Title: Falling
Author: DizzyDrea
Summary: For as much as he wants this to last, he knows it was never going to. They've been waiting for this for far too long for it to have any chance of lasting.
Rating: M
Spoilers: Always, After the Storm
Author's Notes: Yes, I know, I'm woefully behind. My only excuse is that the Muse decided to crawl under the couch last fall and refused to come out for almost a month. I was finally able to coax her out, and she's been slowly feeding me new ideas. We have something of an uneasy truce (she was pissed at me for refusing to write something; I should know better by now, but in my defense, I really didn't need another fandom). Let's hope it lasts. Fair warning, I started this several months ago, and have only just gotten to finishing it. Not for lack of desire, but I got stuck and couldn't write my way out of it. I think it works now. This was inspired, of course, by the great honking gap between the end of Always and the beginning of After the Storm. I think we were robbed. Which just means that I get to write it instead of see it on tv. Bearing in mind that writing this sort of thing is not my strong suit, it's not as bad as it might have once been. Still… it is most definitely Mature, with all that the word entails. Please, don't read if you don't like that sort of story. I'm not joking.
Disclaimer: Castle is the property of ABC, ABC Studios, Beacon Productions and a lot of other people who aren't me. I am doing this for fun and for practice. Mostly for fun.
~o~
She's standing there, in his living room, sopping wet hair and clothes dripping on the hardwood floors. She's shivering with cold, and her mascara has run in dark rivulets down her cheeks.
She's never been more beautiful to him than she is at this moment.
He hadn't known what to expect when he opened his door to find her standing there, but this certainly isn't it. He's never seen her so undone, so desperate. Not in all the months and years he's known her has she ever shown him her true heart, and his own heart swells in his chest at the sure knowledge that she's finally where she wants to be, where she belongs.
Their kisses are desperate, as if they're each trying to climb inside the other's skin. He's afraid, he knows. Afraid she'll change her mind, that in the next instant, she'll realize where she is and what she's doing and realize it's all a mistake.
And so he kisses her. Long, deep drugging kisses that give her no room to think, to breathe, to do anything but want. He's walking her backwards—stumbling, really, because he can't stop kissing her long enough to actually watch where he's going, not that he needs to, but still—towards his room, towards the promise of everything that's been between them.
His hands are in constant motion, pulling her in close, stroking her back, tangling in her wet hair. He wants to feel it all, doesn't want to miss anything, knows that he has just this moment and nothing's promised beyond that. Her hands are clinging to him, holding on as if she were afraid he might disappear if she let go. He wants to tell her that he's not going anywhere, but that would mean stopping the kissing, and he's not keen on that idea.
They finally stumble across the threshold of his room, and his heart sings because he's that much closer to having her spread out on his bed, his to take and consume. He sets about peeling her out of her clothes. Jacket, pants, soggy shoes, all in a heap on the floor. He reaches for her shirt, but her hand grips his wrist, stopping his progress.
He looks into her eyes and sees fear there, for the first time since she landed on his doorstep. He frowns, not sure what the problem is. Then it hits him: her scars. He's never seen them, would bet that no one has, apart from herself and her doctor. He cups her cheeks in his hands, stepping in close. Her eyes skitter away from his, shame burning bright on her face.
"Hey," he says, low and soft. She looks back at him, the fear alive in her eyes. His heart breaks for just a moment. His strong, beautiful detective, showing him her fears. It's precious to him, as precious as she is, and he's determined to cherish it as he does her. He takes a deep breath. "It's okay. You're okay, and nothing that happens here is going to change that. Okay?"
She searches his eyes for a long moment, looking for the lie in his words. He looks back at her, steady and true. He wasn't lying; he'll be there to catch her when she falls, if she falls. He'll always be there, that's never been in question. But somehow, in this moment, he knows she still needs that reassurance, still needs to hear the words, the promise, and he's okay with that. He'll say it as often as he needs to.
For her, anything.
Finally, she nods. "Okay," she whispers.
"Okay," he says, nodding in return, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips.
He steps back and tugs her shirt off, revealing her pale skin for the first time. He just looks for a moment, taking in her perfect curves, the way the column of her neck flows into her shoulders, the way her waist flares out into hips that he already knows fit his perfectly. The way her legs go all the way to the floor. She's wearing plain cotton underwear—clearly hadn't been planning for anything to happen tonight—but somehow that makes her all the more appealing. There's no artifice with her, no studied air about her as there has been with so many of the women he's filled his bed with over the years. He finds he doesn't miss it.
He pulls her close once more, not content to just look. He kisses her deeply as his hands wander bare flesh, touching for the first time what he's only dreamed of until now. He feels her shudder beneath his hands, and pulls back, frowning.
"You're wet," she says, impish smile peaking out.
He chuckles. He wasn't when he answered the door, but being practically plastered to her wet clothes since the moment after he opened the door had apparently transferred the moisture from her clothes to his.
"So it would seem," he says. "Care to do something about that?"
Her grin flashes, wicked and dirty, and if he hadn't already been painfully aroused, he's sure he would be now. As it is, he has to take a deep breath to calm himself. Wouldn't do to go off half cocked, as it were.
She reaches for him then, efficiently stripping off shirt, pants and shoes until they're heaped next to hers on the floor.
