A/N: This chapter is rated M.
Genuine Article
She steps into their room as Castle scrawls furiously across the whiteboard.
She'd just called her dad on the downstairs landline. She hadn't checked in with him since her down spiral the day before and wanted to let him know that she was more than okay now. She'd been prepared to leave a voicemail because of the late hour, but he happened to be awake. His meds kept him on an unpredictable sleep schedule.
He loves me, Dad.
Oh, that's great, Katie. He'd be a fool not to.
She approaches her boyfriend. "Hey."
He throws a distracted, "Hey," back at her.
She slips her arms around his waist from behind and rests her chin on his shoulder. "You've been busy," she comments, eyes flicking over the maelstrom of words on the board.
He hums noncommittally.
He'd warned her about this…how in the zone he gets when he writes, but she's so used to his full and undivided attention, she's a bit thrown by how absent and faraway he is, like he's floated off to space.
"A giant moth is attacking me and eating my clothes."
"That's nice," he replies, unfazed.
She huffs a small chuckle of disbelief. He's really in it, huh? She dots a kiss to the underside of his jaw and parts from him. She wouldn't mind some time and space to herself; a little breather. They've been attached at the hip for over 24 hours, she reeks of cigar smoke, and the clawfoot tub in the bathroom's been calling her name.
She rakes a hand through her mane and comes away with a piece of pie crust, a remnant of The Great Dinner Battle Smashdown.
Yeah, a bath sounded like just the thing.
Half an hour later, she hears footsteps, the creak of a door hinge, and a soft gasp.
"Oh my god, are you reading my book naked?"
She looks up from her copy of In a Hail of Bullets and grins at her gaping boyfriend.
"Hey, Stranger. Finally landed back on Earth?"
He lowers to his knees by the side of the tub and leans in to kiss the swell of her cheek. "Sorry I was so distant," he beseeches, "I didn't mean to ignore you."
She spirals her fingers around his neck and strokes his baby hairs at the nape with her thumb. "S'okay. I didn't want to ruin your flow."
"I got a lot down, so thank you." He gently knocks his forehead into hers. "Did you say something about a giant moth?"
She bites back a laugh; shakes her head. "Nope."
"Uh huh." His gaze roves over the bubbles clinging to the curve of her breasts and she tingles with anticipation. "I heard a rumor it ate all your clothes." He quirks an eyebrow, mischievous. "Any truth to it?"
Arousal forks through her like lightning, hot and sizzling and her mouth bends up mirthfully. She sets his book aside on a vintage brass tray stand, her eyes gleaming impishly and her voice lowering in seductive challenge; a siren call.
"Why don't you come on in and find out?"
"How's your dad?" he asks, sliding in behind her.
She'd drained some of the old bathwater and added more hot water, bubble mixture, and Epsom salt. Tendrils of steam uncoil from the surface and mountains of froth wisp around them, the air scented with a wonderful and heady aroma of eucalyptus and lemongrass.
"Maybe we don't talk about my dad right now," she says, settling between his thighs.
"Hmm." He slips his arms around her midsection. "Good call," he husks, smudging a kiss to her wet-slick shoulder and touching his mouth to the sensitive spot behind her ear. "Missed you."
She shivers. And it's stupid, really. They've been apart for less than an hour and yet, she ached for him in the short absence, yearned for his presence. His warmth and comfort. And oh God, his touch. The feel of him. She melts in his embrace, her body sighing contentedly. The skin-to-skin contact, intoxicating and relaxing.
"Missed you, too," she admits, her nose nuzzling the bulge of his arm muscle affectionately.
"That was meant for my biceps, wasn't it?" he teases.
"What? Why would you say that?" she huff-laughs.
"Oh, I don't know…maybe because of the several bitemarks you've left across both of them. Admit it, you're totally obsessed."
Busted.
Her mouth splits into a wide grin and her teeth playfully scrape over the tie-dye bursts of purple and blue hematomas on his upper limb. She might have gone a little overboard. "You're imagining things."
He chuckles and trails his lips over her clavicle.
"You just want me for my body, don't you?"
