Note: Pretty much pure fluff!porn. Hints of breathplay, denial/control, and D/s if you squint. Also, geeks in love. If any of that bothers you, I suggest you locate your nearest exit and leave the theatre. If not, enjoy, and happy Castle-less Monday!

Regeneration

He really needs to get this chapter finished. Gina's been riding his ass for weeks, shrilling in his ear over the phone when she manages to get him to take the call. The 12th isn't treating them any better; their cases have come back to back to back without recess. Finally, he has a few hours to spare, and the story he needs to write pours out of him readily. Perfect conditions for writing, he muses, as the whipping wind and freezing rain warning of a gathering winter storm hammer at his windows. Even the criminals and maniacs are leaving each other alone with this weather, so a call-in from the precinct is unlikely.

It's all coming together. Nikki is busy battling mercenaries. Fictional New York is battening down the hatches in preparation for its own storm. And Rook? Rook is more concerned with a little circle of metal and stone he has yet to figure out how to give away.

His Nikki Heat is a tough customer. Somehow, Castle doesn't think having Rook propose on a swingset would be quite as special to Nikki or to his readership at large as it was to him and to his future bride, those many months ago. And besides that, it's far too personal and private.

Once upon a time, Nikki and Rook were easier to write, because they were a simple outlet for his more juvenile fantasies of what might be between himself and Beckett if they just stopped beating around the bush. Now, it's more difficult to write them, to not pour every wonderful, frustrating, incredible detail of how good the real thing is, into his fictional avatars. He wouldn't want to share that with the public anyway, but it's hard to hold back and keep the lesser versions in the realm of fiction.

As if on cue, his living inspiration pads into the office from their bedroom and pauses at the threshold. He can feel her, smell her, sense her all around him, even though he doesn't look up mid-sentence. Finishing it off with a sharp stab to the full stop key, he takes her in at last. His faded blue Doctor Who t-shirt that she appropriated long ago hangs loosely off her shoulders, and he loves the sight of it on her. Especially after the time she confessed she sleeps in it on the rare nights they have to be apart. He left her naked in bed an hour ago, and he knows it was a deliberate choice. It covers her down to mid-thigh, her bare legs emerging from the tattered hem enticingly.

It's her day off. She hasn't been awake long by the looks of it, though if the strange dark grey light flowing in the opposite end of the loft is any indication, it must be nearly 10 in the morning. Their latest case was mundane, much to his and Ryan's severe disappointment, but required several nights of stakeout duty. Castle finds his internal clock is not quite as forgiving of rapid change in sleep patterns as it was in his damage-doing days, and apparently hers isn't either.

"Hey," she smiles sleepily, running a hand through her messy hair. His heart stops a beat and he doesn't know if it's healthy for it to do that as often as it does. He's not sure he cares. If her smile is what kills him, there's no way he'd rather go. He just hopes it waits a good long while to do him in, because he's counting on a happily ever after, and ever after implies a long, long time.

"Hey, yourself," he grins at his fiancée, setting aside his laptop and swiveling around on his chair to make room for her. She lets out a tiny squeak of delight as she scrambles over to him and into his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck and draping those incredible legs over one arm of his chair. Castle amends his earlier thought – that will be the death of him. That little sound. He never in a million years thought she could make that sound when they first met. He never thought he'd be the one allowed to hear it so often. He's going to make her make that sound every day for the rest of his life, on her best days and her worst days. He'll draw it from her if it kills him.

"Nikki behaving herself?" Kate questions impishly, because she knows Nikki so rarely does. She admitted some time ago that she loves that part of her alter-ego best: her fire, her tenacity, her temperamental nature. It's that first part of Detective Beckett that went into Nikki. It's still his favourite part of the real thing.

"Never," Castle grins ruthlessly, "never."

"Well," she needles with false-sincerity, "I wouldn't want to interrupt their adventure. And you're on a deadline, if I'm not mistaken? Best get it all done now, before this storm takes the power out. I guess I'll just leave you to your work."

Her eyes sparkle with mischief as she cards her fingers through his hair and he adds that to the list of ways this woman is slowly killing him. It takes his last ounce of self-control not to whine when she abandons her willing seat, leaving him cold.

"You can stay," he challenges, as if it's some sort of noble sacrifice to let her do so, "if you can be quiet. Rook needs to figure something out."