He reels her back in, and now it's skin on skin, and it's glorious. Everywhere they're touching, from chest to thighs, is producing delightful sparks, a continuous feedback of sensation that's threatening his hard-won control.
He nudges her back, onto the bed, crawling over her as she scoots back until her head is laying against his pillow. He settles himself over her, taking her lips in another toe-curling kiss. But he's not content to simply kiss; he has to touch, to stoke the fire burning within her. Dragging his lips away from hers, he kisses a trail down her neck to her chest. She arches into his touch, a thousand breathy moans escaping her lips now that they're not otherwise occupied.
He loves that sound, vows to do whatever he has to just so she'll keep making it.
His lips settle over the bullet hole in her chest, right above her heart. She tenses under him. He tips his head up, rests his chin on her chest. "It's okay, remember? You're okay."
His words have their intended effect: she visibly relaxes, nodding her agreement. He ghosts a smile, then returns his attention to her body. He quickly rids her of her bra and underpants, then proceeds to lavish attention on every inch of skin he can reach, paying special attention to the scars that represent his love almost stolen from him, and then returned. For long minutes, he licks, sucks, nips to his heart's content, until he knows her body as well as he knows his own.
At length, when his control has reached the breaking point, he crawls back up her body and once again settles in the vee of her hips. He looks into her eyes, seeing his love and longing reflected back to him. It's all he's ever wanted, and for a moment he's almost overwhelmed.
He feels her pressing against him, the tilt of her hips, and knows what she's trying to do. He shakes his head. "Next time, okay? Right now I just want to make love to you."
She looks at him for the space of a few heartbeats, then relents, relaxing back onto the mattress. "Next time," she says, the words a promise that draw a smile out of him.
"Do we need—"
"No," she says, already knowing what he wants to ask. Some small part of his brain that's still capable of rational thought is glad, because he doesn't really want to try to find his stash of condoms right now.
He nods, then tips his hips back and presses into her in one long stroke. She's so hot and tight that he has to stop, breathing hard, eyes clenched shut against the almost painful pleasure at being so deep inside her.
They're both breathing hard, trying to keep this from being over too soon. Finally, he opens his eyes, looking deep into hers. She nods, too far gone for words at this point, but he gets the message.
He pulls back, then presses in once more, setting an easy rhythm. He knows it won't be long, but he'll have other chances to prove his prowess. For as much as he wants this to last, he knows it was never going to. They've been waiting for this for far too long for it to have any chance of lasting. Still, he keeps going, intent on giving as much pleasure as he's receiving.
She wraps her legs around his waist, changing the angle as she presses them even closer. He pushes up, hovering over her as he slams into her, too lost in the pleasure to make it fancy anymore. He kisses and nips at any skin he can reach, trying to push her just that much closer to the edge.
Her hands are constant motion, caressing, touching, her nails leaving bright trails along his skin that he'll wear as a badge of honor tomorrow. Her body arches underneath him, all that glorious skin on display, and his heart skips a beat, because he can't believe this is really happening, that he's really getting the one thing he's wanted since the day they met.
That thought alone sends him reeling, rushing to the edge of completion without any warning.
Finally, she stiffens below him, her climax rushing through her in a relentless wave. She's gripping his arms, her body clenching around his, and he can't stop himself from tipping over the edge after her.
He collapses inelegantly, shifting at the last second so he's not completely crushing her. She runs her fingers through his sweat-soaked hair, hands stroking overheated skin as they both suck in great lungfuls of air, trying to calm their galloping heartbeats.
It's quiet in the room, the only sounds their harsh breathing. Somewhere, off in the distance, a car alarm is bleating forlornly, but all Castle can hear is the steady beat of Kate's heart under his ear.
He kisses her chest, tasting the salt of her cooling sweat. He doesn't particularly want to move, but he knows that he'll have to eventually, if for no other reason than he doesn't want to crush her. He'd like to do this again, after all.
"Huh."
"Mmmm?" she hums, her hands moving from his hair to his shoulders.
He pushes over onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow so he can see her. She's deliciously disheveled, not at all the normally impeccable detective he sees on a regular basis, and she's got this blissed-out look on her face, like if the building were on fire she'd just let it burn around her because she's just too relaxed to move. It's a good look on her, one he's looking forward to seeing more often.
Which brings him back to his original thought.
"You said 'next time'."
There's a pause, and he can see her scrunch up her nose, sifting through her memories. He can see when she remembers, though; she gives him that look, the one he's become intimately familiar with, the one that says I know what you're doing, and you won't get away with that with me.
"You said it first."
"True," he concedes. "That implies you knew you'd enjoy this before you even got your clothes off."
"Oh my god, are we really going to do this now?" she asks, her tone edging into exasperation.
"You started it," he says. He can't hide the smile, can't hide the fact that he enjoys winding her up just so he can watch her go. It's one of the many reasons why he loves her, and it's good to know that some things won't change just because they've shared a bed.
Suddenly, he's on his back, looking up at a smug Kate Beckett as she straddles his hips. There's a fire burning bright in her eyes, a desire hardly quelled by their recent love-making, and he finds it sends a thrill up his spine, to know that he can provoke that reaction in her. He thinks he might be in trouble, but he can hardly spare a moment to care, because she's beautiful like this, his muse, and he's the luckiest man alive.
It's a fire of his own making, and he doesn't mind one bit falling in and being consumed.
~Finis