To bolster his argument, his right hand sluices down her stomach and water purls around her as her hips automatically arch into his touch. The slope of her breast fills his left palm and when he rolls her pebbled nipple between the pads of his fingertips, she moans in encouragement. Yeah, she loves his body. Especially his hands. His big hands and big fingers. Big fingers that are so good at—oh, fuck.
She chokes out a litany of curses as he slides two fingers inside. He chuckles throatily, tightens his grip, and kneads her breast while he pumps into her, infuriatingly slow and unhurried.
(Smug-fucking-bastard).
"How's the book?" he asks, as if he's totally unaffected, as if he's the one in control.
"Huh?" she grits out, incoherent, her mind clouded and hazy with lust. (Okay, maybe he is).
His breath rushes over her, warm and panting, driving her crazy, "Did you—" his fingers thrust deeper "—finish the story?"
Oh, yeah, that's it, oh yes—
He stops suddenly, waiting for her answer, and God-fucking-damnit, is he really going to make her beg? (Again)?
"No," she huffs, grinding down, deliberate and demanding. (Two can play at this game). "Was just about to reach the climax."
"Jesus, Kate," he groans, his movements becoming sloppy and uncoordinated. She grins like a cat that got the cream. "So you're almost at the plot twist?" he grunts, sliding another finger in, retaliation, strong and thick and fuck, yes—he pistons faster and harder. Yes, yes, just like that.
She gasps, gripping both sides of the tub, her hips rapidly undulating, water sloshing everywhere. His arm bands over her middle to keep her from rising out completely, his teeth nip her throat-pulse, and then he curls something, presses his thumb right there, twists it just so, and she cries out, "Oh, yes, Castle, oh—"
The taut bowstring of her body snaps and her world whites out.
"Kate," he chokes on a strangled sob, jerking with his own release as a tidal wave of bathwater crescendos over the tub and sloughs onto the tile floor.
She slumps against him, chest heaving and trembling, adrenaline pounding in her veins, her limbs, liquid jello. Holy hell. Was it always going to be like this? So amazing? So euphoric and exhilarating?
His nose brushes the shell of her ear and he murmurs, "Excellent falling action and resolution."
She purrs a laugh and cranes her head back to sip from his mouth, humming agreement. Really excellent story structure. They kiss languidly, lapping up the afterglow; soaking in it and each other. (They'll clean their mess later.)
Eventually, he darts a final kiss to her temple, wipes his hands on a towel hanging nearby, and reaches for his novel.
"Want me to read you the denouement?"
Her jaw drops.
"He didn't."
"He did."
"His own captain? That's insane. What a conspiracy," she says in shock and awe.
"The worst betrayal always comes from the ones you're closest to," he says in a dramatic voice.
She takes the book out of his hands, closing it.
"One might say it's practically Shakespearean."
"That good?"
She skims a blurb on the back cover.
Richard Castle's smash debut reminds us what good pulp fiction is all about. It's a rare pleasure to sit down and read something that is purely and perfectly fun. And In a Hail of Bullets is an electrifying mix of mystery, action, and intrigue—an absolute must-read with titillating twists and turns.
"I think Emery Merrick said it best."
He huffs a wry chuckle. "My publisher paid for that review."
"Well," she returns the book to the brass tray and water ripples as she maneuvers to face him. "I'm not surprised it's a bestseller." She winds her legs around his waist and brooms the rebellious strands of hair from his forehead. "Proud of you." Her mouth crooks slightly. "So much more than just a pretty face."
His lips lift in a mournful, self-deprecating smile.
"Sometimes I think they only published me because of my pretty face."
She frowns and shifts, sending more ripples in his direction as her arms loop around his neck.
"Babe, you're a great writer. Even my dad said so."
"He read it?"
"All in one afternoon. And that's a huge get. He's a tough customer."
He brightens and kisses her with gratitude. Then again, more urgent and insistent. "Maybe we don't talk about your dad right now," he says, his voice hoarse.
She chuckles throatily, ripening with temptation, and snakes her hand down, circling his length. He chokes out a litany of curses as she caresses him over and over, her mouth unfurling into a wicked grin.
"How about we don't talk at all?"
His girlfriend caps the dry erase marker and points it at the whiteboard.
"I think it's unexpected."
