Fathomless-An M-rated Caskett One-Shot tag for "Cloudy with a Chance of Murder" (5 x 02)
Title: Fathomless
Rating: M
Summary: “He's not at all sure he should follow her. Not at all sure he hasn't been dismissed, even if she is in wooly socks and a shapeless night shirt. Even if she's currently bereft of her usual badass accoutrements.”
A/N: Run-of-the-mill smutty tag for “Cloudy With A Chance of Murder” (5 x 02)
He's not at all sure he should follow her. Not at all sure he hasn't been dismissed, even if she is in wooly socks and a shapeless night shirt. Even if she's currently bereft of her usual badass accoutrements.
It's just that he's even less sure he should leave it at this. Her turning him out for the night with the image of Kristina Coterra on top of him playing in her head. An infinite loop with a dozen off-hand comments for a soundtrack. Portentous if they let them be.
Trust me. People know.
It's exciting and dangerous . . .
Then it imploded . . .
It carries him down the hall after her. Fear of what, exactly, they'll wake to if they retreat to their corners at what feels like a critical moment. It has him following her, lag enough that she's closing the bedroom door on him without realizing it.
"Castle!" She startles, the crack of wood as it hits his palm making her jump. "I told you . . ."
Her hands drop to her sides. They stand on opposite sides of the threshold, looking at each other. He sees more than she wants him to in the brief moment before she turns away. Anger. Real disgust, but hurt underneath. And worry. Genuine worry that she's not enough. That he’s what he always seemed, not who she knows him to be. That there's anyone-anyone but her-he's wanted in so long. Anyone but her who drives him out of his mind with want the way she does. He can't decide whether to laugh or scream.
He advances on her instead. Grabs her shoulder and jerks around to face him. Kisses her ruthlessly, and his knees almost fail him, weak with relief and all-consuming desire when her mouth opens under his and her fingers find purchase in his hair.
"Too soon," he says savagely. He holds her tight around the waist with one arm as he shrugs out of his jacket with the other. "You told me it's too soon. That you're seeing things." He presses her back against the low dresser until she's half sitting, no longer swaying and unsteady on her feet. "I see this. " He pushes open the neck of her night shirt and sends a button skittering. "Only this. Only you."
He spreads his fingers wide over her chest, the scar not quite an afterthought as her shoulders roll back and her nipples tighten and rise under his touch. He lowers his mouth to sweep his tongue over one, then the other. To suckle and tease with quick little nips.
"Don't you know that?" He takes her hand and slides it low between them, rocking into her palm. Thrusting and hard and eager for her already. "Don't you know what you do to me?"
"Yes." She curls her fingers and cups her palm. Makes him gasp, but it can't quite mask the way her voice wavers. The uncertainty, even now. Even like this.
"Do you know, Kate?"
He pulls back to look at her, and she's not a fan of that. She tries to shrug away. To duck under his shoulder and retreat. His instinct is to hold her there. Or let her go and give chase. Back her into a corner, literally for once, and tease her out of this. Laugh about it and go if that’s what she really does want.
But it feels like a critical moment. Like something hangs in the balance. Not tonight or tomorrow or a month from now, but the vanishing point, and his hands fall away. He steps back from her, and he doesn't know the movement for what it is until he's asking again. The same and something different entirely.
"Do you?"
And then she's incandescent. A circuit complete and humming as she drops from the dresser to her feet with the certainty of years between them and still a question beneath it all. Beneath that radiant, diamond-bright confidence. A question and a demand.
He doesn't know where her cuffs come from. If they're the everyday carbon steel that's hung causally at her belt for the last four years, capturing his imagination from the second he turned to face her all those years ago.
He doesn't know if they're just for this. If she keeps them on hand for him and anyone whose found themselves facing this implacable version of her. He doesn't know, and there's jealousy and a deep, centered kind of will in him as he finds himself offering his wrists. Boundless determination that whoever came before, he'll be the last to feel them-hear them-snicking closed.
"Not yet," she says. She taps each wrist in turn. One precise gesture on either side before she grabs for his belt. Rocks him on his feet and whips the buckle open in one motion. "This first."
He's nearly motionless. Passive and entirely focused on not coming hard just at the nearness of her. At her complete fucking command of the situation, though he's never-not once, with her or anyone else-played this particular role before.
“Sit,” she commands, and he wants to mouth off. To bark or offer his paw or see if he can turn the table with something dark about collars. Leashes.
His brain is busy. Busy, and his mouth wants so badly to move. To break the tension or deflect or whatever it is he does at times like this. But there’s a kind of delicious fear fizzing over the surface of skin. Anticipation that’s almost pain and every sensation is a shock. The textured silk of the duvet at the backs of his thighs and the none-too-gentle drag of denim down his legs. The hiss of her palms as they travel back up his body.