She makes a light hmmmm sound low in her throat before vigorously nodding her head, worrying her lower lip with a perfect canine. Approaching again, she presses at his shoulder and he takes the hint, moving forward in his chair to allow her to squeeze in behind him. Swinging her legs either side of him and hooking them just over his hips, she settles in. She leans her chest against him. The drum of her steady heartbeat into his broad back is both death sentence and eleventh hour acquittal with every pulse.

He feels the warmth of her forearm brace against his shoulders, and soon, her head comes to rest on her arm like a bored schoolgirl at a desk. Her slow breath puffs warm jets of air into his neck every so often and he tries not to shiver with the slow burn of arousal that started the moment he saw her in that silly t-shirt.

She's quiet. She needs no words to wreak havoc on him. He wouldn't have it any other way. Well, actually, he would. He likes it when she wreaks havoc on him by talking, by squeaking, by screaming, moaning, whispering, and growling too. She's normally vocal and noisy in bed, an unexpected and serendipitous discovery for him during their first night together. It all kills him. He'll take it any way it comes.

Castle slowly returns to writing and loses himself in the flow of it, his senses divided between Rook's dilemma and relishing the easy warmth of his lover at his back. Tapping out one line after the next, he tries on several different scenarios for size, before abandoning Rook and his proposal issues altogether to focus on action-girl Nikki fighting off baddies. Only, she's having a lazy morning too, and even the criminals are refusing to cooperate on account of the fictional version of the storm. All roads keep leading him straight to more... immediately gratifying scenes, between his alter-ego and his firey little heroine.

Frustrated, he sighs and rubs his temples, idly thinking back to his fiancée's taunt the other night that some grey was creeping in there. It wasn't, he checked. Not even the slightest bit. Even Alexis said, after a close inspection at his insistence, that there weren't any. And she'd be the first to take pleasure in another way to tease him about being old if any were to be had. Old-er, he corrects; he started bullshitting himself with the 'er' qualifier when he hit 40.

(But then, Kate also said she thinks the Silver Fox look is terribly sexy, and he almost wants to will the imagined greys – only a few of them, mind, he's not ready for salt and pepper – into being just for that.)

Inch by inch, her free hand meanders around to his chest, detouring to caress his arm along the way. He knows what she's playing at, and he likes this game. Very much. No losers. He's tempted to just turn around and give her what she wants, but on occasion, he can admit that patience is indeed a virtue. Any virtue requires practice to sharpen and to maintain. It would be wrong not to take such an opportunity for development of his virtues.

Kate liberates her other hand and rests her chin on his shoulder, peering over it at his laptop. Fingers creep here and there, lightly walking his arms, his sides, his chest, his abdomen. Castle struggles to keep his breathing steady, to not let her know just how much it's affecting him, just to be touched like this. He's kidding himself, she knows and he knows it. She knows it's killing him to not touch her in return.

"I know what you're doing," Castle mumbles lowly, trying to goad her into response. Two can play this game. He's just going to have to get her to break her end of their deal. Then he can justifiably kick her straight out of his office and straight into their bed again.

Oh, but she's not that easily broken. She nods subtly at his shoulder and ups her game. Sucking the shell of his ear into her mouth, she scrapes lightly with her teeth as her hands move south, dipping under his shirt. The author barely quashes a groan when she reaches his waistband, rubbing the sensitive skin at his navel before working at the button of the soft, faded denims that he only wears around the house.

"So…" he tries again, "what do you think of Nikki and Rook getting married in space in the next book?"

She rewards him with a toneless snort in his ear, accompanied by a sharp bite to the lobe.

"Ow ow ow!" he shouts, "Apples! Apples! Always with the ears, christ!"

Her answer is a silent chuckle that he feels shake her before she eases her teeth and replaces them with tongue, giving his oft-abused ear a parting lick before moving that amazing mouth to his neck. She nips his throat, sucks at his pulse point, brushes her lips delicately over his collarbone and kisses his jaw leaving tiny bites along the way. Dimly he notes that he's not writing or accomplishing anything. He doesn't even care any more, he's just keeping up the act so she'll keep doing that.

Except it's not enough when her fingers slide his zipper down and crawl into his boxers. Fuck it. Fuck writing. Fuck Rook and his proposal jitters, Nikki and her indecision. Fuck real and fictional New York City and fuck the snow storm. Fuck Gina and fuck the deadline, another few days won't matter, and he's a dead man anyway. He won't survive the morning and his publisher can't sue a dead man for breach of contract.