She'd helped him rearrange and organize the storm of his half-thoughts and messy scribbles into columns stacked with bullet points and clear sentences. One side was the new spy stuff that he was going to save for another book and the other side included additions for June Winter. He sits on the edge of the bed, transcribing it all into his Moleskine, asking for her opinion; making sure she likes the direction he's taking it.
"Serial killer couple isn't too unrealistic?"
"I think it makes sense. And it's a perfect foil to June and Chase's relationship."
She goes on to list more reasons why she supports his choice, but he's having difficulty concentrating. She's wearing one of his button-ups, a pair of black booty shorts, and her damp hair is twirled into a bun. It's an incredibly sexy look on her (what isn't?) and every time she turns to write something else, the shirt rises up, revealing the slender curve of her ass and miles of toned and tan legs.
How is he supposed to string coherent thoughts together, let alone the plot of his novel?
Especially when he knows exactly how she sounds when he flicks her—
She taps the whiteboard.
"Castle!"
"Hmm?"
"Focus."
"I am."
"On the story." She puts her hands on her hips. "Not me."
"Oh, but you are far more interesting."
She bites the inside of her cheek, fighting a blush and a smile. "You're insatiable."
It's only been twenty minutes since they let their hands wander in the bathtub. Their playtime had been cut short when they realized they didn't have a condom with them. Kate has an IUD and also a very strict no glove, no love policy, which is more than fair, considering they've both been with other people recently. And nothing dampens the mood like the possibility of contracting an STD.
But his want for her burns hot and low, always simmering beneath the surface.
"You're fulfilling like three different Hot for Teacher fantasies right now!"' he protests.
She hitches a brow, intrigue flirting in her gaze.
"Oh, yeah?" She strides toward him, eyes glittering with intent, her voice low and gravelly. "Do I have to send you to the principal's office, Mr. Castle?"
Well, alright. Kate Beckett likes roleplay in the bedroom. Kinky. Just when he thought she couldn't get any hotter.
"Could you use Rodgers, actually?"
She narrows her eyes and pushes down on his chest. He falls onto the mattress with an oof and his face slacks with awe.
"Final warning, Mister—" She straddles him and leans down, her lips feathering his ear, "Rodgers."
Fuck, yes. He tosses his writing tools away and grins up at her in excitement.
"You can just skip to the part where you give me detention, Miss Beckett," he husks as his hands slide over her hips and palm her ass.
She snaps her hair tie off and shakes her bun loose, ruffling her hair into loose waves. He stares, dumbstruck, unsure of what he did to deserve someone like her, this living and breathing goddess sent from above, and he, a mere earthbound mortal.
"You want me to punish you in private?" she simpers.
"Depends." His cool palms sneak under her dress shirt and encompass the warm, smooth flesh of her sides. "Is it naked punishing?"
Her eyes slam shut and her head throws back on a gasp. He loves how into this she is; so raw with need. She bucks her hips into his, hard. "Very naked punishing."
Oh, shit.
He surges up and crashes his mouth to hers, raw with his own need, deep and desperate and aching. He's had her four times in the last 24 hours. Multiple rounds in the car. Their quickie in the shower earlier. But it's not enough. She's not the kind of girl you just get out of your system. She stays there, in your veins, consuming you whole.
They attack each other in a carnal animalistic frenzy, hastily discarding tops and shoving down bottoms. They finally get to do this on a bed.
"What am I in trouble for again?" he pants as she retrieves protection from her saddle bag.
She crawls over him, gloriously naked, and nips at the faint crescent scar near his eye socket. "Not paying attention."
"Oo, I have been a very bad boy," he chuckles darkly. "You should give me a spanking, too. Remember, my safe word is apples."
She sheathes him in latex and fixes him with an admonishing glare.
"I decide the punishment, Mr. Rodgers." She slinks over him, lissome and provocative. A gorgeous and deadly vixen. "And if you're not inside me in the next ten seconds, I'll have no choice but to expel you."
White-hot arousal drenches his insides. Fuck.
In a flash, he flips them and she yelps with surprise.
He grins naughtily. "I can't have another expulsion on my record."
She wriggles beneath him impatiently and his heart ricochets in the cage of his ribs, about to burst.
She's going to kill him.
