Summary: Set some time post-Always. Fluffy porn. I love Castle's office. So does Beckett.
Spoilers: Through 4.23, no season 5 spoilers.
Word count: 1350
A/N: I haven't written fanfic in years, and I've never even thought seriously about writing Castle fic before, but this plot bunny latched onto my brain today and I had to write it. I hope you enjoy it!
Also, title was inspired by this ridiculously addicting song. I'm warning you right now, if you listen it will be stuck in your head forever. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f28WViN6k9o
When he wakes now and doesn’t find her beside him the panic is (mostly) gone. She’s usually awake before him, even if she doesn’t have to go in to work. He’s listening carefully for some sign of her when he notes -- ever proud of his detective’s nose -- the smell of coffee drifting in from the adjacent room.
He plods off into his office/library/den of crime-solving and nerdiness and finds her there, curled up in one of the oversized leather chairs, a hardcover in her lap and a mug in her hand. Her hair falls in messy strands around her shoulders, contrasting beautifully with the deep purple of his silk shirt, which she has once again appropriated.
“Coffee?” she asks, not offering to go get him some, but instead holding her mug out to him. He takes it from her, intentionally running his fingertips over the back of her hand, sipping from the lukewarm liquid before handing it back to her.
She continues to regard him with the tender expression that she hasn’t been able to turn off in the last few months. “Did I ever tell you I fucking love this room?” It’s the kind of thing she says now that she let’s down her guard somewhat, but it still surprises Castle. She’s glancing around, soaking in the dark bookshelves, the light streaming in through the tall windows, the rainbow of spines illuminating the walls of the room. He’s thinking that every dollar he ever spent on that room is worth it to have found her curled up in that chair on several mornings in the last month. He’s also thinking, Can I give her a chair like that one? Can I give her a better chair? Can I give her all of these books and more?
But he know those are not words to say to Kate, not now anyway, so instead he gives her one his wry smiles. “Because this is the room where I put my genius on the page?”
She’s smiling through her retort -- she couldn’t mask those smiles anymore, even if she were trying. “Well, I like it because of the genius on the walls,” she gestures around her. “I was under the impression that you generally used this room for rewatching Batman DVDs.” She nods toward the flatscreen.
“All part of the creative process.” He leans over her then, resting his hands on the armrests of the chair, invading her personal space. “And what genius have you chosen today?” He already knows the answer though. She’s removed the decorative cover of the hardback (because that’s what you do with hardbacks -- at least the ones you care about). But he would recognize the spine anyway. It’s also the same book she’s been reading the last couple of times he found her there. In small letters at the top of the page it reads: “FLOWERS FOR YOUR GRAVE.”
She looks back down at the book in her lap, turning the page and pretending to ignore him when in fact the sound of his voice that close to her ear has sent a thrill through her system.
“Hm, you seem fond of that one.” His tone was playful, but became more serious as he said, “I’m glad I wrote it.” After a moment, he reconsiders and adds, “Not that I’m glad someone was murdered…”
“I know what you meant, Castle.”
And then the playful glint was back in his eye. “You know, I never did get those crime scene photos… Do I have enough goodwill to get them now?”
“Sure, Castle, I’ll go dig them up right now.” She places the book on the side table, moves as if she’s about to get up, and that’s when he kisses her. She responds immediately, straining upward and closer to him, sliding her tongue along his lips and into his mouth.
He breaks off the kiss after a minute, reaching down to lift her out of the chair. But he doesn’t carry her far, depositing her on the edge of his desk, and stepping into the space between her legs.
She smiles at him, a completely unguarded, mischievous smile that confirms that this is also something she loves about this room. Not that he needed reminding -- it’s been two weeks since he stopped leaving his laptop on his desk for this precise reason.
She leans back a little, supporting herself with one arm while she reaches up with the other hand, winding her fingers into the hair at the back of his neck, pulling him down to her lips. He’s running his hands over her smoothly but possessively. His hands moves up her bare legs until he stops, realizing she’s not wearing anything under his shirt. (Again.) She chuckles a bit, nibbling on his lower lips until he continues moving. He rubs firm circles on her inner thigh while his other hand move up under his/her shirt, gliding over her ribs. He opens the few buttons that she’s done and places random kisses over her stomach, her breasts, her scar, her collarbone. He’s making her impatient in the way only Richard Castle can, and Beckett leans forward to stroke him through his boxers. He groans, his lips now vibrating against her neck. He continues his careful, torturous ministrations against her pulse while she slides her hands around his back, her nails scratching lightly, and pulls down his boxers.
He’s still sucking on her neck as her enters her, and she whimpers at the combined feeling of it all. They find their rhythm easily now, and he thinks that it would really be fine if they never left his office ever again. She leans back further, allowing him better access as he kisses down her body, until her hand, which had been resting on a loose sheet of paper, slides out from under her. For an instant, she’s filled with the adrenaline, the sensation of falling, before his hand is on her back, steadying her. “I’ve got you.”
She whispers against his lips, “Always” and he echoes the same word, their lips meeting naturally for a soft kiss.
Then he’s moving again, meeting her in a steady rhythm, while her mind chants, “This, this, this…” He slides a finger gently along her clit, and she leans forward, seeking out his stability. She’s murmuring yes yes yes against his chest until she can’t speak and his shoulder is muffling her cries. He follows her, grasping the edge of the desk with both hands and groaning “Fuck, Kate,” in a way that she certainly has not tired of hearing.
She opens her eyes eventually, but keeps her forehead on his chest for another minute, feeling the thump of his heart below. The she plants a wet kiss on his neck before lifting her eyes to meet his, giggling a bit at his idiotic grin.
“I fucking love you, by the way.” Castle thinks that her smile could light up all of Manhattan.
“Don’t you mean you love fu--” She’s clapped her hand over his mouth before he can finish, and makes an exaggerated move toward his ear, which shuts him up. (Although she didn’t really plan on hurting him.) “Don’t ruin the moment, Castle.”
She hops down off of the desk, but is glad that his hands are still on her waist, because her legs are more jelly-like than she’d care for him to know. She places a series of feathery kisses on his lips, along his jaw, and then takes his earlobe playfully in her teeth for a moment. Then she steps away toward the shower and he starts moving toward the kitchen -- he’s thinking waffles today. It’s becoming a routine -- one that no longer requires explanation.
The hardcover, with “RICHARD CASTLE” embossed in gold lettering on its spine, remains on the side table, open to where Beckett had read so far, a good bit in from the beginning, and yet many, many pages away from the end.