Her warm hand coils itself slowly around his aching cock and he can't move fast enough to rid his lap of the computer. Castle violently slams the lid shut and deliberately places the laptop on the shelf behind, leaving his desk mostly clear. He makes sure she sees it and he knows she has when she digs her thumb lightly into his slit and produces a loud groan from him.

Rising suddenly, he turns to face her. Her large, doe-like eyes blink brightly at him when he presses a single finger to her mouth, commanding her to keep quiet. She nods her assent, her expression equally apprehensive and excited. Castle pulls her by her shoulders, bringing her chest-to-chest against him and taking her mouth roughly, the time for gentle morning kisses long since passed. He notes with satisfaction that she's not bothered a bra, as is often the case when they have the house to themselves; just the oversized shirt keeps her from his touch.

Gripping her hip and whirling them around with a grace he only manages when intensely focused – fighting or fencing or fucking – he slips his large hand beneath the hem of her shirt. Pulling back from her spearmint-flavoured kiss, he watches her bite her lip, dig her teeth in until the abused skin turns white. It's enough to send his brain into overdrive.

Any thought of patience and virtue development is long gone. He wants her, writhing beneath him, clenching around him, falling apart for him, and he wants it now. Fortunately for him, his detective is looking a bit ragged and – dare he say, needy – as well. He can spin it to his advantage, take this game back into his court. Reaching her centre, he feels her thighs tremble and his lightly stroking fingers find her panties already damp.

"Something you need, de-tec-tive?" he enunciates suggestively as he runs his hands underneath her shirt to grasp her bare hips again and push her up to sit on the edge of his desk. Returning to his exploration, Castle slowly hikes up the shirt until it hits her waist, revealing her bright TARDIS-blue panties, trimmed with white lace. He chuckles at the match, sure that it was intentional. Pity they'd be in no condition to wear again today, once he was done with her.

"Hmm, Beckett," he murmurs as he presses the pad of his thumb into the growing wet spot between her legs while his fingers scrape lightly around her, "you woke up wanting this, didn't you?"

She looks so frustrated at her inability to talk that he has to laugh at the irony. For their years of communication problems and mutual failure to spit it out, she's frustrated at not being able to use her words with him now? It's both a humbling and warming sign of just how far they've come.

"Oh, don't give me that look," Castle chatters on. "Not if you want this to continue."

That catches her attention and after a quick poke of her tongue (god that should not be this hot after all this time, she really is trying to kill him) she directs her defiant gaze elsewhere. To the bulge in his half-undone trousers, to be precise. Her hands make quick work of his denims and silk boxers, and just as quickly dispatch his shirt, which he shrugs off and kicks to the corner with his other clothes in a hurry.

When she tries to finish his neglected work and strip herself, he puts a stop to it.

"Not yet," he orders. Kate rubs her thighs together, seeking just a little bit of friction where she needs it, where he won't touch her and where he won't let her touch herself. Oh no, none of that. His hands close around her knees to prevent the action and she throws him a furious glare that screams 'fuck you' as clearly as her words would.

"That's cheating, Beckett," pulling her legs apart gently, he strokes the soft skin of her inner thigh with his knuckles and watches her squirm and clench her teeth to keep from making a sound or just telling him to get on with it.

"You're getting wetter by the second, aren't you, love?" he swipes two fingers along her covered folds to prove his point. "Maybe you want me to finger you on my desk, spread open for me just like this?"

His partner nods excitedly.

"Maybe you want my tongue on you, tasting you, inside you until you can't take it any more and you need to be fucked?"

A faint whimper escapes her and the consequence is immediate. His gentle caress of her thighs is momentarily interrupted with a single sharp slap to her outer thigh and what he can reach of her ass, a warning of what's to come if she makes another sound.

"Hmm, or maybe you just want me to fuck you against it now? Maybe you want me to bend you over and take you that way, make your feet lift off the ground and pound you until you scream for me?"

She likes that idea even more and tries to grasp at his erection before he bats her hand away.

"Or maybe I have other plans for you," he leers down at her to watch the tempest rage in her dilated eyes, mirroring the world outside their window. Stepping between her spread legs, he scoots her back further onto the desk, sending papers and pens scattering. Castle takes his erection in hand and sidles closer to the desk until his thighs are flush against it.

The angle is awkward for her, but she's flexible and he thanks whatever deity he can think of for that when her sinfully talented mouth closes around him and sucks him in. A growl rattles out of him as she adds a tentative hand to curl around the base and her mouth takes him deeper until his tip is scraping at the back of her throat with each bob of her head. Her molten eyes stare up at him, communicating with them and with an encouraging pull to the back of his thigh what she wants.