A knowing smirk scrolls at her mouth and her nails dig possessively into him at the base of his spine. "Ten, nine, eight…"
Yeah, there's no way he's surviving this.
She's draped over him, a boneless thing of quicksilver, tracing mindless patterns on his chest, a thin film of sweat drying between them.
Holy-fucking-shit.
"We are exceptionally good at that," he blows out on an exhale, his heart still working somehow. "If sex was an Olympic sport, we'd totally win a gold medal."
She giggles shyly and rests her forehead in the valley of his collarbone.
"Is it always like this? Or does it fade?" she asks quietly.
"Don't know."
Her brow furrows. "What do you mean? What about with…"
The presence of his ex looms.
"It was never the way it is with you and me," he assures his girlfriend, nipping the bud of panic in her irises. "Never this intense." Never so narcotic and drugging, the high unlike anything he's known before. "No comparison."
Embarrassment pools red and high on her cheeks. "Oh."
"Seriously. It's a first for me." He cradles the angle of her jaw and tenderly swipes his thumb over the silky bow of her lips. "You?"
She leans into the mitt of his palm and kisses the whorl of his fingertip. "No comparison."
He puffs with pride, silly with it. "So best ever?
She rolls her eyes and snuffles a laugh. "You really have to ask?"
"It's what I do! And you know how I like words."
She huffs. "Fine, yes, okay. You, Richard Castle, are the best sex I've ever had." She arches an eyebrow at him. "Happy?"
He touches his mouth to the tip of her nose.
"Indubitably," he sighs joyfully, "And you, Katherine Be—"
She holds a hand up in a fist, stopping him. "You know what would make me happy?"
He smiles at the coy sweep of her charcoal lashes. "No, what?"
"Action," she grins cheekily.
He fucking adores her rascal side. "What kind of action?"
She jabs a finger toward her center.
"Put your mouth to use elsewhere."
She smacks her lips and licks cracker crumbs and a dollop of cheese from them.
He steals a kiss, unable to resist, and she hums, pushing a grape onto his tongue. He bites down on the tart fruit and sweetness spills from it.
When he, Kate, and Jack had hauled the whiteboard up the stairs together, Velma dropped off a snack, a small platter of buttery crackers with creamy brie cheese and a cluster of juicy, succulent grapes, and winked when she told them they didn't have to worry about keeping their voices down if they wanted to stay up late, um, talking—all the rooms were sound-proof. They both turned beet-red and Kate had escaped, stammering about needing to call her dad.
The food had been chilling in the white retro mini-Frigidaire in the corner and Kate remembered it when his stomach growled. There were also a few piccolo-sized bottles of red wine and she poured servings into some plastic cups for both of them.
He dangles the knot of grapes over her mouth and she plucks one from the bottom of the bunch with wine-stained teeth, chomps down, and groans at the taste. The impromptu midnight picnic is like their own little bacchanalia. They luxuriate in the soft wash of lamplight, leisurely twisted in bedsheets. He makes a joke about becoming a hedonist and she snorts.
"I think you already are."
"I'm not only about pleasure-seeking," he objects, miffed. "I can be business-y. Work hard and all that."
"So you've thought of a new title then?"
She'd nixed his other titles for June Winter. She thought The Dead of Winter, A Cold Winter's Night, and Winter's Chill were too ham-fisted; too pulp-y. He'd argued it was just the right amount of pulp and good for potential franchising, but with a relenting sigh, promised to give her final muse-approval.
"No," he harrumphs. But then he perks up. "Wanna workshop it with me?"
"Okay," she grins. "Where do we start?"
"Well, I'd like to have something associated with the cold to play on the morgue element, winter, and the fact that June's bright and sunny world becomes cold and dark. What about…Killed in Cold Blood?"
"Not bad. Show-y. Bold." She sips from her wine cup. "But maybe too flashy and in-your-face? In a Hail of Bullets sounds much more elegant and poetic, so what if you did something with a similar cadence and rhythm to it?"
"Okay, fair point. How about…In From the Cold, uh, A Chill Crept In—"
"Getting warmer."
His lips peel into a smile. "Nice." His fingers fold into an upside-down beak shape and she cocks her head inquisitively at him. "You have to feed the bird," he explains. "It's a kudos gesture."