“Now.” It’s less an order than a statement of the obvious. She jerks one wrist, then the other free of his shirtsleeves. Catches the second in the same elegant motion with the open circle of the bracelet and then he’s on his back, hands high over head with the chain of the cuffs looped through something.
It’s a fleeting distraction. A momentary wondering that tips his head back and casts his eyes upward, but she’ll have none of it. She fists one hand in his hair. Drags his gaze back to her as she strips off the nightshirt. As she kneels up between his thighs and looms above him.
She’s not shy about her body. Hasn’t been for an instant since the storm, but this is different. It’s confrontation as she arches her back and the taut, lean muscles of her thighs stand out. Education as she touches herself, her palms sweeping up to skim over her nipples as they flush darker and darker. Torture as her fingers tease and circle and her hips begin to move.
There’s a sound. Deep, throaty desire, and one hand drops to his thigh. A missed beat. An interruption that digs her nails hard into his skin. Harder still until inspiration strikes. She looks him up and down like she’s finding a use for him. Like she seems to have as she lifts one knee high-a move that’s crazy making in all its demure grace-and plants it on the far side of his thigh.
She rocks her hips. Forward and back. She dips low, barely grazing his skin and somehow it’s him almost going through the roof. Somehow it’s just that instant of scorching, wet contact that arches his back and has him crying out, pressing up into her.
It’s punishment then. She’s straddling his hips and she’s left his boxers on. She plants her hands on his chest, moaning as she glides forward, her clit dragging back and forth ever so lightly over the silk. Just enough to soak the fabric and wind herself higher. Stopping shy-only just shy-of the edge, and he doesn’t dare move as she climbs further up his body.
He doesn’t dare make a sound as she lowers her mouth to his chest. As she sucks hard and uses teeth and nails. As she pinches and nips and it’s nothing like the play that’s come before with them. Nothing short of explicit instruction as she raises up. As she curls her fingers over the top of the headboard, and he take the lesson to heart.
He opens his mouth wide, sucking hard as she lowers her breast to it. Using his teeth and there’s no play at all in that, either. She’s a sudden explosion of sound. Profanity and encouragement and nails dragging down wood. His name and dark, wordless satisfaction.
He pulls his head back, his mouth hungry for skin the minute he loses contact, but he pulls back. For breath. To beg, because he wants to touch her. He wants his hands on her, but he stops, fascinated. Watches as she tugs hard-harder than he’s dared yet-at her own nipple, pinching and cupping the whole of her breast, thumb and forefinger roughing over the very tip until he surges up, claiming it with his mouth.
It’s beyond anything then. His mouth and her fingers. Wet, dirty sounds and marks on her skin. Marks on his from nails and teeth, and her breath comes harder and hotter all the while. It’s beyond fear or anticipation or punishment. It’s beyond amends or proving anything at all, and then she’s gone suddenly.
Her hands and skin and mouth and her curses in his ear are gone, and she can hardly be bothered to drag his boxers halfway down his thighs. She can hardly be bothered with anything but sinking him deep inside her. Falling on to him, skin to skin, and dragging her nails from where the cuffs bite painfully, deliciously into his wrists, down his arms and over his ribs.
She can hardly be bothered to slide her hands between his body and the sweat soaked sheets, holding on. Her teeth close hard at the top of his biceps. A warning, then a howl as her body clenches around him. A long, hard moment that feels endless and he thinks he’ll never come. That it’s impossible, with her so tight around him, until her voice is in his ear ragged and relentless, “Come. Come inside me, Castle.”
He does. Soundless. Breath lost in his throat and his mouth open wide. He strains against the cuffs. Against his own body and her hold on him. Against this place and time whatever started all this.
He hears the key turn. The silvery sound of it. The soft ratchet of the bracelets drawing back, then sliding home into themselves. He feels her taking his hands. Easing his arms lower by inches. Asking if it hurts, and somehow his head moving side to side.
“It will,” she says, her fingers strong and efficient now. Kneading the muscles of his shoulders and chafing the skin at his wrists. Folding his hands into fists and opening them to coax the blood back in. “It’ll hurt in the morning.”
He nods, he supposes. He feels out of himself. Floating and heavy at once. Sated and yet every nerve still thrills. The stir of her breath and the whisper of the sheet as she pulls it over him.
“Do you . . . need anything?”
She curves her palm around his cheek. Turns his face to hers, and she’s worried, he thinks. She’s worried and he finds his voice again.
“Don’t you know, Kate?”
His eyes close. His lips find her palm and press there. A smile and a kiss at once. Contentment, and it brings her head to his shoulder. It brings her body alongside his and draws her knee up to rest on his thigh, her arm flung around his waist.
“I do,” she says. “I know.”