Castle hesitates. They've flirted with breathplay before, but not like this, and not since the waterboarding incident that's all-too-fresh in his mind, surely in hers too. But she looks up at him with such absolute trust and love tinged with devious lust; she's daring him, and he trusts her to tap out if she hits her limit.

Experimentally, he thrusts into her mouth until he hits her throat, testing her reflex. The lack of airflow from her nose tells him she's holding her breath. The thought both arouses and frightens him more than he anticipated and he moves quickly. Her face is going red but her hazel eyes remain on his, and he knows she's alright. Thrusting harder into her wet heat, he loses himself in the light scrape of her teeth and the ridge of the roof of her mouth and the depth that she can take of him. He has a decision to make: much longer and he's finished or she taps out, her eyes are already bleeding a small amount of panic. He gives one final thrust that forces her to take all of him and holds her head there for just a moment, committing the incredible sensation to memory before withdrawing.

"Breathe," he bids, and she does, sucking in a gulp of air as the normal colour returns to her face at last. He takes a shuddering breath himself, not realizing just how nervous the act made him as well.

"Remember," he says evenly, "quiet." Kate nods brightly, clearly pleased with herself and eager to please him, and he wonders what the hell he did right in this life to deserve her. Trying to control himself, he sits her up again and parts her legs, relishing her full cooperation and retained interest in their game. When he sees how wet she is, how it's soaked her lacy thong already, he's nearly done for. The visual evidence of just how much she wants him is a shot of adrenalin straight to his spine and he knows if he rushes to be inside her, it will be over in seconds for both. He wants to play a little longer, even if the ache is slowly driving him mad.

"You're killing me," he whispers reverently, capturing her mouth over and over in quick succession as his hands tease her sides, skating over her breasts just enough to tease, not enough for any satisfaction, "absolutely killing me."

Her rapid breathing tells him she's not in any state to disagree. He takes his time with her breasts, keenly aware of how sensitive she is. Pulling her shirt up over her at last and discarding it with his clothes, leaving only her lace and silk panties. Immediately, he sucks a hardened nipple in his mouth, rolling it with his tongue, nipping until she makes a soundless hiss and smiling around his luscious mouthful. By the time he trades his pursuit of her breast in favour of its twin, she's clenching at his shoulders and digging her nails into his back, chest heaving and legs shaking.

"I wonder if I can make you come," he husks, "just playing with your breasts? I think I like the challenge."

She swallows thickly several times, desperate to suppress the moans and whines and pleas that want to escape her. She's so close, he can feel her about to explode in the way her fingers grasp and her taut stomach clenches, the way her heartbeat raps out against his lips when he returns to his quest and takes her neglected breast between his teeth. Nipping, licking, swirling, soothing, biting, sucking. She'll smack him later for covering her in marks but it's all worth it when she stiffens and seizes with silent ecstasy, sinking her teeth into the heel of her hand to keep quiet, refusing to give in and lose the game even in the throes of pleasure.

Castle gives her no time to recover as he rips her soaking panties down her long, lightly tanned legs and flings them away at last. Without preamble he strokes two fingers inside her and she buckles, falling forward to brace herself on his broad shoulders, her forehead resting against his own. Her eyes are wild and craving, her hips buck under his hands and her legs circle around his back, seeking more contact. Kate comes apart again in seconds when he presses his thumb into the bundle of nerves at her center as he crooks the fingers inside her one more time. Her walls clamp his digits erratically, her kiss-swollen mouth contorted into a mute scream. Fuck, he doesn't know how he's still standing; she's all-consuming and overwhelming and all his.

"Fuck, Kate," he rasps against her mouth, "what you do to me..."

At last the author can take no more delay and pulls his lover halfway off the desk, braces her against his chest and lines her up before slamming into her. She feels like nothing else, their connection that's carried them through every joy and trial since the first day they met, never stronger than when they join like this. She's close again, he can feel it in the way she tightens every time he writhdraws from her, willing him back inside her, willing him deeper. It's the kind of sensation that only used to exist in his half-crazed fantasies about her, the stuff of his wildest dreams.

"Don't come," he issues his command and watches her expression turn desperate and panicked as he moves within her. She's already gasping with the effort of not vocalizing, he knows denying her release when she's so sensitive and overwhelmed will be a test of will for both of them.

