it's completely unmanly how much he wants to sob at the powerful sweep of sensations.
"Kate," he groans, a tortured-sounding plea; for what, he isn't sure.
She shivers and a patch of goose bumps flares across her lower back. He chases its path with his fingertips, trails his index finger up the ridges of her spine, watching her back arch at his tender touch, feels her hips settle against his, taking him ever deeper.
She turns her head, looks at him over the back of her shoulder; her eyes hooded, cheeks flushed and lips slack as if in shock. She's never looked more staggering than right here, in this moment and he can't fucking breathe.
"Just..." she whispers, the rest of her thought chopped off as she circles her hips, her muscles gripping him tightly and his eyes roll with pleasure, his head slamming back down onto the mattress.
Just feel.
He molds his palms to her hipbones, not to hold her but to feel her move above him, loses himself in their rhythm, the undulations of her body over his, the tremble of her stomach muscles beneath his fingertips, the pinpoints of near-pain where her fingers dig into the muscles of his thighs, the tight, slick, so-warm clasp of her muscles, how perfect she feels around him. He skates his hands up her ribcage, cradles her breasts, thumbs circling the hard nipples in tandem with his thrusts. She moans, the sound vibrating in her chest; arches so hard that she almost loses her grip on him, back and head thrown back.
He just can't get enough of her, needs her closer, more of her, all of her. Needs her to feel, deep down, that this can't be, won't be just once, will not be an impersonal, no-strings attached romp. No.
He needs her to feel him.
With his arms around her he draws her back against him until her back comes to rest on his chest, her legs draped open around his thighs, her body spread out across his, so open, so vulnerable, too. His eyes caress every glorious curve, map every sleek line and peak and dimple he can't wait to explore with his lips and fingertips. He's in turmoil, heart racing and muscles quivering, racing toward that elusive cliff he wants to climb with her. He thrusts into her, short, sharp, and she mewls, her muscles clenching around him and her head falling back until her temple kisses his cheek.
His arm cradled around her ribcage he palms her breast, fingers circling, flicking, squeezing her nipple while his other hand skates down between her legs, finding the swollen, slippery nerves, adding pressure and the play of his fingertips as he thrusts, thrusts, thrusts, short and fast. She's chanting with every jolt of his body into hers, a glorious melody as the tension sharpens beneath her skin, her legs restless and muscles shivery as she climbs, as he can feel her climb, fast and inexorably. He can barely hold on himself, so filled he is with everything about her - her scent and the soft silk of her skin, her weight draped over him and the edges of her hair tickling his neck, the pearl of sweat that slides down her sternum, the clasping, perfect heat of her body folded around him; has to focus on the rhythm of his hands and his hips that grows ever more sloppy because there's nothing as vital as making her come apart around him once more.
It's more breathtaking than the first - and second - time it happened, the ragged sound of her voice as she cries out, fingers clawed into the bedding around them, back arched and muscles tight, clenching and quivering around him.
He catches the tail end of her orgasm with his mouth, slides his lips over hers, tasting her moans as his tongue slips into her mouth. It's sloppy and breathless and the best first kiss he's ever had, and at last he tenses, everything tight and sharp until he breaks apart almost violently, his vision whitening out as he jolts feverishly, endlessly.
He thinks he must've blacked out for a bit; finds himself slowly being chased back into awareness by the chill creeping across his skin, the loss of warmth against his chest. His limbs sluggish as he tries to move, his eyelids heavy when he blinks them open, seeking in the darkness.
Kate is stretched out next to him, her eyes wide as she regards him solemnly, her head cradled in her palm. He exhales a breath he didn't know he'd been holding; didn't realize how tense he'd been until he can almost taste the relief against his tongue because she's here, she's still here. He wants to reach for her, cradle her into his arms but he doesn't know the new rules as to who they are. Instead he reaches for the sheet, draws the edge up over both of them, watches the high thread-count fabric settle over the sloped lines of her body like heavy snow on a landscape.
"So..." Her voice is quiet yet breaks through the silence just the same, startling him from his reverie. "I've finally become your conquest." She sharpens the 'Q', cracks the 'T' like a whip and everything about it would be worrying if he didn't know her so well but he does know her. Knows her tells, the tease of her teeth against her bottom lip, the minuscule tilt of an eyebrow, the familiarity of the words spoken so long ago, firmly wedged into his memory. He scoots closer, toes and knees brushing hers beneath the sheet.
"I think I've become yours," he quips, distinctly remembers sharp orders and teasing eyebrows and claims being made.
"You started it!" She's grinning now, can't seem to help it, her index finger poking his sternum and he traps her hand beneath his, holding her palm over his heart that's leaping excitedly within its cage. He's tugging her closer, rolls her beneath him, drapes her hands above her head, trapping them against the mattress. Her leg skates up his thigh, eyes fluttering closed and mouth falling open and his lips traverse the slope of her cheekbone, brush against the shell of her ear.
"Best out of three?"
End
AN: Written for the prompt: In season 1, Castle catches Beckett masturbating; author's choice as to what happens next.
Thank you for reading! Your continued support and kind, encouraging words are invaluable.