A/N: Um. This started with flowers. And then it got weird. Thanks for reading.
Rating: M
Summary: “He's not at all sure he should follow her. Not at all sure he hasn't been dismissed, even if she is in wooly socks and a shapeless night shirt. Even if she's currently bereft of her usual badass accoutrements.”
A/N: Run-of-the-mill smutty tag for “Cloudy With A Chance of Murder” (5 x 02)
He's not at all sure he should follow her. Not at all sure he hasn't been dismissed, even if she is in wooly socks and a shapeless night shirt. Even if she's currently bereft of her usual badass accoutrements.
It's just that he's even less sure he should leave it at this. Her turning him out for the night with the image of Kristina Coterra on top of him playing in her head. An infinite loop with a dozen off-hand comments for a soundtrack. Portentous if they let them be.
Trust me. People know.
It's exciting and dangerous . . .
Then it imploded . . .
It carries him down the hall after her. Fear of what, exactly, they'll wake to if they retreat to their corners at what feels like a critical moment. It has him following her, lag enough that she's closing the bedroom door on him without realizing it.
"Castle!" She startles, the crack of wood as it hits his palm making her jump. "I told you . . ."
Her hands drop to her sides. They stand on opposite sides of the threshold, looking at each other. He sees more than she wants him to in the brief moment before she turns away. Anger. Real disgust, but hurt underneath. And worry. Genuine worry that she's not enough. That he’s what he always seemed, not who she knows him to be. That there's anyone-anyone but her-he's wanted in so long. Anyone but her who drives him out of his mind with want the way she does. He can't decide whether to laugh or scream.
He advances on her instead. Grabs her shoulder and jerks around to face him. Kisses her ruthlessly, and his knees almost fail him, weak with relief and all-consuming desire when her mouth opens under his and her fingers find purchase in his hair.
"Too soon," he says savagely. He holds her tight around the waist with one arm as he shrugs out of his jacket with the other. "You told me it's too soon. That you're seeing things." He presses her back against the low dresser until she's half sitting, no longer swaying and unsteady on her feet. "I see this. " He pushes open the neck of her night shirt and sends a button skittering. "Only this. Only you."
He spreads his fingers wide over her chest, the scar not quite an afterthought as her shoulders roll back and her nipples tighten and rise under his touch. He lowers his mouth to sweep his tongue over one, then the other. To suckle and tease with quick little nips.
"Don't you know that?" He takes her hand and slides it low between them, rocking into her palm. Thrusting and hard and eager for her already. "Don't you know what you do to me?"
"Yes." She curls her fingers and cups her palm. Makes him gasp, but it can't quite mask the way her voice wavers. The uncertainty, even now. Even like this.
"Do you know, Kate?"
He pulls back to look at her, and she's not a fan of that. She tries to shrug away. To duck under his shoulder and retreat. His instinct is to hold her there. Or let her go and give chase. Back her into a corner, literally for once, and tease her out of this. Laugh about it and go if that’s what she really does want.
But it feels like a critical moment. Like something hangs in the balance. Not tonight or tomorrow or a month from now, but the vanishing point, and his hands fall away. He steps back from her, and he doesn't know the movement for what it is until he's asking again. The same and something different entirely.
"Do you?"
And then she's incandescent. A circuit complete and humming as she drops from the dresser to her feet with the certainty of years between them and still a question beneath it all. Beneath that radiant, diamond-bright confidence. A question and a demand.
He doesn't know where her cuffs come from. If they're the everyday carbon steel that's hung causally at her belt for the last four years, capturing his imagination from the second he turned to face her all those years ago.
He doesn't know if they're just for this. If she keeps them on hand for him and anyone whose found themselves facing this implacable version of her. He doesn't know, and there's jealousy and a deep, centered kind of will in him as he finds himself offering his wrists. Boundless determination that whoever came before, he'll be the last to feel them-hear them-snicking closed.
"Not yet," she says. She taps each wrist in turn. One precise gesture on either side before she grabs for his belt. Rocks him on his feet and whips the buckle open in one motion. "This first."
He's nearly motionless. Passive and entirely focused on not coming hard just at the nearness of her. At her complete fucking command of the situation, though he's never-not once, with her or anyone else-played this particular role before.
“Sit,” she commands, and he wants to mouth off. To bark or offer his paw or see if he can turn the table with something dark about collars. Leashes.
His brain is busy. Busy, and his mouth wants so badly to move. To break the tension or deflect or whatever it is he does at times like this. But there’s a kind of delicious fear fizzing over the surface of skin. Anticipation that’s almost pain and every sensation is a shock. The textured silk of the duvet at the backs of his thighs and the none-too-gentle drag of denim down his legs. The hiss of her palms as they travel back up his body.