Please, she mouths against his lips, please. He wonders absently if that's cheating but fuck it if it is because he loves it. Loves it when she begs. She won't admit it later, but she loves it when he makes her beg.

"I'll tell you when you can come," Castle gasps out as she clenches around him again, "and you can use your voice, okay?"

Kate brings a trembling fingertip to his lips and traces them, nodding her agreement faintly.

Using her position and the desk as leverage, Castle angles his thrusts to hit her deeper, to reach that spot she never quite seems to get to on her own. A surge of masculine pride wells within him when she slams a hand back onto the desk, grasping at its edge, while the other rips at the skin of his shoulder. He's sure that he's bleeding now and he's sure that he doesn't care one bit as long as she keeps doing it, the edge of pain sending little trails of her fire through him. She abuses her lips and his, biting them and sucking them to keep from making a sound as she loses herself in the sensation of being struck there over and over without relent.

She's too close, a breath away from too far gone, and he knows he either has to ease the intensity or they'll both come, and he needs to drag this out just a little longer. She's furious when he does. Her eyebrows knit together, a few tears of frustration spill from beneath her tightly closed eyes, and her strong white teeth actually bare at him before she uses them to exact revenge on his neck and ears again. Her rapid cycle of moods makes him laugh and he would if he could only remember how. It takes all of his control and then some to wait for her breathing to even out just a bit, for some oxygen to reach her and calm her runaway heartbeat.

"Not yet," he gives her a sharp thrust that doubles her over, "not yet, love," she's thrashing in his hands and the tears flow freely; she's perfect and radiant and completely undone as he resumes his earlier, punishing pace. Neither takes long to get right back to the edge of the cliff, and this time, he shoves her over it with force.

"Now," she doesn't seem to have heard him in her haze, over the intense concentration it's taking for her to remain quiet, "Kate!" he grinds out harshly, his own release starting to barrel into him, "Come, Kate."

Her raw, sharp scream pierces the air as her body arches and contorts and stiffens. He pushes her through it, thrusting haphazardly into her wet and writhing body, keeping her at her peak and delighting in the symphony of screams he's producing from her. His own control snaps and at last he follows her over, slams into her as deeply as he can before spilling into her, coating her with his release.

The tiny moans and whines she's making with each pant against his neck are music to his ears. His legs can hardly hold them up, but he manages enough strength to grab his chair and drag it over to them. Still halfway joined, he stumbles back into it and brings her with him, her legs bending at the knee and resting either side of him as he hauls her into his lap. Her damp body quakes every now and then, his responds with a shiver of its own. Castle finds himself whispering nonsense to her as he stares into her face above his, brushing her hair away from where it sticks to her jaw, kissing away the drying teardrops on her cheek and the licking at corners of her upturned mouth.

"Castle?" she creaks out, "Where did that come from?" He can't find the energy for a coherent answer and settles for a responding squeeze to her hip.

"You've killed me," he mumbles, "I'm dead. Died 'n gone to heaven." Her airy laugh is like the tintinnabulation of a thousand tiny bells and he dies just a little more.

Distantly, he notes that the power is flickering on and off and the storm outside has turned to blowing snow.

No more work today, he thinks.

Nikki and Rook can figure themselves out later. He can't be expected to work under such conditions; not with the storm in full force outside and the terrible burden of being trapped in this luxurious apartment with his gorgeous fiancée. All alone. At least until the weather lets up and the city's back up and running. That may well take days. Truly, his hardship knows no bounds.

Finally recovered enough to speak, he manages out an offer he knows she can't resist.

"Shower, shower to clean up after the shower, soup lunch, and Series 1 Doctor Who marathon in bed until the laptop battery's dead?" Her wide grin and responding nuzzle to his neck is all the answer he needs.

"Thought I killed you?" her voice is crackled from disuse and suppression, but dancing with mirth.

Castle laughs hoarsely at her sly retort before standing and seizing her by the waist, pulling her boneless, naked body up with his own until her legs wrap around his hips and she's settled in his arms and sighing with contentment. Carrying her to the promised shower and peppering kisses to her cheek and temple and hairline and behind her ear along the way, he knows for sure she'll be the death of him. Often. Forever.

He whispers playfully in her ear as he sets her down on the cold marble counter and turns the water on.

"Maybe I believe in regeneration."

This is what happens when I write past midnight, fueled by alcohol, jet lag, and procrastination. I'M NOT SORRY.