She forms her fingers into a beak and taps the pointy end to his with an amused, childlike grin.
"Caught in the Chill?" she suggests next. "Or um, Chilled to the Bone?"
"Oo, that's good," he commends. Then, "Oh, wait, I've got it—" He fans his hand as if he's presenting the title on a theater marquee and dramatically booms, "A Chill Runs Down Her Spine."
"A Chill Goes Through Her Veins," she counters.
"Runs Through Her Veins," he proposes.
"Oo, yes. That's the one," she says, "A Chill Runs Through Her Veins."
"Muse-approved?" he asks.
"Muse approved," she confirms, holding a finger-beak out to him.
He gleefully feeds the bird, tapping kudos, and pulls her in for a kiss, marveling that she's here with him, so beautiful and willing and not breaking his legs.
"Maybe I should hire you as my editor. We could work together."
She smiles.
"Isn't there a rule about not mixing business and pleasure?"
"I think we could make an exception," he flirts. Then a little more sincere, "But if it is something you're really interested in, I could mention it to my publisher. Find you an entry level role or paid internship."
She presses a kiss to him, soft and close-mouthed.
"That's sweet of you to offer, babe, but I think I want to do something in public service like my mom. Something that helps people."
"You'd be helping me," he entreats petulantly.
She gives him a sardonic look. "You don't need any help."
"I'm serious. I'm not sure I can do it without you."
"You're ridiculous."
He sighs morosely and a shadow of concern passes over her face.
"Hey, what is it? What's wrong?"
"Nothing…it's just," he pauses. "My first semester at boarding school, I was in danger of flunking out, you know? I needed an A on my term paper about this car company, Jordan Motors."
"Okay," she nods. "And?"
"I didn't think I could write well enough on my own to save my grade so I paid someone else 250 dollars to write it."
Her brow scrunches in confusion. "I don't follow."
"The teacher read the paper to the entire class as an example of great writing and I was applauded. It was the first time I was celebrated for anything and…it was fraud. I—I was a fraud." He ducks his head in shame. "That's when I learned how to write. I wrote and wrote, trying to be as great as everyone thought I was, trying to earn that applause. I'm still trying." He chances a glance at her. She's smiling at him adoringly.
Huh.
Unexpected.
"Babe, you were a kid when that happened. And from what I can tell, you learned from your mistake and tried to be better. That's the best any of us can do." She tilts his chin down, forcing him to meet her gaze. "And don't forget, I think you're really great." She scuffs his cheekbone with her knuckles. "More than. And we both know I have excellent judgment."
"That's true," he shrugs half-heartedly, still unconvinced.
She frowns again. "Is this a bit…fishing for more compliments? Or are you really brooding?"
"Really brooding, sorry." He scrubs a hand over his face. "Wine sometimes makes me melancholy and self-pitying."
She softens with understanding.
"Your words changed me, you know."
"How do you mean?"
She chews her lip, contemplating. After a moment, she sparks with an idea. "Can you hand me that book on my nightstand?"
He twists his torso, picks up Dr. Carter's I Speak For the Dead, and passes it to her. But she refuses the novel with a shake of her head and points with her chin.
"Read the foreword."
He flips to the right page and pores over the text, while she clears the food and drink from the bed. He reads about the ugly beast of grief, how it can tear you apart and shatter you to pieces. About the Japanese practice of Kintsugi, the art of golden repair—remaking broken things whole with a special gold into something stronger and more beautiful.
He finishes and scratches his underjaw, perplexed.
"I don't follow."
She tugs the book from his grasp and sets it out of the way.
"You always have the right thing to say. You always know how to reassure me and make me feel better. Make me feel safe." She palms the slash of his cheek. "Your words are like gold. And they helped me put the pieces of myself back together. Helped me be stronger. More than my grief."
He stares in stunned silence, gobsmacked.
She continues, determined to make him understand. "Which means you're the furthest thing from a fraud." She whispers the next words like a secret. "You're the genuine article, baby."
"Kate," he chokes out, incapable of thinking of anything more profound or significant to say. He can only weep with gratitude and catch her mouth in a clumsy but earnest kiss, trying to convey how much her words mean and how much she means to him.