“Now.” It’s less an order than a statement of the obvious. She jerks one wrist, then the other free of his shirtsleeves. Catches the second in the same elegant motion with the open circle of the bracelet and then he’s on his back, hands high over head with the chain of the cuffs looped through something.
It’s a fleeting distraction. A momentary wondering that tips his head back and casts his eyes upward, but she’ll have none of it. She fists one hand in his hair. Drags his gaze back to her as she strips off the nightshirt. As she kneels up between his thighs and looms above him.
She’s not shy about her body. Hasn’t been for an instant since the storm, but this is different. It’s confrontation as she arches her back and the taut, lean muscles of her thighs stand out. Education as she touches herself, her palms sweeping up to skim over her nipples as they flush darker and darker. Torture as her fingers tease and circle and her hips begin to move.
There’s a sound. Deep, throaty desire, and one hand drops to his thigh. A missed beat. An interruption that digs her nails hard into his skin. Harder still until inspiration strikes. She looks him up and down like she’s finding a use for him. Like she seems to have as she lifts one knee high-a move that’s crazy making in all its demure grace-and plants it on the far side of his thigh.
She rocks her hips. Forward and back. She dips low, barely grazing his skin and somehow it’s him almost going through the roof. Somehow it’s just that instant of scorching, wet contact that arches his back and has him crying out, pressing up into her.
It’s punishment then. She’s straddling his hips and she’s left his boxers on. She plants her hands on his chest, moaning as she glides forward, her clit dragging back and forth ever so lightly over the silk. Just enough to soak the fabric and wind herself higher. Stopping shy-only just shy-of the edge, and he doesn’t dare move as she climbs further up his body.
He doesn’t dare make a sound as she lowers her mouth to his chest. As she sucks hard and uses teeth and nails. As she pinches and nips and it’s nothing like the play that’s come before with them. Nothing short of explicit instruction as she raises up. As she curls her fingers over the top of the headboard, and he take the lesson to heart.
He opens his mouth wide, sucking hard as she lowers her breast to it. Using his teeth and there’s no play at all in that, either. She’s a sudden explosion of sound. Profanity and encouragement and nails dragging down wood. His name and dark, wordless satisfaction.
He pulls his head back, his mouth hungry for skin the minute he loses contact, but he pulls back. For breath. To beg, because he wants to touch her. He wants his hands on her, but he stops, fascinated. Watches as she tugs hard-harder than he’s dared yet-at her own nipple, pinching and cupping the whole of her breast, thumb and forefinger roughing over the very tip until he surges up, claiming it with his mouth.
It’s beyond anything then. His mouth and her fingers. Wet, dirty sounds and marks on her skin. Marks on his from nails and teeth, and her breath comes harder and hotter all the while. It’s beyond fear or anticipation or punishment. It’s beyond amends or proving anything at all, and then she’s gone suddenly.
Her hands and skin and mouth and her curses in his ear are gone, and she can hardly be bothered to drag his boxers halfway down his thighs. She can hardly be bothered with anything but sinking him deep inside her. Falling on to him, skin to skin, and dragging her nails from where the cuffs bite painfully, deliciously into his wrists, down his arms and over his ribs.
She can hardly be bothered to slide her hands between his body and the sweat soaked sheets, holding on. Her teeth close hard at the top of his biceps. A warning, then a howl as her body clenches around him. A long, hard moment that feels endless and he thinks he’ll never come. That it’s impossible, with her so tight around him, until her voice is in his ear ragged and relentless, “Come. Come inside me, Castle.”
He does. Soundless. Breath lost in his throat and his mouth open wide. He strains against the cuffs. Against his own body and her hold on him. Against this place and time whatever started all this.
He hears the key turn. The silvery sound of it. The soft ratchet of the bracelets drawing back, then sliding home into themselves. He feels her taking his hands. Easing his arms lower by inches. Asking if it hurts, and somehow his head moving side to side.
“It will,” she says, her fingers strong and efficient now. Kneading the muscles of his shoulders and chafing the skin at his wrists. Folding his hands into fists and opening them to coax the blood back in. “It’ll hurt in the morning.”
He nods, he supposes. He feels out of himself. Floating and heavy at once. Sated and yet every nerve still thrills. The stir of her breath and the whisper of the sheet as she pulls it over him.
“Do you . . . need anything?”
She curves her palm around his cheek. Turns his face to hers, and she’s worried, he thinks. She’s worried and he finds his voice again.
“Don’t you know, Kate?”
His eyes close. His lips find her palm and press there. A smile and a kiss at once. Contentment, and it brings her head to his shoulder. It brings her body alongside his and draws her knee up to rest on his thigh, her arm flung around his waist.
“I do,” she says. “I know.”
A/N: Um. This started with flowers. And then it got weird. Thanks for reading.