#writaer

[proveritate]

@writaer​ asked: “For the first time, I don’t think you’re being honest with me.”

He speaks and it cuts through her, entering and exiting, taking with it all semblance of composure.

It’s not the words he says that get to her, but the simmering anger beneath them

He knows. 

The realization floors her and she flinches, arms rigid at her sides, every word, every look, every question she’s wrestled with over the last week coming to a head in her mind. The distance between them that had stretched, looming over the both of them, 

Her heart drops, feels as though its descending, laid to rest somewhere south of her gut. 

They can nearly die together, more times that she cares to think about, her blood running between his fingers, hands interlocked to wait for the impact of a bomb, lying, entangled in one another so close to frozen. 

She can take the air from his lungs, kiss him into oblivion, lose herself in the feel of his mouth meeting hers, seeking her out, seeking out everything she won’t say. But they don’t do this. They don’t talk about these things.

Between them is the unspoken. A silence that beats in the thrum of her pulse, the immediate tensing that wracks her frame whenever they inch ever closer to territory that is far from neutral.

It’s always tainted the way they are with one another, the things she holds back, the more he claws from her, the more she can’t manage to give.

She had hoped it would never come to this, fooled herself into thinking that they could move past what happened. 

“I never meant to lie to you..” 

[foxymuses]

@writaer​ sent: ‘ honestly someone not liking beyonce is a deal breaker and not for any political reasons, but just like you’re probably, definitely really boring. ’ || Ren!!

ren considers it, but finds he’s not motivated for a debate considering he doesn’t actually care all that much. instead he just sips his coffee with a hum. “i don’t even have an ipod,” he comments. or whatever it is people use to listen to music these days. and frankly, usually he’s too far in his own head to hear whatever is on the radio whenever he’s somewhere it’s playing. “i’d like to be boring, though. i think kate would like if i was boring. i’m sure she’d appreciate if you were a little more boring too.” he knows it’s unlikely that either of them could be boring, but still.

[proveritate]

@writaer​ asked: Number 45 for Kate and Castle. 

Ouch. A piece of Lego. Bump. When did they get so close to that wall? “Watch out.” A stumble, tangle of long limbs. “Shh”, uttered between deep kisses, programmed into them both at this point, the need to keep quiet. A giggle, an actual giggle from Kate Beckett, the soft rumble of Castle’s return laughter against her chest.  

The floor is a minefield, avoiding the littering of toys that are now commonplace in their loft making this more of a challenge, a huge teddy bear that takes up the expanse of the doorway, actions figures tipped out on to the floor, they stumble their way into his office, the bedroom just too far away for them to manage and not a necessity by any means right now.

It’s a rarity for both Lily and the twins to have play-dates at the same time, a rarity that they are sure as hell are going to take advantage of.

Her back meets his desk, the groan she lets out quickly stifled between parted lips, the grunt he makes feathering every nerve ending, as lips meet his furiously, both of them making quick work of lifting her up and on to his desk.

Excitement and anticipation fueling them both, they only break apart to breathe, each pant that falls rushing over the others lips, daring them to meet again, before she’s tugging him in with her leg, the force with which she pulls him in sending pens and pencils rattling off the side of the desk and on to the floor. A warmth reflected in both of their eyes, a desire that floors them both and they’re back on one another one again.

Knowing exactly how this will end, they start off frantic, a clash of teeth and tongue, body heat swelling over the space of shared breaths, his desk moving with the force of them both moving as one, noises she normally has to hold back slipping free. Only to taper off into slow exploratory, kisses, the trembling of their bodies coming back to them, a muffled heartbeat pressed to one another, a tangled pile of limbs in the cocoon of his office space.

This will leave him with enough inspiration to tide him through the next few chapters she hopes, at least until they can find another stolen moment. It’ll give them both something to think about until then, both when he’s procrastinating or when they get an early morning visit from one of their children, if not all three, a naughty memory, one of many.

[proveritate]

@writaer​ said: “This is the longest I’ve sat in a parked car and not had sex.”

Under the cover of darkness, a nocturnal silence and between cold coffee and the quiet hum of the radio there’s little to occupy them (or him, really) as they wait for something to happen across the street and while this is just part of the job for her, this quiet time subjects him to a restlessness he so embodies, so she’s not all that surprised when he begins to talk, but what comes out of his mouth when he does, is another matter entirely.

Despite trying to school herself, to anticipate his comments and to not let her face give away anything, she’s  never been around someone who says whatever pops into their mind the way Castle does, like word vomit. Her brain left sitting idle for so long is now much more aware of everything, especially his presence, and the mental image he’s planted there has her stumbling over her response as she blinks, lips gaping for a split second. The glare she shoots him from behind the binoculars, lit only by the amber glow of the streetlights belies the heat that fills her at his words. “Too.. too.. much information, Castle..”

[foxymuses]

@writaer​ sent:  [ text ] –– congress passed a tax bill that simply says ‘horses’ with a hand-drawn thumbs up at the bottom. | hodgins

{txt: that writer guy} well that doesn’t make any sense {txt: that writer guy} it should have at least been two thumbs up

[foxymuses]

@writaer​ sent:  [ text ] –– time travel isn’t real, but regret is. || Warren

{txt: kate’s friend} i dunno, regret is kind of relative or something {txt: kate’s friend} also time travel is definitely real

[foxymuses]

@writaer​ sent:  [ text ] –– if it’s a finger, let it linger. if it’s a whole hand, flush as planned. || Eddie Brock

{txt:} i don’t --- i don’t even know what that means

[proveritate]

" Turns out I have a thing about being shot at." | @writaer​ |

“Really?” Steady gaze shifts from the paper target ahead (admiring all of her shots impressively landed) to land on him, disbelief and a lingering frustration evident in her eyes even through the clear safety goggles, visible beneath the questioning arch of her brow before she’s setting aside her piece, lifting the ear coverings off her head and letting them settle at her shoulders. “I would not have guessed that, what with the way you like to annoy people with guns.” 

She doesn’t get it. At all. Not that she’s all that surprised, she can’t even begin to fathom much of what goes on inside Castle’s head and the paths that his thought processes travel, which is frustrating on its own, let alone everything else about him that irks her and pushes her buttons. Arguably he has it all, an impressive career with all the perks, money, women throwing themselves at him, so why in the hell is he so dead set (and yes, he could very well end up dead) on whatever this thing is they are doing.

Of course, he throws around words like “inspiration” and “muse” and a lot of writer mumbo jumbo that she doesn’t even know how to take. A compliment? Not likely, not with all the flack she’s been copping ever since she walked into that stupid book party of his.

But a little ribbing is nothing compared to what could happen. Which is exactly why they are here right now, making sure he knows what to do to keep himself safe. If it were up to her, he’d never, ever touch a gun in her presence but in accordance with the waiver he signed, he better at least be prepared if the need arose.

Her head is still shaking at him as she’s forced to intrude into his personal space, stepping up behind him and moving in closer to guide him in adjusting his position. Slender practiced fingers crawl up his elbows, possibly a little more roughly than necessary to press his shoulders into a suitable position. “Here, try this,” she whispers, her lips at his ear, urging him to shift his stance.