She likes action. So he shows her.
He kisses her again and again, hands and mouth everywhere, and makes love to her, slow and tender. Pays tribute and devotion, worshiping the altar of her body.
After she comes undone with a quiet gasp and shudder, she stretches out under him, loose and limp. He attempts to move his crushing weight off her, but she keeps him close, clinging to him, saying she likes how it feels.
He props up on his elbows to alleviate the load a little anyway and nudges some hair strands from her forehead.
"For the record, what you said…it's the most beautiful thing anyone has ever said to me." She ducks her eyelashes, bashful. "And you do the same for me—your words are like gold, too." His head falls onto her chest. "God, Kate, I love you so much." His throat clogs and his voice becomes gruff. "And I'm so damn lucky to be loved by you."
Her fingers tangle in his hair, clutching and claiming him and squeezing gratefully at his nape, silently saying everything in return. He lifts his head after a comfortable lull and braces a hand at her jawline, fingers curling around her ear.
"I'll love you always."
Maybe it's too much, too soon. But he's thick and dumb with love, his heart brimming and overflowing for her and the words spill from him gracelessly, simple and true.
She regards him with fathomless eyes that swirl gold and hazel and all the breath leaves his lungs. He loses sense of time and his world collapses to just her. She's the only thing that matters. The only thing he cares about.
He's paying attention. He is. And he still almost misses it…the soft but fierce whisper of, "Me, too."
And then they're kissing, long and deep and passionate, as if to seal the promise, and he knows now…he's gonna marry her someday. Without a doubt. She's the one—his soulmate, his true blue—the genuine article.
He's sure of it.
She breaks away, eyes shiny and lips swollen. Fuck, she's spectacular. Magnificent. Extraordinary. There just aren't enough words. She waggles her eyebrows tauntingly and slithers her hands up the column of his neck when he fails to speak. He's too afraid he'll say something stupid like Let's run away together forever.
"You know, I feel I should tell you that wine makes me frisky," she murmurs enticingly.
He smirks.
"Now who's insatiable?"
She laughs and he snags the wine bottle from the nightstand, while she recovers the cups. He starts to pour but quickly halts. "Before we go any further, I feel I should tell you…" He gives her a peck, "Your teeth are purple."
She giggles tipsily, "So are yours, goofball," and smushes a kiss to his mouth with a little wiggle, so warm and wonderful and wanting. His heart sings.
"Should probably go brush 'em 'fore it sets in," he murmurs against her lips.
"Mm, in a minute," she mumbles, "You taste good."
He chuckles and motions with the bottle. "More?"
She grins, love-drunk, and raises both cups.
"Yes, please."
xxx
A/N: Happy June to you all!
Some of the blurb for Castle's book was inspired by 1x04—if you pause right after Alexis reads him the nice review for Storm Fall in the New York Ledger, you can see the article on his computer screen, written by an Emery Merrick. Another part of the blurb was pulled from a line on the In a Hail of Bullets Wiki page.
Fun Fact: While 1x05 is officially called, A Chill Goes Through Her Veins, in the episode itself, Castle actually says, A Chill Runs Through Her Veins. I decided to go with the latter because it rolls off the tongue better.
Also, there was some concern that I might've abandoned this fic, so I wanted to set the record straight—I absolutely plan on finishing this story, no matter how long it takes. In years past, I have sometimes left stories hanging for long stretches of time because I didn't know how they were going to end when I started writing them, but I did eventually come back and finish them.
For this story, I have everything outlined and I know exactly what I want to happen and how it's going to end. It's just a matter of actually writing it. The current length is roughly equivalent to 2.5 Heat Waves, and I've been actively updating for a year now, so I hope that stands as evidence of my growth, commitment, and dedication.
Sometimes, mini-hiatuses are going to happen. Hopefully, the gaps between updates are no more than six weeks and I'll try to whittle it down to smaller number in the future. I wish I could write like the wind, but alas, anxiety/Imposter Syndrome and life are fickle mistresses.
All this to say, fanfiction is a very sacred thing to me and I consider it a mortal sin to abandon a story. Please let my tombstone read, "here lies mysterymuse—she loved a show called Castle, used a lot of em dashes, and never left a fic unfinished."
